In Search of Scandal (London Explorers #1)

by Susanne Lord

  “Viscount Spencer, Hugh Swift.”

  Spencer. Pale. Dark hair. Mustache framing square teeth. His father, the Earl of Harlowe, was on the board at Kew. A prize prospect, actually.

  The door cracked open and Ben’s wife peeked in. “Darling? May we have a word?”

  We? Will leaned to see into the hall.

  Ben shot to his feet as he always did when summoned by Lucy. He took her hand, dipping his head to listen to her, and the pink of his wife’s cheeks deepened.

  The strange vise on Will’s ribs tightened. The widowed countess had damned the ton to marry Ben, but she didn’t seem to regret the choice. Happiness seemed to make her sparkle up at him. No wonder Ben was so good-humored.

  The countess had chosen love.

  Charlotte had chosen a viscount.

  She was there, hidden behind the door. He didn’t know why or how, but there were times he felt Charlotte move down the hall to her parlor. Just as at other times he felt her climb the stairs, or walk past the door of the study, or felt the house cold, empty, only to learn later she was not in.

  It was a waste of time knowing such things.

  His preoccupation with her was merely an escape from his work, his memories, the fear he would be too late. God knew his brain wasn’t the most reliable organ of late.

  And at night…what matter if he conjured her? She was a convenient face to recall in his insomnia, a curious puzzle of womanhood, a beautiful trigger for his lust with an erotic body that guaranteed his release.

  She didn’t matter. She couldn’t. Wives were for other men.

  Ben swung the door wide, revealing Charlotte and another richly dressed lady behind the door. “Will, our friend, the Marchioness Wynston, desires to be introduced.”

  Will moved to the door, all the while recording the dark silk of Charlotte’s hair and her green striped dress. One of his favorites. She always wore a jade bracelet with it almost exactly like the one he’d bought for his mum in China.

  “You are quite the object of interest about Town,” Lady Wynston said.

  He bowed. “Lady Wynston—”

  “If you will excuse me,” Charlotte murmured before walking away.

  Will’s head swiveled to watch Charlotte leave. She hadn’t bothered to say hello. She always had before. Is this what their acquaintance had evolved to? His presence so commonplace he shouldn’t even expect her paltry greeting any longer?

  Will cleared his throat and returned his attention to Lady Wynston. And blanked. What had the woman said?

  Lady Wynston hadn’t watched Charlotte’s departure. Faded blue eyes inspected him beneath a miniature bonnet exploding with purple feathers. What had his father said of her? She was rich, eccentric, and fond of younger men, which, Will estimated, would include anyone shy of their eightieth year.

  “Milady, I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “I imagine you are.” Her voice was threaded with amusement. “Ben, allow the ladies a moment with Mr. Repton.”

  Ben left him alone with the women. Will waited for the ladies to settle and was delayed again by a footman carrying in a small dog that was placed reverently on Lady Wynston’s silk lap. The dog’s stare instantly latched onto Will. The social order of the house was clear enough—ladies first, Pomeranians, then miscellaneous males.

  Lady Wynston’s perfect posture mirrored the walking stick balanced on the floor beneath her beringed hand. “All of London is fascinated with your travels. Our Charlotte especially.”

  “Yes, she…uh.” Will frowned at his own incoherence. “Perhaps less so now. She left.”

  “Indeed she did.” Lady Wynston’s gaze sharpened, scanning him from tip to toe. “With surprising haste.”

  Mrs. Paxton sprang to the door. “Ah, here we are. Thank you, Mrs. Allen. I will take it from here.”

  Ben’s wife turned from the door carrying a heavy tea tray.

  Ben’s pregnant wife.

  With no thought of concealing his limp, he hurried to relieve the woman of the burden. “Allow me, Mrs. Paxton.” God’s sake, did this house not have any proper servants?

  “Oh!” She laughed, her eyes wide. “You passed, Mr. Repton. Bravo.”

  He placed the tray on the table, puzzled by her words.

  “I do not know what Charlotte is about these days,” Lady Wynston said, the name like a swift mule kick to his stomach. “Dashing to and fro, her pretty head everywhere but atop her shoulders. In my time, a lady was careful not to exert herself lest she excite herself to a swoon.”

