Nicola Cornick - One Night Of Scandal

After she had gone, Deb rolled over with a groan and buried her face in the pillow. Then she sat up. What could she do? She could refuse to attend Lady Sally’s soirée but she suspected that Olivia and Ross would drag her there.

She could break her engagement publicly and face the consequences.

She could return to Bath and throw herself on her father’s mercy.

Except that she could not. That was how she had got herself into this difficulty in the first place.

She could marry Richard Kestrel…

She had to marry Richard Kestrel unless she wanted to be ostracised.

She loved Richard and wanted to marry him, but not like this…

‘Damn it!’ Deb said furiously, punching her pillow. ‘Why must I always get into such a scrape?’

She knew that she was going to have to talk to Richard and put matters right. She knew that she was going to have to tell him everything that she had previously held back. She had had the courage to love and trust this far, and now she must take the final step. Then, and only then, she might make the match of her heart-but only if Richard still wanted her. And of that she was painfully unsure.

There was no opportunity for Deb to speak privately to Richard at Lady Sally Saltire’s ball that evening. It seemed absurd, for they were in the same room, partook of the same dinner and mingled with the same guests. Yet they were never alone and Deb could feel her frustration mounting as each hour passed. She fidgeted with the saltcellar and sprinkled too much on her food, she toyed with the wine in her glass and spilled it on the table and she felt cross and anxious and utterly miserable.

Outwardly it felt as though nothing had changed. They had not formally broken their betrothal, and Richard behaved with the same impeccable good manners towards Deb that he had always shown her in company. Only she was aware of the distance between them; the chilly edge to Richard’s politeness and the withdrawal in his eyes. She wanted to put a hand out to him then, to draw him back to her and see that coldness melt into the warmth and tenderness that she had come to value and rely upon. Only the previous night he had held her in his arms and made love to her with exquisite love and gentleness. Now he was becoming a stranger. Deb felt very lonely.

At some point during the seemingly interminable dinner, Deb resolved that something must be done. She decided to slip away to Lady Sally’s study to write Richard a note, begging him to speak with her the following day. It was the best idea that she could devise and, as soon as she had thought of it, Deb was itching to put it into action. Eventually the dinner ended and the gentlemen withdrew and Deb, without further ado, excused herself from her hostess with vague suggestions of seeking the ladies’ withdrawing room.

She never reached the study. She had passed the ballroom, shuttered and in darkness until the unveiling of the watercolour book took place, and was standing outside the library, when a strange smell reached her and immediately tugged at her memory. She stood still, racking her brains to recall the occasion on which she had smelled it before and wondering why it seemed so important to remember. And then it hit her. It was the odd, musty scent that had permeated the pages of the poetry book. She had come across it when they had found the coded message and she had known then that she would recognise it if she smelled it again.

It was here, a faint perfume in the air, in the passageway of Lady Sally Saltire’s house. Deb stood still, puzzling, whilst her heart started to race. She took a few steps forward and the scent was stronger, battling with the perfume of the tiger lilies that stood on a plinth in the corner. It smelled of old, damp buildings and illness and musty clothes. It seemed to be seeping from under the nearest door like a gas. Stealthily, without pause for thought, Deb opened the door and slipped into the room beyond. She could see nothing. It was all in darkness, the curtains drawn. She was not even sure which room she had entered, except that it was hot and the smell of camphor overrode all other scents and was oppressive now. It made her want to sneeze. She pressed a hand to her mouth. She needed fresh air…

There was a movement behind her and a swirl of clear cool air as the door opened, but she never had time to profit from it. Something hit her hard on the back of the head and she went out like a doused lantern.

Her whole body ached. Her legs were trembling, her arms felt stretched beyond endurance, and in her head was a buzzing sound that made her groan. She tried opening her eyes, but the red and green flashes that exploded in her skull made her close them again. Her head felt unnaturally heavy and her whole body felt weighted with lead. She groaned again.

‘Deb! Deborah!’

The sharp voice spoke in her ear and made her head jerk up again just as she was welcoming the blissful darkness back again. She tried to move, felt herself restrained and caught her breath on another wave of pain.

‘Deborah!’ It was Richard’s voice. ‘Wake up!’

