A Study in Scandal (Scandalous)

by Caroline Linden

Lord George was quiet for a moment. “What other habits do you have?”

  “The only one worth admitting is playing on the pianoforte. I’m usually very dull and quiet,” she said softly.

  “That sounds a tranquil life.”

  The mild interest in his tone made her jerk up her head and meet his eyes. He was watching her far too closely, and abruptly Samantha realized what she’d told him. She lowered her gaze.

  He leaned forward. “You remember more than you let on, don’t you?”

  Her face burned. She was the worst sort of person, willing to lie to him and trespass on his kindness and hospitality, all so she could delay facing the consequences of her reckless actions. And still this was one of the most enjoyable mornings of recent memory. Admitting her deception would mean it was the only such morning—but no, that was wrong. It was yet one more thing she had stolen, and therefore had no right to enjoy. Almost against her will, her chin dipped down: yes.

  “Perdita, look at me.” When she stubbornly kept her eyes averted, he reached out and touched her chin. His fingers were gentle as he turned her face toward him again. “Are you running away from someone?”

  She thought of her father, and then of Lord Philip. “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice still soft. “I won’t make you go back.”

  It was a hollow promise. Samantha knew she couldn’t stay. He might not make her go back, but she had no other option. Everyone she knew was too awed by her father to take her in and shelter her, and she had nothing of her own to support herself. Even her idea of finding Benedict was foolish. What could her brother do, that she could not do herself? Her cherished hope that he would somehow help her avoid marriage to Lord Philip began to look silly and naive. Naïve

  Sooner or later she must return to Stratford Court. As much as she wanted it to be later, every hour she delayed made the eventual reckoning that much more terrible.

  “Thank you,” she told him, ignoring his questions and latching on to his last words. “You’re too kind.”

  Lord George’s mouth curled up on one side. “Will you at least tell me your name? I can’t believe it’s really Perdita.”

  She blushed again. Obviously she could not tell him the full truth, or he would know who she was. But perhaps… “Samantha,” she murmured.

  His face lit up with boyish delight. “Samantha.” With a flick of his wrist he caught her hand and pressed it lightly, bending forward to brush his lips across her knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

  Fierce and swift, longing rose up in her chest. Oh how she wished…but that was more foolishness. She rose to her feet, suddenly anxious to leave. “I do apologize for imposing on you. I can never repay your kindness in pulling me from the river, to say nothing of the fact that you took me in and gave up your own quarters for me.”

  He stood, too. “You owe me nothing.” He paused, lowering his head to see her better. “If you are ready to go home, I will take you.”

  She didn’t want that, but it was the best she could hope for. Valiantly she nodded. “If you could help me find the coach, I would be grateful. I’m not precisely sure where it leaves from.”

  “Of course. What destination?”

  Samantha gulped. She would probably never see him again, this charming artist with the too-long hair and the laughing eyes. And she would do well to remember that it was best that way.

  “Richmond.”

  Chapter Six

  Gray washed off the paint and dressed in proper clothes, his spirits mixed. On one hand, he was relieved that she hadn’t suffered a debilitating knock on the head and knew both her name and where she was from. It had occurred to him that it might not look good if she really was a runaway or lost person, and he did nothing to return her.

  But on the other hand, anyone could see she wasn’t eager about it. He hadn’t missed the spark of longing in her eyes when he rashly promised that he wouldn’t make her go back to something dreadful. She hadn’t taken that as an invitation to confide in him, though, so he saw no choice but to put her on the coach to Richmond.

  At least he knew her name now. Samantha suited her much better than Perdita.

  She was waiting in the parlor when he finished tidying himself. He paused in the doorway, struck by how still and quietly she sat, ankles primly crossed, hands folded in her lap. Her head was turned, her gaze directed out the window, and his gaze fell on the pale slope of her neck, exposed under the thick twist of blond curls, now smoothed into simplicity. Her bonnet must have suffered irreparable harm, for she held a plain straw bonnet he recognized as one Jenny wore. No doubt Mrs. Willis would want a guinea to replace it.

