A Marriage Made in Scandal

by Elisa Braden

  Bloody hell, his nerves were ablaze. He walked faster, disguising his speed with a slouched posture and lengthened gait. Night was coming. Gray light gradually thickened into dusk.

  He found Old Sally leaning against the wood-framed corner of her lodging house, arguing price with a withered man thrice the age of the girl whose arm he clasped.

  “Go on with ye!” the bawd shouted, yanking the girl’s other arm. “’Tis two-pound-five or nothin’, ye old sod.” She shoved the man hard. He stumbled back into the path of a hack. The driver shouted and veered, narrowly missing him.

  Ignoring the fracas, the young whore adjusted her bodice and grinned prettily at Jonas as he approached. “Ooh, ye’re a ’andsome one, ain’t ye? Care for a tumble?”

  Old Sally glanced up from the coins she’d been counting. “Eh. Don’t bother, gel. ’Ee’s got more’n ’is share without payin’ for it. Ain’t that so, Hawthorn?”

  “Tell me about Mary Bly, Sally.”

  The bawd sniffed. “She’s dead. What’s to tell?”

  As he moved in closer, he could smell the gin on her breath, the sweat of summer’s heat. She was a fleshy woman, her hair a blend of orange and gray, her nose red and shiny, even in the dwindling light. “More than you told Drayton,” he uttered, pulling his notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Who hired her last?”

  “Already told Drayton, I’s indisposed. She took payment ’erself.”

  “What did she look like?”

  The bawd shrugged. “Black hair. Flat bosom.”

  “Tell me about her face.”

  A scowl settled deep into the woman’s creases. “Comely enough to fetch four guineas.”

  Tilting his head, he let her have a glimpse of his impatience. “Details, Sally. Now, if you please.”

  The bawd shifted nervously, shot him a wary squint, and swallowed. “Light eyes. Fair skin. Good teeth. Like I said, four guineas. Would’ve been five if not for the bosoms.”

  The sick feeling he’d been battling sank deeper. Grew colder. Apart from one feature, she might be describing Hannah Gray.

  “Eh!” the bawd shouted, shooting past him to shove at the man who’d almost met his end beneath a hack. The man was pestering another of Old Sally’s girls.

  Jonas released a breath, attempting to calm the bloody itch. He needed more answers. He needed to know who had hired Mary Bly and then murdered her in the most brutal fashion.

  “Mr. Hawthorn?”

  He turned.

  The young, yellow-haired whore with bruises forming on her arms gazed up at him with a puckered frown. “Ye’re lookin’ for the man what killed Mary?”

  “I am.”

  “I—I might’a seen ’im.”

  Bloody hell. “When?”

  “A week past.” The girl’s brown eyes gleamed with tears. “Poor Mary. Is it true she were b-beaten?”

  Gently, he took the girl’s elbow and drew her deeper into the shadows of the lodging house. “Just tell me what you remember. Can you describe him?”

  The girl sniffed and swiped at her nose. “Mary ’ad the loveliest eyes. Like moonlight, they were. Drove the lads mad.”

  Inside, he went colder. He reached into the lowest pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a sketch he hadn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but his own. Carefully, he unfolded the paper. “Did she look something like this?”

  The girl peered at his drawing. A frown tugged. “Aye. She were a bit ’arder, ye understand. Not as lovely as that one. But similar.”

  He folded the sketch, tucked it away, and offered the girl a handkerchief.

  She took it and blew her nose.

  “I need to know about the man Mary left with. What did he look like?”

  The girl made a show of dabbing her eyes. Sniffed again. Wiped away a tear. Then, she calmly held out her palm.

  He glanced down at the small, empty hand. Came back to meet young, jaded eyes.

  Devil take it. How he despised this world.

  He dug out two pounds and five shillings and dropped the money into her open hand. “Now,” he said softly. “Tell me.”

  “’Ee were shorter than you.”

  He held his hand level with his nose.

