The Taste of Temptation Page 4

  “It was an improvement upon my engagement announcement. That only made it to the society pages in the back,” she said.

  His lips twitched. “If you thought you could escape further scrutiny by moving to Edinburgh, you were mistaken. The newspapermen here are just as curious, and you’ll still be a novelty. Some will simply report whatever will sell the most papers.”

  “And you won’t?” she asked with a laugh. “Forgive me if I’m not filled with confidence about how well you’ll keep your word.”

  He inclined his head. “But I come offering you a deal.”

  “ ‘Deal?’ ” Michael asked, his interest clearly piqued regarding the possibility of money.

  Elsie hit her husband softly on the arm with her fan.

  “I believe we could come to an agreement,” said Moray to her brother.

  “You may address yourself to me, Mr. Moray. I am more than capable of making my own decisions,” Caroline said.

  Moray squared his shoulders and faced her, his expression a touch contrite. “My apologies for presuming that your brother might represent your interests. News of your arrival will make the papers. The only reason that it hasn’t thus far is because no one else has the informants that I do.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?” she asked.

  “I would like to offer you a choice: give my newspaper, the Lothian, an exclusive story about the circumstances surrounding your lawsuit and your life since then, or prepare for the Tattler to cover your arrival here in full detail.”

  “That isn’t much of a choice,” she said.

  “But it is. You can control the story from the beginning or be prepared for the possibility that it will run you to the ground.”

  She gritted her teeth, not wanting to concede his point that a degree of control might be welcome. Not that it would make any difference. The press had made her life a living hell for months and showed no remorse.

  “Why do you suppose there’s anything about my jilting that hasn’t already been reported in excruciating detail?” she asked.

  He leaned in. “Call it instinct, but well-bred English ladies don’t often choose to leave London for Edinburgh on a whim.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “I would never talk to your newspaper—or anyone else’s.”

  Moray’s eyes flashed, and she could have sworn she felt the air crackle with the danger of him. “You’ll find, Miss Burkett, that I can be very persuasive.”

  “Don’t try to intimidate me, Mr. Moray. Bigger men than you have attempted and lost.”

  “I say, Burkett, it’s been too long!” The voice broke through the tension in their little group, and Moray’s eyes flicked to a point beyond her shoulder.

  “Trevlan,” said Michael, gripping the hand of a man with a shock of golden curls. “You’re back in town?”

  “I just arrived last week, and not a moment too soon. New York is hotter than you’d believe in the summer. Miserable place,” said Trevlan. “Mrs. Burkett, a pleasure as always.”

  Elsie dipped a shallow curtsy. “Mr. Trevlan, may I present Michael’s sister, Caroline?”

  The man glanced at her as though seeing her for the first time, but then he returned his gaze to her. “If your brother had told me he had such a lovely sister living in Edinburgh, I’d never have stepped foot on that boat to New York, Miss Burkett.”

  It was a silly, meaningless compliment, but she smiled prettily at the man because she would soon have to become used to smiling at silly, meaningless compliments once again.

  “I only arrived a few days ago,” she said, ignoring a derisive snort from Moray.

  “Caroline has come to live with us for the time being,” said Elsie. Caroline caught her sister-in-law glancing over at Moray, no doubt weighing whether it was prudent to make an introduction. Michael’s wife’s lips set in a thin line before she said, “And may I also present Mr. Moray, a recent acquaintance of ours.”

  Trevlan looked at Moray like he was a smear of mud stuck to the side of his shoe. “I’m aware of Mr. Moray by reputation.”

  Moray arched a brow. “How extraordinary. I can’t say the same for you.”

  Trevlan made such a horrified face that an unexpected laugh choked Caroline, forcing her to cough into her hand.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Elsie asked.

  “A tickle in my throat, that’s all.”

  “It’s rather stuffy in here, isn’t it, Miss Burkett?” the newspaperman asked, a knowing smile curving his lips. “I imagine it’s all the hot air.”

