Season for Scandal

by Theresa Romain

  “Christmas Eve? Indeed. I’ll nose through Xavier’s bottles and see what sort of manly beverages he has. Do you prefer port or brandy?”

  “Either one.” A delicate pause. “His lordship isn’t present this evening?”

  “No, he’s off at White’s with Lord Kirkpatrick. He couldn’t let his friend see in the holiday alone.”

  “Yet he left you alone?”

  “I’m not alone.” Louisa laughed. “I have Lady Kirkpatrick to keep me company whenever I like. Now enjoy your game. I’m for a book, myself.”

  Nicely played. A part of Edmund would have dearly loved to be sitting before the fire at White’s rather than crammed into a closet, head jutting forward like a man in the stocks.

  His suspicions seemingly allayed, Turner bade his hostess a pleasant evening, then entered the drawing room. Friendly greetings ensued between Jane and Turner; Edmund clenched his teeth. Then the man came into the range of Edmund’s peephole, seating himself facing Jane across a chessboard.

  Play began at once, seemingly a familiar routine for the pair. They spoke little and frowned much, moving pieces with deliberation.

  Turner was more skilled, judging from the number of Jane’s black pieces he collected. Edmund squinted, trying to count them, but the distance was too great or his peephole too small. At least she’d snapped up a few of the man’s pawns.

  When a servant brought in a bottle of port and some small glasses, there was a pause in the game.

  “You’re getting good at this, Lady Kay.” Turner poured out port with a heavy hand.

  “Kirkpatrick.” Jane accepted a glass.

  “Must you insist on that? Your husband isn’t here, dear lady.”

  She sipped at the port. “Mmm.” Another sip. “You’re right. There’s no need to stand on ceremony, is there? As a matter of fact, you may call me Jane. That’s my Christmas gift to you.”

  Trapped, Edmund could only watch as Turner beamed and clinked glasses with her. It was all a game, he knew. Yet his fists were clenched.

  He hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to watch, and not just because of the growing crick in his neck and shoulders.

  “—don’t plan to return to Kirkpatrick, no,” he realized Jane was saying. “Though someday I may need to, if I find myself in . . . trouble.”

  “Trouble? What sort of trouble?”

  “Oh. Well.” Her flush was beautifully done. “I’m neither wife nor widow, so I ought to live alone always. Without . . .”

  “A man,” Turner finished.

  “Well, yes.” A deeper flush. “But forever? I can’t imagine doing so forever.”

  Again, she sipped at her port. “That’s good. It’s no wonder Xavier tries to keep this just for himself and his friends.” She laughed. “I shouldn’t be admitting any of this, should I? A respectable woman wouldn’t even bring up the idea of straying.”

  “Now, Jane. It happens all the time.” Just for a moment, Turner’s hand covered Jane’s; Edmund ground his teeth together. “Why, some of the best families have a few bastards.”

  True. Though Edmund would hardly call his family one of the best.

  His neck and shoulders were aching; he wished Jane would pounce. But she was sipping and smiling and toying with one of the white pawns she’d captured. “Bastards; what rot. Birth is an accident. Action is what decides a man’s worth.”

  “And what makes a man worthwhile to you?”

  “Adventure.” She licked her lower lip.

  “Ah, well, I shouldn’t be using up your evening with chess, then.”

  “Nonsense. Every chess game is an adventure.” She held up a white pawn, squinted at it, then lined it up with its captured brothers. “There is kidnapping; secrecy; strategy. Murder.”

  “Or suicide,” Turner added. “It depends on how good a gambler one is.”

  “I’m a very good gambler.”

  Closer and closer they leaned across the chessboard. “The queen doesn’t always know her power,” Turner murmured.

  “Some do.” Jane sighed and leaned back, her eyes half-closed in a sultry drowse. “Some only wish. I may be a very good gambler, but even I gambled and lost once.”

  “With Kirkpatrick?”

  “In a way.” She stretched, giving a little laugh; the emerald on her pendant dived between her breasts. “It started with Sheringbrook. I see you haven’t heard the tale of how Lord Kirkpatrick and I wound up married.”

