Six Degrees of Scandal (27 page)

The report knocked her arm backward into the door and she almost dropped the gun. Clary swiveled to stare in shock. The bullet had drilled right through the painting, leaving a smoking hole where the dragon's head had been.

“No,” he choked. “No—you've spoiled a priceless masterpiece!”

Sensing he would turn on her in a moment, Olivia threw the pistol. It struck the painting, and the thin wooden panel splintered into several pieces. Clary gave a hideous scream but Olivia
had pushed past him and was running, straight across the room, through the door of her bedroom, and right into Jamie's arms.

“You'll regret—” Clary's raging growl was cut short as he reached the doorway, two steps behind her. Jamie thrust Olivia behind him. Benedict, Lord Stratford, stood at his side. Behind them, three other men were coming to their feet.

Feeling that there was no more persuasive argument than a confession from Clary's own lips, Jamie had invited a magistrate to join him in quiet darkness in Olivia's bedroom while she waited for the viscount to arrive. Benedict had declared he was going to be there as well before Jamie could even ask him, and Gray insisted on the same. Gray, in fact, offered to bring his father, the Duke of Rowland, and that had sealed the magistrate's agreement. All four of them had slipped into the room some time ago, sneaking up the stairs while Jamie distracted the flighty Mrs. Harding in the parlor.

Clary gazed in horror as the magistrate stepped forward. “Viscount Clary, you need to come with me, sir.”

“That woman shot me,” said Clary. He gave Olivia a look of pure hatred.

“She did,” agreed the magistrate, “and I have to commend her aim. You tried to force yourself on her, and I cannot fault a widowed lady for protecting herself.”

After that Clary refused to speak. The magistrate made him hand over the key, and sent for Mrs. Harding to tend the viscount's wound. The constables who had been waiting nearby arrived
and they escorted Lord Clary to a closed heavy carriage in the mews.

“Thank you for your patience,” Jamie told the magistrate.

“My duty, and nothing more.” The man's gaze traveled past Jamie. “Will you require anything else, Your Grace?”

“Not tonight,” said the Duke of Rowland. “Hopefully we shan't have anything like this ever again.”

The magistrate bowed. “I trust not, sir. Good night.” He let himself out.

A wild, fierce grin split Benedict's face. “We've got him! He'll never wiggle out of this.”

“I doubt it,” said the duke in agreement. He bent down to pick up a piece of the shattered painting. “You did this, George?”

George Churchill-Gray looked over his father's shoulder. “I did.”

The duke examined it a moment. “Very fine work.”

“Thank you.” Gray frowned. “Except there—I did not have time to get the shadows exactly right, you can see they don't line up as well as they should . . .”

Rowland chuckled. “Next time you'll get it.” He cocked his head and gave his son an appraising look. “There's a very fine portrait of Cupid and Psyche in Ashby's collection. Perhaps you could—?”

Gray's expression indicated they'd had this conversation before. “I don't like to copy paintings, Father.”

“But your mother's so fond of that one, and
Ashby won't sell the damned thing,” the duke complained. “Just once? For your mother?”

Gray shook his head and walked out, followed by his father still cajoling him. Benedict started to follow them, then stopped. “I have permission to tell Penelope everything, don't I?” he asked Olivia. “I understand if you would rather I not, but she'll be wild to know. It took all I had to persuade her to stay home in Margaret Street.”

Olivia laughed—shaky, but happy. “You may tell her. And Lord Stratford—” She put her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

Benedict glanced at Jamie. “It was neither my idea nor my effort that arranged this. And it was solely your bravery, ma'am, that made it succeed.”

“Thank you just the same,” she said softly. He smiled, and followed Gray and Rowland.

That left her alone with Jamie.

“Is this really the end of Clary?” she asked hesitantly. “Did we do enough?”

“The magistrate heard every word. With both of Henry's books and the proof of the real Titian, that should be enough to keep his lordship in prison for a long time.”

She let out her breath, her shoulders slumping. “I hope so.”

Jamie gathered her close. “It is so,” he whispered. “For us.”

“I can't believe this worked,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. It had seemed the maddest scheme she'd ever heard, but Jamie carried it off. Not only a magistrate but a duke had heard Clary confess.

“Thanks to you. Never underestimate how
much a villain wants his victim to realize how clever he's been.”

“And I shot him.” Her laugh was unhappy. “I didn't like that . . .”

His arms tightened. “Think of it as retribution for what he did to Penelope.”

