One Night of Scandal Read online

Val pulled a letter from his coat. “This arrived for you at the Wicked Duke today.”

  She took the missive from him. Tavistock was marked across the front in large letters. Looking up at him, she lifted a shoulder as she opened it. As she directed her gaze toward the parchment, her pulse picked up with each word, and by the time she reached the end, she feared Val would see her chest rising and falling in distress.

  Dear Mr. Tavistock,

  Your inquiries into the matter involving the Prince Regent are proof the truth behind the attack must be made public. Mr. Jack Barrett, MP for Middlesex, is a known radical sympathizer and has been seen consorting with radical groups. He was seen meeting with one at the Crown and Anchor the evening before the attack on the Prince. Someone in that group has said Barrett organized the attack.

  We believe you must publicize this information before another attack is launched.

  Sincerely,

  A concerned citizen

  Viola’s hands shook. Jack could not have done such a thing. It was impossible. He was trying to help her find out what had happened.

  Was he, really?

  He’d tried to convince her to stop the investigation. The other night at Brooks’s, he steered her from the club before she’d had a chance to speak with anyone beyond Pennington. It was as if he was trying to control the inquiry. Which made sense if he was to blame.

  Viola felt ill.

  “What’s that about?” Val asked.

  She quickly folded the missive and set it in her lap. “Someone suggesting I write about them.” Plenty of men at the Wicked Duke had tried to get her to do that.

  Val chuckled. “I suppose some people like notoriety. Just keep me out of your column.”

  “I always do. Though I plan to mention your marriage and how blissful you seem. I’m afraid I can’t help myself.”

  A laugh spilled from Val’s lips, and he nodded. “I suppose there’s no harm in that. In truth, there’s never any harm in your column—you are universally kind when you write about others.”

  She thought of what could happen to the MP when she wrote about him. Only he wasn’t just a nameless MP anymore. He was Jack Barrett, if the letter in her lap were to be believed. “I will be there tonight.” She had to go. It was the best opportunity for her to see Jack. And she had to see him.

  “I’ll stop in later,” he said. “See you then.” He bent down and bussed her cheek, then departed.

  Viola unfolded the letter and read it again. And again. After the fifth time, she had it committed to memory. Gone was her shock and dismay, replaced by anger and a sense of absolute betrayal.

  Reason told her there was a chance this wasn’t true. Was it reason? Or was it something far more foolish, such as the way she felt about him?

  And how was that? She’d already determined love was out of the question, that she was merely attracted to Jack. That was an inconvenience she could—and would—overlook. She had to because she was in pursuit of the truth.

  Right now, he was the primary obstacle in her way.

  Jack trudged into the Wicked Duke at nearly ten. Bone weary after a day of debates, he probably should have gone home. Instead, he’d talked himself into stopping for an ale. The tavern was, sort of, on his way to King Street.

  “Barrett!”

  He raised his hand in greeting and was about to sit down in his usual spot when his gaze connected with that of Viola, rather, Tavistock. She sat in the corner with a few other men and was clearly aware of the moment he’d walked inside. Her eyes were glued to him, her jaw tense.

  Something was wrong.

  Mary handed him a mug of ale. “Good evening,” she said. She batted her eyelashes and managed to graze his arm with her breast as she moved past him.

  Frowning, he pushed her from his mind and looked back to Viola, who was still watching him. He inclined his head toward the rear of the tavern, hoping she would understand to meet him in the storage room.

  He went into the private salon and casually made his way to the closet where he’d fixed Viola’s sideburns last week. Inside the tiny room, he set his tankard on a shelf.

  A few moments later, she came inside, closing the door behind her.

  Being alone with her in the close, dimly lit space, he was catapulted back to the hack the other night when they’d kissed. Heat and desire pulsed through him, and he wondered if he’d maybe misread that anything was wrong. Perhaps she was as eager to kiss him again as he was her.

  He moved toward her—it took only a step—and she flattened herself against the door. Reaching into her coat, she pulled out a folded piece of parchment, which she handed to him.

  “Explain this, please,” she said shortly. “If you can.”

  Unease crept across his shoulders as he took the paper. Moving to the small lantern affixed to the wall and its meager light, he held up the letter and read. Anger and incredulity warred in his brain.

  Dropping the letter to his side, he turned to face her. “This isn’t true.”

  “You weren’t at that meeting at the Crown and Anchor?”

  “I—” Dammit. “I was. Not at a meeting, but I was at the Crown and Anchor that night. People congregate there for a variety of reasons. I certainly wasn’t there to orchestrate a plot to kill the prince.”

  “Then how do you explain this letter?”

  He glanced down at the paper in his hand. “The rantings of a lunatic? Or a coward? The author didn’t even sign his name. Clearly, someone wants to implicate me in the attack.”

  “You think someone wants me to write a story saying you instigated the attack on the prince?”

  Who would do that? Many people, unfortunately. He had plenty of political enemies. But to think that any of them would go to these lengths made him sick. And angry.

  “I can’t think of any other explanation,” he said quietly.

  “Is it possible this person is mistaken? They saw you at the Crown and Anchor and assumed you were the MP who organized the attack?”

