One Night Of Scandal by Teresa Medeiros
"Someday, Miss Terwilliger," Lottie whispered, whipping the soft woolen folds of the mantle around her shoulders. "But not tonight."
* * *
Hayden St. Clair sat all alone in the study of his rented house, reading by candlelight. " 'The mysterious M.M. himself was spotted ducking into a Bond Street haberdashery yesterday,' " he read aloud from the most recent edition of the Gazette. "A fine trick, that," he muttered, "considering I haven't left the house since Monday." He flipped the page of the newspaper, seeking the next column. " 'There are some who speculate his rare visit to London might have been timed to coincide with the start of the Season and the recent influx of blushing young belles eager to join the Husband Hunt.' "
Hayden shuddered, picturing some poor fox in evening clothes being run to ground by a pack of giggling debutantes.
" 'If indeed the M.M. has decided to seek a new bride, may this humble observer suggest an appropriate hue for her bridal gown — black.'"
A snort escaped him — half laughter, half disgust. "Devilishly clever, aren't they? The entire miserable lot of them."
He held the pamphlet over the candle, waiting patiently until the edges began to curl, then burst into flame. Leaning forward in the brocaded wing chair, he tossed it on the cold grate, watching with no small satisfaction as it burned to ash along with that day's editions of The Times, the St. James Chronicle, the Courier, and the Spy. Disposing of them might have been easier had he bothered to light the fire one of the footman had laid in the hearth, but compared to the stinging winds that whipped across Bodmin moor, the chill damp of London felt positively balmy. He'd only been in London for a fortnight, but he already missed the salty tang of the sea and the shrill cry of the kittiwakes that wheeled over the foamy breakers.
He wondered what the scandalmongers would write if they knew he had come to London to seek a woman, but not a wife. Had they been less successful in their mission to discredit him, he might even have found her.
The Tatler had gone so far as to accuse him of fleeing Cornwall to escape his ghosts. Unlike the professional gossips, he wasn't fool enough to believe that ghosts could be confined to craggy cliffs and windswept moors. They were just as likely to lurk within a melancholy snatch of Schubert drifting out an open window on Bedford Square. They hovered in a whiff of floral perfume that stubbornly clung to his coat long after he'd brushed past its wearer on the crowded pavement. They stalked the fresh-faced young beauties who strolled past the shops of Regent Street, their bouncing curls and exuberant chatter bringing a smile of delight to every man who passed.
Every man too innocent to realize that one man's delight might very well prove to be another man's doom.
Hayden had caught a glimpse of just such a creature only that morning — a golden-haired sprite who had descended from a crested carriage and flitted into the house next door, calling out a teasing challenge to the girl who plodded along behind her. He had watched them from the second-story window of his bedchamber, his fingers frozen in the act of knotting his cravat. Although he'd slammed the window and jerked the heavy drapes shut before he could catch more than a tantalizing glimpse of her face, her laughter had haunted him for the rest of the day.
He rose, moving to the elegant leather trunk perched on the edge of the desk. It had been delivered only that morning. Opening the trunk, he eyed the offering nestled in its velvet-lined interior. It seemed a poor consolation for the treasure he had hoped to find. He would have done just as well to remain in Cornwall, he supposed, but his quest had seemed too significant to trust to a secretary or solicitor, however discreet. He started to lower the brass-banded lid, then stopped, oddly reluctant to hide away the trunk's contents.
He was stuffing books and ledgers into the valise yawning open on the other side of the desk when a knock sounded on the door. Hayden ignored it, knowing from experience that if he did so long enough, whoever it was would go away. He had dismissed the servants shortly after tea, deciding they might as well enjoy their last night in London even if he chose not to.
The rapping on the brass knocker persisted — firm, steady, and unrelenting. His patience taxed beyond endurance, Hayden shoved the last of the ledgers into the valise. He stalked across the foyer to the front door and flung it open.
His lingering skepticism regarding the existence of ghosts was dispelled in that moment.
