A Kiss With Scandal (Scandals & Secrets 4)

A
KISS
WITH SCANDAL

Dream Cache Publishing

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.janelledaniels.com

Copyright © 2015 by Janelle Daniels

Cover Art © 2015 Creative Book Covers

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

F
or my fans
.

You’ve been amazingly patient waiting for this story. I couldn’t have done it without your support.

A
nd Dan
. The ultimate hero for all my stories.

I
f Charlotte had
to suffer through one more idiotic comment from a pea-brained lord, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

It was a gorgeous night. Balmy, clear. The Leatherbys were lucky when they held their social events. But instead of slipping through one of the many windowed doors into the torch-lit garden, she burrowed in the overheated house instead. She knew what was outside. She’d come across her fair share of lovers in her three years on the marriage mart.

Three years. How had it gone by so quickly?

She wasn’t still unmarried for lack of offers. Quite the opposite, actually. Since her debut, when her sister, Aubrey, married the Duke of Wathersby, she’d had numerous proposals, but none of them interested her. None of the men interested her.

She crept into an empty sitting room. A fire popped in the grate, filling the air with hints of wood smoke, but no candles were lit. The dim light cast shadows around the lavishly furnished room, and her muscles loosened, eased by the quiet.

Alone at last.

Sinking into the ivory, silk-upholstered couch, a sigh escaped her. She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time, slumping into an unladylike posture that would have made her mother faint.

Oh, sugar lumps.
Is this what her life would consist of? One boring row after another? Her days filled with monotonous calls to people who would relish the chance to turn on her if she ever stepped a toe out of line, and her nights with perfume-drenched dandies that wore corsets to hide their bulging bellies?
She had been so sure during her come out that this is what she wanted. That this life would fulfill all her dreams.

But where was passion, fire, adventure? Where was the man who would sweep her off her feet, who would free her while keeping her safe? She had never begrudged her sister anything, but she wanted what Aubrey had too. Oh, she didn’t want the duke for herself. He was perfect for her sister. She wanted someone of her own. Someone she could love with her whole heart.

Instead, she found herself alone in a random dark room in the Leatherbys’ townhouse, no closer to finding that man than she was three years ago.

And now she was wallowing.
Perfect.

Gliding her fingers over the cool rose silk of her skirt, she prepared herself to enter the foray after her short reprieve. She wouldn’t find what she was looking for in here, holed up and alone. She had to go out there, to smile, to pretend to hang on every word each of her dance partners said. One of them
had
to be the one she wished for. Right?

Hunting for her gloves, she swiped them off the cushion. There was no time like the present. She fitted one of the gloves on, adjusting the fingers until they were comfortable.

She paused, cocking her ear. Her eyes widened. Footsteps. Someone was coming this way.

Sugar lumps!
She whirled around, her eyes darting to places large enough to hide her. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but sitting alone in a dim room did not appear innocent.

Scandal.

She couldn’t let that happen. She would not be compromised just for wanting to escape boring conversation.

Whispered words were spoken outside the door, a man’s voice, low and dark. She gulped, diving behind the couch, praying the shadows hid her form pressed against the base of the furniture.

The door handle turned, squeaking in the silence. More whispers, but this time a woman’s.
Oh no.
She groaned.
Not lovers.

Maybe she should announce herself, pretend she’d dropped something. They might believe she’d merely wanted a moment to herself. Especially if they sought their own rendezvous.

The door closed.
Well, now or never.
She gripped the couch to pull herself up.

“I won’t tolerate your failure,” the woman snapped.

Charlotte’s hand froze.

“All I need is a little more time. I won’t let you down.” The man’s words ended on a whine.

“See that you don’t. I don’t want to clean up another mess. Lord Barnsal was close to outing us. But killing him was a mistake. They’re onto us now.”

Breath clogged her lungs. Lord Barnsal. She’d heard he died, but hadn’t known how. Murder. The word skittered along her spine. These two had killed him.

Feet shuffled on the wood floor. They must have moved off the runner toward the fire. Toward her. She slowly withdrew her hand from the sofa’s back, burrowing further in the shadows, and prayed she wouldn’t be seen. She closed herself into a ball, hoping to block out the world, to make herself as small as possible.

“There was no other choice,” the man grated.

She tsked. “Careful. That almost sounded defiant.”

Silence froze the room, and Charlotte strained to hear something, anything.

“Forgive me. It was a trying experience. It won’t happen again.”

The woman sniffed. “For your sake, I hope not. The minute you become a liability…” She trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish.

Charlotte gulped. How could someone speak of murder so casually?

Who were these people? They weren’t the Leatherbys. They both sounded much different. The man wasn’t familiar to her, but there was something about the woman’s voice that sparked… something. Charlotte couldn’t point her finger to who it was, but she knew this woman.

