Prelude to a Scandal. Delilah Marvelle
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down the passageway.
The butler opened a paneled door at the far end of the walkway and disappeared inside. Justine followed, entering a bedchamber that was about the size of a field.
She froze as the butler strode past an enormous four-poster bed draped with heavy, velvet burgundy curtains. The pillows, linens and coverlets were all in disarray.
The butler halted before a closed door on the other side of the room that adjoined another chamber. He cleared his throat and knocked. “Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Palmer is here. She insists upon a private audience and ardently awaits your attention within the confines of your bedchamber.”
Justine gestured with the pistol in complete exasperation. Why, the man made her sound like a wanton! As if she did this sort of thing all the time.
There was a movement, followed by a rather loud splash of water against porcelain.
Blessed be her soul, was the duke bathing?
A deep voice suddenly boomed from the other side, “Do my orders mean nothing? You’ve barely worked here a Goddamn week! I replaced the last butler for less.”
The butler winced and adjusted his livery, shifting from boot to boot. “Yes. I realize as much, Your Grace. But I should probably point out that aside from the pistol she is toting, and the threats she is spitting, given the time of night, I was rather concerned about turning her away. Her overall appearance is rather … disturbing.”
Justine cringed and glanced down at her daffodil gown, which was smeared with enough gunpowder to warrant an arrest in the name of public safety. And to think, she had worn her finest.
There was muttering from behind the door, followed by an aggressive splash of water within the tub. “Leave us. I will ring when it is time for you to escort her home. Which you will, Jefferson. As punishment. I also intend to temporarily suspend your wages.”
“Uh … yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned, set his thick chin a tad higher above his collar and strode toward her, never once meeting her gaze.
Justine sighed and couldn’t help but feel remorse. Shoving the pistol into her reticule, she held it out. “Take this, Jefferson, along with my sincere apologies. Rest assured, it was never primed or loaded. I shall see to it His Grace does not hold you accountable.”
The butler paused and lifted a thick brow, silently acknowledging her apology. He plucked the weighty reticule from her hand and strode out, shutting the door behind him.
One less soul to worry about. Justine blew out a shaky breath and turned to the closed paneled door leading to the bath chamber. If only she weren’t so worried about Bradford. That dark, overly agitated voice sounded nothing like him.
After all, once upon a time, the whole of London could be burning and the man would have still retained that playful lilt in his voice and that devious twinkle in his eye. He’d never been one to easily ruffle and knew how to make everyone, right down to a tinplate worker, feel as though they were all equal peers. Libertine though he was, yes, a more genuine and kind soul she’d never met.
Her pulse throbbed against her ears as she eyed the faint light peering through the crevices of the door. “Bradford?” He’d always preferred being addressed as such.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded. “Do you not realize you have a responsibility toward yourself and toward my name?”
Her brows rose. Since when did Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of Bradford, ever touch upon the hour or respectability?
Justine edged toward the direction of the bath chamber, curious as to what she would find on the other side of the door. Realizing she was almost an arm’s reach away, she halted. What on earth was she doing? The man was bathing, for pity’s sake. And unlike the African Bushmen and Hottentots, who kept their genitals bound in straps of leather even whilst bathing, she doubted he did. She wet her lips, trying not to imagine what was below his waist, lest she forget her reason for calling on him.
She fidgeted, knowing she should try to be civil. She was interrupting his bath. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other,” she managed. Exactly two hundred and fifty-seven days. “Are you well?”
He rumbled out a laugh. “Do you mean to tell me you infiltrated my home, armed, in the dead of night merely to ask how I am?”
She wrinkled her nose. Point well made. “Uh … no. Of course not. You see … I’ve been rather concerned about you and our … arrangement. Aside from not wanting to see your own fiancée until the day of the wedding, which even my own mother admits to being odd—and she finds very few things odd—your solicitor still hasn’t fully explained the complications surrounding my father’s release. I don’t understand what is taking so long. It’s been five weeks.”
“My dear, dear Justine.” His husky tone made the wonderful endearments sound insincere. “Much like His Royal Majesty and Lord Winfield, who first brought your father’s observations to His Majesty’s attention, I myself am still very livid with your father. Though for very different reasons. Fetch me up as daft, but what possessed him to go against the advice of his own patron—me—and publish not one but three hundred copies of observations most people would categorize as bestiality? But of course His Majesty was going to make an example of him. Hell, I wanted to make an example of him when I discovered every one of those bloody observations had been dedicated to me. Me. Thanking me for years of funding. Do you have any idea the amount of letters I had to write to His Majesty, apologizing for my financial involvement?”
Justine winced. Yes, she could understand him being upset. But what he failed to realize was that the dedication had been bestowed with the deepest of respect and gratitude. After all, if it weren’t for his generous funding—funding no other peer in London had been willing to offer—her father’s studies in South Africa would have never been possible. For although her father was an earl, he’d always been a man of humble means who barely afforded a townhouse in a respectable square.
Justine stared down at the ornate brass knob before her and willed herself to remain optimistic, even as her eyes pricked with stupid, stupid tears. “Please assure me this has not affected your decision to assist him. He is tired, Bradford. And weak. And refuses to eat. I’ve never seen him look so frail.”
Bradford sighed. Loud enough for even her to hear. “I am not the one impeding his release.”
Her eyes veered back up from the knob. “Whatever do you mean?”
There was a moment of silence, followed by the soft rustle of water. “As you already know, my solicitor has been diligently negotiating this case. What you do not know is that Lord Winfield, upon discovering my intentions to assist, once again brought it to the attention of His Majesty, who then insisted the bench increase all fines by another two thousand pounds. No sooner had my solicitor met those demands, when the fines were blatantly increased again. And again. And again.”
Justine’s eyes widened as she huffed out, “What does Lord Winfield have against my father to continue to persecute him like this? They used to be friends!”
“Emphasis on the used to be. Lord Winfield despises sodomites, Justine. Rumor has it his own son was brutally sodomized against his will many, many years ago at the age of sixteen.”
Oh, dear God. No wonder the man hated her father. Justine sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t realize that. And apparently, neither did my father.”
“It would not be something a man would openly discuss.”
“No, I suppose not.” Justine was quiet for a moment. “So what have the fines been set to?”
“Fifty thousand pounds. Which is why your father is still at Marshalsea. Because I do not have fifty thousand in loose coins. Most of my money is shackled to land and investments I cannot touch. And His Majesty knows it.”
Justine sucked in