One Night Of Scandal (8 page)

Sterling's shoulders slumped in defeat, as he realized she had overheard his own damning words. Handing the pistol back to a dazed-looking Addison, he snapped, "Come with me, Oakleigh. We'll discuss this in the drawing room."

As the door slammed behind the two men, Lottie looked over to find Laura gazing at her through a sheen of helpless tears. "Oh, Lottie, what have you gone and done now?"

Lottie drew herself up, forcing a shaky smile. "I seem to have landed a marquess."

Chapter 5

But he refused to relent. I would be his bride or no man's at all!

"T
HE MARQUESS OF
O
AKLEIGH
,"
THE BUTLER
announced as he appeared in the doorway. Although the wizened old fellow managed to keep his expression remarkably impassive, his bushy white eyebrows appeared to be in imminent danger of taking flight.

Ned Townsend nearly choked on a mouthful of cigar smoke as Hayden St. Clair came striding into the smoking room of his Kensington town house. Although Ned made an instinctive grab for the pamphlets and newspapers scattered across the writing table, it was too late to do more than lean across them and hope his shadow would blot out the most damning of the headlines.

"So you've decided to pay a call on me after all,"Ned said, mustering up his most affable smile. "Perhaps your manners aren't as rusty with disuse as I feared. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? I thought you were leaving for Cornwall this morning and here it is well after noon."

"I would have already been gone if it weren't for you and your infernal meddling," Hayden replied, leveling a glacial glare at him through his frosty green eyes.

Ned couldn't help but wonder if that had been the last look Phillipe has seen across the grassy field of Wimbledon Common nearly five years ago.

Hayden's appearance was in stark contrast to Ned's own short-cropped hair, starched cravat, and polished brass buttons. Hayden's boots were scuffed and at least three years out of fashion, his cravat loosely tied and ever so slightly askew. His coat hung loose over his rangy frame, as if he'd scorned more than a few meals recently. As was his habit, he was carrying his beaver top hat instead of wearing it, which had left his shaggy hair at the mercy of the wind. Despite his noble birth, there had always been a hint of the savage about the man, a vaguely uncivilized quality most women, both ladies and lightskirts, seemed to find irresistible. When forced to choose between Ned, Hayden, and Phillipe, they had invariably chosen Hayden.

Just as Justine had done.

Ned took a deep drag on the cigar, affecting an air of wide-eyed innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now. Surely you can't be the only soul in London who hasn't heard about last night's debacle." Hayden's gaze fell on the scattered newspapers. His jaw tightened. "No, I can see you're not."

Before Ned could protest to the contrary, Hayden had jerked that morning's copy of
The Times
out from under his elbow. He held it up to the early afternoon sunlight streaming through the bow windows and read the bold headline with dramatic relish. "'M.M. Claims Another Victim in Crime of Passion.'" As Ned sank back in his chair, admitting defeat, Hayden scooped up two more papers. "'M.M. Gives Kiss of Death to Innocent's Reputation.' Oh, and we mustn't forget that bastion of responsible journalism, the
St. James Chronicle
— 'Debutante Succumbs to Lord Death's Irresistible Embrace.'"

" 'Lord Death,' " Ned repeated musingly. "You have to admit it does have a much more poetic ring than the 'Murderous Marquess.' "

Hayden slapped the papers back down on the table. "I hope you're satisfied. This drivel has probably sold more copies than the last installment of Harriette Wilson's memoirs."

Ned leaned forward to tap a wand of ash into a copper bowl molded to resemble an elephant's foot. "A regrettable incident, to be sure. But I still fail to see why I am to blame."

"Because it never would have happened if not for you. When this girl came snooping around my house, I mistook her for the woman from Mrs. McGowan's. The woman
you
hired."

Ned's mouth fell open, leaving the cigar to hang limp from his bottom lip. Catching it before it could fall, he collapsed in the chair, unable to suppress a hearty swell of laughter. "Oh, that's just too rich! That poor, dear child. Please tell me you didn't…"

"Of course I didn't," Hayden growled. But even as he proclaimed his innocence, he seemed to be having some difficulty meeting Ned's eyes, an observation Ned found particularly fascinating. "I'm not given to ravishing every woman who comes knocking at my door. Or my window, for that matter."

