A Dash of Scandal

Chapter Eleven

“Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise” and no wonder. Has anyone, perchance, told the dashing Lord Dunraven this fact, he who seems to be in the gossip sheets daily—and should be. Word has it he is no longer interested in Lady Lambsbeth. He now has his eye on a young lady new to Town but obviously not new in the ways of capturing the heart of a confirmed bachelor. He was seen blowing her a kiss.

—Lord Truefitt, Society’s Daily Column

Dawn couldn’t be more than an hour away as Millicent entered the front door, her steps slower and heavier than usual. Hamlet announced her with his warning bark, but it didn’t seem to be as loud or frantic as usual. She turned out the lamp that was always left on for her and leaned against the back of the door as was her custom. Most nights she was too weary to go immediately to her aunt’s room. She usually took a minute or two to unwind before starting the column.

She wanted the privacy of her own bedchamber so she could have some time to think about Lord Dunraven and all the unwanted feelings and emotions he had stirred inside her before going in to see her aunt. But, she couldn’t do that. There was little enough time each morning as it was to write the article and get it out to the newspaper on time.

Millicent pushed away from the door and climbed the stairs, stopping short of her aunt’s door. She knocked and upon hearing the response, she entered her aunt’s room. Aunt Beatrice was sitting up in her bed, looking much better than she had the day before. Once the healing had started taking place in her face it was rapidly returning her features to their normal size and shape.

Weary though she was, Millicent smiled and said, “Good morning, Aunt Beatrice.” She stopped at the foot of the bed, knowing Hamlet would not allow her to go further. “Is that a new bed jacket you’re wearing? It’s lovely and you are looking better each day.”

Her aunt smiled. “Thank you, dearie. I’m happy to say that I’m finally beginning to feel better. I was starting to think that day would never come. Tell me about the parties tonight. Was everyone at Almack’s? You must have been having a delightful time to be out so long. I do wish I could have been there. I miss seeing everyone.”

“My first evening at Almack’s was splendid. Thank you for arranging that, Aunt Beatrice. And from what I could tell everyone was there. The place was overflowing with people.”

“It’s always that way, dear, even on the stormiest nights. It’s wonderful to hear you had a splendid evening. It seems like I’ve been waiting hours for your return. I’m simply faint with wanting to get out of this bed and back to the parties to chat with my friends and listen to what everyone has to say.”

“I’m sure it won’t be long now. I don’t know how the viscount and his lady stay out so late night after night. It’s no wonder his lordship sleeps on the drive home.” Millicent purposely looked down at the dog. “Good morning, Hamlet. How are you today?” Hamlet barked once. Millicent lifted an eyebrow. Maybe she was winning him over.

“They sleep until it is time to get up and get dressed for the next party. That’s how they do it. It’s not too bad a life. Remember, this hectic schedule only lasts for the Season. They should attend more luncheons and take more rides in the park, but they do what they can, I suppose.”

“I wasn’t complaining about them. They are very attentive to me.”

“Good. Now, before we begin, I have something for you to read,” her aunt said. “A letter for you.”

She saw the sheet of vellum in her aunt’s hand. “For me?” Millicent’s spirits lifted. “Is it from my mother?”

Millicent reached for the letter. She truly felt terrible that she had neglected writing to her mother while she’d been in London, but there had been so little time. She was quite happy with the lace she had picked out for her mother after Lord Dunraven had left her in the shop, and she would see that it was sent to her tomorrow.

“No, but this might make you almost as happy as hearing from your mother. Read it out loud.”

Millicent took the sheet and moved closer to the brightly lit bedside lamp. Why would anyone other than her mother write to her?

“Dear Lord Truefitt,” she read aloud. She stopped and looked up. “This is not for me.”

“But of course it is. My dear Millicent, you are now Lord Truefitt.”

Hearing those words spoken stunned Millicent. She was Lord Truefitt?

Yes, until her aunt returned to the parties. Millicent must talk to her aunt about Lord Dunraven. There was no putting it off any longer.

