A Proper Scandal Read online

  “Let me go,” he ground out, scrambling to find his feet. “I will not go.”

  Laughter, wheezing, profanity. They hauled him down the main stairwell of Rossmore Court and through the great hall. The front door stood open, and they chucked him onto the stoop.

  His father stalked him. “You will go.” His voice had gone breezy and light, but Bryson knew what to expect, and he braced himself. The backhand was swift, opening his lip and speckling his vision with tiny flecks of white light. Bryson reeled, and they pounced again.

  “As will your cousin Kenneth, your uncle, and myself,” Lord Rainsleigh went on. “Tonight, my pious boy, you’ll become a man.”

  The starless night was disorienting, and they easily overtook him, fighting, one against three. A carriage stood ready in the drive, and they shoved him in and climbed in behind.

  Bryson scrambled to the far bench. “You plan to forcibly carry me inside? Haul me around like last week’s wash? Against my will? While people watch?”

  “Be agreeable for once in your life. It’ll be over before you know it, and then you’ll be fighting to get back in the wench’s arms instead of conspiring to stay out.”

  “Ah,” Bryson scoffed, “this is for my own good, is it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “As if you ever had the smallest interest in anyone’s good but your own, particularly mine. You can go to hell.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” said his father. “But first I will go to this brothel, as will your cousin and your uncle. As will you. We’re all going. So you can cease your sanctimonious babble and prissy crying about my miserable turn as your father. It spoils everyone’s fun, not to mention that it makes me drowsy.” He leaned his head back on the seat. “How tiresome your pious sneering has grown . . . all summer long . . . carrying on like lord of the manor . . . as if you’re better than the rest of us.”

  “This is because I am better than you,” Bryson said. “But that’s what bothers you, isn’t it? This has nothing to do with how I conduct my life. I’m keeping the lot of you out of debtor’s prison; meanwhile, the world knows you’re a degenerate wastrel of man, an addict, and you don’t deserve to be viscount.”

  Lord Rainsleigh chuckled. “Call me names if it cheers you, Bryson. But let us not forget that I am not the nineteen-year-old virgin in the carriage.”

  “What could you possibly care about that?” Bryson worked to make his voice sound light.

  “Why, it taints the otherwise virile reputation of the Rainsleigh crest, of course.” His father laughed. “You don’t want to make a name for yourself as a sodomite, do you?”

  “Eloquently put, as always,” Bryson ground out, speaking over their laughter. “I have school at the end of the week. St. James is the opposite direction.”

  “Oh, we’re not going to London!” This from his cousin Kenneth, on an eager laugh. Bryson’s father silenced him with a swift elbow to the rib.

  Bryson looked out the window. “If we’re not going to St. James, then where are you taking me?”

  “Kenneth cannot contain his excitement”—the viscount glared at the fat relation—“because he has located an establishment in Southwark where we all may indulge in delights that suit our particular needs. Scouted it out himself last night. Do not fret, Bryson; there will be an experienced wench there, well suited to your nervous, novice bumblings.”

  Bryson let the curtain drop. “Southwark? The river slum? You’re joking.”

  His father raised his eyebrows cryptically, flashing a cruel grin.

  Bryson pressed. “If you must go whoring, why not go to Town? To somewhere civilized and comfortable? With clean sheets and a decent meal, for God’s sake?”

  “St. James has grown . . . tiresome,” his father said, turning to look out the window.

  Of course, Bryson thought, coming to understand. “Your reputation precedes you. They’ve shut you out. That’s it, isn’t it?” He laughed. “Excellent work, my lord. Excellent. You’re a peer of the realm who can’t even fornicate in bloody St. James. Good God, Father, is there no person or establishment that you will not offend?”

  “You’re only making it worse for yourself, boy.” His father yawned.

  “No, my lord,” Bryson said. “You make it worse with every breath you draw.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Denby House

  Grosvenor Square

  May 1811

  The breakfast room of Denby House in Grosvenor Square was canvassed with maps. Greater London. Mayfair. Chelsea. Seven Dials. The River Thames. They covered the dining table, smothered the centerpiece, and draped the chairs. A magnified rendering of Hyde Park lay unfurled on the floor.

