A Marriage Made in Scandal

by Elisa Braden

  The innkeeper delivered a basket of bread and a plate of sliced ham.

  Thank God, Phineas thought. Perhaps food will improve matters.

  It didn’t. Hannah promptly gathered up a hunk of bread and a slice of ham before rising from the table and heading for the door.

  “Hmmph,” Genie muttered before shrugging and doing likewise.

  Phineas grasped her wrist as she brushed by. “Eugenia.”

  She stopped, but she did not look at him.

  He stroked her fine-boned wrist with his thumb, again struck by how small she was. “I know you are … displeased with me.”

  A snort.

  “Granting you more time would have put you in greater danger—”

  “It was not the hats, Holstoke.” Her voice was unusually low and even.

  He stood. Turned her to face him. Tugged her closer until he could smell violets. “What, then?”

  She kept her eyes lowered upon his coat. Her lips were tight. If he wanted the faintest chance of kissing them later—and he did—he assumed discovering what he had done to vex her so thoroughly would be to his advantage.

  He pulled her closer. Lowered his head. “Tell me.”

  “You demanded I agree to marry you. And so I have.”

  He frowned. “To preserve your reputation after you announced to all and sundry—”

  “You demanded I let you kiss me. And so I have.”

  “An experiment you quite enjoyed, if I recall—”

  “You demanded I leave my home and my possessions and everything familiar with less warning than you would give your cook when requesting kippers for breakfast. And so I have.”

  She still refused to meet his eyes, and it was stoking the blackness inside him. He did not like this Eugenia—calm and flat and, somehow, wounded. He wanted the woman who laughed and touched him without thinking.

  “You demanded I follow you to this land of grass and cows and nothingness.” She finally raised her eyes to his. They were snapping fire. “And so I have.”

  He didn’t understand. He’d explained everything. Rationally and reasonably. Hadn’t he?

  “The least you might have done was notice that I still wore my wedding gown and not a carriage dress.”

  She was furious. Hurt. He could see it, flashing there in her eyes. But her reasons made no sense. He eyed her rose-hued ensemble. No, it was not the same as the one she’d worn at their wedding. That one had been blue. Truly, it never mattered what she wore. Everything lit him like a torch when she was near. Even a foolish little bird perched within a forest of ostrich feathers.

  Frowning, he attempted to regain his footing. “A member of my household had just been murdered.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And we still do not know who the killer is. It might be anyone.” He sighed and rubbed his nape. “Anyone who knows how to formulate poisons, that is.”

  “Such as an apothecary.”

  His gaze sharpened upon her. Ordinarily, he would not consider burdening Eugenia with talk of poisons and murder, but his frustration was making him desperate. “Yes, though the apothecary my mother used is long dead.”

  She sniffed, her chin tilting. “What of his assistants?”

  Phineas blinked. “The guild listed no apprentice.”

  “I did not say apprentice. I said assistant. Many shopkeepers prefer to avoid arrangements in which they are obligated to train someone for several years. Instead, they favor a simple exchange of wages for labor. No contract. Easily hired, easily dismissed. Mrs. Pritchard, for example, claimed to do all her own work. In truth, she did very little, though she did enjoy taking credit for that of her assistants. I suppose she considered it an employer’s privilege.” She shrugged. “A common enough practice.”

  The blackness hated the reminder of how Mrs. Pritchard had mistreated Eugenia. Phineas forced it to recede, soothing himself by stroking her arm with his thumb.

  She continued with calm hauteur, “Whoever the poisoner is, I doubt very much he would have scaled the walls of Berne House and served me my death whilst I completed my packing.”

  He frowned. “I could not take such a chance. I needed you to stop frittering about and get in the blasted coach.”

  She yanked her arm from his grasp.

  Evidently, his explanation was unsatisfactory.

  With a tilt of her chin, she said tartly, “As you have never before had a wife, and no doubt your closest companions all have leaves and stems, I concede you may require training, Holstoke. A great deal of training. Until then, I suggest you ruminate upon the benefits of generous allowances.” She pivoted on her heel and made for the door.

