The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  Lucy sniffed and pulled the wooden darning egg out from the sock, turning the bit of clothing right side out to examine her work. “Of course not. I had Phillip take it to a man he knew. You know as well as I do that Phillip isn’t the sort to say anything to anyone if he considers it none of their business. Let the jeweler speculate.”

  “You had Phillip…Dare I ask one other question that might be a thing that might have escaped your notice?” James asked, one hand pressed over his eyes to forestall a headache that seemed determined to blossom there.

  “Of course.” Lucy slipped the wooden egg into the next sock from the pile. “And what would that be?”

  “Has it occurred to any of you that I am perhaps not only the Duke of Durham, a name which some might say holds a certain authority but that I am also Master of his household?”

  “Pish tosh, and I am the one who dandled you on my knee, while Phillip taught you to ride your first horse.”

  He tipped his head back against the high back of the chair that he might stare at the ceiling. “I am by far too lax with the servants. If word should get out, I would be ruined.”

  Lucy carefully threaded her needle again as she lost the yarn. “You are already ruined, which is why you must go to visit the Duke of York at your first opportunity, that you might be introduced properly to his daughter. You cannot call without having first been introduced.”

  “No, of course not. I would need to be introduced. What kind of madhouse is this? No, do not answer me that.” He got up and looked again at the brooch in his hand. “And how much did you say this magical rose is worth?”

  She told him. The number was quite high.

  James swallowed hard. “And you say that to her this was a mere trifle? No, do not answer that. I will not be drawn into this madness. I shall visit the house first thing in the morning. Not—” he held up a hand to stop whatever was sure to fall from her mouth next, “—to garner an introduction to this daughter who seems set upon matrimony, but to return this bauble before we are all accused of collusion of the basest sort.”

  “Collusion!” Lucy harrumphed and stabbed her needle through the sock with more force than necessary. “As though anyone here were capable of such a thing. I managed this escapade entirely on my own.”

  “I will be sure to inform the constabulary when they show up,” James remarked rather dryly. “I fail to see how it was that you came to agree to this entire thing at all. I had thought you were of higher intellect than to fall for a maiden’s ridiculous schemes.”

  “’Twas no scheme, as I am sure you will find if you only but go and see the good Lady. She sheltered me from the storm, and we had a…conversation,” she said, pausing a little uncomfortably there.

  He noticed this hesitation and felt one eyebrow rise.

  “A conversation,” she insisted, drawing the yarn through with perhaps more force than necessary. “If you would only visit, I think you would understand.”

  “Understand,” he scoffed and rose, leaving her to her fire and her basket of mending. “We shall see. I will accept your challenge then. I will look upon this maiden whose visage is one of innocence, a girl with angelic demeanor that will impress upon me her very perfection of manner and bearing. One more like every other girl of the ton.”

  “I think not,” Lucy said, without looking up, though he noticed a hint of a smile working at the corners of her mouth. “Meet her. The rest will come clear.”

  “Humph.” He stared at the pin in his hand a long moment before thrusting it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Utter nonsense.”

  Chapter 5

  I should never have done it.

  For days now, Helena had been stewing over her rash act. The beloved brooch from her mother was long since gone, and she had only herself to blame for that. It was likely the entire story had been nothing more than a fabrication by a very clever thief.

  But Lucy had seemed sincere. And while Helena had not been exposed to many people in her short lifetime, she considered herself something of a judge of people, for all she did was sit at her window and watch society stroll past her house, laughing, talking and living, utterly unaware that they had an unseen audience who spent hours deciphering their actions as a way to discern the stories they told.

  Lucy’s story had spoken to her of fear and desperation, alongside a great love for the Duke of Durham.

  I ought to give it time. He cannot just show up at my doorstep and demand to see me. There are rules that involve complicated rituals. Introductions. Propriety must be maintained. It does me no good to sit here stewing about it.

  Though she had helped him there, whether he realized it or not. She’d given him an opening into the house, that could become something of an opportunity if he only took it. The question was, would he respond to the bait, or would he ignore it completely?

  Restless, Helena let her hands drift over her harp, bringing up a storm of music that reflected her restless mood. It was a piece she had worked out over the summer, entitled ‘Storm’ for it held the violent discordance of the wind and rain.

  She had perhaps played it a bit overmuch of late, for Aunt Phoebe appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing. “Whatever are you playing?” she asked, though she knew full well. They had had this conversation every day for a week now.

  Helena placed the flat of her hand against the strings, stilling the disharmonious cacophony. “I apologize, Aunt Phoebe,” she said, smiling amiably enough. “I shall endeavor to play something softer.”

  “Or not at all.”

  Helena had to laugh. Aunt Phoebe was a beautiful woman, only five-and-thirty, but with the looks still of a woman ten years younger, but right now she managed to look so stern that few would guess that typically her aunt was one who loved to laugh. Helena had heard her at tea, with her friends and knew full well how much her aunt enjoyed life.

