A Taste for Scandal

by Brenda Hiatt

  Of course, a traitorous thought reminded him, she did enjoy taking gifts to her father’s tenants…and she was extremely well-read, even compared to most men…

  No. He’d made a far more eligible choice in Miss Simpson. Not to mention that if he broke that engagement only to offer for Miss Turpin, it would damage both his reputation and hers. Lady Simpson would see to that.

  By the time he reached Cavendish Square, he had renewed his determination to see his prior commitment through. Still, it was with somewhat depressed spirits that he rang the bell.

  “Ah, Lord Rushford,” Lady Simpson smilingly greeted him. “I’ve just asked Lord Killerby to join us for luncheon. I felt that was the least we could do after he was so obliging as to escort us home. Won’t you join us as well?”

  As Lady Puttercroft’s promised tea had been deferred, he readily accepted the invitation.

  “I come bearing a message from Lady Puttercroft,” he said then, handing Lady Simpson her letter. “She is rather hoping you might be willing to take her niece under your wing while she recovers from a sprained ankle.”

  Lady Simpson perused the note with raised brows. “But what of Mrs. Turpin, her nephew’s wife?”

  “I fear she is obliged to return to the country.” Rush sent a quick, cautioning glance at Killer, lest he contradict the story. “She and her husband have happily discovered that their family is to have a new addition this year and Mr. Turpin feels she will do better away from the dirt and noise of London during these early days.”

  He hadn’t precisely been authorized to share that, but knowing Thor’s mother, it would not remain a secret for long anyway.

  “Well, that is lovely news, to be sure. I cannot disagree about the unhealthfulness of London’s air for a woman in her condition. What a mercy she is recovered from her cold, save for her voice. Given that, I’ve no objection to chaperoning the girl for a week or two.”

  “Then Violet will be going about with us this Season?” Miss Simpson sounded rather more animated than usual. “I should like that above all things, for she is great fun to be around.”

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Any fun you have with Miss Turpin will only be of the most proper sort, for I shall take this charge as seriously as her aunt would. Still, it will be no bad thing for you to have a lively companion to draw you out a bit. I shall let Lady Puttercroft know I am willing and call upon her tomorrow to discuss the details.”

  “Well, that’s just capital,” Killer exclaimed. “It is clear the young ladies already hold each other in affection. With the two of them offering twice the incentive, we must plan a few outings together, eh, Rush?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Rush took care to smile at Miss Simpson as he spoke, that she and her mother might credit his eagerness to the proper lady.

  Lady Simpson seemed pleased by his implication that her daughter was the main attraction. Miss Simpson, however, did not notice, for her gaze had already returned to her lap.

  * * *

  “Excellent idea, to have Miss Turpin go about with the Simpsons,” Killer commented when the two gentlemen at length left the house. “Was it yours or Lady Puttercroft’s?”

  “Mine,” Rush confessed, “though she needed no persuasion. ’Twas the only thing I could think of that might prevent her sending Miss Turpin back to Lincolnshire and so deprive her of another Season.”

  “Send her back?” Killer asked in surprise. “Why would she do so?”

  Rush explained the deception Miss Turpin had perpetrated upon her aunt with disturbingly near success. “Can you imagine what sort of mischief Miss Turpin would have got into had Lady Puttercroft left Town as planned?”

  Killer shuddered. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Particularly as we promised Thor we’d keep her out of trouble—a greater challenge than I anticipated, it appears.”

  “I had fewer illusions on that head than you did,” Rush assured his friend. “I suspected from the start it would be no easy task to keep her out of the scandal sheets, for she seems quite bent on landing herself there. With any luck, Lady Simpson’s assistance will make our promise a bit less difficult to keep.”

  “Aye, it’s clear she keeps her daughter on a tight rein, though it scarcely seems necessary in her case. A sweet girl, Miss Simpson. I don’t wonder you fixed upon her. Meanwhile, I should say the sooner Miss Turpin can be safely married off, the better. ’Tis the only sure way to relieve both Thor and us of responsibility for her.”

