Only Scandal Will Do Page 5

  The carriage slowed to a halt and one of the mounted guards escorted her to the door of the stately townhouse Jack had inherited from Uncle William. Simons opened the door, his delight evident. “Oh, Lady Katarina, we are so glad to see you safe at home.” But he looked askance at her dull gray dress, hardly the clothing in which she had left.

  “Thank you, Simons.” She turned to the Runner, whose gaze even now swept the dark, hushed portico, alert to any danger. “Please convey my thanks once again to Mr. Matthews, sir. Tell him I will send word immediately if my brother’s condition changes.”

  The man bowed and departed, leaving her with Simons and the cavernous house.

  “How is his lordship, Simons?” She forced a brisk, no nonsense tone. No one must suspect her distraught state. There would be enough questions and speculations to deal with. “Mr. Matthews told me Jack remains unconscious.” Her voice rose as she desperately hoped to be contradicted.

  “That is sadly correct, my lady. He has not stirred since they brought him home.” Simons’ shocked gaze slid away from her when he moved the lamp closer to light her way.

  She had forgotten her bruised face, now probably even more garish in the yellow light. “You sent to Bow Street, Simons?”

  “Yes, my lady.” The butler kept his eyes forward now. “When Lawrence ran in with the news about the assault, we first tended to the earl of course, then everyone was looking to me for what to do. I remembered the old earl speaking of his relative who was at Bow Street. And I believed the family connection would persuade Mr. Matthews to help recover you. Lord Manning was impressed with his thoroughness. No case unsolved, Lord William remarked more than once. Such a lucky happenstance for us that still holds true.”

  They were on the stairs, heading for Jack’s suite, when Simons cast another furtive glance at her. “Dr. Pritchett has been here twice since the earl was brought in. Will you send for him again, my lady?” Might Simons believe she needed the physician as much as her brother?

  “No, that won’t be necessary. But have Margery prepare a bath for me and tell her to fetch me when it’s ready. I’ll be with Jack.” The last was uttered as she pushed open the carved, gilded door to her brother’s bedchamber. She walked unsteadily to the head of the massive mahogany four-poster, its bold crimson coverlet cocooning the still form lying there.

  Jack’s dark head lay on the pillows, as if he were peacefully asleep. Kat lifted his hand, kneaded his warm, limp fingers through hers. “Wake up, Jack,” she commanded, raising his hand to her cheek. “I have such a tale to tell you! Some of it’s even true.”

  Gazing at the beloved face, now slack and vulnerable, tears threatened once more. This time she knew she could not banish them. “Oh, Jack. Please wake up. I need you so very desperately.” She eased onto a chair drawn up next to him, laid her head on his pillow and let the tears come.

  When the door finally opened, she raised her head, dashing her hand across her achy eyes, to find Margery beckoning. Kat followed the woman as wearily as if she had aged fifty years. Soon she slid into the welcoming water, delicious in its heat and scent of roses. Her sore, bruised body relaxed in the comforting warmth, while she tried to empty her mind of memories of the night past.

  She was contemplating washing her hair when Margery appeared, more excited than Kat had ever seen her. “Oh, my lady. Your brother is awake and asking for you! Will you come to him?” The woman grabbed a piece of toweling to assist Kat, who all but fell out of the tub in her eagerness to get to Jack.

  Ten minutes later, clad in fresh night rail, wrapper and slippers, she burst into her brother’s room. The doctor straightened from the patient at the interruption to reveal Jack’s eyes were open. His head held gingerly–as he frequently did after a wild night of drinking–he cut his eyes toward her and cringed.

  “No sudden moves, Kat, I beg you.” Jack recoiled from the sound of his own voice. “Are you all right?” he continued in a whisper.

  She stalked over to the bed. “A damn sight better than you are.” She smiled, her first genuine one of the night. “But of course I always was.”

  He gave a wan attempt at a grin, seeming to enjoy the badinage. God willing, it was a sign he would mend. “What happened to you?”

