The Scandalous Lady Sandford (Lost Ladies of London Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  The Scandalous Lady Sandford

  Adele Clee

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission. Distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement.

  The Scandalous Lady Sandford

  Copyright © 2018 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-9998938–0-4

  Cover designed by Jay Aheer

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Thank you!

  The Daring Miss Darcy

  Also by Adele Clee

  Chapter One

  Rows of red lanterns hung from the trees in the Grove at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. The clang of cymbals drew everyone’s gaze to the Prussian military band settling into their seats in the bandstand. Those already merry on punch tutted and moaned for they preferred the light-hearted country dancing to the solemn sound of a soldier’s drum.

  Lady Lillian Sandford jumped upon hearing the high-pitched call of the bugle. “They should give us a warning before blasting out a tune.”

  Her brother, Ross Sandford, Marquess of Trevane, snorted in amusement. “A bugle call is a warning. It’s supposed to get the crowd’s attention.”

  The loud bang of drums sent Lillian’s nerves scattering. Though of late, it did not take much to unsettle her equilibrium. The image of the black coach flashed into her mind. For three consecutive nights, she’d witnessed the conveyance crawl around Berkeley Square before stopping beneath the lamp outside her window. Perhaps the coachman meant to frighten her with his pockmarked face and toothless grin. Perhaps his beady stare was an ominous warning. But for what?

  She’d seen the same coach this evening, parked on Mount Street.

  By rights, she should mention it to Vane, but her brother’s need to protect her proved stifling. Guilt formed the basis of his obsessive nature. He’d been her shadow for the last two years. No one dared speak of her shame in his presence. No one looked her way for fear of encountering Vane’s wrath. He’d shot the rogue who ruined her and would pull a pistol on any man who attempted to do so again.

  As the music grew in pitch and tempo, Lillian clutched Vane’s arm.

  He cast her a sidelong glance. “What is it? You’re shivering. Has someone spoken out of turn?” Straightening to his full height, he scoured the crowd, his eyes ablaze and ready to rain bolts of fire on anyone who so much as looked in their direction.

  “Of course not.” No one conversed with her. “To these people, I'm invisible.” The tightness in her chest made it hard to breathe, and she touched the gold locket at her throat for it always brought comfort. “I’m the only lady who hasn't danced.”

  Respectable gentlemen considered her a leper. Rakes and scoundrels treated her as they would a nun — a woman strictly out of bounds, not one of superior status. And so she lingered within an empty void, unworthy in every regard.

  “Why would you want to court attention from these degenerates?” Vane gestured to the two fools standing to their left, laughing as they marched to the band’s rhythmical beat.

  “I do not want attention, Vane, but it would be nice for someone to acknowledge I exist.” Was a nod or a genuine smile from a gentleman too much to ask? “Is it wrong to crave companionship? Perhaps then I might not feel so alone.”

  Vane frowned. “You’re not alone. You have me.”

  How could she tell him she was suffocating under the weight of his protection? How could she hurt him when he’d given up everything to keep her safe? “After all that occurred with Lord Martin—”

  “Do not dare utter that rogue’s name in my presence.” A dark expression marred Vane’s handsome countenance. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make things right.”

  “You could talk to me. Something is troubling you. After months of hiding indoors, we’ve spent the last week traipsing up and down every street in London, and yet you refuse to tell me why.”

  Vane turned his head so she had no hope of reading his reaction.

  “And why insist on coming to Vauxhall?” she continued, determined to have an answer. “There are hundreds of people here tonight. Must you torture me like this?”

  That got his attention. He swung around, his blue eyes hard and unyielding. “Torture you? I’ve not slept in days.”

  The admission brought a wave of relief. At least Vane’s odd mood was not a figment of her imagination.

  Lillian touched his arm. “You can be honest with me, Vane. If you’re tired of living in the shadows, if—”

  “It’s not that,” he snapped.

  The band played their last note, and the crowd applauded with mild enthusiasm. At the sound of the supper whistle, the excitement in the Grove reached fever pitch as people scrambled to find their assigned table.

  “Come.” Vane led her away from the bandstand to the open supper boxes located along the colonnade, and she knew that was the end of their conversation. “We’re in box nine. Let’s try to enjoy the evening.”

  While no one gave Lillian a passing glance, Vane never failed to attract attention. Ladies brushed past him on purpose and gripped his arm to steady their balance. They batted their lashes, drooled and sighed, slipped notes into his coat pocket. And yet he ignored every comment, ignored every written request to sneak away to a secluded part of the garden and partake in a little wild sport.

  A weary sigh left Vane’s lips as they settled into their seats. Lord Martin had stolen more than Lillian’s virtue. He’d stolen her brother’s happiness, too.

  “Why not escort me home and then return to Vauxhall? Did I not see Lord Ashbourne near the rotunda?” Lillian examined the platter of cold meat and salad placed before her. “You were friends once I seem to recall.”

