A Dash of Scandal

Eight

“Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood,” which is why this one only seeks to provide information so that you might be the judge. Lord Dunraven was seen having a tête-à-tête with Lady Lambsbeth last evening. After the scandal they caused last year, one has to wonder what they discussed.—Lord Truefitt, Society’s Daily Column
Chandler watched Miss Blair leave the party with the Heathecoutes and took a deep breath. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and felt for the dance card. It was safely tucked inside.

Good. It was almost too perfect how his plan had worked.

He really hated having to bump into her so hard, but when he saw her taking her dance card off her wrist, he knew what he had to do. A slight bump would not have accomplished his goal. It was still unbelievable to him that she never even looked at the card he had given her—a blank card he had borrowed from a dowager duchess who had always liked him. Thankfully, she hadn’t asked him any questions.

Now that Miss Blair was gone, he could find a quiet place and read the card. He’d been able to keep her mind off the card by talking about calling on her. That had worked well, too. He didn’t understand his feelings for Miss Blair. She could be responsible for the stolen raven, she rebuffed him at every turn, but she intrigued him. Her notes intrigued him.

Chandler desperately wanted to find the thief, but he didn’t want to turn Miss Blair’s dance card over to Doulton’s elite Thief Takers first thing tomorrow for inspection. Clearly she was taking notes when he saw her. He no longer believed her story of making thank-you notes. She had to be writing notes about valuable art objects to hand over to an accomplice.

He walked over to a candle stand and took the card from his pocket and read:

Lord D-dale asked Miss B-well to dance twice. Lady H. left suddenly for Kent. Miss D. refuses to attend more parties until father relents.
Chandler skimmed the rest of the notes and then skimmed them again. There was nothing but snippets of news on the card. Where were the notes that had information about expensive art objects?

Perhaps there had been two cards on the floor, and he’d picked up the wrong one. Had he somehow kept the wrong card by mistake? No. The dowager had given him a blank card and he had written in a few names for the dances himself. He turned the card over again.

He’d only seen Miss Blair’s writing once before, at a distance that first night he saw her, but the writing seemed to be the same beautiful script. He put the card to his nose and inhaled. Oh, yes, it was Miss Blair’s.

He studied it for a moment, trying to figure out a logical explanation. Maybe because she was new in Town she was making notes about people to help her remember their names. Considering the number of people in Society, that was highly possible.

Chandler took an easy breath. Yes, that did sound plausible. She didn’t grow up in London, so she might have difficulty remembering young ladies and titled gentlemen. That had to be the reason she was making notes. How could he have ever suspected she might be an accomplice to the Mad Ton Thief just because she arrived in Town about the time the thief had arrived?

Relief washed through him. Millicent had nothing to do with the robber.

He had obviously wanted to recover the raven so badly that his mind was going wild with possibilities. Now that Doulton had added security at all the parties, maybe they’d catch the thief in the act. And perhaps he should ask to look over the information that Doulton had received so far. He wasn’t sure he trusted the man not to miss something important.

Chandler put the card back in his pocket. The evening was already spent. He’d go home and—

“You’ve been avoiding us, Dunraven.”

Damnation! Andrew and Fines. One at each elbow. Suddenly his two best friends were feeling decidedly like his two worst enemies. He didn’t want to talk to them right now. He wanted to hurry to the privacy of his home and reread Miss Blair’s writings.

“We thought we’d head over to White’s for a game and a drink? Come join us.”

“Not tonight, fellows. Some other time. I was just on my way—”

“We think it’s best that you leave right now,” Fines said and took him by one arm. Andrew took hold of the other and they started leading him toward the doorway.

Chandler pulled his arms away from their grasp and stopped. “Damnation! What the hell are you two trying to do? I bloody well don’t need an escort.”

“We’re trying to keep you out of trouble,” Fines said, looking him directly in the eyes. “Keep walking. I just ran into Lady Lambsbeth. I’m sure she is the last person you want to see tonight.”

“Especially after the rather playful conversation you just had with Miss Blair,” Andrew said before Chandler had a chance to make a response.

“It was anything but playful,” Chandler muttered.

“Exactly.”

The three of them began to walk again. “What conversation? What do you mean?” Fines asked. “Who is Miss Blair?”

“A young lady new to Town this Season,” Andrew told Fines, then to Chandler he said, “She didn’t look too happy with you, Dunraven. And no wonder. I hear you knocked her silly. Are you losing your touch when it comes to ladies of quality?”

“I thought we were talking about Lady Lambsbeth?” Fines grumbled.

“We are.”

“No, you were talking about a Miss Blair.”

“Her, too,” Andrew needled him. “Is it too difficult for you to keep up? We can talk slower.”

“Blast it. Could we just please talk about one lady at a time?”

“My, my, what’s this? There was a time when you had no problem dealing with two ladies at a time and taking care of both of them quite well.”