  The concern in his weak voice plucked at her heart, so she hastened to reassure him. “That is quite a tale, but will keep for tomorrow. Or later today, rather. It must have gone three already and I’m dead on my feet. But as you can see, I am safe and whole and not much the worse for wear.”

  “Your face is a mess, Kat.” His concern seemed to be escalating.

  “I told you it’s a long story. But I will mend, never fear.” As the doctor took his pulse, she said, “He needs rest now, doesn’t he, Dr. Pritchett?”

  The rotund little man nodded in agreement and replaced Jack’s hand on the coverlet. “Rest and no excitement is the prescription for his lordship, my lady. I’ve given him something to help him sleep, but do keep him quiet for the next week or so. Head wounds are touchy. We must make sure he does not excite himself and cause more damage.”

  So much for her tale. She’d have to stall Jack on that; even the made-up version of her adventure might give her brother apoplexy. Kat nodded to the physician and leaned over to kiss Jack’s forehead. “Rest first, adventure later.”

  One brief, stubborn look, then he settled wearily onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

  Kat escorted the doctor from the room and began to lead him down the corridor. “How is he really, Dr. Pritchett?”

  “I think he’ll do, if he’s kept quiet. But good God, my lady!” The doctor finally got a glimpse of her face. “Has anyone seen to you?”

  “No, but there’s little true damage. My face is the worst of it. I was slapped rather hard.”

  “Did you lose consciousness?” Pritchett grasped her elbow and led her to a nearby chair. “Hold this.” He thrust the lamp into her hands and proceeded to explore the swollen right side of her face.

  “Ouch!”

  He gently prodded flesh now tender beyond belief. “Did you lose consciousness?” he repeated, feeling her jaw, pressing her nose, searching for fractures.

  “I believe I did, briefly. Not more than a minute I would guess. I awakened just before they carried me out to the platf–” She had finally blundered. A skilled interrogator could not get from her what this physician had discovered with one innocuous question. “I suppose it was a short amount of time.”

  “Platform?” Dr. Pritchett’s brows furrowed in confusion, then his sharp brown eyes widened and he took a step back. His attention fixed on her hair, neatly braided for the night, the coppery auburn gleaming in the candlelight, and his puzzled expression turned to one of horror. “It was you!”

  Damn him! He had been there. She cursed the tired tongue that had betrayed her and raised her gaze to his, steeling herself. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were one of the girls in Madame Vestry’s auction.”

  Katarina bit her lip. She could deny it and Pritchett would perhaps pretend to believe her. But it would only be pretense. Her hair, God curse it, was memorable. The man knew what he had seen and what she had just confessed. Rumors would start and a professional man’s opinion would be believed. Better, then, to claim him as an ally and rely on his honor to keep him silent.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked the doctor straight in the face. “Yes, Dr. Pritchett, I was in an auction, though I don’t know the woman’s name you mentioned. I was kidnapped, taken to a house, and then put up on that platform and sold to the highest bidder. I take it you witnessed this disgrace?” Turn and attack. What was a respectable physician doing at such a debacle?

  He nodded, but didn’t seem ashamed. “I was there, Lady Katarina. One of her girls was ill tonight, and as a personal favor to Madame Vestry I called to attend her. Afterward, I looked in on the auction.” He flushed and continued hurriedly. “I would never bid on such a spectacle, my lady.” Then with dawning dismay, “The man w
ho purchased you...” He eyed her figure, stricken dumb himself.

  She straightened and shook her head. “I managed to escape him before he could dishonor me.” The pity in his face said he did not believe her, but it mattered little what he believed, as long as he would keep the secret. “I beg of you, speak of this to no one. Not my brother, not anyone. I will not have him worried in his condition. Especially as nothing can be done to remedy it.”

  “My lady, surely your honor...”

  “Is intact, doctor, I assure you.”

  His frown and straightened posture attested to his disbelief.

  “There is no point in pursuing the matter, in any case, for honor cannot be satisfied.”

  Pritchett’s face grew rigid. “The man should die for this affront, my lady.”