  Rush could not disagree, though the thought of relinquishing that responsibility to another man gave him rather less comfort than it should.

  Chapter Eight

  Violet found spending the rest of the day in her room tedious, once her resentment and embarrassment faded. To pass the time, she fell to rereading her favorite passages from The Saint of Seven Dials and fantasizing about the various ways she might help the fabled thief if she could only find him.

  Her only other relief from boredom came when Brigid brought up her dinner.

  “I’m sorry your plan did not work out as you’d hoped, Miss,” she said, setting the tray on a small table. Though her words were sympathetic, Violet had no difficulty discerning the relief in her expression.

  “No, it is I who am sorry, Brigid. I should never have insisted you attempt a role that made you so uncomfortable for the sake of my own selfish pleasure. I quite deserved what happened—though I’ll not soon forgive Lord Rushford for being the instrument of my failure.”

  * * *

  The next morning, her irritation at his lordship was somewhat appeased by her aunt’s announcement over breakfast, which she was again invited to take in her chamber.

  “You will be pleased to hear that Lady Simpson has offered to act as your chaperone in my stead while my ankle heals, just as Lord Rushford suggested,” Aunt Philomena said as Violet poured out the coffee. “She and her daughter mean to call upon us later this morning. I say ‘us,’ for it will not do for Lady Simpson to suspect I have already had reason to restrict you to your room.”

  “I am glad Lady Simpson agreed,” Violet said, avoiding her aunt’s censorious eye. “It will be pleasant to spend more time with Mary.”

  Her aunt sniffed. “Do not think you are being rewarded for the prank you attempted. I am taking this step for our family’s sake, not yours.” She continued in the same vein for the duration of the meal, concluding with, “Remember, you are to say nothing to Lady Simpson about what you attempted to do. I must hope that Lord Rushford will hold his tongue as well.”

  Much as it rankled to defend him, Violet felt obliged to reassure her aunt on that point. “According to my brother, Lord Rushford is a great keeper of secrets. I happen to know that the two of them got into more than a few scrapes together during their school days.”

  Lady Puttercroft smiled indulgently. “Yes, well, boys will be boys. Back you go to your room now, to change into whichever of your morning gowns is least outmoded. Our guests will be arriving soon.”

  Violet returned to her chamber grumbling over the vastly different standards applied to young men compared to young women. No one ever excused her bits of folly by saying “girls will be girls.”

  While Brigid helped her to change, Violet told her about Lady Simpson’s offer.

  “It might be best if you stow that blue cambric in the bottom of a trunk for the remainder of the Season. That may lessen the likelihood of Lady Simpson recognizing you as the woman she met at Madame Fanchot’s yesterday.”

  Brigid seemed more than happy to do so. She also readily agreed to keep her hair close under her cap whenever they were in public, and particularly around the Simpson ladies. Her cheerful compliance made Violet feel even guiltier for what she’d put the poor girl through.

  A short time later, Violet was summoned to join Aunt Philomena as Wiggins and her maid assisted her down one flight of stairs to the parlor. There, she settled herself in a plush armchair, her injured foot now propped on a pink velvet ottoman.

  “Well! T
hat was not so very difficult after all,” she declared. “Had I attempted this yesterday, I need not have received Lord Rushford in my sitting room.”

  This last was delivered with such a stern look that Violet felt compelled to apologize yet again.

  “I did say I was sorry, Aunt,” she said meekly.

  “Yes, yes, I know, and we’ll not dwell further on it, so long as you adhere strictly to convention from now on. Should I hear word of any other irregularities from Lady Simpson, however—”

  “You will not, Aunt Philomena, I promise you,” Violet truthfully assured her. For if she did flout the rules again, she would make quite certain her aunt never learned of it. Nor Lord Rushford, as he’d no doubt feel obliged to carry tales again.

  Her aunt frowned at Violet’s attire. “I do hope Madame Fanchot can have at least one or two new dresses ready for you soon. That thing must be two or three seasons old.”

