His Scandal Page 2

  “Blythe, dear, you know you are always to tell me before you begin a—a correspondence with a man not well known to us,” she said, drawing up a stool to sit beside her sister.

  Blythe sighed. “Sir Alexander is not the sort of man you’d think highly of. But Emmy, he is so…intriguing.”

  Emmeline could easily remember his smile; it was still vivid in her mind. She had to proceed carefully, or else Blythe would do the exact opposite of whatever Emmeline said.

  “I would just feel better if I knew more about Sir Alexander,” Emmeline continued, leaning forward to touch her sister’s hand. “Therefore…I will deliver this letter and take stock of him myself.” Where had that idea come from? Visit a strange man alone? What had gotten into her?

  “That is not necessary, Emmy!” Blythe said, her eyes widening.

  “Are you concerned for my welfare—or about what Sir Alexander will think?” she asked dryly.

  Blythe managed a blush. “I’m always concerned about you! But of course you may see the letter to Alex’s household, if it will make you feel better.”

  “Alex?” Emmeline repeated, leaning back on the stool to study her sister.

  “He asked me to call him that,” she replied brightly. “Will you go now? It is already past midday.”

  Emmeline reluctantly smiled. It was difficult to deny her sister anything.

  Emmeline had no difficulty persuading Humphrey, the family coachman, to take her to the Thornton Manor upstream on the Thames. He was bald and round and treated Emmeline and Blythe like his grandchildren.

  And most important, she trusted that he would not tell her father the details. Her father took his responsibilities as the Marquess of Kent very seriously, and seldom had time for his daughters. He required weekly reports on Blythe’s progress in finding a husband, but other than that, he took little interest in their lives. So long as Emmeline kept his households running smoothly and his younger daughter in check, he was satisfied. She had long since stopped wishing that he could be the father of her fancies, a man who dined with them each evening and asked about their day. Even her brothers, when they were in town, seldom saw such a side to him.

  While Humphrey dutifully waited by the coach Emmeline approached the Thornton home, only to be informed by a servant that Sir Alexander was not at home, but that he might be at his lodgings above the Rooster, a tavern in Southwark.

  Southwark? she thought, as she turned away from the closing door. Why would a viscount’s son take lodgings in a disreputable part of London, when he already had such a lovely home?

  “Humphrey,” she said as she approached the carriage and he held the door open, “we need to cross the river to Southwark.”

  She saw his hesitation, but the sweet old man didn’t speak until she was comfortably settled on the upholstered seat.

  “Milady,” he said, removing his cap to lean his head inside the coach, “let me take the letter for ye.”

  “I must do this myself,” Emmeline said firmly. “This man is wooing Blythe, and I need to take his measure. Know you the Rooster?”

  He bobbed his head, his worried expression remaining.

  “Then let us go.”

  He hesitated, nodded, and closed the door.

  They journeyed over the London Bridge, with its fine merchant homes and shops. At the end of the bridge, she avoided looking at the rotting heads mounted on pikes high above the gate.

  She could not fathom why a nobleman’s son would want to live here, in an area rife with gambling and bear-baiting, and what other sports she could only imagine. This did not look good for Sir Alexander, she thought, rubbing her hands together to warm them in the brisk air.

  Like Blythe’s other flirtations, this one would pass, and her sister would eventually settle on a good, decent man. But until then, Emmeline could not relax her vigilance.

  When they reached the tavern, she left the coach, telling herself that the street did not look so very different from ones in the heart of London. There were cutpurses to be wary of, and there seemed to be more scantily dressed women about, but there were hardworking folk too, who did not have her good fortune.

  With a deep breath—and a cough into her handkerchief at the smell of rotting garbage and who knew what else—she looked up into Humphrey’s worried face.

  “I’ll be out shortly.” She gave him a confident smile.

  “Wait, wait,” the old man said, struggling up from the seat. “I’ll be goin’ with ye, milady.”

