Page 1 of A Lesson in Scandal (Tales from The Burnished Jade #1)

Chapter One

The Burnished Jade

Aldgate Street, London

Miss Sofia Moorland occupied a front-row seat in The Jade’s elegant music room, listening to the doctor’s lecture. She gripped her pencil tightly and made notes in her leather-bound journal, the implement dancing across the page as swiftly as fire in a hay barn. The other ladies sat in rapt attention, staring at the enigmatic Mr Gentry as he spoke about the importance of a healthy mind.

“A simple walk in the park can calm the senses,” he said, the seductive lilt of his voice wrapping around the audience like a warm blanket. “Taking time to absorb the natural world reaps rewards.”

The handsome doctor shifted his weight to his other foot, the fabric of his trousers tightening around the curve of his muscular thigh.

“Have you ever seen such a virile specimen of masculinity?” Mrs Reagan whispered to Sofia. “I may feign hysteria in the hope Mr Gentry will loosen my clothing. With such skilled hands, I imagine he could cure any ailment.”

Sofia straightened her spectacles and considered Mr Gentry’s fine physique. How fast did one’s heart need to pump to ensure blood filled those powerful muscles? The man must exert himself frequently. No doubt he rode his mount hard and fast until they were both slick with sweat and panting. People said he was an excellent pugilist, or perhaps lunges with a rapier explained those robust thighs.

“A fluttering pulse can be an early sign of agitation,” he added.

“Mr Gentry has more than my pulse fluttering,” Mrs Reagan uttered, fanning her face with her hand.

Being versed in medical literature, Sofia knew the widow spoke about arousal and the convulsions a lady felt deep in her core—the cure suggested by men to reduce the effects of hysteria.

“I cannot afford such a luxury,” Sofia whispered back.

It’s why she took notes at Mr Gentry’s lectures and rarely looked his way. She absorbed every word, every minute detail. Knowledge was a lifeline to a brighter future, and Mr Gentry was the one person who could save her from a wretched fate.

“A slight rise in temperature soon follows,” Mr Gentry continued with such poise Sofia doubted he ever lost control of his faculties.

Like a rock against the tide, he stood firm, his emotions guarded. His calm facade left women intrigued and drawn to his unreachable allure.

“I’m on fire,” Mrs Reagan purred.

Keen to focus on the lecture and not the charismatic gentleman, Sofia thrust her hand in the air and wiggled her fingers, forcing Mr Gentry to fix her with his intelligent blue gaze.

“Yes, Miss Moorland?”

Despite his smooth tone, she sensed his annoyance.

“I believe there is a difference between agitation and nervous disorder, sir.”

Sofia’s stepmother suffered from the latter, from bouts of violence and terrible changes in mood. Judith’s comments left a sting sharper than her back-handed slaps.

“Agitation is a temporary state,” Sofia continued, trying to impress him. “A walk in the park may give a lady perspective, but what if nothing helps? What if you’re dealing with a chronic condition?” One made worse by the excessive consumption of gin.

Mr Gentry smiled, but as a chorus of soft sighs whispered through the room, Sofia noted the strain behind his feigned expression. He wanted rid of her. He wanted her to button her lips and stare at his broad chest like the other ladies in the room.

“Such conditions are beyond my realms of expertise,” he said with the eloquence befitting a viscount’s grandson. Yet she had heard him curse men to the devil and regale bawdy tales to his friends.

While the wallflowers, widows and bluestockings saw a distinguished gentleman, Sofia heard murmurs of a darker side to Mr Gentry’s character. There was a reason he scoured the alleys of Whitechapel at night. A reason he rode a black beast of a horse out onto the Barking Road and did not return home until dawn.

A reason that eluded her.

That’s the man she must appeal to: the reckless rogue, the lone crusader hiding beneath a breathtaking smile and an expensive blue coat.

“Would you consider female hysteria a temporary malady or something more complex?” Sofia asked, her heart pounding. A tight coil of anxiety twisted in her gut, but she held his gaze, refusing to falter. “Are women not more expressive by nature? Is the release of pent-up emotions an adequate cure or the abuse of a naive mind?”

She referred to the unscrupulous doctors who pleasured ladies as an excuse to calm their restless spirits.

While Mr Gentry stared at her, Mrs Reagan uttered, “I pray he deals with the condition. I suddenly find my emotions in a terrible tangle. Perhaps he might unravel the knot.”

Mr Gentry’s blue eyes turned glacial. “May I speak to you outside for a moment, Miss Moorland?”

Good Lord!

Sofia could converse in medical terms and argue her point but would struggle if he did anything but berate her. “Certainly.”

