Once Upon a Scandal (27 page)

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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

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BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
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“Perhaps you’d better hear what it is first,” she said. “It’s in regard to my costume.”
“Ah, the goddess. If you wish me to play your adoring mortal, I am honored to do so.”
Her eyes sparkled up at him. “Don’t be silly. This is a matter of grave importance.”
“Then, pray, don’t hold me in suspense.”
“I’ve been pondering your idea of a goddess. And the problem is, I suspect half the ladies in attendance will dress as Diana or Aphrodite.”
“Then you shall play Venus. Hair like moonbeams.” He sifted the silken strands through his fingers. “A face to inspire a thousand sonnets to beauty.” He lightly ran his knuckles down her cheek. “A body to drive a mortal man to madness.” Feeling the rise of heat, he caressed her perfect breasts, watched the tips turn to rosy buds.
Laughingly, she caught his wrist. “Lucas, do let me finish. I should like to portray an exotic goddess from a faraway land. And therein lies the favor I must ask.” Her smile lessened, and she regarded him attentively. “May I wear the tiger mask to Vauxhall tonight?”
The request surprised him. Especially considering her antipathy toward the mask that day in the library. Against his will, the old suspicions seeped into his mind, testing the resiliency of his faith in her.
“Thieves and cutthroats prowl any public place,” he said. “I can’t be by your side at every moment.”
“This is a private party. And I’ll be surrounded by the
ton.
I’ve no intention of wandering away.”
“The gold will weigh heavy on your delicate head.”
“I’ll wear it for only a short time,” she said. “Just a few dances. And your valet can wait in the carriage to guard the
mask later. Please, Lucas, I would have the most brilliantly original costume. Only think how amazed everyone will be.”
“They’ll appreciate your beauty more without a mask covering it.” He could have sworn she had changed, that she no longer needed to attract hordes of admirers. Yet he was unable to resist her appealing look. “However, if it pleases you, then yes, you may wear it.”
Closing her eyes, she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it ardently. “Thank you.”
He had the strange, fleeting impression of a desperate relief in her. He told himself he was mistaken. It was an unthinking suspicion brought on by too many years of cynicism. Why would she steal the mask, anyway? Her thieving days were over.
Caressing her hair, he pulled her closer to him, enjoying the softness of her breasts yielding to his chest. Yes, if he truly loved Emma, he had to learn to trust her.
Better he risk losing a priceless mask than her precious heart.
Memoirs of a Burglar
Installment, the Last
… And so my friends, this final tale, like all the others, proves that a man may call himself a gentleman while lacking the honor of the lowliest groom in a stable. Lord J——P——may boast of shooting the Bond Street Burglar, but like all the Scoundrels of Society, he plays deep and uses his superior skills to ruin eager young blades and to gull amiable old men. Though his crime was avenged when I relieved him of his ill-gained bounty, he will forever bear the notoriety of felling the Seeker of Justice.
Aye, one fateful bullet has ended the illustrious career of the Burglar. I bid thee farewell, faithful Readers, and beg only that you shun those Amoral Gamesters who would dupe the Unwary. Beyond an occasional foray to seek the comfort of a Lady, I hereby retire myself.
Lord Anon, known as the Bond Street Burglar
“
T
he tall one with the ginger hair must be the Burglar,” declared a rather stout lady dressed in the flowing white robes of Aphrodite. She nodded toward one of the many black-clad revelers at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. “How
dashing he looks. Why, even his cravat is the color of midnight.”
“That is Lord Gerald Mannering, and he’s far too thin and lofty,” Miss Minnie Pomfret informed the group of awestruck ladies. “The Burglar is a smaller, stronger man. A most charming gentleman.” She lowered her voice. “As you know, he makes forays to visit his chosen ladies.”
A collective sigh swept the gathering, followed by a delirious gasp from Miss Pomfret. Garbed like a gawky Roman statue, she clasped her hands to her flat bosom. “Oh, my stars, it’s him. The masked man standing below the orchestra box.”
The stout lady raised her lorgnette. “But who is he? We simply must determine his real name.” In a twitter of excitement, she and the other women rushed into the throng of dancers and revelers.
Emma lingered alone in the shadows of a giant beech tree. She held the tiger mask in the crook of her arm. Her costume was a deep golden brown, and a hood comprised of the same dark hue concealed her pale hair. Certain she could not be detected in the gloom, she dawdled, watching the festivities for a moment and wishing she could be so carefree.
