Do You Want to Start a Scandal (Spindle Cove 5)

Bloody hell.

Piers braced his hands flat on the desk and pushed back in his chair, drawing to his feet. He was a man of action. He couldn't sit here, doing nothing.

He'd deservedly sunk to the level of pond scum. Somehow he had to scrape and claw his way back up. Beg Charlotte's forgiveness, confess his true emotions.

No, no. He had the steps out of order.

First, admit to having emotions.

Then confess what they were.

Convince her he would make all her dreams come true, plead with her to be his wife . . . Flowers probably wouldn't go amiss. All of that in--

He glanced at the clock.

Five hours. Give or take. No small task, and the stakes couldn't have been higher. Even if he succeeded in setting the stage for a grand apology, there were no guarantees Charlotte would accept it. He was in danger of losing her forever.

He tugged on his cuffs, pulling them straight. Well, was he a top agent of the Crown, or wasn't he?

Danger was what he lived for.

Chapter Twenty-three

For Charlotte, it was an all-too-familiar scene.

The orchestra warmed their instruments, the quadrille began . . . and she found herself a wallflower once again. Delia sat in the opposite corner of the ballroom, refusing to look her way.

At least tonight she had her family surrounding her. Mama stood chatting--or more likely, boasting--with Lady Parkhurst and her friends. But Diana and Aaron, Minerva and Colin . . . they all kept Charlotte company.

"You needn't stand about with me," Charlotte said. "You should dance."

"I'm not much for dancing," Aaron said.

"Neither am I," said Minerva.

Charlotte turned to Colin, who had seldom encountered a dance or a partner he didn't enjoy.

"I'll save my strength for the waltz," he said. "I'm getting to be a grizzled old man, you know. A touch of the gout perhaps."

Her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. They were so transparently trying to console her--and she loved them for it.

Diana sidled close to Charlotte and took her arm, squeezing it in a reassuring gesture. "What time is the engagement due to be announced?"

"Lady Parkhurst asked us to wait until the end of the midnight supper. Everyone will be gathered in one place. Sir Vernon will raise a toast."

Minerva tilted her head. "Have you decided what you'll--"

"No," Charlotte said. "Not yet."

She was waiting to see Piers. Desperate to speak with him. But as yet, he hadn't made an appearance in the ballroom. This time, she wasn't going to chase after him.

Colin firmed his jaw. "If he doesn't come up to scratch, Dawes and I will call him out. Won't we, Aaron?"

Aaron crossed his big blacksmith's arms over his chest. "Absolutely."

"You don't want to do that," Charlotte warned. "Lord Granville's handy with a pistol. And his brother would be his second."

Colin considered this. "That's the heavyweight champion bare-knuckle fighter brother, is it?"

"Yes."

"Just confirming that he didn't, you know, have another, smaller, less violent brother." Colin sipped from his drink. "We'd still do it, of course."

"Absolutely," Aaron said, sounding a shade less absolute about it than he had been a moment before.

"We'd hold our own. Dawes here is brawny, and I've been in a brawl or two. We were Spindle Cove's finest militiamen, weren't we? You know, the finest not counting Bram. Or Thorne."

"Susanna," Minerva added. "Susanna ranked above you too, I believe."

Colin's mouth pulled to the side. "Yes, can't deny that. But we're no slouches."

"Solidly in the top quartile," Charlotte said.

Her heart pinched in her chest. Where on earth could Piers be? She scanned the room, leaning to either side to peer around the pairs of dancers. A glimpse of a tall man with dark hair propelled her a few paces to the left.

It wasn't Piers.

But something else caught her attention.

A hint of perfume, wafting behind her.

The perfume.

Poppies, vanilla, and black amber. No doubt in her mind. The aroma took her directly back to the library window seat, where she'd laughed in Piers's arms as the desk creaked and lovers groaned.

She turned in place, striving to appear nonchalant as she searched for the perfume's source. Her path was obstructed by a pair of gentlemen, who parted for her cordially--but maddeningly slowly--causing her to lose precious seconds. She began to work her way along the edge of the ballroom, sniffing as deeply and frequently as she could without prompting inquiries on the state of her health.

