Once Upon a Scandal (6 page)

He scanned the waterline. The Vauxhall stairs led directly to the main entrance of the Vauxhall Gardens, London’s greatest playground. Jane, though, would be found along the slim walkway bordering the Garden wall, an area usually populated by ferrymen and unfortunates begging for coins. Benjamin saw her just as Brummel stiffened beside him.

“Could that be Miss Fitzsimmons?” Brummel raised his quizzing glass. “Dressed not in mourning, mind you, but in a gown the color of ditchwater and a blood-red cape?”

Jane had just passed by the stairs. He could not help but admire her single-minded focus, one foot in front of the other and head down. The fading sunlight played on her hair, picking out strands of caramel color.

“Disgraceful,” Brummel continued. “A lady always wears a hat out of doors. And to be seen, frolicking at Vauxhall, so soon after her father’s death … ”

“A shocking lapse,” Byng huffed, and Benjamin had to stifle the urge to defend her. After all, they’d planned said lapse. Red attracted attention in a way that black did not.

He cleared his throat. “I understand she hasn’t the means to purchase suitable mourning attire.”

“Goodness, has the girl not heard of credit?” Brummel’s lips curled with derision. “One needn’t pay tradesmen in the end. Not if one is a member of Society. Although perhaps”—he chuckled here—“Miss Fitzsimmons no longer claims that.”

How easily Brummel dismissed her when he hadn’t the means to support his own vanity. His personal debts were staggering.

“Credit isn’t extended to women who are alone in the world,” Benjamin said, tempted to make an equally cutting remark, with Brummel as his victim. But he must remember to temper his words.

“Marworth,” said Prinny, “it’s good of you to worry about the unfortunates like Miss Fitzsimmons. But we shouldn’t wish those observations to ruin our enjoyment.” He slid a brief look at Jane before turning away. “One need not notice something unpleasant.”

Had she heard their exchange from the shore? Voices carried in from the water, after all. It must hurt to be so ignored.

But Jane had moved on to her appointed place, stiff with resolve. She really was a remarkable creature to have willingly taken this on, despite its cost to her. Not to mention its inherent dangers. If their plan failed, it would not be her fault.

It would be his.

• • •

As the barge was secured at the gate and its gangplank lowered, Prinny was smiling widely. The gathered crowd was bowing; they were not always so solicitous towards the unpopular regent. Then again, the king’s guards were lining the walkway, a colorful if imposing presence. Two sets of footmen rushed up with a small oriental carpet to ease his passage onto the walkway, but just as he stepped forward, his corset creaking, a woman in the Gardens high above them screamed. “Look there! A boy! He’s fallen into the river!”

The crowd turned towards the water, where Benjamin’s stable boy, Jackson, was doing his best to draw everyone’s attention. His arms were flailing dramatically as he bobbed up and down in the currents a few feet from shore, looking helpless.

Benjamin knew nothing was further from the truth.

“How sad,” Alvanley said, pulling on one of his cuffs to straighten a crease. “Someone should rescue the urchin. He doesn’t seem to know how to swim.”

While Benjamin pondered that statement, a splash sounded nearby, and new voices rose around them. “Look there! A girl is willing to try,” said one. “Good luck, dearie, and watch the currents!” yelled another. “Such a waste of a pretty cloak,” observed a third, faceless in the throng watching from above.

“Sink me,” Brummel exclaimed. “It’s Miss Fitzsimmons!”

Sure enough, there she was, seeming to struggle at first in the choppy waters of the Thames. She’d dipped beneath the surface right at the edge of the wall.

“The silly gel will drown if she’s not careful,” Byng said.

Benjamin knew, though, that she was latching onto a tether, which looped around a band that would guide her along the wall. Within moments, her head bobbed back up, and she started swimming with firm and steady strokes towards Jackson, her red cloak trailing behind her. It was a beautiful sight really, her swift movement through the water.

“Save me! Please save me!” Jackson wailed, no doubt to heighten the drama. Surely the whole of the Gardens could hear him. But everyone was fixed on the proceedings, content to let Jane see to the messy business of it. A rather sad commentary Benjamin had counted upon.

“She’s being uncommonly brave,” Prinny said as he rushed back onto the barge to get a better view from its railings. Rush being a relative term, since his size prevented any real burst of speed. “We wouldn’t wish to swim here. The water is quite filthy. Look, though! She’s got him now.”

