A Scandalous Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  But for the first time in their lives, after he’d explained Faith’s appearance in his life and his subsequent falling-out with his investor, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Good God, West, just make her return the money!”

  “I tried. She claimed not to have it. I suspect she passed it on to her young cohort.”

  “Then make her get it back.”

  Why didn’t he? It would be the most logical solution. Bloody hell. America had made him weak. Or England had made him daft. Better he started worrying about his own predicament than squander time pondering his newest serving girl. Easier said than done if he could just erase the picture in his mind of her defending the scamp. “I fear the money is long gone.”

  “Has it occurred—never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. ’Tis none of my affair.”

  “You’ve not hoarded your opinions to yourself before, Miles. Pray don’t let yourself be stopped now.”

  His friend turned to him, visibly debating with himself. “All right,” he gave a decisive nod. “The situation strikes me as a bit too convenient. A seemly chit accosts you outside a tavern, robs you of your last farthing before it’s even grown warm in your hand, then allows you to drag her off the streets into your home. . . .”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Has it not occurred to you that perhaps your pretty little wench may have planned the entire charade?”

  “That’s ridiculous, Miles.”

  “You are not without reputation.”

  “And you are being overly cynical. Even if she had known me, she could not have known that I would bring her to my home instead of turning her over to the authorities. She is what she is.”

  “Aye, and that’s what worries me. We’re no longer callow boys, West. We know what it’s like to scrape bottom. We’ve tasted despair and been embroiled in desperation, or have you forgotten the early days?”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten.” Hell he’d been young and full of himself, so cocksure he could conquer the world in a day. Learning that the world fought tooth and nail had been a nasty awakening for himself and Miles.

  “From what you’ve told me, the gel’s spent most of her life on the streets. She’s a survivor, West. I’d bet my last farthing that she’s learned how to use the talents God gave her well, just as we did. She would not be the first pretty wench to try and lure you into a compromising situation for her advantage.”

  Again, it was on the tip of his tongue to refute the charges being cast against Faith, but as much as Troyce wanted to dismiss them, a seed of doubt had been planted. What if Miles was right? Had Faith plotted the whole scenario? And if so, had he simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or had he been marked a pigeon from the start?

  It was hard to believe Faith guilty of such duplicity. She was too . . . outspoken. Straightforward. But comments she’d made seemed to support the charge: his being “rich as Midas,” her seemingly casual interest in his lineage. . . . As Miles had pointed out, she was a street survivor. That made her wiser to manipulation than the average gel.

  Well, if she thought to use him to better herself, then she could think again. His father had fallen into that trap—married a woman who wanted him for his position and fortune after she’d lured him into compromising her reputation. He’d been too besotted by her to notice. And if Faith thought to rook him out of a fortune, she’d soon learn the error of her ways. He no longer had a fortune to rook.

  “Your point is well taken. But I didn’t invite you here to discuss Faith.”

  “Then what did you invite me over to discuss?”

  “Real estate.”

  He handed over a velum slip, which Miles scanned, eyes growing wide in astonishment.

  “The deed to Radcliff?”

  Both were well aware that the paper was nearly priceless. Privately owned town houses were a rarity in London, and to possess a deed bespoke of a prestige that far exceeded the title.

  “You’ve long coveted property closer to the city.”

  “Aye, but Radcliff?”

  “I need the money, and I’m running out of options,” Troyce stated without preamble.

  “Isn’t this a bit extreme?”

  “Until I find an investor, I can’t repair the ship, which means I cannot pay the taxes on any of the family holdings, so I will lose them to my father’s creditors unless I sell. And I’d much rather you have Radcliff than let it revert to the crown.”

  “I’ve offered to invest in La Tentatrice, Troyce.”

  “If she belonged only to me, there is no one I would trust more. But I’m sure you understand why I can’t accept your generous offer.”

  “It is extended to you, not her.” Venom dripped from that one word, reminding Troyce of the pain his sister had caused to his best mate.

  “Be that as it may, Devon holds half interest and she would never forgive me if I entered into an agreement with you.”

