The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5)

by Cathy Maxwell

  She noticed her uncle Banker Montross and her aunt Catherine. Her cousin Abby was not attending because she now lived in the north with her new husband. Lady Rumsman was seated not far from them. She was noticeable because she carried a beribboned staff such as a shepherdess would carry. The ribbons matched the ones in the bonnet on her head. It was a frivolous chapeau and made Corinne wonder why a woman who prided herself on intelligence didn’t know how to dress properly.

  On the other side of the aisle, Corinne saw Lady Landsdowne whisper to her husband.

  Suddenly, Lord Bossley exploded. “I am not cooling my heels here. If Banfield does not wish to be present for his daughter’s wedding, then that is his choice. Let us be on with it.”

  “Lord Bossley,” the duchess insisted in a conciliatory tone, “he shall be here shortly.”

  “He should have been here a half an hour ago,” his lordship countered. “Reverend, let us start the service.” He went marching up the aisle with the authority of a greatly affronted man. He took a place to stand beside his son.

  Corinne seized upon the opportunity to delay the wedding. “I shall not marry without my father present.”

  “Of course, of course,” her mother agreed, but with a worried look in her eye. She suddenly perked up. “There’s your father.”

  The duke of Banfield surprised them all by making his appearance at the front of the church. He must have walked in from another entrance. Nor was he alone. He had several soldiers with him—and he had Will.

  Will was not in his clerical garb; instead, he looked incredibly dashing in shining Hessian boots, riding breeches, and a bottle-green jacket. He was every inch the fashionable gentleman and appeared nothing like a prisoner.

  Of course, he could have walked in in sackcloth and Corinne would have been just as happy. She started up the aisle toward him.

  “What is happening here?” Lord Bossley shouted. He backed halfway down the aisle, almost into Corinne’s arms. But then he pulled up short when he recognized Will. “What are you doing here?”

  Will moved to face him. “I had some business in London between myself and Newman Knowlys, Esq. You know him, don’t you, my lord?” Will gestured toward a man wearing a powdered wig designating the authority of his office, who stood beside the duke of Banfield. “He’s the Common Sergeant of London. I’m certain your paths have crossed.” The Common Sergeant was an important judge in London’s courts and second only to the Recorder in power.

  Lord Bossley made an impatient sound. He looked to the Prince of Wales. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. This is my foster son, the one I saved from the streets of Barbados and took to my bosom. He has turned out to be a viper. Did you know he turned himself over to the magistrate, confessing he was a traitor?”

  “Actually, that’s not what I did,” Will said. “That’s the story we put out so that we could have time to prepare other accusations against you.”

  A murmur of surprise went through the crowd.

  “Against me?” Lord Bossley looked to the Common Sergeant. “What lies is he accusing me of this time, Mr. Knowlys? What half-truths and innuendos?”

  “It’s not him accusing you, sir,” Mr. Knowlys said, “but the Crown. You are an impostor, and I’m here this day to charge you with the murder of James Dunleavy Sherwin, true sixth earl of Bossley, and his wife, Aimée.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence from everyone in the church. Corinne filled the void with a decidedly unladylike “Yes!”

  She lifted her petticoats and skirt, shoved Bossley out of the way, and went running for Will.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pandemonium broke out around Corinne as she raced to Will. People were standing, asking questions, shouting denials.

  She didn’t care. Will was here and he was safe. She threw herself into his arms with such force that she almost knocked the two of them over, but he caught her, he held her.

  Tears burned her eyes. He tightened his hold. He felt the same way she did.

  “This is a lie,” Lord Bossley was shouting. “I never murdered anyone, and I am quite obviously alive. My wife is alive as well.” He nodded toward Lady Bossley, who, dressed in her finery, had the look of a doe in a hunter’s sights. She smiled, nodded, and fainted back into her seat.

  Newman Knowlys, Esq., shouted back that the facts spoke for themselves.

