Contents
The Lady's Guide Series
The Lady’s Guide to Scandal
Copyright
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This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of well-known historical figures and places, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2020
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Cover Design by Victoria Cooper
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Madly in love, or just pretending?
Celebrated adventurer Ethan Burnell is keen to return to the jungles of Mexico.
Settling down isn't part of his plan.
But his sister has other ideas, throwing a Christmas houseparty filled with eager debutantes.
The answer? A fake engagement for the duration of the festivities!
With her name mired in scandal, Cornelia Mortmain's marriage prospects are nil.
Burnell is exactly the sort of 'dangerous man' she's sworn off, and posing as his fiancée can only spell trouble.
Or, make her so notorious she'll become irresistible.
Can they convince everyone they're madly in love?
The game is on!
Discover more in 'The Lady's Guide' series: historical romance brimming with adventure, mystery and intrigue.
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Already available for sale
The Lady's Guide to Scandal
The Lady’s Guide to a Highlander's Heart
The Lady's Guide to Mistletoe and Mayhem
The Lady’s Guide to Escaping Cannibals
The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
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Releasing in 2022
The Lady’s Guide to Havoc in a Harem
The Lady’s Guide to Tempting a Transylvanian Count
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Each can be read as a 'stand alone' and in any order.
The Lady’s Guide to Scandal
by Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Prologue
Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico
April, 1897
A storm was coming.
From his elevated position on the ridge, the vista appeared unbroken beneath a sky streaked purple. There were no roads or open places for grazing cattle. No signs of human settlement. Only breadnut and sapodilla trees, reaching tall above the forest floor, stretching onwards for miles.
As the wind gusted, rippling through the expanse of green, the stone summit became visible through the surrounding canopy.
His pulse quickened.
Ethan had seen the ruins at Mérida, Copan and Uxmal.
There were hundreds more, he was certain: great temples buried by the centuries, concealed by seething life, by rampant vines and gnarled branches. Hidden deep.
He’d followed the work of other men—their discoveries, their triumphs.
This was his.
The fruit of toilsome decades.
The journey had been comfortless—days of suffocating heat, traversing swamps and near-impassable jungle; and long nights drenched in sweat, kept awake by cicadas, and howler monkeys’ nightmarish calls.
Plagued by mud and mosquitoes, by scorpions, spiders and deadly snakes, he would never have made it this far without those who accompanied him: his guides Francisco and José Luis, and those who carried their tents and provisions and tools—all that would be needed when they reached their destination.
Descending the promontory, Ethan directed the porters to make camp in the limestone caverns below. Tarpaulins served well, even against deluging rain, but a cave was better.
Though the light was fading, he and the guides would continue. They were so close—an hour perhaps, with all three wielding machetes against the tangle of undergrowth. Their progress would be slow, but he needed to see at last what he believed he would find. When the rain came, the treetops would provide partial shelter.
They splashed through a shallow stream and, somewhere beyond the canopy, a flash of lightning lit the heavens’ dark vault. The treetops far overhead shivered and the birds fell silent. No more the screech of toucans or drum of woodpeckers. Even the frogs seemed to have ceased their croak. The cacophony died away.
“Ahí, señor.” José Luis pointed. Just ahead, the ground was littered with broken rock.
Ethan gripped the man’s shoulder. The excitement he felt shone in the other’s eyes. All these weeks of journeying, and this was the moment.
The perimeter of the city!
The first drops of water begun to patter high above but they pushed on with renewed vigour until, where the jungle had been dense, it became impenetrable.
A wall of vines and tree orchids stretched upward, disappearing through enclosing branches. Extending his arm, Ethan reached through, tapping.
His blade hit stone.
No instruction was necessary. The rain was coming harder but they worked to remove the section of foliage before them, unmasking the smooth façade. Not merely a wall but an archway, flanked upon either side.
He recognized the figures at once. Dual depictions of the Jaguar god—he who ruled the Underworld, his power extending over all, his arts fed by black sorcery.
Ethan placed his palm upon the stone. Through the stillness, he was aware of the falling rain, and something else: the call of those who’d carved this rock, whose feet had stood on this very spot. Strains from a world long-departed.
And another voice; another face. Smaller hands beside his own, smoothing sand to shape their joint creation. Not a castle, as other children made, but a temple such as this, forming graduated steps to the altar at the peak.
Chapter 1
British Museum, London
Early-evening, December 4, 1903
Cornelia rolled her head backward, stretching her neck.
