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  LADY SCANDAL

  Published by Shannon Donnelly at Smashwords.com

  Copyright 2010 Shannon Donnelly

  Discover other works by Shannon Donnelly at Smashwords.com

  Romantic Times Top Pick - 4½ Stars

  Romantic Times Bookclub Nominated "Best Regency" 2004

  For Uncle Bert & Aunt Barb,

  who taught me how to shoot a flintlock and ride side saddle.

  CHAPTER ONE

  She had not thought of him in ages, so why had his memory returned tonight? Alexandria frowned. Had it been Josephine's insistence on dredging up stories from when she had been young and ridiculously romantic? Or perhaps it had been watching Diana flirt with the young—and utterly ineligible—Monsieur Brenton? Marsett had been just so ineligible—and just so charming.

  But she would not think of him again tonight. She had other worries to fret over.

  Still, she stared out the carriage window at the endless darkness that lay beyond the shallow, yellow glow of the lantern, at the glisten of raindrops on glass. And she thought of another night such as this, in another carriage, in what almost seemed another life.

  Bad weather making old injuries ache.

  He was an old injury. Old and one she had thought forgotten. But tonight as the carriage rocked, she remembered too well that strong, angular face, the unruly brown hair, the smolder of dark brown eyes. And the hot betrayal that had glittered in those eyes the last time she had seen him.

  She had almost given up everything for him. Almost. And the old anger flared, still rankling for his having forced her into the worst moment of her life. Why had he not been able to understand?

  And why did you not come back? Why did you never keep that promise?

  But why would he? He must hate her now. She knew that.

  The regret trembled inside her again, not as strong as it once had, but still there, along with the anxiety. Had she made the right choice? What else could she have done? She had had Jules to consider. Bitterness tugged at her, a weight in her chest. She fought it back, willing it away, determined that it would drag no more futile tears.

  But still she thought of him.

  Where would he be tonight? At a gaming table? In another woman's arms. He had always loved excitement. Did he still? Was his hair as dark and lush, or had those silky strands thinned, or acquired touches of silver as now threaded her brown curls? Would he still have that broad chest and those muscles that had rippled under her touch and that smooth skin, so warm and....

  "You are very quiet, Aunt."

  Blinking and pulling in a breath, Alexandria turned away from the darkness outside the carriage. The lanterns spilled a faint glow into the luxurious gloom of the coach, outlining swaying curtains, the plush upholstery, and her niece's delicate profile.

  They ought to have been back in Paris by now. It was only a few hours from the duke's Chateau d'Esclimont. But a horse had thrown a shoe, and then the rain had started, turning the road into mud that dragged at the carriage wheels.

  Alexandria forced a smile, but realized that Diana would not see it—all she could see of her niece was the glint of her golden curls and the white oval of her face. Years of practice at hiding her feelings, however, kept her voice utterly calm. "I am just longing for a hot cup of tea."

  Such a lie. What she longed for had nothing to do with tea. She scowled at her weakness.

  Diana's gloved hand, almost ethereally pale in white kid, reached out from the darkness of her traveling cloak to grip Alexandria's. "It cannot be much further. Look, you can see the lights of Paris already."

  Alexandria's face relaxed. How like her niece to be the one to try and reassure. She leaned across the leather-covered seat to glance out the window. Lights did glint though the gloom—the flambeaus of the great houses, lanterns for the scandalous Palais Royal and the Comédie Française; the entertainment of Paris did not stop for weather nor for much else it seemed. Not even with war threatening again.

  Alexandria squeezed her niece's hand and she leaned back, the leather squeaking under her. Their plans had been to stay another month in Paris before returning to England, but the duke's cautions had changed everything.

  "You should leave France," Josephine's husband had said, his English accented heavily and his tone grim. Josephine had wrinkled her nose as she made a noise that could only sound elegant coming from a Frenchwoman. "Really, Guy—how rude to tell my friends to go."

