A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

  Jocelyn opened her mouth to make the request when Elisabeth reversed and popped her head back into the doorway. She peered out at the man, cocking her head. Under the women’s collected scrutiny, the man’s expression fell. Cleary, he was disappointed at missing the viscount. He took off his hat and turned it in his hands, looking out at the unfinished ships in the distance. He sighed. He looked back at the women uncertainly.

  When he said nothing more, Elisabeth pushed out on the stoop. “Forgive me, sir,” she began softly, “but are you . . . acquainted with Lord Rainsleigh? You appear . . . ” She laughed, a nervous, worried little laugh that Jocelyn had never heard before.

  The man blinked at her and did not answer.

  Elisabeth continued, “Forgive me, but you look as if you could be related to the viscount. How similar the two of you appear in stature and even face. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She glanced back at Jocelyn, seeking concurrence. Jocelyn looked again. Now that Elisabeth pointed it out, Jocelyn could, indeed, see the resemblance.

  The man who looked like Rainsleigh remained silent. He simply stared, considering Elisabeth with a cautious sort of squint.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance, sir?” asked Elisabeth. “I am Lady Rainsleigh, the viscount’s wife.”

  “I . . . I read that Lord Rainsleigh was set to marry,” the man answered in almost a whisper. He studied Elisabeth as if it would discern the position of her heart.

  Elisabeth laughed nervously again. “Ah. Were we remiss with an invitation? I hope not.”

  He shook his head. “Do I resemble his lordship? Truly, Lady Rainsleigh?” His voice was full of wonder. He appeared to hold his breath.

  Elisabeth nodded. “Does my husband know you, Mr. . . . ”

  “Mr. Raymond Eads,” the man provided slowly, as if he waited for her to recognize the name. He made a small bow.

  Elisabeth smiled gently but shook her head.

  He clarified, saying, “Mr. Raymond Eads . . . of Berkshire. My daughter, Miss Lucy Eads, has accompanied me.” He gestured to the young lady in the well-appointed carriage behind him. “We are in London on other business, and I thought we’d . . . call.”

  Another pause. Elisabeth did not press, but her small smile looked forced. “Would you care to join me in my husband’s office, Mr. Eads?” Elisabeth finally asked. “Other business has detained the viscount today, and his secretary is out. My friend and I were managing some of our own charity work here in the shipyard. But we need not hover on the doorstep like deliverymen. Please, if you would feel more comfortable leaving a card or message for the viscount in his office, I am happy to show you inside.”

  Jocelyn stepped across the threshold to stand beside her and placed a hand on her elbow. “My lady?” Jocelyn whispered, worried about the safety of inviting a strange man to an empty office.

  “Do not fret, Jocelyn,” Elisabeth assured her, already taking a dazed Mr. Eads by the arm and leading the way. “Mr. Eads, shall my friend entertain your daughter?”

  “She will prefer to await me in the carriage, Lady Rainsleigh,” Mr. Eads said following her slowly.

  “If you are sure,” said Elisabeth briskly, holding the door. She looked at Jocelyn. “I won’t be ten minutes.” And then she swung the door to the viscount’s private office.

  Twenty minutes later, the door swung open again, and Jocelyn bolted to her feet. Elisabeth, thank God, appeared very much as she had when she’d disappeared inside Rainsleigh’s office, although now her arm was tucked snugly against Mr. Eads’s chest. Their heads were bent, and she was telling him something softly, patting his hand, while he nodded and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Elisabeth looked up as if to assure Jocelyn, sparing her a quick wink, and then she walked the man out the door. There was naught for Jocelyn to do but wait beside their untouched lunch on the desk. Through the window, Jocelyn saw Elisabeth and the man exchange a few more words, a half embrace, and then Elisabeth waved good-bye to him as he climbed the steps of his carriage, and his coachman drove them away.

  “Well, that explains quite a lot,” Elisabeth said. She closed the door and leaned against it.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” said Jocelyn. “What is it? You alarm me, Elisabeth, when you disappear behind closed doors with a strange man. I sent for Stoker, just to be safe. Most of all, I was terrified that Rainsleigh would turn up, and I’d be forced to explain it.”