And so she had, meaning the real drama was about to unfold. Jane would have to get the boy back to shore and then falter convincingly, so that the currents would seem to carry her off. Then again, perhaps no real acting was needed. Jackson was still flailing as she pulled him towards land. It could not be an easy go of it, keeping both of them afloat.

They got close enough for Jackson to grab a foothold on the wall, cantilevering himself up as the crowd cheered. But in the excitement of the moment, Prinny inadvertently knocked into Byng, and the terrified dog leapt from his arms. Another, smaller splash sounded in the water.

“Petunia,” Byng cried. “My darling, Petunia!” Tiny thing that she was, no more than a fluff of elaborately coiffed fur, the poodle was no match for the currents.

Benjamin turned his eyes back to the river where Jane was already swimming towards the dog. And for the first time during the whole of this, he felt a spike of fear. Her arms must be tired now. She was struggling to catch up to Petunia, fighting against the sodden weight of her garments. The cloak must be heavy, as well. Why hadn’t he told her to leave off her petticoats? This, they’d not planned.

“Oh, please, Miss Fitzsimmons! Please catch her!” Byng cried piteously. Obviously, the thought of jumping into the water to rescue his own pet had not occurred. But Jane had reached the dog, which latched onto her with all its strength, scratching at her face and hair in desperation. Fighting to secure it beneath one arm, she was swimming on her side now, kicking with her legs, which kept getting wrapped up in her skirts. The crowd was nearly silent, transfixed as she pushed closer to the wall, each stroke slower than the last.

He could not stand here, helpless. He had to jump in after her, even if it meant the ruination of all their plotting. Any moment now, she could become entangled, either in her clothes or her tether, and be dragged below the surface. He’d seen firsthand the power of water, seen how a life could be lost in an instant. He’d understood the risks, damn it, known them, and proceeded anyway with a surfeit of confidence.

He stripped off his jacket, cursing the fashion that required clothes to be molded like a second skin. For an infinite moment, his hands were trapped in the damned thing, but then he tore free, pushing past Alvanley to the railing. He climbed over, just as Brummel called out, “Don’t do it, Marworth. Think of your cravat!”

With a spare moment, he’d have punched the man for his idiocy, but he was already leaping towards the river and splashing down, shocked by the sudden assault of its cold, murky depths. Clawing towards the surface, he broke through, water streaming into his eyes, a heavy lock of hair obscuring his vision. Scraping it back, he frantically scanned the river. Thank God. There she was by the wall, holding the bedraggled dog up with both hands, as a man leaned down to grab Petunia, excitement and applause rippling through the crowd. Behind him, he could hear the prince. “Jolly good show, Miss Fitzsimmons! Three cheers of hussah!”

In a rare moment of comradery, ferrymen, indigent children, and members of the haute ton chanted happily in unison, not seeming to notice that Jane had fallen back into the river. Now this, they’d planned, but what if her exhaustion was real? Her head was lolling, as if the effort of keeping it above the water was too much. The tide pushing against the wall was rolling back into her, moving her inexorably towards the currents. And then she was dipping beneath the surface, rising above it with barely enough time for breath, and he was swimming towards her as fast as his limbs would allow, heart pounding.

Twenty feet away now. Her body had turned over and was bobbing helplessly, her red cape spread wide and floating on the water, trails of auburn hair catching the dim light. His heart sped with horror. Faster! Ten feet now. The crowd had gone silent again, at last recognizing the terrible danger she was in. His arms and legs were burning, just as they had on that darkest of days, the current fighting him with every stroke. Five feet. Stretching out, he just caught the edges of her cloak, determined to pull her limp body against him. But there was only the fabric of it and a patch of river grass gone brown, slowly falling into the depths.

For a moment, panic claimed him, throbbing and twisting. But then he remembered this day was not that one. She’d done just as they’d planned, and his relief was stunning. Had he been on land, his knees would have buckled.

Taking several deep breaths to calm himself, he turned, his face a mask of grief as he lifted up the sodden cloak for all to see. “I am too late. The river has gotten her,” he cried out. “Miss Fitzsimmons is gone.”