  He had frowned at her, a sober, older gentleman, his thin face and thinning hair making him look more dour than usual. "Less rude than if they should be here when the battles start again. And they will. This peace cannot last—not with England refusing to leave Malta. Not with—"

  He broke off, his mouth pulling down, as if he had had to stop himself from saying something unwise, such as to criticize the ambitious First Consul Bonaparte.

  Josephine waved away his words, her plump hand fluttering and her jewels flashing. "War...war...you have been too long in the military, mon trésor. Everyone muttered the same in March when Bonaparte accused Lord Whitworth of forcing us into breaking the peace. But nothing happened, now did it?"

  "Whitworth has left France. Word came today. It cannot be good that the British Ambassador leaves so sudden."

  Josephine had frowned. But a moment later she laughed and demanded that he not ruin her house party by troubling her English friends.

  He already had.

  Alexandria knew to give his warning added weight. The Duke of Laval had survived the bloody Revolution, saved from his country's anti-aristocratic insanity by his military titles and success. With Bonaparte now ruling France, the duke no longer needed to call himself citizen—Bonaparte had done away with that and much else from the Revolution. And gossip held that Laval would soon be a Marshal of France. If such a highly placed man thought hostilities would come again, Alexandria knew enough to listen.

  Perhaps that was why the anxiety, the troubling regrets had returned. She might have made mistakes with her own life, but she would not make them with her brother's only daughter.

  Now wistful disappointment tinged Diana's voice as she asked, "Are you certain we cannot at least stay until after Madam Avill's ball? I am still due a gown from Celeste's for it, and...and...."

  "And there is a certain young man you hoped to see again at Madam Avill's?" Alexandria asked, unable to resist teasing.

  "Oh, that is nothing serious. You know that, only—well, isn't Monsieur Brenton just the most ravishing gentleman you have ever met? And he does dance divinely, and I did promise him one dance for Madam Avill's."

  He was not the most ravishing gentleman Alexandria had met—he seemed young, absurdly so. However, she knew the sound of youthful infatuation. She also knew the importance of allowing such sparks to burn out so that they left warm memories and not bitter laments.

  But she could not ignore Laval's warnings.

  Frowning, she tried to make the right choice. Would a few days matter? That would allow a more organized departure—and she could write to Frederick to let him know she would be bringing Diana to London, not to his Surrey estate as they had arranged. But what if she judged wrong? So many others had already left France.

  Well, she knew the lack of wisdom in making any decision by moonlight. "We can discuss it in the morning," she allowed.

  Diana's hand clutched hers. "Oh, thank you, Aunt Ali."

  "I said discuss—and I mean only that."

  "Of course, Aunt."

  Diana sounded dutiful. She also sounded confident of the outcome.

  Leaning back in the coach, Alexandria shook her head. She indulged the girl. Too much, perhaps. But she had only ever had Jules—her independent, bookish son, now up at Oxford. And girls, she had learned from Diana
, were ever so much more fun.

  By the time they reached the cobbled streets of Paris, Alexandria's longing for tea had become genuine. So had her hunger for a hot meal and a seat that did not sway.

  They entered the city through the northern gate, skirting the village of Montmartre and its steep hill. The narrow cobbled streets had hardly been changed, Alexandria thought, by revolution or the centuries. Bonaparte talked of building wide new avenues, but parts of Paris echoed back to its ancient roots, with its winding lanes, barely wide enough for a cart, let alone a carriage. A decade ago, the French queen and king had been bundled into such carts and dragged by the mob to the guillotine. Had they been carried along this very road?

  Alexandria shivered. She hoped not.

  But blood no longer ran in the gutters. For all his faults of ambition, Bonaparte had at least brought order to France. And he had made peace with England just over a year ago, leaving the door open for so many English to come again to Paris. It had been a delight to bring Diana, and such a relief to escape her own monotonous life.

  They had taken a small house for their visit—with the jointure left to her, she could afford to indulge her whims these days. But even after two months in Paris, she recognized few landmarks. It was only when the coach stopped and the door opened and she glanced out that she knew they had arrived at 37 Rue Cambon. They were home.

