A Common Scandal (21 page)

“Viscountess Chiswick. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“You see? I knew I’d convince you to see reason.”

“Oh, you’ll find I’m reasonable enough when properly motivated. But, tell me, what are your plans once we reach London? Are you going to call on my father?”

“Good God, no! He might refuse his consent.”

“Oh, Father won’t care who I marry as long as there’s a title in it for me.”

“Yes, but in case he thinks to protest in hopes of you snagging a better one, we’ll wait a week. By the time I return his soiled dove to his doorstep, he’ll be grateful to me for agreeing to marry you at all.”

“You have thought of everything, haven’t you? So if you’re not taking me to my father, where are you taking me?”

“We’ll find some rooms somewhere.”

“You mean you haven’t made the arrangements yet?”

“I wasn’t certain until last night that I could bring it about. Your wanton behavior provided the opportunity I needed. Just show a bit more discretion in the future. I won’t be cuckolded publicly by a slattern like you, no matter how rich you are.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I got a decent pass at it with Nate while I could, don’t you think?”

“You little slut—”

“Oh, look! We’re at Colchester. You promised me breakfast.”

Cheadle heaved a sigh. “Very well. You stay put with Morley. I’ll see if there is any food to purchase on the platform.” He shoved himself to his feet and felt at his pockets. “I seem to have spent all my cash on the tickets. I’ll need whatever you’ve got.”

Amelia gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

“Perfectly, my dear. You’re only here for your money. You might as well start handing it over now.”

“You really are penniless. Good heavens.” She glared at him but rooted through her reticule. Well-bred ladies weren’t meant to carry cash so there wasn’t much to hand over. Cheadle scowled at the meager sum she dumped into his hand.

“I certainly hope your father is more generous with your husband than he is with you.”

“I didn’t expect to have to pay for my own abduction today or I might have asked for more funds in advance.”

Cheadle shot her a murderous look before storming out of their compartment. It was a good thing she wasn’t actually marrying him. She wouldn’t put it past him to slit her throat as she slept. Speaking of sleeping, Morley seemed to have nodded off for good. He was snoring softly, a bead of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. With Cheadle down on the platform, she had her best chance to find something useful among his things.

His suitcase was with the luggage, but he’d left his overcoat on the seat next to her. Casting a glance across at Morley and finding him still soundly asleep, she began to feel her way toward the pockets. No cash, of course, which was too bad. Her escape would prove more difficult without a penny to her name, but not impossible. There was a pair of leather gloves, sadly thinned, and a silver-plated cigarette case, empty of cigarettes. And a letter.

She pulled it out of the inside breast pocket where he’d stashed it and turned it over. She recognized the size and color of the envelope. He’d received it at breakfast several days ago. Whatever it contained had made him flee the room. There wasn’t time to read it, only to stuff it in her reticule before Cheadle reentered the train car and tossed a paper-wrapped sandwich in her lap.

Without a word, she unwrapped it and nibbled at the edges as Cheadle scowled out the window. Morley’s snores were the only sound in the compartment. She couldn’t wait for a moment to read that letter, because she was quite sure its sender was the key to unlocking Cheadle’s secrets. And once she did that, she’d make him pay.

At Waterloo Station, Amelia allowed herself to be steered off the train and through the jostling crowds toward the street. Her best chance for slipping away would be now, when people streamed by in every direction. She purposely slowed her gait, letting her bag bang against her leg, until Cheadle looked back over his shoulder.

“Do keep up,” he snapped.

She glared back at him. “My bag is heavy. It’s straining my shoulder.”

He snatched it from her hand. “Very well, I’ll carry it, if you’re too delicate to manage.”

“Better start putting her in her place soon, Cheadle, or she’ll run roughshod over you,” Morley said, yawning and scratching at the back of his neck. He’d slept all the way to London and only roused himself a moment ago. Perhaps his reflexes would be slow.

“You can keep your observations to yourself, Morley. I’ve done it, haven’t I?”

Morley shrugged. “Nearly. I’ll feel better when the deed is done and her money’s in hand.”

Amelia watched their barbed exchange. Morley spoke as if he had a stake in her fortune as well, but how could that be? And why was he along in the first place, almost as if he was guarding his investment? The answers no doubt lay with the letter in her reticule.

