London's Late Night Scandal

Book 3: Midnight Secrets

by Anabelle Bryant

Genres: Regency Romance; General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Chief Officer of the Society for the Intellectually Advanced, Lord Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham, takes his position very seriously. Not only does it distract him from the painful aftermath of a gunshot wound to the leg, earned most honorably, it is important work. So he feels duty-bound to question esteemed scientist Lord Talbot about a suspect article. Matthew dashes from London to Oxfordshire, despite wretched weather that only exacerbates his injury, reminding him he is far from the dashing gentleman he once was...

Theodosia, Lord Talbot's granddaughter, has inherited his gift for inquiry, enjoying her pursuits safely away from the artifice of London society. But her identity as the true author of Talbot's article is about to be exposed. And if Matthew expects a dour bluestocking, surprises abound. Not only do Theodosia's botanical concoctions soothe his leg, he's clearly attracted by her delicate beauty. But dare she hope for more? It will take an urgent trip to London for both to discover how passion and lasting love can ignite under the cover of darkness...

Contains mature themes.

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 323

Sample

London, 1817

Lord Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham, slapped the leather reins and urged the four dappled grays into a faster gallop.

“You’re concerned about the weather.”

“Astute observation, Coggs.” Whittingham heaved a breath of impatience. “Not only are you an excellent man-of-all-things, but a master of insight and circumstance.” He flicked his eyes from the unending roadway to the servant seated beside him. Coggs was more friend than valet; still, the man possessed the ability to irritate at times, and this was one of those times.

The weather threatened with increasing fortitude the farther they journeyed from London, and during the last few miles, the air had transformed from chilling cold to the sharp edge of frigid, until each puff of breath that evaporated before their faces reminded them that too long spent outdoors would promise a brittle end.

Worse, they were far and away from any familiar thoroughfare where another stubborn, albeit foolish, traveler might discover their frozen corpses once the cold claimed its victory. Thus, the only hope of reaching their destination before nightfall relied on Whittingham pushing his well-bred stallions to full speed.

“You would be warmer inside the carriage. You haven’t a hat or muffler, and the wind has a nasty bite this late in the afternoon.”

“If your only purpose upon this seat is to act the nursemaid, I suggest you climb back inside and keep George company.” At the last coaching inn, Whittingham had insisted on taking the straps from his young driver. Not only would the lad hesitate in pushing the horses as hard as needed, but there was no purpose in having George suffer the brunt of fierce weather and ill-advised impromptu travel when Whittingham was the one who had insisted they take to the road with haste.

Besides, one more minute trapped inside the interior with his legs folded at an uncomfortable angle would provoke a fouler mood than he already possessed. His left leg throbbed like the devil—no matter that the gunshot wound that caused his difficulty occurred a decade ago, the injury needed no provocation to cause pain. The cramped confines of the coach, poor roadway conditions, and brutal, uncompromised temperature guaranteed he’d pay for his decision in spades. Hopefully, not the kind that dug graves.

“I’d rather sit beside you in case I’m needed.”

Abandoning his grim thoughts, Whittingham resumed the conversation and offered Coggs a nod of appreciation. His mood was blacker than the storm clouds riding the horizon, but snarling at his valet when the man championed the cold to offer support was not in Whittingham’s usually congenial nature. “Are you certain? No doubt George has a wool blanket across his lap and a heated brick at his feet.”

Saying the words drew an enticing image he’d rather not consider. He flexed the muscles in his bad leg and glanced at the sky. If the snow held, they would make it to Leighton House before dark. Becoming cold was an inconvenience. Becoming cold and wet was an invitation to death. “You should ride inside. I’ll rap on the roof to signal you if the situation warrants assistance.”

The valet looked upward and shook his head. “How much farther can it be?”

In a ruse Whittingham knew well, Coggs deflected the uncomfortable subject of limitations, unforgiving injuries, and common sense. His valet deserved a better employer. “At least another hour if the roads remain clear. Leighton House is situated on a sprawling plot of acreage near the western border of Oxfordshire.”

“It was hospitable of the master of the house to invite you on such short notice.”

