Scandal on Half Moon Street

by Vivian Roycroft

  The black robe bulked out Lord Anson’s scrawny frame and swayed above his buckled shoes, as if he’d stopped abruptly in the doorway. With his head tilted back, glittering eyes peering through the spectacles perched on the bump of his nose, and his sharp chin aimed into the room like some sort of secret weapon, he could have been an arthritic, severe crow, preparing to caw down the flighty young coxcomb within. Except, of course, for the bob wig skewed atop his head.

  The last vestiges of Frederick’s self-respect curled up and burned to shriveled ash inside him. Lovely Christmas present to himself, that.

  “Young Master Shaw,” Lord Anson drawled. He cleared his throat again. “So it’s you — of all the over-educated, posturing players strutting before this bar, pretending to be true barristers who are concerned with the affairs of their lay clients — from their slovenly ranks, I say, it’s you who penned those diabolically—” he paused, as if searching for the most appropriate word “—clever novels.”

  They could strike his name from the Inner Temple’s rolls, they could drive him from their walls and into the wilderness with great gnashing of teeth and rending of garments, but they could never—

  Wait. Just one moment. He hadn’t said—

  He’d said—

  What?

  “My lord?” Good night; hopefully he didn’t look as blank and lost as his voice sounded.

  Lord Anson tilted his head even further back. Gimlet eyes sharpened through his half-lenses. “This latest installment in the ongoing series of delightfully trashy Gothic romances centered upon the Inns of Court did carry your name beneath the title.”

  “Well—”

  “Yes, or no?”

  He swallowed, and Lord Anson’s gaze dipped to his throat. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then it is natural to assume that, as they all carry interrelated elements of formal patterning and ferocious irony from volume to volume, they have all been spawned—” Lord Anson drawled the word, as if tasting it “—by the same creative hand?”

  This wasn’t going at all as he’d imagined. “Yes, my lord.”

  One slow blink, like a satisfied owl with a belly full of lazy mouse. “Then I expect Lady Anson will require you to sign her volumes. Preferably before you sign anyone else’s.” He stepped back from the doorway and vanished, robes swirling behind him.

  Debenham fell through the door, clutching his side and squeaking with suppressed laughter. When he collapsed into the chair, it was all he could manage for what seemed a full and increasingly disgruntled minute. “Senior Bencher,” he finally gasped out, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction Lord Anson had traveled.

  Silly fool. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Squeak, squeak. “Future treasurer, he is.”

  “Debenham, if you can’t speak sense—”

  “No repercussions.” The clerk wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, still grinning. “If old Anson’s not upset, I don’t expect anyone else will have much to say.” He giggled. “Except ‘Sign me book,’ of course.”

  It swooped upon Frederick and exploded within him, the realization that Debenham was right, and a sweet, misty afterglow popped in its wake like champagne bubbles. He’d keep his position, his chamber, his career.

  Now to cut out that blithering duke and make Anne his, too.

  ****

  “He must be frantic.” Anne paced from window to end table to pianoforte, the book clutched to her chest like a talisman. The rounded edges cut into her fingers. But she couldn’t force herself to relax her grip. “He’s worried so over establishing his career, worried about providing for me. This must be devastating for him and no one can comfort him but me. I must find a way to go to him.”

  “But surely that’s impossible.” Alicia glanced toward the door, lowering her voice far more effectively than Mama. “My aunt Kirkhoven—”

  “—yes, I know what she said. It doesn’t matter.” Her feet would stop no more than her fingers. All she could think of was Frederick and his agony. If she weren’t upstairs, she’d climb out the window and run for it; what were the chances she couldn’t outrun Mama? Small indeed. For that matter, Mama was not likely to be standing in the staircase’s center, defending it against her. Anne turned for the door. Hat and pelisse and then she’d be off, whatever the chase or consequences.

  Quick, dancing footsteps behind her. Alicia grabbed her arm. “Anne, you must stop.”

  She didn’t. She couldn’t, and pulled against Alicia’s grip. “Let me go.”

  The fingers about her upper arm tightened and yanked. A sharp pain, the parlor spun, and when the dizzy flash passed, she faced away from the door and they stood nose to nose.

