Lord of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  “We are in Millman Street,” he said. His voice was still a little uneven. “I am certain it is not your precise destination but I doubt I can persuade you to vouchsafe your real address any more than I can convince you to tell me your real name.”

  Catherine gathered up the skirts of her domino in one shaking hand. “I can give you neither,” she said. “Good night, my lord.”

  She was surprised that he opened the carriage door for her himself and jumped down to help her alight. His hands about her waist were firm and hard as he swung her to the ground and for a moment he stood there, holding her, and then he stepped back, raising her gloved hand to his lips in an old-fashioned gallant gesture and her heart almost melted where she stood.

  “Good night, Catherine,” he said.

  In the hall at Guilford Street, Alice’s strained expression eased into relief when she saw Catherine come through the door.

  “I sent the hackney back for you, miss,” she said. “I sent it straight away. Madam was ill. We had to get her home—”

  “It does not matter,” Catherine said. She felt bone-tired all of a sudden. “Lady Fenton is asleep?”

  “Yes, madam. One of the maids is sitting with her.”

  “And my father?”

  Alice’s mouth turned down. “He will not be home tonight, Miss Catherine.”

  Catherine nodded. Yawning, she made her way to the study and replaced the bag of guineas in the drawer of the desk. Maggie was safe for now and she was home unscathed. Except that Catherine could never feel quite the same again.

  She pressed her fingers to her lips. Her first kiss.

  Ben had thought her a courtesan, yet he had still treated her with tenderness. And she, silly little fool that she was, was half in love with him for his gentleness—and because of that moment when she had looked in his eyes and seen the loneliness there. She had wanted to reach out and ease that isolation in him. It was what she had been doing all her life with Maggie, and Lily, and those she cared for. And the knowledge terrified her because in her own way she knew she was equally alone and that was why Ben felt like a kindred spirit.

  Alice bustled in and pressed a beaker of hot chocolate into Catherine’s hands and she drank urgently, drawing nearer to the study fire to try and quell her shivering. The simple truth was that she did not belong in Ben Hawksmoor’s world and she had best remember that. She might be a changeling, caught between the world of trade and the world of the Ton, but the rich decadence of the regent’s circle was another matter entirely. She did not understand it and it could ruin her.

  The warmth of the fire was starting to dispel her chill now and the hot chocolate soothed her, making her sleepy. But one thing nagged at her mind. How to get Maggie’s miniature back to Ben Hawksmoor without him knowing or being able to trace it back to her. Once that was over then the entire charade would be at an end. She would take it back as soon as she could. She wanted fiercely to be rid of the picture, rid of the whole situation and the need to deceive Ben Hawksmoor as to her identity. When she had become Miss Catherine Fenton, debutante, once more, she would never meet him again. It would be better that way.

  She placed the empty beaker down on the desk next to Sir Alfred’s copy of the Times. It was open at page four and a small paragraph at the bottom of the page caught her eye.

  Benjamin, Lord Hawksmoor, has confirmed that he has called in the Bow Street Runners in the matter of the silverware stolen from his house several months ago. Lord Hawksmoor is offering a reward of one thousand pounds for any information leading to the arrest of the thief.

  We are assured that a resolution of the case is close….

  The Times was the least sensational of newspapers but those stark words struck cold into Catherine’s heart. She put the paper down slowly. The net was closing on Maggie now. She had to act.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  You are strongly advised to accept nothing from a gentleman; considering how familiar they frequently are we strongly advise you to decline any advances.

  —Mrs. Eliza Squire, Good Conduct for Ladies

  ST. JAMES’S WAS NO PLACE for a lady to walk alone after midnight, nor was a ball hosted by the most notorious man in society the kind of event that a debutante should ever consider attending.

  Catherine paused outside the door of number forty-three St. James’s Place before she took a deep breath and dived through the scrum into the hallway beyond. Now that she was here she did not want to go ahead with her plan, but loitering on the doorstep was an invitation to every last libertine in the neighborhood, and of those there were plenty. The road in front of the house was thick with carriages. People jostled on the pavement, shouting, waving, wild with excitement. The light poured out of the house into the foggy night beyond. Ben Hawksmoor was hosting a ball for the Prince Regent and anyone who was anyone in the demimonde was in attendance.

