The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16)

  The Scent of Scandal

  Rogues & Gentlemen, Book 16

  By Emma V. Leech

  ****

  Published by: Emma V. Leech.

  Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2019

  Cover Art: Victoria Cooper

  ASIN No.: B07QNGTXF5

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Melting Miss Wynter

  Want more Emma?

  About Me!

  Other Works by Emma V. Leech

  Audio Books!

  To Dare a Duke

  Dying for a Duke

  The Key to Erebus

  The Dark Prince

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  “Wherein we meet our hero.”

  1st November 1795.

  Ross huddled in the darkness, gathering the remains of his tatty coat about him. The little square of golden light at the window taunted him almost as much as the scent of dinner coiling on the frigid night air. The cottage was hardly an impressive sight with its sagging thatch and a door that didn’t fit right. More of that golden light spilled around the uneven edges of the door, as though riches poured through the gaps that let in the cold and the damp.

  To Ross’ eye, with a belly turned in on itself from hunger and his bones limned with ice, the crude little building looked like a palace. He knew it was stupid, but he crept closer and peered in at the window.

  He could see Mrs Murray with her three boys at the table, eating their dinner. If he knocked on the door, she’d let him in, and let him warm by the fire. She’d even share her dinner with him, though he knew she scraped by, barely feeding herself and her sons. Barely seemed like a feast when he hadn’t eaten for days.

  Of course, he could go back to the blacksmith, who was supposed to feed and clothe his apprentice. Except that he was a vile old skinflint, and he’d rather belt Ross than feed him. Not that Ross hadn’t given him reason for a belting. He couldn’t seem to keep his tongue still of late, and if he opened his mouth nothing but angry words spilled out of him. They said he’d been born angry.

  It certainly felt like it.

  He turned his back on the cottage and walked away. He couldn’t bear the dark looks Mrs Murray’s sons gave him, resentment and anger simmering in their eyes. He was too proud to endure it. Besides, they were bigger than him and they’d knock him down for daring to come scrounging. Not that he’d go down easy. Even the big lads stayed clear of him, knowing he’d fight like a wild thing once his temper was lit. Three on one though, those were not good odds.

  By morning, after a few hours’ sleep in a barn where the cows kept him warm, he made his way down to the village. The scent of warm bread from outside the bakers made him want to weep with longing.

  Calum Frazer came out of the shop, a fresh loaf tucked under his arm. He was five years older than Ross, and broad with it. Calum saw Ross watching and raised the bread to his nose, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes with a blissful expression. Then he laughed.

  Ross clenched his jaw. Rage bubbled up inside him and he launched himself at Calum, sending him to the ground and driving his fist into the boy’s stomach before he could even react. The bread had gone flying into the dirt, but Ross didn’t even think of that now. All he knew was the anger singing through his blood and the desire to do harm.

  In minutes the fight was over as adults came running, pulling him off Calum. Mr Thomson lifted him by his jacket and belted him so hard his ears rang.

  “You’re nae fit to be among decent people, Ross Moncreiffe,” he said, his face full of anger. “You cannae just go around attacking folk for nae reason.”

  Ross stared back at him, belligerent. There was no point explaining he had a reason, not when Calum was weeping like a lass and protesting he’d been minding his own business. Instead, he twisted out of Mr Thomson’s grasp and hit the ground running.

  On the outskirts of the village, three lads he knew and sometimes hung about with hailed him.

  “We’re going fishing,” Robbie called. “Want to come?”

  Ross strode up to Robbie and hit him, watching him land in the dirt on his back with satisfaction. Robbie stared up at him in shock as the other two boys stilled. A moment later and they were all on him, beating him as Ross lost himself in the fight.

  It was perhaps an hour before he could move. His nose was still bleeding, and he couldn’t see out of one eye. Every part of him hurt. If anyone had asked him why he’d hit Robbie, who’d done him no harm, he could not have given an answer. He didn’t know. Born angry, that’s all. That’s what they all said.

  Predictably, he found himself back at Mrs Murray’s cottage, though he didn’t knock, just sat huddled nearby, wondering if she’d bother with him this time.

  His heart thudded as the door opened and the woman looked out. She had dark hair, neatly pinned, and dark eyes that missed nothing. A fierce, no-nonsense woman, grown men knew to avoid the sharp side of her tongue, for she’d flay them with it. Her somewhat harsh features softened as they fell on him, though she folded her arms and pursed her lips.

  “Ach, ye wee devil. Look at the state of ye.”

  With a heavy sigh she pulled the door fully open and stepped back, nodding her head.

  “Ye’d best come in.”

  Ross hauled himself to his feet and walked to the door, pausing on the threshold to give her a wary look. There was pity in her eyes and he despised it. She reached out, tilting his head to inspect his face.

