London's Late Night Scandal
By Anabelle Bryant
London’s Late Night Scandal
London’s Best Kept Secret
London’s Wicked Affair
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LONDON’S LATE NIGHT Scandal
ANABELLE BRYANT
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
By Anabelle Bryant
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
About the Author
LONDON’S WICKED AFFAIR
LONDON’S BEST KEPT SECRET
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Anabelle Bryant
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4647-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4648-6 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4201-4648-3 (eBook)
This book is dedicated to romance readers everywhere.
Your belief in hope, love,
and happily-ever-after is a precious gift.
Your unfailing optimism and loyalty brighten the world,
and I thank you.
For David and Nicholas, always in my heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have a heart full of gratitude for my brilliant editor, Esi Sogah, who has the power to produce my smile whenever I see an email from her in my inbox. Thank you for your clever guidance and thoughtful support. I truly appreciate you.
My sincere thanks to Kensington Publishing and the fabulous people who work skillfully to enable my story to reach readers. What better kind of magic is there than to share imagination?
Last and most especially, for anyone who has waited for Matthew’s story with skepticism and curiosity, you’ll find he’s changed his ways and intends to change your mind. Thank you for reading!
Chapter One
London, 1817
Lord Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham, slapped the leather reins and urged the four dappled grays into a faster gallop.
“You’re concerned about the weather.”
“Astute observation, Coggs.” Whittingham heaved a breath of impatience. “Not only are you an excellent man-of-all-things, but a master of insight and circumstance.” He flicked his eyes from the unending roadway to the servant seated beside him. Coggs was more friend than valet; still, the man possessed the ability to irritate at times, and this was one of those times.
The weather threatened with increasing fortitude the farther they journeyed from London, and during the last few miles, the air had transformed from chilling cold to the sharp edge of frigid, until each puff of breath that evaporated before their faces reminded them that too long spent outdoors would promise a brittle end.
Worse, they were far and away from any familiar thoroughfare where another stubborn, albeit foolish, traveler might discover their frozen corpses once the cold claimed its victory. Thus, the only hope of reaching their destination before nightfall relied on Whittingham pushing his well-bred stallions to full speed.
“You would be warmer inside the carriage. You haven’t a hat or muffler, and the wind has a nasty bite this late in the afternoon.”
“If your only purpose upon this seat is to act the nursemaid, I suggest you climb back inside and keep George company.” At the last coaching inn, Whittingham had insisted on taking the straps from his young driver. Not only would the lad hesitate in pushing the horses as hard as needed, but there was no purpose in having George suffer the brunt of fierce weather and ill-advised impromptu travel when Whittingham was the one who had insisted they take to the road with haste.
Besides, one more minute trapped inside the interior with his legs folded at an uncomfortable angle would provoke a fouler mood than he already possessed. His left leg throbbed like the devil—no matter that the gunshot wound that caused his difficulty occurred a decade ago, the injury needed no provocation to cause pain. The cramped confines of the coach, poor roadway conditions, and brutal, uncompromised temperature guaranteed he’d pay for his decision in spades. Hopefully, not the kind that dug graves.
“I’d rather sit beside you in case I’m needed.”
Abandoning his grim thoughts, Whittingham resumed the conversation and offered Coggs a nod of appreciation. His mood was blacker than the storm clouds riding the horizon, but snarling at his valet when the man championed the cold to offer support was not in Whittingham’s usually congenial nature. “Are you certain? No doubt George has a wool blanket across his lap and a heated brick at his feet.”
Saying the words drew an enticing image he’d rather not consider. He flexed the muscles in his bad leg and glanced at the sky. If the snow held, they would make it to Leighton House before dark. Becoming cold was an inconvenience. Becoming cold and wet was an invitation to death. “You should ride inside. I’ll rap on the roof to signal you if the situation warrants assistance.”
The valet looked upward and shook his head. “How much farther can it be?”
In a ruse Whittingham knew well, Coggs deflected the uncomfortable subject of limitations, unforgiving injuries, and common sense. His valet deserved a better employer. “At least another hour if the roads remain clear. Leighton House is situated on a sprawling plot of acreage near the western border of Oxfordshire.”
“It was hospitable of the master of the house to invite you on such short notice.”
“Agreed.” Whittingham tossed a too long lock of hair from his forehead. He’d neglected a haircut much like he ignored other ordinary tasks, his time spent within the pages of a book instead. “My studies are of the utmost importance.”