  “How long?” he asked, watching confounding hips sway.

  She paused. Raised an inquiring brow over her shoulder.

  “Until I am forgiven,” he clarified.

  She didn’t answer, instead sweeping out the door and returning to the coach.

  He went back to the table and drained his tankard. Nothing sensible had happened here. But at least she was speaking to him again. That was something.

  He looked down at the crumbs remaining in the basket and retrieved the last, small piece of ham. Then, he paid the innkeeper and made for the stables.

  Women. They were bloody confusing.

  He sighed and took a bite of ham. A bit dry and oversalted, but it would do. On his way across the courtyard, he glanced toward the coach where his wife and sister engaged in some foreign, female battle he could not possibly comprehend. Finally, he went to find Caballus—a creature with sanity. He spoke briefly with the groom tending Caballus—also a creature with sanity. Finally, he gave instructions to seven weary-yet-vigilant men, who all possessed distinctly high levels of sanity.

  And he formulated a hypothesis that females were saner when not confined to cramped spaces for long periods. Proximity to other females seemed especially problematic.

  Eugenia’s complexities were greater than he’d first suspected. He still did not understand what he’d done, apart from rushing her a bit. But, no matter how labyrinthine her thinking, he intended to master his subject.

  A long, thorough exploratory process. Yes, that was precisely what was needed.

  The blackness was pleased with his plan. So was Phineas.

  He finished his ham and rubbed Caballus’s neck. His grin slowly widened. Once they reached Primvale, he would begin unraveling the mystery of his wife. And that meant experiments. Numerous experiments. A true scientist must be diligent, after all.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Something must be done. We simply cannot have poisoners running about Mayfair reducing the population of marriageable ladies one by one. Who will be left for Lady Gattingford to gossip about?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Home Secretary, Robert Peel, regarding the need to address criminality in a more sensible fashion.

  The ugly, bald giant plunked down a tankard on the table. Jonas Hawthorn gave him a wry grin. “My thanks, Rude. Haven’t had a decent pint in months.”

  Rude Markham grunted and scratched his cauliflower-shaped ear. “Aye. Been some time since I last seen ye. Off chasin’ the muslin, eh?”

  Jonas drank his ale and sighed, slumping back in his chair. “Nothing so fine. Thieves and knaves, mostly.”

  Rude nodded and clapped his shoulder with bruising force. “Tha’s what pays, I reckon.”

  Indeed it did. Jonas spent his waking hours hunting rich men’s trinkets and the pathetic wretches who stole them—so he could one day afford to stop hunting rich men’s trinkets and the pathetic wretches who stole them. Rich men paid rich sums to find their gold watches and silver ladles. Pathetic wretches paid with their necks.

  It had been years since he’d given a damn about the imbalance. More since he’d relished the chase.

  Now, as he watched the ugly, bald giant return to the bar, he wondered at all the ways hunting a murderer felt different. Curious thing, that.

  It was a worm in his
gut. Acid and fire. He wanted this poisoner more than any thief. More than anything in a long, long time.

  He’d thought Holstoke was his man. The pieces had fit. But the itch along his neck hadn’t eased, no matter how many ways he argued where the evidence should lead.

  Then, there had been the problem of … her.

  He closed his eyes and took another drink, warm exhaustion sliding like fog into a valley. No sense in thinking about her. That was one bit of muslin he would never see, let alone touch.

  “Fine time for sleepin’, Hawthorn.”

  Jonas opened his eyes and gave Drayton a half-grin and a tip of his tankard. “It comes when it comes.”

  As Drayton yanked out a chair for himself, the deceptively dapper Lord Dunston removed his hat and took the seat opposite Jonas. The man’s eyes were sharper than his old moniker—Sabre. “What have you found?”

  Sighing, Jonas sat up. Leaned his elbows on the table. Pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket. “Of Randall, Glencombe, Holstoke, and Froom, only one hired new servants in the past two months.”

  Dunston unfolded the paper and nodded. His waistcoat shone bright green in the firelight. “Randall. Do you suspect he was involved?”

  “Unlikely,” Jonas replied. “He benefitted more from keeping his wife alive. Their arrangement served him well.”