  “Do you understand what you’re saying?” Alicia’s whisper was a bare hiss, too quiet to be heard a step away, and her expression had twisted with horror. “You’re planning to leave your parents’ house and throw yourself on the mercy of a man who may no longer be able to decently afford a wife.”

  No, she wasn’t — wait. Was she? If she left now—

  Alicia’s mouth moved without sound. She sucked in a deep breath and tried again. This time words emerged, albeit in a tangled, hurried jumble. “Leaving town before the Kringles’ ball is social suicide. But leaving in this manner is far, far worse.”

  —if she left in such a manner—

  And everything within Anne stilled.

  “—then I must love him very much, mustn’t I?”

  It was so clear, so very plain and simple, and Anne’s frightened heart melted within her. More than lace, more than a proper wedding, more than soirees and balls and fancy ices. More than any combination of anything London could offer. Her pulse lightened and soared. The imprisoned sensation fell away and she laughed.

  Emotions became rational. Rationality became emotional.

  Within days, she’d be Mrs. Frederick Shaw.

  If she could escape the attentions of her overbearing mother and the world’s most notorious duke for long enough to slip away.

  And poor Alicia must think her mad. Or at least her mouth had fallen open, rather like that of a fish. Utterly diverting.

  “The Kringles host a bluestocking literary salon, do they not?” Anne tugged Alicia into a hug, then into a dance, swinging them in circles around the chaise longue. Around and around, Alicia gaping and holding on, swooping the copper-colored curtains aside and leaving them swaying, then Alicia’s hair tumbled to her shoulders and something bumped against Anne’s legs and down she went, onto the pianoforte’s bench, and Alicia hit beside her with a wobble and bang of keys. “Lady Kringle delights in showing off her collection of authors, does she not? And Holly Hall backs onto the Hampstead Road, does it not? Dear, dear Alicia, sweetest of cousins, most delightful of souls—”

  She tried to pull away, of course. But Anne hung on in her turn.

  “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday, December 24, 1812

  The carriage rattled north along the Tottenham Court Road. Sharper air, brittle like frost but not yet that cold, and the sunset painted the world with a glowing golden light. It played over Mama’s powdered face, the upright ivory plumes in her stylish turban, and flashed from her sapphire earrings and necklace with blue flames. Her expression remained severe; she’d forgiven nothing. Not that Anne sought forgiveness; that would come later, after she was safely married and ensconced with Frederick in their own home. Or perhaps it wouldn’t come at all. But that would be Mama’s choice to make; her own was already finalized, be it emotional, rational, or otherwise.

  They rolled across the Paddington road, past Charles Street, their silence unbroken. A whiff of manure, a lowing moo; half a dozen cows skittered away from the carriage, a boy surely too young to be out alone chivvying them along. As they approached the St. James’s burying ground and the turnoff for Holly Hall, passing a clump of shrubbery on the right, something rather heavy thumped on the road’s verge.

  Anne
held her breath, but Mama didn’t seem to notice and the coachman held the chestnuts steady. No one called out. Her lungs resumed working, sucking in the increasingly wintry evening air, and even the last of the manure smelled — well, not heavenly, but realistic. Gregory had promised he’d return and ensure her little trunk was safe, so she and Frederick could retrieve it as they left. The biggest danger to their escape had been that the coachman would notice Gregory tossing the trunk from the carriage’s rumble seat; with that danger now past, the tension drained from Anne, and she settled back into her cushions.

  It would be an evening for the ton, and Mama, to remember. She and Frederick would ensure that.

  And since they’d be eloping through the back gardens, wearing their evening attire, after she’d completed two energetic dances, it was a good thing she’d tucked her spare pelisse into the trunk.

  ****

  In the long portrait gallery that served Holly Hall as an entry, Anne waited behind Mama, and together they greeted Lord and Lady Kringle, the Honorable Deborah Kringle, and the Honorably Abominable George Anson, who seemed attached to poor Deborah’s arm for the evening and exuberantly pleased to be so. No one except George, of course, believed for a moment that he’d be on her arm the entire evening. The only question was, when and how she’d manage to extricate herself.

