Once Upon a Scandal (4 page)

“She’s not as sober as you think, but I know it’s an unorthodox plan.” Benjamin watched the faces of the men around the table, trying to gauge their reactions. If Greystoke could be convinced, the other two would likely follow his lead.

“It borders on the absurd.” This from Ian Hampden, the Viscount Torrington, who had a reputation for being direct and also merciless.

“Perhaps, but people see what they expect to. And they generally believe what they’re told. It’s one of the things we count on in our operations.”

“This isn’t what we planned,” Greystoke said dismissively. They were not friends after all, merely a network of associates at the urging of Lord Liverpool, England’s prime minister. On this night, they were tucked away together in a secure room in the basement of Whitehall. “You were supposed to insinuate yourself. Gain her confidence. Find out what she knew of her father’s dealings.”

“As I said earlier, she’d have come forward with anything suspicious. She’s already proven that.”

“It’s one thing to expose your father’s schemes to right an injustice,” said Nicholas Borneman, the Marquis of Winchester. “It’s quite another to offer up information that will see him charged with treason and hung by the neck.”

“Granted, but the man is dead now and thus safe from repercussions. If she’d discovered the dispatches among his papers, she’d have informed the authorities.”

“I’m willing to acquit her of any complicity,” Greystoke said. “But we know Fitzsimmons was a desperate man. And we know he was at Rempley’s the night the dispatches were taken, less than twenty-four hours before his death. I still believe they’re hidden somewhere in his house.”

“Doesn’t this make you at all suspicious about Rempley? His behavior towards Miss Fitzsimmons proves he’s not the man he’d like others to believe.”

“Neither are we,” Torrington said. “I can find him guilty of extremely poor taste but little else.”

“What about a marked absence of good judgment?” Benjamin asked, frustrated by their inability to recognize what he saw so clearly. “Why were the dispatches at his home to begin with? They should never have been taken from the committee’s files at Whitehall.”

“Regardless,” said Winchester, “that’s his prerogative as chairman. I sit on the same committee, you’ll recall. And Rempley has always been aboveboard.”

“Well, I find it bloody suspicious. Why did Rempley need to study them in the privacy of his own home, before you and the other committee members had seen them? What are the chances he was in collusion with Fitzsimmons? That with Fitzsimmons’s sudden death, he had a convenient scapegoat to disguise his own involvement?”

“I find it highly unlikely,” Winchester replied. “While I might be disappointed in his behavior towards Miss Fitzsimmons, I’ve never had cause to doubt Rempley’s patriotism. He was the person, after all, to bring the case to Lord Liverpool. He knows the prime minister has a network that will investigate his accusations, even if he doesn’t know our identities.”

“Still, Marworth makes a good point,” Greystoke said. “Several, in fact.”

“If Miss Fitzsimmons agrees to my plan, we’ll not only have access to the documents she may unwittingly have in her possession, we’ll also have the means to tempt her father’s accomplices—if there are any—out into the open. And if Rempley is involved, all the more reason to act quickly. The man is privy to our nation’s most guarded secrets, and, I might add, he only succeeded to his post after Fitzsimmons’s downfall.”

“I realize her present circumstances are perilous, but I can’t believe Miss Fitzsimmons will want to play a part,” Torrington said. “Why would she be willing to sacrifice so much, when this will likely end with her father being exposed as a traitor?”

“We don’t know that for certain,” he replied, willing away an uncomfortable flush of guilt. “And I think it’s best she not know he’s a suspect. We’ve a better chance of securing her involvement that way.”

Perhaps it was unfair. A manipulation of sorts. But then again, little in life was fair. He knew it from personal experience. And she’d be compensated in the end, after all, even if her father proved to be the culprit. She’d have the means to secure a new future for herself, away from Sir Aldus Rempley. That was more than enough, wasn’t it?

A low whistle sounded in the room, drawing his eyes to Winchester. “You’re a cold one, Marworth.”

How well he knew it.

Nature appears to have formed the faculties of your sex with less vigor than those of ours.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

Jane awoke the next morning to the sound of someone groaning piteously, only to realize she was the one doing the groaning. Surely she was near death. If only her heart would stop beating already, so the pain cleaving her head could cease.

