Once Upon a Scandal (5 page)

She stood, intent on rushing from the room.

“This is no fantasy, Miss Fitzsimmons.”

She spun to face him, as both head and stomach protested the sudden movement. “You’ll forgive me, of course, for not believing you. Given your busy schedule of idle amusements and seductions, it’s hard to imagine you’ve the time for anything substantive. Like saving the country from Napoleon. That sort of thing.”

“Appearances are not always what they seem,” he replied, his expression guarded.

“If you are some sort of spy, Lord Marworth, prove it. If it is your job to know everyone’s secrets, tell me mine.”

He fell silent then, as she’d known he would. After all, it was never fun to be caught out in a lie. And, obviously, self-amusement was of paramount importance to him. It would be bitterly amusing watching him try to justify his delusions.

“Very well,” he said at last. “You are twenty-two years old, with no family left in England to speak of. A generous dowry was once set aside for you, but little of it remains. Your father gambled it away after the incident involving Carstairs.”

“Let me guess,” she scoffed. “You were the one to win it from him.”

“No, I was not,” he said, and she hated him in that moment for the gentleness in his voice. The feigned sympathy. “Your mother fled France during the Revolution, along with her family. She met your father in London at a ball hosted by the late Lord Donovan and his wife, Matilda. They married less than a month later.”

“It was a love match, obviously. You’ve told me nothing not widely known.”

“But it was not a love match, was it?” he said softly, those blue eyes of his fixed upon her once more. “Not one that lasted, anyway.”

“I think it’s rare they do.” She’d not cede anything, even as the memories came rushing back. The slamming doors and the tears. The way she’d been a weapon between them, when she’d only wanted to be loved.

“Your mother’s family returned to France when Napoleon seized power, leaving her alone with a husband quickly distracted by political aspirations and in a Society that suspected her allegiances.”

“My mother was not alone. I was with her.” And this was becoming far too personal. Not to mention exhausting.

“It didn’t help when your mother’s twin brother became one of Napoleon’s most trusted aides, just as the emperor was starting to threaten Britain’s interests.”

“That’s enough, I think.”

“She died in childbirth when you were twelve, along with a stillborn son who in no way resembled your father.”

“Enough!” she cried. “Must you utterly humiliate me? How do you know these things?”

“It’s my business to know them,” he said, running a hand through those carefully disordered curls. “Your father, before his downfall, was an important member of the House of Lords. He wielded significant power. The Crown has extensive files on such men. It needs to know who can be trusted ... and who cannot.”

Dear God, if her father had been under some kind of suspicion, she didn’t think she could bear it. “Reginald Fitzsimmons had personal failings, but he loved our country. He would never have done anything to compromise its standing. You know that, don’t you?”

“There was nothing in his file to indicate otherwise.” Marworth looked almost uncomfortable now. “And I did not say those things to hurt you.”

“No. I all but begged you to strip away the last shreds of my dignity.” She sank back into her chair. “It’s odd, isn’t it? The pain we unwittingly call upon ourselves?”

“You have faced a number of challenges in your lifetime,” he said. “But you’ve risen above them. You can do so again, in the pursuit of a noble cause.”

Whatever she’d expected from his visit today, it had not been this. “This is all so difficult to believe. That you are a spy. In the Crown’s service.”

“I don’t sneak through the streets of Paris in a mask and cape, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

She didn’t know what to imagine, given the bizarre nature of this conversation. If this was all a dream, it was past time to wake up. “Would you enlighten me then?”

He seemed to be trying to gauge just what to say. “Do you remember that scandal several years ago, the one involving the Duke of York and his mistress?”

She nodded. “Mrs. Clarke used her influence to secure army commissions in exchange for money, all while the duke was commander in chief.”

“Afterwards, the prime minister realized he needed eyes and ears, not only abroad, but also here at home and in Society,” he replied. “So I find out who is on the verge of insolvency. Which wife is willing to betray her husband’s secrets. Who, in a position of power, might speak indiscreetly for a price. All are possible threats to our security in a time of war.”

