A Taste for Scandal (28 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

“What are you doing in here?”

Richard looked up from the glass of whiskey he had been staring into for the last quarter hour to see Evie standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her tightly belted wrapper. Her expression somehow blended suspicion, worry, relief, and concern—all with the work of a single lifted brow.

“Contemplating the universe.” He waved expansively from his position behind his father’s desk, the leather of the chair he had never before sat in creaking with the motion. “Come in and join me, Bit. I didn’t think anyone was up this early. Forgive me if I don’t stand—I find my balance wasn’t what it was several drinks ago. How are you holding up?”

She dropped her arms and made her way to the chair opposite him, dropping into it without a hint of decorum. “Better now than last night. Benedict is still abed after his late-night efforts to locate you, but Emma knows no such change to her schedule. After all that has happened, I didn’t want anyone but me to tend to her. I just wish I could get back to sleep.”

He nodded; he knew what she meant. The dim light of dawn was filtering around the edges of the drapes, and he had yet to sleep for even a minute. He lifted his drink to his lips, but paused. “Whiskey?”

That earned a tiny grin before she shook her head. “Best not. And you didn’t answer my question. What has you here in Papa’s study, looking as reputable as a footpad?”

Richard downed a healthy portion of the remainder of his drink and set the glass down with a snap. “Too much to think about. Father, the estate business, the future . . .”
Jane.
He could only hope none of her neighbors had been roused by his servant’s attempt to find him. She didn’t deserve to suffer because of him. How many times had she fretted for her reputation, and he had brushed aside her concerns?

“So you really are contemplating the universe.”

“Indeed.” He leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach. Last night had involved two momentous events. He had known pure bliss in Jane’s embrace, and he had learned the meaning of true terror at his father’s bedside. All those years he had imagined he had before having to worry about shouldering the weight of his responsibilities had disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Though it lay heavy in his gut like an immovable boulder, Richard knew what he had to do. Take over the reins of running the estate. See to his family’s well-being. Oversee the business. And at some point, select the perfect society wife. Richard knew that one of the marquis’s greatest stresses was worrying about securing the title for the next generation, in turn securing his wife’s and daughters’ futures.

“I’ll be here to help, you know.”

Richard’s head snapped up. He had completely forgotten Evie was in the room. “I know.”

“You have no need to worry about the business—I’ll have it in hand.”

He nodded. She was trying to help, but she was also reaffirming what he already knew. His family didn’t really think that he could handle what was ahead. It was clear in their halfhearted encouragements last night—the assurances that he’d do fine, accompanied by the exchanges of worried glances. Although really, in all his life, Jane was the only one who ever challenged him to be better. To rise to the occasion, to be more than what people expected him to be. And damn it, that was what he had to do.

“You really should get to bed. Tomorrow—rather, today, is going to be a hell of a day.”

Now, that, he knew to be fact. Everything else was up in the air. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Evie stood and skirted around the desk. She kneeled before him, taking his hand in hers. “I wish I could take the worry from you. I can see it as clearly as if a yoke rested across your shoulders. Don’t worry—everything will work out.”

Of all the possible scenarios following this night, absolutely none of them included the possibility of “everything will work out.” But he was too damn tired to argue. He gave a curt nod, enough to let her think he agreed. Let her believe it—he, however, knew better.

The dough moved gracefully beneath her fingers, rolling with every fist she drove into it, absorbing the blows as if it were its due. Time and again, she plunged her hands in, stretching the mixture apart and folding it back together again. The warm, yeasty scent filled the dim kitchen, but even that, the most familiar of aromas, could not calm Jane’s nerves.

She was grateful, at least, that Richard had thought to send the note, assuring her that his father had survived the attack of his heart and would hopefully recover in time. With it, one small part of the nerves that had plagued her since the moment Richard had left last night had been assuaged.

