A Taste for Scandal (30 page)

At last he cleared his throat and turned to the man accompanying him. “Mr. Keating, the documents, if you will.”

Jane watched helplessly, as if a spectator in a play, as the papers were withdrawn and held out to her. She lifted her eyes to the steely landlord. “Please, Mr. Byrd. Don’t do this. In only two more years my brother will be grown. Please allow me to stay until then, when I am no longer supporting us both.”

He hesitated a moment, his eyes flitting around her cheery little shop, with its gaily colored, good-as-new cabinets and happy little curtains. The sunlight sparkled off the glass display, throwing light to the cleanly swept floor. Hope swelled in her heart. As she had already pointed out to him, she had never missed a single payment, and her store was always neat and tidy. As far as Jane knew, Mrs. Brown was the only person who had ever complained about her. Surely Jane’s record as a model tenant had to go for something.

At last he turned to his associate. “Mr. Keating, would you please make a correction to the eviction papers?”

Holding her breath, she willed him to give her what she asked.

Mr. Keating nodded and walked to the table. “I am ready when you are, sir.”

“Under the verbiage delineating the amount of time the tenant has before vacating the premises, please change the time frame from one week to . . .” Mr. Byrd tilted his head and regarded her. “Make it a fortnight. I believe that is more than generous. Never let it be said that I am a man without conscience.”

Jane’s head snapped back as if she’d been slapped.
Two weeks?
What on earth could she do in a fortnight? She had nowhere to go—even Emerson would be gone by then, for heaven’s sake. And she hadn’t the funds— “Wait! What about the money I put down when I signed the lease? When will those funds be released?”

Thank God for the deposit. That money may just provide the means to move somewhere new and start again. Perhaps in the country, or near the sea somewhere.

Mr. Byrd pressed his hat back down on his head and turned toward the door. “You’re the one who broke the terms of the lease, Miss Bunting. You as good as forfeited the money as soon as you began inviting men in for a . . .
different
brand of sweets. Good day, miss.”

Dumb with shock, Jane could do little more than watch as the men filed out the front door. Past them, Mrs. Brown’s smug face filled one of the windowpanes across the way.

That . . . that spiteful old, shriveled-up miserable witch.

Swallowing against the anger, nausea, and fear, Jane turned away from the windows and walked toward the kitchen in a daze. There were much worse things to worry about than her horrible neighbor. She had exactly one fortnight to figure out how to pick up the jagged pieces of her life and somehow start over.

Weston’s eyes were wide when she clomped down the stairs. He had to know exactly what had just happened. “Janey, what are we going to do?”

She looked at him for a second, completely at a loss.

She shook her head, unsure of how to respond. Her eyes flitted around the kitchen, as if the answer could be found in the familiar array of pots and pans, the worktable bearing the scars of her labors, or the heavily laden shelves lining the back wall.

A key scraped in the lock and Emerson came bustling in with a box of supplies balanced against his hip. “Ahoy . . .” He trailed off, looking back and forth between them. “What happened? Bloody hell, the wench won, didn’t she?”

Jane lifted her chin, trying to maintain her composure. “I suppose she did. We’re to be out in two weeks.”

Emerson uttered a string of curses unlike anything she had ever heard. She didn’t chastise him—if she knew how to properly curse, she might have joined in. Dropping the box on the counter with a resounding thud, he put his hands to his hips. “All right, it’s time we sat down and talked. I didn’t want to bring this up unless I had to, but it would seem we’ve reached that point.”

Her cousin’s strong, no-nonsense attitude was exactly what she needed. She had preemptively mourned this moment for days. Now it was time to do something about it. She nodded. “Let me go lock up, and I’ll meet you upstairs.”

As the boys headed up to their apartment, she flipped the closed sign in the front window, locked the door, then turned to take in the pretty little room. She looked up, fighting against the tears that welled in her eyes. If she cried now, she didn’t know if she’d stop. In front of her, in its place of honor on the top shelf of the cabinet, her mother’s vase presided over the room. Jane took a deep breath, lifting her chin.