Little wonder that her shoulders felt so tight. She’d been sitting far too long, hunched over the collection of unremarkable pieces, endeavouring to find something about them to justify the effort.
She didn’t usually remain beyond four in the afternoon but, on her volunteering days, had been staying gradually longer. Her aunts awaited her, and their efforts to make the residence on Portman Square feel festive had been commendable—but she’d been unable to feel ‘at home’ there since her father’s death. The museum was a welcome escape.
Yawning, she replaced the urn fragment with the others in the wooden box and secured the lid. Mesopotamian, dating from around 1000 B.C. Nothing particularly special. Nothing that anyone else wanted to trouble cataloguing; only Cornelia, who must be grateful to be here at all, where she was tolerated rather than welcomed—and for her father’s sake, rather than her own.
She’d long accepted that nothing of true historical interest was likely to find its way to the tiny, basement-level room in which she was permitted to work. Nevertheless, she held out hope that, one day, nestled among the mundane would be an item of significance.
Her workspace lacked natural light, being little more than a storage cupboard, but her keen eye would spot this Special Object. She would seek out Mr. Pettigrew, the Head Curator for Eastern Artefacts, and would proudly present her find. Disbelieving, he would initially attempt to dismiss her but, in this, her private fantasy, his cod-like lips quivered in surprise as he was obliged to recognize the value of what she held in her palm.
With a sigh, she rose, carrying the box back to its shelf. She ought to be thankful, of course, for it was an honour to be here, in however humble a capacity. The British Museum was like no other, boasting priceless items from every corner of the globe: from the mysterious African continent, to the vast Americas and the Far East. Thousands of visitors passed through its doors daily to see the Egyptian collection alone—the largest array of mummies and sarcophagi outside Cairo, not to mention hoards of priceless papyrii.
Cornelia’s late father, as a member of the Board of Trustees, and a patron of explorations organized under the aegis of the Royal Geographical Society, had brought her to the museum from the youngest age, explaining to her the history of the Aztec mosaics and the marbles chiselled from the great Parthenon in Athens. She’d stood in awe beneath the colossal granite head of Ramses II, and pored over the Rosetta Stone, captured from Napoleon’s hands almost a hundred years before.
One might question the museum’s methods of acquisition, or its moral right to retain possession of certain artefacts, but none could doubt the institution’s worthy intent—for it had led the way in opening its doors to all, regardless of means or station. Meanwhile, no expense had been spared in creating a space adequate to the task. More than twenty years had passed since electric lighting had been installed—the first to grace any of London’s public buildings, and enabling the Reading Room to stay open until seven throughout the winter months.
Naturally, the museum continued to add fresh treasures to its halls; Ferdinand de Rothschild’s bequest, for example, and, newly arrived that very week, unique artefacts from the lost city of Palekmul.
Cornelia already knew a great deal about the site and the marvels unearthed there but she longed to view the exhibits first-hand. Twice, she’d sidled down the corridor to the Palekmul gallery, but her attempts at poking her head in had been abruptly thwarted. No-one beyond the designated curating team was to see the wonders therein; not until the grand opening.
It was most annoying, although she understood the need to take precautions.
The Palekmul dig had captured the nation’s imagination in a way far beyond the usual, causing a spectacular stir; all those mysterious ruins, hidden for centuries in the jungle!
What Cornelia found less palatable was the obsession with the expedition leader—one Ethan Burnell, citizen of the American state of Texas. The mania had reached almost hysterical proportions, much to Cornelia’s disgust. The newspapers were citing his arrival on British shores as ‘an occurrence guaranteed to set ladies swooning’—not least for his good looks, which were being compared to those of Lord Byron, but also for the family fortune he’d inherited.
Certainly, if she happened to meet Mr. Burnell, she’d have a hundred questions she’d like to ask, but the notion that he might think her flirting with him, as other ladies would inevitably do, was too distasteful to bear. Her interest was in his work, not in the man himself.
Not that she was likely to find herself alone with the lauded explorer.
Her interest was only in gaining access to the room in which the exhibits were being prepared. She might wait, viewing them with everyone else in due course, but there was something rousing in the idea of perusing the artefacts while they were fresh from their crates.
So far, her efforts had been rebuffed but there was nothing to stop her from trying again. She checked her pocket watch once more. By this time, most of the curating staff would have left, surely.
The exhibition room doors would probably be locked, but there was only one way to find out.
Cornelia pulled at the ties of her work apron, then stopped. Better to keep it on, perhaps. That way, she’d look more ‘official’ if she were caught in the act. Picking up her lamp, she walked briskly through the service corridor towards the northern wing. The staircase further along would bring her out almost directly opposite where she wished to go.