"Perhaps if you were, you'd soon find yourself in a better temper." Ned stabbed a finger at
The Times.
"So just who is this girl? The papers dropped some tantalizing hints that some are bound to recognize, but they weren't bold enough to come right out and print her name."

Hayden sank into a sateen-covered wing chair, propping one ankle atop the opposite knee. "Carlotta Anne Fairleigh," he said, tolling the name as if it heralded his doom.

Although Ned had been on the verge of gaining control over his laughter, tears of fresh mirth sprang to his eyes. "Little Lottie Fairleigh? The Hertfordshire Hellion herself?"

Hayden's expression grew even more wary. "You've heard of her?"

"Of course I've heard of her. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone in London who hasn't."

"I don't understand. How can she be so notorious when she's yet to make her debut into society?"

"And why do you think that is?" Ned queried, unable to suppress his broad grin.

"She told me that two Seasons ago her family was abroad and last spring she was afflicted with a nasty bout of the measles."

Ned snorted. "Afflicted with an acute case of embarrassment, more likely. Her guardian was probably waiting for the gossip from her last attempt at a debut to die down." Knowing he had all of Hayden's attention, Ned leaned forward in the chair. "Devonbrooke brought her to town the Season she was seventeen, fully intending to unleash her on society then. Prior to the ball he was hosting in her honor, as is the custom, she was to be presented at Court."

It was Hayden's turn to snort. They both knew that King George, formerly the licentious Prince of Wales, had turned the once noble tradition into an opportunity to ogle eager-to-please young beauties in the first blush of their womanhood.

Ned continued. "So picture if you will the lovely Lottie waiting in a crush of dizzy young belles for her royal summons. When it finally comes, she makes her way toward our gallant monarch, her fair bosom dripping a king's ransom in diamonds, the ostrich plumes adorning her hair swaying with each graceful step. But when she lifts her hoops to make her curtsy, she leans too close and those elegant plumes tickle poor George's nose. He proceeds to sneeze, popping every last button off his waistcoat." Ned shrugged. "Of course, that might not have happened if he hadn't been poured into it like an overripe pork sausage."

"The poor girl can hardly be blamed for the king's gluttony," Hayden pointed out.

"A sentiment the fair-minded George apparently shared, for much to everyone's relief, especially the young lady's, he simply burst out laughing. While the royal guard scrambled around on hands and knees to retrieve the buttons, George spotted a particularly tantalizing glint of gold himself. Unfortunately, it was buried deep in the hallowed and heretofore unbreached recesses of Miss Fairleigh's bodice."

"Oh, hell," Hayden muttered, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and covering his eyes with his hand as if to ward off what was coming.

"Well, when the intrepid Miss Fairleigh felt that pudgy little hand groping between her nubile young breasts, she defended her virtue as only a true lady can."

Hayden peeked at Ned between his fingers. "Please tell me she didn't slap him."

"Of course not." Ned's grin spread. "She bit him."

Hayden slowly lowered his hand. "She bit the king?"

"Quite savagely, I'm told. It took three guards to pry her pearly little teeth out of his arm."

Despite his scowl, there was an unmistakable twinkle of amusement in Hayden's eyes. "I'm surprised she didn't end up in the Tower."

"If not for the impassioned intervention of her guardian, she might very well have. Which is exactly why Devonbrooke waited until George's ill health drove him into seclusion at Windsor before placing her back on the marriage mart. From what I hear, the girl has always been something of a wild child, given to much mischief and bluestocking notions about women in the arts." Ned waved the cigar. "But if you didn't compromise her, then I fail to see why any of this should matter to you."

"Unfortunately, her guardian doesn't share your progressive views," Hayden replied dryly. "He's procuring a special license from the archbishop even as we speak."

"Ah," Ned said, sobering abruptly. "I've heard Devonbrooke has had some experience in that area." Although it had been nearly ten years ago, the delicious scandal of the duke's own hasty wedding was still whispered about in some circles. "So am I to assume that congratulations are in order?"

"Condolences, more likely, since I'm about to be leg-shackled against my will to a child bride."

Ned chuckled. "You're barely one-and-thirty, Hayden. You're hardly in your dotage yet. I should think you'd still have the stamina to satisfy her."