She was a survivor. Losing Mama and Papa was infinitely worse than this, no matter how much her heart ached. If she could make it through their loss, she could certainly make it through this.

Dear Mama,

I will make it through this. I promise I will make you proud again. And I promise to never set aside your advice ever again.

Love,

Jane

By the time they reconvened, Jane had at least reached the point where she could draw a proper breath. Weston and Emerson were waiting for her at the table, and her cousin patted her hand when she joined them.

“Well then,” he said, offering her a brusque smile, “one thing being in the navy has taught me is to always be prepared. You never know when the enemy may happen upon you in the dead of night, or a storm will brew from God’s own fingertips out of thin air.

“After the old bat stormed out of here Sunday, I decided to go talk with a few of my contacts to see what kind of opportunities there were out there.”

Jane’s brow knitted. He wanted to leave them?
Now?
She rubbed a hand over her eyes, trying to keep her composure.

“I found an excellent opportunity to sign on with a merchant ship with the East India Trade Company. The captain was the first officer on the first man-of-war I sailed out on years ago. We fought side by side during an encounter with a French three-decker that nearly did us in two years ago, and he was more than happy to have me aboard.” He paused and cut a glance to Weston before glancing back to Jane. “He also has need for a cabin boy.”

Jane stared at him dumbly for a moment. All at once she realized what he was trying to say. “You mean you want Weston to be a
sailor
?” Her mind was reeling. She could stand just about anything, but the loss of her brother would be too much to bear. She had already failed him by losing his legacy, their family’s shop. She couldn’t just ship him off on the first outbound vessel, for heaven’s sake.

“I’m saying that the opportunity is available. The decision to take it belongs to the two of you.”

“No. Of course not! I couldn’t possibly allow—”

“Jane, I
want
to go.”

She gaped at her brother. “Weston, what are you saying? Sailing is hard, dangerous work! You are a baker, just as your father and grandfather were.”

“No,
you
are a baker. I am merely a boy of all work. I don’t like baking. I’m not even good at it. If it weren’t for the fact that you needed me, I would have never chosen this for my work.”

“You don’t mean that—”

“I do,” he insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “I want to see the world, like Emerson has several times over. I want to be on the water, in the open air—not trapped indoors day in and day out.”

“But what if you hate it? You’ll be stuck, and alone . . . No, you are far too young for something like this.”

Emerson crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “He’s years older than some men when they join. If he hates it, he can walk away as soon as the ship returns to England. And Janey,” he said, smiling kindly, “he won’t be alone. He’ll have me, and I won’t let anything happen to him.”

What was she supposed to say to such a thing? Sure, he wouldn’t be alone, but then she would. But was that selfish? This whole situation was her fault, after all. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you this much,” Emerson said, his voice quiet. “It’s all he’s wanted to talk about since the moment I arrived. Compasses and rope tying and rigging and sails—anything and everything to do with ships. I’d say that’s a mark of true interest.”

He was right. She knew he was right, even if she didn’t want to admit it. And the truth was, even if she didn’t want Weston to go, she certainly didn’t have any other ideas for him. She sighed and nodded. “All right. Weston, if this is what you truly want above all else, then I give my blessing.”

Weston gave a little whoop, his face almost glowing with excitement. Emerson hushed him, and her brother gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Janey.”

“It’s all right. It makes things better for me to know you’ll be happy.”

Emerson tilted his head, watching her. “Now, we need to come up with a plan for you.”

Jane thought of the events of the last week, and the lessons that had set the whole thing in motion. “Actually,” she said, “I believe I have an idea. There is someone I need to go see.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Standing at the servant’s entrance of the grand home she thought never to see again, Jane tried to maintain her composure while she waited for the footman to return. He had looked at her as if she had three eyes when she asked for the note she had written to be delivered to Lady Beatrice at once. The door had very nearly been slammed in her face until inspiration struck.

“It’s about a painting,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice as if revealing the darkest of secrets. She’d nearly wilted with relief when the man finally plucked the note from her fingers and went off in search of his mistress.