A moment later, she saw her opportunity. She’d fallen behind again, letting a gap of several feet open between Cheadle and Morley and herself. They were too busy sniping at one another to notice right away. Then a porter with a cart full of luggage passed through the gap. Amelia didn’t take time to think, she just crouched, making herself small, and turned to the left, following alongside the cart in its shadow, hidden from Cheadle and Morley by the mass of trunks it carried. Up ahead some twenty feet was a stairway down to a train platform. If she could make it there, she could dart down the stairs and get lost in the labyrinth of the station.

She was ten feet from the stairway, then five, and then she heard Morley’s shout.

“Blast it, where is she?”

There came the sound of running feet, the shouts of other pedestrians as the two of them shoved through the crowd. She stayed hidden in the shadow of the cart for a few more steps but when she heard the sound of the ruckus coming in her direction, she knew she had to make a break for it. Taking a deep breath, she sprinted toward the stairs, slipping between a portly gentleman and his well-dressed wife in a wide-brimmed hat.

“I say!” the woman protested as Amelia pushed her way around her and rushed down the stairs. More people were behind them. A train had recently arrived and passengers were streaming up the stairs toward the station. But for Amelia, it was no different than racing through the crowded docks of Portsmouth as a child. Perhaps a proper lady would be too well-bred to dodge and weave her way through the bodies, too reticent to shove people aside to make her way, but Amelia harbored no such qualms. She slipped between people like an eel, darting down the stairs. Behind her, she could hear Cheadle and Morley also trying to make their way down, but there were two of them and they were much bigger than she. The crowd protested and refused to move aside for them, slowing their pursuit.

When she reached the platform, she ducked onto the train waiting there and turned left, passing through the car.

A porter called out to her. “Ho, there, miss. This is the last stop for this train.”

She gave him a sunny smile. “I’ve only left my book on my seat. I’ll pop back to get it and be off in no time.”

“Very well, miss. Watch your step.”

Oh, she’d watch her steps, all right, to make sure they were as rapid as possible. She sprinted from car to car down the length of the train, and when she spotted another set of stairs leading back up to the concourse, she darted through the doorway closest to it, only visible on the platform for an instant. She didn’t even look to see if they were still behind her, as she raced up the stairs and into the surging crowd above.

Her wide-brimmed straw hat with the yellow-striped ribbons matched her traveling suit. Now she reached up and pulled her hat pin loose, removing the hat—it was
so
lovely...she’d miss it—and tossed it on a bench as she passed. They’d be looking for her hat, those bright yellow ribbons. Now there was only her dark hair, much harder to pick out in a crowd.

As she let herself flow with the pedestrians, she heard no shouts or running footsteps behind her. They were probably still down on the train, searching from car to car. She’d made it. Outside on the street, she finally stopped, ducking into the doorway of a shop, and drew out the letter from her bag. The return address was somewhere in East London, some obscure and unfashionable working-class neighborhood. The letter inside seemed to be written in a feminine and none-too-elegant hand.

Victor,

Roger tells me you’re no further along with your heiress than when you left London. You promised you’d have it done by now. I’m tired of this flat and I mean to be clear of it one way or another. The rent is due, by the way. Please send funds, and more than last time. A girl’s got to eat.

Sincerely,

Cora

Amelia scowled at the letter, more confused than ever. This woman, Cora, seemed to know about her, as well. Why were she and Mr. Morley so invested in Cheadle’s pursuit of her? Well, there was only one way to find out. The address was quite a way across London and she didn’t have a penny to her name. She had a long walk ahead of her.

Chapter Eighteen

It was nearly five o’clock before Nate found himself on the front steps of the Wheeler town house in Mayfair. It had taken an age to question the servants at Tewsmere and finally make his way to the train station. Yes, the stationmaster told him, a young woman matching Amelia’s description had boarded the train at quarter past six in the morning in the company of two gentlemen, bound for London. Nate boarded the next train, along with the Earl of Tewsbury.

They had six hours’ head start on them and London was vast, but it was all he had to go on. At Waterloo Station, they separated, Tewsbury heading off to find Viscount Chiswick and inform him of his son’s actions, while Nate headed to the Wheeler house. Amelia’s parents needed to be informed of the events.

