A Perfect Scandal (8 page)

Isabel must have noticed his fascination. “I see you admire Mr. Benning’s collection.”

His gaze remained riveted to the wall. “I would not peg him the art lover.”

“That’s because he’s not. Charlotte told me he buys art only to enhance his status as a premier host. That is the extent of his interest. That’s why the paintings are displayed in the ballroom and not in his study or bedroom for private enjoyment. He wants others to envy his possessions.”

“How wasteful. They should be prized and shared with others in a museum, not a stuffy ballroom.”

She arched a brow. “Don’t you acquire art and keep it squirreled away for your pleasure?”

He turned away from the wall. “Yes and no. I frequently loan my treasures to the museums. I find just as much fulfillment in sharing what I have obtained with those that otherwise would never have an opportunity to view a true masterpiece.”

Clear blue eyes studied him. “You surprise me, Mr. Hawksley. As an artist myself, I spend quite a lot of my time frequenting the museums. I suppose I owe my enjoyment to generous collectors such as you.”

Marcus’s pulse throbbed at her words. “Tell me about Charlotte. Is she like her father?”

“Oh, no. Harold Benning is her stepfather. Her mother was widowed for the third time four years ago when Charlotte was just sixteen. Each elderly deceased husband left Leticia a small fortune, and she is free to spend her money however she desires. Harold Benning was a perfect match for her flamboyant lifestyle. He actually enjoys being a spendthrift more than his wife. But Charlotte is not like either her mother or stepfather. She finds her stepfather—how shall I say it?—irritating, but endures his nature for her mother. You shall meet Charlotte and see.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I sympathize with her,” Isabel said. “Mr. Benning’s mannerisms can be most annoying. But I must admit there is no one more knowledgeable to accompany a woman to the dressmaker’s. He has a knack for finding what colors and styles most flatter a woman.”

Marcus rolled his eyes and handed her a glass from the table. “Leticia Benning approaches as we speak. I believe our time to become ‘formally announced’ as a couple has arrived.”

Isabel touched his forearm. “Don’t look so tense. This is your entry into society in order to find the true mastermind behind the theft of the Thomas Gainsborough painting. Mr. Benning’s collection is small compared to others. After tonight, you will be on the guest list of every avid art collector in London.”

“I’m counting on it,” Marcus said dryly.

“Absolutely not, madam. You will stay out of this, do you understand?” Marcus said.

Isabel looked up into Marcus’s hard face. Every line of his powerful body was tense, his dark eyes narrowed, and despite herself, she felt a shiver of apprehension course down her spine.

But damned if she would back down.

“You are making no sense, Mr. Hawksley,” she said.

“No. I make perfect sense. It’s you who has temporarily lost your mind.”

She glowered up at him. They were in the Bennings’ gardens, standing behind a stone statue and a big evergreen, a secluded spot perfect for an assignation between lovers or—as in their case—for a private conversation away from prying eyes and straining ears. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the area was dim, save for a single torch which half-illuminated Marcus’s face.

They had been formally announced less than an hour ago by Leticia Benning, with a preening Harold Benning by her side, in the center of the ballroom. The guests, after overcoming an awkward silence at learning that the Earl of Malvern’s daughter was to wed the estranged Earl of Ardmore’s younger son, had toasted to their future happiness. Almost immediately, a horde of the socially elite had descended upon them and had freely conversed about balls, masques, and garden parties they planned to host during the remaining Season and in which they desired their attendance.

Marcus had slipped into the role of sought-after-gentleman-guest easily, despite his prior reservations.

She had waited until the overeager mass of well-wishers had subsided before requesting a garden walk for fresh air. Her true motives had been not only to escape the ballroom and clear her head, but also to persuade Marcus of her plans to aid him with his investigation.

But never had she anticipated his adamant and angry refusal.

“All I suggest is that I assist with your investigation,” she said. “To help find the true criminal behind the theft of the Thomas Gainsborough painting. As a respectable member of society as well as a fourth-year debutante, I believe I know better than you where to start. I can easily determine those art collectors with impressive—”

“I said no.”

“Why not?”

“Because that was never part of our bargain.”

“And what was?”

“I save you from scandal, which in turn preserves your twin siblings’ futures. You get to go to your Auntie Lil and do whatever you think you want to do in Paris. In return, I get my alibi unencumbered by guilt. And we are both free after a six-month marriage devoid of sins of the flesh.”

