Season for Scandal (30 page)

“You know,” he said mildly, as she began tugging on her gloves. “You’re a fool, too.”

Jane’s chin jerked. “I most certainly am not.”

“Yes. You are.” He lifted a hand as though he wanted to touch her, then let it fall again. “If you have so much faith in me, why did you leave?”

A face she knew so well; every plane and contour. Who was the man behind those handsome features, though? What did she know of his heart?

Not enough. Far too much.

“It wasn’t you I was trying to protect.” The admission was as painful as that first time she’d said she loved him, and he apologized.

“I see.” He started to turn his head to the side, then paused. The effect was of a man with a dreadful crick in the neck.

“You can do your sideways-head peek,” Jane said. “I won’t tell your secret.”

He smiled. “No need for such subterfuge. Not right now.” He stepped closer to her; so close, she could see the freckle at the corner of his mouth. He smelled like clean linens and citrus; good enough to bathe in, good enough to eat. “May I kiss you good-bye?”

She blinked at him. “What? You want to kiss me?” The question seemed better suited to a couple just coming to know one another, not trusting the depths of their regard. It seemed odd to hear such a request from her husband, who had kissed every part of her body, who had never felt the need to ask before.

Perhaps he had never doubted her answer. Now Jane wasn’t even sure if anything made him her husband besides a special license, a signature, and a few witnesses.

And . . . and this question.
Say it again. Please.

He did. “Well. Yes. That is, there’s mistletoe above us. Do you see? But if you think a kiss would—”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “Yes. You may kiss me.”

His eyes went dark, as though he was ready to loose the emotion he’d been bottling up. He caught her face in his hands, and Jane let out a sigh, ready, melting already.

For a few long seconds, he only looked at her, cradling her face as though astounded by the sight of her. And just when Jane began to feel self-conscious about his scrutiny, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Not a hot tangle of lips; not a sign of frantic lust. It was a light, deliberate brush of his lips over hers. Slow, so slow that every fiber of her body seemed to wake and unfurl toward him. Sweet, so sweet that she felt herself dissolving like sugar. He simply held her, teasing her mouth as though he was learning the feel of it. As though he liked the lesson.

Then he stepped back. His hands traced the curves of her ears, the slope of her jaw, then dropped to his sides. “Thank you.”

The first time she had told him she loved him, he thanked her, and it sounded like an apology. It was the beginning of the end for them.

But this thanks—this sounded like gratitude. Like a simple, unexpected joy had caught him unawares.

Jane didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t trust her own impressions; she’d been too muddled and scrambled and hope-filled and let down even to know her own mind or heart.

“Come back any time you like, Jane,” he said quietly. “But only if you intend to stay.”

He helped her into her cloak; found her gloves on a side table and drew them onto her hands. Each gesture was so simple, so tender, that her icy resolve cracked into jagged pieces. “Is that a threat, Edmund? Or a promise?”

He traced the line of her cheekbone, then let his hand fall. “It’s a promise. With me, it’s always a promise.”

Chapter 22

Concerning a New Variety of Plans and Plots

Just as Edmund had requested, Jane didn’t return for another visit. Why she had chosen to become compliant at last, he had no notion.

He wished he hadn’t given her an ultimatum. He meant it as self-preservation, but Jane probably saw it as a challenge. Which of them would give in first?

And did giving in mean staying apart, or finding one another again?

The endless days in the House of Lords kept this question from wearing a groove in his thoughts. Bills were put forth on misdemeanors and seditious meetings, preventing seditious meetings, protests against the prevention of seditious meetings—the unrest and bloodshed at Peterloo had shaken the staid upper crust of society. The two houses of Parliament agreed that they must act, but could not agree how.

Familiar, very familiar, to one touched by the Irish rebellion twenty-one years earlier.

Each day, Edmund returned home so tired that he almost didn’t notice the quiet of the house. He entered the drawing room so seldom that he hardly saw the garland across the mantel beginning to droop.

He asked Xavier, when they caught sight of one another in the House of Lords, how Jane fared. All Xavier could say, or would say, was that Jane remained at Xavier House, seemed not to be committing any crimes, and was learning to play chess.

