Chasing Scandal

by Leslie V. Knowles

  "Tea would be most welcome.”

  An uncomfortable silence loomed for a moment after the butler gave an acknowledging bow and left the room. Tristan searched his mind for some way to broach the real reason for his visit. Normally, he stuck up conversations with ease. He made droll observations or asked engaging questions. But how did one introduce the business of the crown into a house of mourning? He felt a bit like a bully about to kick a man whose hands and ankles were bound. He turned to look at the painting again.

  "My mother died shortly after I turned nine,” he surprised himself by saying. "It’s terrible to lose someone you love.”

  Goodwin closed his eyes and his posture stiffened. When he reopened his eyes, he stared directly at Tristan. His brown eyes reflected an anguish that made Tristan flinch. "It is worse to know you could have prevented it.”

  "I understood it was an accident, my lord.” Tristan’s gut clenched. He understood guilt all too well. All the regrets in the world couldn’t undo the results of a thoughtless act or restore his father back to life. It was a fact he lived with every day.

  “Carriage accidents are unfortunately common,” Tristan responded. “You cannot blame yourself. Had you been with your family you might well have suffered the same fate.”

  The maid entered and set a tray with tea and a plate of scones onto the low table between them. Goodwin studied him closely while she poured and presented their cups before leaving the room.

  "I believe I remember meeting you a few years ago.” Goodwin said when they were alone again. "Are you related to the Duke of Wolverton? You have the Caldwell look about you.”

  "He’s my half-brother.” Tristan acknowledged. He waited for the inevitable alteration in Goodwin's demeanor, but the change was not as he expected.

  "I recall the connection,” Goodwin said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I believe my daughter spilled her lemonade on you during a fete at Lady Ridley’s.”

  Tristan remembered the family then. Lady Goodwin had been horrified and apologetic, though the fault had been Tristan’s. When he'd replaced the child's lemonade and apologized for bumping into her, she'd given him a sunny smile of forgiveness then charmed him with childish prattle for the next quarter hour.

  Goodwin cleared his throat but looked away before saying, "I believe you are familiar with the rougher side of life.”

  "I am.”

  He brought his gaze back to Tristan, a flicker of hope now burning in their depths. "You might well be the answer to prayer.”

  Tristan stilled. He was many things, but no one had ever considered him an answer to their prayers.

  Goodwin stood and walked over to look up at the portrait. "Not long after I took over for Lord Summerfield I received a note offering a large bribe if I provided information about the cargos scheduled for the Peninsula. I ignored it.”

  His hands clenched at his sides. "A second note threatened to harm my family if I did not respond. I still refused, but decided to remove my family to London where they would be surrounded by extended family and friends.”

  His throat worked and he rubbed the back of his neck. “My wife had recently given birth to my heir and had chosen not to take part in the season in order to spend time with him.” He glanced to where Tristan attended his every word. "She is,” he faltered, “was–a most devoted mother who declined the services of a wet nurse. My wife's murder,” His mouth firmed into a grim line. "And I’m sure it was murder, is the result of my refusal to pass along information regarding supply lines and dispersals. It’s my fault they died.”

  Tristan understood the guilt and anguish of that kind of loss, and the anger that life could be so cruel. He’d experienced similar pain, the same regrets. Time did not erase the emotional scars created by stubborn pride.

  Goodwin resumed his pacing. "When a messenger arrived from Portsmouth informing me of a problem, I sent my wife and children ahead along with two footmen and the postern riders. I planned to catch up with them on horseback by nightfall.”

  He stopped, returned to his seat and sat heavily. The grief filled his expression once more and he said, "I found the crashed carriage and my wife and son." He broke off and took several deep breaths, again fighting to control his emotions. "Even the footmen and outriders. But not Alice. I thought perhaps she'd been thrown from the carriage or wandered away. I searched everywhere. I even had workers lever the carriage upright in case–" His gaze again turned to the portrait. "She wasn't there.”

