A Proper Scandal (15 page)

They walked a moment more, nearly to the main stair that descended into the lobby. “But what is the other? The second thing?”

Rainsleigh made a dismissive noise. “Oh, but the second thing is a trifle. A direct result of my own mother, I'm afraid—a woman I hope you never have the misfortune of meeting. She lives in my villa in Spain, thank God. Really, it's nothing that you have to worry about.” He smiled grimly and led her down the lobby steps.

“Because . . . ”

He chuckled. “Because 'tis chastity—my second priority. Although I feel silly mentioning it to you. Of course you are.” He rolled his neck. “You remember the story I told you about my attempt to attend school? I omitted one thing. It's not important, really, and it's so utterly shameful, even now. But I suppose it applies. When the instructor from Eton called on our home after I had been turned away, he met with me, as I said. But when he was finished . . . ” He paused on the bottom step. “
But when he was finished—
I'll never forget it—my mother stumbled upon us, and she seduced him. She lured him upstairs to her bedroom, just as I was bidding him good-bye. It was . . . ” He shook his head, unable to finish. “So there you have it,” he said. “After a lifetime of disgrace, debauchery, and lies, I want faithfulness and purity and honesty. Above all.”

Elisabeth nodded, but the world around her went suddenly, starkly bright. Too bright. She could see every step, every crack in the stone, every sharp edge.

“To keep both of us safe from temptation,” he said, “we shall have to insist upon Miss Breedlowe's vigilance. Ah, but look. There she is.”

Elisabeth saw Jocelyn, felt herself take the steps across the lobby, but in her mind, she was suddenly still. In her mind, he strode off without her. A mile of cold marble stretched between them. She felt its hardness through the soles of her shoes. She was in a distant place—her very own museum. She saw the brothel, the highwaymen, Aunt Lillian's face when she opened the door to her so long ago. She heard Rainsleigh's words—
purity and honesty
—and she tried to square them with what she had, for so long, regarded as her own great shame.

Was she pure?

Oh, she was innocent of what had happened to her; this she knew. But did this diminish how she had emerged from the ordeal? Was she dishonest to withhold the circumstance from him? Even if it was all wrapped up in her deepest, most private shame?

She tried to blame him for making purity a condition of his devotion, but she could not. He had suffered his own trauma due to his parents' behavior. Who knew the depth of the abuse he had endured. He wanted someone fresh and clean. Perhaps it was wrong, but she wanted that for him.

She wanted it for him, almost as much as she wanted him for herself.

When they converged on Miss Breedlowe, she did not ask where they had been or why Elisabeth's hair had eroded into loose clumps of unfurled bun, trailing down her back. She begged fatigue, and they returned to the carriage.

“Are you . . . well?” he asked softly against her temple as he lifted her from the carriage in front of Denby House. “You are uncharacteristically quiet. I worry the . . . Greek exhibit unsettled you.”

She avoided his eyes and scrambled for something to say.

He went on, his head bent beside hers, his voice barely audible. “I would die before I would dishonor you.”

“I am well, Rainsleigh,” she assured him, smiling up. “ 'Twas a lovely outing. Thank you. Do not worry about me. I quite liked the Greeks.”

He studied her, and she forced herself to increase her smile. With some work, she added a knowing look.

“Very well, then,” he finally said, stepping back. “If you're certain.”

“Quite certain,” she said, making up her mind. She would tell him. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.

E
lisabeth had emerged from the museum on Tuesday with a vague, somber sort of quietness. She did not explain it, and Jocelyn did not press, but from that day forward, Elisabeth welcomed each of the viscount's calls. And, oh, how they came, swift and successive, some just days apart. Dinners, the theatre, rides through the park at the most fashionable time of day. Still, it was all very public and proper—so proper, in fact, Jocelyn made a point to detour frequently, tarry purposefully, and generally require a few moments more—
no, no, do go ahead without me
—at every footbridge or flower stall.

Unfortunately, the viscount allowed for little time alone. He was very clear. Impropriety must never be breeched. Any intimacy at all, it seemed, was entirely out of the question. Even at the close of a visit, when they returned to Denby House for tea, Jocelyn was always to be nearby.

She was a poor chaperone, indeed, to find fault in this, but could they not enjoy five sincere minutes alone? Even with Lady Banning in the next room? Even with servants in and out?

No time alone meant no time to be honest. Even so, Elisabeth declared—firmly, breathlessly after each outing—that she would tell him about their shared past, and very soon. But the declaration, somehow, never seemed to come.

On one call, Rainsleigh drove them across London to Blackwall, on the banks of the River Thames, for a tour of his expansive company, Courtland Ironworks and Shipping.

