Once Upon a Scandal (18 page)

“Benjamin told me he’d made you an outrageous offer.” Sophia’s expression was one of disgust. “I’ve already guessed what it was.”

Jane nodded. “He said my only other option was the streets, but it might be exciting to see me brought low and not quite so proud.”

That, she’d not told him. Was it why he could suddenly imagine the man’s neck caught in the grip of his hands? What a pleasure it would be to see Rempley gasping for breath, turning a distinctly unhealthy shade of purple.

“Benjamin, did you not hear me?” Sophia asked, interrupting his reverie.

“I’m sorry. I was daydreaming about the man’s demise.”

“A sufficiently bloody one, I hope. But as I’ve just told Jane, it might be wise to subject Madame Fauchon to another unnerving situation before our trip to Fitzsimmons House. One in which she might be tempted to forget her disguise.”

“What would you suggest?” To his mind, just sitting alone with Jane in a room could be unsettling.

“Given the way he was eyeing her downstairs, Rempley will likely make a suggestive overture, whether verbal or otherwise. I suggest you do the same, pretending to be Rempley. Let’s see if we can find out, in advance, what might fluster Madame Fauchon. It will help her practice a ready response and bolster her defenses.”

“But Benjamin is not Sir Aldus,” Jane broke in. “How am I to pretend he’s … distasteful?”

The way she’d said that last word, as if he was the very opposite of it. As if he were something to be savored. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to loosen his grip on the port glass. “This sounds like another of your terrible ideas, Lady Marchmain.”

“Not at all.” Her voice nearly purred. “I once tried the same exercise on the Marquis of Vallado, with excellent results.”

Vallado … as in her first husband? Had Sophia suggested this to give Jane’s confidence a boost, to remind her she had more than enough wit to handle Rempley? Or had she devised it as a special form of torture, to plumb the depths of his attraction to Jane?

It was too late to find out. After tossing a bright smile of encouragement, she said, “Come along, Oakley. Let’s leave them to it.” Both were already gone from the room.

• • •

The important thing was not to take this too seriously. To treat it as an outrageous exercise in flirtation and nothing more. So when Jane looked up at him, a determined set to her jaw, he waggled his eyebrows, picturing the Marquis of Queensbury, a notorious roué, in order to effect an appropriately lecherous expression. But she did not falter, nor offer even the hint of a smile.

“Would you like a glass of brandy, Madame Fauchon?” he asked. He’d thought to speak in a voice closer to Rempley’s distinctively nasal one, but decided it was beneath him.

“
Mais non, monsieur le baron
. I do not indulge in spirits.”

“No?” he asked, pouring himself another glass of port. “Then what do you indulge in? Life has so many temptations. Surely you have a weakness for one?”

“But of course,” she replied primly. “There’s nothing like a good sermon on Sunday at Notre Dame.”

A comment designed to cool anyone’s ardor. “Sermons are all about sin,
madame
. Could that be why you like them?”

He thought he detected the faintest blush, though her expression had chilled appropriately. When he sat down beside her, she edged away.

“Sir Aldus, I understand you are much engaged in politics. Why does it draw your interest so?”

A clever tactic, to refocus the conversation. Men like Rempley rarely missed the opportunity to trumpet their accomplishments. But Benjamin was not so easily diverted.

“Why, the challenge, of course.” He rested a hand on his knee. It was only inches from her own. “In politics, as in sin, a person’s passions are engaged. If I play upon those passions in just the right way, they further my own … ambitions.”

“I’m quite passionate about politics, as well,” she said, regarding his hand with suspicion. “Particularly the advancement of a feminist agenda and the election of women to parliament.”

He nearly spilled his port. Rempley would be apoplectic at the thought, any attempt at seduction forgotten. And if the light in her eyes was anything to go by, Jane knew it.

“Have you heard of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, Sir Aldus?” she continued, arranging her skirts fastidiously. “Her works are quite popular in France.”

Why did he get the feeling she was addressing the question directly to him and not to his impersonation of Rempley? “Doesn’t Mrs. Wollstonecraft argue that a woman should not be influenced by her feelings?” he asked. “When we men so value a woman’s sensibilities?”

