A Scandalous Deal Read online

  Dedication

  For Michele, Diana, and JB,

  who keep me sane and always make me laugh.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  A Notorious Vow

  About the Author

  By Joanna Shupe

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  “My buildings will be my legacy . . . they will speak for me long after I’m gone.”

  —Julia Morgan, architect of Hearst Castle

  July 1890

  Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean

  Lady Eva Hyde hated boats. Yachts, schooners, steamships, barges . . . all tiny enclosed prisons made of steel and brass and boredom. She preferred a structure on solid ground, tall and wide, one she designed herself. Granted, this floating torture device was a luxury steamship, with all the modern conveniences that entailed, but she’d much rather be on terra firma.

  Stack of drawings in hand, she left her cabin and locked the door behind her. The warm July sun greeted her once she arrived topside. She tilted her face up to the sky, pausing, and the heat sank into her bones, relaxing her a fraction. One day into the voyage and all that she’d left behind in London still pressed down on her shoulders. Her father’s illness, the whispers and stares directed at her . . .

  Look, there is Lady Unlucky.

  Three dead fiancés tended to turn one into a spectacle—not that she’d ever truly fit in before. Her longtime governess had called her a hoyden, saying Eva was more comfortable in mud and dirt than swathed in petticoats. An entirely true statement. Eva had forever been chasing her talented, famous father about, desperate to learn everything she could about buildings and basic construction. Dashed good thing, too, considering how rapidly his mind had deteriorated in the past two years.

  Her father was E. M. Hyde, Lord Cassell, one of England’s premier architects who had designed buildings all over Europe for nearly four decades. Last autumn E. M. Hyde had been approached to design a luxury hotel in New York City, what would end up as the biggest and most modern in America, a crown jewel to be remembered for centuries. Unfortunately, her father’s illness had worsened and he hadn’t been able to design for two years. Oftentimes he didn’t even recognize his only child. Those days broke Eva’s heart.

  However, Eva hadn’t been ready to give up the prestigious and lucrative project. She knew her father’s work inside and out, and she was ready to complete the Mansfield Hotel in his stead, as she’d been doing with his other recent projects. God knew quitting was not an option considering their dwindling finances.

  The only thing to do was to carry on the Hyde legacy so no one would learn of his condition. Of course this meant pretending her work was his, as no one would believe a woman capable of designing a one-room hut, let alone a massive thirteen-story hotel. Yet if it kept a roof over their heads and paid for his care, then pride be damned. Her own career would begin eventually, after her father . . .

  No. She did not want to contemplate that just now.

  She headed toward a deck chair facing the ship’s promenade. Beyond that was the wide expanse of blue ocean, sparkling and shimmering like glass. She was still focused on the water when a small figure darted in front of her. A child. Eva tried to slow down but there was no hope for it—she collided straight into the tiny boy.

  He started to fall so she reached for him, hoping to keep them both from tumbling to the deck. Her grip on her designs slipped, however, and she watched in horror as three of her pages fluttered away in the ocean breeze. “No, no, no!”

  “Sorry, miss,” the boy mumbled and scampered away.

  Eva paid him no mind, panic gripping her insides. Those pages . . . she absolutely had to get them back. They were ideas for the hotel project, ideas on which she had worked terribly hard. A brilliant spark of inspiration that could never be replicated. She darted after the twisting papers, determined not to let them get away.

  She trapped one page under her boot, while the other two blew and flipped along the promenade. After collecting the first paper she hurried to the others. Her lungs froze as they drifted toward the railing—and then they slapped against the leg of a well-dressed man standing there. She blew out a sigh of relief and raced toward him.

  Bizarrely, the man did not move. Never glanced to see what had pressed against his leg. Never reached for the precious papers, the irreplaceable ideas she’d labored over. No, he stood as still as a statue, staring out at the water.

  Heart in her throat, she dove for the man’s leg. She nearly tackled him, bumping into his tall frame and grabbing at his trouser-covered calf like a deranged lunatic, relieved when her fingers closed around the drawings. Oh, thank God.

