That Scandalous Evening

by Christina Dodd

  “No, that’s not true!” Adorna said. “He’d been paying a lot of attention to you. He’s always watching you and—”

  “Watching me.” Jane laughed bitterly. “Yes, he has been watching me.”

  Confusion puckered Adorna’s forehead. “I don’t understand. This is bad?”

  “He was watching me for the wrong reasons,” Jane explained.

  “No.” Adorna shook her head until her curls bounced. “I don’t think so. When a man gets that sort of hot, scary look in his eyes all the time and the only thing that seems to relieve him is going off alone with his wife, I’m pretty sure that’s good.”

  For the first time in Adorna’s life, Jane wished she hadn’t established such a strong bond with her niece. Tell me anything, Jane had always said. Tell me what you think. Now Adorna did, and Jane didn’t want to hear it.

  Adorna clapped her hands together. “But I didn’t come to discuss you and Uncle Ransom. I came to tell you I’ve found the man I will marry.”

  That captured Jane’s regard as nothing else could. “Have you? And why hasn’t he applied for your hand?”

  “He thinks you should be warned first.”

  Jane’s well-developed intuition for Adorna-trouble quivered to life. “Warned? Why?”

  “He thinks you might object because of his age.”

  “His age.”

  “He’s older than I am.”

  “How much older?”

  “A lot.” Adorna fidgeted with a tendril of her hair. “About fifty years.”

  Jane sucked in a horrified breath.

  Adorna hopped off the bed and took Jane’s hand. “But don’t worry! He’s got everything I want.”

  “Money and a title,” Jane guessed.

  “Yes, but I could always get those.” Adorna dismissed that with a shrug. “No, what Daniel has is kindness.”

  Her mind searched wildly. Daniel? Daniel…

  “When I talk to him, he looks at my face. I mean, most men seem to think it’s my bubbies that speak.”

  Daniel…

  “He listens to me. If I say I like yellow roses with a sweet scent, he sends me yellow roses with a sweet scent, instead of those eternal red roses that indicate deep passion.” Adorna sighed dramatically. “Deep passion. Most of the boys wouldn’t know passion if it wet their legs.”

  The light slowly dawned in Jane’s mind. “Daniel…McCausland?”

  “Yes! Viscount Ruskin! You remember, we saw him at the beach!”

  Jane did remember. That tottering old man? He wanted to wed her Adorna? Her beautiful young niece planned to marry him?

  Adorna must have read Jane’s thoughts, for she tumbled into speech. “He’s nice, Aunt Jane. He’s common, like me. He doesn’t patronize me because my father’s a merchant like the rest of them do. He won’t go out and find another woman within a year of marriage just to prove his manhood, and I can keep him busy the second year. Aunt Jane”—Adorna looked up at Jane pleadingly—“he likes me. He…loves me.”

  Jane took her hand out of Adorna’s. Turning to the window, she stared out at the garden below. He loved her. Daniel McCausland loved her niece.

  And who was Jane to say there should be more? Who was Jane to tell Adorna she was wrong? Maybe Adorna wasn’t bright. Maybe she rushed to embrace life too impetuously. But give Adorna a few hours with a man and she knew him down to his tassels, and if she said Daniel McCausland was the man for her…indeed, he undoubtedly was. “Well.” Jane turned back to her niece and held out her hands. “If this is what you want, you have my blessing.”

  “Oh, Aunt Jane.” Adorna disregarded the hands and impetuously hugged her. “I’m so happy. I’ll send Daniel over to talk to Uncle Ransom.”

  “We’ll have to get permission from your father.”

  “Who will give it. Daniel is very rich.”

  “Yes, I suppose he will.” Eleazer had been jubilant about being so closely connected to Blackburn, never thinking that his treatment of Jane had been shameful and even now not realizing he would gain no advantage from her union. He would be equally happy to have a bond with Daniel McCausland, and equally surprised to find himself a pariah in his daughter’s home.

  “We’ll be married in the autumn, and I’ll give Daniel a child by the next year.”

  “The next year?”

