A Taste for Scandal (4 page)

With that, he brushed by the boy and made good his escape.

Jane stared slack-jawed after the man as he stormed out of her shop in a cloud of powdered sugar and indignation. How dare he? She didn’t care if he was an earl—or the king of England, for that matter—he had still barged into her shop like a man possessed and attacked poor Emerson. He’d torn through the place like a stampeding cow, and he was to have no sort of reckoning at all? She turned to Mr. Black and the watchman, who were observing the scene with interest. They looked more like a couple of gossiping fishwives than an upstanding businessman and a local peacekeeper.

She didn’t know why she was surprised. No accountability for the privileged, no justice for the masses. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she stared at the destruction wrought on her once beautiful shop. “Why did you let him leave? Just because he is an earl does not mean he can get away with assault and, and
this.
” She waved to encompass the mess.

The two men looked at each other, and then back at her. “Actually, that is exactly wha’ it means,” Mr. Black said with shrug. “Besides, you heard the man. He said he thought this fellow was attacking you.”

“That is absurd! Why, you did not see the crazy look in his eyes when he tackled my cousin.”

There was another beat of silence within the room, and then a large hand settled on her back. “Jane, I think maybe he was telling the truth,” Emerson’s deep voice spoke quietly.

The two men made good their retreat as Jane faced her cousin. Her heartbeat still had not returned to its normal cadence and her nerves felt as though they would snap any moment. She looked up into Emerson’s kind green eyes and saw sincerity in them. She had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “And why do you say that?”

He rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin and smiled. “Truth be told, I’m sure I don’t exactly look like a gentleman about town, now do I. Think about it. He came in after your, um,
enthusiastic
reaction to seeing me. He tackled me, stayed put while you went for help, and gaped like a landed fish when you fingered him as the criminal.”

His words penetrated the wall of anger within her, his logic tugging at her preconceptions. Oh. Oh, no. Jane grasped Emerson’s arm for support as the truth of his words set in. Did she really have a gentleman tackled—a
titled
gentleman, at that? And when she remembered how she had spoken to him . . . “I need to sit down,” she said weakly.

Weston, who had been leaning against the doorjamb, bolted upright and grabbed her left arm. Emerson steadied her under her right elbow as the two of them guided her to the upended stool behind the counter, glass and porcelain crunching beneath their shoes. The sound of broken memories further weakened her normally rigid composure. Her cousin flipped the stool upright with one hand, thankfully still supporting her with the other. Once she was seated, her brother and Emerson exchanged worried glances.

“Do you want some water or something?” Weston’s voice cracked a bit on the last word. She really had to get herself together.

Right after she had her very first fit of vapors.

She sucked in a huge breath, and slowly exhaled. She was going to be all right. It was just a misunderstanding. So what if she had tried to have her own personal would-be rescuer arrested? People made mistakes. Her mistake just happened to include a bedraggled, manhandled, sugarcoated earl.

Honestly, could things get any worse?

“Excuse me. I am supposed to pick up an order of scones for Mr. Farnsworth?”

Jane looked up to see a bewildered young man holding a hat in his hands and looking around the ruined shop with wide eyes.

She squeezed her eyes closed and tamped down on a hysterical whimper that threatened to escape. She just had to ask, didn’t she?

“What on
earth
happened to you?”

Richard halted in his tracks. Damn, he had hoped to escape to his chambers before anyone saw him. It was embarrassing enough to have encountered Finnington at the front door, but at least the man, with all of his butler-ly graces, had managed to keep a straight face.

As Richard swiveled on his heels to face his sister Jocelyn, it was clear the same could not be said for her. Her blue eyes went perilously wide as her hand flew to her mouth. She drew a deep breath, and he realized at once what she was about to do.

“No—!”

“Mama!”

He was too late. With lungs rivaling those of the seasoned auctioneers at Tattersalls, Jocelyn sent the summons echoing down the corridor.

Damn it all, this was not going to be his day.

