That Scandalous Evening

by Christina Dodd

“Please listen, my lord!”

  “Call me Ransom.” He was coaxing now, wanting her skirt and the freedom of her body and God only knew what else.

  McMenemy was speaking loudly, and being answered just as loudly. Jane couldn’t believe Blackburn didn’t hear. “Listen,” she urged.

  Changing tactics, he abandoned her skirt and slid his fingers along her outer thigh. “Darling,” he crooned.

  The door slammed against the wall.

  He whirled to face it as Lady Goodridge stepped into the chamber.

  In her ringing tone, she said, “Ransom, this butler is totally unacceptable. You’ll have to…” Her voice trailed off as she observed her brother, Jane, and their dishevelment. Her eyes widened, and her substantial frame shivered.

  Blackburn moved to stand in front of Jane, but it was too late. Lady Goodridge had brought companions. A gentleman and two ladies crowded forward, and one of the ladies screamed.

  A draft of air from the open door ruffled Jane’s hair and sent a hairpin spinning. It tinked as it struck the tabletop, as ominously as Jane’s own death knell.

  Chapter 12

  The morning after an encounter with Blackburn, Jane thought blearily, hadn’t improved in eleven years. Memories of last night brought forth other memories, memories she thought she had successfully suppressed.

  And that particular memory, of her unsanctioned visit to Blackburn’s home—that was the most hurtful remembrance. As she descended the stairs, following the scent of grilling sausage, she shuddered and hunched her shoulders. The retained humiliation made her want to curl up in a ball and hide.

  But she could no longer be a coward. She had spent years hiding, and if she’d learned one thing, it was that the memories would always hurt her. She had also learned there were worse things than memories—the loss of a sister, the deliberate unkindness of a brother-in-law, being cast from her home and left to make her way in the world as best she could.

  Memories? What were mere memories in comparison? She wouldn’t be beaten by them.

  Straightening her spine, she took a breath and stepped into the breakfast room.

  A soft patter of applause greeted her entrance.

  Startled, she looked around for the reason, and found Violet, Lord Tarlin, and Adorna gazing at her and smiling.

  “What was that in honor of?” Seating herself at her usual place, she nodded at Lord Tarlin. Tall, thin, and balding, he was a man of good sense and honor, but Jane found herself uncomfortable in his presence. Not because of anything he did, but because she lived in his house, ate his food, and rode in his carriage. He thought nothing of her sojourn here, she knew. Violet described him as the most generous man alive, but the years of living under Eleazer’s thumb had left their mark. Unconsciously Jane waited for the demand for payment.

  “You did it. Jane, you did it!” Violet crowed. “I have never seen Blackburn as maddened and discomfited as he appeared last night.”

  “I have,” Jane said dryly. “I had hoped never to see such a thing again.”

  “Those of us who know him rather enjoyed his annoyance,” Lord Tarlin said.

  “I liked him,” Adorna said.

  “Oh, so do I.” Lord Tarlin sat still as Violet wiped a crumb from his lip. Smiling at his wife, he added, “But on occasion, he is too aware of his consequence.”

  “Aunt Jane will take care of that.” Adorna wore a crisp morning gown of lawn green, and looked as fresh as if she had not imbibed wine, eaten supper at twelve, and danced until three.

  It was, Jane decided, one of the many unfair advantages of youth.

  “He is very handsome,” Adorna continued. “No wonder you fell in love with him, Aunt Jane.”

  Jane shouldn’t have been surprised at Adorna’s sudden acquisition of knowledge, but she was, and with a thrust of dread, she wondered how much her niece really knew. For how could a chaperone moralize when she’d once created a scandal great enough to live through the ages? “Who told you such nonsense, dear?”

  “By the time we came in from the garden, everyone had heard, and lots of people told me.” Adorna sighed pleasurably.

  Tensely Jane said, “You were told about the statue?”

  “Yes. They said you made a good likeness of Lord Blackburn.” Adorna blinked, the picture of an innocent babe.

  “That’s all?”

  “A very, very good likeness is what I heard.” Adorna frowned. “Was there more?”

  Jane met Violet’s gaze and recognized the relief there. “No, nothing else.”