“Agreed.” Whittingham tossed a too long lock of hair from his forehead. He’d neglected a haircut much like he ignored other ordinary tasks, his time spent within the pages of a book instead. “My studies are of the utmost importance.”

“I know that well.”

“Do I detect a note of censure in your reply?” Whittingham slowed the team to a lively trot as the road dipped, marred with stony ruts and misshapen holes the perfect size to catch a horse’s hoof and damage his leg for a lifetime. The similarity of situation was not lost on him, and once the road smoothed out, he jerked his wrist and jolted the carriage forward to resume their breakneck travel.

“Nothing of the sort,” Coggs managed, though he pulled his woolen collar more tightly around his neck to combat the wind that whipped between them. “I hardly wonder why you need to address the issue. You’re an impatient scholar. No sooner do you form a hypothesis than you seek the solution with relentless fervor. Why would this endeavor follow a different path?”

“It’s reassuring the last eight years of your service haven’t gone wasted,” Whittingham replied. “You do know me well, although you should make up your mind upon the matter. You’ve often suggested I live life more fully, embrace new experiences and step away from the solitude of my studies, and now that I’m doing so, you seemed displeased.”

Nothing was said for a time after that. Whittingham owned the fact that his work habits were intrusive, if not obsessive at times. He pursued a course of academia once he realized his impairment, a debilitating wound to the knee, would never allow him the gallant luxuries other gentlemen managed with ease. Riding a horse was bearable, but hardly enjoyable. Dancing was out of the question. On most days, the pain remained a whisper, no more than an aching memory of a poorly made decision from his past.

Other days, this being one, the muscles of his left leg cramped and twisted as if a relentless reminder of his limitations, all too quick to persuade him to go home, sit quietly in an overstuffed chair near the fireplace fender, and politely die of boredom.

He would have no part of surrender, and therefore endured the sharpest spike of pain without complaint. He wouldn’t be compromised by circumstances he couldn’t change.

No sooner did he repeat this silent vow than a westing gust of wind hurried past with a burst of icy air that could only be God’s laughter at the earl’s ignorance.

True enough, tomorrow he would pay a deep price for his travels today.

“I sincerely hope you acquire the answers to your questions. As your loyal servant, I do as I am told, but as a simple man on this driver’s seat, near frozen and somewhat hungry, I pray this trip into nowhere proves worth the effort.”

“I have no doubt it will, Coggs.” Whittingham smiled, though his mouth was tight from the harsh temperature. “One cannot publish a journal article in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society without the correct proof of knowledge, and I intend to investigate and repudiate the claims made, if for no other reason than to defend the truth. While Lord Talbot may know his way around scientific theory, his lack of detail leaves me curious and more than a little suspicious. The hypothesis presented in the article failed to contain the precise proof expected with Talbot’s notable reputation. The earl hadn’t the decency to answer my inquiries through post but has now unexpectedly agreed to meet. That’s an adequate start, which I intend to see to a satisfactory end. I couldn’t wait around London, at risk Talbot might change his mind. His invitation was surprising but fortuitous. And so, there you have it. Despite the ill weather and the spontaneity of our travel, I had little choice but to act immediately once I received his correspondence.”

“Indeed.”

“It could be my own perspicuity that raised false suspicions, though Talbot hasn’t lectured in London or sought attention for any of the evidences proposed in his series of articles, and it’s been several years since his breakthrough experiments have warranted news. Most leaders of academia strive to share knowledge, not hoard it. No one at the Society for the Intellectually Advanced can unriddle his reclusive behavior. A commitment to speak to the most elite intellectual organization in all of England would be a rare and gratifying opportunity, most especially if I brought it forward as chief officer.” He flicked his eyes toward the sky and then to the roadway just as quickly. “And as the members of the Society continue to question the validity of the claims made, verifying the article and engaging the earl to speak in London, or likewise exposing him for fraud, will accredit my newly gained position.”

“So, with this jaunt into nowhere you have an agenda of multipurpose.” Coggs turned toward him, his brows lowered in question.

“Don’t I always?” Whittingham answered. “Science is truth. Thanks to my sister’s interference, my succession into the position of chief officer was less than smooth. Ferreting out faulty, half-baked experimental reporting will prove with conviction I’m qualified for the position, knowledgeable, and otherwise worthy.”

