Once Upon a Scandal

by Barbara Dawson Smith

  Her stomach lurched. Where was the money she had set aside until the next quarterly payment from her trust fund? Just yesterday, there had been six pounds, three shillings, and a few pence. Enough to scrape by with nothing to spare.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead to the oak secrétaire. It took a moment of deep breathing to alleviate her distress. Youngblood was wrong. He must be wrong. Grandpapa would not break his vow.

  But he had come in very late last night and gone out early this morning again, leaving the house as she’d come down to breakfast. Had she not been wrapped up in her own troubles, she would have paid more heed to his air of jolly frivolity. Was he up to his old tricks again?

  The question nagged like a sore tooth. As soon as he returned home, she would get the truth out of him. Agitated, she paced to the front door. If only she could put her financial woes behind her by marrying Sir Woodrow.

  Though he wasn’t sinfully rich like Lucas, Sir Woodrow Hickey was comfortably settled. He wanted to take care of her and Jenny. Her heart warmed at the thought of his kindness and gallantry, his undemanding and courtly devotion. She had grown exceedingly fond of him over the years, once she’d looked beyond his slight acquaintance with Lucas’s family. A trusted friend, Woodrow had stayed at her side during the difficult years of early motherhood. Emma had hoped to repay his regard by making them a family.

  She peeked out the front curtains. Almost as if she’d conjured him, Sir Woodrow was marching up the steps. The sunlight shone on his impeccable blue suit with the perfectly tied cravat. Thank heaven, he had a firm hold on her grandfather’s arm. She could only pray they’d missed Youngblood.

  The moment the two men came inside, she knew her wish had been denied.

  “Confounded Runner,” Lord Briggs muttered, shaking his fist. “A pox upon him, bothering his betters. Why, in my day, a person of common birth knew his place. He didn’t gabble on and make sly remarks.”

  “Good day, madam,” Woodrow said, bowing to Emma before turning back to Viscount Briggs. “I confess, I’m astonished you would be acquainted with such a man. How did you come to meet him?”

  Dear God. Woodrow didn’t know about her secret life as a burglar. “Grandpapa met him in a gaming hell,” Emma said quickly. “He … he came by to deliver some interesting news. And I’ve been wondering if it has to do with my strongbox being empty.”

  Her grandfather opened and closed his mouth. His gently weathered face took on a sheepish expression, and he tugged at his neckcloth, mussing the starched linen. “I can explain that, my dear.”

  “I’d hoped so. In the drawing room, then.”

  “After my nap.”

  “Now.”

  He blew out a sigh. “Lead the way, girl.”

  “Before we talk, I should like a word with Sir Woodrow.”

  “Take as long as you like.” With a benevolent wave of his hand, her grandfather marched past her like a martyr on his way to the lions. “Go on, Hickey. Save me the trouble. You’ll tell her everything, anyway.”

  The baronet removed his hat, revealing wheat-brown hair that receded from his brow. His clear gray eyes were grave. “I don’t know quite how to say this, Emma.”

  “You must tell me,” she whispered back. “Where did you find him?”

  “At a small club in the Strand. I’m afraid he was … er …”

  “Gambling again.” Struck by despair, she struggled to keep her expression calm. On impulse, she reached for Sir Woodrow’s hand and squeezed it. His fingers felt warm and comforting, nonthreatening. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

  The ruddiness of his cheeks deepened, and he withdrew his hand. “Never fear, I shall see to his markers.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Emma said fiercely. “I’ve some money put away. Just tell me who he owes this time.”

  “You know I cannot. It’s a debt of honor between gentlemen.”

  “Nonsense. Grandpapa has always told me in the past.”

  Woodrow frowned. “He expressly asked me not to reveal the gentleman’s name. I cannot betray a confidence.”

  She bit her lip against another argument. Woodrow wasn’t one to bend his strict principles. “As you wish, then.”

  “May I visit with Jenny now, until we’ve time to talk further?”

  “Of course.” Emma managed a smile though the lump in her stomach grew heavier. She would have to break the bad news about her interview with Lucas. But she could not bear to think of the future. Not yet.

