Scandalous (14 page)

“I see,” Priscilla agreed gravely. “That would make a difference.”

“He is not a scientist,” Florian went on.

“He was quite intelligent, though,” Miss Pennybaker protested mildly. “He sounded most knowledgeable regarding the habits of insects. You remember, when Dr. Hightower was discussing his butterfly collection.”

“Yes,” Florian agreed, although it seemed to Priscilla that he did so with some reluctance. “I suppose that is
what Hightower sees in him. I personally was never that fond of insects.”

“He was quite attentive to you, Miss P.,” Priscilla pointed out, then smiled at the way her former governess fell into rosy blushes at her words.

Florian cast a look of irritation at Miss Pennybaker. “Made a cake of himself, is what.”

Priscilla turned a speculative gaze upon her father. He sounded, well, almost jealous. She had long felt that her governess held an unrequited love for Florian, but he hardly seemed to notice her, except as someone who was willing to copy down his notes. Could it be that the general's fulsome compliments had awakened him to some feelings for Miss P.?

“Too lavish with his compliments, eh?” John asked, barely suppressing a quiver of amusement in his voice. Priscilla glanced over at him and saw that his eyes were dancing. He grinned at her, and Priscilla could not help but return it. “I hate it when a fellow is like that.”

“Absolutely,” Florian replied, looking pleased at their guest's understanding. “Never can trust a man when he's too flowery.”

Priscilla chuckled. “And why is that, Papa? Because he gets all the ladies?”

Florian shot her a sour look. “It shows a lack of regard for the truth.”

“Even when the compliments are true? I am sure he was speaking no falsehood when he complimented Miss P.” She smiled at the older woman.

“Now, Priscilla, you don't know that,” Miss Pennybaker told her modestly. “I am sure he was merely being polite.” But Miss Pennybaker could not hide the
pleased sparkle in her eye, or the glow that illuminated her face.

Priscilla pulled at her father's arm, slowing him down so that Miss Pennybaker and John walked on ahead of them. Going up on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, “Looks like General Hazelton has stolen a march on you, Papa. You had better get started, or you will lose her altogether. You know, there's something very attractive about a man in uniform.”

Florian gaped at her. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“It is obvious to me that you need help. Or else the general's going to sweep Miss P. away, right out from under your nose.”

“Don't be absurd,” Florian told her gruffly.

“Now, Papa…”

“I am going to my study. I have a great deal of work left to do. Their visit ruined the whole afternoon.” He pulled away and stalked off down the hall to his study.

Miss Pennybaker and John turned and watched him. Miss Pennybaker asked puzzledly, “Now, what is the matter with Mr. Hamilton? You know, he did not seem himself today.”

A smile curved Priscilla's mouth. “Perhaps he was not, Miss P. And that just might be a good thing.”

She smiled and turned away, leaving Miss Pennybaker staring after her in confusion.

P
RISCILLA AND
J
OHN KEPT UP A LIGHT CHATTER
as they walked into the village two days later, trying to look as if they were doing nothing more than taking a stroll. After a few minutes of polite nothings, Priscilla was running out of things to say. Finally, she inquired mundanely how he had slept the night before.

“Well,” he replied with a wry smile. “But none too long. I started reading one of your books.”

“What?” Priscilla turned her head sharply. Her heart sped up.
How had he found out about her books?

He gave her an odd look. “I said, I read a book last night. I picked it up in your library. I presumed it belonged to you, since it wasn't scholarly.”

“Oh.” Priscilla relaxed in relief. “I see. Yes, it probably did belong to me. What was it? How did it disturb your night?”

“It was an adventure story.
The Lost City of Lankoon.
Written by a man named Pruett, I believe. Quite an exciting yarn.”

“Really? You liked it?” Priscilla smiled. Elliot Pruett was her pen name. He really
had
read one of her books, although, thank goodness, he obviously had no idea that she had written it.

He nodded. “Had trouble putting it down. That's why I didn't go to sleep till late.” He did not mention that
thoughts of their kisses the day before had kept him up, too; it was those thoughts that had driven him into the library, searching for something to take his mind off the erotic visions in his mind's eye.

“That's wonderful!” Priscilla beamed. “I mean, not wonderful that you didn't get enough sleep, but I am glad that you enjoyed the book.”

“Got a bit wrong about Singapore, but—” he shrugged “—that doesn't matter. It didn't interfere with the story.”

“What was wrong?” Priscilla bristled.

“Nothing much.” He gave her a slightly puzzled look. “Misplaced the Market a little, that's all.”

Priscilla started to protest the slight on her book. She had, after all, gotten all her information about Singapore from a very informative travel book written by the wife of a British sea captain. Then she realized how foolish she would sound to him. On the heels of that came another realization.

She came to a dead halt, staring at John. “Wait.”

He turned and looked at her questioningly.

“Don't you see it? How did you know that the book was wrong?”

“Because I—” He came to a lame halt. “I don't know. I just knew. I—I can picture the city. The Market. Do you think I have been there?”

