Six Degrees of Scandal (28 page)

“It must be the style,” said Penelope. “Or perhaps the wit. Regardless, hand over that pamphlet you're trying to hide under your cloak. I can't believe you want to keep it.”

“I enjoyed this one very much.” Joan held it out of Penelope's reach. “So did Tristan.”

“And what would he say if he knew who wrote it?”

Joan's eyebrows went up. “Tristan? He'd think it the best joke in all of Britain and ask your brother to read it aloud, with spirit and commentary. Shall I tell him at dinner tonight?”

Penelope's face was brick red and screwed up in frustration. “Don't you dare. Oh Lord, the humiliation if everyone knew!”

“If everyone knew that Jamie had pulled off one of the greatest clandestine operations in recent history?” Abigail came to stand behind Joan in a show of support. “Not only enthralled London but served justice to a man in sore need of it. And made a fortune along the way, too. I expect he'd be made a Lord of the Treasury, or appointed to the Home Office.”

Penelope's fury cooled a little. “That is true,” she said in a quieter tone. “He did run that monster Clary out of England. Which is not as good as seeing him left to rot in chains in prison, but at least now there's a strong chance he'll die of malaria or cannibals.”

“I hope it's malaria,” said a new voice. Olivia stepped out of the trees and walked toward them. “I can't wish Clary's flesh on anyone, not even the most savage of cannibals.” She shuddered.

“You're here!” Abigail hurried to embrace her new sister-in-law. She glanced behind Olivia. “Is—?”

“Jamie's at the house,” Olivia said with a smile. “I told him I could find you on my own.” She tilted her head and looked curiously at the fire.

“Penelope wanted to build a bonfire,” explained Abigail.

Her sister flushed. “Welcome home, Olivia.” Then a huge smile burst across her face. “And how many years I've been waiting to say that! I'm so glad you finally made Jamie see reason and marry you.”

Olivia's face glowed with happiness. “So am I. Although I'm not sure it happened quite that way . . .”

Penelope waved one hand. “Near enough, I'm sure. You remember Joan?”

“Very well.” Olivia bobbed her head. “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Burke.”

“Congratulations on your marriage,” said Joan warmly. “I wish you great happiness, Mrs. Weston.”

Olivia laughed. “Thank you—very much.” Being a Weston at last still brought a thrill of incredulous delight whenever someone called her by her new name. Jamie's parents had welcomed her with open arms, declaring that they couldn't have chosen better for their son if they'd done it themselves. Abigail and Penelope had reacted with cries of delight and a flurry of hugs. It was nearly the opposite of her first marriage in every way. Even her own parents had sent a note of congratulations. Olivia thought that was probably due to their interest in any largesse she might share with them, but nevertheless she responded politely. Nothing was going to cloud her happiness.

“I'm to summon you to dinner soon,” she told her new sisters-in-law. “Are you done with your bonfire?”

“Yes!” Joan leapt up from the log she sat on.

“No!” said Penelope at the same time. “Er . . .” She glanced from Joan to Olivia and looked torn. “Almost.”

Olivia turned to Abigail, only to see that she was having trouble hiding her amusement. “I think you'd best give in, Pen. Let Joan have her way.”

“Abby!” Penelope widened her eyes impatiently. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side of peace and happiness,” her sister answered. “As long as you keep quiet, there will be peace. There's no need to ruin the happiness Joan might have.”

Olivia's gaze narrowed on the fire. A stack of blackened paper smoldered in the ashes, and when she leaned forward she caught sight of enough uncharred paper to realize what the three were doing. “Oh—oh my!” She burst out laughing. “You're burning them?”

“Every one, by Pen's edict.” Abigail grinned widely.

“What a waste!”

“See?” In a flash Joan hid some more pamphlets inside her cloak and hurried to Olivia's side. “Shouldn't we go to dinner? I think it's much colder now as well.”

“If we feed the fire it will be warmer,” Penelope retorted.

