A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

  “And why the bloody hell not?”

  “Bryson—no,” Elisabeth snapped. He would not use her as an excuse. He was grasping at straws, desperate to heap blame. What harm could come from making the smallest effort? Bryson ignored her, finally leaving the doorway for the windows, likely because Mr. Eads was walking to him. “Elisabeth is a gentle lady from an esteemed family. She married under the auspices of our shared nobility. She was promised to become a viscountess. And what is she now? The wife of a bastard with no name at all.”

  “But you were raised to be Viscount Rainsleigh,” objected Mr. Eads. “My intention was for you to remain as such. I only wished to know you in private.”

  The old man paused, thinking about what he’d said. He dug in his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a miniature portrait. He gazed it a moment and then cupped it protectively in his fist. “Oh, but we knew the risk,” he said. “We knew it was a selfish thing to do, but my heart has ached for so long. My late wife urged me to, at the very least, endeavor to meet you. To be honest, I did not know yesterday if I would say the words. And then I met your beautiful Lady Elisabeth. She compelled me to share the secret—not that I blame her, oh no. She made the telling easy. And telling her felt so . . . ” He paused and smiled tearfully at Elisabeth.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, spilling her own tears.

  “Telling her absolved me in a way I cannot describe. But I never intended my own peace to come at any cost to you, my lord. I never wanted to alter your life.”

  Elisabeth opened her blurry eyes to smile at him. How gratifying, she realized, to have a champion when she had been battening up against Bryson’s iron will for days. She’d nearly forgotten the reason for which she fought while Bryson indulged his own rage. He would not listen to reason, but this did not mean she could not speak it. She would not repay Mr. Eads’s gratitude by keeping silent now.

  She held out her hand to the older man. “Please do not be misled, Mr. Eads,” she said levelly. “Bryson does not push me away because I object to his new identity, he pushes me away because I interrupt the deeply controlled manner in which he leads his life. The control may be less necessary now, and that frightens him.”

  “Elisabeth,” Bryson warned from behind her.

  “What?” She whirled around.

  “Do. Not.”

  “Do not, what? I’ll not have you suggest to Mr. Eads that I am devastated—nay, that I am affected at all, except to sympathize with the pain of you both. I could not care less who your true father is.”

  “But why couldn’t he remain the viscount?” begged Mr. Eads. “And you, his lady-wife? No one need know! Stripping you of the title was never my goal!” His voice sagged to a new low; he held his hands out in desperation.

  “Because it is a lie,” snapped Bryson. “I am not the viscount. I have not worked years to restore honor to the viscountcy to now masquerade as a member of the nobility that I am not.”

  “So you are not specifically related to the Rainsleigh viscountcy—so what?” countered Elisabeth, gripping the back of her chair. “What could it possibly matter, unless blood trumps the sacrifices that you have made?”

  “Blood trumps everything!” he said.

  “Bollocks!” she shouted back. “It has been your talent, Bryson, your hard work, and your own, inherent honor—not some genetic elixir from the odious man you thought was your father—that restored the title. You did this. If you wish to remain Rainsleigh, I think you should do it. No one need know. Mr. Eads could not be more clear about his discretion. The House of Rainsleigh is entirely your design. Carry on, and do not look back.”

  “But the previous viscount was . . . was odious?” stammered Mr. Eads. “I left you to him to give you every advantage. To be raised by a titled gentleman, in a sprawling estate, with servants and schools and the leaders of the country as your friends! Please, my lord, tell me the viscount was not . . . cruel to you? When you were a boy?” His sawing whisper barely made it to the end of the question.

  She thought Bryson would refuse this answer too, but he shook his head, and said to the window, “The viscount beat me. Regularly. When he did not beat me, he mocked me. When he did not beat me or mock me, he taunted me with liquor and women and things I would not mention in front of a lady.”

  “No!” Mr. Eads cried in hushed agony, his hands outstretched.

  “The title he gave me was worthless, soiled by his selfish, bacchanal existence. There was no advantage; in fact his greatest joy was to hobble me. He wanted me in the gutter with him. Perhaps . . . perhaps he always knew.” He glanced quickly at Mr. Eads and then away. “The estate was decrepit and host to unspeakable degenerates. I financed my own education. I had no friends.”

