Once Upon a Scandal

by Barbara Dawson Smith

  The quivering of those gaunt fingers dissolved the wall around Emma’s emotions. In that moment she understood how deeply the dowager had loved her youngest son, how much she longed to know that a part of him lived on in Jenny. And Emma knew it was too late to withhold the truth.

  She trudged to the door and closed it. Then she turned to the dowager. “Yes, it’s true,” she said in an anguished whisper. “How did you guess?”

  “It was her laugh … I heard it from the corridor. I thought … I thought for a moment it was twenty years ago, and my sweet boy had come back to me. And then when I saw his blue-green eyes twinkling up at me … but it was Jenny.”

  The dowager swayed alarmingly, and Emma hastened to help her across the library to the chaise. She was thin as a cadaver, flesh on bones. “Madam, remember your health. I’ll ring for a tisane.”

  “Never mind the tonics. This news is the best remedy for what ails me. Sit, my dear.” She patted the cushion beside her. “We have so very much to discuss.”

  Weighted by a sense of doom, Emma sank to the chaise. Her heart thudded in painful strokes, and her eyes burned. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, when she could shout out the truth and vindicate herself to the Coulters. But oh, sweet Jesus. How could she shatter a mother’s cherished memories of her son? How could she accuse a war hero of so despicable an act? “There’s little to tell,” she said tonelessly. “Please, try to understand. It’s difficult for me to speak of … what happened.”

  “Of course I understand. And I respect your privacy.” Haloed by the golden light that streamed through the window, the dowager smiled like a radiant madonna. “No lady would wish to make known a love affair that went on before she was married.”

  Love affair?

  A furious denial choked Emma’s throat. No, she wanted to scream. No, you’re wrong, horribly wrong! I could never love such a monster.

  Then it struck Emma that the dowager’s assumption gave her the perfect explanation. She had but to remain silent, to contradict nothing.

  “It must have happened months before your betrothal to Lucas,” the older woman went on, a faraway look in her eyes. “It was the height of the Season. Andrew’s regiment was about to be deployed to that horrid war in Portugal. Lucas used his influence to obtain a few days’ leave for Andrew to visit us here in London.” She clasped her milk-white hands to her bosom. “Ah, how dashing and handsome he looked in his uniform. You must have seen him at one of our parties and fallen instantly in love. So many of the young ladies did, you know.”

  Emma kept her eyes downcast. Yes, it had been a party. A large, boisterous group at Vauxhall Gardens, and she had come upon him in the dark … .

  “Oh, my dear, you look deathly pale,” exclaimed Lady Wortham. “Forgive me for asking so many painful questions, but I must know. Why did Andrew not offer for you? I can’t imagine my son dishonoring a lady and then not doing right by her.”

  Emma plucked a bit of straw off her skirt and gave it a hard twist between her fingers. Clearly Andrew had hidden his true nature from his family. “I have no idea. We had … been together only once, the night before he left to rejoin his regiment. A month later, he died at Talavera. Before he knew about my delicate condition.”

  “And you must have been terribly distraught. You married Lucas so that Andrew’s child would be raised a Coulter.” The dowager closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping. Faint blue veins showed on her lids, and a tear traced a path down her cheek. “To think I forced you to leave here. How cruel I’ve been. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Emma told herself to feel a triumphant sense of vindication. Yet she merely felt drained and aching. “You didn’t know. You thought I’d brought shame on your family—on Lucas. And I was confused and frightened. I found … I couldn’t reveal the truth. Not to anyone.”

  Her mother-in-law slowly straightened. An indomitable will shone in her eyes as she looked at Emma again. “You did right, my dear. This must remain our little secret. No scandal must tarnish Andrew’s memory.”

  With a snap, the straw broke in Emma’s fingers. It galled her to think she was protecting that brute. In one act of violence, he had ruined her life.

  Yet she couldn’t allow him to ruin Jenny’s life, too.

  As if she’d read Emma’s mind, the dowager went on, “If word slips out, we will lose all hope of society ever receiving Lady Jenny. You must be accepted, too. Lady Jenny’s background must be unblemished.”

