Miss Watson's First Scandal (A Miss Mayhem Novella)

by Heather Boyd

  “Good, you won’t regret it, Mr. Hawke. I promise.” Her smile widened to alarming proportions and David feared he had seriously underestimated Miss Watson. He’d just been bested by an eighteen-year-old girl and she’d only used her smiles to do it. He must be getting old.

  Eventually, his hat slipped from her fingers. He placed it firmly on his head and tugged his gloves on. “Well, goodnight, Miss Watson. Perhaps we will run into each other again.”

  “Of course we will.” Her brow rose. “You only live next door.”

  And she only lived here until he evicted her and her brother from their home. The weight on his chest returned, coupled with intense dissatisfaction. He’d delayed as it was, hoping, praying, for her brother to find a way out of his financial mess. If Miss Watson had not married yet after her time in London then her chances for making one following the foreclosure decreased considerably.

  He forced a smile but a chill swept through him. Foreclosing on the Watsons was likely to end any friendship between them. Everyone would blame him and sympathize with the Watsons. No matter what he did, alliances would shift in the next few days as the news of his actions came to light. Regardless of how badly he wanted to find a solution, the problem wasn’t his to solve.

  David stepped around her to pick up his bag. “Good night, Miss Watson.”

  “Until tomorrow, Mr. Hawke. Sleep well.” She brushed her fingertips against his sleeve in a fleeting caress.

  David, foolishly, wished he didn’t have to leave her company.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The door closed with a hollow thud behind David Hawke. Abigail lifted her hand to stare at the sealed, thick letter she’d snatched from the top of his travel bag. Stealing was wrong but her conscience warred with her sense of self-preservation. She couldn’t blindly stumble forward, waiting for the axe to fall. She knew it was only a matter of time before Hawke and Knight Bank of London called in the outstanding debt.

  Her brother’s name had been scrawled across the front of the letter in David’s strong penmanship and her pulse raced as she ran her fingers over it. The heavy papers had a disquieting air of finality about them.

  Although she had tried to prepare herself as best she could these past months, she appreciated that David, and not his business partner Mr. Knight, had come to deliver the bad news. David, their nearest neighbor since she was a child, had seemed sad to be in Brighton again rather than pleased and that spoke well of his character in her mind.

  Abigail closed the parlor doors to ensure her privacy. Although Peter would be involved with his friends for hours yet, she didn’t want him to accidentally discover her interference. He would be cross and likely embarrassed to learn she’d discovered the situation on her own, but she’d long ago learned Peter wouldn’t willingly volunteer information. She had to take matters into her own hands, no matter how unpleasant.

  Her hands trembled as she moved toward the candelabra on the pianoforte. She had little time to familiarize herself with the terms of David’s letter or make plans for the future. Peter would never think to do so.

  The seal was thick and she broke it after a struggle. David’s, not his business partner’s, cover note was tersely worded. Her brother had thirty days to provide the bank with three thousand pounds or the bank would seize the Watson’s assets and that meant the house she stood in. They’d be cast out onto the street, and worse, Peter may have to enter debtor’s prison. She glanced around and tears filled her eyes. Abigail loved her parents’ house. She loved living in Brighton near her friends.

  Her legs wobbled and she sank onto the pianoforte stool, raising the letter to fan herself. How could she bear to leave Cavendish Place? How could Peter have let this happen to them?

  Oh, she wasn’t so foolish to have no idea. It wasn’t in Peter’s nature to think too far beyond the next day. She loved him but his pigheaded obstinacy drove her to distraction more often than not, which was why, at her friend’s urging she had taken a more active role in the running of his home. If left to him, they would have nothing to eat each night, no coal to burn during the winter. She had developed a sneaky habit of reading his letters just to find out what the next catastrophe would likely be.

  She folded the letter carefully.

  Hopefully, David would think he had merely misplaced the missive and she could return it without him noticing. She felt very bad for deceiving him in this way. He had always been kind to her, even willing to speak to a girl much younger than him in past years. But she was older now and not prone to patience.