  “Charlotte would never swoon,” Mrs. Paxton assured him with a smile, pouring their tea. “She thinks it extravagant.”

  Lady Wynston nodded approvingly. “Excellent girl. Very modern.” Her ladyship rapped her cane on the floor and he straightened to attention. “You young men may find the notion of a beautiful girl fainting dead away into your arms a pleasant sort of pastime, but do not hope for it, Mr. Repton. In truth, swoons and their recovery are perfectly tedious.” She patted her hat. “Though I daresay Charlotte would swoon very prettily. Accomplished creature…she could not help but make charming work of it.” Lady Wynston shook her finger at Will. “But do not hope for it.”

  “No, I…hope for what, exactly?”

  “Perfectly tedious,” Lady Wynston murmured, accepting a plate of cake from Mrs. Paxton. “Thank you, my dear. Though I cannot say I approve of Charlotte’s excessive interest in your adventures, Mr. Repton. Still”—she tilted her head to study him—“I am not so ancient as to deny the appeal of the rugged adventurer, hurtling bravely into the undiscovered country. His virile body sculpted to brawn and sinew by the very forces of nature he seeks to tame. His taut, bronzed skin glistening—”

  Mrs. Paxton coughed.

  “—with the dew of toil beneath the relentless sun. And Charlotte, beautiful innocent of the world, her insatiable curiosity a tender bud blossoming beneath the experienced ministrations of the bold explorer—”

  “Biscuit, Mr. Repton?” Mrs. Paxton shoved a plate of sweets beneath his nose, her cheeks red.

  Will held up a defensive hand. “Thank you, no.”

  Lady Wynston sniffed. “But I suppose it is a harmless sort of diversion. If one is intrigued by the Orient. I, myself, have a most charming chinoiserie wallpaper in my morning room, but that is neither here nor there.”

  The Pomeranian gave a jaw-splitting yawn and resumed his unblinking stare.

  “Yes…well.” Mrs. Paxton stood, propelling Will to his feet. “If you will excuse me. There is a household matter I must attend to.”

  The click of Lady Wynston’s cup in her saucer reclaimed his attention and he sat quickly. He doubted anyone kept the marchioness waiting long.

  “I asked the dear girl to allow us a moment alone,” Lady Wynston said. “I understand you plan to return.”

  “Yes, in August.”

  Lady Wynston put down her cup with a hand tremulous with age. “My late sister was related to the missionary you knew in Tibet. Marcel Bourianne, and his wife.” Her creased lids lowered. “And their children.”

  Will’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I knew them. I’m sorry.”

  The lady’s eyes shaded with sadness. “I know you must be. Very sorry, indeed. I tell myself they received some sort of Christian burial…?”

  She paused in way of a question, but he said nothing.

  There was nothing he could say. The Tibetans did not bury their dead. Not in that frozen tundra. He and his men had ridden past a jhator—a sky burial, they called it. Complete with the wake of vultures. That was a sight none of them wished to see again.

  And yet it had become their fate.

  Will blinded himself to the lady’s compassionate stare, not wanting to remember. Or see. The ground was—“The Bouriannes were kind to my crew. We were delayed at their mission on our route to Bhutan. Our French was poor, as was their English, so we spoke a little of each to one another. The youngest boy, even. Emile.”

  “God’s plans are myst
erious, are they not? To send a family around the world to do His good work and yet not deliver them home.”

  “A great mystery.” Will met her eyes and knew the woman could be trusted. “But perhaps one may yet return.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes.

  “I never…saw the infant. I couldn’t confirm her death. Before I was forced to leave Tibet, I wrote a letter and begged it be delivered to the Apostolic Vicariate in Hong Kong, asking they search for the child. They have missions throughout Asia, contact with foreign scientists, physicians, other explorers. I don’t know if it was delivered. I was delirious with fever. And here in England, I’ve mailed inquiries, begged for help, for anyone to search, to try, and there’s been no response.”

  “It does seem a difficult undertaking.”

  “But not impossible.”

  The formidable lady studied him. “That is the reason you return.”

