Once Upon a Scandal

by Barbara Dawson Smith

  “Thieves are the very least of my son’s concerns,” the dowager snapped, sitting rigidly upright on the chaise. “Unless, of course, you’ve come to steal from him.”

  Emma’s blood chilled. For the barest moment, she feared both of them knew she was the Bond Street Burglar. But that was absurd. “I wouldn’t think of it. You yourself made certain I have no say in his affairs.”

  Lady Wortham pursed her patrician lips as if composing a retort.

  “Mother, I believe you were about to leave,” Lucas said.

  “It might be wiser if the two of you spoke at the office of our solicitor—”

  “I should like to be alone with my wife. Now.”

  A look passed between the two of them. Then she lowered her eyes and stood up, Toby in her arms. “As you wish.”

  Emma blinked in surprise. In the past, the dowager had kept a firm rein on her son. How masterfully Lucas behaved now.

  Taking his mother’s elbow, he led her to the door. “Mind, no overtaxing yourself,” he said quietly. “You’re to rest before luncheon.”

  The tender regard he showed to his mother brought a lump to Emma’s throat. At one time, he had shown the same loving attention to his fiancée. He had followed her around like an adoring terrier, fetching her drinks, bringing her posies, guarding her from the unwanted attentions of other men. She wondered if a kernel of that regard still existed …

  He closed the door and turned to Emma. “Tell me how much you need.”

  Again, she was struck by his air of command. His hands pushed back his coat and rested at his lean waist, making her uneasily aware of his muscular build. Her palms went damp and cold. He was staring at her, waiting for an answer. And she couldn’t remember what he’d said.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  “Tell me the amount you require,” he repeated in a tone of jaded politeness. “I will inform my secretary to issue a bank draft to you.”

  Money. He thought she’d come here for money.

  Resentment pricked her. If only he knew all the economies she had practiced, the made-over gowns, the times she’d skipped meals so Jenny could eat. But of course Lucas had every reason to think the worst of her. “I don’t want an allowance from you—I never have,” she said evenly. “There’s another matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  His eyebrow cocked in skepticism. “Go on.”

  Calling up the words she’d rehearsed, Emma clasped her hands tightly and dipped her chin in a girlish pose. “First, I must humbly offer my apology. I wanted you to know how very sorry I am … for deceiving you. I cannot even beg your forgiveness. Rather, I would like to make amends.” She paused, absurdly hesitant to finish the rest of her prepared statement.

  His eyes were hard, brown mirrors, revealing nothing of his thoughts. Was he reliving the horrible moment when he had walked into her dressing room and had seen the proof of his bride’s betrayal?

  Emma swallowed the impulse to defend herself, to blurt out that she, too, had been wronged—terribly wronged. But he must never know. She would take that secret to the grave.

  “Well, speak up about these amends,” he said. “I haven’t all day.”

  She lowered her gaze to her gloved fingers, forcing herself to play the shamefaced wife. “I should like to offer my cooperation to you … in procuring a divorce.”

  There, it was out. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. He would say yes gladly. And then she could give Jenny a real home and a father who loved her.

  “No,” Lucas said.

  “No?”

  “You heard me.” Smiling coldly, he strolled to a small crate, picked up a metal bar, and used a violent gouge to pry off the lid. Wood splintered with a harshly grating noise. “I will not subject my family to another scandal. If that is all you’ve come to say, you may go.”

  Her carefully constructed plans threatened to tumble around Emma. She had braced herself to offer sympathy for his pain, understanding for his anger, gentle persuasion for his reluctance. She had humbled herself, practically groveling at his feet. Never had she expected him to refuse with calm, unshakable conviction.

  “You haven’t given the matter enough thought,” she said, keeping her voice sweet. “You needn’t fear I’ll ask for an annuity from you, Lucas. I only wish to give you your freedom.”

  “I’ve been free enough these past seven years.”

  What did he mean? That he’d had other women? She swallowed hard. “The scandal will be trifling if the divorce is obtained quietly.”

