The Taste of Temptation Page 5

  —NEW TOWN TATTLER

  Caroline had stared at the New Town Tattler that had been sitting next to Elsie’s plate when she came down to breakfast for a full five minutes before gingerly picking it up. Now she felt a little light-headed as she read the last line of the article. Just as Mr. Moray had promised, it was all there. The embarrassing reminder that she’d been cast off for Miss Emily Cunningham and the deep pockets of the Newport Cunninghams. The lawsuit and the spectacle that it had made of her. Her arrival in Edinburgh. Her attendance at the theater the previous night. The speculation and rumor. Even the shade of her blasted dress was there.

  It’s happening all over again.

  “Caroline,” said Elsie carefully, “you’re very pale. Was I wrong not to hide the paper?”

  Caroline folded the offending publication with a series of efficient snaps and set it down next to her plate as though it didn’t matter to her one whit.

  “No, not at all. It’s good to know that Mr. Moray doesn’t make idle threats,” she said.

  “The cheek of that man. He should be strung up in front of the prison,” muttered Michael over his newspaper. It was the Lothian Herald-Times, Caroline noticed. Moray’s other paper.

  “I simply don’t understand what he thinks he’ll gain by reporting on your comings and goings,” said Elsie, who, to her credit, seemed far more sympathetic to Caroline’s situation than her husband.

  Caroline sighed. “He hopes to whip up attention again. It was a frenzy in London until the judgment.”

  A frenzy she’d had to endure for far too long, and one she hoped never to experience again.

  As though reading her thoughts, Elsie leaned forward and covered Caroline’s hand with hers. “We should’ve come down.”

  “There was no point. There wasn’t anything that could be done once Caroline got herself into that mess,” Michael said.

  “It was Mamma who filed the suit without my consent. I tried to have it withdrawn, but the newspapers already had hold of the story,” said Caroline.

  Her brother huffed. “Still. You could’ve done more.”

  Swallowing down her rising ire, Caroline picked up her knife and scraped a bit of butter over her toast. Michael dropped the pages of the Lothian and frowned at her plate.

  “Is it really necessary to butter your bread quite so loudly?” he asked.

  She reached for a little more butter. “I’m afraid I don’t know how else one is supposed to butter toast.”

  “This morning has been an exception because you are still very new, but in this household, it is understood that conversation—and noise—is not welcome at the breakfast table. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Elsie’s expression remained in its neutral, pleasant state, but a thinness appeared as her lips pressed harder into a smile. “You brother isn’t much for conversation in the morning.”

  Caroline bit into her toast and munched thoughtfully. “But why? You have such long hours at the bank, I’d think it would be pleasant to share the start of the day together.”

  “When you’re married, you may set the rules in your own household,” he said.

  “I actually wanted to speak to you about that,” she said. When he didn’t drop the paper, she batted down the top right edge. “It’s not polite to ignore a lady when she’s speaking to you.”

  “You’re my sister.”

  “Still a lady,” she said brightly, making a note to remember that chipperness seemed to irritate her brother far more than a surly demeanor.

  Michael sighed and folded the broadsheet, dropping it next to his plate of half-eaten eggs and beefsteak. “I’m listening.”

  “Now that I’m in Edinburgh, I can tell you that I will be marrying,” she said.

  “Caroline, that’s wonderful news!” Elsie cried.

  Michael only stared at her. “You operate quickly.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Michael,” she said with a scoff. “I haven’t decided on who that man will be yet.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Oh, I see. You’re hunting,” said Elsie, immediately understanding.

  “ ‘Hunting’ is such a mercurial term for it,” said Caroline, sipping her tea. “I’d prefer to think of it as interviewing, assessing, and deciding.”

  Elsie nodded in agreement. “Much more proper.”

  Michael snorted. “You sound like the men of business who walk into my office every day.”

  “In some ways I am. I’m reviewing a project, judging the risk of taking it on, and deciding whether it’s worth the investment of my time.”

