A Dash of Scandal (14 page)

“You saw me in there?”

“Yes, writing on the back of your dance card, again.”

“You were watching me, hoping I would lead you to the Mad Ton Thief?”

“More or less that's how it was, yes.”

“How could my making notes on my dance cards possibly connect me with the likes of a robber?” Millicent asked indignantly.

“I thought perhaps you were making notes of items in the house that could be easily stolen and hidden under a coat or cloak. Something that could be taken out of the house without notice.”

This was unbelievable. “Oh, my heavens! You think I'm a thief?”

“An accomplice. I thought you were giving your notes to the thief so that he could come back later and steal one of the items you listed.”

Millicent was almost speechless—almost. “That's absolutely wretched of you. I don't believe this. You were watching me all this time, talking to me, dancing with me, and you kissed me so passionately in that shop thinking that I was a thief. How could you have done that?” The thought mortified Millicent.

“No, I didn't think that of you at the time I kissed you in the shop. By then, I had reasoned that you were merely making notes of names and titles and things about people so you could remember who they were next time you met them. I kissed you because I wanted to and for no other reason.”

Millicent shook her head. “This is too inconceivable. You only spent time with me because you wanted to watch me, get close to me until you discovered who I worked with.”

“Not entirely. I find you extremely attractive, Millicent. You must know that. But, I also want to find the thief and recover the raven.”

“I think it's perfectly horrible that you thought I had something to do with that contemptible creature who is taking things that don't belong to him.”

“It's no more horrible than writing about people's private lives and publishing them in the newspaper.”

“Oh but it is, sir,” she argued fervently.

“How? You seem overly indignant for a lady who writes gossip.”

“I'm not stealing anyone's personal property.”

“No, you're only stealing their privacy and their good names.”

Millicent opened her mouth to tell him that she was only doing it to help her father's sister, but even though Chandler had found out who she was, he still didn't know who Lord Truefitt was, and, for her aunt's sake, Millicent had to keep it that way. She turned away and said nothing.

“Why do you do it?”

Keeping her back to him she said, “I have nothing more to say on the subject.”

“Is it for the money?”

That made her to turn around and face him. “No.”

“Is someone forcing you to do this?”

“Of course not.” She walked away from him and closer to the settee, but unfortunately he followed her. She glanced toward the door. How long did it take Glenda to ask Mrs. Brown to speak to the cook about a pot of tea?

“Tell me why?”

Millicent wanted to tell him the truth and include the fact she didn't find any satisfaction in what she was doing, but she dared not. She was caught, not her aunt. Millicent couldn't let him know that her aunt was really Lord Truefitt. She came to help her aunt keep her employment, not expose her and force her to lose it.

“My reasons are of no concern to you and I won't share them with you.”

“I suppose that the Heathecoutes and Lady Beatrice are not aware of what you are doing.”

Thankfully, he made that a statement and not a question. If she were careful she wouldn't have to tell him any more than necessary.

“Lady Beatrice and the Heathecoutes have been very good to me. I would hate for them to know what you have figured out.”

“I could make it known who you are and you would lose your employment.”

“I would lose much more than that,” she whispered earnestly, loathe to think that scandal would drive her from London like her mother. “I'm sure Lady Beatrice would ask me to leave.” She would no longer be of use to her aunt.

Suddenly an idea struck Millicent. She was very still for a moment but turned and looked into his eyes. “I hope I can persuade you not to do anything rash, sir. I think I know of a way I can be of help to you.”

His eyebrows rose in question. “You help me? How? You torment me with your writings.”

Millicent cringed. He did make what she was doing sound horrible, but she wouldn't let that stop her from telling him her idea. “I can help you find the Mad Ton Thief.”

He smiled, then chuckled. “You surprise me and the devil take me if I don't enjoy it, Millicent. I wish I didn't, but I do. How could you help me find the thief?”

“For one, I hear things you don't hear. You are an earl. People watch what they say around you, but with me they are less careful. I am more apt to hear news concerning the Mad Ton Thief than you.”

“I am in daily touch with Doulton and others. I would think that would allow me to hear the news before you unless you have an informant on Bow Street.”

“No, of course not. But neither you nor your Runners can hear what is said in the ladies' retiring rooms. For instance, I just overheard that there is a certain earl who is looking to make a wealthy match because he has misused his fortune and it has run out.”

“Really. Who?”

She gave him a knowing smile. “I see there is some gossip I'm privy to that you want to hear.”