  Catherine still could not quite believe that she had ventured out in the foggy London night one last time to return Maggie’s portrait. It was cold. The sounds and smells of the city swirled about her. There was the scent of smoke and excitement on the air. London felt restless. It never slept. And Catherine had felt restless and excited, too, as well as more nervous than she had ever been in her life.

  “No one must know,” Maggie had said, clutching Catherine’s hand so tightly that the diamonds in the miniature’s silver frame had scored her palm. “You must take it back and no one must ever know…”

  In the days since Maggie had consigned the picture to Catherine’s care, it seemed she had forgotten all about it and Catherine was now left alone to deal with the problem. That was Maggie all over, Catherine thought. No doubt she had forgotten in the midst of her laudanum-induced stupor, or else she knew that her stepdaughter would not let her down and was taking advantage. Catherine sighed. The trouble was that Maggie was right. She knew she was too kind. But she could not change the way she was.

  In the hackney carriage on the way to St. James’s Catherine had seriously considered consigning the whole miserable package to the bottom of the Thames were it not for the fact that the river was still partially frozen. She knew that now that the hunt was on for the miniature, she could not sell it or even give it away without suspicion. Nor could she involve anyone else in the affair. She was trapped.

  It was a week since she had met Ben at Crockford’s, and not a day had passed that Catherine had not chafed against the delay in getting rid of the painting. She had not had a free evening in all that time, for first there had been a ball, then a musical soiree, then a trip to the theater with Withers, then Maggie had apparently recovered her spirits and wished to attend a concert. But then Catherine had seen in the Court Circular that the Prince Regent was attending a masquerade at Lord Hawksmoor’s invitation on the seventeenth, and she had felt a huge relief. It was a way into Ben’s house and, in a crowd, she was so much more likely to be able to evade his attention. She need only be there a moment. He would never know.

  There was a black-clad butler inside the door. He looked impassive and terribly, terribly discreet, as though the discovery of a masked and cloaked lady on the doorstep was a commonplace occurrence, as no doubt it was at this particular address.

  “I am a friend of Miss Lily St. Clare,” Catherine said, hoping that her teeth were not chattering too loudly. “She was not able to attend tonight but suggested that I come in her place.”

  The butler smiled a discreet smile. “Of course, madam. This way please.”

  It was warm inside the house, luxurious, wonderfully relaxing. The air was scented with flowers and was full of the clamor of voices. Catherine walked slowly down the long corridor toward the ballroom. This was not the type of event where a starchy butler announced the guests. Being incognito was part of the fun. The reception rooms were already overflowing with people drinking, gossiping, flirting, kissing and much, much more. Two men were entwined intimately together behind a group of statuary. Catherine looked, and felt her face flame. She was feeling hotter an
d hotter as Ben Hawksmoor’s guests turned their blank masked faces toward her. Behind their disguise, the eyes followed her, avid and curious, malicious and sly. They were whispering about her. Someone put a hand out to draw her in, but she hurried past, her heart racing. This was all much, much more licentious than she had imagined. Indeed, her imagination could only take her so far and now she realized how little she knew or understood of life outside the confines of the debutante’s world.

  Not everyone had chosen the anonymity of a mask. Catherine was astonished to recognize a duchess, whom she had thought the very epitome of respectability, with her gown around her waist and her breasts being caressed by two gallants at once. Several gentlemen of the Ton who had always struck Catherine as rather staid were indulging in riotous horseplay with ladies clearly not their wives. Catherine drew her domino closer, intent on remaining unseen. Once she had worked out the design of the house, she could find the room that Maggie had described and leave the miniature where her stepmother had found it.

  The ballroom door gaped before her and Catherine peered inside.

