A Proper Scandal (13 page)

“It is the viscount's lofty priorities that I am trying to protect. By restricting his visits.”

Jocelyn nodded. “The viscount does not strike me as a man easily restricted.”

Elisabeth made a sound of frustration and dropped onto the couch next to her. “The viscount is a man
too
restricted. He is painfully aware of what other people assume. He suffered a difficult boyhood; his parents were far worse than neglectful. Now he tries to make up for their bad behavior by attaining perfection himself. Perfection is a very narrow path to travel.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“As much as I need his money, I am convinced that my charity is wrong for him.
I
am wrong for him.”

“Forgive me if I suggest that he does not seem to think so.”

“Yes,” she said, and Jocelyn saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. “But he's got it wrong. He does . . . not . . . know.”

“He does not know the nature of your charity?” Jocelyn prodded softly.

“No,” she whispered. “He knows what we do here.”

“Then what does he not know?”

She sniffled. “
Me
.” The word was barely audible. “Not genuinely. Honestly. I'm sorry; I've burdened you with far too much detail.”

“Oh, I don't mind,” said Jocelyn after a moment. “I've come all the way here. I might as well do some good before I go. Even if it is only to listen.” She glanced at Elisabeth, who had closed her eyes. Elisabeth took a deep breath and laid her arm across her brow. She opened one eye and peeked at Jocelyn from beneath her sleeve.

This was another look Jocelyn knew. “If there is more to tell,” Jocelyn said gently, “I should be happy to listen.”

And then, while Jocelyn sat quietly beside her, Lady Elisabeth revealed to her a great personal secret. Speaking through some tears but more often in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, Lady Elisabeth informed Jocelyn of an unbelievable chapter of her own past—a past in which the viscount played an unwitting part.

When she was finished, they sat for many minutes in silence.

Finally, Elisabeth said, “He deserves an unsullied woman to make his wife. There are so few men about whom I could say this and mean it, but he is one of them.”

“I wonder if it is fair to speak for him, my lady,” Jocelyn ventured.

“Perhaps not. But I can speak for myself. I'm not sure I could put myself through the agony of saying the words to him. Of revealing it all to him. I'm not sure I could.”

This admission hung in the air until it was dissolved by silence.

As with most things, there was a way it could be done. Elisabeth could find proper timing and courage and words. But Jocelyn would not invalidate her fear by trying to explain it away.

She put her hand on top of Elisabeth's and waited. When the younger woman spoke again, she implored Jocelyn to keep her confidence. “I cannot say what compelled me to burden you with it,” Elisabeth said, leaning her head back. “We've only just met, and I tried to sack you before you'd even begun.”

“I am honored that you trusted such a personal circumstance to me, and you may rest assured that I will tell no one.” Jocelyn paused. “I think, perhaps, it is the unknown, the anonymity of our first meeting that has allowed you to speak so freely.”

“No,” said Elisabeth, swallowing, “ 'tis you. I felt an immediate trust when you crossed my threshold. You took in the surroundings and showed absolutely no reaction. You were incredibly gracious with Mabel. I like you, Miss Breedlowe, and this is a rare thing indeed. There are very few people in London's established hierarchy that I actually like.”

“But you like the viscount? The incredibly established viscount?”

Elisabeth dropped her head into her hands. “I'm behaving like a blathering, infantile ninny,” she whispered. “Truly, I never cry. And I never enjoy anyone on first sight.
And I never cry
. And now look, all in the span of a morning. You should hear the atrocities endured by the girls who come into my care.
That
is the abuse that should bring tears to my eyes. These girls should be my only concern, but no. He has driven me to this. Oh, it was better before I met him, when I only just remembered him fondly.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the heel of her hand, turning away.

Jocelyn put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “There is a particular strain of wretchedness that can come only from heartache.”

“My aunt believes I should simply tell him. All of it. Immediately. That he will understand.”

“And what do you think?”

“That I should remove myself from his life before he is ever the wiser.”

Jocelyn raised one eyebrow.

Knock, knock, knock.

Both women jumped at sound from the door.

“He's here.” Elisabeth stood, staring in the direction of the hallway.

Jocelyn rose beside her. “Likely. If you are not expecting anyone else.”