  Tristan supplied the obvious. "Someone took her, and now they’re using her to force your hand.”

  "The latest ultimatum came with a package containing one of Alice’s shoes as proof that they hold her. They’ll sell her to a child brothel unless I forward the information they demand.” He shuddered and his voice turned harsh. "She is only seven years old.”

  Tristan looked at the painting of the child who had charmed him that day, remembered another child... one with ginger hair and wide brown eyes..., and set his jaw.

  "If I don’t comply by the end of the month, they will sell her. Yet, they claim that so long as I cooperate she will be kept safe.” He shook his head and his fists clenched. "I cannot trust such fiends to keep their word.” His eyes narrowed. "You should know I will do all in my power to save my child, even if it means I hang as a traitor for doing so.”

  Tristan recognized the defiant resolve and knew the man was no traitor. He also knew that the threat was real. Girls of all ages served men in the brothels of London. That ginger-haired child, Maisie Hobbs, had been sold by her own father for a case of gin at the tender age of six. Her three sisters had been sold at similar ages. Maisie now ran her own house and her sisters were dead.

  "I’m being watched, Sheffield.” Goodwin gestured. "If I search for Alice they’ll act and she’ll be lost. My butler has been with the family for many years and can be trusted, but it’s clear that someone is keeping the blackmailers informed of my every action.” He raised his eyebrow and his lips twisted into an ironic smile that did not lighten the intensity of his gaze. "They’ll know I received a visit from the Foreign Office.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, his body rigid and his gaze intense. "I have no right to ask this of you, but I beg you to act for me.” He reached out to clamp his hand on Tristan’s arm. “Find my daughter.”

  Tristan didn’t need Goodwin’s plea for help. As soon as he’d understood the child had been abducted he’d known what he would do. Goodwin’s tight grasp only underscored Tristan’s resolve to uncover the devils who would destroy an innocent child in order to commit treason.

  Goodwin kept his intense gaze on Tristan. “Find her before I act against my own principles and the crown. But if all goes awry and they make good their threat, take her from that place.” His eyes reddened, filled, then spilled over. “Hide her and keep her safe.” His posture collapsed and he pounded his fist on his knee. “She is an innocent pawn in an evil game.”

  "Not only will I find your daughter,” he promised. "I’ll find whoever is behind this and see that he pays the price for his actions. It is he, not you, who will be punished.”

  Goodwin closed his eyes, then met Tristan’s gaze again. "Thank you. Once I know she is out of danger I will resign my duties and recommend the post, in future, be assigned to a single man of no family.”

  "Where did the attack happen?" Tristan asked. "I’d like to look at the scene directly to determine how to trace them. More importantly,” he added, "who do you suspect might be driven to act so despicably?

  CHAPTER 3

  Julia fought the queasy fluttering that assailed her middle when her carriage neared the outskirts of Portsmouth and she caught the first whiff of the mudflats at low tide. She despised the fact that after all these years she still had difficulty with the crowds along busy streets. Her mind knew the noisy bustle was not a murderous mob, but her child-heart still raced and her palms felt clammy inside her gloves.

  She was all the more aware of her demons since Ali
ce had come under her charge. The child's sweet nature made a welcome break in Julia's normal routine, but her presence had triggered the return of nightmares Julia had believed laid to rest. Jumbled and filled with screams, they always left her with aching loss and loneliness. She might be a grown woman, but a part of her would always be the five-year-old orphan, Juliette d’Orsey.

  Julia took a deep breath, forcing herself to ignore the panic the odor of tar sent through her. The brine-sharp decay along the docks always filled her with apprehension and an unreasoning need to flee. Scolding herself for her foolishness, she descended to the street in front of the cobbler shop and waited for her maid to join her. She rarely came to Portsmouth, but Alice needed shoes and Julia needed fabric to make her additional clothes. Though she and her maid had managed to cut down two of Julia's old dresses, they were not appropriate to a child's needs.

