A Scandal at Stonecliffe, page 8
“Gentleman to gentleman,” Nathan echoed, his voice acidic. He dropped his arms and took a step forward. “Mrs. Billingham was right—you’re nothing but a swindler. And I have no intention of becoming your next victim. I will not pay you blackmail. I have a counter proposal to make—you go away, and I won’t report you to a magistrate.”
“Blackmail? I am the party who has been wronged in this matter, not you. Clearly I should not have come to you—a man who can’t even speak for himself, but lets a woman do it for him. I should have dealt with your mother instead.”
With a snarl, Nathan grabbed Malcolm by the lapels and shoved him back against the side of the building. “Don’t you dare go near my mother. You take your tale to her, cause her any distress, and I will hunt you down.” He gave Malcolm a shake for emphasis. “Do you understand me?”
Malcolm tore out of Nathan’s grasp. “I understand that you’re a bloody fool. You think I’m scared of a man who hides behind a woman’s skirts? You understand this, Dunbridge.” He jabbed his forefinger in the air at Nathan. “You consider my offer very carefully. Think how much your mother’s tears are worth to you.” He turned and started away, then swung back and added, “And how much you want to keep Mrs. Billingham. If news of this gets out, she won’t stay around to let your scandal taint her, as well. You’ll lose her as surely as you will your good name.”
* * *
FOR A MOMENT Verity had thought that Nathan simply wanted to take her to a party, that he wanted her company. But of course there had been a practical reason for it. It was in aid of what was truly important to him. It was irritating, even maddening—to know that she wished he had had no such motive in mind.
Still, she couldn’t help but feel eager for tomorrow. She had attended parties before, usually in one guise or another, but she had never enjoyed them in the same way she had the other evening at the Ardens’ ball. Men had flirted and danced with her, done their best to charm her. But they had been doing those things to an illusion. Nathan had been bantering with her. And that made all the difference.
However, much as the thought of a party appealed, Verity could not ignore the difficulties. Not that she thought she and Nathan couldn’t carry off the roles—she had no doubt of that. But there was the worrisome issue of Jonathan Stanhope.
She had come to decide that her fears of Stanhope recognizing her were groundless. He had glanced in her direction for only an instant, and it was as likely as not that he hadn’t even noticed her to begin with. Verity had not recognized him, really; it was just that he looked enough like his father to make her blood run cold.
It had been many years since they’d seen each other, and the sophisticated Mrs. Billingham did not look the same as Verity had sixteen years ago. Her form was more curvaceous, and the soft girlish face had been honed by time and experience. Her hair had been red then too, of course, but even it had turned a darker shade as she had grown older.
But Verity could not simply dismiss the possibility, either. She had to be practical, had to consider the risks. However impulsive and incautious someone like Nathan might think she was, she had not stayed alive all those years as a spy in an enemy country without considering the dangers and making plans to circumvent them.
Right now she needed to consider that she might be pressing her luck to continue to attend ton parties. She could not let her desire to go to a ball with Nathan overrule her common sense. The more often she appeared in London Society, the more likely she was to run into Stanhope again.
On the other hand, it seemed most unlikely that the grand Lord Stanhope would be attending a party that Nathan had termed small and consisting primarily of friends and family and Scots. Besides, Verity would know to watch out for him now; she would not be taken by surprise as she had been the other night. She would make sure to attract no notice until she had made a survey of the guests at the party, and she would keep an eye out for his arrival all during the party, ready to slip away at a moment’s notice—on the off chance he even showed up.
There was no reason to deny herself a dance—maybe two—with Nathan.
*
VERITY SLEPT POORLY and awoke early the next morning doubting her decision. Not one to waffle usually, she also wasn’t one to distrust her instincts. She was still contemplating whether she was being wise, and felt she needed to investigate further.
Throughout the past few years that she had spent in London, Verity had not seen or heard any mention of Stanhope, even in the cases she had taken that involved members of the ton, which had reinforced her opinion that, like his father, Jonathan preferred to live at the family’s country house. The fact that he had been at one party did not mean that he would continue to remain in London.
With this thought in mind, Verity went to the flower market, where she astonished a flower girl by purchasing her flowers, basket and all, as well as the girl’s discolored and fraying straw hat. Returning home, Verity darkened her eyebrows, brushed a yellowish powder over her face to make it appear sallow, and pulled on a drab worn gown and old scuffed half boots. She tucked her hair under the ragged straw hat and finished off the transformation by scrubbing her hands with dirt and adding a smudge to her jaw.
Then she set out for the Stanhopes’ townhome. She considered it a testament to the accuracy of her disguise that a gentleman stopped her to buy a posy for an afternoon call. As she neared the house, Verity’s steps became slower, and when she reached the end of its block, she stopped.
It had been many years since she last saw the place, but still it set the nerves jittering in her stomach. She realized with a touch of surprise that for the last few years, as she built her life in London, she had avoided any route that would take her past the Stanhope home.
It was an ordinary enough dwelling for a wealthy man, one among a row of houses the color of pale butter, lying in a crescent across the street from a quiet green park that completed the half-moon shape. On the back side of the park lay a busier thoroughfare, but here everything was peaceful and pristine. Except for her memories.
