Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress Page 4

  That was, after all, how Joss had been knit into existence.

  He crossed the room to his desk, wishing for more moonlight to leak into the lamplit attic space. So many letters for him to read; so many questions to answer. Yet instead of taking up his work at once, he shuffled aside the papers on his desk and found a thin octavo-sized ledger. The black leather binding was unstamped and plain, worn from decades of handling.

  Why did he carry it about? Why did he bother to look at it? It was not as though he would find more enlightenment within its covers this evening than he had in the past.

  Yet he flipped it open, skimming the curling Devanagari script of his grandmother’s native Hindustani, the English translations his mother had later jotted in the page margins. Here and there was a spidery botanical drawing, the ink browned with age. He remembered some of these plants from his youth, when his mother still lived to tend them. Their names twisted and lilted over the tongue: ghikumari, which could soothe burns; tindora, the ivy gourd, which strengthened the blood and quieted palpitations. Shikakai and reetha, for cleansing hair. Neem, a tree too tall for the shelter of the glassed-in conservatory. Before a series of cold winters nipped it, its seed oil had been pressed for use in nearly every stillroom concoction, from drinkable tonics to skin creams to treatments for rheumatic joints.

  And here was a drawing of somalata, a deceptively innocent-looking grass. It could ease the terrifying symptoms of asthma—or, as the present baron had discovered, it could stimulate the mind and body. Over the years, Sutcliffe had given over more and more of Sutcliffe Hall’s conservatory to its cultivation, until it had edged out all other plants.

  Decades before, when Joss’s grandmother had the care of the conservatory, a much greater variety had grown. In her day, Jumanah, Lady Sutcliffe, had coaxed a small corner of India to flourish.

  Apparently. Joss had never known her, for within a few years of her arrival in Somersetshire, the English winters had chilled her just as they had the neem. This small, handwritten book was all Joss had left of his grandmother, who had long ago stepped from the soil of Calcutta onto a boat alongside a cook, an ayah, and the English soldier she had wed in haste. She had served him as bibi; she now carried his child. His unexpected ascent to a barony required their marriage along with their swift journey to England. The future heir to the Sutcliffe barony—for did not all parents assume they would have a son?—must be born in wedlock.

  In only one generation, though, their branch of the family tree snapped and fell. The hoped-for heir had been a girl—a daughter unprotected by settlements from a marriage contracted in haste, unshielded by a dowry. If her parents had lived, all might still have been well.

  But they hadn’t. And when their orphaned daughter Kitty met the worthless Jack Everett, scandal and ruin soon followed. Thanks to the forceful persuasion of her uncle, the father of the present baron, Everett had married her. Her son, Josiah, had not been born a bastard. That was the only selfless act Jack Everett had ever managed.

  Cloaked and shielded in notes and coin, Augusta Meredith had no idea how vulnerable she was. How much she had to lose if she placed her trust in the wrong person.

  No, Joss would have to watch her carefully. Another item to add to his list of urgent, top secret, must do at once tasks while in Bath. Where he had told Augusta no, someone else was sure to tell her yes.

  People who had grown up with unstained birth and reputation could never comprehend how difficult a stain was to remove.

  Shutting the book, Joss peered out the small window above the desk. The room overlooked a mews, and at the street level, watery moonlight revealed a boy hauling an empty Bath chair, likely ready to head home for the night.

  Joss pried at the latch, opened the window, and called down to the boy in a hoarse whisper. “Will you deliver a note?”

  With canny greed, the boy laid down his burden and agreed to a small fee. Squinting into his room—not much brighter than the street, as his lamp was turned low to save fuel—Joss located writing materials and scrawled a quick letter asking Augusta to meet him the following day. He folded it, sealed it, then twisted it around a coin and dropped it into the waiting hands of the boy three stories below.

  “Do you know Lady Tallant’s house?”

  “Coo,” said the boy. “Her what stays in Queen Square? The countess?”

