Once Upon a Scandal

by Barbara Dawson Smith

  “I remember the dark-skinned lad,” she said with a sniff. “The little beast was O’Hara’s by-blow by some foreign female.”

  Lucas considered slapping the superiority off her vulgar face. He struck his gloves against his palm instead. “Tell me where they went after they left here.”

  Mrs. Gurney shrugged. “How should I know? The scoundrel stole away in the middle of the night without paying his bill.”

  “He must have given you some hint of his destination. Did he speak of any place in particular? Or say how he meant to support himself?”

  “It happened so long ago.” Mrs. Gurney ran a fleshy fingertip along her décolletage and slanted a smile at him. “Perhaps if you would tarry with me a bit, something will come back to me.”

  Lucas took a gold piece out of his pocket and let it clink onto a nearby table. “That should help to jostle your memory.”

  “Oh, m’lord, how generous of you.” Quick as a cat, she snatched up the sovereign and stuffed it into her bodice. “He loved the theater. He spoke of joining a company of play-actors. I’m afraid that’s all I remember.”

  It was little enough to go on, Lucas thought grimly. But at least he had a starting place. “Tell me, how did O’Hara treat his son?”

  “Why, the boy fetched and carried to earn his keep. Deserved all the slaps he got for dawdling. I’d’ve taught him his place in a trice, I would.”

  Lucas’s chest tightened with anger. He had expected the worst of the man who had stolen away Shalimar’s beloved son. God only knew what desperate straits the boy might be in now.

  A sharp sense of purpose spurred Lucas. He would hire a team of men to search every theater in London. And in the meantime …

  Another fantasy harried him—luring Emma into his bed. Turning on his bootheel, he strode toward the parlor door.

  “Wait!” Mrs. Gurney called. “Can I not be of more service to you, m’lord?”

  He glanced back to see the landlady rubbing her hands down the front of her gown. “It seems, madam, that you shall have to service yourself.”

  Emma floats alone on a vast dark sea. Her body is half submerged in water. Sluggish waves lap in her ears like a rhythmic heartbeat. She’s safe here on the surface. Nothing can hurt her so long as she lies very still. So long as she doesn’t draw the attention of the beast that lurks in the black, bottomless depths …

  Something snatches at her sleeve. It’s him!

  Her lips part in a silent scream. Fingers close around her arm and drag her down, down, down … .

  “Wake up, Mama. Wake up.”

  Emma blinked at the bright morning sunshine that poured past the lacy bedhangings. The linens lay in a jumbled heap all around her. The terror slid away as she found herself gazing into her daughter’s sweet, solemn face. Jenny was dressed and ready for the day, her wavy, chestnut-brown hair drawn up with a blue-green ribbon that exactly matched her eyes.

  “Gracious,” Emma said, half groggy. “What time is it?”

  “It’s nine o’clock, and you mustn’t be a lazybones today.” Jenny tugged on her mother’s arm again. “Uncle Woodrow has promised to take us to the park to feed the swans, remember? I saved my bread crusts from breakfast and made Maggie do the same. So we shan’t have to use our last loaf before baking day tomorrow.”

  The little girl placed a crumpled white handkerchief beside her mother on the pillow and unfolded it to display a hill of squashed crusts. Earnest pride glowed on her delicate features.

  A rush of love inundated Emma, washing away the lingering darkness of the nightmare. Smiling, she sat up in bed. “You are the most amazingly resourceful girl in London,” she said. “Perhaps in all of England. Or even the entire world.”

  Jenny giggled. “How silly, Mama. It’s only crusts.”

  “Yes, but you thought of it all on your own, and that’s what makes you especially wonderful.”

  Emma gathered Jenny close. The feel of her daughter’s small, sturdy form, the rainwater fragrance of her skin, filled her heart to aching fullness. Jenny shouldn’t be worrying about using up the last of their bread. It wasn’t right for a little girl to practice economies. She should be serving tea to a party of dolls instead of collecting scraps off the breakfast plates.

  And she would have that life if—when—Emma married Sir Woodrow.