  Vane swallowed a mouthful of wine. “We were inseparable.” He meant in his carefree days before the scandal. “Now we move in different circles.”

  Guilt flared. She was to blame for their estrangement. Naivety was a trait of the damned it seemed.

  “Besides,” Vane continued, “I know you’re excited about seeing Mr Green’s coal gas balloon.”

  Lillian smiled. “They say his balloon takes passengers.” She often envisioned climbing into the basket and drifting off to a faraway land where no one judged her — where she would be free to do as she pleased.

  “Only a fool would risk his neck in such a flimsy contraption.”

  “I wonder what it’s like drifting so close to the stars?”

&
nbsp; Vane glanced to the heavens. “Cold, damp and frightfully boring.”

  “You used to be game for anything.” Lillian sipped her fruit punch though it tasted tart rather than sweet.

  “When a gentleman has responsibilities, he cannot afford to gamble with his life.”

  Lillian’s heart sank. Through her own stupidity, she’d become an iron chain around her brother’s neck. “With any luck, a gentleman will come along to relieve you of your burden.”

  “You’re not a burden, Lillian. And perhaps you’re right. One day you may find someone who makes you happy.” Vane smiled, though something in his tone suggested she would be a fool to hope.

  Was this to be her life now? Hiding in the shadows, never knowing friendship or true love.

  They fell into a companionable silence while they finished their supper although her brother studied every person who happened to walk by.

  Vane emptied the contents of the carafe into his glass and drank it down. “We need to make our way along the central avenue if we want to watch the balloon. I suggest we leave now before there’s a stampede.”

  They had no fear of being crushed. Everyone gave them a wide berth. No one dared to smack shoulders with a man like Vane.

  As Lillian edged out from the table, she lost her footing and almost stumbled. Vane caught her by the elbow. “Are you all right?”

  A chuckle escaped her lips. “It’s the fruit punch. I don’t know what they’ve put in it, but the concoction is rather potent.”

  Vane turned back to the table and examined the empty glass. “And yet you drank every drop.”

  Lillian shrugged. “Ignore me. No doubt I stood too quickly.” She placed her hand in the crook of Vane’s arm. Her head felt light and woozy, but she did not want to worry him. “Come, a stroll will soon set me right.”

  “A stroll? We may have to sprint if we want to beat the crowd.”

  Vane led her out through the Grove and along the gravel walkway. Everyone else seemed just as eager to reach the large crimson balloon swaying gently in the distance. Groups of people poured out through the gaps between the trees, most of them loud and boisterous after downing copious amounts of wine at supper.

  “Mr Green takes questions and explains the science behind ballooning,” Vane said. “It has something to do with gas being lighter than atmospheric air.”

  Vane told her about numerous disasters, of people falling to their death, of lightning strikes and sparks from fireworks sending one balloon up in flames. Suddenly, the thought of flying to destinations new seemed unappealing.

  “Is that why they wait for thirty minutes until after the balloon has ascended before lighting the fireworks?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  They joined the assembled throng gathered around the wooden platform supporting the eighty-foot balloon. Made of crimson silk and covered with netting, it took six men tugging on ropes to anchor it down. The light summer breeze had gathered momentum, and the approaching clumps of black cloud did not bode well for a trouble-free ascent. No doubt alarmed by the sudden change in the weather, Mr Green clambered inside the basket along with another gentleman who bellowed orders to those gripping the ropes.

  “It appears Mr Green is in a hurry tonight.” Lillian watched the flurry of activity. Perhaps whatever gas kept the contraption in the air was affecting her, too, as lights danced before her eyes and it became difficult to focus.

  Vane glanced up at the menacing cloud. “Green had better take off soon else he’ll get caught in the storm.” Raising a brow of disapproval, he perused her gown. “Did I not tell you to bring your cloak this evening?”

  While the cut of her lavender dress was conservative by most ladies’ standards, the fine material did little to keep the cold at bay. “But it was so mild when we left.” Was it her imagination or did her words sound slurred?

  “Release the ropes!” Mr Green cried. “Steady, now. Steady as she goes.” He tried to smile as he doffed his hat and waved to the excited onlookers. No sooner had the basket begun its slow ascent from the platform than a gust of wind whipped underneath. One man lost his grip on the rope, and the whole contraption lurched forward.

  The crowd gasped and edged back. Some people covered their heads with their hands. Others cowered behind the person standing next to them.

  “There’s nothing to fear.” Mr Green’s cries of reassurance failed to calm the nervous bystanders.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Vane muttered. “Hysterics only make matters worse. Green is a capable man. He knows how to deal with these unforeseen eventualities.”

  Another man released his rope too quickly. Mr Green continued to shout instructions as the balloon swayed back and forth, groaning and creaking as it strained against its moorings.