  She knew how his bones stiffened in this cold spring wind, and it made her feel guilty. “No, please sit, dear Humphrey,” she said, reaching into the coach for a blanket and handing it up to him. “I will be quick, and if I am not, I give you permission to come after me. But give me some time to know this gentleman, to see what sort of man he is.”

  Humphrey eyed the dilapidated building behind her, with its faded sign of a rooster, and windows shuttered against the cold. “Milady,” he began again, but Emmeline settled her hood over her head, pulled the cloak tight about her, and set foot on the doorstep.

  She pushed the old wooden door open, and it was as if another world greeted her. She smelled tobacco smoke and body odors, and perfumes of the sort she’d never encountered before. The gloominess of late afternoon was barely penetrated by wax-dipped rushes, which smoked as they gave off their meager light. Both men and women clustered at the bar or lounged at cracked wooden tables, leaning desultorily into the shadows together. No one noticed her in her plain dark cloak, except a grinning old man with no teeth who reached out to feel her skirts. She rapped his knuckles smartly with her purse and sailed past him, stepping in something slimy, and was thankful for her raised soles.

  As she walked forward, turning sideways so that her wide skirts fit between the crowded benches about the long tables, she saw Sir Alexander.

  He sat alone, a tankard in his hand, a gleaming white smile on his face as he watched the rest of the men toasting the foundering of the Spanish fleet off the Irish coast. A serving girl poured him the last of her pitcher of ale, then freely kissed his cheek before sauntering away. Emmeline was mildly offended, and her ire deepened as she saw his big hands tossing a pair of dice, as if he merely awaited his next game.

  Was this why he rented lodgings above a tavern? Was it too difficult to find pleasure in his games from his family estate on the Strand? She knew he was a younger son, but surely his brother would not deny him a home.

  She studied him again, trying to see what her sister saw. His doublet was thrown open, revealing a clean white shirt with a narrow collar. His face was darkened even further by a day’s growth of beard, and that, plus their surroundings, made him seem dangerous. Emmeline almost began to regret coming.

  No. She lifted her chin and eyed the man coldly. She had promised to deliver the letter, and by God above, she would understand what drove him.

  She stopped at his table. He slowly lifted his head and looked up at her with eyes as dark as the secretive corners of this bawdy place. A strange feeling crept over her, heating her skin. It wasn’t nervousness, and he certainly did not intimidate her. Then why was she suddenly embarrassed, as if what she felt was somehow—sinful?

  Sir Alexander leisurely tipped his head, trying to see beneath her hood. “A good afternoon to you, mistress,” he said, his voice coming so slow as to make her believe he was already in his cups.

  She wet her lips. “Good day, Sir Alexander. I need a moment of your time.”

  He shook his head. “You know my name, and have yet to reveal yours.”

  His gaze followed the line of her cloak as if he could see beneath it.

  “Or much of anything else,” he added.

  Suddenly overwarm, she took a deep, angry breath, ready to put the insufferable man in his place.

  Suddenly his eyes widened. “I’ll be just a moment, mistress.”

  He grabbed her about the waist. With a startled gasp, Emmeline fell against him and pushed at his broad shoulders. How dare h
e handle her so roughly!

  But he wasn’t even looking at her. She stilled at the sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards behind her.

  “Gentlemen,” Sir Alexander said in the same easy voice he’d used with her.

  But she felt the tension in every line of his body, in the hand that moved toward his own sword as he turned her about to perch on his knee. She caught her hood about her throat and looked up at two plainly dressed young men, holding their weapons far too close to her.

  Sir Alexander slowly moved the knee she sat on away from them, and he dropped his arm loosely about her shoulders. She longed to push him away, but she also wished to leave this horrid place in one piece.

  “You are spoiling a man’s fun,” he said softly. “I hope you have good reason for it.”

  “We’ll choose what you should know,” said one of the men. They raised their swords and came forward together.