  The footman helped her from the carriage, and she glanced up at the house, a little surprised to see it dark and the front door standing ajar. Fenwick was not the sort to shirk his duties. So where was her butler? Why were there not lamps lit beside the steps? Why did no one hurry from the house with umbrellas and see to their luggage?

  With a frown, Alexandria glanced around her.

  The rain had lightened to a mist, slicking the streets and leaving the sky dark. The buildings seemed to huddle close, their stucco walls pale in the dim light and their roofs disappearing into darkness. Pulling the hood of her traveling cloak over her bonnet—a silly little velvet one she had bought just for the visit to Chateau d'Esclimont—Alexandria hurried up the steps. Her traveling boots slapped against the puddles left by the rain. Pushing open the heavy door to the house, she stepped inside and stopped. Shock chilled her skin.

  "What in heaven's—"

  She broke off the words, the air tight in her chest. Irritation sharpened in her, and chilled into fear.

  Flowers lay strewn across the floor as if emptied from the vases that had once held them. She glanced around the hall looking for those vases and saw only unsettling disorder. A chair lay on its side. The wire from the picture rail told of a painting taken away.

  A soft voice at her side pulled her attention from the disaster in the room. "Oh, my! What happened?"

  Alexandria turned. She parted her lips to reply—only what did she say to her niece?

  And then the sound of a woman's soft sobbing reached her, chilling her utterly.

  #

  He was lucky not to be dead. Pain, sharp and raw, burned in his side. He cursed in guttural French, and in English, the hard Anglo-Saxon sounds far more satisfying. He kept the curses to a low mutter, however, wary of giving himself away. Three hours ago he had been in a warm bed with an equally warm armful of woman. A general's wife in need of consolation for a husband who neglected his duties to her. But he had said the wrong thing.

  Never call one woman by another woman's name.

  He knew that law of dalliance. But he'd had another woman too much in his thoughts of late—merde, why had he ever listened to the gossip? Why had he stayed after hearing her name mentioned?

  It was, of course, only curiosity. He had not thought her the sort to ever leave her cozy home. But she had apparently come to Paris, along with so many other English. And with a niece, in tow. A beautiful girl, according to those who had met her. Golden hair, soft blue eyes, and oh-so-English alabaster skin. He had smiled and nodded at the descriptions, but his mind had filled with brown, softly curling hair that had once twined around his fingers. He had remembered gray eyes, and slanting, light brown eyebrows that tipped up in the center when a smile lifted her wide mouth. And those slender curves and pert breasts that fit so well into his hand...rather too like Madam D'Aeth's.

  Which was why he had used that once-forgotten name instead of Madam's.

  Stiffening, she had glared at him.

  And she had screamed. Screamed rape and bloody murder.

  He'd had time to grab for his breeches and his coat. He left his cravat and fled. He had almost been over the garden wall when the ball from the musket caught him, scrapping across skin and muscle and rib as it etched a groove in his side. He had felt nothing more than a sting at the time. But as he ran, half stumbling as he struggled into his clothes, the pain began to burn.

  That's what he got for bedding the wife of a military man. Other households had servants, not guards with muskets. And now he had best move on before they backtracked to pick up his trail—thank God for the rain and the dark night.

  Wincing, he eased his palm from his side. Sticky wetness clung to his shirt and his fingers. Still bleeding. Damn! He pressed his hand to his side and his back to the wall.

  He had found temporary shelter in an alley off the Rue de Turenne, far too close to the D'Aeth's mansion. And uncomfortably near the Bastille with its stench of prisoners kept behind stone walls and iron bars. A sign that perhaps he ought to quit Paris—and perhaps even France. Bonaparte's generals carried far too much power, and no one would question the death—or imprisonment—of one such as him.

  But where to next?

