Lord of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  “They are both penniless?” she questioned. Neither man seemed remotely poverty-stricken. Their carriages, the teams of horses and their own attire were all stylish in the extreme.

  “Without a feather to fly,” Lily confirmed, “other than what they earn. It’s all show, Catherine.”

  The starter stepped forward to signify that the race was about to begin, but even as he did so another cry went up, and turning, Catherine saw that a high perch phaeton was making its way to the starting line, driven by a florid gentleman whom she immediately recognized as the Prince Regent.

  “Glory!” Lily said. “This is high favor indeed! I wonder if the mob will cheer or berate His Highness today?”

  But the crowd was clearly in a holiday mood and a ragged cheer went up. The prince raised his whip in acknowledgment and nodded to the two combatants as they sketched a deferential bow in his direction.

  “It is almost as though the prince seeks to trade on Lord Hawksmoor’s popularity rather than the reverse,” Catherine murmured.

  “Well, it is certainly greater than his own,” Lily agreed wryly. “Hawksmoor needs to be careful or the prince may turn against him for being the people’s favorite.”

  The starter gestured at the throng to move back to give the carriages some space. The crowd backed off with good-natured jostling and, suddenly, Catherine and Lily were on the edge of the pavement where the two curricles were lining up. There was another delay as Jack Lancing persuaded one of the ladies in the crowd to give him her garter as a good luck token. He was fastening it about his sleeve amid much hilarity. And suddenly the scarlet curricle was right beside them and Ben Hawksmoor was close enough for Catherine to touch. The pavement seemed to shift slightly beneath her feet. She wanted to turn and run but she stood still, rooted to the spot. With a sense of inevitability, she looked up to meet Ben’s cool hazel eyes. He was looking at her with disturbing intentness.

  “Catherine?” Lily said questioningly, and Catherine jumped and dragged her gaze away from Ben’s. He bowed to Lily, smiling.

  “Miss St. Clare.”

  “Lord Hawksmoor.” Lily sounded ruffled, but not on her own account. She was looking from Catherine to Ben with a frown on her face. “Have you met? I didn’t think—”

  Ben turned back to Catherine. His smile was warmer for her, intimate enough to make her stomach clench.

  “Madam…” There was the very faintest hint of a question in his tone. Catherine realized that he would think that she, like all the other eager ladies in the crowd, had come deliberately to see the race.

  “I did not know you would be here,” she blurted out, and blushed at her own gaucheness. “That is, I did not come especially to see you….”

  That was even worse. She could feel herself getting hotter and hotter to see the amusement in Ben Hawksmoor’s eyes. He had passed the reins to his groom now and jumped down onto the pavement beside her. He took her hand and drew her a little apart, ignoring the calls of the crowd for the race to start.

  “I am desolated to hear you did not seek me out,” he murmured, the spark of humor still in his voice, “when I would go a deal further than Oxford Street to see you again, Catherine.”

  Catherine closed her eyes for a second against the potent awareness coursing through her. He had the most attractive voice she had ever heard, smooth, mellow and hopelessly seductive. For a moment she felt frighteningly adrift.

  “I doubt that,” she said, rallying. She looked about her at the throng of people. “You do not need my approval when you have all this.”

  Ben turned so that his broad shoulders blocked out the crowd. His physical presence was so powerful that Catherine felt a little light-headed. She had his whole attention now. The race, the crowd, the regent himself, none of them mattered. They could have been alone.

  “You mistake.” He spoke softly. “You are the only thing here that interests me, Catherine.”

  Catherine’s mind went completely blank. She had little experience of flirting or playing games and she knew that was what he was doing. He had to be. He could not be sincere.

  “That,” she said, “is absurd.”

  He smiled again and the lines deepened at the corners of his eyes in a way that made her stomach flip.

  “You won’t flirt with me?”

  She took a deep breath. “No.”

  “A pity. But this time I meant what I said.”

  Catherine realized that her hand was still in his. She tried to free herself but he refused to let go. He was running his thumb over the back of her hand now in small, distracting strokes. Catherine could feel the insistence of his touch through the material of her gloves.