He handed his card to the footman who answered the door, and asked to see Mr. Wheeler, only to be informed he wasn’t home at present.

“Then Mrs. Wheeler, please. It’s a matter of some urgency regarding their daughter.”

The footman considered for a moment, and backed away from the door, allowing him entry. “Please wait here. I’ll see if Mrs. Wheeler can receive you. She isn’t well.”

Now he remembered what Amelia had told him of her mother. Her delicate health was taking a bad turn. Her mother’s limited time had been behind the rush to land a husband. He dreaded giving the woman this news. And from himself, the untitled man from a humble background who would marry her daughter in the end. She wouldn’t be pleased.

A moment later, the head butler appeared. “Mr. Smythe? Mrs. Wheeler is unwell and in her rooms upstairs. However, she wishes to hear your news regarding her daughter and hopes you won’t mind seeing her in her sitting room?”

“Of course not. Please lead the way.”

The Wheeler town house was magnificently decorated, a testament to all Wheeler had achieved. If Nate weren’t so panicked about Amelia, he might feel impressed, but as it was, his gaze slid past the fine paintings and Chinese vases, the gilt-edged furniture and thick carpets.

Mrs. Wheeler sat in a wing-backed chair by the fire with a blanket over her lap, in spite of the warm day. He remembered Amelia’s mother from his childhood. He hadn’t seen her often, and usually from a distance, but he recalled a beautiful woman, with blond hair and delicate features, pale, unblemished skin and tiny, gloved hands. She had been a world away from his own mother, coarse and worn down by life.

The change in her momentarily took his breath away. Amelia hadn’t been exaggerating. Her mother was very sick. A pang of remorse hit him. Of course Amelia wanted to make her happy before she passed. Wouldn’t he have done anything to make his own mother happy before her end, had he the chance? But that was a problem for another day. Today, Amelia was still missing.

Despite her fragile state, Mrs. Wheeler sat up when he entered the room, her bony hands curling into the arms of her chair. “Mr. Smythe, please come in.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Wheeler. I don’t suppose you remember me. Amelia and I played together as children in Portsmouth.”

“I remember you,” she said, her eyes coolly skating over him. “Roberts said you came with news about Amelia. What’s happened?”

“She was taken from Lord Tewsbury’s house party early this morning by Mr. Victor Cheadle. We traced them as far as the train station where they boarded a train for London, but no farther.”

“What do you mean, taken?”

“He left evidence to make it look like an elopement, but I’m quite sure Amelia was taken against her will. Here’s the note she left.”

Nate pulled the note from his breast pocket, unfolding it and handing it to Mrs. Wheeler. As her eyes darted across the page, her shoulders relaxed.

“Why, this sounds as if they’ve run off to marry. And yes, an elopement is less than ideal, but Mr. Cheadle has a titled father, I believe. He’ll smooth over any discomforts there. The precipitous beginning of their marriage will surely be forgotten once Amelia takes her place in Society.”

Nate huffed impatiently. “Mrs. Wheeler, Amelia never would have willingly consented to marry Mr. Cheadle. She detests him. And besides....”

Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes narrowed as she watched him bite off his words. “Yes, Mr. Smythe? What is your interest in this matter?”

“She wouldn’t marry him because she loves
me
.”

Mrs. Wheeler’s face fell and she slumped in her chair. “No. She promised me—”

Nate advanced a step. “She tried, and not with Cheadle. But what she feels for me—what we feel for each other—she can’t go through with it. Mrs. Wheeler, I know this is a disappointment—”

“I wanted to see her safely wed, with a title to protect her,” Mrs. Wheeler whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “With a title, she’d have her family again.”

“With all due respect, Cheadle stands to inherit a title, and look what he’s done to her. That’s the kind of protection
he
was willing to offer her, ruining her good name to force her to accept him, because he wanted to get his filthy hands on her fortune. Does his title make up for his being a coward without morals? He doesn’t care for anything about her outside of her money. Do you honestly want Amelia tied to that man for life?”

Mrs. Wheeler shook her head slowly. “No, of course not. I only want her to be happy and well.”