Within seconds, his mother, followed by Beatrice and Carolyn, emerged from the drawing room and rushed to their sides in a flurry of whispering slippers and swishing muslin. Their faces reflected varying degrees of horror mixed with amusement. Mother’s eyes rose as she took in his scoffed boots, sugarcoated breeches and coat, and settled on his wildly unkempt hair. “Good heavens, Richard, what happened to you?”

The twins were too busy gawking at him to actually say anything, but Beatrice started to shake with laughter. Richard was not amused. The fact that he was beyond exhausted didn’t help anything, either.

He skewered all of them with his most skewery look.

“What happened,” he said, in low, even tones, “is that I attempted to do a good deed, and was thoroughly punished for my efforts. And I
don’t
want to talk about it.”

Mother simply blinked while the twins exchanged amused, collusive glances. Good, let them be shocked by his barely leashed anger. He could be fearsome when pressed. Just when he thought they had all been put properly in their places, Beatrice tilted her head to the side. “Were you still able to get my ribbons?”

With a squeak, his mother finally came to her senses. Herding the girls back to the drawing room, she said, “Come along, dears. I think we should give Richard a moment to . . . compose himself.”

Finally. He knew he loved his mother for a reason. Turning toward the stairway, he vaulted up the white marble steps, two at a time. In all his life, no one had ever treated him like that, that
woman
had.

He snarled as he stalked into his room and slammed the door. He yanked the bellpull with much more force than necessary and began peeling off his ruined clothes.

He could understand her initial confusion, but to speak so derisively after she knew who he was? What kind of woman belittles and insults the very man who tried to help her? Especially one of his status. He pictured her, with her porcelain white skin and lavender gown. Did she think she could get away with such rudeness, such dreadful behavior because she was beautiful? Possessing plump, rosy lips and shining, midnight hair didn’t do a lick of good when one also possessed such a disagreeable disposition. With the scowl she wore, no man in his right mind would find her attractive.

He tossed his coat on the floor and went to work untying his cravat. Well, Miss Jane could rot, as far as he was concerned. And he hoped she was happy—he’d certainly think twice before risking his neck to help another stranger. He sighed; no, he wouldn’t. No matter how dreadful she’d been, he’d do it all over again simply because that would be his first instinct. Clearly he had the better opinion of his fellow man than she.

By the time his valet arrived, most of Richard’s clothes were in a pile on the floor. Bradford, smart man that he was, said not a word as he headed to Richard’s dressing room to retrieve a fresh set of clothes. Normally, the man might have gone into hysterics at the sight of such carnage. It was good to know Richard could pull off such a forbidding expression when the occasion warranted it.

And nearly being arrested thanks to a self-important, apron-wearing, finger-pointing shrew definitely warranted it. Shrew—he rather liked the sound of it. Perfect description, really.

After he had washed away the stickiness from the tussle in the shop and dressed, Richard finally started to feel more himself. He couldn’t let some silly misunderstanding or vengeful shopgirl ruin his day. It had not been his finest moment, but it was over now. And besides, it wasn’t as though he would ever see the girl again. Why had she been so blasted accusatory, anyway? She seemed to personally despise him, even when the watchmen and that barn door of a cousin of hers relented and realized their mistake.

People liked him, damn it. Being personable was the one thing he got right every time. He might not have had the mind for business his father would have liked, but he could make just about anyone laugh, if he chose to. He could make even the most homely debutante feel beautiful with a mere smile—something he rather liked to do, since it seemed to give them a boost of confidence—or charm a jaded widow right into his bed. Hell, he didn’t even have a mistress. He didn’t need one. Besides the fact he found paying for pleasure vulgar, there were few things more satisfying than the challenge of wooing the woman he desired. No money changing hands, no promises of homes or carriages—just pure, mutual pleasure.

Actually, a lady in his bed sounded rather perfect after such a rotten day. Perhaps he would visit the enchanting Lady Kingsley. With her lecherous, wizened old husband off in the north with his mistress and their by-blow, Theresa had been very receptive toward Richard of late. She tended to work wonders for a man’s wounded ego . . . as well as other, more tangible parts of a man.