The lights of a thousand colored lanterns twinkled down from the grandstand. The traditional Guy Fawkes bonfires burned at the perimeter of the dancing area and warmed the chilly air. At least half of the gentlemen present wore black in imitation of the Bond Street Burglar. It made for an amusing sight. There were stout Burglars and skinny ones, swaggering Burglars and bashful ones. Some wore masks of ebony silk; others a more elaborate hooded cape. She’d like to see how many of these pampered noblemen could manage a narrow ledge four stories above the ground. At midnight, no less, and hampered by rain or fog.
And then her merriment vanished as she wondered which—if any—of these aristocrats was the blackmailer.
In a moment, she would have to make the exchange and betray her husband. She had to go now, while Lucas led an elderly duchess in the steps of a country dance. He looked
magnificent in the peacock-blue robe of a maharajah, a golden turban upon his dark hair. A demimask made of peacock feathers hid his handsome features. How she longed to be whirling in his arms, lighthearted and happy … .
“Plottin’ yer next burglary, m’lady?”
The voice startled her. Jolted by dismay, she turned to find herself staring into the sly features of Clive Youngblood. The pigeon-breasted man wore his usual drab brown coat and battered top hat. He rocked back and forth on his heels as if he’d made a great discovery.
Little did he know.
With effort she composed herself. “Present your invitation, sir,” she said icily. “This is a private party.”
“Don’t get ‘igh and mighty wid me.” The Runner stepped closer and whistled. “’Hain’t that the tiger mask yer ’oldin’? The one what’s worth a king’s ransom?” His drooping eyelid blinked in suspicion. “Does yer ’usband know you ’ave it?”
“Naturally. In case you failed to notice, everyone is wearing a mask.” She waved a graceful hand at the crush of dancers, the many black-clad men squiring white-gowned goddesses. “By the by, this is your golden opportunity to find the Burglar. You’ve plenty to choose from.”
Youngblood scowled, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. He hitched his thumbs in his lapels. “Well, now. I might be lookin’ fer yer grandsire.”
“Then do run along. Before my husband notices you’re badgering me.”
She thought his face paled in the gloom. Casting a wary glance at the dancers, he said, “I do got business t’ tend to.”
Her knees weak with relief, she watched him scuttle away, skirting the edge of the throng. He was heading away from Grandpapa, thank goodness.
Miss Pomfret and her court of ladies had reached their black-garbed quarry. Like a swarm of bees, they surrounded Lord Briggs. Even over the noise of the orchestra, Emma could hear his chortle of laughter. Dear Grandpapa. He did so enjoy the speculation, the notoriety, the queries about being the celebrated Burglar. These days, to keep the ladies
guessing, he never so much as looked at a deck of cards. He’d been so lonely after Grandmama’s death. What a boon the
Memoirs
had been to his spirits.
The music stopped. The dancers would be seeking their next partners. Unable to spy Lucas in the crowd, Emma wondered if he had noted her absence yet. Pray God she could make the exchange before he realized she was gone. Pray God he would believe her trumped-up story that the tiger mask had been stolen from her.
Resolutely, she turned and headed down one of the many walkways that wended through the trees. The weather had cleared and the moon shone against the starry sky, though the air was damp and chilly, rich with the scent of autumn leaves. Jewel-bright lanterns were strung from tree branches to illuminate the path. A layer of straw had been spread over the muddy earth to protect the ladies from soiling their slippers.
Emma kept her head down as she passed a few strolling couples who had wandered away from the main party to steal a moment alone. She had been one of them once. On that long-ago night seven years ago, she had gone off for a promenade with a laughing group of young gentlemen and ladies. She had been a foolish girl, eager to taste life, impatient with proprieties, and when one penniless swain enticed her into lagging behind, she had gone with him. She did not now even recall his name. She remembered only that he had kissed her, fallen to his knees and begged for her hand in marriage, and with a few arrogant words of refusal she’d sent him packing. Heedless and headstrong, she had stormed off the opposite way, down a darkened path … .
A wave of dizziness washed over Emma. It had happened here at Vauxhall on a warm summer night. Stupidly, she had struck off alone along a deserted track, much like the one she entered now.
There were no lanterns here, and gloom lay thick over the gardens. Clutching the tiger mask, Emma walked slowly, aware of the beating of her heart. Surely it was only her imagination that caused her eerie sense of foreboding. Scores
of little pathways crisscrossed the gardens. This could not be the same one. The coincidence would be too hideous.
Her feet splashed through a puddle, soaking her slippers. She scarcely noticed the cold wetness. Ahead, something white glinted through the darkened trees. The same ghostly gleam she had glimpsed that other night. Then, as now, the merry splashing of a fountain masked the distant noise of the orchestra.