  “And why are you announcing this to us now?” he asked.

  She raised a brow. “First, you and Elsie are my hosts for the foreseeable future, but more important, you’re my brother and blood. You should know my intentions. I imagine you’ll also be required to play some role in my impending engagement. You’re all the family I have.”

  Never mind that Caroline found the prospect of any man asking Michael for permission to marry her absurd given how little interest her brother had taken in her life recently. It was how things were done, and she had no interest in deviating from convention. That was the sort of thinking that had landed her in a mess in the first place.

  “Second, I may need both of your help.” Elsie nodded, but Michael continued to stare at her blankly. “You know, figuring out which gentlemen are of good character. Who I should avoid. That sort of thing.”

  For a moment she thought Michael might agree, but instead he pushed back from the table. “Elsie is more suited to that task than I am. Has the post come?” he asked his wife.

  She shook her head. “There seems to have been a delay.”

  “Nothing is right this bloody morning,” he muttered before saying loudly, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to leave for the bank.”

  “Don’t mind him,” said Elsie as soon as the morning room door shut. “Mornings aren’t his favorite time.”

  Caroline snorted. “I’m struggling to recall a time of day when Michael isn’t a bit of a bear.”

  Remembering herself, she slid a glance over to Elsie, who was watching her with open consideration.

  “I apologize. I shouldn’t irritate him,” said Caroline.

  But if she’d thought Elsie would take her to task, she was sorely mistaken. Instead, a tiny smile tipped the edges of her sister-in-law’s mouth. “It’s rather difficult not to irritate him sometimes. Now, what can I do to help you in your search for a husband?”

  Before Caroline could answer, Mrs. James, the Burketts’ salt-and-pepper-haired housekeeper, bustled in and bobbed a curtsy to Elsie. “The post arrived, ma’am.”

  “Was Mr. Burkett able to peruse it?” Elsie asked, holding out her hand for the mail.

  “He took his letters with him on the way out the door,” said Mrs. James.

  “Thank you, Mrs. James. Would you please tell Conroy that I’ll be ready within the hour?”

  When Mrs. James had left, Elsie said, “I have some shopping that I must take care of on George Street. Then I must make some calls. I thought that might be the best time to introduce you around.”

  Caroline was happy that she’d chosen to wear her blue wool day dress trimmed with pink ribbon and white lace cuffs at the sleeves. Her mother had insisted they purchase it three or four seasons ago after Julian’s mother had commented on how often she’d seen Caroline in her other day dresses. Avoiding being shamed by the resigned yet disapproving Weatherly family had, ironically, been her mother’s greatest motivation. Until the Weatherlys crossed the Burketts.

  “Since Mr. Moray has made sure that anyone who reads the Tattler knows that I’m in town, I might as well go calling today,” said Caroline. Then she added, “Who does read the Tattler?”

  “Everyone, I’m afraid,” said Elsie as she began to sort through the letters.

  Caroline’s stomach flipped. “Wonderful. I don’t know if Michael warned you, but my financial situation is . . . delicate. I don’t know th
at I’ll be much fun on a shopping excursion.”

  Elsie paused and looked up from her task. “Caroline, I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I couldn’t care the littlest bit whether you have a fortune or not.”

  Caroline thought back to the sly, probing questions Michael had asked her first via post and then when she’d arrived about the settlement from the lawsuit. She could tell that he was certain there was more money left than she was letting on.

  “The money from the settlement mostly went to pay the barristers. There’s not much left,” she said.

  “Then we shall have to be grateful that your brother is more generous than you might think with pin money,” said Elsie.

  “He is?” Caroline asked before she could think to hide her surprise.

  “He likes to see me outfitted by the same dressmaker the wife of the owner of his bank patronizes. Sometimes I feel a little like a china doll put on display,” said Elsie.

  Caroline sat back in her chair, absorbing that bit of information. The picture she was forming of her brother’s marriage was beginning to worry her.

  “Here,” said Elsie, holding out two envelopes. “These came for you.”