Ordinarily, she disliked wandering the gloomy basement passageways alone but, tonight, she was relieved by their emptiness. The curating staff would have left some hours ago. There were always soirées and concerts to attend at this time of year. Some went skating in Hyde Park, others visited the shops, or enjoyed any number of festive pastimes. Unlike Cornelia, most of the staff had somewhere else they wished to be—even if it were only their own hearth.
Emerging through the door at the top of the stairs, Cornelia scanned the high-ceilinged lobby connecting the rooms on the Americas. As she’d hoped, all was silent. The galleries had closed to the public an hour ago, and only a handful of electric lights remained glowing. Lamps were still relied upon in the bowels of the building but expressly prohibited from the main galleries, for fear of fire. Turning hers low, she left it at the top of the stairs.
Though the far corners of the vestibule were in shadow, the illumination was sufficient to make out the glass case at the centre, containing sculptures from Isla de Sacrificios and Tikal.
On soft feet, she made her way to the double doors at the far end. With the curators finished for the day, the guards should have locked up the exhibition hall, but it was always possible someone had overlooked their duty. Pushing down upon the handle, she heard the mechanism release and slipped through, closing the door gently behind.
None of the wall lamps were lit but the moon swept through the large Eastern window. Dust motes floated in the silvered shaft of light. Cornelia caught her breath. Several large crates remained, but most of the artefacts appeared to have been unpacked, positioned at intervals around the circumference.
Coming further into the room, she wrinkled her nose. There was a strange odour in the air; not the usual mustiness but something more pungent—a preservative of some sort?
She’d have to watch where she stepped. It wouldn’t do to knock over a bottle of limewater, or whatever it was they were using.
Reverentially, Cornelia approached a sarcophagus, reaching for the curving serpent engraved thereon—symbol of rebirth and renewal through the shedding of its scales. What had the Maya believed? The snake was a conduit, was it not, between the physical world and the spirit realm.
The surface was cool to the touch but she imagined it in the place from whence it had come. There, the sun had warmed the hand that held the chisel; warmed this very stone.
She was the only living thing within the room; yet, she had the sense that each piece around her remembered what it had once been and to whom it had belonged.
Across the chamber, her eyes lit upon two towering columns spanned by a wide lintel. Stepping closer, she shivered to see what was carved there—a scene she’d studied some weeks before: ink-drawn in a far-off place and reproduced for subscribers to The Geographic Journal. Now, the original was before her. The male figure was the ruler, Shield Jaguar, and the woman beside, his consort.
The depiction was starkly violent, bizarre and sadistic, but the woman’s pain was self-inflicted. The weapon raked across her tongue—studded with razor points—was drawn by her own hand.
And then Cornelia’s breath froze in her chest, for there was a scraping sound and something moved at the shadowed base of the monolith.
Not something, but someone. A crouching figure—here, where no-one should be—rubbing at the stone, and so absorbed in his task that he’d failed to hear her footfall.
A thief? She needed to raise t
he alarm; to find a guard to arrest the intruder. But, the next moment, the trespasser stood and turned, moving into the moonlight. The man wore no jacket and had rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms tanned dark. His hair was tousled and his face bore unkempt stubble. A ruffian, without a doubt.
Seeing Cornelia, the brute let forth a growl of displeasure and took a stride toward her. How tall he was, and powerfully built; easily strong enough to overcome her.
Cornelia whimpered. Might she run? She sensed he’d catch her before she reached the door.
On impulse, she delved into her apron pocket and pulled out her wooden measuring rule, clutching it in her palm. She remained half in shadow. Gulping back her fear, Cornelia made herself shout. “Don’t move. I’m armed, and…and, I’ll fire if I have to!”
The man stilled but his voice was filled with threat. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’ve picked the wrong person to mess with. If you’ve plans to steal anything from this room, you’d better be prepared to fire that thing. Just know that, if you do, you’ll only get one attempt.”
Steal? Cornelia’s hands shook. What on earth did he mean? She wasn’t the one sneaking in to meddle with what wasn’t hers.
Well, perhaps she was, a little—but her intentions were harmless. She was only satisfying her curiosity. This cur, meanwhile, might have already caused irreparable damage.
Those of criminal bent, she’d heard, saw only black-heartedness in others. The fellow had brazenly entered to do his foul work, and must believe she planned the same.
A wave of anger fuelled her courage, so that her voice hardly quavered. “Lie down and don’t try anything foolish. I’m a… a crack shot.”
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