Mrs Reagan tugged Sofia’s sleeve and mumbled, “Swoon, and he’ll be forced to carry you to a private room.” Then she gave an encouraging nod.

While Mr Gentry silenced the muffled protests and assured the ladies he would return to continue the lecture, Sofia rose demurely and let him escort her into The Burnished Jade’s elegant pale blue hall.

“How many times must we have this conversation?” he whispered, closing the music room door behind him. “Will you stop interrupting my lectures with your relentless questions? This isn’t a lesson at King’s College.”

“If it was King’s College, they’d usher me from the building merely because I am wearing a dress.”

Mr Gentry’s gaze slid over the dull grey garment. “Is it a dress, Miss Moorland? You wear it like a shroud. I suggest you return your medical books to the library and meet with Lady Berridge’s modiste.”

Mr Gentry was often blunt to prove a point. He made it clear few women could stomach broken limbs, gruesome diseases, or the trauma of losing a patient.

“Believe me, sir, I have more urgent matters to attend to than my wardrobe.” Sofia hugged her journal to her chest, her hands trembling with the weight of her challenge. If she couldn’t find a way to support herself before her stepmother returned from Edinburgh, she would be forced to marry Mr Harrop. “I challenge you to find fault with my argument. Most men would label me hysterical for having a firm opinion.”

Mr Gentry did not disagree.

“I’ll admit you understand the mind better than most.” He bent his head. A rakish lock of golden-brown hair fell over his brow, offering a glimpse of the untamed man beneath his facade. “You’re out of your depth. What you’ve learnt in those old tomes is of no practical use.”

“How do you know?” It was now or never. Persuading Mr Gentry to hire her would be the answer to her prayers. “Why not put me to the test? You have two employees; why not hire a third?”

Mr Gentry jerked his head. “I cannot employ a woman.”

“Yet people claim you’re a modern man.”

Why else would he lecture at a ladies’ club owned by the Countess of Berridge? He supported her charitable work and was an advocate of social reform. He cared about people and the plight of the poor.

“My patients will ignore your advice.” His striking blue eyes met hers, his disappointment evident as he considered her dowdy day dress. “Despite your efforts to make yourself unappealing, I’ll have men lining the streets, eager to drop their trousers and have you tend to their ailments.”

Sofia felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

Like a hound scenting blood, Mr Gentry pounced at the first sign of weakness. “Have you ever touched a man, Miss Moorland?” He cupped her elbow and drew her deeper into the hall. “Have you ever wrapped your dainty fingers around his manhood and given the task your full attention? Because that’s what you’ll be expected to do.”

Her traitorous mind conjured an image of the doctor slowly peeling off his clothes, every movement revealing the power lurking beneath his polished exterior. Yet amid the thrill of the fantasy lay a nagging doubt. If Mr Gentry made her nervous, how would she deal with other men?

Sofia gulped and bit her inner lip, the metallic taste of blood a sign of defeat, but she refused to surrender without a fight.

“The study of anatomy includes all bodily parts,” she said, trying not to stutter. “I see no difference between them and would approach the task in a professional manner.”

It was the biggest lie she had ever told.

The mere thought gave her the jitters.

A glimmer of intrigue flashed in his eyes. “And when the touch of your hand arouses the patient, and his manhood hardens beneath your fingers, what then, Miss Moorland?”

Based on the husky notes in his voice, Mr Gentry could add acting to his repertoire. He certainly knew how to play the libertine and highlight her inexperience.

“I would make a diagnosis and ask him to dress.”

Mr Gentry stepped closer, his presence enveloping her as he drew her into his orbit. The air shifted between them, a crackle of electric tension. This was a lesson in scandal. Another test of her resolve.

Good.

Then he might see she was serious in her endeavour.

“How will you fare when he puts his filthy hands on you, Miss Moorland? When you’re alone in a room and you arouse him to the point of madness?” A darkness passed over his features as his gaze dipped to her bodice, a heated look that spoke of hidden danger. “What happens when having you is the only cure for his malady?”

Sofia snapped her spine straight and avoided inhaling too deeply. Mr Gentry smelled as good as he looked. His cologne was like a drug, an addictive mix of spice and musk that clouded the senses.

She gritted her teeth for dramatic effect. “I shall grab him between the legs and squeeze hard.” The Countess of Berridge had ensured the ladies who visited The Jade were tutored in self-defence. “I shall remind him what it means to be a gentleman.”

Mr Gentry threw back his head and laughed.

“Do you find something amusing, sir?”

“Yes, you, Miss Moorland. Like everything else about you, you lack real experience when it comes to … anything. I could have you pinned to the wall in a heartbeat. You’d struggle to move your hands, let alone grab me by the proverbials.”