  Violet hoped the same, for she was quite eager to be allowed into company—and to escape her aunt’s. Directing Violet to take up a piece of embroidery, Aunt Philomena progressed from one tedious topic to another until the Simpson ladies were finally announced.

  “How good to see you again, Mary,” Violet greeted her friend, motioning her to the chair beside hers. “I was sorry to rush off yesterday, before we’d had time to exchange more than pleasantries.”

  “I was sorry, too,” Miss Simpson replied with a smile. “Now, however, I hope we shall see quite a lot of each other, as Mama has agreed to have you with us much of the time until your aunt is fully recovered.”

  Lady Simpson nodded. “I felt I could do no less for dear Lady Puttercroft, particularly as you and my Mary are such friends. She has been a bit lonely since arriving in Town, though Lord Rushford was most flatteringly attentive yesterday.” She bestowed a fond look upon her daughter. “Assuming Sir Clarence’s letter consenting to the match arrives within the next two months, as I expect, we will see Mary a Countess by the summer.”

  At her mother’s words, Mary blushed deeply. “Mama, I thought we were not to make that public before hearing back from my father?”

  “I agreed with Lord Rushford that it should not be put into the papers just yet,” Lady Simpson allowed, “but he surely cannot mind our sharing your news with such close friends.”

  “I…I suppose not.”

  Violet felt as though an invisible hand had suddenly seized her by the throat, making speech impossible. Mary, little Mary Simpson, was engaged to Lord Rushford? How could that possibly be? Neither he nor her brother had said a word about such a thing while at Ivy Lodge, nor afterward!

  “Next time he calls, my love, you really must exert yourself to talk more, or he may begin to believe you mute,” Lady Simpson was now admonishing her daughter. “As the marriage agreements have not yet been signed, we don’t wish to give him any reason to regret his offer. If you could just bring yourself to flirt with him a bit—”

  She broke off at her daughter’s alarmed expression.

  “Well. Time enough for that, I suppose.” Then, to her hostess, “I am happy to see you looking so well, Lady Puttercroft. I daresay it will not be many days before you are up and about again.”

  In reply, Aunt Philomena shook her head sadly. “Mr. Franklin tells me I must limit my walking for another week or two. Had I been able to go to Brighton I should not have minded, for I can take the sea air perfectly well from my sister Letitia’s terrace. I had intended to spend a fortnight with her during this early part of the Season, you see. Alas, when my nephew and his wife decided to spend the spring in Staffordshire, my leaving London became quite out of the question. I am exceedingly happy for them, of course, but I was quite looking forward to seeing Brighton and my sister again. Letitia will be most disappointed, I know.”

  Lady Simpson clucked her tongue in sympathy.

  “I cannot thank you enough for your willingness to act as chaperone to my niece during this interval,” Lady Puttercroft continued. “Otherwise she would be quite trapped in the house with me, for I could never allow her out unsupervised. Not when— Well, never mind that. ’Tis enough to say that we are both exceedingly grateful to you for your generosity.”

  The two older ladies then fell into conversation about the latest gossip and fashions.

  Violet, finding her voice at last, turned to Mary. “Is it true what your mother says about Lord Rushford?” she asked as lightly as her lingering sense of shock allowed. “I…I had no idea you had made such a conquest.”

  Mary colored again. “I fear ’tis true. Lord Rushford is very obliging, but I confess that I find the thought of becoming his wife rather terrifying.”

  “Terrifying?” Violet was startled again. “Whatever do you find terrifying about Lord Rushford? To me, he seems quite…stodgy.” She used the word as both a reminder for herself and reassurance for her friend.

  “Stodgy? But he is a war hero, and so very dashing,” Mary protested. “Mama persuaded me to go driving with him in his phaeton last summer and I vow I was frightened to death! I felt sure we would overturn, for it seems a most precarious vehicle.”

  Violet regarded her friend pityingly, though she rather envied her that experience. “Those high phaetons may look dangerous, but I assure you they are quite safe. At least in the hands of a skilled driver, as I’m sure Lord Rushford is.”