  “I fear it’s already too late,” Emma said. “It was too late seven years ago when I left here in disgrace. At Lord Jasper Putney’s party, many people avoided me, even though Lucas was there with me.” Regret wrenched her insides. “Everyone knows Jenny isn’t his.”

  “Bah,” said the dowager, with a wave of her hand. “They know only rumors. My daughters and I were never so vulgar as to confirm the vicious tale-telling. Now, we shall convince the ton that you and Wortham had a falling-out over some inconsequential matter. The two of you have repaired your differences and are back together for good.”

  Caught in a tangled web of deception, Emma stared at the array of exotic artifacts on the desk without really seeing them. Securing Jenny’s future was the answer to her prayers. Yet she couldn’t stay married to Lucas, not forever. They had made a bargain, and he expected her to leave after giving birth to his son. She would seek a bill of divorcement and marry Sir Woodrow. It was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

  “When I accompany you out into society,” the dowager added in a steely tone, “everyone will know you have my seal of approval. No one will dare to suggest Lady Jenny is not Wortham’s true daughter.”

  Athough gratified by her ladyship’s offer of sponsorship, Emma foresaw a catastrophe. “What will Lucas say to that?”

  “I’ll tell him we must be a family again, all of us. And Jenny must call me ‘Grandmama.’” The dowager nodded decisively. “Yes, that will do. It is past time there was harmony in this house.”

  Uneasiness nipped at Emma’s stomach. “Surely you won’t expect Jenny to address him as Papa,” she said. “Lucas will never agree. And if you insist, he’ll wonder why. He might guess she’s his own niece.”

  “The resemblance between Andrew and Jenny is some thing only a mother would notice. Wortham wouldn’t dream of looking for his brother’s features in her, I am certain of it.” The dowager smiled wryly. “Nevertheless, I take your point. My son has become a masterful man. Just as his dear father once was.”

  Emma pressed her lips together. Masterful? Autocratic was a more fitting description. Arrogant. Dictatorial.

  Seductive. Persuasive. Dangerous.

  The dowager clung tightly to Emma’s arm. Those blue eyes burned into hers. “Heed me well. Wortham must never, ever know you had an affair with his brother. He would hate Andrew. That is the way men are; jealous and possessive of their women. If Wortham were to learn the truth, it would destroy him. And this family.”

  She only confirmed what Emma already knew. That was why she had never been able to bring herself to hurl the ugly truth in his face.

  She could have married any one of a score of ardent gentlemen. By choosing Lucas, she had planned to have her revenge on Andrew. She had intended to tell the Coulters that he was a beast, not a hero—and then force them to accept her child. But when the moment had come, when she had faced Lucas on their wedding night and realized how she had devastated his heart, the words of retribution had withered in her throat.

  The memory stirred queasiness in her stomach. Now, more than ever, she must guard the secret of her attacker’s identity. Because Lucas knew what his mother did not. He knew that Emma’s innocence had been taken by force.

  Everyone found a woman with a shady past fascinating; Lucas thought cynically.

  In a foul mood, he stood in Lord Gerald Mannering’s town house and watched Emma waltz with yet another besotted gentleman. He fancied he could hear her throaty laughter over the lively tune played by the orchestra and the tapping of a
hundred dancing feet. His wife was enjoying a popularity unparalleled even by her first Season. Mannering, in particular, was salivating over her. Already their host had danced twice with her.

  Lucas wanted to land his fist into the lecher’s face.

  By circling around Emma, these vultures hoped to feed off the carcass of scandal. He himself had had to direct his most freezing glare at several guests who had asked too many probing questions about his long absence.

  When his mother had announced her decision to see Emma accepted by society, he had been unable to deny her. She had suffered enough for one lifetime. Now, enthroned in a gilt chair at the end of the long room, she reigned over a court of matrons who sat out the dancing. Campaigning for peace in the family had brought the bloom of improved health to her cheeks. And when Emma left him for good, his mother would adjust to the shock of the divorce. She would have an infant grandson to fuss over.