  It was like no ball that she had ever witnessed before. They were dancing the waltz, a dance that Catherine had performed at Almacks the previous summer. The chaperones disapproved and whispered that it was improper but Catherine had seen little that was indecorous in the slow and stately circuits of the floor that the waltz had demanded. Until now. Now she could see how the waltz could be considered utterly licentious and abandoned, for in Ben Hawksmoor’s ballroom the figures swooped and spun in each other’s arms, shrieking with delight and taking every amorous opportunity that the dance offered.

  Catherine froze. The Prince Regent—a very drunk Prince Regent—was swaying toward her, leaning heavily on the arm of a highly painted and huge-bosomed lady. He raised his quizzing glass and ogled Catherine as they passed until his inamorata pulled crossly on his arm to regain his attention. Then a ripple went through the crowd and Catherine caught her breath, for Ben was strolling toward her down the corridor. Clearly he had not bothered to dress for his own ball and amidst the overblown splendor of his guests his casual attire was more eye-catching than any evening dress could be. His buckskins shaped to his muscular thighs so closely that Catherine felt another wave of heat roll over her. He still wore his top boots and they had a mirror polish. He looked elegant and shockingly self-assured.

  Catherine shrank back against the wall and was profoundly grateful as others surged forward in front of her. She saw Ben lean down to kiss the cheek of a lady in scarlet satin and whisper something in her ear, and the cyprian clung to his arm and her lips curved in a provocative smile and Catherine felt a little sick. She turned her head away as Ben walked past and waited until he and the crowd had vanished into the ballroom, then she seized a moment when there was no one about and hurried to the bottom of the stairs. It was quieter now, although she heard a door close down the corridor and the sound of a female giggle, cut off rather abruptly. No doubt Lord Hawksmoor’s guests sought the seclusion of the other rooms for a little private dalliance and no doubt she should be long gone from the house by the time the party turned wilder still.

  Catherine stood at the bottom of the stairs and gazed upward. The landing and the upper floor were shrouded in shadow. Maggie had been maddeningly vague in her directions, as she was in most things.

  “Up the staircase…The second door on the left…No, was it on the right? It was the room with the glass sculptures from Mr. Vane’s studio—such pretty things, you know, Catherine—glass animals and flowers and all so delicate…Anyway, it was on the shelf in the chamber beyond…. You will find it easily enough….”

  Catherine untied her mask and tiptoed up the stairs, hoping that the treads would not creak. Tiptoeing quickly was a great deal more difficult than she had imagined. Her heart was hammering and she could feel her hands shaking. She had never trespassed in anyone’s house before, least of all a house where a near-orgy was taking place. She could not recommend the experience to anyone but the most hardened thrill-seeker. It was far too nerve-racking.

  The vision of Maggie’s face was before her still and it was the only thing that drove her on to see this mad errand through to the end. Maggie had looked lost, distraught, baffled somehow, as though someone had struck her a grievous blow.

  “No one must know…” she had said, but Catherine suspected that her father already knew—knew that his young wife had betrayed him with Ned Clarencieux. Kneeling beside Maggie that night as Sir Alfred’s steps had come ever closer, as his voice had grown louder, as his presence had filled the room with fear, Catherine had known she had to help her stepmother or matters in the Fenton household would go terribly awry and never be well again. For John’s sake, for Mirabelle’s, for her own, to preserve the fragile peace that held them all together…She had no choice.

  The hall landing was light and airy, lit by a single lamp, and painted in white with an artful arrangement of flowers on a table at the top of the stairs. One painting hung against the blank wall. It was a scene of the river at sunset in bold red and gold. Catherine remembered Maggie mentioning once that the Royal Academy had loaned a number of paintings to Ben Hawksmoor. Apparently they had paid him for the privilege of exhibiting in his home. As had John Vane, to display his glass sculptures, and Jasper French to show the exquisite silverware that Maggie had taken such a fancy to. The delicate silver miniature of her lover that Maggie had been unable to resist felt as though it were burning a guilty hole in Catherine’s little silver reticule.

