The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5) Read online

  The Seduction of Scandal

  Cathy Maxwell

  Dedication

  For Olathe, Kansas . . .

  where I have my roots.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Cease to think that the decrees of the gods can be changed by prayers.

  Virgil

  1810

  Nestled between Liddell Water and Kielder Forest, Ferris Parish was located on a piece of land that jutted boldly into Scotland, although only the wealthy took pride in English roots.

  The rest were descended from reivers, those brazen border raiders who had crossed the line between Scotland and England with impunity, rustling livestock, kissing women, and wrecking havoc in the name of justice or good fun, whichever term fit their purpose at the moment—until the first earl of Bossley had taken control. He’d battled the raiders, offered protection to his people, and brought peace to a land rich in bounty.

  And the parish had prospered.

  But that had been almost two hundred years ago, and times had changed. The crofters were no longer bold, and the current earl of Bossley far from just.

  He’d left for school when still a lad and had never returned, preferring to seek out the world. Few remembered him. He’d been away from the parish for too long.

  But upon his father’s death and his inheritance, the earl finally came home, and they discovered he had become a hard man.

  A greedy, ambitious one.

  His word ruled as law in a way his father and father’s father would not have condoned. His coffers grew rich off the assessments he charged his crofters. He expected payments for duty, for privilege, for protection . . . although it was from him the people needed protecting.

  Only a fool refused to pay—and the earl’s power grew stronger.

  The storm finally drove him to seek shelter.

  He’d pressed on through the wind and rain, knowing that as one of Bossley’s men he would be an unwelcome guest. But lightning struck too close. To ride on would be madness.

  He turned back, his horse anxiously moving toward the nearest cottage. It was the miller’s home, a fine stone building with quarters for the family on one side of the mill house and shelter for the animals on the other. The light in the window beckoned him closer.

  Rain poured off the brim of his hat as he dismounted and trudged under the roof of the stalls. He didn’t bother to unsaddle his horse because he knew he would not be asked to stay. Two miserable cows and a goat stood huddled together, staring morosely out at the evening’s gloom.

  There was no fodder. Fodder cost money.

  His gelding snorted his disappointment. “Wait until we reach your own stall,” he said to pacify the horse, then took off running through the rain toward the house’s front door.

  To his surprise, it was cracked open.

  “Hello?” He pushed upon the door.

  It swung to reveal a tableau of several men crowded into the room. They stood over the miller’s body. Seth was his name. Seth Pearson.

  His wife was weeping. She was pregnant, and the two children they already had, both no older than five, buried their faces in her skirts.

  Joshua Gowan, the village blacksmith, was bending over Pearson’s body. The men’s coats were wet, as if they’d just come in from the rain as well. Water dripped from their boots onto the floor and the air smelled of wet wool, home-baked bread, and blood.

  The first impression was that Pearson was dead, but a low moan belied that thought. The man lived . . . but why was he on the ground?

  And then he noticed Pearson’s legs. They were bent at an unnatural angle, blood seeping through his stockings and staining the floorboards.

  Pearson’s wife’s eyes went alive with anger when she caught sight of him gaping at her husband’s legs. “What do you want? Haven’t you done enough? We have no money. You’ve taken it all, or has Lord Bossley sent you here to check his man Porledge’s handiwork—”

  “Sarah,” Gowan ordered, his voice sharp. “Be still.”

  “How can I be still?” she demanded, her voice sounding as if it came from the very bowels of her soul. “My husband has been ruined. Destroyed. Seth can’t work like this. And he stands at the door as if he knows nothing. Take a look. See what has been done! What the devil has wrought—?”

  “Take her out of here,” Gowan ground out, “and the children, too.” The order was swiftly carried out by one of the two other men in the room. Broxter was his name, and the other, who stayed with Gowan, was McBride.

  “Hold Seth down,” Gowan told McBride. “Be ready.” Without wasting a movement, Gowan grabbed one of the injured legs and yanked the shattered bone in place.

  Pearson shrieked in agony—

  And the man fled his post by the door, unable to witness more.

  His stomach churned with a bile he could no longer contain. He stumbled out into the rain, bending over and heaving as if his body wished to rid him of his doubts. Lightning shook the world but he no longer feared God.

  What sort of man destroyed another for money? How much more could a simple miller give?

  He’d pretended he hadn’t known what was happening. Fealty to the title dictated he do so—and there was personal loyalty as well—but he had reached the breaking point.

  The rain started to let up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand as he walked to retrieve his horse, shame in his shoulders, his heart, his soul.

  How could he go on? And even if he was posted some other place, how could he ignore what he knew?