  “Quietly?” He chuckled without humor. “There is the small matter of airing one’s dirty laundry in a public forum, for all the world to hear. The small matter of securing a Parliamentary bill of divorce.”

  “You have influence. Use it.”

  “I don’t care to bother myself.”

  Frustrated by his indifference, she ventured a few steps closer and lowered her voice to a husky murmur. “Don’t you wish to marry again? All men want an heir.”

  “Most men.” Lucas searched through the straw inside the crate. He drew forth the small jade figurine of a woman and examined it, turning it over and over in his big hands. “However, I’m fortunate enough to have a cousin to ensure the succession. A sober-minded gentleman with three sons of his own.”

  “But what of you? Don’t you want a real wife? A companion?”

  He glanced at Emma, his mouth crooked into the trace of a smile. “If you refer to the attentions of a loving woman, I have that need fulfilled to my satisfaction. By my mistress.”

  A hectic heat rushed over Emma’s skin. He returned his attention to the figurine and carefully brushed off the bits of clinging straw as if caressing his lover.

  Was that why he seemed so unaffected, so secretive, so male? Because he kept a woman to appease his physical lusts? The notion made her shudder inwardly. Who was his lover? Someone he had met on his travels? Was his mistress responsible for his transformation from stuttering boy to domineering man?

  He placed the statue on a bookshelf and then stood back to survey it. There was no reason to feel betrayed, Emma told herself. She should be happy he hadn’t pined for her all these years. “Then you’ll wish to marry her. I’m offering you that chance.”

  “How decent of you.” He paced slowly past the piles of packing crates and circled around behind her. “However, I am beginning to believe your interest in my welfare is not what brought you here to plead so prettily.”

  His muted footfalls brought to mind a tiger stalking its prey. She imagined him reaching out to grab her, pinning her to the floor. Standing rigidly still, Emma ignored the prickling of alarm down her spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This sudden kindness of yours has nothing whatever to do with concern for my happiness. Rather, it is you who wants freedom from wedlock.”

  Her heartbeat quivered. She fancied he stood directly behind her, that she could feel his warm breath stirring the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Forcing herself to keep her head bowed in the guise of a helpless female, she murmured, “Surely we share a common interest in ending the marriage. That’s why I’m here. To spare you the trouble of broaching such a delicate topic.”

  “How alluring a heroine you are, my Lady Wortham. I wonder how far you would go to convince me of your sincerity.” Then he caressed her.

  His fingertips glided over her cheek, brushing against her lips. The shock of it sizzled through her. In an instant, she plunged into a dark river of memory.

  She jerked around to face him, backing up against the crates. A splinter drove into her palm, but she was numb to the pain. Her throat knotted so tightly she could scarcely speak. “Don’t. Don’t.”

  The fire crackled into the silence. An unreadable emotion flickered in his gold-flecked brown eyes. “Don’t what? Don’t touch my own wife?”

  Maturity had hardened his features, lent him an aura of danger. Yet she could also see traces of the boy he had been. On either
side of his firm mouth lay hints of the dimples that showed when he smiled.

  He was not smiling now.

  She felt like a butterfly pinned to his corkboard. She could only stare mutely at him and pray he would leave her be.

  “Were I the dastardly sort,” he said, “I would have demanded my rights on our wedding night.” Folding his arms in a casual stance, he looked her up and down. “Rest assured, though, I prefer a woman of honor.”

  “Of course,” she whispered. “And I’m willing to set you free for her sake.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Tell me the truth, Emma. What man have you found to gull this time?”

  She lowered her gaze to his neckcloth. “Man?” she said on a trill of surprise. “Why do you assume there is a man involved?”

  “Because a woman like you is never without a man to maneuver.” His fingers roughly nudged her chin up. “Tell me his name. I would know who’s been cuckolding me.”

  “I—”

  “Tell me, for the courts will require proof of your adultery.”

