Do You Want to Start a Scandal, Page 2

  She gave him a look. "There's innocent, and then there's ignorant. I might be the first, but I am not the second."

  "That's what I feared."

  "Fear is the word for it," she said, shuddering. "That was . . . horrific. Scarring."

  He tugged on his cuff. "We needn't speak of it further."

  "But we'll think of it. Be haunted by it. It's burned in our memories. Ten years from now, we could both be married to other people and have full, rich lives of our own. Then one day we'll meet by chance in a shop or a park, and"--she snapped her fingers--"our thoughts will travel immediately to this window seat."

  "I heartily intend to banish this incident from my thoughts forever. I suggest you do the same." He drew aside a fold of the drapery. "It should be safe now."

  He went first, making the large step down to the floor. She was amazed again at how he'd managed to hide them both so quickly. His reflexes must be remarkable.

  He found the cord for tying back the draperies and began to secure one side in place.

  Charlotte gathered her skirt, preparing to make her own descent from the ledge.

  "Wait a moment," he said. "I'll help you."

  But she'd already begun, and what was meant to be a graceful step turned into a clumsy tumble. He lunged to break her fall. By the time she'd found her feet and steadied herself, she was right back in his arms.

  His strong, protective arms.

  "Thank you," she said, feeling overwhelmed. "Again."

  He looked down at her, and again she caught that hint of a sly, appealing smile. "For a woman who wants nothing to do with me, you fling yourself in my direction with alarming frequency."

  She disentangled herself, blushing.

  "I should hate to see how you treat a man you admire," he said.

  "At this rate, I'll never have a chance to admire anyone."

  "Don't be absurd." He retrieved the dropped drapery cord. "You are young, pretty, and possessed of both cleverness and vivacity. If a few tangled reins in Rotten Row convince every red-blooded gentleman to avoid you, I fear for the future of this country. England is doomed."

  Charlotte went soft inside. "My lord, that's kind of you to say."

  "It's not kindness at all. It's simple observation."

  "Nevertheless, I--" She froze. "Oh, goodness."

  They'd been discovered. The door to the library was flung wide.

  Edmund Parkhurst, the eight-year-old heir to his father's baronetcy, stood in the doorway, pale and saucer-eyed.

  "Oh, it's you." She pressed a hand to her chest with relief. "Edmund, darling, I should think you would be in bed."

  "I heard noises," the boy said.

  "They were nothing," Charlotte assured him, approaching the lad and crouching to look him in the eye. "Just your imagination."

  "I heard noises," he repeated. "Bad noises."

  "No, no. Nothing bad was happening. We were only . . . playing a game."

  "Then why have you been crying?" The boy nodded toward Lord Granville, who was still clutching the drapery cord. "And why is that strange man holding a rope?"

  "Oh, that? That isn't a rope. And Lord Granville isn't a strange man. He's your father's guest. He arrived this afternoon."

  "Here, I'll show you." The marquess moved forward, holding out the length of braided velvet--no doubt hoping to calm the boy's fears. He didn't seem to realize how unlikely it was that a tall, imposing man could pacify a frightened child who'd never seen him before in his life.

  The boy backed away, shouting at the top of his voice. "Help! Help! Murder!"

  "Edmund, no. There isn't any--"

  "MURDER!" he shrieked, running down the corridor. "MURDER!"

  She looked at Granville. "Don't stand there. We have to stop him."

  "I could tackle him in the hall, but something tells me that wouldn't help."

  In the space of a minute, Sir Vernon, their concerned host, had joined them in the library. Followed by the worst possible person--Mama.

  "Charlotte," she scolded. "I've been searching everywhere. Is this where you've been?"

  Sir Vernon quieted his son's hysterics. "What happened, my boy?"

  "I heard noises. Murder noises." The boy leveled a pointed finger on a straightened arm. "From them."

  "There weren't any murder noises," Charlotte said.

  "The boy is confused," Lord Granville added.

  Sir Vernon put a hand on Edmund's shoulder. "Tell me exactly what you heard."

  "I was upstairs," the boy said. "It started out with a squeaking. Like so. Eek, eek, eek, eek."