That did help. And even though Olivia had aimed for the center of Clary's chest, as Jamie had instructed, she was deeply relieved she'd only hit him in the shoulder. On no account did she want to feel guilty for Clary's death. But if she'd aimed for his shoulder she would have missed, and who knew what would have happened then.

“It was much easier to shoot the painting.” She raised her head to look at the remains. “Although it is a pity to destroy Gray's work.”

“No, I think he's glad.” Jamie grinned. “His copy fooled Lord Clary. That was reward enough.”

“Entirely! It was a beautiful fraud.”

The real Titian was still at Stratford Court. Benedict had put it with the other paintings from his father's gallery that were probably stolen, and had set his solicitors on the task of determining who the rightful owners were. Now that Clary was caught by other means, he could do it quietly and spare his family any unpleasant scandal. More than once he'd said he was willing to expose his father, but Olivia suspected he would be even happier not to, for his mother's sake.

“That leaves only one urgent issue,” Jamie said, breaking into her thoughts. “Olivia my darling, will you marry me?”

Her eyes widened. “After all this?”

He smiled slightly. “You did accept me once.
I hope you can do so again.” He grew sober. “I had to rid myself of that other woman. If not for Constance I would have asked the vicar in Ramsgate to do the job, the first morning after you said you still loved me. I had feared I would never hear those words again . . . But now I stand before you a free man, even more deeply in love with you than ever. I swear I will always be by your side when you need me; I vow to protect and defend you with every resource I possess. Say you'll still have me, my love.”

Olivia placed her hand against his cheek. Her smile deepened. “You misunderstood me,” she said gently. “I meant, after all that we've been through, you still have to ask? My heart has been yours since I was ten years old.”

“I never take you for granted,” he promised, and kissed her hand. “Say yes.”

“I have never said no to you.” She slid her arms around his neck and lifted her face. “Yes. For the rest of my life,
yes
.”

Christmastide

Richmond

I
t took some doing to build a fire in the cold, but Penelope Lennox, Lady Stratford, was adamant that it must be done, and done by them, without the aid of servants. Her sister, Abigail, swept the snow from a patch of earth, then dumped out the bucket of kindling she'd brought from home and arranged it into a pile.

“Why couldn't we burn them in the fireplace?” asked Joan, Lady Burke. She sat huddled in her fur-trimmed cloak on a fallen tree nearby. Only recently returned from her wedding trip to Italy, she was rarely without her cloak, even indoors, and insisted England had grown colder and darker in the months she was away.

“Penelope wants a ritualistic sacrifice,” said Abigail, fussing with the kindling.

“I didn't want to be discovered,” replied the lady in question.

“We're only a few hundred yards from Hart House,” Joan pointed out. “A gardener may see the smoke and come running to douse us all. Then you'll have to explain why we were building a fire in the woods when the house is full of perfectly good fireplaces.”

“Countesses don't have to explain themselves.”

Abigail sat back on her heels and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, don't they? Then countesses can light their own fires, thank you very much.”

Penelope drew back a step and cradled one hand around her belly. It had begun to show her pregnancy, and she wasn't shy about invoking it to excuse herself from anything disagreeable. “Benedict made me swear not to do anything dangerous.”

“Like walk in the snow in the woods?” asked Abigail soberly. “Where you might slip and fall into abandoned grottos—”

“Or be chased by wild animals, or hit by falling trees,” chimed in Joan in dire tones. “Not to mention freeze to death. It can't be good for your health to be out here, Pen.”

Penelope glared at both of them. “Neither of you have any imagination or sense of drama—none. I'm reconsidering my fondness for your company.”

“Then you'd really have to light your own bonfire,” muttered Abigail, lighting a spill of paper from the lantern and holding it near the kindling she'd arranged. Unlike her companions, she had not married a wealthy man, and had learned how to light her own fires through necessity.

As wisps of smoke drifted upward, Penelope's
tone brightened. “See? I told you I had no talent for it, but Abby's got it lit on the first try. Well done!”

Abigail climbed to her feet and dusted off her skirt. “It will be your job to snuff it at the end, since you made us come out here.”

Penelope gave her an outraged look. “And with good reason!”

“I still say we could have locked the sitting room door and burned them in perfect comfort,” Joan added. “And with hot tea at hand.”

“Not to mention sandwiches and biscuits,” said Abigail slyly as she fed more wood into the fire. It was going rather briskly now, and she reached for the thickest pieces of wood to arrange above the leaping flames.

