by Heather Boyd
MISS WATSON’S FIRST SCANDAL
Miss Mayhem Novella Series - Book 1
by
Heather Boyd
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Miss Watson’s First Scandal
Copyright © 2013 by Heather Boyd
LLD Press
Edited by Sandra Sookoo
Cover Design by Heather Boyd
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For more information visit:
www.heather-boyd.com
Overworked London banker David Hawke has two goals for his week in the seaside town of Brighton: one, demand repayment of a debt without losing a valued friendship and two, relax for the remaining holiday without further distractions—except he encounters his friend’s newly confident younger sister. Abigail Watson is flirty, bold, and determined David will agree to her bargain and save her brother from debtor’s prison. But is her game to prevent him from calling in the debt, or are her sweet kisses a sign she is after a much greater prize instead?
CHAPTER ONE
David Hawke breathed a sigh of relief when the first sign of Brighton came into view through the grimy coach window. He marked his place in the latest K. L. Brahm novel he’d been reading and reluctantly closed the book on the wonderful tale. The journey from London to the seaside resort town appeared to grow longer each year and he longed to already be at his destination, at home in his snug terrace house. If not for his client’s witty novel, he would have drowsed the entire way or grown cross with his companion’s frequent jostling.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his thigh as impatience clawed at him. He was desperate to stretch his legs, desperate to escape the strangers seated opposite in the mail coach and their assessing glances. He’d dressed a little too finely to be completely ignored by his companions and his seat partner kept reading over his shoulder. Their curiosity compelled him to be vigilant of his possessions and he was weary to the bone.
The coach drew to a stop and he jumped out as quickly as he could manage. He should have hired a chaise for the journey but sitting in the large conveyance alone was a wasteful way to travel in his opinion. He caught his remaining possessions as a groom tossed them down from the carriage rooftop then he set off for his seaside home.
By design, his path took him the long way through the deserted streets of Brighton just so he might catch a glimpse of the dark waters of the channel before he went to bed. The gentle ocean breeze blew the stench of London from him; the scent of brine cleared his head and cooled his exposed skin. He drew in deep cleansing breaths and a smile broke free. It was good to be home again. He’d missed swimming each morning with his neighbors, if they still came here at this time of year. It had been a long while since he’d had a letter from any of them and he’d come with no illusions they would have time to see him.
But the destination itself still made any uncertainty worthwhile. He’d spent many years here as a boy and his pulse raced at the familiar sights and sounds. Returning each year for a week-long holiday had become a necessary pilgrimage.
After a time, he forced himself away from the water, making his way up Cavendish Place toward his home. Lights burned in the windows of several residences along the street. The Radleys appeared to be here, the Mertons, too. The George’s residence was dark and silent but that was not an unusual circumstance. The young Walter George preferred to go out and his sister was rumored to retire early.
He stopped outside the Watson residence, a three-story town house, second from the end of the street. Peter Watson’s front door stood beside his own, but their circumstances couldn’t be more different. His good mood evaporated. There was one unpleasant matter David needed to take care of for the bank before he could truly settle down to a much needed rest.
The Watson’s account was substantially overdrawn with no certainty of further funds arriving to repay the debt. His partner, Knight, had wanted to close the account three months prior. However, David had managed to convince him to wait and give the Watsons more time. Unfortunately, time had run out and he couldn’t stall any longer. He had to arrange a meeting with Peter Watson for tomorrow morning. Best to get the unpleasantness over and done with so he could try to enjoy the rest of his stay.
He stepped up to the door. Raucous laughter filtered through a partially open window. Damnation. He’d forgotten it was games night: cards, food, and copious amounts of wine. The fellows from Cavendish Place had likely come to gamble with Peter Watson, a man who should be saving every penny and pound and not wasting it on Lady Luck. Would it be better to wait until tomorrow to pay his call?
If David had learned one thing in London it was that business came first before fun and friendship. He applied the knocker soundly and waited.
Eventually, the door opened and the Watson’s butler squinted at him. “Good Lord, Mr. Hawke. I nearly didn’t recognize you. Is everything all right?”
David winced. He’d been dodging the same question from every customer of the bank he’d met with for the past month. The constant enquiries about his health set his teeth on edge. “Of course, Simpson. But I am travel weary.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “Would you be so good as to inform Mr. Watson, after his guests have departed, I’ve come to Brighton and need to speak with him about an urgent matter. I’d like to arrange a meeting with him tomorrow morning if it suits.”
Simpson opened the door wide. “Come in, come in, sir. Your friends will be so happy to see you. They were just remarking on your absence from the game, but I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from Brighton altogether.”
David smiled ruefully. “The sea has called to me all year up in dreary London.” He crossed the threshold, set his bag aside, and then removed his hat and gloves before handing them to Simpson. He checked his watch. “I assume they are rather bosky by this hour?”
