London's Late Night Scandal

by Anabelle Bryant

  “Cook must have prepared all day for this selection.”

  Theodosia commented with a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. What had upset her? They’d hardly exchanged a dozen words.

  “Now, tell us about your studies, Whittingham.”

  Talbot spooned a liberal portion of deviled kidneys onto his plate. From the corner of his eye, Matthew saw Theodosia wrinkle her nose at the dish.

  “As chief officer of the Society for the Intellectually Advanced, I spend most of my time in scholarly pursuits. The position requires I remain in London, where I have the esteemed responsibility to investigate accurate reporting of scientific news and discoveries, both past and present. Your recent article was the topic of a heated debate at our last meeting and instigated my first letter. As you may recall, I invited you to speak and share your findings.”

  “A recent article, you say? I don’t recall. Nor do I remember a letter.” Talbot’s face screwed into an expression of confusion. “What was the topic again?” He put down his fork and offered Matthew his focused attention.

  “It was in last month’s edition. Your article on—”

  “Oh, what have I done?” Theodosia let out a sigh of disappointment as her glass toppled over. Red wine splashed across the ecru tablecloth, a helpless victim of her mishap.

  Conversation halted as a footman rushed forward with a hand towel, the soiled fabric quickly covered with a smaller cloth in a darker color. Within minutes a platter of glossed dates and dried apricots covered the stain and effectively tucked it out of sight.

  Without missing a beat Theodosia resumed the conversation. Perhaps she sought to pull attention away from her accidental spill.

  “For as long as I can remember Grandfather has explored the sciences and shared his knowledge with me. As a child I beleaguered him with questions, but he always took precious time and explained the answers in a clear and patient manner.”

  “You still beleaguer me with questions,” Talbot added as he examined the flatware beside his plate. “But then any great scientific mind is apt to question things.” He picked up the fork and paused, before he replaced it on the table. “And you have questions too, don’t you, Whittingham?”

  Matthew finished chewing a savory bite of salmon. “I do. In relation to your calculations of fixed ratio and mass, I couldn’t replicate your result. As a matter of course, I discovered—”

  A large serving dish appeared in his peripheral vision.

  “Have you tasted the imported ham?”

  Theodosia waved the footman closer to the table as she spoke.

  “Thank you.” Matthew followed the plate with his eyes as it was placed before him. Every time he began a discussion, Theodosia interjected. Could she wish to be the center of attention? That hypothesis didn’t bear investigation, as he’d already ascertained she’d prefer they didn’t dine together at all.

  Still, her fetching gown and sparkling diamonds might support his theory. She looked stunning this evening, her hair pulled back to expose high cheekbones and a pale, slender neck. He lingered too long in appreciation and found her eyes matched to his when at last he pulled his gaze upward.

  “It’s divine. Exquisite, one could say.” Matthew held her stare without waver. “The ham, of course.”

  She continued, though her cheeks acquired a lovely blush. “We always have ham during Christmas, and with the holiday season approaching, I suspect Cook is testing a new recipe. I smell cloves and ginger.” She cut a tiny bite from the slice on her plate and chewed it elegantly.

  What is the lady up to?

  “Whittingham didn’t come to Leighton House to discuss our menu, dear.” Talbot nodded vigorously to accompany his words. “Exactly why did you come here anyway? Are you interested in the sciences?”

  It was then that the pieces began to fit. He should have suspected it sooner, but he was too caught up in the intriguing petite beauty with ebony hair and silver-gray eyes across the table.

  She looked at him then. A clear, intense, knowing stare, and whether she wished it or not, that look communicated everything.

  “Let’s talk of other things, shall we?” He finished his wine and allowed the footmen to whisk his glass away to be refilled. “I suspect the snow will be finished on the morrow and the roads serviceable in another day or two.”

  But Theodosia didn’t comment, her gaze tight with impatience. She’d turned away from the conversation for a moment, her attention cast to the window as if assessing the weather outside, despite it was dark and her view obstructed.

  “Pass the marmalade, please.”

  Talbot extended his hand to receive a bowl of apricot marmalade. Was that a customary condiment at their table? Whittingham associated the fruit preserve with breakfast, though he supposed some might use it to sweeten a piece of ham.

  When Theodosia failed to respond, a footman swiftly retrieved the bowl. She turned, belatedly, and he noticed a sadness in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

  “I would like to visit this society of yours.” Talbot covered the food on his plate with several dollops of preserves. “You stated earlier you once invited me. I don’t recall the message. Does the invitation still stand?”

  “Grandfather.” The word sounded sharp in the otherwise quiet dining room. “Grandfather.” She gentled her tone. “I hardly think a trip to London during the coldest months of winter is advisable. I couldn’t bear the thought of the long day’s travel. My compliments to you, Lord Whittingham, for your valiant excursion to Oxfordshire, but my grandfather is not as hearty as you, nor easily pleased.” The last few words were said as she eyed his marmalade-covered plate.

  “Nonsense,” Talbot rebuffed, his tone indignant. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I can travel as well as anyone. I happily accept your invitation.” His voice grew more determined as he replied.

