Surrender to Scandal Page 7

  Elise made a face. “Just because a dream has no hope of coming true, doesn’t mean you can’t dream it all the same, Agnes.” She turned to Judith. “Tell me it was wonderful riding in the carriage with him like a bona fide lady. Is he as handsome up close as he is from afar?”

  Judith didn’t want to crush Elise’s dream and inform her the journey had been uncomfortable and unsettling. Besides, she could not find the proper words to describe Lord Glenmor’s handsomeness, which increased the longer she spent in his company. A rather disturbing fact she did not care to acknowledge aloud. “Lord Glenmor is every bit the gentleman, and his mother, Mrs. Laytham, is a very lovely woman. The journey was quite pleasant.”

  If one considered being tormented with wayward thoughts and unwanted desires pleasant. She most certainly did not. Yet, she was powerless to keep Lord Glenmor from filling every corner of her mind and dogging her dreams. Worst of all, she could not forget the pain that lingered in his eyes. A pain that called out to her as if she alone could soothe it. Ridiculous. What did she know of his pain? Or if he even suffered any? More likely, her imagination had concocted a fairy tale around the man and now demanded she read on to discover how it would end.

  But she already knew the ending to that type of tale. Heartbreak and humiliation.

  Yet even that knowledge was not enough to force away the memory of being held in his arms, whether it was twirling her around the dance floor at Sheridan Park or catching her when the carriage came to an abrupt stop, throwing her out of her seat. If she did not know better, she would think her memory and her imagination were in cahoots to bring about her downfall.

  She took a large spoonful of her porridge, hoping to end the conversation, but the thick concoction lodged in her throat and it took several swallows of tea before it finally worked its way down.

  Chapter Seven

  Benedict wound his way around the gaming tables at The Devil’s Lair toward the back room. The doors of the hell had yet to open to the public for the evening and the strange quiet cast a quiet eeriness about the place.

  The man he had come to see, Hawksmoor, spent the majority of his time here, having long ago given up the normal pursuits of a gentleman in favor of the seedier side of London’s underworld. He held a majority ownership in The Devil’s Lair, one of the more upscale hells in the city. Hardly a respectable pursuit for a gentleman, but given Hawksmoor’s disinclination toward respectability, the hell made for a perfect fit.

  Benedict didn’t normally associate with such fellows, but Marcus Bowen had suggested he meet with Hawksmoor in the hopes of discovering the identity of his silent partner in the Western Trading Company. The man had contacts the average gentleman did not, though whether he would be willing to share his knowledge remained to be seen. Hawksmoor was not in the habit of going out of his way to help others unless there was something in it for him.

  And unfortunately, Benedict had little to offer in that regard.

  A mountain of a man guarded the door to the backroom, his nose appearing as if it had been broken more times than Benedict had fingers on one hand.

  He handed the man his card. “He’s expecting me.”

  One did not simply drop in on Hawksmoor. He was a notoriously solitary sort and, while he had a few acquaintances he consorted with, he didn’t care for visitors to simply come by unannounced. One sent word they were coming and waited to hear back as to whether that was acceptable. It all seemed perfectly cloak and dagger.

  The mountain opened the door and Benedict walked in. The lighting of the room was dim; furthering Benedict’s impression of Hawksmoor’s life lived in shadows.

  “Glenmor.” The man in question stood near the room’s only window that looked out into the alley below. The building next to it blocked most of the natural light that would have otherwise seeped in. The outer edge of the window was adorned with stained glass, the design filled with jagged edges and anger, as if the artist who’d designed it had been having a particularly bad day.

  “Good afternoon, Hawksmoor.” Benedict nodded.

  “I understand our friend, Mr. Bowen, believes I can help you with a particular matter.” Hawksmoor smiled and stepped away from the window, turning up the wick of a nearby lamp and spilling its light over the shadows.

  “I hope so.” To his left a painting caught his eye. It was a large mural depicting a scene that Benedict could only assume was an orgy of some sort. He turned away from the mass of naked, tangled limbs. It conjured too many images he’d had of late, of being tangled in a similar fashion with a woman who had taken up residence in his dreams and refused to leave.

  “And what is it you require my help with, in particular?”

  Benedict hesitated. He did not care to speak of his problems or share them with others, but Crowley had ignored his pleas for a meeting and every avenue he’d tried to discover the identity of his silent partner on his own came up empty. Whether he liked it or not, he needed help. “I am rather heavily invested in a particular company with a silent partner who prefers to remain anonymous.”

  Hawksmoor leaned against the high back of a chair that faced the hearth where a low-burning fire spit out little in the way of heat. “And you wish this partner to be a little less anonymous, I assume.”

  “Yes. I wish to end my association with this particular company, but my repeated requests to meet with the man get no further than his agent.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “A Mr. Crowley.”

  “Francis Crowley?”

  Hope soared in his chest. “You’re familiar with him?”

  Hawksmoor made a face and pushed away from the chair. He walked past Benedict to the bar behind him and poured a drink without asking him if he cared to partake. “Somewhat. Little weasel of a man. Always looks in need of a proper bath.”

  “Yes, that would be he.”