“It is growing a touch rowdy, sir,” Simpson confessed. “If you’ll follow me.”
Simpson led David through the Watson residence, an exact mirror image to his own, and stopped before the open doorway to the dining room. Simpson cleared his throat loudly and then announced him.
The room erupted into shouts of welcome and David was engulfed by acquaintances that he hadn’t seen for a whole year. Their greetings were so exuberant he had no idea who was speaking at first. When they eventually settled down, he counted heads. Linus Radley, Walter George, and even Valentine Merton had pried himself from his observation of the stars, and they all sat around the table. Peter Watson, the man who owed his bank three thousand pounds, remained seated, cards clutched in his hand and a strained smile spreading across his face.
Watson must realize why he’d come, and all of a sudden David didn’t want to think of the notice awaiting delivery inside his bag.
“Join us, Hawke?” Valentine Merton demanded, slapping the tabletop with the flat of a hand.
“Only fools gamble,” David replied. “I’ll keep my money thank you very much.”
“So says the banker,” his acquaintances intoned as one then burst into fits of laughter.
“Still as unfunny as it was when I was eighteen and went to work with my father in London.” David shook his head, amused they were far deeper in their cups t
han they had first appeared “Will you never leave off about my chosen career?”
“Well, you were going to be a composer,” Walter George accused, his round cheeks shining pink in the candlelight.
Linus Radley chipped Walter’s shoulder with a fist. “Wasn’t it sculpture?”
Valentine Merton cleared his throat. “No, you are wrong on both counts. Our Hawke was going to be a world renowned painter of beautiful, scantily clad courtesans and actresses were you not?”
That young and carefree man was but a dim memory. “In my salad days perhaps, Val. Painting does not pay the piper. A man must earn his way in the world.”
He deliberately kept his gaze from Peter Watson. As far as he could tell, Peter did nothing but chase the next game or other sources of excitement. While their friends had each found employment, a career to make their fortunes from—great or small—Peter appeared to have done nothing productive with his days.
David moved into the room, coming to a stop behind Valentine to observe the game while they recommenced play. As usual, Val was winning.
“Swimming tomorrow?” Val asked, tilting his head back to make eye contact.
David raised an eyebrow. “Is there another way to start the day in Brighton?”
Val twisted in his seat and ran his gaze over David from head to toe. “I thought, perhaps, you might have stayed in to rest. You’ve lost weight since I saw you last.”
It was true, though David didn’t like to admit it. He had lost enough weight that his clothes were roomier. His work at the bank demanded long hours and he frequently lost track of time. Meals were snatched when he remembered to be hungry. Aside from that, there was nothing wrong with him. In Brighton he would relax, eat well, and take some exercise.
The sideboard was littered with half-empty platters of food and his growling stomach reminded him he’d barely eaten since breakfast. “Merely lost my puppy fat.” He glanced across the room at Walter George. If anything, the younger man’s cheeks had grown even more round since last summer. He tipped his head in Walter George’s direction. “Unlike some.”
“He’s swimming with us this year. Becoming quite proficient at it, too.” Val leaned closer. “Yesterday, I stopped checking that he hadn’t sunk to the bottom.”
David chuckled but weariness made it sound false to his own ears. He should go home to dine and catch up with everyone’s news in the morning while they swam. He was exhausted but glad to have finally reached his destination.
He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I will have to leave you to your game. Merely wanted to let you know I’ve arrived and pay my respects.”
Although they protested he should stay, David waved a hand as he strode to the door.
“Swimming tomorrow?” Peter Watson called loudly before David left the room.
He halted and turned slowly, looking at his friend. Peter appeared anxious—he had every right to be. David forced a smile to his face. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
When he arrived at the front door, his hat, gloves and his bag had been taken away. He looked for his possessions.
“Good evening, Mr. Hawke.”
CHAPTER TWO
The sweet female voice brought a smile to David’s lips. He spun about as a tiny young woman, no higher than his chest, stepped from the dimly-lit parlor. “Miss Watson. I did not see you there. How do you do this evening?”
If David had seen her first, he might have been better prepared for her brilliant smile. The young girl he’d watched grow to adulthood was lovely in cream muslin. Soft brown hair matched the calmness of her eyes, delicate sun-touched skin from her days here at the seaside beckoned. Miss Abigail Watson had grown to be a beauty; she fairly took his breath away.
“I’m very well, thank you.” She grinned impishly as she turned his hat between her hands. “You did not see me when you arrived, either. I was sitting at the window, looking outside at the comings and goings of Cavendish Place.”
He took a pace towards her. His bag sat on a chair behind her. “Were you?”
Her brow creased. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming this summer.”
