Do You Want to Start a Scandal EPB Read online

  “What are you doing down here at this hour?”

  She sniffed, and her voice caught. “I . . .”

  “You’ve been weeping.” He put his hand on her shoulder. She trembled under his touch. “Charlotte, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve lost it. It’s gone. I’ve searched everywhere in the house I could think of, and then I remembered I’d been here earlier. But I’ve been looking for an hour now, under every bench and bush. It’s not here, either. It’s gone.”

  She pressed her lips together and turned her head, as though to keep herself from crying. Her chin quivered.

  “Come here.” He took the lamp from her hand and hung it from a nearby trellis. Then he guided her to sit on a bench. “Let me help you. Tell me what it is you’re searching for.”

  “It will sound so silly. You’ll laugh at me.”

  “Never.”

  Over the past week, the girl had been accused of loose virtue, accosted by a cutpurse, and held briefly at gunpoint—and she’d taken it all in relative good humor.

  He’d never seen her like this.

  Whatever she’d misplaced, it must mean the world to her.

  “It’s small.” She formed a rectangular shape with her fingers. “Just a scrap of flannel with ribbon edging and a bit of stitching on it. I use it to mark the place in my books. I know how inconsequential it must sound, but it’s important to me.”

  Piers knew better than most that even small, humble-looking items could be of great importance. “You’re certain it isn’t in your bedchamber?”

  He hated to sound like a scold, but considering the state of her other possessions . . .

  She shook her head. “This isn’t like stockings or shawls. I’m untidy, but I’m never careless about this. It’s either in my book or under my pillow at all times. But this evening, when I settled down with my novel it wasn’t there. I searched everywhere. My chamber, the drawing room. Then I’d recalled I’d been out here reading this afternoon.”

  “Where did you sit?”

  “Over there.” She indicated a stump tucked under a bit of ivy.

  “Then it’s likely still in the garden. Or perhaps you lost it somewhere along your path back into the house.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Her hand fluttered in her lap. “If the wind took it . . .”

  “Charlotte. Don’t fret so.” He put an arm around her and drew her to his chest, holding her close. Both to soothe her and to calm himself. His heart ached to see her so distraught. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll find it.”

  “But I’ve searched everywhere.”

  “We’ll find it.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  He tilted her chin so that she faced him. “I can, and I will. It’s probably still in this garden. If not, it’s somewhere on this estate. But if it’s that important to you, I’d search Nottinghamshire, the whole of England—even the world—if that’s what it took. You’ll have it returned to you. Do you believe me?”

  She nodded.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’ll begin at the gate and move clockwise about the garden together. One of us will search while the other holds the lamp. If we haven’t found it by the time we return to the gate, then we’ll widen our search. Agreed?”

  He held out his hand, and she took it.

  “Agreed.”

  They searched for hours. Piers tried to keep up a reassuring patter and maintain a steady pace, so that she didn’t become upset or anxious. He’d never appreciated how many plants, shrubs, and flowering vines could be in one garden. Together they checked beneath every bush and branch in one section before moving on to the next.

  They’d reached eight on their makeshift “clock” of the garden, and it was likely closing in on five o’clock in the actual morning. The sky began to turn from black to gray. The bit of light made searching easier, but the wind had picked up and the occasional sprinkle of raindrops made itself felt. Piers just hoped they could locate this thing before the rain started in earnest.

  He turned to scan a wall covered in thick ivy, parting each cluster of vines and leaves to peer within. He began at the base of the wall and worked his way upward.

  “I don’t think it could possibly be up there,” she said as he stretched his arms to push through a clump of ivy overhead. “No gust of wind would have blown it that high.”

  “Wind isn’t the only force at play in nature.”

  “No, you’re right. There’s rain as well. We should move on to the path, perhaps. Or it will end up washed away and buried in mud.”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Piers had a hunch, and he wasn’t ready to abandon it quite yet. Patience rewarded thoroughness.

  At last, in the corner where wall met wall at nine o’clock, he parted a thick patch of greenery to find what he’d been searching for.

  A bird’s nest, hidden within the branches just at shoulder height. Some clever wren had crafted a deep, hollow bowl of branches and bits.

  “Did you find something?” Charlotte approached.

  “Perhaps.” He reached into the nest gently, reluctant to disturb any eggs or feathery occupants therein. His fingertips skimmed over a variety of textures. Wrens would line their nests with any soft material they found. Downy feathers, moss . . .

  Yes.

  “Aha.” He grasped the corner of flannel and pulled, turning to offer it for Charlotte’s examination. “Is this it?”

  She stared at the meager scrap of ribbon and fabric for a moment. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth and sobbed into it, leaning forward to bury her face in his chest.

  He’d take that as a yes.

  He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back and hair. The night of sleepless searching had caught up with her all at once. It wasn’t surprising she’d be overwhelmed.

  However, his own emotions were a puzzle to him. He’d ached for her when the thing was missing, but he could not share her relief. Quite the reverse. He felt as if her small fist had reached inside his chest, gripped his heart, and wrung it. He should have felt triumphant to have found her treasure.

