Once Upon a Scandal (7 page)

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As Jane stirred, the disturbing figures in her dream slipped away like a receding wave. The images still haunted, though, and she cracked open her eyes to be free of them, only to see an angel standing above her, limned in light. Blinking to clear her vision, she discovered what she’d already begun to suspect. This was no angel, after all.

“Lord Marworth.” Her voice was scratchy, a neglected hinge protesting its use. And she was in a bed, dressed in a linen rail not her own, in a room she did not recognize. “May I ask what you are doing here?” she asked, squinting up at him. “And also where I might be?” Glancing about, she saw a pretty room with blue damask wallpaper, silk-tufted furnishings, and a soft-hued Aubusson carpet. But even that cursory observation was exhausting. She felt like she’d been thrown from a horse and dragged behind it until there was nothing but the heap of her, a broken mass.

“We are at Painshill Park, a small estate I own in Surrey. You are safe here, and I am so glad to see you are feeling better. My housekeeper, Miss Banning, has just gone down to have a tray made up.” He offered her a tall glass of water, and in that moment, nothing had ever looked so delicious.

Sitting up slowly, careful to keep the counterpane wrapped tightly about her, she took it, swallowing the contents in a long draught. “I fell ill in the carriage. I remember a burning sensation, hot like cinders in a fire, and a terrible thirst.”

“You’ve been delirious for five days.”

“Five days!” she exclaimed, her thoughts still tangled. It seemed impossible. Every limb screamed it, though. And it would explain her reaction to his presence. The world had tilted a bit at the sight of him. Instead of embarrassment, she’d felt something quite close to relief.

He refilled the glass, and she drank the contents down once more, the water soothing her parched throat.

“I believe the Thames is to blame. Did you swallow a great deal of it?”

“Far more than I would have wished. It was filthy.”

“I’m sorry not to have considered that danger,” he said, a tiny furrow forming between his brows. She noticed he was dressed in a black coat and trousers, and her heart stilled.

“Jackson is all right, isn’t he?”

“He is more than fine and inordinately proud of his performance.”

“Thank goodness. But what of you? I saw you jump from the barge. Why ever did you do that?”

“To be honest, I thought you were drowning.”

“I must be a better actress than I thought,” she said with a weak smile. “But I will admit to a few moments of fear. The currents were quite strong.”

“I know. I once lost someone close to me in a similar situation. A boating accident.”

The tone of his voice made her uncomfortable, because for a moment, there had been real grief behind those words. She hadn’t thought him capable of it. With his many blessings, what in life did he have to regret? Evidently, more than she’d realized. “I am so sorry.”

“It was a lifetime ago in any case,” he replied briskly. “But you were brave to go back for Byng’s poodle. In fact, in a society that cossets its pets more than its children, you are now a heroine of the highest order. However, please do try not to scare me like that again.”

He’d been worried for her. It was a warming notion. Either that, or she was not quite recovered. The curious fluttering sensation in her stomach could just as easily be indigestion. Or more likely ravenous hunger.

As if sensing her thoughts, Marworth held out another hand, this one bearing a napkin and a biscuit glazed with butter. “I snuck it when the morning cook wasn’t watching. She will not be pleased with me, but I thought you might be hungry.” She snatched it with unladylike urgency. “It’s a good thing I pulled my fingers away,” he observed wryly. “You might try to eat them, too.”

“You’re quite right,” she said after she gobbled down the biscuit. But he merely laughed in response, and the sound of it surprised her. She wasn’t used to making people laugh. She’d certainly never realized impertinence might be amusing. And she suddenly wanted more than anything, even more than another biscuit, to make him laugh again.

Before she could try, however, a beautiful woman walked through the open door, dressed in the sensible grey uniform of a housekeeper, bearing a footed tray topped with food. She made a careful approach towards them, her face angled away. Was this Miss Banning? For some reason, Jane no longer felt like laughing. Surely, any decent housekeeper should be married. She disliked the woman on sight.

“Be careful, Banning,” Marworth said. “You risk life and limb approaching our patient with so much food. She’s likely to pounce upon you.”

