Scandal of the Year (13 page)

She welcomed the challenge—at least until she laid eyes on the last of the patronesses. The shrewd, dark-haired beauty in her early thirties was the Countess de Lieven, wife of the Russian ambassador and a lady known for her political salons.

A jolt of alarm struck Blythe as she dipped a curtsy. The countess was well-versed in European affairs of state. Which meant that in creating her fictitious prince, Blythe must be extremely careful to avoid attracting the woman’s attention.

Should she abandon the scheme until a safer time, when the countess wasn’t present?

Blythe fretted over the question as she and her mother strolled the ballroom with its huge mirrors and elegant draperies. A soft golden glow cascaded from the crystal chandeliers. By rote, she smiled and chatted with acquaintances. She had almost decided to postpone her plan when she spotted Lady Davina introducing a ravishing blond debutante to the Duke of Savoy.

A sense of urgency enveloped Blythe. She mustn’t twiddle her thumbs and wait for a more opportune moment. She had to act tonight before Davina maneuvered her father into betrothing himself to someone else.

Under Mrs. Crompton’s watchful eyes, Blythe danced the quadrille with a succession of gentlemen before being approached by the one she’d been hoping to encounter. Lord Harry Dashwood was a younger son with no prospects other than to marry wealth.

Although women were reputed to be the biggest gossips, Blythe knew that wasn’t always the case. Lord Harry’s appetite for tittle-tattle surpassed that of all the clucking hens in the ton. He was perfect for her purpose.

A short man with a big nose and a thatch of brown hair, he bowed over her mother’s hand. “Mrs. Crompton, you have the most lovely daughter. May I humbly beg the next set with her?”

Clearly seeking a better prospect than a fifth son, Mrs. Crompton cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. “Well, I—”

“I would very much enjoy having the pleasure of your company, Lord Harry,” Blythe said. “If you’ll excuse us, Mama.”

Before her mother could object, Blythe tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm and they began walking toward the area where two lines of ladies and gentlemen were forming. The orchestra in the corner tuned its instruments while the hum of conversation swirled in the air.

“I confess I’m a trifle warm,” she said, plying her fan. “In lieu of dancing, would you care to take a turn around the room instead? I would greatly love to hear all the latest
on-dits
.”

“Absolutely!” Lord Harry said with alacrity. Then he toned down his enthusiasm. “Although pray be assured, I am no rumor-monger.”

“Most certainly not.
I
would rather regard you as a keen observer of society.”

“Exactly! So many do not understand that quality in me.” Lord Harry glanced around to make certain no one was listening. “Speaking of news, did you know that Freddie Skidmore was caught cheating at cards this very morning? Lord Ainsley has challenged him to a duel.”

“Oh, dear. When is this dreadful event to take place?”

“Never! Skidmore claimed he merely made a mistake when dealing out the deck. They’d been playing all night at White’s, you see.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve had the honor of dancing with Lord Ainsley. I do not believe he would have made such an accusation lightly.”

“Quite so. Skidmore is a known profligate. In truth, he isn’t fit conversation for a young lady’s ears.”

As they continued to stroll a circuit around the ballroom, she said, “Then you shall have to tell me the latest reports about others in society. Being so recently out of the schoolroom, I know very little about the ton.”

Pandering to his self-importance opened the floodgates of hearsay. He launched into a non-stop dialogue about the various people present. It was rather mind-boggling, she mused. If even half of what he related was true, these aristocrats led secret lives full of clandestine affairs, hidden debts, and illegitimate children.

Seeing that the dance was drawing to a close, she deemed it time to bring up her own gossip. “That is all very fascinating,” she said. “I’m afraid it doesn’t hold a candle to
my
news.”

Lord Harry stopped short. “You have news? Pray do not tell me you are betrothed already.”

Blythe smiled. “Rest assured, I am not. Rather, I only wished to mention that my sister Portia is in town with her husband and young son. They’re staying at Pallister House.”

“Lady Ratcliffe,” Lord Harry said musingly. “As I recall, she’s the one who was visited by that Indian prince two years ago.”