The thought of tussling with him sparked a fire in her blood. She wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face and show him she wasn’t afraid. She wanted him to pin her to the wall and pretend his desire for her had driven him mad.

“Do it,” she said in open challenge, daring him to make a move and strangely hoping he would.

“I would never hurt a woman. I would never hurt you.”

The devil!

Anyone deprived of affection would falter under the weight of his kind words. In truth, the comment was designed to suggest he cared when all he wanted was her submission.

“You hurt me every time you dismiss my ambitions as folly.” He treated her like an annoying spider that reappeared after being tossed out. “You profess to save people, yet I die a little when you treat me like a child. Let me accompany you for a week. I promise you will not regret your decision.”

A weary sigh left his lips. “I cannot employ a woman,” he reiterated. “Doubtless your parents would drag me over hot coals for?—”

“The Merricks are not my parents.” The mere mention of their names roused an inner fury, an anger born from resentment. Her stepmother had recently remarried, and the couple planned to get rid of Sofia when they returned from their sojourn in Scotland. “I assure you, they don’t care about my welfare.”

“Nevertheless, I do.”

Again, his simple statement caught her off guard.

“No, you don’t. You’re worried about how your patients and colleagues will receive me. You’re afraid I might prove to be a valuable asset, and you’ll suffer the ridicule of your peers.”

“I’m afraid of nothing and no one,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp, a rare crack in his composure. “But I will not be held accountable for your reckless ambitions.”

A tense silence descended.

A moment of stark reflection.

In her desperation, she had pushed him too hard. He was not to blame for her predicament. Everything he’d said was true. She was a foolish, inexperienced woman clinging to the last vestiges of hope.

“Forgive me.” Though tears pricked her eyes, she found the courage to look at him. “Sometimes my passion overwhelms me. The truth is, I’m in desperate need of work. There are few options open to gently bred women, and you’re my last hope. I have nowhere else to turn.”

He studied her, his piercing cobalt eyes fixed on her face, holding the gaze for what felt like forever.

“May I see your journal?” He motioned to the blue book she gripped like the survivor of a sinking ship did a piece of wreckage. “You write in it whenever I give a lecture here. I saw you in Pickins coffeehouse, absorbed by the contents of the pages.”

Her pulse quickened.

He had sat watching her?

The sudden creak of the music room door stole their attention, and Mrs Reagan appeared. “Are you returning to finish the lecture, Mr Gentry, or shall I gather the ladies for refreshments?”

“Remain in your seats,” he said in the commanding tone that always made the widow sigh. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Mrs Reagan smiled and made to close the door, but not before winking at Sofia and pretending to swoon.

Sofia gave Mr Gentry the journal, opening it on a specific page. “You may read anything except for my research on hysteria.” She’d been a fool to document her findings and should tear out the pages and throw them in the grate.

“I thought you wished to impress me with your study of the female mind. That is the topic of the day.”

“Those particular notes are personal.” Heat filled her cheeks, but a brief blush was better than lifelong mortification. “My experiments are of a confidential nature.”

“I see.”

She prayed he didn’t see. How could a lady understand the cure for hysteria without experiencing the remedy firsthand?

“My mother was a skilled herbalist,” she said, keen to change the subject. “I make remedies, too. Amongst her many books, she kept a copy of The Female Physician by Maubray. I managed to study and sketch parts of the anatomy before my stepmother sold the volume.”

Judith had gutted the library and converted it into a gaming room for her dissolute friends. Mr Harrop, a wealthy merchant nearing sixty, came to drink and play whist every Monday evening. The vile creature watched Sofia as she poured his claret, the predatory gleam in his eyes making her flesh creep.

“You surprise me,” Mr Gentry said, drawing Sofia from her reverie. “You admire Maubray, yet he suggested men should be midwives.” He glanced at the book, his brows rising when he saw her detailed drawing of the heart. “Hmm.” He repeated the sound as he flicked through the pages. “Can you name three symptoms of pleurisy?”

Sofia blinked, surprised he’d not slammed her book shut. “A sharp pain in the chest that worsens with breathing. Perhaps a dry cough, and sometimes a fever.”

“And a cure?” he asked, scanning her notes.

“Willow bark can help with pain and inflammation. The apothecary in Covent Garden stocks a wide range of herbs and exotic ingredients. I know how to make herbal teas, tinctures and poultices.”

Mr Gentry glanced up at her with a glimmer of admiration. “How would you determine the patient is not suffering from pneumonia?”

She knew the answer because her mother had perished from the illness when Sofia was fifteen. “Pneumonia causes a feeling of malaise. The cough is not dry but produces sputum.”