An apparition from his own past lounged against the stoop's iron rail, his silvery-blond hair haloed by the misty glow of the gas streetlamps. Hayden hadn't laid eyes on Sir Edward Townsend since the blustery autumn day four years ago when Hayden had laid his wife to rest in the Oakleigh family crypt. Although Justine's interment was supposed to be private, Hayden hadn't had the heart to turn Ned away. After all, Ned had loved her, too.
He hadn't denied Ned that last farewell, but he had left the cemetery without exchanging a single word with him.
Once his friend might have thrown his arms around him and given him a hearty thump on the back. Now Hayden's rigid posture made such a gesture impossible.
"Ned," Hayden said flatly.
"Hayden," Ned replied, his own expression faintly mocking.
Before Hayden could protest, Ned had pushed his way past him and into the foyer, twirling his walking stick between deft fingers. He cut much the same figure as the boy of twelve Hayden had met at Eton all those years ago — long-limbed and impeccably groomed from the tips of his polished Wellingtons to his short-cropped Grecian haircut.
"Do come in," Hayden said dryly.
"Thank you. I believe I will." Ned turned, tapping the tip of his walking stick against the oak floor. "I couldn't very well let you sneak out of London without seeing me again. Perhaps your butler has been remiss. I've called on you every day for the past week and have yet to receive a response." His gaze fell on the hall table, where a silver bowl sat over-flowing with calling cards and creamy vellum envelopes, none of which had been opened. "Ah… I see it's not the butler who's been remiss, but I. I presumed too heavily upon the manners your mother taught you, God rest her dear soul."
Hayden leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to look guilty. "My mother taught me that it was ill-mannered to meddle in the private affairs of others."
Ignoring him, Ned picked up a stack of the cards and invitations and began to shuffle through them. "Lady Salisbury. Lady Skeffington. The duchess of Barclay." He shifted his gaze to Hayden, cocking one silvery eyebrow. "These are all from hostesses par excellence. Tell me — how does it feel to once again be one of the most sought-after bachelors in all of London?"
Hayden snatched the invitations from his hand and tossed them back on the table. "I've no interest in keeping company with those who pride themselves on their manners but not their kindness. They're not looking for a fourth for their card parties or a waltz partner for their daughters. They're seeking someone their guests can whisper about behind their fans and cigars — a curiosity to be both pitied and reviled."
"Ah, yes, the 'Murderous Marquess.' He cuts quite the villainous figure through the pages of the newspapers and scandal sheets, doesn't he? It's astonishing that I even worked up the courage to pay you a social call." Ned studied his neatly manicured fingernails. "But since I've no intention of sleeping with any of your future wives, I shan't worry about you calling me out or flying into a homicidal rage and stabbing me in the throat with a jam spoon."
Hayden stiffened, stung by his friend's boldness. "Nor should you. I have no intention of marrying again."
"More's the pity." But it was sadness that touched Ned's cool gray eyes, not pity. "You were one of the most devoted husbands any woman could hope to have."
They were both silent for a long moment. Then Ned's teeth flashed in a ghost of his old grin. "Come out with me tonight, Hayden! Harriette Wilson's been bought off by the duke of Beaufort and retired to Paris to tantalize everyone with her memoirs, but her sisters still know how to throw a party. We can get thoroughly foxed, plant a pretty bit of mu
Despite Ned's insistence, they both knew it would never be just as it was. Instead of three wild and handsome young bucks sampling the city's many illicit pleasures, there would be only two.
Hayden dredged up a smile of his own from somewhere in his memory. "I'm afraid you'll have to woo the winsome Wilson sisters on your own tonight. I plan to retire early and make an early start for Cornwall."
Ned peered into the gloomy study just behind him. "I can't bear the thought of you entombed in this rented mausoleum on your last night in civilization. At least let me send over some small bit of comfort to warm you."
"That won't be necessary. The cook left a nice fat quail on the stove and a bottle of Madeira. That will be all the comfort I require." Hayden swept open the front door.
