Whisper of Scandal

“So he seeks to take his cousin’s widow as well as his place?”

Joanna’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “As you heard.”

“You came up with a somewhat extreme solution.”

Joanna’s skin prickled with antagonism at the disbelief that rang clear in his voice. “He would not accept a more subtle dismissal. He has been importuning me for weeks.”

“Then it is fortunate I was here. Or would you have called in one of the servants-one of your handsome matching footmen-and kissed him instead?”

Temper flickered through Joanna. She had seldom felt so discomposed. There was something about this man that cut straight through her defenses, something so provocative that got under her skin. She could not deny that he was disturbingly, fatally attractive, but she had absolutely no wish to succumb to that attraction. Men, she had discovered, were generally more trouble than they were worth. Dogs were preferable. Max, lying so sweetly on his tasseled cushion, loved her with an uncomplicated devotion that far outstripped any attentions she had ever received from fickle males.

“My footmen are handsome, are they not?” she said sweetly. “Although I did not expect you to admire them, too.”

“You mistake.” Alex sounded amused. “It was an observation only-that you surround yourself with attractive and expensive items. The footmen, the dog …” His gaze swept around the library, over the bowl of lilies that Joanna had arranged so carefully as a centerpiece on the rosewood table and the elegant china displayed on the mantelpiece and her collection of watercolors. For some reason his scrutiny made Joanna feel lacking in some way, as though she was shallow, with tastes to match. She had always been pleased with her style and her flair for design. Damn him for disparaging them.

“I also hear that you were the darling of the ton,” he said. “I am sure that is no lie. I hope it pleases you.”

“It is most gratifying.” She had never sought to be a leader of society, but somehow popularity and prominence had come her way anyway. In truth, what had happened was that she had used her friends and acquaintances to ward off the loneliness of being abandoned by her husband for years on end and she had come to value the life she had carved out for herself. In all the nine years of their marriage she calculated that she had been with David for perhaps a fifth of the time, possibly less. In contrast, her closest friends were always there for her.

“You had a similar celebrity when you were last in London,” she reminded Alex sharply. Three years before, David and Alex had returned from some naval expedition to the South Americas with tales of hacking their way through dense jungle, discovering ancient ruins and being attacked by strange and wild creatures. At least David had boasted of it, displaying the teeth marks some giant cat had made on his arm. Joanna had uncharitably wished it had eaten him rather than being shot for its pains. She had hated the way in which David had reveled in his celebrity, rolling home drunk from some brothel at dawn, reeking of perfume and with some whore’s cosmetics smeared all over him. It seemed so cheap. David had bragged his way around London from the gambling tables to the ballrooms to the bawdy houses. He had been brash and vulgar, but people had excused it as part of his larger-than-life character, David Ware the hero, beloved by all men. Pain and loss twisted inside her. When she had wed she had expected her life to be so different, with a loving husband and a brood of children. She had been quite remarkably naive.

Alex, in contrast, she seemed to recall, had scorned the ton’s excited fawning and had escaped to Scotland instead whilst his comrade took all the credit for their exploits and enjoyed all the fame. And now she saw Alex’s firm mouth had turned down at the corners with distaste to be reminded of his illustriousness.

“I do not seek celebrity.” He made it sound as though she had suggested he was engaged in some activity that was illegal or repellent or possibly both at the same time. “You will not see me courting the ton whilst I am here. Indeed, I plan to leave London as soon as I have my orders from the Admiralty.”

“I will have to dismiss you from my bed first,” Joanna said waspishly, “since you have announced to all society that you occupy it.”

Once again he gave her that disconcerting, wholly unexpected smile. It was the look of an adversary not an admirer. “I imagine you will enjoy that,” he murmured.

“I shall.”

“How will you dismiss me?”

Joanna put her head on one side and considered him thoughtfully. “I am not certain. Be assured that it will be public and humiliating, though, and you will probably be the last in society to know. It is the least that you deserve for embarrassing me so.”

His smile deepened. “It was worth it.”

Joanna gritted her teeth. She was known for her glacial coolness and was certainly not going to let this man change that. She knew Alex had only claimed to be her lover in order to punish her for her presumption in using him. It was a salutary lesson not to tangle with him. However far she went, he would go further.

