Read Scandal of the Year Online
Authors: Olivia Drake
Tags: #Romance, #Fiction, #General, #Love Stories, #Contemporary, #Historical, #Historical Fiction, #London (England), #Impostors and Imposture, #Inheritance and Succession, #Heiresses
Scandal of the Year
Contents
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Olivia Drake
Praise for Never Trust a Rogue
Chapter 1
From his seat on the floor with the general audience, James Ryding lifted the opera glasses and studied the balcony that stretched in a semicircle around the theater. The dimness of the gas lamps suited his covert purpose. While the actors traded witticisms on the stage, drawing laughter from the spectators, James scanned the aristocratic guests until he spied his quarry.
A small party occupied one of the private boxes reserved for the upper crust. In the front sat a middle-aged man and woman, along with a young lady. Although the girl was not the object of his scrutiny, James found himself pausing to observe her through the magnifiers.
She was strikingly pretty in a low-cut yellow gown that displayed her voluptuous charms. Coppery curls tumbled down to one of her shoulders. As she turned her head to whisper to a pair of gentlemen sitting to the rear, her lips formed a laughing curve.
The sight of that flirtatious smile sparked a visceral heat in James. He imagined them entwined in each other’s arms while he kissed her. He craved to know her scent and her taste, the feel of her curves beneath his hands. The fantasy was so vivid that heat rushed to his loins.
A tug on his sleeve yanked James back to the crowded theater. Clamping his teeth around an irritated growl, he lowered the opera glasses and frowned at the elderly man seated beside him on the bench.
Percy Thornton had bony shoulders hunched inside an ill-fitting brown coat. His gray eyebrows were raised in inquiry above his pale blue eyes. “Do you see them, sir?” Thornton whispered anxiously. “
Are
they your cousins?”
James cudgeled his thoughts back to the present. “I can’t say for certain just yet.”
He peered through the glasses again, this time studiously ignoring the girl and focusing on the older couple beside her. A stout gentleman with thinning brown hair, George Crompton wore a crisp white cravat and a tailored blue coat. His wife, Edith, looked rather youthful in a bronze gown with the sparkle of a diamond tiara nestled in her upswept russet hair.
James struggled to reconcile the picture of husband and wife with the memory of his last visit with them more than two decades earlier. Alas, the mists of time had blurred their images. The only clear picture from the past that he’d retained was of playing with Edith’s pet spaniels.
“Are you sure you don’t recognize either of them?” Thornton prodded.
“I’m afraid not. They’re too far away. And kindly keep in mind, the last time I laid eyes on them I was a mere lad of ten.”
James kept his voice low even though the laughter of the audience masked their conversation. Everyone around him was engrossed in the play. Besides, no one would be expecting a gentleman to be seated down here with the common folk. Not when he was connected to the finest families in England. And not when he’d been away in Barbados for so many years.
There, he’d been master of a thriving plantation, the largest on the island, until a massive storm had flattened his ripening crop of sugar cane and reduced his house and outbuildings to kindling. Rebuilding would necessitate an influx of cash, but he’d sunk all his spare money into expanding his acreage. The notion of taking out a bank loan left a bad taste in his mouth. After witnessing his father being hounded by creditors all those years ago, James had vowed never to sign any IOUs.
For that reason, the arrival of the letter from Thornton had been a godsend. The old man had once been manager of the estate in Lancashire belonging to George Crompton. A trusted employee, Thornton had stayed on to watch over the place while the Cromptons had moved to India long ago.
In the letter, Thornton wrote that when he’d called on George Crompton to settle the matter of a neglected pension, Thornton had made a shocking discovery. The couple living in the Berkeley Square mansion were not the same people who had once employed Thornton.
George and Edith Crompton were imposters.
At first, James had dismissed the wild notion. Such a deception seemed impossible to accomplish. How could two criminals take over the lives of his cousins without anyone noticing?
Yet when a second letter had arrived from Thornton, urging James to take action, he’d paid closer attention. George Crompton had amassed great wealth during his twenty-year sojourn in India. His extensive holdings were rumored to rival the riches of the royal family. If Thornton was correct, and the man sitting up there in the box seat was
not
James’s cousin, then foul play had been committed.
Assuming George Crompton’s wealth had been embezzled, at what point had it happened? Years ago or only recently? The woman must be privy to the crime, too. Somehow, they’d managed to pull off the bold scheme with no one the wiser. Yet surely someone, a coworker or an acquaintance in India, would have sounded the alarm.
And the bigger question was, What had happened to the real Cromptons? Had they been murdered?
James intended to find out. If the story was true, then justice must be done on behalf of his cousin. James also acknowledged that in the process he himself would reap a king’s ransom for exposing them as criminals. As the only male relative, James was heir to the Crompton estate in Lancashire and much of the family holdings.
Few people knew his full name was James Ryding Crompton. Dropping the use of his surname had been an act of defiance against a father he’d despised.