  “You did come here to see me, didn’t you?” he murmured.

  Catherine’s gaze jerked up to meet his laughing hazel eyes. “You have a monstrously high opinion of yourself,” she said.

  He gave her a rueful half smile and her heart turned over. “Have I?”

  She watched his smile fade and another very different, more disturbing emotion take its place. Then someone dug an elbow in Catherine’s ribs and she realized they were surrounded by a crowd growing more restless by the minute. She forced herself to look beyond the compelling demand in Ben’s eyes.

  “You are keeping His Highness waiting,” she said.

  Ben grinned. “It is worth it.”

  “You take too many risks.”

  “Always.” He gave her that dangerous, flashing smile, released her hand and swung himself back up onto the box of the curricle. The crowd gave an ironic cheer.

  “A kiss for luck!” someone shouted.

  Ben leaned down. His gloved fingers touched Catherine’s cheek.

  “May I?”

  She barely heard the words above the pounding of her pulse but she must have made some sound, for he tilted her chin up and then his lips brushed hers, lightly, a brief but insistent pressure. He was cold and tasted of fresh air and her mind reeled. “Thank you,” he said. Catherine opened her eyes to see the blaze of triumph in his.

  The winter sky was too bright. The light hurt her eyes. She felt shaky. The crowd roared its approval.

  The starter dropped the flag; there was a clatter of hooves and the race was on.

  “Gracious,” Lily said, grabbing Catherine’s arm to gain her attention, “what was that about?”

  Across the street, Catherine suddenly spotted Lord Withers in the crowd. He had his arm about a woman she did not recognize. Fortunately he was looking the other way. Catherine gave a gasp and shot off hastily down the pavement, a startled Lily hurrying behind.

  “Catherine—”

  “Withers,” Catherine puffed, diving into Blake’s coffeehouse. “With some female.”

  “Emily Spraggett,” Lily confirmed. “She is a terrible old strumpet. I am sorry, Catherine.”

  “Do not be.” Catherine subsided into a seat well away from the window. She gave a sigh. “It is not as though I care for him. Nor does it surprise me.”

  Lily was frowning. “Then I am sorry for that, too. You do not have many illusions left, do you?”

  A waiter brought them hot chocolate and Lily smiled her thanks. Catherine stirred her chocolate slowly, head bent. She knew her friend. In a moment Lily would start asking awkward questions.

  “Catherine,” Lily said slowly, “have you met Lord Hawksmoor before?”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “We met at Ned Clarencieux’s hanging a few days ago.”

  Lily was momentarily distracted. “A hanging? What on earth were you doing there?”

  “Papa insisted I attend,” Catherine said. “Sir James Mather, Clarencieux’s victim, was one of my trustees.”

  “I remember,” Lily said. She fixed Catherine with a stern blue gaze. “So you met Lord Hawksmoor there. How did that happen? I cannot imagine your papa introducing the pair of you.”

  “Lord Hawksmoor…um…” Catherine hesitated, feeling the blood scald her cheeks at the memory. “John ran off into the crowd and I went to
look for him,” she said. “I had not realized it would be so dangerous. Lord Hawksmoor rescued me.”

  Lily’s eyebrows shot up into her hair. “He rescued you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gracious,” Lily said again, faintly. “How out of character. And such prior acquaintance was enough for you to permit him to seduce you in the street just now?”

  The color flooded Catherine’s face. “He was not seducing me!”

  “I apologize for contradicting you,” Lily said dryly, “but that was precisely what he was doing, Catherine. In fact you could not have done anything more dangerous had you set a match to a barrel of gunpowder!”

  Catherine bit her lip. “I did not flirt.”

  “For a debutante even to speak with Ben Hawksmoor is a truly imprudent idea,” Lily said.