“Go ahead,” her aunt insisted. “Read it.”

Dear Lord Truefitt:

It has come to my attention that we have had numerous comments about your addition of quotes from Shakespeare at the beginning of your column each day. All good comments, I might add. Our readership is growing. We believe the success of your column is one of the reasons our circulation has increased. Congratulations on a splendid job. We hope you will continue your quotes from Shakespeare.

Yours very truly,

Thomas Greenbrier

Millicent looked up from the paper, feeling slightly starry-eyed. “It’s a success.”

“That is what he is saying, yes.” Her aunt laughed low in her throat. “I must admit I had my doubts when you first started helping me, but according to Emery and Phillips everyone on the street is talking about our column.”

Millicent didn’t like hearing the column referred to as hers. “But why?”

“From what I hear some people are squabbling over which play the quote comes from or what character has said it and other people are making a game out it. Sales are up on books of Shakespeare’s works. There’s talk that White’s will soon make it available to wager a bet on which work of Shakespeare you will write from next.” Her aunt’s smile beamed across her face. “It’s smashing, dear girl. The attention you have brought to Lord Truefitt’s column is simply smashing!”

Millicent couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had overheard a few people mention the quotes, but paid it no mind. “I don’t understand. How can this be so popular that it’s talked about by everyone?”

“You have mixed the most beloved author of all time with what the ton loves most—gossip! And it has worked beautifully.” Aunt Beatrice laughed again. “You are all the rage.”

All the rage?

No, she was speechless! What would happen if her mother found out?—or Lord Dunraven?

Millicent forced those thoughts away and politely said what she knew her aunt wanted to hear. “Not me, Aunt Beatrice. You. Remember this is your column and you will return to it soon. If you are pleased, Aunt, then I am pleased and we will continue to give your readers what they want.”

“It was a brilliant idea, dearie. To think that all these years I have enjoyed Shakespeare’s works divinely but never thought to use his words in my own writings. That was most clever of you.”

“Thank you for letting me read this. You brought me here to help you, and I’m glad I have.” Millicent handed the letter to her aunt. Hamlet rose to sniff it briefly, but quickly settled back down.

“Shakespeare is all well and good, but it would be boring to most of our readers if we didn’t spice it with gossip. Scandal is such a delicious form of entertainment. We must have more, Millicent.”

Millicent wasn’t shy and she could handle herself at the parties. She just didn’t like writing about people’s personal and private lives.

“You have been doing this a week now,” her aunt continued, hardly catching a breath. “You must get more information on things like the meeting between Lord Dunraven and Lady Lambsbeth, who has danced with whom or who has made a match or who is thinking of making one. What is going on with Miss Pennington and Miss Donaldson? Our readers want to know who slips out into the gardens when no one is looking, which gentleman gets the kiss and which gets a slap. And of course, it always makes excellent gossip if a couple who is suited suddenly decides against marriage and why.”

Listening to her aunt talk with relish about the intimacies of other people’s lives reminded Millicent why she didn’t like what she was doing for her aunt. If anyone had seen her with Lord Dunraven in the draper’s shop and then wrote about it, she would be devastated. Suddenly she felt chilled. What would happen if someone had seen them?

Exactly what happened to your mother.

Before she lost her courage, Millicent said, “That brings up a subject I must speak to you about.”

Her aunt sat up a little straighter. “Suddenly you look serious. Tell me.”

Millicent clasped her hands together in front of her skirt and said, “Against my wishes, it appears that Lord Dunraven is pursuing me.”

“What’s this?” Her aunt leaned forward in the bed so fast Hamlet scampered to the end of the bed. “The Lord Dunraven of the Terrible Threesome and the missing raven?”

Is there another?

Millicent hoped she was doing the right thing in confessing to her aunt and seeking help. “Yes. I swear, Aunt, I’ve done nothing to encourage him.” Had she? “In fact, I’ve been quite the opposite and almost rude at times.” Submissive at others. “But at every turn he rebuffs my rejections and keeps insisting I allow him to call on me. I always decline. And—”

“And?”