“I know that well.”
“Do I detect a note of censure in your reply?” Whittingham slowed the team to a lively trot as the road dipped, marred with stony rut
s and misshapen holes the perfect size to catch a horse’s hoof and damage his leg for a lifetime. The similarity of situation was not lost on him, and once the road smoothed out, he jerked his wrist and jolted the carriage forward to resume their breakneck travel.
“Nothing of the sort,” Coggs managed, though he pulled his woolen collar more tightly around his neck to combat the wind that whipped between them. “I hardly wonder why you need to address the issue. You’re an impatient scholar. No sooner do you form a hypothesis than you seek the solution with relentless fervor. Why would this endeavor follow a different path?”
“It’s reassuring the last eight years of your service haven’t gone wasted,” Whittingham replied. “You do know me well, although you should make up your mind upon the matter. You’ve often suggested I live life more fully, embrace new experiences and step away from the solitude of my studies, and now that I’m doing so, you seemed displeased.”
Nothing was said for a time after that. Whittingham owned the fact that his work habits were intrusive, if not obsessive at times. He pursued a course of academia once he realized his impairment, a debilitating wound to the knee, would never allow him the gallant luxuries other gentlemen managed with ease. Riding a horse was bearable, but hardly enjoyable. Dancing was out of the question. On most days, the pain remained a whisper, no more than an aching memory of a poorly made decision from his past.
Other days, this being one, the muscles of his left leg cramped and twisted as if a relentless reminder of his limitations, all too quick to persuade him to go home, sit quietly in an overstuffed chair near the fireplace fender, and politely die of boredom.
He would have no part of surrender, and therefore endured the sharpest spike of pain without complaint. He wouldn’t be compromised by circumstances he couldn’t change.
No sooner did he repeat this silent vow than a westing gust of wind hurried past with a burst of icy air that could only be God’s laughter at the earl’s ignorance.
True enough, tomorrow he would pay a deep price for his travels today.
“I sincerely hope you acquire the answers to your questions. As your loyal servant, I do as I am told, but as a simple man on this driver’s seat, near frozen and somewhat hungry, I pray this trip into nowhere proves worth the effort.”
“I have no doubt it will, Coggs.” Whittingham smiled, though his mouth was tight from the harsh temperature. “One cannot publish a journal article in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society without the correct proof of knowledge, and I intend to investigate and repudiate the claims made, if for no other reason than to defend the truth. While Lord Talbot may know his way around scientific theory, his lack of detail leaves me curious and more than a little suspicious. The hypothesis presented in the article failed to contain the precise proof expected with Talbot’s notable reputation. The earl hadn’t the decency to answer my inquiries through post but has now unexpectedly agreed to meet. That’s an adequate start, which I intend to see to a satisfactory end. I couldn’t wait around London, at risk Talbot might change his mind. His invitation was surprising but fortuitous. And so, there you have it. Despite the ill weather and the spontaneity of our travel, I had little choice but to act immediately once I received his correspondence.”
“Indeed.”
“It could be my own perspicuity that raised false suspicions, though Talbot hasn’t lectured in London or sought attention for any of the evidences proposed in his series of articles, and it’s been several years since his breakthrough experiments have warranted news. Most leaders of academia strive to share knowledge, not hoard it. No one at the Society for the Intellectually Advanced can unriddle his reclusive behavior. A commitment to speak to the most elite intellectual organization in all of England would be a rare and gratifying opportunity, most especially if I brought it forward as chief officer.” He flicked his eyes toward the sky and then to the roadway just as quickly. “And as the members of the Society continue to question the validity of the claims made, verifying the article and engaging the earl to speak in London, or likewise exposing him for fraud, will accredit my newly gained position.”
“So, with this jaunt into nowhere you have an agenda of multipurpose.” Coggs turned toward him, his brows lowered in question.
“Don’t I always?” Whittingham answered. “Science is truth. Thanks to my sister’s interference, my succession into the position of chief officer was less than smooth. Ferreting out faulty, half-baked experimental reporting will prove with conviction I’m qualified for the position, knowledgeable, and otherwise worthy.”
“I see.” Coggs nodded.