She felt an instant’s squeezing hurt. His matter-of-fact tone and his direct, unwavering gaze took her off guard. He made their engagement and upcoming nuptials sound formulaic.

But isn’t that what I had planned from the beginning?
she thought.
Then why is his businesslike tone so disturbing?

Isabel inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm herself, the scent of roses from the nearby bushes wafting to her. She looked away, playing for time. Her gaze skimmed the gardens, noting that here, as well as inside, no attention to detail had been overlooked. The shrubbery and rosebushes were meticulously trimmed, an intricate maze lay before them, a water fountain with a seminude mermaid tipping a jug poured water from its spout, and lights blazed distantly from each of the four stories of the Chinese pagoda. The faint outline of a horticultural conservatory could be seen behind the pagoda.

She turned back to face him, only to find him watching her. Masking her inner turmoil with a deceptive calmness, she said, “So you have it all thought out, then?”

There was a slight hesitation in his predatory eyes. “May I point out that it was
you
who contrived our temporary relationship.”

“I suppose you are correct, but it was never my intention to be pushed aside and to assume a completely passive role.”

“Whatever role would a proper wife play except passive?”

At his careless words, she lost her fight to control her swirling emotions. Her temper flared; she tossed her head and met his black eyes without flinching.

“That might be acceptable to some ladies,” she snapped, “but not to me. The Bow Street authorities may believe you innocent of the theft because of my alibi, but that does not mean the ton does as well. You of all people should be aware that malicious gossip is commonplace and thrives among them. If there is even the slightest suspicion upon your name as a thief, then as your betrothed, it affects my family as well. Once the painting is found, society will have nothing to gossip about. I’m not accustomed to having matters decided for me, especially when I know full well that action on my part can change the outcome. And I don’t intend to alter my nature just because of a ‘bargain’ you think we made and your rigid beliefs of how a wife should behave.”

He moved with a quickness that made her gasp and pulled her into his arms. “I wondered how long it would take for your fireworks to explode. You do not disappoint, Isabel. I hadn’t long to wait.”

Heat burst through her body both from his outrageous words and his touch. Even though they were both fully clothed, she was conscious of where his sinewy frame touched hers, and a sliver of heat rushed through her breasts and belly. His fingers caressed her arms through the silk fabric of her sleeves, and her heart lurched madly.

He was so disturbing to her in every way, and her physical response to him alarmed her.

Be careful!
an inner voice warned.
Such an attraction is perilous.

She pulled back. “Let me go.”

“Not a chance. If you change our bargain from the beginning, then you tempt me to alter my end as well.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Our ‘passionless’ arrangement, as you had called it.”

“I haven’t changed my part of our agreement, sir, so you must stick to yours.” Her voice sounded high-pitched to her own ears.

“It’s Marcus.”

She scowled and once again tried to step away. His arms were like steel bands. “Fine. Marcus. Now let me go.”

“You agree to stay out of my business then?”

She shot him a withering glance. “I still don’t understand why—”

“Has your safety ever entered your stubborn brain?”

He pulled her closer, and the heat that had been simmering in her veins burst into flame, setting her blood afire. Every part of her body that was pressed against his hard length was highly sensitive. She was aware, more than ever before, of the physical differences between them. Her soft curves molded traitorously to the contours of his muscular body.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

At the sound of an intruding male voice, Marcus immediately released her. Isabel stumbled back and would have fallen if not for Marcus’s steady hand that shot out to grasp her arm.

She turned to find Lord Walling step forward, his fleshy face illuminated by the torch. Strands of thinning hair were slicked back, revealing a shiny, perspiring scalp.

“Are the two love birds arguing? I’ve heard that betrothals and marriage have an uncanny ability to bring out the worst in a couple, but you have only been promised to each other for”—he reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a pocket watch with a flourish—“only an hour.”

Walling took a step closer to Isabel, and the overpowering stench of alcohol assailed her nostrils.

Realizing Walling was drunk, Isabel chose her words carefully. “I never had an opportunity to apologize, Lord Walling. The past few days have been a whirlwind.”

He waved her off with a jeweled hand. “No need for apologies now. I do believe that your behavior at the Westley auction was for my benefit as much as for Hawksley’s. There I was thinking you were innocent and perfect marriage material for a man of my station. It’s a good thing my interest never became public knowledge. A woman of your loose morals would be more suitable as my mistress, not my wife.”