  “I told you he ought to marry and have children so he could pass on his title.” Adorna let her go and grinned wickedly. “He says he’s always done anything he puts his mind to, and he’s more than willing to put his mind to this.”

  “I can imagine he is.”

  “I’ve got to go. He’s going to be at the Fairchilds’ today. I can’t wait to tell him.”

  Vaguely surprised that the former commoner had been invited to such an elite gathering, Jane said, “He’ll attend the Fairchilds’ soirée?”

  Adorna giggled. “They owe him money.” She glanced over Jane’s shoulder. “What time shall I be ready, Uncle Ransom?”

  Jane twirled and saw him leaning against the door-frame, just as he had not too many nights ago. This time, however, he displayed none of the mockery and exhibited none of the charisma. Instead, his gaze rested speculatively on Jane, although he spoke to Adorna. “We will leave at two.”

  “Four?” Adorna covered her mouth in dismay. “That’s so early.”

  “Four,” he repeated.

  Adorna rushed to the door, muttering, “I have to dress.”

  Blackburn looked ruefully at Jane. “That way, she’ll be ready by three.”

  Adorna stuck her head back in. “I heard you,” she said reproachfully. And to Jane, “I’ll send the maid in to clean up this mess.” She glanced at the man deliberately treading his way toward her aunt. “After he leaves.”

  She disappeared again, leaving Jane alone with a very thoughtful-looking husband.

  Last night’s passion had dissipated, leaving Jane feeling wan and skittish. But she didn’t retreat. She was never going to retreat again as long as she lived. “What is it, Ransom?”

  “We should talk.” A shard of porcelain crunched beneath his heel. “With a little less heat than last night.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He halted two steps away. “You’re still irate.”

  “I am not irate. ‘Irate’ is too small a word to describe my sensibilities.” She considered her emotional state, and found the correct descriptive word. “I am incensed.”

  “You’re making too much of what was nothing but a misunderstanding.”

  She stared steadily into his eyes. “Foolish of me. Of course, I can’t help but wonder how a Quincy would react if he were accused of treason.”

  “Your family cannot be compared to—” In a rare flash of intuition, he must have realized she might take exception to his words, and caught himself.

  Too late. “My father was the tenth Viscount Bavridge, and you are the fourth Marquess of Blackburn. The Higgenbothems were nobles when the Quincys were grubbing in the dirt. My bloodlines are better than yours.”

  “Not better, surely.” Holding up one hand, he said, “But I didn’t come here to get in a slanging match with you. I came to ask that you go with us to the Fairchilds’ tonight.”

  She laughed without humor. “You don’t feel I’ve had my share of humiliation yet?”

  “You won’t be humiliated. You can stay beside Adorna and me—”

  “The ton would crow out loud, my lord, to see your new wife guarding you from the wiles of her niece. No. I thank you, but I will stay home.”

  He groped for his quizzing glass, but he hadn’t yet attached it and he fumbled fruitlessly. “I thought you might say that, and of course, you shall do as you wish, but I have to ask—why say Athowe is the traitor?”

  Jane dropped her head into her hands for one brief moment. Blackburn hadn’t come to mend fences. He had come for information. Naturally. How could she ever doubt it?

  “Jane?”

  Then another thought struck her, and she looked up. “
Has Monsieur Chasseur arrived to teach Adorna her French lesson today?”

  “No.” After a brief hesitation, Blackburn said, “In fact, the watch found his body near the London docks this morning.”

  Shaken to the core, she said, “God rest his soul. Are you sure…?”

  “We had a man following him. Not a man, actually, but a child who could do nothing when Chasseur was attacked and shot.”

  Leaning against the nightstand, she whispered, “Murder.”

  “Yes, for failing the emperor. The spy trade is most unforgiving. However, Jane, before you feel too sorry for him, please remember—he most likely killed Miss Cunningham, and she was an innocent as surely as Adorna.”

  “Yes. Quite so.” She took a shaky breath and recalled his original question. “Athowe is the traitor because Frederica is taking French lessons, which she seems not to enjoy. Because after telling me about the French ship which came ashore, and watching me very carefully for reaction, he literally ran to avoid your Mr. Smith.”