The weather was fine that day; even the filthy Thames seemed to sparkle, and Jocelyn and Elisabeth walked beside the viscount, taking in the massive construction yard in awed silence. Oxen-drawn wagons and carts rolled to and fro, pulling massive lumber masts, stacks of steel beams, and iron parts. Warehouses, as long as a city block, lined one side of the main thoroughfare. Coal, timber, iron, rope, and chain were cordoned off in pallets or coils in lots between each building. And before them, at the end of the wharf, was the swirling confluence of the Thames and what the viscount explained was Bow Creek, a direct route for Rainsleigh's ships to reach the sea.

Beside the water, a brittle web of scaffolding held the frameworks of three embryonic ships, their shape just distinguishable through a network of ladders and platforms. They rose to such heights—docked dry, high above the water—Elisabeth and Jocelyn had to squint and shade their eyes to see the tops. Jocelyn could not help but exclaim over the majestic sight of it. Elisabeth, too, was stunned, pointing and asking questions, amazed at the magnitude of Rainsleigh's work.

The viscount, Jocelyn observed, was much transformed inside his bustling empire: a quieter, more modest version of his usual self. He walked slowly behind the women, saying as little as possible, glossing over details about which another man would boast. Unless prompted by his portly secretary, he did not mention the staggering value of the ships or the amount of land and waterfront occupied by the operation, which was a little city unto itself.

“That will do, Dunhip,” the viscount would say after his secretary had given an extended explanation of the scope and scale of any of Rainsleigh's endeavors.

Elisabeth took it all in with silent wonder, watching Rainsleigh as much as she watched whatever notable landmark his secretary pointed out. Jocelyn wondered how the obvious wealth, generally of so little interest to Elisabeth, would impress her. Two hours later, she had her answer.

“I should like to return to Rainsleigh's shipyard as soon as we can,” Elisabeth told her after the viscount had returned them home. She lay back on the settee in the Denby House green salon, her arm thrown over her eyes. “Wasn't it the most remarkable place? I knew Rainsleigh was successful, but truly one must see it to believe. Ha! If only the old biddies who preside over the
haute ton
could see it. They would fall all over themselves to revere him, rather than forcing him to prove himself again and again.”

“Yes and how modest the viscount was. He will not suggest a return trip, I dare say. You will have to ask this. But what will be your reason?”

“I'll return to arrange work for my girls. A new source of employment for them after they leave the foundation. They could sew sails. They could sweep warehouses. There is so much work that a diligent woman could do. Endless possibilities. I don't know why I had not thought of it before.”

“You believe the viscount would welcome former prostitutes to work among all of those burly shipyard men?”

“They are not prostitutes when they leave me,” Elisabeth reminded her.

“Yes, I know, but will Rainsleigh? Will his foremen and ship builder? That portly secretary seems very particular, indeed.”

Elisabeth shrugged. “Yes. Perhaps you are right. This is uncertain. Maybe I am mistaken—blinded by my affections for the viscount, or stupid with hope—but everything I learn about him tells me that he is open. He is willing to help. He is generous, not simply with money but of spirit. He knows forgiveness. He can be made to see the mutual value of it.”

Jocelyn cleared her throat. “Made to see the innocence of your shared past, Elisabeth? Perhaps that too?”

Elisabeth made a face and dropped her arm over her eyes.

Jocelyn continued gently. “If Rainsleigh is so open and forgiving, then perhaps the time has come. You know that my original suggestion was to see the viscount once or twice. Just enough to see if the two of you ‘got on.' By now I believe that it has been established that you suit.” Jocelyn stood up and crossed to her, looking down. Elisabeth closed her eyes, saying nothing.

Jocelyn continued softly. “Tell me some plan, Elisabeth. A vision. A schedule for the way you will manage it. To delay much longer will only make the revelation more complicated for you both. If he is all the things you believe, then
now
is that time.”

Elisabeth spoke to the ceiling. “I have indulged myself. It's been like a dream.” She looked at Jocelyn. “I . . . I don't want it to end.”

Jocelyn nodded. “I cannot say for sure, Elisabeth, but I would be shocked—
shocked—
if your honesty brought about an ‘end.' Of course you mustn't deceive yourself that it will be easy.
You
will be the one who has to say the words. Unless I am mistaken, his reaction will only soften the blow. It will be difficult, but it
can
be done. Isn't this what you tell the girls who come to you? That their past experiences do not dictate who they are or who they can become? If you believe this to be true, then you may tell the viscount without guilt or shame, because what happened to you fifteen years ago is
not
‘you.' The genuine ‘you' is a woman he would be proud to call his wife—a woman that he shall want, regardless.”