  The miller, a man as young as himself, was ruined. If he could not walk, he could not earn a livelihood.

  Simon Porledge was well known. He was a bully boy the earl often used to inflict his will. Simon probably hadn’t even thought twice about breaking the miller’s legs. His lord Bossley’s orders were all that mattered. Why, even now, the henchman was probably slaking his thirst down the road at the Old Buck, a public house.

  The man threw the bridle over his horse’s head, his movement curt in his disgust over his own powerlessness.

  The earl of Bossley yearned to rise to the highest ranks of this country. They spoke of him someday leading his party and being named prime minister—and thanks to the money he stole from his crofters, he had power. No one would stop him. In the rich, glittering world of politics and London, no one cared about a miller’s family.

  But he did.

  He started to pull himself up in the saddle but then realized the leather was still damp. There we
re empty flour sacks close at hand. He grabbed one, ready to wipe down the saddle seat, and that was when an idea—so daring, so shocking—was born.

  He could not challenge Bossley. He had responsibilities, loyalties . . . but what if no one knew it was him? What if he was disguised?

  Stories from his childhood of a bold reiver named Black Thorn rose in his memory. The Thorn was a legend. He’d terrorized the countryside hiding his identity behind a mask.

  Holding the flour sack up to his own face, a plan formed in his mind.

  “ ’Twas the miller’s own fault,” Simon Porledge muttered to himself as he tromped through the wet woods on his way to Lord Bossley’s manor. His words ended upon a burp from drinking too much ale.

  He didn’t like having to be firm. Made him angry. That had been the case at the miller’s. Pearson should have kept his mouth shut, paid the price, and not given Simon any reason to lose his temper.

  Bossley would not be pleased with him for lingering over a drink, or two, or four . . . but Simon had needed to wait out the storm somewhere, and the pub had been as good a place as any.

  The paltry sum of coins he’d beaten out of the miller weighed heavy in his purse. Being his lordship’s strong arm was not an easy job on the conscience, although Simon liked being on the side of the strong instead of that of the weak.

  ’Twas a dark hole he’d dug for himself, and he had no choice but to continue to jump to the earl’s command. He feared the price of disloyalty—

  Something, someone moved onto the path before him. A shadow. A bulky shape blacker than the night.

  Porledge stopped short and squinted his eyes, disbelieving what he was seeing. It was the drink. Made him fanciful . . . and then the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, silhouetting the figure of a man on a black horse with pawing feet. He had no face but two dark holes where eyes should be.

  “Simon Porledge?” a deep, netherworld voice demanded.

  “Who’s asking?” Simon dared to say.

  “One who knows what evil you have practiced this night.”

  Porledge’s heart slammed his chest. His knees, his hands, his whole body began to shake. The drink, he reminded himself. He’d had too much. This thing before him could not be real.

  But in case it was, Simon took a step back. “I’ve done nothing. I’ve been nowhere.”

  The devil’s horse moved forward. “You’ve been to the miller’s house. Lay the money you stole from him on the ground and be gone.”

  “I didn’t steal money. It’s an assessment. ’Tis owed to Lord Bossley.”

  “Not any longer. Do as I say, Porledge, or I shall see you . . . to . . . hell.”

  With those words the specter lifted his arm. He wielded a cudgel that seemed as huge and formidable as one of the forest’s mighty firs.

  “You don’t understand,” Porledge protested, on the verge of tears, torn between two fears. “I dinna do it for myself. It’s Lord Bossley. He makes the demands.”

  “Leave the money.”

  “Be damned to you,” Porledge shouted and took off running, moving so fast that he churned the damp earth with his booted feet.

  Porledge heard the horse leap at the chase. Hooves pounded at his heels. He felt the sweep of the cudgel. It grazed off his shoulder. This was no ghost, no play of drink and imagination. This man was real. His threat was real.

  Porledge did what any prudent man would. He pulled the leather purse holding the miller’s paltry payment out of his pocket and tossed it over his shoulder. But he didn’t stop running. It was a good half hour before he realized he was no longer being chased.

  And then he realized he must make his report to Lord Bossley.

  A day later, Porledge’s body was found facedown beneath the old stone bridge over Liddell Water.

  In the midnight sanctuary of Holy Name Church, a man crawled on his knees to the altar. The guilt of Porledge’s death weighed on his soul.

  Dear Jesus, dear God, forgive me. He repeated the words, begging for solace. . . .

  The response was Divine silence.

  As it should have been.

  Because he knew he would not stop.

  He could not. The battle had been joined, and either he or the powerful Lord Bossley would win.

  Chapter One

  1811

  She wouldn’t have to marry Lord Freddie Sherwin.