  Blackburn’s face dropped with disappointment. “That’s not conclusive evidence. A lot of men run when faced with Mr. Smith.”

  Elbows akimbo, she put her hands on the small of her back and wondered whether to tell him, and decided she might as well. He wouldn’t believe her, but at least she would have tried. “I’m an artist. I studied him last night, and I assure you, he has the character and the morals to be an assassin. He is surely your spy.”

  Blackburn just stared. Why should he, a man who lived by facts and reality, believe in her powers of observation?

  “Yes. Well. Thank you for your wisdom.” He took a deep breath, then tried to soothe her vexation. “I wouldn’t ask you about him if it weren’t important.”

  Casting about on the floor, she found her night shoes. “I know.”

  “I wouldn’t even go tonight if it weren’t very important.”

  “Why not?” She pulled them on and brushed past him. Opening the door, she signaled to Moira, and when she turned back and saw Blackburn remained, she said, “Really, Ransom, go on. It’s not as if we have anything to say to one another.”

  A more miserable afternoon, Jane had never spent. Her meal congealed on a tray at her elbow while she shifted in her chair. For some masochistic reason, she had chosen to sit in the same library where she had come to confront Blackburn eleven years ago.

  The room had not significantly changed. Books still lined the walls, as well as paintings of the finest sort and cleverly placed statues. Beyond the open double doors lay the garden, small and well tended, and with the fragrance of carnations scenting the air.

  The room should have soothed the artist in her. Instead she could scarcely stand to be here—but to be anywhere else in the house seemed dreadful. Nothing could make her happy. She had thought last night stripped her of all dignity, but no. Tonight was worse, for tonight she realized Blackburn’s contempt for her didn’t matter. She still wanted to see him and know what he was doing.

  Was there anything more pathetic than a former spinster craving the affection of her disinterested husband?

  The setting sun cast a warm light on her maroon leather portfolio as she dilatorily flipped through it, trying to find a face or a scene that could interest her. If she could only make herself rise, go to the easel, and finish one of these drawings…She fingered the infamous sketch of the Virginia Belle. Even this one, the one that had caused her so much trouble, didn’t appeal to her.

  Taking a pencil and a plain piece of paper, she drew a quick picture of Frederica sprouting fangs and hair, then wadded it up and tossed it. The poor woman didn’t deserve that; if Athowe had proved one thing last night, it was that he hid his true personality well. He bullied Frederica; from the jittery way she acted, Jane thought perhaps he even beat her.

  Flipping through the portraits, she found the one she’d done of him after that first sighting at Lady Goodridge’s ball.

  Yes, cruelty rippled along his sagging jaw and his weak mouth, and the greed that consumed him shone in his eyes. Jane had just not noticed. Why should she? He wasn’t Blackburn. He never had been.

  The fangs and the hair went better on his face, and she sketched them in with quick strokes, then grinned at the result.

  A soft knock sounded, and her heart leapt. Blackburn. It might be Blackburn. Standing, she settled her portfolio on her arm, brushed out her skirt, and called, “Yes?”

  The butler opened the door. “Would my lady like a visitor?” Whent asked.

  “A visitor?” Deflated, she could only stare.

  “Come, Miss Higgenbothem, you’ll see me.” Athowe stepped around the butler as he spoke. “Go on, now.” He waved a dismissive hand at Whent.

  Impassive, Whent waited for her orders.

  Hastily Jane considered the situation. Yes, Athowe was a spy, and yes, Blackburn would probably soon attempt to arrest him. But she didn’t make the mistake of assuming Blackburn would do so on her recommendation. No, he’d poke and pry, trying to ascertain she was right while Athowe skipped the country.

  The capture of that French ship had rattled Athowe, but really, even if he sensed the trap closing on him, he couldn’t imagine that she had seen the truth in him, and maybe, just maybe, she could persuade him all was well. “Yes,” she said to Whent. “You may go.”

  He lingered still. “My lady, will you require refreshments?”

  She would serve Athowe refreshments if he wished. “My lord?”

