Trapped by Scandal

by Jane Feather

  “Your carriage is outside, Lady Hero,” he declared in customary stately tones. “What direction should the footman give the driver?”

  “Oh, just to Piccadilly, Jackson,” Hero responded with a careless smile. Keeping her destination a secret was a simple precaution but a necessary one. William could with good reason accuse her of prying into his private business, but she was determined he would have no further justification for accusing her of carelessly endangering him or his business.

  She ran down the steps to where the cab waited in the street. It promised to be a beautiful autumn morning, with crisp air and copper leaves sharp against a bright blue sky. “Thank you, Fred,” she said cheefully to the footman who stood at the door of the cab. She stepped into the hackney, giving the driver on his box barely a glance, and the vehicle started off. Once they were safely around the far side of the square, she moved aside the leather curtain at the window and leaned out. “Driver?”

  The man slowed his horse and peered down and around from the box. “Aye?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to take me to Knightsbridge . . . Primrose Lane.” Hero had expected a protest at such an out-of-the-way destination and was surprised when the jarvey merely withdrew his head and snapped the reins, setting his horse into a brisk trot.

  She sat back against the unusually clean leather squabs of the cab, reflecting idly that it felt almost like a new vehicle, unlike the majority of the hackneys plying the streets of London, which for the most part smelled of sweat, tobacco smoke, and frequently, for some unknown reason, boiled onions.

  She knitted her gloved fingers together in her lap, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Whatever business was occupying William at the moment, it was imperative that he know about her reckless indiscretion with the Lizard. It would affect every plan he had made. And behind that grim knowledge lay the image of his worried, tense expression. Something lay on Primrose Lane that concerned him so deeply it broke through his normally calm, controlled exterior. She loved him, and it was so hard to accept that he still withheld so much of his essential self from her.

  Hero pushed aside the curtain again and watched the streets slide past. It was still quite early, and few of the fashionable set were out and about, one or two energetic riders on the tan in Hyde Park and the occasional drunken young buck swaying down the street in search of his bed after a night’s debauchery in the brothels and deep gambling dens under the arches of Covent Garden.

  The streetscape began to change, the streets becoming wider, the paving less even, and Hero glimpsed the occasional green field in the distance. Some of the houses were large and solid, set around leafy squares with neat front gardens. It was curiously peaceful after the smoky bustle of London. Private barouches bowled past her on their way into the city, presumably carrying the businessmen and substantial tradesmen who lived in the large solid houses. Children played in the squares under the watchful eyes of nursemaids, and servants carrying laden shopping baskets hurried down the streets.

  The hackney slowed and came to a stop at a crossroads. Hero leaned out. “Are we there?”

  “This is Knightsbridge, ma’am. No idea where Primrose Lane is. Which way?” The driver’s voice was muffled by his thick woolen scarf as he gestured from side to side with his whip.

  “I don’t know, either.” She looked up the street. A woman was tending a garden a few houses down. “I’ll go and ask.” She opened the door and jumped down to the lane. “Excuse me, ma’am, but we’re looking for Primrose Lane.”

  The woman straightened up from her cabbages and wiped her hands on her apron. She looked curiously at Hero. “Don’t see many strangers around here.” She pushed a straggle of gray hair back under her kerchief. “Primrose Lane’s that-a-way. Take the next turn on the left.” She gestured ahead down the lane.

  “My thanks, ma’am.” Hero hurried back to the hackney. There was no need for the driver to know her final destination. “Go back to the inn we saw on the village green. I’ll find you there when I’m ready to go back.”

  The driver merely raised a hand in acknowledgment and turned the hackney on the narrow puddled lane.

  Hero didn’t give him another thought. She followed the woman’s directions and found Primrose Lane. She walked carefully down its length, looking at the cottages. They all looked the same to her, but presumably everyone knew their neighbors.

