A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (35 page)

Simon was taking Hannah’s hand, murmuring some empty flattery over her knuckles. Nell wrapped her arms around herself. She’d never let herself want the things she couldn’t have, and now that she knew that she couldn’t depend on having him, the very sight of him hurt. If only he weren’t so beautiful—dark and lean and graceful, even in his oldest togs.

Mrs. Crowley had known with one glance that he didn’t belong here. Arrogance was stamped in his bones. For eyes bred in the Green, it was obvious he was somebody to fear.

She sat heavily into a Windsor chair. Her idiocy burned in her chest. God help her, she’d imagined them
equals
. She’d thought him bound by the law as completely as she was. Her rotting, broken brain! How had she forgotten the lessons of the world? Everything worked differently for his kind.

She’d
known
it was too good to be true.

She had nobody to blame for her breaking heart but herself.

Hannah was trying to give the rocking chair to
Simon. “Keep it for yourself,” Nell said—too shortly; everybody gave her a look of surprise.

“But it’s the largest we’ve got,” Hannah said. “And he saved me from jail, didn’t he?”

Mrs. Crowley brightened at these tidings. “Why—of course he did! Sure and I’m a fool for not putting two and two together. I’ll insist on another hug from you, lad.”

Over the woman’s shoulders, Simon met Nell’s eye and winked. He didn’t understand that he might have been winking at a stone. He’d never faced anyone who didn’t bend to him in the end.

My father didn’t bend
.

The thought gave Nell strength. Aye, she would be like stone to him. Let him do as he will. Let him think what he liked. Let him sneer, even.

The vision rose up sudden and vivid: his chiseled lips curling in contempt as he looked her over.

She’d told him she’d begged on her knees. God above …

She gritted her teeth and made her hands into fists, hidden in her skirts. Yes, she had told him that, and if he sneered, she wouldn’t care. She’d sneer back at him.

He took a seat in the rocker and looked around the room, inspecting it like one of the do-gooders on their home visits. But the Crowleys didn’t require his pity. Their flat had three well-ventilated rooms, the largest of which faced the Green itself. The fresh breeze that passed through the window carried the scent of growing things in the park, clean and pleasant. Nell had always loved passing the time here—a safe and spacious place, blessed by a family that cared for each other.

But as she followed Simon’s regard, his presence twisted her view. She noticed for the first time the
shabbiness of the rough lath-and-plaster walls, chipping in some places, yellowed in others from the damp. The crude wooden floorboards didn’t fit together as much as they battled each other in a hopeless bid to lie flat. The crockery on which Mrs. Crowley now produced biscuits and cake had a substantial piece missing from the rim.

In the world she’d just left, this was wretched living, and no doubt of it.

She turned her eyes back to Simon. He could judge her all he liked. But if by word or look he made her friends feel bad, she’d carve out his heart with a spoon.

Evidently he’d decided to ignore her. With a smile, he took a biscuit from Mrs. Crowley. His thanks made the woman blush. Then he settled back, somehow making himself comfortable in Hannah’s seat—occupying it with a look of ease, for all that his knees rose higher than his thighs—and made some friendly remark to Hannah, who laughed.

When Nell relaxed slightly, he sensed it—glancing toward her, his brow lifting. Was that a question on his face? Or did he think he should be congratulated for daring to eat with the laborers?

“Mum used to have a chair like the one you’re using,” she told him. “We had to burn it one winter to keep the fire going. Would have frozen to death, otherwise.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Hannah’s startled look. Simon said neutrally, “Was that the same year Michael pissed himself to stay warm?”

Mrs. Crowley made a choking noise. “D-dear me,” she sputtered, as Nell felt her face catch fire. “Tea went down the wrong way.”

“Michael pissed himself to stay warm?” Hannah asked, her eyes very round.

“Why don’t you tell Nell and his lordship your news?” Mrs. Crowley said hastily.

“Oh! Your stepbrother came by,” Hannah exclaimed. “Nell, he left you something!”

Nell ripped her eyes from Simon’s, hesitating a moment before taking the small bundle of cloth that Hannah had plucked off the table. Michael was not a gift giver by nature. “Poison, I reckon?” she muttered. “What did he say?”

