Once Upon a Scandal (3 page)

But Miss Fitzsimmons had uncovered his plan and exposed it, causing her own social suicide in the process. Because, in London society, scandal was a contagion, killing off not just the guilty but their family members, too. It had been a singularly courageous act on her part.

Really, Benjamin had felt like a vulture circling a corpse today. That slight figure, wreathed in mourning, alone in a cemetery in the rain. Her grief had been a palpable thing. Her bitterness, too, well-earned, because Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons had been an ass of the first order. But was he any better? He’d gone to the graveyard not to offer comfort but to sow the first seeds of a connection, to ingratiate himself and gain her trust.

He just hadn’t expected to accomplish it so quickly. Good God, best friend indeed. No doubt that had been the cognac speaking, though it was hard to imagine her indulging in spirits, let alone to excess. Jane Fitzsimmons had always been as stiff and starched as any dowager duchess. Even his best attempts to charm her had fallen flat—and he could be very charming when he set his mind to it. In his line of work, it was an imperative.

Still, the deceit of this left a sour taste in his mouth. She was a woman in mourning, vulnerable and possibly drunk in the bargain. Essentially defenseless. This was no time to take advantage. It went against every gentleman’s code of conduct.

But he would set aside his guilt, because he was a gentleman in name only, and her invitation was too good an opportunity to pass up. Turning to a cheval mirror, he made a final check of his appearance and paused. So many seemed to envy the reflection staring back. Was he the only one who noticed the stiffness of that ready smile? It had etched faint lines near his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, each of them cracks in his façade. Turning away from the image, he called out to a footman for his carriage to be brought round. It was too late for self-reflection and past time to find out if Miss Fitzsimmons knew any of her father’s secrets. Because there was every chance he’d been more than just a man trying to avenge his daughter. There was every chance he’d been a traitor, selling Britain’s secrets to her enemies.

• • •

“The Viscount Marworth, to see Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said, handing the butler his card. The older man stepped aside, ushering him into a broad hallway with marble floors and pleasing lines. There was very little furniture in the large space, however, and its walls, covered in a faded cream damask, showed the outlines of paintings no longer there. Fitzsimmons’s gambling losses had not been exaggerated.

“Right this way, my lord,” the butler said, disapproval steeling his voice. No doubt he’d been the one to see her note sent, and they both knew it was not done—inviting a gentleman to visit an unmarried woman alone. Just a short way down the hall and to the left, they stopped. The butler rapped gently on the door, a female voice mumbling something in response. “My mistress is not herself this evening, so I will be right outside this door.” And though the man was at least thirty years older than Benjamin and about six inches shorter, he’d obviously intended the words as a warning.

With a faint nod, Benjamin moved into the room, and whatever he’d expected to see, it had not been this. Prim and proper Jane Fitzsimmons sitting in a puff of black skirts on the floor, tossing books into a fireplace with the zealousness of a religious convert, and sighing in satisfaction as they curled to a crisp.

“I didn’t take you for the sort to burn books, Miss Fitzsimmons.”

She turned at the sound of his voice, her eyes widening as they settled upon him. “Lord Marworth, you’ve come. I’m so glad! It has been a challenge to save the cognac for you, but that’s what friends do, is it not?”

And if the whole of her statement had been slurred rather than spoken, he would not mention it. “The books, Miss Fitzsimmons? May I ask what they’ve done to deserve such a tortured end?”

“These books, you mean?” She gestured haphazardly to the pile beside her.

“Indeed.” His eyes scanned the shelves behind her. At least she hadn’t pulled all of them down. Socrates and Plato were still safe … for the moment.

“Well, they’re good for nothing now, you see. They’re books on etiquette and manners, and I’ve decided not to give a damn about them anymore.”

Had she really just done that? Sworn out loud? Society’s paragon of all things proper?

