A Perfect Scandal (21 page)

Charlotte shrugged. “Nothing. They both love to entertain on a grand scale and spend exorbitant amounts of money. They will continue doing so while living separate lives. They will be no different from the rest of the married couples of the haut ton.”

Isabel’s heart lurched. Charlotte was right. True love or at least true passion was rare indeed. Perhaps Marcus was her destiny. Surprisingly, she was considering the notion. Thoughts of Paris did not enter her mind as much as thoughts of Marcus Hawksley.

But while he did not love her, she knew he was in lust with her. After the business with Lord Gavinport was settled, would there be room in his life for her? She was painfully aware that he never wanted to marry. But did he want her to leave? After all, he had suggested she immediately depart for Paris. Or had he been concerned for her safety?

She smiled her secret smile. She never gave up on a challenge. She was impulsive, reckless to a fault, and stubbornly determined when she truly wanted something. She knew her innocence and her beauty enticed and attracted him.

But the true question was: Could she capture his heart?

Marcus shook Keith MacKinnon’s outstretched hand in the lobby of the Stock Exchange.

“Your decision to buy shares in companies that specialize in gas lighting is a good one,” Marcus said. “Baltic companies, whose most important commodity is tallow, have seen a dip in profits, and I anticipate gas lighting to spell doom to the tallow trade in the next few years.”

“Aye, Mr. Hawksley. Yer advice hasna led me wrong in the past.” Keith MacKinnon rose, leaning heavily on his cane. His red hair was sprinkled with gray, and his shrewd blue eyes shone with an intelligence that accompanied old age.

The tenacious Scot was Marcus’s oldest client. He was also one of his wealthiest with substantial landholdings in both Scotland and England. He was as wily with his money as he was with his family.

Marcus recalled when he and Isabel were found hiding in the Gavinports’ linen closet. He wondered what the strict Scot would do if he knew his son, Donald MacKinnon, was Lady Olivia Gavinport’s lover.

“I’ll price the shares today with several jobbers and seal the bargain with whichever gives me the lowest price,” Marcus said.

“I have complete faith in ye, Hawksley.”

Marcus waited until Keith MacKinnon departed. He then strode through the lobby, pushed through the swinging doors, and entered the trading floor.

As customary, the arena was thriving. Making his way through groups of brokers and jobbers, he caught pieces of their heated conversations as he walked by. Men waved as he passed, some in greeting, others eager to do business with him or ask his advice. Marcus nodded and acknowledged them all as he walked. He was in his element here, never questioned or criticized, but to the contrary, he was a well-known, highly successful broker whose record stood on its own rather than at the whims of society’s arcane rules.

He caught a glimpse of Ralph Hodge arguing with a fellow stockbroker. Hodge’s eyes were narrowed, and he angrily waved a paper in his opponent’s face. As if sensing he was being scrutinized, Hodge turned his head to glare at Marcus.

Hatred emanated from his green gaze.

He truly despises me,
Marcus thought.
Hatred is a powerful motive. I wonder if Isabel’s theory that Ralph Hodge sought to have me imprisoned for theft is true.

Marcus pushed the thought aside. He was convinced Hodge didn’t have the knowledge or contacts in the art world. Lord Gavinport was a likelier suspect, especially since Dante Black was murdered on his property.

Dismissing Ralph Hodge, Marcus continued down the elongated hall until he came to the central area where the rostrum was located. Directly above were the gilt dome and the arched glass roof. Sunlight streamed in through the glass, making the temperature around the rostrum several degrees warmer than the rest of the hall.

To the left, a group of jobbers and brokers stood haggling over share prices. Here, in this vicinity on the floor, the jobbers who specialized in the growing gas and gas lighting technology market gathered. They were oblivious to his presence, and Marcus feigned interest in a clerk up on the rostrum picking up sheets of paper that had fallen from a podium. Marcus focused on their conversations and gathered important information regarding today’s prices. When he was satisfied, he turned and approached the group.

Knowing that jobbers earn money for their services by inflating the price they offer the broker, Marcus requested the current prices of three jobbers without revealing whether he was interested in buying or selling. Only when he was satisfied that he had obtained the best price for his client did he agree to a deal. Tomorrow Marcus would send his secretary, James Smith, to verify the agreement at the Exchange Clearing House.

Marcus was about to depart the jobbers’ presence when a tap on his shoulder gained his attention. He turned to see a youth, no more than fourteen, with tousled brown hair and a wrinkled jacket gaze up at him. Marcus didn’t recognize the boy, and he wondered if he was one of the many underpaid messengers that spent their day rushing to and from jobbers’ offices to the Stock Exchange.