  Lord Bossley’s friends insisted this was all a Tory plot. The Tories in the crowd denied their charges but crowed they were heartily glad of the turn of events.

  In the end, it was the duke of Banfield who restored order. He reached for Lady Rumsman’s shepherd’s staff, the one festooned with ribbons and flowers, and pounded it on the floor until all fell silent. “Let us hear the charges against Lord Bossley,” he said.

  “Yes, I would like to hear them,” the Prince of Wales agreed.

  At the reminder of royal presence, the guests dutifully shuffled back into their seats.

  The prince sat and nodded to Mr. Knowlys. “The charges, sir?”

  Mr. Knowlys, a political animal if ever there was one, preened at such public attention. Everyone he could wish to impress was here, including the Lord Mayor of London.

  He cleared his throat and said, “First, let me tell you what we do know. Lord Bossley was colluding with the French.”

  Again voices raised questions. The shock of betrayal was loud and clear.

  “I am not a traitor,” Lord Bossley announced, moving to the step of the altar to make himself seen. “However, the Reverend Norwich is a known criminal who had in his possession gold from the French. He confessed—”

  Once more, the duke of Banfield banged the staff on the stone floor for order.

  “The evidence does not support your position, Lord Bossley,” Mr. Knowlys said. “The confession story is one we put out to throw you and your cohorts off the scent and to keep the Reverend Norwich safe. I spoke to Lord Tarrington this morning—a very minor lord, a greedy one, ripe for the plucking—who has been quite forthcoming with information once he realized he’d been found out.”

  Those who had supported Lord Bossley seconds ago now eyed him with suspicion. Corinne couldn’t help tossing a superior glance in Lady Rumsman’s direction.

  “Go on,” the Prince of Wales ordered. “What of the murder charges?” He leaned over the railing of his box with interest.

  Mr. Knowlys turned to Will. “Do you wish to tell this?”

  “I do.” Will addressed his comments to the audience, but his gaze never left Lord Bossley. “Lord Bossley is actually Kenneth Moore, the younger son of an Irish nobleman, who plotted rebellion against England. He was tried here in London and found guilty. He was sent to Barbados to serve out his life as an indentured servant—my father’s servant. My father was James Dunleavy Sherwin.”

  “What a pathetic, ridiculous lie,” Lord Bossley said.

  “Is it?” Mr. Knowlys countered. “I admit I was skeptical until I researched the archives and found the date of your sentencing. I’d wager there is a rebel’s brand on your side.”

  Lady Bossley had started to regain her senses from her earlier swoon. “A brand? The brand?” She now fainted dead away again. Damning evidence if there ever was any.

  “My father was a physician in Barbados,” Will said, giving Corinne a squeeze to acknowledge how right she’d been. “He preferred the island to England, especially since he’d married a French woman, an octoroon whom they said he loved deeply. She had no desire to come here. She was happy where she was.”

  “Who said this?” Lord Bossley demanded. “Who speaks against me?”

  “The dowager Lady Bossley,” Mr. Knowlys answered. “She is not well and isn’t here, but she gave her account before witnesses, including the duke of Banfield.”

  “She’s too frail to remember anything,” Lord Bossley countered. “She rarely remembers her name
.”

  “But I am not,” an accented voice said amongst the other side of the soldiers. A short, black man with close-cropped gray hair pushed his way to the front of the company. “I am Henri Biron. I also served the physician Lord Bossley as a free black man. Do you remember me, Kenneth? I thought never to see you again. I searched for you, but you had disappeared.”

  “No, not disappeared, Mr. Biron,” Mr. Knowlys claimed triumphantly. “Kenneth Moore, the servant, murdered his master, Lord Bossley, and claimed his identity. He has been playing us all for fools for almost three decades.”

  Silence reigned in the church.

  Corinne herself was shocked.

  Bossley—Kenneth—changed before their eyes. He lost his bluster, his pride. He seemed to shrink and age.

