Once Upon a Scandal (25 page)
The paper vanished from his hand, snatched back by the printer, who glared with surprising defiance. “Please, sir! You are not permitted to peruse this episode until the morrow. The Burglar was quite specific about releasing only one chapter a day.”
“Too bad fer the Burglar, then. That there is evidence.”
Clive started to reach for the manuscript, but the brawny laborer who’d been hauling newspapers appeared out of nowhere and stepped in front of him. His meaty face wore a sneer. “Come back wid a warrant, then, ya bleedin’ worm.”
Clive’s palms broke out in a cold sweat. Not for the first time, his bravado failed him. He glanced from the brute to the glowering printer arid decided to err on the side of caution.
“’Ave it yer way, then,” he said. “I’ll be tellin’ the magistrate that yer aidin’ and abettin’ a criminal.”
It was an empty threat. But they couldn’t know that just this morning he’d been ordered off the case. Clive’s stomach went queasy at the memory of the head magistrate’s stern reprimand about harassing the nobility. Lord Wortham’s doing, no doubt.
Clive adjusted his battered hat on his head. Ignoring the snickers of the apprentices, he made for the door.
At least he had a bit of new information. Judging by the handwriting, the Memoirs was writ by Briggs, he’d bet a crown on that. And somehow Clive Youngblood would find a net to catch the old codger.
And Lady Wortham, too.
Memoirs of a Burglar
Installment, the Twenty-second
Installment, the Twenty-second
Of all the feats of daring performed by the Bond Street Burglar, this one I shall relate today has naught to do with gambling. It is the sad story of a virginal lady who faced Ruin after being seduced by Lord Villain. This sweet gentlewoman loved the virtuous Lord W——, and thence married him in haste, lest her innocent babe suffer the slurs delivered by the ungenerous tongues of the Public. Thusly would Society’s strict rules of propriety punish the Pure and reward the Debaucher.
Aye, this is a tale of woe and of wonder, of riches and of redemption. And of the Burglar’s quest to save Lady W——from destitution by delivering unto her a precious artifact from the East, the fabled tiger mask … .
U
ntil now, Emma decided, she had not known the true meaning of happiness. On this blustery gray day, the first of November, she sat sipping tea in the drawing room while Lucas, the dowager, and Lord Briggs conversed around the fire. Jenny squealed with laughter at the antics of her puppy. It was a cozy scene of perfect domesticity.
ntil now, Emma decided, she had not known the true meaning of happiness. On this blustery gray day, the first of November, she sat sipping tea in the drawing room while Lucas, the dowager, and Lord Briggs conversed around the fire. Jenny squealed with laughter at the antics of her puppy. It was a cozy scene of perfect domesticity.
The sound of her husband’s voice made Emma soft and shivery inside. So did the secret she guarded deep within her womb.
She had not had her monthly flux since September. Last week had come and gone without a sign of it. And the past few mornings she’d awakened with a slight but telltale nausea that subsided upon eating a light breakfast. As with her first pregnancy, she felt languid and contented, prone to napping in the afternoons.
She hadn’t told Lucas yet. Her heart took a momentary dive, for nothing between them had been resolved. Though she loved him more deeply with each passing day, he guarded his own emotions. He kept their relationship light and teasing, and seldom did he exhibit true affection. Always it was she, reaching out to him, embracing him, pursuing him. Except, of course, whenever they made love, which was often and exhilarating. There had been one particularly memorable night in the conservatory, the scent of hothouse roses all around, their bodies bathed in starlight as Lucas loved her with an earthy sweetness … .
“Mama, what’s a masquerade?”
Emma blinked at Jenny, who sat on the hearth rug, sneaking morsels of cake to her puppy, Sissy. “A masquerade? It’s a party where grown-ups dress up in costume and wear masks. Why do you ask?”
“Little ears,” Lucas said, “overheard us discussing the Guy Fawkes masquerade on Thursday. Remember? Vauxhall Gardens is being opened out of season for the Pomfrets’ party. But don’t tell me our scintillating conversation bored you.”
She blushed as everyone looked at her. “Don’t tell me you want a truthful answer,” she said archly. “I should claim to be contemplating my costume.”
“There’s no need for
me
to contemplate,” Grandpapa said, winking at her. “
I
plan to garb myself as the Bond Street Burglar.”
me
to contemplate,” Grandpapa said, winking at her. “
I
plan to garb myself as the Bond Street Burglar.”
The fire crackled into the silence. Lucas frowned, but said nothing. Emma didn’t know whether to protest the risk or
applaud her grandfather’s audacity. In the past weeks,
Memoirs of a Burglar
had become all the rage. Each new installment was snatched from the hands of hawkers almost before the ink was dry. Although “Lord Anon” only hinted at the names of notorious gamesters, talk buzzed at every social gathering, and the tide of opinion turned against those rakes who frequented the dice tables and profited from the misfortune of others.
applaud her grandfather’s audacity. In the past weeks,
Memoirs of a Burglar
had become all the rage. Each new installment was snatched from the hands of hawkers almost before the ink was dry. Although “Lord Anon” only hinted at the names of notorious gamesters, talk buzzed at every social gathering, and the tide of opinion turned against those rakes who frequented the dice tables and profited from the misfortune of others.