Verity drew in a little breath. She was no coward. She didn’t balk at doing things just because they were hard. Don’t be a ninny, girl. Move.
She started forward, her eyes scanning the area. A lady, carrying a parasol and followed by her maid, turned into the little park. A footman at the end of the curve came out of the house to water the pots of flowers that bracketed the front door. Verity slowed her pace. There was no sign of anyone at the Stanhope house.
She crossed the street, reminding herself that it was unlikely the same servants would still be there, and even if they were, no one would recognize her as a Cockney flower girl. Before she reached the steps down to the servants’ door, a maid emerged from it, carrying a bucket of water and a scrub brush.
“’Scuse me, miss,” Verity called. “Buy a flower?”
The girl goggled at her. “What would the likes of me do with a flower?”
“Brighten up the ’ouse, they do,” Verity said. “Go on, ’elp a poor girl out.”
The maid laughed. “I don’t buy the flowers.”
The door opened and an older woman emerged, frowning. “Em, quit dawdling and get to work.” She looked up and saw Verity. “Here! Who are you? What are you doing peddling flowers here?”
Verity did her best to look abashed, ducking her head. “Truth is... I come to see...is Lord Stanhope still here?”
“Lord Stanhope!” Em exclaimed. “’Course not. He went back, soon as the doc—”
“Hush, Em,” the older woman interrupted sharply. “How many times have I told you not to talk about your betters?” She moved in front of Em to face Verity. “As for you, you impertinent girl, it’s no business of yours where his lordship is. Now be on your way.”
“I was ’oping, I mean, I’d like to get out of the city, I would,” Verity said. “I thought I could ’ire on to work in the country.”
“What for?” Em asked in a stunned voice, and the other woman looked equally astonished.
Verity shrugged. “I don’t know. I ’eard as it was an easy job.”
“Well, it’s not,” the older woman, whom Verity had privately labeled the housekeeper, said flatly. Her expression softened a little. “I promise you. You don’t want to work for his lordship.”
Behind her, Em nodded her head in emphatic agreement.
“Now, go on home, girl,” the housekeeper told Verity, crossing her arms in a manner that said the conversation was over. She turned and went back down the stairs with Em following.
Verity was happy to comply. She whipped around and walked away, barely able to keep the bounce out of her step. He was gone. It was safe for her to stay in London. The pair of servants had confirmed that Jonathan was like his father with the warning that she wouldn’t want to work for him. And while that was anything but good news, the fact that he had left the city most definitely was.
After she had returned home and washed the flower girl disguise from her face and hands, Verity went through her clothes. She pulled out a dress of shimmering bronze moire. It was a simple style, a slender column falling from the fitted bodice, without fussy ruffles and only a bit of blond lace at the neckline, but the color emphasized her eyes, and it was a gown she had chosen for herself, not for Mrs. Billingham.
Verity wanted to feel like herself tonight. She wanted one evening where she could enjoy dancing with Nathan and not think of playing a role. And she wanted Nathan to think twice about the validity of their courtship. Even if it meant running the risk of Verity forgetting the pretense herself.
The way Nathan’s eyes widened when he saw her was proof that her dress had succeeded. As he laid her gossamer wrap around her shoulders, his fingers grazed her skin. They were hot and a little unsteady.
They left the house and Verity took her usual look around at their surroundings, but her gaze did not linger. She wasn’t worried about anyone attacking her here, and she felt much more relaxed now that she knew Jonathan Stanhope had gone back to the countryside.
As soon as they walked in, Verity and Nathan greeted their host and his wife, but it would be awkward to start asking about the Douglases immediately.
Nathan offered Verity his hand, and they joined the dancers on the floor. Nathan was as adept at waltzing as Verity had thought he would be, but she had not envisioned how breathless she would feel this close to him, only inches from touching, or how lost the rest of the world would be to her.
She gazed up into his face, contemplating the color of his eyes. Were they green or hazel? Mostly green, she thought, but with a ring of gold around the pupil that changed their color. This close, she could see the little curved scar on his cheek and she wondered how it had happened. A childhood accident, she imagined; it was merely a thin white line now.
The music stopped, and they came to a halt, but for a moment, they still faced each other, her hand in his. Then Verity stepped back, and he released her hand. They walked from the dance floor and made a wide promenade around the room. Nathan paused to speak to a friend, and within moments, there were three men around Verity, vying for her attention. One offered to get her a refreshment, another asked for a dance, and the third assured her that she was even more lovely than usual tonight.
Nathan deftly moved into the group, scowling at the men and offering Verity his arm. “Mrs. Billingham, I believe you wished to speak to Lady Hornsby.”
Verity looked up at him, her eyes dancing, but she said only, “Yes, I did. Please excuse me, gentlemen.” She nodded at the other men and took Nathan’s arm. They walked away, and Verity said with a grin, “Are you trying to scare away all my beaux, Mr. Dunbridge?”
“Upstart puppies,” Nathan grumbled.
Verity laughed. “You sounded just like Lady Lockwood.”