He closed the book. “What is your view of bloodletting?”

She hesitated.

What if their opinions differed and it ruined her prospects?

“I believe the loss of blood weakens the patient. I have seen evidence of this personally.” As her father lay dying, she had argued with Judith, insisting bloodletting would aggravate his symptoms.

“Some might say that’s modern thinking, Miss Moorland.”

“Is it modern to learn from past mistakes?”

A slow smile warmed his face, one that had a strange heat coiling in her belly. “I cannot employ you to tend to my patients, but I may be able to help in other ways.” He studied her before asking her to remove her spectacles.

A frisson of alarm shot through her.

Why should her appearance matter?

“Remove my spectacles? For what purpose?”

“So I might look at you properly.” He returned her journal and folded his arms across his broad chest. “If I’m to pay for your services, I need to know you’ll obey my instructions.”

Shocked, Sofia stepped back and hit the wall. “I’m not sure what type of services you have in mind, sir, but I am not a woman?—”

“Your spectacles, Miss Moorland. I’ll not ask again.”

With muttered protests, Sofia removed her spectacles.

Mr Gentry snatched them and peered through the lenses. “It’s as I suspected. You don’t really need these. It explains why you can write and look at me while wearing them.”

“They help a little with distance,” she admitted, somewhat unnerved as he gazed at her face, “but as you say, the magnification is so mild, I can read and write without removing them.”

“How old are you?”

“Three and twenty, sir.”

He nodded like that was important. “May I take down your hair?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Clearly she had misheard.

“Your hair. May I see it when it’s not scraped back so severely?”

Sofia glanced left and right as her heartbeat thumped in her ears. It was as she feared. The service he wanted her to perform had nothing to do with treating ailments, though why he was interested in her remained a mystery.

“Mr Gentry, you should know I am seeking honest employment.” She had no intention of selling herself, even to a man she admired. “I intend to open my own practice one day, and cannot do that if people think I’m a harlot.”

Mr Gentry’s low chuckle stirred the hairs at her nape. “Removing a few pins does not make you a harlot, Miss Moorland.”

“What does it make me, sir?” A simpleton who hung on his every word? A slave to this man’s odd whims? A doe being hunted by a wolf?

He heard the implicit meaning behind her question and quickly offered every reassurance. “I don’t need a mistress if that’s your fear.”

Of course he didn’t. The long list of ladies vying for the position would cover the length of Pall Mall.

“If I needed a woman to warm my bed, I would choose one who didn’t persist in asking probing questions.”

So, this was a means to test her mettle.

Hoping she’d fall at the first hurdle.

He wanted an excuse to refuse giving her a position.

Sofia lifted her chin, ready to prove nothing fazed her. “Now we understand one another, you may remove the pins, but I demand an explanation as you do.”

Mischief danced in his eyes as he stepped too close and his elegant fingers slipped into her hair. “Would you care to hear my motive, Miss Moorland?”

“Please.”

One after another, he pulled the pins free, a slow, agonising attack on her senses. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening as his fingertips caressed her scalp.

“I must be sure your disguise is satisfactory.”

“My disguise?”

“Hold out your hand,” he uttered, gasping as her dark brown hair tumbled around her shoulders. “You might want to keep the pins.”

He dropped them into her palm, then brushed his fingers through her hair. The gentle caress created an intimacy that left her knees shaking and her heart pounding. If the job of mistress was available, she might be tempted to apply.

Mr Gentry stepped back and perused her from head to toe. “Report to my practice tomorrow at noon. Wear the monstrosity you call a dress. I expect all your garments to be just as poorly fitted. Tie your hair so tightly not a single strand escapes. And never, never remove your spectacles. Is that understood?”

He was going to employ her?

A wave of gratitude almost knocked her off her feet.

Sofia was so stunned she could barely form a word.

“Miss Moorland? Do you want to work for me or not?”

She nodded profusely. “Yes. I do. Thank you, sir.” Daring to be bold out of necessity, she asked, “Might the position come with lodgings? A small, simple room would suffice. You might deduct the rent from my wages. I shall be no trouble.”

Mr Gentry frowned, the lines on his brow deepening the longer he considered her. “Who are you running from, Miss Moorland? I’ll not have your personal troubles affecting your work.”

Sofia couldn’t bring herself to answer.

It wasn’t the image of Mr Harrop’s wobbling jowls or the memory of his wandering hands that sent her pulse soaring. It wasn’t the evil glint in her new stepfather’s eyes that crushed the air from her lungs.

Judith Merrick had a secret plan for Sofia, one that beggared belief. If the letter she’d found was proof of her stepmother’s intention, it painted a terrifying picture, a scene worse than a chilling nightmare.