  Eyes shut, Paxten leaned against the wall, soul weary, body aching. Where could he go? Back to Italy? To Venice perhaps, and the contessa with the lazy eyes and the jealous streak? That seemed unwise. To the Americas, or to India? He had not been either place yet, but that meant a long ocean voyage. An uncomfortable one, too, with his funds so low.

  Boot heels on cobblestones clattered near to him. Voices rose and receded, taking their anger with them. Pushing off from the wall, he pulled in a breath and winced at the searing pain. Shallow breaths only. He needed something to bind the wound, to stop the bleeding. And a decent cognac to dull the aches.

  Could he make it back to his rooms? It was not far to the Place des Vosges where he had taken rooms—on a whim to stay near the square where knights once jousted to honor Anne of Austria's marriage to a French king. But if Madam had betrayed his identity to the guards, as well as his presence in her boudoir, would it be safe?

  With a grimace, Paxten pushed away from the wall and staggered into the street, his legs unsteady and his head light. God, how much had he bled?

  He tried to weigh his options. He had a few coins in his coat pockets—a good thing he had won tonight at the tables. Did he have enough to reach the border? Perhaps, but not in style. And there was the matter of transportation after that—and lodging. He would also need new clothes. He hated to leave his current ones—he had only recently had most of them made— but he had done that before. His mouth twisted. What, after all, did a man such as him own that could be of value? No, he had nothing to leave behind. He never did.

  That might have been different, if....

  The voice, rough and using French from the streets, came out of the darkness and broke into his thoughts, "You there—halt!"

  Spinning on his heel, Paxten sprinted in the opposite direction up the Rue de Turenne, his hand pressed to his side and regrets for the past cast aside in preference for surviving the immediate present.

  #

  Alexandria traced the sobs to the dining room. The heavy chairs and the dark mahogany table had been left in the high-ceilinged room, but the candelabras and the candles had been taken and the walls had been stripped of paintings and wall sconces. The sobbing seemed to come from under the table.

  Bending down, Alexandria glimpsed a white apron over a rocking form. "What in heaven are you doing there? Come out at once—oh, for pity's sake, do stop that crying. Diana,
can you say something in French to have her come out?"

  Standing again, Alexandria moved to a side table to search for spare candles and flint. Diana muttered something to the maid, the words hesitant but the accent true. Alexandria pressed her lips tight—why had she never paid any heed to her governess and her French lessons?

  She found the stub of one half-burnt taper, struggled with the flint pulled from a drawer, and finally struck a spark. Flame trembled to life as the wick caught fire. Lifting the candle, Alexandria bent to study the maid.

  The woman crouched under the table, her knees pulled up to her chin. She had taken her apron away from her face. Fear had left her skin pale and her eyes enormous. Alexandria recognized Marie-Jeanne as one of the kitchen maids, a skinny girl of fifteen or so. A sweet girl, but rather slow.

  "Well, why is she not coming out?" Alexandria demanded, glancing at Diana.

  The young woman straightened, worry darkening her blue eyes. "She is afraid the guard will return."

  "Guard? Why ever would they come in the first place?"

  In answer to the questions a spurt of rapid French flowed from Marie-Jeanne. Alexandria bent to look under the table again. "You must come out—tu viens ici."

  Alexandria noticed Diana wincing at such mangled French, but the maid seemed at least to recognize the voice of authority, if not the words, for she edged from under the table.

  Climbing to her feet, she stared about her, clutching the white apron tied over her dark high-waisted dress and looking rather like a rabbit who intended to bolt for her hole at the first breath of trouble.

  Alexandria gave the candle to her niece and said, "Now, let us have an explanation, if you please, Marie-Jeanne. Only in English. Parle anglais, s'il vous plaît."

  A rapid flow of French answered, and Alexandria struggled to hold her impatience with the girl. She recognized only a few words—something about English, and Bonaparte's name came into it. Ruthlessly interrupting, Alexandria said, "But where is everyone? Diana, see if you can get some answers. I am going to make a quick tour of the house."