Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (5 page)

Deep in thought, he appeared much less English. He did not look sideways to see her reaction as he read, did not puff out his chest or square his shoulders to impress her as she waited. He lacked the
beau
monde
's usual jittery joviality—or perhaps it would be better to say that he possessed a stillness entirely foreign to most men Augusta knew. His arched brows knit, and the crease between them carved his profile into something starker—a high forehead and high-bridged nose, full lips, and a stern chin.

And smoky dark and sweet, the scent of sandalwood that made her want to draw closer, to tuck her head into the line of his shoulder and breathe in deeply. A longing caught her, so sudden and enticing that she had to step away lest her body betray her by swaying too close.

No. He wasn't the man she needed. She needed someone pliant and agreeable and ultimately disposable.

He looked up from the paper. “I am impressed by this list, Augusta. How do you come to know of these men?”

“I read the guest book and saw that they were in Bath. I've been avoiding them all week so they wouldn't see me and call me by my real name.”

Refolding the paper, he fixed her with a look. “That is not what I meant. How do you happen to be acquainted with them?”

“Oh. I've always known them.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her bonnet ribbon, fumbling for an explanation. “They are powerful men of business. And I'm Meredith Beauty, or all that's left of it.”

Dark eyes flicked over her figure; his mouth curved with humor. “It's nice to meet a woman who's confident in her appeal.”

She waved a hand, hating that her cheeks flushed. A blushing redhead was a tower of clashing color. “I'm talking of cosmetics and lotions and perfumes, not myself. My father named the company for himself. As he built it, and our fortune, I came to know many of the men he knows. Knew.” She shuddered away the gray sense of loss. “I was the only child of my parents. All the knowledge they had to impart, they tipped into my head.”

“A beautiful vessel for Meredith Beauty.”

“Stop that. You told me you'd be serious. I'm just trying to explain an answer to a question
you
asked.”

Composing his features, he nodded. “I beg your pardon. It's rather a habit of mine.”

“Mocking someone while appearing to give compliments? Yes, I know it's a habit, and it's an unsettling one.”

“Is it really? And yet I am attempting to smooth along our conversation. Unfortunately, my dear make-believe widow, the course of conversation never does run smoothly with you.”

“Maybe because we know a bit too much about one another for that sort of playacting.”

“Maybe.” He took a half step toward her, erasing the distance she had placed between them, and a strange expression crossed his face. Something wistful or weary or angry, but which, she couldn't tell. “Or maybe we don't know enough. And as we are just coming to know one another, every word carries a great deal of weight.”

Unpredictable man—yet so far, with words alone, she had kept him at a safe distance. Now as he drew closer, she stepped back again, remembering the curious crowds around them. At an arm's length away, that odd expression of his tugged at her less deeply, and she could no longer distinguish his scent of sandalwood.

Which was good.

Not that sandalwood was anything to become bothered about, or eager or curious. It was nothing but an aromatic oil distilled from a tree. There was nothing to Joss's credit about choosing it. One might just as well compliment Augusta for possessing silk gowns, when the silkworms and dressmakers had done all the hard work of creating her clothing.

Yet she wondered why he had chosen sandalwood. How he had come by it. The heiress to Meredith Beauty couldn't help but notice such a scent.

He must have noticed her step backward or some play of emotions over her face in turn. “What is the matter, fidgeting woman? You do not say so, but I think I must owe you a list.”

“A list?” She had no idea what he meant.

“A
list
, yes. A list of potential lovers in exchange for your list of sources. Four possibilities would be a fair exchange for the four names you provided, though it seems excessive, does it not? Even for a widow, I mean. Surely one name would do.”

Another blush tainted her cheeks. “You told me you'd be serious. We just discussed this.”

“I
am
being serious. I do seriously believe that you ought not to take four lovers.”

“Speak more quietly, please.” Myriad conversations filled the Pump Room, but one never knew whose ears would catch an enticing overheard snippet like
four
lovers
. “And I was never considering such an action.”

“It would be more than one action. It would be at least four.”

A laugh and a gasp fought their way from her throat together, and the result was—alas—a splutter. Augusta pressed her lips together, as though that could undo the sound.

Joss grinned, lifting his hands in supplication. “All right, I wasn't being
entirely
serious. You must give me time to identify the perfect fellow for you, my dear fake widow. I haven't yet spoken to many people in Bath.”

