In Search of Scandal (London Explorers #1)

by Susanne Lord

  She was a puzzle he enjoyed solving every day despite his efforts at polite distance. He was learning all her subtle expressions and what they meant. Luckily, as a collector, he’d developed an eye for detail and a keen memory. A small quirk of her left eyebrow meant curiosity. That one was always at play on her face. When her lips pursed into a small moue, she was deciding on something. A certain tilt of her head to the left meant she was receptive; to the right meant her mind was decided.

  There were multitudes of expressions that were never lasting. The longer he spent with her, the more he understood her mind was more agile than his, capable of overlapping one topic to the next the way water flows into a vacuum.

  It was no surprise he liked being near her—his body damn near tingled at the sight of her. What surprised him was that he counted the best part of his day at the dinner table when he could finally sit with her and hear her news.

  He didn’t share his news often—there were too many dark secrets tied up in them—but today, he had good news to share. He waited for her wine to be poured so he might have her full attention.

  “I secured a promise of the last two hundred pounds, Charlotte.” His fingers tapped eagerly on his thighs beneath the table. “I wonder if you’ll guess who the investor is?”

  She kept her eyes on the tablecloth. “Do I know the person?”

  “He’s a member of the Geographical Society.”

  “Is it Mr. Helmsley?”

  Will blinked. The woman was preternatural. “Well…yes.”

  “I thought him most likely. He was here the day we met.”

  “I remember.”

  She pushed the broccoli about her plate. “You must write to Ben with your good news. Lucy wrote that Jacob has taken to telling the baby tales of your expeditions, embellishing a little, of course.”

  “Am I wrestling sea monsters and playing cricket with Poseidon?”

  “Well, you must or else your nephews—” Her face crumpled and she pushed from the table. “Excuse me.”

  Before he could lower his fork, Charlotte had swept out of the dining room. Damn it, what stupid thing had he said now? He shared a perplexed look with the footman and shoved back from the table to follow.

  In the hall, a maid pointed mutely to the back parlor, correctly ascertaining he sought his wife. Charlotte stood by the window holding a handkerchief. “What’s wrong? Are you unwell?”

  “There is no need for concern. I am well.” But her blue eyes shimmered with tears.

  He didn’t like this. This damn impotent panic. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Truly.” She tried to smile but didn’t succeed, dabbing at her eyes. “I am overtired.”

  This wasn’t a side of Charlotte he was at all comfortable with. Generally, there wasn’t a side of the woman he was comfortable with, but he counted on her buoyancy of spirit more than he should. It was a gift to the floundering husband he was.

  She straightened her shoulders and smiled a watery smile, which made him feel worse. “I think…you’re tired of my company in the evenings—”

  Her eyes grew huge. “No! I love our evenings together.”

  The denial soothed him, but there was something else bothering him. “I see you get so many letters. Are they invitations to parties or…things?”

  She blinked her eyes and looked quizzically at him. “We are invited everywhere, but I did not think you would like me to accept, busy as you are.”

  “Oh.” He hadn’t considered she’d actually want, or need, him to attend with her. “Well, I’ll accompany you, if you wish. Just tell me what night and where.”

  “Truly?”

  He crossed his arms and ducked his head to hold her hopeful gaze. Thank God she was no longer crying. “Yes, truly. Were you not expecting my acquiescence? How will you manage to avoid my company in public now, Mrs. Repton?”

  Lowering her chin, she smiled at him through her lashes and he swayed a little on his feet. That was one of her expressions he was powerless against.

  She stepped closer and smoothed the lapels of his coat. “There is a danger that accompanying the most fascinating man in London might grow tiresome, with everyone volleying for your attention.”

  “It is my cross to bear.”

  The laughter in her eyes dimmed. “You dislike crowds though, I think.”