  Then, opposite the first scowling Kringle ancestor, before Anne could even tense in anticipation—

  “My dear Lady Wotton.” With his usual delighted smile, His Grace bowed over Mama’s hand. His midnight blue double-breasted swallowtail-coat with gilt buttons, trim white breeches, and obviously silk stockings outshone the attire of anyone else in the entry with superior cut and cloth. Coupled with his naturally cultured air, it gave him the bloom of an immaculately-groomed hunter: a powerful animal, well presented. At least being seen with him wasn’t an embarrassment in that manner.

  Mama’s stony visage hardened further, as if she yearned to speak her mind. But his smile didn’t waver, and suddenly Anne knew Mama would not dare; she’d not risk affronting a duke, no matter what she thought of his behavior nor what she said about him in private. And although Mama’s eyes flashed and her reddened lips opened, when he politely tilted his chin, she wilted like yesterday’s flowers.

  And indeed said nothing.

  Anne’s heart soared, even as she ached for her mother’s dignity and her own familial pride. If Mama would not challenge authority, then all she, Anne, needed to do was become an authority in her own right. Then she could do as she liked. And the first rational step along that path was to be seen as an adult in Mama’s eyes, and the first step along that path was to become a married woman.

  Quod erat demonstrandum.

  “And Miss Kirkhoven.” His smile for her was deeper and more pointed; he too had judged Mama correctly. Again her traitorous pulse answered — he knew, oh how he knew, to make a woman feel the center of the universe — but on this occasion she recognized her surge of tingling attraction for what it was: a distraction from her heart’s true desire.

  She only had to hold out for a little while. Alicia had successfully petitioned elegant Lady Kringle, she of the weekly literary salon, to invite Frederick to the ball, as Mama had so blandly suggested. Now that his secret was out, her cousin had reported, Lady Kringle had been only too thrilled to claim their mutual acquaintance and snap him up for the evening. He was either already inside Holly Hall or en route. And while her conscience squirmed with niggling guilt for the atrocious way she and Frederick intended to betray Lady Kringle’s trust, she couldn’t help but also feel a heady, soaring thrill at the opportunity so presented.

  Add another name to the we’ll-apologize-later list.

  Meanwhile, she might as well enjoy her last Christmas Eve ball at Holly Hall. Once she became Mrs. Frederick Shaw, with all the scandal inherent in her elopement, it wasn’t likely she or he would ever be invited again, no matter how elegant or contrite their apology, nor how intriguing Frederick’s next few novels.

  And in her heart, Anne found she didn’t care a whit.

  “Miss Kirkhoven, would you do me the honor of accompanying me into the family parlor?” The chandeliers’ light flashed a distracting gleam from his buttons, a subtle, discreet gleam more like true gold than gilt or pinchbeck. He smiled, and oddly, his eyes seemed warm with something approaching real affection. Like his buttons, if he was a counterfeit, he qualified for the first water. “There’s something I’d very much like to show you.”

  She paused. That sounded like a classical excuse to — well, explain the engravings to her, so to speak. However, it would get her away from Mama — necessary for their plan’s chances — and if His Grace became obstreperous, she could always scream. Of course, someone would notice that she’d slipped away with him in private, and the gossip would spread.

  And she didn’t care about that any longer, either.

  “Of course, your grace.” Anne took his offered arm. “The honor is all mine.”

  Turning, they left Mama standing, alone in the crowded gallery.

  ****

  Her hand rested with affecting trust on his arm as His Grace lead Anne along the walnut-paneled gallery, past gilt-framed portraits and doorways leading deeper into the manor. Lady Kringle must have sent all her housemaids and footmen to the country, to have gathered and arranged even half the ivy, holly, evergreen boughs, and — ahem — mistletoe sprigs decorating her tasteful manor. Glistening leaves and wreaths bedecked with red and white berries graced every vertical surface, and swags of greenery draped along the curtain rods and tabletops and banisters. Extra tables had been squeezed into the dining and drawing rooms, and atop each a snowy Christmas candle burned amidst pine cones and holly, releasing the warm scent of molten beeswax into the air as the flames released drippings into the holders’ bobèches.

