That Scandalous Evening Page 8

  Her eyes had looked the same that morning so long ago. Wide. Startled. Unsure and frightened and, finally, passionate.

  “Blackburn!”

  Jolted out of his unwelcome reverie, he found himself facing a grinning, perspiring Athowe.

  “Who would have thought such a prunes and prisms as you would deign to reintroduce Miss Higgenbothem into society!” Athowe extended his hand past Blackburn and toward Jane. “Miss Higgenbothem, I would recognize you anywhere.”

  Heads turned. Athowe’s voice carried, and the name Higgenbothem attracted attention. Her hope for anonymity toppled, and while Blackburn applauded the success of his plan, he at the same time braced himself for the unwelcome attention.

  Jane allowed the obnoxious man to kiss her hand, then withdrew it without warmth. “How good to see you again, Lord Athowe. It has been a long time.”

  Simple words. Courteous words. Kinder words than she’d yet deigned to speak to him. Blackburn ran his gaze up and down Athowe’s well-cut outfit and refrained from asking the name of his corset-maker, and whether he still wore shoes that allowed him to run at the first sign of trouble.

  “A long time indeed,” Athowe said heartily. “Tonight we should dance as we did so many years ago.”

  “Thank you, Lord Athowe, but I no longer dance. I am a chaperone now.”

  “A chaperone.” He burst into robust laughter. “You jest. The daughter of the late Viscount Bavridge can’t lower herself to be a chaperone!”

  Susan’s guests were drifting closer, attracted by the first signs of a scene, and Blackburn heard one of the dowagers murmur in prurient tones, “The daughter of Viscount Bavridge? Oh, my dear. Not that daughter!”

  Jane pleated the fringe on her shawl.

  “Athowe, what have you done?” Frederica, Lady Athowe, squeezed through the throng. As always, she was beautifully coifed and gowned, yet to Blackburn she resembled an Egyptian scorpion, sleek-shelled, slender, and with a sting that brought death. “You’ve embarrassed Miss Higgenbothem. Miss Jane Higgenbothem.” Frederica’s poisonous gaze flicked at Blackburn, and she projected her voice with full-bodied delight. “So good to see you with her, Lord Blackburn. And what a surprise after all these years.”

  Blackburn could have sworn he felt the heat of Jane’s blush as it swept from her toes past his hand to her forehead.

  Athowe sputtered uselessly, as incompetent to control his wife as he had been incompetent about everything in his life.

  But no one used Blackburn to further a vendetta; most especially not the former Frederica Harpum. He waited until the titters had died down. With incisive authority he said, “If I have chosen to escort Miss Higgenbothem for the gratification of her company, no one will question my decision.”

  Jaws dropped in unison, so that all he saw was a series of gaping mouths.

  Fitz looked as poleaxed as anyone. “B’God, Blackburn, do you realize what you’ve said?”

  “Yes. I do.” Blackburn watched Frederica until she flushed, then he allowed his voice to carry over the increased muttering. “However, I’m not sure you know what you have done. All you have accomplished by revealing your knowledge of such an ancient tale, Lady Athowe, is divulge your age in quite an unattractive manner.”

  Frederica still smiled, but tightly, her lips pressed together so hard one could only see a single red slash between nose and chin. “Our ages, Lord Blackburn. Or should I call you—Figgy?”

  With one extravagant insult, Frederica drove Blackburn into genuine, burning fury. He didn’t show it, of course. He simply waited until the tittering generated by Frederica’s remark had faded before he said, “My friends call me Ransom, or Blackburn. You may call me ‘my lord.’ ”.

  “What is happening here?” Susan’s voice boomed out. The pink feathers in her hair bobbed as she strode forward. “Are you making trouble, Freddie?”

  Although Frederica’s eyes flashed at the sobriquet, she didn’t dare protest.

  Susan summed up the situation in one glance. “Freddie, I told you last time what would happen if you authored another scandal involving one of my family. You’d better take her home, Athowe.”