Isabel gasped.

With one stride, Marcus grasped Walling around the throat. The older man’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his round face turning an alarming shade of red.

She stared, tongue-tied. For a man of his size, Marcus had moved remarkably fast.

“You will watch your tongue around Lady Isabel, understand?” Marcus growled in Walling’s face.

Walling nodded, an unnatural gurgling sound coming from his throat, and he reached up to pry Marcus’s fingers loose.

Marcus released his grasp. Walling stumbled sideways, clawing at his cravat to rub his bruised throat.

Marcus smoothed his double-breasted jacket with steady hands. “Next time you are honored by Lady Isabel’s presence, you will distinctly recall that she is my betrothed—soon to be my wife—and that any insult you make to her will be taken as if you spoke it to my face. Now as a
gentleman
, I do believe apologies to the lady should be forthcoming.”

Marcus’s voice bordered on boring, as if he was discussing the mundane mathematical calculations behind the rise and fall of shares in the Stock Exchange. Yet an air of deadly efficiency surrounded him.

Silence loomed like a heavy mist as Lord Walling struggled to find his voice.

“Please pardon my earlier behavior, Lady Isabel,” Walling said, his blood-shot eyes focusing on her. “I do believe I’ve overindulged in Benning’s spirits and have spoken inappropriately this evening.”

“Apology accepted, of course,” Isabel whispered.

Lord Walling turned on his heel and scurried back down the gravel path toward the terrace leading into the ballroom.

Isabel whirled on Marcus. “Do you realize what you have done?”

Marcus shrugged. “Stood up for my future wife.”

“Lord Walling is quite influential. You made an enemy of him tonight.”

“No, Isabel.
You
made him one when you stood in the parlor of the Westley mansion and declared to be my lover, knowing full well that Lord Walling was in negotiations with your father for your hand in marriage.”

“You blame me for what just occurred?”

“Not entirely. But you must recognize the consequences of your impulsive actions.”

She blinked, knowing full well the truth behind his words. She had desperately sought to dissuade Lord Walling from his marital pursuit. But to physically attack him at a ball?

Marcus’s behavior was outrageous. Reckless. Arrogant.

And worst of all, utterly fascinating.

Isabel Cameron rarely took “no” for an answer when she truly wanted something. Her friends and family knew this, but as her future husband, Marcus Hawksley had yet to be enlightened.

Isabel had strolled down Threadneedle Street before, its bustling shops and throngs of pedestrians a familiar sight. But this time, instead of entering the dressmaker’s, she rounded a corner and stopped in front of the Bank of England. She turned east and caught sight of her destination—the London Stock Exchange. A striking building of stone and white brick, it occupied a substantial triangular area in the city. The imposing structure was where Marcus spent much of his time, and with luck, where he was today.

As she gazed up at the building, a sudden memory came to her, and she vividly recalled her father’s excitement when he had gained official membership to the Stock Exchange years ago. Since that time, she had never had the opportunity to step inside. As a woman, she had never been welcome or had reason to visit.

Until today.

You cannot ignore me, Marcus Hawksley. I refuse to be pushed aside.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage, clutched her reticule to her side, and wove her way through the crowd toward the main entrance of the Exchange—known as “Capel Court” in Bartholomew Lane. Here businessmen rushed about, coats billowing in the early morning breeze.

Isabel walked brusquely across the cobblestone courtyard toward a grand set of double doors which loomed ahead. A doorman, dressed in a red uniform with a black top hat and gloves, nodded and opened the doors as she approached.

Hoping to hide her nervousness, she smiled and swept past him, entering a long, rectangular-shaped lobby. With a marble floor and stone walls, the lobby was bare and lacked the opulence she had anticipated. A row of chairs lined a wall and several men were seated together. Heads bent low, they were in deep conversation. She heard the words “bad Baltic trade,” “oil,” and “tallow” and suspected a group of investors were meeting. They paid her little heed. Cigar smoke wafted to her and swirled like fog in the rafters of the ceiling.

She walked across the lobby, unsure of her destination. She spotted a pair of double doors near the end of the room and wondered if Marcus was inside.

She headed for the doors just as they swung open, and a cacophony of noise blasted her from inside.