But so many other worries remained. Her heart ached for Richard. She of all people knew exactly how difficult it was for disaster to strike, and suddenly everyone was depending on you when you yourself felt strewn upon the rocks like a storm-ravaged boat. Overnight, it was his responsibility to care for his family, for the estate business, and all the things his father had always seen to. She knew how much that prospect worried him—the idea of having everyone depend on him. Dealing with that while still worrying for his father’s health must be doubly difficult.

She also knew that there could be no room for her among his new responsibilities. She’d known from the beginning that there could never be anything lasting between them. And who would have imagined it could have even been possible? For the most part, she was happy working in her cozy kitchen, content with the life she had eked out with Weston.

But then he’d waltzed into her shop, irreverent, irrepressible, impossible to resist, and somehow Jane had let herself fall for him. She’d known there was no possible future between them, but she had to admit, she had hoped for a present. To seize the moment, to enjoy the butterflies in her belly, the toe-curling kisses . . . his skin against hers.

She had given in to her heart, given in to the incredible attraction between them and now, she had not just lost him, she may very well lose her reputation.

All day she had waited, baking loaf after loaf of bread, expecting a knock on the door that would change everything. When Richard’s messenger came with the letter, she had very near fainted from the sudden racing of her heart. Now, hours later, she still had no way of knowing whether she was safe. If someone had seen the men leaving last night, would they come forward? Would they spread gossip? How long before she knew one way or the other?

It was close to suppertime when she found out the answer to that particular question. That was when the knock came. Jane froze, all the dread that had built within her for hours coming forth like a crashing wave. Somehow in that moment she knew, with absolute clarity, who would be waiting on the other side of the door. With a calmness that didn’t penetrate her icy heart, Jane slowly ascended the steps, preparing to face her accuser.

Her neighbor’s round silhouette hovered before the glass door, a vulture ready to make her kill. Jane held her chin high as she unlocked the door. “Good evening, Mrs. Brown. How can I help you?”

Why, oh why, couldn’t the woman ever just let her be? Mama’s gentle warning from one of the first letters Jane had read after her death flitted through her brain:
Jealousy serves as fertilizer for the seeds of discontent planted in one’s soul.
Take care not to cause it in others, and be wary of fostering it within yourself.
Was it possible the old woman was jealous of Jane’s independence? Her business? Or perhaps even her youth?

Mrs. Brown narrowed her eyes to slits as she marched past Jane into the shop. “You brazen little hussy. Have you no shame at all?”

Jane reared back at the vehemence behind the accusation. She had expected it all day, but to have the words spoken to her face was nothing short of shocking. “What a horrible thing to say. How dare you come into my shop, throwing ridiculous insults upon my person?”

Her neighbor stalked forward a few steps. Clearly, she knew something—but how much? It had been raining, and the hour was late. Was it possible the situation was at all salvageable?

“I’ll have you know,” the old woman said, an odd gleam of satisfaction lighting her small eyes, “that I am not the only person in this neighborhood who sees you for what you really are.”

This was going from bad to worse. Having Mrs. Brown’s bad opinion was a given, but the idea of one of her other neighbors thinking ill of her hurt in a way she hadn’t expected. Jane’s breath came in short gasps, like a fish dragged onto the shores of the Thames. She crossed her arms over her chest, her icy fingers chilling the skin of her upper arms. “Oh?”

“Last night, Mr. Finton came home late. Mrs. Finton told me this morning that he saw two strange men leaving your home well after dark. Two! I knew all along that no respectable woman would ever try to run a business. There were those who thought me overly judgmental, but clearly I was right. You bring shame to your family and your
business
.”

The last was said with such derision, Jane took another step back. Her worst fear was being realized, right before her eyes. What could she say to such evidence against her? The irony of it all was that
nothing
had happened. Yes, she had been alone with a man, but they had shared little more than exquisite kisses and precious few caresses. She swallowed past the pain in her heart and opened her mouth. “I—”

“Is there a law against being outside late at night?”

