Once Upon a Scandal (5 page)

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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

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BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
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Yes. The scheme had merit.
Emma threw back the covers. The bare floorboards chilled her feet as she went to the dressing table, where she sat down on the stool and unbraided her hair. Her mind grappled with the problem of how to approach the elder Lady Wortham without being tossed out on her ear.
Jenny took up the old tortoiseshell brush and began to groom her mother’s hair with the sober concentration that made her seem older than her years. Six going on twenty, Maggie often said fondly. Emma agreed, though with less enthusiasm.
“Mama, when I grow up, I should like to work as an abigail. But Maggie says I cannot be a servant. I must be a lady.”
“Mm-hmm. You were born a lady.” Smiling, Emma poked through the jumble of ribbons and cosmetic pots in the drawer. “My own Lady Jenny.”
“Maggie says my papa is the Marquess of Wortham. He has just come back from a long trip to heathen lands.”
Emma’s heart lurched. Dropping a handful of hairpins back into the drawer, she looked up to see her daughter’s gravely curious eyes reflected in the age-speckled mirror. Seldom had Jenny expressed more than a passing interest in her father; she had been satisfied with the vague explanation
that he had gone away on an extended journey. “Yes, lambkin, he’s returned.”
“Why has he not come to live with us, then? Doesn’t he know where to find us?”
“Lord Wortham and I quarreled a very long time ago—before you were even born,” Emma said carefully. “We decided it was best if we lived apart.”
“Agnes Pickett says I should hang my head in shame, for I haven’t any father at all.” Jenny’s voice lowered to a forlorn whisper. “She says that’s why his lordship doesn’t come to see me. Because he is not really my papa.”
The words plunged like a red-hot lance into Emma’s breast, and the pain of it spawned an unreasoning anger. Curse Lucas! How could he hurt this dear child?
Swiveling on the stool, she gently clasped her daughter’s arms. The time to explain things had finally come. Did she have the right words? She had rehearsed them many times, but now they flew out of her mind.
She spoke with motherly fervor. “Agnes Pickett is a cruel, thoughtless girl. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Then who is my papa? Don’t I have one?”
Her fingers trembling, Emma stroked a springy chestnut curl off Jenny’s brow. Silently begging God’s forgiveness for the lie, Emma said, “I loved someone else before I wed Lord Wortham. That man is your true father. He died before we could marry.”
“Did he love me?”
“He didn’t even know you existed.” That much at least was true. Swallowing hard, Emma forced her lips into a reassuring smile. “But I’m certain he would have been proud to have you for a daughter. How could anyone resist a sweet girl who saves her bread crusts for the swans?”
She tickled Jenny, who dropped the brush and lapsed into a fit of giggling. Then, while Emma dressed, Jenny chattered about their outing, choosing a serviceable gown of garter-blue from the clothes press and imploring her mother to make haste.
To Emma’s relief, the little girl asked no more difficult questions.
Blast the gossips, Emma thought fiercely, as she searched the drawers of a highboy for her only decent pair of kid gloves. Seven years had passed and still people spoke of the scandal as if it were yesterday. She cringed to think of Jenny fending off callous remarks about her birth.
How many more times would she endure taunts and teasing? Emma couldn’t protect her forever. The thought rendered Emma breathless with despair, and she leaned against the opened drawer, the edge pressing into her abdomen.
She must remarry. With Sir Woodrow, she and Jenny could find a quiet, respectable life away from London, in a rural district where no one had heard-of the scandal. A place where she could keep her grandfather away from the gaming tables, too.
And there was still the matter of the five hundred pounds he had lost. The mere thought of resuming her masquerade as the Bond Street Burglar made her blood run cold. The risks were too great, considering the danger of leaving Jenny an orphan.
Perhaps, Emma thought, she could bend her pride and negotiate a settlement after all. Five hundred pounds for accepting the blame for the divorce. She would call on the dowager today and make the arrangements.
And if Lucas didn’t agree?
Recalling his implacable brown eyes, Emma resisted a shiver of misgivings. Yesterday he had been angry, unwilling to listen to reason. Once he had time to think on the matter, he might reconsider. Yes. He would see the benefit of ending their mockery of a marriage.
“Here, Mama!” Jenny waved the gloves in triumph. “I found them behind the bedside table. You forgot to put them in the drawer again.”
