Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

At first, Lumley had not been overjoyed at the prospect of leaving the comforts of England, but given the option of either embarking from Bristol on the next merchant ship bound for the Caribbean or facing off with pistols at twenty paces within the hour, the viscount had decided that a faraway tropical climate was preferable to a cold local grave.

A wise choice, thought John. For I would have put a bullet through his miserable brain without batting an eye.

Now it was time for a bath, in order to scrub the filth from his skin. He rubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. And pots of strong, scalding coffee to wash the foul taste from his mouth.

Olivia was already ensconced in one of the upper chambers, with the innkeeper’s wife ministering to her needs. Fear of punishment for his part in Lumley’s perfidy had made the man obsequiously anxious to please. Prescott was safely tucked in the private parlor, with a bountiful breakfast promised in short order.

All in all, John mused, things had ended satisfactorily. Some measure of justice had been served by the private punishment he had meted out. The Duke of Sommers was a powerful peer, and in any public prosecution, he could have used his influence to muddle the facts of the abduction, and ensure that Lumley got off lightly. And of course there was Olivia to consider—the chance of her part in the chase becoming known was too great to risk.

No, it was better this way…

A half hour later, freshly bathed and shaved, John was feeling in an even better frame of mind as he entered the parlor. The aroma of freshly baked bread, fried gammon, and steaming coffee filled the air, adding a sweet spice to his son’s laughter.

Prescott was seated at the table chattering with Olivia in between bites of thick-sliced toast slathered with strawberry jam. Another boyish laugh, another animated gesture—which left a sticky streak of red on his chin.

John paused in the doorway, his heart lurching in a topsy-turvy spin from fear to joy.

Looking around, Olivia beckoned for him to come take a seat. “Your son has just been regaling me with an account of his journey, Wrexham. He is an intrepid traveler, and quite fearless in the face of danger. Perhaps, like Mungo Park, he will become a famous explorer of unknown continents.”

“I didn’t have to face hungry crocodiles,” piped up Prescott.

“Perhaps after

…” John hesitated, a tiny lump forming in his throat at the thought of what might have happened.

After I have kept him safe and had a chance to teach him all the things he needs to know as he grows into manhood.

“…Perhaps after he has spent a few more years studying geography,” he finished.

“Mr. Taylor’s lessons are boring, Father,” said Prescott. “Miss Sloane’s tales of traveling with her father, and the sort of studies he did are ever so much more interesting.”

“I would be happy to recommend some excellent scholars, if you wish,” murmured Olivia softly. “Several of my father’s former assistants are bright, capable young men who would be delighted to teach such an enthusiastic pupil as Master Prescott.”

“Thank you. I will look into it when we return home.”

“Huzzah!”

John watched his son punctuate his elation by wolfing down another huge bite of bread.

“Sorry,” mumbled Prescott, his mouth full.

“He says he was only fed watery gruel, so no wonder he’s very hungry,” pointed out Olivia.

No stern looks, no prim discourse on etiquette—simply a smile of understanding.

“I think that for now,” said John, “we may bend the rules concerning proper manners.”

“When they are made of steel they won’t be so flexible,” intoned Prescott with a scrunched scowl.

Olivia choked back a chuckle.

“Scottie…” began John.

“I know, I know, I must swallow my true feelings and make the best of it.” The lad licked a dribble of strawberries from his fingers, as if the jam could help sweeten the truth. “Even Lucy says that I must surrender to Fate.”

“Lucy is very wise.” Olivia was looking down at her plate, so John couldn’t see her expression. Her voice gave nothing away.

“Scottie,” repeated John. “Perhaps Fate is not quite so wicked as you think.”