Then her heel caught on something slick, and her foot nearly slipped out from beneath her. She turned to look down at the floor. A folded piece of paper lay in the shadows where the damask silk wall-covering met the inlaid parquet.

Charlotte discreetly crouched to pick it up. As soon as she had it in her hand, she could smell it. It wasn't a perfumed person she'd detected, but a perfumed note.

Her pulse drummed in her ears, and she concealed the note in her gloved hand.

She didn't dare open it here.

Without stopping to give a word of explanation, she slipped out of the ballroom and headed directly upstairs to her bedchamber. She locked the door behind her and lit a small lamp before unfolding the paper with trembling fingers.

The note contained only a simple, four-line poem, written in florid script. She held it close to the lamp to make it out.

Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;

It is the reflex of our earthly frame,

That takes its meaning from the nobler part,

And but translates the language of the heart.

--S. T. Coleridge

A pretty enough verse, but utterly unhelpful. No salutation, no signature. Her heart deflated with disappointment. She turned the paper to the reverse side, scanning it closely. Nothing there, either.

Then she returned to the verse. She decided to read it aloud, slowly. Perhaps there was some sort of message within.

"Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame," she read aloud. "It is the reflex of our earthly--"

She stopped and blinked. Now she was seeing things. She could have sworn that words were dancing between the lines of the verse.

She held the paper closer to the lamp, directly over the flame. As she watched, a word materialized on a blank space of the paper, darkening to sepia one letter at a time.

l--a--t--e

Late.

Invisible ink!

There was a message hidden between the lines of the poem.

Exhilarated, Charlotte pushed through the jumble of hairbrushes and ribbons on her dressing table until she located the curling tongs. She used them to hold the paper over the flame, letting the heat touch every corner, as if she were toasting a slice of bread. The tediousness of the exercise tried her patience to its limits, but she didn't dare risk letting the paper catch fire.

When at last she'd heated every inch of the paper, she smoothed the note on the flat surface of the table. The invisible message read:

The ladies will meet Tuesday next

Please bring in the conserves and crumpets

Both are obligatory at midday nuncheon

Such damp nights of late.

Crumpets?

Crumpets and humidity.

This was the mystery message. Of all the inconsequential, nonsensical lines to inscribe in invisible ink and perfume with rich scent.

Whoever these mystery lovers might be, Charlotte was annoyed with them both. Midday nuncheon, indeed.

She rubbed her eyes and read it again. Then she ran the paper over the flame once more. Nothing new appeared.

Perhaps it was some sort of code? She tried reading it backward, reading every second word, every third or fourth letter . . . none of these methods yielded any comprehensible message.

She was on the verge of crumpling the thing and tossing it into the

fire in disgust, when she noted a tiny dash of sepia where she wouldn't expect it to be. She'd dismissed it before as a stray droplet of invisible ink, but now she noticed that it was centered perfectly beneath one word of the poem: "frame."

With her fingertip, she scanned the paper for any other small, overlooked markings. She found another dash; this one directly beneath the word "heart."

Frame and heart.

Heart and frame.

On a hunch, she found a scrap of paper, trimmed it to match the size of the note, and then folded it down the middle and made a swooping cut with a penknife, removing a heart-shaped piece from the center. Then she laid her makeshift valentine over the note, sliding it around until it seemed centered.

The frame blocked out nearly all of the hidden message. The still visible parts read:

will meet

in the conserv

atory at mid

night

"Oh, Lord." She rose from her chair, jumping back in disbelief. "I . . . I've done it. That's it. 'Will meet in the conservatory at midnight.' " She laughed aloud. "I, Charlotte Highwood, have decoded a secret message, and I've done it all by myself. Take that, Agent Brandon."

Now she felt like dancing. But there wasn't time. Someone was expecting a clandestine lover to arrive in the conservatory at midnight, and Charlotte had been working at this for ages. It had to be getting close to the hour.