  At Edmund’s side, Lady Sheringbrook whispered, “This is the worst-played game of chess I’ve ever seen. Neither of them has a clue what they’re doing, do they?”

  “I think Lady Kirkpatrick knows exactly what she’s doing,” Edmund whispered back.

  “I think my ears are melting,” Xavier groaned.

  A muffled grunt told Edmund that Lady Sheringbrook had jabbed Xavier, and they all fell silent again in time to hear Jane recount her long night of gambling at Sheringbrook’s, then her sudden, huge loss.

  Xavier made a gulping sound, and it occurred to Edmund that until now, the earl had not known into whose pocket Jane’s dowry had gone.

  Jane then told Turner how Edmund had swooped in to rescue her. It ought to have sounded rather heroic, but Jane described him as a curious bumbler, well-meant but silly. Desperate to catch himself a bride, not caring who.

  How much of this was an act, and how much her true feelings?

  “I had no choice,” she sighed, “but to accept him. So you see, it was never much more than a marriage of convenience. Yet we should never have come to that point. Sheringbrook cheated.”

  “No!” Turner offered a fair approximation of shock.

  She lowered her voice, leaning forward again. “Five aces in the deck. I had to take the loss, or he would have become violent.” Her eyes went wider. “A woman alone is all but helpless.”

  What bollocks. But Turner was eating it up. “I am pleased to tell you, dear Jane, that Lord Sheringbrook has left the card tables behind him for good. He’s involved in a new venture now.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  Turner laid a finger aside of his nose. “That’d be telling.”

  “Ah. Secrets.” Jane grimaced. “What’s his new game?”

  “How much do you want me to tell you?” He ran a blunt index finger along Jane’s collarbone.

  She shivered, wide eyes never leaving his. “What’s the price of adventure?”

  Turner trailed his index finger down, down, until it caught on the chain of her necklace. “A certain young woman once entranced him with a set of dazzling rubies. As a result, he became interested in jewelry.”

  Xavier made another sort of strange choking sound. Edmund had a feeling Jane would be receiving an earful later.

  “Buying and selling?” Jane asked.

  Turner hooked the pendant and lifted the emerald up so it winked in the firelight. “Let us call it . . . collecting.”

  Now Lady Sheringbrook made a choking sound.

  “It was you, wasn’t it, Jane? Who wore the rubies?”

  She tugged back her necklace. “Once I did. Card games aren’t to my taste anymore.” Narrowing her eyes, she added, “Tell me more about collecting. Does it take much skill?”

  “Not skill, but knowledge. Of where the finest collections are. And then, of how to create a diversion with charm or violence. So the collection can be . . . well . . .”

  “Collected,” Jane finished. “You intrigue me . . . Daniel.”

  God, she was marvelous. Everything she said made her more marvelous, yet pulled her farther away from Edmund.

  “Have you a collecting impulse?” Turner asked.

  “I have often been told,” Jane sighed, “that I’ve the soul of a pirate.”

  “The best sort.” He drained his port and set down the glass. “Well. What sort of game is to your taste now? Shall we continue chess? Or would you like to talk of collecting?”

  “I’m losing the game of chess,” Jane pouted.

  “Collecting
it is, then.” Turner smiled. “And in answer to your earlier question, the price of adventure is a collection.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That set of rubies.” Turner’s hand, again clutching for Jane’s necklace, twisted it around his fingers. “I want them.”

  “They’re not mine to—give.” Her voice choked out the last word, surprised, as Turner pulled at the chain around her throat.

  Edmund flinched, ready to fly to her; Xavier’s hand stayed him. “Wait,” the earl whispered. “Wait. Just a bit more.”

  “Jane, Jane,” Turner said silkily, “you can’t have me think that a tiny matter of rightful ownership matters to you. You took the rubies once; you simply need to take them again.”

  “I only borrowed them. I don’t think borrowing would satisfy a collector, though.” Jane kept a sleek smile on her face as she tried, unsuccessfully, to tug free her necklace. “Shall we play some more of our game?”