Ned didn't waste time taking offense or pretending to misunderstand. But he did pause and turn on the stoop, a speculative gleam lighting his eye. "You really shouldn't be so hasty to dismiss my offer. Even the juiciest of quails can benefit from a dash of spice."
Hayden watched Ned stroll to his carriage, troubled by the spark of mischief in his friend's eyes. At Eton, that look had always meant trouble, usually of the female variety.
Shaking his head at his own fancies, he firmly shut the door, dismissing both the night and its ghosts.
* * *
Lottie picked her way through the shadows cast by the overhanging tree branches, thankful that she hadn't allowed Harriet to accompany her. Harriet had never been any good at sneaking. She had an unfortunate tendency to clump about like a plow horse, no matter how soft the turf or how delicate her slippers.
Tendrils of mist rose from the damp earth, glowing ghostly pale beneath a wan scythe of moon. As she emerged from the shadows, Lottie drew up the mantle's hood to shield her hair from the moonlight.
The narrow, three-story house towered over her, dark and forbidding. Had it not been for the maid-servants' gossip, Lottie would have sworn the house was deserted.
She studied the darkened row of third-story windows, wondering which one hid the marquess's bedchamber. It was only too easy to picture him sprawled atop a satin coverlet, a snifter of brandy cupped in his long, aristocratic fingers, a sardonic glint in his eye and a cynical sneer curving his lips.
Before wooing and wedding his now deceasedwife eleven years ago, Hayden St. Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh, was purported to have been one of the most eligible young bucks in all of England. The announcement of his engagement to the youngest daughter of a minor French viscount was said to have been greeted with hysterical fits of vapors and brokenhearted sobs. Although his marriage to the girl had ended in tragedy, fond recollections of their whirlwind romance could still bring a wistful sigh to the lips of even the most prudish of matrons. Despite his rather spectacular fall from society's grace, Lottie had no doubt that those same matrons would still welcome him into their drawing rooms today, if only out of morbid curiosity.
But he had chosen instead to exile himself to the wilds of Cornwall. His brief and infrequent visits to London were shrouded in secrecy. Ironically enough, his attempts to escape notice had only whetted society's curiosity and kept the scandal sheets churning out their lurid speculations.
Lottie waited for several minutes, bouncing up and down on her toes with impatience, but there were still no signs of life from the darkened house. Perhaps the marquess wasn't the recluse everyone believed him to be. Perhaps he was even now at some gentleman's club or gambling hell, indulging himself in some of the city's seamier pleasures.
She was turning away, prepared to make the arduous climb over the wall and back up to the sitting-room window, when a flicker of light drifted past the French windows at the far corner of the house.
Her heart skipped into an uneven cadence. It was probably only a maid or a footman, she told herself, securing the doors for the night. But she moved forward anyway, skirting the shadows along the wall. By the time she reached the corner of the stucco terrace, the light was gone.
Lottie glanced toward her aunt's house. The rattle of carriage wheels was growing more frequent, the whine of the violins more insistent. She didn't dare linger much longer. Her brother-in-law might adore her, but the ton hadn't christened him the "Devil of Devonbrooke" for naught. If she missed the first dance of her debut, there would be hell to pay.
The light appeared again, a faint wink too tantalizing to ignore, then simply vanished. Lottie tiptoed across the terrace, promising herself she'd allow only one quick peek into the marquess's lair before she fully surrendered herself to virtue's chaste embrace. Lifting one hand to block out the glare of the moonlight, she sidled closer to the glass.
The adjoining window flew open. A masculine hand shot out, caught her wrist in its powerful grip, and dragged her into the house. Too startled to scream, she found herself gazing mutely up into the face of the Murderous Marquess himself.