  “Yes, that would have been ill-timed. Dunhip would have been all wrong too. I was sorry to leave you out here alone.”

  “Please do not worry for me,” Jocelyn said. She waited, watching Elisabeth chew her bottom lip, lost in thought.

  After a moment, Jocelyn said, “I sent the stable boys for lunch, as you asked.”

  Elisabeth looked up and pushed off the door. “Oh, lovely. Thank you.” She wandered to the basket of food. “I’m sorry to have worried you. I could see that Mr. Eads sought an audience with the viscount or someone close to him. That he had some burden he wanted to share. I know the signs from working with my girls.”

  She looked up from the basket. “And I was right. Turns out, he knew Rainsleigh’s mother as a young man.” A pause. “You might as well know.”

  “Oh,” began Jocelyn uncertainly, realization slowly dawning.

  “He—Mr. Raymond Eads,” she continued, returning her attention to the basket of bread and cheese, “claims to be Lord Rainsleigh’s father.” She looked up. “His true father, Jocelyn. Long lost. Back to say . . . well, I’m not sure what he intends to say.”

  “Oh,” Jocelyn repeated, a strangled, airless sound this time. She felt her eyes go huge. “Which would mean . . . ”

  Elisabeth nodded, left the basket, and breezed past her to the desk. She began to gather her paperwork. “Which would mean, my husband is in store for the surprise of his life.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Rainsleigh stared at the marriage contract strewn across his desk and scowled. It was coward’s way out. Trotting out paperwork to discuss their marriage. Impersonal, and stilted, and silly, but his brain was gruel. He could conceive of no other way to begin—assuming, that was, he managed to embark on any conversation at all.

  Sewell knocked in the same moment that Rainsleigh checked the clock on the mantel. He shoved to his feet like a man on trial. It was ridiculous; he had counted the bloody minutes until he would see her again, but now he felt unprepared. Yet another stupefying result of his fevered regard for his new wife. He thought of little else. How could he bloody work if all he did was think about taking her to bed?

  “Enter,” he said. He left the contract on the desk and strode to the windows. She would speak first, he thought. Let him hear what she had to say, and he would carry on from there.

  “You’ve had me summoned to the library?” she asked.

  He turned. She was irritated; he could see it on her face. She ignored Sewell, which wasn’t like her, and Bryson dismissed him with a nod.

  Perhaps he would not wait for her to speak. “I was not certain that Mrs. Linn provided a sufficient tour.”

  She narrowed her eyes, drifting to him. “Well, I’ve seen the library, as you well know.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Fine. You’ve seen the library. Regardless, I should like to walk you ’round the house myself. This should feel like your home, Elisabeth.” He swore in his head. “This is your home.”

  “Bryson,” she said, holding up her hand. “Stop.”

  He stared at her hand. Unease climbed from his gut and grabbed him by the throat. He looked to her face and back at her hand. It occurred to him that the topic of restraint was but a trifle compared to some complaint from her. God forbid she have some request that might take her away from him.

  “None of that matters now,” she said.

  He leaned against the wall beside the window, hoping to appear casual rather than weak-kneed. In what way, he wondered, would a tour of the house not matter now?

  “May I sit?” she asked
purposefully, already heading for a chair.

  He nodded, watching her. She wore the simple blue dress today. Her hair was down her back. Her cheeks were flushed as if she had rushed to reach him.

  She settled in a chair adjacent to the window, stealing sideways glances in his direction. She closed her eyes for a moment and put a hand to her mouth. She looked, he thought, as if she prepared to taste something for which she had great dislike. It scared him in a way nothing had scared him in a very long time.

  She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and smiled the dreadful smile of someone with complicated, unhappy news. “Today,” she began, “when I was in your office at the shipyard, a man called, looking for you.”

  She paused, looked out the window, and then back at him.

  “A man?” He crossed his arms over his chest. The topic of “a man” was the very last he’d anticipated.

  She nodded. “He is called Raymond Eads.” She watched him with a wary sort of anticipation. “Of Berkshire—although, originally, from Wiltshire.”

  The name of Bryson’s home county thudded into his consciousness like a dull kick.