“How else would you know?” Priscilla's voice rose in excitement.

“You're right. I had not thought about it. How else could I be so certain?” They looked at each other for a long moment. “Well,” he said finally, “then I am an American—with nice clothes—who is in England and who has once visited Singapore.”

“A world traveler, obviously.”

They began to walk again, quiet and thoughtful. After a few moments Priscilla said, “Perhaps you are a merchant who deals in goods from the Orient.”

“Or a sea captain.”

“Or simply someone of wealth who likes to travel.”

“Perhaps I am an adventurer, like Mr. Pruett's Captain Monroe, who goes around the world rescuing orphans and saving young ladies while recovering vast treasures.”

Priscilla chuckled. “Now why didn't I think of that? I am sure it must be so.”

John assumed a wounded air. “Do you think I don't fit the mold?”

“Indeed, since I have never met a man like Captain Monroe, I am not sure what the ‘mold' is.”

“I would say ‘uncommonly brave, unusually handsome and noble to a fault' would do.”

“A perfect picture of you,” Priscilla agreed with mock gravity. She hesitated briefly, then said, “You know, I think you spoke an Oriental name when you were in your fever.”

He looked at her keenly. “What else did I say?”

Priscilla could not keep a blush from touching her cheeks. She was not about to tell him of the way he had fondled her—or the way she had shamelessly responded to it. “I—I'm not sure. It was garbled.”

Something like relief flashed across his face. Priscilla wondered if he, too, had some memory of their kiss. Had he wondered whether it had been real or just a delirium-induced dream?

They walked along, neither of them speaking, until they came to the first straggling outskirts of the village
of Elverton. Their first stop was the vicarage, a small gray stone house beside an old church built of the same material. The vicar's wife, a small, white-haired, tidy woman, greeted Priscilla with a smile and a quick glance of curiosity toward John.

“My dear, my dear, come in. I am so happy to see you.” She took Priscilla's shoulders in her hand and leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek, then turned toward John. “And you must be Priscilla's cousin from America. Cyril told me all about meeting you the other day. Shame on you, Pris, for not telling me about him.”

“I, ah… It must have slipped my mind,” Priscilla replied lamely.

Mrs. Whiting gave her an admonishing look.

“Actually,” John stuck in quickly, “you must not blame Cousin Priscilla. It was my fault. I was not presentable to meet anyone. I had nothing to wear, save the clothes on my back. The bags I was carrying were stolen.”

Priscilla glanced at him, startled. She had not expected him to reveal the truth to the vicar's wife. She was reassured, however, by his next words.

“Ruffians, you see, waylaid me on the road here and stole my possessions. I had to wait until my trunk arrived by train.”

Mrs. Whiting was quick with her sympathy, Priscilla's transgression forgotten at the prospect of more exciting gossip. “You poor thing,” she said, leading them into the drawing room and ringing for tea. “You must tell me all about it. What happened?”

“They jumped on me from behind and struck me on the head. Took me completely by surprise. By the time
I came to, I was alone, my bags gone, and I had a large lump on the back of my head.”

The vicar's wife tsk-tsked and opined that the world was coming to a sad state when a man was not even safe traveling the roads.

“I regret losing my bags,” John went on sadly. “You see, they held pictures of my parents. I was bringing them to show my British cousins. They were of great sentimental value to me.”

Mrs. Whiting drew in a quick breath. “How awful for you!”

“I wish I could find the men. I don't know where they went. Perhaps they came here to Elverton.”

Mrs. Whiting looked thoughtful. “I haven't heard of any strangers in the area. Of course, men of that sort would not likely be ones I would see or hear about.” She stopped, a look of realization dawning on her face, and turned to look at Priscilla accusingly. “So that was why you were here asking me all those questions about the most recent gossip! Honestly, Pris, why didn't you just tell me what you wanted?”

“I, well, I was afraid it would get out that—that Cousin John was here, and I, well, we didn't want anyone to pay calls. You see, he had no clothes fit for company, and—”

“What nonsense! As if I would tell anyone.”

Mrs. Whiting looked indignant. Priscilla, knowing how eagerly the woman chatted to everyone about everything she heard, had to press her lips together to hide a smile.

“I am sure Cousin Priscilla thought no such thing,” John assured the older woman smoothly. “She was quite worried, you see, about my safety. She feared the men
might return to finish me off, to keep me from telling the authorities about them.”

“Then you saw their faces!” Mrs. Whiting exclaimed. “That will make it much easier to locate them. What did they look like?”

“I am afraid I did not get the best look at them, actually. It was at night.” He described both the short and the tall man.

Mrs. Whiting listened intently, but shook her head. “No…I have not seen them or heard anything about them, unfortunately. But I shall ask around for you. People do tend to tell me things, you know. Though, naturally, I would never tell anyone's secrets.” She cast a wounded glance at Priscilla again.

“I am sure you would not,” John agreed soothingly.

