Once Upon a Scandal (21 page)

“If you are referring to my always stately reserve, that came after mother died.” Her eyes swept the park, and then she, too, lowered her voice. “But when I was a young girl, most of my summers were spent in Scotland with my grandparents. I ran wild, traipsing all over the estate.”

“Is that where you learned to swim like a water sprite?”

“Indeed. It’s also where I learned not to climb rocks after I’d been swimming.” She’d withdrawn her gloves, holding out her left palm so he could inspect the long, white scar that bisected it.

Unthinking, he traced it with his finger, the stiff ridge of it so at odds with the softness of her hand. “How far did you fall?”

“Far enough,” she said, slowly pulling her hand away. “But I had the respect of the village doctor who bandaged me. I didn’t cry, not once.”

“Brave girl,” he said, something twisting inside him. “Though I’ve said it too many times, in shockingly redundant fashion.”

She merely smiled. “What were you like as a child, then?”

“Oh, I could do no wrong. I was handsome, and strong, and above all, healthy.” The last word had tumbled out before he could stop it. “I was the perfect heir, not only to my father’s noble bloodline, but also to everything else he’d built. The ideal choice to one day populate the whole of England with his progeny.”

“No one is perfect,” she said, head tilted with something like sympathy.

“My brother came very close,” he said. But he didn’t like to talk about Aiden. His memory was something to be kept private, his own intimate form of torture. “He died when he was only ten.”

“Such a loss never quite leaves you, does it? I am sorry.”

And looking into her eyes, he could see she was. There was none of the morbid curiosity he’d seen in others, who’d guessed at the details of his involvement on that hideous day. Just sorrow and pain for the brother he’d lost, as the breeze ruffled her hair.

It suddenly seemed important she know something.

“I wish you could have met him.” Surprisingly, he meant it. “Aiden was everything good and innocent, and he was far brighter than I could ever be.” Aiden had been able to grasp the most difficult concepts, while Benjamin stood by, dumbfounded. “We all marveled at his abilities. But he had physical challenges.

“You see, he was born healthy enough, but when he started to crawl, my mother noticed a weakness in his left leg. By the time he was four, that entire side was affected.” The story had not been shared in so long, it somehow felt dark and secret. In the end, it had been. “He struggled to walk, even with crutches. And he suffered from horrible seizures and spasms.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for your family, to see a loved one so burdened.”

It had torn them apart. “But he was remarkably resilient. Aside from his physical difficulties, he was like any other boy.” Even if his father hadn’t been able to see it. “We laughed, and we fought. We played at war. His favorite role was that of Lord Nelson, ordering me to report from the front lines, to spot the enemy’s weaknesses.” He could still picture the hat they’d fashioned from old news-sheets, a paper version of the admiral’s own. “Had he lived, I’m certain he’d have been a statesman or a great general. Someone who made a difference.”

“Is that why you are a spy, then?” she asked. “Because he was the first person to make you one?”

He could feel his pulse at the base of his neck, beating like a battlefield drum. “Well, that, and because it’s the last thing my father wanted for me before he died,” he said, flashing a weak smile. Hopefully, the comment had been just flippant enough to distract her. Those soulful eyes saw too much.

She watched him for several long moments, as he resisted the urge to loosen his collar. “What was the first thing your father wanted?”

She’d not been distracted after all. “For me to populate the whole of England with his progeny, of course,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Haven’t you been listening?”

As Oakley and his driver rejoined them, they set out for the hotel. Their ices were done, but it was just as well. All he could taste now was regret.

I should be afraid of learned ladies of any kind … lest the pursuit of such elevations should interfere with the plain duties and humble virtues of life.—
Fordyce’s Sermon to Young Women

At the bank the next morning, Benjamin watched Jane charm the head clerk, looking adorably confused as he explained the papers requiring her signature. “It must be why you are winning the war,” she said. “The British are so very thorough.” And he’d almost laughed when she waxed on about how large the bank was. Such an impressive testament to its sober management. Clerks at the Bank of France were terribly rude to poor widows like herself, when he’d been so kind, so patient. By the end of the performance, Benjamin had little doubt the man would have given Jane anything for which she’d asked, even bank boxes that weren’t her own.