  Mr. Eads’s body shook. Thin, desperate tears jumped down his cheek. Elisabeth looked away, but she heard him move, staggering around furniture. Bryson stared rigidly down at the street.

  Now he will reject him face-to-face, she thought. It had been a mistake to come. She wiped away more tears. It had been a mistake to entertain Mr. Eads at the shipyard. I am too ambitious, she thought. I am selfish. I want too much.

  No one knew more than Elisabeth that not every story had a happy ending. Not every father and son discovered each other. Not every wife managed to show her husband the power of forgiveness and love. What made her believe that she would be the person to bring these things to light? Her love for him? Her admiration for the courage of Mr. Eads?

  It wasn’t enough.

  “Please, Bryson,” whispered Mr. Eads, his voice breaking when he called his son by his given name. “I will not go so far as to ask you to forgive. I will not even ask you to understand the trap I found myself in with your mother. But please, my boy, please allow me to simply tell you how deeply, regretfully sorry I am. So sorry, from the depths of my soul.”

  He reached the first window and kept coming. “Every day, I thought of you,” he said. “Every day my late wife and I said a prayer for you. Please accept that my torment over losing you, at not knowing you, is real. Acknowledge it, just once, if you can. And know that you will not have to bear the horrible memory of it—whatever it was—alone anymore, even if we never speak beyond today. Because I will agonize with you, nay—on behalf of you. Oh, if I could, I would bear the memories for you—bear them away.”

  Bryson’s jaw was clamped so tightly, Elisabeth thought it would snap. He refused to look at the older man. If he could, she thought, he would clap his hands over his ears to block out all sound. He kept his eyes locked on the street.

  When Mr. Eads reached him, the older man choked out, “May I . . . may I touch you? Bryson? May I shake your hand? You asked what I wanted—well, that is it. To put my hand in the hand of my son. To touch you in the way I never could, in the way that I always hoped Lord Rainsleigh did. My heart is broken, learning that he did not, the stupid, stupid fool.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Eads extended a shaking hand. It hovered there, unmet, for three seconds . . . four . . .

  Elisabeth wanted to crawl over the chair and shove Bryson in his direction. She wanted to take up Mr. Eads’s hand in her own. She willed Bryson to meet Mr. Eads halfway, just this once.

  Finally, after an eternity of stillness, Bryson moved his eyes from the window and stared at the quavering, outstretched hand. His breath came harder, so hard his shoulders rose and fell. Elisabeth worried that he might slap his father’s hand away, and she opened her mouth to call out his name—a plea, a demand, a threat—but he squeezed his eyes shut and thrust his left hand out. He stopped just short of touching him.

  Mr. Eads closed the space and grabbed hold, joining their palms.

  For a long moment they simply stood, connected, hands gripped, together but apart.

  Bryson refused to open his eyes, but Mr. Eads drank in the sight of him. His face was a canvas; Elisabeth saw affection, hope, joy—he veritably radiated love.

  “Oh, my boy,” he whispered, closing his other hand on top of the
ir joined hands. He bent his face over them and pressed his cheek to the back of Bryson’s hand. He turned his head and kissed his son’s knuckles. He breathed in, weeping tears of relief.

  Throughout it all, Bryson stood, eyes closed, body rigid. He allowed it.

  It occurred to Elisabeth that her presence in the room had become superfluous. The moment was private, intensely so, and here she sat, taking it in from four feet away.

  She staggered to stand.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Perhaps she’d been too greedy. Not two happy endings but one. One . . . was enough.

  Mr. Eads finally loosened his hold, allowing Bryson to pull away, but he did not. Bryson grabbed him back, catching Mr. Eads by the forearm. He gripped the older man’s arm. He clung, like a man falling off the side of a boat. Mr. Eads reacted immediately, hauling Bryson against him, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

  Through fresh tears, Elisabeth saw Bryson hesitate only half a second, gape in disbelief, and then fall against him, squeezing his eyes shut again. His father slapped him on the back four times and then locked his arm there and seized him.