  “Ah, laddie,” she said softly.

  He felt tears prickle in his eyes as she moved to stroke his hair and jerked back, away from her.

  “All right,” she said, stepping back and holding up her hands. “I’ll nae coddle ye, but come in and get warm and let me see to that eye.”

  She stood still, as though in the presence of something wild, while he debated the wisdom of going inside, but even his pride was weary today. Ducking his h
ead, he moved past her, avoiding her compassionate gaze and hurried indoors.

  Chapter 1

  “Wherein we meet our heroine in difficulty … as usual.”

  1st September 1820.

  “There must be something!”

  Miss Fredericka Wycliffe—or Freddie, as her friends knew her—was aware of the desperate tenor of her voice. Her best friend, Miss Bunting or Bunty as she was universally known, returned an expression of sympathy that was not reassuring.

  “We’ve asked everyone, Freddie. I’m so sorry.”

  Freddie sighed, and fought against the urge to allow her shoulders to slump. “Oh, well,” she said, forcing a smile that felt brittle across her lips. “I shall just have to brave the Registry Office.”

  “Oh, Freddie, no!” Bunty exclaimed, reaching out and grasping her hand.

  “I must, dear,” Freddie replied, patting the hand in question and doing her best to put on a brave face. “I cannot impose upon your parents any longer. They’ve been so very kind.”

  “But you can’t think we would turn you out!” the young woman objected and, as afraid as she was for the future, Freddie could only thank her good fortune in having such a devoted friend.

  “Indeed, I think nothing of the sort,” she replied, her tone soothing. “And that is why I must find another position. Your parents shouldn’t have to keep me when they have your season to pay for. I shall manage quite well. You’ll see. I’m sure the Registry Office is nothing to fear.”

  Despite her confident words, Freddie could not help the stab of dread in her heart. Having been raised as a lady until the age of seventeen, her sudden change in circumstances had been dramatic. She’d always assumed she would come out with Bunty, the two of them facing the ton together, finding husbands together, but she’d never come out at all.

  After years learning how to do nothing more strenuous than look ornamental, she was expected to find work. Not that poor Bunty had fared much better. Her every season since had been, if not disastrous, then certainly underwhelming.

  Still, Freddie had been alone for many years now and she’d always managed, after a fashion. Yes, her last employer had frightened her out of her wits, but she was still in one piece and relatively unscathed. It was more than could be said for some of the poor girls who’d worked there. She’d warned as many as she could against taking a position at the house once she’d realised the danger, but some were too desperate for the work.

  She understood their motivation though she knew her situation was far less desperate. It was only her pride that would not allow her to accept charity from Bunty’s family, no matter how much she longed to do so. Freddie wouldn’t starve or end in the workhouse like those poor girls. Bunty wouldn’t hear of it. This she reminded herself of daily.

  She was fortunate beyond measure. Her work as a governess was not something she was suited to, but she’d done her best and the two little girls she’d looked after were sweet, if full of mischief. It was a lonely position though. Having been raised to be a lady, keeping one’s station was difficult to do, especially when Lady Cheam was lonely too and invited confidences. Such intimacy only caused them both trouble with her husband though and Freddie had soon learned her place. Yet it wasn’t with the servants, who knew she was above them and treated her differently, but not as a lady. It was a netherworld to which no one else seemed to belong.

  “But you’ve no written character after that awful man turned you out,” Bunty said, wringing her hands together. “How will you find another position?”

  Freddie bit her lip and shrugged. Despite having no letter of recommendation, she’d found a position as a governess for Viscount Cheam. She’d soon learned the only reason she’d got the job—being ill-suited, under-qualified, and having no experience—was because the household couldn’t keep staff for more than a matter of weeks at a time. The viscount was an unpleasant man. He had remarried late in life, and his second wife had added twin girls to the four grown-up sons provided by his first.

  Freddie hadn’t liked the viscount on sight. He was a hard man in his fifties, with a cruel, sneering face that made her shiver with unease. It was his eyes, mostly: green as glass and with about the same amount of warmth.

  His wife, at twenty-four, was the same age as Freddie and far too young for him. Freddie thought the viscountess as much a child as the twins to whom she had been governess. Sweet-natured and kind, she lived in terror of her husband and rarely dared to venture an opinion on anything.

  The girls, Selina and Susan, had been adorable though, and Freddie had loved them. To anyone who knew her, it did not come as a shock that she’d been a terrible governess.

  The viscount had dismissed her when he’d found her playing pirates with the six-year-old twins. Freddie winced as she remembered. She’d been standing on a bed and wielding a wooden sword while the girls shrieked and cursed like sailors and tried to board her ‘ship’.