“Ah.” Smiling, Emma took the gloves. “Whatever would I do without you to look after me?”
Jenny glowed at the praise. Arm in arm, they went out into the passageway, and Emma found herself looking forward
to an outing in the sunshine, to a morning when her plans again held the promise of success.
Lord Briggs hailed them from the bottom of the narrow staircase. “Hurry on down here, my two pretty treasures. I’ve a surprise for you.”
Rubbing his hands in fidgety glee, he fairly danced with impatience by the newel post. He wore a drab black suit and no cravat, and his white hair was disheveled as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it. Suspicion niggled at Emma. She had not seen him so excited since the time he’d won a hundred pounds and had brought home a fancy carriage that had cost two hundred.
Jenny skipped down the stairs, her slippers kicking up the back of her blue-green skirt. “What is it, Great-grandpapa?” “Go into the drawing room and see for yourself. ’Tis a present.”
“A present! Hooray!” Jenny flew across the foyer and threw open the drawing room doors.
Emma descended at a more sedate pace. As she passed Lord Briggs, she whispered, “I trust this has nothing to do with the breaking of certain vows.”
“A pox upon your distrustful mind,” he said, grinning. “I’ve done nothing, young lady, but follow in your own fine footsteps. And solved all of our problems in the process.”
Emma had but a moment to ponder his puzzling words when Jenny stuck her head out of the drawing room. “Mama, come look! It’s a tiger.”
A tiger?
Confused, Emma hastened across the foyer, her shoes tapping on the wood floor. Sunlight poured past the opened draperies of the drawing room and accented the shabby state of the furnishings. In the middle of the threadbare carpet, she came to a halt, frozen by the sight of Jenny touching a head-shaped object that lay upon the faded cushions of a chaise.
In the morning sunshine, the diamonds glinted a cold, hard yellow in between stripes of brown jasper. The emerald-rimmed eyes glowed like an omen of disaster.
Her grandfather had done the unforgivable. He had stolen the priceless tiger mask from Lucas.
I
t was a dreadful night for thievery.
Not, of course, that she had robbery in mind, Emma grimly reminded herself. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Balancing on a ledge high above the ground, she gritted her teeth and kept her eyes trained on her destination at the end of the row of town houses. Silvery moonlight painted the rooftops in stark detail, the chimneypots and iron railings and dormer windows. And a ledge so narrow it would give pause to a cat.
Fear froze her muscles to the verge of paralysis. The black domino over her face limited her vision. The scar on her shoulder ached, reminding her of the last time she had played the Burglar.
The thought was enough to make her shudder. By sheer strength of will, she inched her slipper-clad feet along the slim projection.
She must do this. She
had
to do this. Breaking into Lucas’s house in the middle of the night was the only way to return the tiger mask with no one the wiser.
The black pouch holding the artifact was belted securely to her waist. With each step she took, the heavy mask thudded against her thigh as if it were a live thing that struggled to get free.
A chill wind moaned through the treetops, wafting coal smoke that stung her eyes. There was no fog to hide her
tonight. She imagined her small, black-clad form silhouetted against the eaves, and her skin prickled. At any moment, someone might shout from below, a servant perhaps, or a resident of one of the elegant homes that lined Wortham Square.
Or worse, Clive Youngblood.
God help her if she were caught in the act, for she’d get no help from Lucas. He’d grown so coldhearted he might give her straight into the custody of the magistrate at the Bow Street Station. The scandal-hungry public would clamor for a conviction. Her shady reputation would seal her fate. Grandpapa might end up in prison himself. Jenny would be left alone.
Her heart wrenched. What would become of her little girl?
Emma’s fury at her grandfather had erupted like lava, then cooled to bleak resolution. He couldn’t seem to accept that she had stolen enough from her husband already. And to take the tiger mask! With all the luck he lacked at the gaming tables, Lord Briggs had found an unlocked window and slipped into the library the previous night. A window which had now been secured—she had ascertained that much for herself.
At last she reached the scrolled ironwork along the rooftop of Wortham House. For all their locking of doors and windows on the ground floor, residents of London seldom barred the upper-story windows. Of course, people might have become more cautious in the five months since the wounded Bond Street Burglar had fled along the rooftops.
