Scandal's Mistress

by Bronwyn Stuart

  The house was ablaze with candles and filled with scurrying servants when he ran through the doors. Nothing appeared amiss. He wondered if perhaps Newberry had been misinformed until his uncle’s butler, his normally calm demeanor more than ruffled, came into the entryway and gave him that sad look.

  That one look conveyed the hopelessness of the situation, made his heart literally skip a beat and his burning legs refuse to move. “What happened?”

  “He said he had a pain in his neck. I found him on the floor in the library.”

  “He is still…?”

  Grisham nodded. “But not for long. He asked for you.”

  Nodding, Justin walked up the grand staircase, all sense of urgency lost to despair as he took one step at a time. He wanted to turn around and go back a few hours. He wanted to change the events of the day so the one man to show him true feelings wouldn’t lie dying in his bed, alone.

  When at last he managed the courage to push the door open, the doctor stood over a pale figure shrouded by blankets and bed hangings, looking like he had indeed already died, his eyes closed. The only animation on the face he’d known all his life was a grimace of pain.

  “Uncle?”

  “Ah, my boy.” Oliver’s gaze, clouded with agony, stared at him from sunken sockets. It seemed the last few hours had aged the man twenty more years.

  “What happened?”

  “Seizures,” Oliver replied with a grunt.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You have enough problems and I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”

  “What look?” Justin asked, sorrow squeezing his heart in its unyielding grip.

  “The one on your face now, the one that tells me I’m going to die and you know it. Come, sit down, I don’t have much time.”

  “There must be something the doctor can do?” Justin looked around for the man but found he’d silently left the room and closed the door.

  “We tried everything.”

  Justin reached for Oliver’s hand, clutched it in his as though he could heal his uncle through the comforting touch. If he let go, all would be lost.

  “I’ll call for another doctor, get a second opinion, there has to be something else we can do.”

  “I’ve lived my life, boy, and I’ve had enough.”

  “Had enough of what? You’re still young.”

  Oliver’s laugh deteriorated into a coughing fit and a fierce fight for a few more minutes as he tried to catch his breath.

  “You can’t leave me.” Tears burned his eyes as the unmanly sentiment slipped from his lips.

  “I need to tell you something.” A ragged breath caught in Oliver’s throat and he had to take another before he continued. “I promised to take this to my grave but I cannot. You have to…to know.”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait. You’re going to be just fine.”

  “Daft…”

  Justin was terrified how quickly his best friend slipped from this life. With each shallow breath, with each flutter of his creased eyelids, Oliver faded.

  “You have to know… Your mother, she lied… I…”

  “You what? What did she lie about?”

  “I love you, Justin. Remember that.”

  “I love you too, Uncle.”

  “Remember that.”

  “Sshh, save your strength.”

  “Promise…me…one…”

  “Anything.”

  “Marry her.”

  “I am. I’m going to. Don’t worry about me.”

  “What…a…father…does.”

  Justin held tight; words were beyond him, hearing was beyond him as tears dripped down his cheeks. He watched his uncle drag in a shallow breath, waited for the exhale. Waited for something else to happen, anything.

  He was gone.

  Grief unlike anything he’d ever felt washed over him. Sobs tore from his chest even though he tried to stop them. Memories of a man who was more of a father to him than his own flashed through his mind and came to life on the backs of his eyelids as Justin let his head fall and the tears with it.

  * * *

  Carmalina paced angrily from one end of her bedroom to the other. How could he not see what he did was futile? There was no honor in dueling and even if Justin’s aim was true, he wouldn’t win. He would still have the name he was given at birth. Not even being thrown out of his family could or would change that.

  She knew if she told Justin his name was just a name, her words would have no meaning. She’d taken Antony’s name and had held on to it with a determined grip. His mother had tried to strip her of it but Carmalina wouldn’t bend. It was a fight she’d intended to win at all costs.

  So how could she ever get through to Justin, as stubborn as any man she’d ever met, and make him believe it was his actions that made him a man, not his name? And how could she convince him that what he did made matters worse? In the long term he might achieve his ends, but at what ultimate cost? What kind of man could he be when whispers and gossip thundered behind him like angry shadows for the rest of his life? There was nowhere far enough from England to run. No one would pause to spit on him in the street if he killed his father in a duel. Even if his clothes were aflame.

  He would be a changed man. Changed for the worse and ambushed by his own misguided need for revenge. Someone had to change his mind. Someone had to make him see.

  She was the only factor in his life that wasn’t biased to his existence as an unloved child. She was the only one who would leave once the furor settled. The only one he wouldn’t have to face in polite society or over the breakfast table. She would have to strip him bare, discover every little thing that made him tick. It would mean breaking a condition of their agreement. She would have to try. She only had eleven months to change him into a man he could be proud of. Then he could walk with his head held high.

  The only problem was a place to start.

  A knock at her bedroom door made her stop so fast her skirts swished past her ankles and kept going. Composing her face into what she hoped was the picture of tedium, she lay down across the end of the bed and picked up a discarded book from the night table. If he wasn’t perturbed by their argument then she wouldn’t be either. “Enter,” she called in a singsong voice.