  Caroline took the letters and turned them over. One had her address written in an aggressive, slashing script scribbled hastily and bearing no stamp, meaning it must have been delivered by hand. The other was addressed in elegant, looping handwriting. Her nerves perked up but so did her excitement. She hadn’t expected a response in a week, let alone a day, but if she wasn’t mistaken . . .

  Caroline hurriedly sliced open the beautifully written envelope with an unused knife.

  Dear Miss Burkett,

  I am always happy to help a young lady in need. I suspect you will find the gentlemen of Edinburgh more sympathetic to your situation than you might expect.

  It would give me great pleasure to welcome you at my home at eleven o’clock tomorrow if that suits.

  Yours,

  Moira Sullivan

  The matchmaker would see her.

  “Something’s made you happy,” said Elsie. “Have you had news from a friend?”

  “Even better,” said Caroline, her grin stretching to an impossible width. “I wrote to Mrs. Moira Sullivan yesterday, and she’s agreed to see me.”

  “Mrs. Sullivan,” said Elsie, a little surprised. “When you said that you wished to marry, you weren’t leaving anything to chance.”

  Caroline shook her head. “I’m twenty-seven and have a reputation. I felt professional assistance was necessary. Do you know her?”

  “Only a little. It seems that everyone at some point receives an invitation to one of Mrs. Sullivan’s salons. I’m given to understand that she enjoys entertaining a mix of people, but Michael rather disapproves of her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She was a dancing mistress in London before she married Mr. Sullivan. That was more than thirty years ago, and hardly anyone cares now.”

  “How did she manage that?” asked Caroline.

  Elsie laughed. “She married an absurdly rich man and when he died she became an absurdly wealthy woman. There were no children, and as he’d made the bulk of his fortune speculating in the funds, he could settle it on her as he liked.”

  “What is she like?” asked Caroline.

  “I suspect the two of you will get on well,” said Elsie, a sparkle in her eye.

  “She asked me to call tomorrow at eleven o’clock,” said Caroline.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” asked Elsie.

  Caroline hesitated. Her sister-in-law had been nothing but gracious and kind to her since she’d arrived—unlike Michael—but the letter had been addressed only to her. She didn’t want to put a foot wrong with the woman she was hanging her entire future on the very first day of their acquaintance.

  “I’ll go alone, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Of course, but I shall want to know everything about the visit if you’re willing to tell me.”

  Caroline nodded.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Elsie. “If you’ll just excuse me, I should have a word with Cook about supper before we leave.”

  Caroline smiled after her sister-in-law and turned her attention to her unopened letter. The sealing wax snapped with a satisfying crack, and she flipped the flap of the envelope open. When she unfolded the cheap cream writing paper inside, a cutout newspaper article fluttered to the table.

  With a frown, she glanced at the paper she still held in her hand.

  Better no friends than friends like these.

  She flipped the paper over, looking for a signature, but there was none. Her eyes drifted to the article.

  MAN TIED TO ROYAL MILE LAMPPOST AFTER WAGER GOES AWRY

  A man was found strapped to a lamppost on the Royal Mile Tuesday morning, according to the Edinburgh constabulary.

  The man, who has since been identified as Alistair Anders, was discovered at approximately 2:30 a.m. by a constable walking along the road in front of the Merry Monk at Milne’s Court.

  Anders, who was in an advanced stage of inebriation at the time of his discovery, told a magistrate the following day that he had been at the Merry Monk with friends and had lost a wager. As he was unable to pay, his friends borrowed a length of rope from the pub, carried him out to the lamppost, and lashed him to it.

  Anders has been fined 10 shillings for public intoxication. The magistrate has indicated that his friends shall face a similar fine once they are detained by the constabulary.

  A chuckle escaped Caroline’s lips. Then the chuckle became a snort, and another, and she threw back her head in a wholehearted laugh, the likes of which hadn’t overcome her in a long time. The thought of the poor man tied up to a lamppost was simply too ridiculous for words.