Her eyes widened at the scene.

The room was packed with bodies; businessmen scurried about on the trading floor, their expressions animated and anxious at the same time. Some wore hats and coats as if they did not have time to take them off before engaging in business matters. Others had their sleeves rolled back as if they had been present since the crack of dawn. They yelled and gestured wildly at one another to be heard above the din. Strips of paper littered every square inch of the floor, and she marveled how not one person slipped on the mess.

The trading floor itself was a mammoth, elongated hall. A gilt dome and arched glass roof drew her eye upward. It appeared as if the roof was suspended in midair, but then she noticed impressive granite columns supporting the structure. Her father had once told her the dome was dazzling, yet she suspected its beauty was lost on the packs of men who were too busy running back and forth, scrambling about, to look at the brilliant work of art above their heads.

She stood in stunned silence, absorbing the chaos.

The overpowering masculinity in the hall was like a throbbing, thriving beast. She could smell the intensity, the power, and the fanaticism emanating in waves. Her mind spun, and she wished she had a pencil and paper to sketch the scene.

Don’t be foolish! It would take a master artist to capture the feverish zeal spread out before you on canvas.

The noise level rose as the doors opened wide, and then faded as a group of men exited the floor and the doors closed behind them.

“May I be of assistance?”

At the sound of a deep, masculine voice, Isabel whirled around.

A handsome man with sandy-colored hair and piercing green eyes stared at her with interest. He was young, she noticed, close to Marcus’s age, and dressed in a moss-colored waistcoat and jacket that matched the exact shade of his eyes. He smiled, revealing straight, white teeth.

“I, ah…I’m looking for someone,” she said.

“Then perhaps I can be of assistance. My name is Ralph Hodge and although I do not pretend to know everyone here,” he said, motioning to the double doors that led to the exchange floor, “I am a well-known stockbroker.”

He smiled again, and she was aware of his eyes roaming her features like a potential investor considering a commodity he intended to purchase. Handsome, charming, and arrogant, she suspected he was quite successful with the ladies.

“I’m looking for a broker as well,” Isabel said. “I had foolishly thought I could have found him here easily enough, but that was before I laid eyes upon the floor for the first time.”

“A fellow broker, you say. Who?”

“Mr. Marcus Hawksley.”

“Hawksley?” There was a sudden narrowing of Ralph Hodge’s green eyes, a pinched look to his lips, but then the trademark smile was back in place.

“If you are seeking a broker for investment advice, I am more than avail—”

“No, Mr. Hodge. You misunderstand. Mr. Hawksley is my betrothed.”

A blond eyebrow arched. “I see, Miss—”

“Lady Isabel Cameron.”

Hodge’s green gaze grew more intense, a feat Isabel would have thought impossible.

“Please excuse my ignorance,
Lady
Isabel,” he said. “But if I may be so bold as to ask, however did Hawksley acquire the good fortune to find you?”

“Luck.”

“Luck?” he repeated dumbly, his smile cracking. He was clearly perturbed, and her curiosity rose a notch.

He reached out to cup her elbow. “I suppose Hawksley has had a lucky streak in the market of late. And you are also fortunate today, for I do indeed know Mr. Hawksley and can locate—”

Just then, the swinging doors opened, and Marcus strode out.

He stopped short as he spotted her. Jet eyes took in the scene, missing no detail, narrowing on Ralph Hodge’s hand on Isabel’s sleeve.

“Isabel,” Marcus said. “What are you doing here? With him?”

Marcus looked overbearing and commanding, and like a gladiator in his own arena, he radiated confidence and power. He held a sheath of papers at his side, his long, dark fingers contrasting with the whiteness of the paper.

“I came to see you,” Isabel said.

Marcus shot her a penetrating look. “Why?”

“We never finished our discussion last night, and I have new information.” She was conscious of Ralph Hodge’s hand on her sleeve as well as his keen interest in their conversation.

“You never mentioned you were engaged, Hawksley,” Ralph interrupted. “Why would you keep the lovely Lady Isabel a secret?”

“Mind your own business, Hodge. And remove your hand from the lady,” Marcus ground out. He reached out, pulled Isabel out of Hodge’s grasp, and nearly dragged her away by her arm.

She hurried to keep up with Marcus as he strode across the lobby. She could feel Hodge’s sharp eyes boring into her back with each rushed step.