  “Indeed. That note is for her friend, Mrs. Flowers. And the coin—”

  “Is for me. Right you are, gov’nor.” With the admirable energy of the young, the boy tucked the note in a pocket and hoisted the handle of his chair again. And he was off, the echoes of their conversation still dying in the quiet street. The rattle of his chair wheels faded, leaving nothing behind except rows of houses with shuttered faces, their golden stone washed gray by the starless sky.

  Tomorrow, if Augusta agreed to his request, Joss would meet her again. He would take her at her word: that she truly did trust him to sort through possible lovers for her, and that she could help him make the land deal that would free him for a new life.

  He hoped she planned to be more forthright than he did.

  Four

  Eight o’clock in the cursed morning and the Pump Room was already crowded. An endless parade of Bath’s denizens—the fashionable, the invalids, and the merely curious—passed before Joss on foot or in wheeled chairs.

  The room was larger than any London ballroom he’d seen, nearly three stories in height and far longer than a cricket pitch. A wall of windows fronted the endless space, through which a weak and watery sun could be seen struggling to rise behind a misty rain. The surly weather could not keep these health seekers from their noxious-smelling mineral waters, though Joss thought they would receive much more benefit by keeping to their beds a few hours longer.

  He certainly would have liked to do so. It was far too early to begin today’s business, considering the previous day’s work had not ended for Joss until hours past midnight. His errand in Bath didn’t absolve him of his regular duties as Sutcliffe’s employee. Though he’d told Augusta he managed the baron’s correspondence and engagements, he also did a fair amount of soothing and currying, as though his cousin were a fractious horse. The comparison was especially apt considering how Sutcliffe had kicked over his traces recently.

  Their requisite daily training was much more difficult at a distance, though Bath lay a scant eight miles from Sutcliffe Hall. Over the past few days, the baron had flooded Joss with frantic letters, desperate notes sent by mail and by express. Neatly block printed at first, then scrawled in a nearly illegible flood of slanted writing, the urgency leaping from the page.

  Where are my favorite cuff links My brandy decanter is empty and I think the servants have been drinking from it Lady Sutcliffe wants more pin money What should I do if another of those threatening letters arrives When will you return to my house I need your advice

  Have you sold the land yet

  At least Sutcliffe managed to ask after Joss’s real errand at some point. And at least he had franked all those letters so Joss wasn’t responsible for paying the exorbitant postage.

  Joss had learned to be grateful for life’s small sanities.

  Though this was easier at an hour later than eight o’clock in the cursed morning. He rubbed at gritty eyes, then again scanned the crowd for Augusta. “Mrs. Flowers” had replied in the affirmative to Joss’s note the previous night, sending the same wiry urchin darting back through the streets with letter in hand and a demand for yet another coin. Joss had tossed the lad a shilling; too much by far, but by God, it felt like the first step toward freedom.

  There. A flash of burnt-umber hair, vivid in the gray-chased morning gloom, peeped from beneath the edge of a bonnet. It must be she, for several men stopped to engage her in conversation. As each then continued on his way, his expression said that all was right with the world, for a pretty woman had passed the time of day with h
im.

  Joss shouldered through the crowd making its lazy promenade about the room, stopping short before his quarry: Augusta, in a sedate printed gown beneath a warm brown pelisse. There was nothing about her clothing to draw notice, but her smile—that was extraordinary. Bright and sweet and cheeky, as though she found no greater pleasure than to stroll about a crowded room on a rainy morning, conversing with strangers.

  She was not alone, he noted a moment later: Augusta pushed an iron-framed wheeled chair in which was seated Lady Tallant. Joss deepened his hasty bow. “Good morning to you both. My lady. Mrs.…ah, Augusta.”

  The countess looked a bit thin and weary, though her greeting was as warm as Joss remembered from past meetings. “Mr. Everett. Thank you for your kindness to our young friend last night at the assembly.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Joss pasted on a devil-may-care grin. How much had Augusta revealed—of her own secrets, and his?

