Lady Scandal

by Shannon Donnelly

Bother the man! The world always became more tangled with him nearby.

  She glanced at her niece again, but she had to admit that she wanted to lose this argument. She did not want to leave him—not without knowing he would recover from his injuries.

  "We cannot stay too long. I will not jeopardize your safety for his."

  Diana smiled. "I doubt you will have to, dear. Now, shall I order us breakfast, and let us do get our things in, for I vow I am sick enough of being in this dress that I could burn it."

  #

  "You found a half-naked woman where?" Captain Taliaris stared hard at his lieutenant. Taliaris stood with his hands folded behind his back and his cloak wrapped around him against the dawn chill. Behind him, the east sky brightened to pink, but the sun had yet to inch up over the trees and the low roofs of the village cottages. Pale light washed across Lieutenant Paulin's narrow face, giving the man a gaunt, gloomy look.

  Taliaris frowned.

  They ought to have Marsett by now. Had the man remained in Paris? But where? His rooms had been searched, as had his other known haunts. Which left another answer—Marsett had somehow slipped through the noose set for him.

  Taliaris's frown tightened his mouth. He did not like mistakes, least of all those he had made. Mistakes cost lives—and careers. Wars could be lost. But it seemed as if he had miscalculated Marsett's cunning this time. He would not do so again.

  Paulin kept himself at rigid attention, as if uncertain of his commander's temper and unwilling to earn himself any rebuke. He took his time with his answer. Taliaris allowed his mouth to relax. He had at least taught his lieutenant to think before acting. Or speaking.

  "Where is not so important, captain. But this was." The lieutenant held out a gentleman's blue coat, wrinkled and stained. "She had it on over her chemise."

  Taliaris lifted one eyebrow as he glimpsed the dark brown stains on the right side of the coat. Bloodstains. Well, the general's guards had sworn they had hit their target last night.

  Taking the coat, Taliaris searched the pockets sewn into the tails. Paulin would have done so as well, but Taliaris repeated the effort. He tore the silk lining from the coat, just in case something lay hidden. He found nothing. Nothing to show this coat might have been Marsett's.

  Paulin hurried on, his voice reedy. "I would have brought her to you to question, sir, but mostly she cries. And I think she gave us already all she knows. She is a maid."

  Tossing the coat into the dirt, Taliaris glanced up the road to Paris. In the distance, smoke from the city's chimneys made a faint haze in the pale sky. Mists lay low on the green pastures around the village. Church bells rang nearby, a reminder that it was Sunday.

  Taliaris glanced at Paulin. "And the women in the coach?"

  "Lady Sandal and her niece. We got that much from her. And her name—Marie-Jeanne Toulon. A man took her dress and left her his coat. She thinks when her mistress discovers this, she will come back for her."

  "Did she describe the man?"

  "It was dark. She could not see, other than that he frightened her. But when he spoke, he seemed a gentleman—until he made her give up her clothes."

  Taliaris's mouth pulled down. "Lucky enough for her that he did not force her into more." Turning away from Paris, Taliaris glanced in the opposite direction.

  The narrow lane wound into woods, with deep grooves worn into the mud by passing carriages. How many miles had Marsett managed before the Englishwomen learned that he was not their maid? Ten miles? A hundred? And in what direction? North still? Or had they turned east? Or west?

  He wanted to curse his own gallantry. He ought to have sent those Englishwomen back to Paris, but he had thought the ladies a distraction. And—to be ruthlessly truthful—he had allowed a pair of blue eyes to beguile him.

  The girl had been lovely beyond words, with the torchlight playing over that soft, round face. With those golden curls, and those huge, luminous eyes. And the vibrate flash of spirit that had caught at him.

  Another mistake.

  Well, it would seem that he would meet up with the little beauty again. For her sake, he would hope to meet her soon. Marsett could be a danger to her—as he had proven to the general's wife. And it seemed from the maid's description that this Marsett could make himself charming before he revealed himself as the low cur he was.