Elisabeth dropped the back of her hand to her cheek, swiping a tear. “You're right, of course,” she declared. “I am going to tell him. Right away.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No, no, not tomorrow.” She sat up. “Tomorrow is Lady Whomever's dreadful ball.”

“Oh, yes. Lady St. Clare. Indeed. Your first ball together.”

Elisabeth nodded. According to Rainsleigh, a baroness, Lady St. Clare, held an annual ‘do' the first weekend in June. He and his brother had been invited—their first formal invitation to a large society function. Rainsleigh had requested that she attend as his guest. Thankfully, Jocelyn was excused from this particular event, as Lady Banning would also attend and serve as chaperone.

“Aunt Lillian is delighted that we'll finally appear out together,” said Elisabeth, “so of course, it will be more overblown than it would normally be. I can't possibly tell him then. Also, you won't even be there to support me. There's far too much going on tomorrow night to have the discussion
then
.”

“Right,” hedged Jocelyn.

Elisabeth continued, protesting far too much. “I would cry ill for the ball, I detest them so, but seeing Rainsleigh's shipyard today . . . seeing how he
deserves
to be among society, if that is what he wishes, of course I must go. If we carry on as we have, the future will bring more and more of these things, I'm afraid.” She stared off into the distance. “Perhaps it will not be so bad—with Rainsleigh there.” She smiled beseechingly at Jocelyn.

“No,” she finished, “a trumped-up ball is hardly the proper setting for this discussion. I won't complicate a special night with my great, dark, momentous secret. I'll do it . . . ” She faltered, looked at her hands, and then finished, “The day
after
tomorrow. On Sunday. I will ask him for tea with the express purpose of telling him. Then we'll know.” She nodded. “Then it will all be over.”

“Or then,” countered Jocelyn with a wink, “it will truly all begin.”

E
lisabeth dressed for the St. Clare ball with a zeal and spirit that surprised even herself. She hummed as Bea laced her into a gown of green-apple silk. She collaborated on the style of her hair—long, loose curls down her back. She was entirely ready, drifting around the parlor, enduring Quincy's good-natured teasing, long before Aunt Lillian swept down the stairs in her iridescent marvel of indigo-colored ruffle and flounce.

Elisabeth laughed off the suggestion of her eagerness, but of course it was true. She
was
eager. For all of her teasing about Aunt Lillian's social whirl, Elisabeth did not work so hard or sympathize with the downtrodden so stridently that she did not wish to have friends. She longed for diversion and a nice glass of wine just as much as anyone else. And, well, if Rainsleigh was amenable to a turn around the dance floor, all the better.

For so many years, she had been almost entirely alone—surrounded by girls, and staff, and street boys, yes—but except for Aunt Lillian and Quincy, otherwise
alone
. It had been a perfectly adequate way to live, really. And then,
he
entered her life. He was, she thought, the very best version of not being alone. Her feelings for him expanded every day—one part attraction and desire, another part engagement and respect.

She felt it when he strode into a room and she saw him for the first time on any given day. When he placed his large hand on the small of her back to usher her around two men quarreling on the pavement. When they poured over the newspaper together and debated the issues of the day. When she read to him, and he listened quietly, staring at her as if, on every page, she read his name. When he effortlessly lifted her down from her horse.

The thrill of it thrummed through her, and for some time after each contact, she floated.

Naturally, Lillian said she was falling in love, but Lillian felt that everyone was falling in love. She was ruled by her love of Quincy, and everyone else was pinned somewhere on the same romantic spectrum.

Love? Elisabeth could not yet say.

Every hour they spent together, she felt herself listing in what was surely this direction. But listing was one thing, falling was quite another. And only when Rainsleigh knew the truth and responded with compassion would she allow herself to fall. His response would prove the ultimate test. She needed only her own courage to tell him and to hear his response.

She speculated on this as her aunt's carriage wound its way through London to the St. Clare ball. What would it be like to love him in earnest?

“You are positively glowing tonight, Aunt,” Elisabeth said, trying to distract herself. “How delighted you must be that we will finally embark on your favorite pastime together.”

“But what favorite pastime?” said the countess. “Of course I am delighted that we are together. Don't think I haven't noticed that I've been thrown over by that chaperone of yours. Lovely woman. A touch on the thin side, God save her, but lovely. Still, she has usurped my role in this courtship.”

“Count yourself lucky to be free from following me around.” Elisabeth chuckled. “But I was speaking of the party. I know you adore nothing more than a lovely ball. This is why Rainsleigh hired Miss Breedlowe in the first place. You are too busy to play chaperone.”