  “Then for God’s sake, let me at least lend you the money to settle your father’s debts.”

  “If I were confident that I could pay you back, I might consider it.” Miles had accomplished what he set out to do in America—made himself incomparable in fortune and power. Troyce had never wished for their friendship to be tarnished because of it, and so never called upon his friend’s good fortune or generous nature to bail him out of trouble. “But you and I both know that there are no guarantees that Westborough can be salvaged, or that La Tentatrice will sell, and I will not compromise our friendship.”

  Miles held up the sheaf of papers and cocked his head. “Is Beckham aware of this?”

  “I don’t feel the need to inform my grandfather. Radcliff belonged to my father, not him, and I’ve never held any attachment to it.”

  At length, Miles’s sigh of resignation conveyed that he considered himself a carrion preying on a dead carcass. What he couldn’t seem to understand was that Troyce would be glad to rid himself of the house where his father had drawn his last breath. To him, it signified nothing more than a last, desperate extravagance to please a mother who would never be pleased.

  “How much?” his friend asked.

  Troyce quoted the figure he’d arrived at, enough to pay off Feagin and settle the enormous balance of his father’s debts, as well as provide a small household stipend once they moved back to Westborough.

  With a stiff nod, Miles agreed on the amount and scribbled his signature on the sheets of paper Troyce presented. After he took his leave, Troyce picked up the promissory note and his copy of the signed bill of sale.

  First, the loss of two hundred pounds and an investor for his ship; now, he was giving up his London town house. Bloody hell, what was he to lose next?

  “Did you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself with his lordship?”

  Her heart racing faster than an Ascot thoroughbred, Faith spun around so quickly that the tray of silverware she’d been instructed to pack scattered across the floor. Had her nerves not been so highly strung from the scene in the baron’s study, she would have heard the footsteps approaching from behind. Crikey, not even a full day away from the streets and already her senses were dulling.

  She knelt and began plucking utensils off the polished floor. “Bugger off, Lucy, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Yes, I saw you at work.” She laughed. “I also saw the way you looked at him.” She sauntered deeper into the dining room and stood at the table, trailing her fingers along the surface. “You’re wasting your time, you know. Men like Lord Westborough care nothing for a woman’s sensibilities, they care only about getting them into their beds.”

  “Lord Westborough has no interest in bedding me.”

  “Either you are the stupidest chit I’ve ever met or the most naive. For reasons I cannot fathom, his lordship fancies you. But do not fool yourself into thinking his interest will gain you any advantages. You’re fresh duck, that’s all. You can throw yourself at him, flaunt yourself bef
ore him, seduce him till the crows molt. But it will not change the fact that he’s nobility, and you’re nothing but a common scullery maid. He will amuse himself with you, nothing more.”

  “Really? And how would you know what amuses the baron?”

  “Because I’ve been one of his amusements.”

  Faith longed to swipe that superior smirk off her face. “Yes, I can see that you would be.”

  Her pallid face turned three shades of red, and if looks were daggers, Faith would have been sliced to shreds. “Mock me if you will, but mark my words, ’tis I who will be laughing in the end, because when the time comes, Lord Westborough will do his duty and marry a lady of breeding and you will be left with nothing save a broken heart and the shame of his bastard in your belly.”

  With that parting remark, Lucy spun on her ankle and walked out of the dining room.

  Faith remained on the floor on her knees, her fingers clenched around the hilt of sterling silver serving spoon. What she wouldn’t do for five minutes—just five minutes—alone with the uppity little she-cat in a back-street alley. . . .

  Crikey, first Lady Brayton, then her maid. The two must come from the same bloody pod. Well, t’hell with them both. Fanny Jarvis of Bethnal Green would have stomped both women’s arses into a mudhole by now.

  But she wasn’t Fanny Jarvis anymore.

  And she was for certain not in Bethnal Green.

  For the rest of the morning, she threw herself into the task of loading baggage into a pair of gleaming black carriages parked in the front drive. When Millie declared all in readiness, they set off.