  “Ah,” he said harshly, turning his face away, “an old neighbor, was it? You’ve had an earful, then, I’ll wager. Even after fifteen years in the grave, I still receive notices of my father’s debts. Or perhaps it was stolen property?”

  She stared at him sorrowfully.

  “And now you’re to hear them, too? And on your very first day as my wife? My apologies.”

  She remained silent.

  Shame welled within him. “What did he want, then?” He forced his voice to remain calm. “And where was Dunhip? He knows what to do when these phantasms of the past float to the surface.” He shoved off the window and paced a distance, only to spin back. “I knew it was careless to send you to the shipyard alone. But you could not wait, oh no—”

  “Bryson,” she said levelly, “it was not that. It was nothing to do with your father. Not directly.”

  “Then what?” The question was a whip. The unease had grown into a mild thudding panic.

  “Would you sit?” she offered gently.

  “No, I will not sit.”

  She nodded and looked away. She took a deep breath.

  “My God, Elisabeth, what is it? Who is Raymond Eads?”

  She leaned back, settling into the chair. “Raymond Eads is a man of some property and means—the owner of several maltings—in Berkshire. He is a widower. Just this year he lost his wife. And he has a seventeen-year-old daughter. He read the announcement of our marriage in the newspapers and was, apparently, compelled to seek you out. It is an errand he has put off for some great many years, but he made a vow to his dying wife that he would finally put the matter to rest.”

  “Naturally. And what matter is this?” He’d begun again to pace, but he stopped now and turned to study her, shoving his hands in his pockets to contain them. She stared back serenely.

  “It was a confession,” she finally said. “Meant to be made in person, face-to-face, with you.”

  “Well, he’s failed at that, clearly, considering he’s burdened my wife. What I don’t understand is, where was Dunhip? You should not be parsing through confessions of villagers, whoever they are, when you are alone in my office.”

  “We had sent him home for luncheon.”

  Rainsleigh growled in frustration. “Typical. He is powerless to the demands of his bloody stomach.”

  “He would have been little help. The confession was of a highly personal nature. I cajoled Mr. Eads to tell me—very nearly drew the words out of him—because he was so clearly in distress. It was providence, I think, that placed me there, alone, when he came.” She watched him. “But you may disagree. I cannot predict.”

  “Cannot predict what?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Say it, please, Elisabeth. Now I’m speculating on your safety, alone in the office with a strange man.”

  “Oh, Mr. Eads is a gentleman, some fifty-three years old, and he was accompanied by his daughter.”

  “Say it, Elisabeth.”

  She nodded. “He claimed, Bryson, that your mother—Lady Este Rainsleigh, who you have mentioned many times now lives in Spain—visited his father’s blacksmith shop some thirty-five years ago. The viscountess’s mare threw a shoe as she galloped to the village, and she called at the shop for repair. Mr. Eads was a boy of eighteen, still living in his parents’ home. It was there,” Elisabeth went on, “that your mother caught sight of young Mr. Eads and, apparently, liked very much what she saw. According to him, Lady Rainsleigh contrived a way to chance upon him in a more private, fortuitous moment, and, as Mr. Eads terms it, he was ‘overcome.’ ”

  She paused, watching him closely.

  Overcome? The word echoed in his brain, but he had no breath to speak.

  “As an innocent yet healthy boy of eighteen,” she said, “yes, he was simply overcome. Este was beautiful and provocative and aggressive. Persuasive to a point of irresistibility, despite Mr. Eads upbringing by well-intentioned parents in a devout home. He could not, he said, resist your mother.”

  “Elisabeth,” Rainsleigh cut in, barely able to keep bald-faced fear from his voice, “please tell me that you do not intend to recount this vividly familiar tale—my mother’s paramours are innumerable—to illustrate that she is a whore.”

  “He claims to be your father, Bryson.”

  Rainsleigh blinked. He ceased drawing breath. He felt his throat close in the same moment his heartbeat leapt into a sprint.

  Silence sucked the air from the room.

  She spoke over it. “Mr. Eads claims he was altogether caught up. For nearly a month. They were . . . frequently together. Whenever they could steal away. There were countless interludes, he said.”