“You’ve read
A Vindication of the Rights of Women
?” Her surprise was obvious. “Wollstonecraft believes men exploit our feelings to feed their own desires. Only by reining in those sensibilities can we protect ourselves from domination.”

“So women should not feel desire?” His hand had settled gently upon her knee, if only to see her reaction. So far, he could read nothing in her expression. He only knew his own heartbeat was cantering.

“If we do not transcend our ‘fleshly desires,’ we women will be hostage to our bodies.” She swallowed, staring at his hand. “We will only be interested in satisfying … our lusts.”

God, to hear her say the word aloud. “Women are forced to make so many sacrifices for men,” he said, sliding towards her on the settee, until their sides were pressed together. “Surely desires should be indulged and not denied?”

“That depends,” she said in that soft lilting voice she’d perfected for Lillianne, “on whether or not a man plans on exploiting those desires.”

It was an invitation he hadn’t the power to deny. Not when she was so close. The scents of lemon verbena and lavender, so distinctly her own, so seductive. Lips parting, his lashes swept down as he leaned in towards her mouth.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t see the slap coming. He certainly felt it, though. A sharp sting, with enough force behind it to turn his head.

“Shame on you,
monsieur
! To importune a poor widow like myself.” She was sputtering with indignation, though her eyes sparked with something like mischief. “To speak of desire when I am loyal alone to my poor, lost Pasqual.”

Confused, he slid back to the other side of the settee. Had she missed the subtext of their conversation? Or had he imagined it? Was his own desire so uncontrolled that he’d seen invitation where there was none? Or had she been teasing him all along?

“I think that was well done, don’t you, Benjamin?” she asked, smiling happily, obviously pleased with herself. “I feel quite energized by the whole episode and far more confident in my ability to deal with Sir Aldus.”

He tested his jaw, rubbing the point of impact. “You’ve a powerful backhand.”

“I am sorry. It’s just you were doing such a wonderful job of imitating him, I felt as if I were slapping Sir Aldus instead.”

“It stings,” he said, feeling rather ridiculous.

She glanced towards the doorway and then leaned in with a whisper. “If Lady Marchmain weren’t standing right there, I would kiss it to make you feel better.”

The minx. It had been mischief all along.

• • •

“She is settled in, then?” Greystoke asked. They were ensconced once more in the basement room he was coming to hate.

“She is,” Benjamin replied.

“And she is ready? She is convincing?”

“She had the merest misstep with Rempley, but she quickly recovered.” He didn’t bother to hide his admiration. “She might fool Napoleon himself.”

Greystoke glanced at the others before answering. “She may have to fool our own Prince George, so let’s hope so. Tell me, was anyone else at Grillion’s to greet her?”

“Shortly after her arrival, Rempley came with Montford and his wife in tow.”

“Rempley needs to find those documents as much as we do,” Winchester said. He was sitting directly across the table. “Lord Liverpool is furious about the way things were mishandled.”

“Is his position on the committee threatened?” Torrington asked.

“I suppose it depends on how much of this gets out. It would prove a major embarrassment, not only to him, but also to the prime minister.”

“At least there’s still no evidence the documents have reached enemy hands,” Greystoke said. “Napoleon’s communiques continue to use the
Chiffre
.”

“Meaning it’s all the more likely they’re hidden among Fitzsimmons’s things,” Benjamin admitted, unable to escape the most logical conclusion.

Winchester leaned in. “When will you collect them?”

“I’ll escort her to the Bank of England when it opens Monday morning.”

“The sooner, the better,” Torrington said. “Depending on what you find among them, they may also contain clues leading to his killer.”

“Have you asked Miss Fitzsimmons if she has any suspicions?”

“I haven’t told her about how he died.” He pushed a hand through his hair, hating the thought of putting her through such a discussion. Better for her to think it had been a random and senseless crime instead of a premeditated one.

No one said anything in response. The three others were watching him, their expressions curious.

“That’s very unlike you,” Torrington said.

“What is?” Did they really believe he would willingly hurt her?

“I agree,” Winchester observed. “This time next week, there will be scuffs on his boots.”