Penelope shot her a filthy look. Pregnancy had doubled her appetite. “Traitor.” She made a show of taking out a stack of papers from the basket she'd carried into the woods. “I'll just get started, then, since neither of you have any fortitude or sense of the moment.” She picked up the topmost item and held it over the fire. “I apologize to my mother for stealing this one from her dressing room,” she said somberly, and stooped to ignite the corner. Hungrily the fire latched on to it, consuming the cheap rag paper with ease. Penelope dropped it onto the flames and they watched it burn, the words
50 Ways to Sin
blackening as the paper crumbled.

“Go ahead, Abby,” Penelope prodded.

Abigail picked up the next issue. “I really can't believe he did it.”

Her sister shuddered. “Do not speak of him! I
don't want to know, I don't want to think about it.”

“You can hardly forget.” Abigail bent down and ignited the pamphlet, tossing it into the flames without any of Penelope's theatrics. “You must admit, it was impressive how secretly it was done.”

Joan snorted as she took the next pamphlet from Penelope and threw it into the fire. “And how brilliantly!”

“None of that, please.” Penelope held aloft another issue. “I deeply regret lying to obtain this one.”

“You didn't at the time,” pointed out Joan.

“That was before I knew
my brother
wrote it.” Grimacing, Penelope dropped it into the flames. A piece of wood broke and sent up a shower of sparks.

“I find if I try very hard, I can forget that.” Still, Abigail threw another issue onto the fire before Penelope could prompt her.

“It's too bad, really,” said Joan thoughtfully. “They were quite popular. It seems a shame simply to end it . . .”

“But Constance found her own happiness,” said Abigail. “Once assured of that, I find I can let her go quite contentedly.”

“She was never real,” said Penelope through gritted teeth. She threw two more copies on the fire. “She was a figment of Jamie's imagination!”

“And you always said he had none.” Abigail grinned. “If only you could apologize to him for that.”

“No, I most certainly will not apologize! Better he should apologize to us, for being such a—a sneak!”

“Wait.” Joan sat up straighter. “I thought you said Olivia told you in strict confidence.”

Abigail looked blank, then colored. “Penelope,” she growled. “Did you tell Jamie we know?”

Her sister's face was cherry red. “No. Not really. I—I told him I knew what he'd been up to and that I did not approve!” She averted her face and burned more issues of
50 Ways to Sin
. “I'm sure he had more than one inappropriate activity to be ashamed of.”

“Oh Lord.” Joan covered her face. “I shan't be able to look him in the eye tonight.”

Penelope snorted. “No need to. Mama's invited everyone to dinner. It will be easy to avoid him—if he even comes.”

After the uproar over Lord Clary, Mr. and Mrs. Weston had judged it best to stay in Richmond for a few months. Benedict had had to spend so much time sorting out the contents of his father's picture gallery, he'd been only too happy to accept when invited to escape to Hart House. Joan and her husband were invited upon their return from Italy, because there was so much news to tell Joan after her sojourn abroad, not least of which was the shocking news about
50 Ways to Sin
.

Everyone had known it was ending, of course. The building suspense over the terrifying man threatening Lady Constance had gripped London. With a new issue every few days, it was all anyone could speak of. Even in Richmond, Mrs. Driscoll's shop had carried a good supply, with more arriving every day. For once the printer seemed able to keep pace with demand. It had not taken long for belief to permeate society that Viscount Clary was
the man pursuing Constance. All the particulars matched, and Clary's reputation and demeanor did not help him. When a member of Clary's circle blustered that it was all rubbish and libel, the
London Intelligencer
pointed out that many of Constance's stories had been quietly confirmed by the gentlemen described in them, and why should this one be different?

The gossip column of the
Intelligencer
waxed eloquent about the helplessness a widowed lady without connections might feel in the face of Clary's lascivious demands, and reprimanded society for being so willing to believe and savor her previous tales, but not to believe her in her hour of need. Since no one could condemn Constance as getting her just deserts without revealing their extensive knowledge of her prior actions, it was discussed as avidly as any other issue had been, and slowly but surely opinion swayed against Lord Clary.

Compounding it was the news that Lady Clary had left London without her husband to return to her parents' home, and soon Clary himself was arrested—although he did not stay long in prison. The
London Intelligencer
reported that the viscount had been released on account of a festering wound he'd received to his chest, and had fled town to set sail for the East Indies. The newspaper also noted that Commodore Clary, the viscount's younger brother, had recently been demoted to captain and sent to a post in the Bay of Bengal, and wasn't it a coincidence that the two of them had left England just as the Clary fortune was revealed to be gone?

Abigail, Penelope, and Joan had been as transfixed as anyone by the unfolding scandal. As married ladies, now there was no check whatsoever on their reading or discussion. Given Penelope's experience with Clary, they had all considered it a superb ending to a brilliant story.