  The memory of her interview with Lucas the previous day crept out to taunt her. It was no wonder she had a dull headache from oversleeping; she had lain awake half the night, pondering what course of action to take next.

  Prepare yourself for another scandal.

  Brash, boastful words. In truth, she had no wish to cause more trouble for Lucas. It was her fault he had become a cold, aloof stranger. The crushing realization weighed upon her. She had destroyed his soft-hearted innocence, just as her own innocence had been destroyed. In truth, she was hardly better than the man who had—

  Emma slammed the door on that memory. It was useless to bemoan the past. Better she should contemplate her new plan to enlist the aid of Lucas’s mother. Although the dowager had once sent Emma away in disgrace, she might agree to join forces now. Together, they could make Lucas realize the necessity of a divorce.

  Yes. The scheme had merit.

  Emma threw back the covers. The bare floorboards chilled her feet as she went to the dressing table, where she sat down on the stool and unbraided her hair. Her mind grappled with the problem of how to approach the elder Lady Wortham without being tossed out on her ear.

  Jenny took up the old tortoiseshell brush and began to groom her mother’s hair with the sober concentration that made her seem older than her years. Six going on twenty, Maggie often said fondly. Emma agreed, though with less enthusiasm.

  “Mama, when I grow up, I should like to work as an abigail. But Maggie says I cannot be a servant. I must be a lady.”

  “Mm-hmm. You were born a lady.” Smiling, Emma poked through the jumble of ribbons and cosmetic pots in the drawer. “My own Lady Jenny.”

  “Maggie says my papa is the Marquess of Wortham. He has just come back from a long trip to heathen lands.”

  Emma’s heart lurched. Dropping a handful of hairpins back into the drawer, she looked up to see her daughter’s gravely curious eyes reflected in the age-speckled mirror. Seldom had Jenny expressed more than a passing interest in her father; she had been satisfied with the vague explanation that he had gone away on an extended journey. “Yes, lambkin, he’s returned.”

  “Why has he not come to live with us, then? Doesn’t he know where to find us?”

  “Lord Wortham and I quarreled a very long time ago—before you were even born,” Emma said carefully. “We decided it was best if we lived apart.”

  “Agnes Pickett says I should hang my head in shame, for I haven’t any father at all.” Jenny’s voice lowered to a forlorn whisper. “She says that’s why his lordship doesn’t come to see me. Because he is not really my papa.”

  The words plunged like a red-hot lance into Emma’s breast, and the pain of it spawned an unreasoning anger. Curse Lucas! How could he hurt this dear child?

  Swiveling on the stool, she gently clasped her daughter’s arms. The time to explain things had finally come. Did she have the right words? She had rehearsed them many times, but now they flew out of her mind.

  She spoke with motherly fervor. “Agnes Pickett is a cruel, thoughtless girl. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Then who is my papa? Don’t I have one?”

  Her fingers trembling, Emma stroked a springy chestnut curl off Jenny’s brow. Silently begging God’s forgiveness for the lie, Emma said, “I loved someone else before I wed Lord Wortham. That man is your true father. He died before we could marry.”

  “Did he love me?”

  “He didn’t even know you existed.” That much at least was true. Swallowing hard, Emma forced her lips into a reassuring smile. “But I’m certain he would have been proud to have you for a daughter. How could anyone re
sist a sweet girl who saves her bread crusts for the swans?”

  She tickled Jenny, who dropped the brush and lapsed into a fit of giggling. Then, while Emma dressed, Jenny chattered about their outing, choosing a serviceable gown of garter-blue from the clothes press and imploring her mother to make haste.

  To Emma’s relief, the little girl asked no more difficult questions.

  Blast the gossips, Emma thought fiercely, as she searched the drawers of a highboy for her only decent pair of kid gloves. Seven years had passed and still people spoke of the scandal as if it were yesterday. She cringed to think of Jenny fending off callous remarks about her birth.

  How many more times would she endure taunts and teasing? Emma couldn’t protect her forever. The thought rendered Emma breathless with despair, and she leaned against the opened drawer, the edge pressing into her abdomen.

  She must remarry. With Sir Woodrow, she and Jenny could find a quiet, respectable life away from London, in a rural district where no one had heard-of the scandal. A place where she could keep her grandfather away from the gaming tables, too.