  Elisabeth put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound of a sob.

  Now I will go. She somehow managed to turn away, to walk uneven steps to the door. I’ve done what I came to do. She looked back and saw Mr. Eads move his hand to his son’s head, digging his fingers into Bryson’s hair, holding his head to his shoulder. I told him I would go, and now I will honor what I said.

  She forced her legs to carry on, down the hall, around a corner. She leaned against the front door and cried, allowing the tears, finally, to really come. He needs time. They will both require so much time.

  When she opened her eyes, the wide-eyed maid was there, hovering, accompanied by a girl of about sixteen with black hair and blue eyes. Bryson’s sister. It could be no other.

  Elisabeth turned her face away.

  “Careful,” said the girl gently. “There you are.” She pressed a handkerchief into Elisabeth’s hand. “Now, then. Lady Rainsleigh? How can we help?”

  Elisabeth felt a cool hand against her shoulder. She shook her head.

  “Should I call for your husband?” the girl asked.

  Another shake, more violently this time.

  “Leave them, please,” whispered Elisabeth. “They are getting on so . . . well. But I have stayed far too long. I apologize. If you’ll excuse me.” She fumbled for the doorknob.

  “Yes, all right,” said the girl, stepping back, “if you’re sure. Can we not bring you a cup of tea? Another handkerchief? Our footman, Charlie, can accompany you outside if you require fresh air. Or I can—”

  “No, no—you are kind, but no. Thank you. I must—I have promised I would go. And now I shall.” This was the plainest, most painful truth. She’d traded his cooperation for her promise to go. She would keep her word.

  The girl looked unconvinced. “But the men know you are leaving? Your husband? My father? I am Miss Lucy Eads, by the way.”

  Elisabeth shook her head. “They are . . . occupied. If you please, allow them ten minutes more, perhaps? Your father will likely summon you when the time is right.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry to steal away, but I must.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lucy carefully, hopping out of the way. “I won’t detain you.”

  Elisabeth nodded, pulling at the door.

  Go now, go now, go now—or you will never go.

  “But Lady Rainsleigh, what should I tell Lord Rainsleigh?” the girl called. “About where you have gone?”

  “Home,” said Elisabeth—her first clear, loud statement since the crying began. She pulled the door open and walked through. “If he asks, you may tell him that I have gone to my home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Bryson couldn’t say how long he clung to the old man. Five minutes? An hour? When he finally emerged from the morass of emotion and memory and a host of feelings he could not name, a full day might have passed. He felt wholly . . . transported.

  Although not so transported that awkwardness had not set in. Not so much that everything was immediately resolved. But he was transported . . . enough. Enough to stop fighting.

  He cleared his throat. He gave a nod against the old man’s shoulder. He stepped away. He looked out the window and stared at the street.

  I always knew. He marveled at the thought.

  He glanced at the old man and then away.

  He remembered, distinctly, shivering in his bed, alone at night, listening to whoops and hollers, to stray gunshot, to wicked laughter from his parents’ endless parties a floor below. He had been so frightened by the chaos, the shrill women and dodgy men, the debris he and his brother would pick through the next morning. But most of all, the man he knew as his father had frightened him. How could he belong there, in that house, he had wondered, time and again, if he was always so bloody afraid?

  He wanted to tell him—Mr. Eads. In the same way he had suddenly, urgently, wanted to embrace him, he wanted to say to him: Somehow, I always knew. He would not, however. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

  Ah, but somehow Eads read his mind. “You suspected it all along, didn’t you?” His voice was full of wonder. “You knew you were not his flesh and blood? And I? I was not there to claim you.” The joy on his face dissolved into misery. His eyes watered again.

  Bryson tore his gaze from the window to watch him, considering this—considering what the bloody hell to do next. They had known each other for all of an hour. Too much was at stake. He couldn’t suddenly make room in his life for this man because he resembled him, or because he seemed to embody selflessness and regret. A lifetime of distrust did not simply disappear. What if he was an incredibly proficient liar, bent on blackmail after all? What if he promised discretion today but could not resist telling a few, trusted friends or relatives tomorrow? Oh, God, what if he ever told anyone at all?

