Do You Want to Start a Scandal

Her talents didn’t make for impressive exhibitions. She wasn’t an artist like Delia, or a scientific scholar like her sister Minerva. Foolish as she imagined it would sound to others—in particular, to Piers—solving this mystery had taken on deeper meaning for her. It was her chance to claim an accomplishment. With each suspect she’d crossed off her list, she’d felt herself closer to the moment where she could stand back and say, “I did that.”

And now, it seemed, she hadn’t done anything. Except waste a great deal of effort and time, and further damage a treasured friendship. Her entire visit in Nottinghamshire had been one mistake heaped on another.

For the first time all fortnight, a sense of true despair came over her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

In a week’s time, all her foolish errors would be exposed to the world. She had only a few days remaining.

What was she even doing here? She should return to spend the afternoon with Delia, before Delia stopped speaking with her at all.

Chapter Thirteen

After completing what seemed like an hour-long, painfully audible stream of urination, Sir Vernon buttoned his falls and stepped out from behind the tree, tugging on his tweed waistcoat.

“Nothing like a good ride to hounds to get the bodily humours flowing. Eh, Granville?”

Piers completed his unnecessary inspection of his gelding’s girth and saddle. “Pity the hunt was for naught.”

“Oh, it’s never for naught. No, no. It’s not the fox we’re after. It’s the chase. The thrill. We sportsmen can’t live without it, can we? Feeds one appetite as surely as it works up another.” He gave Piers an elbow in the ribs. “Now let’s turn our sights to prettier quarry, shall we? The ladies will be waiting for us on the hill. There’s a vixen there you should be chasing. I understand Miss Highwood made the ride out, even though Delia wouldn’t. She must want to share a picnic with a certain gentleman.”

Piers thought about Charlotte waiting with the ladies on the hill. Her golden hair coming loose, her cheeks pink from exercise, and her eyes the same bright, clear blue as the sky. He thought about sitting next to her, accepting morsels of cheese and meat from her fingertips, and watching her suck the juice from a ripe, red berry.

He thought about pushing her back on that picnic blanket to taste those berry-stained lips.

And then he thought better of the entire plan.

Even though Sir Vernon saw him as a fellow gentleman of leisure, Piers had a task to complete. He couldn’t let pass the opportunity to have Parkhurst Manor to himself for a period of some hours. At last, he could get to opening those locked drawers in the library.

In the grand scheme of his career, this was an insignificant assignment. But to Piers, it had become vital. He needed to prove to himself that he could still carry out his role. Because if he couldn’t . . . ? All the shame and guilt he’d been outrunning for the past twenty years would catch up to him.

He would die inside.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I’ll ride back to the manor. I must see to some correspondence. If I mean to announce the engagement before the end of my visit, the betrothal contracts need to be settled.”

Sir Vernon gave a deep belly laugh. “I never met the female mind what was wooed by contracts. You need to pass some time with the girl, Granville. Our fox might have run to ground today, but you can’t have Miss Highwood doing the same.”

Piers began to reply, but the older man interrupted.

“Now, now,” he said, in a manner of confidentiality. “You’re a man of tremendous achievement. No one can dispute that. But if Miss Highwood changed her mind about the wedding, we both know that wouldn’t be without precedent. Your previous would-be bride slipped away.”

Piers bristled at Sir Vernon’s implication. Clio had not “slipped away.” Piers had stayed away from her, and for good reason. Her safety had depended on Piers keeping his distance, and who could have known the war would drag on so long? In any event, their betrothal had been a friendly arrangement between families, not a love match. He didn’t blame her for seizing happiness with Rafe.

To be sure, Piers hadn’t rushed to find a bride that first season back in London. Nor the second. He’d been occupied. Much too busy for courtship, or even for casual affaires. If he had wished to marry, however, he would have had his choice.

“Miss Highwood,” he said, “will not be slipping away.”

“Good. Good. I hope you won’t fault me for asking, Granville. Deserved or not, the girl has a bit of a reputation. You did an honorable thing in offering for her. I’d merely like to be assured that you’ll have this settled by fortnight’s end. I’ve my own daughters to think about, and I wouldn’t want any hint of scandal landing on them.”

This struck Piers as a strange concern, coming from a man who was, by all available evidence, embroiled in a scandal of his own making.

“I give you my word,” Piers said tightly. “The engagement will be secured.”

“Just don’t neglect her. The ladies like a bit of chasing.” Sir Vernon clapped him on the back. “That’s a sport.”

As he headed back to Parkhurst Manor, Piers was met by an arresting sight.

Charlotte, riding overland toward him on horseback. Just as he’d imagined her in his fantasy—her golden hair streaming behind her, her complexion bright, her blue eyes . . .

Closed?

As he got a better look, he noticed her desperate grip on the horse’s mane. Her terrified expression. No doubt as to why.

The mare was headed directly for the stream. The stream that was nearly a river this time of year, with high, mossy banks on either side.

It was a jump that would have challenged even a seasoned horseman, and nothing about Charlotte’s white-knuckled, eyes-closed, breakneck approach to the obstacle said “seasoned.”

It said “inexperienced” and “idiotic” and “dangerous as hell.”

“Miss Highwood!” he called, nudging his own gelding into a trot—and then, as soon as possible, a full-speed gallop.

But it wasn’t any use.

There simply wasn’t enough ground between her and the stream.

He wouldn’t reach her in time. He couldn’t.

There was nothing he could do.

His heart thudded in his chest, drumming even louder than the hoofbeats pounding the mud.