  Turning to Paulin, Taliaris snapped out his orders. "Leave three men here with the maid. They are to keep her under guard. The rest are to be ready to ride in a quarter hour."

  Paulin nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Pick your men well for the ones who are to stay—I don't want to learn they decided to drink up whatever is to be found. And make certain the fastest horse is left with them."

  "Fastest?"

  "Yes, lieutenant. If someone does come for this Marie-Jeanne, I want a rider to bring me word of it. For I want these Englishwomen—and that damn Marsett—found. Today!"

  #

  Dreams—they had to be fever dreams. Restless, hot, he turned, trying to wake from them. Alexandria stood over him, laughing, holding a smoking pistol in her hand. He glanced down to see the black-edged hole in his skin—and he clawed at it, trying to pull it out of him.

  "You don't have heart enough to bleed."

  He glanced up at the mocking words to see Lisette D'Aeth now holding the gun and smiling. "Andria? Where's Andria?" he muttered, twisting again, desperate to find her.

  Something cool smoothed his forehead. He turned into it. And the world shifted.

  He stood outside a London townhouse. He knew it at once. A perfect jewel of a place, tucked into a square with a park on the edges of Mayfair. A small house, only two floors, square but of perfect proportion. Iron fences marked the property. Torches burned beside the front steps, giving an orange hue to the white columns. The upper windows blazed with light—Lady Sandal and lord entertained tonight.

  He hated the place. But he had not been able to stay away, even though he knew she was married. Even though he knew he was dragging them both into disaster.

  He waited now as he had ten years ago, standing on the cobblestone street outside the gates. Only something was not right. What was different? Ah, yes. The rain. It had been cold that night. Cold and wet as only England could be in February. A miserable night. The coach driver huddled under his sodden coat, and the pair of horses attached to the hired carriage stood with their heads down and tails clamped tight.

  Only he did not feel the rain—how could he, hot as he was. He pulled at his clothes, wanting to drag them off. Someone murmured something and a hand smoothed his face. But he was still waiting. Waiting in the rain. Waiting.

  But the door to Sandal house opened, and the figure step out.

  No! Not again. He did not want to live this again.

  He turned away, opened the carriage and saw Alexandria inside—as she had not been that night. That night she had betrayed him. She looked as she had then; dressed in white silk, silver spangles glinting on her gown, diamonds around her neck and pinned in her hair, her skin so pale under the hair piled into curls on her head. She leaned forward from the coach, stretching out a hand, her arm gloved in white kid to the elbow.

  He smiled at her, but glanced back to the house, puzzled. Who had stepped from the house? Sandal?

  But no. Moonlight glinted on gold braid. Medals flashed. A uniform? He recognized the silver military whiskers as General D'Aeth raised a dueling pistol and pointed the wicked long barrel at Alexandria.

  With a smothered shout, eyes snapping wide, his heart pounding, Paxten woke. He tried to sit up, managed to lift his head, and that exhausted him. The world spun, so he closed his eyes and fell back against a feather pillow that smelled faintly musty.

  Silk rustled. He reached toward the sound, and his fingers closed over a slim wrist. "Andria?"

  "Hush—my aunt is resting in the chair by the fire. You have had us worried, Mr. Marsett."

  Prying open his eyes, he glanced up into the face of a golden-haired beauty.
Blue eyes, a rounded, stubborn chin, and soft cheeks. Frowning, he stared at her. Who was she? Memories drifted back—fleeing Paris, the maid, the carriage ride, and they had reached an inn, had they not?

  Shutting his eyes, he muttered, "The niece with the edge to her pretty cots. Dovecotes. A sweet dove. Where's Andria?"

  "You are babbling. But the doctor said we should expect as much. Your fever got dreadfully high. Here, can you drink this? It is nearly dawn, but you and my aunt would both be better for a few hours more sleep."

  An arm slid under his head and a glass pressed to his lips. Liquid—cool and faintly bitter slipped into his mouth. He drank it, greedy for anything wet. He managed two swallows before he pushed her hand and the glass away.