  Drayton frowned. “Arrangement?”

  “Mmm,” answered Dunston. “Lady Randall long tolerated Lord Randall’s affection for male companions. Some wives would not be so understanding.”

  “I interviewed every member of the four affected households,” Jonas continued. “Randall’s butler hired two additional footmen to serve guests at the ball where Miss Froom was poisoned.”

  “You spoke to these men?”

  Jonas nodded and pointed to the paper. “The names are there. One was … occupied with Lord Randall for most of the evening.”

  “And the other?” asked Drayton.

  “Fell ill a week prior. His mother and two cousins claim he was in bed with a fever the entire day and night of the Randall affair.” Jonas glanced at Dunston, who, apart from his waistcoat, exhibited few signs of the dandy he pretended to be. “They also claim he was never employed by Lord Randall.”

  Dunston’s gaze narrowed. “Never?”

  “Not hired. Not employed. Not contacted. The boy says he worked for an army captain until the illness came on, and that he hadn’t been strong enough to search out a new position.”

  “An imposter, then.” Dunston rubbed his jaw and shook his head.

  “Bloody, bleeding hell,” muttered Drayton. “Appears we ’ave ourselves another ghost, m’lord.”

  Jonas reached inside his greatcoat and withdrew a second folded sheet. “Perhaps not,” he said, offering the square to Dunston, who unfolded it. Blinked. Sharpened his gaze.

  Jonas grinned and took a drink of Rude Markham’s fine ale. “Ghosts don’t have faces, do they?”

  He knew what Dunston saw—he’d drawn it. The slim nose. The mild brow. The round, gentle eyes. It was a man, but one with such banal features, he’d had a devil of a time prompting maids and other servants to give him sufficient descriptions. Still, it was a face. That was something.

  Dunston handed the paper to Drayton. “Recognize him?”

  “No. Looks harmless.”

  Dunston met Jonas’s eyes. “The cleverest ones do.”

  Jonas raised his tankard and saluted the true statement before taking another drink. “Glencombe’s butler said one of Randall’s footmen delivered a message to Lady Theodosia the morning she was killed.”

  “Let me guess,” said Dunston, sliding the sketch across the table. “He was the messenger.”

  Jonas nodded and set his near-empty tankard on the table, gesturing to Rude. The proprietor slung a towel over his shoulder and retrieved a pitcher. “That’s as far as we’re likely to get by questioning the households. Randall knows nothing. Froom and Glencombe want Holstoke’s head on a platter. And Holstoke claims he knows of no reason why the poisoner would desire his attention, apart from a fascination with his mother.” Jonas folded the sketch and list before tucking them into his pocket. “I need to know more than what I know,” he continued, nodding his thanks to Rude, who slapped his shoulder and poured for all three men.

  “That there’s the truth, ain’t it, Hawthorn?” Rude said, wiping the pitcher with his towel. “I said as much to Reaver last week.” The bald giant glanced around The Black Bull with both pride and nostalgia. “Would that I’d known at the start what I know now. But I were just a fighter with a bit of blunt. Reaver taught me some when I bought the place from ’im. But I ain’t no Reaver, that much is certain.”

  “You do fine, Rude. Just fine.”

  “Ah, ye’re a staunch cove, Hawthorn.” Another bruising clap of his shoulder, along with a booming laugh. “A mite clutch-fisted from time to time, but a good sort.”

  As Rude wandered away, Drayton sat straighter and squinted at Jonas. “Reaver might remember somethin’. He helped me track Lady Holstoke when ’is lordship married and …” Drayton cast a sidelong glance at Dunston and raised a shaggy brow. “Gave up the chase. For a time, at any rate.”

  Dunston murmured his agreement.

  Sebastian Reaver was the owner of a gentlemen’s gaming club occupying an entire square off St. James. The quality liked to frequent the place, or so Jonas understood. As he wasn’t quality, he wasn’t a member. He’d never met the man. But knowing Reaver’s reputation, Jonas would guess he’d been both relentless and effective.

  “What might he recall?” Jonas asked.

