A Study in Scandal (Scandalous)

by Caroline Linden

  “I don’t want that sort of trouble in my house! I’m a widowed lady, m’lord, with Jenny to look after. Her mother is my own sister, you know, how could I ever face her again if I allowed her daughter to be carried off to suffer unspeakable horrors?”

  “Mrs. Willis,” said Gray firmly, “that won’t happen. Calm yourself.”

  She gave him an affronted look. “Then what are we to do? I don’t like to turn out the young lady, but—”

  “We can’t turn her out.”

  Her eyebrows went up at his brusque tone, and she began a brief but furious argument in whispers about the lack of beds, the possible danger, Christian charity, the propriety of her house, and—of all things—the cost of tea. Gray, having recognized the exercise as a negotiating tactic, ended it by promising to pay for not only the doctor but any other expenses and inconveniences caused by Perdita’s presence, including a bit extra for the work Jenny would be put to changing linens and such, at which point Mrs. Willis nodded in acceptance. Gray started to go upstairs, feeling like getting into bed and pulling the covers over his head as Perdita had done.

  “But that doesn’t answer where I’m to put her,” his landlady called after him. “I haven’t got a bed to spare, my lord!”

  Gray ran his hands through his hair and barely refrained from cursing. “Put her in my bed.” She let out a horrified gasp. “Not with me,” he added testily. This was why he kept to his own rooms when in the house. “I’ll sleep in my studio.” There was a battered chaise longue up there, although the floor might be more comfortable. At least his feet wouldn’t hang over the end of the floor. “Have Jenny make up a cot and sleep near her. She can help if Perdita falls ill in the night and ensure everyone’s reputation is kept pristine.”

  “Well.” She raised her chin, somewhat mollified. “I suppose that will do.”

  Gray exhaled in relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Willis. I’ll remove my things so you can shepherd her upstairs.”

  “This is just for tonight, Lord George?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, slinking toward the stairs. He had no idea what he would do with Perdita tomorrow. He just knew he couldn’t push her out the door as she was now, all pink cheeks and flustered blond curls and wary green eyes. Most likely a night in strange surroundings would persuade her it was better to go home, and her memory would enjoy a full recovery by morning.

  She sighed. “Very well. But supper will be late if Jenny has to watch over her.”

  The prospect of eating with Perdita caught his attention, but the certainty of dining with Mrs. Willis promptly dismissed the idea. “I’m dining out tonight,” he told her, then bounded up the stairs. It took only a few minutes to transfer the necessary supplies up to his studio on the top floor, then he seized his coat and left the house. A soft murmur of voices from the rear of the first floor made him pause again before he resolutely strode onward.

  Perdita would go home tomorrow. And he would do well to keep his distance from her until then.

  Chapter Five

  By the time sun poured through the windows the next morning, Samantha had gathered her courage.

  She must go home. Not only was she taking terrible advantage of the kindness of Mrs. Willis and Lord George Churchill-Gray, she saw now that the whole enterprise was a fool’s errand from the start. Her best hope at this point was to return as soon as possible and throw herself on her father’s mercy. The mere idea filled her with terror, but perhaps a flood of tears would achieve what dignified pleas and careful queries could not.

  First she had to apologize to her hosts, in particular Lord George. It had taken her a little while to realize that when Mrs. Willis urged her upstairs to a larger bedroom, the landlady was escorting her to His Lordship’s apartment. There was nothing overtly male about it, being two good-sized but plain rooms furnished simply though comfortably, but as soon as Samantha sat on the edge of the large bed, she knew. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and shaving soap, like her brother used. And when she asked, Mrs. Willis confirmed that the gentleman had given up his rooms for her.

  “He’ll bide upstairs in his studio,” Mrs. Willis said, plumping up the pillows. “He insisted, m’lady, and Jenny will be here if you need anything. You’re not to be troubled. Rest your dear head so you might remember everything.”

