Once Upon a Scandal (13 page)

“They’ve been moved into a separate room and laid out like relics. But given my tragic status as the suitor Jane left behind, Montford’s wife invited me to go through them in private. To say my goodbyes, as it were.”

And so he had, like the worst sort of voyeur, running his hands along the muslins, velvets, and silks, some still carrying her verbena scent. Caressing the filmy cotton underthings that had lain against her skin. Touching her pantalets, edged with soft Brussels lace, imagining her body bare beneath them. The whole of it had been intensely erotic.

“There was nothing there,” he said, shifting in his seat.

“Are you blushing, Marworth?” Greystoke asked. “You are looking distinctly uncomfortable.” The man missed nothing. Damn him.

Blessedly, Torrington chose that opportune moment to burst into the room, smelling—perhaps stinking was the better word—of gin and cigar smoke. “I’ve news,” he said as he pulled aside a chair and sat down.

“Good God, Torrington.” Benjamin pulled out a handkerchief and retreated behind it. “What the hell have you been doing? Rolling in the gutters of St. Giles?”

“I know I’m ripe, but in that place, one can’t help but absorb the stench. I came straight from Sharpe’s.”

The gaming hell. They all leaned in.

“What did you find out?” Winchester asked.

“The staff there is a suspicious lot, hesitant to admit anything, but I fell in with one of the regulars. Plied him with some of the vilest swill I’ve ever encountered and waited to find out what he might say. Turns out he knew Fitzsimmons well.”

Winchester straightened. “Was he there the night Fitzsimmons died?”

“He was. Saw him dead on the curb. Watched his pockets get picked, the shoes stolen off his feet.”

“Had he gotten in some sort of fight, then?” Winchester asked. “Angered one of the other patrons? Or was it a robbery, plain and simple?”

“Apparently, it was neither,” Torrington replied. “Seems that Fitzsimmons and this gent made a regular pair at the card tables. Won and lost a pile of money to each other.”

“Go on.” Greystoke’s impatience was obvious.

“My mark claimed he never made it into the hell that night.”

“Then it was a robbery,” Winchester interrupted. “Footpads figured he’d have more money going into Sharpe’s than he would on the way out.”

“Let me finish. He said a man came in late, complaining a body had been tossed onto the curb by a passing carriage. He’d had to step over it to get inside. Our gent said the barkeep offered him a free drink to help move the carcass into an adjoining alley. Turned out it was Fitzsimmons.”

“He was certain of this?” Greystoke asked. “The course of events and the carriage?”

“He described the scene in detail. Apparently, Fitzsimmons was already several hours gone and stiff as a pike.”

Whomever had murdered the man had wanted to make it look like Fitzsimmons had been out gambling, that he’d fallen victim to the cutthroats Sharpe’s attracted. When in truth, he’d been murdered preemptively and thrown away like trash. An ignominious and humiliating end. But why?

“Perhaps he’d been too late in paying a debt,” Winchester offered. “Gullgropers are hardly patient people.”

“But they’d not have killed him.” Benjamin knew it for a certainty. “They’d only get their money back while he lived. Someone else wanted Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons dead.”

“I’ll make inquiries,” Torrington said. “See what I can uncover about the man’s habits and his final days.”

“When will you return to Painshill, Marworth?” Greystoke’s eyes were fixed on him.

“I’m leaving in the morning. If all goes well, I’ll return by the week’s end. Jane, as Lillianne, will go directly to Grillion’s.”

“We’ll meet next Saturday then,” Greystoke said with a curt nod, the meeting over and done. But as Benjamin rose to take his leave, Greystoke stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “A moment.” He paused until the others had departed. “Miss Fitzsimmons is obviously coming into a dangerous situation. Given what we’ve learned tonight, it’s important your interest in her remains a strictly professional one.”

“Of course. I have the utmost respect for Jane. She is under my care.”

But Greystoke was clearly unconvinced. “She unsettles you. That’s easy enough to see. And I can only think of one explanation for that.”

“You overstep your bounds,” he bristled. “You are wrong on that count.”

Greystoke merely turned, speaking over his shoulder as he moved towards the door. “I doubt it.”

