Once Upon a Scandal Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Barbara Dawson Smith

  Praise

  The Venus Touch

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated to Suzannah Davis:

  you live on in the hearts of so many friends.

  Prologue

  London, April 1816

  It was the perfect night for thievery.

  As she climbed out the attic window and onto the third-story ledge, Emma, Lady Wortham, felt blessed by luck. The fog hid her presence high atop the row of elegant town houses. The dense mist also kept her from seeing how far she could fall.

  Hugging the brick wall, she inched her way toward the home of her quarry. Only the faintest glow from the lower windows penetrated the darkness. The soup-thick moisture in the air gave the illusion of solidity, as if she could step off her perch and sink into a black featherbed …

  Emma shuddered. One false step, and she would break her neck. This narrow shelf was intended as decoration, not as a walkway for the Bond Street Burglar.

  She slid one slipper along the ledge, then the other. Right foot, then left. Right foot, then left. These supple soles had once graced ballroom floors in the finest mansions of London. She smiled, thinking of how horrified the ton would be to learn the use to which the Marchioness of Wortham now put her dancing slippers.

  Not, of course, that she intended to get caught.

  A series of robberies had plagued Mayfair over the past few years, the most spectacular of which had been a daring daytime theft on Bond Street, when the Earl of Farleigh had had his jewelry case nipped from his carriage while he visited his tailor. Residents of the exclusive area had raised a hue and cry to apprehend the criminal, but to no avail. They never dreamed the culprit was one of their own. A woman.

  Born to privilege and wed to wealth, Emma knew she was above suspicion, in spite of her ruined reputation. Most men had no inkling that she even possessed a brain. After all, her dainty figure made her appear childlike, helpless. And at one time, she had been helpless. But never again.

  Never again.

  Though the damp chill bit through her snug black coat and pantaloons, the heat of determination warmed her. She crept past the connecting wall to the neighboring town house. At last the shadowy square of a window loomed through the fog. Deftly, she inserted a wire into the frame, wriggled the latch, and eased open the casement.

  The hinges squawked. Emma froze, listening for sounds of alarm, but she heard only the clopping of horse hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels from the street below. She hoisted herself over the sill and into a small, gloomy chamber. An odor of neglect hung in the air. Apparently, Lord Jasper Putney’s taste for luxury did not extend to the attic rooms occupied by his servants.

  Emma felt her way through the darkness toward the faint outline of a door in the far wall. She paused to check her mask and the hood that hid her silvery-blond hair. Then she twisted the doorknob and cautiously poked her head out. A guttering candle in a wall sconce illuminated an empty corridor. Silent as a wraith, she stole down a steep staircase and slipped through a door cleverly concealed in the paneling.

  In contrast to the barren passage allotted to the servants, this corridor was decorated with sumptuous abandon. Watered green silk adorned the walls, and Greek statuary cluttered the side tables. Gilt moldings edged the ceiling and framed the doorways. Through the eye slits of her black domino, Emma appraised the richness of the decor. Yes, the master of this house could well afford to relinquish his ill-gotten gains. The conniving blackguard.

  Voices rose from the dining chamber on the floor below. According to Emma’s informant, Lord Jasper was entertaining a large party of friends, and his valet was assisting the footmen in serving the guests. The upstairs should remain deserted for at least another hour.

  Her heart pounding with anticipation, Emma found the master bedchamber and entered the adjoining dressing room. The heavy scent of pomade mingled with the smoky odor from the fire that burned low on the hearth. A branch of candles flickered on the dressing table, casting light on a large coffer of studded Morocco leather.

  It was unlocked, of course. Despite the previous burglaries, these aristocratic gentlemen seldom considered themselves potential victims. Only their lust for gambling surpassed their arrogance. They thought little of bleeding the pockets of a too-trusting old man.

  But tonight, Emma would rectify that wrong.

  She lifted the domed lid of the coffer and assessed the contents. On the white velvet lining lay an array of stickpins, jeweled sleeve links, and silver waistcoat buttons. She picked up a ring and examined it in the candlelight. The cabochon ruby glowed a deep, rich red against a figured gold setting. Sold at a certain shop where no questions were asked, the precious stone would yield a tidy sum.

  Emma tucked the ring into a special pocket inside her coat, then selected several other items until her booty approximated the amount her grandfather had lost to Lord Jasper a fortnight ago. She never took more than was strictly necessary. She was, after all, a seeker of justice, not a common thief.

  Yet this once, she found herself caressing a diamond-encrusted pocketwatch. With the money it would bring, she could restock the larder and pay the account at the butcher. She could properly refurbish Jenny’s wardrobe, rather than letting down the hems of her gowns again.

  Emma held the watch to her breast and squeezed her eyes shut. How she ached to see her daughter arrayed in the finest silks and laces, with an ermine muff to keep her small fingers warm in winter and a frivolous bonnet to shade her blue-green eyes in summer. Jenny deserved so much more than Emma could afford to give her. Jenny, who was too sweet and innocent to comprehend the sins of her mother. Jenny, who needed the love of a father.

