Once Upon a Scandal (8 page)

She wasn’t worried about herself. She was worried about Grayson, whose head was now officially worth fifty pounds, thanks to her father. Flint suddenly dashed past her and into the dining hall, barking viciously, adding to the chaos as more shouts echoed down the corridor. She skidded out into the hallway, knowing that if there was anyone who could take on a tough until all the servants arrived, it was Grayson who spent most of his time boxing at Jackson’s.

The crash of porcelain shattering against the floor exploded in the distance like thunder. She winced as she snapped toward the direction of the servants’ quarters. “Assistance is required in the dining hall!” she screamed, her voice echoing all around her. “In the dining hall! At once! Hurry!”

Within moments, a group of male servants dashed past her and down the corridor, sprinting out of sight into the dining hall. Victoria gathered her skirts, turned and dashed after them.

Flint’s barking grew steadily louder, as if he were insisting she move faster. She slid to a halt on her slippered heels, her breath escaping in uneven gasps, and paused, realizing everything had grown eerily quiet, aside from Flint’s barking.

All the chairs lay toppled on their sides, and the linen on the table hung lopsided, barely clinging. Food, wine, crystal, china and porcelain lay scattered everywhere while—

Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Grayson. He rigidly held a carving knife against the throat of the large man, pinning the man against the wall with his own body. Her father and the servants merely gawked.

“Grayson!” Victoria rushed toward her cousin, reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. She yanked back his arm, ignoring his resistance. She gritted her teeth and jerked the knife back and away from the man’s throat. “Grayson, don’t. Don’t do this. Please. Please, don’t.”

Grayson’s chest rose and fell in visible heaves as he glanced toward her. His brown eyes sharpened with a blazing intent she’d never seen in all her two and twenty years.

“Grayson,” she pleaded, digging her fingers into his wrist and edging his rigid arm farther back. Though her arm ached from the effort, she feared that if she let go, even for a moment, his arm would jump and slice that throat in a single sweep.

Grayson’s resistance softened as he slowly lowered his arm and the blade. He stepped back, his gaze veering to the bearded man, who sagged against the wall with a breath.

Grayson extended the knife toward her, tilting the edge of the steel toward himself. “Take it. Take it, before I use it and hang.”

Oh, God.

She scrambled toward him and pried the blade out of his hand. Turning, she tossed the carving knife toward the farthest corner of the room, away from them, where it clattered out of sight. She drew in several calming breaths and swiped her hands against her embroidered skirts, thankful it was out of his hand.

“Now leave,” Grayson growled. “Leave before I slit more than your throat.”

The man nodded, pushing away from the wall, and darted out of the dining hall, clearly relieved to have escaped.

Victoria let out a breath, the pounding of her heart dulling. “Grayson…”

Grayson jerked toward her and pointed at her, missing her nose by an inch. “Enough. Your father will be permanently moved out of this house and into my father’s care within the hour. Before you or he end up dead. You may call upon your father as often as you please, for however long you please, but therein ends your rule. If you oppose me in this, in any form, I will ensure he ends up in the Lock with the rest of the syphilitics and you never see him again. This isn’t a goddamn game! This is your life and whatever is left of his. Do you understand me?”

Victoria fought to keep from sobbing. Grayson was right. He was right. She wasn’t capable of caring for her father, with his delusions progressing so rapidly. Though she didn’t want to admit it, his mind had disintegrated far too much, and no amount of love she had to give was going to change that. She was never going to have her father back. Not ever. Not the one she loved and not the one she wanted. “I understand.”

We are forever warned never to bargain with the devil. But the devil is far too busy gathering souls to have any time to barter with mere mortals. ’Tis mortal men a lady should in fact beware. Especially those men who ardently claim to be gentlemen. In truth, the only thing gentle about these men are the deceiving little words they coo.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

Three days later, evening
On the far east side of London

JONATHAN PIERCE Thatcher, Viscount Remington, slammed the door of the quarters he was letting for the month and leaned heavily against it after his brisk walk through the city. He’d forgotten how dirty, dreary, cold and wet London could be. Five years cocooned in Venice had certainly warped his once-genuine appreciation for London.