“We’re not talking about me and my ladies. We’re talking about Dunraven and his ladies, and I prefer not to handle them at all.”

They continued to walk through the crowd of people with Fines and Andrew talking to each other, not giving Chandler the opportunity to say a word to either of them. Not that he wanted to. He didn’t want anyone to know that he had spoken to Lady Lambsbeth tonight. And he certainly didn’t want to discuss Miss Blair with these two.

“I saw you talking to Miss Blair, but you didn’t dance with her tonight,” Andrew said. “If you are not going to pursue her, Dunraven, do you mind if I ask her for a dance?”

That got Chandler’s attention. Andrew? Dance with Miss Blair?

No.

Yes.

Hell no!

“Don’t test me on this, Andrew. I’m in no mood to challenge you over this.”

He chuckled. “I just wanted to know where you stood with her, that’s all.”

The gentlemen stepped outside. Andrew looked to where the drivers and footmen were standing. He pointed to all three of them, signaling for their carriages.

“Who is this Miss Blair you two are talking about?” Fines complained again. “We are supposed to be talking about Lady Lambsbeth, Remember the married lady who almost got Chandler killed last year?”

“Yes, we were talking about her, but, Miss Blair, too. She is the lady who had Chandler’s head spinning the other night. Pretty enough, but no one knows much about her. You know what that always means. He would do well to keep his eyes on someone like Miss Bardwell or Miss Pennington.”

“Miss Bardwell? That cold fish?”

“I’m told that a generous dowry can make a very warm bed,” Andrew said with a sly grin.

“What’s this? We’re now talking about Miss Bardwell? Could we please talk about one lady at a time?”

“Let’s not talk about any lady,” Chandler said, realizing it was past time for him to speak up and stop the bickering. He’d had enough from both of them.

“That’s easy for you to say, Dunraven. Seems you have two ladies after you tonight. I’m only trying to figure out why.”

“You are ready to settle down, Andrew,” Fines said. “Why not admit it?”

“Why not have my boot up your arse?”

“You want a fight?” Fines asked. “Tell me when and where. I’m available starting right now.”

Chandler saw his carriage pull up. This was his chance to escape. “It was really good of you two to get me out of the party so fast, but I’m going home, not to White’s.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Dunraven,” Andrew said. “It’s not late and the three of us haven’t been together to talk about the young ladies since the Season started.”

“Let him go. He’s been a bore ever since the raven was stolen,” Fines said.

“There are times you seem to be more worried about the missing raven than I am.”

“It’s been in your family for a hundred years. I’d think you’d feel positively dreadful about having it stolen right from underneath your nose.”

Chandler bristled. He did feel terrible about it.

“Why should I feel so pained about it when you seem to feel wretched enough for the both of us?”

“No, no. You’re all wrong, Fines,” Andrew jumped into the conversation gain. “I think it’s Miss Blair who has him in a snit. He obviously asked her to dance tonight after he nearly knocked her to the floor, and she refused him. It’s put him in a foul temper.”

“Good Lord, Dunraven, why did you knock her to the floor?” Fines asked.

“I didn’t,” Chandler said, holding his teeth together in an attempt to hold on to his anger. “I merely bumped into her.”

“Perhaps the fact that he hasn’t had a mistress for more than a month has made him clumsy.”

“Going that long without a mistress is enough to make a weak man ill-tempered. Damnation, Dunraven, why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s not the sort of thing a man mentions,” Andrew answered for Chandler.

“I’ll see if I can help you find one, Dunraven.”

Chandler held up his hand. “No, thank you. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own mistress when I’m ready. I’m going to bid my farewell for one reason only: I’ve had enough of you for one evening and I’m ready to go home.”

“If you must go, go. Are we still on for the races tomorrow?” Fines asked.

“Not me,” Andrew said, taking a step back. “Count me out. I have other plans.”

Chandler and Fines looked at him.

“Sorry.” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly. “I’m taking Miss Pennington for a ride in the park tomorrow afternoon.”

“You cur.” Fines grinned. “You are positively smitten by the beautiful lady, aren’t you?”

Andrew frowned. “Smitten? Good Lord, no! I’m just checking the ladies over more carefully this year. And if you two would look at yourselves in a mirror once in a while you would do the same. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not getting any younger.”

“Now, see here,” Fines complained. “There’s no call for that kind of talk.”

Chandler gave up on his two friends and walked off.

***

The moon was high in the sky when the Heathecoute’s carriage let Millicent out in front of her aunt’s town home. They waited until Phillips opened the door and let her inside before driving away. Hamlet started barking before Millicent made it to the top of the stairs. He didn’t bark when any of the servants headed to the upper floors, and Millicent hoped he would soon know her footsteps as well.

