The door eventually reopened.
Justine drew back her hand and announced in her sternest tone, “Name your price, sir, or I shall be forced to name mine.”
The butler smirked, clearly amused, and adjusted his snug livery. “I can assure you, my lady, I am not one to be bought.”
“Whilst I can assure you, sir, I am not one to be turned away.” Justine pulled out the pistol from her reticule and pointed it straight at his chest. Her forefinger played with the trigger as she boldly stepped toward him, wishing it really was loaded. “I recommend you step aside.” If need be, she’d thwack him on the head with the butt of her pistol and dash right in.
The man froze and wrinkled his pudgy nose as if realizing the residue dusting her entire frame was gunpowder. He scrambled backward and silently extended his thick, gloved hand toward the hall behind.
“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.” She entered the large hall, still keeping the pistol pointed at him. Her heeled slippers clicked across the Italian marble floors as the delicate, sweet aroma of cigars teased her nostrils. She sniffed. Since when did Bradford smoke cigars?
A rapid, bristling sound caused Justine to snap the pistol toward the candlelit receiving room on the left. She paused and blinked in astonishment. For there, on all fours, was a young male servant in full livery wearing a ruffled, white apron. And of all things, he was scrubbing the floor as though he were a housemaid!
The young servant paused, clearly sensing she was watching him. He heaved out a long breath, as if his mother had died, then dipped the horsehair brush into a pail of soapy water and resumed his rapid scrubbing.
The butler shut the door and nervously glanced back at her as he fastened each bolt. “I hope you do not mind waiting whilst I inform His Grace of your arrival.”
Justine swiveled the pistol back to the butler. “So His Grace can altogether escape through a back door? I think not.” She readjusted her grip on the pistol, trying to exude deadly confidence, and purposefully stared him down. “You’d best take me to him.”
She stepped farther back toward the curving mahogany stairwell and eyed the gray silk lampas walls decorated with gold framed mirrors and oversized family portraits.
Nothing had changed. What is more, it reminded her of the first night she’d stepped into this house. That enchanted night when she and her parents had privately dined with the duke in honor of their return from Africa.
She’d been so impressed. But what had impressed her far, far more than the massive, ornate home that night—and thereafter—was the Duke of Bradford himself. A more dashing, charming and intelligent man she’d never met. Of course, her parents had argued that anything would have been impressive to an eighteen-year-old who’d been residing in canvas tents and grass huts since the age of seven.
The butler blew out an exhausted breath and stalked past. He gestured toward the stairwell. “If you please, my lady. The duke’s bedchamber is this way.”
Justine’s heart skipped as she gawked up after the butler, who was already mounting the stairs. Circumstances aside, was it crass to admit to herself that she’d always wondered what the duke’s bedchamber looked like?
The butler paused midway up the winding staircase and glanced down at her.
She cleared her throat and lifted the hem of her gown from around her feet, trying to remain calm. She was not going to melt into a puddle. After all, a woman had to retain some amount of pride and dignity, no matter how scandalized she was.
Still keeping the pistol leveled at the man, she moved up the stairs. When she alighted onto the landing, she bustled straight down the wide corridor, trying to catch up with the butler who had left her far behind, moving with the grace of an elephant at full speed.
The silence grew more pronounced. Glancing toward a passing row of portraits, Justine slowed her pace and paused before a rather stunning portrait of a young woman dressed in a flowing, white brocaded gown. Her large gray-blue eyes stared at Justine with a wrenching beauty that managed to be both provocative and shy.
The candles set within the wall sconces emitted just enough light to cast a perfect, warm glow upon the woman’s face, whilst shadowing the rest of the painting. Her pale skin was smooth, and gathered blond curls framed her face. A playful little smile lingered on her lips.
Justine lowered the pistol and blinked. Who was this beautiful woman to Bradford? A sister or a cousin she did not know of? Or was it—heaven forbid—his mistress? He was indeed always known to surround himself with less than reputable ladies, which sadly, if she believed the rumors, had brought him to his current physical state.
“You demand to see His Grace, yet you show no urgency?” the butler tossed back at her from up ahead.
Justine cringed and hurried down the passageway.
The butler opened a paneled door at the far end of the walkway and disappeared inside. Justine followed, entering a bedchamber that was about the size of a field.
She froze as the butler strode past an enormous four-poster bed draped with heavy, velvet burgundy curtains. The pillows, linens and coverlets were all in disarray.
The butler halted before a closed door on the other side of the room that adjoined another chamber. He cleared his throat and knocked. “Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Palmer is here. She insists upon a private audience and ardently awaits your attention within the confines of your bedchamber.”
Justine gestured with the pistol in complete exasperation. Why, the man made her sound like a wanton! As if she did this sort of thing all the time.
There was a movement, followed by a rather loud splash of water against porcelain.
Blessed be her soul, was the duke bathing?
A deep voice suddenly boomed from the other side, “Do my orders mean nothing? You’ve barely worked here a Goddamn week! I replaced the last butler for less.”