  A fierce blush swept over her cheeks and she fanned herself again. She had been forward in her speech with David tonight. Much more so than usual, yet he hadn’t grown colder with her. He had seemed puzzled.

  Puzzled could be good. Puzzled could distract him from meeting with her brother and discussing the lack of payments. Abigail pressed a hand to her hot cheek and giggled. Who was she kidding? She had only momentarily startled the man with her bold suggestion that he needed a wife to take better care of him. David had a single-mindedness about him that had intimidated many of the local girls to cancel their plans to bring him up to scratch. He wouldn’t forget about the debt, or be swept away by the mere idea of finding a bride. Abigail had to think of something else, something to change her fate and her brother’s quickly.

  She nibbled on her fingertip. They had nothing valuable enough to sell that could cover a debt of this scale. Although she peeked inside David’s bag to obtain the letter, she hadn’t the cold-blooded ruthlessness for a life of thievery, which left her precisely where she was now—reliant on Peter’s skills with cards. Where might a needy person in Brighton acquire funds at short notice?

  There must be something she’d overlooked. Maybe if she talked the matter over with Peter they could find a solution together.

  Immediately, Abigail shied away from that notion. Peter did not discuss anything with her. If she was going to avoid eviction in thirty days she needed to talk to a friend with a healthy dose of good sense. Luckily, Abigail had such a woman was close at hand.

  She stuffed the letter into her pocket and snatched up her shawl. She could sneak from the house to visit Imogen George tonight without Peter being any the wiser. Her best friend’s house was next door, one house closer to the water, and she wouldn’t object to a visit at this hour.

  Getting out of the house undetected by way of the rear door proved easy enough given the noise Peter and his friends made. The servants had all gone off to bed, and the walled gardens were dark and silent. But, just in case anyone was as restless as she, Abigail clung to the shadows and moved silently through the wilting vegetable patch.

  The summer had been harsh and the scant grass crunched under her slippers. She quietly unlatched the rear garden gate and peered into the lane. Her heart raced, hoping no one lurked in the deep shadows. She quickly shut it behind her and then ran for the safety of Imogen’s rear garden. When she shut Imogen’s gate behind her, she pressed her hand to her belly to steady herself.

  Perhaps she was getting too old to be sneaking out of the house alone. Imogen did it all the time. Somehow Abigail never seemed to manage it without her nerves being overcome. But she was desperate tonight. She needed sensible advice.

  Striving to calm herself, she hurried to the George’s rear door and knocked. The housekeeper smiled kindly when she recognized Abigail and let her in. “Miss Imogen is in the front parlor as usual,” the woman said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Perkins.”

  Abigail stepped through the dark house and stopped at the open parlor door, peering into the moonlit room. “Imogen?”

  “Abigail!” Imogen exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’ve come. I’ve been worried sick all evening.”

  “Why? What have I done now?”

  Imogen clucked her tongue. “Oh, you know exactly what the problem is. I saw Mr. Hawke arrive. He stopped at your house first. Was it terrible?”

  Now that her eyes had adjusted to the meager light, she s
aw Imogen seated near the window, peering out into the street. Abigail crossed the room. “How funny. We were both spying on our neighbors again.”

  “Well, I had nothing else to do with my evening. I finished my book a little while before Mr. Hawke strutted up the street.”

  Abigail sank into a chair opposite her friend. “Mr. Hawke does not strut and you know it. Why are you suddenly so against him? Last year you thought him nice enough and entrusted your inheritance into his keeping.”

  “Given recent events I’m reconsidering my decision. Friends should overlook debts if they want to keep people as friends. I’ve a mind to withdraw my funds and find another banker.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Mr. Hawke is an honest man.” Abigail sighed and drew out the letter she’d stolen. “It’s a lot of money, Imogen. More than Peter could hope to win in a year. Mr. Hawke has been very good, he’s given us a month before we are evicted, but what can I do? I don’t want to leave Cavendish Place.”