  In the drawing room, she found her grandfather standing at the sideboard, hoisting a glass of port. A short, wiry man, he had a perpetual twinkle in his blue eyes. Even now, good humor radiated from him as he drank deeply and grimaced. “Nasty stuff,” he said. “Must have a word with Spencer’s on the quality of their wine.”

  “We don’t buy from Spencer’s anymore,” she reminded him. “We can’t afford the prices.”

  His bushy white brows drew together. “Ah, how right you are, my clever girl. The blasted bankers won’t let go our money.”

  Not for the first time, she breathed a prayer of thanks for the trust fund set up by her father before his death. The small quarterly payments had saved them from the poorhouse.

  “Speaking of money,” she said, “you were going to tell me what happened to our household funds.”

  “Why, I want to win us a fortune. I’d found a lucky shilling in the roadway, you see.”

  Emma decided not to ask him what finding a shilling had to do with gambling away their food money. She unfastened her pelisse and dropped it onto a chair. “Just how much did you lose this time?”

  “A trifling amount. Never fear, I’ll win it back in a trice. Had a streak of luck going when Hickey came to fetch me home—”

  “How much?”

  “Confound it, girl, must you plague a feeble old man?”

  “How much?”

  Lord Briggs lifted his glass of port and mumbled into the drink.

  Emma stepped closer. “Louder, Grandpapa.”

  “All right, then, I confess. ’Twas a monkey.”

  “Pardon? We haven’t such an animal here.”

  “Not an animal.” He grimaced. “A monkey, m’dear, is five hundred pounds.”

  The strength fled her legs. She sank onto a fringed footstool and waited until her throat unclenched. “Dear heaven,” she whispered. “How could you?”

  The flamboyant confidence left her grandfather’s face. His hand trembled as he set down his glass, and his eyes glistened suspiciously bright. That was precisely why he lost at the gaming tables, Emma knew. He showed emotion too readily.

  And that was why she loved him in spite of his failings.

  Shoulders hunched, he perched himself on the edge of a chair like a pupil awaiting punishment. “I broke my vow to you, girl. But ‘tis the first time since April, I swear it. ’Twas my fault you came home that night, bleeding from Putney’s bullet.”

  Emma buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to remember; she wouldn’t let herself. Yet in an instant she was back on that ledge, dizzy and shaking, burning with pain … .

  The fog blinded her. She could see only blackness. Clutching awkwardly at the stone railing, she moved along the ledge. Her left arm hung useless. Hurry. She must hurry. At any moment, the Watch would come. And the Runners. She’d die in prison. What would happen to Jenny?

  Jenny.

  Panic spurred her. She reached the neighboring town house, the empty one. In her haste, she lost her balance and pitched headfirst into the attic. She landed on her left shoulder. Agony blazed through her. And darkness descended, thick and tempting.

  Jenny.

  She stumbled to her feet, staggered down the staircase, slipped through the back door. Shouts rang in the distance. Panting, she paused in the foggy yard. The search was on. She’d never reach home.

  Jenny.

  She fled through the fog. She could not see the hunters, nor could they see her. Sustained by the thought
, she kept running. Blood trickled warm and wet down her left breast, soaking her black coat. She forged on through the cold night and the hot pain … .

  Emma blinked hard, snapping out of the memory, thankful she had survived the ordeal. By some miracle, she’d found the way to her own back door. Her grandfather had been in a dither, hollering for a doctor, but she’d managed to stop him by choking out a confession. Luckily, the bullet had passed through her, and as Maggie bound the wound, Emma had told her grandfather everything.

  That was the first he’d known of her midnight exploits as the Bond Street Burglar. Out of desperation, she’d broken into the houses of the men who had fleeced him. She had stolen jewelry in the amount he’d lost and then fenced it. She’d fancied herself invincible, a Seeker of Justice. Instead, she’d found out exactly how vulnerable she was.

  Horrified, Lord Briggs had promised to abstain from card playing. He had kept his word.

  Until now.

  Emma hugged her knees as the jaws of dread closed around her. She would be forced to steal again, and she had lost her nerve. The very thought of clambering on rooftops nauseated her.