And of course, the
ton
speculated wildly on the identity of “Lord Anon.” The gentlemen wished to throttle him, while the ladies … Well, they claimed to disapprove of the Burglar’s actions, but more than one had expressed a dark fascination for the mysterious antihero in their midst.
ton
speculated wildly on the identity of “Lord Anon.” The gentlemen wished to throttle him, while the ladies … Well, they claimed to disapprove of the Burglar’s actions, but more than one had expressed a dark fascination for the mysterious antihero in their midst.
Emma was especially touched by her grandfather’s eloquent defense of her in the latest episode. She only hoped that portraying her and Lucas as the virtuous victims of a mysterious Lord Villain wouldn’t hint too strongly at the Burglar’s connection to her. She didn’t doubt Clive Youngblood would seize any chance to jail Briggs.
Apparently oblivious to the undercurrents, the dowager petted old Toby in her lap. “How typical of you, Briggs, to make a spectacle of yourself,” she said, her smile taking the sting out of her words. “You almost tempt me to attend the party myself.”
“Why don’t you?” Briggs said. “We’d make a grand entrance, you on my arm as my accomplice in crime.”
Her cheeks bloomed pink. “In my younger days, perhaps. Now I prefer a quiet evening at home. Just Toby and me.”
“You’d favor a dog over the dashing Burglar? Why, you wound me to the quick.”
Jenny clapped her hands. “May I go to the masquerade?”
“Absolutely not, young lady,” Lucas said. “You’ll be fast asleep in your bed.”
Jenny stuck out her lower lip. “Then Sissy and I must see you and Mama in your costumes. What shall you be?”
“We haven’t yet decided—” Emma began.
“But undoubtedly your mother will be a goddess,” Lucas said with a rakish wink. “Nothing else would suit.”
Her heart beat a little faster. She treasured his half-smile, the show of dimples in his cheeks. Over the past few weeks, he had come to enjoy her company, she was sure of that much. Their newfound ease with each other buoyed her hopes that his fondness for her might grow into love.
The footman came in, bearing a letter on a tray. “The late post, for you, m’lady.”
With a smile of thanks, Emma picked up the letter. It was thick, with her name printed in an unfamiliar hand on the outside. “How singular,” she murmured, noting the plain red seal. “I wonder who’s written to me.”
She excused herself and strolled away for a moment of privacy. A gust of wind rattled the panes of glass as she settled onto a window seat. The draft raised gooseflesh and she shivered, wishing for her shawl. Breaking the circle of wax, she unfolded the missive to find two sheets of cream vellum. Instead of a flowing script, both papers bore printing in block letters, much like the work of a schoolboy.
Mystified, she glanced down at the signature at the bottom of the first page. She blinked. Her heart lurched into an erratic rhythm. The room fell away, leaving nothing but herself … and the paper clutched in her hands.
With great effort, she dragged her gaze to the top, where the date was written:
27 July.
27 July.
Emma,
the message began,
Pray, do not crumple this note when you see the identity of its author. I have attempted to write to you many times in the past month, but tore up each inadequate endeavor in despair. I beseech you now, heed my abject apology and know my abominable behavior that night has tormented me ever since. No lady—no woman—no human deserves such abasement, and as the perpetrator of your dishonor, I am damned to the fires of Hell. There is no excuse for my infamy, yet please know I was driven to madness over a happening I dare not explain to you.
the message began,
Pray, do not crumple this note when you see the identity of its author. I have attempted to write to you many times in the past month, but tore up each inadequate endeavor in despair. I beseech you now, heed my abject apology and know my abominable behavior that night has tormented me ever since. No lady—no woman—no human deserves such abasement, and as the perpetrator of your dishonor, I am damned to the fires of Hell. There is no excuse for my infamy, yet please know I was driven to madness over a happening I dare not explain to you.
I humbly beg your forgiveness, not for my peace of mind, but for your own. God will punish me in His own way and time. I pray only that His justice comes soon. I remain
Your servant, Lord Andrew Coulter
That night, the wind blew in a bank of sullen clouds, and by morning the wind died and the clouds wept. The dreary drizzle lasted for four days. Four days of worry and fretting until Emma dared to delay no longer.
On the afternoon before the masquerade ball, she donned her warmest pelisse, descended the servants’ staircase, and left the house by way of a little-used side door. Her nerves thrummed from the strain of keeping up the pretense of normalcy. Lucas planned to work in the library after luncheon, and she had laughingly begged leave so she might devise her costume. How ironic that she was compelled to lie in order to find out the truth.
The rain had stopped. A chilly mist hung in the smoke-laden air. She hurried along the wet pavement, only half noticing the festive preparations in the city. Everywhere, servants and tradesmen and urchins sought out dry kindling for bonfires along the curbstones. The notorious Guy Fawkes was hung in effigy, celebrating the foiling of his gunpowder plot to blow up Parliament back in the time of King James I.
