Wedded in Scandal bf-1 Read online

  “Describe to me this dress,” he said by way of stalling. “What does it look like?” He pointed at random to the most expensive single item on the list. A ball gown with pearl buttons.

  She frowned. “Truly, my lord? Why ever would you wish to—”

  “Humor me,” he said as he folded his arms across his chest. Then, to save poor Dribbs, whose arm did appear to be shaking most dreadfully, he motioned to the sideboard. “Set it there, Dribbs. I find that Mrs. Mortimer and I have a bit more to discuss.”

  Dribbs did as he was told. And while the butler was setting the bottle far out of reach, Robert turned his attention back to the woman across from him.

  “Do you know anything of my father, Mrs. Mortimer?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head and a tendril of honey fine hair slipped from her chignon to dance about her pert chin. Adorable, he thought.

  “I am not acquainted with the Earl of Willington,” she said.

  “Well, he is a charming fellow. Loves a good bit of brandy, a cigar, and his friends. Some say I resemble him in looks.” He gestured to his hair. “Brown hair, broad forehead, and we are nearly the same height.”

  She nodded, obviously confused by his wandering thoughts. “Then your father must be a handsome man.”

  He took the compliment as his due. Many thought his entire family had been inappropriately blessed in their looks. “Yes, well, there is something else about my father that everyone knows.” He waited a moment for her to ask the obvious question. She did so with a touch of irritation.

  “I am simply breathless with wonder, my lord. What could it be that everyone knows?”

  “That my father is the greatest gull on earth. Yes, truly, the man could be snookered by a mentally deficient bootblack. In fact, I believe he was, just last year. Bought some magic blacking cloth, I believe. Thought he’d make a fortune with it.”

  A spark of interest did indeed light in Mrs. Mortimer’s eyes. “Magic blacking cloth?”

  “Yes. I believe it was cheesecloth soaked in the boy’s spit.”

  She gasped. “You cannot be serious!”

  “I most certainly am. My father bought it for a shilling.” Then he sighed. “To be fair, the boy had been chewing tobacco and so the cloth was rather thick and black. It did look like a blacking cloth.”

  She laughed. Not a full laugh. Indeed, because she suppressed it, it sounded more like a horse’s snort than a lady’s laugh.

  “That story cannot be true.”

  “I assure you it is.”

  Then she tilted her head while her eyes danced in merriment. “I cry foul, my lord. I believe you are lying to me. And I believe I shall prove it to you.”

  “Really? Pray, how?”

  “I shall make a wager with you, my lord. If I can prove that you are lying, then you will pay my bill. If not, then I shall leave without further ado.”

  He wasn’t so sure he wanted her to leave just yet, but he was a gentleman and so he nodded. “Very well. If the bill is honest, then you shall be paid immediately.”

  She nodded slowly, obviously taking that as the best bargain she could make. “Very well, my lord. You say the story is true, that it happened exactly as you said.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, then, I submit to you that either the bootblack was not mentally deficient in that he gulled an earl. Or that the earl was aware of the true nature of the magic cloth and was merely being kind to a handicapped boy.”

  Robert frowned, wondering which could be true. Given that his father had been quite proud of his purchase, he thought it more likely that the bootblack was not nearly as deficient as he claimed. Nor, he supposed, did the boy have an ailing mother and four younger siblings to feed. Thankfully, he did not oversee his father’s staff, as the man lived in rooms at his club. So long as the earl kept within his quarterly allowance, Robert didn’t care if he purchased a dozen magic blacking cloths.

  “Have I won our bargain, my lord?”

  He smiled. “Yes, I suppose you have.”

  “Excellent,” she said with a grin. “Then if you would—”

  “I said if the bill was honest, Mrs. Mortimer. You have yet to describe this ball gown to me. Unless, of course, there is some reason why you would not.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I will describe it.”

  He smiled and shot her own words right back. “I am simply breathless with wonder.”