  “Hm.” Hawksmoor took a long pull on the brandy.

  “Can you help?”

  “Doubtful.” Hawksmoor shrugged as if he cared little one way or the other. “It’s been my experience that men who wish to remain anonymous often remain so, as they go out of their way to ensure such. It sounds to me as if your partner is one of those men.”

  Benedict slumped, his shoulders weighed down by disappointment.

  “Very well, then. I thank you for your time.”

  Hawksmoor nodded and remained silent, a clear indication their meeting was at an end.

  “If you do discover anything, will you let me know?”

  For a moment the viscount said nothing, as if he mulled over whether the idea appealed to him or not before lifting his drink slightly. “Certainly.” But the word held no commitment.

  Benedict left the gaming hell to meet his friend, Charles Elmsley, at White’s, holding out little hope that Hawksmoor would make good on his claim.

  “It can’t be as bad as all that.” Charles Elmsley slid into the seat across the table from Benedict, his usually affable smile firmly in place. Charlie was a recent acquaintance, the eldest nephew of Sir Arran and cousin to Miss Sutherland. Yet despite their short association, Benedict could not recall the man ever being in possession of a bad mood. It made him agreeable company and a stark contrast to Hawksmoor.

  “It is on the verge of being as bad as all that,” Benedict answered as he took another drink and leaned back in his chair.

  “Ah, well then.” Charlie motioned with a nod of his head for more drinks to be brought to their table.

  Benedict didn’t stop him, despite his need to keep a clear head to focus on the problem at hand. Unfortunately, the more he focused on the problem, the more swiftly he kept coming back to the same solution.

  Marriage.

  “Ah, it must be a woman then. Only such a creature could bring a man so low.” Charlie nudged the glass of brandy set upon their table toward Benedict.

  “You might say that. I must marry—sooner, as opposed to later.”

  Charlie made a face, as if the brandy had soure
d in his mouth, leaving a bad taste. “A fate worse than death. My deepest sympathies. And who have you chosen for your countess?”

  “I haven’t. Not yet. I want…” Well, what he wanted did not signify. “Rather, I need a lady who meets certain criteria.”

  “Pretty?”

  “No. Not necessarily.” It would be nice if she at least possessed a pleasant face, but at this point, he could not be choosy.

  “Buxom?” Charlie held his hands up to his chest and juggled them up and down.

  “No. And put your hands down, man.”

  “Money, then.” Benedict did not answer, but apparently his expression said enough. “Well, that is a bit of a conundrum, given your family’s recent circumstances.”

  “Yes, thank you for the reminder.” The one thing he liked about Charlie was his ability to leave his words unfiltered. At least, he usually liked it. Today, perhaps not so much.

  The future Baron Elmsley leaned across the table and grinned, his green eyes practically dancing in their sockets. “Then, I have just the lady for you.”

  Benedict raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Lady Susan.”

  His shoulders drooped. “The Duke of Franklyn’s daughter?”

  “The very one. Mother and Father tried to convince me to cultivate an association with her in the hopes of forming a match, but sweet heaven, there is not a dowry large enough to convince me to spend a lifetime with a woman so unpalatable.”

  “Is that your attempt to convince me I should take her on?” Lady Susan was not a favorite amongst his family and for good reason, after the way her mother, the duchess, and then Lady Susan herself tried to bring ruin and distress to members of his close and extended family.

  “You did say your bride needed to be wealthy. You will not find a larger dowry than the one the Duke is offering for whoever is brave enough to take his daughter’s hand in marriage. The man must be desperate if he was considering marrying her off to a lowly baron’s son.”

  Despite the less than stellar depiction of what Benedict could expect from a life with Lady Susan, Charlie had said the key word.

  “How large a dowry, exactly?”

  Charlie shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Things did not progress that far, thankfully, however, word is, it is quite significant. It will need to be if they have any hope of finding her a titled husband. Her odious nature precedes her and most gentlemen of my acquaintance refuse to even consider a match with her.”

  Should he pursue the idea, his family would be less than pleased by his choice. But his current circumstances did not allow him to be too choosy. He must do what he could to save his family’s fortunes, even if it meant considering a harpy like Lady Susan as a potential bride.

  He tried to picture what a life with her would be like, facing her from across a table or sitting by the fire with her in the evening, sharing a bed with her at night. The image wouldn’t come.

  Or it would, only the lady lying next to him in his bed had long, dark hair and matching eyes that drew him in and refused to let him go, filling him with sweet torment.

  Hell and damn.

  He reached for his drink and downed it in one swallow, then motioned for another.

  * * *

  Judith entered Lady Henrietta’s bedchamber and found her sitting near the window. The heavy brocade curtains were drawn closed despite it being mid-afternoon, casting the room in shadows. Only the lamplight from a nearby table cast a warm light on a lovely young woman, with fine bone structure and long, flowing hair the color of sand streaked with sunlight. The scars Magda had alluded to were nowhere in evidence.

  Judith closed the door behind her, but came no farther into the room. The silence that hung in the air between them became oppressive and she longed to speak up. Did companions speak freely? Or were they like the other servants, meant to be unobtrusive, barely seen, and never heard? Though, how one would act as companion if that were the case, she could not say.