“It will also be warmer if we go back to the house.” Joan turned toward the house, then paused. She leaned close to Olivia and whispered, “There really won't be any more, I suppose . . . ?”

Olivia hid a smile and shook her head. Jamie had sworn he was done, with no interest in writing more, and she believed him. She also hoped they would be too busy building a life together and loving each other. As much pleasure as it gave Olivia to read
50 Ways to Sin
, it was a hundred times better to experience the pleasures Constance wrote of in her own bed, with the man she loved so desperately.

Joan heaved a sigh. “I feared as much.” She lowered her voice even more. “Tell him it was truly
brilliant and inspirational. Really.” Without waiting for a reply, she headed down the path. Abigail widened her eyes in amusement and gave her sister a shrug before joining her friend.

Penelope stared after them, openmouthed, then muttered something under her breath. She tossed the few pamphlets left in her hand onto the dying fire. “Traitors.”

“And you wouldn't have kept your copies if you'd never known?” Olivia helped her kick dirt onto the last flames, then stamp on the embers. It had recently rained so there wasn't much risk of the fire spreading. When they had extinguished the fire completely, Olivia linked her arm with Penelope's and they started toward Hart House.

“It's just
wrong
for him to write stories like that,” Penelope said as they walked. “What was he thinking?”

“I believe it was to help a friend.” Then Olivia added, in the spirit of truthfulness, “It may also have begun as a wager, after some drink.”

Penelope snorted. “Of course. Men and their drunken wagers.”

They wound their way along the path through the trees into the gardens. As they reached the end of the Fragrant Walk, neatly graveled and bordered by shrubs that perfumed the air in spring and summer, Hart House itself came into sight. Both Abigail and Joan had disappeared, but two gentlemen were standing on the terrace behind the house, and one of them lifted an arm in greeting.

“Ben,” exclaimed Penelope in delight. She picked up her skirts and hurried toward him.
Benedict caught her in his arms and held her close for a minute before they went into the house, his dark head bent near her blond one. Olivia wondered if Penelope was telling her husband what she'd been doing out in the woods, and then decided it wasn't her concern.

Jamie strode out to meet her, opening his arms as he drew near. Olivia ran into his embrace, marveling again that he was hers—at last. “Where were you?” he whispered, nuzzling her ear.

“Penelope made a bonfire.”

He pulled back to give her a shocked look. “Penelope? How did she manage that? Are the woods burning to the ground as we speak?”

“Abigail may have started the fire,” Olivia amended, “but Penelope was the one who wished it. And I helped her put it out, so the woods are safe.”

His hazel eyes narrowed and she could tell he saw right through her. Not that it bothered her; she didn't plan to keep secrets from Jamie, either. “You told them, didn't you.”

Olivia gave a guilty smile. “How could I keep such a secret?”

“By not telling anyone.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “I'm gravely disappointed, Mrs. Weston.”

That name gave her a thrill of happiness. “Truly? It doesn't give you any pleasure to hear that Lady Burke thought they were brilliant?”

“None.”

“Nor that I did, too?”

Jamie scoffed. “I thought you would be above such rubbish.”

“Oh no. I assure you, I found them utterly entrancing.” She slid her arms around his waist. “Especially the one in the pond. And the one in the carriage. And also the one with the two brothers.”

Jamie, who was fighting off a grin, suddenly scowled at the last. “No.”

She shrugged. “Of course, you haven't got a brother, so I presume that was Bathsheba's suggestion.”

He burst out laughing. “It was! I shudder to think what she would have written.”

“Perhaps she will, now that you've quit the field.” Olivia thought about it. “I expect she'd do quite well.”

“If Bathsheba wants to be Constance's heir, she may take the crown with my blessing.” Jamie kissed her. “As much as I owe Constance, I'm happy to bid her farewell.”

“You won't miss her, even a small bit?”

“Hmm.” He pretended to think even as his hands slid under her cloak. “She kept me company when I was alone. And she did develop my imagination in many wonderfully lascivious ways. You liked the story in the pond, did you?”

