The Wild Lord (London Scandals Book 1)

by Carrie Lomax

  Mary nodded. “How delightful.”

  Pausing, she opened the clasp of her reticule and removed the handkerchief. Delicately she pressed the cloth to her brow before remarking, “After standing on that box for so long, I find I am parched. What do you say to stopping at Brown’s Hotel for a dish of tea?”

  Lady Whitney peered at Mary suspiciously, all traces of good humor gone. “I suppose you have planned a meeting with that cad.”

  Mary gave her mother a look. “Would I try something so idiotically transparent? I am thirsty. I am hungry. I stood on a box for an hour being stuck with pins and I would like to use the necessary. Supper isn’t until eight. Have pity, Mother.”

  “We have an appointment with the perfumer. There isn’t time. Surely you can wait.”

  Mary gagged at the thought of perfume. She felt her mother’s words as though an icy breeze. Glancing out the window, she wondered again—why hadn’t Rupert come?

  Maybe he didn’t want her. Maybe no one ever would. Maybe an earl—even a beastly one who would probably eat her—was a better catch than a girl who had foolishly lost her virtue deserved. But Mary’s child didn’t deserve to be eaten by the Beast of Briarcliff. One way or another, she must reach Miss Forsythe. Her life depended upon it.

  Chapter 22

  Harper felt as though an entire hive of bees were buzzing beneath her skin. She scarcely noticed Gran’s anxiety until the baroness finally asked, after several minutes of silence, “Do you think she will come?”

  “I couldn’t guess,” replied Harper, staring across the well‐appointed tea room to the front entry. “I felt sure she would after we left the dressmaker’s, but it has been over an hour now.”

  “Another pot of tea, I suppose,” sighed the baroness, signaling the waiter. They had already drained two pots and consumed a plate of finger sandwiches. They couldn’t linger forever, and it was getting past tea time.

  “I wonder how Viola is faring?” mused Gran. Viola’s unenviable task that afternoon had been to locate and speak with the erstwhile Rupert Alwin. Harper’s entire plan depended on his cooperation. Without the alternative of a happy marriage to the man she preferred, Mary had little reason to refuse Edward. This left the much less appealing alternative of Edward refusing Mary at the altar. His reputation was bad enough without the scandal that would cause.

  A flutter of green figured silk and a demure bonnet rushed into the room just as the third pot of tea arrived. Harper grabbed her grandmother’s arm. “There she is!” she hissed, fighting the urge to leap out of her seat and hug the poor girl.

  Mary spotted them and worked her way over to their table. Gran welcomed her and offered her tea, which she accepted. Mary also reached for the last finger sandwich.

  “I’m always hungry lately,” she said apologetically.

  Gran ordered another plate without comment.

  “Where is he?” Mary asked with apparent confusion. “Rupert. I thought he would be here.”

  “Next time,” Harper replied reassuringly. “There’s too much risk of discovery in a public venue like this. I couldn’t be certain of your reception to my proposal.”

  “You suggested a trade,” Mary said flatly. “You marry Lord Edward, I marry Rupert.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  Mary twitched a ribbon into place on her sleeve. “And how would this happen, exactly? If I were to agree. I am not saying that I will.”

  “I would need to know every detail of your wedding before we can make a specific plan. Before we do that, what are your feelings about marrying Rupert?”

  Something in Mary’s manner felt off to Harper. She was not about to share her ideas without knowing more.

  Mary’s cheeks blazed red as she leaned forward and hissed, “I wish Rupert every happiness in his poetry and his life, but after what he has done to me, I hope his manly parts rot and fall off. Any man who abandons the mother of his unborn child deserves that fate.”

  Mary’s curls trembled with emphasis. Harper’s eyebrows rose even as her heart sank.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  “What makes you so certain your Rupert has abandoned you?” demanded Gran forcefully. “How is he to know that you haven’t abandoned him? You are the one about to wed another man.”

  Harper, shocked into silence, stared at her grandmother.

