Chasing Scandal
The Wolverton World, Volume 2
Leslie V. Knowles
Published by Leslie V. Knowles, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
CHASING SCANDAL
First edition. June 15, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Leslie V. Knowles.
ISBN: 978-1736493526
Written by Leslie V. Knowles.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
Chapter 1
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CHAPTER 1
Langstone, Surrey, England, 1810
It seemed to Julia Dorsey that she’d always been a coward, but every once in a while, like today, she remembered being bold and fearless. Today the breeze carried the scent of lavender that filled the garden, lifting her spirits and making her twirl and laugh as she had done when she was very small. She was too old for such nonsense, but no one could see her but the servants, and they would not carry tales. So she spun around and around, reveling in the sun, the scent, the silliness of it all.
The rattle of approaching carriage wheels made her come to an abrupt halt.
Who? No one but the occasional tradesman came to her modest two storied home. Perhaps someone took the wrong road.
She did a quick spin in the opposite direction of her twirl to counter her dizziness.
Balance restored, she tucked a loosened strand of hair behind her ear, pulled her bonnet into place and tied it properly as she rounded the side of the thatched cottage.
The carriage stopped in front of the door and she recognized her cousin’s burley footman, Ned Smith. Though she’d not seen her cousin Renard since he’d given her this refuge, his footmen occasionally arrived with messages or requests that she shelter rescued ladies in need of safe haven. Her cottage was a logical stop on the way to London from Portsmouth where military ships returned from the Peninsula.
Ned exited the carriage carrying a slip of a girl of perhaps seven or eight years old. The child’s blond hair clung to the wool of his coat and she wore but one shoe. Her delicate skin was pale as wax, her eyes glazed and unfocused. But worse, much worse, blood covered her once fine dress and dripped from the arm she clutched to her chest.
Bile rose in Julia’s throat and her lungs locked. Though she’d been rescued from the French Terror years ago, time had not reduced her panic at the sight of blood, nor had it eased the pain of losing her family.
“Found her in a crashed coach,” Ned told her. “Knew you’d take care of her.”
Although his hulking presence usually made her feel vaguely uncomfortable when he was near her—there was simply too much of him, his words steadied her. "Take her to the yellow bedchamber.”
She glanced toward the carriage to see who else might emerge. The child would not have been traveling alone. But the carriage was empty. Realization dawned and her heart stuttered, then swelled with pity. The poor child.
Julia strode into the hall, up the stairs to gather medical supplies, told her maid to fetch hot water, and steeled herself to control her panicked nerves. She was in England, not France, and the chaos of the Terror was long over. She could do this. The child needed care and a comforting hand just as she once had.
When she reached the guest room named for its butter yellow walls and jonquil curtains she sat on the edge of the bed and laid a gentle hand on the little girl’s shoulder. "Where do you hurt, sweeting?"
"My head and arm—” The child's eyes filled with tears and her voice was little more than a whisper, “—but Mama is hurt worse.” The tears spilled over and her lips quivered. "She's bleeding too... and she cried.” She turned her head toward the doorway where Ned stood. "Will that man bring Mama, too? And baby Phillip?" Her worried eyes turned back to Julia. "He didn't cry.”
Julia glanced at Ned, but his grim expression required no words.
Julia swallowed hard before answering. "Your mama was hurt too badly to come. Baby Phillip is with her.” She gently probed the girl's slender arm. It wasn’t broken, but a deep gash still oozed blood. Several lesser scrapes and darkening bruises marred her delicate skin, but only the gash required binding.
Her maid arrived with a porcelain bowl of warmed water. Julia dipped a square of cloth into the water then wrung the excess from it and willed her queasy stomach to settle. Still, her thoughts skittered around as she wiped the blood from pale skin. How to find words for what would cause far more pain than the gash in her arm, and a loss that would never completely heal?
The stark truth would hurt far more than sewing the tender flesh. Life—and death—didn’t spare frightened children any more than it did adults. Delaying the moment wouldn’t make it any less painful. If her childhood had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that. Julia took the girl's uninjured hand in hers. "What is your name, child?"
"Alice Goodwin.”
Julia stroked the back of the child’s hand. "I’m sorry, Alice, But she and baby Phillip, have gone to heaven.”
The child said nothing for several seconds, and Julia had to blink away tears of sympathy. Alice turned wide eyes to Julia. "Will Papa come?"
"He didn’t travel with you?"
Alice shook her head. "A man came when we were leaving and Papa said to go ahead and he would catch up, but he never did.”
"I will send word to him so he knows you are safe.” She put a gentle hand on the girl's uninjured arm. "Until then, you must be especially brave while I sew your cut together. Then you must rest so your arm will heal.”