  Except of late. She had seemed distracted since the storm that had carried their strange visitor to them. Thinking of this now, Helena rose from her harp and went to her aunt, enfolding the older woman in a long hug, for she did not feel the age difference between them was a deterrent for closeness. “Will you never forgive me?” she asked softly. “I have apologized many times for speaking to our guest without permission.”

  “She could have been anybody,” Phoebe said, pushing the girl away with a certain irritation clear upon her face.

  Helena flushed uncomfortably. There was much about that conversation that Aunt Phoebe did not know. Now, having her come into the room, when she was thinking so hard about what she had done, seemed a sign of sorts. Maybe it was time to confess the truth, especially since her aunt had asked her very specifically about the rose pin just that morning.

  Helena put out a hand to catch at her aunt’s sleeve before she could leave. “Aunt Phoebe, she truly was of no concern. A servant from another great house here in the city caught unawares in the suddenness with which the blizzard came. You said yourself that morning, how quickly the storm came up. There was only a smattering of flakes all morning!”

  Phoebe shot her a look. “What house? What did she tell you?”

  Her aunt’s tone was so severe that Helena sighed. Once again, her aunt was spoiling for a fight. She had brought up several times now how disobedient Helena was fast becoming and how, if her behavior continued, she would have to go to Helena’s father about it. The last thing she wanted was trouble, especially now — just in case the Duke of Durham would keep the promise that his servant Lucy had set for him.

  “I do not remember,” she said finally. “Some house or another. I remember recognizing the name from one of your stories, but it escapes me now. Is it important?”

  Phoebe stared at her a long moment. “No. No, I suppose not.” She turned to go.

  Helena frowned. “Aunt Phoebe? Was there a reason you were looking for me?”

  Phoebe tilted her head to one side as she thought about this. “I suppose it was that your father wished to see you. He is har
dly back before you are in trouble. I guess you must have done something to upset him. How you manage to do so is beyond me.” She shook her head. “Never have I seen a more disobedient girl.”

  Helena bit her lip, one hand scratching the back of the other. “I do apologize. I forget myself sometimes when I play.” She cast a somewhat wistful glance at the harp by the window. “Does he have some guest or another coming and wishes me to go to my room?”

  “How can he not?” Aunt Phoebe looked long and hard at her, to where Helena flinched under the scrutiny. “You have not been using the unguent the doctor has given you. The sores on your face and neck are worse than ever.”

  “But I have!” Helena insisted, raising her hand to her cheek, and feeling the roughened skin there. “Mostly.” She frowned a little. “The days blend together so. Maybe I have not.”

  “No, you have likely not. Honestly, you get so caught up in your music, I suppose you also fail to remember what day it is?” Phoebe’s look was one of well-deserved censure.

  Helena brightened immediately. “Is Grandmother coming? She had promised it, after Christmas. On the fourteenth. Wait, ’tis the fourteenth already. Oh, it is! Is that why Papa wished to me? You wicked thing to not tell me! Grandmother is here! Am I right?”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “In this snow?”

  But Helena was no longer listening, for she’d flown to the window to look. Sure enough, while she had been busy idly dreaming the day away, a carriage had arrived. With a squeal of delight, she dashed for the door.

  “Helena! Your gloves!”

  But Helena had no care for gloves. Grandmother seemed to not care about the wicked condition that left her skin mottled and raw. And better, Grandmother always brought the finest gifts. The last time she had visited, she’d brought the finest shawl from Paris, with the most exquisite lace along the edge.

  Ignoring her aunt’s entreaties to slow down and walk like a lady, Helena skidded across the parquet flooring and nearly fell down the stairs in her haste to arrive at the bottom. Laughing and breathless, she came crashing to a halt but still upright at the bottom of the stairs only because a large, very male hand caught her as she was about to fall.

  Helena, laughing, put one hand to her head, feeling the masses of red-brown curls that were tumbling down about her face. “Antony, you have indeed saved me. I suppose I had best clean up before showing myself to our guest, do you not think so?”

  “I would say it might be a trifle late for that. Do you not think so?”

  Aghast, Helena sprang backward, and landed ungracefully on the stairs themselves, sitting down hard about three stairs up from the bottom, but still low enough that she had to tilt her head back to see the strange man in his entirety who’d caught her, her father standing just beyond, looking absolutely aghast.

  The stranger was tall. But then from this vantage point, of course, he would be tall. He wore a dark blue waistcoat over light blue pants, a cravat tied neatly at his neck. These things were easy to see, for looking at clothing was ever so much easier than taking the rest of the journey to face and eyes. But she must see, for she knew, she just knew that this man would have to be as handsome as his voice dictated.