A lone candle flickered its greeting within the sconce hanging on the stained plaster walls of the corridor. Reveling in the silence, he pushed away from the door. Removing his leather gloves and top hat, Jonathan stripped away the damp cloak from his shoulders and tossed everything into the crate at his booted feet. He paused, noticing a set of muddy prints that were not his own.

A pulsing knot seized his stomach. Was someone stupid enough to try to rob him? Reaching beneath the back of his damp evening coat, he yanked his dagger from the scabbard attached to his waist. Tossing it into his right hand, he gripped it and pointed the blade out to the side.

He edged into the adjoining room, his muscles tightening. The burning coals in the hearth sent dim light and fuzzy shadows shifting across barren walls and the dilapidated brass bed in the corner. The broad back of a tall, blond-haired gentleman in an expensive greatcoat lingered before the fire. Black leather-gloved fingers tapped the rim of his top hat.

“Grayson.” Jonathan lowered his blade and blew out a breath, his body relaxing. “I wasn’t expecting you until morning.” He grinned, striding toward him. “How have you been, vecchio?”

Grayson swung toward him, the glow of the fire illuminating the edges of his greatcoat. He shoved his top hat beneath an arm, his disheveled dark blond hair falling onto his forehead. “I’ve been better. And I do beg your pardon, but I am not old.”

Reaching beneath the back of his gray wool coat, Jonathan slid the blade into his scabbard. Still grinning, he struck out a bare hand. “’Tis damn good to see you.”

“And you.” Grayson’s gloved hand grabbed his and gave it a solid shake before releasing it. He glanced around the small room. “If you insist on staying in this piss of a flat instead of taking residence with me, at the very least have the decency to bolt your door. This isn’t Venice.”

Jonathan shrugged. “A roof is a roof and I have my blade. I’m only staying long enough to settle unfinished business. Speaking of unfinished business…” He grinned, glorying in the moment he thought would never come. “So. How is she? Does she know I’m here to see her? Have you told her? What did she say? Was she at all receptive? Livid? Thrilled? What? Tell me.”

Grayson snorted. “You are prattling like an actress on gin.”

Jonathan gritted his teeth and hit his shoulder. “Cease being an ass. Out with it. When do I get to see her?”

“Uh…”

“Tomorrow?”

“No. Not tomorrow.”

“The day after?”

“Remington.”

Jonathan lowered his chin. “No. I am not waiting to see her. Do you understand me? I have waited long enough. Five bloody years, to be exact.”

Grayson cleared his throat, his brows coming together. “Believe me, Remington, I understand. But you see—”

“No. None of that.” Jonathan pointed at him rigidly. “Her father assured me that once my contract was over, I could return to London and vie for her. And I will. That is the only reason I’m even here. To vie for her. I have it all in writing. You know I do.”

“Yes, yes. I know. And you will vie for her as was promised. Understand, however, that when my uncle made those promises, he omitted how you were going to be vying for her.”

Jonathan dropped his hands to his sides, the frantic beat of his heart drumming against his chest. “What the devil did he omit?”

“Others.”

“Others?” he echoed.

“You won’t be the only one vying for Victoria’s hand. There will be two others set to vie alongside you. But only two.”

Jonathan drew in a sharp breath and angled his body toward Grayson. “The earl didn’t tell me that. He said—”

“I know. I know what has been scribed by him.” Grayson drummed his fingers against the top of his hat and sighed. “I can only apologize for my uncle.

He has never been a man to make things easy for anyone. And now, with his health being what it is, that is more true than ever. There are things he simply didn’t disclose during your correspondences. Things he should have disclosed, considering it involves his estate and testament.”

Jonathan leaned in closer, his brows coming together. “His testament? Is he…dying?”