  Hoping for Justin, Carmalina was surprised to see Newberry open the door, followed by Molly, the housekeeper, and one of the footmen.

  “We are terribly sorry to disturb you madam—” Newberry’s words were cut off by Molly’s great, wrenching sob.

  “What is it? What happened?” Her heart leapt into her throat and lodged there as Newberry shook his head sadly and Molly’s sobs grew louder.

  “There has been a tragedy,” she wailed.

  “Justin?” Sitting upright, the book slid from her fingers and hit the floor with a thud. All this time she’d sat silently railing at his stupid pride, wondering what she could do to make him something other than the stubborn rogue he was and he was in trouble?

  “No, no.” Newberry was quick to assure her. “It is Master Trentham the senior who…who…”

  “Justin’s father?” That was an entirely different matter but no less disturbing. She let out the breath she held with relief that Justin was all right.

  “Oliver,” Newberry said with a sad shake of his bewigged head.

  Carmalina’s hand flew to her lips in shock. She’d only seen him a few hours before. They’d danced and laughed and… Then he’d complained of feeling ill. Could she have done something? Should she have told Justin? She’d quite forgotten about Oliver by the time they’d returned home.

  With a vague nod, Carmalina gestured for Newberry to continue. There had to be another reason why all three stood in her bedroom in the middle of the night.

  “The young master went to his bedside and now cannot be moved.”

  “He mourns,” Carmalina commented. Why hadn’t he called for her? Sent for her? Come to her?

  “As sad as it is…” Newberry hesitated. �
��Things simply aren’t supposed to happen this way.”

  “What does happen?” She was outraged that London’s circus of a society could be so callous even in the event of a family member’s death. Where else would Justin be but at his uncle’s bedside?

  “The body should be dressed and then set out for viewing. But the staff can’t get near enough to do their duties.”

  “How long ago did he pass?” Carmalina asked as she dug her nails into her palms, welcoming the sharp pain that distracted her from wanting to run from the room straight to Justin’s side.

  “Last hour.” Newberry’s bottom lip quivered slightly but Carmalina’s rage blinded her to the man’s pain.

  “He is not even cold yet. Could they not give him a few hours?”

  “It just isn’t the way of things.”

  “Merda.” She wasn’t normally accustomed to using offensive language but the situation warranted it.

  “D-do you think you c-could talk to him?” Molly’s wails finally subsided but she hiccupped wildly as she asked the question.

  “Will his father not attend him? Perhaps he would be a better bystander than I.”

  “The earl has not yet been advised of Master Trentham’s death.” Newberry valiantly tried to hold himself together but was beginning to unravel.

  “Why not?”

  “That is the way Oliver would have wanted it. They didn’t get along at all,” Molly interjected.

  “He still needs to know his brother has died. There will be preparations to be made for a funeral.”

  “First things first, dear.” Molly sat next to her on the bed and patted her leg through the purple silk she still wore. “The body has to be readied.”

  Carmalina nodded, stood, gathered her strength, asked for a carriage and then preceded Justin’s servants down the stairs. Her hands were numb as Newberry helped her with her cloak and gloves. She didn’t put a hat on or worry about the state of her hair or dress. She doubted anyone would notice that she wasn’t exactly “ton” presentable. She had more important things to worry about.

  The very short ride to Oliver Trentham’s home wasn’t nearly enough time to develop a plan and before she had time to blink, the carriage drew to a halt and the footman opened the door.

  The street was dark and strangely quiet, as though the night already mourned the passing of a fine gentleman. A light drizzle fell and the wind picked up to blow litter and the last remaining autumn leaves high into the air. Carmalina barely felt any of it.

  How could she comfort a man she hardly knew but had grown to like in a dangerous way? Her own experience with death hardly made her an expert. She couldn’t remember her parents’ deaths very well. She had been barely five. When her guardian and aunt passed away, she’d been ill so long, Carmalina had had time to say her goodbyes. In the end, her aunt’s death had been a blessing for the lady. She’d been so sick.

  Antony’s death had been much the same. Days of agonizing pain followed by release.

  This was so different. So sudden.

  Justin was an enigma in too many ways; it was hard for Carmalina to guess how Oliver’s death would affect him.

  Once again she gathered the last remaining shards of her strength and marched up the stairs, past a bewildered butler wearing a skewed white wig, and unbuttoned her cloak. After handing the man her gloves, she demanded to know where Justin was.

  For a moment his face was almost comical while he tried to figure out if she was a lady or a family member or, God forbid, a mistress.

  “Very well.” Carmalina sent a fierce glare in the direction of the imperious butler. “I will find him myself.” Turning on her heel, she located the stairs and started to climb. She was sure if she headed in the wrong direction, she would soon be stopped.

  “You can’t go up there. This is a bachelor home.” The sputters from behind her became more importunate but Carmalina ignored him. She had to find Justin.

  The first door on the first landing revealed an empty sitting room so Carmalina opened every one along the corridor and stuck her head in to check for Justin.