Then the day after Olivia married Jamie by special license—coincidentally on the same day the very final, triumphant issue of
50 Ways to Sin
appeared in bookshops, wherein Constance's mystery lover helped her vanquished the Clary-like nemesis and secured Constance's hand in marriage as well as her heart—Olivia took her new sisters-in-law aside. “I have something to tell you,” she began. “It must stay a secret between us forever.”

Penelope had been wary. “I vowed I would never keep another secret from Benedict.”

“This one, you'll want to keep. It harms no one, but . . . I think you'll understand once I tell you.”

When Olivia said his name, Penelope laughed. Abigail stared in doubtful astonishment. “Are you certain?”

“Quite,” was Olivia's reply, her face as pink as a rose.

Penelope quit laughing. “That's impossible!” She turned to her sister. “Abby, you can't believe this nonsense!”

“But Olivia's not a liar,” said Abigail slowly, still looking perplexed. “Why would she say such a thing? She knows how we followed
50 Ways to Sin
. If it turned out our brother—our very own
brother
—was writing them . . .”

Penelope made a choked sound. “He can't be!
And even if he were, why would you tell us such a thing?” she demanded of Olivia.

“Because we're family now. Because I don't want to keep it from you.” She hesitated. “Sisters shouldn't keep secrets from each other.”

Abigail and Penelope exchanged a look expressing doubts on that point, but neither pursued it. “You're truly serious?” Abigail asked again. “It was Jamie all along? Every issue?”

Olivia nodded.

Penelope had leapt to her feet. “Right! Well, if that's the truth I'm glad to know it. Thank you, Olivia!” Seizing Abigail's arm, she'd pulled her from the room and immediately announced that they had to burn every last copy of
50 Ways to Sin
.

So here they were in the woods, in the middle of winter. Joan's husband, Tristan, had gone to see some of the contraptions at Montrose Hill House. Sebastian, Abigail's husband, had invited him to see his late father's inventions, and nothing fascinated Tristan more than innovation. He'd quizzed Sebastian at dinner the other night and got the idea that some of those inventions might be practicable after all, given some capital investment. Benedict had gone back to Stratford Court, across the river, to fetch his mother for dinner. Jamie and Olivia were expected to arrive from London later in the day, which left this one afternoon when the three of them were unoccupied and could slip away for an hour.

“Joan,” Penelope prompted. “Your turn.”

Joan hesitated, smoothing the copies in her hands. “I think I ought to be able to keep a few issues. He's not my brother, after all.”

“All of them,” said Penelope darkly.

“Just three.” Joan slid them under her cloak. “I can't think of Constance as a man, I can't!”

“There
is
no Constance!”

“Just because she's not a flesh-and-blood person doesn't mean she's not real!” Joan appealed to Abigail. “Don't tell me you don't feel a true connection to the characters in your favorite books.”

“That is true, Pen,” Abigail replied. “Just because they aren't real people doesn't make characters less . . . real.”

“You realize neither of you are making any sense, don't you?” Penelope threw up her hands and began stuffing pamphlets into the fire without ceremony. “Constance is not real. Therefore, none of what she wrote was true.”

“And yet you took great pleasure and enjoyment from her stories, and—dare I say it—found much truth in them,” said her sister slyly.

“Close your mouth,” ordered Penelope, flushing deep red.

“Just because it wasn't an accurate recounting of actual events doesn't mean they weren't entirely possible.” Joan clutched her pamphlets close as Penelope advanced on her, a dangerous gleam in her eye.

“Give them to me.”

“You're being ridiculous about this,” Joan declared. “I wouldn't be so upset if
my
brother turned out to be the author.”

“Oh?” Abigail arched her brow. “Then you weren't upset when his bride was accused of being Lady Constance, and Douglas proposed
marriage to her anyway in front of a large crowd of people?”

“Of course I was upset,” said Joan indignantly. “I wasn't there to see any of it! We came home and he was all but married! My mother could barely speak for days, she was so astonished.”

“It was quite shocking,” agreed Abigail. “Mrs. Wilde was always so quiet! So mysterious! So elegant and sophisticated. Who knew
Douglas
would be the one to win her?”

“Oh, she gave him many a setdown.” Joan's eyes shone with delight. “They all bounced off Douglas's thick head, of course, and then she fell in love with him anyway. I do adore Madeline—she knows how to say all the impertinent things I long to say, only she manages to say them with wit and style and no one ever scolds her for them.”

“She's married,” Abigail reminded her.

“So am I!” protested Joan.