“What in the world was that about?” she gasped.

“Stay away from Ralph Hodge.”

“You dislike each other. Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

They reached the front of the lobby, and Isabel panicked, thinking he was going to escort her out of the building, but instead of heading for the outside, Marcus swung right and opened a door she hadn’t noticed before. He led her into a small room lined with file cabinets and a desk littered with stacks of paper.

“We can talk privately here.”

“Where are we?”

“An antechamber the jobbers use as a temporary office.”

“Jobbers?”

“Jobbers buy and sell shares for the stockbrokers. They earn money for their services by inflating the price they offer the broker.” He leaned against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Educating you on the workings of the Exchange is not the reason you came today. So tell me what is.”

She took a deep breath and tried to relax. She had been certain of her bold actions earlier by coming here, but as was customary of late, she now doubted the wisdom of her impulsiveness.

“Things between us were not settled last night,” she said. “After the incident with Lord Walling, you left the Bennings’ ball.”

He shook his head. “No, Isabel. I was quite clear on the subject, and as I recall, you had agreed with me as well.”

“I most certainly did not. I never agreed to be the ‘passive wife’ you expect, and I fully intend to be involved in your investigation.”

“Why? I want to know why you are so adamant about this.”

“I told you last night,” she said matter-of-factly. “It does not take much for people to gossip, and if there is the slightest implication that you were the thief of the painting, then as your future wife, it will adversely affect my father and the twins. If my involvement can aid the situation, then it is impossible for me to sit back and do nothing. Now, when I tell you what I have learned, you will undoubtedly see that I am an indispensable ally and change your stubborn mind.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Oh, please enlighten me.”

She reached into her reticule and pulled out a piece of paper. “I have compiled a list of wealthy art collectors who have dealt with the auctioneer Dante Black within the last year. I have also learned who amongst the ton owns Thomas Gainsborough paintings and who collects portraits similar to Gainsborough’s style.”

Marcus pushed away from the desk, eyes blazing. “Dante Black has gone missing. He has not showed at his place of business or his private residence since the Westley auction. Have you perchance learned of his location?”

“No, but perhaps one of these collectors knows. Dante was a well-respected auctioneer who catered to his rich clients. I assume some of them would know how to reach him.”

“How did you learn all this?”

“I tried to tell you last night, but you wouldn’t listen. I have been attending society functions for years, and as an aspiring artist, I take an interest in the artwork I see. Plus, Charlotte Benning is my best friend, and her mother knows everyone.”

“I regret leaving the ball last night without meeting your friend. Perhaps I should have hired her rather than the investigator I obtained,” he said dryly.

“You hired an investigator?” She wanted to ask how he could afford such an expense, but held her tongue. No sense insulting the man when she was trying to get on his good side.

“There’s more,” she rushed. “A masque is being hosted this week by a couple who happen to be the only collectors that have both utilized Dante Black’s services
and
own several Thomas Gainsborough paintings. I have heard that they are avid collectors, have a private gallery in their mansion, and that they pay outrageous sums for quality works. We can attend the masque and discreetly search for the mysterious gallery to see if they have possession of the
Seashore with Fishermen
.”

“Who’s hosting the masque?”

He reached for the paper in her hand, but she pulled it out of his grasp.

“Not until you agree we are partners.”

His eyes narrowed. “Partners in an illegal search of a wealthy and powerful couple’s house? Do you have no fear for yourself? I’ll not be responsible for your neck.”

“We won’t get caught.” She waved the paper at him. “Partners then?”

“You are the most outrageous, stubborn woman I have ever met.”

She gifted him with a smile. “Thank you. I’ll take your compliment as a yes.”

“I seem to have no choice.”

She handed him the paper. “The masque is being hosted by Lord and Lady Gavinport.”

A low knock on the door echoed through the small room. They both whirled around when the door opened, and Ralph Hodge stood in the doorway.

A blond lock fell over Hodge’s forehead, and he flashed a pearly white smile. “The lady said she was looking for a broker. I came to see if she changed her mind as to which one.”

“Out. Now,” Marcus growled.

At the thunderous expression on Marcus’s face, Hodge grinned, then turned and shut the door.

Isabel reached for the paper in Marcus’s hand.

His mouth twisted wryly. “What are you doing?”

“It appears I need to add Mr. Hodge to my list of possible suspects.”