  “Don’t you fret,” said Lord Briggs. “I’ll recoup the money.”

  “How?” She rubbed her arms against the chill that surrounded her, both inside and out. She wished she did not have to be the practical one, the one who had lost her ability to dream. “By playing cards again and making your debt all the steeper? Oh, Grandpapa, when will you learn to stay away from the gaming tables?”

  He ran his hand over his face. It was the mournful gesture of an old man. “I didn’t mean to gamble. I was thinking about your grandmama again, that’s all. Didn’t know how else to get my mind off her.”

  Compassion softened Emma. His beloved wife had died of a fever shortly after Emma’s marriage. “Gambling won’t bring her back,” she said gently. “It will only ruin us.”

  Her grandfather lowered his hand from his face: To her surprise, his blue eyes sparkled again. “No, we shan’t be ruined. I know exactly what I shall do.”

  “What is that?”

  “’Tis what I wanted to do years ago, had you not stopped me.” He grasped the lapels of his coat with a show of resolution. “I shall demand your rightful due from that errant husband of yours.”

  Chapter 3

  Emma surged to her feet. “Absolutely not.”

  Lord Briggs sprang up, too. Only an inch taller than Emma, he glowered at her, blue eyes to blue eyes. “For seven years Wortham has neglected you. It’s high time he treated you with the respect you deserve.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, he has good reason not to respect me.”

  “Bother your addlepated pride, girl! Wortham can afford to pay you a handsome allowance. ‘Tis rumored he’s returned with a shipload of riches from the East.” Circling a sadly frayed green chair, her grandfather waved his arms with theatrical extravagance. “Jade figurines from Shanghai! Gold statues from Siam! And the greatest treasure of all is the sacred tiger mask. ’Twas a gift from the maharajah of Jaipur—”

  “I know. I’ve seen it.”

  “—and ’tis fabled to bring luck to its rightful owner—” Lord Briggs stopped dead and stared at Emma. “You’ve seen what?”

  “The mask.”

  “Confound it, girl! Where … how … ?”

  “I called on Lucas this morning. I saw him put the mask into the safe in his library.”

  “Well, hang me for a dog! What did he say? If the blighter dared to insult you …”

  “He didn’t.” Unwilling to admit she’d asked for—and had been denied—a divorce, Emma went to the window and looked out on the narrow street as a dray passed by, its wheels clattering over the potholes. In her mind she saw her husband’s hostile, sun-browned features, felt the touch of his fingers on her face. Willing away a shudder, she spoke over her shoulder. “Though I can safely say he has not forgiven me.”

  “A pox upon forgiveness. Wortham shouldn’t carry a grudge so long. He should realize you’re a decent girl who committed only one mistake.”

  “That one mistake ruined his life.”

  “Bosh.” Her grandfather stomped closer. “If Wortham’s bent on punishing someone, he should track down the rake who seduced you. If only you’d tell us the bastard’s name.”

  She pressed her forehead to the cold glass. Lord Briggs didn’t know the whole truth. No one did. And no one ever would.

  “We’ve been through this many times before, Grandpapa. I mentioned my visit to Lucas only so you’ll realize the futility of approaching him.”

  She tried to smile, but clenched her jaw instead. Every muscle in her body quivered. To her dismay, the scene outside went blurry, and she blinked in fierce denial. She would not weep. She had not shed a tear since the night Lucas had discovered her act of desperation.

  Her grandfather awkwardly patted her rigid back. “Oh, blast it, girl. Wortham don’t know a twenty-four-carat treasure when ’tis right before his nose. I’ve a good mind to call him out. Pistols at dawn will teach that young pup a lesson—”

  “For pity’s sake, no!” Emma whirled around to face her grandfather. As with his gambling, he had a knack for acting on impulse without a thought for the consequences. She took hold of his wiry-strong hands. “Please, you know as well as I the wrong I did to Lucas. You will not intercede on my behalf.”

  “Bah. Should he punish you for the rest of your life? Someone ought to exact retribution from the scoundrel.” He pulled his hands free and waved a fist. “An honorable man provides for his wife.”

