A Study in Scandal (Scandalous)

by Caroline Linden

  She thought of saying something to Mrs. Willis, who was peering fearfully from the parlor door, but she didn’t dare leave a message for Gray. The landlady would tell him what happened, and he would figure it out. Uncomfortably aware that she no longer had any choice in the matter, she went out to the carriage, and let the footman waiting there help her in. Four footmen plus a driver. Stratford would have had her dragged from the house.

  But he himself did not come out. “Where is my father?” she asked the footman. The man’s eyes were filled with sympathy, but he didn’t reply. Her skin prickled with unease. She sat back against the squabs and stared out the window. Gray wasn’t expected back for hours, but she suddenly wished he would come sooner.

  The bell at St. Mary-le-Strand tolled the hour before Stratford finally emerged and climbed into the carriage. Samantha’s nerves had been worn thin. “What kept you?” she asked.

  He gave her a curiously expressionless glance before facing ahead without a word. The carriage started off at once, and Samantha gripped her hands together, knowing that things had taken a very bad turn.

  Gray came home with a spring in his step. His pictures were freshly varnished, hung in very propitious spots. The harbor scene was near several works by RA members, ensuring it would be seen by everyone. The landscape had been hung just above a door, commanding the attention of everyone leaving. It was a triumph for a new artist to the exhibition. He couldn’t wait to tell Samantha. The exhibit would last several weeks, and he longed to take her again, to view his paintings in daylight as they were meant to be seen.

  Of course, he wanted to take her everywhere. His parents were to arrive in town today, meaning he could escort Samantha there this evening. His mother would sponsor her, his father would protect her, and he… He could call on her. Court her. He’d got the horse a bit before the cart, but only because she kissed him and smiled at him and that drove every rational thought from his mind, but that didn’t change his fundamental goal: winning her.

  He let himself into the house and ran up the first flight of stairs before realizing it was dead silent in the house. His steps slowed; that was odd. Mrs. Willis hadn’t called her usual lament when he let the door bang, and it gave him a strange sense of foreboding.

  He located his landlady in the kitchen. She sat at the wooden table, sniffling into a handkerchief as Jenny and Cook hovered over her. At his entrance, she exclaimed out loud. “Oh, my lord! Thank heaven you’re back!”

  “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Where is Samantha?” She was the only one missing, and the foreboding blossomed into fear.

  “Her father came for her.” Mrs. Willis’s eyes were red. “He spoke to her, and she went straight out to the carriage. But he—he—” Another fit of weeping overcame her, and she collapsed into Cook’s arms.

  Gray turned toward Jenny. “Well?”

  “Oh sir! Such a to-do!” She swelled with importance, delighted to be imparting the news. “He walked right in as if he owned the house, he did, and closed himself in the studio with Miss Samantha. Then she went out to the carriage, without so much as a fare-thee-well to Mrs. Willis or me, and then he started asking questions. So many questions! About who lived here, and how long Miss Samantha had been here, and every little thing you could think of. Then he went upstairs and took his own time up there, sir, in your rooms and studio—”

  “What the devil?” Gray scowled.

  The girl nodded vigorously. “Mrs. Willis protested that, sir, but he’d brought men with him—big chaps, all of them, and they wouldn’t let us out of the sitting room.”

  “Imprisoned in my own home!” wailed the landlady as Cook patted her shoulder.

  “And then he come back down and they all left, without a gentle word or apology.” Jenny shook her head in disgust. “And him a proper lord!”

  “Who was it?” The simple act of breathing made Gray’s whole body vibrate. “Who, Jenny?”

  “Lord Stratford, one of the servants called him.”

  “The Earl of Stratford?” Gray was astonished. He knew of the earl. A devoted patron of the arts, Stratford was known for his keen eye and generous sponsorship. Just today a painter working next to him had expressed a hope that his picture would catch Lord Stratford’s attention and win a nod of approval.

  But Samantha feared him. He frowned. “He went up to my rooms?”

