Page 2 of One Night of Scandal (Fairleigh Sisters #2)

“I had every intention of modeling the villain of my very first novel in his dastardly image.”

Sighing, she tugged down the window sash.

“But I suppose none of that matters now. After tonight, I’ll be officially on the marriage mart, which means all of London will be abuzz with gossip every time I use the wrong fork or sneeze without using my handkerchief. Before you know it, I’ll be cloistered away in some country estate with a dull squire of a husband and a passel of brats.”

Harriet sank down on an overstuffed ottoman, reaching to stroke the cat napping on the hearth.

“But isn’t that what every woman wants? To marry a wealthy man and live the life of a lady of leisure?”

Lottie hesitated, at a rare loss for words. How could she explain the unease that had been creeping through her heart? As her debut into society approached, she had the suffocating sense that her life was about to come to an end before it had even begun.

“Of course that’s what every woman wants,”

she said, as much to reassure herself as Harriet.

“Only a featherbrained girl would dream of becoming a celebrated Gothic novelist like Mrs. Radcliffe or Mary Shelley.”

She slid onto the stool in front of the dressing table, dipped some rice paper in a jar of powder, and dabbed at her fashionably retroussé nose.

“I can’t very well disappoint Sterling again. He and Laura have welcomed me into their home, seen to my education, and bailed me out of all my scrapes. He’s been more of a father to me than a brother-in-law. When I walk down those stairs tonight, I want to see his face shining with pride. I want to be the lady he dreamed I would become.”

She sighed, wishing the regal young woman in the mirror didn’t look quite so much like a stranger. The doubt shadowing her features made her wide blue eyes seem much too large for her face.

“We might as well resign ourselves to our fate, dear Harriet. Our hellion days are behind us. After tonight, there will be no more grand adventures for either of us.”

Lottie’s eyes met Harriet’s in the mirror.

“After tonight,”

she whispered. The next thing Lottie knew, she was hiking up her skirts and hooking one leg over the windowsill.

“Where are you going?”

Harriet cried.

“I’m going to steal one look at our notorious neighbor,”

Lottie replied, swinging her other leg over the windowsill.

“How can I ever hope to write about a villain with any conviction if I’ve never seen one?”

“Are you sure this is prudent?”

Her friend’s concern gave Lottie pause. It was unlike Harriet to have reservations about anything Lottie suggested, no matter how outlandish.

“I have the rest of my life to worry about being prudent. But I have only a few precious moments left to be me.”

She lowered herself out the window. By stretching, she could just touch her toes to the branch below. During her years at finishing school, she’d gained ample experience scrambling both down and up trees to elude unreasonable curfews and diligent headmistresses.

“But what will I do if your sister and aunt come to fetch you?”

Harriet called after her.

“Don’t fret. With any luck, I’ll be back before the musicians strike up the notes of the first waltz.”

And so she might have been had the stubborn nail not snagged her flounces and Harriet hadn’t abruptly vanished. Still dangling between window and tree, Lottie gave the fabric one last hopeless tug. Without warning, the flounce ripped itself free. She swayed, torn between grabbing for the tree and grabbing for the fluttering silk. Her hesitation cost her the last of her balance. She went plunging backward through the branches, a shriek lodged in her throat.

Fortunately, she didn’t plunge far.

She landed in a prickly cradle formed by three branches misted with delicate spring greenery. She was still dizzily trying to absorb the fact that the gentlemen of London would have to mourn her loss another day when Harriet’s shoulders and head appeared in the window above her.

“Oh, there you are!”

Harriet said brightly.

Lottie glared up at her.

“What did you do? Slip out for a spot of tea?”

Oblivious to Lottie’s sarcasm, Harriet held aloft a dark garment.

“I went to fetch your mantle. It’s only May, you know. There’s still a bit of a chill in the air. You wouldn’t want to catch an ague. It might be the death of you.”

“So might plunging thirty feet to the ground,”

Lottie informed her grimly. She gave her tattered bodice a rueful glance.

“You might as well toss it down. It appears I’ll have need of it.”

The mantle came billowing down over her head, momentarily blinding her. Lottie batted the soft woolen folds away from her face, then balled up the garment and tossed it over the stone wall.

Harriet glanced nervously over her shoulder.

“What am I to do while you’re gone?”

“Be a dear and fetch a needle and some thread.”

Tucking one wayward breast back into her drooping bodice, Lottie muttered.

“I don’t think this is quite what Laura had in mind when she said my coming out would be the talk of the ton.”

Grasping the limb above her head, Lottie hauled herself to her feet. Once she regained her balance, it was no challenge to swing down to the broad branch that stretched over the wall and into the courtyard next door. As she dropped to the ground on the other side of the wall, she heard a carriage rattle to a halt at the front of her aunt’s house, followed by the murmur of voices as its occupants alighted.

She had even less time than she had hoped. The first guests were beginning to arrive.

As she bent to retrieve the mantle, an acerbic and all too familiar voice drifted over the front wall, sending a chill spilling like ice water down the back of her neck.

“It’s a miracle the child survived to her debut. I always used to warn her that someday she was going to get herself into a scrape she couldn’t charm her way out of.”