At least she hoped he had—long minutes had passed since he’d left her there, and her nerves were beginning to wear thin. She didn’t have an alternate plan. If Beatrice refused to see her, Jane had no idea what she would do.

The knob turned and Beatrice appeared, her eyes wide with concern. “My dear Miss Bunting,” she said, glancing behind her before stepping outside and shutting the door. “Come, come, let us talk in the garden.” She hooked her arm around Jane’s elbow and led her to a small iron bench tucked against the wall among a row of perfectly manicured hedges. The smell of damp greenery reminded Jane so strongly of that morning in the park with Richard, she very nearly lost her composure.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she said, “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.”

“But of course. And if your note had not asked that I be discreet, I would have invited you in the front door. Now, Jane, you must tell me what is the matter. Your note was quite urgent.”

Jane relished Beatrice’s reassuring squeeze of her hand. She had worried the whole way over here that the Beatrice she knew in her kitchen would be entirely different from the Beatrice who resided in one of the largest homes in Mayfair. Those worries were banished, though, thanks to the sincerity she saw in the younger girl’s troubled eyes.

“I’m so sorry, my lady, for coming here like this. I know you and your family are already dealing with so much.”

“Please, I’m just Beatrice when we are alone. And think nothing of it; by now all of us are going a little mad cooped up in that house as we’ve been.”

Jane bit her tongue against the need to ask how Richard was doing. Was he holding up all right? Did he think of her at all? Instead, she smiled as best she could and said, “Well, thank you all the same for seeing me. How is your father?”

Her smile slipped a bit. “He’s still very ill. But better every day, thank heavens.” She shook her head, the corners of her lips turning up once more. “Not near fast enough for Papa’s taste. He wants nothing more than to be free of the sick room and his doctors.”

“I’m so glad to hear he is improving.” Jane looked out over the garden, not sure how to even begin the conversation she came to conduct. The little walled oasis was remarkably quiet. She would have never thought such a peaceful place could exist in the middle of London.

Beatrice shifted on the bench so as to face her more fully. “My curiosity is beyond bearing, I’m afraid. What is the mysterious problem you alluded to in your rather cryptic note?”

Perhaps it was best just to be blunt. “I find I’m in need of employment, and I am hoping you might be able to help me.”

“Employment?” Beatrice gasped the word, her hand going to her heart. “Whatever do you mean? What happened to your bakery?”

It was hard to confess one’s sins—real or perceived—particularly when those sins involved the brother of the person one was confessing to. Mortification stained Jane’s cheeks as she tried to summarize the events leading up to Mr. Byrd’s visit.

When she was done, she hazarded a glance at Beatrice to see her reaction to Jane’s downfall. The girl looked absolutely stricken, her eyes wide and the color in her cheeks high. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed before covering her mouth with her hand.

She was clearly shocked, but Jane couldn’t tell whether she was appalled at Jane’s actions or not. A lady such as Beatrice would have never invited a man into her home. Knowing the truth, would she demand that Jane leave? Would she refuse to help?

“Oh my goodness,” she said again, popping to her feet and pacing on the stone path. “This is all my fault.”

That was not the reaction Jane had expected. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have no blame in this.”

“Oh, but I do! I’m the one who sent Lawrence to your home that night. Richard was nowhere to be found, and we were all so upset, and I knew that he was falling for you. I should have told the coachman to be more careful. I’m so very sorry!”

Jane stood, going to the girl’s side. “If there is any fault in any of this, it is entirely mine. It was my choices that led to where I am now, and mine alone.”

“This is all so dreadful,” Beatrice said, putting a hand to her middle. “We have to tell Rich—”

“No!” Jane yelped before she could stop herself. Beatrice started, jostling her golden curls. Jane took a calming breath, trying to gather herself. She couldn’t very well go shouting at the woman whose assistance she sought. “We can’t go to him. He has so much to worry about right now—I absolutely refuse to make things worse for him.”