  Jenny nodded. Gray thanked her and took the stairs two at a time. Nothing looked amiss in the studio when he flung open the door. A sudden thought made him lunge for the sketchbook, but everything was still within, all the sketches he’d made of Samantha, even the one of her asleep in his bed, her curls tumbling around her bare shoulders. He went back to the kitchen. “When did they leave?”

  “Hours ago,” Jenny said.

  “Oh, my lord, will I be arrested?” cried Mrs. Willis. “I’d no idea, none, that she was a lady, or a runaway!”

  Gray thought that was nonsense, but he assured her he didn’t think she’d be in trouble. Back through the house he went, out the door, into the twilight. Sir John Barney might still be at the Academy, and he would know Lord Stratford. Gray wasn’t sure what to make of the conflicting reports; was Stratford the urbane art patron, austere and demanding but still respected, or the cold and vindictive parent Samantha described, who would wed her to a man she feared?

  By good fortune he met Sir John on the staircase of Somerset House. Before he could even ask, though, his mentor gave him a grim look and waved him back down the steps. Once they reached the pavement outside, Sir John stopped. “Bad news, my boy.”

  Gray’s eyebrows went up.

  “Your paintings have been removed from display.”

  “What?”

  Sir John nodded. “By order of the president of the Academy, just minutes ago. I was coming to find you.”

  “Why?” Gray couldn’t have been more shocked if his mentor had punched him in the gut. “I was here an hour ago and they were on the walls—”

  “And now they are not.” Barney lowered his voice. “Have you done something untoward? It must have been a serious reason to make the president order such a change so soon before the exhibit. They’ve got men rearranging pictures at this very moment, it’s a terrible inconvenience.”

  Gray was staggered. His paintings, freshly varnished and hung in such prime positions, taken down. He’d never met the president of the Academy, Benjamin West; what could have led to this?

  “Stratford,” he said numbly.

  Barney raised his brows. “The Earl of Stratford? What about him?”

  “Could he have asked West to take them down? If he asked, would West do it?”

  “I suppose he might,” said Sir John in surprise. “Stratford’s a great patron of the Academy and many members; West would likely listen to his request. But why would he do that? I didn’t know you were acquainted with His Lordship.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why the devil would Stratford want your paintings taken down?”

  Gray barely heard the question. He made no answer, but he knew. It could only have been Stratford, who had taken Samantha, questioned Mrs. Willis to the point of tears, and gone into his studio. The cathedral painting was in full view on his easel and while Gray thought her image was small enough not to be identifiable, her father might well recognize her. It could only have been the furious and vengeful man Samantha described.

  And there was only one place he could turn for help. Not for his paintings, but for Samantha.

  The Rowland mansion was ablaze with light when he reached Berkley Square. The door stood open as footmen carried trunks inside, so he walked right in, nodding in reply to the butler’s startled greeting.

  His mother was in the drawing room, still in her traveling dress. “George!” she exclaimed, raising her cheek for his kiss. “How punctual you are.”

  “I need help, Mother.”

  She gave him a patient glance. “Yes, I know. It’s why we’ve returned to town in spite of your f
ather spying a large number of geese just a week ago. He’s been pining for the fine shooting he’s missing.”

  “I’ve met a lady.”

  Her teasing smile vanished at his tone; her expression snapped to alertness. He could almost see her nose twitch like a hound’s when tracking a fox. The duchess’s fondest wish was to see all four of her sons happily married. “A lady.”

  “The lady I asked you to come to town to sponsor. She needs my help, and that means I need your help.”

  With a swish of her skirt, she went to the settee and sat down. “Explain.”

  He had just made it through the story when the duke walked in. “George! Hodgkin told me you were here. How the devil are you, my boy?”

  “He hasn’t come to visit,” said his wife.

  Rowland narrowed his eyes. “Then why?”

  Gray ran his hands over his hair. “I must see the Earl of Stratford.”