  She had no doubt that the clipping had come from Mr. Moray. It excused none of his behavior. She was still angry that he’d blithely thought he could charm her into agreeing to sell her story. She didn’t want him sniffing around, trying to drag her back into the mess she’d left behind in England. Still, she couldn’t deny that he’d made her laugh.

  “Oh, you awful man,” she said, even as she continued to chuckle on her way up the stairs to her room.

  Chapter Five

  Dearest Cousin Caroline,

  There is no question of where you shall stay if your expedition to Edinburgh should not secure you the husband you so desire and you find your brother’s home intolerable. There is always a place for you in Holtby.

  Barton Cottage isn’t much and it will be, perhaps, a squeeze with both of us living here. However, the damp has much improved since I had the slate repaired. Not the entire roof, because of the expense, you’ll understand, but a few of the worst tiles. It should hold for a few seasons at the very least, but by then there will be two of us to shoulder the burden. It is fortunate that you won your trial, for if you hadn’t you should have hardly any money at all!

  Do let me know how you get on at your brother’s. It has been an age since I’ve seen much of anyone in the family.

  Yours faithfully,

  Henrietta Blackwood

  At precisely half eleven on Friday, Caroline pulled a handkerchief out from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed at the thin sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. She was nervous, and with good reason. She was sitting in the drawing room of the woman she hoped would change her life.

  On one wall of the tastefully decorated room done up in cream and light blue hung two Dutch paintings of flowers spilling out over their vases, and above the tiled fireplace was a sketch-like oil painting of a woman in a white dress sitting in a field of tall grass, her bonnet discarded next to her. Caroline had never seen anything quite like the woman in the dress, and she edged closer on the sofa to peer up at the painting.

  The opening of the door, however, snapped her to attention, and she hurriedly stuffed her handkerchief back into her sleeve as a tall lady glided into the room carrying a red leather book.
>
  “Miss Burkett, I presume,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  Caroline, who had risen in anticipation of curtsying to the matchmaker, instead took Mrs. Sullivan’s outstretched hand. “Thank you for answering my letter.”

  The matchmaker indicated she should sit. “I should be thanking you for agreeing to visit with me. I was intrigued by your note. You said Mrs. Grover referred you to me.”

  “Yes,” said Caroline, remembering the woman who’d pulled her aside at one of the last parties she’d had the courage to attend. “She showed me a kindness when very few people would.”

  “You were treated unfairly in the press, and for that I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “Although it appears you’ve recaptured the imagination of our city’s newspapermen.”

  Caroline swallowed her sharp, defensive retort. Mrs. Sullivan had offered to help her—at least Caroline hoped she would. The articles had nothing to do with the matchmaker.

  Still, she couldn’t help her fury at the headlines that had greeted her that morning. It hadn’t been enough that, true to Elsie’s word, every single woman she’d called on the previous day appeared to read the Tattler faithfully. That morning when she woke up, she found that the rather restrained Scottish Lady’s Companion had settled on “Jilted Beauty Shines at National Theater in Society Debut”—generous, for she’d never been considered one of the fresh-faced belles the year she’d come out. The Edinburgh Social Standard had led its front page with “Future Viscount’s Abandoned Bride Braves Heartbreak at Theater,” while the Thistle & Tittle had splashed “Jilted Jenny Announces Triumphant Return to Society After £1,000 Judgment” across the front page and dug up an old etching of the trial.

  “They will lose interest swiftly as long as you fail to give them anything interesting to write about,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  “I don’t intend on doing anything interesting at all, except marrying,” said Caroline firmly, even though she feared the matchmaker’s reassurances were hollow.

  It was all Moray’s fault. He’d threatened her with exposure and followed through. If he hadn’t published such an absurd, baiting article about her arrival, she might have merely merited an item buried deep in the columns devoted to the balls and other happenings around the city. Now she’d become a spectacle all over again, and if he was to be believed, coverage of her wouldn’t stop.