The butler winced and adjusted his livery, shifting from boot to boot. “Yes. I realize as much, Your Grace. But I should probably point out that aside from the pistol she is toting, and the threats she is spitting, given the time of night, I was rather concerned about turning her away. Her overall appearance is rather…disturbing.”
Justine cringed and glanced down at her daffodil gown, which was smeared with enough gunpowder to warrant an arrest in the name of public safety. And to think, she had worn her finest.
There was muttering from behind the door, followed by an aggressive splash of water within the tub. “Leave us. I will ring when it is time for you to escort her home. Which you will, Jefferson. As punishment. I also intend to temporarily suspend your wages.”
“Uh…yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned, set his thick chin a tad higher above his collar and strode toward her, never once meeting her gaze.
Justine sighed and couldn’t help but feel remorse. Shoving the pistol into her reticule, she held it out. “Take this, Jefferson, along with my sincere apologies. Rest assured, it was never primed or loaded. I shall see to it His Grace does not hold you accountable.”
The butler paused and lifted a thick brow, silently acknowledging her apology. He plucked the weighty reticule from her hand and strode out, shutting the door behind him.
One less soul to worry about. Justine blew out a shaky breath and turned to the closed paneled door leading to the bath chamber. If only she weren’t so worried about Bradford. That dark, overly agitated voice sounded nothing like him.
After all, once upon a time, the whole of London could be burning and the man would have still retained that playful lilt in his voice and that devious twinkle in his eye. He’d never been one to easily ruffle and knew how to make everyone, right down to a tinplate worker, feel as though they were all equal peers. Libertine though he was, yes, a more genuine and kind soul she’d never met.
Her pulse throbbed against her ears as she eyed the faint light peering through the crevices of the door. “Bradford?” He’d always preferred being addressed as such.
“Do you have any idea
what time it is?” he demanded. “Do you not realize you have a responsibility toward yourself and toward my name?”
Her brows rose. Since when did Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of Bradford, ever touch upon the hour or respectability?
Justine edged toward the direction of the bath chamber, curious as to what she would find on the other side of the door. Realizing she was almost an arm’s reach away, she halted. What on earth was she doing? The man was bathing, for pity’s sake. And unlike the African Bushmen and Hottentots, who kept their genitals bound in straps of leather even whilst bathing, she doubted he did. She wet her lips, trying not to imagine what was below his waist, lest she forget her reason for calling on him.
She fidgeted, knowing she should try to be civil. She was interrupting his bath. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other,” she managed. Exactly two hundred and fifty-seven days. “Are you well?”
He rumbled out a laugh. “Do you mean to tell me you infiltrated my home, armed, in the dead of night merely to ask how I am?”
She wrinkled her nose. Point well made. “Uh…no. Of course not. You see…I’ve been rather concerned about you and our…arrangement. Aside from not wanting to see your own fiancée until the day of the wedding, which even my own mother admits to being odd—and she finds very few things odd—your solicitor still hasn’t fully explained the complications surrounding my father’s release. I don’t understand what is taking so long. It’s been five weeks.”
“My dear, dear Justine.” His husky tone made the wonderful endearments sound insincere. “Much like His Royal Majesty and Lord Winfield, who first brought your father’s observations to His Majesty’s attention, I myself am still very livid with your father. Though for very different reasons. Fetch me up as daft, but what possessed him to go against the advice of his own patron—me—and publish not one but three hundred copies of observations most people would categorize as bestiality? But of course His Majesty was going to make an example of him. Hell, I wanted to make an example of him when I discovered every one of those bloody observations had been dedicated to me. Me. Thanking me for years of funding. Do you have any idea the amount of letters I had to write to His Majesty, apologizing for my financial involvement?”
Justine winced. Yes, she could understand him being upset. But what he failed to realize was that the dedication had been bestowed with the deepest of respect and gratitude. After all, if it weren’t for his generous funding—funding no other peer in London had been willing to offer—her father’s studies in South Africa would have never been possible. For although her father was an earl, he’d always been a man of humble means who barely afforded a townhouse in a respectable square.
Justine stared down at the ornate brass knob before her and willed herself to remain optimistic, even as her eyes pricked with stupid, stupid tears. “Please assure me this has not affected your decision to assist him. He is tired, Bradford. And weak. And refuses to eat. I’ve never seen him look so frail.”
Bradford sighed. Loud enough for even her to hear. “I am not the one impeding his release.”
Her eyes veered back up from the knob. “Whatever do you mean?”
There was a moment of silence, followed by the soft rustle of water. “As you already know, my solicitor has been diligently negotiating this case. What you do not know is that Lord Winfield, upon discovering my intentions to assist, once again brought it to the attention of His Majesty, who then insisted the bench increase all fines by another two thousand pounds. No sooner had my solicitor met those demands, when the fines were blatantly increased again. And again. And again.”
Justine’s eyes widened as she huffed out, “What does Lord Winfield have against my father to continue to persecute him like this? They used to be friends!”