“Mr. Hawksley?”

“Yes. What is it?”

The boy handed Marcus an envelope. “This is for you.”

Marcus frowned when he noted no return address. “Who is it from?”

The boy shrugged. “The bloke paid me good blunt to deliver it. Said you’d know.” He turned and fled into the crowd without a backward glance.

Marcus cursed beneath his breath. He’d had a busy morning and didn’t have time for silly distractions. If it was a nasty note from Ralph Hodge, he’d pummel down the bastard’s office door.

Marcus strode for the swinging doors, tearing the envelope open as he went. He read the two lines, then froze, oblivious to the racket around him.

Christ! They meant Isabel!

Marcus knew deep down in his bones that whoever penned the note was the mastermind behind the theft of the
Seashore with Fishermen
and Dante Black’s murder. He also knew that the threat was directed at Isabel.

Icy fear twisted around his heart.

He rushed out of the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the youth that had delivered the note. But Capel Court was empty save for a few businessmen coming and going.

He pulled out his pocket watch. Eleven forty-five. He had requested for Isabel to meet him at his office at noon to go to luncheon at the Ship and Turtle. Jenkins would have already summoned the carriage, and she would either be on her way or waiting for him in his office.

Sprinting down Threadneedle Street, he pushed his way past a group of businessmen and ignored their rude remarks and stares as he flew by. His heart hammered in his chest; beads of sweat popped on his brow beneath the sizzling summer heat. He reached his office building in record speed and entered the vestibule.

“Has my wife arrived?” he asked the startled doorman.

The man nodded. “The lady is waiting in your office, Mr. Hawskley.”

Marcus took the stairs two at a time to the third floor and burst into his office.

“Hello, Marcus.”

At the sound of a sultry female voice, he spun around.

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Simone? How did you get in here?”

Simone Winston smiled like a sly cat with a bowl of cream. “Why, Marcus. Did you forget giving me the key?”

He stared at her. She was dressed in a near transparent gown of red tissue with a bodice so low that the tips of her nipples peeped through with each breath she took. Her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders, her slanted eyes lined with black kohl, and her full lips heavily painted. She looked like a concubine, ready, willing, and able to fulfill a man’s deepest, darkest fantasy.

A vivid memory of Isabel came to him. Isabel lying naked on the thick Aubusson carpet in his library. Her clear blue eyes compelling and eager for his touch. Her flawless skin, her hair as smooth as midnight, cascading over the curves of her breasts. She was refreshingly honest and innocent, without contrivance, and the complete opposite of the hedonistic woman before him.

He focused again on Simone. His lips twisted in distaste, and he wondered what he had ever seen in her practiced sexuality.

“I thought I made my intentions, or more specifically my lack of intentions, clear the last time we saw each other,” he said. “But what I forgot, apparently, was to change the locks.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked like she wanted to claw his face, but instead she said coyly, “Come now. You can’t honestly tell me you are not happy to see me.”

Yes, I can. The only woman I want to see is my wife.
“I’m very busy today. If there is something you need, please contact my secretary.”

He was desperate to locate Isabel to ensure her safety. The mysterious note burned in his pocket, and he needed time to think clearly as to who may have sent it and for what reasons. Simone’s unexpected arrival and attempted seduction served only to fuel his anger and frustration.

Simone slithered forward and touched his sleeve. “I doubt very much your secretary could satisfy my needs.” Placing her hands on his chest, she slipped them beneath his jacket. “I’ve been dreaming of you, Marcus. I see your naked body. The muscles on your chest and arms, your long, powerful legs…and your commanding cock.” Her gaze dropped to his trousers.

He pushed her away. “Stop, Simone. Compose yourself and go home.”

Undaunted, she reached up, and with a forefinger, tugged her bodice down. Two huge breasts popped free, her large areolas and their pebble-hard centers painted with rouge. Against the pale flesh of her breasts, her nipples looked like dark chocolate.

“Taste me,” she panted. “The rouge is flavored to heighten your arousal.” She played with her own nipple, then sucked her finger between blood-red lips. “Delicious.”

Disgust roiled within him. “I’m a married man now, or did you forget?”

“Ha! That’s precisely why I’m here and just in time from the look of you! Use me, Marcus. Let me be for you what that frigid virgin is not. Use my body to ease you.”

He pressed his lips together in anger.

He wanted her gone. Now.

“You need to leave. My wife is expected here any minute.”

