A Taste for Scandal (5 page)

“Well, you’ll see the stud soon enough when the Season is over. In the meantime,” Richard said, retrieving his cue stick, “perhaps you’d like to lose a game or two before our presence is required for the ball?”

“My dear boy,” Father said, setting his cigar in a carved ivory ashtray before selecting his own stick, “there isn’t enough time in the year for you to beat me, let alone in one evening. I will, however, permit you try.”

“You are my superior in many ways, oh vaunted sire, but in billiards and boxing I shall always prevail.”

They bantered and chatted amicably as the game proceeded, each needling the other as the score proved them to be equally matched.

“There you are.” Benedict Hastings’s voice came from the doorway as Richard lined up for what could be the game-winning shot. “I should have known to look here first rather than allow myself to get sucked into a rather detailed discussion of the merits of Lord Andrew’s riding form. Did you know he rides in Hyde Park every day at two o’clock?”

As Richard’s best friend turned brother-in-law, the man was still adjusting to the flurry of having sisters. He strode into the room, dressed much more regally than was normal, nodded to the marquis, and dropped to the overstuffed sofa by the fire. The night had not yet begun and he already looked exhausted.

Richard crossed his arms and nodded solemnly. “Indeed. I also know that he has enviable green eyes, a sigh-worthy tenor, and perfectly shaped calves.”

Benedict laughed and held up his hands. “You win—though I suppose I should say
lose
. And thanks for putting the damnable image of the man’s calves in my mind. I may never get over that one.”

“Damn, I hadn’t realized how late it’d become,” Father said, setting down his cue stick and retrieving the jacket he had shed halfway through the game. “I’d best see how your mother is faring. Richard, Hastings.” He dipped his head toward them and headed for the corridor.

When he was out of range, Benedict sighed. “One would think marrying his daughter and providing him with his first grandchild would be enough to convince him to call me Benedict.”

“He’s forgiven you a lot of evils, my man—I’d say the use of your last name is a fair holdout. Whiskey?”

Benedict nodded, probably in acknowledgment of the point as much as in answer to the question. As Richard walked past him toward the sideboard, his friend’s eyes widened. “Impressive bruise. I suppose that means the unlikely story we were regaled with upon arrival was at least partly true?”

“It’s appalling how effectively the females in this family can spread gossip. Truly, they could have been of great use to you in your former profession—an unstoppable network of information gatherers and distributors.”

“Of that I’ll not argue. Beatrice in particular has a tremendous knack for the gathering part.”

Damned if that wasn’t the truth. “Yes, and the twins specialize in the distribution.”

“Distribution of what?” Evie asked as she came to join them. It was odd seeing her in formal dress again, which she hadn’t worn since Emma’s birth some four months ago.

“Charm,” Richard said with a wink, brushing a kiss on her cheek as she went to sit by her husband. “Just like their brother.”

“So charming you almost managed to have yourself thrown in gaol?” Amusement lit her silvery gaze.

“So charming that I talked myself
out
of being thrown in gaol.”

“Oh, is that what happened? Well, perhaps I should hear the whole sordid tale from the horse’s mouth.”

It was probably for the best—God only knew how much the tale had been mangled in the retelling. Handing Benedict his scotch, Richard downed his own in one swallow before recounting the events of the morning. Even as he tried to remain neutral in his account, fresh irritation welled up within him.

By the end of the story, Evie’s expression had changed from one of amusement to sympathy as she shook her head slowly, her brows drawn. Finally, someone who was on his side. He knew he liked her for a reason.

At least he thought he did, until she opened her mouth.

“That poor woman. She must have been terrified. And then to have realized the man she called the watch on was not only trying to help her, but was an earl as well.” She put a hand to her heart. “She must have been completely mortified.”

The tips of Richard’s ears grew hot. “Not bloody likely,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything.

“What do you mean, ‘not bloody likely’?”

“She also told the men, who kindly released me, that it didn’t matter if I was an earl; I had still attacked her cousin and she wanted me arrested.”

“She didn’t!”

“I assure you she did.”