  Alice said she often traveled with her father to Portsmouth, so Julia dared not bring her to town if the child was in danger of kidnapping. Consequently, Julia had traced Alice's foot on the paper she carried in her reticule and Alice remained at the cottage in the care of the cook. The shoes, Julia had decided to explain if the cobbler asked, were for a neighbor’s daughter who had heard she planned to travel to Portsmouth.

  TRISTAN STEPPED OUTSIDE the tavern on Broad Street and took a deep breath, relishing the sharp brine scent. He no longer minded the odors of fish and sweat that went along with life along the edge of the sea. In fact, he was disconcerted to discover how quickly he'd adapted to the rough life so familiar to his childhood. The ease with which his carefully cultured speech had returned to coarse accents and slang disturbed him more. He'd fought many a battle over the taunts of upper-class bullies before mastering the refined conversation of his half-brother's world.

  The wind churned white caps on the gray-green of the sea and low dark clouds threatened rain. When he reached the street, a fresh breeze from the east picked up and nearly pulled his cap from his head. He turned his head quickly down to prevent the hat from flying across the dock before making his way through the busy crowd of dockworkers, sailors, and merchants who filled the narrow streets.

  Overhead, gulls swooped up and down, stealing bits of fish and screeching their success as they flew away. One bold bird flew by, snatching a scrap of bread from the hand of a small, rail thin boy of around five years old. The child protested loudly, then began to cry. No one appeared to notice either the incident or the crying child in the crush of busy pedestrians. Tristan recognized the boney frame of a street child and knew that scrap was most likely his only food for the day.

  He also knew that any coins the child received would immediately be turned over to his family, be they blood relatives or a gang of other street children connected by survival. Stepping up to a nearby cart he bought a fresh bun and an apple. "Here, boy,” he said as he approached the child. "Eat this before you share the wealth.”

  The child's eyes rounded when Tristan put the bun in one grubby hand, the apple in the other, then put a tuppence into the brim of the boy's cap. In a flash, the boy darted off to an alley and out of sight. Tristan hoped he managed to eat something before his family found him and demanded their portion. He'd have given the child a shilling, but that much wealth would have put him in danger instead of favor on the streets.

  He traced his way past several taverns until he reached the more refined shops. Not surprisingly, he saw a few men he knew, though the rough clothing he wore and his unshaven face made him virtually invisible to the gentlemen who did not expect to find Wolverton's scandalous relation outside London.

  He had turned to face a window when one such acquaintance passed him, and was about to resume his way along the street when a woman's sultry voice caught his attention. It drifted through the doorway and stroked his imagination.

  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Tanner.” Undeniably feminine, and pitched lower than most, the low timbre made him think of midnight exchanges and tumbled sheets. Distracted and intrigued, he waited to see who belonged to that siren's voice.

  The practical lady's boot that came into sight a moment later did not fit his fantasy image of dainty satin slippers and gauzy negligees, nor did the dun brown woolen skirts of the travel dress above it.

  Her face, when it came into view, was neither homely nor beautiful. She looked down to watch where she stepped so he could not yet see the color of her eyes, but she had a straight nose of average length and her chin was neither round nor pointed. Her lips had a soft plumpness that kept them from being too thin, yet fell short of the lush fullness he preferred. In short, it was a disappointingly average face.

  A simple hat, of the same brown and as plainly practical as her dress, allowed only a glimpse of tightly bound dark hair. Tristan felt strangely let down. This ordinary woman would never be associated with midnight rumpled sheets. He glanced toward the doorway. Perhaps the voice belonged to a different woman who remained inside the shop.

  The woman in brown turned her head to speak back into the shop. "Thank you, again, Mr. Tanner. I shall expect the shoes within the week.”

  The low tenor of her voice caressed his imagination once more. How could such a seductive sound come from such a prim and plain female?

  "Aye, Miss Dorsey,” the cobbler replied. "I'm glad we could be of service to you and your neighbor's child. If you decide you'd like the black half-boots for yourself, send word and we'll deliver them as well.”