Her eyes did not leave the door. She shook her head.

Jocelyn ventured, “My lady? Would you prefer I go?”

“No.” A firm shake of the head. “Stay. Please.” Elisabeth looked at her. “If you will. Unless it is more than you hoped to take on.” She laughed without humor. “Well, of course it is that.”

“On the contrary, my lady. 'Tis precisely what I had hoped to take on. 'Tis
more
.”

W
ith Jocelyn Breedlowe in place as chaperone, Rainsleigh wasted no time commencing the courtship. If Elisabeth did not agree to it in so many words . . . well, this did not keep the viscount from trying. Two days later, he asked her to dinner in his home, along with her aunt. Politely, she declined.

A day after that, he invited her to an evening at his box at the Adelphi Theatre for a performance of
The Magic Pipe
. Again, she sent her regrets.

Twice, he called on her at Denby House. Both times, he was uninvited, unexpected, and suspiciously close to tea. Thankfully, she was not home.

It pained her to decline him and not just because it was not her nature to be dismissive or introverted, but because she
wanted
to see him. They'd only just begun to learn each other, and there was so much more to know. He seemed to her a tightly wound clock—the minute hand was all tasteful propriety and the hour hand, stupendous wealth. The connected inner workings of the two fascinated and beguiled her. She found herself preoccupied by the thought of unwinding him.

And this thought brought her, always, back to the kiss. The feel of his large hands, fastening around her waist. The startling moment her tongue teased his bottom lip. The thrill of him deftly spinning her, backing her against the wall.

The memory haunted her at the most inopportune times, which was to say, all of the time. It swam in her consciousness as she tried to fall asleep. It broke the concentration in her quiet office while she endeavored to work. It lodged in her throat when Aunt Lillian asked her something, and she went sputtering, speechless, and blank. Like the village idiot. Like a woman possessed.

Never was it so apparent as on the journey from her office to Denby House at the end of each day, when she speculated on the contents of her aunt's silver calling-card tray. She wondered, with equal parts hope and trepidation, if his card would be there. She concocted a plausible excuse for any request that he might have made, all the while fighting off the fear that the tray would be empty.

Her aunt was little help, she of the round-the-clock cry of
Tell him.
Quincy agreed with her, as always. Stoker could not have cared less, as long as the discussion did not involve shipping him off to school.

It was Jocelyn, now woefully underused as a chaperone but, delightfully, a new friend who had taken to volunteering at the foundation, who offered the redeeming suggestion to which Elisabeth now clung: If she and Rainsleigh did not suit, then he never need know about their shared past. And the only way she would know if they suited was to spend time with the man.

They
must
interact, Jocelyn suggested, to know if Elisabeth's charity was too provocative or if he was too rigid to accept the terrible secret that she would, one day, be forced to tell him.

Guessing about it was neither fair nor accurate. They must know for sure.

To that end, she must give herself permission to accept some number of his courtship requests.

It seemed indulgent and cursory and too good to be true, but Elisabeth, God help her, embraced it and agreed to his very next call. He suggested a ride through Hyde Park, but Elisabeth countered with a request that they share a visit to the British Museum. Naturally, he would assume touring the exhibits and taking tea at the cafe, but Elisabeth had other plans.

If the purpose of spending time with the viscount was to determine their suitability, then she intended to deluge him with as many
unsuitable
aspects of her life as possible. Beginning with Stoker, who studied with his history tutor on Tuesdays at the museum.

Rainsleigh's regard for the boy and for Elisabeth's role in his life would be very telling, indeed.

“Do you have a mind for which exhibit you'd like to see?” Rainsleigh asked Elisabeth and Jocelyn, who accompanied them as chaperone. They mounted the great rise of stone steps to the museum entrance on the morning of this first official social call. “I haven't been to this museum in five years, at least.”

Elisabeth kept her voice light. “Not
what
I wish to see, actually, but
whom
. I've brought you to the museum to meet a friend.”

“A mummified pharaoh, perhaps?”

“No, although we might find my friend among the artifacts of Ancient Egypt. He is fascinated by that exhibit.”

She felt him tense beside her. “Your friend is a gentleman?” The question, however nonchalant, sounded forced.