“I hadn’t known there were so many on the subject.” At least a dozen remained in the pile, and by the look of things, she’d been at this for quite some time. Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire, and her brown hair had escaped its tight bun to curl in tendrils about her face. She looked … beautiful, actually, if slightly manic. He’d always considered her an attractive woman, with a high forehead, an elegant nose, and striking eyes. They were a rich chocolate in color, flecked with amber. But he’d rarely seen her smile. One always had the sense she had something more important to do than fritter about Society. And his persona was very much that of a fritterer. Right now, though, she was beaming up at him, and it was something to behold, that smile. It seemed to light her from within.

“Oh, the cognac!” she suddenly cried, rising unsteadily on her feet to toddle over to the desk. “I’m afraid there’s only the one glass, but you can drink out of the bottle if you want to … no, I forget myself. That is an impolite offer for such a good friend. You may have the glass, and I will take the bottle.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said, fighting back a wry smile. “I’ll request an additional glass.” As promised, her butler was still at the door. “An extra glass and a pot of strong tea, if you please,” he said in an undertone. “If you can make it resemble cognac, all the better.” When he returned his attention to Jane, she was watching him with soulful eyes, like a puppy. Damnation, he’d always had a weakness for strays, and she seemed more lost than most. It would make his task here all the more difficult.

Speaking of difficulty, she was experiencing quite a bit of it as she tried to pour cognac into the waiting glass. With great concentration, however, she managed it without a spill and turned to face him, beaming with pride, her slender body swaying slightly.

In three quick strides, he was taking the glass from her hand and guiding her by the elbow to a wing chair near the fire. He sat down in a matching chair on the opposite side, determined to get this over and done. “Miss Fitzsimmons, you’ve had quite an upset, what with the sudden passing of your father. It must have been a shock.”

“Oh, yes indeed,” she said, the glow dimming in those remarkable eyes. “He’d been so desperate of late, what with the scandal and being booted from the Lords, and losing the income on his lands. And, of course, no one liked him anymore. I think that was the hardest thing of all … ”

Intoxicated individuals were often moody, but she’d fallen into sadness so quickly, it was like watching a candle be snuffed out. She was staring into the fire, and he fought the instinct to offer comfort, because she’d share more information this way. Grief usually broke through the strongest wall of reserve.

“And the manner of his death,” he continued, feeling like a reprobate. “That was most unfortunate, as well.”

“Beaten to death outside a gambling hall.” She said it without looking up. “A very sad end, indeed.”

“Sharpe’s ... I was surprised to learn he’d been found there.”

“He said he was going to restore our fortunes,” she said quietly. “I’d thought he had plans to discuss with Sir Aldus. But he must have gotten waylaid. Damn the man.”

“You’ve every right to be upset. Your father said and did things he ought not.” Betraying his country most likely among them.

“I know that,” she huffed, her eyes taking on a militant light. “But I’m not damning my father. I’m damning that damned Sir Aldus.”

She had an inordinate fondness for the word. Four damns in a single conversation. Astounding. “What did Sir Aldus do?” It was because of Rempley, after all, that Benjamin was here. He’d reported the theft of the dispatches, sent from the frontlines by Wellington himself. If they ended up in the wrong hands …

“He’s the reason I must burn all my books,” she replied, tossing another one into the flames.

Obviously, Benjamin needed to be more specific. “What did Sir Aldus do to upset you?”

“He was at the funeral, you know,” she said, sliding back into her sadness. “And he sent a draft to help cover the costs of it. I was certain he meant to propose when he came to the house today. He’s proposed any number of times.”

Unease crept along his spine. “What happened instead?”

“He insisted he was doing me quite the honor.”

“Go on,” he said, as unease flared into something else. Something darker.

She flushed with color. “He expects me to be his mistress.”

How repugnant, to take advantage of a woman who’d buried her father this very day. Pushing aside the nagging thought he was doing much the same thing, he focused instead on the man trying to debase a grieving innocent. It went against everything decent.

“Are you sure that was his intention? It sounds out of character.”

“I may be drunk, Lord Marworth, but I am not a dullard,” she said haughtily, only to ruin the effect by hiccupping. “He is giving me a week to realize I have no other options.”

“No matter what he says, you need not submit to him.” The bastard.

“Oh, I’d never submit to old Rempley. But perhaps you can help me,” she said, brightening briefly. “By reputation, you’re familiar with the ladies of the demimonde, and I’m wondering if that’s something I should aspire to. Because courtesan sounds so much nicer than whore, don’t you think?”