  “I thought the tale romantic, and I wish you would sculpt again.”

  “Well, I can’t. I have no place to do it and probably don’t remember enough of the art anyway.” A footman placed a loaded plate in front of Jane, and she murmured her thanks.

  “That’s awful.” Adorna’s eyes were two big, round, mournful pools. “They say you were so good.”

  As Jane took a scone, she answered Adorna crisply. “They said a lot of things, the least of which was that I was good. And ‘romantic’ is the last word I would use to describe that whole, hideous episode.”

  “My friends thought it so.” Adorna dimpled. “I saw to that.”

  Currants dotted the split scone, and as Jane placed a dab of quince jelly on the textured surface, she marveled at her own extravagance. To put jelly on an already rich bread seemed almost sinful. “I don’t think your young suitors are the ones who decide society’s policies.”

  “No, but Lord Blackburn is.” Violet crushed her napkin in her fist. “It’s time he paid restitution for his actions. He has brought you nothing but pain.”

  Nothing but pain? Once again the memory of that day in Blackburn’s study rose before Jane’s eyes, but this time it wasn’t the humiliation she remembered. She remembered the passion, unbidden and unwanted. She might deny the yearning, but her body’s evidence would not be refuted. The warmth within her, the dampness between her legs, the ache in her breasts—seeing him had rekindled it all. All the desire. All the yearning.

  And all the need to give vent to her artistic talent.

  She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. But the address the Vicomte de Sainte-Amand had slipped her burned in her pocketbook like a coal of live craving.

  “For him to pay restitution, he would have to feel guilt,” Jane said. “Can you truly see Lord Blackburn feeling guilt about anything, especially about trivial events which took place so long ago? And besides, I committed the first offense.”

  “He’s not a bad chap,” Lord Tarlin objected. “I think if he hadn’t been so angry with you, those events would have had a proper ending. But no man would have taken so pointed an insult so lightly.”

  Jane put down her scone and asked the same question she had asked so many times before. “What insult?”

  “Yes, what insult?” Adorna asked.

  “I meant no insult,” Jane said.

  Jane received the same answer she had received so many times before. Lord Tarlin opened his mouth, then looked at his wife. She shook her head, and he shut his mouth again. Looking both uncomfortable and amused, he said, “Yes, well, it’s after eleven and I have duties to perform. Must get going.” Standing, he bent and pecked a kiss on Violet’s upturned face. “I’ll see you later, my love, shall I?”

  “You’re taking us to the ball at Lady Ethan’s tonight, aren’t you?”

  Lord Tarlin sagged. “Another? So soon?”

  “The season is just started,” Violet reminded him.

  “I shall have to find some urgent need to go to Tarlin House.”

  Smiling serenely at him, Violet said, “Whatever you think is best, dear.”

  After he left, Jane said, “I hope he doesn’t resent escorting us.”

  Violet chuckled. “Not at all. He always threatens to run away from the season, I always offer my gracious willingness that he should leave, and he always stays to escort me.”

  “He is truly caged,” Adorna said thoughtfully. “Not by you, but by his desire to be wit
h you.”

  Violet examined her voluptuous guest. “What amazing insight.”

  Adorna shrugged. “You flatter me, my lady, but that must be obvious to all.”

  It hadn’t been to Jane, but over the years, she had grown used to Adorna’s inherent shrewdness in all things concerning men. If only Jane had been as shrewd…She closed her mind to Lord Blackburn and his incredible threat. She would not think of him, nor would she look behind as he commanded. He had been angry at the reawakening of the scandal, but he did not really wish to take her to his bed.

  The butler arrived, carrying a salver piled high with cream-colored sheets of sealed and elegant paper.

  Adorna gurgled with laughter.

  “Look at this!” Violet lifted several in her fingers, then cracked the seal on a few. “I have never seen so many invitations. Our little Adorna is a success!”

  Jane nodded and smiled. She had never doubted that.

  Violet’s mouth twisted, and she picked up one folded paper with just her fingertips. “And another letter from Mr. Morant.”