Men, I presume, are in general better judges than women, of the deportment of women.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

Sophia Middleton, who was more prone to mischief than anyone he’d ever encountered, practically purred at the sight of him walking through the front door of Painshill.

“I’m so happy to see you returned, Marworth,” she said, her eyes dancing, their bright blue a perfect match for the dress she wore. “I’ve been terribly busy in your absence.”

“I hope you’re referring to your progress with Jane.” She could just as easily be speaking about another conquest. Men—both highborn and low—had a tendency to cluster around Sophia Middleton like puppies. Just look at the beatific expression Maybanks was wearing.

“Jane? I’m afraid she left here weeks ago, disconsolate over your departure. There’s every chance she’s tossed herself back into the Thames.”

For a brief moment, his heart stopped. But it was quickly resuscitated by a suspicion. He shot a glance at the hall clock. “Have you been drinking, Sophia?” Surely it was too early for brandy. He’d left London at first light.

“What a lovely idea! But sadly, no. We must save it for later, when I suspect you’ll need something bracing.”

“Where is she?” He scanned the hall. “Charming as you are, I am here on a matter of some importance. You will remember, of course, our plans. The task at hand.”

“Oh, I never forget a task, Marworth. And I never fail to exceed expectations. Let’s adjourn to the sitting room, shall we? We received your note two days ago, so we’ve been expecting you. She’ll be down shortly.”

Trying to brush aside his impatience, he followed the countess into the small chamber, with its delicate gilded furnishings and floral paper. He’d always felt like an oaf in this room, but his mother had decorated it during a far more innocent and happy time, and that was something to be preserved. He lowered his long frame onto a ridiculously petite settee. “We are waiting on Jane, then?”

“Of course not,” she said with a sly glance. “We’re waiting on Lillianne.”

He stole a peek at the doorway, nervous for no good reason. And then Maybanks announced her, and she moved into the room. As he stood, he could do little more than stare. It was only sheer dint of will that kept his jaw from dropping open. Her gown, a sapphire confection, emphasized the curves of her body with tiny pintuck pleats edged in cream, making her legs seem especially long and her waist seem absurdly small and her chest … Dear God, he had not expected that bodice, almost dazzlingly full, trimmed with a fringe of diaphanous lace that swept up, licking along her porcelain shoulders. Her dark hair fell in glossy ringlets that flirted along her jawline, teasing at her full lips. When her pink tongue darted out to moisten them, he shifted in his seat.

This was not good. Not in any way, because when her tongue retreated back into the warmth of her mouth, he had to fight the sudden urge to follow it with his own.

Had the room grown disconcertingly close? He dragged his gaze from her mouth, lifting his eyes to hers. Her brows had been reshaped to slant up at their tips, like birds’ wings in flight, and her eyes, always bright, fairly sparkled as she watched him.

Something was pounding violently in his chest. Something that felt quite close to panic.

“Enchanted to meet you,
monsieur
,” she breathed, her voice sounding deeper, husky even, as she sank into a low curtsey, watching him through the thick fringe of her lashes.

He blinked to clear his vision. This was Jane Fitzsimmons, and yet she was not. Jane moved with efficient purpose, but this woman had swayed into the room like a seductress, every movement hypnotic. Her features were the same, even if her cheekbones were more pronounced, and her eyes seemed larger, the faintest hint of kohl at their corners. The short bob of her new hairstyle, threaded through with a sapphire silk ribbon, framed her face beautifully and was playful, teasing even. Two words he’d never associated with Jane. But that body. He’d never guessed, and he was a connoisseur of the female form. How had she kept it hidden from the world?

“You look … very nice,” he said, his famed wit deserting him.

“You, as well,
monsieur le vicomte
,” she replied, gliding towards him. There was an artful lilt to her speech, hinting at French shores and exquisite schooling. “But of course, the
comtesse
told me to expect a handsome man, and I have learned during our short acquaintance she is not given to exaggeration.”

He swallowed reflexively. Surely she wasn’t flirting with him? Why would Jane flirt with him? He needed to collect himself, fall back upon his manners and an instinctive persona. That would set things back to rights. Very soon now, she would extend her hand so that he could bend over it and break this strange spell.

