Scandal on Half Moon Street

  Scandal on Half Moon Street

  by Vivian Roycroft

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  SCANDAL ON HALF MOON STREET

  Copyright © 2012 VIVIAN ROYCROFT (J. Gunnar Grey)

  ISBN 978-1-62135-097-2

  Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

  Foreword

  It’s most expedient, dear reader, to request your pardon in advance for the various liberties I’ve taken, both with history and with a few deadly dull realities. Of course King Frederick Augustus I of Saxony had no son; but it was so much fun pretending what might have happened if he had, that I can only shuffle my feet and beg your indulgence.

  As well, the Pantheon, Oxford Street, wasn’t rebuilt into a bazaar until 1833–34. But the conservatory, as chronicled by British History Online, provided just the atmosphere and privacy two lovers could be expected to seek, and therefore I require a further indulgence regarding its architectural timeline.

  Finally, the common or garden variety of printing press in 1812 could impress only 480 pages per hour, and of course required set-up and take-down time for each page, as well, meaning it would be close to impossible for a writer to turn over a manuscript to even the most exceptional printer and receive a delivery of finished books within a week. Please join me in pretending that Mr. H.G. Wells whipped out his trusty time machine in 1895, whirled through space and time to London in December of 1812, and took an active interest in ensuring our hero’s books were printed at the impossible speed necessary for the story. Such whimsical generosity is both craved and appreciated.

  Prologue

  Dear readers, how to begin? This author understands the need for leniency during the holiday season, truly. It wasn’t so long ago that this author was seen dipping her quill in whatever she fancied, but upon my honor! What, I ask, are young women thinking these days? Take for example Miss Anne Kirkhoven; what I ask, possessed her to take such liberties with her person? What madness took siege of her body, causing her to run off during the Kringle ball?

  Readers, I hesitate to share this other tidbit, but I find it is my job, nay my duty to be well informed and make sure disasters like this do not happen again. But the notorious, and yes, quite wickedly delicious Duke of Cumberland followed our dear Miss Anne, and where do you think they disappeared to? None other than the private family rooms!

  Do we have another scandal in our midst? Or was it merely a happenstance? Let it be known and let it also be a warning to every debutante who seems to find a thrill in the chase of a notorious rake with a devilishly handsome face. Reform is not a word they are familiar with. Ruin, however, is. Think upon these things, dear ladies, meditate upon them, and if you find yourself falling for temptation, much like our dear Miss Kirkhoven, pray you have the strength to deny the devil his play.

  —Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers

  Chapter One

  Tuesday, December 8, 1812

  The Fleet Street crowd thinned ahead, beside the windowed front of the linen draper’s shop, and there stood sweet Dorcas, one of the most delectable morsels he’d ever chewed. A stray beam of unexpected winter sunlight flashed off her golden curls, and the sudden blaze reflected, sharp and multiplied, in the many little diamond panes of the window beyond. Her gaze meshed with his through the crowd, that split-second, undeniable flash of recognition as bright as her hair in the sunshine. Her equally brilliant smile flashed a moment later.

  An indiscreet moment later, to judge by the scowl of her new husband beside her.

  And of course their swift, smiling recognition had been spotted. Dear Lady Gower’s hawk-like eyes, glittering beneath an admittedly outré bonnet, glanced back and forth between them from her perch aboard her high-flyer phaeton. When her glance swiveled his way once more, he kissed his hand to her and gave the twice-widowed and adorable predator his most seductive smile. The matched greys smacked the phaeton’s front wheel against the sidewalk’s edge before she returned to her own affairs.

  And of course, by then the new husband had whisked sweet Dorcas beyond the Temple Bar. She might be a merchant’s wife now — since March, that was, and her new husband was no longer all that new — but as a former Wentworth-Gower, she was too well-bred to glance over her shoulder at another man while leaning on her husband’s arm, and her fading presence plunged the street again into a dull winter’s day. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland sighed, but didn’t bother to hide his satisfied smile. Dorcas, now Mrs. Robinson, looked lovelier than ever, with her hand resting unconsciously on her almost-done belly, her complexion positively glowing, and Mr. Robinson glowering over her shoulder.

  Well, he’d done what he’d intended for her. His Grace could honestly say, he’d made sweet Dorcas’ dream come true.

  Leaving him free for a new adventure.

  Who sat with her mother in the coffee house across the way.

