The Lady in Pearls: Daughters of Scandal (The Marriage Maker Book 13) Read online

  The Lady in Pearls

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Thirteen

  Daughters of Scandal

  Lauren Smith

  This is a Scarsdale Publishing Scarsdale Voices romance and is part of The Marriage Maker series written by Tarah Scott and Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

  The Lady in Pearls The Marriage Maker Book Thirteen: Daughters of Scandal

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Smith

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Dreams2Media

  Cover Art: Period Images

  Editor: Casey Yager

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  A Most Unusual Scandal

  Chapter One

  Strange, how one’s future can hang upon a single moment. One can feel trapped, frozen, while the world spins wildly by. Daphne Westfall was caught in such a moment, unable to move forward now that her life had been turned upon its head. Ever since her father’s death, she dwelt in a nightmare that had no visible end.

  She shivered on the snowy sidewalk, hand extended toward passersby, praying someone would have mercy on her. They dodged her with lips curled in sneers of disgust. Another gust of wind blew in from the river and whipped her threadbare skirt about her legs. She stamped her feet and then pressed her legs tightly together, hoping to conserve warmth, but she still couldn’t feel her toes. Her hands were dry and cracked, her once clean nails layered with the grime of the streets.

  Tears stung her eyes. Just a few pennies before nightfall would keep her out of the White House Brothel in Soho. She bit her lip and mentally fled from that option. To go there would finally break her.

  Her aching stomach rumbled. But she had to be pragmatic if she hoped to fill her aching stomach, warm her shivering body beside a fire and sleep in a warm bed.

  Daphne resisted the urge to touch the secret pocket in her dress, where she’d hidden her mother’s pearls. Another woman might have sold the pearls to eat, but Daphne couldn’t bring herself to do it. The single, elegant strand was all she had left of her mother, the only thing the courts of England hadn’t been able to pry from her fingertips as they carried her father to prison.

  When her father had been convicted of counterfeiting, Sir Richard Westfall’s estate had been seized by the Crown and his property sold to settle his debts to his victims. Daphne had been cast out into the cold with nothing but a single dress and her mother’s pearls tucked away in a hidden pocket.

  “Please—please, sir,” she whispered to a passerby. “A few pennies…”

  The man spat on her open, trembling palm. She shrank back with a wince and hastily wiped his spit off on her gown. More tears escaped as shame threatened to suffocate her.

  Sell the pearls and you won’t face this anymore… a dark voice whispered in her head. But she couldn’t.

  A man and a woman paused on the street a few feet away and stared. Hope surged. She knew that woman. Lady Esther Cornelius, a friend, once.

  Esther stared hard at her, then whispered something to her companion who, although a good distance away, tossed a small pouch of coins. In the past, she would have hidden from a familiar face, ashamed to be seen in such a state, but right now all she could think about was her hunger. To her shame, she leapt at the pouch, landing hard in the icy puddle along the alley. She caught the pouch and clutched it to her chest. When she looked up, Lady Esther and her companion were walking away.

  Daphne sniffed, her nose burning as she tried to keep her tears at bay. How she wished she could curse her father. He loved her, just as she loved him, yet he had destroyed her life, her future…everything.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, shivering and clutching the small pouch to her chest, before she tucked it safely in her skirts and glanced about. Her attention caught on the figure of a tall, handsome man leaning against the wall of a shop across the street. His exquisite clothes and refined appearance marked him for a gentleman.

  Fear crawled up her spine. Why would a gentleman be watching a beggar woman? Perhaps he was not as gentlemanly as he appeared. Would he steal the coins, take her mother’s pearls? She wouldn’t let him. She pushed to her feet and hurried down the street, fighting the urge to run.

  She glanced over her shoulder. He followed on the opposite side of the street. She quickened pace. The man suddenly vanished from view as a crowd of people swept past him. She stopped beside a row of coaches parked along the street close by and scanned the crowd.

  “Miss Westfall.” She started to turn toward that voice when strong fingers seized her arm.

  Her shoulder collided with a hard chest. She cried out. The door of the nearest coach opened and he pulled her inside. She clawed at the masculine arm that held her.

  “Do not scream, Miss Westfall. You are in no danger.”

  Daphne twisted free of his hold and lunged for the door. He yanked her onto the seat opposite him.

  “Miss Westfall, please. I am attempting to render aid.”

  She stilled at his urgency. He was the too-handsome man she had glimpsed across the street. How had he gotten behind her so quickly?

  “Render aid?” she demanded, hating how frightened she sounded. “Kidnapping is not the kind of aid I require.”

  “That’s fortunate, for it’s not the aid I’m offering.” He released her arm and leaned back against the cushion. “My name is Sir Stirling James. Some call me The Marriage Maker.”