  "What is it?" he asked, and he heard the slurring in his words.

  "An opiate and something else—broth of some sort. Chicken or oxtail."

  He made a face. "A tail to tell. Throw it out and bring me water—or tea. Strong tea. I dislike the dreams that gives me."

  Cool fingers touched his face again. Twisting his head, he opened his eyes and stared at her. She smiled—Mother Mary, what a beauty. Far more so than her aunt. But that smile brought out a family resemblance. The girl's mouth was not as wide, but something about how the brows arched, and how the expression lit her face from within reminded him of Andria.

  Or of how she had once been. Could she still smile like that, with such innocence and life?

  His glance slid to the fireside.

  Alexandria had fallen asleep in an enormous wing chair, its brocade upholstery worn into shades of brown. Her long legs stretched out to the dying embers in the fireplace, and her skirts had ridden up so he could see a pair of trim ankles. She had always had lovely ankles, slim and set off by calves made shapely from her love of walking. They had once walked miles together. Her head had tipped to the side, and her arm dangled over the chair, loose with sleep.

  Something tightened in his chest.

  Closing his eyes, he turned away. "She still snores."

  "I beg your pardon! My aunt is too refined for that. She is—well, that is merely the deep breathing of one fast asleep. And she has earned her rest. She was up most of the night with you—you are not a good patient, you know. Twice we had to call in the landlord to keep you in bed. You were raving."

  Lead weights now hung from his eyelids, but he pulled open his eyes to stare at the girl. "I was? About what?"

  "Just nonsense." Relieved, he closed his eyes again, but she added, "You did go on and on about a Lisette. Who is she?"

  "Ah, ma petite fille, the opiate must be clouding my mind—did you ask something?"

  "I did. And if you do not answer, I suppose I can have my aunt ask you tomorrow."

  His mouth twisted. "A threat, ma fille? Never wise—it makes you no friends and tells an enemy your plan."

  "We are not enemies, I hope. And that was not a threat—a threat would be to say that I shall give you some of the other noxious concoctions the doctor left for you, which smells vial, and is made with watered wine and a raw egg."

  She spoke with such loathing that Paxten gave a dry chuckle. He winced at the dull throb of pain along his side.

  He heard a scrape of a chair on the wooden floor and more rustling fabric. And a voice, deliciously low and soft, begged, "Well, if you will not tell me about Lisette, then why do you not tell me how is it that you know my aunt so well?"

  CHAPTER SIX

  He did not answer, but Diana knew he had heard for one side of his mouth lifted with a rather cynical smile. She had almost asked if he and her aunt had been lovers, and now she was glad she had not. Bad enough to have that mocking smile. It would have been unbearable to have him laughing at her for asking prying questions, as if she knew nothing of the world or how to judge the level of intimacy between a man and a woman.

  Twisted smile or not, he was shamefully handsome—in a rough sort of way, with dark stubble shaping a strong jaw, and him lying there, chest naked above the fresh bandages and well-muscled arms bare above the counterpane. An intriguing scar angled across his left shoulder in a short, jagged mark. A dueling scar, perhaps? Or had he been a highwayman? Or something else equally dashing? She could see him as such. And she could see how her aunt might be attracted to him.

  But had they been lovers?

  Something certainly lay between them. Only a child would be unaware of the tension that crackled.

  However, she had little time now to ask about it. His regaining his senses gave her the opportunity, but with him conscious again she doubted she would be allowed again into his room. Certainly not without a maid, or her aunt, as a chaperon.

  To judge by the look of him, she was not entirely certain she cared to be in his rooms with him fully awake and no one else nearby. That rough quality to him—the scar, the hard muscles, and even the fact that he had thought to hide in their carriage—quite fascinated, but left her wary. All considered, he could not really be very much of a gentleman.

  He even seemed intent on ignoring her, so she asked, impatient with him, "You are not going to answer me, are you?"

  The opiate she had given him thickened his voice into an even deeper rumble. "Answer what—nonsense with nonsense? How is it anything happens? The wrong turn taken, the wrong place arrived at. Perhaps it is just that fate is not done with me any more than I am done with your aunt."

