Trapped by Scandal

by Jane Feather

  “Yes.” His voice was wary.

  “Can we go there now?”

  “No.”

  Hero glanced sideways at his set profile and said nothing for a few minutes. Then she slipped her hand from his arm and asked, “Why do you attach so much importance to my reputation, William? I care nothing for it, so why should you?”

  “You care nothing for it because you don’t know what it means to lose it,” he responded curtly.

  She stopped on the pathway, standing slightly in front of him, blocking his way. “And you do? It makes no sense to me that someone who lives the life you live should give a fig for convention and reputation and all the societal silliness that means. I don’t understand it.” She spoke fiercely, struggling to convey to him the vital importance of her question. She had to learn why he had felt it necessary to bring their love affair to such a cruelly abrupt ending on the Isle of Wight, when in her heart, she knew he felt, or had felt, as deeply attached to her as she was to him.

  “I have seen what happens to people when they lose their place in their world,” William stated, his expression darkening. “And you have not. I have lost one person whom I loved more than I can say because of it, and I will not stand aside and let the same thing happen to you.”

  “Who was it? Will you tell me about it?”

  “No,” he said flatly, his tawny gold eyes shadowed. “That is not something I will share with anyone. It is not all mine to share.”

  Slowly, Hero nodded. She had a horror of intruding on anyone’s privacy, just as she had a horror of anyone intruding on her own. She wanted most desperately to know what had happened, because it held the key to any resumption of their own loving liaison, but she knew she had gone as far as she dared for now.

  William looked at her bent head, the frown on her usually smooth forehead, and he could feel her hurt. He reached out a finger and lifted her chin, obliging her to meet his eyes. “That subject is closed, Hero. But all is not lost. You may invite me for dinner tomorrow evening.” A smile quirked the corners of his mouth, and the shadows left his eyes.

  The old familiar William had returned, and Hero forced down the flicker of resentment that he thought he could so easily move beyond something that still mattered so deeply to her. She had no choice at this point and in this public space but to accept what he would give her. She executed a perfect curtsy, saying sweetly, “Pray, sir, would you do us the honor of dining with my brother and myself tomorrow evening? I fear Lady Bruton will be obliged to excuse herself, but my companion, Lady Emily, will, I’m sure, be more than happy to receive you.”

  He bowed solemnly. “Indeed, madam, the honor will be all mine.”

  “At seven o’clock, then.” She turned to retrace her steps.

  “Allow me to escort you to your door, ma’am.” He took her arm firmly in his again.

  “Thank you. I’m sure my reputation would suffer dreadfully from my walking alone in Grosvenor Square in front of my own house,” she murmured.

  “Put the claws away, sweetheart. They don’t suit you,” he said, laughing at her. “Cry peace.”

  “Truce,” she amended.

  “As you wish.” He escorted her to her door and waited until she had been admitted before walking away, heading for St. James’s Street and White’s Club.

  The Lizard was sitting beside the fire in the main salon of White’s Club. He was alone, a glass of claret at hand, a copy of the London Gazette open in front of him. But he was not reading the latest pieces of Society gossip or the latest political news, despite the paper’s preoccupation with affairs in Europe and most particularly in Paris. His gaze slipped sideways to survey the salon’s occupants, the arrivals and departures. He was not a well-known member. Indeed, his membership had been finagled through discreet diplomatic channels by Chauvelin, the French ambassador to the Court of St. James before the execution of the French king ended diplomatic relations between the two countries. From the point of view of the members of the exclusive club, Chevalier Everard Dubois was simply an unfortunate émigré from the chaos that had destroyed French Society.

  He was aware of William Ducasse’s presence almost before the Viscount walked into the salon. There was something about the man that commanded instant attention—unless, of course, he had no wish to be noticed, Dubois reflected grimly, his eyes studiously fixed on the newspaper in his hands. When Ducasse had a mind to be invisible, somehow he achieved it. But clearly, this afternoon was not such an occasion. He strolled through the salon, greeting acquaintances, pausing at a card table to watch a game of whist, laughingly offering a word of advice to a pair playing chess in the bay window looking onto St. James’s Street. If he was aware of his nemesis, he gave no sign, until, with a glass of claret in his hand, he crossed the salon to the fireplace and stood with his back to the fire, idly surveying the room before turning his seemingly languid gaze on Everard Dubois.

  The Lizard lowered his paper, and for a moment, the two men looked at each other in silence, a look of acknowledgment, of rapiers drawn. Then Ducasse nodded once and strolled away towards double doors at the end of the room, which led into a further card room.

  “Ducasse, come and take my place. I’ve lost enough for one day.” Sir Marcus Gosford hailed him from a card table where they were playing faro.

  “Gladly, Marcus.” William walked over to the table. “Are the cards not running for you today?”

  “The devil’s in ’em,” Marcus declared in disgust, pushing back his chair. “See if you can do any better.”

  “A word with you first.” William walked a little to one side, exchanging his empty glass for a full one from the tray of a passing footman.

  Marcus followed, his eyes now watchful. He had worked long enough with William in the bloody furnace of revolutionary Paris to know when caution was necessary. He took a glass from the footman and glanced nonchalantly around the card room. It looked the same to him now as it had done when he’d entered an hour earlier.