  “I’ll take it.” Jane accepted it from Violet. Eleazer hadn’t been jesting when he said he wanted a detailed reckoning of their expenditures; he wrote once a week demanding an accounting of his investment. Jane always acknowledged him promptly, although some of the purchases Adorna had insisted on making on Jane’s behalf required carefully worded replies.

  “Also,” the butler intoned, “Monsieur Chasseur has arrived.”

  Only a few days after they arrived, the young tutor had arrived in London. Miss Cunningham’s death, he assured Jane, had been ruled an accident, one that, the constable acknowledged, he had had no part in. He could now give Miss Morant his full attention, and looked forward to working with such a winning and intelligent lady.

  Yet between fittings and teas and the theater, Adorna had little time left, so Monsieur Chasseur came weekly to teach her as he did so many of the other young people in London for the Season.

  “Ooh, my lesson.” Adorna wilted back into her chair. “French is too hard. I will never learn it.”

  “Of course you will, dear. You just must keep trying,” Jane said mechanically.

  She was an adult, with a responsibility toward Adorna. Last night’s incident in the garden proved the girl attracted disaster like a flower attracts bees. So until the girl was settled with a good husband, Jane would continue to act as befitting a spinster, and then she would see about employment—as a governess, perhaps.

  Yet inevitably her mind turned away from that thought and to Blackburn, and her fingertips tingled in that manner which had brought her so much grief. She wanted to paint. She wanted to sculpt. She wanted to be who she was and not who society commanded.

  But—

  She would not go to de Sainte-Amand’s. She would not.

  “Got a new report, m’lord.”

  Blackburn looked up from the paper before him and placed his pen carefully on the blotter. “You always sneak up on me, Wiggens.”

  “It’s me job, m’lord. What ye pay me for.” Wiggens smiled a gap-toothed grin. “But ye never jump, do ye?”

  “Not much makes me jump anymore.” Holding out his hand, Blackburn waited while Wiggens dug through the ragged layers of his clothing. In any of the Blackburn homes, garments so old and tattered would have been burned in the trash barrel, but on the streets of London, no one gave Wiggens a second glance. An invaluable tool, was Wiggens.

  The report, when Wiggens handed it across, was stained, and Blackburn blew a thin, fine layer of soot off the top sheet before setting it before him. “Did the clerk give you any trouble this time?” he asked as he perused the contents.

  “No, m’lord. Ye scared ’im fully last time, ye did.” Wiggens nodded wisely. “Thank ye.”

  Blackburn paid for Wiggens’s phenomenal memory, not for any literary skills, and when the secretary who inscribed those memories had cuffed Wiggens, Blackburn had been quite succinct and to the point. Employment was precious; perhaps the clerk wished to seek it elsewhere. The clerk did not.

  Wiggens was now as cocky as ever, the best of the battalion of miniature sleuths Blackburn employed.

  As Blackburn read the exacting descriptions Wiggens had given, he recognized most of the people who entered and exited the de Sainte-Amand home. One, however, he did not know. Tapping his finger on the bottom of the page, he asked, “Who is this lady?”

  “The one what went in this mornin’?” Wiggens grinned at Blackburn’s nod. “I thought ye’d be interested. That’s why I brung the report right away. Funny lady, she was, scared to death, by the way she acted. Walked past me corner first, comin’ from Oxford Street, and walked along lookin’ at the ’ouses as if she didn’t know where she was goin’. Got right to the stairs leadin’ to the Frenchie’s door, and I thought, Aha! A new one! Then she took off like a shot. Walked down to the corner and around. Then ’ere she comes back again, walkin’ slow-like, talkin’ to ’erself!”

  “What was she saying?”

  “I wasn’t that close, m’lord. Only watched ’er wipe ’er ’ands on ’er skirt, like she wasn’t wearin’ gloves, which she was, and put ’er foot on the bottom step. Then off she goes again! Back to me corner.” Wiggens vigorously paced across the small chamber, imitating her.

  Leaning back in his leather chair, Blackburn observed the performance. “But she finally decided to go in.”

  Wiggens frowned, unhappy at having the tale cut short. “Aye. After the third pass, she goes to the far corner, turns all military-like on ’er heel, and marches back up to the ’ouse, up the steps, and raps on the door.”