He frowned again. “You do like to test me.”

She smiled. “I feel the same way about you.”

“How can a poor blade who's run through his money help me find the thief?”

“Perhaps he is the one stealing the valuables in order to get the money he needs to keep him sound until he can make a desirous match.”

“Hmm. That's possible, I suppose.”

“It has to be a member of the ton who is pilfering the homes. Everyone agrees to that, except for those who believe the thief is a ghost.”

“And that number seems to be growing.”

“No one has reported seeing a stranger at any of the parties.” She looked at him a little ruefully. “And I believe we've both already agreed that it is not a ghost walking out of the homes with the family treasures.”

“We are definite on that point. I suppose you could be of some use to me.”

“Lord Dunraven, you do make me sound like a piece of old baggage.”

“Old? No. Baggage? Never. Useful? Maybe. All right, Miss Blair, partners we shall be for a time. I won't divulge your secret, and you will report any information you hear that might help me find the thief.”

Her chest heaved in relief. Thank goodness, she had kept him from demanding the name of Lord Truefitt. It was too close a call. “You have my word.”

“Now, who is this titled gentleman lackwit who's lost his fortune?”

“You'll have to read Lord Truefitt's column tomorrow to find out the answer to that.”

“Is that how I will get information from you? Reading the tittle-tattle?”

“Not always, but it seems prudent to start this way. And, now I know why you didn't bring me tarts.”

“What are you talking about? Are you changing the subject again?”

“Yes. I've been told that you take apricot tarts to every young lady you call on and that your chef makes the best in all of London.”

The wrinkle returned to his brow. “Am I that predictable?”

“Obviously not as far as I'm concerned.” She held her hands out palms up and smiled sweetly at him. “I have no tarts.”

“With you, nothing is predictable either. I was so worked up when I finally figured out what you were doing that having my chef prepare tarts was the last thing on my mind. Even now, knowing that you do something I despise, I want to take you in my arms and kiss you.”

“Angels above, sir. You must be more careful.” She glanced over his shoulder to the doorway. “Someone could come in and catch you saying something like that to me and we'll end up married. If you'll excuse me, I really must get dressed for the evening or I won't be ready when my chaperones arrive.”

“Not so fast, dear Millicent.” He pulled her into his arms and cupped her close to him, bringing their faces close together. “Most business partnerships are sealed with a handshake, but I would rather we seal ours with a kiss.”

Millicent opened her mouth to protest, but what little sound she attempted was hushed by warm lips moving slowly to cover hers. Her mind told her to protest vehemently, and with her mind she did.

He is a rake.

He's not to be trusted.

But he makes me feel so wonderful.

Within seconds her body relaxed into the warmth of his arms without effort. She thought only of the way he made her feel: wonderful, desired.

He increased the pressure of the kiss, and as if she'd always known what to do, Millicent opened her mouth and accepted his tongue with eagerness. She gave him her own, and he answered with a soft groan of pleasure. She slipped her hands around his neck, allowing his arms to tighten around her and pull her closer to his chest.

His hands slid down her back to her waist. He rested his palms on the soft flare of her hips for a moment before sliding them upward until he cupped her breasts, one in each hand.

At his warm touch Millicent's legs weakened and she pressed closer to him, needing his strength to withstand his sensual assault. She didn't know why her breasts were so sensitive to his slightest touch or why she felt such an eagerness to explore all these new and wonderful sensations with him.

His warm, soft lips left hers and he kissed her cheeks, her neck, behind her ear. Everywhere his lips touched her she tingled with awareness.

“I can't understand why your kisses make my legs feel weak and my insides feel like they are fluttering.”

He raised his head and looked down at her and smiled. “That means you are extremely attracted to me.”

“Does it?”

He nodded.

“But how can that be when I think you are a rake and not to be trusted?”

“Perhaps that is some of the allure.”

She remembered what happened to her mother. Is this how her mother had felt?

Millicent shook her head. “No. I fear it is deeper than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I shouldn't be in your arms. God forbid Glenda or Mrs. Brown should walk in here and see me kissing you.”

He gave her a reassuring smile and held her tighter. “No one will see us. I've told you that I have had years of practice avoiding chaperones and maids. They usually make a shuffling sound with their feet or some other noise to alert their charge that they are coming. They really don't want to catch us in a compromising position, you know.”

“Chandler, do I make your legs feel weak and your stomach fluttery?”