  Chimes rang out through the lobby, calling them back to their seats and saving her from having to agree with Moray. Instead, he said his good-byes, and their miserable little party broke up.

  She wasn’t so naive that she’d thought leaving London would suddenly blow away the haze of scandal that hung around her, but she’d hoped that here, where she wasn’t known on sight, she might stand a chance.

  That was all she needed: a chance. It’d just take one man’s offer to make her a wife and secure her future.

  Under the veil of her lashes, she glanced over at Trevlan, who was walking along with Michael as they returned for the second half of the play. He was a good-looking enough man, a solid, athletic sort with ruddy cheeks. She could imagine him on the back of a hunter, leaping fences as he urged his horse on in pursuit of a fox.

  “He’s a bachelor,” said Elsie in a low voice.

  She slid a glance at her sister-in-law, who walked at her elbow. “Who?”

  Elsie nodded toward Trevlan. “If you were wondering.”

  For a moment Caroline thought about denying such a thing, but the woman would in all likelihood be just as invested in Caroline’s search for a husband—and a home—of her own. Elsie could be an ally.

  “I was,” she confessed.

  “His family owns a bank and he’s Michael’s acquaintance. Perhaps it’s time to develop a more friendly relationship with the Trevlans,” said Elsie.

  “Who else is there in the family?” asked Caroline.

  “His sister is married and living in Ireland, and his mother spends her time at their country house, Creag Aibhne. I’ll make further inquiries.”

  And so will I, thought Caroline, wondering when she’d hear from Mrs. Sullivan and if the matchmaker would bid her to make a call.

  “So long as he can provide a home for me and isn’t cruel, I hardly care about the particulars,” she said.

  Elsie’s lips tightened. “You might wish to be a little more discerning about your choice of husband. A lifetime is a very long time.”

  Caroline looked up sharply at the warning wrapped in sadness, but before she could press Elsie to elaborate, Trevlan stopped to bid them farewell at their seats.

  “I do hope we’ll see one another again soon, Miss Burkett,” he said as he bowed over her hand.

  She dipped her head. “I would love nothing more, Mr. Trevlan.”

  But as she settled into her seat and the curtain rose again, she found her thoughts wandering not to Trevlan but to Moray. Surreptitiously, she turned her head to steal a look over her shoulder at the seat he’d taken during the first act. It was empty.

  Moray sat in his shirtsleeves, his jacket long ago forgotten and his high collar undone at the throat. His black silk bow tie hung limp and uneven around his neck, threatening to slide off at any moment. If he’d stopped to think about it, he would’ve realized that his hair likely stood on end from being gripped and pushed up every few minutes as he tried to concentrate on editing a long, investigative piece from one of his most talented reporters about the conditions at Calton Jail.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, throwing his pencil down with a clatter. He’d read the same sentence three times in a row, and it hadn’t made any more sense with repeated scrutiny.

  He scrubbed both hands over his face, but nothing could clean Caroline Burkett from his mind. He’d given the order to print the version of the Tattler with h
er story splashed across the front page as soon as he left the theater, and he’d stood watching as the first pages came off the press. It would be a coup—her sudden appearance at the theater would’ve taken all of the other society papers off guard—and he was proud of that.

  “Tell me, Mr. Moray, do you derive enjoyment from annoying the ladies of your acquaintance?”

  He laughed at the memory of it, of her shoulders thrown back in defiance as she squared up to him, a prizefighter prepared to return as many blows as she took. He hadn’t known what to expect of her, but he knew it wasn’t this. There was no waver to her lips or watering of her eyes. Instead, she cloaked herself with a uniquely English haughtiness. She was defiant and proud and he liked her for it.

  And now he was sitting in his office at half past three in the morning, alone, thinking fondly about the woman who’d insulted him and told him that she’d give him no assistance in his efforts to beat the competition and tell her story first.