  “You can’t be doing this,” the butler exclaimed as he tried to block her way.

  “I can and I will. But it would be much quicker if you would show me to your master’s chambers.”

  Seeing the determination in her stance and hearing it in her voice must have swayed the old man. With a nod he passed three more doors down the hall, took a corridor on the right and led her through another sitting room where he paused before the closed door of what must be the bedroom.

  “I will take it from here,” Carmalina informed him regally.

  Nodding again, he left without a backwards glance.

  Carmalina inhaled deeply and then exhaled. Her hand hovered over the door handle. Death wasn’t a stranger to her, but it wasn’t going to be easy to comfort someone who may not want what she offered.

  Snatching her hand back, she considered what she was about to do. She wasn’t Justin’s wife or friend. She wasn’t his sister or cousin. She was his mistress. His paramour. His whore.

  What right did she have to comfort him? What right did she have to encroach on his mourning as though she knew him, as though she knew what he needed and how to give it to him?

  He is a man.

  The sweet voice of reason was right. She would go to him because he didn’t have anyone else. Because he was a man and she was a woman who had been where he was about to go.

  She turned the handle, entered the darkened room. Carmalina wasn’t sure what she had expected. A death smell, a sickroom, a wailing nephew crying about the injustice of it all.

  Justin stood at the open window, a silhouette against the night; the slight chill breeze ruffled his hair and the collar of his shirt. Oliver lay on his bed, the covers drawn up to his chest, his hands crossed over his still heart, his features relaxed in death.

  It was all so unreal.

  “I told you I want to be left alone.” Justin’s voice came out of the dark, hoarse and full of lonely anguish.

  “I can go,” Carmalina offered, unsure if he knew it was she who stood behind him.

  He didn’t. The look of surprise and sadness as he turned almost made her close the distance between them so she could wrap her arms around him and hold on until it didn’t hurt so much.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Newberry was worried.”

  “He asked you to come?”

  “No. I came because I was worried also.”

  “Well, you needn’t bother. It’s too late.” His gaze went to the unmoving figure on the bed.

  “I didn’t come here for Oliver. I came for you.”

  “For me?”

  Carmalina stepped closer. “I came to see if you are all right.”

  “Why?”

  As she got closer, the vagueness in his eyes became clearer. He was shocked; he couldn’t be thinking straight. “You lost someone you loved.”

  “Loved?” he scoffed as he fell into a chair in front of a cold hearth.

  “He was your uncle. Oliver loved you.”

  “My family doesn’t know how to love.”

  “He loved you and I’m sure, in your own way, you loved him too.”

  “I don’t believe in love.”

  “You don’t?” She wasn’t surprised.

  “I am incapable of the emotion. I should have told you that.”

  “Everyone is capable of loving. You just need to accept the fact that you are loved in return.”

  “He is dead now. No more love for Billington’s naughty boy.”

  Sarcasm tinged his voice but it was also laced with a pain so heavy, she had no idea how to make him see what was plainly in front of him.

  “I love you.” The words were brave ones. Ones she had never expected to blurt out, especially not like this, but she could no longer deny the depths of her feelings for him. She was inexplicably in love with a scarred man who just admitted to not being able to return the sentiment.r />
  For a moment, Justin just stared. Then he began to laugh.

  Not the reaction she’d hoped for.

  “You don’t love me,” he said between forced chuckles.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one, we have an agreement.”

  “I believe our agreement is that you don’t fall in love with me,” Carmalina reminded him. “What is the second?”

  “You can’t.”

  “I ask again. Why not?”

  “I’m not worth loving.”

  “No?” While they talked, Carmalina tried to appear nonchalant. She went to the edge of the bed and smoothed Oliver’s hair away from his brow. Her insides churned until she thought she would retch. Did they really talk of love as though discussing the weather?

  “Look at me. I can’t even gain the love of my family. I have no experience. I have nothing to offer you.”

  “I didn’t ask for anything.”

  “But surely for you to love me, you expect me to love you in return?”

  “No.”

  “Then why make the declaration?”

  Carmalina shrugged. How could she answer that kind of question? She had no idea where the feeling came from. She should hate the man who sat before her. He’d marched into her imperfectly ordered life and turned it upside down when he’d thought to buy her with an expensive pair of earbobs. The man who’d taken her innocence on the hard plane of his dining table. The man who used her for his own gains and gave nothing in return but pretty gowns and intense pleasure.

  But he was still a man. She loved the way he smiled and the way his chest rumbled when he laughed. She loved the way he touched her as if she were made of materials so precious he didn’t want to take the chance of breaking her. His vulnerability was a part of what made Justin Trentham, Justin Trentham. To her, he wasn’t Billington’s boy. He wasn’t even the third son of an earl, or the scandalous rogue who cried out for attention.

  He was the man she’d fallen for.

  Justin’s harsh voice pulled her back to the present. “Do you think to give me your pity in the form of words?”

  “I don’t pity you.”

  “Horseshit.”

  Carmalina winced at the tone he used. They stepped onto dangerous ground and she was unfamiliar with the territory.