  Her abrupt turnabout still troubled him, though. She, who had held Emma in contempt, now treated her like a beloved daughter. Adroitly, his mother had proclaimed that since his marchioness was living with him, she could hardly remain a pariah. Yet he sensed there was something more, else why would she permit Jenny to address her as “Grandmama”?

  The very notion set his teeth on edge. It was like announcing to the world that he was Jenny’s father.

  Not that he despised me child. The animosity he had harbored toward Jenny had lessened upon meeting her. He remembered how fearlessly the little girl had faced him after he’d caught her rifling through his safe, how endearing was her gap-toothed smile. Yet he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—lay claim to her. She belonged to Emma, not to him. Never to him.

  Lucas took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing servant. Brandy was what he really craved. A decanter of the finest French reserve to drown the frustration gnawing at him. But he needed a clear head tonight. He needed to watch Emma. He didn’t believe for a minute that she’d given up on robbing Mannering in order to repay her grandfather’s debt.

  Moodily, Lucas observed her from behind the screen of a potted fern. She was light on her feet, nimble and lovely as the saucy chit who had taken his youthful heart by storm. The misty blue skirt swirled around her, and he imagined those slim, white legs against a tangle of bedsheets.

  It had taken him several nights of concentrated wooing to convince her to let him touch her again. Since he spent his days on the search for Sanjeev, he had not been able to devote much time to working with Emma in the library. But at night … ah, at night. Slowly he was stripping away her defenses and revealing her sensual nature. Soon she would lie naked with him, her moonbeam hair drifting over the pillow. He would take her with infinite patience, like a bridegroom loving his bride for the first time.

  And like as not, she would clobber him with another candlestick.

  Lucas balled his fingers into a fist. Damn the rogue who had despoiled her. Was he here tonight? Did he dare to mingle in decent company?

  Lucas caught himself gazing into the face of every gentleman present, and forced himself to relax. It was ridiculous to torture himself. He had better things to do than to chase the demon of revenge.

  The music ceased. On the other side of the assembly room, Emma took leave of her partner. She glided through the crush of attendees, pausing now and then to speak to someone. She made her way straight to Sir Woodrow Hickey, who stood talking with her grandfather. Emma looped her arm through Briggs’s and directed a warm smile at Hickey.

  Lucas set down his empty glass before he could succumb to the urge to smash it. Damn it, he wanted her to come to him. She was his wife. They were supposed to be happily reconciled. Perhaps she needed to be reminded of that.

  He had started across the crowded floor when a smiling, dark-haired lady stepped into his path. “Ah, Lord Wortham. What could there be to scowl about in such amiable company?”

  She had a gypsy beauty, her black hair piled high and her wine-colored bodice cut low to show an expanse of dusky skin. She was exactly the sort of predatory female who would have launched him into a fit of the stutters as a youth. “Have we met?” he said with cold precision.

  She sank into a graceful curtsy. “I am Mrs. Boswell, my lord. There, the proprieties have been observed.” She stepped closer, giving him a whiff of her musky scent and a peek at her magnificent bosom. “I’m being terribly forward, I confess. But only because I’m curious. You’ve just returned from India, have you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “By odd coincidence, so have I. My husband owns a fleet of merchant ships, and I’ve traveled to many strange and wonderful ports of call.”

  “Indeed. And where is your husband tonight?”

  “Oh, la. He is already gone off to sea again.” Her lower lip thrust out in a pout, and she looked up at him from beneath the veil of her lashes. “Leaving me all alone.”

  “Ah.” It was almost amusing to watch her flirt. And gratifying. At present his wife was absorbed in conversation with Hickey, her hand on his arm and her adoring smile focused on him. “Would you care to dance, Mrs. Boswell?” Lucas said abruptly. “I should like to hear more about your strange and wonderful experiences.”

  Emma burned.

  Discipline kept the smile on her face as she listened to Sir Woodrow and her grandfather trade stories about their trouble in getting a proper fitting from their favorite tailor. Across the assembly room, Lucas waltzed with a gorgeous, black-haired woman. He had not danced so closely with her, Emma fumed.