  “They let her in.”

  “I’d say they did! The Frenchie’s butler made all goo-goo over ’er, smilin’ and bowin’ like she was somebody important. So I scoot a little closer, and peek in, and what do I see? The man ’imself comes into the entry and bows and kisses ’er fingers like she was a doochess or somethin’.”

  Suspicion snaked up Blackburn’s spine. “Fascinating.”

  “Then they shut the door.” Wiggens collapsed in a chair and slouched down, presentation over.

  Blackburn read the description of the lady again, then again, his brain clicking.

  But it couldn’t be Jane. The memory of last evening weighed heavy on his mind, that was all. He could still, when he wished, bring forth her image, breathe in her scent, feel the warmth of her skin, and want more. “Tall woman, you said.”

  “Tall enough to stand out in a crowd.” Wiggens scratched in a manner that made Blackburn resolve to wash thoroughly when he was once again alone. “Well dressed, no longer in the bloom of youth, if ye get me meanin’, but pretty enough and quality. I could tell that.”

  “Dark, short hair,” Blackburn guessed.

  “Curled around ’er face under the bonnet.”

  Blackburn noted that his fingers were cold, and the faint buzz in his head disturbed him.

  It was unlikely to be Jane. Only the false courtship he had resolved to perpetrate made him even consider her. That, the fact he respected her intelligence—and the fact he wanted her enough to threaten to make the rumors of their affair into truth. “Did you happen to notice the color of her eyes?”

  “Naw. Too far away.” Then Wiggens sat up straight. “But that’s not right. I did note ’em, because they were as green as the moss in the gutters.”

  Staring at the paper, Blackburn saw Jane, silhouetted against the light at his sister’s house. De Sainte-Amand had handed her a slip of paper. She had first tried to refuse it, as if her better instincts were fighting to maintain their hold. Then she had taken it.

  Wetting his lips, Blackburn asked, “Did you hear her name?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  She had no income, and a brother-in-law who apparently begrudged her every farthing. Yet her gown last night had cost more than Wiggens earned in a year.

  “Was she dressed to seduce?”

  Wiggens looked startled. “No, m’lord. A plain brown p
elisse over a plain brown gown.”

  Had Jane sold her soul?

  “Ye’re lookin’ a little peaked, m’lord.” Wiggens peered at him through big blue eyes. “Ye might need to eat.”

  “Yes.” Blackburn opened his desk drawer and drew out five shillings. Then, remembering the value of Jane’s gown, he added another five. “I have a new mission for you.”

  Wiggens bowed, bony elbows akimbo. “At yer service, m’lord.”

  “I want you to go to Cavendish Square and set up shop there. See if the lady who acted so oddly at de Sainte-Amand’s lives in the Tarlin home.”

  “But I’m yer best!” Wiggens said indignantly. “Why would ye send me to Cavendish Square where all the toffs is?”

  “We may have a problem developing there, possibly connected with the Frenchies.” Blackburn placed the money in Wiggens’s skinny, outstretched hand. “I depend on you. You know that.”

  As he glanced at the amount Blackburn had handed over, Wiggens’s reluctance turned to enthusiasm. “Aye, m’lord. I won’t fail ye.”

  Wiggens swaggered out, leaving Blackburn to his bitter thoughts.

  The Vicomte de Sainte-Amand was one of the many Frenchmen who had immigrated fourteen years ago, escaping the Reign of Terror that had taken almost his entire family to the guillotine. Proud, vain, and poverty-stricken for the first time in his life, the son had found it difficult to adjust to English life. He needed money—a lot of money—and that was what de Sainte-Amand did not have.

  Until recently.

  De Sainte-Amand did not understand the term discretion. He had flaunted his newfound wealth; the Foreign Office had noted it. With a little investigation, the source of his new fortune became clear. He spied for Bonaparte.

  Blackburn despised de Sainte-Amand for his ingratitude at the country that had offered refuge, yet in a strange way, he understood de Sainte-Amand’s defection. De Sainte-Amand longed for a return to the old times, when he had a fortune and could command respect by his very position in society.

  Yet many had lost much in their lives, and still they lived upstanding lives.

  And then there was Jane.