One Night of Scandal

by Darcy Burke

  Nothing as consequential as this. She understood his concern, but this was too important. “I’ll think about what you said.” While she planned her next move—alone.

  Mr. Barrett’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Do I need to worry you’ll show up at Brooks’s again tonight? I plan to be there, just so you know.”

  Viola rolled her eyes, then started walking along the path toward her grandmother’s barouche. She’d looped around and was now on her way back. “You do not need to concern yourself. I will be at a ball with my grandmother tonight.” Dancing. The thought of it turned her stomach. And to think, she’d considered what it might be like to dance with Mr. Barrett! Right now, she’d like to tread all over his arrogant toes.

  “What ball?” Mr. Barrett asked.

  “Lady Goodrick’s,” Viola answered absentmindedly as she caught sight of her grandmother waving for her to come back to the barouche. “I’m afraid I must go. Thank you for this—informative—promenade.”

  “Please don’t be angry with me. I only care about your well-being.”

  She nodded, understanding but still feeling betrayed by his second thoughts. Turning, she returned to the barouche, where her grandmother was looking toward Mr. Barrett.

  “Whom were you walking with?” Grandmama asked.

  “Mr. Jack Barrett.”

  “The barrister? No, he used to be a barrister and now he’s an MP. Barretts always hold that Middlesex seat.”

  Viola blinked at her. “Grandmama, do you know everyone? Don’t answer that. I know you do.”

  “I know his father. He was also a barrister and an MP and quite a brilliant legal mind. Your grandfather worked with him in Parliament on a few matters.” Grandmama fixed her with an expectant stare. “How do you know Mr. Barrett?”

  “I believe Val introduced him to me.”

  “Are you really going to make me squeeze every bit of information from you as if I were trying to take the juice from a lemon? Why were you walking with him?”

  “Because he was there?” Viola knew what her grandmother was after. “He is not a suitor.”

  “Good. You can do far better.”

  That was another reason she resisted marriage. When she’d accepted Edmund’s proposal, she’d done so in part because of who he was—the son of a prominent duke. In hindsight, a man of his rank was never going to be a good match for her.

  “What if I don’t want to?” she asked quietly, glancing down at her lap before looking back at her grandmother.

  Grandmama’s eyes widened. “Do you have a…tendre for the MP?”

  “No!” She answered quickly and vehemently. “I only meant, what if I consider marriage, as you suggested,” demanded was a more accurate description, “and actually find someone I might like to wed, and he doesn’t have a title?”

  “I suppose that depends on who he is. If he’s a blacksmith, absolutely not. Your brother might keep company with such people at his tavern, but you shall not.” If only Grandmama knew, Viola thought as the dowager continued, “An MP might be acceptable.”

  Well, that was good to know. As well as pointless. Because no matter how badly her grandmother wanted her to marry, Viola wanted even more fiercely to remain unwed.

  Chapter 7

  Were unmarried women allowed to wear that color? Jack couldn’t help but stare—covertly—at Lady Viola garbed in a vivid puce gown that bordered on red. It was an astonishing color that drew the eye, and the woman wearing it kept the onlooker’s attention. With her honey-blonde hair dressed in an elegant coiffure and her form perfectly draped in the gown that accentuated the slender angle of her shoulder and the swell of her bosom, she was a vision of feminine loveliness, a far cry from Tavistock.

  “Evening, Barrett. Don’t usually see you at a ball.”

  Jack turned to see his friend Adam Chamberlain, a former MP from Lancashire who now sat in the House of Lords as the Viscount Whitworth. “Not usually, no. How are you, Whitworth?”

  “Excellent, thank you. On the hunt for a viscountess this Season.”

  “Glad I don’t have to worry about begetting an heir,” Jack said with a grin.

  “Oh, but there’s fun in trying, isn’t there?” Whitworth chortled. He squinted toward the other side of the ballroom. “Who is that beauty in the puce gown?”