  “Are you ready?”

  She started at the sound of his voice, but got to her feet. “Yes.” She tied on the bonnet, hiding her face.

  “It’s not far,” he told her as they set out.

  “No?” She smiled wistfully. “It’s a lovely day, I wouldn’t have minded a long walk.”

  Gray nodded, indicating they should turn at the next corner. It would add some minutes to the trip, but he had an irresistible urge to talk to her. “I’ve no idea when the coaches leave; you may have to endure a wait.”

  “I don’t mind that, either.”

  His conscience made only a token objection as he steered her on yet a longer detour. Normally it would take no more than a few minutes to reach the Spotted Dog in the Strand, where the coach stopped; instead Gray turned up Drury Lane, toward Covent Garden. “I’m delighted you weren’t badly injured yesterday. Someone at home must be worried about you.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “My mother will be.”

  He nodded. “Mothers always are. Once my brother Will and I went off on a jaunt. We must have been all of eight and nine, and decided to go in search of buried treasure, having heard a rumor about ancient Vikings landing on a nearby beach. So we saddled our ponies and took some shovels, and away we went. Unfortunately the shore turned out to be much farther away than we expected, and then it began to rain, and Will had forgot his compass…” He shook his head when she gave him a horrified glance. “We were two sad and sorry lads when we straggled back home. Mother was beside herself, and Father was in a fury.”

  Her face grew pale. “Were you punished badly?”

  “No.” Gray grinned in vindictive memory. “Rob and Tom were, though. They wanted to get rid of us, two annoying younger brothers, so they talked loudly of Viking treasure where we could overhear.”

  “But you…?”

  “Put to bed with warm milk while Mother read to us. She was frightened we would fall sick.” He paused. “She did make us stay in the next day too, which wasn’t as satisfying.”

  After a moment she smiled. “Fortunate lads.”

  They had reached the market, teeming with vendors and people strolling, shopping, admiring wares, haggling over baskets of fruit. He edged closer and offered his arm. “It’s busy today,” he coaxed, hoping it wasn’t too transparent.

  Samantha’s eyes had rounded in amazement, which turned into delight. “What variety!” Absently she tucked her hand around his elbow, letting him lead her through the throng as her head swiveled from side to side, taking it in. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  Gray filed that information away with the rest. To the best of his recollection, a coach left every three hours or so, which Gray felt absolved him of any duty to take her directly to the inn, where she’d surely just sit and wait. She intrigued him and she puzzled him and he wasn’t able to resist the urge to spend just a little more time with her. He couldn’t forget the way her face lit up at his sketch of the skunk. He took the longest possible route through the market, savoring her wide-eyed marvel at the Punch and Judy show. He bought an orange and peeled it for her, laughing at how she tried to eat it without getting juice all over her gloves before finally stripping off one.

  “It’s ruined anyway,” she said with a small surprised laugh. Gray got th
e impression such an act was out of character for her even though she took obvious pleasure in it.

  But every time he tried to lead the conversation to her home and why she was alone in London, she went quiet. He began to feel a little worried about that. She didn’t look afraid—if anything she looked extremely composed. He shook off the doubt; perhaps it was regret for the whole misadventure, and she found his questions, however subtle, rude and embarrassing. He’d promised he wouldn’t make her go back if she didn’t want to, and yet she had only asked him to help her find the coaching stop. Finally, reluctantly, he turned them in the direction of the Spotted Dog.

  Samantha felt a twinge of regret when she recognized the coaching inn in front of them. She suspected Lord George had taken a roundabout way here, to her private—though somewhat ashamed—delight. Who could blame her, though? He was even handsomer in full daylight, decently dressed and with his long hair slicked back beneath his hat, and his attention was fixed on her in a way that sent her imagination running amok. It was easy to pretend he was a suitor, making her laugh and buying her oranges and touching her hand at every opportunity. He was everything she’d ever dreamed of a suitor being, and for a few minutes she refused to remember that she was practically engaged to marry Lord Philip, who was nothing she’d ever dreamed of in a suitor, let alone a husband.

