How to Handle a Scandal (3 page)

“I was a careless flirt without a thought in my head.”

“That’s not true. Perhaps you made some mistakes, but everyone does. You’re far too hard on yourself.”

Not hard enough
, Eliza thought.

There was a knock at the door and Meg poked her head in.

With her straight brown hair and honest brown eyes, she looked as pretty as a porcelain doll—until one’s eyes drifted downward to her attire, which was generally odd. She favored badly mismatched clothes; today she had paired a pale buttercup-yellow silk gown with a russet shawl. If the shades of the colors had been different, the outfit might have looked interesting, but it was as though Meg had sought out the most jarring combination of colors she could find.

“There was ice in the girls’ washbasins this morning,” she said. “Maybe we should close the windows now that it’s getting cold.”

“Nonsense,” Eliza said cheerfully. “Cool air is good for the circulation.”

Meg’s eyes slid meaningfully to where Anna sat huddled under her shawl. “And we need to discuss your insistence that they read five books a week. I think it’s too much.”

“The girls need challenging goals if they’re going to make progress.”

Meg looked like she had more to say, but she just pressed her lips together and closed the door.

“Five books a week?” Anna said. “Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” She rubbed her hands together as if to warm them. “And honestly, it
is
chilly in the house.”

“Builds character,” Eliza said. “How will they make something of themselves if we’re soft on them?” Experience had taught her that self-indulgence and leniency led to disaster, and what she wanted for the girls who came to Truehart Manor was a better life. “Really, it’s for the best.”

* * *

It was nearly lunchtime the next day when Eliza stepped out of Smithson’s Fine Papers. She’d had a productive morning purchasing supplies for the schoolroom, including new maps and a writing tablet. Susie, at eleven, was only just able to form her letters, and they had to find a way to get her to focus more efficiently. Eliza had also ordered chemises for the girls from the dressmaker, who’d brought out a new rose fabric that she insisted was made for Eliza’s coloring. Though pink had once been Eliza’s favorite color, resisting the temptation to dress garishly was now child’s play, and she smiled peacefully as she declined.

She did find herself slightly exasperated, though, to overhear no fewer than three ladies discussing Sir Tommy Halifax and his many fine qualities (handsome, witty, and swashbuckling—apparently no one had ever had a chance to use the word until he’d come home). But realizing she was being unfair to him, Eliza let the feelings go. When a wide-eyed young lady had approached her and shyly asked if Eliza was related to Sir Tommy, Eliza was able to say in quite a nice tone, “No, I’m not.”

As she moved down the street, a mother came toward her with a baby in her arms. The baby was beautiful, with rosy cheeks and dark eyes, and the sight tugged at Eliza with the old, aching emptiness. Lately it seemed as if everywhere she looked, there were mothers with babies. The girls at Truehart Manor were almost like daughters to her, but their place in her life was temporary. A child of her own would have been someone to love forever. But she had no intention of ever marrying again, so there would be no baby.

Though she’d accepted all this long ago, she couldn’t seem to stop envying women with children—another flaw she needed to work on. She strived harder every day to do more good and be a better person. Which was why she was still thinking about something that had happened that morning.

She’d come upon Franny and Thomasina standing in the upstairs corridor, discussing, of all things, prostitution. In a better world, neither girl would know the first thing about the topic, but any child forced to live on the street quickly learned of the compromises people made to survive. Just the day before, Eliza had received word from Francesca that one of the older girls sent to the Bath school had left to work as a high-class prostitute.

It was a sad fact that an astonishing number of girls and women worked in the trade, which ran the spectrum from cheap encounters in alleys to lucrative work in high-class brothels and for a select few, a unique position in society as a courtesan who might command astonishing sums and even a measure of respect.

Apparently, both Franny and Thomasina had cousins who worked in brothels.

“Florrie earns pounds and pounds every month,” Franny said as Eliza paused unseen around the corner behind her. “Much more than any maid or governess.”

“My cousin Nancy says she’ll never, ever go back to being a scullery maid,” Thomasina said. “At Madame Persaud’s there’s a party every night, and the ladies dress up in fancy clothes and wear masks so the men can’t see who they are. Doesn’t it sound exciting?”

