Whisper of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  The eager press of guests in Lottie’s reception rooms fell back a little to allow them through the archway into the ballroom. All about her, Joanna was aware of the feverish whisper and hiss of conversation, the sycophantic smiles of the ladies as they fluttered to attract Alex’s attention, the hearty greetings of the men, the whole of society angling for his attention and notice.

  “I say, ma’am,” Devlin said, walking beside her, “is this not extraordinary? Who would have thought that Alex, of all people, would be so in demand! It is like escorting royalty!”

  “I think Lord Grant is probably more popular than the Prince Regent,” Joanna said dryly. “Society is very fickle, Mr. Devlin, and very bored. We are always looking for the next sensation and at the moment that is your cousin. Explorers are all the rage. No doubt this time next year the fashion will be for Chinese wallpaper or Scottish breeds of dog.”

  “Alex is hardly comparable to a dog, ma’am,” Dev protested, though with a smile. “And he is the quarry of all the matchmaking mamas, of course.”

  “Is he?” Joanna felt a strange dropping feeling in her stomach. “I had no notion that Lord Grant was seeking a bride.”

  “Oh, I do not think he wants a wife,” Dev said candidly, “but Balvenie currently has no heir.”

  “I see. Of course.” Joanna felt the cold gnawing inside her. David, too, had wanted a son. “Yes,” she said. “Most men want an heir.”

  Even though she sought to keep her tone level there must have been some note in it that caught Dev’s attention for he gave her a quick, puzzled look. She smiled at him blandly and saw his brow clear. Oh, it was so easy to pretend…

  It had taken them so long to fight their way through the crowds that the cotillion was already over and the orchestra, seeing them approach, swung into a lively rendition of Thomas Arne’s march from Britannia in Alex’s honor. Glancing at him, Joanna saw that his face was absolutely impassive. Lottie was clinging to his arm and beaming with reflected glory and the entire ballroom broke into spontaneous applause.

  “It would be more appropriate,” Joanna whispered to Dev, “to have played Mr. Arne’s ‘Much Ado about Nothing.’”

  Alex gave her an unreadable look and Joanna realized that he had heard her. Dev was looking from one to the other with a puzzled expression on his handsome face.

  “I say, you really do not like one another very much, do you, Lady Joanna? When Alex told me that you were not really…um…intimate I thought that he was merely…um—” He broke off in confusion, sounding all at once a great deal less sophisticated than his appearance suggested.

  “I fear I am prejudiced against explorers, Mr. Devlin,” Joanna said, taking pity on him, “having been married to one.”

  “Oh, but surely David was the most admirable of men,” Dev said, his face lighting up. “He was a hero of mine when I was only a small boy.”

  “I fear,” Joanna said, “that heroes can be uncomfortable men to live with.” She saw his look of blank astonishment and added bitterly, “It can be so hard to live up to the expectation.”

  The triumphal march finished on a flourish, the applause rang out again and Alex bowed acknowledgment to the crowd before Lottie positively dragged him into the next set that was forming for a country-dance.

  “I hope that Alex will forgive me cutting him out,” Dev said as he and Joanna moved through the opening figures. “I was surprised he asked you to dance, ma’am. A combination of an old wound and lack of inclination usually keeps him from the floor.”

  Joanna had been surprised as well. Whilst Alex’s injured leg did not seem to hinder him unduly, she could not imagine that a half-hour country-dance would be comfortable for him. She had observed from the grim set of his mouth when Lottie had questioned him on his polar bear injuries that this was another issue he did not discuss. Like the subject of his popularity as an explorer and the death of his wife, it was not up for debate, and there was something most stern and quelling about Alex Grant when he decided a topic was not open for discussion. Joanna doubted that many people gainsaid him. He was too authoritative and too intimidating.

  “Alex only accepted Mrs. Cummings’s invitation tonight as a favor to me,” Dev was saying. “He is nowhere near as unhelpful as he can seem, you know, ma’am.”

  “I will take your word for it, Mr. Devlin,” Joanna said, smiling. “And as I am sure that your cousin is indifferent to whom I dance with, so you are in no imminent danger of his calling you out.”

  “Well, I hope not,” Dev said. “He did warn me off you earlier, though.” He gave her a look of frank admiration. “Can’t say I blame him, ma’am.”