“I see.” Coggs nodded.

“That said, putting past publication aside, Talbot might now be nothing more than a charlatan. A dreamer. A man who knows nothing about scientific philosophy other than how to manipulate syntax to thread together a credible suggestion and bamboozle trusting souls. Wouldn’t that be an interesting turn?” He looked toward Coggs with a knowing stare. “Either way, I intend to find out.”

Theodosia Leighton, granddaughter of the Earl of Talbot, stood before her workstation and stared intently at a glass beaker filled halfway with a mixture of agitative liquids. She checked her grandfather’s notations scribbled on the page of the open journal, in reference to the measurements. Something should have happened by now, but the clear liquid inside the glass remained unchanged. She blew a breath of exasperation and stepped away.

“I don’t know what went wrong, Nicolaus.” She didn’t expect an answer as he was accustomed to her thinking aloud, and she paced to the hearth and back again as a way to expend energy while she waited. Curious now, Nicolaus approached the beaker, leaned in, sniffed the liquid inside, and withdrew right after.

“I know.” She understood his displeasure. “The formula smells horrible and Grandfather hasn’t a notation anywhere to explain the chemical change. With the remaining pages of his journal missing and only half an accounting, I’m at a loss to reproduce the outcome.”

Disinterested in disappointment or any recitation of complaint, Nicolaus silently left the room. Theodosia watched him go and could hardly blame his reaction. She’d re-created the experiment several times without success, and yet her grandfather was the most knowledgeable and meticulous scientist Oxfordshire had ever known.

At least, she believed so.

What had she missed in his documentation? She’d honed her skills of observation and detail to an exacting degree. Through practice, sampling, and sketching every specimen available to her, she’d created a catalog of scientific knowledge in her brain. With an excellent memory and concise method of deductive reasoning, the idea that she had failed to reason out the problem with the experiment irked her frustration.

At a loss for the time being, she strode to the window and glanced at the foreboding cloud cover. Snow. Everything about the view outside predicted an imminent snowfall. A strong wind bent the tree limbs of the sole remaining chestnut tree spared by the fire years ago, and not a creature could be seen, most likely burrowed beneath the hedgerows or sheltered by the dense Scotch firs that lined the perimeter of property farther from the house. Even the air seemed raw and crisp, no matter she remained inside and viewed the world through glass. These conditions were a precursor to significant precipitation. She would record her observations in her weather journal later this evening when she was too tired to do little more than move a pencil across the page.

Snow complicated even the simplest tasks. Before dinner she would check with the housekeeper, Mrs. Mavis, and ensure they had provisions in case this sudden unsettling cold spell hampered them for a few days. They were too far from town to be caught unaware in bad weather. Food items, candles, firewood, and the necessary supplies for daily living, would all need to be secured. A few of the stable hands would see to the work of bedding down the horses. Eggs would have to be collected, and then there were all her animals to tend.

These tasks would have been accomplished with a smile if she’d mastered her research this afternoon. Instead, she could only review her grandfather’s notes and attempt to understand his reasoning. It took her the better half of a year to learn his notation system and decipher many of his complicated trials. But omitted text . . . that created a difficult hurdle, far beyond her until she fully understood the theory behind his work. When questioned, Grandfather waved away her inquiries as if his notebooks were no longer a language he understood.

Returning to the workstation table, she stared down at the open book. She needed the missing pages. Nearly a third of the entries were gone, and the current passage was incomplete. She touched the paper and smoothed a fingertip over the scrawled notes, careful not to smudge the graphite. If only she had someone other than Grandfather to ask for assistance. When she closed her eyes and wished hard enough, she could still hear her parents’ voices, though so many years had passed she wondered if it wasn’t an imagined attempt to soothe the bottomless ache in her heart.

Her parents perished in a fire nearly twenty years ago. Theodosia was carried to safety from the estate in her grandfather’s arms. At five years old she mourned the loss of her parents, but she never anticipated the loneliness that was to follow, despite the loving attention of her grandfather and the extensive kindness of the household staff.