She checked the mantel clock.

Oh, no. Five minutes past!

Charlotte rushed downstairs.

She crept to the door of the conservatory and opened it silently before sliding inside. The space was dense with the misty fragrance of a thousand blossoms. The glass windows were fogged.

Weak, flickering light spilled from a distant corner of the indoor garden.

A trail of rose petals on the tiled floor led into the conservatory, then disappeared around a bend some ten feet ahead. Perfume, poetry, rose petals . . . ? Whoever this lover was, he or she was truly a romantic.

She paused, suddenly hesitant.

Did it even matter who waited at the end of this trail? It was too late to redeem her reputation, and it wouldn't change her dilemma with Piers. But it would mean so much if she could regain Delia's friendship. Finding the lovers would mean a great deal to her pride, as well. By society's standards, she wasn't accomplished. This was her chance to prove them all wrong.

In any event, she'd come this far. The mystery would haunt her forever if she didn't take these last few steps.

She held her breath as she followed the trail of red, velvety petals. When she turned the corner, her heart pounded in her chest.

The fragrant mist of the hothouse parted to reveal a dark, tall figure.

There, standing in a leafy, candlelit alcove was . . .

"Piers?"

He made an elegant bow. "Good evening, Charlotte."

"What are you doing here? Did you find a note, too?" She looked around. "Were they here already? Did you see them?"

"Did I see whom?"

"The mystery lovers! Or tuppers, or whatever they might be. I found a perfumed note in the ballroom, in code. It took me ages to decipher it, until it was almost too late, and then I hurried down to--"

As she spoke, she took in more details of the scene. The brass candlestick fitted with a beeswax candle. The bottle of champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket. The picnic hamper.

The sly smile on Piers's face.

"It was you." She slapped a hand to her forehead. "You left the note. For me."

"The rose petals were Ridley's idea." He reached for the bottle of champagne and popped the cork. "Did you enjoy your investigative work?"

"You tricked me."

"No, I didn't. You're here, aren't you? That means you weren't tricked at all." He handed her a glass of champagne and nodded at the paper in her hand. "That message used the same methods, more or less, as General Benedict Arnold employed to send intelligence during the rebellion of the American colonists. You deciphered it. Well done." He raised his glass to her, then drank from it.

Yes. She had deciphered it, hadn't she?

She took a well-earned sip of champagne. "See, I told you I could be a spy."

"Perhaps. But you'd need some work to be a successful one. Arnold was caught, you know." He picked up a half-eaten sandwich from the picnic hamper and gestured with it. "I brought supper. There are lemon tarts."

She looked at the basket of sweets and sandwiches. "You tricked me, and you started the picnic without me. I don't know which is the greater offense."

"I wasn't certain how long it would take you to puzzle it out."

She stole the half-eaten sandwich from his hand. "That settles it. I am definitely most angry with you for doubting me." She took a large bite.

"Next time, I'll make it more of a challenge."

Next time?

Despite the teasing, pride was apparent in his gaze. He was quite pleased with himself, and with Charlotte.

Moreover, he was having fun.

And so was she.

She had a vision of the two of them, leading one another on mysterious late-night treasure hunts through his darkened mansion, a secluded, romantic scene waiting at the end.

Could they have a life like that? One built on playfulness and seduction and just a hint of mystery? Her heart warmed at the thought. But it all depended on whether he felt that warmth, too.

"I love you, Charlotte."

She nearly choked on her bite of sandwich.

"Now?" she protested through a mouthful of bread and sliced cucumber. She swallowed. "You tell me this now. You couldn't wait until I'd finished my sandwich?"

"No. I planned to, but I couldn't."

"Well, I hope you mean to say it at least once more."

"Of course I do, darling."

Darling. She loved it when he called her that. In his deep, aristocratic voice, it sounded equal parts suaveness and affection, with a current of danger running beneath.