  His forefinger and thumb held her chin firmly in place. She fought the panic his touch inspired. There was no point to concealment, she knew with dismal certainty. In order to obtain a Parliamentary divorce, he would first need to win a civil suit against her lover. Her supposed lover. “I—I have an understanding with Sir Woodrow Hickey.”

  Lucas frowned. “Andrew’s old school chum?”

  “Yes. He wishes to marry me.”

  Releasing her abruptly, Lucas strode to the fireplace. He leaned his forearm on the mantelpiece and gazed at her. “I remember Hickey as an honorable, level-headed gentleman. Not the sort to take up with a fallen woman.”

  The slur hurt, but she refused to let it show. “You’ve taken a mistress. Why should you deny me the privilege of companionship?”

  “Because one spurious child is quite enough for me.” A faintly feral glint entered his eyes. “And perhaps Hickey knew you intimately before we were wed. Perhaps he is the father of your child.”

  She stood in frozen denial as fear slithered forth from the dark place inside her. No one would believe what had happened. Least of all, Lucas.

  Snatching up the sword of anger, she struck back with a lie. “I haven’t the least notion who fathered my Jenny. He could have been any one of a dozen men.”

  “So you said. On the night of our wedding.”

  She would not feel guilty. Not for taking the only course of action that benefitted her daughter. “Woodrow loves Jenny. That is all that matters to me. If you won’t be a father to her, then I must seek a man who will. A man who can forgive a youthful error and accept a blameless child.”

  His expression hewn from granite, he studied her with a stranger’s hard eyes. “There will be no divorce. That is final. Good day, Lady Wortham.”

  The bars of the prison closed in on her. Fighting back, she retorted, “As you wish, Lord Wortham. Only prepare yourself for another scandal.”

  Lucas watched his wife march toward the door of the library. She moved with her unique brand of sensual dignity, her head held high, the lilac silk gown draping her slender curves. He had forgotten how small she was, how dainty, how angelically fair of face. She exuded an air of innocence that infuriated him. For a moment there, when he’d been standing behind her, he’d felt like that callow lad again, dazzled by her deceptive purity. And he’d been seized by the desire to press her down on the rug and consummate their marriage.

  He clenched his fingers. Damn her.

  When she reached the doorway, Emma turned her head to glower at him with her beautiful blue eyes. As if she were the injured party. Then, with a twitch of her skirts, she vanished into the passageway.

  She would go back to Jenny now. The thought squeezed his chest in a vise so tight he could scarcely breathe. Somehow, putting a name to Emma’s child made his resentment blaze hotter. And his regrets burn deeper.

  If you won’t be a father to her, then I must seek a man who will.

  He slammed his fist down onto a crate, splintering the wood. Pain speared up his arm. Did she think he ought to have accepted her bastard?

  . No, not a bastard. Under the law, her child bore his name and the distinction of his rank. Lady Jenny Coulter. She would be six by now. Of an age to ask questions about her father. Did Emma tell her the truth? Did Emma admit her own wrongdoing?

  To hell with it. What she told her daughter held no interest for him. His emotional turmoil arose only from the fact that he fully realized now the danger of having an untrustworthy wife.

  Running restless fingers through his hair, Lucas paced the length of the library. Considering Emma’s penchant for toying with men, it was a wonder she had not conceived again. In fact, it was a miracle she hadn’t given birth to a boy. By law, the Wortham heir.

  The ramifications of such an event struck a grim note. While he’d been away, the issue of the succession had seemed remote, unimportant. Now he faced the fact that he could not permit Emma to hold such power over him.

  Yet if he did not divorce her that left him only one choice. His pulse surged as the solution enticed him.

  No. He wouldn’t even consider such madness. He’d only bring calamity onto himself and his family. On the other hand, perhaps he was underestimating himself. He was no longer the green boy, easily hoodwinked by a pretty smile. He could keep Emma under strict control.

  The unthinkable course of action took flame inside him, filling him with dark, damning fire. Yes. He must do it.

  He must ensure that Emma bore his child.

  Emma’s thoughts were in such chaos that she walked straight past the man who loitered on the front steps of her house in a seedy neighborhood on the fringes of Cheapside.