“She’ll be happy with me, I promise you. And I’ll spend my life making sure she’s taken care of. But first, I have to find her.”

“Smythe? What in the blazes is the meaning of this?”

Nate swung around, coming to face Josiah Wheeler standing in his wife’s doorway.

“Oh, Josiah,” Mrs. Wheeler gasped, her hands and voice shaking as the gravity of Amelia’s situation sank in. “He’s got Amelia. We have to do something.”

Wheeler scowled. “Who’s got Amelia? Why is Mr. Smythe in your sitting room, Beatrice? And while we’re at it, perhaps someone might explain to me this cryptic telegraph I received at my office.”

Nate snatched the paper from his hands.

“Please deliver to Mr. Smythe: found letter in Cheadle’s room. Return address below. Good luck. Evelyn.”

“What the hell is going on, Smythe?”

Nate took hold of Mr. Wheeler’s shoulder and propelled him back out of the room. “With any luck, we’ll find out at this address. I’ll explain on the way. Now let’s go.”

* * *

Amelia prided herself on being intrepid, but after spending several hours traipsing through London on foot, it was clear her years in the lap of luxury had worn off her edges. She was tired and hungry. Her feet hurt. And at some point today, she’d still have to traverse back across London to get to her house in Mayfair, unless she happened upon enough cash to pay for a hansom cab. First, however, she had to deal with this Cora person and whatever lay in store for her at 62 Grenley Street.

She’d long ago passed out of the bustling, prosperous streets of Central London, and now she found herself in a down-at-the-heels neighborhood made up of small shops and shabby homes, interspersed with some light industry. It wasn’t a slum, exactly, but it wasn’t the sort of place she’d had any call to visit in all her years in London. There were other ladies about, but they didn’t look like gently bred socialites. These were hard-faced working girls, eyeing her and her expensive walking suit with suspicion. At least she’d done away with the hat.

Finding a street in an unfamiliar neighborhood without a map wasn’t easy and she had to ask in shops for directions several times, but finally she was turning onto Grenley Street. Number 62 was a narrow, three-story clapboard building with grimed windowpanes and sagging sills. Taking a deep breath, she mounted the stairs and rapped at the door. After much muttering and stomping footsteps, the door opened to reveal a small woman with a lined, plain face and graying hair scraped back into a severe bun. She wore a limp shirtwaist and a dark skirt showing its age at the hem. Her eyes, dark and squinting, took in Amelia’s fine walking suit and youthful prettiness and if possible, her scowl deepened.

“Are you lost?” she snapped.

“Err, I don’t think so. I’m looking for 62 Grenley Street. Does someone named Cora live here?”

The woman jerked her chin up slightly. “Lodges on the third floor. Front flat. Go on up.”

She turned away from the door, and walked back down the hall, which Amelia took as an invitation to enter. The hall continued back into the building toward the ground floor flat. On the left, a narrow staircase led to the upper floors.

“That way,” the woman said with an absent wave toward the stairs. “Tell her she owes this month’s still.”

Amelia watched her disappear back into her flat, drew a deep breath and mounted the stairs. The sounds of muffled conversations seeped through the thin walls, lined with fading striped wallpaper. The air was thick with the smells of cooking and, even though it didn’t smell particularly appetizing, Amelia’s stomach cramped with hunger. She wished she’d finished the sandwich Cheadle had bought her on the train.

The landing on the third floor was dim, with only a grimed skylight far overhead to let in a bit of weak, late-day light. There were two doors, one at the back of the landing and one at the front. Amelia knocked on the door at the front.

Again, it seemed to take an age for the occupant to shuffle to the door and open it.

“I told you, Mrs. McMartin, I ain’t got it yet—”

The woman who opened the door trailed off abruptly at the sight of Amelia.

Amelia made a quick appraisal and a quicker decision. She could easily slip into the same working-class accent as the people she’d encountered in this neighborhood, but she didn’t. Instead she employed her best Mayfair, all honeyed vowels and clipped consonants. It was time to deploy the Commanding Heiress. She drew herself up straight and raised her chin. “I’m Miss Amelia Wheeler. I’m looking for Cora. Might you be she?”