“Open it,” Hannah urged. “We thought the same, but then he showed us—oh, just open it, Nell!”

“But perhaps hold your breath while doing so,” Simon said.

She surprised herself with a short, hard laugh. “Aye, that’s a bright idea.” Her hands trembled a little as she unrolled the cloth.

A fine silver spoon winked up at her.

“What on God’s green earth?” She lifted the spoon. Turned it around in her hand. The handle was engraved with scrolling initials:
CRA
.

Simon held out his hand. Arrogant cheek, she almost called it, but then he said, “May I?”

Reluctantly she passed it to him. “It looks like a christening spoon,” he said immediately. “CRA: Cornelia Rose Aubyn.” He lifted a brow. “Well,” he said softly. “How interesting.”

A bit too interesting, Nell thought. “Why on earth would
he
have had it?”

“He said it was your mum’s,” Hannah offered. “He found it tucked under a floorboard along with a Bible.” She grimaced. “Which I’m sure he didn’t know
what
to do with. Probably moldering in the rubbish right now.”

He’d probably sold the Bible. “Why didn’t he pawn the spoon? Did he have a story for that?”

Hannah shifted in her seat. “Well, he didn’t hand it over, precisely. That ten pounds you left me—”

“You gave that to him?” Nell slammed her palm onto the arm of her chair. “That was meant for you! I told you if I didn’t come back—”

“But it
was
yours,” Hannah said. “Calm down, then, Nellie! I didn’t have a choice in it. He came by wanting me to speak to you about buying it—I reckon he thought you’d be willing to buy it at a better rate than Brennan would. And you know Michael; if I’d waited for you, he’d have gone off and gotten blind drunk and been robbed of it—or gamed the spoon away, maybe. And I couldn’t let that happen, could I? It’s proof! Ain’t it? That spoon must have been yours!”

“You did very well,” Simon said, as gracious as a lord of the manor with his peasants. “And we’ll recompense you for what you spent. With interest,” he added, ignoring Hannah’s protest as he continued: “This is a very fortunate development, as you say.”

“Which I still don’t trust an inch,” Nell said to Hannah. “If that spoon belonged to Mum, he’d know what it meant. He could have bullied and bribed me for a good deal more.”

Hannah’s lips parted but for a moment she didn’t speak. Then, hesitantly, she said, “Ten pounds, Nellie. It’s no small amount.”

Nell felt her skin crawl. “Of course.” She cast a quick, abashed glance toward Simon, expecting to see smugness: he’d said much the same to her once.

But what she saw on his face was something else entirely.

She looked quickly away, down to her hands in her lap, the blood pounding through her face. The sympathy
in his expression felt harder to bear than a smirk. She felt exposed by it—and caught up in the strange idea that he understood her better than she’d guessed.

But it made no difference. If he’d truly understood her, he’d never have lied to her. He would have dealt with her plainly instead of cozening her into his bed.

“Well,” Simon said. He tucked the spoon into his jacket pocket, asking, as an afterthought, “May I keep this for you?”

Nell realized the question was for her. Highhanded, even on his best behavior. “Go ahead,” she said.

His tentative smile struck her like a knife. Her traitorous heart trembled. How beautiful the world had seemed when she’d thought they were going to walk through it together.

God save her but she was weak! The idea of getting back in that coach with him suddenly terrified her. He’d ask again what ailed her; he’d start in with his questions and she had no faith in herself not to bend, not to give, not to yield again. She’d come so close to loving him completely; her feelings for him felt like a fatal crack running through the core of her. If she let him close now, if he hit on that crack, he’d break her clean apart.

The matter of the spoon settled, the ladies took up their drinks and chattered on, trading the easy gossip of women reuniting after an absence. Meanwhile, Simon found himself listening with a sense of increasing disbelief.

Harry Connor had lost a finger to the cutting machine. David O’Riordan had been picked up by the coppers for lying dead drunk in the road; his wife had come down to the pub and struck deals with three
separate men, out in the alley, to get the money to post him. A weaver had caught one of his apprentices thieving, and had chased him into the lane with a whip; nobody would have objected to a thrashing, but he’d not laid off at the sight of blood. It had taken all the women coming into the lane to pry him off, and he’d still not apologized, which didn’t seem right, did it? And so Peggy Hart and the Miller twins had decided to box his ears for good measure.