She forced herself to keep walking, though a pall of horror descended over her. As if it were yesterday, she remembered her delight at stumbling upon an airy little temple with stone pillars. The same temple that loomed before her now, with dark ivy climbing up the white marble and inside, the statue of a goddess.
The temple of Daphne.
Earlier, a bored attendant had pointed out the pathway to her. Emma had never dreamed it was the place of her nightmare. She had never known the name of it, one of many rustic shrines scattered throughout the gardens.
It was an appalling mischance. Her blackmailer could not have known the implications of the rendezvous he had chosen. Or could he?
Ice prickled down her spine. Had he been watching that night? Had he seen Lord Andrew violate her?
Her stomach crawled. Was he even now observing her from the nearby bushes? Or from the murky depths of the temple?
She could not go on. Her feet were rooted to the ground. Every instinct screamed at her to run. To run as far and as fast as she could. To flee the danger of the present as much as the demons of the past.
But to do so was to lose Lucas. Her love for him gave her strength. She had to fetch that letter and burn it.
Gripping the heavy tiger mask, she cautiously approached the temple. She glanced around, but saw only the darkness of the trees. Slowly she mounted the marble steps, half expecting to find a man slumped on the stone bench within,
his head in his hands, the gold trim on his blue uniform glinting in the shadows … .
He was weeping. Deep, wrenching sobs of raw emotion. She paused, paralyzed by compassion and awkwardness. Never before had she witnessed such undisguised pain in a man. He thought he was alone, unobserved.
She backed away. He must have caught her movement, for his head shot up and he stared, his face wet with tears.
With a jolt, she recognized him. Lord Andrew Coulter. She had thought him a handsome and entertaining man, always smiling, ever ready with a witty remark. But not now. Now his expression showed a harsh, unsightly anguish.
He said nothing. The moment seemed to pulse with some unnamed intensity, something savage, beyond her ken.
She took a clumsy step backward, bumping into a column.
“
I—I
”
He lunged off the bench. Before she could even recoil in surprise, he seized her by the waist and propelled her down onto the stone floor, at the base of the statue. His body slammed onto hers. For an instant, she lay there, stunned. Then she panicked, lashing out with her fists, sucking in air for a scream.
His hand clamped over her mouth.
“
God help me,
”
he said in a guttural tone.
“
Don’t fight … .
”
Breathing hard, he yanked up her skirts. The shock of it galvanized her. Shoving, kicking, biting, she battled his feral attack. His relentless fingers tore at her undergarments. Cool air slapped her naked flesh. Then a brutal thrust of his hips hurled her into a hell of fiery pain.
She thought he’d plunged a knife into her. Tears stung her eyes, tears of agony and hysteria. Her fists beat against his straining muscles, but he was oblivious to her blows. Grunting and muttering, he rammed into her, again and again and again.
“I want—I need—a woman—only this—nothing more—nothing—
”
He jerked and cried out, panting harshly. Then he rolled off her and lay prone on the floor of the temple, his face
buried in his arms. While she huddled at the base of the pedestal, shaking and burning … .
Emma trembled now, dizzy from the memory. She stood inside the shadows of the temple, gazing at the very spot where Andrew had raped her. The pale square of a folded paper lay on the floor, beneath the statue of the beauteous Daphne, begging her father to save her from Apollo’s passion.
The old feeling of helplessness choked Emma, along with a rising rage, a tempest of anger at the man who had ended her innocence. He had not even seemed to notice her weeping that night as she’d dragged herself to her feet, clutched the torn gown around her blood-smeared thighs, and stumbled away to her carriage.
My abominable behavior has tormented me ever since … I am damned to the fires of Hell.
The words he had written fed her fury. He knew nothing of torment. Nothing of suffering scorn, of facing pregnancy alone and in disgrace, through no fault of her own. “Curse him,” she said aloud.
And now, just when she’d found happiness once more, Andrew was reaching out from the grave to hurt her again. Him, and whoever sought to use the ruinous apology he had committed to paper. “Curse them both!”
Half-blinded by tears, she dropped the tiger mask and snatched up the letter. She rushed out of the temple, down the steps, and into the moonlight. She paused only long enough to ascertain that she possessed the genuine letter. Crushing it in her palm, she headed for the trees. Her only thought was to find a lantern on a deserted path. She’d burn the evidence. And Lucas would never know. He would never, ever know.
Suddenly, as she ran headlong down the shadowed path, she saw him.
Despite the gloom, there was no mistaking the peacock-blue of his costume or his tall, princely form. He had discarded his mask. He surged toward her, the haste of his strides betraying his concern.
It was too late to flee. But Emma didn’t care. She wanted only to feel her husband’s arms around her, safe and warm and strong.

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