  “The Lizard is in the next room,” William observed casually, his tone evenly modulated, as if he was imparting a perfectly ordinary piece of gossip.

  “Why?” Marcus’s tone was equally bland, although his eyes had sharpened like the tips of daggers.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But it bodes nothing good, you can be sure.” He sipped his claret. “He’s been around town for a few weeks but never made his presence as obvious as it is now. So just a word to the wise.” He nodded as casually as before and went to take his friend’s place at the faro table.

  Marcus walked away and took a side door from the card room, which took him out to the hall without having to cross the main salon. He retrieved his cloak, hat, and cane from the porter and went out into the crisp air. There was a game afoot once again, and he felt a little of the old thrill from the Paris days, as well as an almost palpable sharpening of his wits.

  Everard Dubois remained in the main salon, his eyes seeing nothing of the printed page in front of him. He had made the first move in the game, and while Ducasse had shown no chink in his impassive demeanor, the Lizard knew that his openly thrown gauntlet would have caught the other man by surprise. They were both so accustomed to working in the shadows that bringing the game into the open was bound to catch the enemy wrong-footed. Of course, Ducasse would be even more watchful now, but Dubois was confident that unless his quarry went completely to ground, which would be out of a character for a man who had never resisted a challenge, something or someone in his life would offer an opening for the poisoned tip of the sword.

  Carefully, he folded his newspaper along the fold and laid it aside as he rose to his feet and sauntered out of the club, well satisfied with his afternoon’s work.

  As far as his card-playing companions were concerned, William Ducasse, Viscount St. Aubery, was his usual genial, if slightly reserved, self. He played as astutely as he always did, although the gam
e was essentially one of chance, and after half an hour, he gathered up his modest winnings and made his farewells to the table.

  He left the club, nothing in his bland demeanor offering a clue to the swift calculations his mind was making as he walked to Half Moon Street. The Lizard had come into the open, a move that changed the rules of the game by which they had always played. William could congratulate his old enemy on such a sideways maneuver, but it made it imperative that he find out what lay behind it. What was Everard Dubois planning? If he wasn’t working in the shadows anymore, what did he hope to achieve by moving into the open?

  As he strolled casually down Piccadilly, William, as always, looked for followers, but he had the feeling that was an old technique, one the Lizard had abandoned. His quarry was to be free to walk the streets and go about his business without a close follower. It was intriguing, and it also made him unusually anxious. He hated the idea that he didn’t know what was in the Lizard’s mind.

  He arrived at his leased house in Half Moon Street, a tall, narrow residence with a front door that opened directly onto the narrow pavement. A curricle swept past him in the street as he inserted his key in the lock, so close he could feel the breeze of its passing against his coattails. As soon as he stepped into the hall, he sensed something was out of place. He looked around the narrow hallway. Everything was in its usual place.

  “André?” He called for his servant as he hung his beaver hat on the hook by the door.

  The man appeared from the baize door behind the stairs, looking a little agitated. “Forgive me, my lord, but you have a visitor, and . . .”

  “That’s all right, André, you need not explain my presence to his lordship.”

  William stared with growing anger at the figure who had appeared in the doorway of the small sitting room to the right of the hall.

  “You must not blame André, William,” Hero said swiftly. “But—”

  “Oh, believe me, I do not,” William interrupted emphatically. He seized her shoulder, spun her around, and pushed her back into the sitting room, closing the door with a click behind them.

  “Just what do you think you’re playing at?”

  Hero shrugged lightly. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed . . .”

  SIXTEEN

  I swear to you, I wasn’t followed. You know you can trust me for that.” She pushed back the hood of her dark cloak, which effectively concealed both face and form.

  “Where’s your maid?”

  She gave him a look that conveyed how idiotic she considered the question. “No one saw me, no one followed me, no one knows I’m here.” She articulated every word, her green-eyed gaze fixed upon him with a resolution that stated clearly that she was not going to back down. And she said nothing more, merely waited for him to speak, outwardly calm although her heart was fluttering against her ribs. Fury glittered in his eyes, and his lips had thinned, a pulse jumping in his cheek.

  “You make me so angry,” he stated slowly. “I try very hard never to lose control of my anger, but you, Hero, make that all but impossible.”

  With great difficulty Hero stood her ground, although she flinched inwardly. But he made no move towards her, despite the clear threat in his voice and expression. “No one followed me, no one knows I’m here,” she repeated doggedly. “We are quite private, unless you cannot trust your servant?”

  William didn’t dignify that with a response. He turned and opened the door. “André.” He barely raised his voice.

  “My lord.” The man appeared instantly.

  “You will escort the lady immediately to Grosvenor Square.”

  “Oui, my lord.”

  “No,” Hero said. “I am not leaving here, not until we have talked properly. I will not be brushed aside any longer, William. You owe me an explanation for behaving as you did in Yarmouth, and I want it. I don’t accept this vague fuss about reputation. My reputation is not yours to guard. You have not earned that right.” She stood defiantly, her feet unconsciously braced as if she were about to do battle with a wolf.