A ball knotted in her stomach. She was acquainted with these people.

The couch jolted, cushions deflated as one of them sat inches away from her. Charlotte tilted her head back slowly as delicate fingers drummed the spine of the couch. Fingers of a murderer.

The hand stilled. “You have two weeks. Not a day more. I need that contract from France if I’m to succeed. My time is precious, and it’s running out.” She paused. “As is yours. I don’t think you’ll enjoy what I have in mind for you.”

“No. Not any more than I would walking into the Thames with stones sewn into my clothes, I’m sure.”

She waved him away. “Now go. You’re bothering me. Send me a note once you have what I want.”

The door opened and closed without another word. Silence ensued, and Charlotte broke into a sweat. How long would the woman stay here?

Heat gathered in her corset as her heart pounded. Her body rigid, she strained to hold still. One move, one slight adjustment would mean her death. Charlotte wasn’t ready to die. Not like this. Not behind a couch in a darkened corner.

She would hold this position, fight through the cramp in her leg, until the woman left.

Rich laughter floated in the air, raising the hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck. How could this woman laugh? How twisted was she? She spoke of murder while threatening another.

This woman was mad. Dangerous.

But what could Charlotte do about it? There was no way to discern who she was.

Who could Charlotte trust? These two were guests tonight. They spoke too well for servants. No, these were her peers. And they may not be the only ones. Anyone could be involved in this. No one could be trusted.

She could confide in her family, but what would that accomplish? They might tell the wrong person what she’d overheard. Then their lives would be in danger as well.

This was all her fault. If she hadn’t been adamant about choosing her own path, her own life, she would have been settled by now—at home, round with child, and unable to overhear anything that could get her killed. But that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted the freedom that only love brought. The freedom to fully be one’s self.

When the woman rose from the couch, Charlotte gulped.

Safe and secure never sounded so good.

D
erek Haveston
, the Viscount Lawrence, cursed his fortune. While he’d idly danced with another quiet slip of a girl, he’d missed his window. He knew better than to acknowledge an acquaintance when pressed for time. Especially one with three daughters out this season. But he had, and he’d ended up dancing with Miss Eloisa Grant when he should have been gathering information.

He stiffly nodded to a friend he passed down the hall, but didn’t slow his step. If he didn’t arrive in time to obtain a face, a name even, there would be hell to pay.

The door to a sitting room was open. Although it wasn’t likely his enemy would be that sloppy, Derek moved with the shadows as he approached the room, straining to hear voices within.

Damn. His shoulders loosened. He’d missed his targets. He could only imagine what his superiors would think of that.

He pushed open the door, breezing into the dark space. The air was overly hot in the plush room. The door must have been shut for a while. His eyes darted around the space, taking in the slight indent in the couch, the scuff of mud on the floor by the fireplace, the annoying twitch in his nose from too much body cologne. But there was something else there. He forced in a deep draw, weeding out the musk for another.
There.
A lighter scent. Roses, but not natural, not the scent of a flower. It was the cloying, too ripe scent one purchased from a scent shop. So, a man and a woman.

Could it have been
her
? He rolled the thought around in his mind while he walked the room. The War Office knew a woman was involved. The Black Dahlia, they called her, and she headed the operation. They suspected she was a member of the aristocracy, and if she had been here tonight, as an anonymous tip had revealed, that meant they were right.

But with hundreds of bodies crammed in the ballroom downstairs, it was nearly impossible to figure out who had been here.

He cursed, tugging on his cravat. He should have been on time. If he’d done his duty, this would be over. He would know who she was and the identity of one of her lackeys. But he’d failed. And now his last mission would continue.

Lord, how he was ready for this to be done. He traced the furniture again, searching the cushions, the mantle, the heavily polished end tables for something, anything that they could have left.
Something
to reveal their identities.

Nothing.

He skimmed around the sofa, resting his hands on the spine. Five minutes. That’s the most he could have missed them by. Five. Bloody. Minutes. He hung his head, blowing out a breath.

Something in the shadows caught his eye. He cocked his head, kneeling to touch whatever disrupted the darkness. His eyes widened. Silk. He pulled the snowy white glove toward the light, eyeing the feminine garment and then the darkened hiding space behind the couch.

Carefully, he brought the fabric to his nose. A light lemon scent clung to the material.

Nerves tingled up his spine. No, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. This glove could belong to anyone. Someone could have been in here earlier, sat on the couch, and dropped their glove without notice.

But then, what lady would return to a ball missing a glove? No, she would have returned for it.

And there was no way this glove belonged to the Black Dahlia. The woman was too meticulous to leave any traces of herself.

His eyes gleamed. There were other explanations, but only one stood out firmly. Only one felt true.

There was a witness.