She hoped not. Earlier in the day, Emma’s faithful footman, George, had taken up a spy post in the mews. He had reported the arrival of a party of guests from the country—Lucas’s eldest sister, Olivia, her husband, and their three children. Remembering her friendship with the outspoken Olivia, Emma felt an ache in her chest, which she immediately banished. Emotion made a person careless. She needed to concentrate.
Gripping the stone coping, she sidled past a chimney. By this hour, the family should be fast asleep. Except for Lucas,
who was gone from the house. George had reported seeing the marquess’s carriage drive away in late evening.
Where had Lucas gone? To his mistress? Was he even now lifting her skirts and subjecting her to his lust? Did some women like it?
Emma’s foot slipped, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Catching a dizzying view of the moonlit garden below, she clutched at the dormer window and willed her heart to slow its pounding.
Enough
, she told herself.
Don’t let yourself get distracted
.
Think only of putting the mask back where it belongs.
Confidence trickled back into her. She would tiptoe through the darkened house, replace the mask in the safe, and then retrace her steps. Her husband would never know the mask was missing. Tomorrow, with the incriminating evidence out of her possession, she would seek the cooperation of the dowager. Lucas would come to his senses and agree to the divorce.
Emma went to work on one of the attic windows. The latch gave way to the wire she inserted, and the casement swung outward on well-oiled hinges. She hoisted herself over the sill, careful of the sack hanging at her side, and dropped lightly to the floor.
She stayed in a crouch, listening. The darkness seethed with silence. She could hear no snoring to indicate a sleeping servant. With any luck, the room was unoccupied.
Peering through the domino that concealed the upper half of her face, Emma crept deeper into the shadows, skirting the black lumps of furniture. There was nothing to be afraid of. She had done this many times before. She had only to take her time and move quietly—
Something squeaked nearby.
She swung toward the sound, the mask clanging against a chair. Dear God.
Dear God
. A gunman could be hiding here, watching her. She would never know until the bullet exploded—
Then came the scratch of tiny, running feet.
A mouse.
She melted against the wall in relief.
What a craven ninny you’ve become, Emma Wortham.
Scoffing at herself, she felt her way across the bare floorboards. A lamp or candle had been left burning in the passageway outside. The faint yellow light showed the rectangular shape of the door.
Her hand closed around the cold knob. As she turned it, another sound surged from the darkness. The deep, throaty noise raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
It was a human groan.
In a leased house miles from Mayfair, Lucas lay beside his mistress. His body was sated, yet a relentless shame gnawed at him. He clenched a handful of bed linens. Christ, he owed Emma nothing, least of all faithfulness to vows made under false pretenses. He would honor the woman who cherished him.
Not a lying bitch.
In a whisper of movement, Shalimar rose from the bed, donned her
pheran,
and padded to the fireplace. As if they were back in the mountains of Kashmir, she squatted before the hearth and brewed tea in a samovar. Lucas forced himself to relax. He had everything he wanted. A mistress who satisfied his every physical whim, who never made unreasonable demands. A companion he could trust.
Her silver earrings and bangles clinking musically, Shalimar served him a cup of cinnamon-scented green tea. Then she fetched another cup, sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, and blew at the hot liquid. If she guessed at his torment, she showed no sign of it. Her serenity was one of the qualities that had drawn him to her. There was nothing artificial about her, no false smiles or helpless pretense. An inscrutable calm smoothed her face, and no one but he would have detected the hint of sadness in her gaze.
He had been so caught up in his own troubles he had nearly forgotten the sorrow that ruled her life. Setting down his teacup, Lucas drew her onto the bed. “Have faith,” he
murmured. “I’ve three men searching every theater in London. We’ll find your son soon.”
“Tomorrow, I must search, too. Lest I go mad.”
“We’ll look together, then.”
Taking his hand, she lowered her forehead to the back of it. “My lord, you have another destiny. You must answer the call of the tiger god.”
He frowned at her bowed head. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She straightened up, and her eyes shone like dark diamonds in the glow of the fire. “The mask bestows fertility upon its owner. I realize now it was not meant for you and me. It belongs to you and your English wife.”
Her words hit him like a fist in his gut. Jerking his hand free, he leapt off the bed. “That is superstitious nonsense. I’ve no intention of keeping the mask. It will go in a museum where many people can appreciate its beauty.”
“You cannot!” Shalimar blurted out in rare reproach. “The mask is sacred. A gift of the gods.”