  “Your cousin is presumptuous,” Joanna snapped. She shot a furious look at Alex across the floor. Since it seemed extremely unlikely that David had made Alex promise to protect her in some touching deathbed scene—she was sure that the reverse must be true—she could only assume that Alex had warned his young cousin away because he thought her dangerous to Devlin’s virtue. For a moment she watched Alex dancing with Lottie. Mrs. Cummings was turning a respectable country-dance into something a great deal more tactile. She was all over Alex like ivy, Joanna thought, feeling for those polar bear scars herself. As she saw Alex pry Lottie’s fingers away from his shirtfront, she decided Lottie’s persistent attentions were the least penance that he deserved.

  “In your note to me this afternoon you mentioned a favor, Mr. Devlin,” she said, turning back to Dev. “How can I help you? Though if it is anything to do with your cousin, I should warn you that I have absolutely no influence with him at all.”

  “Know what you mean, ma’am,” Dev said gloomily. “Alex knows his own mind too well to welcome other counsel.”

  “You mean that he is arrogant,” Joanna said.

  Dev winced. “Well, that could be one word for it, I suppose. Truth is, I am in bad odor with him at the moment for abandoning my navy commission to take part in an expedition to Mexico.” He looked at her appealingly. “I wondered if you might speak with him, ma’am, and smooth matters over for me?”

  “I could try,” Joanna said, “but it would only make things worse for you, Mr. Devlin. I am afraid that when it comes to incurring your cousin’s disapproval, I am streets ahead of you.”

  The figure of the dance took them past the corner where Merryn was sitting chatting to Miss Drayton. Joanna saw that Devlin was watching her sister.

  “Lady Merryn does not dance?” he said when they came back together again.

  “My sister prefers more intellectual pursuits,” Joanna said, smiling. Merryn was a bluestocking who was unconventional enough to make no secret of her preference for intelligent debate over dancing. It did, however, limit her circle of friends and many people in the ton, Lottie included, thought her a complete original because of her lack of interest in frivolity.

  She realized that Dev was watching her with a surprisingly perceptive gaze. “A pity,” he said. “Because I am sure she would be a graceful dancer. But I admire a woman who is different.”

  “If you can discuss naval architecture with her then you will win her approval,” Joanna said lightly. The music drew to a close and she and Dev joined in the smattering of applause from the dancers. “She has been attending the lectures at the Royal Institution with some of her friends.”

  “Indeed?” Dev said. There was a frown between his brows. “I attended the talk last week, the one about a new design for the American frigates. I must have seen Lady Merryn at the meeting although—” he hesitated “—I thought that I had glimpsed her in quite a different place.”

  “Then it seems you have an interest in common,” Joanna said, smiling. She put a hand on Dev’s arm. “A word of advice, though, Mr. Devlin. Merryn has lived in the country for most of her life and is unused to the ways of the ton. I would be sorry to see her…disappointed in any way.”

  Again she saw a slight frown mar Dev’s brow and saw, too, an expression in his eyes that she could not understand, but then his face cleared an
d he put his hand over hers and gave her gloved fingers a comforting squeeze.

  “Have no fear, ma’am. I don’t trifle with young ladies…” He paused. “Well, honesty compels me to admit that I do, but I swear I shall do nothing to upset you with regard to your sister.”

  “Devlin.” Jo turned to see that Alex had shaken off Lottie Cummings, whom Joanna was surprised to see dancing with John Hagan, and was prowling across the floor toward them, for once ignoring the handshakes and acclaim of those trying to gain his attention. His gaze was on their clasped hands and it seemed to Joanna that Dev released her more slowly, and more provocatively, than was strictly necessary.

  “Alex,” Dev said, a grin curling his mouth. “Have you come to cut in on us?”

  “Mr. Cummings,” Alex said, his gaze riveted on Joanna’s face, “wishes to discuss your Mexican expedition plan with you, Dev, so you had better unhand Lady Joanna and join him in the drawing room.”

  Dev’s face lit up. “Did you put in a word for me, Alex? I say, you are the most splendid chap! Your servant, Lady Joanna.” He sketched Joanna a bow. “Please excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Joanna said, smiling. “Good luck.”