At the low timbre of Emerson’s voice, Jane jerked around to see him emerge from the corridor leading to the kitchen. Relief washed through her, cool and liquid. She had never been so happy to see another human being in her life. He strode into the room with confidence, his broad shoulders dwarfing Mrs. Brown despite her own, not insubstantial girth.

The old woman backed up nervously, her eyes shifting back and forth between them. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Webb, but Mr. Finton said it was two
strange
men. I’m sure he would have recognized you. And besides, Mrs. Finton said you and the boy left before dark.”

Emerson crossed his arms. “Such gossip flowing between the three of you. Well, the old codger looked too far in his cups to recognize anyone, if you ask me. He was so pissed, he didn’t even seem to realize that we were coming home, not leaving.”

If Jane hadn’t known better, she would have believed him herself. It was the perfect tactic—everyone knew the man was a lush. Mrs. Brown’s nostrils flared, but even she knew better than to deny Mr. Finton’s love of spirits. “And what were you doing out so late?”

Emerson’s polite smile vanished. In its place, his features hardened and his eyes glinted like steel. He looked positively terrifying, and for the first time Jane could imagine him in the heat of combat on the open seas.

“
If
you had the right to question my comings and goings, I
might
tell you that the rain had ruined our plans for our trip, so Weston and I decided to turn back. However, let me make myself abundantly clear,” he said, leaning over her like a great, hulking gladiator prepared to do battle. “My business is of absolutely no concern of yours. In fact, if I hear that you have gossiped like an oil-lipped fishwife to anyone about my affairs, I will make it
my
business to ruin yours. Are we clear?”

Mrs. Brown reared back in outrage, but didn’t dare talk back to him. Jane held her breath, unsure of what would happen next. Emerson glared down at her, his nostrils flaring and cheeks ruddy beneath his day-old stubble. Surely the woman wouldn’t risk angering him further.

The thumping of Weston’s boots on the stairs broke through the tension as he stormed up the stairs and pushed through the door. “Jane, you wouldn’t believe how beautiful the ships were in Gravesend—”

He came to an abrupt halt the moment his eyes laid on Mrs. Brown. Jane watched him as if in the midst of a heavy fog, her ears roaring and her vision dimming. Dear Lord, this couldn’t be happening. Any hope Jane may have had of avoiding trouble vanished as Emerson’s lie was laid bare. Her eyes darted to her neighbor.

The emotions on the woman’s face flickered from astonishment to confusion before comprehension dawned. In that split second of time, Jane saw everything she had worked for slipping through her fingers like water.

For a moment they just stared at each other, neither moving a muscle. And then, Mrs. Brown smiled. She started to turn, and Jane sprang forward, grabbing her wrist. “No, wait!”

But she didn’t wait. She snatched her arm away, looking at Jane as if she were a leper on the street before wrenching the door open and bolting across the road, her plump arms pumping in her haste.

Jane turned back to Emerson, horror blooming heavily in her chest. He snapped his mouth closed and came to her, grabbing her by both shoulders and looking her right in the eye. “It’s going to be all right, Jane. We’ll figure something out.”

All she could do was shake her head back and forth. What could they possibly do? How in the world could they figure something out that would fix what had just happened? One couldn’t un-break a dish or un-burn a biscuit, and one definitely couldn’t un-sully a reputation.

“Janey,” Weston said, fear and worry making his voice crack. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, but if it’s my fault, I—I didn’t mean it.”

She should answer him, she knew she should, but words wouldn’t come to her stricken lips.

What did one say when one’s whole life came crashing down like a house of cards?

Chapter Twenty-four

Tapping on the door to the master chambers, Richard waited until his father bade him enter before letting himself in. He took a few steps toward the bed but stopped in confusion. What the hell? For the first time in days, it was actually empty.

“In here, son.”

Well, this was a new development. Richard followed the voice through the open door to the adjoining sitting room, where he found Father sprawled on one of the wide wingback chairs flanking the fireplace. Richard didn’t even try to stifle the stupid grin that came to his lips. Damn, but it was good to see his father out of bed.