  Charlotte slowly died inside as the boy began an uncanny reenactment of the passionate sounds of the past quarter hour. Every sigh and wail and groan. There could be no doubt as to what activity the boy had actually overheard. And now they would all conclude Charlotte and the marquess had been engaging in that particular activity.

  While grunting.

  And using ropes.

  In her worst nightmares, she couldn't have dreamed this scene.

  "Then there was a terrible growling, and I heard a lady scream. So I ran down to see what was the matter." He turned his accusing finger to the window seat. "That's where they were together."

  Sir Vernon looked visibly disturbed.

  "Well," said Mama. "I certainly hope Lord Granville means to explain himself."

  "Pardon me, madam. But how do we know it's not your daughter who needs to explain herself?" Sir Vernon looked to Lord Granville. "There has been some talk in Town."

  Charlotte cringed.

  "Sir Vernon, you and I should speak privately," Lord Granville said.

  No, no. A private conversation would doom her. Everyone needed to hear the truth, here and now.

  "It isn't true," she declared. "Any of it."

  "Are you calling my son a liar, Miss Highwood?"

  "No, it's only . . ." Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is all a misunderstanding. Nothing happened. No one was murdered or assaulted in any way. There wasn't any rope. Lord Granville was tying back the drapery."

  "Why was the drapery untied in the first place?" Sir Vernon asked.

  "There's something on the floor over here," Edmund said.

  When he held up the object for inspection, Charlotte's heart stopped.

  It was a garter.

  A scarlet ribbon garter.

  "That's not mine," Charlotte insisted. "I've never seen that garter in my life. I swear it."

  "What about this?" Edmund turned the ribbon over, exposing a patch of stitching.

  The garter was embroidered with a single letter.

  The letter C.

  Charlotte exchanged frantic glances with Lord Granville.

  What now?

  Her mother spoke loudly. "I cannot believe that Lord Granville, of all gentlemen, would behave in such a shameless and shocking manner toward my daughter."

  Mama, no.

  "I can only conclude he must have been overcome with passion!" her mother loudly declared. To Charlotte, she whispered, "I've never been prouder of you."

  "Mother, please. You're making a scene."

  But of course, a scene was just what her mother wished to create. She would jump at the opportunity to cause a scandal, if it meant affiancing her daughter to a marquess.

  Oh, Lord. Charlotte had tried to warn him, and now her worst fears were coming true.

  "I'm telling the truth, Mama. Nothing happened."

  "It doesn't matter," Mama whispered back. "What matters is that people will think something happened."

  Charlotte had to do something, and quickly. "It isn't my garter! I'm still wearing both of mine. Here, I can prove it." She bent to gather the hem of her skirts.

  Her mother smacked her hands with a folded fan. "In mixed company? You'll do no such thing!"

  How could it be worse to prove that she was wearing two garters than to let Sir Vernon believe she was wearing only one?

  Once again, she tried to calmly state the truth. "Lord Gr
anville and I were merely talking."

  "Talking?" Mama fanned herself with vigor. "Talking about what, I should like to know."

  "Murder!" Edmund shouted. He made the word a chant, stomping his feet in time. "Mur-der, mur-der, mur-der."

  "Not murder!" Charlotte cried. "Nor any other untoward activity. We were speaking of . . . of . . ."

  "Of what?" Sir Vernon demanded.

  Lord Granville intervened. He silenced Charlotte with a touch to her arm. Then he cleared his throat and gave the completely truthful--and utterly devastating--reply.

  "We were speaking of marriage."

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Piers sat at the table in his suite, nursing a cup of coffee and massaging his temples. His head was pounding.

  "How exactly did this happen?" In the corner of the room, Ridley brushed down Piers's blue topcoat. "Explain it to me again."

  "I'm not certain I can explain it. And you really don't need to do that, you know."

  Ridley shrugged and continued brushing the coat. "I don't mind. It soothes me."

  "As you like, then."

  To the rest of the household, Ridley was his valet. To Piers, he was a colleague in service of the Crown. A trusted partner and professional peer. As usual, Ridley's purpose at Parkhurst Manor was to listen below-stairs while Piers moved among the elite. Piers didn't like asking a fellow agent to perform menial chores.