She shook her head and forced her eyes open wide, quick to blink away the threat of tears. She wouldn’t conjure memories now. She couldn’t. Seeking distraction, she flipped the journal closed and moved away from the table. She had animals to attend to and other important tasks before dinner. Where was Nicolaus, anyway? Only a fool would go out in the unforgiving winter cold.

She needed to check in on Grandfather before it grew much later, but first she would find Mrs. Mavis. If the weather planned to wreak havoc on Leighton House, the least she could do was prepare for the worst.

Whittingham urged the exhausted team through a final bend of the roadway and onto the gravel drive of Leighton House. The hour was later than he’d like, yet all things considered he was relieved they’d completed the seven-hour trip before darkness claimed the sky. Snow had begun to fall during the last few miles, and with Coggs inside the carriage keeping company with George, the driver, Whittingham had had time to organize his thoughts. Talbot’s latest article concerning chemical ratios and compounds suggested a rare isolation of dephlogisticated air. The series of scientific trials sounded inconclusive at best, and Whittingham had a bounty of questions concerning the earl’s results.

Yet any scientific discussion would wait until morning. His only want at the moment was to abandon the boot in search of a warm fire and brandy. With luck, Talbot would be available and hospitable at this hour.

He pulled the reins and settled the grays as the carriage rolled to a stop before an elongated walkway of limestone stairs. Two footmen were quick to greet him, and George reclaimed the driver seat to accompany the men to the rear of the estate, where the horses would find shelter and a well-earned meal. Whittingham managed the endless path to the estate’s door with only a few black oaths. Thankfully, Coggs had the decency to keep his trap closed.

They were shown through the entrance by an additional footman. The grand foyer gleamed with polished black tile and sleek white marble. Several wall sconces and table lanterns lit the area with warm golden candlelight and the immediate effect was soothing, just what he desired. The cold weather, restricted movement, and extensive travel had all combined to tighten his muscles. He leaned too much on his fennel-wood walking stick and resented the necessity, but fatigue reigned master at the moment.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The butler stepped forward as a servant moved in to accept their overcoats. “I am butler Alberts, at your service. May I inquire about the purpose of your visit?”

The efficient butler crimped a stiff welcome and Whittingham offered his calling card. “Please pardon the late hour. Our travel was complicated by the weather. Lord Leighton is expecting me.” He shifted his position, desperate for respite aside a roaring fire in hope of relieving the throbbing ache in his leg. Now indoors, the thaw had begun and although not literal in meaning, he almost wished the bloody muscles would stay frozen. At least for the time being.

“I will inform the household of your arrival.” The butler turned and motioned toward the left. “If you will come this way.”

He didn’t say more and Whittingham followed, Coggs a few steps behind. He knew the concerns his valet negotiated. The tiles were slick, Whittingham’s muscles stiff and clumsy, and his gait even more uneven than usual. But with a narrowed glance over his shoulder he reminded Coggs not to voice these observations until they were privately installed in guest chambers. As added insurance, he offered his man-of-all-things a blunt directive. “You may wait in the hall.”

The butler led Whittingham to a welcoming drawing room decorated in varying shades of charcoal and butter yellow. Windows stretched to the vaulted plasterwork ceiling despite they offered no view, the thick velvet drapes drawn closed to conserve warmth. Bookcases lined the walls, their repetition broken only by a satinwood writing desk and matching sideboard where a tea service graced a silver tray. Was there no brandy to be had? His eyes settled on the firebox, and though his leg protested each step, he didn’t stop until he leaned his walking stick against the arm of a Hepplewhite shield-back chair near the hearth. Then he settled on the cushions. He immediately calmed, drew a long, cleansing breath, and waited for Lord Leighton’s appearance.

“Milady, a visitor has arrived.”

Theodosia sat beside her grandfather with a book across her lap, and though he dozed on and off through her soft-spoken readings, she had no doubt he listened to every word. She looked to the doorframe upon hearing Alberts’s voice, careful not to shift too quickly on the settee. “A visitor? At this hour?” She carefully placed the book on the footstool near the tinderbox, and rose. “It seems foolhardy to travel with the threat of poor weather. Is everything all right?” She glanced to the window and back again. A few light snowflakes danced against the dark pane. “Who is it?” She sent a prayer heavenward Lord Kirkman didn’t choose this evening to further his suit. She’d made it abundantly clear the last time he’d proposed that she didn’t welcome his attention.