  But the real attraction, the most touching decoration, resided in the family parlor, beyond the library full of well-thumbed leather-bound tomes and the music room with its harp, harpsichord, pianoforte, and spinet. Anonymous furniture loomed in the parlor’s darkened center; behind the shapeless lumps, a small fir tree grew in a massive wooden tub, a lit beeswax candle at the end of every branch. Strings of almonds and raisins draped between the branches, little closed paper packets nestled among them, and the tub was almost hidden by a stacked circle of toys: skipping ropes, dolls, toy soldiers, wooden horses, kaleidoscopes, dissected maps, building blocks in batches. And bundles of pale, patterned muslin were tied up with brilliant silk sashes, puce, pomona green, peony red, evening primrose, azure.

  He couldn’t help smiling as Anne stared, forehead crinkled and chin tilted. She seemed especially enchanting tonight, with a cascade of flaxen curls spilling down the delectable skin of her neck and the barest flush of rose highlighting the curves of her cheeks. Her pale lilac silk gown flowed around her gentle curves, and darker roses fashioned from ribbons graced both shoulders atop the two-toned split oversleeves, as well as each swag along the gown’s trainless hem. No longer innocent but mature and strong, in so many ways, she was so like—

  “What on earth is it?”

  He shook himself before the memories could take hold. “Ein Weihnachtsbaum,” he said, and laughed when her chin lowered and her confusion deepened, achingly soft lips pouting. “A Christmas tree, it’s called. It’s a Rhineland tradition, and Lady Kringle arranged one for my entertainment. Queen Charlotte has one at her Windsor lodge, as well,” he added.

  Anne touched one of the springy fir’s branches, below a lit candle, and the firelight danced over the coquelicot red wall beyond. “This is how you decorate for Christmas in your homeland?”

  So she was willing to believe the rumors, at least as far as his “foreignness” was concerned. Granted, he’d just given her a stronger clue than he’d ever given anyone else. And it was odd, how simple bits of cut greenery could still arouse his native sentimentality and tug at his homesick heart. If he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drawing in the
hot wax and evergreen scents, his mind’s eye without effort brought up the memory of his mother’s much larger, more ornately decorated trees, the gifts and toys she handed out to poor families every year.

  But Anne was watching him and her eyes were widening. He had a reputation to uphold, after all, and couldn’t be seen as sentimental. “Yes.”

  Perhaps his reasons for pretending were no longer sufficient. As usual, he’d developed a liking for his target, real affection beneath his outlandish game, and of course that liking would hinder his final few moves. In the end, it was always hard to let them go. Anne, though — oh, her face, her entire being made it worse this time, with her Cupid’s-bow mouth, perfect complexion, sweet curving cheeks, musical voice, straight posture, pale golden hair, small stature, and that delightful, growing air of confidence and determination. Memories pounded at him, flickering like ghostly torches on the edges of his mind, and for one unguarded moment his self-imposed mask slid aside and he knew she gazed with startled eyes at Ernst, unconcealed.

  And emotional.

  And silly and homesick and gemütlich and he needed to reassert control if he wasn’t going to let the game slip away at the last moment.

  Another deep breath. Now he even smelled the sharp resin scent of a flaming torch rather than warm beeswax. Without a word, he offered his arm and led her back, through the dim library into the brightly-lit, pine-scented corridor beyond, past scurrying footmen and darkened doorways, toward the bustle of voices and the first long note of the violin. All that long way, he felt her gaze, fastened onto his profile, and knew which man she saw.

  Not the one she knew.

  From the gallery to Holly Hall’s modern east wing, and between two pairs of marble Tuscan columns guarding the short corridor, flanked with drawing rooms, that spilled them into the ballroom proper. The powder blue décor was new and classically artistic. White rosette molding framed a long line of sparkling windows, up near the soaring ceiling, each window bracketed with white pilasters, the pattern only broken for the musicians’ loggia, a floor above the assembly and with refreshment tables beneath. Jewels and breathtaking gowns echoed the chandeliers’ light, and more than one pair of knowing eyes swiveled at his entrance. For a moment the assembly paused, conversations fading and still faces watching.