  "When the quadrille began, I went to the library," he said, trying to retrace his steps from the previous night and make some sense of them. "I was planning to start on the investigation."

  The investigation. The true reason for this country holiday. Sir Vernon Parkhurst didn't yet know it, but he was under consideration for an important appointment. The Crown needed a dependable envoy to sort out the tangled, corrupt state of affairs in Australia. The vetting had been a simple enough process . . . with one snag.

  Over the past few months, the man had been bleeding money. Moderate sums, at irregular intervals. A hundred pounds here, two hundred there. He'd been disappearing from Town for a few days at a time, as well. Nothing too serious, but the pattern pointed to trouble. A gaming habit or a mistress, most likely. Blackmail couldn't be ruled out.

  If Sir Vernon had any secrets he'd pay to keep, it was Piers's task to discover them.

  "I meant to make a quick search of his desk for any ledgers or correspondence. She interrupted me. Without an introduction, without even knocking first. I found her . . . provoking."

  "And pretty."

  "I suppose." There was no point in denying it. Ridley wasn't blind. Miss Highwood was quite pretty, in fact--with lively eyes and a wide, unabashed smile. A tempting figure, as well.

  "Charming, too, I'll warrant."

  "Maybe."

  "And she was a breath of fresh air," Ridley went on, rhapsodizing with a flourish of his hand. "A beam of innocence and sunlight to warm the cold, black heart of a jaded spy."

  Piers made a dismissive noise, then sipped his coffee to end the conversation.

  The hell of it was, Ridley knew him too well--and he was, to a degree, correct.

  Piers had spent too much time moving through palaces and parliaments as though they were scenes in an endless play. Everyone he encountered, from kings to courtesans, was playing a role. Parkhurst Manor was just another scene--and a boring one, at that.

  Suddenly, in burst this woman--a pretty young thing in a pink gown--who was the worst actress he'd ever seen. She bumbled her lines, knocked over the scenery. No matter how she tried, Charlotte Highwood was unable to be anyone other than herself.

  That quality was rare and refreshing, and Piers felt like a damn cliche for being charmed, but he'd learned to enjoy a fleeting pleasure where he found it.

  He would pay for that lapse in concentration.

  So would she.

  "I let her dally too long," he said. "We were discovered. Explanations were impossible to offer without inviting more questions."

  Questions such as the reason he'd been in Sir Vernon's private library at all. Better to let his host believe he'd sought a quiet place for seduction than to admit the truth.

  "Mistakes aren't like you, my lord," Ridley said.

  No, they weren't.

  Piers rubbed his face with both hands. No use dwelling on it now. The only thing to be done was move forward. Face up to his errors and correct them, if possible. Minimize the damage, if not.

  At some point during last night's debacle, his alternatives had become plain. He could disclaim involvement and flee the "murder" scene, abandoning his assignment and throwing an innocent young woman to the dragons.

  Or he could do his duty, in more ways than one.

  "Naturally, you'll do the honorable thing," Ridley said. "You always do."

  Piers gave him an ironic look. They both knew honor was elusive in this line of work. Oh, they chased after that shiny feeling of patriotic heroism--it was the reason they'd taken the job, after all. But they never seemed to quite grasp it. Meanwhile, shame and guilt nipped at their heels.

  The best course, he'd learned, was not to examine it too closely. These days, he avoided looking inside himself at all. What little honor remained to him was muddled with deception and darkness.

  This matter with Miss Highwood would be no different, and more was the pity for her sake. She deserved better than what he meant to do today.

  He tapped the folder on the table. It contained information on every resident, guest, and servant in Parkhurst Manor--including Charlotte Highwood. "You've read this. Sum it up for me."

  Ridley shrugged. "Could be worse. She comes from gentry. Several generations of country squires, an estate with modest but steady income. Her father died having sired three daughters but no sons. His estate passed to a cousin, and the ladies were left with middling dowries. Charlotte is the youngest. The eldest, Diana, suffered asthma in her youth, so the family moved to the seaside for her health. Here's where it gets interesting."