Grayson turned and made his way back toward the hearth, half nodding. “Yes. Over a year ago, shortly before you and he started corresponding after he received the letter the marchesa wrote on your behalf, his physician informed him that the syphilis he’d contracted from a prostitute years ago had progressed beyond any known cure.”

Dear God. No. “Syphilis? Are they certain of it?”

Grayson nodded. “Yes. Quite certain of it. He has actually had it and known of it for years. Only it is finally beginning to ravage the last of him. According to all eight physicians involved in his diagnosis and care, he has about eight to ten months left.”

Jonathan swallowed. He couldn’t even imagine what Victoria was living through. She and her father had been inseparable.

Grayson swiveled toward him. “According to the solicitor, I have to be formal in my delivery of what was set forth. So tolerate it.” He cleared his throat.

“On behalf of my uncle, the sixth Earl of Linford, who regrets that he cannot personally deliver this message, I am here to announce that you, Viscount Remington, are being summoned to vie for Lady Victoria Jane Emerson’s hand, so that she may be wed before his passing. Do you accept being one of three, knowing that you may or may not become her husband depending on her choice in men?”

Jonathan’s lips parted. “I’ll be expected to compete for her hand? Alongside a bunch of roosters?”

“Yes. Two roosters.”

“Jesus Christ. I… If I have to vie for Victoria against two others, what chance have I? None. I already planned on crawling on my knees for the rest of my life in an effort to prove my worth to her, but with two others involved, how am I to—”

Grayson reached out and adjusted the lapels on Jonathan’s evening coat. “You can do this. I know you can.”

Jonathan stepped back and swiped his face. “How am I… The moment I disclose why I disappeared, she will run straight into the arms of whoever is standing next to me. I know she will.”

“You are overcomplicating this. Victoria doesn’t need to know. The less you tell her, the better off you will both be. And if, after you and she are married, the truth happens to fall out of your hat, so be it. Face it then. Not now. Get her to marry you first. After you two are married, what will it matter?”

Jonathan glared at him. “She would hate me. You may not see the value in a wife loving her husband, but I will not do that to her. I’ve already tormented her enough.”

Grayson shrugged. “Do whatever you think is best. Simply know that she will look for reasons to run and if you give them to her, she will.” Grayson paused, his brows coming together. Cocking his head, he reached out and fluffed the ends of Jonathan’s green lace cravat. “What the hell is this? Lace? Forgive me, but we cannot have you prancing about London in such foppery. One look at your cravat and she most certainly will run.”

Jonathan gritted his teeth and shoved Grayson’s hands away. “If she intends to judge me based upon my cravat, which happens to be high fashion in Venice, mind you, then I cannot readily expect her to accept anything about me, can I?” He hissed out an exasperated breath. “Why is the earl doing this to me? He knows I have yet to redeem myself. How am I to do it with two other noses in my face?”

Grayson stepped back toward the hearth. “Did you really think he was going to up and hand Victoria over without allowing her to decide her own fate? This is about her happiness, Remington. Not yours.”

Jonathan half nodded, respecting that sentiment. Sad though it was, with two others vying for her, it was going to take more than him crawling on his hands and knees. It was going to take pixies. Which did not exist.

Aside from whatever misgivings Victoria already had toward him due to his abandonment, he knew the moment he shared the sins lining his soul, she would do more than run. She would hate him for the rest of his life. And in truth, he preferred she remember him for what he once was. Not what he’d become.

Jonathan sighed. “What chance have I against two others? None. I would only be tormenting her and myself. Perhaps it is best I return to Venice and leave this be.”

Grayson rolled his eyes. “My God, shall I fetch the whip for you so you can finish lashing yourself with it? You are being given an opportunity to compete for her. Take it!” Grayson yanked out the top hat from beneath his arm and whirled it once between his gloved fingers before setting it atop his head. He angled it. “I’ve known you for eleven years, Remington. That is a good amount of time to get to know a man, wouldn’t you say?”