“Someday, Miss Terwilliger,”

Lottie whispered, whipping the soft woolen folds of the mantle around her shoulders.

“But not tonight.”

Hayden St. Clair sat all alone in the study of his rented house, reading by candlelight.

“ ‘The mysterious M.M. himself was spotted ducking into a Bond Street haberdashery yesterday,’ ”

he read aloud from the most recent edition of the Gazette.

“A fine trick, that,”

he muttered.

“considering I haven’t left the house since Monday.”

He flipped the page of the newspaper, seeking the next column.

“ ‘There are some who speculate his rare visit to London might have been timed to coincide with the start of the Season and the recent influx of blushing young belles eager to join the Husband Hunt.’ ”

Hayden shuddered, picturing some poor fox in evening clothes being run to ground by a pack of giggling debutantes.

“ ‘If indeed the M.M. has decided to seek a new bride, may this humble observer suggest an appropriate hue for her bridal gown—black.’”

A snort escaped him—half laughter, half disgust.

“Devilishly clever, aren’t they? The entire miserable lot of them.”

He held the pamphlet over the candle, waiting patiently until the edges began to curl, then burst into flame. Leaning forward in the brocaded wing chair, he tossed it on the cold grate, watching with no small satisfaction as it burned to ash along with that day’s editions of The Times, the St. James Chronicle, the Courier, and the Spy. Disposing of them might have been easier had he bothered to light the fire one of the footman had laid in the hearth, but compared to the stinging winds that whipped across Bodmin moor, the chill damp of London felt positively balmy. He’d only been in London for a fortnight, but he already missed the salty tang of the sea and the shrill cry of the kittiwakes that wheeled over the foamy breakers.

He wondered what the scandalmongers would write if they knew he had come to London to seek a woman, but not a wife. Had they been less successful in their mission to discredit him, he might even have found her.

The Tatler had gone so far as to accuse him of fleeing Cornwall to escape his ghosts. Unlike the professional gossips, he wasn’t fool enough to believe that ghosts could be confined to craggy cliffs and windswept moors. They were just as likely to lurk within a melancholy snatch of Schubert drifting out an open window on Bedford Square. They hovered in a whiff of floral perfume that stubbornly clung to his coat long after he’d brushed past its wearer on the crowded pavement. They stalked the fresh-faced young beauties who strolled past the shops of Regent Street, their bouncing curls and exuberant chatter bringing a smile of delight to every man who passed.

Every man too innocent to realize that one man’s delight might very well prove to be another man’s doom.

Hayden had caught a glimpse of just such a creature only that morning—a golden-haired sprite who had descended from a crested carriage and flitted into the house next door, calling out a teasing challenge to the girl who plodded along behind her. He had watched them from the second-story window of his bedchamber, his fingers frozen in the act of knotting his cravat. Although he’d slammed the window and jerked the heavy drapes shut before he could catch more than a tantalizing glimpse of her face, her laughter had haunted him for the rest of the day.

He rose, moving to the elegant leather trunk perched on the edge of the desk. It had been delivered only that morning. Opening the trunk, he eyed the offering nestled in its velvet-lined interior. It seemed a poor consolation for the treasure he had hoped to find. He would have done just as well to remain in Cornwall, he supposed, but his quest had seemed too significant to trust to a secretary or solicitor, however discreet. He started to lower the brass-banded lid, then stopped, oddly reluctant to hide away the trunk’s contents.

He was stuffing books and ledgers into the valise yawning open on the other side of the desk when a knock sounded on the door. Hayden ignored it, knowing from experience that if he did so long enough, whoever it was would go away. He had dismissed the servants shortly after tea, deciding they might as well enjoy their last night in London even if he chose not to.

The rapping on the brass knocker persisted—firm, steady, and unrelenting. His patience taxed beyond endurance, Hayden shoved the last of the ledgers into the valise. He stalked across the foyer to the front door and flung it open.

His lingering skepticism regarding the existence of ghosts was dispelled in that moment.

An apparition from his own past lounged against the stoop’s iron rail, his silvery-blond hair haloed by the misty glow of the gas streetlamps. Hayden hadn’t laid eyes on Sir Edward Townsend since the blustery autumn day four years ago when Hayden had laid his wife to rest in the Oakleigh family crypt. Although Justine’s interment was supposed to be private, Hayden hadn’t had the heart to turn Ned away. After all, Ned had loved her, too.

He hadn’t denied Ned that last farewell, but he had left the cemetery without exchanging a single word with him.

Once his friend might have thrown his arms around him and given him a hearty thump on the back. Now Hayden’s rigid posture made such a gesture impossible.

“Ned,”

Hayden said flatly.

“Hayden,”

Ned replied, his own expression faintly mocking.

Before Hayden could protest, Ned had pushed his way past him and into the foyer, twirling his walking stick between deft fingers. He cut much the same figure as the boy of twelve Hayden had met at Eton all those years ago—long-limbed and impeccably groomed from the tips of his polished Wellingtons to his short-cropped Grecian haircut.

“Do come in,”

Hayden said dryly.

“Thank you. I believe I will.”

Ned turned, tapping the tip of his walking stick against the oak floor.