  He gave a short nod.

  “Yet you claim a botanical expedition when soliciting investors.”

  “It will be. After. A great deal of money is needed. Not for the passage on an Indiaman, but the bribes—for passports, papers, information.” He paused. “You understand this is not information I’m sharing widely. Or at all.”

  “I am the soul of discretion, Mr. Repton.”

  A silence settled between them until he had to ask. “Did you ever meet them?”

  “Only Marcel, long ago. He was a child then and terrified of me.” Her brow quirked. “An astute boy, I think.” She diverted her attention to stroke her dog’s head. “I never met him again.”

  “His son, Emile, wouldn’t have feared you.”

  “Brave, was he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we will hope the infant is brave as well.”

  Slowly, he raised his head and met her eyes. “Do you hope?” he asked, his voice hollow. “Is it possible the babe was spared, do you think?”

  Her eyes crinkled with a small smile. “Yes, Mr. Repton, I hope. Live as long as I and you will see a miracle or two.”

  He steeled against threatening tears, fighting an urge to hug the old woman. It felt good. To share this hope with another person. He raked a hand through his hair, embarrassed to look at her in his state.

  Perhaps he was not so mad after all.

  Lady Wynston retrieved her tea. “And her name?”

  “Aimee.”

  She lifted her regal chin. “You will call upon me tomorrow, young man, and we shall further discuss the needs of your expedition.”

  “Yes, milady. And thank you.”

  She was quiet and Will caught her studying him. “How long are you to be away?”

  “Five years. I’ll need to be there several growing cycles.”

  She pursed her lips, looking displeased. “A pity. No doubt your travels leave you little time for other pursuits. Young ladies, for example. Even the modern ones who dislike to swoon.”

  His eyes shot to hers, then to the door, afraid someone might overhear. He turned back with what had to be a damn sheepish look on his face.

  “Do not concern yourself, Mr. Repton. As I said, I am the soul of discretion.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Long before I met Miss Baker, I vowed to return.” He shrugged tightly. “She will likely be married within a year.”

  “Very likely. She is of an age. As are you. No one would blame you if your conviction wavered. I imagine it has, a time or two.”

  He nearly laughed. Within sight of Charlotte, his conviction wavered again and again. “A time or two, your ladyship.”

  We think she’s chosen the viscount…

  He leveled his gaze. “But I’ll not allow it to happen again.”

  Four

  Damn his timing.

  Will’s hackney drew alongside the glossy phaeton parked in front of Paxton’s townhouse. There was no question whom the carriage belonged to. He’d seen that blasted crest on the side often enough. Viscount Spencer—Charlotte’s beau—had come to take her for a ride. Again.

  And the man himself was walking to the door.

  Lord Spencer heard Will’s steps and turned, revealing a bouquet of colorful tulips. “Mr. Repton. How is the plan progressing for your expedition?”

  “It’s progressing,” Will grumbled.

  His eyes narrowed to examine him. “You are here often.”

  “Ben’s agreed to be my receiving man here in England. This location is more central than my home in Richmond.”

  “Yes, capital, capital. That would certainly explain your frequent presence.”

  Will stilled, suspicious of the man’s intent. It was irrational, but the man raised his hackles.

  Spencer lowered his voice. “Perhaps I ought to enlist you to spy upon my competition. You might tell me if you observe other gentlemen call for Miss Baker?”

  “You think she entertains other bachelors?”

  Spencer held his eye, an undeniable challenge. “Charlotte has quite the cadre of admirers. I shouldn’t like to think there was another vying for her after all my efforts.”

  Damn your hide. If only Spencer’s father wasn’t one of his most promising prospects.

  But looking at the man, Will was damn sure he could take him in any contest of strength. The viscount was trim enough, but his pallor was odd. Even for a hothouse aristocrat, the man looked bloodless.

  Will glanced at the floral offering. “I believed Miss Baker partial to white flowers.”

  Lord Spencer turned the doorbell, not taking his eyes off him. “I instruct my man to bring what is best from the market. We are not all florists, Mr. Repton.”