  “Marriage maker?” She had never heard of him. “What does this have to do with me?”

  He smiled gently. “Everything.”

  She studied him. His expression lacked pity or lust. Perhaps his aid was nothing more than letting her rest inside a warm coach, away from the icy winds.

  “I know about your father,” Stirling said.

  Daphne tensed. He wasn’t the first man to seek vengeance on her because of her father.

  “Easy, lass,” He lifted a hand. “I’ve no desire to harm you. Allow me to speak. Afterwards, if you don’t wish for my help, I will allow you to return to your position on the street with an extra few pounds for your trouble.”

  Shame heated her face and she glanced away. Never in her life had she believed she would be sitting in a coach with a man discussing her life as a beggar.

  She raised her chin and met his gaze. No threatening shadow darkened his eyes. “Very well. Speak your piece.”

  “I am aware of your father’s crimes,” he said. “Counterfeiting is a serious offense. He’s lucky they didn’t send him to the gallows.”

  Daphne tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.

  “I also know that his conviction resulted in his property being used to repay his victims; at least, those who wer
e members of the peerage.”

  Another painful gulp. She couldn’t speak. That had been the worst indignity. Her father had betrayed friends in society, tainting them with his dishonor. She had not been allowed to hear the more gruesome details from her father’s solicitor, but she had heard whispers that one man had shot himself after being associated with the scandal.

  “I have never believed the sins of the father should pass to his children,” he said. “It is unjust that you should suffer for his crimes. I wish to help you.”

  “How can you?” she asked, feeling strangely numb.

  “Have you noticed how the ton always favors a good marriage? The right union can erase even the worst sins from public memory.” He smiled. “Perhaps even for a daughter of scandal.”

  Daughter of scandal. The man had a way with words. But marriage? No sane man would marry her. Even the shabbiest modistes had refused to employ her as a simple seamstress because her family name was so blackened.

  “But… I have no prospects, no connections. No gentleman would ever—”

  Stirling’s soft chuckle stunned her into silence. “No need to fret, Miss Westfall. I am quite convinced I can find half a dozen men who would consider it a privilege to take you as a wife. If you are agreeable, that is.”

  “Agreeable?” she repeated. Perhaps it was warmer in the coach then she’d realized, for her head began to swim.

  “A marriage auction,” he said. “Polite society doesn’t discuss this form of…courtship, but the general arrangement is this: you meet the interested gentlemen, then they bid for your hand.”

  “Bid?” The word escaped in a frightened squeak.

  Stirling nodded. “The money they bid will be placed in a secure trust for your use. Contracts are signed and a male trustee of your choosing is appointed to ensure your husband honors the terms. This provides you with money to live comfortably. Of course, one hopes, your new husband will offer you even more as his wife.”

  It sounded mad, but... Daphne bit her lip as she considered. An arranged marriage? Women of title and wealth were contracted in marriage to men who offered the best terms. But she wasn’t a woman of wealth. And to be sold into marriage? She stared at the roof of the carriage. Put that way, it sounded little better than the White House Brothel. Still, allowing a stranger to bid on her? Marry her? Could she agree to something so wild?

  “Would…would there be a way to ensure these candidates are not prone to hurting their wives? I could not marry someone who…” She trailed off. She’d learned men could be cruel and abusive if it suited their desires, and she had no wish to give away her relative safety in marriage to a man who would hurt her. She’d seen evidence of that enough when she’d witnessed a woman accosted the other night on the street and robbed of her coins. The man who’d stolen from her had beaten her severely and no one had stepped in to help her because she was a prostitute.

  His expression sobered. “Of course. I will conduct a most detailed interview of the candidates, and you will have my word, only good men will bid upon you.”

  She slid her hand into her dress pocket and stroked the smooth pearls. “You really think men will bid upon a…daughter of scandal?”

  Stirling nodded. “The men will be aware of your situation, and I can assure that they will not judge you for it.”

  Stirling smiled and Daphne was startled at the kindness in his expression. “Not all men judge a woman for her father’s crimes.” A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Especially when she is intelligent—and beautiful.”

  Heat crept up her cheeks. “When must I decide?” she asked.

  “I can give you a week, but I would prefer that you weren’t wandering the streets. You could catch your death. If you agreed now, I can have the auction proceed as early as tomorrow and provide you a warm bed for the night, along with hot food.”

  Her stomach cramped at the mere thought of food. She should fear this stranger’s motives—she should decline and flee, but instinct--or intuition--urged her to trust this man. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Or maybe it was starvation that overrode common sense. “Please, consider accepting now,” he said.

  She studied his earnest face in the dim confines of the coach. “What do you gain by helping me?”