  From the prison of Emma’s heart, a rush of bitter despair escaped. Jenny, who would never, ever be accepted—

  “I say, who the devil—?”

  The raspy voice pierced her anguish. Emma dropped the watch with a clatter and spun around.

  A stout gentleman blocked the doorway of the dressing room. He looked like an overstuffed sausage in his broad, brocaded waistcoat and tight gray pantaloons. His pale eyes bugged out in a face crisscrossed by broken red veins.

  Lord Jasper Putney.

  Emma’s heart slammed into her throat. Then the shock of discovery was eclipsed by a new terror as her gaze fixed on his hands. On the fingers that clutched the half-unbuttoned placket of his trousers.

  Dear God. Dear God. Memory drenched her in a sickening wave. He meant to force himself on her.

  A whimper squeezed past her dry lips. Her limbs felt leaden, gripped by horror. Time stretched into an eternity.

  “Help!” Putney bellowed. “’Tis the burglar. The Bond Street Burglar!” He wheeled around and staggered drunkenly away.

  Emma snapped to her senses. She had mistaken his intent.

  Trembling with relief, she sprinted toward the outer door of the bedchamber. From the corner of her e
ye, she spied Putney by the bedside table, fumbling in a drawer. He turned, his shaky hands raising an object that glinted in the firelight.

  A pistol.

  Panic iced her lungs. She was almost to the door when an explosion split the air. A numbing impact struck her left side, and she stumbled.

  Lucas. Lucas!

  Clutching at the doorjamb, she righted herself. She could not think why her mind cried out to the husband who had abandoned her.

  The gabble of voices and the clatter of feet sounded from the main staircase. Spurred by hot pain, she lurched in the opposite direction.

  Down the deserted corridor. Up the servants’ steps. Into the dark attic room and out the window where the black mist waited.

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere off the coast of England

  September 1816

  As always, her hands worked magic.

  Lucas Coulter lay prone on the bunk, lulled both by the rhythmic rocking of the ship and the mesmerizing massage administered by his mistress. With his eyes closed, he was more keenly aware of his other senses. The whisper of silk as Shalimar shifted position over him. The musky-warm scent of the oil she applied to his bare back. The firm pressure of her fingers kneading the tension from his muscles.

  He could almost fancy himself back in the cozy houseboat he and Shalimar had shared on Lake Dal in the Vale of Kashmir. He could almost forget the misty shores of England loomed but a half a day’s sail away. He could almost believe himself off on another exotic adventure rather than returning home after seven years abroad.

  Home. The thought evoked a sweet-sharp joy that verged on pain. When he had exiled himself, he hadn’t thought there would ever come a time when he would wish to return. Yet now he found himself looking forward to visiting his two older sisters, to meeting his nieces and nephews, to seeing his mother and assuring himself of her improved health. He wanted to ride in the crisp autumn mornings over his estate in the wild hills of Northumbria. He wanted to view his lands through the eyes of a man, not the untried youth he had been all those years ago.

  His travels had taken him across Egypt and Asia and India, through deserts and mountains and jungles, into mud huts and palaces and temples that had never before known the tread of an Englishman. Until at last, he’d come to realize that no matter how far he roamed, he could never escape the anguish of memories. They would always be with him, those events that had shaped him. Only then had he made his peace with the past.

  His head pillowed on his folded arms, Lucas concentrated on the gentle rubbing of Shalimar’s hands, on the soothing sensations that enveloped his body. Tomorrow night he would sleep at his London house. As the sixth Marquess of Wortham, he needed to reacquaint himself with his holdings and tend to the duties of his title. He grimaced. There had been a time when he would have given it all away for the love of one woman. Emma.

  His wife.

  Bitterness seeped from a place deep inside his chest, but with the strength of habit, he subdued the sentiment. Years ago, he had sworn not to allow Emma to obsess him. From the letters written by his mother, he knew Emma and her child lived quietly with her grandfather in London.

  She was never seen at ton functions anymore.

  The scandal had clipped her wings, and he could not imagine a more fitting punishment for a social butterfly like Emma. At one time she had teased and flirted with an army of admirers, and he had been among their ranks, the most smitten of them all …

  Tempted to plunge into the dark well of memory, Lucas gave a growl of disgust and rolled onto his back. He scowled in an effort to shake off a past that no longer mattered. A single lantern hung from a hook in the low ceiling. The swaying of the ship caused light and shadow to dance across the small stateroom with its plain wooden furnishings bolted to the floor.

  Against the dreary setting, Shalimar bloomed like a wild orchid. To ward off the chill in the air, she wore the traditional Kashmiri pheran, a cloaklike garment of indigo blue cotton, the collar and cuffs rich with silver embroidery. A length of white silk draped her black hair and framed the dusky splendor of her features.

  She sank into a submissive pose on the floor beside the bunk. “I do not please you, my lord?”

  Her smoky-soft voice wafted over him, easing his ill humor. He no longer tried to change her humble posture; since the early days of their love affair, he’d come to realize she was happiest serving him. It was the way of her people, the training of a woman accustomed to the harsh hands of men.

  Touching her satiny cheek, he tilted her face up. “You always please me.”