  “May I escort you to the dining room, Lady Joanna?” Alex asked. He was quite definitely not smiling. “Such energetic flirtation as you have indulged in with my cousin must lead you to require some refreshment, I think.”

  Joanna shot him a look of dislike. “We were merely dancing, my lord.”

  Alex arched a brow. “Is that what you call it?”

  “I heard that you had warned Mr. Devlin to keep away from me,” Joanna said as they passed through the door into the dining room, where Lottie’s ice sculptures were wilting in the heat from the candles. “Being of a charitable disposition I assumed that it was because my late husband had asked you to take a brotherly interest in my welfare and you wished to protect me from young rakes.”

  Alex laughed. “You could not be more mistaken, Lady Joanna. Your husband intimated to me that you were well able to take care of yourself and I am inclined to believe him.”

  Joanna felt a stab of sensation that felt curiously like misery. So David had made her sound like a brass-faced bitch and Alex had believed him. Of course he had. Why would he not? Everyone believed David Ware to be the most complete hero, and Alex had been David’s closest friend. She gave herself a little shake. What had she expected? David was never going to sing her praises; they had been estranged for years, locked in mutual loathing. How could it be otherwise when David had felt that she had failed him in the only thing he had required of her? Within five years of their marriage they had quarreled violently, terminally, and after that they had barely spoken to one another again.

  Joanna drew a deep breath to compose herself. David was dead and it should not matter now. Yet Alex Grant’s poor opinion of her seemed to count for more than it ought.

  She stopped dead next to the life-size ice model of Alex himself. “Indeed?” she said scathingly. “It ill becomes you to step in at this eleventh hour to protect your cousin from some imaginary danger, Lord Grant. You have left him to fend for himself in the past, have you not, and his sister, too, so I hear, whilst you traipse about the globe in search of glory—”

  Alex’s gloved hand closed about her wrist tightly enough to make her gasp and break off. The look in his eyes was feral though he kept his tone soft. “Is this your attempt to jilt me in full public view?” he asked. There was an edge of steel to his voice. “I confess I had hoped for something more original than a list of all the ways in which I had failed my family.”

  “Do not be so hasty,” Joanna said. She held his gaze with hers. “You will not be disappointed by your dismissal, I assure you.” She shook him off, rubbing her wrist where he had held her. His grip had not hurt, but there had been something in his touch and in his eyes, something primitive and fierce, that had shaken her. The tone of their encounter had shifted in the space of a second from enmity sheathed in courtesy to all-out antagonism. Joanna could see that in the heat of the moment she had invested in Alex all the faults she had detested in David, and perhaps that was unfair, but she was in no mood to be generous. He had not extended any generosity to her, after all. He had disliked her from the start.

  “You may rest easy for your cousin’s virtue,” she said. “I am not interested in callow youths, whatever you may think.” She looked him up and down. “Nor in adventurers, for that matter, however romantic and mysterious others may find them.” She squared her shoulders. “Lord Grant, I do not know what my husband said about me to make you have such an aversion to me, but I do not care for either your disapproval or your judgmental attitudes.”

  “David never spoke of you to me,” Alex said. “Other than just before he died.”

  Joanna was gripping her fan so tightly between her gloved hands now that she heard the struts creak. She could see a most indiscreet crowd of guests jostling in the doorway of the room, eager to witness the scene playing out between Lady Joanna and her supposed lover.

  “Well,” she said sarcastically, “if David was on his deathbed then whatever he said must be true.”

  “Perhaps,” Alex said. His mouth was set in a thin, angry line. “You may tell me if it was true or not. David told me never to trust you, Lady Joanna. He said that you were deceitful and manipulative. Can you tell me what you had done to incur such hatred from your husband?”

  Their eyes met and locked and Joanna could feel the burn all the way through her body. Alex’s gaze was narrowed on her face with dark intensity and suddenly she hated him, too, for believing her faithless, feckless husband, for taking David’s word without question, for damning her unheard. She wanted to explain to him; she wanted it with a passion that shocked her, that stole her breath and made her heart ache—but she knew she could not confide in Alex Grant, a man who was practically a stranger. “Trust no one” was her maxim when it came to the ton and she had held true to it ever since the day, as a new bride, she had walked into Madame Ermine’s gown shop in Bond Street and had heard two women discussing her intimate affairs in exquisite scandalous detail. It was from that gossip she had first learned of David’s infidelity. As a result, she trusted no one with her secrets, especially not her late husband’s closest friend, colleague and ally.