“Let us remedy that right now. I'll fetch Lady Tallant, so the three of us can go make our obeisance to the master of ceremonies. Then all of Bath society will see how much we adore your company.”

“Oh? And how much is that, precisely?” she heard him ask, but she was already flouncing away and pretended not to hear.

Because this was only a matter of business.

And because she could not reply when she did not know the answer herself.

“I think,” said Emily, handing a cup of tea to Augusta, “that this morning's visit to the Pump Room went rather well.”

“Hmm.” Augusta set the saucer aside, pressing her fingertips to the heat of the fragile china cup. Though the yellow-papered drawing room of the Queen Square house was bright and compact, not even a leaping coal fire could banish the feeling of cold. The early March chill crept in through every seam in the house: prying at window frames and doorways, whistling down chimneys. This winter was much milder than last year, but the drizzle! My God. Augusta hadn't felt warm since 1815.

Except in the Upper Rooms the previous night.

“And sometime this afternoon,” Emily continued as she poured out strong black tea for herself, “Mr. Everett has promised to pay a call on us. On you, I rather think.”

“You are sounding much like your old self,” Augusta observed. “Something is raising your spirits. Is it the mineral waters or the interference in my affairs?”

Emily adopted an expression of angelic innocence, and she sat straighter in her button-backed slipper chair. “I simply take an interest in what's going on in my house.” She coughed with great dramatic force. “Though at the moment I am feeling a bit ill. I might have to leave you alone with him when he calls. As an invalid, I need my rest, you know.”

“So much coughing. A new symptom? I was not aware you were suffering from a lung ailment.”

Over the rim of her teacup, Emily shot Augusta a mischievous look. “It's whatever type of ailment I need it to be. If my health is going to render my life more difficult, it might as well render it more entertaining too.”

Augusta smiled. “By making sport of me?”

“Of course. That's the main benefit of being an invalid. One may get away with all sorts of inconsiderate acts.” A thump sounded from below, and Emily set down her teacup at once. “Now if you'll pardon me, I find myself exhausted.”

“That wasn't the door knocker. It sounded like a servant tripping over furniture.”

“Oh. In that case, I feel fine. For a little while longer.” Emily settled against the tawny fabric of her chair, looking at Augusta expectantly across the tea table. “Meddling does improve my spirits, at that. It makes me feel as though there's a bit of the old me left.”

“You are still you, Emily.” The words tripped from Augusta's tongue easily; she must have heard them recently.

Oh. Yes. From Joss Everett.

At the time, she'd thought he was mocking her for her false identity. But those same words, spoken to Emily, seemed to give comfort. The countess's lips curved. “Sometimes I almost feel that I am. I must work on freeing that old Emily and making her stronger.”

“Shall you feed yourself beef tea? Beefsteak? Er…beef…pudding? Beef ice?”

“I see you attended to the doctor's instructions about nourishing foods. But if you ever present me with a beef ice, you will find yourself wearing it.” Too quickly, Emily's smile faded.

Always, it seemed, the memory of loss lurked, ever ready to pounce, to claw at one's heart, to drain one of strength. One could hope to leash it for a short while with laughter and distraction, but not even these were infallible.

Augusta scooted to the edge of her armchair, setting her cup on the tea tray. “It's easier during the day, isn't it?”

“Pretending? Or forgetting?” Emily pulled in a shuddery breath. “Both, you mean. Both.”

“Yes. Both.” Without the teacup bleeding warmth, Augusta's fingers felt a little numb. “Maybe that's why people rise so early in Bath. Not because a morning bath is particularly healthful, but—”

“Because they want to make the night end,” Emily finished. “Yes. I thought I could get away from the grief. I thought if I just left London, if I came somewhere new, I would leave it behind.”

“
But
you
are
still
you
,” Augusta murmured again. The mouth she imagined speaking the words was creased with bitter humor; the dark eyes wry.

Everyone wanted to flee something. That was why they ended up in Bath—a city for those who needed to become stronger.

Emily had apparently taken Augusta's quiet words as a reply. “What can we do about it, then?” A hint of shadow flitted across her face.

“About being ourselves?” Augusta laughed, quick and mirthless. “I've no idea. I have no advice to give.”