But for now he would go out her front door and she would be glad to see him leave.

She held out her hand to him.

“Well, Lord Grant, I thank you for calling and I wish you well on your future travels.”

He took her hand again. It had probably been a mistake to offer it, for the sensation of his touch rippled along her nerves, making her tremble. For one mad moment she thought that he was going to kiss her again and her heart started to race. She could almost feel the seductive warmth of his mouth against hers, breathe in the scent of his body, taste him.

“A perfectly judged dismissal, Lady Joanna,” he said. He did not release her hand. “Should you ever require a lover again …”

“Have no fear, I shall not call on you,” Joanna said. “Heroes are not to my taste.”

The very last thing she wanted was another hero. The thought turned her so cold she almost shivered. She had thought she had found a hero in David. She had idolized him. And then she had found that he was a cad, an idol with feet-and other parts-of clay.

Alex smiled at her. Warm, intimate, his smile made her dizzy. She felt feverish, unable to breathe until he had released her hand, as susceptible as a green girl.

“Then I’ll bid you good day,” Alex said.

He had bowed and had gone before she could pull herself together sufficiently to ring for the butler to show him out. Even after the door had closed behind him Joanna thought she could feel the air of the library burn with the intensity of his presence.

She sat down on the rug and put her arms about Max, who accepted the hug with a tolerant sigh. I do not want another hero, Joanna thought. I would be an utter fool ever to marry again. For a moment the pain hovered at the corners of her mind, but she was so adept at dismissing it now that it was gone in a trice, leaving nothing but a habitual emptiness behind. She rested her chin on Max’s topknot and breathed in the smell of dog. His little body was warm and reassuring in her arms.

“We shall go shopping, Max,” Joanna said. “Just like we always do.”

Shopping, balls, parties, riding in the park, the repetition, the familiarity, the emptiness lulled her back into security just like it always did.

AS HE TURNED THE CORNER from Half Moon Street into Curzon Street Alex thought about David Ware’s delectable widow. It was no wonder that she had men beating a path to her door. She was spectacular, a striking woman with a cool confidence that hid an inner passion strong enough to kindle a man’s emotions to a blaze. She was a prize, a trophy to rival the greatest conquest a man could make. Who would not wish to have such a woman adorning his home and warming his bed? Alex reflected that he must be the only man in London who did not like Lady Joanna Ware, and even that was no bar to wanting her.

He remembered Ware’s last bitter words about his wife as he lay on his deathbed, the fever ravaging his body, his face white and tight with pain and bitterness:

“No need to ask you to take care of Joanna. She’s always been able to do that for herself …”

Alex could see how it might appear so. There was a cool, brittle self-containment about Joanna Ware that would not appeal to those men who liked their women winsome and obedient. Yet he had also sensed vulnerability in her along with that strength. He had seen it in her eyes when she had used him as a defense against John Hagan. Or he had thought so-but he was probably mistaken. Lady Joanna was no doubt a manipulative woman who used men to her advantage. She had certainly tried to use him and as a result had got a great deal more than she had bargained for.

Lady Joanna’s lover. His body tightened at the thought of it. He had never believed himself to be an imaginative man for he embraced cool reason above all things but now he discovered that he had depths of imagination he had never previously suspected. To take Joanna Ware to bed, to peel that tempting cherry-red gown from her body and expose her pale skin to his eyes and to the touch of his lips, to bury himself in her and drive them both to heights of intolerable pleasure. He almost walked into a lamppost thinking about it. He felt as primed as a callow youth. His body felt constrained with a need he had never previously experienced. A need he could never indulge. Joanna Ware was out of bounds. He did not even like her. And he was a man who had kept tight control over his physical needs and never felt any emotional ones. It had been that way since Amelia had died and he had no intention of changing that situation.