  What a bloody horrible husband he was. She was accustomed to nights of music and dancing and dinners—not quiet evenings with a man who scribbled in journals and squinted at maps. And wasn’t he supposed to escort her about town to maintain the fiction of their marriage? Sweetheart that she was, she never complained. “I shouldn’t mind them if you’re there.”

  She clasped her hands with pleasure but uncertainty lurked in her eyes. “Truly?”

  He was bloody, bloody horrible. “It’s been too long since I presumed upon the good graces of my betters.”

  She smiled. “Well, if you are in earnest, there is one party I thought we might attend.”

  Eighteen

  The summer charity ball for the London Municipal Garden Society wasn’t exactly the glittering soiree he’d envisioned Charlotte asking him to attend. The guests were staunchly middle class and wouldn’t know French couture if it walked up and squealed bonjour at them. Nevertheless, Charlotte donned one of her finest gowns: a Parisian masterpiece of black tulle and lace, draped over silk taffeta and trimmed with jet beads and satin ball fringe.

  Will hadn’t lived with the woman this long without learning something of fashion.

  With her hair styled in long, curling ringlets and pinned back with silk organza flowers, she looked imperial as a princess. He laughed when he first saw her descend the stairs in all her glory, which only made Charlotte beam wider.

  Now that they were at Somerset House, in an immense room crowded with city engineers, community tradesmen, gardeners, and a fair number of familiar faces from Kew, Chiswick, and the Chelsea Physic Garden, Will could only stand back and swell with pride as his wife dazzled them to stunned admiration the first minute, then charmed them to easy laughter the next.

  No, he’d never find another like her. And he was letting her go to sail back to the land of his nightmares.

  Wanting her to himself, he led her to a quiet corner. There was no privacy in it; the room followed them with their eyes. Charlotte would not go unnoticed.

  “You haven’t fooled me, you know,” he said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She straightened his necktie.

  “You accepted this invitation for my comfort.”

  “I did not. I am an impassioned supporter of the London municipal cemeteries—”

  “Municipal gardens,” Will corrected.

  “—and we are sure to have a lovely time. There is a mood of easy revelry. As a veteran of hundreds of such gatherings, I can sense such things in the first minutes.”

  “I’ve no doubt.”

  “And”—her eyes sparkled as she pulled the lapel of his coat—“il est même possible que nous dansions avant la fin de la nuit…?”

  The playful tug brought her close to his chest. It wasn’t time for their “good night,” but he was desperate to kiss her. And God bless it, why did she always smell so good? “That’s French, isn’t it?”

  She smiled. “It is.”

  “I don’t speak French.”

  “No? But Jacob would tell you, any old wagon horse could understand that.”

  “I don’t speak horse, either.”

  “I said, ‘we may even dance before the night is through.’”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah?”

  For the first time in his life, he played coy and traced the seam of her glove with his finger. “Did I tell you how pretty you look tonight?”

  “Are you avoiding my question?”

  “Which one?”

  “Will!”

  A voice boomed from over Will’s shoulder, and he stiffened with annoyance at the interruption. He and Charlotte turned to see Seth Mayhew g
rinning at them.

  “I thought it was you,” Seth said.

  Will shook his hand. “Odd we didn’t mention having the same plans for this evening.”

  “Do men never speak of matters besides work?” Charlotte asked. “You have been cloistered in that study together the past three days.”

  Seth winked at her. “The only time Will lets off work is to check the clock.”

  “The clock?”

  “So he’ll know when you’re to enter with our tea.”

  Will frowned at the man, but Charlotte laughed. “Does he have me on a schedule for his sandwiches?”

  “He’s not starved for the sight of those sandwiches, Mrs. Repton.”

  “All right, all right,” Will muttered. Was he that obvious?

  Thankfully, a quintet began to play. Only when the assembly moved toward the walls did he realize the dancing was to begin.

  Charlotte sidled closer. “The first dance is to be a waltz.”

  “Is it?” he murmured, feigning ignorance of her leading smile.

