Read Three Schemes and a Scandal Online
Authors: Maya Rodale
But he could feel the gazes of the crew drilling into him—Owens shaking his head, Julianna’s eyebrows arched quite high. Even Grenville frowned.
Annabelle fixed her gaze upon him and said, “How to attract a man’s attention.”
That was just the sort of thing
Weekly
readers would love—and that could lead to a discussion of feelings—so Knightly gave a nod and said, “Good,” and inquired about Damien Owens’s police reports and other domestic intelligence. The conversation moved on.
“Before we go,” Knightly said at the end, “I heard a rumor that a reporter for
The London Times
has been arrested after having been caught impersonating a physician to the aristocracy.”
Shocked gasps ricocheted around the room from one writer to another as the implications dawned. The information this rogue reporter must have gathered from the bedrooms of London’s most powerful class … the fortune in suppression fees he must have raked in … If information was power, suddenly this reporter and this newspaper held all the cards.
There was no way the ton would stand for it.
“That could explain so much.” Julianna murmured thoughtfully, her brow knit in concentration. “The broken Dawkins betrothal, Miss Bradley’s removal to a convent in France …”
This only supported Knightly’s suspicions that there would soon be hell to pay. Not just by
The London Times
either.
“Why are you all looking at me?” Eliza Fielding, now the Duchess of Wycliff, inquired.
“Because you were just famously disguised as a servant in a duke’s household,” Alistair Grey, theater reviewer said, with obvious delight. Eliza grinned wickedly.
“I’m married to him now, so that must grant me some immunity. And I am not the only reporter here who has gone undercover for a story. What about Mr. Owens’s report on the Bow Street Runners?”
“That was weeks ago,” Owens said dismissively.
“You were impersonating an officer,” Eliza persisted.
“Well, has anyone asked Grenville how he obtains access to Parliament?” Owens questioned hotly. All heads swiveled in the direction of the grouchy old writer with the hound-dog face.
“I don’t pretend anything, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Grenville stiffly protested. “I sit in the gallery, like the other reporters.”
“And after that?” Owens questioned. “Getting ‘lost’ in the halls like a ‘senile old man’? Bribes for access to Parliament members?”
“We all do what needs to be done for a story,” cut in Lady Roxbury, who had once disguised herself as a boy and snuck into White’s, the most exclusive and
male
enclave in the world. “We’re all potentially on the line if authorities start looking into the matter. But they cannot possibly because then every newspaper would be out of business and we’d all be locked up.”
“Except for Miss Swift. She would be safe, for she never does anything wicked,” Owens added. Everyone laughed. Even Knightly. He’d wager that Dear Annabelle was the last woman in the world to cause trouble.
L
ETTER TO THE
E
DITORI deplore today’s fashions for women, which play to men’s baser instincts. Unfortunately, Gentlemen do not seem to share my dismay. I fear for the civilized world.
Signed, A Lady
The London Weekly
I
F THERE HAD
been the slightest doubt in Annabelle’s mind about the dire need to enact her campaign for Knightly’s attention, this afternoon’s events had dispelled it. Even if she’d been quaking with regrets, consumed by doubts, and feverishly in a panic about her mad scheme, her exchange with Knightly would have cleared her head and confirmed her course of action.
Mission: Attract Knightly
must now commence, with every weapon at her disposal. It was either that or resolve herself to a lifetime of spinsterhood. The prospect did not enthrall.
The rest of the staff had quit the room; the Writing Girls stayed. Annabelle remained paralyzed in her place.
“He hadn’t read my column,” she said, shocked. Still.
She needed to say the wretched truth aloud. If she needed any confirmation of what Knightly thought of her—or didn’t—this was all the information she needed. Her own editor,
a man paid to look at her work,
didn’t even read it. If it weren’t for the thick stack of letters from readers, she might have flung herself off the London Bridge. That was how lonely it felt.
Lord above, it was mortifying, too. Everyone else knew why she sighed when Knightly walked in the room. She was sure they all knew about her inner heartache during her brief exchange with him. How could Knightly not see?
He hadn’t read her column, and it had been about him!
“Annabelle, it wasn’t that terrible. I’m sure he doesn’t read all of our work either,” Sophie said consolingly. “Certainly not my reports on weddings.”
“It’s not just that,” Annabelle said glumly. “No one thinks I am wicked.”
Julianna, who was very daring and wicked, grinned broadly. “So they shall be all the more speechless when it turns out you are! I loved your column on Saturday. Knightly may not have read it, but the rest of the town did. Your next course of action is being fiercely debated in drawing rooms all over town.”
“Indeed?” It was strange to think of strangers debating her innermost vexations.
“There seems to be two schools of thought,” Sophie replied. “One suggests that you simply confess to him your feelings.”
“I am terrified at the thought,” Annabelle replied.