  In the table behind the window, the Honorable Anne Elizabeth Henrietta Kirkhoven, youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of Boughton Malherbe, Kent, sat straight as a sword blade over her cup. Her deliciously delicate face wore the most perfect rose-hued flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid’s-bow mouth curved in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as their daughters’ mischievous innocence allowed.

  And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room’s corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton’s sight, sat the young solicitor the daughter admired and the mother scorned.

  Time to play.

  His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere, bowed, and opened the door for him.

  Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set less from the quality of the conversation and more from the strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners’ lovely daughters had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.

  As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele, conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he’d first arrived in London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted them as very much his due. He’d worked hard for his reputation, and with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.

  And let the mothers hide their daughters if they didn’t.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Trent,” he said.

  Behind the counter, the coffee shop’s owner beamed, his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans permeating the shop’s most distant alcoves could have woken the dead. And kept them that way.

  Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutti
ng aside toward his daughter, then sharply back. “Your grace, what a delightful surprise.”

  In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games of love had described His Grace’s manner of meeting her gaze as an “unsealed invitation.” Their resulting conversation remained one of his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss Trent’s gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl into a rogue’s smile. “Miss Trent, you’re in such splendid looks, I can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?” His smile deepened. “Besides myself, of course.”

  Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower lip vanished between kitten’s teeth, and she hung her head. But not before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.

  She’d not complain, even if gifted with a baby from the wrong side of the blanket.

  And judging from Trent’s predatory, monetary gleam, neither would he.

  A full page from every society rag in town, that would be. Should he ever need one, of course.

  “A pot of your excellent tea, Mr. Trent.” Satisfied with his sally, he turned away.

  Much of the coffee house, with its polished wood paneling and discreetly attentive patrons, separated the Kirkhoven ladies from the hidden solicitor. The most advantageous table, at the halfway point of their playing field, was already occupied by a passing acquaintance. His Grace flashed a welcoming smile and wove amongst the tables, advertising his intention to butt in on the man’s privacy. He’d ignore the equally open scowl being aimed his way.

  “Mr. Culver, what a delightful surprise.”

  If Culver shared the delight, he kept it well hidden. He rose, bowed, and without lifting his gaze again, gathered his gloves and umbrella.

  “A pleasure indeed, your grace, albeit unfortunately a brief one.”

  Ah. Naming no names, but it seemed someone else had had the same plan and target.

  Well, Culver had never been able to stand competition.

  Nor could he compete.

  As Culver exited, abandoning his half-finished coffee and target, young Miss Trent bobbed up in his place, carrying a tray and rag. She cleared and wiped down the table, flashed him a coy smile from beneath her adorable mob cap, set a blue and white flowered teapot and cup before him, and whisked away with perhaps a bit more sashaying than was precisely necessary.

  Indeed no, that one wouldn’t mind at all.

  His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored Trent’s pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his chair.

  Staring at Anne.

  Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup, focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female. Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving her pale as death.

  The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued, horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as he’d made his actions, surely they’d had no trouble tracing his stare.

  Finally she glanced at him.

  He smiled that smile, dipped his chin, and lifted his cup.

  And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.

  But her attention refused her imposed self-discipline and she glanced back his way a moment later. Of course, his smile and gaze hadn’t shifted. Her focus lifted higher, over his shoulder, and paused, her eyes wider than ever. That delicate, swan’s-neck throat rippled as she swallowed, with her own cup down on the table and nowhere near her sweet lips.

  Tempting, to glance over his own shoulder and assess the young solicitor’s expression, hidden with him in his dark corner. Such curiosity was always difficult to suppress. But the game would progress in a more advantageous manner if His Grace didn’t surrender to that whim. Instead, he allowed his imagination to conjure the helpless, horrified fury of a middle-class professional man, watching a titled one far above his station admiring the woman upon whom he’d set his heart.

  Or at least, that’s what he should imagine if the rumor mill was correct. And it always was in such sad, lovelorn situations.

  The volume eased back to normal conversational levels around them. But the undertone of surging excitement, egged on by the onlookers’ flashing eyes and breathless sniggers, gave more the feel of an audience around a cockfighting ring than a genteel coffee shop. Doubtless they were watching the solicitor, and their reaction provided His Grace all the background information required.

  Finally — finally! — Lady Wotton’s volubility snagged, as if the twisting atmospherics had shaken her from her chattering reverie. A glance at her daughter, a measured following of her daughter’s attention, and Lady Wotton’s gaze crossed his own. She started. As well she might; she’d missed his entire posturing display. Shame on her.