  “Mr. Biron reported the murder years ago,” Mr. Knowlys continued. “He has been living in London from time to time with the hope that Moore would someday show himself.”

  “I never thought he would take Lord Sherwin’s identity—and his son,” Mr. Biron said. “I never thought even he could be so cruel.”

  “I didn’t murder Lord Bossley,” Kenneth Moore said. “We were waylaid.” He looked to Will, to the others who had been his friends, his acquaintances. To them, he pled his case. “Lord Sherwin was a fool. He had all of this waiting for him in England and he preferred spending his life nursing and healing the poor in Barbados. I could not understand it, except that he felt his wife was happier there.”

  “She was,” Henri Biron confirmed. “I was very close to your mother”—he addressed this to Will—“from the time of my youth. She was beautiful, your mother was.”

  “Yes,” Kenneth Moore agreed. “Lovely.” A great sadness seemed to weigh him down. He continued.

  “The day of his death, your father took me with him as protection when he called upon patients with the fever. Lady Sherwin also traveled with us. She did that from time to time. She cared for the ill. Myself? I hated going to the poorest sections of Bridgetown. We risked catching the fever. I argued, but your father was insistent. He needed me to guard the two of them and wanted me to assist him. As we were returning home, we were set upon. They killed Lord and Lady Sherwin for his watch.”

  “But you were unharmed,” Henri pointed out. “You say brigands attacked, and you did what? Hide?”

  “I was harmed,” Moore said in his defense. “They struck me in the head. I told Lord Sherwin to give them the watch. He wouldn’t do it. It had been a gift from his father . . . the earl of Bossley. He would not give it up.”

  Henri Biron looked to the crowd. “I don’t believe his story. If I had fought to protect my master, I would have had more than a bump on the head to show for it. The authorities did not know what to think. They decided to believe him because they always believe a white man. They even tasked Moore to escort Lord Sherwin’s heir back to England. The lad was no more than three years of age. But on the trip, the two of them disappeared. I followed to see to the welfare of the son. It was the least I owed my patron—but it was as if they had disappeared.”

  “I say Kenneth Moore plotted this all along,” Mr. Knowlys said, taking back control of the testimony. “He realized he had the opportunity to assume Lord Sherwin’s identity. Kenneth Moore took on the title of Lord Bossley and robbed the true Lord Sherwin of his birthright,” he finished, nodding to Will.

  “Because I was robbed of my birthright,” Kenneth Moore lashed out. “I was a young man when I plotted rebellion. It was a lark. A game. The sentence was harsh. Unfair. I was no threat to the Crown.”

  “But since that time you have become a threat.” This comment came from the Prince of Wales.

  His words hung in the air.

  And Moore had no defense.

  “I should have been Lord Clare,” Moore said stiffly. “You wish loyalty after you take my very identity from me?”

  The Prince of Wales rose. “And so you gained the idea of taking Lord Bossley’s from him.”

  Moore nodded, the lines of his face set deep. “Yes. Yes, I took what the man did not want. And look what I did with it. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that all the wealth I thought Bossley had was a myth. His estate was crumbling, his crofters were robbing him blind, he had no influence. I rescued that title. I saved that inheritance.”

  “Yes, you attempted to sell this country to her enemies,” the Prince of Wales answered. “You made a mockery of that title. Take him from here,” he said to Mr. Knowlys. “Try him for the traitor, and, yes, murderer I believe him to be.”

  “Wait,” Will said. “Moore, why didn’t you rid yourself of me? You had numerous chances. Certainly you knew there was always the risk of your true identity being discovered, especially with me close at hand.”

  “Because I am no murderer,” Moore repeated. “I could not stop what happened to your parents, you must believe me. As for claiming the title, while taking you back to England, people assumed I was your father. And when I arrived in Ferris, people thought I was the lord. It was foisted upon me. I had little choice.”

  “You had a choice,” Will said. “We all have choices.”