  She sighed. “I do hope some gentleman asks me to dance.”

  Seth stepped forward with an eager clap of his hands and a waggle of his eyebrows. “Fear not, Mrs. Rep—”

  Will’s hand shot out to hold the man back. The bloody flirt. “Wait, I—” He scowled, realizing how possessive he looked. He stepped close and dropped his voice. “Charlotte, I thought we agreed I’d dance with you?”

  Her eyes widened innocently. “I do not recall your being persuaded.”

  “Well, I…I might be persuaded if the right partner offered.”

  “Will I do?”

  He made a play of examining her. “I suppose you’re comely enough to draw attention from my feet.”

  “You will force my compliments saying such things. We both know you waltz exceptionally well.”

  “I know no such thing. Your memory is shockingly bad.”

  “It is far superior to yours, I fear.”

  He offered his arm. “I’m sorry your toes will soon learn the truth of it.”

  “You will not tread on my toes, sir.”

  With a smugly arched brow, he turned to Seth. “Excuse us.”

  “Save me the next, Mrs. Repton,” Seth called.

  “I think that unlikely, Seth.” Will grinned at the man. “Good thing you’re a plant hunter, and accustomed to disappointment.”

  Will led Charlotte away from the laughing man. The music slowed, signaling the start of their waltz. He bowed and held out his hand; she curtsied and rose as if gravity had no hold on her, twirling into his arms.

  The woman was a dancer. She danced walking and rising and gliding across rooms and leaning over his shoulder to see his work. Always on tiptoe, always orbiting him before he had a chance to turn. And yet, flat-footed as she always caught him, the moment she was in his arms, it was like he was dancing, too—breathless, exhilarated, reeling.

  The music rose and he swept her round without a word. They danced without speaking, without looking from each other’s eyes. Was she thinking of their first dance, too? Of how far they’d come? They kissed each other expertly now. They slept in each other’s arms. He’d touched her like a lover once. Just the once. Was she tortured by the memory of that night, as well?

  Enough.

  He shook the thought away, stumbling a step or two. He had to stop wanting. Wanting to believe the dreams were done. Wanting to never see what he saw when he ran from the mission, chased by men who seemed more animal than human. Wanting his friends back. Wanting to find Aimee.

  Wanting a new life in England. Wanting to stay. Wanting Charlotte.

  But as the Chinese say, don’t hunt moonlight in the water.

  The pain in his leg stabbed, making his next turn clumsy and stiff.

  Charlotte’s hand squeezed his, a look of apology on her face. “Shall we stop?”

  He hissed out a breath. Damn his leg. He nodded shortly and led her off the crowded floor. Her eyes were wide and watchful, and she kept hold of his hands. “Does it still hurt?”

  “I’m fine, I’m sorry.”

  She searched his face, so he softened the pain from his countenance until the worry eased from her eyes. Evidently not caring they were in a crowded room, she placed a warm hand on his cheek and smiled at him like…God help him, like his mum did with his father, like Lucy did with Ben.

  Like a wife.

  He pulled her hand down and let it go with a slight squeeze of apology. But he didn’t want to stop touching her, so he let himself touch the small of her back and lead her where Seth stood. Company was good at a moment like this. He knew better than to let himself feel too close to her.

  The music ended and a group of ladies swooped in to claim Charlotte. Wives of the board. No doubt wanting to recruit her. Odds were good she might join; she belonged to a dozen boards already. They didn’t spare a glance for him or Seth, and they stood dumbly watching the procession sashay away.

  “Mrs. Repton’s the belle of the ball, ain’t she?” Seth said.

  “That’s usually the way of it.”

  “No wonder. A real lady from the ground up. How long you been married?”

  “Coming on three weeks.”

  Seth frowned. “I thought you was newly wed. Won’t it pain you to leave her?”

  He shrugged, not meeting the man’s eye. “That was the plan before we married.”