  Gran glanced meaningfully at Mary’s belly. The girl wiggled uncomfortably in her seat. Her chin remained stubbornly high.

  “He could have tried to contact me.”

  “How long has it been since you last spoke with him?”

  Mary blushed, a pinker tinge of embarrassment rather than the hot flush of anger. “Three weeks ago. We danced at the Abernathy’s, and then I lost my composure in a potted geranium. Rupert had escorted me onto the balcony to take some air, and my parents followed us out. They overheard us discussing the situation.”

  “Your parents took you straight home and locked you in your room, I expect,” the baroness said with a snort. “That is what I would have done, had any of my daughters been foolish enough to compromise themselves so thoroughly.”

  “Grandmother disowned my mother when she eloped with my father,” Harper offered for Mary’s edification.

  The baroness turned her steely gaze to Harper. “At least she was married well before your sister appeared.”

  “Yet even that was not enough to earn forgiveness,” Harper replied gently, without giving an inch. “The point being, Mary, that Rupert may be worried sick about you, for all we know. He may have tried and failed to reach out to you. Parents especially sometimes have a difficult time forgiving the transgressions of their children. How would his parents have received the news?”

  Mary’s expression warred between hope and resignation. “They would’ve been furious. My parents’ estate adjoins Rupert’s second cousin’s. Each summer they host a large party, and as you know in the country rules are more relaxed than here in London. It was not difficult to find time together, alone. I am sure Rupert’s family considered the news a devastating betrayal of the family’s honor.”

  “As it well was,” interjected the baroness sternly. Harper shot her grandmother an annoyed look. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t pretend to condone such behavior. Both Mary and Rupert were raised better than to behave like rutting farm animals at the first opportunity.”

  “Fine. Don’t condone it but do quit badgering Mary. She’s suffering enough.”

  Harper patted Mary’s gloved hand. The young woman smiled and lowered her eyes. They were probably the first words of sympathy she had heard in weeks.

  “So then,” Harper continued briskly. “The first thing to ascertain is whether or not Rupert desires a marriage with Mary. Once we know that, we can begin planning to make that a reality. How can we communicate efficiently with you over the next few days?”

  “What if I decide I’m better off marrying the beast?” Mary asked stubbornly.

  Harper winced. “Please don’t call him that. Edward is not at all beastly.”

  “Sorry.” Mary did not look remotely apologetic. “My question remains, however. Edward is an heir to an earldom, however peculiar. He has money and social status. If I elope with Rupert, his family may cut him off and my father may not give us the dowry he has promised. Rupert can’t support a family writing poetry.”

  Gran made a face. “Now she turns practical.”

  “I had hoped not to raise this possibility, but you must consider whether Edward wishes to marry you,” Harper replied. “If he refuses you at the altar, you’ll have little chance of ever marrying well again.”

  Mary puffed with indignation. “No other woman in society would be so desperate to marry the beast — err, an untamed earl.”

  “I am rather keen on the idea,” Harper reminded her.

  Mary tossed her head, going from practical to petulant in an instant. “You know I don’t mean you. I mean a woman with the social standing and the graces to smooth his way in soc
iety. Someone like me.”

  “Oh, yes, those social graces are on such grand display at present,” the baroness said with barbed sweetness. Either the barb went entirely over Mary’s pretty head, or she possessed a talent for letting insults bounce off her.

  “You need Edward’s cooperation at the altar more than he needs yours,” Harper pointed out. “Refuse him if you wish, but Edward will still have the money and power, and another chance at marriage. If he refuses you, you become an unwed mother with no prospects. I am sorry to state things so baldly, but there is the truth of the matter. You have very little room for negotiation. The only real question is which man you would rather spend your life with.”

  Mary was silent as she bit daintily into the new plate of finger sandwiches. The notion that the Beast of Briarcliff might not jump at the chance to become her husband had evidently never occurred to the girl.

  “You said that your parents eloped, and your mother was cut off. Was your father wealthy?”

