Lady Scandal

by Shannon Donnelly

  Well, she would be glad that he had allowed them to leave, even though he seemed to suspect they were not French. But considering what he had said about their carriage not holding the man they wanted, perhaps the captain's gallantry was nothing more than a desire not to be distracted from his duty by mere women.

  That rankled even more.

  With her chemise, her aunt's jewel box as well as her aunt's arm, she turned slowly, as if with a care for her aunt's health. Diana led her aunt back to the coach, leaning close to whisper in English, "I think he knows—"

  Her aunt interrupted, her tone sharp and her French halting. "Hush—not here."

  Diana nodded, her cheeks hot. She did not seem to be very good at this pretending, and that endangered them all.

  At the coach, Marie-Jeanne shifted from one foot to the next. "May I be excused, Madam. For a moment only. Nature calls."

  Diana stared at the maid a moment before she realized the girl needed to visit the privy. She could not blame Marie-Jeanne. Her own insides had almost gone liquid. Her aunt nodded to the maid, and said in her poor French, "Hurry back."

  After one frightened glance at the soldiers, Marie-Jeanne put her head down and lifted her skirt to pick a path around the nearest house and to whatever facilities might exist behind it.

  To maintain the pretense that her aunt was ill, Diana made a show of helping her into the coach. After seeing her chemise and her aunt's jewel case repacked, she got into the coach herself. With the driver back in his seat, the luggage strapped to the roof again, and the footmen both shifting nervously beside the door, Diana called out, "Marie-Jeanne?"

  The soldiers seemed to have lost interest in them, for they sauntered away, taking the torchlight with them. The night seemed darker. Moonlight crept out only to vanish again; clouds parted and thickened, pushed by the sharp wind.

  Diana started to call the girl's name again, but she heard hurrying footsteps and the flap of skirts. The moon slipped out from the clouds again and Diana glimpsed the maid, the hood of her cloak pulled up and her skirts fluttering as she strode towards the coach.

  The maid struggled for a moment with her skirts and the step, but she flung herself inside the coach and huddled into a dark corner. Hurrying, the footman put up the steps and shut the door. The driver cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward, the team having to drag the wheels loose from the mud.

  "What took you so long?" Diana asked.

  Marie-Jeanne gave no answer, but only pressed herself further into the corner of the coach.

  Suddenly uneasy, Diana stared at the maid.

  Her aunt's voice, calm as ever, drew Diana's attention from the maid. "I pray that is as close a call as we have for the rest of this trip. But since you mentioned Calais, I think we will do better now to make for Boulogne—just in case that captain changes his mind about us. The trick now will be to find a change of horses."

  Between the mud and the tired horses, it took them two hours to cover the next ten miles. They found an inn willing to open and offer them food and a fresh team for hire. The candles in the lanterns set either side of the carriage doors had burnt out, and Alexandria decided not to replace them. Somehow it seemed better to draw the least notice possible.

  Diana tried to coax Marie-Jeanne from the coach to eat with them, but the maid only shook her head and shrank back into the inky corner. Poor girl—she must still be fretting over the soldiers, Alexandria decided, and let her be.

  Twenty minutes later they stepped back into the coach, having eaten quickly and with fresh horses in harness. Marie-Jeanne seemed to be asleep, but Diana leaned forward, offering a slice of lamb on bread. "Marie-Jeanne, I brought you something to eat."

  The maid said nothing.

  "Leave her to sleep," Alexandria urged.

  "Oh, but she must be hungry." Leaning forward, Diana took hold of the maid's leg to wake her. She pulled back at once, dropping the lamb. "You're not Marie-Jeanne!"

  A low purr of a masculine voice answered in flawless English, "No, I am not. But I do have a gun pointed at you, so I advise you not to do anything foolish."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alexandria stared at the shadowy figure across from her, shock cold on her skin. Fatigue blunted her thoughts and her feelings, but not so much that she could not recognize that voice. Her pulse quickened and her throat dried. Impossible that it should be him, appearing as if summoned by her earlier thoughts.

  And yet...excitement shimmered. Could it be? Oh, to see him again, after so long.