  He pushed back from his desk and uncorked the bottle of scotch he kept on a cart in the corner for late nights just like this. He’d been blessed with an active mind, but he often struggled to quiet his thoughts enough to sleep. With a glass next to his hand, he’d stay up reviewing the balance books or editing articles until he fell asleep at his desk. The late night would stretch into the early morning, and he’d often wake up to Eva—a woman who was herself chronically underrested—banging the door open in disapproval, for, unlike Eva, he didn’t have someone to go home to every night.

  Instead, he had a cot of sorts tucked away in his office cupboard. Tonight, however, it hardly seemed worth putting the thing out and making up a bed. He’d only toss and turn in it if he did.

  Moray tipped his head back, welcoming the burn of the scotch as the downstairs door to the newspaper office opened and shut. He grabbed a second glass from the cart and poured another two fingers. A few moments later, Gavin tromped through the door, shaking rain from his coat and out of his hair.

  “Bloody cold night for April,” said his friend as he peeled off his wet things and hung them on the hatstand to dry.

  Moray held the glass out. “A dram to warm yourself?”

  “Many thanks,” said Gavin, dropping into the chair facing Moray’s desk, taking a nip, and sighing with contentment. “That’s the stuff.”

  “Why aren’t you at home with Ina?” Moray asked.

  “She’s got it into her head that you might need a friend tonight.”

  Moray laughed. “As welcome as you always are, why would I need a friend?”

  Gavin shrugged. “Damned if I know, but here I am.”

  “Powerless against your wife?”

  “And proud of it too. How did your plan go this evening?” his friend asked.

  “I thought we had this conversation earlier.”

  Gavin chuckled. “And I watched you sit down before the first act and then give your seat up to some woman. Who was she?”

  “Miss Caroline Burkett,” Moray said, drawing out her name as he swirled his scotch in its glass. “The once fiancée to the future Viscount Weatherly and the successful claimant in a recent breach-of-promise case.”

  Gavin gave a low whistle. “I remember reading about the trial. It’s a wonder anyone brings those cases at all.”

  “They usually don’t. It’s far too embarrassing. Letters read out loud. Intentions examined. Most women don’t want to go through the public humiliation of it, but not our Miss Burkett, it would seem.”

  “How much did she win?” Gavin asked.

  “A thousand pounds.” It might sound like a tidy sum, but if he knew anything about legal cases, it was that they were arduous, expensive undertakings. He wouldn’t be surprised if Caroline were in need of funds—just not enough to persuade her to sell to him. Yet.

  “So you want to write about this Miss Burkett?” Gavin asked.

  He shook his head. “Already done. She’s the Tattler’s main story tomorrow.”

  Gavin huffed but, to his credit, didn’t say anything further. Moray knew his friend didn’t fully approve of the Tattler, choosing instead to confine his work to editing the Lothian.

  “I told her that I wanted to give her the chance to tell her story before Ross or Freidman or any of the other hacks in this city can get ahold of it. I suggested she speak to the Lothian,” Moray said.

  “What did she say?”

  “She said no.”

  Gavin burst out laughing. “The man who can always get the story can’t get this one?”

  “We’re still in the early stages of negotiation,” grumbled Moray.

  Gavin threw his head back and laughed harder. “Oh, I would have loved to see that. Jonathan Moray, Edinburgh’s kingmaker with the most influential paper in town, cut down by a notorious woman. That must’ve been something.”

  It had been, and what was worse was that the part of Moray that could separate business from the personal respected her for turning him down cold. When faced with the press, most people’s determination dissolved like sugar in water. They were either impressed with the idea of seeing their name in print or threatened by the unspoken possibility that he might expose a part of their lives they didn’t wish their friends and family, neighbors, or acquaintances to know about.

  Not Caroline Burkett. She’d crossed her arms and stared him down, bolder than most men he knew. She’d stood up to him and told him in no uncertain terms to, essentially, go hang, and her courage in doing so was a quality he could admire greatly.

  “What headline did you run?” Gavin asked.

  “ ‘Lovelorn Lass Flees London for Scottish Sanctuary, Stuns in Society Debut,’ ” he said, and then drained the last of his spirits.