“He’s been absolutely forward in his manner toward me every time we meet.”

“This is most fascinating, Millicent. You must give me details.”

Millicent winced. No.

She couldn’t possibly tell her aunt that she had been so thoroughly kissed and caressed by this man that she had half fallen in love with him already. She must think quickly.

“So far, it hasn’t been anything I can’t handle, but I need to know how to rebuke him so that he leaves me alone. We can’t run the risk of him discovering who I am. He may get curious about what I’m doing.”

“The only way for him to discover that is for you to tell him, and I’m sure you won’t let that happen. But I agree that it’s in our best interest that he not pursue you.”

“He’s much too charming.”

“He is a rake who knows all the tricks, and he’s such a worldly gentleman. You must tell me exactly what he has done. Has he compromised you?”

“No, nothing as serious as that,” she fibbed. Millicent groped for the right words. “He caressed my hand and squeezed my fingers the entire time we were dancing.”

“Botheration, Millicent,” her aunt exclaimed. “That’s hardly worthy of gossip. What else did he do?”

Millicent looked at her aunt and wasn’t at all sure she approved of the gleam she saw her in red eyes.

“He blew me a kiss. He danced the waltz with me. He keeps asking to call on me. I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but he is most persistent. He won’t take no for an answer. I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” her aunt said with all confidence and in the strongest voice she had used since Millicent arrived. “The one thing that will make Lord Dunraven lose interest in a young lady faster than anything else.”

“What’s that?”

“Having his name linked with hers in the gossip columns. Get your quill, Millicent. We shall write about him and mention you.”

***

Rare late afternoon sunshine filtered through the tree leaves and sliced through the open windows in Chandler’s book room. He sat at the fine rosewood desk that had been his father’s and his father’s before him, trying not to look at the empty shelf where the gold raven should be perched.

He was supposed to be going over the array of account books on his vast estates that were spread out before him, but mostly he was brooding. And thinking of Millicent Blair.

Keeping a sharp eye on the management of his estates and holdings was the reason he’d been able to enjoy his extravagant lifestyle these past years. His father had given him a good start, but Chandler had been shrewd with his investments and the lands he purchased. His managers did an excellent job keeping his land prosperous and his tenants happy. He usually paid each of them a visit in the fall before the dead of winter set over the land.

He knew it to be true that in his younger years he had spent too much money gambling and racing horses, and too many nights in debauchery, but he never came close to endangering his wealth or his properties, though he may have endangered his life a time or two.

Today, he couldn’t concentrate. A certain young lady had captured his fancy and wouldn’t let go. Every time he tried to put her out of his mind, she came back to smile at him, tease him, beckon him. She intrigued him madly. He was sure if she would merely tell him he could call on her properly it would get her out of his mind. It was the chase that no doubt intrigued him.

He swung his chair around and stared out the open window without really seeing anything. It wasn’t like him to be so attracted to a woman that he couldn’t get her womanly scent out of his mind or the sweet taste of her lips out of his mouth. If he hadn’t taken control of himself yesterday afternoon, he would have undressed her right there in that shop—and she would have let him.

There was no doubt that she was as attracted to him as he was to her, yet she refused to have him call on her in a respectable manner. Still, he shouldn’t have let things go so far between them in such a public place.

Chandler had done some crazy things in his life, including entering a willing young lady’s bedroom window, but he had stopped that foolishness years ago. And even then, he did it for the sport, for the thrill of not getting caught, not because he was in love with the lady. He’d risked Millicent’s reputation and his freedom because he wanted to be with her.

He risked a lot for a lady he knew very little about. What was she hiding? He had settled for himself that she had nothing to do with the Mad Ton Thief, but why was she always making notes and being so secretive about her family? He should try to find out more about her before his heart became involved with her.

“Excuse me, Lord Dunraven.”