  In the corner of the table, leaning over the largest sheet, Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes studied the hive of crooked streets that crisscrossed the south bank just beyond London Bridge.

  In and out. Over, then south. Down the alley . . . Using a tiny white spoon from the sugar dish, she traced routes. The fastest escape. The least likely to flood in case of rain. A second route to lose pursuers. Side streets in which to hide. A switchback. There was potential, but also the risk of becoming disoriented in the narrow, winding mews.

  “Oh, darling! Must you?”

  Elisabeth looked up. Aunt Lillian stood in the doorway, balancing a wobbly green pear on a plate.

  “Hello,” Elisabeth said, blowing a wisp of hair from her face. “It’s awful, I know. I had hoped you’d taken breakfast in your rooms so as not to be subjected.” She tossed the spoon into the Thames.

  Aunt Lillian affected a patient expression and drifted to the sideboard with the pear.

  “The raiding team will do deep reconnaissance tonight,” Elisabeth said. “These couldn’t wait for the office. Ah, yes. Look. Here’s a spot for you . . . ”—she pointed to the map at the end of the table—“in, er, on Hampstead.”

  Lillian settled near the window. “The mess can be tolerated, but these maps force me to acknowledge the gravely dangerous nature of the work you do. I prefer to imagine you seated at a sunny desk, you know. Writing letters or tallying up contributions. On occasion, perhaps you impart the stray encouragement to a young girl. Instruct her on serving tea. Or arranging flowers in a vase. But this? Elisabeth? You promised.”

  “Hmmm.” Elisabeth nodded, turning back to the maps. “Yes, but we only arrange flowers on Tuesdays, Aunt, and today is Friday.”

  The countess sighed and took up the pear.

  “But you needn’t worry,” said Elisabeth. “I’ve kept my promise. I only assist with the planning. I’m never in the street. Stoker would soon edge me out, you know, if I did not acquire this working knowledge on my own. I don’t know the river as he does, but I can learn.” She straightened and looked around. “Quite a lot of mess for your breakfast, I’m afraid. The most convenient place would have been the kitchens, but Cook wouldn’t allow it. She was already in the throes of culinary hysteria. Said you’re hosting a dinner?”

  Lillian drew her eyebrows. “Yes, but you knew this. In honor of the new viscount, just moved to town. He’s a parliamentary connection of Lord Beecham. Lady Beecham and I will host together. Feign ignorance all you like, but I want you there, Elisabeth. No excuses, please.” She sliced the fruit and took a dainty bite. “ ’Tis but a meal and conversation. The only guests will be the viscount, Lord and Lady Beecham, and a few old friends. Some ladies not much younger than yourself—”

  “Oh, no.” Elisabeth pointed at her aunt with a rolled map. “Young ladies? Young ladies only mean one thing: this viscount is a bachelor. Admit it. And you’re tossing me in on the vain hope that he won’t notice that I’m too old and too preoccupied with my work to be anyone’s wife.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve been over this, Aunt Lillian. It’s a poor strategy. And it makes everyone uncomfortable. Especially me.”

  “Stop. You are young and beautiful and will outshine every girl there, despite your age. Be preoccupied if you like . . . although I’d term it mor
e like ‘enthusiasm.’ Discuss your foundation with the guests, but wear a new dress when you do it. Allow Bea to style your hair. It won’t matter what shocking thing you say if you look your very best when you say it.”

  Elisabeth shook her head and reached for another map. “Has it occurred to you, Aunt, that if I dressed as fashionably as you liked, I might supersede the beauty preeminence that so rightfully belongs to you in this house?”

  “But this is what we want, of course. You are young and beautiful. You aren’t forced to eat raw fruit—better intended for the horses than the people—in order to remain slender and attractive.” She took another bite. “When I was a girl, I traveled to Paris to be outfitted in styles that were seasons away from the drawing rooms of London. Before I was parceled off to marry decrepit Lord Banning, Mama’s front door saw a continuous stream of gentleman callers.”