  Yet the end of the idyll also filled her with relief, because every moment she clung to Lord George’s strong arm tempted her to tell him everything. He’d said he wouldn’t make her go back, which might mean he would help her find her brother, find a place to stay, find a way to change her father’s mind and change her life.

  A glance at his face swept that nonsense from her mind. How could she ask this decent, honorable gentleman to put himself at risk to help her? Thwarting her father would be a very dangerous proposition, and Samantha already liked Lord George far too well to do that to him. Even asking him to help her find Benedict would be wrong. It was far better that she remain a mystery to him, as much as possible. “Thank you for all your kindness,” she said as they approached the inn.

  “It was my honor.” He paused. “Are you quite, quite certain you wish to go back? I can’t shake the idea that you dread something—”

  “I am quite certain,” she interrupted. “I hope you won’t worry about me.” Years of living under her father’s expectations of serenity and composure were coming to her aid now. Her voice was clear and even, and she was able to hold herself with calm poise. And she meant what she said: she didn’t want him to worry about her, because there was nothing he could do to help her anyway.

  “Well. If you are satisfied…” He didn’t sound convinced but he led her into the yard. “I’ll see to your ticket.”

  That would be another debt she owed him, but she could repay this one. Samantha had memorized the street and number of his lodging, and hoped she could contrive a way to send a token of thanks along with the repaid fare.

  But no sooner had they stepped through the gate into the bustling coaching yard than her poise splintered. Directly across from them, looking like a thundercloud, stood her father, tapping his whip against his boot in obvious impatience. A servant led away his sweating horse, and the earl snapped at another groom as he strode toward the open door of the inn.

  Samantha’s feet rooted to the ground, dragging Lord George to a halt beside her. He looked at her in question, but she couldn’t speak. She had braced herself for a scene when she returned home. There was a slender chance the earl would not have heard of her disappearance, but Samantha was resigned to suffering for that as well. What she hadn’t prepared for was the chance that her father would be here, where Lord George would be witness to her humiliation. Even worse, he would discover exactly who she was, and if her father did indeed marry her to Lord Philip, he would know why she’d run away.

  “Samantha?” Lord George covered her hand with his. “What’s wrong?”

  She stared at him, her heart plummeting. There would be a scene, at either his or her father’s instigation. Lord George had saved her from ruffians with reckless disregard for his own safety; any man who plunged into the Thames to save a strange woman would be likely to commit other foolhardy acts of gallantry. He might protest her father hauling her off in a fury. Few insults set off the earl’s temper like being questioned in public. Not only would his anger at her be doubled, he would lash out at Lord George. And when Stratford learned it was Rowland’s son…

  Without conscious thought she took a step backward, and then another. Lord George said something, his forehead creased with concern, but she couldn’t understand it. Her eyes prickled with tears of shame and guilt and fear. She could bear it all if only he didn’t have to see…

  Her father emerged from the inn, his face set in the cold, harsh lines she knew too well, and her nerve broke. She threw off Lord George’s hand and spun on her heel, walking away as fast as her legs would take her. She gripped her hands in fists at her sides, not caring where she went. If someone kidnapped her again, she would willingly abandon herself to whatever they inflicted upon her.

  An arm went around her waist. “The coach runs to Richmond every day,” said Lord George. “There’s no need to rush aboard. Shall we walk?” Since she was still charging forward, he didn’t wait for an answer. “Would you like to see the park, my lady?” He grinned, but Samantha couldn’t look at him. “Right,” he said after a moment. “A good walk doesn’t need conversation. This way.”