  “Stratford!” The duke rolled his eyes. “I’d avoid him, if I were you. What do you want with that tartar?”

  Gray gave his mother an agonized look. “Go on, dear,” she said, patting his knee.

  “I had two paintings accepted to the Summer Exhibition,” he began.

  “Two—but that’s brilliant!” The duke beamed. “Well done! Eliza, did you know about this?”

  The duchess shook her head, eyes still fixed on Gray, who took a deep breath before continuing. “They won’t be on exhibit. They were taken down just today; Sir John Barney told me himself, he saw the men rearranging pictures.” The duke looked thunderstruck. Gray forged on. “I believe the Earl of Stratford asked President West to order it. He’s very influential at the Academy.”

  “Why would Stratford want to remove your pictures from display?” Rowland growled. “He’s a cold one, but anyone can see you’ve got talent to spare, I’m surprised they only accepted two…”

  Involuntarily Gray smiled. How like his father. Normally his painting left his father somewhat puzzled, appreciative but uncomprehending; but the moment someone else slighted his work, Rowland became the most ardent and impassioned defender of it. Gray hoped the same instinct would motivate his father now. “It may be because of his daughter.”

  The duke squinted. “What?”

  “I’m in love with Lord Stratford’s daughter,” Gray said softly. “And I want to marry her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was not difficult to find the Earl of Stratford’s London house. It was one of the finer homes in Portland Place, seven windows wide and built of clean white stone. The broad boulevard didn’t offer much concealment, but Gray found a tree where he could linger and still have a view of the house.

  His father had warned him not to do anything until the morrow, but Gray couldn’t possibly spend the night in Stanhope Street, listening to Mrs. Willis fret about being arrested. He promised himself he would only watch, and leave as soon as he caught a glimpse of Samantha.

  He watched and waited. The lamps were lit and the windows glowed, but there was no sign of inhabitants. Walk across the room, he silently wished. Let me see that you’re well.

  It had grown quite dark by the time God heard him. Cold and starving, Gray was about to leave. He only meant to dart over a few streets and get something to eat, since Portland Place was free of any convenient pubs, but that was the moment Samantha stepped up to the tall windows of the first floor and gazed out in his general direction.

  His breath caught at the sight of her. Dressed as befitted an earl’s daughter, she was more beautiful than ever—but not like herself. It took him a moment to realize that she might have been a statue. Her expression was serene, but she seemed to stare at nothing, and there was something valiantly hopeless about the set of her shoulders. He thought of Jenny’s report of several large servants herding her out the door, and knew Samantha was a prisoner in that mansion.

  Fury burned in his chest. Without taking his eyes from her, he searched his pockets for a stray scrap of paper and pencil. He always had some, to take down any scene or idea when it might strike him. He flattened a piece on his forearm and sketched urgently, stealing frequent glances up at the window where she stood. Stay, he begged her, just a few minutes longer…

  He scooped up an egg-sized stone from underneath the tree behind him and slipped across the street. He had no string—it would have to be folded—he twisted the loose edges of the paper around the stone as tightly as he could, took careful aim, and heaved the rock.

  It shattered a pane of the window next to her. He fell back into the shadows, eyes glued to the Stratford house. Samantha had jumped away, but now he saw her bending down, one hand clutched to her breast, the other reaching toward the floor. He barely breathed, even though he knew he was mad to linger. The last thing he wanted to do was find himself explaining to a constable. She turned her head, as if speaking to someone behind her, and then she faced the window. This time, hope shone in her expression, and she pressed her fingers to her lips before someone pulled her away.

  Gray knew she couldn’t see him, but she’d found his message. A few moments later the door of the house burst open and a pair of footmen strode out, armed with clubs. He put his shoulders back and strode off with the air of insouciant arrogance that always served his father so well, and headed home to plan what he would say tomorrow.