  Sir Alexander put his big palm on the back of Emmeline’s head and forced her under the table, where she landed on her hands and knees on the foul, sticky floor boards. In dismay, she tried to sit back on her heels, but she bumped her head on the table. With a soft groan, she stayed in the ridiculous pose and watched the frantic legs of the men as they fought above her. She heard the clash of swords, the encouragement of the crowd, and even a call for bets.

  At last the tavern’s occupants gave a rousing cheer, and the sound of running feet faded away. She only saw one man’s long, booted legs on the other side of the table. She had no doubt of his identity, nor of her own displeasure. When his boots retreated from her line of sight, she tried to back out from beneath the table.

  From behind, someone caught her hips and tugged, and she let out a startled shriek as she was lifted high into the air and flung over a strong shoulder. Her breath left her body with a grunt, and her face was pressed into the fine fabric of Sir Alexander’s doublet.

  “Fresh from my triumph,” he called in a loud voice, to the laughter and cheers of his cohorts, “I be about my pleasure now. A good day to all!”

  She tried to scream, but could summon no air as she was bounced against his shoulder repeatedly as he ascended a set of stairs. The din faded and she heard him whistling merrily, as if he hadn’t just escaped death and kidnapped a noblewoman.

  Emmeline heard a door open; she felt the sudden warmth of a chamber and smelled smoke, and the not-unpleasant scent of this man. The spurs on his boots jingled as he walked across the surprisingly spacious floor. Just as she began to pound his back, he lifted her off his shoulder and dropped her onto her back on a bed. She came up on her elbows with an angry cry, and her hood fell back.

  Sir Alexander was leaning over, smiling contentedly, and was about to put his hands on either side of her when he saw her face. He froze, and she felt a degree of triumph when he slowly sank back on his haunches and continued to stare at her.

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  Chapter 3

  Alex stared at the woman sprawled angrily across his bed. She was wearing fine garments, and a ridiculous little hat with a feather now sadly bent.

  “Obviously you are a cut above the average strumpet,” he said, and grinned at the look of outrage on her face. “The garments are very nice—a fair approximation of a lady’s wardrobe.”

  Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

  “But you’re not showing enough of the goods.”

  He reached for the clasp of her cloak and she slapped him away.

  “Very well, we’ll handle business matters first. I have ample money—in fact, I’m well endowed in many areas.” He gave her a lazy grin, thinking that she would be pleasant to look at if she smiled.

  She suddenly sat up and with surprising strength, gave him a shove. He fell back on his ass and couldn’t help laughing, which seemed to annoy her.

  She found her voice. “I, sir, am no woman of loose morals.”

  “Lovely pronunciation, that. Where did you learn such mimicry?”

  She tried to get to her feet, but he came up on his knees to block her. When he saw a touch of fear in her eyes, he leaned back. He was hardly going to harm the wench. The fight had wiped away his drink-induced haze, and he now remembered that she had known his name.

  “You seem familiar to me. Have we done this before?” he asked curiously. “And is there a husband involved?”

  Perched on his bed, she straightened her skirts, lifted her petite chin in the air, and said firmly, “I am Lady Emmeline Prescott. I am here to deliver a letter to you from my sister—but I am loath to do so, now.”

  Alex suddenly placed her; she had scowled at him from across the hall every moment he danced with Lady Blythe—the object of his wager with Edmund. He got to his feet and gave her a full courtly bow.

  “Forgive me for not recognizing you, Lady Emmeline. We’ve never been formally introduced.”

  “Nevertheless, your treatment of any woman should be better than this,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “Ah, now I have done myself a disservice in your eyes. Forgive a man, for we are the weaker sex, are we not?”

  Swiftly he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. Though she was all stiffness and propriety, her fingers trembled in his, her cheeks reddened, and the barest tease of perfume wafted over him. He was intrigued. She was taller than the average female, but her cloak hid everything else. For curiosity’s sake alone, he wanted to divest her of it, because he couldn’t remember her figure from the party.