  She had been reliving each moment of the meeting with Lucas. From the instant she had seen her husband looking every inch the omnipotent lord, she had lost control of the conversation. She had failed to guide him into accepting the only reasonable resolution to their unconventional marriage. Why was he so adamant about not wanting a divorce?

  Because he had a mistress, a woman he loved. The notion stung with surprising poignancy. His lover must be unsuited to marrying a man of his high station. Was she a foreigner, then? Or a lower-class Englishwoman he had met overseas?

  Whoever she was, she pleasured him in bed. She lifted her gown and submitted to his dominance. She allowed him to perform that painfully degrading act on her …

  “Out burgling, m’lady?”

  Jolted, Emma found herself standing on her own front steps. Beside her stood a pigeon-breasted man wearing a battered black top hat and the cast-off brown suit of a gentleman. One of his eyelids drooped, lending a sly look to his sallow face.

  Clive Youngblood.

  Her stomach took a dive. The Bow Street Runner had plagued Emma and her grandfather for months, suspecting one of them was the Bond Street Burglar. He alone had noticed the pattern of the robberies—that in the weeks preceding each theft, her grandfather had lost money to the victim.

  Surreptitiously, she glanced up and down the residential street. No one was watching. “I beg your pardon,” she said icily. “Did you speak to me?”

  “You know I did. It h’ain’t polite to ignore an officer of the law.”

  “Nor is it polite to address an unescorted lady.”

  “Maybe ‘tis a rule fer you top-drawers. But ’ere, in my part of town, we h’ain’t so particular.”

  She gritted her teeth on a retort about self-important little men. Youngblood lacked proof of her crimes, yet he continued to dog her, disappearing for weeks, then reappearing. “If you’ve something to say, then say it.”

  “I might at that.” A crafty smile curled his lips as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Yer grandpa’s been gamblin’ again.”

  Her feet froze to the step. “You’re lying.”

  “Nay. Saw ‘im wid me own eyes. ’Twas last night, comin’ outa Chutney’s Club.” He clucked his tongue. “’E ’ad the look of a blok
e oo’s lost ’is last farthing.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re mistaken. Good day, sir.”

  Grinning, he lifted his top hat with the hauteur of a lord. “I’ll be on the lookout fer the Bond Street Burglar.”

  The warning didn’t deserve the dignity of a reply. Leaving him standing out in the cold, Emma went inside and shut the door. Only then did she allow anxiety to wash over her.

  Chutney’s was a backstreet gaming hell. Where Grandpapa had been wont to go in the sad months after Grandmama’s death.

  Emma shook her head. Youngblood’s accusation could not be true. Ever since she had come home bleeding from Lord Jasper Putney’s bullet, Grandpapa had stopped gambling. He would not risk the dice, not ever again. Where would he get the money for a game, anyway?

  The cash box.

  Denying her doubts, she walked briskly across the bare wood floor of the entryway. The downstairs was silent as a tomb, though she could hear Maggie singing off-key in one of the bedrooms above. The familiar sound lifted Emma’s spirits. It was Monday, washing day, when fresh linens were put on the beds. Jenny would be up there, helping Maggie and chattering instead of doing her lessons. Were it not for her doomed errand this morning, Emma would be with them, sweeping the dustballs from beneath the beds or scrubbing the grates. At one time she would have been appalled to do the work of a servant. But necessity—and Jenny—made it all worthwhile.

  Entering the small morning room, Emma could not help but compare it to Wortham House. Here, the blue curtains were frayed. No fire burned on the hearth, for coal was too dear to waste. She had placed the furniture in strategic locations to hide the worn spots in the rug. Yet a pair of windows looked out on a tiny rear garden dominated by a stately beech tree. And they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. That was all that mattered.

  She went to the tall secrétaire in the corner. Standing on her tiptoes, she took a chipped porcelain vase off the top shelf and shook out a key into her palm. She used the key to open the metal strongbox inside the desk.

  And found herself staring down into the empty interior.