Once Upon a Scandal (22 page)

Nanny had also saved some of Mother’s correspondence. A beribboned stack of letters from Father, love notes, apparently. It would be too sad to read them now, knowing how little love her parents had shared at the end. There were also letters from Mother’s family, written in French. While they’d lived, her French grandparents had sent her beautiful gifts for birthdays and holidays, but she’d never met them. As far as she now knew, Mother’s brother was the only remaining member of her immediate family. A member of Napoleon’s inner circle. Lillianne’s father.

On this day, though, she was not Lillianne. She was merely a daughter playing dress up in someone else’s clothes. A daughter missing her mother.

With a husky sigh, she peeked back inside the box. Only one small stack of letters remained, addressed in a hand she did not recognize. They were creased, a haphazard pile, as if hastily folded and hidden beneath the rest. She wondered, with a kind of morbid fascination, if they were from Mother’s lover. The one Father had spent subsequent years reviling, all too often in the presence of his daughter. The man who surely must have mourned Mother’s loss, as well as the loss of the son they’d created. Or had he even known? Perhaps Mother had been as promiscuous as Father had insisted. Jane didn’t like to think so, but she had a better appreciation now of the temptation a man’s touch presented.

Why had Nanny saved them? Had she simply swept things from Mother’s bedside in the aftermath of that terrible evening? She’d been grief-stricken, too, after all. No doubt everything that had touched the hand of a person she’d loved had seemed precious.

Jane fingered the letters, waging a debate within herself. It would be the worst sort of intrusion. Like turning back the shroud of a woman long dead. But she’d seen her mother taken far too soon, in circumstances that had torn her own life apart. And so she opened each one and read them. Notes scribbled in haste, only one or two lines each, with no signature.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she collected the letters. It was a crime, really, this hot summer’s day. Else, the fireplace behind her would be lit and burning brightly. With a flick of her wrist, the horrible things might have been consigned to dust, never to return.

Instead, she refolded and packed them away once more, the evidence of transgressions past. Different, of course, from the ones she’d earlier tried to ignore. But just as painful.

• • •

Despite the oppressive weather, she decided to venture out. Or was “needed” the better word choice? Oakley wanted to accompany her, but Jane was suddenly desperate to purchase the doll she’d promised Violet. And she preferred to do it alone. She was a widow, wasn’t she? She hadn’t the need for the fuss and bother of a maid. That watchful, mindful presence. All too aware of moods and likely to comment upon them.

So she dismissed Oakley for the day and walked out into the heat of a humid afternoon. She hardly cared. There was a doll to buy, and pain to escape, and the whole of London before her. She knew the city well. Grillion’s was at the heart of Mayfair, only slightly removed from Bond Street and the shops that beckoned. It hardly mattered that within minutes, her walking gown was damp with perspiration. No doubt her coiffure was wilting in similar fashion.

She glared at any man bold enough to make eyes at her. And the women, too, always in pairs, with their condescending expressions. She wasn’t dressed in widow’s weeds, after all, which made her status suspect. How freeing it was to ignore them. All that was needed was one shoe in front of the other, a purpose and a path to lead her away from things preferably forgotten.

She’d just turned from a side street onto Bond when an odd premonition halted her progress. The famous thoroughfare was thronged with customers, but her gaze was immediately drawn to a figure standing outside a shop near the far corner.

Benjamin, Lord Marworth, surrounded by several men, all of them dandies by the cut of their coats.

She quickly retreated behind a nearby bow window, the movement born purely of feminine vanity. After all, she didn’t want him to see her like this, upset and undoubtedly bedraggled, like poor Petunia in the Thames.

But what a marvelous opportunity to study him through the glass. Because this was the Marworth who was slavishly admired in Society. Though his pose was relaxed, almost careless, he radiated an intensity that captivated. And while the men around him were laughing, he looked faintly bored. That, too, was part of his magic.

If a man made Marworth laugh, he was considered a wit of the highest order. If a woman caught his eye, she was suddenly a prize beyond compare.

Quite simply, people were drawn to him. It was how he learned all their secrets.