  Matthew found himself in the awkward position of being trapped in a private discussion. While Theodosia sought to protect her grandfather in his later years, Talbot rebelled against his age. Was the earl aware how often he lost the thread of conversation? How odd some of his actions? Was it a matter of lucid thinking mixed with confusion that had produced the intelligent, articulate piece printed in the Royal Society’s medical journal, or had someone assisted? Theodosia mentioned her grandfather had taught her much through the years.

  And the letters he’d written inviting Talbot to present his findings? Had Talbot forgotten about the invitation to speak in London or had his granddaughter effectively prevented him from reading those same letters as a way to protect his pride and reputation?

  Matthew’s mind spun furiously with its usual investigative method: ideas conjured, proven or eliminated with lightning-fast proficiency.

  How compromised were Talbot’s capabilities? Perhaps someone else altogether had submitted the article. Someone with a depth of knowledge but limited experience.

  Someone like Theodosia.

  The clever minx.

  Chapter Eight

  “I disagree.” Theodosia flared her eyes at her grandfather. Now was not the time for him to become angry or belligerent. She’d feared his contrary position on marmalade to be the biggest threat, but oh, how she’d underestimated the situation. “I shouldn’t like to travel in this weather. Most especially as the holidays approach. Why don’t we plan a trip to London after the thaw in the New Year?” She forced a brittle smile. Please, Grandfather, please don’t add humiliation to my long list of heartaches.

  “That may be the wiser decision,” Matthew interjected. “The Society would be delighted to host a reception for you at any time. The accumulated snowfall is an unforeseen complication nonetheless. There’s no need to rush.”

  “But there is.”

  Grandfather’s tone became somber, and not for the first time, Theodosia wondered to what extent her grandfather knew that his mental capacities were diminished. Did he fear the same things as she? Did he realize he could no longer hold a conversation without getting lo
st in the words? Or that he often forgot tasks as simple as the usage of flatware?

  “We can revisit the subject another time.” She pushed on. “Let’s not spoil the meal with this discussion. Besides, it’s not every day Leighton House has the privilege of your company.” She struggled and finally forced her last word out. “Matthew.”

  He looked at her again. It was as if he was staring at her all the time, though in his defense he was seated directly across from her for the purpose of congenial conversation. Still, she wondered if he considered her an oddity. A pariah. A woman raised without the polish of city life, or worse . . . a spinster bluestocking.

  He was handsome. Too handsome, some might say. She saw the way the maids twittered when he walked past, and for all his dependency upon his walking stick, his limp an impairment he likely cursed, it caused him to appear stronger, heroic, and that much more interesting. But she wouldn’t consider any of this because none of it mattered. As little as forty-eight hours earlier, Lord Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham, was nothing more than a name on paper. Paper she fed to the flames in the hearth in fear he would somehow materialize.

  And yet he had, as if she’d evoked some witch’s spell.

  His eyes searched her face, in confirmation he knew her thoughts, and she bristled, straightening her shoulders as she sought a fortifying sip of wine. Best to keep him at arm’s length. Or farther.

  “I’m pleased to visit Leighton House, and as I mentioned, the Society will welcome your visit any time of year.”

  He seemed to understand, and with that came equal portions comfort and embarrassment.

  “I’m relieved. With the Christmas season on the approach, there’s enough planning without the addition of travel to the schedule.” She attempted a smile, in hope they could return their dinner conversation to a lighter topic, though deep inside, her heart thundered. Matthew was a highly respected scholar. He would have no trouble deducing what she worked so hard to keep concealed.

  “How do you celebrate? Do your parents—”

  “I won’t be put off like a child.” Grandfather dropped his knife to his plate and stood so quickly the chair toppled over. “I’m for London tomorrow.”

  Theodosia eyed one of the footmen at the ready to assist as needed in the past.

  “Grandfather.” She rose as well, her hand extended to capture his, though he pulled away in anger. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Why don’t we finish dinner and discuss it afterward?” She chose her words so carefully, but all the while knew there would be no calming him now. He’d experienced a fit of outrage only one other time, and two footmen had been needed to resettle him. She sent a silent prayer to heaven it wouldn’t come to those terms this evening while Lord Whittingham watched.

  “May I help?”

  As if he read her mind, his calm tenor met her ear, but she couldn’t bear to look at him for fear emotion would cause her to crumble.

  “The matter is settled. I will travel to London and speak at the Society and you won’t stop me, Belinda.” Grandfather’s words became an agitated edict. His voice resounded in every empty corner.

  It wasn’t his childish behavior or petulant demand that pierced her heart, but the use of her mother’s name. He’d never done that before, confused her for another, or conjured memories from the past to mingle with current reality.

  And all at once, she was nothing more than a body in the room, her soul numb and mind blank. Vaguely aware of two servants who led her grandfather from the room with a promise of his quiet bedchambers and a cup of chocolate, she never glanced at Matthew. Shame, indignity, and utter mortification fought for control within her as she rushed from the room, blinded by tears.