  She grimaced, her nose wrinkling in a delightful manner. “It is blue, my lord, with Belgium lace crisscrossed over the bodice. Shoulders bare, as she will be a married woman by then and can reveal a great deal more than before, and with a shawl of gauze such as will preserve her modesty if she wants or that can be draped in a variety of tantalizing poses should she not.”

  He blinked. My God, did she think he wished to know of his sister in tantalizing poses? “You are speaking of my baby sister,” he said in irritation. “The one who wore pigtails and sported ink stains on her nose.”

  “No, my lord,” she said gently. “I am speaking of your fully grown sister who will be a married woman within a month. And quite possibly increasing soon after that.”

  He shuddered at that. His baby sister with a babe of her own. He knew it was possible. Probable, even. That is what married women did, was it not? But in his mind, she was still so young.

  “It is the way of young girls, you know. They grow up and start families of their own.” Then Mrs. Mortimer did something wholly unexpected. She rose in a single lithe movement and crossed to the brandy snifter. Then she poured him a glass, swirling it for him just as it ought to be done, and brought it to him. But she didn’t just cross to his side; she set it in his hand, then sank to the floor before him. She looked up at him just as his sister had once done, back when she was still a hoyden running wild throughout the house. And Mrs. Mortimer smiled up at him in exactly the same way.

  “Change is hard, especially when it is inevitable. But you should be proud of the woman she has become, my lord. Not fighting the purchase of her trousseau.”

  He swallowed. She was right. And when she sat like that before him, he could deny her nothing. Except for one thing.

  “Mrs. Mortimer,” he said as he reached out and stroked her cheek just as he had done with Gwen so many years ago. “I cry foul.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Gwen does not have a ball gown such as you describe. It has not been made and you and your bill are false.” She made to leap to her feet, but he was faster than she. Within a second, he had clamped a hand down on her arm, preventing her escape. “Oh, do remain right where you are, Mrs. Mortimer. It will no doubt take a few moments for the constable to arrive.”

  Chapter 3

  “No, no, wait!” cried Helaine, as she desperately tried to free herself. She might as easily tilt with an oak tree. “I am not lying!”

  Lord Redhill’s dark eyes glittered down at her. “You know why I told you that story about my father and his bootblack?”

  She shook her head. She had no idea except that it had lulled her into flirting with the man. Flirting! She hadn’t done that since she’d been a respectable earl’s daughter and not Mrs. Mortimer. She licked her lips. “My lord…,” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Because in this one aspect, Mrs. Mortimer, I am nothing like my father. I cannot abide a thief no matter how charming. And you, my dear, are obviously one of the best.”

  “I am not!” she cried, horrified that tears were welling up. With one simple exchange, she had been transported right back to five years before, when she protested her innocence to no avail. She’d been honest her entire life, then her father committed one drunken, thieving stupidity, and she was tarred with the same feather. The humiliation of that memory pushed her to a strength she did not normally possess. She shoved him off, though her arm was nearly wrenched from its socket, and stumbled backward.

  “Call your sister!” she cried. Then she did not wait for his high and mighty lordshi
p to do it. She whirled around and bellowed. “Dribbs! Call Lady Gwen down here immediately!”

  She could tell that surprised Lord Redhill. It also seemed to stun Dribbs, who opened the door with his mouth hanging ajar.

  “My lord?” he asked.

  “Call Lady Gwen,” she ordered even though the question had not been directed at her.

  Dribbs glanced anxiously between his employer and Helaine. “Lady Gwen has left with the other ladies. They have decided to buy a flock of sheep for the porcelain shepherdess.”

  Helaine took a moment to comprehend that statement. Then she decided there was no profit to figuring it out. The point was that Gwen was not here to help her. Meanwhile, Lord Redhill took it as another sign of her perfidy.

  “How convenient for you,” he drawled. “I’m sure you saw her leave before you arrived at my doorstep.”

  “It is not blasted convenient!” she snapped. “And you are a bloody prig for saying it is!”

  If his lordship was surprised by her tone before, now he was downright flabbergasted. Or perhaps furious. It was hard to tell with his eyes glittering so brightly and his jaw tightened to granite.