So the pages of Edmund’s date book turned, and all of a sudden it was the week before Christmas. As his carriage trundled him through London, spices teased his nose from the open doors of bakeries. Some drivers had added strings of bells to their horses’ reins, the jingle a pleasant counterpoint to the city’s usual cacophony of wheels clattering over stone, of raised voices and animal bleats and whinnies. Even the weather added cheer; instead of autumn’s miserable drizzle, the sky frosted rooftops with snow.

The streets and shops seemed busier than usual as the polite world hunted for gifts. Though Edmund had already arranged for a sensible gift of mutton, grain, and cloth to be distributed to his tenants, Jane’s words echoed in his ear.

If you think that giving someone a hat is taking care of her . . .

No, he didn’t think so, and he’d said as much. He’d also said he didn’t know how to make things different with his family.

So, on this snowy evening, he began with his tenants. He drafted another letter to Browning, inquiring whether any of the tenants had a particular interest in learning a trade, or reading, or music. Something to show that they weren’t all the same; that he cared what they liked.

At the last moment, he lettered a postscript asking what his sisters and mother had thought of their gifts. Then he sealed the letter, franked it, and tried to put it out of his mind.

But his thoughts lingered on Cornwall: stone cottages with gently bowed roofs; tors and rocky hills; sandy shores under a watery sun. He looked out the window of his study, wishing he had a better view than rows of houses. Snow-frosted and bright though they appeared, the city seemed to press on him sometimes.

Without intending to, he had built a life that was small. When had that happened? And why had he never realized it before?

Soon his time would be his own again, though; only two more grueling slogs remained for the House of Lords. After the day’s session ended on December 21, the nobles would toss the nation’s business to the House of Commons and melt away, freed for a week—though some would leave for the country, not planning to return until spring. Xavier and his countess would dart off to Surrey, leaving Jane behind in Xavier House.

Edmund wondered whether the solitude would lead her to return. But he suspected that nothing—not scandal, not solitude, not a fortune in Spanish gold—would convince her to return before she was ready. If that time ever came.

Pye’s knock at the door was a welcome interruption. “A Mr. Bellamy has called for you, my lord. Do you wish to receive him?”

Not a welcome interruption, after all. Damn Bellamy. Turner. He should have left London by now. “I suppose I must. You may show him in, Pye. And if you’ve left him alone downstairs, we’d better count the silver before he leaves.”

The butler’s brows lifted. “I shall see to it myself, my lord.”

A few minutes later, Turner bounded through the study doorway.

“You look gleeful,” Edmund said. “There’s no need for polite inanities, is there? Shut the door and tell me what the devil you’re doing in London.”

Turner knocked the door shut, then dropped into the chair across from Edmund. “Stealing things.”

“Are you being metaphorical or literal?” Edmund shook his head. “What am I thinking? Both, of course. Turn out your pockets.”

The older man obliged, still wearing a pestilent grin. “Ah, I could steal trinkets from anyone. From you, boyo, I’ve stolen something quite special.”

“You must mean my wife. No doubt you are aware she no longer lives under my roof. So why are you still in London?”

“The game isn’t played out yet.”

“It damned well is. You said you wanted to go back to Cornwall once you took away my wife. Well, congratulations, Turner. You’ve won, though I hardly even needed your help to ruin my marriage. Lady Kirkpatrick has left me, so you can leave, too. Be off with you.”

The determined smile flickered. Turner ran a blunt finger inside the tumble of lace that served him as a cravat. “You’d be content to see me go, would you? And leave Lady Kirkpatrick’s name in the mud?”

Edmund’s stomach became annoyed by the conversation; he pressed a fist against his breastbone, willing the pain away. “Lady Kirkpatrick’s good name cannot be affected by you. And yes, I’d be content to see you go. If you’re in such a tearing hurry to go to Cornwall, just leave.”

Turner began to blink rather more often. Edmund’s stomach settled down as he perceived the best way to pick through this conversation. Turner wanted to play the game? Fine. But Edmund had his own rules.

“I believe you, by the way,” Edmund added in a bland tone. “About my sisters being your daughters. They have your eyes. I saw it in a family portrait. That being the case, I’m sure you will treat them well. You must have missed them very much during your lengthy incarceration. Do you think they’ll be glad when you tell them they’re bastards? Perhaps it will be some comfort to them when you replace the father you all but killed.”