“The gentleman presented his card and stated he was invited to Leighton House.”

Theodosia answered without raising her voice, though the butler’s reply was laughable. “Invited? There must be some kind of mistake.” She accepted the white card and viewed the squared lettering printed across the center. Lord Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham. She sucked in a short breath. Whittingham? Whittingham. That persistent and annoying gentleman who beleaguered their household with queries, requests, and commentaries about the articles she’d submitted on Grandfather’s behalf. Whittingham. She’d intercepted three letters from him last month, burned in the firebox like all the others. How dare he take it upon himself to travel to Leighton House? How very rude and imposing. Why, if Grandfather knew—

“Excellent.” Theodore Leighton, Earl of Talbot, appeared beside her, alert and spry, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the evening half asleep beneath a thick quilt on the settee. “I hoped my letter of invitation reached the earl without delay, and I see that it has.”

“Your letter?” Struggling for understanding, Theodosia turned toward her grandfather, concern in her voice. “Are you confused?” She gentled her tone and swallowed a lump of emotion.

“Not at all, dear.” Grandfather grinned widely. “I received an inquiry from Lord Whittingham a fortnight ago and answered the earl straight after.”

A fortnight ago? Theodosia scanned her memory, neatly categorized and nearly infallible. Two weeks ago she’d taken to bed in the afternoon with a troubling cough. If she hadn’t such a profound knowledge of herbalism and its uses, she might have been stricken for days. In that, the staff assured her Grandfather was well cared for, but Alberts must have brought him the post before she could sift through the letters and remove any that might be better left unanswered. All in the span of one afternoon.

“Theodosia?” Her grandfather looked at her in question.

Whittingham.

“You invited him here?” She forced cheerfulness into her voice despite her whispered question, which caused her pulse to beat triple time.

“Indeed, I did.” Her grandfather warmed to the subject. “The earl had a bevy of questions, all of a scientific nature. So what better company for you and me? He didn’t spare enough ink to explain the details, but I believe his feathers are ruffled over some article printed in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society. It must be an older article, as I haven’t submitted anything in ages, yet I wouldn’t miss the chance for an intellectual debate of the best kind. Nor would you, my dear. I know that to be true.”

Theodosia swallowed past the truth. She could never confess she submitted articles to London’s leading academia journals using the vague signature, Theo Leighton. Wasn’t it the journal’s fault for not pursuing whether or not the article was written by her grandfather, the Earl of Talbot, a respected former contributor? The wax seal and imprint may have caused a bit of false presentation, but otherwise she believed herself in the scope of fair play. At least until Whittingham’s letters began to arrive. What was it in her article that caused question? And how soon would it be before Grandfather understood the truth of the situation? Would he be angry or admire her spunk?

“It’s too late for visitors, Alberts,” Theodosia directed sternly. “Please show Lord Whittingham to guest chambers and inform him Grandfather will meet with him on the morrow.”

“Good heavens, Theodosia, the hour is not even half six. We wouldn’t wish to appear unhospitable. The earl has traveled from London, a full day’s journey.”

Unwilling to upset her grandfather yet determined to gain time to gather her thoughts, she offered a compromise. “And thereby he’s likely exhausted. I’ll greet the earl in the drawing room and have a generous tray sent up to the guest rooms for anyone who has accompanied him in his travels. I agree a lackluster impression is undesirable, but we are not at the ready to receive guests.”

“That’s true.” Grandfather glanced down at his wrinkled waistcoat and tugged at the hem as if he could somehow straighten the fabric. “I need to be at my sharpest to match wits with one of London’s leading scholars.”

Theodosia caught Alberts’s subtle concerned frown at Grandfather’s reply, but she made no indication otherwise.

“Then we’re agreed.” She looped her arm through her grandfather’s elbow. “Alberts, be so kind as to inform Lord Whittingham I will greet him shortly.”

“Of course, milady.”

She smiled with a breath of relief as they moved toward the door. “Now let’s get you se. . .