  As indeed he was. She looked at his hair first, as golden as the sun, cut neatly in the proper style of the day. Full lips, not pouty but twisted up in a sort of wry amusement as he bent to offer his hand to help her to her feet. Blue eyes that might have been pieces of sky.

  She knew him. She knew him with every fiber of her being and could not bring herself to take his hand, much as her father tutted and made flustered apologies at his side.

  This, of course, was James Campbell, the Duke of Durham. And she had just made a right fool of herself.

  Chapter 6

  She came out of nowhere, skidding down the stairs as though a thing possessed her, hair flying wildly in all directions. It was a wonder she hadn’t half killed herself coming at him that way. It had been a thing to watch that he would not soon forget.

  “Are you all right?” James asked, unable to help himself. They had not been introduced, and the rules of etiquette were somewhat lacking in situations where a lady lay sprawled at your feet.

  Her father though had not allowed them more than a moment to talk. He had hauled the girl to her feet himself and scolded her soundly. James watched as her cheeks went from crimson to pale, and the tears welled in her eyes. She was genuinely distressed that she’d caused her father embarrassment. She did not seem the sort to make cruel demands upon an elderly servant who had acted impulsively.

  Nor did she seem necessarily going out of her way to restore the impression she’d made upon him. There was nothing coquettish or flirtatious about her. As her father ran out of steam, she actually turned toward James to ask if he were all right and whether or not her tumble had hurt him.

  “I am fine, thank you. It is you who I am worried about,” James said, losing himself in the depths of her eyes.

  A sharp word from her father sent the girl to her room, rather peremptorily, James thought, for he had only just started to get to know her. Or at least to get an idea of her. Though truth be told, the banishment was not without merit. They were strangers to each other after all, and the father would be expected to protect his daughter from strange men.

  But even as he was led to his host’s library, James could not erase the image of the young lady from his mind. What had left him all the more intrigued though was the way her eyes had lit with pleasure as she came down the stairs. The laughter that followed her, the flush to her cheeks had attracted him to her. She was the very embodiment of life itself, and he wanted to get to know her better.

  Whatever his host said as he invited him into his office was lost on him. It took James a moment to realize that The Duke of York, Harcourt Barrington, was asking to see the letter that had summoned him to this place.

  Now though, seated in her father’s study, James had little interest in the letter the man was perusing, his attention entirely taken by the girl. Oh, she was a wild thing, a woman untamed, full of fire and life. So completely opposite every young lady he’d been afflicted within the past year of his life since taking the title of Duke that he was, in fact, quite intrigued.

  He also had a precious bauble to return to her. Only now wasn’t the time.

  “Well, this is the strangest thing, Campbell.” Harcourt Barrington flung the paper down upon his desk after reading and rubbed at the line forming over his brow. “I truly do not remember inviting you, though I am most intrigued by your proposition regarding opening up American concerns for trade.”

  Of course, he would not remember inviting him. The letter had been obviously penned by the girl on the stairs, giving James entry into the house that he might carry out his supposed duty. From everything he could see, Barrington was a man much given to study and trade. Shipping schedules littered his desk. His attention seemed to be on half a dozen things at once.

  Of course, the girl would know her father well enough to pen a letter that could easily be construed as having been forgotten. It had been cleverly worded too, inviting them both to focus on the one thing that would help him most right now.

  A partnership in shipping but this time to the Americas.

  “With the war declared over, it seems it might be a good time to test the boundaries of the new peace,” James said, pressing to bring home the point made in the letter. “In fact, you did seem rather interested in the port of New Orleans, as well as trade in the West Indies.”

  “And you have had ships travel those routes with success?” Barrington asked, raising his head from his papers long enough to look at him.

  James considered how to answer. “To some extent, I have,” he said carefully.

  “But not of late.”

  James winced. “I see my reputation has preceded me,” he said and rose to wonder where his hat and coat had been placed so that he might leave.

  “Sit down, sit down! My heavens, man, there are few e
nough I can talk to as an equal. Do not make me chase you down. Truth be told, before my daughter penned this letter pretending to be me, I had been considering inviting you to a conversation at my club. But you have the most annoying habit of hiding from the public eye.”

  “I would hardly call living a quiet life hiding, Sir!” James responded with a particular offense, lifting his chin somewhat.

  Barrington waved that off. “Well, you are hardly taking part in the social circles currently, or I would be sure to hear of it. My wife’s sister sings your praises rather regularly, though I suppose you would not know her. Phoebe Barlowe? No, I suppose not. All the same, I would appreciate it if you would sit, that we can discuss this matter further.”

  James sat cautiously, studying the thickset man behind the desk as he shuffled through the documents scattered hither and yon. He still had a full head of hair, like that of his daughter’s only a slightly darker red-brown, rivaling only his mustache in thickness. When he looked up, his dark eyes sparkled with humor and no small amount of intelligence.