  Instead, he felt lost.

  After a moment, she’d collected herself enough to draw away and wipe her eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Perhaps you can tell me what it is we’ve found.”

  She smoothed the rectangle of ivory flannel. “I’ve had this all my life. It began as a blanket in my cradle. When we left our home, it came with us. From as far back as I can remember, I wouldn’t be parted from it. Once I’d turned . . . oh, seven or eight? . . . Mama threatened to burn the thing, it was so dirty and threadbare. I cried, she complained. We compromised. She helped me cut it down and bind the edges with ribbon. I used it to practice my first stitching. See?”

  She showed him a few misshapen figures embroidered on the flannel. A slanting house, a lopsided Tudor rose.

  “Is that a dog?” he asked.

  “A cow, I think?” She gave him a rueful look. “I’d like to say my needlework has improved since, but it really hasn’t.”

  “What can I say? I look forward to tablecloths and handkerchiefs embroidered with scanty blossoms and three-legged cows.”

  She smiled, and the sweet curve of her lips unknotted the tightness in his chest.

  “I told you I don’t have any memory of my father.” She ran her thumb over the flannel, stroking in an idle rhythm that must have been ingrained habit. “But when I hold this I can recall his presence, at least. The comfort of knowing myself to be safe, and surrounded by love.” She looked at him. “Does that make sense? Do you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t know that I do.”

  He couldn’t even imagine it. For as long as he could recall, his home had been a place filled with tension and fear.

  Charlotte carried a scrap of flannel. He carried lies, shame, and a haunting echo of despair.

  I can’t, she’d wept. I can’t bear it.
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br />   “Then you’ll have to take my word for it,” she said. “I just know that feeling exists, and not only in the past. I need to believe it can be my future, too. All my life, I’ve been trying to get back to a home I can’t even remember.”

  Drops of water spattered his shoulders and the slate garden path beneath their feet.

  “It’s raining,” he said.

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “You could have that, Piers. With the right person. One you love. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to untangle this misunderstanding we’ve landed in. It’s why I won’t give up on solving it now. It’s not only for me anymore. The more I come to know you, the more I believe you deserve love, too.”

  God. She was killing him.

  “We should go inside.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms to warm her. “The house will be waking soon.”

  She nodded.

  “Go on ahead,” he told her. “I’ll follow in a few minutes. I know you don’t want to be seen together. Not like this.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think you cared.”

  He shrugged. “I’m too fatigued to invent excuses this morning.”

  She kissed his cheek before leaving. “Thank you again.”

  After she was gone, Piers paced the garden alone, letting the rain pelt his back as he turned three simple facts over and over in his mind.

  Charlotte wanted love.

  He wanted her to have it.

  He couldn’t offer it himself.

  An honorable, decent gentleman would find another way out of this. A way to let Charlotte follow her heart.

  But here was the fourth fact that made all the rest ring hollow.

  Piers wasn’t that kind of man.

  Chapter Eleven

  It rained for two days straight.

  On the second night, Charlotte lay awake in bed, listening to the patter of raindrops and staring at the well-creased paper on which she’d written her list of suspects.

  Cathy, the scullery maid—eliminated at once for lack of opportunity. She would have been hard at work preparing the supper, and she wasn’t at all likely to be wearing expensive scent. It would have drawn notice.

  Lady Canby—too thin. The garter would have slipped straight off her leg, like a barrel rim placed over a lamppost.

  Miss Caroline Fairchild, the vicar’s daughter—highly unlikely, given her dearth of romantic imagination.

  That had left only two: Mrs. Charlesbridge, the doctor’s wife; and Cross, the lady’s maid. Both of whom had been ruled out by the perfume merchant. Neither had dark hair.

  Charlotte sighed. There were only two possible reasons for this stalemate. Either her deductions had gone wrong somewhere, or she’d overlooked a suspect.

  Perhaps there was another female guest at the party . . . Someone with a C that she’d missed. Maybe one of the ladies had a maiden or Christian name that hadn’t appeared on Lady Parkhurst’s list of invitations.

  It seemed a stretch, but at least it gave her another avenue to investigate. To follow that path of inquiry, she needed a book. The one book her mother actually urged her to read, and the one Charlotte had stubbornly refused to ever peruse.

  Debrett’s Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage.

  The list of everyone who was anyone in Britain.

  Once the idea had seized her, there was no chance she’d be able to sleep. She rose from bed and wrapped herself in a dressing gown before gathering a candle. Then she quietly ventured out into the corridor.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. The library was to the right, but she felt certain she’d seen a copy of Debrett’s in the drawing room. It was the sort of book certain families liked to have close at hand. How else would Frances keep all those venomous rumors straight?

  She turned left—then paused.

  The doors to the drawing room were open, and a faint wash of yellow lamplight spilled out into the corridor. From within, she heard a light rustle of paper and the scratch of a quill.

  Perhaps she ought to retreat and save this errand for the morning.

  However, even Charlotte—poor investigator that she’d proved to be thus far—could deduce that there was only one soul in this house who would still be awake and working at this hour.