“I was delayed on bank business.” He’d put off his holiday as long as he could because of the Watsons. To give them more time before his business with them wrecked their lives.
Her smile dimmed. “This bank of yours keeps you very busy.”
Many of his acquaintances thought he worked too hard and Abigail’s tone was one of deep disapproval, too. However, he enjoyed the back and forth of negotiations too much to stop now. A young woman of her age couldn’t understand what drove him. The challenge of making money for his customers brought him immense satisfaction. “One must earn a living, Miss Watson. I cannot neglect the bank’s customers. They expect me to do well for them when they give me their funds to invest.”
She moved forward. “I hoped to see you when I was in London last month. Does your bank prevent you from seeing friends, too?”
He winced. “You are speaking of your come out? I thank you for the invitation to the party. Unfortunately, the bank required me to . . .”
She waved her free hand to halt his apology. “Yes, yes. I read your letter declining to attend. A very last minute refusal after you had already accepted our invitation. I was looking forward to dancing with you now I am old enough not to look silly doing so.”
David frowned. “It wasn’t a deliberate snub, Miss Watson. I would have been very happy dancing with you, too. I had to travel north. My business partner fell ill and I had to take his place in some important negotiations at the last minute. I would much rather be among friends than terminating an account.”
David bit his tongue. That was exactly what he had come here to arrange this very night and would complete tomorrow morning should circumstances allow it. Miss Watson couldn’t know what he’d come to do or she would not be so friendly toward him. “Did you enjoy your time in London?”
Her lips turned up in a sincere smile. “I had a glorious time. London is a very exciting city to visit.”
“I think so.” Relief coursed through him. She appeared content. David assumed the trip and expense incurred for a London stay had proved fruitful. Whoever he was, he was bound to be made very happy by his marriage to Miss Watson. He cleared his throat. “So, when is the happy day to be?”
“What happy day?”
“Well, I assumed by your smiles you made many new acquaintances in London. Who is the lucky fellow? When will you be married?”
“When someone I like asks me.” She set one hand on her hip and scowled at him. “And whoever said I went to London to find a husband anyway?”
David floundered. Why wouldn’t Miss Watson be in search of a husband for herself? Every other pretty girl gone up to London ended up some man’s wife eventually. “I apologize if I have presumed too much of your intent. Given all the whispered talk of beaus last summer between the young ladies of the place, I assumed you would be keen to marry too and settle into your own home. That is why most young women go up to London, after all.”
Miss Watson stamped her foot, proving herself not quite as grown up and serene as her outward appearance made her appear at first glance. “I am at home, and don’t you dare paint me with the same brush as those grasping ninnies. I don’t need to snare myself a London husband. All the men I met there were a bunch of blathering, overdressed fools.”
David raised his hands. “Peace, Miss Watson. I didn’t mean to offend. However, I find it hard to believe there is not some poor fellow pining for the loss of your company.”
She shoved his hat at his chest. David grunted and reached for it, but Miss Watson held onto one side and kept it between them. “Don’t think you know me or anything about women, Mr. Hawke. If you had one clue, you’d already be married and better cared for. You’re thinner than last year. You’ve not taken good enough care of yourself since you’ve been gone.”
David groaned. Not her, too. Perhaps he didn’t know Miss Watson a
fter all. She hadn’t been this forthright last year. In fact, she’d been downright demure when their paths had crossed. He laughed to ease the tension brewing between them. “And who would put up with me? Which poor woman is prepared to be saddled with a boring banker for a husband?” He teased her but David believed he already knew the answer. Very few women would accept his lifestyle—the long work hours, the last minute travel. They would claim his attention as well as his money or they’d go elsewhere for the former, and spend the latter on someone else.
Miss Watson’s smile grew. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Despite years of training to master his emotions in delicate negotiations, David gaped. Had Miss Watson discovered a woman who might hold tender feelings for him? So far he’d not found a woman capable of earning his admiration to stir him from his bachelor state. However, at his age, he probably should consider the matter properly. He would like to hand his wealth to a son one day, but the opportunity to marry hadn’t presented itself. Someone nearer to his own age would make life harmonious, as well. He glanced down at the bright-eyed girl before him and ignored the way his chest tightened. “I would indeed, but I suspect you merely tease a crusty old bachelor. I doubt such a person exists.”
Her smile grew coy and then she laughed softly. “Perhaps I will tell you, but only if you promise to see out your whole holiday and not run back to London when summoned. A week is barely long enough without cutting it short by two days. We were all very disappointed to discover you’d gone so suddenly without a word last year.”
He tugged on his hat as their gazes held, amused that she resisted giving it up. Perhaps Miss Watson had become a touch stubborn in the last year, too. He couldn’t remember having such an encounter with her before. “All right, you have me intrigued. I promise not to run back to London this year if you promise in return to impart your important discovery at the end.”