  To his mortification, Rainsleigh felt his knees begin to buckle. Tremors followed—his hands, his throat, his very chest seemed to vibrate. He still could not draw breath.

  He grabbed the back of a chair. “You should not subjected to such base talk,” he managed to say. “I don’t care who he claims to be. Why assail you, my lady-wife, with his sordid tale of licentiousness? Blacksmiths and interludes and being overcome.”

  She chuckled sadly. “Eventually, you will come to terms with how I spend my days, and with whom. I am accustomed to ‘base talk.’ Who better to hear it than me? To be honest, I encouraged him. He was very distressed. He wanted to tell someone—you, obviously. But when you were not there, I was more than willing to allow him to unburden himself.”

  “You were deceived,” he gritted out, his body strumming with terrified anger.

  “Pray,” she said softly, “let me finish.”

  He glared at her, unable to speak. His grip on the back of the chair was almost painful. He wanted to tear the leather. He wanted to hurl the chair through the window and shout through the shattered glass. He wanted to run through the gash left behind. Anything to compel her to cease explaining the unthinkable.

  She did not. “The sixth Viscount Rainsleigh—the man you knew as your father—and Este had quarreled, Mr. Eads said, and the viscount had gone away in an angry huff. Este told Mr. Eads she had been abandoned in Wiltshire with no means to follow her husband to London. She was very resentful, and when she met the young Mr. Eads, she allowed their passion to sweep her away.”

  Rainsleigh searched the words for some incongruity, a telltale behavior or choice that did not align with what he knew of his parents.

  He found none.

  Everything she described was exactly as immoral and selfish and reckless as he would expect.

  Still, he shook his head. Slowly at first and then faster. The more she spoke, the more he shook his head. It became harder and harder to breathe.

  “Mr. Eads, in contrast, was plagued with guilt and shame,” she went on, “even while desire for your mother entranced him. Within a month, he managed the wherewithal to refuse her. Their affair ceased, and Este was livid. Six weeks later, your mother sought him out
and informed him that she had become pregnant, and that he was the father of the child. Mr. Eads was, he says, terrified and thrilled at the same time. He begged her—although in vain, he knew—to leave the viscount and run away with him—to Ireland . . . or America—so he might provide some meager existence for her and the child.”

  She glanced at him, and he looked away. He could not bear to look at her; he could not bear to hear what she had to say, but she would not stop.

  “According to Mr. Eads, Lady Rainsleigh only laughed,” Elisabeth said. “She told him about the baby only to spite him; she had no intention of leaving the viscount. In fact, she had written to her husband in London, made amends, and begged him to come home to her. He was set to arrive any day. Their union would carry on, and she would have the baby—have you—under the auspices of the viscount’s paternity. You would be raised as the viscount’s child. She would deny the affair, she said, until the day she died.

  “And so Mr. Eads was powerless. He allowed her to go on her merry way, along with the baby she carried, although it nearly killed him. He could not argue the logic of the unborn child being raised as an aristocrat instead of the illegitimate offspring of a villager who, at that time, amounted to nothing. He wanted you to have all the benefits of a nobleman, and even more, he wanted you to have a father who was married to your mother.”

  “Stop saying you.” Rainsleigh’s voice cut through her narrative like a blade. “Do not say it again when you refer to me as this . . . bastard child.” He dropped his hand from the chair. He trudged three heavy steps. He tried to pace, but his legs would not move.

  It was unthinkable, the history she described. Another horrible ruse borne from bitterness toward his parents. Mr. Eads, whoever he was, had been wronged in some way, and this lie was his revenge.

  Bryson managed one step. The settee was there, and he went down on the stiff leather with one knee.

  “Bryson?” Elisabeth said gently. He heard her rise. “I cannot imagine the shock and anger that you feel in this moment, but I believe it is something with which we must reckon.” She paused. “You should see this man. He looks like you. The resemblance is so great; in fact, I thought you had stepped inside the office this morning, suddenly aged twenty years. And you cannot deny that his story rings very . . . possible. Knowing what you’ve said of your mother. If he—”