Page 52 of One Night of Scandal
Viola looked up from the table where she’d been pouring out ideas about a book. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been scratching the pen across the parchment. “I’m…writing.” Grandmama would tell her writing a novel was a waste of time, especially now that she was getting married.
She was getting married.
Last night had been transformative. She’d truly felt she’d been home in Jack’s arms. The thought of not marrying him made the air leave her lungs and a hole open up in the vicinity of her heart.
Because she loved him. Now she knew—and was ready to admit it—and in hindsight, she felt like a fool. She’d been falling in love with him for a fortnight now, and she could only hope he’d been doing the same with her. She’d almost told him last night, but what if he didn’t love her in return? He clearly cared for her and he was going to marry her, but was it the same as this overwhelming…passion she had for him? Every moment away from him was like an eternity, and every moment with him was joy.
“Is it a love letter?” Grandmama asked.
Viola snapped her gaze to her grandmother and caught the end of a rare, faint smile. “No, it is not a love letter.”
“I assumed it was. Your lovesickness is clear. I am glad the wedding is happening soon.” She stood from her chair. “Time for my nap.”
She passed Blenheim, who inclined his head as she left the library. The butler brought a letter to Viola. “This arrived for you from His Grace, my lady.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Blenheim.”
Tearing open the missive, Viola saw there was a second letter tucked inside. She read the first one, from Val, which said the other had arrived at the Wicked Duke for Tavistock. Viola’s pulse twitched and her heart began to pound as she opened the second letter.
Dear Tavistock,
Come to The Black Hare on Villers Street at three o’clock if you want to lern the identity of the informer within the Spenseans.
She frowned at the paper. The handwriting was unfamiliar—it was not the same as the previous letter addressed to Tavistock. This one was rather sloppy with ink splotches and contained spelling errors. She assumed he meant Villiers Street.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was scarcely two. If she hurried, she could make it. And yet, she shouldn’t go alone. Perhaps Jack could meet her. She’d send a note to him at Westminster asking him to meet her at The Black Hare.
What if he didn’t receive the note in time? Or what if he couldn’t get away? She’d go, and if he didn’t arrive, she’d leave. There could be no harm in that.
Grabbing a new piece of parchment, she dashed off the note, then stood and went into the entrance hall. “Blenheim, this must be delivered to Westminster immediately. To Mr. Jack Barrett.”
He took the missive with a nod. “I’ll dispatch a footman at once.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, then hurried upstairs to don her Tavistock costume. And she’d thought last night had been the last occasion she’d do so.
For the first time, she dreaded the prospect of binding her breasts, flattening her hair so the wig would fit, and gluing the whiskers to her cheeks. Hopefully,thiswould be the last time.
It was nearly three when the hired hack arrived on Villiers Street just down from The Black Hare. Viola asked the driver to stay for a few minutes and gave him extra coin to do so. He agreed, but said he wouldn’t wait all day.
She scanned the pavement and the other side of the street for Jack but didn’t see him. Pacing, she watched for another hack. Perhaps he’d gone into The Black Hare.
Walking toward the tavern, she hesitated outside the door. She shouldn’t go in, not without him. Instead, she tried to peer in the window, but it was dingy and she couldn’t identify any of the people inside.
Frustrated and disappointed because it looked like she wasn’t going to learn the identity of the informer, she turned and started back toward her hack. Suddenly, strong arms grabbed her and pulled her into the narrow alley beside the pub. But that was all she saw, for a sack came down over her head, plunging her into darkness.
She started to yell—no, it was a scream, a feminine scream, and she didn’t care. A hand came over her mouth, silencing her.
“Christ, Tavistock sounds like a woman!” Her captor tightened his grip. “Keep quiet, or we’ll have to shoot you.”
“We will?” This was a new voice. There were two of them.
“Yes!” the first one hissed.
While they argued, they dragged her, presumably through the alley. They each held one of her arms, and one of them kept his hand over her mouth. She heard a door open, and they pushed her roughly inside. Then they hauled her up a flight of stairs, but it was too awkward for the one man to keep his hand on her mouth. She started to scream again, and the man above her on the stairs hit her. She stumbled back, but the man below her caught her.
“Bloody hell!” the man holding her cried.
“Keep him—or her—quiet, or I will shoot him. Or her.”
