The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  James had thoroughly underestimated the man. “So, what makes you think that your daughter wrote the letter?”

  “Small things. She writes my hand better than I do myself, more ‘me’ as it were. But her language missed on some of this. Close though, very close. I suspect she had her heart set on meeting you for some reason, though perhaps not quite in the manner that she introduced herself today. Good God, did you ever see such a thing?” He roared with laughter. “But that’s my Helena. Very like her mother that one.”

  “Then if you knew, why not send me on my way?”

  Barrington’s mustache lifted as he grinned, showing a glimpse of his teeth. “Two things, lad. First, never question Providence. The loss of your ships is a dastardly thing, though the captains paid for it, did they not? That partner of yours had tempted them where they should have trusted their instincts. Giving coin as a bonus for ignoring a storm warning is foolishness only matched by those who take it.”

  James actually flinched at this. “I had hoped that such news was not public knowledge.”

  “My boy, there is very little I claim ignorance in. What I do not know, I find out. There are no more than five souls in the world who likely know what happened, and I have paid enough coin to three of them that such things will be taken to the grave before they are revealed. The other two are in this room.”

  James stared at him. “Why would you do that?”

  Barrington leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying drawing this out. “For the second reason that I wished to meet you. My daughter, Helena.”

  “Your daughter! What has she to do with this?”

  “Duke, you truly need to learn how to hold your emotions in check. You are a terrible liar, which is a shame because this is a skill you need to cultivate if you expect to survive. I realize you have only held the title of duke for little more than a year or two, but ’tis time you learned how to play the game.” Barrington shook his head seriously. “If you can. I am not sure such a thing is possible after meeting you.”

  James drew himself up. “You, Sir, are out of line! I am not a liar, nor do I wish to become one.”

  “Good!” Barrington leaped to his feet. “Then you should not mind explaining to me why my daughter has not only sent for you but has in fact arranged for you to visit this household five times. Are you here, dear Duke, to court my daughter, or not?”

  Chapter 7

  He had been played as a fool.

  James Campbell, the Duke of Durham, had been manipulated from the start and was only just coming to realize it now.

  Lucy had come back from her day off ill at ease and clearly not herself, but all his questioning had left him with few answers. She’d apologized profusely for having had to take the extra day, having been caught in the storm, but had said little about where she’d gone. Only to see a ‘friend.’

  When the letter had come nearly a week later, the whole thing had unraveled.

  Lucy usually had little to do with James’ correspondence. He had a man who handled the more mundane tasks regarding the care of his wardrobe and the answering of invitations. So, to find Lucy in his office, trying to tuck a letter within the pocket of her apron had been shocking, to say the least.

  She’d cried then and begged him not to open it, that it had been sent in error. Would that he had listened then, for even now as he thought back on it, he realized that he’d felt the sticky spirals of the spider’s web forming around him. But he had been moved by Lucy’s tears. Had she not been his nurse since childhood? Had he not devoted himself to her care now that he was grown?

  But the letter had meant very little without the rest of the story. He had been surprised to hear that the Duke of York had any interest in him whatsoever. To have him propose a venture was laughable — what capital did he have for such an enterprise? To become a partner would take the funds to cover his share, and in the wake of the disaster with his own ships, he had none.

  He would have none for a very long time. His partner had been thorough in the destruction of his financial well-being.

  But Lucy had had an answer for that as well. That rose, that blasted rose that even now was burning a hole through the pocket of his waistcoat. She’d pulled it out calm as you please and presented him with it, calling it a gift, and the means to take advantage of the proposed partnership. Salvation in the form of five perfect rubies.

  And to think she’d sat down, calm as you please and darned socks while she detailed to him, precisely what he must do to earn it. As though the hiring of his affections was of no consequence at all.

  Then to have this man stand there and question him about his intentions as though his arrival in this house at this time was fully expected? The entire matter was too much.

  Had he been still standing, he might have needed to sit down. Thankfully it was only his host upon his feet, which saved James from falling down in shock, and gave him an excuse to leap to his own feet, in a blinding fury that took even him by surprise.

  “Then you are a part of this miserable game?” he asked, fumbling for the rose in his waistcoat, and nearly tearing the pocket in his haste to remove the jewel. He slammed it down on the desk between them, sending papers scattering in a soft avalanche to the floor.

  The man stared at the rose with an expression upon his face that could only be construed as wistful. “Ah…I had wondered at her not wearing it. I think I begin to understand.”

  “Well at least one of us does!” James exploded, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I surely do not. I am not a commodity to be bought and sold. There is the rose, take it back. I want no part in it or in any of this!”