Cora—for Amelia was sure this must be her—was not much older than herself, perhaps twenty-five. Although she looked a bit tatty in her cheap embroidered Chinese robe, with her light brown curls in a sloppy braid slung over her shoulder, Amelia could squint and imagine her cleaning up quite well. Her bosom alone, even in her loose robe with no undergarments, was noteworthy. With her ample curves in a corset, she’d cut quite a figure. Her face was soft-featured, and a dusting of light freckles across her cheeks lent her a deceptive air of innocence because her pretty blue eyes were shrewd and assessing. She had an attractive mouth, with full, pink lips and good teeth. In short, Amelia had the uneasy feeling she might be speaking to a gentleman’s mistress. Cheadle’s? Perhaps. She was pretty enough, in a rather obvious way, to turn a man’s head. But how did he afford her when he couldn’t afford a sandwich? And what hold could a mistress possibly have on him to explain his actions?

Cora’s eyes widened. “Did you say you was Miss Wheeler?”

“I did. It’s interesting you seemed to have heard of me, Cora—I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name. Miss...?”

Cora swallowed thickly. “Morley.”

“Ah. Morley. What an unusual coincidence. You see, this very morning, I was abducted from an estate in Kent by a Mr. Cheadle and his friend, a Mr. Morley. Their aim, I believe, was to disgrace me, leaving me no choice but to marry Mr. Cheadle.”

Cora threw up her hands and shook her head. “I don’t know nothing about it, I swear.”

Amelia drew Cora’s letter from the pocket of her skirt. “That’s funny, because in this letter you wrote to Mr. Cheadle, you seemed to know he was pursuing an heiress. I can only assume you meant me.”

“He was supposed to elope with you, not kidnap you!”

“Well, I had no interest in eloping with Mr. Cheadle, as he well knew. It seems Mr. Cheadle decided on a more forceful line of persuasion. But I don’t understand your role in the proceedings. Yours or Mr. Morley’s.”

“No one meant you any harm. He said you’d be happy to marry a bloke with a title.”

“Then he doesn’t know me well at all.”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind them, and two familiar voices echoed in the cramped hall.

“Look, where else can she go? She’ll run home to her father and tomorrow I’ll show up promising to make an honest woman out of her. Her father will be so grateful to hush the business up, he’ll probably arrange the whole thing himself.”

Amelia turned, crossing her arms over her chest and waiting until Morley and Cheadle had cleared the stairs and stepped onto the landing.

“Except she didn’t run home to her father,” Amelia said. “She came here to find out what the bloody hell is going on.”

Cheadle blanched, his frantic gaze shooting to Cora. “How did you find this place?”

“It was the return address on the letter in your pocket. The letter that seemed to cause you such distress over breakfast the other day. I’ve been getting to know Cora, here, but I confess I’m still puzzled as to why she and Mr. Morley are so invested in who you marry.”

“Look, Miss Wheeler,” Cheadle said, holding his hands out to placate her. “This has all gone too far.”

“I’ll say it has.”

“I’ll take you back home. I’ll swear to your father that you’re innocent. I’ll tell Lord Radwill the same. Just come away from here and forget what you’ve seen.”

“Oh bloody hell, Cheadle,” Morley growled. “You’re such a coward. You think she’ll keep her mouth shut now? And what do you propose to do, go find some other heiress to woo and marry? No, it’s this one and it happens tonight.”

Morley took two strides forward and grasped Amelia by the arm, pulling her toward the stairs.

“Take your hands off me!” she hissed. Morley didn’t respond, but he also didn’t look at her, which was foolish on his part. No one ever took Amelia seriously, when they really ought to. She planted her left foot to give herself some leverage. It brought Morley up short and he spun around to face her, which was exactly what she wanted him to do. He opened his mouth to say something to her but his words were lost in a howl of pain as her right knee made firm contact with his groin. Morley doubled over, gasping for breath. Amelia grabbed a good handful of his hair, bringing up her knee again, this time squarely into his forehead. Morley pitched forward and she scooted to the side, letting him hit the landing with a thud. His head impacting with the floor did the rest of the work for her. He wasn’t unconscious, but quite dazed, his hands scrabbling across the floor but not finding the coordination to pull himself to his feet.