  * * *

  He found her in the library. It was nearly midnight by his glance to the clock in the hall, and highly improper, but while he’d cursed his leg and the vicious complaint of pain from his hellish top boots, he couldn’t return to guest chambers, his mind feverish with concerning images of Theodosia. Had he not taken his eyes from her through the meal, he might never have noticed how she paled, how she fought to control the tremble of her lips whenever she drew a deep, calming breath, or the subtle tremor of her fingers as she replaced her spoon to the side of the plate. She endured and rebelled much like he, unwilling to submit to the pain.

  Still, the situation was highly unusual, and while he found his interest piqued and empathy eager, he concluded that a strong, independent, intelligent woman like Theodosia would not welcome his company at this time. Although she hadn’t anyone, did she? And for all intents and purposes he happened to be their guest, if not a complete stranger. Yet isn’t that how one became friends with another, as strangers first?

  Still untangling the knots of these contemplations, he entered the library with hope she would be there, and she was.

  Framed by the incandescent glow of the flames in the firebox, she stood with her back toward the door, grasping a looming multi-shelved bookcase, though he assumed she didn’t seek something to read.

  She needed strength and support. Comfort in books and knowledge. And the circumstances weren’t all that unlike his life at another time. He knew that search as well.

  She remained in her evening clothes. The gauzy layers of silk glimmered with a sheen from the hearth, so much so, she could be an illusion if one believed in such fanciful idiocy. Long ribbons of ebony hair cascaded down her back, nearly to her waist, and he watched her shoulders rise and fall in a broken motion.

  Was she crying?

  He swallowed audibly, stalled by a moment of hesitation.

  “Either come in or leave already.”

  Her raspy command took him by surprise, but it offered an invitation he would not refuse. Leaning more heavily on his walking stick, he made his way across the room, relieved when he stepped to the carpet, the tap of his stick on the tiles too much a reminder of his own shortcomings. He’d learned all too quickly in London, women desire a knight on a white horse, not a man with a limp and a cane. Not that he’d ever assume to aspire to that role at present.

  She didn’t turn and he didn’t know how to begin. The last thing he wanted was to further her distress.

  “Are you well?” It seemed the most mundane beginning and he cringed at his inadequacy.

  “I will be.” She shifted against the bookcase, but only partially turned.

  He noticed the glisten of tears in her eyes, though her cheeks were dry, her lashes too.

  “So now you know.” Her whisper caused his heart to ache.

  He nodded. “Your grandfather is struggling.” Aren’t we all? Matthew took a deep breath.

  “Yes. One could say that.”

  “The mind weakens with age. It’s the natural course of things. Everyone gets old.”

  She jerked her head to the shelves again with a short sniffle. “Not everyone.”

  He’d hit a nerve. “That’s true.”

  Pervasive silence invaded the room. Still she didn’t look at him, her back tight with tension, and he wondered if he should take his leave. Curiosity, another curse of his character, demanded he remain. “Why did you do it?”

  “The article?” She gave a delicate shrug. “For too many reasons to name.”

  “Tell me the two closest to your heart.”

  He waited, and so many minutes passed he believed she would not answer at all, but then she did.

  “To protect my grandfather’s legacy and reputation as a scientific scholar.” She drew a ragged breath as if she needed extra air to force the remaining words out. “To prove that I could. That I have worth.”

  He wanted to pull her forward, turn her around, and give her shoulders a shake. Did she believe a journal article would accomplish the latter? Had she so little belief in herself? But he knew better than to delve deeper than the facts. “A published journal article cannot prove your worth.”

  “Not to you, but mayhap to me.”

  They stood that way another minute or two and when she didn’t say
more, he stepped away. He rounded the bookcase, his feet silent on the carpeting as he positioned himself on the other side. With the removal of three heavy leather volumes, he created a hole large enough for him to speak to her face-to-face.

  “Bookish.” He knew to tread carefully.

  She watched him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  “A beautiful mind is more valuable than a thousand beautiful faces. Aren’t you lucky to possess both?” He wanted to reach forward and stroke his fingertip across her cheek for no other reason than to offer comfort. She was such a little thing. Alone. Grappling with the care of an aging loved one. Where were her parents to assist at this complicated time? Compassion and a strong sense of long lost chivalry rallied inside him.

  “What error have you found in my article?”

  Discussion of concrete science would hopefully provide calm. Emotion was just another crutch. At times it supported and then at others, adversely hindered. “Despite its publication, some of the calculations require a leap of faith.”

  “Some things do,” she insisted.

  “Not maths,” he countered. “But we can work through the unclear formulas tomorrow if you’d like.”

  He watched her shoulders relax and her posture lose some of its earlier rigidity.

  “Do you always roam the halls when you’re a guest in someone’s home? It’s near midnight, isn’t it?”

  It was an attempt at levity and distraction, and he wouldn’t miss the mark. “Only when a vexing woman believes herself on the shelf.”

  “While I appreciate your pun, taken literally, it is true.”

  “You don’t really believe that.” He chuckled softly until she continued.

  “How did you injure your leg?”

  “Aah, the skill of evasive conversation and subject substitution.”

  “Does it pain you?”

  “Yes.” He scrutinized her reaction. “Sometimes more than others.”

  “I find that true of many things in life.”

  She disappeared from the window created by the withdrawn books, and he moved to the end of the aisle.