Instinctively he quickened his step although he could never outrun the memories or the guilt surrounding the death of his wife. He had never been able to lose those phantoms. Now, for some reason, he could not dismiss David Ware’s final words either:

“Joanna … devil take her …”

What on earth had given Ware so strong a dislike of his wife? No, dislike was too mild a word to describe that venom. Such hatred. Alex shrugged, trying to shake the matter off. He had fulfilled his duty. He had called on the less-than-stricken widow and he had also delivered to Ware’s lawyer a letter that his comrade had entrusted to him on his death. The matter was closed, obligations discharged. He would retire to his hotel until he had word from the Admiralty on his next posting. He hoped they would not keep him waiting long. Unlike most officers who enjoyed their shore leave he was anxious to be gone. London in May felt ripe and rich and earthy with the promise of summer and yet he did not want to linger. Perhaps London held too many memories for him. Perhaps he had been away from England too long for it to feel like home anymore. In truth he had no home. He did not want one, had not wanted one for seven years-until he had walked into Joanna Ware’s library and had felt that sensation of warmth and welcome. But such domestic comforts could never be for him.

“Alex!” Someone hailed him from across the street and Alex turned to see a tall, fair, excessively handsome young man threading his way through the throng of pedestrians and carriages. Despite his relative youth he carried himself with supreme assurance and he was drawing openly admiring glances from every woman he passed, young or old, impressionable debutante or respectable matron. Heads turned, jaws dropped. The ladies fluttered and swayed in his wake like a field of poppies going under the scythe and in return he scattered on them smiles that were so wicked Alex thought that sooner or later one of the ladies would inevitably swoon and require resuscitation. As the man reached his side, grinning broadly, Alex gave a resigned sigh.

“Stopping the traffic as usual, Dev?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” his cousin said. He held out his hand to shake Alex’s with enthusiasm. “You’re a difficult man to catch up with, Alex. I’ve been hunting you all over London.”

They fell into step, Dev accommodating his stride to Alex’s slight limp. “I thought that you were with the East India Squadron,” Alex said. “When did you get back?”

“Two weeks since,” James Devlin said. “Where are you staying? I asked after you at White’s but they had no word.”

“I’m at Grillon’s,” Alex said.

His cousin stared. “Why on earth?”

“Because it’s a good hotel. And I did not want to be found.”

Devlin laughed. “Now, that I do understand. What have you done? Ravished a few debutantes? Ransacked a Spanish merchant ship or two?”

Alex’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Ravishing debutantes isn’t my style. Nor is piracy.” He looked at his cousin thoughtfully. “I heard that you sailed into Plymouth last year with Spanish-gold candlesticks five foot tall strapped to your masthead.”

“You’re mistaken,” Devlin said, grinning. “That was Thomas Cochrane. I had a diamond chandelier swinging from the mainsail.”

“Hell’s teeth,” Alex said involuntarily. “Didn’t that interfere with your navigation? No wonder the Admiralty thinks you are a scoundrel.” He looked Devlin over. His cousin was wearing a flamboyant blue waistcoat that matched his eyes and had a pearl swinging from one ear. It should have looked effeminate but Devlin somehow managed to get away with it, possibly because he was so undeniably masculine. Alex shook his head. “And that pearl earring does not help matters,” he said. “Who are you modeling yourself on? Blackbeard? For God’s sake, remove it should you be planning to set foot before the board of the Admiralty.”

“The ladies love it,” Devlin said. He gave his cousin a sideways look. “Speaking of which, I thought you might be in town to find a bride.”

“Did you?” Alex said dryly.

“No need to cut me dead,” Dev said, unabashed. “Everyone knows that Alasdair’s death means that Balvenie is now in need of an heir, and as you have a taste for dangerous adventure you might wish to produce one before your next expedition.”

“That would be quick work,” Alex said.

“I can see you do not mean to tell me your plans,” Dev said.

“Well spotted.” Alex shrugged his shoulders irritably. His Scottish estate of Balvenie was indeed without an heir since his young cousin Alasdair Grant had died the previous winter. The lad’s death from scarlet fever, a tragedy in itself, had been a double blow since Alasdair had been the sole heir to the Grant barony. Alex, who had successfully managed to ignore the pressures on him to remarry and beget an heir whilst Alasdair was alive, was now uncomfortably aware that this was yet another responsibility, another duty he did not wish to perform. To take some simpering little debutante or some colorless widow and make her Lady Grant for the sake of a son was deeply repugnant to him. To remarry at all was the very last thing he wished to do. And yet what choice did he have if Balvenie was to be safeguarded for the future? He felt the guilt and obligation-those twin ghosts that always dogged his steps-press a little closer.