He laughed softly, seductively, but his gaze never left hers. It was as if he wanted her to see inside him and know that he spoke the truth. “Yes, and it means I'm very, extremely attracted to you.”

“But I am not a rake. So where is the allure for you?”

“Not a rake, but you are a seducer.”

“And that makes me attractive?”

“It must because I desire you more than any other lady I have ever wanted. Every movement you make, every word you say makes me want to take you into my arms and kiss you like this.”

He dipped his head again and captured her lips with his. Gone was the kiss of his lips moving gently over hers. This was a wild kiss that plundered her mouth, bruised her lips and filled her with hunger and passion for more and more. She didn't understand the feelings he created inside her, but she didn't have to understand them to enjoy them.

At the farthest reaches of her mind, Millicent heard a noise—tea cups rattling on a tray. Chandler must have heard it too because he immediately let her go and stepped away.

He swallowed hard. “Your maid, I'm sure, bringing in the tea.”

Millicent gasped.

“Don't worry. I'll take care of her and give you a moment to catch your breath.”

He strode to the doorway and blocked it by standing in the middle with one arm braced against the doorjamb. “I'm sorry I can't stay longer, Miss Blair. No, no time for tea. Not for me. Do tell Lady Beatrice I hope she is up and about soon. And I will give thought to those apricot tarts. Give my regards to Lady Heathecoute.”

Chandler continued talking nonsense for the benefit of Glenda, standing on the opposite side of the door, but Millicent ceased to hear. What was she going to do? She had no will when it came to Lord Dunraven.

He was charming and devilish and his kisses made her forget sound reasoning, made her forget what had happened to her mother. He was bad for her, but he made her feel good.

She walked back over to the window and looked out. Would this alliance with Chandler end up making her one of London's biggest scandals?

“Men at some time are masters of their fates,” and so it is with Lord Dunraven. Convinced that it was no ghost that stole the family raven, he has solicited the help of a private source, which he refuses to disclose.

—Lord Truefitt,
Society's Daily Column

Chandler Prestwick, earl of Dunraven, sat alone in a secluded corner of one of the four private gentlemen's clubs in London that he belonged to, sipping a glass of claret. He had chosen this club because it was the smallest and he was less likely to be bothered by anyone wanting to claim his attention.

He'd spent some time at the gaming and billiards tables, but it didn't take him long to realize he wasn't in the mood for the games. He was too distracted by thoughts of Millicent Blair.

He had dressed for the evening as was usual in one of his dinner coats and brocade waistcoat. He'd even taken time to be a bit fancy with the tying of his neckcloth. He'd fully intended to show up at the three parties he'd selected to attend for the evening and had gone so far as to have his driver stop the coach at the first house. But he didn't get out. Instead, he'd told his driver to bring him to this club.

Chandler was in a quandary. For the first time in his life he was smitten by a young lady. Truly smitten, and it was a difficult thing to come to terms with—for more than one reason.

He'd actually expected it to happen one day. He wanted it to happen. He was ready for it to happen, but he never dreamed he'd be charmed by a writer of tittle-tattle. One who spied on his friends.

If it wasn't so outrageous, it would be laughable. He who had always hated the faceless people who wrote the scandal sheets now found himself captivated by one who helped gather the information and write what was written in them.

His infatuation with her was madness.

Perhaps it served him right after all the hearts he'd broken over the years, he quarreled with himself. He supposed he had left many a young lady thinking he would make an offer for her hand only to never call on her again. But still it stunned him that he'd been thunderstruck by a poor, young lady who made her living selling gossip to the highest bidder. It was absurd, downright absurd.

He wasn't fooling himself about Millicent for a moment, but hopefully he was fooling her. He hadn't agreed not to expose her to Society because he thought she could help him find the Mad Ton Thief. That was balderdash, merely a ruse to satisfy her. He agreed because it gave him a reason to continue seeing her. And that in itself was ludicrous, too.

What could be the possible gain for him in continuing to pursue her? She wasn't a suitable wife for him. At the very least he needed to marry the daughter of a baron or a viscount, though an offspring of an earl or duke would be better. He only knew he had not had his fill of Millicent.

Not nearly enough.

“What's this? You're drinking without me?”

Chandler took in a deep breath and looked up from the glass of claret he was staring at to the face of John Wickenham-Thickenham-Fines. Damnation. He'd come to this club, one he seldom frequented, because he'd wanted to be alone. How in the devil had Fines found him?