“Above all others,” she said unsteadily, arching against him. He was running his hands up and down her back and sending shivers over her skin.

“And what about it particularly pleased you?” he murmured.

Olivia took a deep breath. “Because it was very like the day I knew I was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. That was the happiest day of my life, until recently.”

Jamie lifted his head. “I could say the same.
Except that I knew you were the one for me long before that day.” He twined his fingers through hers and raised her hand to his lips. “That day was the day I knew
I
was the fellow for you, and
that
made it the happiest.”

There was no reason to argue; it was all true. She went up on her toes and kissed him, reveling in the spark that went through her at the touch of his lips on hers. “I love you, James Weston. So much that I can even bid Constance farewell without any grief.”

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “I feel no grief—not since I have you to replace her. You are infinitely better in every way, my darling.”

Olivia beamed. The smile felt permanently etched on her face these days, and she thought it would be forever. “As long as I'm with you, I feel that way, too.”

T
he house in Totman Street hadn't been so quiet in months. Bathsheba Crawford wandered down to the vaulted-ceiling room where she had spent so many hours laboring—setting type, inking the plates, working the press, cutting and binding pages. Now there would be no more of that. The press stood silent, and nary a sheet of paper hung from the ceiling. It could almost be a normal servants' hall again.

She knew
50 Ways to Sin
had been a raging success. Even now Daniel was dining with Liam MacGregor and talking about more joint ventures, new printing opportunities for both of them. During the frantic printing of the final issues, MacGregor himself had come to help man the press, and in the space of a few days he and Daniel had become friends. Bathsheba was immensely pleased to see her brother become almost the same man he had been before losing his arm: purposeful, confident, thriving on the high stakes of their work. And all of it paid off handsomely.

For the first time in years they had plenty of funds for coal and food and new clothes—the last
being especially fortunate, to replace all the garments ruined by ink. Bathsheba knew she and her brother owed a huge debt to Jamie Weston. He hadn't taken a single farthing of the profits. If only he hadn't wanted to end it. Bathsheba was sure the people of London, indeed all over Britain, would have kept buying issues long past number fifty. Surely there was so much more for Constance to do . . .

There was certainly more Bathsheba wanted to do.

She went back upstairs into the clean and tidy sitting room. Now that they weren't printing day and night, they had servants again, and the house was much neater. Daniel's desk was there, and she opened the front. The slots that had been filled with overdue bills just months ago were empty, and the sight gave her great pleasure. Almost idly she pulled out a sheet of paper and twirled a quill between her fingers. Was this how Jamie had begun? How did one come up with story ideas? As clever as she knew Jamie to be, plenty of people, some of whom were complete idiots, wrote poems and stories and gossip columns and even complete novels.

Bathsheba took out a penknife and sharpened her pen. She eyed the blank page. She had a healthy imagination, even if her own life had always been utterly mundane and even dull. More than once she had suggested adventures for Constance. Jamie had used some of them, but not all. Before she was aware of it, she had uncapped the ink and dipped her pen. Constance had made her farewell, but not before entrancing all of London
with her adventures. Surely that audience would be eager to read another, similar tale . . .

This was just for her personal gratification, she told herself. No one had to read it, after all; she could even burn it and no one would ever know she wrote anything. Carefully she set the pen to the paper and wrote:

Dearest Friend,

Recently someone told me that an interesting life is of little note if one leaves no record of it. Although I had never thought to record some of the most daring of my youthful exploits, I have reconsidered, and so set my pen to paper to tell you, first, of my most extraordinary adventure: the night I saved the Duke of W's life and was rewarded with a passion that seared itself into my memory . . .

CAROLINE LINDEN
was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Thirteen years, eighteen books, three Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Her books have won the NEC Reader's Choice Beanpot Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, the NJRW Golden Leaf Award, and RWA's RITA® Award. Since she never won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision was also a smart one. Visit her online at
www.CarolineLinden.com
.

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