  “I’m not an honorable wife. And he shan’t pay your gaming debts, either. I’ll have your promise that you’ll not ask him for money.”

  Lord Briggs mumbled something under his breath.

  “Your promise.”

  “All right, then, if you insist.”

  The obstinate glint in his eyes troubled her. “You’ll not go begging to Lucas?”

  “Confound it, didn’t I just give you my word?” Lord Briggs clapped his hand over his gray and blue striped waistcoat. “I hereby pledge not to ask Wortham to share his disgusting wealth with his own wife. There, you troublesome minx. May I take my nap now?”

  “Of course.” Emma gave him a peck on his cheek. His prickly skin smelled of shaving soap and tobacco, scents that brought back memories of a time when she had felt safe and cherished. She had grown up expecting to find that same aura of love and security in marriage.

  Those romantic dreams had no connection to the brutal realities of adulthood. Her husband cared nothing for her wishes; she had known that with her first glance into his dark, indifferent eyes. It should not hurt to know that Lucas reserved his affections for his mistress.

  It should not.

  “Never mind the fire,” Lucas said. “Tell Mrs. Gurney I want her down here immediately.”

  The mobcapped young maid who knelt on the hearth rug darted an awestruck glance up at him. “Aye, m’lord.” She snatched up her supplies, nearly tipping over the coal scuttle in the process. Bobbing an awkward curtsy, she ran from the room.

  Lucas grimaced. He had been waiting in this godforsaken parlor for nearly a quarter hour already. But he had not meant to frighten the poor child. Ever since his clash with Emma that morning, he had been snappish and brusque.

  Ever since he had contemplated the unthinkable.

  Removing his gloves, he clenched them in his palm as he prowled the cramped private parlor of the rooming house. There was scarcely enough space to walk between the numerous chairs and chaises. The fire hissed on the hearth, a low angry murmur like the voice of his conscience.

  He had the perfect mistress, a pleasing, submissive woman who fulfilled his every need. He should have no interest in consummating his marriage. He should not think about holding Emma’s slim, sweetly curved form. He should not dream of knowing the feel of her bare skin against his. He should not imagine hearing her cry out his name in ecstasy.

  Damn her seductive body to
hell. Like a drunkard who guzzled gin and then flung away the bottle, Emma wished to discard her husband now that she had found another man to gull. Lucas told himself he would be better off divorcing her.

  Yet how gratifying it would be to thwart her plans. To show her how it felt to be used.

  To take her to bed after years of fantasizing.

  Driven by restless energy, he snatched up a candle and touched the wick to the fire. He went around the parlor, lighting other tapers. Emma’s dressing room had been ablaze with candles on their wedding night. The image of her was indelibly etched in his mind: the alabaster curves of her naked back, the silvery-blond hair cascading to her waist, the heady glimpse of her full breasts.

  And the stark horror on her face as she’d spun around to see him.

  At first he had not understood. He’d thought her shy as a maiden, thought himself gauche as a moonstruck pup, so eager for her love that he could not wait the prescribed time for his bride to prepare herself for bed. The blow of his stupidity had struck him with a ferocity he would never forget. For then, he had seen her hands cradling the gentle roundness of her belly … .

  “My lord marquess,” trilled a voice from the doorway. “Do forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

  A short, plump woman hastened forward and sank into a curtsy at his feet. She took her time rising, no doubt to give him a good look at her voluptuous breasts.

  He hid his distaste. “Mrs. Gurney, I presume.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” In a fog of flowery perfume, she sidled closer to him. She wore a daringly cut gown of pale pink that ill suited her brassy auburn hair and aging face. “May I offer you some refreshment? Tea and plum cake? Though our poor fare surely isn’t fine enough for a man of your rank—”

  “No. I’ve come to inquire about a man who lived here two years ago. A red-haired Irishman by the name of Patrick O’Hara.”

  Mrs. Gurney’s obsequious smile pinched into a mean line that added years to her face. “What would you want with that rascal, pray?”

  “O’Hara had just returned from India. A boy was traveling with him. His son.”