  “That is a shame then,” Barrington said softly, picking up the brooch and examining it with an eye, not as a man looking at the value of a thing, but for the memory it contained. “For I just might have had a proposition for you.”

  James eyed him warily. “There seem to be quite a plethora of propositions floating around here already.”

  “You fail to understand?” Barrington’s smile was back, if anything, wider than before. “I will take this brooch from you, as a buy-in for this venture. With your investment and my shipbuilding company, we will do as you say and try this American venture.”

  “That blasted rose is not mine to use as currency!” James shouted. Barrington simply stared at him until he dropped back in the chair in such frustrated agony that he quite simply could not find another word to say. “Fine. Carry on. As you were saying…”

  “I was saying that we carry out this venture, and in return, you carry out your task…not to marry the girl. While I know some arrange marriages for their offspring with little regard for emotional attachment, I would not wish that on anyone. My Anne…well suffice to say, she was an amazing woman. Both partner and friend. I would not have my daughter experience anything less.”

  “But why…?”

  Barrington stared at him. “You truly did not see it, did you? No…I will not be the one to point it out. Perhaps this whole idea is not as crazy as it might have seemed at first glance.”

  “You want me to court your daughter. For money.” James crossed his arms. This time it was his turn to stare Barrington down. “That hardly seems honorable.”

  “Nor does the theft of a priceless artifact from this house,” Barrington said. His face could have been carved from stone.

  James felt the blood drain from his face. “You knew.”

  “I told you, there is little I do not know. A man who has no awareness of what goes on beneath his roof is hardly a man at all.”

  Point taken. James let his arms fall, what little bit of smug certainty he’d had evaporating like the fog that rolled in over the ocean every morning. “You would hold me to this arrangement.”

  Barrington’s eyes were steel. “I would hold you to a great deal more if it would make my daughter happy.”

  James stood, drawing himself up with barely suppressed anger. “Five visits then. No promises. No expecta
tions. Then this debt is paid.”

  “Five visits. The brooch is yours to do as you will with. I am earnest in what I have proposed.” Barrington withdrew a packet of papers from his desk. “I took the liberty of having this agreement drawn up. Read it, have someone look at it if it makes you feel better. You have until next Tuesday to make your answer.”

  James shuffled through the papers, amazed at the complexity and detail. “And then what?”

  “Then what? I expect you will need to make the acquaintance of my daughter. I think we had best start with a meal. Something small. A dinner. Perhaps a handful of guests. I shall let you know the details.”

  Chapter 8

  Grandmother showed up that evening and found Helena in her rooms, picking at her dinner in a dissolute manner, distracted and unhappy in the extreme. Even the single small strawberry upon her plate failed to rouse her, even though they were rare treats doled out sparingly by her aunt who did not allow her much in the way of sweet things, saying they were not good for her.

  “I hear you made quite the impression today,” Iris Barlowe said, settling her weight carefully in the chair opposite the tiny table drawn near the fire.

  “I am told I make quite the impression wherever I go,” Helena replied, poking at a bit of potato and trying to decide if it was worth eating. Sadly, Bridget’s new assistant was not entirely skilled, so that this particular piece of potato had the special charm of being blackened on one side, and raw on the other.

  Her grandmother laughed. “The same cannot be said of all of us. Sometimes it is a blessing to leave an impression, however unfavorable you might think it is initially. Most of us go through life leaving very little impression upon it at all.”

  Helena looked up in surprise. “Surely you don’t mean yourself!” she exclaimed, surprised by the vehemence of her grandmother’s words.

  “No, but I do mean your mother. Oh, Anne! She was a beautiful thing, with the widest most generous smile! But she went through life perhaps a little too easily, without much effort. We praised her overmuch I’m afraid, for the smallest of accomplishments, but she so rarely put herself out to try new things that we thought to encourage her this way.”

  “Unlike Phoebe,” Helena said with a hint of a smile. “She leaves an impression wherever she goes.”

  Grandmother laughed though her eyes seemed troubled by it. “Your aunt is a fine woman, but she does have a flair for the dramatic, does she not? Oh, not that she ever does anything improper. But she does rather like being the center of attention.”

  Helena smiled for it was true. Aunt Phoebe was a mainstay of the literary society and often hosted meetings at their home. Not that Helena ever attended. She touched the sores upon her arm and frowned a little, wishing that the creams and unguents would work, that someday she could actually join in and not just sit and listen from the shadows of the next room.

  I have read every single book they have discussed. And I feel there are things I could contribute to the discussion. Perhaps I should be trying harder, as Aunt Phoebe says, to try things that might well heal this terrible affliction.