Blythe had hoped he would bring that up. He was the sort who never forgot a juicy tidbit of gossip.

“Arun was his name,” she said with a nod. “He’s the Maharajah of Bombay. He and Portia are fast friends and they still exchange the occasional letter. She received a note from him not too long ago, one that contained some interesting news.”

“Do tell!”

Lord Harry cocked his head toward her. He had rather large ears, she noticed, the better to listen to gossip. “Arun mentioned that a friend of his will be traveling to London soon. Apparently the prince is taking a world tour before he assumes the throne.”

Lord Harry stopped dead in his tracks again. “Prince, you say? Who is he? From where does he hail?”

Blythe pretended to think hard. “If I remember correctly, his name is Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia. I believe it’s a small country nestled in the mountains near the Caspian Sea.”

“The Caspian—? I must remember to look for it on a map.”

She urged him to continue their stroll. “I’m afraid Ambrosia is so tiny, it is often left off many maps.”

As she anticipated, Lord Harry cared little about such a minor detail. “What momentous news! You should have mentioned it from the start! When will His Highness arrive? Where will he be staying?”

“I believe his ship is due to arrive momentarily. As to where he’s staying…” Blythe lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I really wouldn’t know. I did have the honor of meeting Prince Nicolai once, though, at the maharajah’s palace in India.”

“My word! What is he like?”

“Tall and dark-haired, very handsome, perhaps near thirty years of age. And unmarried.” As if something had just occurred to her, she tapped one finger on her lips. “You know, I believe Arun mentioned that Prince Nicolai is coming to England to seek a bride.”

Lord Harry fairly quivered with excitement. “How very delicious, Miss Crompton. All the ton will be agog when they learn that a foreign prince is to visit our fair shores.”

“Oh, you mustn’t trumpet his arrival to everyone here,” Blythe warned. “Did I not make myself clear? The prince is a retiring sort of gentleman who doesn’t like a lot of fuss made over him.”

“I would never
dream
of making a big announcement to one and all. I
can
be discreet, you know.”

“I’m sure you can.” The high level of his enthusiasm caused a niggle of worry in Blythe. Lady Davina mustn’t discover that Blythe was the source of the gossip. “But do promise that you’ll keep my name—and my sister’s name—out of it. It would be dreadful if Prince Nicolai were to find out that I’d revealed his quest for a bride.”

“You may depend upon me to keep your confidence.” Lord Harry locked his lips with an imaginary key. “Absolutely!”

Chapter 13

It was the perfect night for espionage.

Carrying a tray with the remains of tea and cake, James walked along the upstairs corridor. The plush carpet muffled his footfalls. Candles in sconces cast flickering shadows over the deserted passageway with its gilded columns and landscape paintings.

The other servants had finished their duties for the evening. Blythe and her mother had gone to Almack’s and they were not expected back for hours.

He scowled at the memory of how capably Blythe had dragged him into that wild scheme of hers. He wanted no part of posing as a prince, for it was bound to interfere with his investigation. Perhaps tonight he would have the good fortune to find a piece of evidence.

Although the time was approaching midnight, George Crompton was still busy in his downstairs office. A few minutes ago, James had walked past to glimpse the man at his desk, making notations in an account book.

There might never be a better opportunity to search Edith Crompton’s chamber.

Upon reaching the end of the passage, James glanced over his shoulder before opening the door. The darkened room smelled faintly of lilacs. He felt his way around and set down the tray on a table. Then he went back out to fetch a candle from one of the sconces. He used the flame to light an oil lamp before returning the candle to its holder.

Closing the door, he held up the lamp to illuminate a boudoir decorated in shades of pink and white. The place was decidedly feminine, from the rose-colored draperies to the chaise longue by the window. A dressing table held various bottles and jars, along with a silver-backed brush.

Maybe he should take a strand of Edith’s hair and give it to Roland for his
gris-gris
magic.

James’s mouth twisted, half grin and half grimace. He was not yet so desperate as to seek reparations by supernatural means. Rather, he needed to find something that would be admissible in court. If Percy Thornton failed to find a portrait of George and Edith at the Lancashire manor house, then James would need some other tangible proof of the crime.