  “Well,” Gavin said, placing his glass on Moray’s polished walnut desk, “if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be heading home to my wife. You should do the same.”

  “No wife to be had at my home,” said Moray.

  “You could remedy that.”

  He laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like Ina.”

  “I have the good fortune of having married a woman who’s far smarter than I. You should try it,” said Gavin.

  “Not likely.”

  They said their good-byes, and Moray peered around the dimly lit office. Gavin was right. He should go home. He’d spent too many late nights here in the past month. He was starting to forget the last time he’d spent a full night in bed rather than just breezing in and out for a fresh change of clothes and a shave, his valet, Jesper, looking on with silent disapproval at his bachelor habits.

  At least Jesper could rest easier knowing that Moray’s friends kept a close eye on him.

  What friends? There’d been no mistaking the tightness of Miss Burkett’s lips when he’d asked about those she’d left behind in London. He knew what a lady risked in bringing a breach-of-promise lawsuit against a former fiancé. The invitations would’ve dropped off. Her acquaintances would have stopped calling. Some might even have cut her. In all likelihood, she would’ve been isolated against her will.

  He went to a stack of newspapers. There were at least two weeks’ worth of the Lothian in there, since copies of it were delivered every morning to his office for Eva and him to peruse until a boy came and cleared them all away. He thumbed through them to glance at the mastheads, knowing what he was looking for.

  “Ah,” he said, flipping the late edition from four days ago open to the fourth page. It was a small item, but it would do.

  Rooting around in his desk, he found a pair of black-handled iron scissors and cut the article out. Then he scribbled a note and stuffed it in an envelope with the clipping. He addressed the envelope to Miss Caroline Burkett, 63 Cumberland Street. At this point there was no use in keeping up the pretense that he hadn’t checked up on where she was staying or on the activities of her family.

  A blob of sealing wax and the note was ready to be sent off. He let the wax cool and dropped the envelope into the tray on his desk. His secretary, U
glow, would collect it for the newspapers’ staff of runners in the early morning.

  At last, Moray pulled his jacket on, dimmed the gaslights, and went off to seek his bed.

  Chapter Four

  LOVELORN LASS FLEES LONDON FOR SCOTTISH SANCTUARY, STUNS IN SOCIETY DEBUT

  Dedicated readers of this fine journal—or of any newspaper in Britain—will remember the curious case of Miss B—.

  Two years ago, the lady was so bold as to brandish the weapon of the law after she was thrown over in her beloved’s quest for a bride whose father’s deep pockets might supplement what London’s most indiscreet gossips whisper is a quickly dwindling fortune—not that we would ever listen to such tittle-tattle.

  Now, the Hon. J— W—, a future viscount, might have his American heiress, but our English rose and her breach-of-promise suit cost him £1,000 and months of embarrassment. It was, no doubt, sweet revenge for such a show of ungentlemanly avarice.

  Now we can report that the defiant Miss B— has chosen to make our fair city her home. The blushing beauty was spotted disembarking from a train at Waverley Station just this week. She took no time in announcing her intention of gracing Edinburgh with her lovely presence, arriving at a performance of The Misanthrope at the Scottish National Theater, wearing a dress of light green silk trimmed with a collar of lace. We are told her appearance enraptured more than one gentleman in attendance—a fortunate thing for a lady who so recently shed her engagement.

  The reason for the lady’s mysterious retreat from smoky, crowded London to the freshness of Scotland’s heather-strewn hills remains a mystery. Still a “Miss” despite her beauty, perhaps she is in search of a prince of a man to sweep her off her feet as the Hon. J— W—never did. Or maybe she seeks a kind of sanctuary that only Scotland can offer. This reporter promises to continue to dig to find the definitive answer from the lips of the lady herself.

  By this time next week, we have no doubt that Miss B—’s appearance in Edinburgh will be on the tongue of every one of our loyal readers, and you may remember that you read it here first!