  Samantha had been sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink in a strange man’s bed, but she did—except for the two times during the night when Jenny inexplicably poked her awake, sleepily inquiring how she felt. But now it was morning, her dress had been returned to her, washed and mended, and she had no earthly excuse to delay.

  She climbed the stairs, nervously rubbing her palms on her skirt. Despite the cleaning, it still bore faint stains from the dip in the river yesterday, driving home how shabbily she had repaid Lord George’s heroics. Composing her expression, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

  It opened an inch and a single eye met hers. “Are you alone?” he whispered.

  Samantha drew back in trepidation. “Yes…”

  “Thank God.” He swept the door open and bowed. “Come in.”

  “Oh no, I…” Her hands were damp against her skirt again. “I wanted to thank you, and to apologize…”

  “I would be happy to accept both thanks and apology, but above all else, I wish to avoid Mrs. Willis,” he said in the same half-whisper. “Will you come in? You may leave the door open.”

  She stared. He was mad. He was also barely dressed, wearing only trousers and a shirt, which billowed loosely over his chest and hung open at the neck. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms, and he wore scuffed boots on his feet. His long brown hair hung almost to his shoulders, and stubble shadowed his jaw. “Why do you want to avoid Mrs. Willis?”

  He glanced past her as a bit of conversation floated up the stairs; the landlady was scolding Jenny about the laundry. “She’s the worst of my least-favored tutor and my childhood nurse, melded into one person. Will you come in?”

  The proper answer would be no. Slowly, Samantha stepped over the threshold.

  Lord George closed the door halfway, then strode back across the room. “Did you sleep well?” He caught up a smock and flung it over his head.

  “Yes, thanks to you.” Covertly she watched him tug the smock into place; it hung past his hips and was stained with paint, mostly on the right side. It didn’t hide his forearms, or his long-fingered hands, and the act of pulling it over his head had ruffled his hair into a tousled mess, as if he’d just got out of bed. It was indecent to watch something as intimate as this, and yet she couldn’t stop herself. “I understand you gave up your rooms for me. Thank you.”

  He waved one hand. “I could do no less.” His eyes connected with hers for a second before veering away. “It’s frightfully rude of me, but do you mind if I work while we talk? I was in the middle of a hurricane.”

  “Not at all,” said Samantha automatically.

  He grinned, a palette of paint already in his hand. “My profuse thanks for tolerating the eccentricity of a painter.” He leaned forward and daubed his brush on a large canvas set up facing the windows.

  Uncertainly Samantha looked around the room. She had expected a tiny garret, up here where one normally found servants’ quarters, but it was not. The ceiling was lower than downstairs, but otherwise it was spacious, with three windows right in a row, as if three small rooms had been knocked into one. The result was a sunny space, cluttered only with pots of paint, paintings of various sizes, blank canvases, two large easels, a mismatched pair of wooden chairs, and—shoved back in a corner and still bearing signs of having been slept on—a green chaise longue. From under her lashes she took another look at her host. There was no way a man of his height could have slept comfortably on such a piece of furniture.

  But he gave no sign of resentment. All his attention was focused on the canvas. “What are you painting?” she ventured after a few minutes of silence.

  “A shipwreck,” he muttered, tossing aside his
brush and reaching for a small knife. He scraped some paint off the canvas, wiped the knife on his smock, and went back to the brush.

  “May I look at it?”

  He looked up, his forehead creased in surprise. Instantly Samantha took a step in retreat. “I’m sorry. It was impolite to ask—”

  “No, come see.” He beckoned. “It will look better when it’s done.”

  The centerpiece of the painting was a sailing ship, broken on the rocks. A wild storm whipped up the sea around it, the waves surging in angry white spills of foam over the decks and forecastle, and angry dark clouds boiled across the top half of the canvas, slashing rain down. The sails drooped from the snapped masts like a flag of surrender. In the foreground, right at the bottom of the canvas, was a young woman dragging herself from the sea onto a narrow beach. Her dark hair blew across her face as she turned to face the wreck. Her scarlet dress was a spot of vivid color in the otherwise dark and angry scene.