  Moore snorted. “You’ve met the dowager Lady Bossley. Would you have preferred to have been raised by her? Your father never thought well of her. All I had to do was increase her living allowance and she became a complicit ally in the deception.”

  “Yes, but if you had been truthful, you could have had an honest life,” Will replied, “instead of living in the shadows of lies and all of the machinations to which you resorted to keep your secrets safe.” He turned to Mr. Knowlys. “You may want to investigate what hand Moore played in the death of one Simon Porledge, late of Ferris.”

  “I shall, Reverend,” Mr. Knowlys said. “Mr. Moore, accompany us.” He nodded for the soldiers to take control of their prisoner.

  Freddie took a step forward. “Father?”

  It wasn’t until he spoke that Corinne even thought about him . . . and then she almost felt sorry for him. He’d been caught in his father’s lies as well.

  “Don’t worry, son,” Moore said. “See to your mother.”

  Moving like a man who had just witnessed his world being destroyed, Freddie, no longer Lord Sherwin, did as instructed. His mother had started sobbing bitterly. Freddie offered his arm. She took it, and the two of them walked down the aisle and out of the church.

  The officer in charge of the soldiers took Moore’s arm to escort him out the side entrance. Lady Rumsman hissed like a goose as he was led away, an odd sound. A cruel one.

  Corinne’s father approached her and Will. “Well,” he said in the ensuing silence. “That was eventful.”

  Several of the wedding guests gave nervous laughs at his understatement.

  “Suffice it to say,” the duke continued, addressing the guests, “there will be no wedding this day—”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Will spoke up. “I wish to marry your daughter, and I shall do it here and now.”

  Interest buzzed through the church.

  “I am not averse to your suggestion,” the duke of Banfield said. “It might even save the scandal this day has created. However, there is no license.”

  “Was it not made out to Lord Sherwin? Am I not he now?” Will looked to the Prince of Wales, who conferred with a raised eyebrow amongst several of his well-placed friends.

  “By Moore’s own confession, apparently he is,” the prince confirmed. “Although this must all be clarified and taken through proper channels for confirmation. Parliament must have their say.”

  “That could take weeks. Months even since Will’s case is unusual. I will not wait for all that,” Corinne said. “I love him. I must be with him.”

  Will faced the duke. “Your Grace, I wish to marry your daughter and I want to do it here and now.”

  “Oh, dear,” her mother said weakly. “The sca
ndal of this,” she whispered to her husband. “Can we not wait? You know, give this all time to, um, be forgotten?”

  “My good duchess,” the Prince of Wales said, “this wedding will live on in our memories forever. But I have a question—” He turned to Corinne. “Does it matter to you, my lady, if your beloved has a title or not?”

  “No, Your Highness. I would marry marry the Reverend Norwich even if he was a rat-catcher.”

  “Hopefully our clergy hasn’t sunk that low,” the prince replied, a comment met with smirks and giggles from the elegant wedding guests. “I say they should marry.” His decision was met with the applause of approval.

  The duke of Banfield referred to the rector. “Reverend Hodgson?”

  “The marriage documents have not been signed yet,” Reverend Hodgson said. “A change could be made to the special license—” He turned toward those gathered, singling out one of the members of the prince’s friends. His dress was elegant although of more subdued cloth and color than the others. “Bishop Randolph, as Bishop of London, will you make the proper changes to the documents?” Reverend Hodgson asked.

  “Of course I will,” the bishop said

  “Good man,” the Prince of Wales replied, beaming his approval. “Ink and parchment for the bishop,” he called. “I came for a wedding and a wedding I shall see.” A suggestion that was quickly seconded by all assembled.

  Will turned to Henri Biron. “Sir, will you stand by me?”

  “I would be honored, my lord,” Mr. Biron said with a bow.

  “And perhaps later you can tell me of my father and mother.”

  “I have much to share,” Mr. Biron said. “They were the best people. I sense their son is very much like them.”

  In short order, the special license was changed. No one seemed particular about the details, and Corinne found herself standing before the altar with the man she loved.