She turned to her maid. “Molly, we will need some willow bark tea flavored with warm milk to help Miss Alice sleep once I have finished tending her wound.”
Molly bobbed a quick curtsey and left the room.
Julia’s hands shook, so it took Julia several tries before she managed to thread the needle. She released a breath, inhaled, then slid the needle under the two sides of the gash and pulled the edges together. Alice made no more than a slight whimper though tears pooled and ran from the corners of her eyes during the ordeal. By the time Julia finished, and wrapped the stitched arm in clean linen bandages, exhaustion threatened to overcome her concentration and her stomach threatened to disgorge her supper.
Molly returned and Julia reached for the mug. “Drink this, my dear. It will help you sleep.”
Alice took a sip, grimaced, but dutifully finished the contents. Julia’s heart ached for her. The poor child. She knew just how bewildered and frightened young Alice must be. Julia pulled up the blankets and smoothed them over her temporary charge. "Molly will stay with you so you’re not alone.” Without thought, she bent and placed a light kiss on the child’s
cheek before leaving the room. "Now sleep.”
“I’ll be on my way,” Ned said when they left the room. “I’ll report this to His Lordship as soon as I get to London.” He stopped halfway down the stairs. “He’ll want to be the one to contact the girl’s father.”
Some of the tension knotting her stomach eased.
Renard will take care of it. He always knows what to do.
And she would not let Renard down, either. Her cousin knew he could depend on her to care for the child until he contacted Alice’s father. She’d proven her worth when she’d cared for the young ladies in need of safe place to stay whenever he’d asked. She’d done her part to help those women begin better lives just as he had saved her when the rest of her family had been slaughtered in the frenzy of the French Terror. Despite that chaos, he’d brought her to England, become her guardian and anglicized her name. She was even more fortunate that he still provided her with a home and living expenses though she was three and twenty and should have married long ago. She quite literally owed him her life.
When they reached the ground floor Ned didn’t linger, but climbed back into the carriage to continue to London where he would report the incident to the earl.
Cousin Renard’s instructions arrived three days later. Her eyes widened as she scanned the message.
Julia,
Keep the child out of sight. The accident is suspected to be a kidnapping gone wrong. Do not contact the child’s father lest those responsible discover where she is and renew their efforts. Beware of strangers. I shall send further instructions soon.
Renard
A ripple of alarm went through her. This was the first time she’d had a charge who might be in actual danger. Had the perpetrators heard the footman approach and fled without the girl? Julia’s cottage was remote and the village small, so she would know if strangers came searching for the missing child. A thread of anxiety pulled her nerves tight. It paid to be wary.
TRISTAN SHEFFIELD REMOVED his hat and smoothed his hair while he stood in the receiving room of the Earl of Ravencliffe's London townhouse until the butler informed him that Tristan had arrived. Early morning light filled the room and a newly added painting on the far wall caught his attention. He strolled over inspect it. The landscape had the bucolic splendor admired by men raised in the country. He did not care for Ravencliffe’s recent acquisition any more than he liked country living.
He didn’t like broad open spaces with no convenient shadows in which to take refuge or from which to observe. The running water of flowing streams hid the sound of approaching footsteps and the fragrance of so many flowers made his nose itch and his eyes water. His reactions to scents made him feel vulnerable and he liked that even less.
He preferred London. It might be dangerous, it might be loud, and it often offended the nose with noxious odors, but the city had its own charm, and he knew his way around every part of it. Until he was ten, he'd not known there were places like the scene in the painting. Until he was ten, it wouldn't have mattered if he had.
"His Lordship will see you in the library.”
Tristan turned and smiled at the earl's elderly butler. "Thank you, Billings, I'll see myself up.” He handed the man his hat, then climbed the curved staircase. At the top he turned left, rapped on the door, and entered the extensive library. Tristan's immediate superior at the Foreign Office William Hartley, Earl of Ravencliffe, sat at the far end of the room. Sunlight lit his fair hair and glowed halo-like behind the far-from-angelic earl.
Tristan glanced around the room and verified they were alone before stating the obvious. "You have a new mission for me?”
“I do.” The earl gestured to the low table between their chairs that held a silver coffee pot and a china cup and saucer. "Pour yourself a cup of coffee, Tristan, and I'll explain the situation.”
Tristan crossed the thick blue and gold rug and took a seat in the wingback chair beside his host. Tristan's half-brother, Lucien, and Ravencliffe had been school friends long before Tristan started working for the crown, so his casual order for Tristan to pour his own refreshment didn’t rankle. From anyone else, Tristan would have seen it as a deliberate slight to remind him of his inferior rank.
He reached for the pot and poured, then sat back and observed the bland expression in Ravencliffe's hazel brown eyes. "You look bored. It must be serious.”
Ravencliffe's lips quirked. "You know me well.”