  If Samantha had anything to thank her father for, it was an appreciation of art. Stratford Court was filled with masterpieces both old and new, and when the earl was in a charitable mood, he would wax eloquent about technique and composition. For a while, Samantha had had the idea that if she showed some artistic talent, her father would be fonder of her, and treat her with more affection. It hadn’t happened; her abilities were sadly limited to doodling and sketching. But she could recognize talent, and Lord George had it in spades. She could envision this work—or more likely a large-scale version of it—hanging in one of the drawing rooms at Stratford Court, opposite the serene river view. Her father enjoyed such juxtapositions.

  She could hardly tell him all that, though. “How dramatic,” she said after a moment. Her eyes lingered on the girl who had escaped calamity.

  Lord George’s face grew grim. He took up the knife and scraped more paint from the clouds.

  “It’s quite good,” Samantha added hastily, sensing that her comment had been taken wrong. “Splendid, really. The waves are so well rendered, and the light in the clouds is exquisite.”

  “Do you think so?” He slanted a sideways glance at her.

  She nodded.

  His expression eased. “If it all comes out as planned, I’ll submit it to the Royal Academy for next summer’s exhibition. I put in four this year, and have hopes this one will turn out better than any of those.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’d accept it,” she said eagerly, but without thinking.

  “Why do you say that?” He tilted his head at her sudden appalled silence. “You sound familiar with the Academy.”

  She was. Her father spoke of it often, generally to heap scorn on the committee who selected works. But now that the moment of confession was here, Samantha knew she didn’t want to tell Lord George, with his rumpled hair and kind eyes and strong bare arms, who she was. She could thank him and take her leave, and he would never connect her with the stern and cold Earl of Stratford.

  Nor was she ever likely to cross paths with a painter once she was married to Lord Philip.

  “I meant it’s so strong, artistically, with such vigor and passion, how could they not take it?” she parried, trying to smile normally.

  “Ah.” He didn’t look fooled, but he also didn’t press her. “I certainly hope they do. It would please my mother to no end, and reassure my father that I’m not wasting his funds.”

  His father the Duke of Rowland. Samantha retreated across the room, knowing she should get on with her apology and leave-taking. “Your father supports your painting?”

  “With some mystification,” he said, working at the canvas again. “He’d understand better if I joined my brother Rob in the Home Office, or took after my brother Tom and went into the army. I suppose he’d even endorse it if I wanted to breed horses, like Will.”

  “Three brothers?” Samantha said faintly. Good heavens, no wonder Stratford hated Rowland. Four sons!

  Gray laughed. “Four infernal sources of worry, aggravation, and despair! And a constant drain on his purse.” He shook his head, but his easy smile remained. He spoke in humor.

  She wet her lips. “Better than four daughters.”

  He paused, his dark eyes flickering her way for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. No sisters. My father used to say he wanted a daughter or two, that girls wouldn’t break their arms riding strong-willed horses or put dead rats in the tutors’ boots or get into his brandy and decide it would be brilliant fun to try on the suits of armor in the gallery and attempt a joust.” Samantha smiled at that one, and Gray’s grin returned. “No, he said he’d much prefer to have a dainty little girl who served him tea and let him spoil her with new bonnets and hair ribbons.”

  Perhaps a man with four sons would deign to spare some indulgence on a daughter. She turned away, studying some of the other sketches and paintings that filled the studio. “But you’re an artist. I suppose none of those other things appealed.”

  “Not a one,” he said promptly. “And not merely for being already done by my brothers. Besides, I’d be rubbish at all of that. Just as they’d be rubbish at this.” He paused, lowering his brush. “Although some days it seems I’m rubbish at this, too.”

  “Oh, you’re not!” Samantha protested. “These are wonderful!” She revolved on the ball of one foot, sweeping her hand around the room.

  “Bah.” He stabbed his brush into a nearby pot and tossed down the palette. “I had it on my fingertips and then it was gone.”

  “Oh yes, I do hate that.” She nodded in sympathy. “But it will come back.”