‘Yes, all right,’ Deb said crossly. ‘There is no need to shout!’

‘Thank God.’ Richard’s voice held a wealth of relief. ‘I was beginning to think they had hit you too hard and you would never come round.’

‘That sounds very pleasant at the moment,’ Deb said. It was no good, though. The insistent note in his voice was dragging her back from the edge of unconsciousness and making her aware of all the things that she did not like about her current situation.

There was plenty to dislike. For a start she was standing up, which accounted for the weak trembling of her legs, which protested that the most urgent thing for her to do right now was to lie down. Then there was the fact that her arms were by her side and tied tightly to something hard. Then there was the darkness. She could see nothing at all. She could feel, though. She knew that something-or someone-was pressed close against her and that there was a soft weight like a blanket draped over her head, adding to the general ache and preventing her from breathing deeply through its smothering folds.

‘Richard?’ she said cautiously.

‘Yes?’ His voice came softly out of the darkness, right by her ear. Deb realised that he was standing directly in front of her, his body pressed against hers.

‘Why do you not release us?’ Deb asked. ‘Are we to stand here in the dark all night?’

‘Very probably.’ There was a hint of rueful amusement in Richard’s voice now. ‘I cannot release us, Deb, because I am tied to this easel with you.’

‘The easel?’ Deb’s voice rose as the truth hit her. ‘You mean that someone has tied us up in the ballroom where the watercolour book was displayed? Of all the fiendish ideas-’

‘I am afraid so,’ Richard said. He sounded, Deb thought, remarkably calm. ‘You are tied to the front of the easel, Deb, and I am tied up facing you. I apologise that you are obliged to be in such close proximity to me, but I cannot move away.’

Deb shifted slightly as she began to assimilate the truth of their situation. It was as Richard said. She was standing with her hands tied behind her back, fastened to the easel. It appeared that their captors had made Richard face her and then tied him up directly in front of her so that his arms were about her and his body was pressing against hers. Deb gave a small, exploratory wiggle and almost immediately felt Richard go tense.

‘Please do not do that,’ he said politely. ‘It is not helping the situation.’ Deb went still.

‘Why have they done this to us?’ She whispered.

She felt Richard move slightly. The easel creaked again. ‘To make fools of us-humiliate us.’ His voice hardened. ‘The spies grow so arrogant that they want to show us they know we are after them. This is a statement-one that shows their mastery. They want to ridicule us and show us they are too clever for us.’

Deb let her breath out in a long sigh. ‘Then they do not intend to kill us.’

‘I doubt it. We are to be a laughing stock rather than a sacrifice. When Lady Sally’s guests come into the ballroom for the private view, the view they will see will be of us, tied up in this position. I have no doubt it will create a sensation, albeit not the one that Lady Sally intends!’

‘Lady Benedict,’ Deb whispered. ‘I am sure she must be behind this. I cannot believe it is Lady Sally, so Lily Benedict is the only other person it could be…’

‘This has all the hallmarks of her malice,’ Richard agreed.

‘Yet she was in the dining room when I left, as was Lady Sally and Sir John Norton. How could any of them be responsible for this?’ Deb rested her aching head back against the cool wooden upright. ‘It does not make sense!’

‘No, I agree. Once we are out of this damnable mess we must put an end to their games once and for all.’ His voice changed. ‘What were you up to, Deb, to be caught in this situation?’

Deb shifted irritably. ‘I smelled the same scent that was in the poetry book,’ she said, repressing a shiver of horror. ‘Camphor and fusty old clothes and illness. It is hard to explain. The smell was coming from one of the rooms, so I went in to see who, or what, was behind it-’

‘And promptly walked into a trap.’

Deb wriggled pettishly. ‘If it comes to that, how did they manage to trap you? You are supposed to be good at this sort of thing.’

She heard Richard give an equally irritable sigh. His breath stirred her hair. ‘I had other matters on my mind,’ he said, with commendable restraint. ‘A servant brought a message to me, Deborah, purporting to be from you. He said that you wished to speak with me as a matter of urgency and I was to meet you in the library. Naturally I thought-’ He broke off with a shrug and the easel creaked in protest.