  “No. We were quite poor when I was a child growing up.”

  “Was your mother happy?” asked Mary. “Does she believe that she had done the right thing?”

  Harper considered, aware of how much depended on her response.

  “She’s passed now, but the answer is yes. My mother loved her family deeply, and she adored my sister and me. She wanted more children, but her failing health prevented it. My father adored us too, but he loved my mother above all. He worked so hard to give us a comfortable life, even though he knew he could never provide the luxuries my mother had grown up with.” She caught a sideways glance at her grandmother, who was listening intently.

  “Sometimes we had a maid,” Harper continued. “Most of the time we didn’t. My father bought secondhand gowns and my mother reworked them to look fashionable. We never went hungry. We danced and sang and laughed every day. It was a happy marriage, and a happy childhood.”

  They had been so happy, Harper mused, that her father had found it impossible to go on without his wife when she had died of consumption. He had hung himself over the door of their cottage, leaving his daughters to fend for themselves. Harper forgave him that, almost, now that she understood what it was to love someone with every fiber of your being.

  Mary considered this and nodded. “We need a cottage and two servants. I won’t marry Rupert without that much. And he must woo me. I refuse to be taken for granted again. Between now and Saturday, he must prove that he loves me. And not just through poems. I fell for that over the summer, and then he abandoned me and the babe when we needed him most. This time, I need reassurance.”

  “If we can find Rupert, and if he is willing, and if he woos you and can find a cottage and an income sufficient to support a modest household...then you would consider marrying Rupert instead of Edward?” Harper asked cautiously.

  Mary’s small chin took a determined angle, and she replied, “Yes, I would prefer to marry Rupert if I could have those things. If you can do all that in five short days, Miss Forsythe, you are indeed a miracle worker.” She rose and settled her bonnet onto her head. “If you’ll excuse me, my mother will be finishing at the perfumer shortly. I begged leave because the smells make me nauseous, in my delicate condition. I must go.”

  “Wait, how will we communicate?” Harper asked, rising from her chair.

  “There’s a lion statue near the front gate of our townhouse. Its mouth opens to reveal a niche inside. We used to pass notes that way as children. You can reach it from the exterior of the gate.” Then she was gone.

  “Lady Mary didn’t even leave money for her sandwiches. Watch out for that one. She may not the brightest candle in the chandelier, but she is clever at getting whatever she wants,” Gran observed sourly, fishing in her reticule for money to pay the bill.

  Glumly, Harper helped her grandmother into the waiting hansom cab.

  “Why does everyone write her off as pretty and empty-headed? I thought she would jump at the chance to marry Rupert. It seems this won’t be as easy as I’d hoped.”

  Gran laughed. “Whatever made you expect this would be easy?”

  “It seems so obvious, so right! Rupert is the father of her child. She liked him well enough to make the babe, how could she not be desperate to marry him?”

  “She seems desperate enough to me. Lady Mary feels scorned and put upon. She wants Rupert to feel the weight of that before she forgives him. Girls like Mary don’t like to give up fancy dresses and dancing until dawn. She was born and raised to enjoy a life of leisure and luxury. Just because you don’t enjoy dancing and don’t give a fig about dresses doesn’t mean Mary will sacrifice her comfortable lifestyle easily. She is angling for everything she wants. You might be wise to take some pointers from the girl,” Gran observed tartly as they walked out.

  Chapter 23

  Viola was not enjoying her task one iota. Her feet were damp from street effluent and aching with the strain. The fruitlessness of her search irritated her to no end, too. Her son Matthew, on the other hand, was having a fine time. Bright brown eyes peered out from his muffler above his little nose.

  "Look at that, Mum!" he exclaimed. “The night soil cart overturned!”

  "Oh, Mattie, for heaven’s sake." Viola pinched her nose shut. The rickety hansom cab they’d hired rattled on, shaken by every cobblestone its wheels hit. At long last, the vehicle shuddered to a halt before their destination. Matthew bounded out like a spaniel being let out for a country walk.