  He looked up. “You paint.”

  Startled, she shook her head.

  “Draw?” He grinned. “Come, I can tell you do something. Watercolor?”

  “Not well.” She cleared her throat. “A little drawing…”

  His eyes lit up. “Brilliant!” He snagged a sketchbook off a nearby table and held it out. “You’ve seen my work, Perdita,” he pointed out.

  The name stung her. Perdita, lost one. All the same, she didn’t want to be found, not yet. A bit defiantly, she took the sketchbook and charcoal pencil he handed her, and sat down on one of the chairs. “I’m not very good,” she declared, bending over the paper. “You’ll be sorry you wanted to see. It’s nothing to what you do.”

  She drew in silence, acutely aware of him watching her. Thanks to her father, she’d never had a suitor—not that Lord George was watching her that way, or ever would. But just being this near him, with his attention fixed on her, made her nerves hum and her cheeks flush the way she imagined a suitor’s regard would do. “There,” she said in a husky voice.

  He leaned over and looked. Samantha tilted the sketchbook to show him what she’d drawn, a whimsical little rabbit sitting back on her haunches, head tipped quizzically to one side, one ear up and one ear down.

  “Very good,” said Lord George warmly. “What’s he unsure of?”

  “She.” Samantha regarded her doodled rabbit. “You.”

  He shot her a glance, a laughing look from beneath his absurdly thick eyelashes. “Me? Surely not.” He reached for another pencil. “I know what’s got her at a stand…”

  Samantha let him take the sketchbook. He sat on the chaise and propped one boot on the opposite chair, settling the book atop his knee. She watched his hand as he drew, his fingers barely holding the stubby pencil as he worked. His hands themselves were marvels, to her surreptitious scrutiny, as finely sculpted as anything any artist ever carved from marble, but warm and golden with life. Short hairs scattered over the back caught the light as he shifted the pencil, now shading, now drawing something curved, then straight. They were strong hands, capable and gifted and confident.

  “That’s better.” He turned the book around and displayed it.

  Flustered that she’d been staring at his hands and wondering what his skin felt like, Samantha stared at the sketchbook blankly for a moment. Then she burst into laughter. “How ridiculous!”

  Now another creature sidled up to her rabbit,
a lean and sinuous skunk, instantly recognizable from the deft shading. His pointed head angled toward the rabbit, his tail unfurled behind him suggestively, and a smile that could only be called seductive adorned his face. With one hand he held out a single daisy toward her shy and perplexed rabbit. And where her drawing had been done in a few careful lines, the skunk leapt off the page in full glory, from the gleam in his eye to the wrinkles in the petals of the tiny daisy. If she’d ever wondered how much talent she truly had, this put a firm end to it. Next to a real artist’s work, hers was the drawing of a child.

  At her laugh, that artist grinned. “Come now, he’s a handsome fellow!” He ran the pencil across the paper, and grass sprang up in its wake. A few more lines and a tree sprouted behind the skunk. “Surely she’s tempted…”

  She took back the book and pencil. Behind her rabbit she drew another, a little taller, with its ears angled sharply forward and his expression angry, like a disapproving papa glaring at the rakish skunk. Without a word she turned it around.

  “Ah,” he said wryly. “I see. But perhaps…” He took the sketchbook and rubbed something with his thumb, then drew again. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”

  This time Samantha’s smile was bittersweet. Somehow he’d altered the skunk’s expression, making it less sly, and now the skunk’s free hand lay over his heart. No longer a rake but a hopeful swain. “He’s still a skunk.”

  Lord George added a few more flowers to the posy in his skunk’s hand. “A rabbit and a skunk aren’t so dissimilar, once you overlook the fur.”

  “Not everyone can overlook the fur.” She took back the book and ripped out the page. “I think you made more of it than I intended.”

  “What did you intend?”

  “Nothing,” she said after a moment. “Drawing little animals is just a habit of mine…” There was little else to do at Stratford Court. No one came to call and there were few neighbors she was permitted to visit.