  Samantha strained her eyes into the dark night. He was out there, very near. She had almost leaped out of her skin when the window broke right beside her, but thankfully recovered her wits in time to spy the paper wrapped around the rock that had shattered the glass. There was something written on it in charcoal, the kind of charcoal Gray always had in his pockets. She managed to pluck it from the shards of glass before her mother rushed over and pulled her away.

  “Come away from the window!” the countess cried. “You might have been cut to death!”

  “No, I’m fine,” she assured her mother, not adding that she had never been in any danger. Gray had thrown carefully. She stuffed the scrap of paper into her pocket under pretext of hunting for her handkerchief.

  “What the devil?” Stratford strode into the room, eyes blazing.

  “Someone threw a rock through the window,” said his wife. “Samantha could have been badly hurt.”

  The earl gave her a hard glance. “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “I stepped away just as it broke. It—it gave me such a start, though. Who would do such a thing?” Her voice wobbled at the end, but not from fear of the broken glass. The expression in her father’s eyes sent a chill to her heart.

  “Who, indeed,” muttered the earl, transferring his attention to the shattered window. “Send two fellows out and fetch anyone lurking about,” he barked at the hovering butler. “Now, before the villain escapes!” The butler nodded and fled.

  Stratford turned to her. “I don’t suppose you saw anything,” he said with quiet menace. “Someone outside in the street, perhaps?”

  “I saw nothing,” she said truthfully. She’d been sunk in misery and hadn’t even thought to look for Gray. The crumpled paper in her pocket felt as big as a boulder but it also seemed to glow with warmth. He had found her and followed her. Even if the paper only held a sad farewell, it was something of him.

  “Nothing,” Stratford repeated. His mouth shifted into something resembling a smile, albeit a cold and angry one. He didn’t believe her. “Retire to your room, my dear, to recover from the shock you’ve just received. I shall find the ruffian who did such a thing and see him thrown into jail.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Father.” She wasn’t terribly afraid for Gray—even if her father could prove he’d thrown the rock, Samantha trusted the Duke of Rowland to keep his son out of prison. Right now it was far more important her father not discover the paper.

  Her mother escorted her to her room, directing her maid to pull the drapes. “Bring Lady Samantha a cup of tea,” the countess told the maid, sending the girl flying from the room. “Are you sure you’re well?”

  Samant
ha nodded.

  Her mother’s eyes were worried. “You don’t think…” She lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “Could it have been someone you encountered on your misadventure?”

  On the drive to Portland Place, Samantha had realized a few hard facts. First, that she could never tell anyone the full truth of what had happened to her. Twice now she had honestly confessed to her father, and it had done her no good; from now on she meant to tell as wild and incredible a story as she could imagine, and hope it would torment him.

  Second, she must not let him use her heart against her. She couldn’t breathe a word of Gray’s assistance, or her father would ruin him. Samantha felt like crying at the thought of giving him up entirely, though, and vowed to find a way to see him. She meant what she’d said to her father: if he tried to make her marry Lord Philip, she would run away again and again, to Gray if possible, but anywhere else if not. Now that she’d had a real taste of love and pleasure, Samantha thought she’d rather throw herself into the ocean than wed someone like Philip.

  And third, she needed to keep the truth from her mother. The countess had sent for Stratford when Samantha disappeared from Richmond, and she was waiting in Portland Place after the tense carriage ride from Stanhope Street, tearfully relieved to have her daughter home safe. If Samantha explained what she had been “rescued” from, her mother would feel terrible.

  “Oh!” She widened her eyes, as if such a thought had never occurred to her. “No! I can’t imagine it was. I thought surely it was more likely someone who disagrees with Father about emancipation.” Thanks to her weeks of freedom, she knew her father was a strident voice of opposition to the emancipation bill being advanced by reformers.

  Lady Stratford blanched. “You may be right.” She paused, as if thinking. “I think you quite likely are exactly right. Who else would resort to such criminal tactics? Your father will realize it as well, once he considers the possibility.”

  Samantha nodded. “No one of any gentility. It must be rabble-rousers.”