  Kat’s lips curled upward in a smile at his vehemence. “I would do the deed myself, I assure you. But I do not know the man’s identity.” Her heart skipped a beat. “Do you?”

  She held her breath, fearful the nightmare was not over. But Pritchett shook his head and her frantic heartbeat slowed. “I must, therefore, trust to your discretion and silence. I would not have a scandal mar my brother’s reputation while he is so unable to defend it. And as there can be no remedy, I will endeavor to put this whole sorry episode behind me.”

  He acquiesced with a reluctant nod. “Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady? Your face will remain swollen for some days and the bruising will become quite colorful, but there seems no lasting damage. You have no headache?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I suggest cold cloths for your comfort.” He met her eyes, now a co-conspirator.

  She nodded, grateful for his cooperation, and stood to see him out.

  At last alone in her room, she climbed between the warmed sheets, exhausted. Margery had certainly done her best to see to her comfort after this ordeal, and Kat snuggled down, ready to abandon herself to sleep. Despite her weariness, however, sleep would not come. Instead she drifted back to the last bed she’d lain on. Well, maybe if she deliberately thought about the rogue she could purge him from her thoughts.

  Astonished at how vividly she could bring him to mind, she closed her eyes and moaned. Unexpected details sprang up with startling clarity. Longish light brown hair, pulled back at his nape. Though she had only seen his face from the nose down, she remembered a long jaw with a slightly jutting chin. Stubborn for sure. His eyes had looked black with lust, but could have been dark brown. She would know them anywhere. And of course she would recognize her handiwork on his cheek.

  She doubted they would ever meet again. And what could she do if they did? Call him out? If she was going to withhold the truth from Jack, then she could never know the satisfaction of seeing him run through by her own hand. His reflexes and cunning had impressed her as traits of an excellent swordsman. He would be a worthy opponent.

  Kat’s shoulders twitched in anticipation. What wouldn’t she give to stand before him with steel in her hand. A glorious image. Skill with a rapier was her proudest accomplishment; she would love to flaunt it before him. Oh, if only she had carried a sword this evening! The next time she attended a masquerade she would go as an Amazon, armed to the teeth.

  The next time... Would there be a next time for her in London society? That depended on whether she could keep the night’s activities from society’s rumor-mongering ears. One breath of this scandal and she and her brother would be cut dead by the ton. They might as well sail back to Virginia. She shrugged, and turned over.

  Could she perhaps talk her brother into allowing her to return to Virginia? She had friends in Virginia, enjoyed the more relaxed society there. And there was Amiable.

  Kat sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Captain Dawson. An officer in her father’s regiment, Amiable Dawson had frankly admired her for several years. They’d become friends, though she’d made it known she wanted nothing more than friendship from him and, true to his name, he’d accepted her decree with good grace. But he’d made it clear to her, upon her father’s death, that should she ever need him, he was hers to command. Would Amiable accept her despite the current threat of scandal? She owed it to him to explain what had happened before he committed to her. Perhaps she should write and accept his proposal.

  She shook her head. This sudden urge to marry was unsettling. The reason that surfaced, unbidden, sent icy fingers down her spine. If she was already married she could not be forced to marry the man in the lion’s mask.

  That was an absurd fear. Katarina lay down again. She did not know who he was, though he certainly knew her name. But he would never seek her out. Surely he would avoid her and any hint of the scandal she would bring.

  Staring into the dark, she heard again his excited cry of, “One thousand pounds.” The man had paid a fortune for a night with her in his bed. Who was to say that he would not find her and make good on his purchase? Her ample dowry would more than compensate him for his bid tonight. Oh, yes, if he truly wanted her, he would find her and claim his right to marry her.

  Her heart beat faster at the thought. That unaccountable attraction she’d felt when in his arms resurfaced. She had abandoned herself shamelessly, done things she’d never dreamed of doing. If the man could sap all her self-control that way, he was as dangerous to her as a loaded pistol in the hands of a lunatic. She never lost control, not until tonight.