  And then maybe she could be part of that sparkling society as well. Not that she had any illusions about her chances, not at this stage when she was so nearly two-and-twenty. But her aunt had found a niche in her spinsterhood, a place that involved a society of books and art, and fine friends, and the occasional tea, especially since Helena had grown to no longer need her for either nursemaid or companion.

  Helena pushed away the rest of her dinner, not really hungry now that she had company. “Grandmother, was it difficult to send Aunt Phoebe here to take care of me? I imagine you must have been lonely with Grandfather gone.”

  “You know this story…” Iris said softly, a sad look coming into her grey eyes.

  “Only that after I was born and Mama died, that Papa hired several nursemaids to tend to me but that I cried so, that they all left.”

  “Oh, my sweet girl, I fail to think a baby’s tears would have such a profound effect upon such things. Babies cry, ’tis part of nature. Perhaps you fussed some, more so when the rash first started appearing on your hands and face.”

  Helena leaned back in her chair, enjoying the way the firelight cast strange shadows on Grandmother’s face. “You lived nearby then, did you not? I do not remember that part of the story well.”

  “We were here often by then. I never saw a child so taken with another as Phoebe was when she saw you. It seemed she was never content unless she was helping in your care somehow. She bathed and dressed you as though you were one of her dolls. And was so pleased when she could feed you. It seemed she always wanted to visit and there was little enough at home to engage either of us by that point.”

  Her grandmother sighed. “It seemed such a harmless thing at the time. Your father had very little luck when it came to hiring staff. I understand he still has difficulty in keeping people for long with the exception of that man who tends to him, and his wife.”

  Helena nodded, smiling. “Antony and Bridget have been here as long as I can remember.”

  “They are good people. But they were not equal to managing the house and a child, so when Phoebe asked to stay as your nursemaid when that other one left…what was her name…Millicent? No. Margaret. When Margaret left, it seemed providential. I had friends who wished me to tour the continent with them, and Phoebe was fifteen, old enough to be a help, and she seemed to not want me around. I think your father appreciated it.” Grandmother paused, frowning.

  “What?” Helena sat up. “You have thought of something.”

  Her grandmother shook her head. “No, ’tis nothing. I just now wondered how that couple thought to ask me to travel with them. But I suppose that someone must have said something to someone. You know how news travels the ton.”

  She didn’t. She’d never experienced the ton, or anything even vaguely resembling society, other than one disastrous attempt at coming out several years ago. Helena shuddered at the memory.

  “Be that as it may, it was good for the both of us. I discovered a love for travel and a new purpose for my life, and your aunt discovered a place here, though I wonder sometimes at whether I should have pushed her more to make a marriage…though we never had the means for much of a dowry, and those interested all seemed too…low for her tastes.”

  This was new. Helena had not heard this particular tidbit before. “Did someone offer for her hand then?” she asked, breathless for this scrap of information.

  Grandmother brushed the question off easily. “I hardly think such a thing is important now. She is happy, that is all that matters. Now you, on the other hand. Your own happiness is somewhat more concerning.”

  Helena grimaced. “I find contentment where I may.”

  “The last I heard, it was at the feet of a stranger,” her grandmother said, leaning in with a wicked grin. “Do tell me all the details.”

  “I think you have quite enough as it is!” Helena shot back but couldn’t help but smile a little. “I fail to see how you have found out so easily. The sir in question was the Duke of Durham, and he was here to visit father.”

  And myself. I think. Maybe. I do not know. I wish I knew.

  “There is much you’re not saying,” Iris said softly.

  Helena got up and went to the dressing table. The mirror there was wavy and the image faint. Her father had wished to replace it many times, but she preferred it this way, unable to see herself clearly. She looked at the ghostly image now, seeing even in the shadows where the missing patches of skin upon her cheeks and chin had left her face raw.

  “It is worse underneath the clothing,” she said finally. “The affliction continually grows worse, regardless of what the doctor gives me. I am in pain from these sores all the time. And I itch. How I itch! How can I possibly sit still when I am in such agonies of torture?”

  Iris came to stand behind her, embracing her granddaughter from behind, sharing the space in the mirror with her. “I do not
know why you must bear this cross. I would give anything that you did not. Your mother, she had a similar rash sometimes in the summer, but it always faded with the winter, and she seemed to outgrow it as she got older.”

  “I have not outgrown it,” Helena said sadly. “I look at myself, and I see how much of a beast I am.” The girl in the mirror looked sad too, her eyes too big in her face, lower lip trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Regardless, I dream of having what my mother did. I want a husband, my own family. I dream…oh, how I dream…but I am CURSED.”

  The word exploded from her lips, hanging in the air between them. Helena pulled away from her grandmother. She could not bear to be touched and could no longer stand to see the pathetic creature in the mirror.