  His Grace smiled, lifting his cup to Lady Wotton, and her smile bloomed even as her eyes narrowed. Oh, he’d seen that expression countless times before, in the six years he’d lived in London: the assessing stare of a predator facing a new, previously unknown variety of prey — or a mother with a daughter of marriageable age, discovering an unmarried, rich, titled man staring at said daughter. The expression of a mother calculating his intentions to a nicety, without ever permitting anything so unpleasant as a frown to cross her face and potentially discourage his suit.

  But then — and his glee quivered at her movement — then Lady Wotton lifted her gaze a fraction higher. Her smile twisted into a scowl.

  She’d spotted the solicitor.

  And nothing was going to save the lovers now.

  Lady Wotton tugged on Anne’s slender arm, and the two ladies prepared to abandon their teacups. But as they rose, His Grace started to his feet as well. They’d been introduced at Lady Forester’s rout earlier in the year, so he wouldn’t flout propriety by speaking with them.

  Not that he’d ever allowed that to stop him. And indeed, no mother with a marriageable daughter would allow his attentions to come to naught without a fight.

  And so the game began.

  ****

  The man couldn’t be serious.

  Anne didn’t dare breathe as the most notorious rake in the ton lifted her hand and kissed the air a hair’s breadth from her glove. She couldn’t feel the actual touch of his lips, but he may as well have scorched her with his heat, and her entire arm threatened to quiver in his hand. His admiration took in her hair, her face, the fur around the neck of her pelisse, her — attributes, and she would certainly die before he was done. The atmosphere in the coffee house thickened, deepened, and she didn’t have to look to know every eye in the place followed his assessment, seconded his assessment, with avid interest.

  Forget him. Her mother couldn’t be serious.

  And thankfully Mama’s lips started to purse, her smile to wane, and her eyes to narrow. The Rake — well, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland to the world, but The Rake in effect — finally released her hand, murmured something — was it “Delightful” or “Delicious”? couldn’t be certain — and asked—

  —and asked Mama if they’d be at Lady Baldwin’s concert tomorrow.

  Had he ever actually pursued anyone before consuming them? Didn’t he rather corner innocent young ladies (like her) in boxes at the theater or opera and there did whatever it was he did with them that utterly ruined their reputations? If he pursued her first, did that mean—

  No. It couldn’t possibly mean he was serious. He was a rake, The Rake, he’d earned the sobriquet as surely as Messrs. Harding and Howell of Pall Mall carried the most exquisite muslin within miles, and if she asked around doubtless she’d find herself provided with names and horrifying details. Why she hadn’t asked before now, she couldn’t imagine.
She should already know all about him, and—

  —and behind him, sweet, adorable Frederick watched the spectacle with agony etched into his brown spaniel’s eyes.

  Oh, it was all beyond mortifying, and seeing Frederick hurt gave it an extra layer of mortifying-ness. Truly, it was like something from a really good Gothic romance — standing in a coffee house under assault by a notorious duke, indeed — and once Frederick wrote that one, it would compete with The Romance of the Forest, The Castle of Otranto, The Old English Baron. With any of them. Frederick’s romances were always the best. He could call it The Wicked Duke and the Baronet’s Daughter. After he finished the one he was working on, of course. He’d described his current progress last week as “grimly pushing ahead” and the printer had been awaiting the completed manuscript for more than a week now.

  Hopefully this agony would give him a stimulating creative push, rather than a push down.

  And surely she contributed something, something somewhat intelligent, while Mama and His Grace exchanged banalities. But the very ordinariness of their conversation completed its transformation as it drifted past into a horrifying, distant, buzzing blur. His Grace was precisely the sort of match Mama had been seeking for her. As if she were incapable of selecting a suitable husband for herself. Merely because Mama was no longer willing to even discuss Frederick and had forbidden Anne to see or speak with him, making their assignations all too brief and far between. He’d met her behind some trees in Hyde Park last week, and for a few blissful minutes, it had been heaven on earth.

  What was a duke, any duke much less this one, in comparison to Frederick Shaw, Esquire, barrister, solicitor, writer of the best Gothic romances in England, and future member of Parliament? And why could Mama not see how perfect their match truly was?

  Then she blinked, and she was walking along Fleet Street with Mama, safe and anonymous among the bustling sidewalk pedestrians and with Gregory, their safe and anonymous footman, at their heels. The carriage awaited them down Fetter Lane, and as the corner opened before them, the coachman lifted the reins and his two matched chestnuts mouthed their bits and stepped forward.