They’d stumbled upon Winchester there, although Benjamin was certain it had been no accident. Jane had mentioned the interlude at the park yesterday, and the marquis had obviously wanted another opportunity to judge her readiness. By the look of things, he’d been more than impressed. In fact, he’d not needed to make his admiration quite so obvious.

However, as they made their way back to Grillion’s in Benjamin’s carriage, she was unusually subdued, staring at the two cases beside her with apparent trepidation. And there were faint shadows beneath her eyes. He’d not noticed earlier. “Is something wrong, Jane?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” Her attention was still fixed on the cases. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way in which Father died. It made me wonder if his papers might hold any clues.”

“And you’re afraid of what you might discover?” Just as he was.

She nodded. “He wasn’t himself at the end. What if he was engaged in something truly nefarious? Why else would anyone plan his murder?”

“I can’t answer that. I wish I could.” Was it too late to bargain with the devil? To argue Rempley alone deserved the hellfire reserved for traitors? Perhaps he could find a way to look at Fitzsimmons’s files before she did. If he were lucky enough to find the dossiers among them, Jane need never know. Surely, the deceit would be a just one, to spare her? “I can review them first, if you’d like. I might have a better sense of the things to look for.”

“Would you?” The relief in her eyes clawed at him. “I find I’m hesitant to discover the truth, cowardly though it might be. And it would offer me the chance to go through my mother’s mementoes. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything tangible to remember her by.”

“Do you favor her?” It was hard to see traces of Fitzsimmons in the elegant line of her features.

“Both in looks and temperament, according to Father. In those early years after her death, he found it upsetting.”

Was that why she’d hidden her vibrancy behind so many stiff layers? In order to strip herself of the characteristics Fitzsimmons had once adored, then despised? It was not a question he could ask as they rolled through the streets of London on a stifling summer day.

• • •

After an hour spent reviewing the papers from his home near Berkeley Square, he was no closer to learning the fate of the dossiers. Nor was there much in the way of clues to unmask a killer. There were documents splayed over his desk—newspaper clippings, tradesmen’s bills, and assorted personal correspondence—but nothing more. Not yet.

He’d organized everything by type and date. Fitzsimmons had saved copies of articles quoting his speeches. Every laudatory statement made about him by the editors of
The Times
. Every notable legislative achievement. Apparently he’d enjoyed reveling in past glories. Conspicuously missing was any mention of the scandal leading to his downfall.

Other clippings, yellowed with age, were more sentimental. Fitzsimmons had kept his wedding banns and the announcement of Jane’s birth. He’d saved the news of Nelson’s death at the Battle of Trafalgar, as well as other key victories in the war thus far. There was also the announcement of Charlotte’s marriage and the subsequent notice of Violet’s birth.

The earl’s unpaid debts went back more than a year, but while numerous, they weren’t out of the ordinary. There was a disgruntled tailor intent on getting his due. Meat and fishmongers who were refusing an extension of credit. The chandler, too. But there was nothing to indicate Fitzsimmons had been to the moneylenders. Instead, there were bills of sale—stacks of them—for carriages and horseflesh, paintings and jewelry, a property in Shropshire, yet another in Dorset. Despite the money raised, only one recent entry in the accounts had been marked paid, and that just a few days before the earl’s death. Fifty pounds, a not insignificant sum for a man deeply in debt, had been sent to a Madame La Farge of Whitecross Street in Clerkenwell. It was an area of London rife with prostitution and thievery.

Had Fitzsimmons kept a mistress then? Despite the French name, it was unlikely she’d been a conduit for the dossiers. Else, he’d have been receiving funds instead of spending them. But there was also a chance he’d been buying a contact. One who could notify the right people about the information he had for sale. It would bear investigating.