She shook her head. “No. A boy. Well, a young man, not yet eighteen. You've seen him before. I was lecturing him in the stairwell the night you attended Aunt Lillian's party. He's called Stoker.”

Rainsleigh stopped walking. “A servant? We've come to the British Museum to call upon a servant?”

It was then that Miss Breedlowe asked to be excused to view the Mayan retrospective on beads and headdresses. Elisabeth encouraged her—they had tacitly agreed she might amble away if she could—and the chaperone hurried off.

Rainsleigh watched her scurry to an opposite hall, his expression unsure. Naturally, he was confused. Elisabeth couldn't blame him. Meeting a servant in the bowels of the dim, smoky British Museum was nothing like the ride in Hyde Park he had suggested. She suffered the first wave of doubt. Perhaps it would have been fairer to everyone to simply tell him that they didn't suit and refuse all offers.

There was little to do but put on a cheerful smile, gesture in the direction of Stoker's usual study spot, and lead the way. While they walked, she told him about Stoker and his life, beginning with his essential role in the foundation. She explained the number of girls he had rescued and his years of loyalty to her. Next she touched on his years of scholarship—his early interest in learning, her effort to teach him, and the eventual hiring of tutors. She and Aunt Lillian shared the cost of his education, she told him. Finally, she explained the university in Yorkshire that had accepted him as a student for the autumn term. The only omission was Elisabeth's initial meeting with the boy and why he'd sought out her, in particular. It was important to her to be honest and open in everything, except that very specific and painful intersection in their lives.

After she'd said this much, they wound their way through the dark, lantern-lit stairwell of the museum in silence. What more could she say? Hers was a narrative, she knew, that would send most noblemen sprinting to the door, likely laughing all the way. Rainsleigh was silent, but he remained.

“Ah yes, there they are,” she finally said, closing in on a long polished table in a book-lined alcove adjacent to the hall on Ancient Rome, his tutor's preferred spot.

“Stoker enjoys Roman history most of all,” she rattled on, more nervous now. “Until a few years ago, Mr. Bridges worked with him in Denby House. But the resources here are staggering.” She called to the two bent figures at the table. “Hello, Mr. Bridges! Stoker? Look alive, if you please. I've brought someone to meet you. 'Tis a viscount, so you must employ your very best manners.”

The duo pushed from their chairs and snatched hats from their heads. Mr. Bridges spouted his usual welcomes and how-do-you-dos. Stoker nodded and said nothing, staring at the floor.

“
Stoker
,” intoned Elisabeth, “may I introduce his lordship, Viscount Rainsleigh. He is the gentleman who may donate the money we need to hire a whole cadre of men to work in your place when you go to school.”

Stoker glanced up, studied the viscount, and then returned his stare to the floor.

Mr. Bridges scrubbed a chubby hand over his bald head and said, “Stoker still suffers from a few misgivings about the university, I'm afraid.”

Elisabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “Stoker, I'd like you to look up, fix a pleasant expression on your face, and greet Viscount Rainsleigh. Then, I should like you to share with us your progress on the two things I've asked you to research since we last spoke.”

Slowly, with the least amount of enthusiasm or free will, Stoker cocked his head and mumbled, “How do you do?”

“How do you do?” Rainsleigh repeated.

The youth nodded to his boots.

Elisabeth prompted, “And my two requests?”

Another shrug.

“There's a good lad, Jon, out with it,” urged Mr. Bridges gently, nervously tapping a finger on the tabletop.

“It'll take
seven days
to reach Yorkshire,” the boy finally recited. “And seven days to come back. But I haven't looked at the courses, so I can't say about the other.” He looked up then, his face full of determined hurt.

“Stoker . . . ” she began, but he moved away from the table and trudged to an adjacent glass box containing a crumbling artifact.

Elisabeth sighed deeply and followed, waving the tutor away. Stoker was not, by nature, a contrary boy—he
wanted
to please her—but he could not seem to accept this chance at a better life.

She rested her hand on the glass box beside him. “Are you anxious, Stoker, about being in school with the other boys? Is that it? Or is it the raids? Because you and I will devote the summer to selecting and training these new men.”

“Not the same.”

“True. It will not be the same.
You
will not be the same. You will be smarter and even more capable. Your world will grow. The raids will not be the same, but they will be sufficient.”