Hayden gave him a dark look. "It's not my stamina I'm worried about. It's my patience. My last bride exhausted the modest amount with which I was blessed."

"But you were little more than a lad yourself when you married Justine."

And buried her.

The unspoken words hung in the air between them until Ned reached over and stubbed out his cigar. "So to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Do you mean to call me out after all? Shall I send for my second?"

Hayden rose, turning his hat over in his hands. Although he appeared ready to choke on his words, he finally managed to grind them out. "The wedding is to take place tomorrow at ten o'clock in the morning at Devonbrooke House. I thought perhaps… well, I've come to ask you to stand up with me."

Ned leaned back in the chair, touched in spite of himself. "Why, I would be honored!"

"Don't be," Hayden retorted, a spark of his old devilment lighting his eyes. "I had no other choice. You're the only friend I have left."

As he turned and went striding toward the door, Ned couldn't resist getting in a dig of his own. "Don't despair, Hayden. It's only until death do you part."

Hayden paused in the doorway, but didn't turn around. When he finally went marching past the gaping butler to the front door of the town house, it was with Ned's laughter ringing after him.

* * *

"Lord Death," Lottie repeated thoughtfully, everything but her topknot of curls disappearing behind a copy of the
St. James Chronicle
. "Hmmm, that does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Perhaps I should title my first novel
The Bride of Lord Death
." She peered at Harriet over the top of the newspaper. "Or does
Lord Death's Bride
sound even more sensational?"

Harriet shuddered. "I don't see how you can be so glib about all of this. Especially not when you're going to
be
the bride."

The two of them were huddled together on Lottie's bed, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of newsprint. Apparently, Sterling had rescinded his "no pampering" rule, for Lottie had been allowed to languish in bed until after noon. Since awakening, her every wish and whim had been granted with astonishing speed and efficiency. A pair of footmen had delivered Harriet to her bed while a bevy of maids hovered around to prop the girl's bandaged ankle on a pillow. Cookie had plied them with all of Lottie's favorite sweets, including scrumptious little heart-shaped French cakes soaked in rum and honey. Even George had popped his head in the door to volunteer himself for a game of whist should they grow bored with poring over the newspapers and scandal sheets that continued to arrive with amazing regularity, their ink barely dry. Lottie might have enjoyed all the attention were it not for Cookie's fretful "tsking" and the other servants' pitying sidelong glances.

Instead of having become engaged to a wealthy marquess, one would think she'd been stricken with a fatal disease. She was beginning to understand how a condemned man must feel when presented with a sumptuous banquet just prior to his march to the gallows.

Which was exactly why she'd decided to put on a brave face. She refused to feel sorry for herself when everyone else was taking such morose satisfaction in pitying her. She might have disgraced Sterling during her debut, but she had no intention of disgracing him during her wedding. If it was to the gallows she must go, then she would go with head held high. Fortunately, Harriet was too caught up in the melodrama of the situation to realize just how brittle Lottie's good cheer was.

Tossing aside the
Chronicle,
Lottie plucked the last French cake from the tray resting on Harriet's lap. "I must confess that it's rather unsettling to be reading about myself as the tragic heroine of my own story." She licked a drizzle of honey from her upper lip. "Perhaps I should simply consider my impending nuptials as research for my first novel. A chance to delve into the shadows of the marquess's heart and solve the mystery of his first wife's demise."

"That's all very well and good," Harriet said glumly, "but who's going to solve the mystery of his second wife's demise?"

Shooting her friend a chiding glance, Lottie swept up the afternoon edition of
The Whisperer.
"Oh, this is rich. The article describes our desperate, secret love for each other and paints Sterling as the heartless villain seeking to keep us apart."

"How terribly romantic!" Harriet exclaimed, pressing a hand to her heart.

"How utterly ridiculous." Lottie snapped the pamphlet closed, ignoring a curious pang of wistfulness. "I can promise you that the marquess harbors no love for me, secret or otherwise. Although I must admit that Sterling did look rather villainous last night when he started brandishing that pistol around." She scanned a particularly lurid account of last night's scandal in one of the cheap broadsides distributed on the docks. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, feeling her throat heat. "According to this writer, you'd think we'd been caught
in flagrante delicto
."