At least now he had properly shocked them. Shaking her head, Evie rose and walked to his side, placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. “The poor old dear had just endured quite a shock. You must give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“Poor old de—Evie, she was younger than you are,” he exclaimed. “She knew perfectly well what she was saying.”

His sister drew back in surprise. All at once her expression cleared and she murmured, “Ohhh . . .
now
I see.”

“What do you think you see?”

“No wonder you are so put out. Your pride is injured. A pretty young woman—”

“I didn’t say she was pretty,” he grumbled, pushing aside the memory of her flushed cheeks and full lips.

“You didn’t have to,” she replied smugly. “A pretty young woman publicly embarrassed you and was in no way impressed by your lofty status. It’s all beginning to make sense, now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being one bit ridiculous. I do believe this is the first time in history a woman has not fallen at your feet, and you are feeling rather put out by the fact.”

He drew in a breath to defend himself—she might have had the tiniest bit of a point, but he wasn’t about to let her know that—when a scratch at the door interrupted his thought. All three of them looked to the hallway, where Finnington bowed his head. “Pardon me, Lord Raleigh, but a Miss Bunting is here to see you.”

Bunting? “I don’t know anyone by that name, Finnington. Is she here about the ball?” He glanced to the clock over the mantel. It was only a little after seven, almost an hour before the ball was set to begin.

“No, my lord,” the butler answered in his regal, measured tones. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but the young lady asked me to tell you she comes bearing a peace offering, and she hopes your coat was not ruined.” The butler pressed his thin lips together, and Richard had the distinct impression that he was amused.

“Finnington,” Evie said, a smile growing on her face, “did Miss Bunting provide you with her first name?”

“Indeed, Lady Evelyn. She had no calling card, but I believe she said it was ‘Jane.’”

How was it possible that such an utterly dreadful day had somehow culminated in Jane standing in the most lavish entry surely on the face of the earth, holding a basket of fresh-baked biscuits and waiting for the man who had single-handedly caused the loss of an eye-watering portion of the day’s profit, half her mother’s china, and a good deal of Jane’s dignity?

Jane adjusted her hold on the heavy wicker basket, fighting against the exhaustion that draped her limbs like a rusted coat of armor. She had never worked so hard or so long in her life, and almost every part of her ached for rest. But she had come to the earl’s house tonight because she could scarcely do otherwise.

After all, she was in the wrong.

And as much as she disliked the earl and his catastrophic effect on her day, he
had
been trying to help. No matter how unwanted—or destructive—that assistance was. The upper crust of society may blithely ignore any wrongs they had done to others, but Jane actually had a conscience. She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she apologized to her own personal bull in her bakery shop.

But now that she was here, witnessing firsthand the unbelievable opulence of Lord Raleigh’s home, something akin to panic crept up her spine, weakening her resolve.

She had never known such luxury existed, let alone thought to stand so close to it. Nervously, she surveyed the soaring ceiling, painted in a charming scene complete with cupids and Grecian-outfitted lovers frolicking through the clouds. Elegant and elaborately carved molding framed the whole scene, and the walls below were blanketed in a shimmering, dove gray velvet that looked to be so soft, she had the most absurd desire to press her cheek against it.

Beneath her feet, nearly flawless black-and-white marble tiles extended in all directions, disappearing out of view into the rooms adjacent to the entrance hall in which she waited. She was starting to feel a little faint. What was she
doing
here? He had probably already forgotten about the whole thing. And even if he hadn’t, a man who lived in this kind of extreme wealth wouldn’t want a woman like her sullying his rose-scented air with her presence. She pressed an icy hand to her flushed cheek. Why hadn’t she just sent Weston with the biscuits and a note?

She should leave. Tomorrow, she could send a note of apology and be done with it. She hesitated for a moment longer, listening to the echoing sounds of activity filtering down from the first floor. Clearly the household was preparing for something. Besides the veritable meadowful of freshly cut flowers decorating the grand space and dozens, perhaps hundreds, of candles lighting the place like day, soft, shuffling footsteps came and went as servants dashed from room to room, not one of them slowing to speak to, or even look at, her.

She was only in the way here.