“It was a gift to me by the maharajah, to do with as I will.”
He stalked to the heap of his clothing and snatched up his breeches. To his disgust, he had emerged from his mistress’s bed still burning with the dark, driving need to possess Emma. He yearned to lie naked with her, to sink into her heat, to feel her soft and submissive body accept the essence of himself. He wanted to impregnate his wife.
Damn her heartless soul to hell.
Shalimar sank to the floor in front of him. “Master, I beg a thousand pardons for offending you. I wish only to make you happy.”
Her long, black hair fanned out on the rug and framed her willowy body. Unaccountably annoyed by her servile posture, he lifted Shalimar to her feet. “For God’s sake, I
am
happy.”
To prove it, he pulled her into his arms. She felt familiar and comfortable, her almond scent evoking a pleasant warmth in him. He pictured himself introducing her to his
mother and his sisters, and his mouth twisted bitterly. They would sooner welcome Emma back into the family fold than accept his attachment to a lowly foreigner.
Did he want Shalimar to share the English part of his life, anyway?
Guilt nagged at him. His ambivalence was due to no fault in her. Even if he were free, he did not wish to marry again. Emma had cured him of that particular craving.
He finished dressing and bade Shalimar good-bye. Outside, he motioned to his coachman. “Return to Wortham House. I’ve decided to walk.”
The servant doffed his black top hat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but the streets can be dangerous.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Lucas said dismissively.
“Aye, m’lord.” The burly man flicked the reins, and the pair of matched bays drew the coach down the road, hooves clopping and harness jingling until the sound disappeared into the night.
Lucas strode through the quiet neighborhood, a new development of small brick houses with cottage-type gardens. It must be well past midnight The moonlight cast a pearly sheen over the pavement, making the shadows beneath the trees denser. As black as his thoughts.
He despised Emma for more than the unforgivable trick she’d played on him. He hated remembering the lovestruck boy who had once believed in miracles. She had made him feel tongue-tied and gauche, as if he did not suit her sophisticated tastes.
Even at eighteen, Emma had favored the wild bucks, the aristocrats who lived on the edge of society. He himself had never possessed a ready wit or an interest in wagering. He had trouble conversing with strangers. That was why he’d been astonished when she had chosen him from her many suitors.
He had been awestruck by her beauty, her air of fragile femininity, and he had walked straight into her spider’s web. She’d spun the silk of her charm around him, and he’d only
realized her deadly intent when she had sucked the blood from his heart.
Emma had never desired him. Her skittish reaction to him two days ago had proven he still disgusted her.
He took in a lungful of bracing night air. Her opinion of him shouldn’t hurt. He wouldn’t let it. His affection for her was long dead, buried beneath the dirt of her deceit. To hell with the tiger mask and its reputed powers. He didn’t want a son from Emma. A child would only bind them together.
Though it rankled him to agree with her, divorce was the next logical step. The matter could be resolved with a suit to establish her infidelity, then a petition to Parliament. No peer in the House of Lords would stand in his way. An immoral wife posed too great a threat to the succession of his title. Then Emma would be gone from his life. Forever.
Yet as he crossed a deserted side road, he pictured her in bed, her fair hair loose on the pillows. She’d be wearing a sheer gown that revealed her womanly curves. She would be smiling, holding out her arms to …
To her latest lover. Surely a siren like Emma didn’t sleep alone.
I haven’t the least notion who fathered my Jenny. He could have been any one of a dozen men.
God knew how many times she had cuckolded him. She must have learned some method of birth prevention, else she would have spawned many more bastards. Her latest conquest was Sir Woodrow Hickey. Did the enraptured fool lie beside her at this very moment?
A violent resentment throbbed in Lucas. If ever he saw Emma again, he wouldn’t trust himself in her presence. He’d be tempted to show her exactly how a wife should behave. He’d take her to bed, take what she’d given freely to a succession of lovers. And he’d make damned certain she forgot all men but her husband.
Emma stood stock-still. A moment ago, the groan had nearly scared her out of her skin. She waited, straining to see into the gloom.
A snuffling snore came from the left. Bed ropes creaked heavily. A manservant was asleep in the attic room, that was all.
Step by careful step, she edged out the door. The mask bumped against her thigh as if to remind her of her mission. Without awakening the servant, she slipped into the corridor.

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