  She opened the second door on the left and found that she was in a study. It was a very masculine room with a leather-topped desk and matching chair and a profusion of bills and letters tumbling to the floor. It did not look as though Ben Hawksmoor cared overmuch about paying his debts. No matter. She did not have time to stand here and deplore his extravagance. Anyone might discover her here at any moment.

  Catherine crossed the landing surreptitiously and opened the second door on the right. This time she was in a drawing room. There was a sofa and matching chairs that were striped like a dowager’s ball gown and some fine cherrywood tables. The carpet felt thick beneath her shoes. Ben had not lied when he had told her that ostentatious show was his aim, no matter the cost.

  Catherine took the silver miniature from her pocket and slid it beneath the corner of the sofa so that its corner stuck out a half inch. Any maid worth her salt would spot that now and assume that the piece had fallen from the shelf and accidentally been swept beneath the sofa to lie undiscovered for the last few months.

  Catherine rubbed her damp brow with the back of her hand. She felt almost light-headed with relief. Maggie was safe and no one would ever know, just as she had wished.

  Catherine turned the doorknob and slipped out onto the landing and in the same moment she heard the sound of hurried steps on the stair and a low masculine voice edged with anger.

  “Get rid of everyone, Price. I am retiring. I do not care to entertain tonight. They are all so drunk they will not notice if you throw them out into the street.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, my lord.” The butler sounded strained. “Was it the messenger, my lord? Is there anything amiss?”

  “Nothing.” Ben Hawksmoor was closer now and Catherine thought he sounded in a particularly bad mood. “Just get rid of them, Price. I will be upstairs.”

  “But the Prince Regent, my lord! I cannot simply turn him from the house—”

  “He can go to his club,” Ben snapped. “They all can. They can go to hell for all I care.”

  Catherine stopped dead. She had taken too long. She had known it. She should have been out of the house by now and away without needing to make explanations. And now Ben was here and she was trapped. She pressed her sticky palms against the cool white wall and tried not to panic.

  Ben came round the corner of the corridor. He had what looked like a letter in one hand and, as she watched, he crumpled it into a ball and sent it spinning away. He looked absolut
ely furious. Then he raised his hand to loosen his neck cloth, leaving the neck of his shirt open. Catherine drew back on a gasp. There was something wild in his eyes, the same controlled violence that she had seen in him that day at Clarencieux’s hanging.

  It was only a matter of seconds before he realized that she was there. Catherine’s trapped mind ran desperately over whether it was better to step forward and reveal herself or wait and hope against hope that he might not notice her. And then it was too late. Ben saw her. And stopped dead.

  He paused, drawing the crisp white stock between his fingers. For a moment Catherine was puzzled by the expression she saw in his eyes, for he was looking genuinely surprised, and then, fleetingly, so angry she almost flinched. But a second later she thought she must have been mistaken, for he smiled at her, that same brilliant smile that made her heart jump with fear and wayward excitement.

  He was looking at her quite differently from the way he had done that night at Crockford’s. Then there had been speculation in his eyes as well as desire. Now, it seemed, he was sure of her. She suddenly realized that in coming to his house she had confirmed his belief that she was a courtesan. He would think that she had fallen for temptation at last and taken advantage of the ball to seek him out because she wanted to make love with him. She was in all probability standing outside his bedroom door. By her presence she had just borne out everything he believed about her.

  The heat flooded Catherine’s body at the thought and receded equally quickly, leaving her shivering. How to get out of this tangle now? She had a fanciful idea that she could hear a trap closing. Instinctively she glanced behind her. The long corridor ended in a blank wall. There was only one way out—and Ben Hawksmoor was blocking it.

  His lazy gaze raked her from head to foot. Hard, insolent, amused, his hazel eyes brought the hot color into her face and left her trembling. She knew he had every reason to think the things he did. She had flirted with him at Newgate out of sheer recklessness, had played the part of a courtesan to thwart the possessiveness of Withers, whom she detested. He had seen her with Lily and sent to the brothel to find her. Even when she had met him at the gaming hell, she had not revealed her true identity. How completely disastrous it was turning out to be. Because now came the reckoning.