She’d once read even a broken heart would beat, however, and after a few more minutes of intense misery while she lay still as a corpse, waiting for the Reaper to strike, she realized her heart meant to keep at it. Thump, thump, thump, in a steady and torturous drumbeat so loud, surely even Bess and Thompson below stairs could hear it.

During the night, someone had replaced her brain with rocks that ground against each other whenever she tried to lift her head. She couldn’t bear to open her eyes either. But she must do both, because very soon now, the contents of her stomach would empty themselves in a highly unpleasant way. If she didn’t reach her chamber pot in time, they’d be scattered all over her counterpane.

Somehow she managed it, and as she retched, she was almost grateful for the privacy of her disgrace. Were her life its formerly well-ordered self, she’d have been forced to go on morning calls today, all while on the verge of expiring from nausea. Then again, in her former life, she’d not have gotten riotously drunk. The shame of it was almost as bad as the nausea.

Dear God, had she really invited Marworth to join her in a bottle of cognac? Or offered that the word courtesan sounded nicer than whore? Not to mention all the swearing. How appalling.

Best to pretend it had never happened. No doubt Marworth must be eager to do so. Despite a vaguely remembered promise of assistance, she doubted he’d ever again acknowledge her. In similar circumstances, she’d respond the same way. As she stood hesitantly, wiping her mouth with a nearby cloth, Bess entered the room, chattering about a restorative brew specially ordered by Lord Marworth last evening. “He said it would set you to rights, my lady,” Bess declared, even as she flushed with what was likely mortification.

Unable to meet Bess’s eyes, Jane took the brew and a small sip. She’d become quite good last evening at swallowing past an initial burst of pain, but this was something else entirely. “What in the world is this horror?” she wheezed, eyes watering.

“A bit of this and that. Perhaps it’s best if I’m not overly specific.”

“If you told me an eye of the newt and the toe of a frog, I’d not be surprised,” she said, morbidly pleased she could remember Macbeth in a moment such as this. “I’ve never tasted anything more revolting.”

“Still, my lady. Lord Marworth insisted you’d feel better afterwards. He said it’d help with your … ah … recent indisposition.”

She would never recover from this embarrassment. To have fallen so far into her self-pity that others had been forced to take care of her. Thompson had practically carried her up the stairs last night. “I do thank you, Bess, for your concern. And … for staying with me, the both of you, when you’ve far better opportunities.”

Bess’s brows shot to her hairline in surprise. “Why, Miss Jane,” she sputtered. “Don’t you realize you mean the world to us? We’ve been with you since you were a wee one. We’ll not abandon you now.”

She wanted to hug the woman, but it would be quite out of character, and she’d done enough of that already, with appropriately disastrous consequences. So instead, with a grateful smile, she swallowed down the rest of the concoction. At first, it threatened to follow the cognac right into the chamber pot. Moments later, though, it settled in her stomach, establishing an uneasy truce with her digestive tract. Minutes after that, her headache eased slightly, enough that she could begin to contemplate more important things. Like her future.

As Bess bustled out of the room, Jane decided it was not as dire as she’d first believed. She was not the first woman, after all, to find herself in reduced circumstances. She could move far away from London, perhaps finding employment as a governess in a remote village. Perhaps she could even author a primer on how to fall from grace with aplomb. Surely, with time, she could find a place for herself and some way to be useful. And if she’d once dreamed of something more, dreams were not reality. She’d learned that well enough.

How she despised last night’s weakness. It was the sort her father had indulged in, and look where it had landed him. She might have lost almost everything, but she still had her dignity. At least most of it.

• • •

“Are you at home to visitors, Miss Jane?” Thompson asked after she’d settled herself in the family parlor with a stack of Father’s legal papers and personal correspondence. The task of sorting it was better suited to the library, but she wasn’t ready to face the scene of her shame.