“Oh, is that what I'm doing here? Clever of you to figure it out.”

Fines shrugged his shoulders indolently. “That's a rather rude greeting for your best friend. How deep are you into your cups, Dunraven?”

“Deep enough that I'm not going to be coming out of them tonight,” he grumbled.

“In that case, I guess it's good I found you. Any man who has a friend shouldn't drink alone.”

“That means you're joining me?”

“Might as well.” Fines sat down in a comfortable wing chair opposite Chandler. “I've nothing else to do on this dreary night. It's raining hard enough to drown the fires of hell.” Fines brushed water droplets from the sleeve of his evening coat.

“Why didn't you send word you wouldn't be attending any of the parties tonight and where you would be? I had a devil of a time finding you.”

I wanted to be alone.

“Just because I wasn't in the mood for dancing and playing the gentleman tonight, I didn't want to spoil anyone else's evening.”

“You are in a temper. Since when do friends spoil each other's evening?”

Recently
, Chandler thought, but said nothing.

“We used to be part of a threesome and we rarely see each other anymore. I would have been here earlier, but this is the last blasted place I thought to look for you. You seldom come here. Is anything wrong?” Fines asked.

“No.”

“Then why are you frowning?”

“Maybe for the same reason you are?”

“I'm frowning because I spent the better part of two hours looking for you.”

Chandler managed a light chuckle. “That should have been a clue that there are times a man doesn't want to be found.”

“I could believe that if you were with a lady but not since you are here at the club.”

“It's just that I've been to parties and balls every night for the past few weeks. I needed a change from smiling, bowing, and dancing.”

“I guess that means you aren't as interested in that Miss Blair as Andrew led me to believe, for surely you would have wanted to see her tonight.”

Chandler stiffened. He started to tell his friend that he didn't want them talking about Millicent, but that would only make matters worse, so he simply said, “I'm not interested in Lady Lambsbeth either, in case you're wondering.”

“No, I was clear on that. You are still worried because the raven hasn't been found, aren't you?”

Chandler's mouth tightened. “Don't start on that, Fines. I'm in no mood for your badgering on a sore subject.”

“It's not me, Dunraven.”

Chandler raised an eyebrow of doubt before putting the rim of his glass to his lips.

“Truly. There's talk on the streets, in the shops, and in the clubs. Everyone at the parties tonight was talking about it.”

“The raven?” Chandler asked incredulously.

“No, no. Not specifically. The Mad Ton Thief. You did hear about the stolen painting that was the size of a large parasol.”

“I heard it was a small.”

“What, the painting or the parasol?”

Chandler grimaced. “What the damnation does it matter, Fines? It's ridiculous for anyone to think the painting walked out of the house by itself or in the hands of a ghost.”

“Of course it is, but you have to admit the rumor is delicious. Can you imagine anyone actually thinking that the thief is Lord Pinkwater's ghost, and he is collecting objects for a house he occupies up on the northern coast?”

“Good Lord. Are you serious?”

“That was the topic of conversation at the parties tonight. According to what I heard it's beginning to be an honor to have something taken by the thief and an affront on the quality of one's possessions if nothing is stolen.”

And he thought being enchanted by a lovely gossipmonger was absurd!

Chandler shook his head, mystified. “I'm certain the robber is a common footpad who has managed to find a gentleman's clothing. How do these outrageous ideas get started?”

“It's called gossip, Dunraven. Ever heard of it?”

“Once too often,” he muttered, then finished off his drink. He nodded to the waiter, who set a glass in front of Fines, to refill his own glass. After the man walked away, Chandler said, “I'm not worried about the raven.”

“Truly?” It was Fines's turn to raise an eyebrow of doubt.

“When the thief is caught, if the raven is not returned, I will simply have another made.”

“He says as his gut wrenches with guilt over having lost the original, knowing one cannot simply replace an Egyptian artifact.”

Chandler's eyes narrowed. There was a time when Fines's mocking comments hadn't bothered him. He'd rather enjoyed them. Not anymore.

“Sometimes you're a bastard, Fines,” he said, but with no real anger in his tone.

Fines laughed. “Yes. Sometimes. Most of the time. But I'm
always
a friend, Dunraven. Never have fear on that account.”

Chandler nodded. Was he fortunate or not to have such a dedicated friend?

“What are you doing to find the golden bird of prey?”