She couldn’t resist a disdainful shake of her head. “You seem an unlikely choice for the job, given your reputation.” Not to mention his beauty. Weren’t spies supposed to slip about unnoticed? Marworth was not a man who could be missed.

“Is it that you think me incapable of being discreet?” he asked. “Or that you think I’m above deception?”

“I think you are above very little, actually,” she replied, only to cringe immediately. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No offense taken. I’ve worked hard to become the charming and urbane Lord Marworth, with an ear for gossip but a reputation for keeping secrets.”

“Which, as it turns out, you don’t keep at all.”

He was still smiling, but his lips had thinned. Had she stumbled upon an unsettling truth? Perhaps maintaining his façade was no easy task.

“Again, I am sorry. I seem more than willing to lash out at others, instead of focusing on my own, rather pathetic, state.”

“But that is why I am here, Jane, if I may call you so. I believe you have much to offer. That you can help your country in a unique and unexpected way. Although my plan is not without cost.”

“I haven’t much to lose, have I?” For any number of reasons, she’d always lived a quiet life, one constrained by convention. But a small part of her had dreamed of adventure. Of doing something special. Meaningful, even. Had the time come to indulge in those dreams? So very few of them were possible now, after all. And she could not help but be tempted by the chance to see Rempley laid low. If he was guilty of a crime, she would love to be the one to catch him in it. She took a deep breath, trying to bolster her resolve.

“I will do whatever’s needed. But have you forgotten I’m no longer welcome in Society? I can’t listen for rumor and innuendo if I’m not invited to the parties at which they’re spread.”

“Well, it’s true your reputation must be rehabilitated for this to work.” He hesitated then and blushed. Benjamin Alden, the unflappable, untouchable Lord Marworth, actually blushed. “It will likely require your imminent demise,” he said. “In name only, of course.”

“I beg your pardon?” Obviously, she’d misunderstood. Her wits were addled, even if she could no longer blame the cognac.

“When we’re done, everyone will remember you fondly. Now tell me, Miss Fitzsimmons. How well do you swim?”

That men are sometimes dreadfully successful in corrupting the woman cannot be denied. But do the women on the other side never corrupt the man?—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

And so, here she was, one week later, on the cusp of her demise. She’d hoped it would be decades hence, but after learning the specifics of Marworth’s plan, the possibility of redemption had proved all too seductive. To be reborn, in a sense, as someone else entirely. And if she felt the faintest needling of unease, given that she was about to perpetrate a hoax on the whole of Society, she’d dismiss it. Because there was no going back at this late moment. She’d asked Marworth for a spectacular death—verging on the legendary—and she was about to be obliged.

She’d done her best to prepare. She’d taken all of Father’s correspondence—at least all she could find—and reserved a box at the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. There was another there, the one containing her mother’s personal effects, packed away upon her death for her only living child. Evidently, Father had found them too painful to keep close. Either that, or he’d hoped she would forget Jeannette Martine Fitzsimmons altogether. The two boxes were to be opened either at her own direction or at that of Madame Lillianne Martine Fauchon, soon to arrive from France to mourn the passing of her cousin Jane. Not that she told the bank officer that.

When she’d left home this morning, having secreted out a small valise with only the most necessary essentials—things no one else would miss—she’d hugged both Thompson and Bess. “To thank you for standing by me, despite my disgrace,” she said, trying her best not to cry and give away the whole of it. “I didn’t want to let another day pass without telling you how much you have meant to me.” They’d been utterly befuddled by her behavior, because she was not, by nature, demonstrative. But she’d been unable to stop herself. She was about to sever all ties to her former life. Hopefully, her family name would be redeemed in the process.

“So you know your part. You are sure of it?” Marworth asked as they stood, shaded by a cluster of trees, along the banks of the river.

“I’m to jump into the water, rescue the child, and drown in the Thames. Trust me when I say I’ve thought of little else since you proposed it.”

“You seem almost bloodthirsty in the anticipation of your passing,” he said, his expression curious.

“No, Lord Marworth. I wish quite desperately none of this was necessary. And on principle, I can’t like the deception involved. However, if this is the only way I can be of some use going forward, so be it.”

“You are brave, Miss Fitzsimmons. Never believe otherwise.”