“Nonsense, my lord,” the woman replied, her voice crisp as she rested the tray upon the counterpane. “Should you like me to sit with you, Miss Fitzsimmons, while you eat?”

No. She wasn’t interested in having this glorious creature watch her fall upon her food like a ravenous animal, incapable of asserting any self-control in the face of coddled eggs, a rasher of bacon, three extra biscuits, and a pot of steaming tea.

She looked vaguely familiar, though, this Banning. Images from Jane’s dream trickled back. A woman pouring a strangely sticky liquid down her throat and running a cool cloth across her brow. An ancient man, dressed as a butler, standing close by. A footman in the shadows, one sleeve of his livery pinned and empty. Which made no sense. What good was a footman with one arm?

“Did you tend to me while I was sick, Miss Banning?” She was sorry now to have judged her so quickly. “I think you must have, and it was surely an unpleasant business.”

“It was no trouble, my lady. I’ve been through far worse.” She turned then, and it was all Jane could do not to gasp in shock. The right side of the housekeeper’s face bore a long scar, puckered and disfiguring. It ran down the side of her forehead, slicing towards the edge of her nose before curling back across her cheek to end in a point near her chin. Someone had cut her deliberately, and Jane swallowed past the urge to look away. Instead, she said, “Thank you, Miss Banning. For all that you have done, and for this delicious assortment of food. Lord Marworth is right. Guard your fingers.”

And so she ate, thanking them both for the wonderful meal, exclaiming between bites that each new thing was the most delicious she’d ever had. In truth, though, it tasted like dust in her mouth, because the haunting nature of Banning’s disfigurement hovered. Not the look of it but the how and why. Once the housekeeper had withdrawn with the remnants of the tray, Jane turned immediately to Lord Marworth.

“If you know who did that to Miss Banning, I hope you submitted him to the authorities at the worst or gutted him at best.”

“Are you a defender of innocents, then?” he asked, head tilted to one side.

“I should hope so. I’m appalled by what she suffered.”

“I met her four years ago. She was a barmaid at a tavern near my ancestral estate. As you might imagine, it was the most popular one in the village. She’s beautiful and kind, as well.”

“Why would any human being inflict that kind of pain on another person?”

“She rebuffed the advances of a longstanding patron, and he retaliated. He tried to flee the village afterwards, but the others set upon him. They broke every limb. Still, it was not a pleasant business. She lost her job and had nowhere else to go.”

“So you hired her here?” Jane asked, something stirring deep within her. “A tavern wench for a housekeeper?”

“Why not? She’s a bright woman with a tremendous capacity. She’s learned the job quickly.”

“As the patroness of a society for indigent women and children, I applaud you.”

“You sound surprised. Do you think me incapable of a kindness?”

How could she say this without giving offense? “I’ve never heard you express an interest in the less fortunate.”

“You never took me for a spy either. I’m not all I seem, Miss Fitzsimmons.” But then his face broke into another smile. “In any case, I have lots of news about you to report.”

“News … about me?”

“Yes, indeed. I’m just back from London. I will send Oakley up to set you to rights. If you are feeling well enough, have her send word. I will meet you downstairs in the library whenever you might be ready.”

A memory beckoned. “Does Oakley have a child? A small boy with dark curls?” The one who had raced towards the carriage upon their arrival.

“She does. Arthur is quite the charmer.”

“Is she a widow then?” Housemaids were not allowed to be married, let alone have children, and she didn’t want to ponder the likely alternative.

“Oakley is much like Miss Banning. A victim of something no one should have to endure.”

He turned then from the room, leaving Jane ashamed of the conclusions to which she’d leapt. And wondering if her heart had just melted a little.

The world, I know not how, overlooks in [my] sex a thousand irregularities, when it never forgives yours.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

When Oakley ushered Jane into the library much later, Benjamin was glad to see she’d lost her unnatural pallor. She’d looked tiny in the large guest bed, swathed in yards of white linen, her hair matted. And her eyes had been shadowed, a testament to the long days of her illness. Now, she seemed a different person entirely.