  “Which was one of the reasons you were parceled off, or so I hear,” Elisabeth said absently, returning to her map. “I suppose this is what you want for me. A line of men wrapping around the house? So many men that you’re forced to marry me off simply to be rid of the bother?”

  “Ah, but you must know that I want what you want, darling. My point is merely that you are only young once—”

  “Ah, but perhaps I’ll be beautiful forever, like you, Aunt.”

  “That is entirely beside the point. Do not distract me with compliments. No doubt you will be beautiful forever. But regardless, you will never be as beautiful as when you are young.” She took up the fruit again but then put it down. “And why shouldn’t you let me dress you? Why won’t you indulge your old aunt in being more of a true mother to you?”

  “Oh, Aunt Lillian . . . ” Elisabeth sighed. She crossed to the back of her aunt’s chair and draped her arms around her shoulders. “You have been an ideal mother to me, as you well know. You restored my life when I wanted to roll up into a little ball and float away. You made me a happy girl where a miserable girl could have been. This is far more valuable to me than fine clothes or hats or shoes or bags. You are the great unsettling beauty, Aunt, and you know it. The infamous Countess of Banning. I am the niece who has other plans.”

  Elisabeth dipped to give her aunt a kiss on the cheek, and the door from the kitchens swung open. Quincy strode into the breakfast room bearing a silver tray of fragrant scones. “These,” boomed the gardener, “have just come from the oven, my lady. Made with our very own gooseberries from the garden.”

  Elisabeth chuckled at her aunt’s exasperated sigh. Lillian turned away, but Quincy was not deterred. Elisabeth helped him clear away maps so he could edge out Lillian’s pear with the heaping tray. The countess squinted at it with open animosity.

  “Pruning today, Quincy?” asked Elisabeth.

  “Aye. Only the west garden remains.”

  Of all the ornately decorated rooms in Denby House, Benjamin Quincy was most out of place in the frilly, pale-pink breakfast room. His well-worn leathers and salt-and-pepper beard were like an unfinished oak beam against the countess’s chintz. When the house was empty of outsiders, Quincy moved freely through every room, pink or otherwise, with a verbose, earthy jocularity that was distinctly, endearingly Suffolk woodsman. Despite Lillian’s exaggerated irritation, Elisabeth knew her aunt would have him no other way. The countess had been in love with her gardener since the summer her husband, the old earl, had died and left her a young widow, some twenty years ago.

  “When I’ve finished,” Quincy went on, “every bed will be cut back for the summer. How do you like that?” He winked, collected three scones, and strode out the door with a loud whistle.

  “He would fatten me up to the size of an ox,” vowed Lillian, making a show of pushing the tray away.

  “Oh, surely one cannot hurt.” Elisabeth took up a scone and nibbled.

  “I shall eat the whole tray if you will come to dinner tonight. Did I mention that it was for charity? Knowing this, I should think you would want to attend.”

  “Hmmm,” Elisabeth mused. She began rolling the maps and sliding them into a basket. “You said it was for Lord Beecham’s parliamentary something-or-other.”

  “Yes, yes, the viscount. Beecham arranged the meal because they are acquainted. But Lady Beecham and I intend to approach him about our committee for the hospital expansion. You’ve coerced me to join a cause, Elisabeth. The least you could do is support my effort to raise funds. They say he’s very rich . . . ”

  “Is that what they say?” She rolled another map.

  “And now he’s just announced his plan to donate a sizable sum to three worthy charities in town. ’Tis a competition, in a way. The three winning charities will each receive a donation. And why shouldn’t one of them go to the hospital? We are determined to reach him before those vultures from the Widows and Orphans League.”

  “Never let it be said that the widows and orphans have an advantage. But this is a bit provoking, isn’t it? Forcing charities to compete? Why doesn’t this person simply select one charity and quietly donate the whole sum?”

  “Publicity, I suppose. He’s been working for an age to rehabilitate the reputation of his title and family name. Wants to be viewed as the right sort. Generous. Noble.” She took another nibble of pear. “But perhaps you should toss your hat into the ring, Elisabeth. For your foundation? Win the charity prize for your girls. There now, you see? Another reason to attend.”