  “No, really.” Athowe wiggled his hands in genial denial. “I can’t stay.”

  She watched him cautiously as he moved into the room. He was dressed in his traveling clothes. Not a good sign.

  “So you’ve got your dream,” he said. “You’re married to Blackburn, and happy as no woman has ever been before or will be again.”

  She didn’t like his tone, and she glanced at the portrait she held. The petulance drawn there was echoed in Athowe’s face right now. Something had disturbed him. “We are just married.”

  “But he’s not here.” He prowled close to her, and the smell of brandy came at her in a wave. “He’s at the Fairchilds’, romancing your niece.”

  “He’s not really romancing her, he’s—” Standing guard over her.

  No, that would be a stupid thing to say.

  But even if Athowe made the connection, he couldn’t do anything to her in her own home, in such civilized surroundings.

  Except that he was standing too close, and looking too earnest.

  “You stare at me with those green eyes,” he said, “and I see nothing but accusations.”

  She flinched back, then contained herself. He had no reason to believe she had charged him with treason. “What do you mean?”

  “I abandoned you when that damned statue was revealed, and you’ve never forgiven me.”

  She moved the heavy portfolio from her arm to the front of her chest. He couldn’t see his portrait that way, and besides, it protected her like a shield. “Truly, Lord Athowe, I have not dwelled on it.”

  “You never thought of it.”

  “Well…no.”

  He slammed his fist into the table. “It’s Frederica’s fault, and Blackburn’s, that we never got together.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” An offensive scene had developed. Her nerves crept beneath her skin, and she could scarcely maintain a civil expression.

  But he really couldn’t do anything to her. She would scream and—She glanced around for a weapon, and her gaze rested fondly on the fireplace implements. “Your consequence, as well as your fortune, were much greater than mine.”

  “But it would be right for us to be together now.”

  “Not possible.” She spoke as firmly and as affably as possible while she moved toward the door. “Lord Athowe, we are both married.”

  “I didn’t say anything about marriage.” His voice sounded right in her ear. “Just togetherness.”

  She tried to turn to face him, but he took her wrist and twisted it up and behind
her back. The sudden pain brought her up on her toes, and she cried out.

  “Dear, dear Miss Higgenbothem.” He spoke in a low, rapid tone. “I haven’t been home since last night. The Foreign Office has officials searching my house. My wife is telling everything she knows. And I have to get out of the country. It seems fitting that Blackburn’s wife accompany me, not only as a companion, but as a safeguard.”

  Her elbow throbbed as the joint stretched beyond the limits of endurance, and she whimpered as she realized how stupid she had been. She’d told herself he could do nothing to her in her own home, but what use was it to attribute civilized behavior to a man with no honor? “I don’t want to go,” she said.

  “To Italy? Of course you do.” Turning her in a circle, he headed her toward the open garden door. “It’s your dream, remember?”

  As she stumbled along, she dropped the portrait of Athowe and it wafted to the floor—the first of her markers to fall.

  Chapter 30

  Fitz had never seen Blackburn fidget like this. He stood next to Miss Morant while she wiggled, and giggled, and entranced men left and right, and he looked so impatient with her antics, no one at the Fairchilds’ soirée could possibly imagine him infatuated with the girl. It would have been funny to see if it hadn’t been so pitiful, and so painful to know the affair that had begun eleven years ago with Miss Higgenbothem had not survived the fortnight of bedded bliss.

  A husky contralto voice spoke near Fitz’s ear. “Mr. Fitzgerald, what does Ransom think he’s doing?”

  Fitz had thought this woman would never speak to him again. Indeed, she had said she would not, and to his knowledge, she never changed her mind. So he had to carefully contain his spurt of excitement as he answered, “As far as I can tell—and this is a fairly impartial judgment—he’s being a fool.”

  “I have come to the same conclusion.” Susan, Lady Goodridge, stood just out of sight behind Fitz’s shoulder.

  Which might help her avoid his gaze, but wouldn’t help her avoid his bitterness. “But being a fool seems to run in the Quincy family.”

  She didn’t reply, but neither did she move away.