  After a long, quiet moment, Lady Henrietta spoke, her voice barely more than a quiet whisper. “I understand my brother has hired you as my companion.”

  The realization that Lady Henrietta had not had a part in the decision struck Judith as odd and brought with it the uncertainty of whether she would be accepted. “He did, my lady.”

  “I see.” She pulled the lace shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

  Lady Henrietta turned toward the window. She possessed a strong profile, despite her delicate features. Her mouth was a bit wide, her lips full. Her nose straight, yet small. Her eyes, framed with arched brows, appeared to be a light blue though it was difficult to say without proper light. But it was her hair that captivated one’s attention. Unlike most ladies, who wore their hair up, Lady Henrietta’s cascaded over her shoulder and down her breast in thick waves.

  Judith took a breath, unsure of what to do, but unable to remain silent. “I take it his Lordship did not consult you on the matter.”

  “He did not.” The young woman’s narrow shoulders lifted before sagging downward. She was a little slip of a thing and a sense of fragility lingered about her like brittle air.

  “And you are displeased with the situation.”

  Lady Henrietta turned and looked at her. “You are rather forward.” It was a simple statement and Judith detected no sense of judgment placed around it. Curious. Often her plainspoken manner took reserved ladies by surprise.

  “Forgive me. I should tell you this position is new to me. I am unsure of the boundaries and those which I should not breach.”

  The merest hint of a smile curled the corners of her mouth before disappearing. “Then we find ourselves in a similar circumstance. As I have never had a companion before, and do not know what it is I am supposed to do with you. Though I am certain my dear brother wishes you to convince me to enter society and find myself a husband. I believe he wishes the burden of me to be taken from him and placed upon someone else.”

  Judith reflected back upon the correspondence she had shared with Lord Ridgemont. “I detected nothing of the sort in his letters. His words implied a true concern for your happiness. Do you not wish to enter society or marry?”

  A sharp laugh escaped Lady Henrietta. Judith jerked her head back, surprised at the hint of bitterness within it. “What have you heard about me?”

  “Nothing beyond what your brother’s letters contained, indicating he wished you to have a companion.”

  Lady Henrietta lifted one eyebrow. “And what did you learn of me from below stairs?”

  Judith suppressed a smile. The lady may give the appearance of a reserved little thing, but she possessed a backbone hidden within her slight frame. “One of the servants indicated something about scars before Mrs. Pierce silenced her.” She hoped Lady Henrietta did not ask which servant let the comment slip. It would not get their relationship off on the right foot when she refused to answer the inquiry.

  Lady Henrietta inclined her head toward the window. “Open the drapery.”

  Judith crossed the room and complied with her request, pushing the heavy fabric back and catching it in the hook at the side of the window. As she turned, Lady Henrietta let the shawl fall away, revealing her bare arms. The sunlight caught the right one and gave Judith her first view of Lady Henrietta’s scars. Mottled red and white marks twisted together down the outside of her upper arm, stopping at the elbow. She reached up and lifted the heavy veil of hair, pushing it behind her to fall down her back. The same scars that marked her arm continued up the side of her neck to her ear, leaving it, and the rest of her face miraculously untouched.

  What had happened to her to result in such a violent display?

  “I was burned in a fire,” Lady Henrietta explained, as if reading Judith’s mind. “They carry on down one side of my rib cage and curl around my hip.” She pulled her hair forward once again to protect the scars on her neck from view and shrugged her shawl back onto her shoulders. In the blink of an eye, she returned to the very picture
of a demure young lady. But the challenge in her eyes, the fear as she awaited Judith’s response, was anything but demure.

  “Hence your reticence at entering society.”

  “What man is going to want to marry a monster?” The moniker was delivered harshly, as if she had heard it before. “I have no desire to walk about like some animal on display while the lords and ladies of the ton whisper behind their hands at my…disfigurement.”

  Judith left the curtain opened, as if she could chase away the darkness around Lady Henrietta by doing so, though as she sat on the window seat facing the young lady, she realized the darkness did not come from outside but from the inside. Still, a little light burned through. Despite the wariness in Lady Henrietta’s gaze, Judith detected a sliver of hope that she would not turn away in disgust or horror.

  “It has been my experience,” Judith said, picking her words carefully. “That it is not one’s outsides that make them a monster, but rather what lives inside. I have known men more handsome than you can imagine, and ladies whose outward beauty appeared completely flawless. Yet in the end, what lived inside of them spoiled whatever beauty their outsides held.”

  “A lovely sentiment,” Lady Henrietta said, her smile turning sad. “Unfortunately, it does not stop them from ridiculing me, or viewing me as something worthy of their scorn. My brother has approached several gentlemen in the hopes of making a match and not one has been willing to make an offer, regardless of how large a dowry James offers.”

  Lord Glenmor flitted unwanted into Judith’s mind at Lady Henrietta’s mention of a large dowry. Would he consider her? Judith’s insides turned cold for reasons that had nothing to do with Lady Henrietta’s scars.

  “Perhaps it is a matter of letting people get to know you, allowing them to see beyond the surface.”