  Of all the times in his life when he employed caution, when he reveled in it, now would be the most essential time.

  He could not go along just because something about Mr. Eads felt . . . right.

  Or could he? Because all of a sudden, it did not seem to matter so much that he was no longer viscount. It was brand new, this feeling. When he’d first allowed himself to consider that he had no hereditary right to the title, it had felt as if his arm had been cut off. But now? Now it simply . . . was.

  Not ideal, of course—not for him or for Beau—but it did not feel . . . impossible.

  In fact, what a relief to suddenly, simply, be.

  Mr. Eads blew his nose noisily, and Bryson was compelled to explain his silence. “Forgive me, Mr. Eads. I am struggling to know how to proceed. You have been more than generous, and my behavior when I arrived was hostile, I know. I never allow myself to assume, and I don’t make allowances quickly. I have survived in my life due, in part, to shrewdness and caution. Bear with me, if you will.”

  Mr. Eads agreed so heartily his entire body seemed to nod. “Oh, but I can only imagine, my boy.” He waved his handkerchief like a flag. “You may navigate my enthusiasm as you see fit. I do get ahead of myself, especially when it comes to, well, family. We have all the years ahead of us to make peace, if you desire it. Rome was not built in a day.”

  Bryson gave him a small smile. He had never met a man so willing to concede. It added to his legitimacy, certainly. Very few swindlers knew patience, and he was willing to wait.

  Before he could stop himself, Bryson explained, “I suppose my most urgent reckoning is: why? Why bother, now, so long after the fact? If you, indeed, seek no recompense from my fortune or from knowing a”—it was still difficult to say—“a viscount, then why not leave well enough alone? You have lost your wife, but you claim to be happy in the company of your daughter. You also claim to be solvent—even rich, one might say. You’ve seen my business in the newspapers, my marriage too; so you have proof that I am well. Why dredge up what never could have been?”

  �
��Because I, too, always knew,” Mr. Eads said. “In the back of my heart, I always knew. Deep down. You were not well in the care of the previous viscount. I knew your mother could not look after you properly.” He stared at him with eyes glistening. His voice broke. “I knew you would search for someone—search for me—and I would not be there.” He dabbed his eyes. “Perhaps I have not admitted it out loud—not even to my dear wife, although likely she assumed—but I think I always knew.” His voice closed off, and he tapped his fist against his heart, two times—thump, thump.

  Bryson looked away. He heard Mr. Eads take two steps closer to him.

  “The guilt from that worry, that pain?” the older man went on. “That is why. The urge to seek you became too powerful to resist. I wanted to discover that I was wrong, that you had been happy and indulged.”

  The two most absent conditions from Bryson’s boyhood: happiness and indulgence.

  “If nothing else, I hoped to find you happy now,” finished Mr. Eads. “It was to be enough. But then I happened upon your beautiful wife instead of you, and she spoke so lovingly about your life, your new marriage. I thought, perhaps a man with a wife such as this could come to know me without bitterness. If I made it clear I did not wish to expose the paternity to anyone else. Lady Rainsleigh made no such promise to me, but I knew that any man who chose her would be a man I could, at the very least, try to come to know.”

  “Elisabeth,” Bryson said hoarsely, suddenly remembering, looking around. “Elisabeth?”

  But where had she gone? She should hear this. She would know what to do with the emotional tsunami that threatened, now, to pull him down. This meeting had been her design.

  He looked to her chair, to the four corners of the room, to the doorway. She was gone.

  “Did she go?” he asked, feeling the first flare of alarm.

  “Oh, but perhaps she did,” Mr. Eads said, smiling and looking around. “She might have slipped from the room to grant us privacy. I’ve become so emotional in my old age.” He made for the door and hallway beyond. “I have asked my daughter, Lucy, to remain upstairs until I discovered how our meeting would go, but knowing her, she has drifted as close as possible. She will have intercepted Lady Rainsleigh—likely the two of them are taking tea. Come—no, no, you needn’t look so concerned. We shall find them presently.”