  Once more, then twice, Turner wrapped the necklace around his fingers, pulling Jane forward until they faced each other, nose to nose. “This is the game now,” he said, all his good humor vanished. “You’ll collect those rubies, or you’ll pay the price. You know how gambling works, my dear lady, and you’ve just lost again.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jane stalled. “What did I wager?”

  Turner’s face, contorting, went ruddy. “Yourself, to begin. I’ll have those rubies now, you little slut. The only remaining question is whether I shall persuade you with charm”—his fingers, still holding Jane’s chain, trailed down her neck—“or violence?” He twisted the necklace again, until the wrought gold cut tightly into Jane’s throat.

  “That’s enough,” Edmund muttered. “Xavier, let’s go. Pistols out.”

  In a few seconds, the hidden trio had wrenched themselves free from their awkward hiding place and wrestled open the closet door. Blinking against the lamplight, Edmund careened into the door of the drawing room and flung it open. “Let go of her, Turner. Now.”

  Startled, Turner leapt to his feet, and Jane took the chance to jump up and dart to the other side of the room.

  Edmund tugged his pistol free and pointed it at Turner. He had no idea whether the powder had dribbled out or whether his strained shoulders and arms could even aim properly. No matter. The way he felt, he would happily beat Turner over the head with it.

  Xavier came up next to Edmund. “Turner?” he murmured. “Not Bellamy?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “It seems there’s much to the story I haven’t heard.” He coughed. “Like the fate of Jane’s dowry.”

  “Later,” Edmund barked. “Where’s Lady Sheringbrook?”

  “Here.” Her voice cold and proud, she marched up next to Xavier.

  They formed a line facing Turner, whose face was still a mottled red. He had raised his hands and seemed to be struggling to smile. “Now, what’s all this? Some sort of mistake. Lady Kirkpatrick and I were merely having a friendly game of—”

  “Oh, shut it.” Edmund was surprised by how pleasurable it was to say the simple words. “Just shut it, Turner. Three witnesses, plus Lady Kirkpatrick herself, heard your threat. And Lady Sheringbrook reported the theft of her pearls weeks ago. With what we’ve heard tonight, it won’t be difficult to solve that case.”

  Turner blanched. “You’ve no proof.”

  Edmund shook his head. “We’ve enough. We may not have all the points from A to Z, but we have—”

  “At least every other letter,” Jane broke in, rubbing at her neck. “A and C and E and so on.”

  “She can never be quiet, can she?” Xavier muttered.

  Edmund ignored them both; the world was his hand, his pistol, and Turner’s dark eyes. “You do have a few choices. You can take your chances before the magistrate. Perhaps at the next assizes, you’ll be found innocent. Or perhaps not. As a convicted thief living under a false name, I shouldn’t think your chances were very good. Leniency has saved you before, but it won’t a second time.”

  “Or?” Turner’s jaw clenched.

  “Or you can leave. Go to the Continent. Go to India, finally. Back to Australia, even, if it feels like home. But you must never return to England.”

  Turner opened his mouth, and Edmund cut him off. “I’m sure you’re about to ask what will happen if you do, because that’s the sort of rubbish you talk. Well, here’s the answer. If any of us sees you, the magistrate shall be notified. What is, for now, a private affair will become public. And at the end of it, a rope awaits you. It’s all but certain.”

  He looked at Turner’s eyes, the dark eyes that also belonged to Mary and Catherine. “Don’t choose the rope, Turner. For their sakes, don’t.”

  He had never expected this: pleading with the father of his sisters not to embarrass them with their bastardy. Not to make Edmund prosecute him, or pursue his execution. To see the father of his sisters killed, even if Mary and Catherine never knew who the man was.

  “Don’t choose the rope,” Edmund said quietly.

  Unblinking, Turner stared back. Then his shoulders sank. “Have you a ship, then?” He spoke in his natural brogue. It had probably been charming once.

  “I have,” Edmund replied, “and I’ll take you there tonight. Xavier, will you tie his hands?”

  In a few minutes, it was done: Turner’s hands bound, the pistols again stowed, a hackney summoned.

  “I think it best,” Xavier said, “if we each swear out affidavits of what we’ve seen and heard, then leave the sealed documents with our solicitors. If any of us meets with an unfortunate accident, the statements shall be opened.”

