Page 31 of One Night of Scandal
Viola’s hands shook. Jack could not have done such a thing. It was impossible. He was trying to help her find out what had happened.
Was he, really?
He’d tried to convince her to stop the investigation. The other night at Brooks’s, he steered her from the club before she’d had a chance to speak with anyone beyond Pennington. It was as if he was trying to control the inquiry. Which made sense if he was to blame.
Viola felt ill.
“What’s that about?” Val asked.
She quickly folded the missive and set it in her lap. “Someone suggesting I write about them.” Plenty of men at the Wicked Duke had tried to get her to do that.
Val chuckled. “I suppose some people like notoriety. Just keep me out of your column.”
“I always do. Though I plan to mention your marriage and how blissful you seem. I’m afraid I can’t help myself.”
A laugh spilled from Val’s lips, and he nodded. “I suppose there’s no harm in that. In truth, there’s never any harm in your column—you are universally kind when you write about others.”
She thought of what could happen to the MP when she wrote about him. Only he wasn’t just a nameless MP anymore. He was Jack Barrett, if the letter in her lap were to be believed. “I will be there tonight.” She had to go. It was the best opportunity for her to see Jack. And shehadto see him.
“I’ll stop in later,” he said. “See you then.” He bent down and bussed her cheek, then departed.
Viola unfolded the letter and read it again. And again. After the fifth time, she had it committed to memory. Gone was her shock and dismay, replaced by anger and a sense of absolute betrayal.
Reason told her there was a chance this wasn’t true. Was it reason? Or was it something far more foolish, such as the way she felt about him?
And how was that? She’d already determined love was out of the question, that she was merely attracted to Jack. That was an inconvenience she could—and would—overlook. She had to because she was in pursuit of the truth.
Right now, he was the primary obstacle in her way.
Jack trudged into the Wicked Duke at nearly ten. Bone weary after a day of debates, he probably should have gone home. Instead, he’d talked himself into stopping for an ale. The tavern was, sort of, on his way to King Street.
“Barrett!”
He raised his hand in greeting and was about to sit down in his usual spot when his gaze connected with that of Viola, rather, Tavistock. She sat in the corner with a few other men and was clearly aware of the moment he’d walked inside. Her eyes were glued to him, her jaw tense.
Something was wrong.
Mary handed him a mug of ale. “Good evening,” she said. She batted her eyelashes and managed to graze his arm with her breast as she moved past him.
Frowning, he pushed her from his mind and looked back to Viola, who was still watching him. He inclined his head toward the rear of the tavern, hoping she would understand to meet him in the storage room.
He went into the private salon and casually made his way to the closet where he’d fixed Viola’s sideburns last week. Inside the tiny room, he set his tankard on a shelf.
A few moments later, she came inside, closing the door behind her.
Being alone with her in the close, dimly lit space, he was catapulted back to the hack the other night when they’d kissed. Heat and desire pulsed through him, and he wondered if he’d maybe misread that anything was wrong. Perhaps she was as eager to kiss him again as he was her.
He moved toward her—it took only a step—and she flattened herself against the door. Reaching into her coat, she pulled out a folded piece of parchment, which she handed to him.
“Explain this, please,” she said shortly. “If you can.”
Unease crept across his shoulders as he took the paper. Moving to the small lantern affixed to the wall and its meager light, he held up the letter and read. Anger and incredulity warred in his brain.
Dropping the letter to his side, he turned to face her. “This isn’t true.”
“You weren’t at that meeting at the Crown and Anchor?”
“I—” Dammit. “I was. Not at a meeting, but I was at the Crown and Anchor that night. People congregate there for a variety of reasons. I certainly wasn’t there to orchestrate a plot to kill the prince.”