  And there was still the matter of the five hundred pounds he had lost. The mere thought of resuming her masquerade as the Bond Street Burglar made her blood run cold. The risks were too great, considering the danger of leaving Jenny an orphan.

  Perhaps, Emma thought, she could bend her pride and negotiate a settlement after all. Five hundred pounds for accepting the blame for the divorce. She would call on the dowager today and make the arrangements.

  And if Lucas didn’t agree?

  Recalling his implacable brown eyes, Emma resisted a shiver of misgivings. Yesterday he had been angry, unwilling to listen to reason. Once he had time to think on the matter, he might reconsider. Yes. He would see the benefit of ending their mockery of a marriage.

  “Here, Mama!” Jenny waved the gloves in triumph. “I found them behind the bedside table. You forgot to put them in the drawer again.”

  “Ah.” Smiling, Emma took the gloves. “Whatever would I do without you to look after me?”

  Jenny glowed at the praise. Arm in arm, they went out into the passageway, and Emma found herself looking forward to an outing in the sunshine, to a morning when her plans again held the promise of success.

  Lord Briggs hailed them from the bottom of the narrow staircase. “Hurry on down here, my two pretty treasures. I’ve a surprise for you.”

  Rubbing his hands in fidgety glee, he fairly danced with impatience by the newel post. He wore a drab black suit and no cravat, and his white hair was disheveled as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it. Suspicion niggled at Emma. She had not seen him so excited since the time he’d won a hundred pounds and had brought home a fancy carriage that had cost two hundred.

  Jenny skipped down the stairs, her slippers kicking up the back of her blue-green skirt. “What is it, Great-grandpapa?” “Go into the drawing room and see for yourself. ’Tis a present.”

  “A present! Hooray!” Jenny flew across the foyer and threw open the drawing room doors.

  Emma descended at a more sedate pace. As she passed Lord Briggs, she whispered, “I trust this has nothing to do with the breaking of certain vows.”

  “A pox upon your distrustful mind,” he said, grinning. “I’ve done nothing, young lady, but follow in your own fine footsteps. And solved all of our problems in the process.”

  Emma had but a moment to ponder his puzzling words when Jenny stuck her head out of the drawing room. “Mama, come look! It’s a tiger.”

  A tiger?

  Confused, Emma hastened across the foyer, her shoes tapping on the wood floor. Sunlight poured past the opened draperies of the drawing room and accented the shabby state of the furnishings. In the middle of the threadbare carpet, she came to a halt, frozen by the sight of Jenny touching a head-shaped object that lay upon the faded cushions of a chaise.

  In the morning sunshine, the diamonds glinted a cold, hard yellow in between stripes of brown jasper. The emerald-rimmed eyes glowed like an omen of disaster.

  Her grandfather had done the unforgivable. He had stolen the priceless tiger mask from Lucas.

  Chapter 4

  It was a dreadful night for thievery.

  Not, of course, that she had robbery in mind, Emma grimly reminded herself. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Balancing on a ledge high above the ground, she gritted her teeth and kept her eyes trained on her destination at the end of the row of town houses. Silvery moonlight painted the rooftops in stark detail, the chimneypots and iron railings and dormer windows. And a ledge so narrow it would give pause to a cat.

  Fear froze her muscles to the verge of paralysis. The black domino over her face limited her vision. The scar on her shoulder ached, reminding her of the last time she had played the Burglar.

  The thought was enough to make her shudder. By sheer strength of will, she inched her slipper-clad feet along the slim projection.

  She must do this. She had to do this. Breaking into Lucas’s house in the middle of the night was the only way to return the tiger mask with no one the wiser.

  The black pouch holding the artifact was belted securely to her waist. With each step she took, the heavy mask thudded against her thigh as if it were a live thing that struggled to get free.

  A chill wind moaned through the treetops, wafting coal smoke that stung her eyes. There was no fog to hide her tonight. She imagined her small, black-clad form silhouetted against the eaves, and her skin prickled. At any moment, someone might shout from below, a servant perhaps, or a resident of one of the elegant homes that lined Wortham Square.