“Then you may be interested in the other method …” Sophie paused dramatically. “Seduction.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Annabelle scoffed. “That would be wicked, and you heard Owens; I never act thusly.”
“He’s an ass,” Julianna retorted.
Usually Annabelle would have admonished her friend’s coarse language. Instead, she said, “No, he’s right. I am Good. Therefore, I am not interesting. Why should Knightly take notice of me? There is nothing to notice!”
Wasn’t that the plain old truth!
The mirror dared to suggest she was pretty, but all Annabelle saw was a riot of curls that were best restrained in a tight, spinsterish bun atop her head. She did have lovely blue eyes, but more often than not kept her gaze averted lest she draw attention to herself. Furthermore, her wardrobe consisted entirely of brownish-gray dresses made of remnant fabric from her brother’s cloth-importing business. To say the cut was flattering or fashionable was to be a liar of the first order.
She might dare think people would see beyond her disastrous hair and hideous dresses. Most of the time she couldn’t.
“Oh, Annabelle. You are rather pretty—so pretty that he, like any red-blooded male, should notice you. Unless he’s not …”
“See, I am blushing at your mere suggestion!” Annabelle squeaked.
“We do have work to do,” Julianna murmured.
“What do your letters say?” Sophie asked, picking one up.
Annabelle scowled and grabbed the first one, reading it aloud.
“ ‘Dear Annabelle, in my humble opinion a low bodice never fails to get a man’s eye. It plays to their rutting instincts, which we all know they are slaves to … Betsy from Bloomsbury.’ ”
“A trip to the modiste! I love it.” Sophie clapped her hands with glee. But Annabelle frowned. Beggars ought not be choosers, yet …
“I want him to notice me for
me
; who I am as a person. Not just bits of me.”
“You have to start with certain parts. Then he’ll attend to the rest,” Julianna replied. “Come, let’s go get you a new dress.”
“You must wear it for my party later this week,” Sophie said, then adding the most crucial detail: “Knightly has been invited.”
The opportunity dangled before her like the carrot and the horse. Never mind that the analogy made her a horse. The facts were plain:
There was something she might try (thank you, Betsy from Bloomsbury) and an opportunity at which she might do so (thank you, Sophie, hostess extraordinaire).
She had made that promise to her readers, and it would be dreadful to let them down. She did so despise disappointing people.
Annabelle twirled one errant curl around her finger and mulled it over (Swifts were not known for their quick decisions). She supposed there were worse things than a new gown and a fancy ball. For her readers, she would do this.
Not one hour later, Annabelle was standing in the dressing room of Madame Auteuil’s shop. A previous customer had returned a lovely pink gown after a change of heart, and Annabelle wore it now as the seamstresses took measurements for a few alterations.
“I don’t think it quite fits,” she said. It wasn’t the size per se, for she knew it would be tailored to her measurements. It was the dress itself.
It was silk. She never wore silk.
It was pink, like a peony or a rosebud or her cheeks when Knightly spoke to her. She never wore pink.
The pink silk was ruched and cinched and draped in a way that seemed to enhance her every curve and transform her from some gangly girl into a luscious woman.
Annabelle wore simply cut dresses made of boring old wool or cotton. Usually in shades of brown or gray or occasionally even taupe.
The Swift family owned a fabric importing business, which dealt exclusively in plain and serviceable cottons and wools guided by the rational that everyone required those, but so few indulged in silks and satins. Blanche generously provided Annabelle with last season’s remnants for the construction of her wardrobe.
This silk, though, was lovely. A crimson silk sash cinched around her waist, enhancing what could only be described as an hourglass figure. It was a wicked color, that crimson.
Madame Auteuil stepped back, folded her arms and appraised her subject with a furrow of her brow and a frown on her lips. She had pins in her mouth and Annabelle worried for her.
“She needs a proper corset,” the modiste finally declared. “I cannot work without the lady in the right undergarments.”
“A proper corset fixes everything,” Sophie concurred.
“And lovely underthings …” Julianna smiled with a naughty gleam in her eye.
Annabelle began to do math in her head. Living as glorified household help for her brother and his sister meant that her
Weekly
wages went to her subscription at the circulating library and a few other inconsequential trinkets, and then the rest went into her secret account that Sophie’s husband had helped her arrange. It had been her one small act of rebellion.
“I’m not sure that underthings are necessary …” Annabelle began to protest. Silk underthings sounded expensive and no one would see them, so how could she justify the expense when she could have a few delicious novels instead?
“Do you have the money?” Eliza asked softly. She was a duchess now, but she’d had anything but an aristocratic upbringing or connections. She understood economies.
“Well, yes. But I feel that I should save,” Annabelle said frankly.
“For what?” Eliza asked.