“I have no current matrimonial plans, Devlin,” he said a shade wearily. “I would make the devil of a husband.”

“Some might say you would be perfect,” Dev said. “Since you would be absent.”

Alex’s lips twisted with appreciation. “There is that, I suppose.”

Dev cast him another glance. “Anyway, I’m glad I found you, Alex. I could use some help from you just now.”

Alex recognized that tone of voice. It was the one Dev had used since he had been a child when his wild exploits had almost always led to Alex’s bailing his young cousin out of all manner of trouble. Dev was three and twenty now, but the wild exploits were the same and so, generally, were the dire consequences. His cousin, Alex thought, only escaped hanging by the skin of his teeth and by using his fabled charm.

“What is it this time, Dev?” he asked, exasperated. “You cannot possibly be strapped for cash with all your prize money. Have you seduced an admiral’s daughter? If so, my advice would be to marry her. It would be good for your career advancement.”

“Always your Scots Calvinist upbringing comes to the fore,” Dev said cheerfully. “I have seduced an admiral’s daughter, but I was neither the first nor the only one. Nor is that the problem.”

“Then you find me agog,” Alex said ironically.

There was a pause whilst Dev steered Alex down a side street and into a nearby coffee shop. The Turk’s Head was dark, hot and smelled richly of coffee beans and spices. They slid into a booth in a quiet corner, Alex ordering coffee and Dev chocolate.

“Chocolate?” Alex asked, inhaling the sweet scent of the steaming cup as it arrived.

“Be glad I didn’t order violet-flavored sherbet,” Dev said, laughing. “Francesca adores it.”

“How is your sister?” Alex inquired.

Dev’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. I think she’s sad.”

“Sad?” Alex was startled. Somewhere in the recesses of his body the guilt kicked him again. James and Francesca Devlin were his only close relatives now and he had barely seen them in the past couple of years. When their mother, his father’s sister, had died, he had salved his conscience by buying Devlin his commission and finding Francesca a home with a distant aunt to chaperone her, and had promptly departed overseas. He was not a rich man; he had only his navy salary and a small income from his Scottish estates, but he took his responsibilities seriously, materially at least. Emotionally it was a different matter. He wanted no dependents, no obligations. Such relationships were a burden. They held him back, chafing like wet rope against the skin. Always he wanted to get out of London, back to sea, to find some new quest and some new adventure, to escape.

Balvenie needs an heir …

There were some responsibilities that could never be escaped. Again Alex shrugged his shoulders to sough off the unwanted responsibility. Devlin was right, but he could not contemplate remarriage. It would be another burden, another unconscionable tie.

“Is there something Chessie needs?” he asked. “You should have told me if she required more money—”

“She doesn’t,” Dev said, giving him a very straight look. “You are more than generous to her, Alex.” He frowned. “It is company Chessie needs,” he said. “Aunt Constance isn’t much fun as a companion for a girl in her teens. Oh, she’s a very good sort of woman,” he added swiftly as Alex raised his brows, “but a bit too good, if you know what I mean. She spends half her time at prayer meetings, which is all very worthy but not very exciting for Chessie. And the poor girl wants a come-out ball next year, but I doubt Aunt Constance will agree to that. No doubt she would deem it too frivolous—” He broke off, fidgeting with his dish of chocolate, playing with the spoon. “Listen, Alex—” He looked up suddenly. “I need your help.”

Alex waited. Dev, he realized, was nervous.

“It’s to do with money,” Dev said suddenly. His frown deepened. “Well, sort of to do with money, if you take my meaning.”

“Not at all,” Alex said. “What happened to the proceeds from the diamond chandelier?”

“Spent long ago.” Dev looked defiant. “The thing is, I’ve sold out of the navy, Alex, and bought a share in a ship with Owen Purchase. Or at least I am trying to raise the funds to do so. We plan an expedition to Mexico.”