But instead, she stopped just in front of him, mere inches away. Reaching up, she placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and then leaned in, standing on her toes to place a light kiss first on one cheek and then the other, while he stood utterly still, breathing her in, unable to deny he was lanced with desire.

She pulled back, her hand falling gently to her waist. “That is how I greet my friends in Paris,
monsieur
, and I’m told we are to be great friends.”

“If that is how the French greet their friends,” he said, fighting to keep his voice light, “I am renouncing my British citizenship.”

She laughed, an unexpectedly throaty sound. “Let me be the first, then, to welcome my new countryman.”

“Isn’t she brilliant, Marworth?” the countess asked, a sudden distraction. “She should be on the stage, trading scenes on Drury Lane with Mrs. Siddons.”

“
Alors, madame
,” Jane said as she floated towards a chair opposite Sophia, her skirts rustling faintly. “You do me too great the honor.”

But Sophia was right. Jane, as Lillianne, was perfect. “The changes are subtle.” He cleared his throat. “But the overall effect is a masterstroke. I find I’m nearly speechless. And are you taller, as well? You seem … taller.”

Jane smiled provocatively at that. At least it looked damned well provocative to him. Everything about her was a whispered temptation. A seduction. “How kind you are to say so,” she said, fingering the ribbon of the silk fan she carried, each movement a caress. “
Maman
urged me from a very young age to walk with my shoulders pressed back. She said it would lengthen my spine, and enhance my ... ah … ” She paused, looking adorably confused. “
C’est domage
, I have forgotten the right word.” With a flick of her wrist, she opened her fan, her cheeks coloring faintly as she drew it up with agonizing slowness over her bodice. “Do you know the English word for
décolletage
,
monsieur
?”

“The word you are looking for is breasts,
madame
. And may I say yours are exquisite?”

God in heaven, surely he’d not voiced that aloud? But of course he had. He didn’t need Sophia’s delighted chuckle to confirm it. Jane’s eyes told him all he needed to know. They’d gone wide as saucers, and a flush was burning up her neck, past her chin and cheeks to her hairline. She was clearly horrified.

“I am so sorry,” he said, taking a step towards her as she took a reflexive step back. “No gentleman should say such things to a lady.”

“Really, Marworth,” Sophia interrupted. “You know as well as I that men are more indiscrete around widows. She knows to expect such comments.”

“I forgot my role for the briefest of moments,” Jane said, trying gamely to dismiss the incident with a weak smile at them both. “It will not happen again.”

But the countess was watching her now with a kind of dawning comprehension. “If you would, my lord,” she said, not even bothering to turn towards him, “we need a few moments alone.”

• • •

“Whatever is the matter, my dear?” Sophia asked after Benjamin offered a final apology and left the room, closing the door behind him. “You are practically purple.”

Surely, the room was warmer by a dozen degrees. How could she explain this without further embarrassment? “I know we discussed the things men might say and how I should respond. But I did not expect them from Marworth. It was the shock of it, I suppose.”

And she was lying. When she’d first entered the room, his admiration had been obvious, even to a novice. And she could not deny it had been thrilling to watch his eyes turn smoky at her approach. When she’d impulsively kissed each cheek, feeling the hard lines of his face and the faintest whisper of stubble beneath her lips, she’d sensed something barely restrained in him. And it had emboldened her. She’d intentionally drawn his eyes to her breasts. Those so-called natural assets. And he’d responded as any man would to a blatant invitation. The shame of it was humiliating.

“The fact of the matter is you attracted and held his attention,” Sophia said gently. “Which means our lessons have been successful in many ways. But I have overlooked something crucial, and for that I am sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’ve worked so hard these last several weeks to become Lillianne, a woman of experience. But your response to Marworth’s statement made your innocence quite obvious. Tell me, Jane. Do you have any sense of what goes on between the sexes?”

“Well, I know about the kissing, of course. And the tracts we distributed at the Ladies Society hinted at the rest.” This was mortifying. She was a grown woman, twenty-two years of age.

“But have you ever been kissed by a man?”

“I’m afraid no one has ever tried.”

“With you as Lillianne, they will try. And we must prepare for that eventuality. We can’t have you blushing at the first hint of intimacy.”