“Something,” Annabelle said. Something, someday. She was always waiting and preparing for an event that never came—or had she missed it, given that she didn’t know what she was waiting for?
“Annabelle, this is that something,” Sophie said grandly. “You want Knightly to notice you, do you not?”
“And you have an occasion to wear it,” Eliza said, adding a dose of practicality. “Sophie’s soiree, tomorrow night.”
“But he won’t see my unmentionables. Those needn’t be—”
“Well he might, if you are lucky,” Julianna said frankly. And lud, didn’t that make her cheeks burn! The thought made her entire body feel feverish, in a not altogether unpleasant way.
“Annabelle,” Sophie began, “you must think of fashion as an investment in your future happiness! That is not some silk dress, but a declaration that you are new woman, a young, beautiful woman interested in life! And love!”
“But the underthings?” Annabelle questioned.
“I promise you will love them,” Sophie vowed. “You’ll see …”
In the end, Annabelle was persuaded to purchase one pink silk dress, one blue day dress, one corset that enhanced her person in ways that seemed to violate natural laws, and some pale pink silk unmentionables that were promptly stashed in the back of her armoire.
Intrigued? Discover more about
Seducing Mr. Knightly
at
http://www.mayarodale.com/
.
MAYA RODALE began reading romance novels in college at her mother’s insistence and it wasn’t long before she was writing her own. Maya is now the author of multiple Regency historical romances. She lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her own. Please visit her at http://www.mayarodale.com.
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Seducing Mr. Knightly
The Tattooed Duke
A Tale of Two Lovers
A Groom of One’s Own
The Heir and the Spare
The Rogue and the Rival
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Tuesday, August 29, 1769
“I
say, dear gel, how much do
you
cost?”
Virginia's mouth dropped open. “IâI beg your pardon?”
The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You're a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what
is
your price?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board
The North
Star
, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?
Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks 'til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.
“How . . . how
dare
you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.”
“Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.”
Her mouth fell open again.
Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.”
She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”
“Mon Dieu
, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
“I do so like your nose. Very becoming andâ” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn't help but wonderâdid he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that's it.”
Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for
you
to admire something
disdainfully haughty
, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.”
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little
faux pas
. I suppose you're not for sale after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “
C'est la vie
and all that. Would you care for some snuff? 'Tis my own special blend from London, don't you know. We call it
Grey Mouton
.”
“Gray sheep?”
“Why, yes. Sink me! You
parlez français
? How utterly charming for one of your class.”
Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.
He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement.
“No, thank you.”
He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”âhe sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchiefâ“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.
Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain's kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?”
“Slaves?”
She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain's latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.
“Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They're not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. 'Tis the mother country's fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.”
“I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?”
His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “
Touché.
”
The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.
The man in brown cleared his throat.
Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.
Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people's crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?”
“Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn't wear chains. They're selling themselves out of desperation.”
“There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.”
Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer's rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.
She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.”
“My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship's wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.
Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.
“I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge.
Quel dommage
, a real pity, don't you know.”
A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.
And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular.
How odd.
He didn't mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.
She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.
Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.
This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.
She shook her head, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back homeâtight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .
The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton's handkerchief.
She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man's intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her father's side.
Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. “All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day's work. In exchange, ye'll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet.”
The spindly boy's eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. “Food?”
Virginia's father nodded. “Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?”
The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia's heart.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Jamie held up a hand. “Doona fash yerself, lass. I'll be taking the boy.”
As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Jamie winced. “Mr. Munro, it is. We'll have none of that lordy talk aboot here. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand, which the boy timidly accepted. “What is yer name, lad?”
“George Peeper, sir.”
“Father.” Virginia tugged at the sleeve of his blue serge coat. “Can we afford any more?”
Jamie Munro's eyes widened and he blinked at his daughter. “More? Just an hour ago, ye upbraided me aboot the evils of purchasing people, and now ye want more? 'Tis no' like buying ribbons for yer bonny red hair.”
“I know, but this is important.” She leaned toward him. “Do you see the tall man in lavender silk?”
Jamie's nose wrinkled. “Aye. Who could miss him?”
“Well, he wanted to purchase meâ”
“
What?
”
She pressed the palms of her hands against her father's broad chest as he moved to confront the dandy. “ 'Twas a misunderstanding. Please.”
His blue eyes glittering with anger, Jamie clenched his fists. “Let me punch him for you, lass.”
“No, listen to me. I fear he means to buy one of those ladies for . . . immoral purposes.”
Jamie frowned at her. “And what would ye be knowing of a man's immoral purposes?”
“Father, I grew up on a farm. I can make certain deductions, and I know from the way he looked at me, the man is not looking for someone to scrub his pots.”
“What can I do aboot it?”
“If he decides he wants one, you could outbid him.”
“He would just buy another, Ginny. I canna be buying the whole ship. I can scarcely afford this one here.”