  She nodded. “Pleasant to look upon. ’Is eyes were soft, understand. Round, like ’ee were a green lad. But ’ee weren’t that. There were a coldness in ’im. I told Mary not to go. But ’ee offered five. Nobody does that.”

  “Five guineas?”

  She nodded again. “Last I saw of Mary Bly, she were climbin’ into a ’ack with ’im.”

  He reached into his upper pocket and unfolded the now-careworn sketch. “Is this the man you saw?”

  Her eyes widened. “Aye. Tha’s the one.”

  His urgency increased a hundredfold. The blackguard was going to attack Hannah Gray. He did not know why, but it bloody well didn’t matter. All that mattered was reaching her. Keeping her safe.

  “Ye missed ’is scar.”

  He frowned and glanced down at the sketch. “What scar?”

  She traced a finger along the side of the man’s neck. “Ear to shoulder. A long, white scar. From a blade, I reckon. Healed jagged, though.”

  “He wasn’t wearing a neckcloth?”

  “Naught but a shirt and waistcoat. Plain. Bit like yours. Tha’s why I took notice. Looked too poor to offer five shillings, never mind five guineas.”

  Jonas did not understand the man’s game. He’d dressed in a footman’s livery to invade Randall’s house—complete with the powdered wig. An effective disguise if a man wished to blend into the scenery. Then, he’d solicited a prostitute wearing plain, humble clothes that exposed a distinguishing scar. No wig. No disguise.

  Why change patterns with Mary Bly? Why not poison her and leave her somewhere near Covent Garden, where she was known to ply her trade?

  Knightsbridge was a fair distance away. The blackguard had paid for the hack. He’d paid five guineas for Miss Bly. He’d managed to enter a vacant house and murder a woman without the neighbors noticing.

  And he could be anywhere.

  Once again, Jonas glanced around, taking in the rabble of Castle Street. The workhouse. The lodging house. The withered man arguing with the bawd.

  He nodded to the girl and tucked away his notebook and the sketch. Then, he began to move. He needed to go to Dorsetshire. He needed to be where Hannah Gray was. The prickle in his neck and the fire in his spine screamed it until his pace neared a run.

  He rounded the corner off of Hart Street and felt his neck catch fire. Sheer instinct drove him to dart left.

  A searing pain speared his shoulder.

  He blinked, disoriented by the force of the blow. It jerked him sideways into a wall of brick.

  Blood pounded. Drumming and drumming. His hand went numb. Dripped.

  He looked everywhere, but dark had fallen while he’d talked to the yellow-haired whore. Nobody in sight. A single light. It glowed gold in a window on the second story. The window was open.

  His breathing sharpened. He shoved away from bricks. Staggered forward toward the gold glow. A figure appeared in silhouette. Tall. Different than he’d drawn. He blinked, the gold and shadow blurring.

  A quiet thwick. Another streak of agony. His right thigh.

  He went to his knees hard. His blood drummed and drummed. Seeped and pooled. Whatever had struck him made his vision blur. He could scarcely see his own hands gripping cobbles and dirt.

  He’d met death before. Old friends, they were.

  This was not how things would end.

  He needed to get to the gold window. That was all. He needed to kill one man before that man killed … her.

  Bracing his hand on the bricks, he forced himself to rise. Forced his feet to plant and his hand to shove and his left leg to carry his full weight. The filthy street tilted. Undulated and duplicated. He shook his head. Took a step.

  An explosion of anguish cannoned through his right leg. He looked down. Twin feathered arrows protruded from
his thigh. No, not twin. There was one. One in his leg and one in his shoulder.

  Christ, his blood kept drumming and drumming. He had to get to the window. Had to kill one man.

  Another step. Another burst of anguish. A third. And a fourth.

  “Hawthorn!”

  A fifth. His breath sawed in and out. He focused upon the door that led to the second story that led to the blackguard who meant to kill … her.

  “Bloody, bleeding hell, man. Are those arrows?” It was Drayton.

  He fell to his knees again as the other man reached him. “W-window.” He gripped Drayton’s arm, shaking it. “Second story. Go.” He shoved, but he was weak. Too damned weak.