She stopped outside her aunt’s partly open door and knocked lightly. She always waited until she heard either her aunt or Emery reply before she walked inside.

At the response to enter Millicent stepped through the doorway. The heavy odor of lamp oil mixed with the strong scent of liniment hit her like a blast of tepid air. Much to Millicent’s surprise her aunt was sitting propped up in bed against several pillows with Hamlet curled and watchful next to her hip. For the first time since Millicent had arrived at her aunt’s house, the lamps were brightly lit. Millicent could see her aunt’s face clearly.

“Aunt Beatrice,” Millicent exclaimed with a smile. She walked closer to the bed, even though Hamlet growled a warning. “You are looking wonderful this evening. I mean morning.” Millicent had lost all track of time with the exhausting hours she kept.

“How can you say that, dearie?” her aunt complained with a wave of her uninjured hand. “I feel so absolutely wretched. My head is spinning.”

Beatrice was a comely woman—when not injured. She was small in stature and looked much younger than her age of fifty-five. Millicent could see how her friendly manner had served her well, considering what she had been doing for all these years. Her dark brown hair was lightly streaked with gray and fell in soft waves down her shoulders. The swelling had gone down around her eyes and mouth. Her face was regaining its shape.

“I say it because it’s true. You are beginning to look like the beautiful aunt I remember.”

“Go on with that nonsense talk,” she said, but lightly touched the skin around her eyes and her mouth.

“It’s not nonsense. Most of the puffiness has gone down in your face and the bruising has faded from a dark purple to a light pink and yellow.”

“Don’t say any more, please. That sounds positively horrible. It’s been well more than a week now since I fell and it still pains me to move.”

“That’s because your body is still healing. It takes time for broken bones to mend. Don’t fret. You’ll be taking Hamlet for walks in your beautiful garden and be back at your work before you know it.”

“Not soon enough for me,” she grumbled.

“Everyone I’ve met who knows I’m staying with you sends greetings and good well wishes.”

Aunt Beatrice sighed and pulled at the neckline of her night rail. “I’m sure I won’t make it to return at all this Season.”

Her aunt couldn’t get well soon enough for Millicent. “Let’s not give up hope until we have to, shall we?”

“My face doesn’t feel as tight today.” She reached up and lightly patted her palm to her cheek. “Perhaps I look a little better, but I’m by no means ready to be up and about.”

Millicent moved a step closer. Hamlet’s head popped up, and he watched her with big, dark brown eyes, but he didn’t bark or growl. Maybe she was making progress with him. She smiled at him before returning her attention to her aunt.

“You’re sitting up, which you haven’t done before, so I see that as a good sign that you are now on the mend.”

“I suppose you are right. Let’s get on with the article. What do you have for me tonight?”

Millicent took her reticule off her wrist and opened it. She pulled out her dance card and turned it over to read her notes on the back, but the back was blank.

Blank? Angels above! How could that be? Frantic, she searched her reticule for another card but found nothing. Still not believing her eyes, she turned her small purse upside down and emptied its contents on the foot of her aunt’s bed. Hamlet rose and walked over to the things lying near her aunt’s feet. He quietly sniffed the pencil and barked once, then moved on to her handkerchief.

Oh, no!

She looked at the front of the card and realized that Lord Dunraven had mistakenly picked up someone else’s card from the floor! What rotten luck! Hers was probably at this moment being swept into a trash heap by the servants while she stared at a useless card.

“What could have happened?” she whispered softly to herself as her hands clutched into tight fists.

“Dear girl, what is it?” her aunt questioned. “You seem distraught.”

“It’s nothing.” Millicent couldn’t let her aunt know what had happened. “I was just looking for something. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She wasn’t covering for herself very well. How could Lord Dunraven pick up the wrong card?

“Now, what did I discover tonight? Let me think for a moment.”

Millicent put her finger to her lips and pretended to do some serious thinking. Her mind was as blank as the useless card in her hand. What had she written down when she was in that reading room?

She couldn’t remember anything but the expression on Lord Dunraven’s face when he handed her the dance card. Had he known he had the wrong card? No, that would have been impossible. She watched him reach down and pick it up. It looked like her card, but then most of them looked very much alike.

Lord Dunraven had caught her once before making notes on her dance card. He had even teased her about it later, but she was sure there was no way he could have seen her making notes tonight. She’d been so careful to be sure that no one had followed her to that back room.

“Millicent, you are taking too long with your thinking. We don’t have that much time.”

“Ah—I think the most important gossip I heard tonight was that Lady Lambsbeth is back in Town.”

“Are you sure?” Aunt Beatrice leaned forward, having lost interest in the contents of Millicent’s reticule, Hamlet snuggled back against Aunt Beatrice.

“Quite.” Millicent felt sure she could trust anything Lady Lynette told her.

“That sounds delicious. If this is true, it’s worth reporting. Who was she dancing with?”