But what was he doing here? When he’d left her this morning, he’d said he was returning home to study Father’s papers. Had he already found something among them? Something to lead him here?

Evidently not.

Despite the heat of the day, a chill ran through her as a stunning redhead, dressed in the height of fashion, emerged from the shop, and Benjamin straightened, raising a negligent hand to call for a glossy barouche. The one emblazoned with his coat of arms and parked nearby. The one they’d had ices in yesterday.

He lifted the woman up into his carriage, as she smiled down at him in delight. And then he settled beside her on the squabs, far closer than he’d sat beside Jane. No doubt he needed to make room for all the beribboned packages belching forth from the shop, carried by a steady stream of liveried staff. One after another, they were stacked upon every available surface.

Finally, the carriage pulled away from the curb, heading in her direction as whistles and catcalls sounded from sycophants on the street. Not that Benjamin noticed. He was too busy whispering into the ear of his beautiful companion.

Jane spun on her heel and ran back down the side street, weaving between surprised shoppers until she burst onto Piccadilly. Still, she kept running, all the way to Haymarket Street, as the sky turned ominous. Just like her mood.

And then suddenly, like horses balking at a jump, her legs simply stopped. Having spent the last several minutes demanding relief, united in protest with her lungs and her heart, they’d decided enough was enough. As her breath sawed in and out of her throat, she wrapped her arms around her sides, her body cracking at the waist, forcing her eyes to the stone pavement below.

His words in the conservatory rang in her ears ...

If you haven’t already guessed it, I want you badly. And it’s a curse, this desire. Because I can’t give in to it.

Not with her, anyway. Obviously, the redhead was another matter entirely.

Perhaps women were like flavors of ice cream when it came to desire. You might crave chocolate, but if strawberry was readily available, it tasted just as sweet.

Really, she had no right to be angry. He didn’t owe her anything. He’d offered her the chance to catch Sir Aldus in a crime, and nothing more. Sophia had warned her he steered clear of entanglements. She’d simply chosen not to listen. Miss Strawberry was likely his mistress, and he’d spent the morning far more pleasurably engaged than she.

But all the same, she was hurt. Painfully so. He’d made her feel wanted, in a way no one else ever had. She’d confused desire with something else entirely.

Thus, when the first raindrops started to fall, she was not surprised. Like Sophia, the sky had offered her every warning. And while a small, peevish part of her hoped that Miss Strawberry’s lovely presents were also getting soaked, no doubt Benjamin’s driver had noted the signs and closed up the barouche.

Her legs already spent, Jane went to the closest shop, grimacing when she read the hand-painted letters on the sign above its door. Fribourg & Treyer, Royal Tobacconists. She could hardly go in there, but at least its awning offered some protection. She flattened herself against the shop window, resigned to the fact her derriere, likely outlined by her wet skirts, was pressed up against the glass, framed like a picture for the clerks inside.

It was why she did not hesitate when a large carriage stopped in front of the shop, its door opening, a hand beckoning her within.

• • •

“How lucky I spotted you, Madame Fauchon,” Lord Winchester said as he handed her a dry blanket from beneath the squabs. “The storm came without much warning.”

She regarded him balefully. “There was ample warning,” she said, wrapping the blanket about her. She was soaked to the skin, hair clinging in wet tendrils to her cheeks and brow. “But still, I thank you for stopping.” The carriage reverberated with the sound of rain beating against its roof, its interior a gloomy reflection of the tumult outside.

“Is the area where you live in France prone to quick storms,
madame
?” he asked solicitously as he lit a pair of sconces.

She hadn’t the energy or the patience for this. “I know your role in this as well as you know mine. In the relative quiet of your carriage, can we not abandon pretense and simply mourn the sorry state of my attire?”

He gave a bark of laugher. “But of course. Consider my carriage your sanctuary. May I ask what it was? The great urgency that made you taunt the weather gods?”

“I’d wanted to escape the indoors.” She would not mention the scene with Benjamin. She didn’t wish to remember it. “And what of you? At the bank, you mentioned affairs needing your attention at home. What brought you back out, just in time to rescue me?”