  His eyes opened to narrow slits—dark eyes, framed by hard lines. And he yawned. Thick lashes drifted closed and his face relaxed, easing the lines, giving him a deceptive innocence.

  Frowning, Diana folded her arms. She did not like how he had spoken just now—not done with her aunt, was he? Sitting back in her chair, she glanced at her aunt and back to the sleeping man again. Was he to be trusted? She doubted it. Which meant she must have his secrets out.

  She muttered to him, "If you are going to be good for my aunt that is one thing, but if you are not...." Leaning forward, she hoped that even in his sleep he might hear her. "If you are not, I shall make very certain you regret it!"

  #

  For the second time in two days, Alexandria woke with a stiff neck and an aching body. She dragged her eyes open, took in the cold, black grate of the fireplace with its charred bits of wood, and the chill in the room. Straightening, she stretched. Muscles pulled in her back and something popped in her neck. She had fallen asleep in a chair—and left the bed she had paid for unused. What waste! Putting a hand to her curls, she dragged her fingers through tangles. Standing, she smoothed her gown and went to Paxten’s bedside.

  At the sight of him, tension eased from her shoulders.

  His chest rose and fell with even breaths and his skin held a hint of normal color—not that hectic flush of last night. She touched the back of her fingers to his forehead. Only slightly warm.

  Voice soft, she murmured, "You wretch—how very like you to give me palpitations."

  He said nothing in reply. Still sleeping, thank heavens. She ought to go to her room and tidy herself. But still she watched him. The doctor had bled him last night, and had left something to help him sleep and something else for him to take today when he woke. The man, elderly and jovial, had seemed to think the wound—a deep, red gash across Paxten's ribs—would heal well enough. The ribs had been bruised but not broken.

  Last night, when Diana had translated what the doctor had said, Alexandria had been relieved. But fever had set in. She had nearly sent for the doctor again. However, he had already warned them to expect a bad night.

  The sound of horses now in the yard below drew her attention and she hurried to the window, her brow tight with worry. She relaxed when she saw only a farmer and his wagon outside, apparently here to sell produce to the landlord. No soldiers. Nothing to alarm. No one had found them.

  But how long until someone did come after Paxten? She would be foolish not to assume the worst—whoever hunted Paxten would eventually figure out that he had escaped in her coach. Which meant they would soon be searching f
or her carriage.

  Turning away from the window, she went back to Paxten's side. She smoothed the blanket over him. She had promised Diana a day—and that had been spent already. She could not afford to waste more time. She knew exactly what needed to be done to keep Diana safe. Which meant that she must act.

  Quietly, she let herself out of Paxten's room. She would need to speak to Diana after she had washed her face and seen to her own needs. Then there was the carriage to order, and the trunks to see to. So much to do. But at least she would not be leaving Paxten at death's door.

  #

  The hard crack of a carriage whip jolted Paxten from his nightmares, and had him bolting upright in bed, clutching his side before he actually identified that sound was not the shot fired in his dreams. He glanced around, aware of the narrow bed under him, of sheets tangled around his naked legs. And of the pressure of something around his throbbing ribs. He glanced down at the white bandages around his middle, and rubbed a hand across his face. A day of stubble scrubbed his fingertips.

  The memories trickled into place. The doctor. The medicines poured down him. Ah, yes. But had he dreamed of talking to Alexandria's niece last night, or had that really happened? He certainly had dreamed of Alexandria. And of too many other things from his past.

  Outside in the yard, carriage harness jingled. Curious, he rose, padding across the bare wood. He reached the window in time to see Alexandria's coach—fresh horses attached, the coachman up front and the footman standing at the back—as it rounded the bend in the road that led away from the village.

  He pressed one palm against the window.

  She had gone. Left him. An ache tightened in his chest. He shook his head. What a smart woman she had become—so very good at looking after herself. But she had always been sensible about these things. And utterly capable of parting company with him—any of number of times it seemed.