“And wrinkles in his jacket, perish the thought.”

“Clearly, you’ve all gone mad,” he said. “I’m trying to solve a crime, while you’re prosing on about my grooming habits.”

“We’re trying to say you’re dangerously out of character.” Greystoke’s voice held a warning note. “Benjamin Marworth does not muss his hair, no matter the provocation. Nor do you fail to explore every opportunity for information. Regardless of your feelings for Miss Fitzsimmons, you cannot allow them to cloud your judgment. This is an investigation. Treat it like one.”

Greystoke was right, of course. He’d been trying to protect her from further pain. But sometimes the truth required it. “I will speak with her after dinner this evening. We’ve been invited to Fitzsimmons House.”

“That should prove interesting,” Torrington replied.

“It will give me the opportunity to study Rempley’s behavior more closely.”

“And when will she be formally introduced to the rest of the ton?” Greystoke asked.

“Lady Marchmain will be hosting a ball in her honor, and the cards have already gone out. In addition to the cream of English society, each of the committee members have been invited, to gauge their interest.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” Winchester replied. “I’ll be eager to see whom the mysterious Madame Fauchon attracts.”

Not nearly as eager as Benjamin was.

It is not to be denied that from the head to the heart, the distance, in moral reckoning, is often immense.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

The familiarity of it almost overwhelmed her. The shadows the fast-fading sun cast on the limestone stairs. The sound of the door’s bell pull. Even the shuffling of feet in the hallway beyond, as she waited, breath bated, to enter. And when the door swung open, it was all Jane could do not to give herself away. There was Thompson, in a strange new beribboned livery. As they crossed over the threshold, stopping in the hall so a footman could take their cloaks, he bowed first to Sophia, as the highest ranking member of their party, then to Benjamin, with an impressive show of deference. Finally, his eyes fell upon her, tumbling over her person. Rushing back up to observe her face one more, touching carefully on each feature. “
Madame
,” he said quietly. “I am already your most devoted servant. How you remind me of someone lost, and very dear.”

And even though, in France, one barely acknowledged servants in another person’s home, she said, her voice slightly husky, “What is your name,
monsieur
?” How it stung. The grief she saw in his face.

“Thompson,
madame
.”

“I thank you for your very kind welcome to my person, Thompson. I have been told by several of my new friends I greatly resemble
ma chère
Jane. I hold it as an honor.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He cleared his throat, offering a deep bow. “If I may escort you to the drawing room, Lord and Lady Fitzsimmons are eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

She noticed, then, that nothing else in the hall was the same as it had been. It was completely redone in a style she could not admire, and she snuck a wide-eyed glance at Benjamin, who merely shook his head. The drawing room, when they crossed into it, was another surprise. The walls had been repapered with alternating emerald and burgundy stripes, the furniture replaced with items that might have been liberated from Versailles. All gilt and discomfort. Nothing soft-looking in sight. And in a way, it was a relief. It served as a reminder this was no longer her home.

“How happy we are that you’re here,” Charlotte trilled as she came forward in a flattering robin’s-egg-blue gown, Gerard on her arm in black evening attire. “Welcome to Fitzsimmons House, Lady Marchmain, Lord Marworth, and of course, our dear Madame Fauchon. Was the journey here at all troublesome? The city should have thinned by now, so late in the Season as it is. But I think the ton is waiting to meet you, our newest treasure from across the Channel.”

“Surely, you flatter,” Jane said with a demure smile.

“You underestimate your appeal,” Sir Aldus said. “You have very notable charms.” She’d not noticed him standing beside a tall casement window overlooking the gardens. Again, he wore an excess of pomade, and the snug fit of his jacket hinted at an uncomfortably corseted waist. She could not like the way he watched her, his eyes filled with undisguised interest. Or was it suspicion?

“
Monsieur le baron,
how nice again to see you,” she lied, resisting the urge to back away as he came towards her and offered a bow.

“Tell me, do you like your suite?” he asked with an obsequious smile. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“It is very charming, with a lovely view of the city.” Best of all, she couldn’t see the gutter Sir Aldus had likely crawled out of.