  Athowe grabbed Frederica’s arm and tugged. She stumbled backward, glaring. Under Susan’s gimlet eye, the crowd dispersed. The men around Adorna reassembled to wait on her return from Jane’s side, and Susan said to Violet, “Lord Tarlin is looking for you.”

  Violet hesitated, clearly unhappy about leaving Jane with Blackburn, but Susan gave her a little push. “You’ll have to leave Ransom alone with Miss Higgenbothem sometime, and really, what can he do here?”

  Susan knew. His sister recognized the signs of his ire, but for some reason she chose to leave Jane to his tender mercies.

  And he had none.

  With slow deliberation, he slipped his fingers under Jane’s shawl and up her bare upper arm. He saw her swallow as his flesh met hers, and when his palm slid back down to her elbow, she seemed to forget to breathe.

  Yes, she was aware of him, bound by memories, as he was—and if she was not, he would soon create new remembrances to tangle in her mind.

  He knew that every eye in the ballroom clung to him and his nemesis in avid fascination. He affixed a tender, lightly amused smile to his lips, leaned close to and quoted her in an undertone. “None will recognize you. No one will recall The Disastrous Season. And you certainly will not be called to account for the trouble you have caused me.”

  Steadily she watched him, her emotions well guarded. If he had not been holding her, he might have thought her impassive before his wrath. But her taut biceps strained away from the heat and threat of him.

  “Guard yourself well, my darling Jane.”

  She flinched as, for the first time, he used her given name.

  “For I right now see no reason why I should not take the rumors to truth, and take you to my bed.”

  “I haven’t invited you.” Her answer was made up of equal parts of determination and dismay.

  He relished both the challenge and the consternation. “I can persuade you, Jane.”

  “No. I wouldn’t be so foolish twice.”

  “If that were a wager, Jane, I would not advise you to take it.” Letting her go, he bowed with every visible indication of respect. “Watch behind you, Jane. I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 10

  At three in the morning, Fitz leaned against the door-post of the shabby rented town house to take off his shoes, uncaring of the soot that coated the steps and, no doubt, his white stockings. Taking his key, he tried to set it in the lock, but this wretched street was dark as Hades and he’d had enough wine to make insertion difficult. The iron clanked until he found the keyhole, then the key went right in. Stealthily he turned it, but despite his care, the tumblers clanked as they fell into place. Holding his breath, he opened the door. Surely she was asleep.

  But she called him. “Gerald? Son, how was the ball?”

  She was still awake. That meant she was in pain, and he stared through the darkened rooms, his soul heavy with despair. If only he had the money to…

  “Son?”

  “Wonderful, Mother.” Lighting one of the precious candles, he impaled it on a stick and limped through the study to her makeshift bedchamber. “Lady Goodridge had her usual gala festivities, and everyone was there.”

  As the glow touched his mother’s face, he saw the premature lines suffering had set there. Her breath labored; he saw the blankets rising like a mounded grave over the frail body. He saw the feeble hands clutching the book she had read until the candle beside her had guttered out. He also saw his mother’s love for him shining through the aged ivory complexion, and the shimmering excitement as she waited to hear the latest gossip about old friends. He obliged her, of course, making himself comfortable in a chair by her bedside as he recounted tales of debutantes and old roués. He finished with, “Blackburn met his match tonight, too. Do you remember that scandal, oh, ten years ago, with that gel who loved Blackburn so much she ma
de a statue of him?”

  His mother giggled, a sound Fitz had not heard for too many weeks. “How could I ever forget?”

  “Yes, well, she’s back as a chaperone to a deb, and Blackburn escorted her around the ballroom, out into the garden—in company, of course—and back. I’d say he’s smitten.”

  “What does he say?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked shrewdly.

  Fitz leaned close and tapped his nose with his index finger. “He defended Miss Higgenbothem when she was attacked by Lady Athowe.”

  “Interesting.” Thoughtfully his mother slid her gnarled fingers along the counterpane. “One wonders whether he did so to protect Miss Higgenbothem, or to spite Lady Athowe.”