  She straightened and scolded herself for her heart leaping ahead of her.

  Still, she narrowed her eyes, trying to make out his features, trying to be certain, willing herself to be mistaken, and her hands quivering that she might be. She wished she did not feel young and eager again. Age ought to bring more than wrinkles. Yet, she knew the truth. Knew it in ways that had nothing to do with the rational mind.

  Her skin vibrated with the awareness of him. His voice had always done that to her—that languid, velvet voice still brushed across her like thick silk. It was him. The years could not change her knowledge of him.

  Oh, she ought to hate him for doing this to her, she decided. She had once spent hours picturing their meeting again—at some social function, in a park perhaps—but in all her fantasies she had been self-possessed, a woman of the world and no longer such a raw girl who stumbled over her words and choked on her emotions. And he had been—well, he had not been this dark, disturbing figure.

  Since she had no real idea what to do, she did what she had learned to do over the long years to mask her inadequacies; she resorted to sarcasm. "Paxten Marsett—how very like you to appear where you are least wanted and of no use whatsoever."

  For a moment, he did not reply, and then a low, warm laugh filled the coach. "And how very like you to cross my path when you are in deeper waters than you can navigate, my Lady Scandal."

  Her hands clenched on the muslin of her dress. "Do not call me that!"

  "What, did I say scandal instead of Sandal? Old habit, I fear. But the name fits you so much better."

  A light voice interrupted. "And just why do you think my aunt scandalous when you are the one threatening us?"

  Diana's words startled Alexandria. She had focused her attention so totally on Paxten that she had forgotten everything else. As she almost had once before. She glanced at her niece and turned back to blister Paxten with a reproof for the use of that sobriquet he had once given her, and which he had lured her into earning.

  However, he got his words out before she could utter hers, that charm of his now turned on Diana. "Aunt is it? How do you do? Since your aunt has already given you my name that must do for an introduction. And you are...?"

  Voice prim, Diana answered without hesitation, "I doubt I should give you my name—it does not sound as if Aunt Alexandria cares overmuch for you."

  Proud of the girl, Alexandria smiled. She wished she had had one tenth of Diana's pert arrogance ten years ago. As the carriage rocked, she glanced back toward Paxten.

  His voice so soft it almost did not carry over the muffled sounds of the horse's steady trot, he said, "Oh, she once cared for me—or so I thought."

  Throat tight, Alexandria stared at him. Was he mocking her? Making light of what she had indeed once felt for him? Her anger flared and she lashed out. "Really, Paxten, I thought you at least beyond hiding behind a woman's skirts. What did you do with poor Marie-Jeanne?"

  "Your little maid? Well, she is a touch less poor—she had the last of my coins for her cloak and skirt."

  "And, of course, she gave her garments to you quite willingly?" Alexandria said, hoping the doubt in her tone scalded him.

  "Oh, my touch has much improved for getting a woman out of her clothes."

  Alexandria's hands clenched again. "So has your knack for leaving a lady in distress, it seems. Just where did you leave her?" She sat straighter. "You did not harm her, did you?"

  Irritation hardened his to
ne. "What do you take me for?"

  "I take you for a rogue who would carry off a girl's clothes!"

  "Well, I am that—but it was her clothes or my life, and I'm rather more attached to the latter than she was to the former."

  As if unable to hold back the question, Diana asked, "Your life? Are you the wounded man those solders are hunting?"

  Alexandria sat up, tension now coiled in her. "Wounded? And you have the effrontery to accuse me of being in deeper waters than I can navigate. Where are you injured?"

  That languid tone of his took on a clipped sharpness. "Have a mind to your own cares, my lady. I overheard those soldiers. France is not a happy place for any Englishwoman just now, and here you two are parading about as if it were five o'clock in Hyde Park! It may actually be good fortune that has brought us together."

  "I doubt that! And our parading has so far managed to keep us safe, which is more than you have managed."

  "It's only a scrap."

  "In that case, you will not mind walking to the next village. Diana, lower the window and tell the—"

  A rapid flow of harsh French cut off Alexandria's words. "Tiens! C'est toujours la même rengaine!"