  “Who’s to say there was ever an MP involved at all?” If the closet weren’t so damn small, he would have paced. “Perhaps the whole thing is a fabrication. Was there ever an MP who worked with the radicals, or was this simply an enterprise to discredit me?”

  “Discredit you?” She stared at him. “This would see you imprisoned.”

  Probably—at least in the current climate. “There is no actual evidence,” he said, hating that she’d doubted him. “There would be no conviction because I haven’t done anything.”

  He crumpled the edge of the letter in his grip as fury raged through him. When he found the person behind this… He lifted his gaze to hers. She was still pressed against the door, her blue eyes wary.

  “You don’t believe me.” His tone was flat, his emotions deflating until he wasn’t sure he felt anything.

  “I…want to. I don’t know what to believe. You are somewhat radical in your beliefs.”

  “As are you. Would you attempt to kill the Prince Regent? Perhaps I should ask what you were doing on that evening in January.”

  She sucked in a breath, and he immediately regretted what he’d said.

  “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it,” he whispered. “I just wish you thought the same of me.”

  It was a long moment before she exhaled and responded. “You’ve repeatedly told me to be careful. I’m trying to be careful.”

  He could understand that. He looked at her intently, moving toward her, but not getting too close. “Then I’ll prove my innocence to you. We’ll go to the Crown and Anchor, and I’ll introduce you to the men I met that night so they can tell you what we discussed.”

  Her gaze flickered with surprise. “Are they radicals?”

  “They’re Spencean Philanthropists. We discussed the upcoming trials of the men arrested for the Spa Fields riots. A friend of mine is defending one of them.”

  Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. “Oh.” She tipped her head to the side. “Did you ask them
about the attack? Perhaps they know what really happened.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He could almost hear her outrage.

  “As a reporter, it is my duty to follow wherever my inquiries lead. You withheld pertinent information from me.”

  He had anger of his own—she didn’t understand the danger of the situation. “I was trying to protect you. They are a radical organization, Viola. Some of them are in prison awaiting trial for treason.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You are not responsible for protecting me. You are not my brother nor are you my husband.” Her tone was a devastating mixture of furious heat and derisive cold.

  They stood there staring at each other a moment. He handed the letter back to her. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the Crown and Anchor instead of the coffeehouse.”

  She visibly relaxed, her jaw loosening and her shoulders dropping. “Should we go in the evening?”

  He shook his head. That would be infinitely more dangerous. “Same time we’d planned to meet at the coffeehouse. I’ll make the arrangements. And I’ll pick you up in a hack at the edge of Berkeley Square.”

  She nodded, then finally pushed away from the door. This brought them closer than they’d been the entire time they’d been in the closet.

  The idea that she’d wanted to get him alone to kiss him again seemed woefully ludicrous now. The other night in the hack had been a wild, singular event. He had to stop hoping it would happen again.

  He reached for the door, and she moved to the side. “See you tomorrow.”

  She nodded but didn’t respond. Jack left and hoped tomorrow wouldn’t be a mistake.

  Chapter 10

  The Crown and Anchor was a sizeable tavern just off the Strand on Arundel Street. Like the Wicked Duke, all manner of men met here. Unlike the Wicked Duke, the Crown and Anchor had space for large formal meetings. Jack led Viola inside to the main parlor.

  She tipped her head back and looked up at the coffered ceiling with its decorative woodwork and the pair of chandeliers decorating the room. “Is it true Charles James Fox celebrated a birthday here once?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, there were over two thousand people, apparently. Twenty-some years ago, this was the primary meeting location for the London Corresponding Society.”

  “Weren’t they also a radical group?”

  “Right again. Their activities prompted the passage of antisedition laws, which have been recently and unfortunately resurrected.”

  She continued to study the room. “Can you imagine if the Wicked Duke had interiors such as this?”

  “No, but then I find the Wicked Duke quite comfortable.”

  “I do too, which is strange since I’m a woman and most of the patrons are men.” She added, “There are women there, mostly staff, but I daresay you are quite aware.”

  There was an odd quality to her tone that drew his attention. “Why do you say that?”

  “Mary flirts with you.”

  He led her farther inside, looking about the room to locate the Spenceans. “The barmaid? She’s friendly, I suppose.”

  “She practically throws herself at you. How can you not be aware of that?”

  “Yes, I’m aware. I just decide not to engage her—or her designs. It’s better to just ignore them.”

  She stared at him and shook her head slightly. “Men are so bizarre. One would think after two years masquerading as one, I would understand you better.”

  Was she jealous? “I have no interest in Mary, and I never have.” He hoped she understood what he meant, that he’d never touched—or kissed—Mary. “I have little time for romantic entanglements. None, really.”

  “I see.” The odd tone had disappeared, and if Jack had to describe her expression, he would have said it was smug. He quashed a chuckle in response. “So these Spenceans just sit out in the open?” she asked quietly.

  “There are only a few, and there’s no law against that number coming together.”

  “It’s any meeting over fifty,” she said. “Correct?”

  He nodded as he recognized Henry Dean and led her to a table on the other side of the room beneath a wide painting of boats on the River Thames. “Good afternoon, Dean. Allow me to introduce my friend Tavistock.”