  “Have a care, Mrs. Mortimer. I have been indulgent up to now, but my patience is exhausted.”

  “Then you should not go accusing people of thievery!” To her shame, her voice broke on the word. So she forced herself to take a deep breath, to push aside all the shame her father’s crimes had created, and to face Lord Redhill like the competent, accomplished and strong woman she was. “If you would do me the favor of listening, my lord, I shall explain everything.”

  He arched a brow then leaned back in his chair. “By all means, explain yourself,” he drawled. He meant to appear casual, but she could tell that he was anything but. He meant to see her hang, so she went into her explanation as if her life depended on it. Especially since it very well might.

  “I adore your sister,” she began. “She is a beautiful woman with a sweet temperament. A genuinely good person, and that, my lord, recommends her to me as nothing else.”

  “I am well aware of my sister’s accomplishments,” he said, his voice just short of threatening. “And that she also, unfortunately, shares in my father’s gullibility.”

  And there was the threat. Helaine merely glared it aside.

  “If you recall, I have been making dresses for your sister for her last two Seasons.” She could see by his face that he did not recall, and so she amended her statement. “Whether you recall or not, I have been dressing her and I’m quite proud to do it. So when she requested that I create her wedding trousseau, I was more than happy to do it.”

  “Of course you were,” he drawled.

  “I was,” she continued, again glaring her fury at him. “But I most specifically informed her of my problem.”

  He arched his brow and for the first time did not venture an opinion.

  “I am a small shop, my lord. Lady Gwen wants a large trousseau and she asked that I also dress her future in-laws as well. But it is more than my small shop can afford on credit.”

  She paused a moment and stared at him. Obviously he did not understand the most simple financial terms. That surprised her, given that he was by all accounts skilled in financial circles.

  “My lord,” she began again, “I cannot afford to buy the fabrics she requires. I do not have the ready blunt. And so Lady Gwen promised that she would pay for it. In advance.”

  And there it was out. The unheard-of practice of not buying on credit. For many in her position, it was a fact of life. For his lordship? He’d probably never even imagined the idea.

  She waited in taut silence, wondering if he would answer. In the end, he leaned forward, steepling his hands in front of him on the desk.

  “Is that why Starkweather refused to pay you? Because it was for goods you had not yet delivered?”

  She nodded. “I explained everything to Lady Gwen and she did agree to my terms.”

  He grimaced. “So again my relations are bent on making financial commitments that I am supposed to honor.”

  Helaine winced. Put like that, she did feel a bit sorry for the man. But she was not in a position to allow sympathy. “That is the usual way of things, is it not? She is your sister. You or your father pays her bills until she marries.”

  He snorted. “My father hasn’t a groat to his name.”

  “Then it falls to you.”

  He didn’t respond except to stare at her, his eyes glittering with some unnamed emotion. In truth, the sight gave her chills. “My lord,” she offered gently, “if you wish to change the way of the world, I heartily support you. Give your sister charge of her financial affairs and I shall address myself to her. I can tell you that there are myriad benefits to a woman when she manages her own affairs.”

  He lifted his brow. “I am sure you can,” he drawled.

  She detected no outright condescension in his tone, but she bristled nonetheless. “You have no cause to judge me, my lord. I am merely an honest woman plying her trade like any man.”

  He closed his eyes in apparent weariness. “That is not a recommendation, I assure you. Men lie and cheat all the time.”

  How well she knew that. “But I do not.”

  He opened his eyes, and for a moment she wished he had not. In it, she saw pain mixed with weariness. It was stark and reminded her of her own mirror every morning.

  “Very well,” he said. “You have persuaded me.”

  His voice was so deadpan that she did not understand his words. “So, you will pay me?”

  He shook his head. “Hardly. I believe your bill beyond ridiculous. But I shall this very afternoon open an account for my sister. Then she shall have the decision of whether to pay your outrageous fee or not.”