He sat forward, elbows on knees, his expression now focused and intense. "For the last year we have noted an increase in the loss of supplies reaching the troops on the peninsula. At first we wrote it off as the normal problems of supplying troops, but the interceptions have occurred with a frequency we cannot ignore. Someone is selling information, and Richard writes that the shortages are affecting his men greatly.”
Richard, William's twin brother, served on the Peninsula with Wellington. It came as no surprise to Tristan, then, that this mission included personal as well as political concerns.
"The Earl of Summerfield supervises the Quarter Master and controls the schedule and routes for the army’s supplies, but his health has failed greatly this past year and word is that he has not much longer to live. I believe his need to delegate may have tempted someone to sell that information to the French.” He stood and walked to the tall window that overlooked the street below. The sunlight revealed a jaw tight with tension, though he retained a relaxed pose.
Tristan had never been introduced to Summerfield, but the earl’s dedication to the crown was well known. It would be a sad day for the royal family when he passed on.
After a minute, Ravencliffe turned away and came back to his chair. “Lord Goodwin recently took over the supervision of the Quarter Master from him, but I have received word that Goodwin lost his family in a fatal accident recently. I fear he might well be too consumed with grief to be any more in control than the earl.”
Ravencliffe picked up a sealed letter and leather folio and handed them to Tristan.
"You are to take this letter of introduction and my condolences to Lord Goodwin with the offer to assist him in his duties so he might deal with his bereavement. His estate is located an hour’s ride from Portsmouth proper, so you’ll be able to examine the local chain of command for problems. The details are in the folio. Though you will keep me informed about your progress, I leave it to your discretion as to the frequency of those reports. I give you the same latitude in the manner in which you conduct your investigation.”
Tristan took the folio. “Then I am at liberty to follow any leads without waiting for special permissions?”
“Investigate however you feel necessary, so long as you locate the turncoat.”
Perversely the need to leave town to accomplish his mission, even one as potentially dangerous as catching a traitor, provided Tristan with a sense of relief. He would be absent during his half-sister’s first season, and in a manner she could not question.
Nor would his half-brother Lucien, Duke of Wolverton, need to deal with the old family scandal. Scandalously acknowledged bastard brothers did not lend favor to ladies entering society among the ton, even for the sister to a duke. Anne generally took offense when confronted by the reality of his place in society. Though much younger than him, it had warmed his heart when she stood up for him in the past, but now she was making her debut in London society. He had attended her come-out ball without drawing too much attention to his presence, but had only danced with his sister’s immediate circle before leaving. He didn’t want to blight her season with the duress of defending him to those who considered him unworthy of notice, and if he remained in town, it was only a matter of time before someone’s snub did just that.
He finished his coffee and rose. “I shall leave for Portsmouth at dawn.”
CHAPTER 2
Tristan turned his horse over to Lord Goodwin's stable boy and approached the broad stairs to the house with trepidation. Much as he sympathized with the viscount’s loss, he hoped the
man’s grief would not interfere with his investigation.
The estate sat back from a high promontory overlooking the inlet on which ships passed from Southampton dockyards to the wharves of Portsmouth. The sharp tang of the sea was less prominent here, though the dampness in the air reminded one that it blew over the sea to reach the land. Gulls soared overhead and called to one another as stridently as they did along the wharves.
A black wreath on the door confirmed Ravencliffe's report of the Viscount's recent bereavement, as did the extremely somber visage of the butler who answered his knock. Tristan presented his card and stepped across the threshold.
"Mr. Tristan Sheffield to see Lord Goodwin with condolences from the Earl of Ravencliffe.”
"I shall see if he is in.”
Tristan gazed around the entry hall noting that Lord Goodwin's taste in artwork ran to the perilous adventures of life at sea. Wild expanses of ocean and sky appealed to Tristan no more than the open pastures of country life. The confines of the few ships Tristan had boarded in the past had revealed a wealth of places from which to observe, but the limited escape routes made his neck prickle.
The butler returned and led him upstairs to a spacious drawing room decorated in the old style of gilt and brocade. On the wall over the mantle hung a large family portrait of a lovely blond woman and a sweet-faced girl of three or four years. They both looked vaguely familiar. The man who rose to greet him, however, bore little resemblance to the proud husband and father in the painting. Ravencliffe had indicated Goodwin's age to be in the mid-thirties, but his recent loss showed the stark ravages of grief until Tristan would have taken him to be at least ten years older than that.
"Ravencliffe heard of your misfortune and sent word requesting I offer his condolences personally.”
"Thank you, Mr. Sheffield.” Goodwin gestured toward the chair opposite the one he'd vacated. "Connors will send the maid with refreshments. Do you prefer coffee or tea... or perhaps some spirits?"
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