  “If his goal is to generate publicity, the last cause this viscount will wish to support is mine. We never get the flashy donations. More of the same, really.” Elisabeth ran a charity that rescued girls from the streets of London and set them up in a better life. She looked at her aunt. “But you’ve invited the man to dinner in order to win his favor? Is this how the decision is to be made? He’ll give the prize to whoever makes the biggest fuss?”

  “Oh, no. There’ll be an application process, and interview, a tour of the facilities. We’ll do all of this, naturally. But Lady Beecham felt we might sweeten the pot with a lovely dinner. Considering he’s new to town. It’s why we’ve invited the young ladies—yourself included.” She shot her niece a pointed look. “Rumor is, he’s come to London looking for a wife. We simply want to appear helpful and accommodating. It’s the least we could do.”

  “The very least.” Elisabeth rolled another map. “Quite an effort for a charity gift. How much is the prize?”

  Lillian dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Oh, ’tis a thousand pounds, each prize.”

  Elisabeth’s head shot up. “You jest! A thousand pounds? No one gives away that amount of money unless he’s dead. Why, a charity could realize the goals of its wildest dreams with a donation of that size.”

  Aunt Lillian nodded, “ ’Tis no jest. But I can’t believe you haven’t heard of this, darling. It was a headline in today’s Times. According to the article, the viscount has money to spare. He’s spent two years and God-knows-how-much restoring a mansion near Cavendish Square. In Henrietta Place, just down from old Lady Frinfrock. You remember Lady Frinfrock, from St. George’s? She’ll be here tonight as well, which is very rare. She’s not been seen out for an age. It would appear everyone wants a glimpse of the viscount.”

  “Forgive me if I haven’t kept up on who spent what to live where, but a thousand pounds. Truly?”

  “Oh, yes. And to three different groups. Three thousand pounds in all.” Lillian paused. “If it’s a splash he wants, he’ll get one with that sum.” She chuckled to herself. “Aren’t you curious about the prize or the philanthropist, Elisabeth? Even a little?”

  “The prize? Possibly. The philanthropist? Not really.” She stooped to retrieve the maps from the floor.

  “Even so,” said her aunt, “I should like you to make the effort. Wear a pretty dress. Wear a flower in your hair.”

  Elisabeth tucked the maps beneath her arm and sailed to the door. “And ever the burden grows,” she said.

  “What burden?” her aunt called after her. “ ’Tis but a meal—three hours at
most.” Her voice raised to a shout. “You’ll do this one small favor to help me, won’t you, darling?”

  “I don’t see how this is helping,” Elisabeth replied, already moving on.

  The Bronze Root Tavern

  Southwark Docks on the River Thames

  Fifteen years prior . . .

  “I don’t see how this is helping,” Elisabeth whispered to Marie, scuttling down a cramped brothel hallway in the dark. “Please, Marie! This is not helping me.”

  “Hush,” hissed Marie, whipping them around a corner and falling back against the wall, “and come on!”

  “How is it helping me to run deeper into the building?” Elisabeth peered around the corner at the main stair, which grew farther away with every turn. “We’re going the wrong direction!”

  “Lesser of two evils,” Marie whispered. “I’m rescuing you from the old man—the father. There’ll be no getting around the son.”

  “But I don’t want either of them!”

  Marie laughed. “You only think that because you don’t know what a rotter the father can be. Coming here especially for you, he is. Partial to soft-skinned innocents. Virgins, the sick bastard. For the son, they’ve asked for an experienced professional. Like me. If it really is his first time, he’ll be harmless—even for you. Far better than the father, believe me. The son won’t last ten seconds.” She laughed.

  “But Marie.” Elisabeth fought for control. “We talked about an escape. Actual freedom. All the way outside. Not another room with another man!”

  “Ha.” Marie chuckled, drawing a shaky hand to her brow. “What we want doesn’t matter now, does it? Means to an end, this is. Stop arguing, and do as I say. You will go to the boy—the son. Best I can do. Why don’t you tell him what’s happened?” she went on. “Tell him your parents have been shot, and you’ve been left here to rot. Let him hear that plummy accent of yours.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’ll be the one to get you all the way out.”