  Lady Cheam had cried as hard as the twins when Freddie had left, but she was far too scared of her brutish husband to object to his decision.

  Freddie knew the real reason for his decision though. Unlike the poor maids who worked for him, Freddie knew people, people who would listen and believe her if the viscount laid a hand on her. Like his son, for instance.

  Samuel Pelham was a good man, surprisingly all the viscount’s sons were honourable men to her knowledge and did all they could to keep their father’s revolting attentions away from the staff. They were not omnipotent, however, and were as bullied by their vile father as everyone else in the household. They stood up to him, Sam especially, but he’d paid by being cut off both financially and socially by the viscount who refused to acknowledge him any longer.

  Sighing, Freddie considered Bunty’s question. How would she explain her lack of references? She’d never get a decent position without one. Frowning with concentration, she was seriously considering forgery when a footman knocked on the door and entered bearing a letter.

  “For you, Miss Wycliffe,” he said, handing her the note.

  “Thank you, George.” Freddie smiled, taking the note. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and she broke the seal and unfolded the paper, reading with growing astonishment. “Oh dear,” she murmured, closely followed by, “Good heavens!”

  Bunty shuffled closer to her, trying to read over her shoulder. “What is it?”

  Freddie turned to gape at her friend, her heart thudding. “Do you remember I told you about my Uncle Phineas?”

  “Of course!” Bunty exclaimed, grinning. “You read me his letters often enough when we were growing up.”

  Freddie nodded, smiling. Uncle Phin had been an eccentric character. A zealous missionary man, he had travelled the world, spreading the word of God. His letters had been sporadic, but when they arrived, they had contained marvels: stories of far off lands and strange peoples, adventures and laughter. She’d only met him once, after her parents had died, for he was always away on his travels, but he’d always remembered her birthday and sent a small gift at Christmas.

  “He died,” she said, unwilling to allow the sudden lump in her throat to take a hold.

  Uncle Phin had been her only remaining kin, and now he was gone. A hollow sensation opened inside her, but she ignored it, forcing it aside in favour of feeling thankful for her good fortune.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Freddie.”

  Freddie shook her head, smiling. “He’s saved me,” she said, blinking back tears. “He’s left me everything.”

  “Everything?” Bunty repeated, with such eagerness that Freddie couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Don’t get excited,” she said, her tone rueful. “He was a missionary and didn’t believe in worldly goods. I know he gave most every penny he had away, but it seems there is a small property and….” She looked back at the letter and gasped. “And an annuity. Oh, Bunty, one hundred and ten pounds a year!”

  Bunty screwed up her nose, looking deeply unimpressed at what she no doubt considered a trifli
ng amount, but to Freddie it was salvation.

  She was free.

  “Can you live on that?” Bunty asked, sounding doubtful.

  Freddie cast her an impatient glance and returned to her letter. “I can,” she muttered.

  “I suppose, if it’s a nice house, in a good area,” Bunty mused, considering the idea. “You might sell it and have a nice little nest egg.”

  With a snort Freddie glanced up at her. “It’s in Scotland,” she said, almost apologetically as the expected look of horror dawned on Bunty’s face.

  “Scotland?” she cried, in the same way she might have said ‘Timbuktu?’

  Freddie nodded, and tried to find her place in the scrawling writing once more. “It’s in the Lochaber region of the Highlands.”

  “Oh, but, Freddie,” she said, tones of awe and dismay colouring her voice. “You can’t be thinking—”

  “Why not?” she demanded indignantly. “Providence has handed me a lifeline. It’s too much of a coincidence that this should happen just at the moment I need it. It must be fate, Bunty, and no one can run from fate. So, no more governessing for me. I have a snug little home in the Highlands and enough money to provide for myself and a companion. Why, I bet with that amount of money I could live very nicely in Scotland. Think of the beautiful scenery, the lochs and the heather.”

  Bunty wrinkled her nose, clearly unconvinced. “But, darling, consider… what will you do? Who will you speak to?”

  Freddie huffed and rolled her eyes, indifferent to her friend’s lack of romantic spirit. “I’ll do what I always do, I’ll manage,” she said, as much for her own benefit as Bunty’s. “Perhaps,” she added, entirely for Bunty’s sake as the girl looked close to tears, “perhaps I’ll marry a handsome Highlander?”

  ***

  Freddie blinked and stared across an ancient and somewhat scarred desk at the solicitor in charge of her uncle’s will.

  “I do beg your pardon,” she said, thinking she must have misunderstood his meaning. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me. I understand that the bequest is subject to certain conditions, but….” She trailed off, hoping the man would repeat his words but that this time, they’d make sense.