Nature seems to say to us men, pointing to her yet uncorrupted daughters, “Behold these smiling innocents … they are timid and want to be defended. They are frail … ”—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

She took in great gasps of air as she pulled herself onto the shore, utterly spent, branches catching in her hair and clawing at her dress. Summers with her grandparents on Scotland’s coast had taught her about frigid waters and strong currents, but the Thames had been something else entirely. The muck of it had filled her mouth. And she’d seen things floating she hadn’t wanted to recognize. It had all been rather frightening, even if she pulsed with exhilaration now.

She’d done it, which seemed impossible. She didn’t yet know if anyone believed the ruse, but the sounds in the near distance weren’t generally heard at Vauxhall. An almost deathly silence was broken only by occasional sobbing. She felt a bit guilty about that, truth be told. But the dog? Why, she’d actually saved it. The poor thing had been terrified, and she’d seen it safely back to shore. She’d done something good. She’d made a tangible difference and was irrationally happy for it.

Irrational, because she’d just killed herself off from every experience and friendship she’d ever known.

But she needed to stop thinking and start moving. Breaking free of the debris, she edged along the west side of the Garden’s wall. A black carriage, free of markings, was stopped at the foot of Coombe’s Alley, its horses pawing restlessly. As she approached, the carriage door opened, a fresh-faced maid peeking out, motioning with her hands to hurry. Moving as fast as she could, Jane climbed up and inside. Once the door was secured behind her, they were off, clip-clopping down the street to a destination unknown. Marworth had promised a safe haven, where she could get on to the difficult business of becoming Lillianne Fauchon.

“My lady, begging your pardon, I’m Jessica, Oakley if you prefer. Lord Marworth said to make certain you get out of those wet things.”

“But I couldn’t possibly change in a carriage.” Jane glanced at the small windows on either side of her. “Someone might see me.” She could swim in the Thames and perpetrate a lie in front of the prince regent himself, but somehow, the idea of undressing in a moving conveyance went too far beyond the pale.

“I won’t look, if that’s what you’re thinking,” the maid replied, pulling dark curtains down over the windows. “We’ve several hours in this carriage. If you want to spend them chilled to the bone, that’s your choice.”

It was hard to argue with the logic of her statement. Still, Jane stiffened out of habit. “You can’t have been long in service, Oakley. You’re too impertinent.” She was also very pretty, though, with blond ringlets beneath her mob cap, bright eyes, and a trim figure. She would never be hired in a married woman’s house. That was certain. But given Marworth’s reputation …

Coloring, the girl pressed her mouth into a thin line. “I’ve been in service long enough to know foolishness when I see it.” She pushed a dress towards Jane. “It’s nothing fancy, mind you. Just something comfortable to wear on the journey. And there’s toweling, too. No mirror, though. I wouldn’t want you to frighten yourself.”

“No doubt I’d faint with mortification,” she said wryly. “But I do appreciate the dress. Truth be told, I’m exhausted and uncomfortable. Both things make me snappish.”

“We’ll agree on that, then,” Oakley said, although not unkindly.

Changing out of her wet clothes was among the more challenging things Jane had done. Her limbs resisted every movement, the coach swaying as they picked up speed. Her undergarments finally gave way with a sucking sound as she peeled them off, embarrassed even for a moment to be naked in front of a stranger. Oakley kept her eyes adverted, though, packing the discarded ensemble into a coarse cloth bag and tying it tightly with a length of rope. “Hopefully, that will contain the stink,” she said as Jane did her best to dry off before slipping into the modest dress, its linen soft and pliable, and a pair of worn slippers.

“Thank you, Oakley,” she said once she was buttoned back up. “This makes me feel much better.” It was only marginally true, though. Never a particularly good traveler, Jane found that the jostling carriage was upsetting her stomach. She was also prone to megrims—was the dull ache settling in her head the prelude to an attack?

Nearly two hours later, she knew it was not a megrim but instead a strange disease that would likely end in her second death of the day. Her dress was sweat-soaked, and the carriage had stopped three times en route so she could retch, obviously a disgusting new habit.

When they arrived at their final destination—in the dark it appeared to be a sizable estate—she made every effort to smile weakly at the young boy, illuminated by torchlight, running towards the carriage in welcome. But even that smile set her off kilter, and moments later, everything faded to black.