  Drayton attempted to pull him up.

  “Go!” Jonas roared, pointing toward the gold window.

  A cursing, limping lope carried the other man away.

  Jonas tried to convince the ground to steady. But it was only growing wetter.

  His blood drummed and drummed. The darkness came, gray at the edges.

  Breathing was shallow now. He blinked. Sound faded. A woman passed by, her skirts swishing away from him.

  A woman. Pale skin. Eyes of moonlight. Hair of midnight. Miles above him. Leagues. Cold and pristine as a winter lake.

  “… will hurt like bleeding hell, Hawthorn. Must be done …”

  Fire. In his shoulder and leg. Bursting white behind his eyes, then dark and gray and blurred. Then rocking. Pulsing green gaslights.

  “… see Dunston’s surgeon. Hold tight, man. Nearly there.”

  For a moment, his vision sharpened. He saw Drayton above him in a coach. A hack, perhaps. The wheels clattered on the pavement at a furious pace.

  “Catch him?” Jonas wheezed.

  Drayton ran a hand over his whiskered, haggard face. “No. He was gone. Left the bow behind, though. Generous fellow.”

  Jonas reached up with his uninjured arm and carefully clawed a fistful of Drayton’s coat. He drew the older man down so that he would hear him well. The green gaslights were dimming. Blurring.

  “Must go to Dorsetshire.”

  “Hawthorn—”

  “Dorsetshire,” he shouted, though it came out as a threaded wheeze. “She is in danger.”

  Drayton glowered, his eyes flashing in the passing light. “Who?”

  “Gray,” he whispered. “Hannah Gray.”

  “You’re out of your head. Once the surgeon has a chance to—”

  “Swear it to me,” he growled, shaking Drayton with as much force as he could muster, which was not much. “Must go to Dorsetshire. Warn Holstoke. Protect her.”

  “Aye. Dorsetshire. I’ll leave at first light.”

  “We,” he corrected, the green lights graying. Blurring. Disappearing.

  His grip slipped loose as he heard Drayton’s rough crack of laughter. “… daft, Hawthorn … been shot … bleeding arrows, for Christ’s sake.”

  Jonas’s eyes drifted closed until the only thing he saw was … her. “I am going,” he whispered, wondering if he’d only spoken the words in his mind. “This is not how it ends.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “When I advised you to take up new gentlemanly pursuits, perhaps I should have been more specific: Riding, archery, fencing. These are all quite appropriate. Notice I did not mention ladies’ fashions.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Holstoke in a letter of reply to said gentleman’s request for a list of periodicals best suited to those of a feminine persuasion.

  Twenty days after arriving at Primvale, Phineas received his third report from Drayton. He shoved away from his library desk and tossed the missive aside.

  Damn and blast.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he moved to the window, glared out at the sunken garden, and shook his head in disbelief.

  Another woman had been found dead. This time, the victim was not an aristocrat or even a servant. She was a prostitute. Her body had been discovered inside a house in Knightsbridge. The house had sat empty for years.

  Natural, he supposed. Few people would wish to live where a demon had been righteously slaughtered. The demon was Horatio Syder—once his mother’s partner and Hannah’s captor. Syder had been pure evil, which might explain why Lydia Brand had been drawn to him in the first place. To discover another victim in the very place where Syder had died left no remaining doubt about the poisoner’s intentions: The blackguard had fixated upon Phineas’s mother and, by extension, Phineas.

  Scarcely anybody knew of his mother’s connection to Horatio Syder. Dunston, of course. A handful of others. But the fact that Syder had been her solicitor and business partner for years had remained secret, partly because Phineas had paid large sums to key officials and newspaper publishers. He’d also leveraged every connection he’d acquired at Harrow and Cambridge, including the current Home Secretary.

  He would have done more to protect Hannah. Anything. Fortunately, his measures had been enough. Until now.

  Somehow, the poisoner knew. About Syder. About his death and his association with Lydia Brand.