“Rubbish. You advised Mr. Everett this morning, did you not?”

This laugh came a little more naturally. “I did, so that might be our answer. I shall throw myself into the world of business, and you shall pry into my private affairs.”

Emily's lips twitched. “I am equal to that task.”

“Our problems are solved, then. I am delighted to hear it.”

“But you'll have to make it worth my while to pry, Augusta. Do something quite entertaining, now that you're pretending to be a widow. Cause a scandal. Become the talk of Bath.”

“If I do that, no prying into my affairs will be required,” Augusta said lightly. “You would be very bored if I became the talk of Bath. I must keep my scandals quiet, so that you may have a challenge to occupy you.”

Surely taking a lover would serve the purpose. Someone attractive but bland, whom she could make use of and then drop. Someone no one would know of except her.

And the man in question, of course.

And maybe Emily, if the countess's bloodhound-like gift for sniffing out secrets did not fail her. But Emily had forgiven Augusta's past trespasses; maybe she would also pardon those yet to come.

“So is Mr. Everett calling on you this afternoon for business or for scandal?” Emily asked. “I dearly hope it is the latter.”

At the thought of seeing Joss again so soon, excitement pulsed, unexpected, in her veins. “I am sorry to disappoint any hope, especially a dear one. But this is only a call of business.”

“But he is Lord Sutcliffe's man of business. How can he work for you too? No, he must be calling for some dark and delicious purpose. You cannot deceive me. Every time you try to keep a secret, you turn pink as a berry, or you avoid looking at me.”

“Mr. Everett does not work
for
me.” Augusta devoted careful scrutiny to a plate of assorted biscuits, then pushed it across the tea table in Emily's direction. “He is working
with
me. On something for Lord Sutcliffe. That he needs help with.”

“How kind of you to be so helpful to an acquaintance. And you ask nothing in return?” Emily picked up a macaroon and crumbled the edge. “That is selfless indeed. Selfless to an unusual degree, or so it seems to me. But perhaps this is the sort of thing Mrs. Flowers enjoys.”

Augusta's mouth opened, then decided simply to close again without speaking.

“Did I say pink? I ought to have said red, because you have turned the most lovely shade,” Emily observed. “I am trying to decide if it is more like a ruby or a garnet.”

“Eat your macaroon,” Augusta managed.

Emily reached out her hand, and before Augusta realized what the countess was doing, she found the macaroon pressed into her own palm. “You eat it instead, Augusta. Sweeten your speech before your caller arrives.”

With a shuddery sigh, Emily rose to her feet. When Augusta made to follow, she said, “No, no, don't stand, Mrs. Flowers. I really do need a bit of rest, but you must stay here to welcome our caller.”

“I—you—but—”

The countess did not deign to respond to this incoherence. Instead, she made her way to the doorway of the room, her step a bit quicker than it had been this morning. The rest—and beefsteak, maybe—were improving her health, even if she had not yet recovered peace of mind.

At the doorway, Emily turned back. Her brow puckered, she asked, “Is this all right with you, to be alone when Mr. Everett calls? I could send a maid to keep you company. You mustn't do anything you don't like.”

“I won't.” Augusta was sure the ruby or possibly garnet shade of her cheeks had not ebbed. “No maid will be necessary, but thank you.”

“All right.” Emily relaxed, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Then I expect a full report later, whether scandal or business. As selfless as you are, you cannot deny the request of an invalid, can you?”

***

So many servants. This rented house in Queen Square was better staffed than Sutcliffe's country estate.

Fewer stairs than Joss expected, though. He had already grown used to climbing to the topmost story of the Trim Street house to reach his rented room; now it seemed odd to be shown up by a servant to a drawing room at the first turn of the staircase. The treads were still carpeted here, the newel an elaborately turned spiral. This was the public part of the house, and Joss was shown into the drawing room like an honored guest, instead of being shuttled away to the servants' quarters as he was at Sutcliffe Hall.

The first thing he noticed when the door opened was the warmth of the room; no skimping on coal in this household. Adding to the impression of cozy cheer was the furniture, all carved wood and soft, ruddy-colored upholstery. Between two slipper chairs, a burnished tea table bore a laden tray and a plate heaped with biscuits.

And behind that table stood Augusta Meredith, wearing a blush along with her russet-colored silk afternoon dress. Her every garment seemed the shade and shape of luxury, making her hair glow like new bronze.