“It sounds like an easy way to live like a queen, is what it sounds like,” Franny had said. “And with all the fine airs we’ll be learning, I’ll wager Madame Persaud would be glad to take us on in a year or two.”

Eliza had nearly gasped at the idea of Truehart Manor and Francesca’s school functioning as some sort of prostitute training academy. She’d stepped forward and said, “That’s enough, girls,” in a stern voice. “You’re making things up, and I don’t want the others hearing this kind of nonsense. A brothel is not some grand place to work.”

“I didn’t make anything up,” Thomasina protested earnestly. She was a sweet girl, though easily led. But Franny gave Eliza a challenging look.

“A brothel is a dangerous place,” Eliza said.

Thomasina blinked. “But my cousin is happier and healthier than ever. She’s not poor anymore.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Franny said, not sounding at all remorseful, “but a fine lady like you would have no idea what it’s like at a brothel.”

“Yes, I—” Eliza had caught herself, surprised at the rush of forgotten memories from her girlhood in Malta, when she’d flitted about the sun-kissed grand harbor chatting up sailors, shopkeepers, and prostitutes. Everything in Malta had felt magical to the happy child she’d once been, from the toast-colored buildings of the town to the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea, which framed the view in every direction.

With its open, warm-hearted people and beaches scattered with sea daffodils and rockroses, Malta had meant freedom and joy to a child who’d grown up amid the rules of chilly England. The girl she’d been couldn’t have imagined anything like desperation behind the gaily painted faces of the women who called to the sailors from their doorsteps.

But Franny was right: aside from her vague memories of the harbor’s boisterous women, Eliza knew almost nothing of what the lives of prostitutes were like. The girl’s words stirred something in her…the forgotten thrill of a challenge issued.

You’d never jump in a fountain, Lizzie.

Females aren’t allowed in gentlemen’s clubs.

I’d wager you wouldn’t dare to meet me at midnight in the garden
.

She’d pushed the memories of her wild days aside as she dismissed the girls, but now she kept turning over what they’d said. Maybe she needed to educate herself. Maybe she needed to find a way to see for herself what it was like in a brothel so she could better steer their girls away from any illusions offered by its false promises.

As she crossed the street and entered Hyde Park, she decided that she must find some way to try. Apparently the brothel was called Madame Persaud’s—could Eliza send some sort of anonymous note there to Thomasina’s cousin Nancy, asking for help in return for money? If what Franny had said about the nightly parties and the women wearing masks was true, it could be a way for Eliza to sneak in and observe.

She knew that what she was considering was completely scandalous and risky—which was why she wasn’t going to tell even Meg about her plans—but it would be nothing like the wild things she used to do. This time she wouldn’t be following the lure of the forbidden. She’d be acting for the benefit of others.

A series of sharp barks pulled her out of her thoughts. A large dog was racing toward her across the greensward. It stopped in front of her, barking excitedly.

She’d always loved dogs, and this one’s exuberance made her smile. But as she looked at him, she realized there was something about this dog that was familiar.
He
certainly seemed to know
her
, though awful looking as he was, he was hardly the sort of dog usually seen in Mayfair.

He was enormous, for one thing, a dark brown beast whose head reached the middle of her waist. He had a torn ear that flopped against his head with each deep woof, and the end of his tail was clearly missing. There was also a bald patch near his rump that suggested he’d been in a fight. But his fur was a beautiful chocolate color, as were his eyes, and looking into them, she suddenly knew who he was.

“Traveler!” she cried. Dropping to a crouch, she let her packages slide to the ground as she wrapped her arms around him. He licked her neck enthusiastically, making her laugh.

She sat back on her heels. “You were but a slip of a thing the last time I saw you. And you were in much better shape.” She gently ruffled his ear, its torn edges clearly an old injury. “Which isn’t to say you’re not still adorable. But what are you doing here in the park, all alone?”