  “Excellent plan,” agreed Lady Sheringbrook. “Now. What have you done with my pearls, you thief?”

  “Handed them over to your son, didn’t I?” Turner managed a flicker of his old grin. “Seems every family here’s got more than a touch of scandal.”

  The elderly viscountess seemed to shrink. “Far more. Yes.”

  Xavier braced her under the elbow. “As far as I am concerned,” Xavier said to the room at large, “none of you was ever here, and I passed a quiet Christmas Eve with my wife. But if you would like to join us for Christmas dinner tomorrow, you would all be most welcome. Except for the fellow with his wrists tied.”

  Jane walked up to Edmund, holding a parcel in her hands. “Here. It’s his chess set.”

  “It’s probably stolen.”

  Jane didn’t even look at Turner. “Well, if you can figure out who it belongs to, give it back. Otherwise, let him take it. He’s a very good player.”

  “That he is,” Edmund murmured.

  With a nod, he took the parcel from Jane, and the whole company trooped downstairs. Edmund and a pair of burly footmen climbed into the hackney along with Turner, and the hired carriage rolled off to the London Docks.

  Chapter 26

  Concerning a Variety of Travel Arrangements

  Turner’s hands remained tied, and he held his silence during the ride to the docks. Edmund took no chances, though: the two beefy footmen sat at attention on the backward-facing seat. One held a pistol, another a knife.

  Once they reached their destination, the quartet climbed from the carriage. For the exorbitant price of a crown, the coachman allowed Edmund to borrow his lantern.

  The docks at night—even in winter, even on Christmas Eve—bustled and hummed with activity. The engines of trade never halted, and sailors in port would never miss the chance for revelry. Voices of those at work unloading cargo echoed sharp and businesslike, while the drunken shouts of those on leave punctuated the steadier calls. To the city’s usual cesspool stench were added the odors of fish and oil, the scents of commerce.

  Edmund marched at the head of their party, with the footmen flanking Turner. Winding their way through stacks of barrels and crates, past warehouses stuffed with luxury goods, they eventually found themselves at the side of a ship: the Genevieve, setting sail for the Mediterranean.

  “Your passag
e has been paid,” Edmund said over his shoulder as they climbed aboard the ship. “Do you wish to be confined to quarters?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Turner spoke for the first time since his hands had been bound.

  When Edmund’s feet reached the end of the gangplank, the world rocked and shifted beneath them. Genevieve bobbed in the gentle lapping of the river water.

  “You’ve always had a choice,” Edmund said. “The way you are treated depends on the way you behave.”

  Turner looked amused for a second; that haughty unflappable expression that showed he thought the whole world dobhránta except for himself.

  “The captain knows you’re not to be trusted, and he can confine you to quarters. Throw you overboard, too. But if you behave, he’ll take you to Spain or Italy; I don’t care where you end up.” Edmund let this sink in for a moment; then he added, “You can start over, Turner. You needn’t let your life be in vain, and you needn’t have it end.”

  Turner spat on the ground. “I didn’t choose the rope, boyo. But don’t ask me to listen to your prosing or I may hang myself.” Turner’s mouth twisted; a hint of the lean, handsome man the former tutor had been. “All you’ve got to go home to now is an empty house. Took down a bit of the aristocracy from within, didn’t I? Seems I’m a better revolutionary than you ever knew.”

  One last time, Edmund looked at the man who had formed so much of his life. Turner looked resentful but resigned, his shoulders square and jaw set, graying hair tied back in the old-fashioned queue he favored.

  “I suppose I do owe you a debt,” Edmund said. “You helped to shape me into the man I am today.” He turned away. “Captain, I’m ready to disembark.”

  The gangplank wobbled beneath his feet, but his steps as he strode away from the ship had never felt more sure. The heels of his boots echoed on wood, then pavement, their thump a counterpoint to the steady beat of his heart. Behind him followed the two footmen.

  Faintly, beneath the muddled odors of waste and commerce, he thought he caught the salt scent of the sea. Maybe he was simply imagining it, for he stood at the edge of the sluggish Thames, and the sea was out of sight in the persistent dark.