  The carriage ride was much the same as the last one, with Faith scared. Excited. Resentful. Grateful. Too many conflicting emotions to sort out. Only the company had changed. Instead of the baron, the elderly housekeeper snored in the seat across from her. Behind them in a second carriage, Lucy rode with Lady Brayton, who Millie had announced would be staying the summer at Westborough Manor, much to Faith’s dismay, and returning to the city for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. It was an enormous event, a pickpocket’s dream. Nobility from all over the Continent were planning to attend.

  Unfortunately, she’d not be attending any events. As the baron seemed to delight in reminding her, she’d made her choices—more or less—and for better or worse, she was stuck with them.

  For now.

  Faith supposed she should think of this as the grand adventure she’d so often dreamed of, the chance to leave her old way of life and begin fresh somewhere else. Maybe even become . . . respectable. Unfortunately, her day had been one extreme after another, and all she could think of was that she hadn’t been out of the city in almost two decades, and the realization that not only was her “adventure” taking her from everything familiar, but it was also taking her closer to the point of no return.

  And so, as the coach jostled along rutted paths and through the wide-open country, she purposely kept her mind blank and her body numb rather that try to imagine what awaited her at the baron’s “country estate.”

  The day drew on, and as the coach rolled across flat, grassy lanes dotted with tall leafy trees and short, clipped hedgerows, she found herself absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of the countryside, as far removed from the rookeries of London as she’d ever been. They passed prosperous farms and elegant mansions, quaint villages, and slapdash marketplaces, and once, even, a summer fair in a roadside park, where lasses danced gaily and young gents dodged between them, tugging on their ribbons, while others raced horses to impress them.

  Scatter would have loved this, she found herself thinking as she watched the festivities from the window. The sights and sounds, the sense of adventure mixed with the simple freedom of being a boy. He had often regaled her with stories of his time in Sherwood Forest, living off the land, outwitting the traveling peddlers, imagining himself some sort of Robin Hood, except in stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, he pocketed the gold himself, claiming he was the poor. Like herself, he’d lost his innocence too young and gained harsh wisdom too soon.

  Refusing to mourn over what could not be changed, she rested her head against the coach and tried not to dwell on the past, the present, and, most especially, the uncertain future. But as the coach rolled past the festivities, Faith spotted a sweet young couple strolling hand in hand a good distance away from the crowd. The girl looked like a princess bride in a flowing pink gown, a wreath of summer flowers on her head, and ribbons trailing her skirts from the posy in her hand. And the dapper gent seemed so besotted as he looked down at her, laughed at something she said, then popped a kiss on her mouth.

  A spot of envy took roost in her middle. For one brief moment, her mind rolled back to that moment in the baron’s study. Never in her entire life had she badly wanted to be kissed by a man. Her cheek tingled where he’d touched it, her body still burned where it had been pressed against his. . . .

  She was twenty years old, near as she could remember. She had never been kissed, never been courted, never been romanced. But it hadn’t stopped her from dreaming. An honorable and noble prince, dark of looks and strong of heart . . .

  Faith shook the image away. The fairy-tale dreams of her childhood had been shattered by the harsh realities of London underworld. There was no room for such nonsense in the tunnels. The best she could ever hope for now was to seek out a modest, respectable living, as far from Jack Swift and Bethnal Green as possible. That meant staying in his lordship’s good graces. No more lipping off. No more challenging his authority. Like it or not, he owned her until she paid off the bloody two hundred pounds she’d swiped. Even though he couldn’t prove that she’d taken it, all that was needed was his word. Who would the courts believe? A member of English nobility or a Bethnal Green guttersnipe? She knew the answer to that.

  Aye, a wise woman would stick with her tiny dreams. Lucy was right. A man like Lord Westborough would never give a street rat like her a second glance. No one would.

  Even her own family wanted nothing to do with her.

  Chapter 7

  “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got,” Jesse Justiss announced to the room.