There was more to say—about his fears, his commitment to saving more girls, about the life he might lead after a university education—but she took the very low road and implored him to accept the idea of school
for her.
As a
favor.
Out of loyalty to her.

It was a dirty trick but also the only argument she knew he would not dismiss. If she could begin with his compliance, even reluctantly, then she could slowly bring him around to viewing the school as gift instead of an obligation.

She took half a step back, resigned to leave him to sulk, when Rainsleigh appeared beside them, staring down into the glass cube at the filthy Roman whatever-it-was before them.

“A grave marker?” Rainsleigh asked, squinting in the lantern light.

Stoker looked at him. “It's a Curse Tablet from ancient Rome. And the stylus they used to write on it.” He tapped the glass.

Rainsleigh nodded. “Curse Tablet?”

“A hank of soft lead. Shaped like a scroll. They wrote by bearing down with the stylus.”

“The devil you say,” whispered Rainsleigh, leaning in. “And we've got one here, from all these centuries ago?”

The interest engaged the boy. “Some of the script is still legible,” Stoker told him. “See there? Carved into the surface.”

“Hmmm. But why is it called Curse Tablet?”

“Used to record curses. That's what they believed.”

“Rather rude of them, isn't it? Can the historians make out what this one said?”

Stoker shrugged. “Only a few figures are in Latin.” He pointed to a squiggle. “The others are indistinguishable. An unknown script.”

“You read Latin, do you?”

Stoker nodded without looking up.

Rainsleigh looked at Elisabeth. “Will you excuse us, my lady? Just a moment?”

Elisabeth blinked at him. She felt herself nod, and she drifted backward, standing beside Mr. Bridges, who tried in vain to make polite conversation. She only half replied, caught up instead with watching Rainsleigh's profile as he spoke to the boy. Stoker listened. What choice did he have? Although he did seem more relaxed. He stared at the viscount with wide eyes, watching him keenly. He nodded. Next, he asked a question. Rainsleigh answered and said something more. Listened again.

Five minutes passed. Stoker nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. Finally, Rainsleigh offered his hand. Stoker took it, and they shook. Rainsleigh nodded again and left him at the tablet. The viscount returned to her.

“Our intrusion keeps the boy from his studies, I fear,” he said. “Carry on, if you will, Mr. Bridges.” Then, holding out his arm to Elisabeth, he said, “My lady, should we locate Miss Breedlowe?”

Elisabeth eyed Stoker, now wandering beside the bookshelves. Mr. Bridges began thumbing through his book. She looked at Rainsleigh's proffered arm.

“Perhaps I should bid Stoker a proper farewell.”

Stoker raised his hand across the room, an obvious dismissal. Elisabeth waved back. The boy didn't look.

“Very well,” she said and took Rainsleigh's arm. “Thank you, Mr. Bridges. Do continue. My apologies for the interruption.”

They left them, winding through the adjacent hall in silence. When they came to the first of several stairwells, she reached for the railing, and he allowed her arm to go free. It felt loose and wild by her side—ridiculous, as she'd spent thirty years without being led along by a man. When they reached the landing, she laced her fingers behind her back.

The silence continued. Another flight. A third. Finally, when she could not bear it, she said, “I would ask but one thing.”

He laughed. “Only one? I will believe this when I hear it.”

She allowed this, pressing on, “What do you think of our encouraging the boy? My aunt and I? Are we right to do it, in your view?”

He glanced at her. “I do not think you have done
wrong
by providing for him.”

“What do you think of my bringing you here to meet him? Of course, your choice had been Hyde Park.”

He glanced at her. “It introduces a . . . new perspective. There is one at every turn, with you.”

They emerged on the second floor and entered the Greek wing, walking past eroded weapons, mounted fragments of aqueduct, and marble statues of armless nudes.

“It was foolish of me to suggest the park,” he continued. “Ridiculous, really, looking back. My idea, if you can believe it, was to have my cook prepare a five-course meal and send it ahead with servants who would arrange a formal table in some soft, shady spot, with linens and china and crystal. There were to be footmen to serve us.” He made a scoffing noise. “I sought to impress you as I would another woman, but I keep forgetting—you are not another woman.”