  Seth studied him. “Plans have a nasty habit of changing on a man though, don’t they?”

  Will crossed his arms to signal the end of the discussion and Seth sensibly changed the subject.

  “In any case,” Seth said, “thank you for getting me in to your lecture at the Geographical Society.”

  “I’m afraid there’ll be little of educational value. All anyone wishes to speak of is the massacre. But I’m obligated—a condition of the grant they’re giving me. The board’s received too many requests for Chinese Will to ignore their members.”

  Seth shook his head. “One thing never made sense to me about Tibet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The mission had been there for a time, hadn’t it?”

  “Since 1846.”

  “And it was attacked because the Tibetans wanted the foreigners gone, meaning the French Catholics.”

  “Right.”

  “So why’d they wait three years?”

  “Some say China was overstepping in Tibet, opening to trade and forcing Tibet to follow suit. Some say it was the arrival of my crew, more foreigners and British to boot. I may never know.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to—”

  Will waved off the apology. “I ask myself all the time.”

  “Seems to me, men don’t do such things to strangers.” Seth paused. “Unless money’s involved.”

  Money?

  There was no money. The last batch of seedlings had been transported by ship and bullock train weeks before to India. He, Jack, and Cressey carried only a small stash of seeds and notes from the tea processing plants they’d scouted.

  “Will Mrs. Repton be there?” Seth asked.

  “She doesn’t know of the lecture.”

  “You’ve not told her?”

  “It’s nothing a lady ought to hear. The Society doesn’t admit women to their lectures, anyway.”

  “How did you keep her from learning of it?”

  “The lecture was announced only to the Society’s members.”

  Seth studied him. “But she knows all that happened…?”

  Something curiously akin to guilt swept through him. “Not all.”

  “Will—”

  “She knows nearly everything. Everything up to the last month in Tibet. She knows the names and stories of every one of my friends. She knows they’re dead.” The word felt unnatural in his mouth. “I just never told her…how.”

  Seth didn’t appear to be dropping the subject, so Will asked, “The mail steamer is due in this week, isn’t it?”

  “It is. If I don’t hea
r from George, it’ll be eight months without word.” Seth smiled tightly.

  Will regretted asking. The man’s smile didn’t hide the worry underneath, and Will knew damn well the schedule for mail steamers. “The post is notoriously uncertain. You shouldn’t worry.”

  “Been worried since the day George was born. I suppose that’s an older brother’s job.”

  There wasn’t much Will could say. Eight months was a long time without a communication. Maybe too long. Cholera, dengue, bandits, drowning—George could have succumbed to any number of things.

  And George’s crew was the one he’d most hoped might respond to his pleas for help. They’d been in the southwest provinces of China immediately following the massacre. Seth knew the proximity, and had to be aware of Will’s hope, but no one would wish their own family to attempt such a rescue so they didn’t speak of it.

  It was damn unlikely, in any case. Will hadn’t been able to offer Lady Wynston’s twenty-thousand-pound reward in those early letters. Only an angel or a madman would help him then.

  Another dance came to an end with a swell of laughter and voices. Skirts spun and couples crisscrossed the floor. In the flurry of bodies he sought Charlotte, but she was not where she had been a moment ago.

  She wasn’t anywhere.

  Irrational as it was, his muscles tightened, his senses sharpening to potential danger. Icy fear trickled down his back. It was a familiar reaction after Tibet. One he hoped he was leaving in the past.

  The crowd was harmless. A hardworking middle class intent on taking full advantage of the evening’s gaiety and dancing. But as he scanned the crush of bodies, searching for that beautiful face, his unease grew.

  And it wasn’t just Charlotte’s face he sought…but a viscount’s as well.

  “Excuse me, Seth. I need to find my wife.”

  * * *

  “I received your letter and am acquainted with your feelings, Lord Spencer.” Charlotte stared straight ahead, not daring to slow her stride in the too-empty corridor.