  Honesty stepped back to allow her husband space at the table. He dumped an armload of items onto the polished mahogany surface of her father’s dining room table: newspaper clippings from the San Francisco Chronicle featuring the abduction of the Jervais twins and the search for culprits, photos of herself and her sister, maps of California and the surrounding states, and reports of the investigation.

  Jesse bowed over the table, his weight braced on one leg, and bent his head to study the collection amassed over sixteen years. Her father Anton and her cousin, Alex, followed suit. Both were impressive men, not nearly so impressive as her husband, but their fair coloring and strong features would still turn the head of any woman.

  A sense of déjà vu hit Honesty as she watched the three of them, a feeling that she’d seen men gathered here before, heavy into discussions that held no interest to a pair of inquisitive young girls. The image of her sister filled her mind then, so stark and detailed she felt as if she were seeing her in the flesh. She was riding in a fine coach pulled by four horses across a vale of blinding greens—

  “The house is here,” Anton said, pointing to a spot on the map.

  The image disappeared.

  Honesty grabbed for it, but it was like trying to catch a whisper. Shaken, she moved to her husband’s side and clasped his hand.

  “And the cemetery here,” Anton continued. “It’s the last place the girls were seen together.”

  Her gaze met Alex’s across the table, then Alex looked quickly away. She knew he still felt guilty for not watching them during their mother’s funeral. “I wish I could remember that day. I feel like it would help.”

  “You were only four years old,” Jesse said.

  “One cannot expect a girl of such tender years to remember such an early incident,” her father added consolingly. “I’ve heard that the mind will
block out traumatic events but memories can return when the person is of greater strength and stability to handle them.”

  A look of intense sorrow passed across her cousin’s eyes so quickly that Honesty wondered if she had imagined it. She had never considered her years with Deuce McGuire traumatic. He might not have had the wealth and respectability of Anton Jervais, but he’d been a good father who’d doted on her and made her laugh and kept her safe to his last breath. “So it’s possible that I will recall my abduction.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Jesse said.

  “Do you think Faith remembers?”

  “I cannot imagine she does,” Alex gruffly said, “else she would have found her way back to us as you did.”

  Neither spoke of the high possibility that she might not have been able to return. It was not a point any of them was willing to consider at this moment. “It could be that she is attempting that as we speak,” Honesty said.

  “It’s as I said, anything’s possible,” Jesse repeated.

  When his eyes lit on her and lingered, Honesty blushed. They’d spent the entire night celebrating what Jesse called the beginning of the rest of their lives. Her body was sore in places she hadn’t known could ache and still she wanted him.

  As if sensing her rekindled desire, he winked, then turned back to the table. “In the meantime, we’re going to turn back the clock and collect every piece of information we can find. Anton, I’m aware that your brother Phillipe was behind the abductions. What I don’t know is why. Anything you can tell me might shed some light on who he might have hired to take the girls.”

  “My wife’s family was not supportive of our marriage. I had spent my entire life building ships, as had my father, and his father before that. Her family thought she’d wed beneath her and made our lives quite . . . difficult. After the girls were born, it got worse. They even threatened to take Aniste and Faith from us. So we thought it best to leave France. I’d heard of the opportunities to be found in America, so we boarded a liner for California. It was here that I built Jervais Shipping. Phillipe arrived a year or so after that with Alex here, who was barely ten at the time. He’d lost his mother on the voyage, and my wife took him under her wing. I put Phillipe in charge of one of the warehouses.” He stepped away from the table to stare out the window at the ocean in the distance. “I knew almost immediately that it wasn’t working out. He and I got into many arguments over decisions he was making about my company without my knowledge, and he accused me of being a stubborn Frenchman who knew how to build but knew nothing of business. He claimed that if it wasn’t for him, Jervais Shipping would have failed. I should have fired him then, but he was my brother, newly widowed, with a young son to support, and my wife . . .” His voice cracked. “My beloved Cossette was dying. I suppose I turned a blind eye.” Anton shook his head. “Phillipe had made no secret of his desire to own Jervais Shipping, but I had no idea the lengths he was willing to go to get what he wanted.”