He came up short as a thought occurred to him. Damn it all, he couldn’t do anything until after the ball tonight. He groaned and dropped onto the bench at the foot of his bed.

Somehow or another, this had to be the shrew’s fault, too.

Chapter Four

“I feel as though it’s my duty as your father to ask what happened to your eye, but I must confess, I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer.”

Richard glanced up from his solitary game of billiards and grinned at his father’s dubious expression. “You mean, for example, that it may have involved a female and a scuffle I had with one of her male relatives?” He laid down his cue stick and leaned against the table, crossing his arms.

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean.”

“Very well. I shall keep the details to myself.” Richard wasn’t hiding anything—he’d already given his mother a rough account of the details once he’d gotten some sleep—but it was much more fun to leave it to his father’s imagination.

Father merely shook his head and chuckled as he brushed past him, making his way to the cigar box in the place of honor on the sideboard. The billiards room was little more than a long, narrow room in a part of the house that received the least amount of natural light. Smelling of exotic cigar smoke and decorated with dark, masculine fixtures and plenty of leather and iron, it was one of the few places that the females in the house rarely ventured. Which was a miracle, as far as Richard was concerned. If he didn’t know for a fact that he possessed only four sisters and one mother, he would swear there were ten of them—and Evie wasn’t even in residence.

Richard watched as his father opened the massive box and looked over the selection, ultimately choosing one of the full-bodied Caribbean varieties. Richard could almost see the stress of the day slip from his father’s shoulders as he pulled the cigar beneath his nose and inhaled deeply. Ever the responsible and imposing Marquis of Granville in public, he tended to let his guard down around his family. Richard appreciated his easy humor and open affection—there were precious few peers with such traits.

At last his father snipped the end and lit the cigar from a nearby candle. After several puffs he turned and regarded Richard, his head tilted to the side as he blew out a cloud of blue smoke. “You know, son, at some point one must move past such indiscretions and settle down.”

Oh for God’s sake, first Mother, now him? “So I’ve been told—this very morning, in fact. And I agree. ‘At some point,’ I promise to do so.”

“You do realize that if anything ever happens to me, all that stands between the lifestyle your sisters and mother have always known and their being kicked to the curb is your continued good health. God forbid you meet with some sort of accident—or a duel.”

Richard worked not to roll his eyes. His father was as hale and hearty as he was—probably more so. If it weren’t for his graying, thinning hair, one could mistake him for a man half his age. “Have no fear—duels are fought far too early in the morning to be of any interest to me.”

“A sentiment not nearly as reassuring as it might be, accompanied as it is with the colorful state of your eye socket.”

Richard probed the area with the tips of his fingers, pleased not to feel much in the way of swelling. “Actually, it’s not near as bad as I thought it would be. He really only got the one good punch in.” It still hurt like the devil, but the blow had glanced more to his temple than his eye, so it was only mildly colored—the last time he’d checked, anyway.

Not wanting to dwell on the topic at hand, he said, “How was your meeting with the solicitor today?”

Father sighed, but didn’t fight the change of subject. “Very well, actually. The negotiations for the new stud are complete, and he should be delivered to Hertford Hall by week’s end. I’m still damned pleased that Wofford entertained my offer instead of taking the horse to auction. I paid a king’s ransom for him, but it was worth every last shilling.”

He paused and grinned. “I think I may have just named him. Ransom . . . I rather like the sound of it. I only wish I could be there to put him through his paces when he arrives.” The last was said more to himself, but Richard nodded nonetheless. His father chafed at town living nearly as much as Evie did. But he took his responsibilities to the House of Lords very seriously, and never missed a session if he could help it.

How he managed to handle the workload of his commitments was truly beyond Richard. And it wasn’t for lack of trying—in the beginning, at least. It was years before he admitted to himself that he would never have the business sense his father did. Thank God Evie’s dedication to the stables meant that Richard would have one less thing to worry about when he inherited the title. Pressing his lips together, he forcefully pushed the thought away. Inheritance meant the loss of his father, and that was simply unthinkable.