Lillian waved the notion away. “A ball? 'Twill be tolerable, I suppose. There are far worse ways to pass an evening, but it is all part of the fiction.”

Elisabeth screwed up her face. “What fiction?”

“Oh, maintaining a distracting, predictable facade. Secluding this ‘double life' that I lead.” She laughed. “No spirited society matron, seen out every night, could possibly be carrying in on in secret with her gardener.”

“Quite so.” Elisabeth chuckled, a little less sure. “How ironic. All these years, I thought the ‘double life'
allowed you
the freedom to indulge your love of parties. I thought you wanted to hide your relationship with Quincy so you could carry on being the spirited society matron.”

Lillian held her head at an odd angle to protect her coiffeur from the stiff carriage seat. “Well, no, Elisabeth,” she said, all laughter gone, “but if this is what you think, then I must be doing a very good job, indeed. Egad, how I must seem to you. Flitting around town as countess whilst Quincy stays at home alone, unable to make me his wife. Unable to be seen by my side without a trowel in his hand.”

Elisabeth blinked, staring at her. An unaccustomed crescent of guilt began to puff up in her gut. “But of course I have nothing but respect and love for you, Aunt Lilly. And I know you love Quincy very much. I . . . I suppose I did not think about it all. A candlelit ballroom is such a natural setting for your great beauty and wit. I thought you both wanted this. If you marry Quincy, you will no longer be the Countess of Banning. To remain a countess is important, I know—for you. Above all else.”

“No. What is important above all else, darling, is for
you
to have every advantage.”

“
Me
?” Elisabeth tried to laugh. “But . . . ”

Lillian stared at her a moment more, considering, and then she shrugged, smiling warmly and relaxing against the seat, sacrificing her hair. “If you thought I preferred being a countess to being with my Quincy, then you are very wrong indeed. We wanted you to have all the time in the world, and we worked very hard not to let on. Even now, I want you to do everything in your own time and way. But considering how well things have gone with Rainsleigh, a splendid match might be just around the corner, I think. You might as well know.”

“
Lillian
,” Elisabeth's voice shook. “I might as well know
what
?”

“Truly? You had no idea?”

“No idea about what? I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. I only meant to make conversation, acknowledging your love for parties.”

“Oh, darling. My love for parties? But don't you see? If I am seen out, happy, active, popular—no one will guess. When you are settled, well, the charade may end. Quincy and I will quietly slip away. Simply, ‘the Lady Banning has remarried. She relinquishes her title and has sailed from England with her new husband. Bound for the tropics.' Somewhere warm and sunny has always been our dream.” She winked at Elisabeth. “In time, we will get there.”

“Lillian”—Elisabeth struggled, suspecting the answer, dreading the answer—“are you meaning to say that the
only
reason you have remained in London, living life as a countess, is for me?”

Lillian cocked her head. “Come now, Elisabeth.”

“But why? Surely I have not detained you
fifteen years
?”

Elisabeth thought back, her mind a whirl. She had learned of her aunt's secret relationship with the gardener slowly over time, in the weeks and months after she turned up at Lillian's door. She'd accepted it from the start and happily took on their deeply guarded secret. But never once had she considered the cost to them. In the beginning, she'd been too wrapped up in her own pain. After that, it simply
was.

Oh, God, the sacrifice . . .

Lillian shook her head. “In no way did you detain us. We are very happy, as you can plainly see. Eventually, we will go. Soon, perhaps, if your affiliation with the viscount continues on course, and I suspect it will. For now, I would not dream of scandalizing and, let us be honest,
ruining
you. I cannot traipse off to a tropical island with the gardener. If we did this, your reputation would never recover.”

“My reputation?” Elisabeth said, her voice far too loud in the closed carriage. “But what care have I for my reputation? Especially if it is keeping you and Quincy from your life together. Oh, but this is awful. I had no idea. Lillian! I'm so sorry. The sacrifice the two of you have made . . . ”

“There has been no sacrifice, and you should never speak of it in that way. You are like a daughter to me, and I love you with all of my heart. Quincy too. Everything we have done has been out of love. It has been our own choice.”

“My God,” said Elisabeth, strangled. “You might have had
children
if you'd married and moved away.”

“Stop. And what would I want with a baby to make me fat when I had a delightful, full-grown girl in you? Besides, Quincy and I do not suffer. We carry on behind the walls of Denby House exactly as we please. Eventually, we will realize our next dream. But for now,
you
are our dream.”

Elisabeth fell back against the carriage seat. “I shall never be able to repay you,” she whispered. “So many lives were forever changed that night. So many.”