  “Lady Viola Fairfax, I believe.”

  Whitworth winced, his mouth pulling into a grimace. “Never mind that, then.”

  Jack turned to stare at the man, outrage rising in his chest. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not someone I’d consider. I’d have to expect she’d abandon me on our wedding day just as she did poor Ledbury.”

  She’d been betrothed to the Earl of Ledbury? How had Jack not known this?

  Because you don’t give a fig about Society and their nonsense. The better question is why would you have known?

  “I’m sure she had good reason not to marry him,” Jack said, despite not having the slightest idea what that could be. He didn’t know Ledbury well, but he seemed a pleasant enough fellow, dedicated to his work in the House of Commons and charming to a fault.

  Whitworth’s brows arched. “You know her?”

  Damn. “Not well. I simply presume she had good reason. What lady would voluntarily put herself in the position of crying off unless she saw no other alternative?”

  “I suppose.” Whitworth’s shrug and skeptical gaze said the opposite, but thankfully, another gentleman approached, and the conversation died a well-deserved death.

  Jack excused himself a moment later and gradually made his way to the corner where Lady Viola stood speaking with another woman. He bowed to them when he arrived. “Good evening.”

  Lady Viola eyed him with surprise. “Good evening, Mr. Barrett. Allow me to present my sister-in-law, Her Grace, the Duchess of Eastleigh.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.” Jack inclined his head toward the tall beauty.

  “As I am, Mr. Barrett. We met very briefly about a decade ago at Oxford. My father was warden of Merton College. ”

  Jack’s jaw dropped for a moment. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. Your father was brilliant.”

  Light swaths of pink washed her cheeks. “Thank you. I think so too.”

  Now that he’d formally made her acquaintance, Jack recalled Eastleigh mentioning that they’d met at Oxford. He really needed not only to pay more attention to social information—he needed to remember it. Particularly when it concerned his friends.

  Jack turned his attention to Lady Viola. “I came to ask if you’d like to dance.”

  “No.” She looked as though he’d asked her to clean his boots after he’d trudged through a dung-laden field. She hastened to add, “Thank you.”

  Her Grace smiled even as she sent Viola a somewhat stern look. “What Viola means to say is that she doesn’t particularly care to dance right now.”

  Lady Viola nearly scowled—Jack watched her mouth tighten, and then she seemed to force herself to slowly relax, her lips loosening but not quite elevating into a smile. He tried not to laugh. “Yes, that’s what I meant to say. I should like to promenade, however.”

  “Excellent.” He offered her his arm and nodded toward the duchess. “Please excuse us.”

  When they were several steps away, he felt Lady Viola relax. Not completely, but enough that he realized just how tense she’d been. “Do you not like dancing?”

  “Not particularly. I’ve successfully avoided it almost entirely the past several years.” Her muscles tensed again. “My grandmother has decided it’s time I get back to it.”

  Jack surveyed the ballroom in search of the Dowager Duchess of Eastleigh. Petite, with hair the color of snow and a stare that could make a man’s bollocks shrink to the size of peas, she was an intimidating force. He’d met her only once and had decided he hadn’t needed to repeat the experience.

  Only now, he was promenading with the woman’s granddaughter. Just what the hell was
he doing with the sister of a duke?

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Lady Viola said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “I thought you said you were going to be at Brooks’s.”

  “So I did. However, I found I was unable to avoid coming here first once I knew you would be in attendance.”

  “Please say you aren’t flirting with me.”

  “Blo—no.” He caught himself before swearing. “Don’t take that personally. I don’t flirt. With anyone.” Except he wondered if maybe he was.

  “Me neither. What would be the point?”

  He nearly laughed again, then shot her an admiring look. “Indeed. If your grandmother wants you to dance, is she hoping you’ll do something else?”

  “Marry, you mean?” Lady Viola’s features tightened, her brow furrowing and the flesh around her mouth pulling. In profile, she looked decidedly perturbed.