Jonathan glared at him, sensing a parade of manipulation ahead. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Grayson’s brows rose as he glanced toward the ceiling, seemingly searching the heavens for the patience to speak to a simpleton. “Remember Eton? Hot coppers, I do. It was the worst of all my social experiences. Indeed, everyone there assumed that because I had my nose in a book I deserved to have that same nose pummeled. Do you remember?”

Jonathan bit back a smile, recalling all the times he’d put up a pair of fists for Grayson, who only ever covered his head and never fought back. “We destroyed many a hall together. Many.”

“No. You did. I was always half-crippled before you ever got to me. My point is, even then, you were forever setting aside yourself for others. ’Tis a noble quality, to be sure, but a quality that will force you to cradle everyone’s happiness but your own. I wish to God you would cease blaming yourself for the situation you fell into. It is done. You are free and if it weren’t for your marchesa digging up whatever grace she had left within her, you would not even be here. After enduring hell and counting down the days and hours toward reclaiming Victoria, you intend to walk away? Because of competition? The Jonathan I once knew would have put up two fists and started swinging.”

“I am not particularly fight-worthy,” he groused. “I would be but a pauper amongst princes.”

Grayson sighed. “What are you worth, anyway? Hmm? Out with it. You never told me.”

Jonathan seethed out a breath, not wanting to think about it. He was worth less than a fourth of what he’d once had. “If I were to convert everything from Venetian lire? Approximately three hundred pounds a year. More than enough to ensure Victoria an excellent living in Venice.”

“Three hundred pounds a year?” Grayson let out a long whistle. He shook his head and kept right on shaking it. “Bleed me, you will have no choice but to live in Venice…but—” Grayson pointed at him, a slow grin overtaking his lips “—if Victoria marries you, all of your financial woes will be at an end and you can live wherever the hell you want. As her husband, you would inherit my uncle’s entire estate upon his death. Almost a hundred thousand pounds.”

Jonathan choked. “Hell. That is a disturbing amount of money. No man should be worth that much.”

Grayson eyed him. “I know you don’t want the money, Remington, but consider it another dividend worth fighting for, attached to everything else you ever wanted.”

“I could care less about the money. I have more than enough to live with. I just…” Jonathan shifted toward him and lowered his voice. “Be honest in this. Do you think Victoria would even give me a chance against two others?”

Grayson snorted. “The moment my cousin discovers you are one of the three, she may throw a fit and smack you around a couple times, but trust me when I say she’ll still be waiting at St. Paul’s. Do you have any idea what my life was like when you ceased responding to her letters? Do you? Allow me to compose a delightful sonnet which I shall appropriately dub, ‘Grayson, how I despise thee.’”

Grayson cleared his throat and lifted his voice into an unbecoming female octave. “‘Grayson, do you see Remington whenever you go to Venice? You do, don’t you? I know you do. Why else would you travel there so often? And why do you refuse to tell me what has become of him? You had best tell me something, Grayson. Tell me or I will slice all of your extremities off with a carving knife, starting with the one you love most.’”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You exaggerate. She would never threaten a soul.”

“The woman has gone savage since you’ve last seen her. I genuinely fear for whatever poor bastard ends up with her.” He let out a laugh. “You being that poor bastard. Now, are you going to vie for her or not? I have to give Mr. Parker an answer by tomorrow afternoon.”

Jonathan eyed him. “Mr. Parker?”

“The solicitor for my uncle’s estate.”

Jonathan blew out a long breath. What a mess. Her father was dying and Victoria was expected to partake in some matrimonial charade that would end up affecting her for the rest of her life? As for redeeming himself? It was one thing to become her husband and prove his worth to her then, but quite another to set himself against the wall alongside two others and let her weigh who was best. For best, he most certainly was not.

“Here.” Grayson reached into the inner pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a round, gilt frame bearing a miniature portrait. He held it up, stepping toward him. “It was painted last year.”