  “Yet I cannot reach the empty place inside you. The part you keep hidden from the world.”

  Those dark, sultry eyes regarded him with a timeless wisdom. Restive, he sat up on the bunk, the air brisk against his naked chest. His reckless, youthful passion for Emma could not compare to the serenity he’d found with Shalimar.

  “Come here,” he said, drawing her up onto the mattress. “It is you who fulfills all my needs. It is you who gave my life back to me. And now I shall return the favor by finding your son.”

  “My lord.” Her slim hands clutched at him. “I fear O’Hara-sahib has taken him away from England. I fear I will never see my Sanjeev again in this lifetime.”

  Anger flashed through Lucas. The rogue had callously abandoned Shalimar and had absconded to England with their ten-year-old son. “Shh. I’ll find him.”

  “May the gods bless you for bringing me to the land of your birth.” Shalimar bowed her head again. “Even should you choose to stay here with your wife.”

  The notion jolted him. “Never. Emma could never, ever take your place.” His arms tightened around Shalimar; she reminded him of a willow, bending, always bending to his will. Pressing a kiss to her jasmine-scented hair, he muttered fiercely, “I’ve no intention of even seeing the bitch.”

  London

  September 1816

  Full of righteous resolution, Emma marched up the front steps of her husband’s mansion. The imposing entranceway sported a grand pediment and pillars that had been scrubbed clean of London’s soot. The brass fittings on the double doors gleamed in the sunlight. A blustery breeze scattered leaves along Wortham Square, but here the marble steps were pristine, as if even the Almighty could not bring Himself to sully the property of his lordship, the Marquess of Wortham.

  According to Emma’s informant, her husband had returned four days ago from his journeys abroad. Since then, each of her written requests for an audience had been refused with a polite note penned by his secretary.

  Blast politeness. Emma intended to speak to Lucas today. It was a matter of life-shattering importance.

  She reached for the filigreed knocker. Her gloved hand paused an inch away as cowardice surged out of nowhere. She wanted to turn and run, to abandon her plan to maneuver her husband one last time.

  It wasn’t that she feared Lucas. His shy, unimposing nature had drawn her to him in the first place. He had been so much easier to gull into a quick marriage than a man of experience.

  No, it was her own sense of shame that crippled her confidence. She dreaded the notion of facing the husband she had betrayed. The husband who still did not know the depth of her manipulation of him.

  Once he heard her out, she quickly reminded herself, he would understand. Likely he would be grateful to her. And she’d survived worse unpleasantries over the years. Confronting a long-lost husband could be no more horrible than fleeing the Bow Street Runners while bleeding from a bullet wound.

  Emma took hold of the knocker and gave three firm raps. A gust of cold wind tugged at her bonnet and pelisse. The air had turned unseasonably chilly. To save the fare of a short-coach, she had walked the two miles from Cheapside, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  The door opened. A tall, white-wigged footman looked down at her in polite disdain. No recognition flickered in his cool gray eyes. She didn’t recognize him, either. “Yes, madam?”

  “I’ve c
ome to see Wortham. If you would be so kind as to summon him.”

  Walking brazenly past the servant, Emma entered an enormous foyer hung with ancestral portraits and tiled in creamy Italian marble. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia inundated her. The last time she’d stood here, she had occupied a position of honor at Lucas’s side while accepting the good wishes of the guests at her wedding breakfast.

  How naïve she had been to hope that her troubles were over. How blind not to have foreseen that her quiet husband would prove to be the most unforgiving puritan in London.

  Yet she had no regrets. She had done her best for Jenny. As she would continue to do now.

  Emma unbuttoned her outmoded pelisse and handed it to the footman. “I shall wait in the drawing room.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said huffily, stepping into her path. “I regret to say his lordship isn’t receiving callers today.”

  “Oh? Tell your master that the Marchioness of Wortham awaits him.”

  Emma had the brief pleasure of watching comprehension wipe the haughtiness from the servant’s pinched face. He bobbed a swift bow. “Yes, m’lady. At once.”

  As he hurried away down a corridor, she drew a deep, steadying breath and went in search of the drawing room. She found herself tiptoeing as if she were an intruder come to steal the family jewels. How ironic. Of all the grand houses she had burglarized in the name of justice, she had never even been tempted to come here.

  Had she demanded her rights, she might now reign over this splendid house with its high, frescoed ceilings and elegant rosewood chairs against the soaring walls. A tall casement clock marked the genteel passage of time, reminding her how insulated life was here in this aristocratic household. How different her own life might have been.

  A knot of guilt ached in her breast, and Emma knew why. She had already taken enough from Lucas. Accordingly, she had demanded no privileges, no money, no favors.

  Until today.

  Too jittery to sit, she paced the long length of the drawing room. It had been tastefully redecorated in the latest fashion. Who had chosen the sky blue accented by white, the striped silk cushions on the chairs and the gold-fringed draperies at the windows? Who had selected the fine Grecian frieze around the chimneypiece? The intricately embroidered fire-screen appeared to be the dowager’s handiwork. The richness of it all put Emma’s own shabby household to shame.