Then again, he’d never known the real Jane Fitzsimmons. Never suspected the depth to her. Behind the reserved façade she’d always shown to the world, there was humor, wit, and a fierce compassion. She was utterly unique. And he wished to God he’d never discovered it. She suddenly felt like a nettle beneath his skin, a prickling preoccupation.

“You look much restored,” he said, standing at her approach to offer a seat opposite the desk. Hair freshly washed and dressed, she was wearing one of the gowns hastily made up in the village from a sample she’d given him. Its soft lilac color was very becoming, though it was far less fitted than it should be. Her face was noticeably thinner after her ordeal, making her eyes seem especially large and bright. Bewitching, really.

“Thank you, Lord Marworth. I feel like a broken teacup pieced back together, but even that is an improvement.”

“You may call me Benjamin, you know.” But she only smiled hesitantly and settled herself into the ebonized Adams chair, her eyes falling to the stacks of papers covering his desk. There were broadsheets from all over London, several copies of
The Times
, a number of illustrated flyers from the penny presses, and a delicate book, bound with red silk, hand-painted gilt lettering on the cover.

“How beautiful,” she said, staring. “May I see it?”

“Of course.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Leaning forward, she rubbed her fingers along the smooth silk before reading the title, a soft exclamation showing her surprise. “Who did this?”

“The prince regent himself oversaw the design. There were those who thought the color a bit audacious for a funeral program. But Prinny insisted, and he does argue from a position of authority.”

“Lady Jane Martine Fitzsimmons,” she read. “Born October 29, 1791. Died June 26, 1813, in an act of great heroism, a testament to all that is best about Britain’s spirit.” She leafed through several of the pages. “I was buried in Westminster Abbey yesterday?” she asked, seemingly wonderstruck. “The prince regent himself gave the oratory?”

“Indeed he did. I was there myself as witness. It was very touching but occasionally difficult to understand because Prinny was weeping throughout.”

“I … I find I’m nearly speechless. And you’re in black, with an armband. I appreciate the tribute, but surely it’s overdone?”

This would come as a shock. Indeed, he was quite curious about what her reaction might be. “I’m in mourning, of course. Society is abuzz with the secret attachment you and I shared before your demise.”

“Attachment?” Her bewilderment was obvious. “I don’t understand.”

“Why else would I willingly ruin a cravat in my attempt to rescue you?”

Her eyes rounded, and a pretty flush of color swept across her cheeks. “What nonsense. What a lie we have perpetrated. I am feeling quite guilty now.”

“You shouldn’t. I daresay everyone was entertained by my suitably lovelorn display. And really, your funeral was like a theater performance. The haute ton elbowing each other for a better view. Crowds of commoners waiting outside. Petunia, the dog, in the front row with Byng, dressed in a miniature red cape.”

“Oh no.” She brought a hand to her mouth, perhaps to stifle a gasp. “That is going too far. It borders on the ridiculous.”

“You don’t know the half of it, my dear. There hasn’t been a more beloved woman since Boudicca, who saved Britain from the Roman legions. Some are calling you Jane of Arc, because we like to take things from the French whenever we can.”

At that, she burst out laughing, the sound of it untamed. And he couldn’t hold back his answering smile. He’d never seen her like this. Yet another surprise. She laughed until she was nearly weak with it. “Oh my,” she finally gasped, a hand fluttering to her waist. “Much more of this, and I shall suffer another upset.”

“You requested a legendary death,” he said with a courtly bow, absurdly pleased. “I’m happy to have obliged.”

“Well, it was a preferable one to poor Joan’s, I must say.” She laid the book back down. “What of these other papers? They’re not all about the Thames incident, are they?”

“I merely brought my favorites. Here, let me share some.” He picked up one of the penny sheets, which featured an illustration of Jane in tempestuous waters, swimming towards a boat filled with orphaned children, as a half dozen dogs bobbed helplessly in the water.

“Gracious, don’t they realize there was only Jackson and little Petunia?”

“Stories tend to be embellished upon the retelling. This time next week, you’ll have single-handedly destroyed an enemy ship in the English Channel.”

Her answering smile nearly sparkled. “Gerard must be appalled.”

“On the contrary. Montford seems to be reveling in the attention. He and his wife were seated next to the prince at your funeral.”