  There were only so many places a woman could go—married or not—in search of a man who was not her relative. That Viola was searching out Rupert Alwin was highly improper. A male companion was required. Male companions being in short supply, Viola had been forced to press her son and a footman into service. Matthew, though just eight years old, could go places and inquire about things that Viola, if she wanted to preserve her reputation as a respectable widow, could not.

  Or at least, she mused, she couldn't afford to be caught doing it.

  The building they approached was hulking and inelegant, in a part of the city that Viola would never have ventured to of her own volition under ordinary circumstances. The Polished Knob was the kind of club that catered to men of secondary and tertiary importance to the ton—backup spare heirs with no hopes of inheritance—as well as moneyed upper-class tradesmen, barristers and the occasional industrialist too newly successful to mix at one of the more upscale establishments. Before this morning, Viola had known next to nothing about the world of gentlemen’s clubs and had been content in her ignorance.

  The appearance of Lord Dalton’s lanky form on the street between them and the front entrance of the club even was less welcome than it might have been. Ignoring a funny little flutter in her stomach, Viola averted her gaze and pretended not to see him as they hurried past.

  "Mrs. Cartwright," he called out with a smile, "what brings you to this part of London?"

  Viola did not return the smile. She curtsied briefly before responding, "Lord Dalton. I might ask the same of you. Yet I find the answer does not concern me, so, I bid you good day."

  Gripping Matthew's hand tighter, she tried to step around the man. Coolly, he blocked her path. Viola's eyes drew even with Lord Dalton’s cravat.

  "Please move your person," she intoned.

  Lord Dalton looked bemused. "What makes you so rude to one who has only ever tried to help you?"

  Now Viola looked up into his aristocratically chiseled face. He was so young, and so handsome. It really was not kind of him to toy with her like this.

  "What makes you so interested in a woman so far beneath your status?" she shot back.

  “Nothing untoward," he declared, his eyes piercing. Viola felt a tiny sting of disappointment. Of course, she misread his interest in an older, previously married woman saddled with a son. How vain to think he might be pursuing her, however idly. Then, Lord Dalton leaned closer.

  "Unless you wish otherwise, of course," he said low in her ear. A thrill coursed down Viol
a's spine. She gave him a patently false smile.

  "Should my wishes change, you will be the first to know," she said in the tone of an indulgent governess. "Now, if you please, my son and I have business to attend."

  "Fortunately, my business is concluded, and I am free to accompany you on yours."

  Inwardly, Viola groaned. Outwardly, she shrugged. "Your kind offer is unnecessary. Thank you anyway."

  Infuriating Lord Dalton offered her his arm. Matthew piped up.

  “Best not provoke my mum, sir.”

  “I'm not trying to do any such thing, good sir.” Dalton eyed the Polished Knob, then turned his penetrating glare on Viola. “Since she is as silent as a crypt on the subject, will you enlighten me as to your errand here?”

  Viola sputtered in protest, but before she could stop him, Matthew said, "We're on an adventure to find a Mr. Alwin."

  "I can never resist an adventure.”

  The boy and the man looked at Viola expectantly. She should walk away.

  “No,” she said. “Matthew, come along.”

  They marched up the few remaining feet to the door of the club. Viola, who never blushed, felt a rash of heat flood her cheeks as she imagined Lord Dalton’s astonishment. With Matthew at her side, Viola approached the door, which bore a gleaming brass knob just as the name of the establishment promised. She hesitated, her raised gloved hand inches from the far less shiny door knocker.

  “I doubt anyone will answer unless you actually employ the instrument you’re contemplating,” called Lord Dalton, bemused. She lifted the heavy iron ring and rapped it sharply against the plate, twice. Nothing happened. Matthew fidgeted beside her. Viola rapped again. More silence.

  “Try knocking louder,” coached Dalton from the street. “Or I could give it a go.”