  She shut her eyes and exhaled. The wooden deck bit into her knees through her skirts and no doubt she’d made a spectacle of herself. As always.

  The man completely ignored her, which both comforted and irritated her. She would appreciate his help in rising. “A hand, sir?”

  He remained perfectly still, other than his throat working as he swallowed. Was he hard of hearing?

  “Good, you are alive. I had worried there for a moment.” She grasped the railing and pulled herself to her feet, after which she smoothed her skirts.

  Not ready to walk away from this puzzle, she took a moment to study him. Little to see from his profile, unfortunately. Around thirty years of age, she guessed. Tall and fit, with dark brown hair tucked under a straw hat that somehow hadn’t blown away. Clean-shaven. Dressed smartly, expensively.

  He still hadn’t acknowledged her, his hands clutching at the wooden rail, and it became a sort of game for Eva. She normally kept her distance from the other passengers when she traveled, taking all her meals in her room to avoid the pity and suspicion when they learned her identity. Often she made up names, assumed a completely different persona to avoid the awkwardness. It was easier. But at this moment, she needed some sort of recognition, some sort of answer for his rudeness.

  Then again, he seemed rather pale.

  Leaning against the railing, she said, “I’ve heard taking gingerroot helps.”

  Nothing. Not a twitch.

  “You know, there’s likely an officer or surgeon on board who carries a supply for sick passengers. I’ll go and find someone—”

  “Not. Sick,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I see. You are attempting to will the nausea away. Does it work?”

  His nostrils flared as he dragged in a series of deep breaths. Then a shake of his head.

  “You may feel better if you go ahead and empty the contents of your stomach over the side.”

  Another shake of his head, more vigorous this time.

  “Has anyone ever informed you of your stubbornness?”

  “Yes,” he wheezed. “Many times.”

  A full sentence. This was progress.

  His coloring still indicated he might be ill at any moment and she started to feel bad for him. He obviously preferred to suffer staunchly, b
ravely. Alone. A soldier on the battlefield, ready to be cut down at any moment for king and country. Sometimes, however, these things really were mind over matter. “Thank goodness,” she said cheerfully. “I did not relish being the bearer of such news. No one wishes to hear of one’s foibles.”

  “Like garrulity?”

  She laughed, not offended in the least. Her second fiancé had said getting information out of a plant was easier than talking to Eva. “I’m afraid you are the only person to lament my loquaciousness.”

  “Lucky me.”

  He had a sharp wit. She liked that. “Give me your hand.”

  His head swung toward her and she had her first full look at his face. The air left her lungs like she’d been punched in the solar plexus. Good heavens.

  He was . . . unexpected. Faces were nothing more than basic construction, with tissue and muscle stretched over bone and cartilage, much like a building’s steel, wood, and plaster. But this was no ordinary face. Strong, bold features, perfectly symmetrical, and patrician bone structure that spoke of great past civilizations. Greek columns and Roman aqueducts. Men who had built, conquered. Discovered and settled.

  Even ill, he had confidence fairly oozing from his pores. “Why?” His gaze swept over her face and red hair, which must have appeared a total fright in the wind.

  “Because I said so.” Not awaiting a reply, she tucked her drawings under one arm, securing them, and peeled his left hand off the railing. She pushed up his sleeve and placed three fingers across his wrist, then centered her thumb below, just over the large tendons there. She began making circular motions, using a little pressure.

  He said nothing for a long moment, just took deep breaths. “What are you doing?” he finally asked.

  “It’s a Chinese practice to rid nausea.” Not that she would explain how she knew this. Most men believed a construction site no place for a lady.

  After several minutes, she reached for his other wrist. Measured then rubbed. He had strong forearms and hands, with veins that popped under golden skin and shifted with her movements. These were working hands. Capable hands. Not the hands of a gentleman, though he was dressed as one.

  Who was this man?