  But again, there was the wager. “You say you have a letter for me from Lady Blythe?”

  “At least you remember her name,” Emmeline said dryly.

  “How could I forget someone as charming as your sister? She quite captured my interest.”

  That frown of hers could sear a lesser man. He walked to the fire and rubbed his hands against the chill. Lady Emmeline was obviously out of place in this less-than-elegant chamber. But instead of succumbing to hysterics, she kept herself firmly under control, as if he were merely a naughty schoolboy. Somehow, that offended him.

  Emmeline could not believe that she was alone in a tavern’s lodgings with a man—a man with few morals who consorted with fallen women, yet flirted with young innocents. Why had she even told him about the letter?

  She studied him as boldly as he did her. His head almost brushed the chamber’s low ceiling beams, and he seemed as at ease here in Southwark as he’d been at a court party. The heated stare of his dark eyes made her want to cover herself, as if she did not already wear layers of garments beneath her cloak. For a moment she wondered if he was flirting with her, but she knew he wasn’t. He was trying to unnerve her, to play his little-boy game of Dare. Somehow she threatened him, and that was a good feeling.

  “Sir Alexander, who were those men who accosted you?”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I know not, my lady. They never spoke a word to me, just fought and ran. They were probably thieves.”

  He grinned then, as if she should worship his prowess, instead of be perturbed by his casualness with such violence.

  “This happens often in your world?” she demanded.

  He straightened, and she was glad to see his smile lessen, for it was a potent weapon.

  “No, not often. But London is a dangerous city, and unless I wish to remain locked up and as protected as a prince, I will occasionally have trouble.”

  “I do not have trouble,” she said coldly. “Are you implying that people like me are isolated?”

  “Have you ever been away from safety before?” he asked softly, walking toward her.

  Every step he took nearer made her feel strange, not like the reasonable, rational Emmeline. Though she was tall, she had to arch her neck to look up at him.

  “No,” she answered, “but nor do I sit sewing in a comfortable room all day.”

  He stopped mere inches from her when she didn’t give way. The air was charged with a tension she’d never felt before. When he spoke, his voice was lower, hu
skier, and it seemed to skitter along her spine.

  He said, “Perhaps the danger wasn’t to me, but to you.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “No need for that,” he said, lifting a hand. “The brigands simply might have seen the attention you paid me, and wanted you for themselves. I daresay they recognized quality when they saw it.”

  She inwardly cursed her cheeks for blazing her discomfort. “And I daresay you are trying to distract me from your dangerous way of life.”

  “Forgive me, I tease you unkindly. You have but come on an errand that can only do me good, while I have no answers that will please you.”

  She said nothing, caught in a trap of duty and promises.

  He waited, and when she did not hand him the letter, he offered her a cushioned chair before the fire, which she refused.

  “I only wish to speak to you about Blythe,” he said, in a kind voice. “Tell me what flowers she likes, what amusements keep her happy.”

  How could he think that she would possibly help him? “No, Sir Alexander, you have not proven your worthiness to me.”

  For a moment, she saw wariness in his eyes, gone so swiftly that she’d surely imagined it.

  “I promised I would deliver this letter, but that is all I will do.” She handed it to him.

  He took it slowly, studying her. “Do you wish to wait for a reply?” he asked softly.

  She heard the teasing in his voice. “Of course. But please be quick; I’m certain that my driver is frantic with worry.”

  As Sir Alexander read the letter, his face betrayed nothing. What had Blythe said? He took a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink from a trunk at the foot of his bed, and sat at a table to write.

  Emmeline wanted to pace in the sudden stillness, and forced herself to listen to the crackling of the fire, and the distant sound of voices in the tavern below. She tried to keep her gaze from him, but it was difficult. He was so big and dark and reckless, too handsome, too wild. He was nothing like the man she’d once loved and lost.