  And with that he stood, turning to Dribbs, who had not left the library door. “Fetch my coat immediately. And show Mrs. Mortimer to the door.” A moment later, he was gone.

  “Bloody arrogant, high-handed, drunken bastard! To suggest that I was robbing them! Robbing! He was going to call the constable!”

  Helaine paced the workroom of their small shop, trying to work off her fury. It didn’t help. She still felt bruised and humiliated by her treatment that afternoon.

  “He bloody well didn’t, did he?” gasped Wendy, her seamstress, co-owner in their shop, and her best friend in the world. She was currently cutting the last of their silk fabric for a dress that would go to the bastard-in-question’s sister. Sadly, if they didn’t get paid soon, they wouldn’t be able to purchase what they needed for any of the rest of her order. “Imagine calling the watch on you!”

  “He didn’t. I stopped him beforehand, but it still didn’t change his attitude. He called our bill ridiculous. Outrageous and ridiculous!”

  “Wot! The bloody cheek!”

  “‘What,’ not ‘wot,’” chided Helaine without thought. Wendy had grown up in a poorer neighborhood than Helaine. Much, much poorer. And her heritage often showed in her speech. But Helaine had been helping her friend better herself, most especially in terms of how she spoke. They were trying to establish themselves as dressmakers to the ton. It could only help if Wendy sounded more educated than she was.

  As expected, Wendy grimaced but repeated the word correctly. “What a bloody cheek,” she said firmly. “Our prices are exactly what they should be.”

  “No,” said Helaine with a sigh as she leaned back against the worktable. “Our prices are high.”

  “As they should be! You are dressing the peers!”

  Helaine shook her head. “Only a few. Maybe we should charge less. At least until we are better established among the aristocracy.”

  “But we cain’t!” Wendy said as she made the last snip in the silk. “You yerself said they won’t come to someone who charges less.”

  “True, but maybe I was wrong. And maybe my dresses aren’t as good as—”

  “Oh, enough,” snapped Wendy. “I won’t hear you saying things like that again. Your desi
gns are beautiful. You see just the way a dress ought to be, and now you must shut up or I’ll be sewing this dress wrong in fury.”

  Helaine smiled. “You’d never do that. You’re too good.”

  “As are you, and I won’t be hearing a word different.”

  Helaine leaned forward and pulled the scissors out of her petite friend’s hands. She was done cutting anyway, but it never hurt to be safe. “Very well. You are a brilliant seamstress, and I am an excellent designer. Between the two of us we cannot fail!”

  “Exactly!”

  “But maybe I should relook at our prices nevertheless…”

  “Aiee! It’s like you were that first year,” Wendy said. “Always worried, always questioning. I thought you’d growed out of all that. And now here you are, after one conversation with a bloody lord, right back to oh me, oh my, are we fools for doing this?”

  Helaine swallowed, realizing her friend was right. Five years ago, the young seamstress had been filled with passion and hope. At seventeen years of age, Wendy had possessed the strength of a woman five times older. As an apprentice to the previous owner, she had sewn Helaine’s one and only ball gown. From Helaine’s dress design, Wendy had recognized Helaine’s talent and begun thinking way back then. When Helaine’s father had destroyed everything, it was Wendy who had sought her out and suggested the dressmaking business. She had everything arranged almost before Helaine had known what was happening. She’d even had the wherewithal to spring Helaine and her mother out of debtors’ prison, though heaven only knew how she’d managed that. Wendy had never told her how that happened, and it was the one secret that remained between them. But that one shadow could not dampen the love Helaine felt for her friend. Their current success was wholly due to Wendy’s belief in both of them. And because of her, they were now owners of a dress shop with clients from the ton.

  But it was a house built upon cards. Their most elevated client was Lady Gwendolyn and her future in-laws. It had been quite the coup to get the lady to buy just a single gown two Seasons past. And then she’d purchased a few more last Season. And now, as a miracle from the heavens, the lady wanted her entire trousseau! If this order went well, it would be the making of their little dress shop.