  Drayton finished his swallow of ale and shook his head. “Could be he knows somethin’ of the apothecary.” The older man rubbed his own leg beneath the table.

  “What do you remember of it?”

  “Well, as I told ye, we’d tracked the Investor’s—that is, Lady Holstoke’s—poisons to an apothecary shop near the Strand. When we entered, the place was wrecked. The apothecary wore nothin’ but a shirt and drawers. In a bad way, he was.” Drayton ran a hand down his face and took a long pull of ale before continuing. “Shakin’ and droolin’. His eyes were too big.”

  “Too big?”

  “Bulgin’. The centers were big, too. Like Mrs. Varney’s.” Drayton took a shuddering breath. “Anyhow, Reaver picks up the poor bugger and tries to get a name. Nothin’. The man was chokin’ on his own throat. Reaver sends me out to search the garden behind the shop. High walls. A gate leadin’ out to an alley.” He rubbed at his leg again. “The shot came sudden. Scarcely turned round before the scrawny bastard slipped out the gate.”

  Jonas’s neck itched. “Scrawny?”

  “Aye. Thin as a girl, but moved like a boy.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Nah. Only caught a glimpse of his back. I took him for the apprentice. After the surgeon pulled the ball out of me, I attempted to find him, but the apothecary had no apprentices registered with the guild.”

  “We concluded the boy had been paid to dispose of Lady Holstoke’s partner,” Dunston said. “She had a penchant for hiring young men to rid her of her difficulties.”

  “So, you never learned what became of the boy who shot you.”

  Drayton shook his head. “He disappeared. After a few years, I reckoned he returned whence he came or landed in a grave like many others who’d done tasks for Lady Holstoke.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Reaver remembers more.”

  Jonas looked again at Dunston. “Care to make an introduction?”

  The lean lord smiled. “Why not?”

  A short while later, Jonas and Dunston stood inside a third-floor chamber in one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. Jonas took in the surroundings, noting the neatness and sturdiness of the furnishings. The room was less lavish than the rest of the club, but spacious and comfortable, for all that. Rising from behind a massive oak desk, a man more muscled and two inches taller than Rude Markham removed a pair of spectacles.<
br />
  Dunston introduced him as Sebastian Reaver.

  Jonas could see where the black-haired giant had acquired his reputation. He looked like he might break a man with a single blow.

  “Hawthorn,” he rumbled, coming around the desk. Black eyes focused upon Jonas. “I’ve heard the name. And the complaints.”

  “Thieves.” Jonas chuckled. “They cluck worse than a thousand hens.”

  “Aye. Particularly when there’s a wolf in their midst who never fails to catch his supper. What brings you here?”

  Jonas withdrew the sketch and handed it to the giant, who retrieved his spectacles and gave it a look. “Have you seen him?”

  Reaver glowered down at the sketch and shook his head. “Who is he?”

  “Another poisoner,” Dunston replied softly. “An admirer of Lady Holstoke’s work.” Dunston described the murderer’s deeds, his apparent fixation upon Lord Holstoke, and their suspicions about his methods.

  Reaver’s eyes flashed and narrowed. “The formulations are different than hers, eh?”

  “So says Lord Holstoke,” said Jonas.

  “He would know.” Reaver grunted and shook his head. “Bloody brilliant, that one. Relentless, too. Went after his mother’s accomplices like a demon for several years after her death. Found her victims by matching descriptions of their deaths to her methods.”

  Jonas knew that to be true. Holstoke had coldly explained his reasoning, his exhaustive process. He’d appeared emotionless, but after seeing the earl’s reaction to Lady Eugenia Huxley, Jonas tended to believe it was more a mask than his true nature. “Based on Holstoke’s analysis, it appears the killer’s formulations more closely resemble the poison used upon Lady Holstoke’s apothecary. You were there. What do you recall of that day?”

  The giant ran a hand through his hair and rolled his massive shoulders. “It was no easy death. By the time we arrived, the man was insensible. Strangling.”

  “Were you in the garden when Drayton was shot?”

  “No. I heard the shot and ran out there. Saw a figure fleein’ out the gate.”