  “I suppose.” Mary did not look convinced. “Mama of course was delighted by his offer, for she had been determined to see me wed a title.”

  Violet felt a sudden need to change the subject. To her relief, a footman entered just then with a message from Madame Fanchot that two of Violet’s new gowns would be ready for fitting tomorrow.

  “May I go, if I bring my abigail?” she asked eagerly.

  Her aunt frowned. “I am afraid I do not consider your abigail alone sufficient escort for you to go to Bond Street, particularly given— That is—”

  “I am to have another fitting at Madame Fanchot’s myself tomorrow,” Mary interrupted. “Mama, Violet may come with us, may she not?”

  At Lady Simpson’s ready concurrence, Lady Puttercroft could scarcely express her thanks warmly enough.

  “Well, how perfect this is! I had been fretting over how my niece was to finish her shopping without Mrs. Turpin. She still needs to buy nearly everything: gloves, a new parasol… I will make a list before tomorrow.”

  A few minutes later the two Simpson ladies took their leave, promising to call for Violet at half past ten the next morning.

  When they were gone, Aunt Philomena bade Violet go to the writing desk in the corner of the parlor to write down all the various items her aunt felt sure she would need for her Season. Tedious as the task was, Violet welcomed the distraction. The news that Mary Simpson was to marry Lord Rushford distressed her far more than it should. Had she not already abandoned all hope of winning him herself?

  She tried to be happy for her friend, telling herself that they would be very well suited, given Mary’s timidity and Lord Rushford’s prudishness. Nor was Mary likely to mind his lordship’s high-handed management of her life, used as she was to her mother doing the same. Violet was still quite vexed at his interference in her own.

  Still, convincing as her internal arguments were, she could not reason away the ache in her heart at the thought of Rush marrying her friend.

  Rush spent his second morning in London at Tattersall’s, for he was in need of a new mount for Town. After making his selection he lingered a while, simply to be around horses a bit longer, before repairing to Rushford House to change for luncheon. Lord Peter Northrup had suggested meeting at the Guards Club again to continue the conversation begun two days earlier.

  “Your note implied you had received some new information?” Rush asked when he and Peter had ordered their meals. As before, they were seated at a corner table where they were less likely to be disturbed or overheard.

  “I have indeed.” Lord Peter adjusted the sleeve of his lime green jacket, a striking contrast to th
e yellow waistcoat beneath it. “He struck again last night, broke into the Simcox house. This time a maid was able to provide a fair description, for all he wore a mask.”

  “And?” Rush prompted.

  “She described the man as tall and thin, with blond hair. That description confirmed what I already knew—that no one who has ever been a Saint of Seven Dials is committing these burglaries.”

  His phrasing caught Rush’s attention. “Do you mean to say that more than one man has filled that role in the past?”

  After a slight hesitation, Peter nodded. “There have actually been five different Saints thus far. Something I decided you should know, if you are to help me unmask this imposter.”

  Rush took a moment to absorb that remarkable information. “I take it the authorities have no suspicion of this? Certainly, I’ve never seen anything to that effect in the papers.”

  Lord Peter lifted a shoulder. “I believe the, ah, Saints have taken care that they should not. It is important that the poor denizens of Seven Dials have a single hero to look up to, to give them hope. The less the authorities know of the truth the better, should a future Saint choose to take up the mantle and resume his activities on behalf of the poor.”

  “Then there is no current Saint?”

  The other man shook his head. “The most recent one retired at the end of last year. Since then, a small group of benevolently-minded people have endeavored to provide a measure of the assistance his burglaries formerly supplied.”

  “You clearly know the identities of all five of the previous Saints. I, ah, don’t suppose you would be willing to share that knowledge with me?”

  Frowning, Lord Peter lifted a shoulder. “Their secrets are not mine to share, though I’ve been given permission to tell you about the two most recent. One happens to be my best friend and the other…was my wife.”