“Emphasis on the used to be. Lord Winfield despises sodomites, Justine. Rumor has it his own son was brutally sodomized against his will many, many years ago at the age of sixteen.”
Oh, dear God. No wonder the man hated her father. Justine sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t realize that. And apparently, neither did my father.”
“It would not be something a man would openly discuss.”
“No, I suppose not.” Justine was quiet for a moment. “So what have the fines been set to?”
“Fifty thousand pounds. Which is why your father is still at Marshalsea. Because I do not have fifty thousand in loose coins. Most of my money is shackled to land and investments I cannot touch. And His Majesty knows it.”
Justine sucked in an astonished breath and kept herself from staggering by grabbing hold of the door frame. “Fifty thousand pounds? Oh, dear God. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry?” she cried. “I have a right to worry when it involves my father. I don’t understand how any of this can be legal. His Majesty cannot up and—”
“Yes, he can, Justine. And he will,” he said in a curt tone that forbade another word. “I have already arranged to have more comfortable furnishings brought in for your father, along with better food and wine. I am doing everything I can, and if all goes well, this will not go beyond another eight weeks. Now, be a good girl and yank on the servant bell there by the bed. Jefferson will escort you home. Despite your blatant refusal to respect my privacy before the wedding, know that I still genuinely look forward to seeing you at the altar next week. I bid you farewell and wish you a very good night.”
Justine glared at the door. “Marriage and better furnishings be damned! The worst of what my father has to endure, aside from being confined to a maze of rooms and dreary brick walls, has to do with the public itself. Did you know Marshalsea allows anyone to visit those being kept? Anyone?”
She fisted her hands at the very thought of it. “Random men and women of all ages from every part of London stroll in during open-gate hours, to call on him, merely to offer mocking questions about buggery and animal copulation. Eight more weeks is going to be the death of him. I refuse to have him stagnate in that abyss for another day, let alone another eight weeks.”
The duke cleared his throat. Twice. “And what exactly would you have me do? Storm the Bastille? Dust off the guillotine and set His Majesty’s coiffed head beneath it?”
At her silence, he continued, “Justine. Even if I could raise the funds, your father’s situation has nothing to do with money. His observations ultimately called for the rights of sodomites. Do you not know that the buggery laws in England were all recently strengthened? Had your father not been an earl, he most likely would have hanged, and His Majesty, not to mention Lord Winfield, simply wish to make a point of it.”
Tears burned her eyes. How did one oppose the King’s wrath? One didn’t. “Then…then perhaps you ought to take your brother’s lead. Carlton was gracious enough to call upon me yesterday morn. He offered to personally petition His Majesty for a full pardon. Can you not do the same? Will it not mean more coming from you?”
The duke paused. “I don’t care if Carlton damn well promised you world domination. I forbid you to have any further association with him. He is not the same man you once knew and has lost the last of his rational mind. Much like your father, I suppose.”
Her eyes widened. Oh, now that was simply too far below the vines to compare her father to Carlton. “I’ve had enough of this, Bradford. I demand you cease tossing insults, don your clothes and give me my due audience. I’ve yet to see you, and I refuse to be turned away until I do.”
“Justine,” he growled out. “I am bathing, and as such, I am not readily available to entertain. Now ring for Jefferson.”
As if she could be intimidated by a growl and a few measly words. “Since you clearly have no intention of showing yourself,” she icily warned, placing her hand on the brass doorknob, “you leave me no choice but to open this door. Whatever you look like, Bradford, I doubt it will even make me blink. I have seen far hairier and bigger things than you.”
When he did not reply, Justine huffed out an agitated breath. Although she could easily give up her right to civil conversations, romantic picnics and carriage rides—niceties he’d never once offered during their brief engagement—she had no intention of waiting until the day of the wedding to see him. Setting aside her father’s dire predicament, she was going to put an end to this hiding. And the best part? She wasn’t going to have to wait until her wedding night to see the duke in all his glory.
SCANDAL TWO
Clothing is the one and only thing that separates us from the animals, which is why it is absolutely imperative to keep clothes on at all times.
How to Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
RADCLIFF EDWIN MORTON, the fourth Duke of Bradford, sat up, sending a swirling wave of warm water against the porcelain tub around him. He raked his drenched, dark hair out of his eyes with a few agitated sweeps and seethed out a breath, trying to will away his throbbing erection. An erection brought on by knowing Justine was finally within reach.
Damn her for putting him in this situation. He refused to be in her presence until they were man and wife. For even after eight long months of confinement, it was more than obvious he couldn’t trust his body to cooperate.
Radcliff stood, water streaming down the length of his frame. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the towel from the brass stand beside the tub and rubbed the water from his hair.
He stepped out onto the blue-and-white Italian tile, quickly dried the rest of himself and tossed the wet towel aside. Shaking his head, he swiped up his trousers from the floor, thankful his valet had dropped them on the way out or he would have had nothing to cover his lower half aside from a towel.
The door banged open, hitting the wall hard.
Prelude to a Scandal Page 2