Priscilla squirmed in her seat. “Mrs. Whiting, I assure you, I did not mean that I thought you would reveal a secret. I simply thought that it was safer if no one knew about Cousin John…just in case something accidentally slipped out or…or someone overheard us.” She smiled, pleased that she had come up with a reasonable excuse. “A servant, perhaps, or…or someone visiting Reverend Whiting. Someone without your discretion.”

The older woman nodded sagely. “Very wise, I'm sure, my dear. One can never be too careful. That reminds me. I shall ask Cook if she's heard of anyone new in town. The servants have a tremendous grapevine of information.”

When, a few moments later, her cook entered the room with a tray of tea, the vicar's wife, cheerfully disregarding her earlier promise not to tell anyone, related John's story, ending it by asking if she'd heard of either of the men.

The cook, a woman as dour and large as the vicar's wife was small and cheerful, looked at John and Priscilla glumly. “I'm sure as I don't know about such ruffians,” she told them, folding her arms across her chest and giving them a stony gaze, as though she had been accused of being in cahoots with the men who had attacked John. “Where the likes of them ‘d be, though, would be down by the river. Bad lot there. Taverns and such, where honest folk like me don't go. Inns, too, that cater to the lower sort.”

“There. I knew Cook would have some knowledge,” Mrs. Whiting said smugly as the other woman lumbered out of the room. “I am sure she is right. That is where one would find them. Not, of course, that it's the sort of place where you would go.”

“No. Of course not,” Priscilla agreed, and glanced at John, seeing in the twinkle in his eyes that he was as firmly resolved to go there as she was.

They drank a cup of tea and ate a few cookies, making their escape from Mrs. Whiting as soon as they could do so.

“Now, where is this river?” John asked as they turned right and walked alongside the churchyard to the quiet cross street in front of it.

“This way,” Priscilla told him. “Across the road to Exeter. The rest of Elverton is set between it and the Bovey. That's the river the cook was speaking of.”

“The road to Exeter?”

“Yes. It's the main thoroughfare through town. Just ahead of us.” She pointed in front of them to a quiet avenue, down which a single cart was trundling along.

John's eyebrows rose. “Not exactly a thriving metropolis.”

“No. That is why it should be easy to find out if the men we are seeking have been here. Even by the river, a stranger will stick out.”

“Is it really the den of iniquity that the cook described?”

“I'm not sure.” A faint blush stained Priscilla's cheeks. “I have never been there. It's, well…it is not the sort of place a woman can go alone.”

“I see.” He looked at her speculatively.

“No,” Priscilla responded flatly, catching the look in his eyes. “I am not going to let you leave me behind, just when we are getting to the adventure part.”

He grimaced. “It sounds as if it could be dangerous. You had better stay at the apothecary's while I go to the river area.” A visit to the apothecary to buy supplies for Florian was their purported reason for the trip to town.

“Absolutely not!” Priscilla's eyes flashed. “I will be perfectly safe. After all, you will be with me.”

“Priscilla…”

She stopped, hands on hips and glared at him. “John…”

They gazed at each other for a long moment, neither of them giving in.

“Oh, all right,” John said at last, rolling his eyes. “I don't know how your father ever controlled you. You are the stubbornest woman I ever met.”

“He didn't,” Priscilla replied succinctly.

“I might have guessed,” he muttered, falling in with her as she started walking again.

“Let's go to the apothecary's first. I had better leave him Papa's order. Then we can go about the rest of our business and return later to pick up his chemicals.”

They turned the corner onto the main avenue of Elverton. It was as empty and lazy as it had appeared from the side street. A one-horse trap was coming down the road at a snappy pace, and nearer to them, an elderly gentleman was shuffling along. Across the street, a woman stepped out of a shop.

Priscilla turned into the low doorway of the apothecary shop, and John followed her, ducking to avoid hitting his head. Inside, the store was dim and small, stuffed with goods and smelling acridly of chemicals. The man behind the high counter at the end of the store looked up and smiled at Priscilla, adjusting his round spectacles.

“Miss Hamilton! It's a pleasure to see you. How is your fine father this morning?”

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Rhodes. However, he is in need of a few things.”

The apothecary chuckled. “I have no doubt of that. What shall it be this time?”

He took the list Priscilla handed him and studied it, murmuring under his breath as he read it. Priscilla told him that she would be back later to pick up the goods, and the two of them chatted politely about the apothecary's new grandchild for a few minutes. As Priscilla and John turned to leave, the front door opened again, setting a small bell atop it to tinkling, and a well-dressed man entered the store.

He appeared to be in his middle years; his brown hair was streaked throughout with gray. He possessed regular features, neither handsome nor unattractive, but the warm smile that lit up his face when he saw Priscilla transformed his face into one that was particularly pleasing.

“Miss Hamilton.”

“Mr. Rutherford.” Priscilla's smile was equally warm as she greeted the man, and John felt a flash of irritation, even anger. Who was this man whom Priscilla greeted with such pleasure?