Too preoccupied to summon any patriotic fervor, Emma rushed toward her destination. Her mind was focused on the letter, and the sickening sense of unreality that had struck her upon seeing the signature—and the date.
27 July
. For one terrible instant she’d fancied the letter had been written only a few months previous, that Andrew had returned from the dead to haunt her. Then she’d realized the letter must have been composed seven years ago, on the eve of Talavera. The night before Andrew had been killed in battle.
. For one terrible instant she’d fancied the letter had been written only a few months previous, that Andrew had returned from the dead to haunt her. Then she’d realized the letter must have been composed seven years ago, on the eve of Talavera. The night before Andrew had been killed in battle.
Only then had she turned to the second sheet of paper. It had been written in the same juvenile hand:
I have come into possession of the actual letter written by Lord Andrew Coulter. It is yours to burn in exchange for the tiger mask. Bring the mask to Vauxhall on Thurs. night and leave it in the Temple of Daphne. Should you fail to comply, the letter will go to Wortham.
I have come into possession of the actual letter written by Lord Andrew Coulter. It is yours to burn in exchange for the tiger mask. Bring the mask to Vauxhall on Thurs. night and leave it in the Temple of Daphne. Should you fail to comply, the letter will go to Wortham.
There had been no signature.
It all made horrid sense now, Emma thought as she hastened along the back streets. Andrew’s letter was a copy. The forger had obviously disguised his own penmanship.
She prayed she found the blackmailer before it was too late. Today, before she was forced to steal the mask and destroy Lucas’s faith in her.
Who possessed the original letter? Apparently Andrew hadn’t had time to post it before the battle that took his life. Over the years Lucas himself had kept Andrew’s personal effects. Her stomach performed a sickening flip. That only went to prove how much Lucas treasured the memory of his brother—the hero of Talavera.
Tamping down her loathing, Emma forced herself to think. Could her mother-in-law have found the letter? The dowager would never have shown it to Lucas.
If Wortham were to learn the truth, it would destroy him.
Could the elder Lady Wortham, in some twisted, half-mad way, be plotting to push Emma out of the family? Perhaps the dowager planned to separate Jenny from her mother.
The damp weather had little to do with the chill that invaded Emma. Breathing deeply, she clung to common sense. If her ladyship had possessed the letter all along, she surely would have guessed from the start that Andrew had fathered Jenny. And she would have known Emma had been raped, not overcome by passion for the cavalry officer about to go off to war.
Who else, then? Someone in the Wortham household, a servant, perhaps, who coveted the tiger mask?
She could think of many people who had had an opportunity to find the letter, but had no reason to resent her. She could think of others who had reason, but no knowledge of Andrew’s connection to her past. Clive Youngblood, for one. For months, he’d skulked around, seeking proof to toss her or her grandfather into prison. She didn’t doubt he might maneuver her into stealing the mask—if it weren’t absurd to think he could possess such a letter.
That left her most likely candidate. One whose guilt would hurt her grievously. Woodrow.
She hadn’t wanted to consider him. But of all the suspects, he had the strongest reason to wish her marriage destroyed. And there was the damning fact that he and Andrew had been friends, comrades in the cavalry. What if Andrew had given Woodrow the letter for safekeeping?
She wrestled again with the disturbing questions the possibility raised. Why would Woodrow keep the letter all these years? Why had he even read so private a note? And upon reading it, why would he deny her the comfort of knowing that Andrew regretted his brutal act? It made no sense.
Her footsteps slowed as she reached Woodrow’s lodging, a well-proportioned town house in a row of similar residences. The brick dwelling appeared rather forlorn today, the curtains closed and the windows dark. A thin curl of smoke wafted from one of a pair of chimneys.
The mist beaded on her lashes and she blinked hard. Hesitating on the pavement, she wanted to turn and run. She dreaded finding out that Woodrow was not the kind, considerate man who loved her and Jenny. She couldn’t bear to see him as a cruel stranger.
But the alternative was far worse—to lose Lucas. He would never forgive her if she stole the mask. And she might never again soften his heart.
Beneath her pelisse, her hand smoothed over her flat belly. In eight months, if their child was a son, Lucas would seek a judgment in civil court proving her infidelity, and then submit a divorce petition to Parliament. The law would award him full custody of their baby.
No.
No!
No!
She mounted the narrow steps to the door flanked by Palladian half-columns. Her shoes felt sodden, her feet frozen. She lifted her gloved hand and rapped hard.
Water dripped from the small overhang of the porch. The cold moisture plopped onto her hood and rolled down her woolen pelisse. It seemed an eternity passed before she heard footsteps inside the house, and the door swung open.
A jowly, careworn housekeeper peered out from the darkened foyer. A ring of keys dangled from her broad waist. With curious brown eyes, she scanned Emma’s fine garb and bobbed a curtsy. “Aye, mum?”
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