With unease fluttering deep within her, Jane turned to the door and took a few tentative steps toward freedom.
Oh, jam and splash, the biscuits.
She glared down at the tidy wicker basket, the handle of which rested in the crook of her elbow. If she came all this way, she should at least leave the conciliatory offering—especially since she had told the butler their purpose. Ignoring the need to flee, she looked around for a suitable place to unload the basket. A few feet away stood a delicately carved table that looked more like a work of art than a serviceable piece of furniture.

It would have to do.

She hurried to it, her practical leather half boots tapping along the shining marble tile. In all her life, she had never felt more out of place. As the daughter of a respected businessman, she had lived a relatively privileged life before Papa’s death, but the fine homes and lovely furnishings of her father’s wealthiest acquaintances, mostly tradesmen, were pale indeed when compared with the grandeur of the earl’s house.

She lifted the lid of her basket and reached for the napkin bundling a dozen of the still-warm biscuits. The smell of chocolate fragranced the air, calming her nerves slightly. She took a deep breath, grateful for the familiar aroma, and lifted the bundle from the basket.

And that was when she heard it.

Staccato footsteps on the staircase the butler had ascended in search of his master. Oh, no. Sweat broke out on the small of her back as she rushed to place the napkin on the table. No, that wouldn’t do—what if the butter-stained cloth somehow damaged the unblemished wood of the table? She turned left and right, looking for a less valuable location for the package, but everything around her looked equally priceless.

As the footsteps grew louder, she crammed the bundle back into her basket, set the whole blasted thing on the floor, and dashed for the door.

“Miss Bunting?”

Caught! Jane froze, her heart lodged in her throat. The voice belonged to a woman, not the butler or, worse, the earl as she had expected. Taking a bracing breath, she slowly turned to face the woman who had successfully thwarted her escape.

“Yes?” Jane asked, the word sounding perilously close to a squeak as she raised her gaze from the marble floor, up the exquisite skirts of a glorious silvery ball gown, past the perfectly fitted bodice and the tastefully bejeweled neck, all the way up to the stunningly beautiful features of the woman’s smiling face.

Oh, mercy, this goddess of a woman must be the earl’s wife.

“Miss Bunting, are you quite all right?”

No, no, she wasn’t. Jane blinked and suddenly realized two men followed behind the blond woman in the ball gown. The one closest to the lady was tall with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, dark eyes, and a very concerned expression on his face.

Jane looked past him to the third member of their little welcoming party. He had perfectly coiffed blond curls, gorgeous blue eyes—one of which was surrounded by a light purplish bruise—a tall, lean build encased in infinitely fine and perfectly fitting evening clothes, and an utterly disdainful expression.

Jane’s heart dropped right to the floor. She knew that look.

With his impeccable clothes and rakishly debonair hairstyle, he looked completely different from the man who had burst into her shop that morning. But there was no mistaking the way he was looking at her now.

“Lord . . . Lord Raleigh?”

“I believe you know me as Lord Lunatic, Miss Bunting.”

Chapter Five

Richard enjoyed the satisfaction of the remark for all of three seconds. That was exactly how long it took for Evie to whirl around and wallop him in the shoulder.

“Richard!” she hissed, widening her eyes meaningfully at him before turning back to the shopkeeper. “Please, Miss Bunting, ignore my brother. He thinks he is being clever.”

Richard scowled at the back of Evie’s head as she stepped forward to greet Miss Bunting—Jane—with outstretched hands. The meddlesome creature—how dare she come to the blasted shopgirl’s defense? He glanced toward Benedict for commiseration, but his friend only shook his head and followed his wife. The traitor. Marriage will do that to a man.

It was rather annoying that they both knew the whole sordid story of the baker’s outrageous behavior and yet they were all that was welcoming and kind.

“I am Lady Evelyn Hastings, and this is my husband, Mr. Benedict Hastings. And you are Miss Jane Bunting. I do hope that you will forgive my appalling lack of manners, but I did so want to meet you.” Evie smiled brightly as she took the baker’s hands in her own. “My goodness, something smells positively divine! Tell me, what have you brought us?”