  “The countess,” said Augusta, “is aware of my widowhood.”

  “Such a tragic loss,” agreed Lady Tallant, tugging a tasseled shawl about her shoulders. “Poor Mr. Flowers, to be trampled by a hippopotamus.”

  Augusta choked. “I never said—”

  “But you are young and lovely, my dear. I’m sure you’ll marry again soon. Only take care to stay away from large mammals.”

  “I have been informed,” said Joss, feeling a bit wicked, “that Mrs. Flowers has caught the eye of half the men in Bath. And as far as I know, there are no hippopotami—is it the Latin plural?—here to endanger them.”

  Augusta folded her arms, putting her delightful bosom on impressive display over a swoop of printed cotton bodice. “Are you two quite finished? Emily, you ought to take your mineral water.”

  The countess pulled a face. “The water tastes like rotten eggs and rust. I’d much rather stay here and tease you.”

  “I would be pleased to join you in such a noble task, my lady.” Catching Augusta’s eye, Joss mouthed dockyard and cast a significant glance at her person. Just to make those tawny eyes narrow. At once, she dropped clenched fists to her sides. Too bad.

  Lady Tallant looked from Joss to Augusta with the sort of knowing smile that made perspiration break out between a man’s shoulder blades. “Perhaps Mr. Everett can handle the task alone, at that. I do have a responsibility to my health.” Waving off Joss’s offered hand, she hoisted herself to her feet and began a slow, careful progress toward the marble fountain from which mineral waters were pumped and served.

  “She looks well today,” Augusta murmured, watching her friend walk away.

  Joss had been thinking precisely the opposite, so he settled for a noncommittal noise.

  Augusta steered the wheeled chair to a far wall of the room, waving off Joss’s attempt to take its cumbersome weight from her. “You mayn’t think Lady Tallant looks well if you have not seen her since last autumn. Since we have arrived, though, she has regained much of her spirit.” Her features clouded, and she added, “Most of the time, that is.”

  “You are holding everyone’s secrets,” Joss said. “Your own, your friend’s, and now mine.”

  “I suppose I am.” She tugged at her pelisse, wrapping the gold-spangled brown more tightly around her gown and lovely figure. “I’ve never been permitted so much responsibility before.”

  Joss regretted the covering of the gown, but it was no more than he deserved for his earlier teasing. “And do you intend to use this responsibility for good or evil? I should have made this inquiry before entrusting you with my confidence.”

  Brandy-brown eyes met his. Held. “Are you never serious?”

  “Rarely. Seriousness is a frustration and a liability in my position.”

  “How am I to know what you really think, then?”

  “Must you know what I really think? I did not think that was essential among the fashionable. The opposite of honesty, in fact, is what makes high society run smoothly.”

  “That might be the case, but neither you nor I has been accepted into the bosom of society. If you cannot be truthful with me, then I can’t help you. And you can’t help me.” She nodded in the direction of a lanky gentleman in conversation with the red-coated master of ceremonies. “If I’m on my own, perhaps I’ll take that man as a lover. His legs look well enough. Or maybe I’ll make a scandalous offer to the master of ceremonies. Or to one of the footmen at the next assembly.”

  “Augusta.” Joss had no idea what to say next. The ton bantered and flirted; they never craved earnestness. Such was the world at whose edges he usually prowled.

  “What does it matter with whom I make arrangements?” She asked. “If it makes no difference to me, it needn’t to anyone else.” Though her voice was unsteady, her features were serene. Somehow, she even managed to keep a little smile on her lips.

  “Augusta.” Joss reached out, touching her under the chin. He didn’t turn her face toward him; he wondered whether she would turn on her own.

  She breathed more quickly, but let the moment pull out long and slow as taffy. Her sweet, flowery scent caught at him, and the voices ringing against the stretching walls and ceiling of the marble room seemed a bit less overwhelming to his tired ears.

