Page 1 of One Night of Scandal
Chapter 1
London, April 1817
“Tavistock!”
Lady Viola Fairfax grinned at the welcome shouted by the men seated about the main salon of the Wicked Duke tavern, making the new faux whiskers glued to her cheeks pull against her skin. The discomfort of her gentleman’s disguise scarcely registered after two years, but the sideburns had required replacement, as they did from time to time.
After exchanging pleasantries with a few of the regular customers, Viola took a seat at a table. Almost immediately, one of the barmaids, Prudence, deposited a tankard of ale in front of her. Prudence narrowed her gaze in a sly expression, and Viola wondered—not for the first time—if she’d guessed Tavistock was a woman.
It wouldn’t surprise Viola. In fact, any surprise would lie in the fact that she was still fooling everyone. Well, everyone but her brother and his best friend, who owned the tavern.
She’d revealed her identity—secretly—to Val the first night she’d appeared as Tavistock. He’d been shocked to learn she planned to dress as a man in order to report on the happenings at the Wicked Duke for theLadies’ Gazette. Initially, he’d tried to dissuade her, but it hadn’t taken more than five minutes for her to convince him that she needed to do it, that writing would fill a void in her life.
While he’d understood and even supported her, he’d insisted she let his partner, the Duke of Colehaven, in on the secret. As the owners of the Wicked Duke, they were responsible for what happened there, and since they opened the doors to any and every one with peaceable intent, they should both know if Val’s sister was masquerading as a man. Especially because she planned to do so on a regular basis.
Viola sipped her beer. As usual, Cole had crafted a masterful brew. Unless his wife had created the recipe. Viola smiled to herself, thinking it must have been Diana.
“Langford!” came the next greeting as Giles Langford entered the tavern.
Langford, a blacksmith who was every bit as comfortable driving a vehicle as he was building one, sat down to her left. “Ho there, Tavistock. Haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”
“Been busy.” Pitching her voice to Tavistock’s lower octave was second nature.
“Time for another column, eh?” Langford sipped his ale. “Does anyone actually read the nonsense you write?”
He was referring to her, rather S. D. Tavistock’s, well-known column in theLadies’ Gazette, a monthly magazine. Viola worked to keep her tone even despite Langford’s irritating question as she swung her gaze toward his. “What makes you think it’s nonsense?”
“I didn’t mean any offense. I just assumed you didn’t write what actually happens here, so I meant literal nonsense.” He shrugged.
“You don’t read it, then.” Viola snorted before taking a drink.
Langford laughed. “Why on earth would I read theLadies’ Gazette?”
He had a point there. Viola could barely stomach reading it. The articles were written by men but directed at women, as if they were qualified to know what a woman might want to read. In fact, the entire magazine was produced—idiotically—by men. When Viola had first inquired about writing for them, they’d firmly informed her they did not hire women. Furthermore, they’d seemed horrified by the prospect. One would have thought she was some sort of monster instead of the very audience they were trying to reach.
On a lark, she’d tried again a month later. If they only hired men, she’d give them what they wanted.
She went the second time as Samuel Darius Tavistock, bachelor extraordinaire with an inside look on the happenings of the Wicked Duke, London’s most notorious tavern owned by two dukes and frequented by all walks of society, from the peerage right on down to the blacksmith seated beside Viola. The publisher had delighted in Tavistock’s idea for “Observations on Gentlemen,” and the column had appeared monthly for the past two years.
While it gave her the opportunity to writesomething, it wasn’t what Viola wanted to be doing. She wanted to write something important.
She’d started a dozen manuscripts and hadn’t finished one. She’d drafted pamphlets addressing voting inequality and the steep divide between wealthy landowners and impoverished workers, but those had gone unpublished. Perhaps it was time she considered publishing them on her own. Surely Val would help her.
Or not.
Her pamphlets could potentially cause trouble for Val, given his responsibilities in the House of Lords. If anyone knew the Duke of Eastleigh’s sister wrote and published pamphlets advocating reform, there would be a scandal. And never mind how it might affect Val or Viola. Their grandmother would suffer a fit of apoplexy.
Returning to Langford’s comment, Viola had to admit he was right. She did write nonsense. Not in the sense that it was fictional, but itwassilly in the larger scheme of things. Who cared how gentlemen behaved when they were together in a tavern?
A pair of gentlemen came in to the chorus of “Caldwell!” and “Sir Humphrey!” Members of Parliament, they were two of many MPs who frequented the Wicked Duke. Instead of sitting, they went to the bar where Doyle, the barkeep, gave them each an ale.
Caldwell, a tall, thin man with sharp blue eyes, always made Viola think of a predator. He seemed to assess every situation for vulnerability; at least that was how he made her feel. Sir Humphrey was far more affable, often joking and eager to make those around him laugh. He softened Caldwell’s edges, making the man somewhat palatable, and since they were nearly always together, Viola had often wondered if that was the reason Caldwell had befriended him.
Sir Humphrey turned toward the table. “Evening, lads. Good to see you, Tavistock. Seems as though it’s been a while. Must be time for another column. Let’s see if I can think of something sensational for you to include.” He tapped his finger against his thin lips.
“I’m merely observing,” Viola said. “If you tell me something outright, it’s not quite as authentic.” And yet he did it every single time she saw him. Clearly, he was angling for a mention in the column. Perhaps she’d satisfy his desperation this month. “Unless it’s something the readers of theLadies’ Gazettesimplymustknow.”
“The Viscount Orford is looking for a wife.” Sir Humphrey waggled his brows. “You heard it from me first.”