Alex swore. Owen Purchase had been a colleague of his at the Battle of Trafalgar, one of the Americans who had fought with them against the French. Purchase was an inspired sea captain, almost a legend, and he had always been a hero to Dev.

“Why Mexico?” Alex asked succinctly.

“Gold.” Dev matched his terseness.

“Poppycock.”

Dev laughed. “You don’t believe in tales of lost treasure?”

“No. And neither should you, and Purchase definitely shouldn’t.” Alex ran a hand through his hair. Would his cousin never grow up? He could not believe that Dev had thrown his commission away for a wild-goose chase. “For God’s sake, Dev,” he said with more edge than he had intended, “must you always be playing these mad, dangerous games?”

“It’s better than freezing my arse off in some snowbound wilderness searching for a trade route that isn’t there,” Dev said, his candor taking Alex completely by surprise. “The Admiralty are using you, Alex. They pay you some pittance to risk your life in the noble cause of empire and just because you feel guilty over Amelia’s death you let them send you to one godforsaken place after another—” He broke off as Alex made an involuntary movement of fury and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “My apologies. I overstepped the mark.”

“Damn right you did.” Alex growled. He clamped down on his anger. He did not discuss Amelia’s death with anybody. There were no exceptions. And Dev’s blistering comments were too painful, too near the bone. Amelia had died five years previously and ever since then Alex had deliberately taken postings that had been as extreme, as reckless and as dangerous as he could find. He wanted nothing else. Even sitting here now with Dev he could feel the urge to escape, the desire to turn his back on all these tedious responsibilities and family burdens. It jarred him into guilt even as he wanted simply to take ship and set sail for wherever the wind blew him. But for now he was trapped in London anyway, hog-tied by the Admiralty whilst they decided what to do with him.

“One of these days,” he said, venting some of his frustrations by glaring at his cousin, “someone is going to put a bullet through you, Devlin, and it might well be me.”

Dev relaxed. “I don’t doubt it,” he said cheerfully. “Now, about the favor I’m asking …”

“You have a damned nerve.”

“Always, but.” Dev cocked a brow. “It’s easy and it won’t cost you a penny of your own money and after all, you owe it to me as the big brother I never had.”

Alex sighed. Even as he could feel himself softening toward his cousin he wondered how Dev managed to get round him so easily. But then, Dev could charm anything that moved.

“Your logic is faulty,” he snapped, “but do go ahead.”

“I need you to attend Mrs. Cummings’s rout this evening in Grosvenor Square,” Dev said.

Alex looked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“Then you do not know me very well even after twenty-three years,” Alex said. “I detest balls, routs, breakfasts and parties of all kinds.”

“You will love this one,” Dev said, grinning. “It is in your honor.”

“What?” Alex gave his young relative a withering look. “Now you have taken leave of your senses.”

“And you are turning into a curmudgeon,” Dev said. “You need to get out more and enjoy yourself. What did you have planned for tonight-an evening alone, reading a book in your hotel?”

That, Alex thought, was dangerously close to the mark and did make him sound like a superannuated older relative rather than a cousin with only nine years seniority.

“Nothing wrong in that,” he said.

Dev laughed. “But a rout will be much more fun. And Mr. Cummings is frightfully rich and I need to persuade him to sponsor my voyage to Mexico. So I thought …”

“I see,” Alex said, seeing exactly where this was going.

“Both Mr. and Mrs. Cummings are desperately keen on explorers,” Dev said in a rush, suddenly sounding very young. “They think you are most dashing. So when they discovered that I was your cousin, well. They promised to help me if I could persuade you to attend the rout …”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Devlin,” he said warningly.

“I know,” Dev said, “but I thought you would be attending anyway, since Lady Joanna Ware will be there and she is your mistress—”

“What?” Alex brought his coffee cup down with a crack that made the table shudder.

“It’s the on dit,” Dev said. “I heard it from Lady O’Hara just before we met up. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Ah,” Alex said. “Yes.” By his calculations it had been all of an hour since John Hagan had left Half Moon Street. Evidently the man had lost no time in spreading the scandal of Lady Joanna Ware’s supposed liaison. Perhaps it served to smooth over his rejection to broadcast that Joanna Ware had another lover. Contempt for Hagan seared him.