  At the end of the lane, she stopped at a small, whitewashed cottage with a neatly thatched roof, a carefully tended front garden dominated by an apple tree, and, most unusually, a gate with a low stone wall separating the garden from the lane. She was suddenly at a loss. Impulse had brought her this far, but what now? There was no sign of the cottage’s occupants, no one to ask. The lane was quiet, just the quiet, rhythmic sounds of the farm animals. No sign, either, of William’s hackney.

  “I’m sorry, William, if I’ve brought you out on a fool’s errand.” Jeanne brought the coffeepot to the table. “But I was anxious . . . and now you’re here, I feel as if I overreacted.”

  “No, you did right to send for me, Jeanne.” William broke bread into the runny yolks of the eggs on the plate in front of him. “Would you feel safer if I move you and Marguerite to somewhere further in the country?”

  Jeanne shook her head vigorously, taking a sip of her own coffee. “I don’t think it would be good for the child to move her again, as I’ve said before. Not without some concrete evidence of danger. And there’s been no sign of the itinerants since the knife grinder.” She shrugged, an elegant movement of her shoulders beneath the cashmere shawl. “I didn’t have that absolute feeling of danger, just a nervous, crawling sense . . . I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “It’s called gut intuition,” William said grimly. He took up his coffee. “I would never discount it, but if you don’t think it wise to move now, then I’ll put a man to watch you.”

  “He couldn’t stay here,” Jeanne exclaimed, horrified. “What would the village say?”

  William shook his head. “No, my dear, of course he couldn’t. But my men are trained to be unobtrusive. You wouldn’t see him, and neither would anyone else. But you would always know that he was there. Would that give you peace of mind?”

  “Immensely,” Jeanne said. “He would be armed, of course?”

  “Of course.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You know as well as I do, my dear, that fire can only be fought with fire.”

  Jeanne shook her head, doubt in her eyes. “This is such a peaceful village, and Marguerite knows nothing of such evil. Isabelle would not have wanted it.”

  “No,” he agreed, his mouth twisting. “She would have hated it. And look where that took us all.”

  Into the moment of uncomfortable silence, a voice called from beyond the kitchen door, “Tante Jeanne . . . Tante Jeanne . . .” And Marguerite burst into the room, her muslin nightgown billowing about her skinny frame. “Oh, Uncle Guillaume, no one said you were coming. Why did no one tell me you were coming?” She directed an accusing glare at her aunt.

  “Because it was a surprise, ma petite,” William said, making room for her on his lap. “I happened to be passing and decided to drop in and see you.”

  “But I was asleep,” Marguerite objected, dipping a piece of his bread into his egg. “I would like an egg. May I have an egg, Tante Jeanne?”

  “Certainly you may,” Jeanne said. “But you need to fetch it from the henhouse. Take the basket, and collect as many as they’ve laid this morning.”

  In answer, Marguerite waved her bare feet at her aunt. William lifted her off his lap. “Put on your boots and your cloak, and collect the eggs. It’s not cold outside.” For a moment, Marguerite didn’t move, her lower lip extended in a distinct pout. William held her gaze in silence, and then she turned and went to get her boots.

  “She needs you,” Jeanne said softly, almost under her breath.

&n
bsp; “She’ll do well enough as long as she’s safe.” His voice was harsh, but Jeanne understood why, and her own heart ached for William . . . for all of them.

  Standing at the gate, looking at the deserted lane, the cottage’s closed door, Hero had the feeling that nothing of significance could ever happen here. And yet, deep in her inner self, she knew that here in this unremarkable cottage on this unremarkable lane lay the secret to William’s heart.

  But unlocking that secret was less important than making sure he knew what had happened with Dubois. The Lizard could be plotting anything at this point and William needed to be on guard. She’d taken a risk coming here, but it was an acceptable one, given how careful she had been, and the degree of emergency. She put a hand on the latch of the gate, and the door opened as she did so.

  TWENTY-THREE

  William carried Marguerite on his hip as he stepped through the front door, his head turned towards Jeanne, who was following him out.