“He’s not alone,” a voice said from behind her—a voice she hadn’t heard for six years. It had deepened in the intervening time, but voices had personalities, and she knew this one. She turned her head, and there was Tommy.

If it hadn’t been for the white blade of hair that fell across his forehead amid the slashes of his longish, unruly black hair, she might not have known him immediately. He’d always been remarkably handsome, but now… Something fluttered in her chest.

India’s sun had tanned his skin, and his features had lost any youthful softness. His shoulders and chest had filled in with what was clearly hard muscle. Like his Halifax cousins, he had green eyes, but his had a clarity she’d forgotten—along with a knowing light that hadn’t been there before, as if he’d seen and done just about everything possible. His dark blue tailcoat made her think of a foreign sea at night, and though it was as elegant as any London gentleman’s, it didn’t suggest sophistication and elegance, but rather trade routes conquered and booty taken.

Most Swashbuckling indeed
.

She stood up. She’d thought it would be awkward to see him, but suddenly she was so happy.

“Tommy! What a surprise to meet you here.” When he didn’t respond as she paused to breathe, she kept going. “Though considering Traveler is here, I ought not to have been surprised. Perhaps
you
were surprised to see
m
e
?” She was babbling, but the steady way he was looking at her with those unwavering green eyes was making her feel off-kilter.

“Lizzie,” he said, tipping his head in greeting. His polite expression gave no hint of how he felt about seeing her. “Anna said you’d come back to Town.”

She cringed a little at the old nickname but didn’t correct him; it wasn’t surprising that he’d called her “Lizzie” since it was the name by which he’d always known her. But if he displayed no irritation at seeing her, neither did he seem at all glad.

As he stood there looking at her politely, she almost wished he was angry, because then maybe there would be the chance to speak of what had happened, to apologize properly and put to rest some of her guilt. The proposal lay between them—at least, she thought it did—but she couldn’t just blurt out an apology for laughing at him after not seeing him for years.

Yet they were
almost
family, and her conversation with Anna had pointed out the impossibility of them avoiding each other entirely. It would be so much easier, she now saw, if there wasn’t awkwardness between them. She stepped a little closer.

“I’m sorry I missed your knighthood ceremony. I suppose I should call you Sir Tommy now?”

“That’s not necessary.”

She’d been teasing, but he hadn’t smiled, and he didn’t look like he wanted to chat. Was he simply unamused? Why couldn’t she read him anymore, as she’d once been able to do? “Well…anyway, congratulations, and welcome home. It’s really quite lovely to see you.”

“Thank you,” he said politely. “It’s nice to see you as well.” He dropped to his haunches and deftly scooped up her packages, then stood and held them out to her. “I hope Traveler didn’t cause anything in your parcels to break.”

She shook her head and repressed a bizarre, sudden urge to step forward and simply embrace him as she would once have done, never mind that she hadn’t touched a man since Gerard died.

She tried again to glean the state of Tommy’s emotions from his polite expression, but without result. What if he
had
forgotten what happened—and forgotten her as well, and all the good times they’d shared? Though she ought to be relieved if he’d forgotten their shared past, some of those memories were happy ones for her, and she didn’t like the idea that they might now be nothing to him.

“Are you in the park for a walk with Traveler?”

“I was on an errand.”

“Ah.” Her mind whirred. Should she say something? Or would it be best to let sleeping dogs lie?

If for nothing other than your own self-respect,
her conscience insisted
, you owe him a proper apology
.
Go on, he’s not going to bite you.

Though what if he did bite her—metaphorically? What if bringing up the past made him angry?

You deserve his anger. Stop wasting time.

Right. Maybe it was an odd moment to do it, but she had to say something. She cleared her throat. “Tommy, did you get the letter I sent you years ago, right after you left?”

The barest hint of a frown tugged at his mouth before disappearing—or had she imagined it?

“Please, Lizzie,” he said reasonably, waving a hand dismissively, “that was years ago.” He gave her a polite, impersonal smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he continued in that maddeningly reasonable tone, “I’m afraid there’s somewhere I must be.” He dipped his head in a sketch of farewell and left her standing there.