“Egad.” Nathan glanced around the large room. “Ah, there are Alan and Charlotte. Let’s see what we can discover.”
He threaded his way through the guests to where the Grants stood talking to another couple. There were greetings all around and introductions to the other man and woman, followed by a good deal of chatting about nothing. Nathan took the lead; Verity was happy to simply listen and store away bits of information for any future forays into the ton.
Finally, when there was lull in the conversation, Nathan said casually, “I was hoping I might see Malcolm Douglas here. Do you know him?”
Alan shook his head. “Douglases are pretty thick on the ground in Scotland. Which family does he belong to?”
“I’ve no idea,” Nathan told him. “I’ve only met him once, and we talked briefly. He’s a little shorter than I and blond. Blue eyes. About my age.”
“That, too, fits a very large number of Scotsmen. Or Englishmen, for that matter.” Grant shrugged his shoulders and looked over at the other couple.
“I’m always in London,” Grant’s friend replied. “I don’t know any Malcolm. I know a Robert Douglas, but he is a good bit older than that. I saw him here just a moment ago, if you would like to meet him.”
“Why, yes, that would be nice,” Nathan told him.
Verity glanced at Nathan as they followed the man through the room. Though his air remained nonchalant, she could see the same light in his eyes that she knew burned in hers—the same eagerness for the hunt.
Robert Douglas turned out to be a large, jovial man, his hair mostly gray, but with blond strands mingled in. His eyes were light-colored. Verity’s hopes rose at the similarity of coloring to their quarry, but they were immediately dashed when the older man greeted them in a voice utterly devoid of any trace of Scotland.
Grant’s friend introduced them, then said, “My friend Nathan was asking about a fellow named Douglas. I told him you were the man to see.”
Douglas chuckled. “Well, there are a number of us around, but I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
“I’m trying to find a man named Malcolm Douglas.”
Nathan started to describe him, but Douglas burst into a grin, exclaiming, “Malcolm! You know my nephew?”
“I believe I may,” Nathan replied, his voice admirably calm and casual. “I met him the other day.”
“He’s in London?” Robert said in surprise. Then he chuckled. “That young rascal. I invited him for a visit, you know. He said he would come, but then he never did. Ah, well, young men...no doubt he didn’t want a stodgy old uncle hanging about.”
Or he didn’t want his uncle to know he was working a blackmailing scheme.
“Perhaps it was not the same man,” Nathan hedged. “He sounded much more Scottish than you.”
“Ha! That’s Malcolm for you. I imagine he does his best not to sound like an Englishman. It’s a point of honor for the Douglases—I am something of an outcast in my family, you see. They’re all living in the past, don’t you know—dead set against the British.”
“Not so set against British money,” Verity whispered out of the corner of her mouth and was rewarded with a smile that Nathan tried to hide from Robert.
“I am sorry I can’t be of more help,” Robert went on. “If you do find the boy, I hope you will let me know—don’t worry, I don’t plan to check up on him. He gets enough of that from his mother. But I would love to see him again. He could visit me at my club—I can always be found at White’s.” He chuckled, then hastily added, “Of course, you are quite welcome by yourself, as well.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. If I see him again, I will let him know.”
They stayed for a few minutes longer, then bade Douglas a polite good-bye.
“I think we’ve accomplished all we can here,” Nathan said as they walked away.
“Yes, it sounds unlikely that anyone else here would know Malcolm if he and his family are that reclusive.”
One of Verity’s more persistent suitors intercepted them. “Mrs. Billingham, would you honor me with a dance?”
“Mrs. Billingham and I were just leaving,” Nathan told him, giving him a hard stare.
The other man took a step back, looking at Nathan with surprise. “Yes, of course. Your servant, ma’am. Dunbridge.” He walked off.
“Well, that was a bit peremptory, wasn’t it?” Verity said mildly but made no effort to resist as they headed toward the front door. Frankly, she found Nathan’s unaccustomed rudeness rather appealing.
Nathan merely gave a noncommittal grunt, but as they left the house and started toward Verity’s home, he said, “None of them are worth your time. They’re all penniless youngsters. Viscount Sperle has a title, but his lands are in terrible shape—he’s not done a thing to improve them. Westerbridge is a wastrel.”
Verity let out a little laugh. “Nathan, you do realize that I am not actually in the market for a husband.”
He assumed a haughty look. “I was merely supporting your story.”
“Well, you may want to stop. You’ll have everyone thinking you’re jealous. There will be gossip all over London tomorrow.”
“Isn’t that what we want?” Nathan gave her a reckless grin. It was a look that suited him. Had he changed or had she never had an accurate view of Nathan?
“You wouldn’t want to carry it too far,” Verity told him.
“How far is too far?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.
A little ball of heat gathered in her abdomen. Nathan was flirting with her without anyone there to witness it. Had that even occurred to him? And am I actually blushing? She turned her head away, and they walked on in silence for a moment.
Nathan must have realized that he was being unlike himself, for after a moment he said a little stiffly, “I only meant that you shouldn’t become too...um, attached.”
Verity stopped, gaping at him. “Attached? To one of them?”
Nathan let out a laugh, and he seemed to relax. “You know what I mean.”