If a caller was here, there was even more shame to come. She was dressed in a light blue gown, which violated every rule of mourning. One should wear black for at least a year following the death of a family member. However, there’d only been time and money for one mourning outfit, and it was a wrinkled mess now, the smell of cognac clinging to it.

“I suppose it depends on who that visitor is,” she replied cautiously. “It’s not Sir Aldus, is it?”

“No, my lady. Lord Marworth has requested a moment.”

Her still fragile stomach sank. He’d said he would return today, but she’d hoped he would save her the embarrassment. Apparently not.

“Thank you, Thompson. I will join him in the drawing room shortly.” As he departed, she stood, sighing as she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror. Whether it was vain or no, she generally approved of her appearance. She had pretty hair, a straight nose, and a chin that did not offend. But to say she was not in her best looks was redundant. How could her eyes be both puffy and sunken at the same time? And she was unnaturally pale. Not that it mattered. If one thing was certain in her upended world, it was that Marworth was not here to pay court. She’d be lucky to get through this encounter without collapsing into a humiliating heap upon the floor.

Smoothing her hair, she made her way to the drawing room, moving past the door to find him leaning against the fireplace mantle. And she could not help it. For a moment, she marveled at the sight of him. The good Lord advocated moderation in all things, but he’d not been the least bit moderate with Marworth. He looked like a sculptor’s model, his skin kissed by an adoring sun, his golden hair curled artfully around that shockingly handsome face, despite a second day of inclement weather. And his clothes were equally impeccable—a deep blue cutaway coat over an immaculate linen shirt and buckskin trousers, not a wrinkle in sight. Even his cravat was a marvel of beauty. She was an utter frump by comparison.

“Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said, straightening to offer a bow. “I hope you are on the mend following your recent illness.”

She could feel herself blush. “The illness has passed, Lord Marworth, but the mortification remains. I hope you will forgive my behavior.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Rempley’s proposal would drive anyone to drink.”

With a weak smile, she motioned him to a settee striped in green silk and sat down in the small Queen Anne chair beside it. “I appreciate the convenient excuse, but I behaved disgracefully all the same.”

“Think nothing of it. I have done far more disgraceful things on any number of occasions, and not in the privacy of my own home either.”

Speaking of things that must be conducted in private, was he here to discuss the demimonde? “I was not myself last night, Lord Marworth.” Her heart was galloping in her chest. “I think it best we forget our shared conversation.”

He cocked his head, staring at her intently, and she saw something like sympathy in those blue, blue eyes of his. “My dear Miss Fitzsimmons, ignoring one’s circumstances does not change them. You are in a difficult position. But you have natural assets in abundance.”

Dear God. Natural assets? She could feel a bead of perspiration trickle down between her shoulder blades, eager to make its escape, like a sailor abandoning ship. It would be better to expire here, right on this spot, rather than listen to what he was about to say.

“Rempley made you a scandalous offer. I believe I have a better alternative.”

He’d said the word scandalous. Hopefully, that was a good sign. Because life in the demimonde would be that and much more. She forced herself to take a slow, calming breath. “What do you mean, if I might ask?”

“This may come as a surprise, given his reputation, but Rempley is a man under some suspicion. Some important dispatches have gone missing, and I think you may be uniquely qualified to help find them.”

“What sort of dispatches?” Did Rempley hold some kind of sway over him? It was hard to imagine anyone having an advantage over Marworth.

“Suffice it to say that in the wrong hands, their contents could change the course of the war.”

She pondered his statement for a long moment, replaying the words, hoping she’d misunderstood. But only one conclusion was logical. A dark one. “You are obviously having a bit of fun at my expense, although I fail to see the humor in it.”

“I’m quite serious, Miss Fitzsimmons.” He was staring at her intently now. “It is absolutely vital they be found.”

“And you are ... what?” she mocked. “Some sort of agent for the crown, I suppose? Sent here to enlist me for service?”

“You could say that.”

A burst of anger, hot and devastating, surged through her. “It is one thing, Lord Marworth, to amuse yourself by imagining international intrigue,” she said, her voice rising. “But it is quite another to involve someone else in your fantasy. I’m afraid I haven’t the time for it. If you will excuse me … ”