“I don’t know, but she was seen having a secluded tête-à-tête with Lord Dunraven.” Millicent blurted out the bit of information Lady Lynette had whispered to her as she was leaving the party with Viscountess Heathecoute.

“Are you sure about this? Did you witness their intimate conversation?”

She hadn’t, but she was sure. She’d been attacked with something that felt very much like jealousy when Lady Lynette had whispered the information to her.

“Goodness no. I have no idea what Lady Lambsbeth looks like. I received this information from a very good source as I was leaving the party.”

Aunt’s Beatrice’s eyes suddenly looked glassy. “If it is true, this is just the sort of thing our readers like to read about.”

A lump formed in Millicent’s throat. She was a bit concerned about how interested her aunt was in this particular information. Her eyes were flashing with excitement.

“Millicent, I need to know who told you about this clandestine meeting. We can’t publish a word of it unless we are sure Lady Lambsbeth is in Town and that she attended at least one party that the earl attended.”

Millicent wrinkled her brow. She had a sinking feeling that it might have been better had she kept the information about Lady Lambsbeth and Lord Dunraven to herself. But it was too late for recriminations now.

“So whether they actually had a conversation is not important?” Millicent asked.

“Of course it is. In a small way. It is perfectly all right to assume that if they, indeed, ended up at the same party that sometime during the evening, they had a conversation—given their past relationship. It would have been so delicious to have overheard a word or two of what they said. Now tell me, who gave you this information?”

“I’d rather not say, Aunt Beatrice. My source believes she talks to me in secret.”

“And she does. The same as I talk to you and you to me in private. Good heavens! Do you think I’d ever reveal where Lord Truefitt’s information comes from? What a ninny I would be if I did that. And if anyone finds out I am Lord Truefitt, I’ll leave Town in shame.”

“I understand that. I’m certain that she would not tell me something that didn’t happen. She is most reliable.”

“I’m certain of that, too. Heavens, Millicent, I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years and I’ve trusted no one with the information but my contact at The Daily Reader,the Heathecoutes, and now you.”

What her aunt said was true and gave Millicent some reassurance, but this made her certain she’d never like writing about other people’s personal lives. What if Lord Dunraven didn’t want anyone to know he had talked to Lady Lambsbeth?

“Very well,” Millicent relented. “My informant is Lady Lynette Knightington.”

“Hmm. The one with the birthmark?” Aunt Beatrice screwed up her face in thought while Hamlet licked her hand.

Millicent nodded.

“Her father being a duke, she’s always at the best parties. She’s usually quiet. Spends most of her time just watching other people. I seldom see her talking with anyone.”

“Maybe that’s because no one takes the time to really talk to her,” Millicent offered.

“She does know everyone. The poor dear has no chance of making a match. I think she realizes that, but she does seem to always be around. I suppose it’s quite possible that she saw them together.”

“Lady Lynette has been very kind to me every time I’ve seen her. I told you she paid a call yesterday.”

“Yes, yes. I remember that. She’s probably a good contact for you. I think we can consider her a reliable source. Tell me exactly what she said to you tonight.”

“Let me think.” Millicent started putting her belongings back into her reticule now that Hamlet had inspected it all and had settled down again.

“We don’t have time for you to think, Millicent,” her aunt said impatiently.

“I was taking my leave and…” Unexpectedly, she thought of the soft kiss Lord Dunraven had given her in the garden.

“Millicent?” her aunt asked again.

“While Lord Heathecoute was helping his lady with her cloak, Lady Lynette came over and whispered she’d seen the two of them having a private conversation near the front door.”

“Perhaps they had planned to meet there.”

“I really don’t know. Lady Lynette added that Lady Lambsbeth was even more radiant than she had been last year.” A wistfulness entered Millicent’s voice. “Lady Lynette discreetly pointed with her fan to a lady not far away. From what I could see of her, she was indeed very beautiful.” As she said the words, Millicent felt another small stab of—jealousy? Is that what she felt? Surely not.

“As beautiful and as deadly as a jeweled dagger,” Aunt Beatrice said. “Did Lady Lynette by chance overhear anything they said to each other?”

“Not that she mentioned.”

“No, of course not. The dear girl wouldn’t want to go that far with the gossip.”

Millicent again wondered if she and her aunt were even talking about the same Lady Lynette. Millicent found the duke’s daughter to be a deep well of gossip, especially where Lord Dunraven was concerned.

“Hurry, get your quill and vellum, Millicent, we must not tarry. If Lady Lynette saw them talking so did others. We will dedicate our entire column to this story.”

Millicent squeezed her eyes shut for a moment when she turned away. She didn’t like the knot of guilt that coiled and rumbled in her stomach.

What had she done to Lord Dunraven? What would he say if he ever found out what she had done?

Would he ever forgive her?