“Oh, my dear, you're viewing this in entirely the wrong light.” Lillian tsked, fluffing her hair. “What I would not give to have my brother and your dear mama here with us, hale and hearty, but I could not have been more blessed to raise you in their stead. It has been an honor. And it is not over yet. Ah, but look, here we are. Let us not tarry. No frowning or sad eyes at a ball, if you please—that's no way to snare a viscount.”

“How can you bid me to smile after all you've just revealed?”

“My revelation is entirely out of your control. Now, if you wish to bring Quincy's and my love into the light of day, then sew up this brilliant match with Rainsleigh, and we'll be halfway there. But it shall never happen with that tearful expression! There we go; there's a good girl. Lovely. You chose well, picking the green dress instead of the fawn. Not every girl could pull it off, but it looks stunning on you. Especially when you
smile
.” She rapped on the window of the carriage door. “Do hurry,” she called to the groom, “the static in this carriage seat is spoiling my hair.”

E
lisabeth descended the ballroom steps in a fog.

And
now
she was meant to be jovial? To smile and make conversation with new friends? To enjoy the food and wine and dance? What once seemed frivolous and leisurely now seemed urgent and pressing. The ball
must
be tolerable—the first of many tolerable balls she would endure as Rainsleigh's wife. Her strong feelings for him
must
remain strong—nay, they must soar.

And, above all, she must tell him. Now. Tonight. And he must take her great secret to heart and accept it, and he must be understanding and sympathetic. And then they must marry, sooner rather than later.

After that, he must take in stride the fact that his aunt-in-law is no longer the esteemed Countess of Banning but rather Lillian Greene, runaway newlywed, most recently of the British West Indies or Timbuktu.

Dear Lord
.

As if meeting the man again, concealing their courtship, and then forcing herself to tell him her deepest, most hateful secret were not enough. Now was the pressure of Lillian's long-delayed happiness, and after that, the ramifications of what would be said when a countess married her gardener.

The venue for the ball, another sprawling Mayfair townhome, was like every other ball Elisabeth had been compelled to attend over the years. Admittedly, she had been to very few, but they always appeared to the same: Crowded, noisy, warm.

It made no difference. Tonight she would dance for her life—or Lilly's life. The sacrifice her aunt had made, not to mention Elisabeth's own, self-involved blindness to it, propelled her. She squinted in the uneven light of five hundred candles, searching the crush of color and silk for Rainsleigh. Aunt Lillian had been immediately swept away by friends and admirers. She'd suggested they circulate together, but Elisabeth sent her on. Lilly's social pantomime would be harder to watch, now that she knew the truth. She needed space and air; she needed—

Rainsleigh
.

She saw him standing, tall and resplendent in evening finery, near the bright fire of a large hearth across the room. Her breath caught, and a swarm of butterflies launched in her stomach. She looked away. She forced herself to take a deep breath and to smile as she released it. Perhaps she
was
in love with him.

He spoke to his brother, a casually propped elbow on the mantel, his other hand in his pocket. He looked every inch lord of this incredibly over-bunted, flower-laden ballroom, of these finely dressed people, of this fine house—of the whole world.

But now his brother was pulled away, and Rainsleigh turned in her direction. Their eyes locked. The butterflies converged for a swooping flip.

He inclined his head. A slight, regal nod. She did not wish to be coy, but she would not grin. Or sprint to his side. With some effort, she slowly inclined her own head. A return nod.

“Lady Elisabeth?”

Grateful for a reason to look away, if only for a moment, she turned at the sound of her name. A young woman sidestepped a footman carrying a chair to hop beside her. She extended her hand, smiling brightly.

“Lady Elisabeth?” she repeated. “Forgive my impatience, but I must meet you. You don't know me—not yet—I am Piety, Lady Falcondale, Lord Rainsleigh's neighbor! Next door in Henrietta Place?”

“Lady Falcondale. How do you do?” Elisabeth smiled uncertainly. “Our mutual friend, Miss Breedlowe, has told me so much about you, including that you were newly back in town. Welcome home. But I had no idea to expect you at this ball. What a pleasant surprise.”

Of course, Piety would be young, but Elisabeth had not expected her to be so beautiful. Or effusive. She wore a loose-fitting gown that did little to hide her obvious pregnancy.

“Oh, well, Jocelyn will confirm that I am full of surprises,” Piety enthused, her honey-blonde curls bouncing as she pumped Elisabeth's hand. Her frank American accent grew more obvious with each proclamation. “I've bribed my husband to come because it may be the last such ‘do' I am able to attend for quite some time.” She patted her swollen belly. “He loathes this sort of thing, but I wanted to see for myself. We set sail so soon after I became a countess, I never had the opportunity to attend a proper ball before tonight.”