Joss had polished his boots before walking the distance between their lodgings, but he realized now he ought also to have changed his neckcloth. Or his waistcoat. Being in the presence of effortless wealth made him ill at ease.

Then he realized something else, something that struck him as odd: Augusta was alone in the room.

As the drawing room door shut behind him, Joss looked around. “Is your friend Lady Tallant unwell? Come now, you cannot meet with me alone. It's not proper.”

She shrugged, though her blush did not fade. “The countess is resting. And I'm a widow, am I not? What could you possibly do to me that hasn't been done before?”

“You don't really want me to answer that question, do you?” He held her eye until she smiled.

“Merely a figure of speech.” Seating herself, she added, “What a strange sense of honor you have. You mock me quite frankly, yet you take nothing from me but my sense of control over our conversation.”

“And a list of four names,” he added, taking a seat in the chair facing hers. “I took those from you quite gladly.”

Already he knew them by heart.

Ebenezer
Paynter. Businessman. Hoards land in the southern portion of England.

George
Duffy. Agent for Stothert and Pitt foundry. Would be interested in nearby coal as fuel.

Lord
Whittingham. Viscount with a considerable fortune. Speculates wildly.

Lord
Chatfield. Marquess. Knows things.

“And how,” asked Augusta, “did your conversation with Paynter proceed this morning? I assume you called to discuss that?”

She and Lady Tallant had been present when Joss made his apologetic bow to the master of ceremonies. Augusta—no, Mrs. Flowers—had giggled through their introduction, employing flirtation enough to distract an army. The master of ceremonies had been no match for the combination of Lady Tallant's genial manners and Mrs. Flowers's dockyard. Within a few minutes, Joss's trespass was excused and an introduction to Paynter secured.

Then the women had slipped away before there was any chance Paynter could spot Mrs. Flowers. Probably for the best, because—“He's a canny man,” Joss replied. “I think the conversation proceeded exactly as he wanted it to.”

Which had not been to Joss's advantage, or to the benefit of his task for Sutcliffe.

In this warm, comfortable room, it was difficult to remember the price of honor—or the cost of it. Cost and price were of no concern to women whose rented drawing room had a marble chimneypiece and a coffered ceiling. Who provided a half-dozen types of biscuits to a lone afternoon caller. Who tossed more coal into a single fire than Joss permitted himself in a week.

Though it was much larger than his rented room, the bright walls of this drawing room pressed in upon him.

On impulse, Joss stood. “I can think better in the open air. Will you walk out with me so we might continue our conversation? If, that is, Mrs. Flowers is allowed to leave the house.”

She rose to her feet at once. “Indeed she is. Mrs. Flowers is a widow, so she is prone to doing things even if she ought not. And her bonnet will shield her face well enough. Is it still raining?”

“It wasn't when I walked from Trim Street.” Which was fortunate, as he didn't own an umbrella.

A few minutes was sufficient for Augusta to dash upstairs to inform the resting Lady Tallant of their outing, then to gather a bonnet, gloves, and pelisse. Once Joss retrieved his own gloves, hat, and cloak from a footman, they were off. Down the steps of the Queen Square house, where they paused.

“We have arrived outdoors, as you wished,” said Augusta from behind the wall of a lace-trimmed poke bonnet. “Do tell me about the startling and profound thoughts that occur to you with this change of scenery.”

Joss snorted, for the change of scenery was little to the city's advantage. Bath lay in a bowl of land footed by the River Avon, and every rain turned the city's sloping streets into slides of pale, chalky mud. After a morning of drizzle, the air hung cold and humid, each breath heavy.

Which suited Joss fine. He and Augusta would be equally uncomfortable, a welcome change from this morning's verbal trouncing by Paynter.

“Let us walk in the garden across the square,” Joss suggested, “and I shall astonish you with my thoughts.”

The brim of the bonnet wiggled back and forth. “I am not easy to astonish, but I should like to see you try.” She took his arm, and they hurried through an interval of muck to the Queen Square garden. Surrounded by a low stone balustrade topped with elegant iron pickets, nothing so vulgar as mud or damp was welcome in its manicured confines. Neat, graveled pathways and symmetrical plantings provided clean places on which the feet might stride, peaceful shapes on which the eye could rest.