  He shouldn’t have declined her offer, gracelessly though it had been made. You would do. It was better by far than much of what he had heard in his life. Mongrel, said the village children who lived near Sutcliffe House. From his own relatives: You’re lucky we took you in. Be grateful for what you’re given.

  Compared to that, you would do was practically a benediction. Even now, maybe, he could tell her Yes—yes, take me, and I will take you. I’ll be whatever you want in a man.

  But if he did that, he would be trapped by everything he sought to escape. He would be nothing he wanted.

  “Augusta,” he said once more, quiet as a whisper. “I’m sorry. And it does matter to me.”

  Her eyes searched him, a flicker of lashes up and down. As she looked up at him, her jaw was set. Was that dismissal he read in her features?

  It was nothing new. Nothing he hadn’t seen or heard from Sutcliffe time and again.

  And just as always when faced with dismissal, he smiled to show how little it affected him.

  A heavy pause followed; then, to Joss’s surprise, Augusta smiled back. A real smile, one that made her eyes crinkle and caused the most adorable little crease to cross the bridge of her nose.

  Ahem. Not an adorable crease. An ordinary crease, of the same sort that fat old men got when they frowned at a newspaper.

  Right.

  Then she lifted a hand to catch his, pressing it away from her chin. “So you can be serious.”

  “When the moment requires it.” He sighed.

  “The moment did, most definitely, require it.” As though dusting herself off, she brushed his gloved fingers from hers. “I agreed to meet you at this time and place, because this is when everyone in Bath comes to the Pump Room. Here, we are sure to find the people we seek.”

  “You to find your lover, and me—”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, as calmly as though it were quite usual for a man and woman who hardly knew each other to discuss paramours in public. “Your cousin wishes you to raise money by selling land or coal or some such thing. But if he is truly being blackmailed, there’s no guarantee another demand for money won’t come. What would he do if that happened?”

  If that happened…Joss wouldn’t give a damn, because he would be free from the quagmire of Sutcliffe’s life. “I cannot prepare for that eventuality, unless you think the blackmailer can be located and somehow be persuaded to stop. Which would be delightful, but blackmailers are rarely noted for their charitable impulses.”

  “They are not, that’s true.” Rising to her tiptoes, she whispered in his ear. “But there are many ways to persuade people without appealing to their be
tter natures. All we need do is find the right method.”

  “We?” Joss shook his head slightly to dispel the tickling sensation left in his ear by her breath. “No, impossible. You cannot become involved in Sutcliffe’s private affairs. I may have said you held everyone’s secrets, but Augusta, I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know you didn’t. You weren’t being serious at that time.” With a smile that looked like bared teeth, she added, “But you’re serious now, and I am too. We both want something far too much for wisdom. And so we need to help each other, or we’ll both end by making a terrible mistake.”

  ***

  Augusta blew out an impatient breath, waiting for Joss to do something besides blink down at her. If he ever would.

  This was a man who hadn’t wanted to dance with her. Hadn’t wanted to become her lover. Hadn’t wanted to do anything but satisfy his mild curiosity about her false name, then continue on his merry way. Really, he could not have been much clearer about his lack of interest.

  Until he sent her a note last night, inviting her to meet him again. He might not have wanted to start the game, but for a short while at least, he seemed willing to play along.

  “What sort of mistake are we in danger of making?” he said carefully.

  Carefully, indeed. Because it was not a game at all, was it? She had no idea what was at stake for him, but it was certainly more than a job.

  “Everyone in Bath comes from somewhere else,” she replied. “We might do and say and be whatever we need to, free of London. If we’re fortunate, we’ll become what we want to. If we’re not…”

  “We’ll be trapped. Again.” He pressed at his temples. “Yes. All right. Clearly you have something in mind, so please oblige me by telling me what that is. As long as it’s not some sort of hen-witted espionage caper.”

  Augusta sniffed. “I am never hen-witted. And I do not caper.”