Chandler looked up to see his valet standing in the doorway, impeccably dressed. With thick gray hair smoothed away from his face, Peter Winston, a short broad-shouldered man, had been with Chandler since shortly after finishing his education.

Chandler had been immediately impressed with the older man when he’d interviewed for the job. Winston hadn’t cowered or become flustered from Chandler’s tough questioning. He’d remained confident and certain that he was the best man to serve Chandler, and Winston had never let him down.

“What is it, Winston?” he asked, turning back to his desk and the pretense of looking at the books before him. Fines was right, he’d done far too much woolgathering recently, and he hadn’t spent enough time thinking of ways to capture the Mad Ton Thief.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord, but there’s a Mr. Percy Doulton here to see you. I inquired whether he had an appointment. He admitted he didn’t but hoped you might be available to see him.”

“Maybe at last the man has some news. Show him in.”

“Certainly. Should I bring in tea or will you be offering something stronger?”

“No need for either, Winston. I’m sure he won’t be long. Ask him to come in.”

Chandler stood and started closing books scattered on top of his desk. Within moments, the man walked in.

“How do you do, Doulton. Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Lord Dunraven. I have some information that I wanted to share with you right away.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“No, not at all.” He took the winged chair in front of Chandler’s desk. “It appears that, despite all our efforts, there was another theft last night.”

Chandler sat down. “Damnation! Where?”

“At Lord Dovershaft’s.”

The name sent a cold chill up Chandler’s back. Last night, when he saw Millicent at Almack’s, she said she had just come from Lord Dovershaft’s. She said they were late because they got a late start. Was that the real reason? Had he exonerated her too quickly?

“It was a small painting, not large at all from what I understand, but apparently priceless. The earl is in a temper, while the countess is having friends in to see the place on the wall where the painting used to hang.”

“Damn, this is disturbing news.”

“Not according to the countess. She’s quite certain Lord Pinkwater’s ghost now has the painting.”

Chandler was resolute. “She’s wrong. A thief has it. Was a Runner there?”

“Yes. He insists he was at his post all evening and no one could have gotten past him with a painting.”

“He would certainly insist that. Can he be trusted?”

“He’s been with me for two years. I’ve never had a problem with him, sir.”

“Until now. Get rid of him and find another to take his place.”

Doulton cleared his throat. “There is hope, Lord Dunraven. The dinner party was a small gathering. Less than one-hundred people. The earl and countess are certain of their guest list. Neither of them saw anyone they didn’t know, and together they believe they saw everyone who attended.”

“Did anyone offer any clues?”

“No, sir. As I stated before, my man swears he was at the front door the entire evening and no one left carrying anything the size of a lady’s small parasol.”

“A parasol?”

“The Countess insists the painting was the size of a young girl’s parasol when it is open.”

“That’s impossible.”

Doulton remained quiet.

“If your man didn’t leave his post, we can assume the thief left by a window.”

“My thoughts exactly. Servants would have seen anyone leaving by the rear door. I don’t have enough men to guard every room at every party.”

“No. I’m not suggesting that, but something more needs to be done. There’s been a robbery a week since the Season began, and we’re no closer to finding him.”

“We’re trying to establish a pattern, but so far there hasn’t been one. He’s taken jewelry, your raven, and now a painting.”

“Keep working on it. He’ll make a mistake sooner or later and we’ll catch him.”

“I’ll be in touch when I have more to report.”

Doulton rose from his chair and laid a newspaper on Chandler’s, desk open to the Society page. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to see this. Good day.”

Chandler looked down at the newsprint as Doulton walked out. Chandler’s name jumped out at him and the name beside his.

Millicent.

He picked up the paper and scanned it. How could anyone have seen him blowing her a kiss? They were alone in that darkened hallway, he was sure of it. No one knew about it other than Miss Millicent Blair herself.

Something stirred in the back of his mind. He picked up the article and read it again, slower. Could it be?

“Damnation,” he whispered to himself.