  Before he could reply, Goodley opened the door. His presence routine, Will made his way unescorted to Ben’s study. But not before sliding the usual box of caramels onto the front table for Charlotte.

  Or rather, Jacob.

  Ben sat at the table, engrossed in his reading. “Morning, Will. Have you read this Richard Burton’s account of Goa?”

  Will grumbled some noncommittal sound, set his parcel on the table, and sat in a chair with a view of Spencer’s phaeton.

  “You seem distracted,” Ben said.

  “Hm? No.”

  Ben followed his stare out the window. “That’s a smart little carriage, isn’t it?”

  Will shrugged out of his coat, yanking at his sleeves. “Appears he’s taking her into the country.”

  “Yes.” Ben resumed his reading.

  Will frowned at Ben. And his damn book. And then the damn carriage. “Where will her maid sit, I wonder?”

  Ben looked, his eyes sharpening on the carriage, and harrumphed. “Well, he’ll make room for Patty or he’ll not be driving Charlotte anywhere.”

  Good man. Somewhat appeased, Will sat back. “You think he suits her?”

  “He’s in line for an earldom, which suits Charlotte, I suppose. And yet…”

  “And yet?”

  “I’m not convinced she has any great feeling for him.”

  The idea shouldn’t please him. He had no claim to the woman. Why begrudge her some rich gallant who brought her flowers every time he called?

  Maybe it was those flowers. Attention to detail was Will’s hallmark, and this one—Charlotte’s most ardent suitor—couldn’t be taught that she liked white flowers.

  “Why say that?” Will hoped his nonchalance convincing. “That she has no feeling for him?”

  “Lucy says she doesn’t,” Ben said, speaking like a man utterly domesticated.

  “Yes. Well. Do you think Spencer will offer soon?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Lucy’s planning her first house party at Windmere later this month to know him better. A week in the country will force him to cut line or propose, don’t you think?” Ben’s smile flashed as an idea dawned. “You must come.”

  Will stared back, speechless at the idea.

  “And your parents. I’ve never been able to persuade them,” Ben added, growing excited by the idea.

  The last place Will wante
d to be was trapped in the country when Charlotte announced their engagement. “No, we shouldn’t intrude on Miss Baker’s party.”

  Ben waved that off. “That’s nothing, and I’d like the company. And Spencer’s parents have accepted. An excellent time to pitch the expedition to Lord Harlowe.”

  Will sank in his seat. He had planned to make an ask of Spencer’s father. It would be idiotic to refuse.

  “My parents have always wanted to see Windmere,” Will admitted. “But the Reptons might make for poor company. We aren’t accustomed to socializing in Miss Baker’s circles.”

  Ben sighed. “Neither are we. It could be a complete disaster. Think on it. It’ll be refreshing to have men there who do not desire to marry my sister.”

  * * *

  Charlotte sat at her dressing table and jiggled her head, once…twice…three times. She searched her reflection in the looking glass for sagging pins, but her coiffure was intact. Her sapphire earbobs were secure, her boots laced. There was nothing remaining on her person to be trussed, buttoned, or bowed, but…where was everyone?

  Patty had not returned to inspect her ensemble. Lucy claimed to detect Cook’s lemon tarts baking in the oven and hurried belowstairs. Odd that Jacob was not buzzing about her. He was likely in the kitchen, too.

  “Patty?” she called. “Lucy?”

  Silence.

  Did no one care? She had been left alone in her preparations and Hugh was waiting downstairs. And she…well, she…

  She swiveled back to her mirror. Her ears were red. A rash? Her cheek was a bit feverish, wasn’t it? Lethargy. Most definitely. Perhaps she ought not expose the good viscount to this mysterious female malaise.

  “Wally?”

  Nothing.

  Oh, honestly! She could not cry off. She was two-and-twenty and many considered her a failure already not to be married. And there was the very real danger of being relegated to the realm of the unmarriageable. Six men now had strongly suggested they would “enjoy the pleasure of her company.”

  She shook the vile thought aside. Her family must never know she had been treated so. They were proud of how she equipped herself in the First Circles, and she would give them no cause for worry. The time to settle the business of marriage had come. Accepting a man of rank was the correct course for the family. It must be.