  Even now she could feel his mouth on hers, his lips straying downward... No. Kat fought against the images that rose. He would not seduce her again tonight. Or any night. Somehow she would make her brother see sense and let her go to Amiable; she would write to the captain in the morning. And pray God she had seen the last of the man in the golden mask.

  * * * *

  Duncan Ferrers awoke in the dead of night, alone in bed. His head pounded even as his cheek throbbed with fire. He groaned in agony, then stumbled to the washstand, wet a cloth and pressed it tentatively to the ripped, aching flesh. He’d have to send for Pritchett in the morning. Damn woman.

  He’d awakened on the floor of the blue room at Madame Vestry’s to the sound of the clock striking twelve. Moving his head had been torture, but he’d managed to gather his senses and leave the house undetected by Amorina or her henchmen. He had no idea what happened to the girl and frankly didn’t care. He suspected she’d escaped the house completely, else whoever caught her would have returned her to the room. Best to simply forget the whole unfortunate episode.

  Duncan slipped on his red-striped banyan and poured himself a brandy. He sat gingerly on the sofa before the banked fire, moving his head as little as possible. Cautiously, he alternated sips of the fiery brew with bathing his cheek. Wincing, he rubbed the swollen scratch marks.

  He took a long pull at the cognac, relishing the fire that smoothed a path down into his stomach. The girl had been magnificent. Her hair, her face, her form, her spirit. He almost wished her story had been true, for she would make an excellent candidate for his bride.

  But what on earth would a lady of good reputation be doing in a brothel? Absolute absurdity. He shook his head then cringed as pain streaked from side to side. Of course he hadn’t believed her. And truth to tell, he hadn’t wanted to. Not with that brilliant hair swirling around her luscious body, tempting him with the delights it promised.

  But the marks he’d felt on her wrists had been real. Duncan paused, the glass halfway to his lips. Those rope burns had made him hesitate earlier too, because if she had been kidnapped as she said... He set the glass down with a none-too-steady hand.

  Was there another explanation for rope burns? An ugly idea rose. She could be one of Amorina’s girls recently used by a man who favored that sort of roughness. Amorina hadn’t stood for such tastes in the past, but as Tommy said, things had changed. A plausible set of circumstances, though the thought of that girl being badly used ignited his anger. The idea certainly presented a much safer scenario, however. Because if the woman had told the truth, then he had just
compromised the sister of a peer.

  Yet another scandal ruining his life. Her identity was at least something he could check without calling undue attention to himself. He’d been out of the country almost a year. Of course he was sadly misinformed about all the news and gossip from the past ten months. If William, Earl of Manning, had indeed died and his brother or nephew had inherited the title, most people should know. Perhaps he could ask Pritchett in the morning. Normal thing to do. Should raise no suspicions at all.

  Duncan drained the remaining spirits in his glass. He would get to the bottom of this; he only hoped the bottom would not be covered in scandal.

  * * * *

  Next morning as he sat to a breakfast of soft eggs and toast, Duncan pored over last evening’s London Chronicle, putting it down when Grayson informed him that Dr. Pritchett had arrived. Duncan had the man shown into his office and presented himself for treatment. The cheek had gotten worse since he’d bathed it.

  “Pritchett.” He greeted the little man with a nod as he entered the room. “Good of you to come so early.”

  “Anytime, my lord. Lord!” Pritchett caught sight of the gashes and sucked breath in between his teeth. “What on earth happened, Lord Dalbury? Were you attacked?”

  “Not exactly.” Duncan eased into his leather chair. “A slight run-in with a light-skirt last evening. She proved less enamored of my charms than I expected. Perhaps I should make her actions known to Harris for inclusion in the next edition of his list.”

  As the doctor examined the wounds, Grayson returned with hot water. Pritchett gently bathed the scratches and applied a noisome ointment. “I won’t stitch it, my lord. Such things heal better if left thus. You need to bathe the area and apply this ointment morning and night. The cheek should heal cleanly, but I fear there will be some scarring.”

  Duncan scowled, then winced as the movement pulled at the tender flesh. “Thank you, Pritchett.”