ONLY SCANDAL WILL DO
Pleasure House, Book One
By JENNA JAXON
LYRICAL PRESS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
To my loving husband and daughters, for all their help, support, and encouragement during this amazing journey. I love you all very much.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks go to four women, my critique partners, without whom this book could not have been written: Patricia Green, Kary Rader, Carrie Olguin and Brenda Dyer. You kept pushing when I pushed back. And you believed in me. Special thanks also to Marion Browning-Baker for all her help in keeping me historically accurate. And a grateful thank you to my editor, Mary Murray, for her collaborative effort that has made this book the best it can be.
1
London, 1761
“Put her back in the carriage, now!” Her assailant snarled the brusque command, sending a shiver of fear through Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam.
An unseen attacker seized and tossed her into the coach. Gagged, hands pinioned behind her back, ankles bound together, she lay trussed like a Christmas goose in a cramped bundle on the hard plank floor of the dim carriage, her diaphanous Grecian costume in ruins. Schemes for escape flashed through her head in a dizzying whirl.
The horses jerked forward, the uneven cobblestones of London’s streets jouncing her already aching body.
All because she’d been bored.
Doggedly, Katarina tested the bonds securing her hands, strained against the coarse rope then relaxed, seeking play in the cords. None. She muttered a curse and forced her whole body to relax. Tension would never free her. Rough and tumble games growing up with Jack had taught her that.
Jack! God, where was he? Was he alive or... She’d heard one muted cry when they were attacked, then nothing. If her brother were dead, it would be her fault.
Katarina pulled and twisted her wrists. If they had stayed in Virginia, they would have been better off. London was far wilder than she would have believed. Although she’d heard of women being abducted by highwaymen, she’d thought them only tales–until now.
But when Jack inherited a title, they’d been forced to come to London. The six months of mourning for their father not quite over, Great-Aunt Harriet now commanded the little social life allowed her. The past month had found her stuck all day with strong tea and inane gossip about her aunt’s old friends. Finally, rebellion set in. Over breakfast this morning, she’d demanded Jack escort her to a masquerade ball this evening, ironically attired as Athena, goddess of war.
A nasty rut jarred the carriage, making Kat groan. What wouldn’t she give for Athena’s armor at this moment, or at least her spear. She had to admit, though, she’d gotten her wish. She wasn’t bored now.
* * * *
Duncan Ferrers, the Marquess of Dalbury, reared his frame back in the worn leather office chair with a sullen sigh at the mound of papers piled on either side of the usually tidy desk. When one removed to Italy for almost a year leaving a steward to look after things, chaos reigned.
Chaos ate up time better spent in pleasant pursuits, such as drinking at White’s, or gaming at Worthing’s, or exploring the delights of Amorina, his special sweet meat at Madame Vestry’s House of Pleasure. Amorina, Madame Vestry herself, had been his mistress for two years prior to his departure. Duncan wondered idly who had replaced him during his absence, and sighed once more.
He opened the desk drawer and withdrew a piece of heavy cream-colored paper, folded and sealed with a blob of blood red wax imprinted with the entwined initials AV. Duncan raised the letter to his nose, closing his eyes briefly at the familiar smell of orange blossoms. He read again his name in the bold, cursive hand. It had arrived two days ago, but remained unopened. Why had she written?
Amorina was no longer for him.
Duncan threw the missive into the drawer, slammed it shut, then groaned. It would take a month to sort through the bills alone. He plucked another receipt from the pile that never seemed to shrink, then stopped. Damn. Aunt Phoebe’s masquerade ball this evening required an appearance. A nuisance, but a necessity. For the family.
Oh, to hell with business. He flung the bill down and came to his feet. If it had waited a year, it could wait one more day.
He’d turned toward the crackling fire to dispel a sudden chill, when Grayson opened the door to announce, “Mr. Thomas Redmond is in the drawing room, my lord.” Chill dissipated, Duncan grinned, quit the room and hurried down the hall.
“Tommy! God, it’s good to see you again!” Duncan greeted his godfather’s son and longtime friend with a warm handshake followed by a slap on the shoulder.
Round, boyish face alight, Tommy returned the slap, then wagged a finger in his face. “Duncan, you idiot. Why did you stay away almost a year?” Tommy sprawled in the middle of a Chippendale sofa, stretching long legs toward the roaring fire. “The club’s been deadly dull without your excitements. I swear we have had no more than four duels since you left, none even a contest. Barely any blood drawn at all.”
“My dueling is behind me, I hope.” Duncan seated himself beside his friend, restlessly stroking the gold-striped brocade of the sofa’s rounded arm. “The scandals died down, I suppose?”
Tommy rose awkwardly and strode to the sideboard, drawing the stopper from a decanter of expensive cognac. “Well, there are certainly new ones making the rounds.” He didn’t quite meet Duncan’s eyes.
Talk still going around, then. Damn. Duncan clenched his hand, digging crescent dents into the heavy fabric.
“It’s cold enough to be autumn instead of spring.” Tommy poured a libation with a generous hand. “Here, you’d better drink up as well if we’re going to brave the raw winds tonight.” He splashed amber liquid in a second cut-crystal tumbler and thrust it into his host’s hand.
Duncan raised an eyebrow. “How did you know I was going out?”
“Didn’t you get your invitation?”
“I arrived less than a week ago. No one knows I’m home yet.” He leaned forward, head cocked. “How the devil did you know I was back?”
Tommy grinned. “Saw your aunt at the Mayfield’s gala on Monday. She mentioned you landed last week. Thought I’d give you a day or two to settle in.”
Duncan shook his head. “Leave it to Aunt Phoebe. But what invitation are you talking about, Tom? My aunt’s masquerade?”
“God, no!” Tommy grimaced. “The one to Madam Vestry’s latest auction.” His smile widened to a leer. “The madam hit upon a fresh idea for an auction. Tableaux.”
“She’s auctioning off tableaux? Of what?”
Tommy’s bright blue eyes glittered with excitement. “Tableaux of your deepest desires or darkest fantasies. Haven’t you ever imagined having a fantasy come true? A slave to your master? A pirate with a captured maid? A Roman soldier and a vestal virgin?” The young man chuckled. “I doubt you’ll find a virgin there tonight, though I understand some of these girls are new.”
Those images conjured a wide smile, but Duncan shook his head. Perhaps if things had been different. “What