  Hero stood transfixed, her hand still on the garden gate as she prepared to shut it behind her. She didn’t know what to do next. The quiet intimacy of the three people in the doorway shook her to her core. She hadn’t realized William was capable of being part of such an ordinary tableau. A man, a child, a woman, held in a circle that shouted familial understanding. The woman laid a hand on his shoulder, leaned in to kiss his cheek, and the child’s arms around his neck seemed to clutch tighter. And then he turned, a half smile on his lips, and saw Hero. The smile vanished as if it had been erased on paper. His face whitened.

  She didn’t move, watching as William came towards her, still carrying the child. “How did you get here?” His voice was cold and impersonal, as if he was talking to a stranger on the street.

  Hero said calmly, “Hackney. I came in a hackney. I told the jarvey to wait at the inn. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Go back to the inn and pay him off. Wait for me there.” Nothing in his tone or expression gave any indication that she was anything more to him than an ill-met chance acquaintance.

  “Who is the lady, Uncle Guillaume?” the little girl demanded, pushing against him in an effort to get down.

  “No one you need concern yourself with, Marguerite.” He held on to her wriggling body and turned his back on Hero. Jeanne had stepped closer on the path, her eyes fixed on Hero with unabashed curiosity. Over William’s shoulder, the little girl gazed open-eyed at the stranger.

  Hero turned away back to the lane and walked towards the village green and the inn, her skirts gathered above her ankles as she negotiated the puddles. Her mind was alive with questions but she also understood that she had stepped into forbidden territory. William’s boundaries were absolute. He had never made any secret of that. But maybe, just maybe, he might learn to understand that those boundaries forbade the emotional commitment that was the only way to any kind of a future for them.

  The hackney was drawn up outside the small inn, the jarvey leaning against the traces, his face obscured with his muffler as he picked at his nails with a sharp twig. He glanced up as Hero came close.

  “We off, then?” He sounded thick, as if he had a cold.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m staying. You may return. What do I owe you?”

  “Two shilling.” He held out his gloved hand to receive the two silver coins she produced from her coin purse. “Thankee.” He touched his cap, climbed back onto the box, and drove away.

  Hero watched him go. This was not the moment to run scared. William needed to know what had brought her here. His hackney was standing to one side of the inn, the horse chewing contentedly on a nose bag, a youth in attendance, sitting on a water butt idly sucking on a straw, regarding Hero with a degree of interest.

  And William owed her some truth, Hero thought, the image of the man, woman, and child vividly alive in her imagination. After everything they had been through together, after the hours of loving and companionship, she knew two Williams, and if this moment gave her the opportunity to marry the two and discover the one true man, then it was to be embraced.

  She walked back down the lane. When she reached the garden gate again, William was deep in conversation with the woman, and the child was picking daisies on the small lawn. She looked up as Hero approached, and ran to the gate.

  “Can you make a daisy chain? Aunt Jeanne can.” She indicated the woman talking with William.

  “I used to be able to,” Hero responded, leaning over the gate to take the crumpled flowers from the little girl. For some reason, she wasn’t able to make herself open the gate.

  William spun around at the sound of her voice, and a strange expression crossed his face as he saw what she was doing. He took half a step towards the gate, and then Jeanne laid a hand on his arm and he stopped, turned back to her, leaving Hero and Marguerite to their flowery construction.

  Patiently, Hero split the daisy stems with her fingernail and threaded them together until she had a passable chain, while the child looked on, head tilted with a slightly critical appraisal of her handiwork. “There.” Hero held up the necklace she had made. “May I put it on?”

  Marguerite ducked her head as Hero dropped the delicate chain over her. “That’s so pretty. What’s your name?”

  “Marguerite,” said the girl, her head lowered as she lifted her necklace and examined it carefully. “That means daisy.”

  “Yes,” said Hero, smiling. She stretched a hand over the gate. “Show me how it looks.” With a forefinger, she tipped the child’s chin, and a pair of glowing golden eyes gazed up at her. The jolt of recognition almost took her breath away, but she managed to say easily, “A daisy chain for a daisy.”