  By the time they reached Charing Cross, her shins burned and her feet felt disconnected from her body. Her pace slowed, and, after a quick glance, Lord George dropped his arm from her waist. Samantha realized it had been there all along, holding her up and helping shield her from passersby. He wrapped her hand around his arm, and she didn’t protest.

  They walked at a slower pace for some time. She was grateful he didn’t speak. Gradually her heart stopped pounding so painfully hard, and the cold bitter truth of her situation lay before her.

  She had no money, and no clothing beyond the stained and mended dress she wore.

  She couldn’t turn to Benedict.

  She had nowhere to go but home, to her father.

  She saw no way to ameliorate his fury at what she had done, not just by stealing and keeping it secret for seven years, but now running away.

  She would be fortunate if her father didn’t find someone worse than Lord Philip.

  Samantha slipped her hand off Lord George’s arm. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice.

  “For what?”

  “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your hospitality last night. I should have dried myself off and gone on my way at once.”

  “Gone where?”

  “To—it doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.” Now he stopped, but his mild tone didn’t change. “I don’t just save young ladies from kidnappers or fish them out of the Thames without forming some concern for them.”

  She forced an unhappy smile. “In this case you should.”

  For a long moment he regarded her with thoughtful eyes. “What did you see at the coaching inn that frightened you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Whom did you see?”

  She flushed; he knew. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He sighed and took hold of her arm, leading her to a nearby bench. “I have one thing to say, Perdita, and I hope you’ll believe me. I want to help you. If you don’t want my help, you can refuse it, but please don’t lie to me. It only makes me imagine the worst, and as my mother could warn you, I have a terrifyingly active imagination.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. Samantha hadn’t even realized her eyes were wet until then.

  “Very well.” She dabbed at her eyes, and discreetly blew her nose. “You were right, I don’t wish to go home. I did something terrible. I—I lied to my father and schemed to help someone he despised. It was years ago but I only recently confessed, and he is very displeased.”

  “And
you’re afraid of being punished?” His voice was so warm and sympathetic.

  Samantha shook her head. “I knew I would be punished. I didn’t know how. He said he would arrange a marriage for me…” The image of Lord Philip, handsome and vicious, swam before her eyes. She folded the handkerchief for a fresh swipe across her face.

  “To someone you don’t know?”

  “I know him,” she whispered. “He is cruel. More than one person thinks he’s mad. His family connections would make him a splendid match but no lady even wants to dance with him. And my father—my father—”

  Lord George’s expression had grown darker throughout her halting explanation. “You ran away to avoid the marriage.”

  “I know someone in London… I thought that person might help me think of a way to dissuade my father…” A bitter laugh escaped her. “That was foolish, though, and I panicked when I saw the coach and thought of facing him.”

  “Then you shall not go back.” He caught her hand and pressed it between his two. “Not until you have thought of a way to change his mind. No woman should be forced into a marriage she fears.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to stay,” she told him miserably. “I cannot go to…the person I thought might help me.”

  “You’ll stay at Mrs. Willis’s,” he said at once. “My rooms are yours for as long as you need them.”

  She was already shaking her head. “I can’t…”

  “Well.” He smiled boyishly. “You could repay me.” Alarm must have flickered over her face, for he hurried to add, “By letting me sketch you. Your face would be just right in my next work.”

  “The shipwreck? Her face is turned away…”

  “Not that rubbish.” He flicked away mention of a work of art with a quick motion of his fingers. “The better painting I’m planning. Your face will be on a young woman in church, nothing immodest. I’ll show you a sketch before you make an answer.” Without waiting for a reply, he rummaged in his pockets, pulling out a scrap of coarse paper and a charcoal pencil, like the one he had used to draw the skunk earlier. “I was thinking of a young woman, on her knees in supplication at the altar,” he said, flattening the paper on his knee and beginning to sketch. “Other figures in the church are engaged in petty arguments or merely there to sightsee, but she alone evinces real faith and hope.”