  “He does not know I am a debutante,” Catherine said after a moment. “He doesn’t know my name. I think he believes me to be a demimondaine. I think he assumed that no gently-bred female would attend a hanging, and to be fair that is very much the case. And also Lord Withers addressed me by my name with a certain lack of respect, and we have seen the company he keeps. Who could blame Lord Hawksmoor for taking away the wrong impression of me?”

  “And now he has seen you with me and so his suspicions that you are a courtesan will be confirmed.” Lily groaned, putting her head in her hands. “Oh, Lord, Catherine. No wonder he thought it a small matter to kiss you in the street!”

  Catherine did not reply immediately. It had not felt like a small matter to her. Oh, she had known the kiss had been done for nothing but show. She knew it was part of Ben Hawksmoor’s charm, part of the legend he spun. She should feel used. If it had not been her, it would have been some other pretty girl in the crowd. And yet the memory of what had happened at Newgate was still with her, confusing her. She had thought then that she understood Ben Hawksmoor, all his hatreds, fears and longings. She had felt so close to him. And she could not shake off that feeling, even though in her heart of hearts she knew it had to be false.

  For a moment, out there in the street, she had even believed that she might be able to seek him out and confide in him the truth about Maggie—and return Clarencieux’s portrait without need of deception. But common sense had prevailed. For Maggie’s sake, she had to be so very careful. She could not trust him no matter how she felt.

  “I know the kiss did not mean anything,” she said. “And doubtless he will have forgotten me the next instant.”

  Lily was shaking her head. “I do not think so. Did you see the expression on his face when he was looking at you?” She put her spoon down with a clatter. “Perhaps it is better if you did not. Ben Hawksmoor wants you. And what he wants he usually takes.”

  Catherine bit her lip. “You speak nonsense. With Lady Paris de Moine as his mistress he would never be interested in me.”

  Lily frowned. “You understand nothing. I am certain Lord Hawksmoor and Lady Paris have no more than a business agreement. I have suspected it for some time. He squires her about town and she appears to advantage on his arm but there is no more to it than that.”

  “I don’t understand,” Catherine said.

  “Precisely. That is what I have just said.” Lily sounded cross. “You are well beyond your depth, playing games where you have no concept of the rules.” She sighed. “Well, if he comes asking after you, I shall simply have to deny all knowledge.”

  Catherine gulped her cooling chocolate. “Asking after me?”

  “At the bawdy house. It would be the first place that I would go to find you if I were him.”

  Catherine’s mouth dried. “I had not thought of that.”

  “Which,” Lily said, placing some coins on the table, “is exactly what I have been trying to tell you.” She stood up. “Come along. I shall procure you a hackney carriage before you cause any more trouble.”

  Out in the street, the crowds had moved away to the finishing line. The gutters were full of discarded scandal sheets wilting in the cold breeze. Catherine gave Lily a hug and climbed into the hack her friend had found for her.

  “Write to me!” she said, hanging out of the window. The carriage began to move away and Lily waved, but suddenly Catherine had the strangest feeling she was slipping away from her again, back to the life she had stepped out of for a few hours.

  The house in Guilford Street was very quiet when she got back. Tench confirmed that Lady Fenton was sleeping and Sir Alfred was out at his club. Catherine took a book and curled up in a chair in the library. She had no engagements that afternoon, though Withers was due to dine with them at seven before they all attended the opera. No doubt he was with his mistress now. Catherine rested her book on her lap and thought about her future as Lord Withers’s wife and his as her unfaithful husband. Why was life so weighted against the woman in such a situation? It seemed so harsh. She thought of Lily seeking solace with her lover and paying the ultimate price, and that inevitably led her thoughts to Ben Hawksmoor and the sweet seduction of his kiss.

  It was a bare two hours later that Tench knocked at the door and brought in a scrap of paper on his silver tray.

  “A message, Miss Fenton,” he said, somewhat superfluously.

  Catherine unfolded it. It was brief.

  He came asking after you. I told you he would.

  Be careful. L.

  PS He won the race.

  After that, Catherine found it impossible to concentrate all the way through dinner and the long, long opera that followed, and as she tossed and turned in the night she would have even been prepared to try some of Lady Fenton’s laudanum to help her put the troublesome memory of Ben Hawksmoor’s kiss from her mind.