  Stirling didn’t reply immediately, but she noted a hint of melancholy that dimmed the earlier glint in his eyes. “I find that bringing people together, people who suit, gives me purpose. Too many people focus on money and power. I want to create a force for love.” He grinned and suddenly looked years younger. “A tad romantic, I know, but I cannot help myself. I have a certain talent for bringing couples together, and often they end up in love matches.”

  Love... Daphne hadn’t thought of love in so long, she questioned whether such an emotion still existed. Stirling might have a talent for making matches, but she would never be fortunate enough to find love. But a man who cared for her even a little—a man who wanted children… Oh my, she hadn’t considered that possibility. Such a man would provide a life far beyond anything she’d dared hope. For the last several months, she’d felt frozen in a way that had nothing to do with wind and snow . . .unable to move, to change her fate in any way.

  “I…I will do it,” she said at last, her tone strong despite her racing heart.

  “Wonderful! Do you have any possessions we need to fetch, or can we go straight to the house?”

  “I have nothing save what I am wearing,” she admitted, another blush of shame warming her face.

  “Not to worry,” Stirling said, but the sorrow in his eyes was almost too much to bear. She focused on the small window of the coach while he opened the door and gave the driver an address.

  A marriage auction. But what choice had she? She pressed her hand against the pearls hidden in her dress and closed her eyes. The edges of her frozen world seemed to thaw just a bit, and her body warmed with the promise of safety and a chance to live again.

  Chapter Two

  Lachlan Grant strode into the card room of Berkley’s club, scowling at any man who dared appear to think about getting in his way. The coach ride from Edinburgh had been long and tedious and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with foppish Englishmen preening before one another. He didn’t even wish to be out this evening, but remaining alone one moment longer in his brother’s townhouse would have driven him insane.

  No, no longer his brother’s…

  Like everything else in the months since his older brother’s death, that residence still felt like William’s. William’s title, William’s home, William’s life. Lachlan had simply stepped into his boots to fill the void.

  I never wanted to be the Earl of Huntley.

  A bitter taste clung to his tongue and he scowled, his mood blackening further.

  Now he was saddled with a bloody title and all the duties and responsibilities that came attached. He had gained a fortune he’d never wanted, and the price had been the brother he’d treasured most.

  Lachlan scanned the tables, desperate to join any card game, even though his heart rebelled. He felt reckless, angry, and ready to do something utterly foolish--anything to ease the ache in his chest.

  He was the last of the Grant family, for neither he nor William had married. It was one of the reasons they had been so close, only two years apart in age. William had turned thirty a mere six months before he’d passed, and Lachlan had just turned eight and twenty, far too young to lose his brother.

  A burst of laughter from a nearby table drew his focus. A group of young bucks leaned around a Faro table, excited by their winnings. He started toward the table, but someone stepped into his path and he stumbled into the man.

  “My apologies,” he muttered.

  The other man caught him by the shoulders and they both stood back. Lachlan blinked in surprise as he recognized that dark hair and angled chin. “Stirling?” The dark clouds gathering on his inner horizon lifted somewhat.

  “My God, Lachlan!” Sir Stirling James slapped him on the shoulder in gr
eeting. “How long has it been?”

  “At least four months,” Lachlan chuckled.

  His friend sighed but his eyes remained warm. “Four months? That long? You’ve been well, I trust?” This question came more carefully and Lachlan knew why. Stirling had been just as close to William as he was to Lachlan, but he’d been out of the country and had missed the funeral. William’s unexpected death had left many of their friends still coping with his loss.

  “I admit, I have been better.” Lachlan scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “Never wanted to run Huntley Castle. Not that I have a choice now.”

  Stirling nodded, his eyes shadowed. “Come and have a drink. I want your opinion on something.”

  Lachlan followed Stirling. Encountering his old friend had softened his reckless mood. They entered a quiet reading room with a crackling fire and thick plush chairs. After settling, Stirling waved a boy over and ordered two glasses of brandy.

  Lachlan rested his forearms on his knees and leaned close to Stirling. “What can you possibly need my advice on?”

  Stirling met his gaze with a sudden hint of mischief. “I’m holding a marriage auction tomorrow evening. I was hoping you might join us and bid on the bride.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Lachlan, but he sobered when his friend frowned. “What the devil is a marriage auction?”

  His friend chuckled. “It’s exactly as it sounds. I have a lovely young lady staying at my home and I’m inviting some marriage-minded men to meet her and speak with her for a few minutes. Then you bid upon her. The highest bidder takes her as a bride. The money he bids is placed in a special trust for the lady, to be handled by a third party, a man she trusts and chooses.”

  “The women involved are willing participants?”

  Stirling drew back. “What do you take me for?”

  “A far better man than I just implied. I apologize. So, tell me, what is this actually about?”

  “It’s about aiding ladies in distress, women who are desperate for a match. Most men agree to pay a small fortune to secure a bride.”