  “Can’t a woman dance without being expected to marry?” he asked.

  She stopped and turned her head to stare at him. After a moment, she said, her voice barely audible, as if she were astounded by his query. “Yes. That exactly.” She started walking again.

  He guided her along the perimeter of the ballroom, steering clear of other ball goers. “Is that why you hate to dance?”

  “Probably. There are always expectations. If not marriage, then some anticipation or assumption is made depending on whom I danced with and how many sets I danced.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s exhausting.”

  “I think you find it more than exhausting,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “Mr. Barrett, I daresay you are coming to know me far too well.” She peered over at him in mock alarm.

  “I disagree. There is much I don’t know about you. For instance, I just tonight learned you were betrothed before.” A flush started up her neck, and he immediately regretted indulging his curiosity. “Never mind that I mentioned that. Please.”

  She lifted the shoulder of the arm entwined with his. “It’s all right. That happened so long ago. Scarcely anyone mentions it anymore. I’m surprised you just now learned of it.”

  He heard a question there—why had someone brought it up now? “I was admiring you across the ballroom.” He didn’t mention that he wasn’t alone in doing so or that the other man had been the one to point out her “failings.”

  “You were?” The question came out higher than she usually spoke, and much higher than the voice she used as Tavistock.

  “It’s difficult not to—your gown is striking.” As was her hair, the graceful column of her neck, the slope of her breast. He worked to banish such thoughts.

  “Thank you.” She paused near the doors leading to the terrace. “May we step outside for a moment? I’m feeling a trifle overheated.”

  “Of course.” He led her onto the balcony that overlooked the walled garden. They strolled to the railing, and she withdrew her arm from his. He found he missed her touch. That had never happened before.

  She was quiet a moment as she stared out over the garden. Then she turned to face him. He hadn’t even pivoted toward the railing—his body had remained aligned completely toward hers, like a sprout seeking the sun.

  “I can tell you’re dying to know what happened with my betrothal.”

  He found amusement in her statement. “How can you tell?”

  Her gaze settled briefly between his eyes. “The top of your nose scrunches up into little lines when you are particularly interested in something. I’ve noticed it several times in the course of our association.”

  “Does it?” Reflexively, he touched the bridge of his nose. “It seems you are coming to know me very well too,” he murmured, thinking that must certainly be an extraordinary occurrence. Had a woman ever known him well enough to recognize a tiny facial expression that he wasn’t even aware of?

  She didn’t respond, so he said, “Yes, I would like to know what happened, but you needn’t tell me. Clearly, Ledbury is an ass.”

  A glorious laugh leapt from her lips, and she clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. Her eyes danced in the moonlight. He was utterly captivated.

  “He wasn’t really an ass,” she said after lowering her hand. “He just wasn’t for me. As I prepared for the ceremony at the church, I realized I’d never be able to write anything for publication—not for a newspaper, not a pamphlet, not a book. He said a countess couldn’t do such a thing. At least not his countess. I would cease to exist as Viola Fairfax the moment I became the Countess of Ledbury. I just couldn’t do it.” She sounded a trifle sad, but not regretful. “Perhaps he was a bit of an ass.”

  More than a bit in Jack’s estimation. “When I get around to marrying, I would hope my wife would retain her sense of self. She might be Mrs. Barrett, but the woman she was when we wed would forever be the woman I fell in love with.” He coughed, feeling slightly uncomfortable all of a sudden. “If I’m lucky enough to fall in love as my parents did.”

  Lady Viola’s gaze had softened while he spoke. “My parents were fond of each other, but I don’t think their emotions ran deeper than that. My brother is desperately in love with his wife. It’s nice to see.” She shook her head. “Not nice. Powerful. Moving. Intoxicating.”

  Jack felt a little drunk at the moment. The urge to kiss her swept over him, at once shocking and thrilling.

  The air between them seemed to thin. Accordingly, their breathing grew rapid, and it was all he could hear. She was all he could see…

  “We should go back inside.” She broke the spell with those five sensible words.

  Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, Jack offered her his arm once more. “Ledbury must have been very sorry when you decided not to marry him.”

  “I think he was relieved. His father and my grandmother had orchestrated the match, and while I liked him and he liked me, there was no danger of a broken heart on either side.”

  Something in Jack’s chest pinched. He ignored the sensation. “I’ve changed my mind about our investigation. I think we should go to Brooks’s on Monday evening.”

  She paused at the threshold before they stepped back into the ballroom. “You do?”

  “I still think it’s dangerous, but it’s too important to ignore.” He’d been pondering it since seeing her that afternoon, but their conversation on the terrace had persuaded him. She wanted this. She deserved this. And he would help her see it through.

  She squeezed his arm. “Thank you. Truly.”

  Another couple came to the doorway, and Jack swiftly guided Lady Viola inside. “You’ll come as my guest, and we’ll do what you’d planned with Pennington—we’ll just keep our ears open and find out what we can.”

  “What if we act as though we already know who the MP is?” she suggested softly, her tone rife with anticipation. “We can mention the gossip and then be coy about identifying the MP. Just like everyone else has done,” she added wryly.

  “You think Pennington lied, that he knew more than he revealed?”

  She shrugged. “I think it’s possible. I also think it’s possible Hodges knew more. We should probably visit him again too.”

  “Probably. I’m just a trifle nervous about Tavistock being seen as pursuing this story.”

  “I thought about that, actually. Today I managed to turn the conversation to this topic with a gentleman in the park.”

  Now Jack stopped as apprehension twisted through him. “Whom did you talk to?” He wasn’t sure what he was afraid to hear—there wasn’t anyone he feared. Except everyone when it came to her safety. Good Lord, what was going on with him?

  “Lord Orford. He didn’t seem to know anything.”

  Jack snorted in disgust. “Orford wouldn’t. He’s from a rotten borough amidst other rotten boroughs paid for by his father. He only pays attention to matters his father cares about.” He looked at her seriously. “You must promise not to do that again. It’s bad enough that Tavistock is out there making inquiries. Lady Viola Fairfax shouldn’t be doing that too.
”

  She nodded. “I will be careful.” Her gaze narrowed slightly. “My grandmother is staring at me. She’s going to ask why I promenaded with you instead of danced.”

  “Tell her I have an injury that prevents such activity.”

  She grinned, and the desire to kiss her crashed into him anew. “Brilliant.”

  He needed to get the hell away from her before he did something incredibly foolish such as tell her what he wanted. “I’ll meet you Monday at the entrance to your mews. Nine o’clock.”

  She nodded. “I’ll look forward to it.” Her cerulean eyes glowed beneath the hundreds of candles overhead.

  Jack was looking forward to it too—probably more than anything he had in a long, long time.

  Chapter 8

  On Monday evening, Viola stepped down from the hack after Mr. Barrett and straightened her coat. He stared at her puce waistcoat. “I should have made you change.”

  She smoothed a hand over her front. “Why? I love how this turned out. Yes, I know it’s the same color as my gown on Saturday, but will anyone really notice?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Well, if they do, it just means Mr. Tavistock shops at the same linen draper as Lady Viola Fairfax.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Arguing with you is often an exercise in complete futility.”

  “You’re learning! Excellent.” She flashed him a sardonic smile and started toward the entrance to Brooks’s.

  The entry hall was grand, with white marble floors and the signature staircase climbing the right wall. She wondered what was up there while acknowledging she’d likely never find out. The fact that she was in here at all was astonishing.

  As with her last visit, the sense of adventure filled her with excitement and anticipation. This was even better than that time because she wasn’t alone. Mr. Barrett made her feel…safer.

  They spent the next several minutes greeting various gentlemen as they made their way to the subscription room. Mr. Barrett leaned over and whispered, “I see Pennington over in the corner. Let’s make our way in that direction.”