  Dean stood and offered his hand to Viola. She gripped it firmly, demonstrating a strong, masculine handshake. She might not think like a man, but she’d worked hard to master the outward appearance.

  “Pleased to meet you, Tavistock. You both need beer.” Dean, a burly man in his forties missing a little finger, waved his hand.

  Jack and Viola were barely seated before the ale was delivered in two tankards. “Thank you for meeting with us today,” Viola said.

  Dean nodded as he sipped his ale. Setting the tankard down, he glanced between Jack and Viola. “How can I help you?”

  Jack had sent him a note requesting the meeting and had only said they needed help with something. “It’s a sensitive issue.”

  “I presume it’s to do with the Spenceans.” His deep voice reverberated across the table even though he’d lowered his volume. “Everything about that is sensitive.”

  Jack exchanged a look with Viola, then plowed forward. “It’s come to our attention that someone in the group may have worked to agitate things after Spa Fields.”

  “No one had to work at it,” Dean said. “We were all agitated after that.”

  “Agitated enough to try to assassinate the prince?” Jack asked.

  Dean’s amber eyes widened briefly. “Careful what you say there, Barrett.”

  “It’s not an accusation at all. You know my feelings toward your organization.” He supported their ideas if not the vitriol of some of the members. He hated that they were being silenced. “Someone is trying to tie me to the attack. Someone is putting it out that I was here at a meeting the night before.”

  “Bloody hell,” Dean breathed. “You were here, but it was just you and I and a few other men discussing Watson and the others.”

  Jack turned his head to Viola briefly. “Watson was one of those arrested in the Spa Fields riot.”

  She nodded in response, then swung her gaze across the table to Dean. “Can you think of anyone who might have been here? Someone who would have seen Barrett and would want to link him to the attack?”

  Dean frowned and stared into his tankard for a moment. When he looked up, his gaze was pensive. “I can’t think of anyone, but this is a large place. No one I know would seek to make trouble for Barrett.” He nodded toward Jack. “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve preached nonviolent protest and open dialogue.”

  While that was good to hear, it didn’t bring them any closer to finding answers. “I’m glad to know you feel that way, but you can see why I’m trying to find the truth.”

  Dean stroked his chin. “If it was a Spencean—and I don’t think it was—he acted alone. We didn’t coordinate anything.”

  “I assumed as much,” Jack said. “Did any new members join late last year? Anyone behave in a manner that would suggest they might commit an act of violence?”

  Dean shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. We’re rather scattered since Spa Fields. Our leaders are in prison.”

  Four of them were awaiting trial. “I understand.” Jack picked up his ale and took a long draught to ease his frustration.

  “When is your next meeting?” Viola asked.

  Jack set his tankard down as dread curled through him. She wanted to go to a meeting. Did she have any idea how dangerous that was right now? He couldn’t let her go, and she was going to be furious with him.

  “We aren’t really having meetings,” Dean said slowly, his eyes wary as he regarded Viola.

  “Tavistock isn’t going to inform anyone of your meetings—whether you have them or not. If you are having one, it might be helpful if I could attend.”

  Dean blinked at him in surprise. “You’d endanger yourself? You need to be careful right now, Barrett.”

  “We all do,” J
ack said darkly. “But I also need to clear my name before someone tries to have me arrested.”

  Dean pressed his mouth into a grim line. “The fourteenth at the Bull and Fox.”

  “I know it well.” The small tavern was situated near Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Jack had spent plenty of time there when he’d studied the law. “Later in the evening?”

  Dean nodded before taking another drink of ale. “There’s always a chance we don’t do it—we won’t endanger anyone.”

  “Understood.” Jack looked over at Viola to silently communicate it was time to go.

  “Will you be there?” Dean asked Viola.

  “Er, no. I have another engagement that evening. My apologies.”

  Jack lifted his tankard higher to mask his surprise, then swallowed another gulp of beer. He was more than shocked. He was impressed.

  “Just as well,” Dean said. “Many of the men know Jack and won’t mind him being there, but you’re a stranger. That would make a few of them nervous.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do that,” Viola said.

  Dean inclined his head toward her. “You’re a good friend to help Barrett with his inquiries.”

  That had been the reason Jack had provided as to why there would be an unknown gentleman at their meeting today. “I need all the friends I can get right now,” Jack said, standing.

  Viola got to her feet, and Dean did the same. He reached across the table and shook Jack’s hand. “You’ve a friend here too.”

  “I appreciate it, Dean.” Jack gripped his hand, then let go.

  A moment later, Jack and Viola walked out onto the Strand. It took only a moment for him to hail a hack. He looked over at her. “Do you mind if I get out at Charing Cross? I need to get back to Westminster.” He felt strange letting her continue alone to Berkeley Square, but reasoned she’d been carrying on as Tavistock by herself for some time.

  “Not at all. I’m quite capable of seeing myself home.”

  “I wasn’t sure—it is broad daylight, after all. Not your usual time to be out.” He winked at her to show he was teasing. He gave the driver their directions and climbed into the hack after her.