Most of Fitzsimmons’s personal correspondence was made up of letters from former friends, saying loans would not be forthcoming and they’d not be at home should he insist on a personal call. One was from Winchester himself, who’d served with him in the Lords. Had he mentioned the earl’s entreaty during any of their meetings? Benjamin didn’t think so. There were also several letters from Montford, complaining about his dwindling inheritance, and notes from Rempley, all of them evasive when it came to requests for assistance. And dated the day he’d died, a missive from Montford, saying he was considering his proposal but that he would need proof; another from Rempley, claiming he was outraged and offended. Both had insisted he pay them a visit by evening’s end. Visits which apparently had never transpired.

There were, however, a few pieces of correspondence not yet opened, letters that had arrived either just before or perhaps after the earl’s death. Most were additional bills, but two were not. One was from the mysterious Madame La Farge, a simple letter folded but not sealed. The lettering was crude, the message direct.

Swear, as in a court of law? Why would a man likely engaged in treason want to open himself up to the scrutiny of the English courts? It made no sense. Nor did Madame La Farge sound like an
émigré
. More likely, she was London born and bred, and not from Mayfair, either.

The second letter had also been sent by a woman, an Althea Mortimer from Luton in Bedfordshire, not thirty miles from London.

Some sort of sin then in Luton, revealed to Fitzsimmons, but why? Was that where he’d gone in the days before his death?

He tucked the papers back into their box and locked them away in a secret compartment hidden in his desk. No sooner had he stepped away than there was a knock on the door. “You’ve a visitor, Lord Marworth,” his butler announced. But the visitor had hardly waited in the hall, as was customary.

“I’ll not be put off any longer,” a feminine voice trilled as Claudette pushed past the butler into the room. His beautiful, erstwhile mistress, with a temper to match the hue of hair.

• • •

Jane sat alone in the bedroom of her suite. How thankful she was for Benjamin’s offer, because in this moment of weakness, it was easier to ignore certain truths. That her father had obviously been caught up in something he should not have been. That the price he’d paid for his transgression was the highest one could pay. It would all come out in the end. She had no desire to speed the process when there was a good chance it would crush her.

She’d rather give in to breathless anticipation. Setting the case with Mother’s things upon a delicate lady’s desk placed near the fireplace, she undid the leather straps and peered inside.

Even now, years later, Mother’s things still held the faintest hint of her perfume, a lavender scent reminiscent of childhood summers in Provence. There, tucked in one corner of the case, was the small oval portrait Father had commissioned after their wedding day. So pretty, she’d been, with glossy, brown hair, and bright, brown eyes, her generous lips curved in a smile as she stared off into an unseen distance. Had Mother ever again been as happy as she’d been that day, when the likeness was painted?

A similar but larger portrait had once graced the main hall on Curzon Street, but of course, it had been taken down long ago. Father had destroyed quite a few things in the weeks following her death, but Jane’s nanny—once Mother’s own—had saved what she could, hiding the mementoes away in a box beneath her bed.

Such a generous gesture. One that would no doubt have seen her sacked had it been discovered. But Nanny had been loyal to the end. For it had not been Father who’d opened the Bank of England box in her name. It had been the wise, gentle woman who’d helped to raise her, gone now for ten years or more.

There, in the opposite corner of the box, lay the linen cap Mother had embroidered for Jane’s baptism, edged with silver fleur-de-lys. And just beneath it, a drawing Mother had once done for her, depicting the house in Paris where she’d been raised, a generous dwelling behind iron gates, set amidst a profusion of summer blooms. And tucked beneath the first layer of items, the small doll—cherub-faced and blue-eyed—that she’d played with as a child, still dressed in the white pinafore she and mother had sewn together.

So many wonderful things, long forgotten. One by one, Jane removed each precious thing. Amethyst earrings set in gold filigree, Mother’s favorites, sent by her parents one Christmas. Several jeweled bracelets, which Jane had often worn as a child, pretending she, too, was dressed for a fancy evening ball. When it had been just the two of them together, mother and daughter, there had been joy and often laughter. Each new item recalled a memory. How could she have forgotten so many of them?