After setting aside his champagne, he closed the distance between them in slow, determined strides. Oh, but he looked magnificent tonight. Smoothly shaven and turned out in a black tailcoat with a white vest and cravat. Perfect.

He laid his hands to her arms, cherishing her with a gentle caress. "You're exquisitely beautiful tonight. Did I mention that yet?"

She shook her head, thrilled despite herself. "I wish I could honestly say that flattery will get you nowhere."

"It won't get me far enough, I know. I owe you more than compliments. You're due a great many apologies."

Well. She wouldn't make any argument there.

"After you were poisoned, I told myself that by taking control of everything, I would protect you. But you were right. The only person I was protecting was myself. The thought of losing you gutted me. There was no thought in my mind but to keep you, make you irrevocably mine. No matter what villainy was required."

"How could you have worried I might leave you? After all we'd shared? I told you I love you, Piers."

"How to explain it?" He paused. "I didn't think it could be enough. I didn't think that I would be enough."

What?

This beautiful, strong, loyal man worried he wouldn't be enough? Charlotte could have laughed at the absurdity of it, but perversely, a tear burned at the corner of her eye instead.

She blinked it away. "Why would you think that?"

"Past experience. Mothers delight in their children, so they say. Mine didn't find sufficient delight to stay around. My first engagement ended when my betrothed grew tired of waiting." He shrugged. "I haven't been very successful convincing women that I'm worth a lifetime."

She slid her arms around his neck. "You're more than enough for me."

"You don't have to feed me platitudes. I'm hard to know, and even more difficult to love."

"But you must understand how my mind works by now. That only makes you more tempting. I love knowing there's so much more to you than it seems on the surface. And

that while a good bit of it is pure brilliance, some of it's dark and twisty, too. You're a puzzle. One that will take ages to solve, and you know how stubborn I am. I'm not one to give up."

He slid his arms around her waist and pressed his brow to hers. "Promise me."

"I promise you." She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry I gave you reason to doubt it. I never will again."

"I will never give you cause."

She lifted her head. "You know, you still haven't said it again."

He gave her a sweet, slow kiss that tasted of champagne. "Oliveview."

She growled in playful protest.

"Teasing, teasing." He looked deep into her eyes. "I love you, Charlotte. Somehow you worked inside my heart, detonated there, and left it an untidy shambles. I don't know if I've pieced together enough of it to love you as well as you deserve. But I swear to you, so long as I live I'll never cease trying."

"Much better, thank you." She swayed in his arms, staring up at this man who belonged to her. "We're going to have the grandest time. Capering about the Continent, stealing secrets . . ."

He shook his head. "That's the one thing I can't give you. I can send you and Delia to travel the Continent. I'll wait for you as long as you like. But my work requires at least the appearance of detachment. It's too dangerous otherwise. Anyone who wished to hurt me would know the shortest path is through you."

"I understand," she said, trying to mask her disappointment. "I won't complain if you seem distant or unfeeling when we're in public. I . . . I'll just think of myself as working under cover."

"No, darling. I can't risk it. That's why I mean to resign at once."

Chapter Twenty-four

"Resign?" Charlotte's face fell. She pulled away from his embrace, leaving him bereft.

"Yes," he said. "I must. As soon as possible."

"Piers, you can't. You can't give it up. The Crown needs you, and you need your work. I've seen you in moments of action. That's when you truly come alive."

He touched her cheek. "I come alive with you."

"But the challenge, the danger. I know how you enjoy it."

"Oh, I'm not giving up either of those." He smiled. "Love is, by far, the most dangerous thing I've ever felt. Marrying you will be like jumping off a cliff. I feel approximately as secure in my ability to deserve you as I do in my ability to fly."

"I think you could do most anything. Including the flying."

"The truth of it is . . . ever since you walked into my life, my skills have been slipping. To stay in my post would be irresponsible. My instincts are dulled. I've missed clear signs of danger. I'm no closer to completing my mission than I was the day I arrived, and I've lost any talent for prevarication." He searched her lovely face. "Why is it I can't seem to keep anything from you?"