  Lady Corinne Justine Rosemont, youngest daughter of the seventh duke and duchess of Banfield, yearned to kick her heels up in joy, but there was no time for celebration. She had to reach the guest room her parents shared before Freddie stopped her.

  The wide hall of the earl of Bossley’s cavernous country estate was the perfect place for a sprint. Freddie’s frantic “Corinne” only spurred her to run faster with little more than a glance over her shoulder.

  He’d just come out of her bedroom. His face was flushed, his shirt hanging out over his dress evening breeches. “Stop, please,” he urged as he tucked himself in.

  Her response was to give a quick knock on her parents’ door. Without waiting for admittance, she turned the handle and threw herself inside. Slamming the door shut, she faced her parents and announced, “I will not, can not, should not marry Freddie Sherwin.”

  Her father sat in a chair beside the desk so that he could make best use of the reading lamp as he perused his paper. He did not look up or acknowledge her declaration other than to turn the page and frown at some article that obviously displeased him.

  Nor did her mother respond. She was giving herself a critical eye in the dressing table’s looking glass, her maid lingering behind her with a hare’s-foot and powder. Circling her finger in the air around her face, the duchess commanded, “A bit more here, Delora. The weather in the north always brings the ruddy to my skin. I so detest that. Makes me look like a scullery maid.”

  Delora, dressed in Banfield’s ducal colors of green and white, immediately applied more powder to the duchess’s flawless skin. People said Corinne was a replica of her mother at a younger age: slender figure, blonde hair so pale it could have been white, cornflower blue eyes. Her mother’s figure had filled out through childbearing and age, but she was still a handsome woman . . . and a vain one. “And pin this feather down closer to my ear. I hate the idea of it flopping.”

  The maid dropped the hare’s-foot to move the diamond clip holding a vibrant blue ostrich feather to the place where the duchess wished.

  Corinne placed her hands on her hips in disbelief. “Did you not hear me? I said I should not marry Freddie. I must cry off.”

  Her father still ignored her, but her mother answered with a distracted air. “Oh, please, Corinne, you have been carrying on this way for the past three months. The wedding is in four weeks. It’s too late to cry off. Can’t be done. Will not be done.” She smoothed out a stray eyebrow hair before adding with a bored sigh at having to state anything so obvious, “Besides, we are the guests of honor at dinner this evening. It would be de trop to join the guests waiting for us and announce over the dinner Lord and Lady Bossley prepared especially for our pleasure that the wedding is off. Rude, actually. Very rude.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Corinne crowed in triumph. She’d expected her parents to refuse her demands. After all, they had been doing so ever since they’d decided she was to marry Freddie. “I just stumbled upon Lord Sherwin in a compromising way with my maid in my bed. I suppose he was whiling away the time before dinner . . . but his position was rude, actually. Very rude.” She couldn’t refrain from mimicking her mother. This was such a sweet, brilliant moment.

  Now she had her father’s attention. He lifted his nose out of his paper. “Say what?”

  “Freddie was in all his glory,” Corinne happily informed her sire, glee overtaking righteous indignation. “He has the whitest buttocks. One can’t miss them.”

  Oh, how she h
ad come to despise this man who would be her husband. He was selfish, had a lazy intellect, and adored feeling superior to others.

  She’d once caught him cheating at cards, a crime for which she was certain her father would have let her cry off, but it was not to be. Freddie had laughed away her objections, pointing out they’d been playing a “friendly” game. Her father, who was usually a stickler about cheating in any form—including those times when she and he played piquet—had agreed.

  However, tumbling around in bed with his future wife’s maid must have ranked above cheating. Corinne dived into her report. “Remember, I was just here and Mother suggested I might need a heavier shawl, so I returned to my room and that is when I caught him in the act. Oh, my eyes.” She threw her hands over her eyes to dramatize her agony. “I would pluck them out if it would erase the memory.”

  Actually, opening the door and seeing Freddie’s bare bum had made her burst into laughter.

  “I did suggest you send Delora,” her mother reminded her. She’d sat back in the dressing table chair to appear as if she’d been listening . . . although she did slide another glance at herself in the mirror. “I didn’t think you should return to your room yourself. That’s why we have servants. If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t be so distressed—”

  “Or have found him cavorting—” Corinne liked the sound of that word. She had to repeat it. “Yes, cavorting with my maid if I hadn’t gone myself.” She couldn’t suppress the grin any longer. “And I am most happy I did, because I can’t possibly marry him—”

  “Is this the French maid?” her father interrupted to ask her mother.

  “Yes,” the duchess answered. “The one Corinne insisted she must have. I warned her that you mustn’t trust the French. We are at war with them . . . but she would not listen.”