Thus far, he’d had no occasion to search George’s office. Since Edith had to be an accomplice to the crime, James had come here instead. Perhaps she’d kept some token relating to her true identity. How convenient it would be to find a miniature of her as a young girl, or a diary detailing her theft of a lady’s identity.

One could always hope.

He poked through the drawers of the dressing table, but found only cosmetics, hairpins, ribbons, and other feminine essentials. The single drawer of a dainty desk held pens and embossed stationery. There were no secret compartments to be found, even when he crouched down and patted the underside.

Where would she hide her valuables? Jewels would be kept in a strongbox, but might she have put incriminating evidence in there, as well?

He peeked behind a landscape painting on the wall. No safe.

Holding up the lamp, James went through a doorway and found himself in a spacious bedchamber. He scanned the French white furnishings in a slow sweep, looked behind more gilt-framed canvases, and then headed to the dressing room. Women sometimes hid things among their personal items.

A quarter of an hour later, he had combed through scores of lacy undergarments, silk stockings, garters, and petticoats. He had checked the far reaches of each drawer. He had poked into the corners of every chest and clothes press. He had searched through ear bobs and trinkets in the hopes of finding something that would yield a clue to her origins.

Edith owned a substantial array of fine garments, but that was the extent of it. There was nothing whatsoever of her past. No letters. No diary. No drawings. No knickknacks. One would almost think that Mrs. Edith Crompton had sprung full-grown into the present day.

Frustrated, James returned to the bedchamber to see what he might have missed. The bedside table contained a single drawer. Setting down the lamp, he pulled open the drawer. There were a few folded handkerchiefs, a stash of fresh beeswax candles, and a black-bound book of devotionals.

In the back of the drawer lay a pistol.

Picking it up, he examined the pocket-sized weapon with interest. The dainty muff pistol had a short iron barrel and a curved walnut grip that was decorated with filigreed silver wire.

Why would a lady of the ton keep a handgun by her bedside? Was it merely a habit carried over from India, where she might have feared the attack of a tiger or perhaps a native uprising?

Or did Edith Crompton have the dark mind of a criminal? Did she feel the need to be prepared for any contingency—such as the exposure of herself as a felon?

Frowning, he carefully replaced the pistol at the rear of the drawer. The woman who occupied this chamber was shrouded in mystery. He now had more unanswered questions than ever.

Blast it, why did she keep no mementoes? It had to be on purpose, to hide her past. He had hoped to find proof that she’d stolen the life of his cousin’s wife. But aside from the odd juxtaposition of the pistol and the prayer book, there was little here to define her nature.

Deep in thought, James picked up the slender volume and riffled through the pages. One thing was certain, he would never have expected a swindler to be in possession of a book of psalms—

A paper fell out of the pages and onto the carpet.

Bending down, he rescued the sheet and brought it close to the light of the lamp. On a folded piece of foolscap was written
Mr. and Mrs. George Crompton
, along with an address in India.

James opened the yellowed paper. Excitement flared in him. He was holding a letter, an old one judging by the looks of it. In places, the black ink had faded to brown, and he had to strain to discern the words.

To the esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Crompton,

Pray permit me to give thanks for your most generous bequest, which arrived on Tuesday last. Although your kindness will not bring back my dearest Mercy, she would have been happy to know that I am well cared for in my waning years. May God Almighty bless you both and keep you safe,

Mrs. Hannah Bleasdale

Littleford Cottage

Lancashire, England

The spidery script had a wobbly, laborious quality as if the author was not accustomed to putting pen to paper. It was dated nearly twenty years earlier.

James stared down at the note. Who the devil was Mrs. Bleasdale? And why would Edith Crompton save nothing from her past but this one seemingly insignificant note of thanks? Had it been slipped into the prayer book long ago and then forgotten?

He was inclined to think otherwise. Surely the letter had to be of great value to Edith if she kept it in the table right beside her bed. And who was Mercy? Mrs. Bleasdale’s daughter or granddaughter?