With that bald statement, she burst into tears. Shattering sobs, messy and unattractive, but they tilted something within him, throwing him off balance. Perhaps it was the helplessness of her situation? Life wasn’t kind to women without standing or fortune. He’d always known this, but Jane Fitzsimmons was flesh and blood before him, the picture of despair.

His purpose in being here felt absurd now. He’d been foolish not to see it sooner. If she’d suspected her father of betraying the crown, she would have called him out for it. After all, she’d already done so in front of the ton at great personal expense. It didn’t mean Fitzsimmons wasn’t guilty, but it absolved his daughter of the knowledge of it.

“Don’t cry, Miss Fitzsimmons,” he said, moving across the room to pat her rather awkwardly on the back, because he had little experience with drunken women in tears. “I will return tomorrow, with a far better choice for you.”

He didn’t add that he had no idea yet what it would be.

• • •

After seeing her into the care of the butler and his wife, both of whom had swept in moments later with that much needed tea, Benjamin excused himself, returning to his waiting carriage, his driver and postilion at the ready. But inside the carriage, he was alone with his thoughts. And his conscience.

At the start of the evening, he’d planned on paying a visit to Claudette, his mistress of over a year. She was beautiful, charming, and best of all, they didn’t have the messy entanglement of sincere affection between them. For the first time, though, he wondered how she’d settled upon her profession. He’d never bothered to ask, because they generally had far more enjoyable matters to attend to. With her skills, it was difficult to believe she’d ever been an innocent, like Miss Fitzsimmons. Still, the thought persisted, making him uneasy. Only a hypocrite would try to protect one woman from a life of prostitution while enjoying the admittedly inventive talents of another.

A better man would offer Miss Fitzsimmons marriage, but that was not a sacrifice he was willing to make. Not when it would cost him the petty but perfect revenge he’d planned against his father. He could always settle money upon her, of course, but she’d still be an outcast. People would assume he’d become her protector. Alec and Annabelle would take her in, but that would be akin to torture, living in the same house as the man you’d once hoped to marry, as Miss Fitzsimmons had.

Surely there was another option. She was courageous. And intelligent, tonight’s behavior notwithstanding. When Alec and her father had co-sponsored a soldier’s bill in the House of Lords, she’d reportedly offered insights on its crafting that stunned them both. He knew she was fluent in French, courtesy of her native-born mother and the nurse who’d helped raise her. She was well-read, too, and not just on the subject of etiquette. He’d once offered a snippet of obscure verse, and she’d known the author instantly. He’d memorized the stupid thing to impress Annabelle Layton, only to forget it a day later.

And she was beautiful. How odd he’d not really noticed it before.

There was also the problem now of Rempley, a suspicion that could not be ignored. He’d been one of the few members of the ton not to shun Reginald Fitzsimmons; supposedly, they’d been friends of long standing. Yet Rempley had admitted to Whitehall when reporting the theft that Fitzsimmons was the only likely culprit. Days before making a vile proposition to his daughter.

Over the course of the evening, as Benjamin traveled first to a musicale, then on to a ball, and finally to a card game ending just before dawn, an idea percolated. The more he pondered it, the more audacious it seemed. He’d have to speak with the others, of course. As highly placed members of Society, they knew the circumstances behind her disgrace. But he’d have to convince them of his plan. It would keep Jane Fitzsimmons close, so he could dig deeper into the extent of her father’s involvement in the theft of the dossiers. And it would allow him to explore Rempley’s role in all of this. His attraction to the woman might prove useful.

But would she do it? Should he even ask? Knowing too much information might put her in danger. As if what he meant to propose was not dangerous enough.

• • •

“You can’t believe she’ll actually agree to this scheme of yours?” Lucien St. Alban, the Duke of Greystoke, all but exclaimed. Which was itself rather shocking. Rigid and forbidding, he rarely showed emotion of any kind. “Miss Fitzsimmons is a sober sort. She’ll think you’ve taken leave of your senses. And I’ll agree with her.”