  Imogen patted her hand but didn’t take the offered letter. “You are pretty enough to have the option of marrying anyone you choose to avoid the unpleasantness of eviction. If no one else catches your fancy, my brother would take you on without a word of protest. He has funds enough to save even your brother.”

  Abigail laughed. Marrying pudgy Walter George was out of the question. It would be like marrying a brother. She felt nothing for him except a limp friendship. No, Walter George wasn’t the man for her.

  Imogen shrugged and glanced out the window as someone passed by on their way toward the sea shore. “I know he may not seem much to look at but he would be kind to you.”

  Abigail, feeling guilty for her laughter, covered her friend’s hand. “Walter is a nice man, a very good man, too, but I simply couldn’t put us both through that horror. I wouldn’t make him happy. I want to marry someone who loves me. Desperately, if possible.”

  “I know.” Imogen glanced at her lap and pleated her gown with her fingers. “I feel the same about loveless marriages as you. I just don’t want you to leave Cavendish Place. If you married Walter we could be sisters and never be parted.”

  Abigail’s eyes widened as a solution occurred to her. “Sisters! That’s it. Imogen, have I ever told you that you are a true genius?” She threw her arms about her friend in gratitude and hugged her. “I need to find my brother a wife. An heiress, in fact, and I know the perfect one.”

  A frown crossed Imogen’s face as Abigail released her. “The only heiress you know is Miss Melanie Merton. Would you really want to live under the same roof as that woman?”

  Imogen did have a point about Melanie. The reigning beauty of their circle possessed the largest dowry and could be very demanding of those around her. Peter had never shown any interest in Melanie, but he might if given enough encouragement. Wasn’t having him marry a harridan better than him losing everything?

  She smoothed her hands over her gown. “There is no one else unless another comes to Brighton.”

  Imogen’s expression grew skeptical. “The last man who called at Merton House to propose practically ran away afterward. Have you come to dislike your brother?”

  Abigail sat up straighter. “I love my brother. I’m doing this for his own good. Starting tomorrow I shall somehow engineer meetings between them. Who knows, maybe Peter will come around with her dowry to sweeten the deal.”

  “You’ve become very mercenary about this business, Abigail. Almost as bad as Miss Radley.” Imogen squeezed her hands. “I’m not sure I like your sudden turn of practicality. Where has your romantic heart disappeared to?”

  “I can be romantic after I save my brother from ruin,” Abigail said. “And this is nothing at all like Julia Radley’s wild schemes, thank you very much.”

  “I hear she’s set her cap on Hawke this year. I wonder if she’ll succeed.”

  Abigail was not unduly alarmed by the news. For the past three years, she had been regaled with wild plots of how one or the other of her friends thought to snare David Hawke for their own when they came of age. He had a presence that drew the eye, even if he never used it to his advantage. He was a wealthy man, too, which made his bachelor status so much more interesting to her friends. So far none of them had succeeded in catching him and Abigail couldn’t imagine Julia’s brash outgoing personality would suit him at all.

  “Well, whatever happens, I hope someone does choose Julia and soon. I love her dearly, but she’ll have no reputation left, or anyone to marry, the way she challenges the boys at every turn.” Abigail jumped to her feet as another tall shape sauntered past the window. “I think the game has ended. Mr. Radley is headed for home. I’d better return before Peter discovers I’ve slipped out of the house without a word to anyone.”

  She kissed her friend’s cheek and groped her way through the dark house for the rear entrance. Why Imogen liked the dark so much escaped her. Abigail could never manage without a candle. When she reached the rear steps, she drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Peter would marry an heiress and be saved. She just had to ensure he and Melanie Merton could be thrown together as much as possible.

  She hurried down the garden path and let herself out the rear gate. As she latched it, the sound of a boot scraping over hard earth to her right, between her and her own garden gate, reached her ears. She jumped as a large dark shape detached from the wall and moved toward her.