Simone tossed her hair over her shoulder, her big breasts bobbing with the movement. “Good. Let her see what a lusty fucking looks like!” She threw her arms around his neck and rubbed her naked breasts against him.

He heard the door latch click. Pushing Simone roughly to the side, he looked past her.

What he saw made his heart stall.

Isabel stood frozen in the doorway, astonishment touching her pale features. Wide blue eyes focused on Simone’s bare breasts, then flew to his face.

His first thought was to swing her up in his arms and take her back to the town house, where he could lock her safely inside. His second was that he had an opportunity to protect her by ending whatever small, burgeoning affection she may have for him. It would be a deep cut, like that of a well-honed dagger, and there was the risk that she would be deeply hurt. But Paris would heal her wounds, even if he was left behind with the scars.

In that instant, he knew what he had to do.

“You’re early, Isabel,” Marcus drawled.

Shock crossed Isabel’s face. “My God, what is going on?”

“I would think it’s quite obvious, my dear,” he said.

He saw the precise moment that realization dawned on her face, and bitter despair touched her eyes. His firm resolve weakened and threatened to buckle.

No,
he thought.
The blasted note was real. I must not capitulate lest she is harmed because of me.

Simone must have sensed Marcus’s change of mood and that he was not going to oust her. Making no effort to cover her exposed breasts, she turned squarely to face Isabel.

Isabel’s eyes widened at the woman’s rouged nipples.

It was more than Marcus could bear. “You should leave now, Simone.”

Simone adjusted her gown and cast Marcus a seductive glance. “Until later, darling,” she murmured. She made her way to the door and smirked as she passed Isabel. “I told you that you would not be able to hold his interest.”

Isabel stiffened, as if stricken.

Seconds passed as Simone’s heeled slippers echoed down the hall.

Isabel turned to leave, her hand reaching for the handle of the door, when Marcus spoke up.

“Wait, Isabel. I apologize for what you witnessed. I had left a note for you to meet me here to take you to luncheon at the Ship and Turtle. Simone’s visit was unexpected.” Somehow it was important to him that she knew he did not seek Simone out.

Isabel swung around to face him, her eyes blazing. “I’m not a fool, Marcus. The woman was half-naked.”

His eyes probed hers, and he braced himself for what he was about to do. “Yes, she was. You and I have been honest with each other, and I believe we should continue on that path. I had mistakenly thought that I had outgrown my roguish behavior, but I’d be lying if I said Simone Winston did not tempt me. I find marriage does not suit me, and as I tried to tell you last night before we made love, I believe it best if you leave immediately for Paris.”

From the slight gaping of her mouth, he knew his words wounded her, but she fought valiantly to hide her misery from him.

She has more courage than most men I know.

The urge to fall to his knees and confess the truth was overwhelming. But he must carry on the charade. He had not planned Simone Winston’s untimely seduction, but neither had he anticipated a direct threat to Isabel’s life.

He needed her safe, far away from him, away from the madman who would kill what he coveted.

She tossed her head, anger and pride coming to her defense. “I told you last night that nothing has to change between us. I knew you had a relationship with Simone Winston before I intruded into your life. I always assumed you would resume those relations after I left for Paris.”

“Good. Then we are in agreement?”

A brief stab of hurt flared in her eyes. “As much as I agree with you, I cannot, however, leave immediately as we are invited to Leticia Benning’s birthday ball the first weekend in July, and I promised both Charlotte and Mr. Benning that we would attend together. I shall depart as soon as possible afterward. Is that suitable?”

It wasn’t, but he was left with no choice. If he appeared too pushy, too anxious, she would sense something was wrong and—knowing her daring nature—refuse to leave. He’d have to ensure her safety at all costs until then.

She stood rigid, staring at him, waiting for his response.

He cleared his throat before answering. “Of course,” he said in a coolly impersonal tone, “soon after the ball is suitable.”

Her eyes darkened with pain before she turned away. “As I no longer have an appetite for luncheon, I shall hail a hackney.”

“No!”

She whirled around at the tone of his voice.

He struggled to compose himself lest he reveal his fear over her well-being. “My phaeton is outside. I shall escort you home.”

“That’s not necessary. A hackney cab will suit just fine.”

“There are few cabs in this part of town, Isabel,” he lied. “You will be hard pressed to find one.”

When it appeared as if she would still protest, he said, “Surely you do not intend to walk miles in this heat just to avoid me?”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I accept your escort.” She stormed from his office.

He followed on her heels, her stiff little back marching down the hall.