  Not understanding, she scowled at him in the gloom, and Diana asked, "What does he mean it is always the same story?"

  Shifting in his seat to ease the ache in his side, Paxten allowed the question to hang a moment. So the little one knew more of the language than did her aunt. Well, it still seemed unlikely to get these two as far as they needed to go. Nor as far as he needed.

  "The story of your aunt and I," he told her. He glanced at the woman he had once known so well, seeing no more than a pale face, indistinct in the moonlight. It seemed that their story had not ended. He smiled. "Relax, my Lady Scandal. If I'd known this was your coach I would not have invited myself along, but since I am here, we may as well make use of each other."

  Her answer came at once, as cool as only an English voice could be. "I have no use for you, Mr. Marsett."

  He smiled. He could imagine her expression—elegant eyebrows arched, gray eyes chill as a morning mist, that lovely mouth of hers prim. He always wanted to kiss her when she took on that look—to ruffle her into losing those airs of hers. She still stirred that inclination, but he had not the energy to act on it just now.

  However, he knew other ways to rattle that façade of hers.

  With a smile, he spoke in French, his accent that of the streets. Now, he would see just how much the niece knew. "One musket ball across my ribs is all I care for tonight, Madam. And there are miles to put between Paris and myself if I am to be certain there won't be more. You ought to sympathize with that. So, since we both wish to depart this land, why do we not join forces? You'll need someone to bargain for your passage across the Channel, if you do not wish your pretty neck—and that of your niece's—slit to gain your jewels. And I need—I need transport as well."

  The rest of his needs he ignored. For now.

  He could not see her expression, but he could imagine her glowering at him, frustrated with him and wishing to wring his neck. He glanced at the niece, another pale face, with moonlight glinting on pale curls. Leaning over to her niece, Alexandria carried on a hushed consultation. He heard the girl mutter, "I only caught something about jewels and leaving France and needing your help."

  He chuckled and said, "No, ma fille, it was my help that I am offering to get you to England."

  "In exchange for my jewels?" Alexandria asked, her tone sharp.

  Her assumption irritated him, but he had not fully decided yet how to play this next act between them, so he only said, "Terms are yet negotiable. However, let us start by saying that my immediate need of you just now is fast conveyance. And in exchange perhaps I can assist you with what it is you wish to gain."

  The carriage swayed around a bend in the road, forcing him to lean into the turn. Pain shot up his side as he did, and he winced and muttered a soft oath.

  Fabric rustled as Alexandria half-rose and shifted to sit next to him. "Bother you, Paxten! Now I wish I had left the lanterns lit. Just how little is this scrape of yours?"

  He frowned as she pulled off her gloves, her white hands appearing so slim and pale in the moonlight. Disapproval radiated from her as palpable as the warmth from her body, but a familiar scent of vanilla and spice teased to life memories of his arms around her, of soft lips, of how she tasted.

  She stripped them away with crisp questions shot at him as if she were his nursemaid. "Just what did you manage to have scraped? Your leg? Arm? Side? Have you broken anything?"

  Soft hands began to search over him and he frowned. He did not like the sensations she stirred—no, he would not allow her ever again to leave him vulnerable to her touch.

  Taking her hands, he pushed them away. "There is no need for you to poke at me as if you were some healer."

  "Oh, for—this is my brother's coach and I do not wish your blood to stain it. Besides, how much help will you be if you bleed to death? Now, stop being so stupid about this."

  "You are the bothersome one, you know. You always were. Very well, if you must, then fuss. Here, now, Aunt Alexandria's niece, you may pull off my skirts off, for I only had the dress caught up around my waist for show. If your aunt wishes to wrap me in soft muslin, they'll do well enough."

  Her tone stiff—imitating her aunt, he decided—the girl said, "You may call me Miss Edgcot."

  Paxten stared into the darkness at her, amused. Fabric rustled as the girl tugged Marie-Jeanne's skirts from his white breeches and black boots. "You have an edge to you, ma fille, but not so soft as on a cot. And I shall call you Miss Stuffy if you use such a tone as that—what are you teaching the girl, Andria?"