“That said, putting past publication aside, Talbot might now be nothing more than a charlatan. A dreamer. A man who knows nothing about scientific philosophy other than how to manipulate syntax to thread together a credible suggestion and bamboozle trusting souls. Wouldn’t that be an interesting turn?” He looked toward Coggs with a knowing stare. “Either way, I intend to find out.”
* * *
Theodosia Leighton, granddaughter of the Earl of Talbot, stood before her workstation and stared intently at a glass beaker filled halfway with a mixture of agitative liquids. She checked her grandfather’s notations scribbled on the page of the open journal, in reference to the measurements. Something should have happened by now, but the clear liquid inside the glass remained unchanged. She blew a breath of exasperation and stepped away.
“I don’t know what went wrong, Nicolaus.” She didn’t expect an answer as he was accustomed to her thinking aloud, and she paced to the hearth and back again as a way to expend energy while she waited. Curious now, Nicolaus approached the beaker, leaned in, sniffed the liquid inside, and withdrew right after.
“I know.” She understood his displeasure. “The formula smells horrible and Grandfather hasn’t a notation anywhere to explain the chemical change. With the remaining pages of his journal missing and only half an accounting, I’m at a loss to reproduce the outcome.”
Disinterested in disappointment or any recitation of complaint, Nicolaus silently left the room. Theodosia watched him go and could hardly blame his reaction. She’d re-created the experiment several times without success, and yet her grandfather was the most knowledgeable and meticulous scientist Oxfordshire had ever known.
At least, she believed so.
What had she missed in his documentation? She’d honed her skills of observation and detail to an exacting degree. Through practice, sampling, and sketching every specimen available to her, she’d created a catalog of scientific knowledge in her brain. With an excellent memory and concise method of deductive reasoning, the idea that she had failed to reason out the problem with the experiment irked her frustration.
At a loss for the time being, she strode to the window and glanced at the foreboding cloud cover. Snow. Everything about the view outside predicted an imminent snowfall. A strong wind bent the tree limbs of the sole remaining chestnut tree spared by the fire years ago, and not a creature could be seen, most likely burrowed beneath the hedgerows or sheltered by the dense Scotch firs that lined the perimeter of property farther from the house. Even the air seemed raw and crisp, no matter she remained inside and viewed the world through glass. These conditions were a precursor to significant precipitation. She would record her observations in her weather journal later this evening when she was too tired to do little more than move a pencil across the page.
Snow complicated even the simplest tasks. Before dinner she would check with the housekeeper, Mrs. Mavis, and ensure they had provisions in case this sudden unsettling cold spell hampered them for a few days. They were too far from town to be caught unaware in bad weather. Food items, candles, firewood, and the necessary supplies for daily living, would all need to be secured. A few of the stable hands would see to the work of bedding down the horses. Eggs would have to be collected, and then there were all her animals to tend.
These tasks would have been accomplished with a smile if she’d mastered her research thi
s afternoon. Instead, she could only review her grandfather’s notes and attempt to understand his reasoning. It took her the better half of a year to learn his notation system and decipher many of his complicated trials. But omitted text . . . that created a difficult hurdle, far beyond her until she fully understood the theory behind his work. When questioned, Grandfather waved away her inquiries as if his notebooks were no longer a language he understood.
Returning to the workstation table, she stared down at the open book. She needed the missing pages. Nearly a third of the entries were gone, and the current passage was incomplete. She touched the paper and smoothed a fingertip over the scrawled notes, careful not to smudge the graphite. If only she had someone other than Grandfather to ask for assistance. When she closed her eyes and wished hard enough, she could still hear her parents’ voices, though so many years had passed she wondered if it wasn’t an imagined attempt to soothe the bottomless ache in her heart.
Her parents perished in a fire nearly twenty years ago. Theodosia was carried to safety from the estate in her grandfather’s arms. At five years old she mourned the loss of her parents, but she never anticipated the loneliness that was to follow, despite the loving attention of her grandfather and the extensive kindness of the household staff.
She shook her head and forced her eyes open wide, quick to blink away the threat of tears. She wouldn’t conjure memories now. She couldn’t. Seeking distraction, she flipped the journal closed and moved away from the table. She had animals to attend to and other important tasks before dinner. Where was Nicolaus, anyway? Only a fool would go out in the unforgiving winter cold.
She needed to check in on Grandfather before it grew much later, but first she would find Mrs. Mavis. If the weather planned to wreak havoc on Leighton House, the least she could do was prepare for the worst.