“The opportunity to catch you unawares and in my debt, of course.” When he smiled, it softened his features. “Why else would I subject my carriage to the elements? It will have to be polished now with a special oil my stable master swears by. The stuff smells awful.”

She looked down at the smooth leather seats, caramel in color, save for the dark ring seeping from where she sat. “I’m afraid he’ll need a cure for water stains, as well.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Fitzsimmons.”

Odd, how her name no longer seemed to suit. “You’ve made me wistful,” she said, pulling the blanket about her more tightly. “I didn’t think I’d ever be called that again.”

“Are you having regrets?”

“None I can’t survive. And it’s good to have a purpose.” She must remember it was why she was here, why she’d made such a sacrifice. Benjamin Marworth could do what he wanted and with whom. Surely, if she kept telling herself that, she’d be convinced of it.

“I must say it’s difficult to reconcile the woman I see before me with the one I knew in Society.”

“Come now, Lord Winchester. You did not know me. Before today, we’ve not exchanged more than pleasantries. I was too busy trying to avoid you.”

His eyes widened. “Why is that?”

“You’re quite an imposing man. Very tall and very dark.”

He arched a black brow, a half smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not tempted to add the word handsome?”

“There’s no need for me to,” she replied, before she could think the better of it. “You seem quite capable of flattering yourself.”

But he only laughed again, leaning forward to brush a damp tendril away from her cheek, making her breath catch at the unexpected contact. “It’s easy to see why Marworth is so taken with you.”

Obviously, Marworth was not so taken. But Winchester was studying her as if she were an unusual new species and all the more interesting for it. What had possessed her, climbing into the carriage of a man she hardly knew? She didn’t feel threatened, but she wasn’t comfortable either. And she didn’t quite know how to reply. The sheer size of him felt overwhelming in the confined space.

“I was sorry to learn of your father’s death,” he said at last. “I’d worked closely with him in the House of Lords.”

“Thank you, I know he respected both your legislative acumen and your ability to persuade others to a cause.” Even if he’d considered him too ambitious by half. Winchester, according to rumor, meant to be prime minister one day.

“You bruise my ego one moment only to stroke it in the next.” He wore that strange half smile once more. “I could see you becoming quite addictive.”

Was he flirting with her? He’d leaned closer again, his handkerchief in hand, his eyes touching on each of her features. “We’re almost at Grillion’s,” he said, drying her face with the cloth, still warm from his breast pocket. The intimacy of it was shocking.

She was tempted to snatch the handkerchief away, but then she remembered Benjamin and that woman. How he’d whispered in her ear. How interchangeable desire seemed to be. Winchester
was
terribly handsome. And his hand was gentle, a caress really. Sophia had urged her to be bold, to try to find out what it was she wanted. So Jane closed her eyes, softening her mouth as the air in the carriage grew thick.

Odd, how time slowed in the dark. She could feel his breath warm against her cheek, his mouth not far from hers. “You’re very beautiful.” His voice was an octave lower. And she could not deny she felt the stirring of something.

Unfortunately, it was a sneeze.

Thankfully, she turned away just in time, brushing her damp hair against his lips as a deep chuckle rumbled in her ear.

“A most creative diversion,” he said. He offered her a fresh handkerchief before settling back. “I shall have to make note of it in the little book I keep about such things.”

“Really?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. “And what will you say beside my name? ‘Given to sneezing?’”

“No, I will say, ‘bruise, stroke, and then back to a bruise.’”

“I wonder if Lord Marworth keeps such a book?” She’d asked the question aloud, though she’d not meant to.

“More likely, he keeps a library. That’s why you should fix your interest on a simpler man.” The carriage had rolled to a stop beneath the porte cochère of the hotel. “Someone like myself.”

He was joking, obviously, given that wicked smile. So when a footman opened the carriage door, she looked over her shoulder before stepping out. “I hesitate to correct you,
monsieur
,” she said, Lillianne once more. “But the word simple? I think you misunderstand it.”