  Marguerite laughed and clapped her hands. She turned and ran up to William and Jeanne. “See, Uncle Guillaume. I have a daisy chain to match my name. A daisy chain for a daisy, the lady said.”

  “Did she?” William voice was flat. Her lifted Marguerite and kissed her, lingering for a moment to inhale the sweet child fragrance of her skin and hair before setting her on her feet again. “Be good, now. I’ll be back soon.” He kissed Jeanne on both cheeks.

  She took his hand for a moment, but her eyes were on Hero, still standing outside the gate. “You have lost so much, my dear,” she said softly. “Be careful you don’t lose any possibility of happiness.”

  He seemed to freeze, then shook his head. “I have to do what has to be done, Jeanne. You know that.”

  “I know only that you have to do what you believe you have to do, Guillaume,” she returned, before taking Marguerite’s hand. “I’ll look for your guard, but of course, I know I won’t see him.” A smile touched her lips before she urged the child inside, and William turned back to the gate, where Hero stood waiting.

  “I told you to wait at the inn,” he said, opening the gate. He brushed past her where she stood in the lane, and walked briskly in the direction of the inn.

  Hero followed, refusing to run to keep up with his fast stride. She felt her resistance to his anger growing by the moment.

  The innkeeper emerged from within at the first sound of their arrival in the yard. “A pot of coffee for your lordship,” he said, with a bow and an inviting wave through the door behind him. “And madam, I’m sure, would be glad of some refreshment.” His gaze was greedily inquisitive as he looked at Hero. It was clear he didn’t know where to place her on the social spectrum, but her confident manner suggested a position somewhat at odds with her ordinary dress. Hackney carriages and their passengers were rare visitors to his establishment. It was too close to town for a refreshment stop on a long journey and too undistinguished for a pleasure trip.

  “We have no need of anything,” William stated curtly.

  The man looked put out. “And what of the horse’s feed, sir, and the jarvey had a pot of ale and a cheese pasty?”

  William merely handed the man a guinea and turned away to open the cab doo
r. Wordlessly, he offered his hand to Hero to assist her up into the carriage, then followed her, pulling the door closed behind him with what struck Hero as unnecessary vigor.

  He sat opposite her and fixed her with a blazing stare. “How and why?”

  Hero folded her hands in her lap and returned his stare as steadily as she could. “I had something to tell you that I didn’t think could wait, so I came to Half Moon Street at dawn. I reached your house just as you were getting in a hackney. I overheard you tell the jarvey where to go. You looked worried . . .” Her voice faded for a moment. “I have never seen you look worried before. So, I decided to follow you, but only when I’d made sure it was safe to do so. I went home, waited for an hour, and then I took a cab . . . No one knows where I am or where I was going because I didn’t give the jarvey the direction until we were well away from Grosvenor Square.” She paused for a moment under his cold-eyed stare, then repeated quietly, “I had something you needed to know.”

  William’s gaze was suddenly sharply attentive. “Go on.”

  Hero took a deep breath and jumped in. “Last night I met the Lizard at Almack’s. I’d never come across him before, I didn’t even know he was in London. He asked for an introduction and we danced.” She stopped, twisting her fingers together. “I may have been a little indiscreet and I’m afraid he recognized me from the fishing boat.”

  William’s eyes closed briefly in the dimly lit carriage. “Indiscreet how?”

  She told him, saying at the conclusion of her sorry tale, “I was a fool to think I could match wits with him. I am sorry.”

  His moderate response surprised her. “You’re not the first, and unless I can do something about it, you won’t be the last.”

  There was an uneasy silence for a few moments before Hero said with quiet vehemence, “I’m sure no one followed me to Knightsbridge. I would have noticed a horseman or another carriage, but I could swear there were no other travelers. They would have to have followed me from Grosvenor Square and that couldn’t be done on foot. So I don’t see how there could be any danger at the moment.”