  Beside him, Alexandria stiffened. Did she object to his use of his own pet name for her? And where had that sprung from? He had promised himself ten years ago to keep his distance from her, and women like her—proper ladies. Yet, here he was, already falling into old, easy habits with her. Merde—perhaps he ought to have her stop the coach and set him down.

  Voice prim, she said, "I hope I am teaching her to be wise and thoughtful, and polite."

  He had to laugh, and his side ached for it, sobering him. He had forgotten how she could make him laugh. "That sounds unconscionably dull," he told her.

  "I am not dull!" The girl's indignant reply came at once, followed by a ripping of fabric. Did she have his skin in mind now as she tore? He grinned.

  Alexandria took the fluttering strip of fabric. "A little more dullness, Mr. Marsett, and you would not be sitting here bleeding. Now please open your cloak and your shirt."

  Voice dropping lower, he whispered to her, "For you, that is always a pleasure."

  She said nothing, but he could feel her bristling beside him. Ah, why did he do this? She brought out the worst in him, made him want to bedevil her, to drive her until she lost her control. But he had never been able to make her forget herself completely. Was that not their tragedy?

  He frowned at her now as he remembered again. He still had not forgiven her. The old anger still burned. She had condemned them both to this inadequate existence. But, for her, it seemed not so bad. Yes, Lady Scandal's life went on rather better. Even in the gloom, he could see the jewels sparkle at her ears and her throat. The richness of her coach comforted him.

  He could hate her.

  He would have to—or go mad.

  With a muffled curse, he untied the strings at the throat of the black cloak he had taken from the wide-eyed maid. He had left his coat at the village, taking the maid's dress so that he could step into it and hold it around his waist, letting the skirts—not his boots and breeches—show under the cloak's hem as he made for the coach.

  Wincing now, he pulled the matted, wet fabric of his shirt from his skin. Blood-wetted skin. Merde, he was bleeding again.

  Alexandria drew in a sharp breath. "You need a doctor."

  "I need a large brandy and a stop in a soft bed."

  Al
exandria's niece ripped off another strip of fabric. Soft hands pressed a pad of folded fabric against his skin. White dots danced before his eyes. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes, letting Alexandria's voice receded into the distance. "Drink will get you a fever. And if you stop for long you are like to be taken up for...just what did you do to...no, I do not want to know what you did to be shot. Please sit up so I can bind this now."

  It took focused effort to obey her, but he managed to push himself up by bracing his left hand against the seat. Cool fingers brushed his skin as she wound the strip of gown around him, and that scent of hers teased him again as she leaned closer. That light touch stirred his anger—and his desire.

  He started talking nonsense to distract himself from that touch. "But, ma chére, I might have been shot for something dashing and romantic—spying for England, even."

  Miss Edgcot stopped tearing fabric and asked, awe and curiosity mixing in her voice, "Were you?"

  He had to smile at that—so young, so gullible. As he had once been. Alexandria's cool answer, however, carried the weight of one far more jaded. "Mr. Marsett was ever too idealistic for anything so politic as spy work."

  Her words dug into him. Idealistic—she said it as if it were a malady to hide in shame. Well, she had cured him of that ailment. But it irritated him that she thought she knew him so very well. Ah, she knew nothing. Not of him at least.

  "What makes you think I have not changed?" he asked, his tone casual.

  For a moment she held still. Her cloak had fallen open and he could see the white skin of her throat, and the quick rise and fall of her breasts. Lovely breasts, soft and pale and delicious.

  That insidious tug of attraction pulled him to her. After all these years, after the bitter parting, after all she had done to him, he still wanted her. Did she feel it, too? Did it coil inside her, this urge to touch, this need to taste, this craving to possess? Or had that aching desire long ago died in her?

  Voice as calm as ever, she asked, "Do any of us ever really change all that much?"

  His mouth crooked. He had changed—she had done that to him. His eyes narrowed. If he had been alone with her, he might have taken her throat in his hands—or he might have done other things to her. His mouth lifted at one corner. That assumed, of course, that he actually could do anything given his present condition.