  Fitz smiled at his mother. The daughter of an English baron, she had married his Irish father for love and never regretted it, or so she said. Still, although she did not mingle with the crème de la crème, her wisdom about human behavior had more than once saved him from disaster. “I say, to protect Miss Higgenbothem. She’s at her last prayers, but he’s never paid Frederica the slightest mind before.”

  “No doubt you are right.” She studied him in the feeble illumination of the candle. “How did your evening go?”

  “Very well. I was hunting the greatest game of all—an heiress.”

  She bit her lip. Extending her hand to him, she said, “You don’t have to do that. We’re doing well by ourselves, aren’t we?”

  He stared at her, at the beautiful eyes which were too big in her thin face, and wondered how she could ask that as she lay in this hovel, tended only by one servant who left at nightfall to go home to her family. Concealing his bitterness, he smiled jauntily. “Indeed we are, but I’d like to do it in better circumstances.”

  “Did the beautiful Miss Morant capture your wayward heart? She must be young and innocent.”

  “And I’m an old roué,” he teased her.

  She started to chuckle, but a spasm of coughing caught her. The book went flying, and she grabbed for her handkerchief, covering her mouth.

  He could do nothing, of course, but he leaped to his feet anyway and wrapped his arm around her bony shoulders and held her until it subsided.

  God, how he hated this! He had been nothing but a shallow, careless boy his whole life, seeking fun and adventure. Now fate had seized his precious mother, shaking her in its bony grasp, and he had to find a way to take her away where the wind blew clean and the sun shone.

  There was a way. A way other than the heiress. And he was without morals or honor, damn it. Surely that other way shouldn’t bother him.

  “I’m fine now.” Her voice was hoarse and shaking.

  He glanced at the handkerchief she held. No blood, thank God. Not yet.

  Carefully he set her back against the pillows and broached the invitation issued not an hour since. “Lady Goodridge wondered if you would be so good as to pay her a visit at Goodridge Manor. It’s beautiful there, overlooking the sea. The fresh air would be good for you.”

  “Of course. Then I would return the favor by asking her here?” Her head lolled toward him, and she smiled to ease the sting. “I won’t take charity, Gerald, you know that.”

  “Lady Goodridge is a genuinely kind woman, Mother.”

  “And formidable, and rich, with impeccable ancestry. That’s well to remember, son.”

  “She’s lonely,” he said baldly.

  “You’d know that, would you?”

  “Sometimes a woman’s heart is not so difficult to read.”

  “You’re just like your father.” Her hand moved toward his, and he grasped it. “A charmer.”

  He hadn’t a chance of winning against her implacable will, but he had to try once more. “So you’ll go.”

  “So I won’t.” With a swift change of subject, she said, “You were limping when you came in.”

  “Dancing with Miss Morant.”

  “Your wound is too recent. You shouldn’t dance on that leg of yours.”

  “When have I ever done what I should?” Taking the book, he examined the leather spine with false interest. “Robinson Crusoe, heh?”

  “Is she your heiress?”

  “Shall I read to you?”

  “You worry me with your plans.” A fretful note colored her voice.

  He noted it. She was tiring at last. Soothingly he said, “Don’t worry, dear. All will come right, you’ll see. Now where did you leave off?”

  He read until her chin dropped, then allowed his voice to trail away. Brooding, he stared at her.

  When his father died, income from the estate had been nothing more than a dribble, and Mrs. Fitzgerald had mortgaged it to put Fitz into Oxford and to provide herself with a stipend to last her, she said, for the rest of her days.

  A good son would have applied himself to his books and earned himself a post somewhere as a curate for some rich lord.

  Fitz was not a good son. He knew it despite Mrs. Fitzgerald’s assurances to the opposite. He had no aptitude for study, and he had jauntily wormed his way into the top ranks of English society. Until Mrs. Fitzgerald had been forced to tell him they were gone to pigs and whistles. They’d spent the last of the money to buy Fitz his commission in the Cavalry.

  He was a damned good officer, gaining ground for the English on the Peninsula when none thought it possible. Soon the generals noticed, and Fitz had found himself facing a trembly old man who had offered a proposition. Fitz would seek information for English Intelligence. Spying would be dangerous, and as an English officer, Fitz would be killed if caught.