  Panicked, Abigail fumbled with Imogen’s gate, but she couldn’t open it again. When she turned to face the stranger as he came into view, her heart pounded in fear.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  David Hawke appeared out of the black shadows. Abigail’s heart restarted. She collapsed against the gate and sucked in the air she desperately needed. There was no danger. It was just David out for a midnight stroll.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Watson.” David’s voice was a soft, dangerous growl.

  Abigail backed up a step in shock. “Really? Why?”

  He moved closer. “When you were a little girl I turned a blind eye when the fruit on our trees mysteriously disappeared overnight, only to appear again from your kitchen. My mother was very put out, but I held my tongue because I didn’t want to stir up trouble between our families. In this instance; however, I cannot be so forgiving.”

  She swallowed the lump that threatened to clog her throat. “I haven’t taken anything from your garden in years.”

  David glanced left and right as footsteps echoed in the night. He caught her arm to drag her into the shadows cast by her rear garden wall. “Do not play games with me, Miss Watson. I know you’ve taken a letter from my luggage and I demand it be returned forthwith.”

  He tightened his hand and she gasped at the strength of his grip. “Please, Mr. Hawke—David.” She struggled against his hold. “Not yet. I have a plan to fix this but I need a little more time.”

  “Well, if thievery is part of your grand plan then my reluctance to become involved was in vain. What were you thinking?” He shook her a little. Startled, she set her hands on his chest as he drew her closer against him. It was a shock to be caught in David’s embrace. As she had observed before, he was so much bigger and warmer than she had imagined a man could be.

  The clean scent of his cologne filled her senses and she peeked up through her lashes. His eyes were dark as he glared down at her. This was not the David Hawke she knew. This was a stranger and he utterly overwhelmed her.

  His tight grip eased. “You should not have become involved in the matter, Miss Watson. There is nothing you can do. Your brother is a fool to take you into his confidence and to worry you unnecessarily.”

  Abigail gulped. “Peter tells me nothing. I worked it out for myself.”

  “You’re reading his correspondence? Women cannot help but meddle,” he grumbled. “Do you understand how bad the situation truly is? I have had to plead, cajole and insist my partner give Peter more time so you might never know how close to ruin you were. But it’s been all for nothing.”

>   She nodded. It was very much in David’s nature to try to shield those less fortunate than himself from discomfort. She appreciated his attempt but discovering the truth was better than living in ignorance. “I’ve known for months and I could not stand to wait for the decision. I knew you had to make one soon.”

  David released her. “I’m sorry. Your time in London must have been tarnished by the situation. I wish you had found a husband to take you away from the mess. The matter cannot be forgotten, but Peter refuses to deal with the bank. He’s ignored my partner’s letters and I’ve come in person to settle the issue.”

  Abigail captured David’s large hand and squeezed it. “If there was an advantageous marriage in the making, Peter would have additional funds at his disposal soon and he could keep the property. The bank will get its money in the end.”

  He eased closer as he stared down at her. He gripped her hand in return. “Has he a sweetheart?”

  “Not exactly,” Abigail hedged. “But he will have soon enough. If he proposes marriage, can the bank wait until he has her dowry?”

  David nodded. “Only if there is a date set and the woman’s dowry is sufficient to clear all the debts. My partner at the bank should be satisfied with that.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. You truly are a good friend to us.” Abigail released David’s hand and then threw her arms around him. She hugged him tightly. He was wonderful to allow them the additional time to settle the debt. Impulsively, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him.

  Unfortunately, her first-ever kiss was brief because David reared back as if she’d struck him. He gaped at her, eyebrows raised in a shocked awareness of her scandalous behavior. “Why did you do that?”

  Abigail crashed back to earth as the enormity of her actions struck her. I’ve kissed a man. The extremely wealthy and unattached banker, who had, when she was very young, rescued her from the clutches of his backyard tree. Heat swept over her neck and face. She turned away. “I’m sorry.”