  Was it her imagination, or did his hand slip tighter around his partner’s trim waist as he dipped his head to speak to her? Emma knew the feel of that hand, big and warm, a hand capable of both protecting and arousing. Perhaps he preferred women of dark beauty.

  Like his mistress, the love of his life.

  Emma’s rancor seared deeper. She resented another woman touching her husband. It was only that he was making a mockery of their marriage, flaunting the freedom of a gentleman to have assignations. While his wife must behave with perfect decorum.

  “Hssst,” said her grandfather. “Methinks I spy the lady of my dreams.”

  Emma turned to see his nimble form flit over to a gathering near the orchestra. “The lady of his dreams?” she repeated in bafflement. “What is he talking about?”

  Sir Woodrow leaned closer to her ear. “Briggs has fixed upon the idea of marrying an heiress,” he said in an undertone.

  “Grandpapa?” Emma could not get over her amazement. This must be his way of heeding Lucas’s advice and taking responsibility for his debts. She had no more time to ponder the matter, for Lord Briggs was guiding a young—a very young—woman toward them.

  She had a long, narrow face and a whippet-thin body. Wearing a high-waisted green gown of the latest fashion, she topped Lord Briggs by a good four inches, not including the dyed ostrich plume bobbing above her tight, Grecian curls. Gaudy emeralds glinted at her throat and ears. Clutching his arm, she simpered at him, looking ridiculously juvenile.

  “I’ve brought someone to meet you,” he announced. “May I present my granddaughter, Lady Wortham, and Sir Woodrow Hickey. This is Miss Minnie Pomfret.”

  The girl looked struck dumb as Woodrow made his bow to her. Gaping at Emma, she opened her mouth and closed it. A ruddy hue stained her cheeks. “Lady … Wortham, did you say?”

  “Yes,” Emma said with a smile. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  She held out her gloved hand, and Miss Minnie Pomfret stared at it as if it were a snake. “Oh, my stars! Mama says I am not to associate with women of your character,” she blurted out. “Forgive me, Lord Briggs, I didn’t realize …” Turning, she took herself off at an unladylike trot, the plume bouncing above her head.

  Emma felt herself blanch. The opinion of a callow girl didn’t matter. Yet she couldn’t deny an ache deep within herself. Despite the dowager’s concerted efforts, there were still people who believed the old gossip.

  “Cheeky little baggage,” Lord Briggs gru
mbled. “Ought to go after the chit and tan her hide.”

  Emma placed her hand on his arm. “No, Grandpapa. Let Miss Pomfret be.”

  “How exceedingly ill-bred of her,” Sir Woodrow said, his lip curled. “I’m sorry you were so insulted, Emma. Would you care to sit down?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “The music is lovely, is it not? Perhaps we should dance, after all.”

  He was trying to distract her, and his solicitousness suddenly annoyed her. “If you could fetch me a lemonade?”

  “At once.” He went off to join the throng around the refreshment table.

  “I’ve ruined your courtship, I’m afraid,” Emma murmured to her grandfather. “Though she was a bit young, don’t you think?”

  “Her papa made a fortune in coal. Money can make up for many a flaw.” His eyes danced with merriment. “But if truth’s to be told, with that long face, Miss Minnie reminds me of an old hound of mine.” He threw back his head and howled like a dog.

  “Grandpapa, hush!” Emma exclaimed, as several guests turned to stare. “You should be ashamed.”

  He sobered. “I am. I’m ashamed Mannering holds my markers, after I promised not to gamble anymore. But never fear. I’ll find another heiress to charm.” Grinning, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “There’s plenty as wants a title who’ll take a creaky old codger like me.”

  Emma bit her lip. No matter what Lucas said, she could not stand idle while her grandfather shackled himself to a featherbrained debutante fifty years his junior.

  She glanced around the crowded ballroom. Another set was about to begin, and she recalled promising this dance to a sallow-faced viscount. Lucas and his gypsy were nowhere to be seen.

  Wait. There he was. She caught a glimpse of his arrestingly handsome profile and longish dark hair as he headed out the terrace door. With that woman.

  Emma stiffened. They’d gone out to the garden. Would he kiss her in the moonlight, too?