Crises and solutions, street justice and casual cruelty, heartbreaking, told in the cheerful voice of harmless gossip.

He looked at his wife, who was smiling faintly, nodding to show that she listened, and steadfastly avoiding his regard. She had grown up in this rough place, ducking her stepbrother’s fist, working at a place where men lost their fingers to feed their families. And somehow, in the midst of all this, she had fashioned herself into a strong, honest, intelligent woman.

His temper slipped away from him. Its loss left him altogether flat.

A half hour later, as the conversation wound down, his wife finally seemed to recall his presence. She stood, and he followed suit, only to hear her say: “I’m staying here for the night.”

The words seemed to startle her as much as they did him—and her friends, who exchanged a speaking look.

“No,” he said. He was not leaving her in this godforsaken neighborhood.

Her expression darkened. “Just for the night,” she said.

He was across the room at her side in three steps, where he took her by the elbow and said to their
wide-eyed hostesses, “Thank you for your hospitality,” before leading his wife straight to the door.

She yanked free of him as soon as the door closed behind them. In silence they descended the stairs. As they stepped into the lane again, he said, “If you wish to spend more time with them, you are welcome to invite them to the house.”

“Of course,” she said tonelessly. “Until my money’s in your accounts, I reckon I’m too valuable to be risked in the rookery.”

He pushed out a breath. God knew the denizens of this street would find nothing novel in the sight of a public argument. Indeed, it might be educational to them to learn that a whip was not required to settle their differences. But he did not quarrel in the road.

The mocking look she gave him said she knew he was biting back words. “Imagine your fine friends seeing you now,” she said. “Strolling with a guttersnipe in the filth.”

“With my
wife
,” he said.

The smile that curled her lips was slow and unpleasant. “For how long?”

He walked faster, longing ferociously for the bend in the lane that would yield the first glimpse of his carriage.

Her voice came softly behind him. “I heard you,” she said.

He swung back. “You heard me,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

She fixed him with a clear-eyed look, then stepped around him, taking the lead around the turn.

The carriage stood where they’d left it, and the sight of it in the open sunshine—the sight of his footman moving to open the door, to take them both away from
this place—made him feel as though he were finally waking from a nasty, senseless dream.

Her next words, however, made it clear that the nastiness was just beginning.

“I heard you with the lawyer,” she said over her shoulder as the servant handed her into the vehicle.

For a moment, one foot poised on the step, Simon did not understand. He’d met with Daughtry this morning to discuss an egregious piece of libel masquerading as journalism, a piece no doubt paid for by Grimston, which claimed that Nell was a clever imposter who, in cooperation with her new husband, was scheming to steal a fortune. Simon had wanted to take action against the newspaper. A woman might be grateful for such husbandly urges.

And then, all at once, he recalled Daughtry’s exact objections to these urges.

He leapt into the landau.

She sat tucked into the corner. “Well?” she asked.

“Before I knew you,” he said rapidly, grabbing onto the strap and taking his seat as the coach lurched forward, “before I really knew you, I asked for Daughtry’s advice—”

“Yes,” she said. “You knew you could end the marriage whenever you wished.”

“I don’t wish,” he said fiercely. The very idea now seemed ludicrous. She was his
wife
. “Did you hear my reply to Daughtry? Did you hear me say that I had no interest in an annulment?”

“I heard it,” she said. The serenity of her manner struck him as ominous: she had the air about her of a woman who had survived, and now was recovering from, an illness that would not kill her after all. She no longer looked troubled in the slightest. “Tell me, am
I meant to be grateful that today, your mood favored me? But what if our plan goes bad? What if a judge isn’t convinced by my face and a silver spoon?”

“Even then,” he bit out. “We are married.”

“Even then?” Her smile looked gentle. “You would consign yourself to poverty for my sake, you say?”

“Yes.” He was astonished by the readiness of his reply—and by the fact he felt no doubt of it. “Yes, I would.”

The afternoon light flooding through the window lit vividly the look of uncertainty that crossed her face, chased by a flicker of … fear?