  Piers drained his coffee to the bitter dregs. "Oh?"

  "They went to Spindle Cove."

  "Spindle Cove. Why does that sound familiar?"

  "Before her marriage, Lady Christian Pierce spent some time there, as well."

  "Violet? You're right. That is interesting." As Piers recalled, the couple were now stationed in the south of France.

  "Quite the little village, Spindle Cove. Established by the daughter of Sir Lewis Finch as a haven for unconventional women. The young ladies follow a strict schedule: Mondays, country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays in the garden, Thurs--"

  "Really, I don't require every detail," Piers said, impatient. "Let's return to the Highwoods. Has she any connections?"

  "Good news, bad news there."

  "The bad first, please."

  "The eldest sister married the local blacksmith."

  Piers shook his head. "I can't believe her mother allowed that. She must not have had a choice."

  "The good: The middle sister eloped with a viscount."

  "Yes, Charlotte mentioned that. Which viscount, again?"

  There was a knock at the door. When Ridley opened it, the butler stood in the corridor.

  He announced, "The Viscount Payne to see you, my lord."

  Ridley closed the door, then grinned at Piers. "That viscount."

  "Colin? Is it really you?"

  "Now there's my favorite little sister."

  Charlotte dashed across the sitting room and flung her arms around her brother-in-law, hugging him tight. "How on earth did you arrive so quickly?"

  "Your mother sent an express. And I have a well-established talent for making speedy trips northward."

  "I'm so glad you're here."

  Colin would put this right. Or more accurately, he would make it all a shambles, chuckle in a disarming way, put any scandal to rest, and then they could all sit down for luncheon.

  Luncheon sounded lovely. She hadn't been able to eat anything that morning, and she was growing so
hungry.

  "Please tell me you're not considering anything stupid like dueling," she said. "You know I'm a better shot than you are. Minerva would never forgive me."

  "We're not going to duel. There isn't any need."

  She sighed with relief. "Oh, good."

  "Granville means to propose this morning, and I've agreed to allow it."

  "Propose? But that's absurd. The two of us . . . We were only talking."

  "Alone," he pointed out.

  "Yes, but it was only when the others came in that we hid."

  "In the window seat." He looked at her meaningfully. "Where you overheard a passionate tryst."

  Charlotte sighed with frustration. "We didn't do anything."

  Colin's eyebrow rose in doubt. "I'm someone who's gotten away with a great deal of mischief. I won't believe you didn't do anything."

  "There was nothing, I tell you. Not between us. Don't you believe me?"

  "I do. I believe you, pet. But unless these mysterious lovers come forward to take the blame, no one else will. And to be honest, the mere truth--that you were caught alone with him in such close quarters--could be enough to harm your prospects. It wasn't very prudent of you, Charlotte."

  "Since when do you care anything for prudence? You're an inveterate rascal."

  He held up a single finger in contradiction. "I was an inveterate rascal. Now I'm a father. And let me tell you, while Minerva might contest the old maxim that says reformed rakes make the best husbands, she would be first to agree that we make the most overprotective fathers. I used to enter a ballroom and see a garden of flowers, ripe for the plucking. Now I see my daughter. Dozens of her."

  "That sounds disturbing."

  "Tell me about it." He shuddered. "My point is, I know all too well the untoward thoughts that lurk in men's minds."

  "There is nothing untoward in Lord Granville's mind. He has the most toward mind I've ever encountered."

  Even as she spoke the words, however, she wondered. She recalled the thumping of his heart in that window seat. The way he'd held her in his arms. Most of all, his sly teasing.

  I'm speaking of bedsport, Miss Highwood. That much, at least, would be tolerable.

  Heat swept over her skin.

  "I'm just not ready to settle down," she said. "Yes, I wanted the amusement of a London season, but I had no plans of considering marriage this soon."

  "Well, there's something they say about best laid plans of mice and men. I'm fairly certain it's in the Scriptures."

  "It's from a poem by Robert Burns."

  "Really?" He gave a remorseless shrug. "I seldom read either. And by seldom, I mean never. However, I do know something about love, and how it laughs in the face of one's intentions."