  William jerked his head at André, who, with clear relief, stepped back again into the hall and closed the salon door.

  “So,” William said, “I have not earned the right to be concerned for you. Well, let me tell you this, Hermione, I am responsible for any harm coming to you through any act of mine. That is a fact, and one you would do well to accept quickly. I will not relinquish that responsibility, and if you fight me over it, you will lose. I can safely promise you that.”

  She looked at him in disbelieving astonishment. “Who on earth do you think you are? You did not oblige me to fall in love with you. I was a more than willing partner in our relationship, if that’s what it was. It was a love affair, one that you brought to a wretched finish without a word of explanation. You left me high and dry, not knowing what I’d done wrong. For that, William Ducasse, you are certainly responsible, and I demand an explanation.” One booted foot stamped in vigorous punctuation.

  Golden fire flashed across his eyes, and he spoke with icy control. “You, madam, are a termagant.”

  “And you, sir, are a bully,” she fired back, no longer afraid of his anger. “You think your opinion is the only right one, you think that everyone must obey your slightest dictate, you think you only need to give orders without explanation and everyone must jump. Well, I, for one, am not going to.” The other boot made emphatic contact with the floor.

  “Are you going to compel me to put you out?” His voice was now dangerously low.

  “Oh, do so if you wish, but I can assure you it will make the biggest scandal Half Moon Street has ever seen. I will ensure that, and I will sit outside your door until you have to let me in again.”

  “You are the most unschooled, ill-disciplined, self-willed, spoiled brat it has ever been my misfortune to know,” he exclaimed.

  “And you are a prudish hypocrite who thinks he can ride roughshod over anyone in his path.” Hero reached out blindly, and her hand closed over the first object it met, which turned out to be a jug of late September roses. She hurled it at him and then stood, her hand over her mouth, staring at the damage she had wrought. William stood dripping, a rose caught in the unruly lock of hair on his forehead, several more adorning his shoulders. The earthenware jug, miraculously unbroken, lay on the carpet at his feet.

  “You . . .” He took a step towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “For two pins, I would . . .” His words faded as he saw the sudden laughter flare in her green eyes as she looked at him.

  “I . . . I’m sorry.” She gasped through a bubble of laughter.

  “No, you’re not,” he denied savagely. “You’re a wicked, lawless woman, and may God help me, I cannot resist you.”

  He caught her against him, his lips crushing her laughing mouth as his arms encircled her in a grip so tight it was almost punitive, but Hero reveled in the strength of him once more, the power of his body against hers, so familiar and so long missed. She reached up a hand to pluck a rose from his hair and brushed the wet lock off his forehead, even as her mouth remained riveted to his, her head bent back beneath the pressure of his kiss. His arm moved to her waist, supporting her as his body bent over hers, before his other arm slipped beneath her knees and he lifted her against him.

  “Obviously, I have to find another way to make my point,” he declared, lifting his mouth from hers. “It seems there’s only one thing you understand.”

  He carried her out of the sitting room and marched with her upstairs, kicking open the door of a large firelit bedchamber on the first landing. He tossed her unceremoniously onto the big four-poster bed.

  “Get your clothes off, now.”

  Hero’s skin tingled with excitement as she sat up and reached down to unlace her boots, watching as William threw off his clothes, dropping them carelessly where they landed.

  Naked, he turned
and hauled her to her feet as she pushed off her stockings with her feet. “You’re too slow,” he said, deftly unfastening the little looped buttons that ran down the back of her gown. He pushed it off her shoulders and dropped it over a chair. “Take off your chemise.” His voice had suddenly dropped a note, and the urgency of passion was a deep throb.

  Slowly now, with great deliberation, Hero peeled off the flimsy silk chemise, sliding it down her hips, stepping out of it as it puddled at her feet. She stood facing him, her bare skin gleaming opalescent in the fire’s glow.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a light push so that she fell back onto the bed, feeling the slight roughness of the embroidered coverlet against her back. He leaned over her, sliding a hand under her bottom and shifting her slightly so that she lay at full length on the bed. He moved to kneel at the end, holding her feet lightly in both hands. He moved her feet apart, spreading them wider on the coverlet, opening her thighs. His flat hands moved up the insides of her legs, parting her thighs even wider. Hero felt her skin grow hot with anticipation, her sex growing moist and swollen with longing. When he touched the core of her body with the faintest brush of a fingertip, her hips bucked with the jolt of lust.

  William smiled, a very slow smile, as he moved his hand from her body. “Don’t move an inch. Stay just as you are.” He stood up from the bed and moved away out of her sight for a moment. When he came back, he held something concealed in his hand. He looked down at her, his eyes narrowed and darkened as he gazed at her spread-eagled body, caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes warring with the sensual longing in their green depths.

  Putting one knee on the bed beside her, he leaned over, opening his hand to reveal a small brush, one she knew well. She had watched him shave often enough. It was of the softest badger hair, and as she realized what he was going to do, her heart seemed to leap into her throat, a flush suffusing her skin. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing if it was a protest or a plea. She had only the faintest inkling of what it would feel like.