  A peek around the doorjamb confirmed it.

  Of course it was Piers.

  He sat at the escritoire, his back to her. And what a fine back it was—his strong shoulders defined by a crisp linen shirt, and a buttoned waistcoat tapering his torso to a trim waist. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and a tower of half-opened correspondence loomed on the corner on the writing desk. As he sliced open a sealed envelope, his physicality was palpable. He might have been a stonemason, settling down to build an empire with bricks of paper and mortar made from ink.

  First, she’d slipped in through his window. Then, he’d surprised her in the garden a few nights ago. It was her turn again.

  Charlotte set the candle aside. Then she walked on tiptoe, crossing the carpet as though the embroidered medallions were steppingstones across lava, holding her breath and coming to stand just behind his tufted leather chair.

  She placed her fingers lightly over his eyes, like a blindfold. “Guess who?”

  Except that it came out more like “Geh—ack!”

  In a swift motion, he shoved his chair back from the table and grabbed her by the forearms. She found herself inverted, pulled directly over Piers’s shoulder. She landed in his lap, both her arms pinned with one of his, breathless.

  And with every racing heartbeat, a cool, metallic point throbbed against her pulse.

  He had the letter opener held to her throat.

  “Charlotte.” He cast the impromptu weapon aside, releasing her. As she started to breathe again, he rubbed his face with his hand. “Jesus.”

  She was dizzy, still a bit breathless from her somersault. Her shift had tangled about her legs, and her hair was everywhere. She laughed a little, as was her habit in moments of awkwardness.

  “It’s not amusing,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I could have hurt you. I could have . . .”

  Killed you.

  She realized for the first time what should have been obvious since he’d dismantled the cutpurse in that alleyway.

  In all likelihood, given his chosen duty, Piers had taken lives.

  It was a sobering thought. But on reflection, it didn’t make him any different from most men of his generation, thanks to England’s endless wars on multiple continents. She doubted he’d found any pleasure in it. So few of them had.

  He ran his hands down her arms, scanning her body for injuries. Now that the clamor of her own pulse had quieted, she could feel the rapid thump of his heart. The tension coiled in his arms and shoulders.

  “I’m not hurt,” she said. “And I’m not frightened. I’m fine.”

  “You must stop creeping up on me like that.”

  “But it’s the only way you’ll let me close.”

  He smelled of brandy and warm linen and the musk of his skin. The collar of his shirt hung open, and she could see the muscles of his neck, the dark hair on his chest.

  She slid her fingers under his shirt, gliding an exploratory touch along the ridge of his collarbone. “What are you doing up so late?”

  “Just going over correspondence.”

  “Correspondence?” She raised an eyebrow. “And what kind of correspondence would that be? Diplomatic affairs? Parliamentary business? Or encoded spy letters, written in invisible ink?”

  He flipped open a leather folio and fanned the contents with one hand. “See for yourself.”

  Charlotte looked at the papers splayed across the desk blotter.

  They were architectural plans and decorative schemes. Diagrams of a building, floor by floor. Interiors painted in washes of color with samples of fabric attached. All of it tasteful and surely expensive. She sifted through the sketches until she located a view of the exterior: a grand faç
ade with Grecian-inspired columns and large, modern windows. The cost of glazing those windows alone . . .

  “Is this Oakhaven?” Despite herself, she was a bit dazzled by the idea of being mistress of such a place.

  “No, no. That’s the dower house.”

  “Dower house?”

  “It’s a mile or so down the lane. Close enough for visiting, but well out of earshot. Surely you didn’t think I’d permit your mother to live with us? God, no.”

  He chuckled. Could it be that after the better part of a week, this was the first time she’d heard him laugh?

  He had a lovely laugh, too. Deep and warm. He really ought to use it more often. She would have to work on that.

  He plucked a paper from beneath the others and drew it to the top. “That’s Oakhaven.”

  She looked at the drawing, alarmed. “Goodness. It’s enormous. Whatever do you do with it?”

  “Not much of anything, lately. It’s rather a lonesome place for one.”

  As he sorted through the drawings and diagrams with one hand, his other hand caressed her back. His fingers traced up and down her spine, treasuring her vertebrae as though they were pearls on a string.

  “The furnishings are in good condition, of course, but you’ll likely find them outdated in style. You’ll see potential for a great many modernizations and improvements, I hope.”

  I hope.

  Her heartbeat caught on those two little words. Did he hope, truly? Could he want a lifetime with her—even see her companionship as a way to make his vast, grand, important life a bit less cold and empty?

  The idea touched her.

  And so she touched him, more boldly this time, easing his shirt aside and adjusting her position on his lap until she straddled his hips.

  The searing heat of his mouth met hers, and she melted into it, giving herself over to the mastery of his kiss and the warmth of his embrace.

  Oh, this man. He’d built a wintry fortress around himself—whether out of desire, necessity, or both, she didn’t yet know—but inside it, he was anything but cold.

  He broke the kiss. His eyes were lit with blue flames. Possessive, desirous.