  “WHAT MAY I DO FOR YOU, Lord Hawksmoor?”

  Ben was sitting before the desk of the most shadowy and discreet information broker in the whole of London. The office was on the top floor of a tall building down by the docks and on this January afternoon it was lit by candlelight even though the hour was only just past two. A cheerful fire burned in the grate and Ben had been offered one of the best cups of coffee he had ever tasted, rich and smooth. That alone almost justified Bradshaw’s fee in his opinion.

  “I need you to find out about someone for me,” Ben said.

  Tom Bradshaw inclined his head. “Of course. Whom?”

  “Algernon, Lord Withers.” Ben hesitated. “Specifically, I wish you to discover what connection, if any, he had to Edward Clarencieux, and what grudge, again if any, he may bear against me. He has threatened me and I require to know if it is a genuine threat or not.”

  It had been Ben’s first instinct to hunt Withers down himself, but it was at times like this that his notoriety was a drawback rather than an advantage. If he started to ask questions, people would become curious. Withers would hear of it and Ben would achieve nothing other than to put him on his guard.

  Bradshaw had been taking notes and now his pen stilled for a moment.

  “Withers,” he said reflectively. “I see.” He sketched a few idle drawings on the paper. “I assume you know of no connection between Clarencieux and Withers already?”

  “None whatsoever.” Ben shifted. “But if I were to speculate then I would say it would be something to do with money or with women.”

  “That scarcely narrows the field,” Bradshaw pointed out.

  “I suppose not,” Ben said. “And similarly there is no obvious connection between myself and Withers other than that I covet his mistress.”

  He coveted Catherine so much, in fact, that he had been tempted to ask Bradshaw to find her into the bargain. When he had seen her with Lily St. Clare in Oxford Street that morning, the wicked excitement already coursing through his blood at the prospect of the curricle race had soared. He would have counted it fair exchange to forfeit the race to Lancing and carry Catherine off there and then to make love to her. One kiss had scarce been enough. And later he had gone to the high-class brothel where Miss St. Clare worked, confident that he would be able to persuade
her to disclose Catherine’s identity and her address. But Miss St. Clare had been surprisingly reticent, open to neither persuasion nor, unusually, to bribery. So he was still at an impasse and he burned all the more to possess Catherine as a result.

  Bradshaw had smothered a grin at his words. “Men have died for less,” he said. “You know of no other link between yourself and Lord Withers?”

  “No,” Ben said.

  “The army, perhaps?”

  “He did not serve, to my knowledge,” Ben said. He reflected that his army career had been littered with hard decisions. If Withers had a grudge relating to one of them he would scarce know where to start.

  “Then since your return to town?”

  “I have fleeced him at cards a few times,” Ben said, “but if all the men I had taken money from sought my death, I would be cold in the ground by now.”

  Bradshaw’s smile widened. He stood up. “Leave the matter with me, my lord. I shall be in touch when I have some information for you.”

  They shook hands and Ben went out of the office and down the narrow wooden stair to the street. The wind was fresher now with an edge to it that promised snow soon, but despite the cold, Ben turned on impulse toward the docks rather than seeking the warm fug of an alehouse. The river was partially frozen but the stevedores were still working and the clatter of freight sounded above the clanking of the masts in the rising wind. Ben leaned on the river wall and looked out across the Thames. He had grown up in this warren of streets, he and his mother occupying one dark room in the basement of one of these houses. He could see her now, her face gray with exhaustion, her hands red raw from the laundry she took in to scrape a living. In the winter, the walls of their tenement had run with water and in summer, the stench of rotting humanity had been appalling as fever rampaged through the packed houses and carried off all but the strongest. He had been strong. He had survived. So had his mother, for a little. But in the end, the unremitting cold and toil and sickness had taken her and there was nothing he had been able to do about it. The poverty had worn her down. Even thinking about it now turned his blood to ice. He knew he could never, ever allow that poverty to touch him again.