“Me? Or you?” Turner growled. “You’d best shut your gob. You don’t know a damned thing about what happened.”

Edmund shrugged. “If you like. But it was only a few weeks ago that you told me you’d dishonored my parents and that my sisters were illegitimate. I remember that fairly well. Unless you were lying?”

The smile was entirely gone now. “It’s the truth, and no denying it.”

“Oh, well, that’s settled. If you promise you were telling the truth. I’ve no reason to distrust you.”

The look of loathing Turner shot him was enough to fix a pleasant expression on Edmund’s face that was not entirely feigned.

“So. You’re here to steal things,” Edmund added conversationally. “But not my silver. And it can’t be my wife. I’m nearly out of ideas. Care to elucidate?”

“The Xavier rubies.”

Edmund’s hands clunked onto the top of his desk. “Huh. I didn’t expect that.”

“Maybe you’ve heard about a few jewel thefts in Mayfair. I’m not saying I had anything to do with those, mind you.”

“Lady Sheringbrook’s pearls?” Edmund racked his brain. “That’s all I know of. There have been others?”

“Others,” Turner confirmed. His oily smile was back. “So says rumor. And Lady Alleyneham, and Lord Debenham, and that Pellington fellow. A flock of pitiful sheep, the
ton
is. A few families are putting up a reward for the capture of the thief. I’m thinking I might take them up on it.”

“By turning yourself in? Good God. You stole pearls from an old woman. As though she hasn’t enough to be going on with, with spasms in her hands and a son worth less than—”

“Poor woman, yes, with her fine house and her annuity to keep her warm. She’s a stingy old bat, not even helping her only child. But there are ways for a man to find the help he needs.”

“God,” Edmund repeated, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “You’re telling me that you and Sheringbrook are stealing jewels
.
”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“No, you carefully did not.” Edmund sighed. “What’s this rot about the Xavier jewels, then?”

“Ah, yes. See, that’s where you and Lady Kay come into the matter.” Turner leaned back in the chair and narrowed his eyes. “The problem is, I think she still loves you. That won’t do.”

“Why would you possibly think such a thing?” The words came out more like a croak than a question.

“Since she’s left you, I see she’s lost a bit of her sparkle. Not to say there aren’t still ways of giving a gel joy—”

Edmund sprang to his feet.

“—but she’s not to my taste. A skinny little plain slip of a girl.” Turner raised placating hands. “So touchy, aren’t you?”

“Out,” said Edmund, advancing around the desk.

“Hear me out, because your family’s reputation depends on it.”

Edmund missed a step.

“Aha. Thought so.” Turner smiled, though his normally smooth expression looked a bit ragged. “Here’s what you’ll do, then. You’ll meet Lady Kay at Xavier House and get her to tell you where those rubies are kept. Seduce her, threaten her, whatever you like. She knows. Sheringbrook says she’s worn them before. Once you find out, I’ll call on you again, and you’ll tell me.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” Footing steady again, Edmund loomed over Turner’s chair. “Out.”

“I thought you might be
dobh
—er, stubborn about the matter.” The words tripped quickly from Turner’s tongue. “Which is why I’ll tell Lady Kay everything if you don’t agree.”

“Out.” Edmund grabbed Turner’s forearm and hauled him from the chair. “Now. And don’t touch the silver.”

“Think about it,” Turner said. “Do you want her to hate you for keeping secrets? Or do you want to pay the smaller price—really, no price at all—for handing over another man’s jewels?”

“Why should she believe anything you say? She knows you as Bellamy.”

“I have letters from your mam as proof. If I show them to Lady Kay, I needn’t tell her I’m Turner, need I? But even if you decide to, I wonder whose lies will bother her more. A recent friend, or the man she married?”

Edmund’s hand had gone cold, but he wouldn’t relax his grip on Turner’s arm. “Out.”

Somehow, the man shook free and drew himself up straight. “I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow for you to tell me what you’ve decided. But one way or another, I’ll have those jewels on Christmas Eve. If you won’t get me the answer I need, I’ll take it from Lady Kay myself.”