  Or worse, Clive Youngblood.

  God help her if she were caught in the act, for she’d get no help from Lucas. He’d grown so coldhearted he might give her straight into the custody of the magistrate at the Bow Street Station. The scandal-hungry public would clamor for a conviction. Her shady reputation would seal her fate. Grandpapa might end up in prison himself. Jenny would be left alone.

  Her heart wrenched. What would become of her little girl?

  Emma’s fury at her grandfather had erupted like lava, then cooled to bleak resolution. He couldn’t seem to accept that she had stolen enough from her husband already. And to take the tiger mask! With all the luck he lacked at the gaming tables, Lord Briggs had found an unlocked window and slipped into the library the previous night. A window which had now been secured—she had ascertained that much for herself.

  At last she reached the scrolled ironwork along the rooftop of Wortham House. For all their locking of doors and windows on the ground floor, residents of London seldom barred the upper-story windows. Of course, people might have become more cautious in the five months since the wounded Bond Street Burglar had fled along the rooftops.

  She hoped not. Earlier in the day, Emma’s faithful footman, George, had taken up a spy post in the mews. He had reported the arrival of a party of guests from the country—Lucas’s eldest sister, Olivia, her husband, and their three children. Remembering her friendship with the outspoken Olivia, Emma felt an ache in her chest, which she immediately banished. Emotion made a person careless. She needed to concentrate.

  Gripping the stone coping, she sidled past a chimney. By this hour, the family should be fast asleep. Except for Lucas, who was gone from the house. George had reported seeing the marquess’s carriage drive away in late evening.

  Where had Lucas gone? To his mistress? Was he even now lifting her skirts and subjecting her to his lust? Did some women like it?

  Emma’s foot slipped, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Catching a dizzying view of the moonlit garden below, she clutched at the dormer window and willed her heart to slow its pounding.

  Enough, she told herself. Don’t let yourself get distracted. Think only of putting the mask back where it belongs.

  Confidence trickled back into her. She would tiptoe through the darkened house, replace the mask in the safe, and then retrace her steps. Her husband would never know the ma
sk was missing. Tomorrow, with the incriminating evidence out of her possession, she would seek the cooperation of the dowager. Lucas would come to his senses and agree to the divorce.

  Emma went to work on one of the attic windows. The latch gave way to the wire she inserted, and the casement swung outward on well-oiled hinges. She hoisted herself over the sill, careful of the sack hanging at her side, and dropped lightly to the floor.

  She stayed in a crouch, listening. The darkness seethed with silence. She could hear no snoring to indicate a sleeping servant. With any luck, the room was unoccupied.

  Peering through the domino that concealed the upper half of her face, Emma crept deeper into the shadows, skirting the black lumps of furniture. There was nothing to be afraid of. She had done this many times before. She had only to take her time and move quietly—

  Something squeaked nearby.

  She swung toward the sound, the mask clanging against a chair. Dear God. Dear God. A gunman could be hiding here, watching her. She would never know until the bullet exploded—

  Then came the scratch of tiny, running feet.

  A mouse.

  She melted against the wall in relief. What a craven ninny you’ve become, Emma Wortham.

  Scoffing at herself, she felt her way across the bare floorboards. A lamp or candle had been left burning in the passageway outside. The faint yellow light showed the rectangular shape of the door.

  Her hand closed around the cold knob. As she turned it, another sound surged from the darkness. The deep, throaty noise raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  It was a human groan.

  In a leased house miles from Mayfair, Lucas lay beside his mistress. His body was sated, yet a relentless shame gnawed at him. He clenched a handful of bed linens. Christ, he owed Emma nothing, least of all faithfulness to vows made under false pretenses. He would honor the woman who cherished him.

  Not a lying bitch.

  In a whisper of movement, Shalimar rose from the bed, donned her pheran, and padded to the fireplace. As if they were back in the mountains of Kashmir, she squatted before the hearth and brewed tea in a samovar. Lucas forced himself to relax. He had everything he wanted. A mistress who satisfied his every physical whim, who never made unreasonable demands. A companion he could trust.