  The woman turned, nearly collided with Tristan, and looked up. Large, luminous green eyes surrounded by thick black lashes sent his body into rigid alert. So much for the average features he'd considered a mismatch to an unforgettable voice. Eyes like that could make a man forget to watch his back... and a voice like that could seduce a man to sell his very soul.

  "I beg pardon, Miss.” Tristan gave her an appreciative grin before stepping back. "I was too busy watching where you were going.”

  Her eyes widened before her hand flew to her throat in a defensive gesture, but she quickly recovered, though her skin blanched.

  "Excuse me,” she murmured before stepping around him and quickly entering the draper's shop next door.

  Damn. Even her murmur raised his instincts. For several seconds he stared at the shop's door, bemused, aroused, and caught off guard. Nature had an ironic sense of humor.

  An hour later, Tristan entered his miniscule room on the top floor of the Mariner’s Inn. Thanks to the cobbler, he now knew the woman, Miss Julia Dorsey, was a spinster whose wealthy cousin allowed her to keep her own home in a cottage near Langstone. With that information, the mismatch of plain clothing and bewitching voice and eyes became clear. Her "wealthy cousin" was no doubt her protector who kept his mistress well out of sight of his wife.

  That speculation explained her solitary cottage, but what now intrigued him was the fact that in the four or five years she had lived in the area, she had never made a purchase for any of her neighbors. Nor did the cobbler think she interacted with the local townsfolk a great deal.

  She was known as "Miss" rather than "Mrs.” which indicated no children in residence with her, though the order had been for a small girl's walking shoes. Sturdy, but of the softest leather. Not the kind purchased for farm children.

  He had questioned the various shopkeepers along the main avenue about such unusual purchases before he'd heard that seductive voice, but he might have missed the vital connection had the woman herself not intrigued him.

  He needed to locate the cottage and see if Miss Dorsey truly lived alone, or if a small blond girl of seven years currently resided there. The woman's story could be true, but his gut told him he'd found the kidnapped child. It wouldn’t take long to satisfy his suspicions. What’s more, if he was right, he would also know who sold secrets to the French.

  Tristan had assumed the kidnappers were men, yet he knew women could be just as devious. Despite the common view, he had long ago recognized that the women who survived and thrived in Seven Dials knew how to use thei
r wits as well as their bodies to do so. Some of the most vicious brothels in London were run by women. This woman was younger than one would expect and didn't have the look of a procuress. Ah, but that voice. Her voice alone promised hidden depths.

  THE COBBLER REFUSED his monetary offer for directions, protesting that he could not in good conscience send a stranger to a single lady's home without her permission. Henry Porter, a former dockworker with a peg leg turned cobbler’s helper, however, had no such qualms. Three days later, Porter allowed him to tag along when he delivered the completed shoes.

  Tristan halted his horse and dismounted behind a line of birch tree trees while Porter continued along the dirt road. Across a long, open field, tucked under the shade of a giant oak, he spied the cottage. He worked his way around until he could observe both the front and back of the two storied, thatch-covered home of Miss Julia Dorsey.

  A lark trilled overhead as he tied the reins to a low branch and the tall grasses at the edge of the trees sounded like whispers in the soft breeze. The sharp smell of freshly scythed grass and the mixed perfume from tangles of wildflowers filled the air. He fought the urge to sneeze.

  The back of the cottage flanked a kitchen garden, a narrow track, and a paddock where a chestnut gelding grazed. Beyond that stood a small stable, barely large enough for the horse and a gig. The broad open space around the cottage made it impossible to approach without being seen.

  Tristan watched as Porter dismounted at the back of the cottage and knocked at the servants' door. A woman, whose plump figure and flour-dusted apron identified her as the cook, opened the door, and accepted the package. She then stepped out of sight, returned, and pressed a coin into his hand. They chatted for a moment. Finally, Porter said something that made the cook laugh before she shut the door.