  Panic forced people to turn and run. No one gave a hoot that Lillian was a social leper. Nor did they fear a punch on the nose from Vane. Amidst the pandemonium, drunken revellers pushed and barged past them. Lillian made the mistake of letting go of Vane’s arm and was carried away by a surge of people charging towards the entrance.

  Chaos erupted despite Mr Green’s ability to control his giant bag of air.

  Jostled between two gentlemen, Lillian struggled to keep sight of Vane. It didn’t help that the sea of heads blurred into one colourful wave. She grew dizzier by the minute. Confused. Bewildered. Events seemed to happen around her as though she sat in the supper booth, a mere spectator.

  One muscular arm clamped around her waist and dragged her back against a hard, solid chest. The sickly sweet scent of rum flooded her nostrils, coupled with the briny smell of the sea. Sleep beckoned. The world swirled. Her head lolled forward, the heavy weight of her eyelids dragging her down into the darkness.

  Events appeared in fractured pictures. She recalled being carried through the trees, noted the crimson balloon drifting across the sky, growing smaller and smaller as she lay on her back in a rowboat. Spots of rain landed on her cheek, but she lacked the strength to move. She thought to cry out, but despite her terrible experiences with Lord Martin, she wasn’t scared.

  “Give her a drink, Mackenzie,” one oarsman said as he used brute strength to propel the vessel along the Thames. “A few drops of laudanum will see her right till we reach the ship.”

  The ship?

  The hulking man beside her pulled a brown bottle from his pocket and removed the stopper. “Here, lass, a quick sip will make for a more pleasant journey.” With one hand supporting her head, the Scot pressed the bottle to her lips. “There’s nothing to fear.” His tone was calm, soothing, yet he gave her no option but to drink. “The master needs your help that’s all.”

  An image of Vane, frantically scouring the crowd, flashed into her head. “Wh-where’s my brother?”

  “Don’t worry about your brother, lass. No doubt you’ll see him soon enough.” He lowered her head back down onto the sack, slipped the bottle into his pocket and then shrugged out of his greatcoat and placed it over her like a blanket. “Rest is all you need now.”

  Lillian’s lids grew heavy, but the loud cracks and bangs overhead forced her to look up as the fireworks erupted. Streams of red and gold lights sparkled like jewels in the night sky. She continued watching the display until her eyes were dead weights and she drifted into a peaceful slumber.

  Lillian woke to the sound of lapping water and creaking wood. She touched her temple to ease the dull ache and then sat up and surveyed her surroundings. Daylight streamed through the large windows spanning the width of the great cabin: the captain’s quarters. Maps and nautical instruments littered the huge oak table. The man was an adventurer, one who embraced risk. Red velvet curtains separated the small poster bed from the room that held books, a music stand, bow and fiddle … the tools of an educated man. She suppressed a chuckle when her gaze fell to the range of swords filling an open chest. Despite the captain’s obvious intelligence, he’d made a grave error. He doubted a woman’s ability to wield a sword.

  A key rattled in
the lock, and she curled into a ball on the bed and feigned sleep. At the heavy trudge of footsteps on the boards, she peered through half-closed eyes and watched the man they called Mackenzie place a pewter plate and a flagon on the table.

  She contemplated charging at him, thumping his chest and demanding to know what he was about, but she lacked the strength of mind and body.

  Mackenzie turned and looked at her, strode over and touched her lightly on the arm. “I’ve brought food for you, lass.”

  Lillian blinked, yawned and stretched one arm above her head. “What time is it?”

  “Almost noon,” Mackenzie said in a soft Scottish burr. “With a good wind in the sails, we’ll reach our destination come nightfall.”

  “Are we away to France?”

  “Lord, no. We’re sailing along the South Coast. We’ll drop anchor for a couple of hours while we take on … cargo, then we’ll be on our way.” Mackenzie drew his hand down his beard. “Rest here now. I’ll lock the door for your own safety. The master will be none too pleased if you tumble overboard.”

  “Will your master—”

  “Now is not the time for questions. I’ll return when it’s safe to come up on deck.”

  The Scot left the room. The heavy clunk of a key confirmed he’d locked the door.

  Lillian spent an hour looking through the books on the shelf while she ate. Her captor read Latin, studied Socrates and Plato. From the music sheets, he had a fondness for Haydn. After a poor attempt at striking a tune on the fiddle, she settled back on the bed and let sleep take her.

  Hours passed. She woke to a room bathed in moonlight.

  Grabbing the burgundy coverlet from the bed, she draped it over her shoulders and padded to the door. She pressed her ear to the thin gap between the frame and the jamb but heard nothing in the corridor beyond. The glint of a brass key in the lock caught her eye. Mackenzie must have returned. She turned it and eased open the door, relieved to find there were no guards keeping watch.