Chapter 2
His face was both terrible and irresistible, its dark beauty reflecting the blackness of his soul…
ALTHOUGH THE CANDLELIGHT CLOAKED HIS face in shadows, there was no mistaking her captor for a manservant. Above his scuffed Hessians, he wore only a form-fitting pair of black trousers, an unbuttoned waistcoat, and a cream-colored lawn shirt, collarless and open at the throat. Only a gentleman would dare to be so careless in his dress. The rich aroma of bayberry wafted from his skin, mingling with the intoxicating warmth of the wine on his breath. He stood nearly a foot taller than Lottie, his broad shoulders blocking the moonlight.
"Damn that Ned anyway! I suppose this is his idea of discretion — sending you around the back of the house to skulk about the bushes like a burglar." His voice was silky, yet gruff, managing to soothe and incite her rioting senses in a single stroke. "Thank God I gave the servants the evening off."
"Y-y-you did?" she stammered, keenly aware that she'd never been alone with any man who wasn't a servant or relation. Nor had any man dared to handle her with such shocking familiarity. Although his grip had gentled, he showed no sign of relinquishing her wrist.
His thumb grazed her madly skittering pulse. "At least there won't be any witnesses."
"There w-w-won't?" Lottie echoed, beginning to feel like her aunt Diana's parrot.
Her prolific imagination immediately began to conjure up several dark scenarios for which a man would prefer there be no witnesses. Most of them involved strangulation and Harriet weeping over her mottled corpse.
His fingers weren't long and aristocratic, as she'd imagined, but blunt, powerful, and lightly dusted with calluses. As he chafed her icy hands between them, she tried not to envision them fixed around her throat.
"You're shivering. You shouldn't have lingered so long in the damp, you silly little fool."
Normally, Lottie would have taken loud vocal exception to her intelligence being questioned, but at the moment, she was questioning it herself.
"I didn't see a carriage out front. I suppose Ned left you stranded here?" When she didn't respond, he shook his head. "I knew he was up to no good. And to think, that meddling rapscallion had the nerve to accuse me of having no manners. Well, there's no help for it, is there? You might as well come with me. There's a fire laid in the study."
He secured the window with brisk efficiency, then retrieved a silver candlestick from a cherrywood occasional table. Lottie recognized the elusive flame she'd seen bobbing past the windows. As he started from the room, she hesitated, knowing this might be her last chance to bolt. But it might also be her last chance to taste adventure before settling down to a steady diet of tedium. If she stayed, what a tale she would have to tell Harriet! Provided she survived, of course.
As he disappeared around a corner, she found herself following, drawn forward by the inexorable tide of his will. He didn't seem the sort of man who was accustomed to being defied.
As she followed him deeper into the heart of the h
He cast a curious glance over his shoulder. "Not much of a chatterbox, are you?"
Lottie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. If only George could have heard that! Her brother had always sworn that she only paused for breath between utterances because blue didn't suit her fair complexion.
"Perhaps it's just as well. I'm not much of a conversationalist myself these days. In truth, I'm barely fit for my own company." He stole another glance at her. "It's certainly rare to find a woman who knows when to hold her tongue."
Lottie's mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut, refusing to be goaded into a retort.
As her host ushered her through an arched doorway, her shoulder brushed his chest. She drew in a sharp breath, unprepared for the sweet sting of awareness that brought a flush to her cheeks.
Although the heavy mahogany furniture was un-shrouded, the study was no more welcoming than the rest of the house. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the back wall were empty of all but a thick layer of dust. He rested the candlestick on the desk, sending light flickering over the small leather trunk that sat open on the blotter. Following the direction of Lottie's gaze, he quickly moved to close and latch it, his features guarded. The protective gesture only multiplied her curiosity. What could he be so eager to hide? The freshly inked pages of a juicy memoir where he confessed all of his dastardly deeds? His latest victim's severed head?
Lottie remained frozen into place by her own misgivings while he crossed to the hearth and crouched to ignite the fire that had been laid there. His efforts with tinderbox, kindling, and poker soon had a fire crackling on the grate, creating a cozy oasis of light in the gloom of the house.