  Phineas, on the other hand, knew precious little of the poisoner. He’d sent Drayton numerous theories, including Eugenia’s insight about the apothecary having an assistant. Drayton had questioned surrounding shopkeepers and discovered a young man named Theodore Neville had worked there for several years before the apothecary’s death. He’d vanished thereafter, rumored to have fled north. Drayton, Dunston, and Hawthorn had soon ruled him out as the poisoner, since the descriptions did not match the man who had infiltrated Randall’s household.

  Yet, the poisoner must be tied to Phineas’s mother. He must know how to produce the poisons, and he must be acquiring his ingredients from druggists. The concentrations were too high for it to be otherwise. According to Drayton, Hawthorn had drawn a sketch of the poisoner and carried it to virtually every apothecary shop in London. Nobody had recognized him.

  Phineas had spent weeks puzzling it out, his only result frustration.

  A light knock sounded at the door. Before he could say a word, the door opened.

  “There you are,” said the woman who never left his thoughts. “I intend to persuade Hannah to ride farther than a few paces this morning. We shall be practicing in one of the east pastures, provided she does not attack me with her riding cane. Do not be alarmed.”

  He smiled. Turned. Lifted a brow. “Is that an acorn?”

  Eugenia tilted her chin and fingered the wide straw brim of her hat. “Why, yes. Yes it is. The theme is ‘Plant a seed and lo, it grows.’ Do you approve?”

  Grinning, he stalked toward her. He’d been grinning for weeks. He’d never laughed or smiled or outright guffawed so much in his entire life. It was her. She made him … light. Just seeing her lifted him ten feet off the ground. Perhaps twelve.

  “Yes, Briar. I approve.”

  “You don’t think it is too much?” Her smile remained teasing, but an odd thread of uncertainty ran underneath. He’d sensed similar doubts when she’d shown him her new workshop—a sitting room near her bedchamber that she’d transformed with tables, shelves, hat blocks, and enough feathers to construct a castle-sized ostrich sculpture. As she’d chattered away, describing all the reasons why he should not be alarmed by the bills soon to arrive at his door, he’d watched her hands. The nervous fluttering had surprised him. He’d asked about her plans, whether she still intended to open a shop one day.

  She’d been startled, that uncertainty clouding her eyes. “No,” she’d said quietly. “Countesses do not open shops any more than Huxleys do.”

  He’d begun to argue that countesses—particularly his countess—could do as they pleased, but she’d distracted him with kisses and tugged him away to luncheon with her and Hannah beside the lake.

  That very day, he’d begun his research. She did not yet know, and perhaps he should wait to tell her until he had completed his inquiries. But her doubts ate at him. His Briar should be fearless, growing in whatever direct
ion her heart directed. That was her nature, though something had obviously shaken her confidence. Mrs. Pritchard’s dismissal, perhaps.

  Now, eyeing her broad-brimmed hat with its leaves and acorns and ribbons, he felt the compulsion to replace the uncertainty in her eyes with her customary spark of boldness.

  He cleared his throat. Clasped his hands at his back. “I have seen a hat similar to yours.”

  She blinked. Shook her head. “Where?”

  “A recent edition of La Belle Assemblée.”

  Her mouth rounded. She frowned. “Why, may I ask, are you reading a publication valued primarily for its fashion plates?”

  Again, he cleared his throat. “The articles are edifying.”

  “Phineas.”

  “Research.”

  “About?”

  “Ladies’ fashions. Hats, specifically.”

  Silence and a perplexed stare.

  “My findings are preliminary. The degree to which one may be certain of one’s conclusions in matters of ephemeral preferences in headdress is subject to—”

  “Phineas.” This time, his name emerged throaty and soft.

  “Your creations, so far as I can determine, are quite the first stare of fashion. Should you desire to establish your own shop, I’ve little doubt you would find success.”

  Although he had simply stated the truth, her breathing quickened. A gloved hand settled above her bosom.

  Her response was most encouraging.

  “Great success,” he emphasized, once again moving toward her. He thought she was pleased. Perhaps even feeling amorous. This had been an excellent idea. “I like your hat, Briar.”