“The word you are looking for is foolish.”

“I know it is not,” he said. “Now, once again, the Gardens will open at five o’clock. Prinny will be arriving on the Royal Barge just before seven o’clock. I’ll be with him, as will several members of the Carlton House set.”

“I’ll make sure I’m seen prior to the accident. You are certain this is safe for Jackson?”

“My stable boy is older than he looks.”

“This really is the most absurd plan.” How could she have allowed herself to be talked into it? It wasn’t as if she knew Marworth well. Given what she’d heard, this might very well be a grand lark, cooked up to ease his ennui. She’d pull herself out of the river downstream, and he’d be there with his cronies, laughing uproariously.

But she didn’t think so. Not really. In the past week, he’d shown himself to be a capable planner and a master of intrigue, with a serious bent she’d never guessed at. She was merely apprehensive. That was all. God willing.

“I specialize in absurd plans,” he said, flashing that blinding smile of his, probably because he wasn’t the one getting dunked in the river. And she wished he would stop looking at her that way. Being the focus of his undivided attention was too heady, almost dizzying. She needed her wits about her.

“Remember, you cannot be seen after the cloak is released. It’s only a short distance, but you must stay underwater. I will do my part to keep the attention focused on the scene of the rescue, so that your exit will go unnoticed. A carriage will be waiting in the alley that abuts the Vauxhall Garden wall.”

“Well,” she said on a deep breath. “I’m not sure there is anything left to discuss, although I’ll admit to a strong case of nerves.” Restless as she was, she could sprint all the way to Nuneaton. Surely she’d be better off if she did.

“Actually,” he said, head cocked to one side, “I’m starting to believe you’re as fearless as Jackson.”

“He has the excuse of his young age for it. I’ve only a rather pathetic case of desperation.”

“Never pathetic. And going forward, never desperate. Not if we do this right.”

What honor can be enjoyed by your sex, equal to that of showing yourself every way worthy of virtuous tenderness from us?—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

It was a temperate evening, dusk just beginning to fall as the royal barge approached Vauxhall’s water gate, the river lapping against its brightly painted sides, a light breeze stirring the colorful pennants strung from stern to bow. A trio of violin players, perched on tiny wood stools, played Handel as the boat swayed gently, because on the opening night of the Vauxhall Gardens season, no other composer was appropriate.

“We are glad you convinced us to come, Marworth,” said George Augustus Frederick, the Prince Regent of England, known as Prinny to his intimates and as “the worst sort of voluptuary” to almost everyone else. “After the unfortunate Grand Masquerade here last season, we have been hesitant to return.”

“I thought it inspired to honor Britain’s victories on the Peninsula,” said William, Lord Alvanley, in an obvious effort to soothe the prince, who was notoriously thin-skinned. The Masquerade had been widely derided as outrageously extravagant, not to mention poorly planned.

“Getting anything to eat or drink that night proved its own kind of battle,” sniffed George Brummel. “I feared a riot, so many people were crushed together, the haute ton pressed against the lowest sorts in their rank woolens. Nothing holds the odor of perspiration quite like wool.”

“Any tailor’s son will tell you that,” said Alvanley, in a wicked slight against Brummel’s upbringing. They were friends, but Brummel was on the outs with the prince. The withering glare he’d just been given confirmed it.

“Petunia gets nervous in crowds,” said the Honorable Frederick Byng, clutching his miniature poodle as they neared the shore. People were already lining the waterfront in anticipation of the barge’s arrival, jostling for a good view of the prince.

“I hear Vauxhall’s Tyers is staging a sea battle enactment tonight, complete with canons and burning ships,” Benjamin said. “That’s sure to calm the dog.”

“Should have left Petunia at home, eh, Poodle?” The prince chuckled at his own joke, his good mood restored. They all knew Byng never went anywhere without his dog. “Jolly good fun, Marworth. You always know what will amuse us.”

During the short trip from Whitehall, Benjamin had smiled at all the right moments, pretending sincere interest in the ongoing conversation, while his mind was on the events ahead. He was more than a bit nervous. Surely, only a fool mythologized a drowning, especially given his personal history.