“I'm working with Doulton on it, of course, and I'm working with someone else on the thefts, too,” he said, as thoughts of Millicent returned to his mind as easily and gently as a late summer breeze.

“Who?”

Chandler picked up his drink as Fines nodded to a gentleman who walked by. “I'd rather not say.”

“Since when?”

“In working with this person secrecy is most important.”

“More important than friendship? There was a time we told each other everything.”

“There was a time we did a lot of things together that we no longer do.”

“Yes,” Fines smiled wickedly. “Staying out all night drinking, gambling, and enjoying our latest mistress, then racing our horses most of the day.”

“It's a wonder we didn't kill ourselves.”

“Oh, hell, Dunraven! What's wrong with us? We don't do those sorts of thing anymore. Are we growing into our dotage already?”

Chandler grunted a rueful laugh. “No. But, perhaps we're finally growing up, Fines?”

“Good lord! What an ugly thought.”

“I suppose it's better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Death.”

“Yes, so right you are. Forgot about that.” Fines finished off his drink and glanced around for someone who could bring him another.

Chandler looked at his friend and it struck him that what he'd said so carelessly was true. The reason he didn't want to spend as much time with his friends anymore was because they'd grown up. He had finally grown up.

The undisciplined life he'd once lived no longer appealed to him. He was tired of Town with its crush of people on the streets, the smells, and the carriage congestion. He was tired of the endless parties where people went only to eat, drink, to see and be seen. He wanted to spend more time at one of his estates and ride his horses, not race them. He wanted to sit down to dinner in his own home and eat with his beautiful wife by his side, not dine at the clubs with his friends.

Chandler's thoughts were brought up short when he realized the lovely wife at his side had the face of Millicent Blair.

Andrew must be feeling the call of family responsibility, too, for he'd all but come right out and said that he was looking to make a match before this Season was over. Fines was the one who still seemed to be content as a bachelor.

It also struck Chandler that he didn't want to be sitting here with Fines. He'd rather be dancing with Millicent Blair, which was specifically why he'd avoided the parties tonight. He had to come to some kind of conclusion about her.

He had to think about this logically. He'd never been seriously attracted to a young lady for more than a few days before another would strike his fancy. That gave him reason to believe that his obsession, for that was all it could possibly be, for the surprising Miss Blair would be over within the next week or two.

Yes, he would go back to the parties, dance with her, call on her despite her insistence that he not, and take her for a ride in Hyde Park and St. James, too. In short order he would grow tired of her as he had all the other young ladies who had caught his eye over the years. There was no reason to think that Millicent Blair was different from any of the other beautiful ladies in his past. Absolutely none.

Yes, that idea had merit. Given her employment, he couldn't possibly consider her for a wife. He'd see as much of her as possible and, no doubt, the attraction would wear off quickly. It had to, because right now he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and kiss her again.

***

She hadn't seen him all evening, thought Millicent, as she climbed into the carriage behind Lady Heathecoute. She had danced with several charming young gentlemen and she had enjoyed the parties, but she was constantly searching the dance floor, the supper table, the refreshment table, and the front door for any sign of Lord Dunraven. He had never arrived.

The thought of him drove her to distraction.

Not that she was ever in any doubt, but her infatuation with him confirmed she was her mother's daughter. Even thinking about the earl was madness.

Lord Dunraven had proven himself time and time again to be a rake, following her, kissing her so intimately in the shop and again in her aunt's home. He amazed her. He thrilled her. And she was hopelessly smitten by him. She realized now that she had not been prepared to be pursued by a true scoundrel. For surely Lord Dunraven knew all the tricks.

And maybe she was a fool, but she had believed him when he told her he would not leak to Society that she was a writer of tittle-tattle.

The Heathecoutes always took the seat facing the horses. It didn't matter to Millicent which direction she sat in the carriage.

The viscount climbed in behind Millicent and the footman closed the door. As usual, his lordship immediately laid his head back against the squabs and closed his eyes. It was his habit to nap on the ride home each evening.

Millicent wondered why she hadn't seen Lord Dunraven at any of the parties. It was the first night in more than a week that she hadn't seen him.

He's only trifling with you.

Of course, because that's what scoundrels do.

They woo, flatter, and kiss innocent young ladies until they are pining after the rogues, then they move on to the next unsuspecting young lady and steal her heart, too. Millicent knew all this. She should have been able to resist Lord Dunraven's charms, if for no other reason than what had happened to her mother when she'd lost her heart and reputation over a man of the very same ilk.