His gaze flitted again to the young lady sitting in the box seat. She was still flirting over her shoulder with the two gentleman seated behind her. The spring social season had barely begun, but already she had acquired an entourage of admirers.
“Which daughter is the girl with them?” he asked Thornton.
“The youngest … I believe her name is Miss Blythe Crompton. There are two older sisters, but they’ve already married into the aristocracy.”
James narrowed his eyes at the laughing girl. Wealth had bought her acceptance into the highest circles. How much did Miss Blythe Crompton know of the swindle perpetrated by her parents? Was she a full-fledged party to the deception? Or had it happened when she was too young to remember?
The answer didn’t signify. If George Crompton was a charlatan, he must suffer the full force of the law.
“What will you do?” Thornton whispered. “Will you join society and call on them?”
James glanced over at his companion. “No. That would only serve to put them on their guard.”
“But you must do
something
, sir. Those two mustn’t be allowed to get away with such an offense.”
“I quite agree. However, it would be best if I could observe them for a time without their knowledge. To study them closely and find proof of their crime.”
And James knew the perfect way to do so.
Chapter 2
“You dance like an angel, Miss Crompton. The privilege of being your partner was pure heaven.”
Blythe Crompton batted her lashes at the earnest, balding man who had just brought her back to her mother. “Why, Lord Ainsley, you’ll turn my head with such extravagant compliments. I cannot imagine the other gentlemen here will appreciate that.”
A chorus of assents rose from the small group surrounding her. She smiled at each man in the circle: Lord Robert Fortingham, dour yet ardently devoted to her; Mr. Mainwaring, handsome but for an unfortunate rash of freckles; Viscount Kitchener, a dandy with golden-brown curls and intense blue eyes.
Blythe was enjoying every moment of the party given in her honor at her parent’s mansion on Berkeley Square. The ballroom teemed with aristocratic guests who mingled and danced, drank champagne and conversed in dulcet tones. At one end of the long, high-ceilinged room, the musicians rested between sets while gentlemen sought out their next partners. Hundreds of candles in crystal chandeliers cast a glow over the tall gilded columns and polished parquet floor. Mama and Papa had spared no expense in launching their youngest daughter into society.
How Blythe loved it, the dancing and the gossip and the finery! She felt like a princess in her gown of white gauze with a pale blue silk underskirt, her hair done up in Grecian curls and crowned by a gold diadem. Most of all, she adored the admiration from the highborn gentlemen. As the wealthiest heiress in the Marriage Mart, she could choose from an array of noble partners. Truly, she couldn’t fathom why her two older sisters had ever complained about being the center of attention.
One of the gentlemen pushed forward and seized hold of her hand. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
“Thank you, Mr. Mainwaring. But as we’ve danced once already, I really must consult with my mother.”
“I’m afraid your kind request is impossible.” Slim and youthful in striped plum silk, Mrs. Edith Crompton appeared beside Blythe and firmly pushed away his hand. “My daughter has promised the next set to the Duke of Savoy. Ah, I see His Grace right now.”
A stately man of middle years approached them. The throngs parted as people gave way to his dignified passage. With the proud tilt to his chin and his exquisitely tailored garb, he drew adulating looks from the other guests.
“Smile, darling,” Mrs. Crompton whispered, bending close to Blythe. “Remember what I told you.”
Blythe needed no instruction in making herself agreeable. The prospect of being singled out by none other than the Duke of Savoy gave her great pleasure. It was the crowning glory of a night that had been designed to elevate her in the eyes of society.
The duke afforded her a slight bow. “Miss Crompton. Will you dance?”
She sank into a deep curtsey. “It would be an honor, Your Grace.”
The gentlemen in her entourage looked disconsolate. She oughtn’t derive any satisfaction in their disappointment, yet she appreciated knowing how very much they desired her company.
As Blythe started toward the dance floor with her gloved hand resting on the duke’s forearm, her mother stood beaming with the other matrons. Blythe noticed a few disapproving looks among the ladies, their heads bobbing and their mouths clucking like a flock of old biddy hens.
They must be discussing her marriage prospects. There were those among them who frowned upon a commoner being courted by such a high-ranking nobleman.
Not that Blythe cared a fig for their small-minded opinions.
Pleasure buoyed her as she and Savoy wended their way through crush of guests. Although the middle-aged duke had lined features and a somewhat portly form, he was the most eligible bachelor of the Season. He had been widowed the previous summer and was said to be seeking a new wife from among the crop of young debutantes. Since he had only one daughter, a girl of Blythe’s age, he needed a male heir.
Perhaps he would choose Blythe to be his duchess. Perhaps he would fall madly in love with her, and she with him.
The prospect fired her imagination. As they made their way toward the dance floor, she lost herself in a pleasant dream of being elevated to the stature of Duchess of Savoy. Her dinner parties and balls would be the most coveted of invitations. There would be no more whispered talk or censorious looks from the other ladies. She would win the duke’s heart, and they would live happily ever after.