  “You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong,” she said bitterly, now. “I am sorry you believe that.”

  She saw a hint of doubt in Alex’s eyes; or at least she thought that she did. It was faint and fleeting like a shadow that came and went in the blink of an eye. Then he shook his head slightly.

  “That is not good enough, Lady Joanna.”

  Joanna’s temper snapped. She had been estranged from David for five long years before he had died and had nursed her grief silently through every one of them. This man was trying to force it out into the light of day and in doing so was destroying all the layers she had built up to protect herself.

  “Well, Lord Grant,” she said, “it will have to do. I owe you nothing, and nothing I could say would change your opinion of me anyway, so I shall save my breath.” She squared her shoulders. “I recall that you wanted me to end our supposed liaison. Let me oblige you and then we need not see one another again.”

  She turned to the ice sculpture and broke off the sword in the man’s hand. The ice gave a very satisfying crack as the sword came free. Mrs. Cummings’s guests caught their collective breath on a gasp.

  Joanna snapped the sword sharply in two and handed Alex the pieces.

  “That is what I think of explorers and their amatory abilities,” she said clearly so that the entire company could hear her. “It is to be hoped that you can navigate your way better across the frozen wastes than you can around a woman’s body, or you may end in Spain rather than Spitsbergen.” She smiled. “Consider yourself jilted, Lord Grant,” she added sweetly. “Good night.”

  Chapter 3

  MRS. LOTTIE CUMMINGS stood alone in her dining room surveying t
he detritus her guests had left behind. In a rare gesture of generosity she had given the servants what was left of the night off and told them they could finish cleaning and tidying the following day. The candles were snuffed and the air smelled faintly of smoke. What light filtered into the room came from the first rays of dawn that streaked the eastern sky over London. Her ice sculptures were melting, dripping sadly into the large cut-glass bowls beneath with a splash that sounded like tears. Lottie felt depressed and she could not, for the life of her, understand why.

  The evening had been the most tremendous success, a complete crush, and she knew it would be spoken of for months to come. Even without the thrilling quarrel between Lady Joanna Ware and her alleged lover, Lord Grant, it would have been deemed vastly entertaining. The food had, as always, been exquisite, the music perfection itself and the ice sculptures were the finishing touch. So why, Lottie wondered, trailing her fingers in the remainder of a bowl of rose-petal cream and licking it off thoughtfully, did she feel as though she had lost a guinea and found a farthing? It was true that her husband, Gregory, had barely shown his face at the rout, but then he never did. They went their separate ways and had done since the beginning. She had married him for his money not his personality, which was just as well, Lottie thought, since he did not have one. No, indeed, Gregory’s neglect was not the cause of her blue devils. She did not want his attention. But she wanted someone’s attention, someone more exciting, more daring, someone altogether more thrilling than poor old Gregory.

  It was a pity that Alex Grant had turned down her whispered offers of a liaison. Lottie had not expected to be rejected. It happened to her very seldom. She had known Alex’s reputation for coldness but had thought she would be just the woman to thaw him. She had not for a moment believed the twaddle other impressionable women whispered that he was still mourning his dead wife or some such rubbish. He was a man, wasn’t he, and therefore led by his lusts. She had seen the way Alex had been looking at Joanna and she knew he wanted David Ware’s luscious widow. But he was wasting his time there. Lottie sucked the remaining cream from her fingers. Joanna really was frigid, poor girl—David had told Lottie that when they had been in bed together one day. No, indeed, far better for Lottie to be the one to show the lovely Lord Grant the comforts she could offer a dashing adventurer. Except that Alex had rejected her advances. He had done so courteously, charmingly even, but it was still a rebuff and Lottie was still offended. She had immediately sent a servant to Gregory to tell him that on no account should he fund Alex’s scapegrace cousin on his ridiculous Mexican voyage. It had been a petty revenge, perhaps, but it had made her feel better…