  “Why should I risk my neck?” Fitz asked baldly.

  “For the glory of your country.”

  “Glory won’t feed my mother if I’m dead.”

  So he had wangled an “incentive,” payable for each mission successfully executed, and because he knew the unreliability of the Foreign Office’s promises, he had insisted on being reimbursed immediately on completion. The money had gone back to his mother, and she had written glowing letters about his munificence, and those letters had encouraged him to take more and greater risks.

  Oh, Blackburn wouldn’t have approved, but Blackburn was a stick. Fitz had needed the money, and until the leg…

  Dejected, he rubbed the wound. Ah, he and his mother were a fine pair, one given over to consumption, one crippled to the point he could never again do the one thing he did well.

  There was no avoiding the issue. Regardless of his mother’s censure, he was going to have to toss the handkerchief toward his heiress, and soon. That was all he was good for now: courting a woman, charming her into marriage, and servicing her until she was satisfied. He’d already chosen his quarry; he had her in his sights, and soon she would be his. By fair means or foul, he would have her.

  But he had to admit, here in the wee hours of the morning, that French offer looked tempting. Very, very tempting.

  Chapter 11

  Eleven years before…

  Late morning sun peeked through the fog as Jane walked up the stairs. She lifted the lion’s-head knocker and dropped it. The thump sounded as loud as the beat of her heart, but she allowed herself no nervous start as she gazed steadily at the dark green door and waited.

  The butler answered, and she stared down at the bald crown on his head. “I would like to speak to Lord Blackburn,” she said.

  “Lord Blackburn?” He quickly assessed her gown and accoutrements. She wore her best morning gown, her most fashionable feathered bonnet, and her finest gloves. Her pocketbook hung from her arm and she held a lace handkerchief in one hand. She had no doubt about her appearance. But she knew a lady never called on a gentleman. And certainly never alone!

  Then the butler glanced to the street for evidence of her conveyance.

  There was none. She had hired a sedan chair and dismissed it on arrival.

  “Yes, Lord Blackburn. This is his residence, is it not?”

  “He isn’t receiving guests. If you would leave your calling card—”

  Jane pushed past him and str
ode into the foyer.

  “Miss!” The butler scuttled after her. “You may not enter.”

  “I already have,” Jane pointed out with impeccable logic. “And I intend to see Lord Blackburn.”

  While the butler gobbled in nervous dismay, she coolly took note of her surroundings. Blackburn’s residence easily outshone the rather forlorn town house she and Melba had taken for the season. The staircase to the upper story glistened, a straight and haughty testimony to beeswax. A Chinese vase of some long-vanished dynasty stood on the floor filled with peacock feathers of blue, purple, and glistening gold. Jane’s foot sank into the plush thickness of carpet, and everything about this home spoke of wealth, elegance, and lineage.

  She had only lineage. Impeccable lineage, in fact, but that couldn’t save her from dishonor.

  She and Melba were to leave London, of course. Melba wasn’t well, Jane had disgraced them, and there was no reason to remain. But in the miserable week since Lady Goodridge’s party, Jane had relived the moment she saw Frederica Harpum gesturing and announcing, “Miss Jane Higgenbothem’s own creation!”

  In her mind, she experienced the heat of Blackburn’s fury.

  And she heard the laughter.

  Not until Melba had fainted had the ton stopped roaring, and then only to crowd around and whisper with cruel curiosity as Jane arranged to have her sister taken back to the town house. Without Lady Goodridge, Jane did not know how she would have managed. Lord Athowe had disappeared, and Blackburn had certainly been nowhere in attendance.

  But during the hours of tending Melba through her bout of the sweats, Jane had brooded. The force of Blackburn’s anger had etched itself into her soul, and in the dark of the night, she had resolved to go to him, to elucidate why she had offered her small talents on the altar of his perfection.

  To try and minimize the disaster, if only for her sister’s sake.

  The butler took up a protective stance in front of one glossily painted white door. “You cannot go in.”

  A dramatic little man, and none too bright, Jane judged. With a cool look of contempt, she pushed him aside, wrenched open the door, and stepped within.