  Though they were hardly touching she could feel him begin to relax. Perhaps this was working after all. “Were you on holiday in England?”

  “Paris, actually. Coming to shop our Ladies’ Mile?”

  She tried not to make a face. They were strangers, so he had no idea she was the daughter of E. M. Hyde. Her ailing father’s work and legacy was the reason for her journey, not that she would confess as much to this man.

  Heaven knew men didn’t appreciate any woman who desired a career. Eva had quickly learned this lesson from Robert, fiancé number one. He had been the wealthy one, who’d informed her no fewer than seven children would do.

  “However did you guess?”

  He lifted one broad shoulder, somehow the movement both arrogant and charming. “I have sisters.”

  “How many?”

  “One older, one younger. Both meddling.”

  Still, that sounded nice. “I am an only child. I would have adored meddling sisters.”

  “We all want what we do not have, I suppose.”

  True. For example, Eva had long wished she’d been born a man, the son her father always wanted. If so, all this would have been much easier. Instead, she was forced to hide the true nature of her father’s illness and secretly carry on his work herself. Subterfuge was exhausting.

  “Do you see them often, your sisters?”

  “I do, regrettably. Though they are married and busy with their own families they still find time to harangue me.”

  “How utterly terrible for you, all that love and concern over your well-being.”

  He made another noise above her, almost a laugh. “The lady has bite.”

  Warmth slid under her skin and she released him. She avoided his eyes by pushing her hair out of her face and staring out at the ocean. “You must be feeling a little better.”

  “Perhaps the sea air finally agrees with me.”

  “Or perhaps I have charmed you back to good health.”

  “Possibly. Where did you learn this?” He held up his wrists, turning them. The light cream-colored coat pulled across his arms and shoulders, revealing muscles not of a bon vivant but a workingman’s physique, like the laborers on her father’s construction sites, the ones who wielded heavy hammers and steel girders all day.

  “Here or there. I cannot remember exactly.”

  “You must travel quite a bit, then.”

  Not lately. Not since her father’s illness had grown considerably worse. “I tend to stay on dry land,” she hedged.

  “Smart of you.”

  “Are you always ill on a ship?”

  He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders. “Would you believe it if I said no?”

  She shook her head. “Indeed, not. I think you view it as a weakness, yet many others suffer the same affliction. It’s a common enough condition.”

  The color was returning to his face, yet he tensed at her observation, his expression pinched in discomfort. She wasn’t certain he would actually admit to the nausea. This man seemingly had pride to rival her own. “It’s only the first one or two days with me,” he explained quietly. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “There. Was that so difficult to confess?”

  “Yes. I usually stay in my cabin but thought the fresh air might help.”

  “You hoped no one would notice you here, gripping the rail as if you might leap over at any moment.”

  “Obviously—and if not for your papers the scheme would’ve worked. Are they letters?” He tipped his chin toward the pages in her hands.

  “Something like that. How do you feel now?”

  “Tired, but better. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” He stood staring at her and she was uncertain what to do. His eyes were dark, a deep brown with golden flecks dancing in the sunlight, the lids framed with long lashes. She could see a few cuts on his face, the kind from shaving, and she wondered if he had a valet with him on the trip. “Do you require assistance back to your cabin, then? I could find a porter . . .”

  He pointed across the deck. “No need. I’m right there, on the end.”

  The biggest of the first-class cabins. Of course. He must be one of those wealthy American tycoons. Railroads or stocks, probably. Her cabin was at the opposite end, the smallest of the first-class cabins, paid for with money from the hotel project.

  Even still, with another six days on the ship, the two of them might bump into one another, if she ventured out again.

  He has no idea who you are. You can be anyone. The possibility exhilarated her, the chance to interact with someone ignorant of her past, free of her father’s illustrious reputation. Indeed, that could prove a very good reason to leave her cabin.

  She clutched her papers to her chest and gave him a small smile. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Good day.”

  “Indeed, I hope to see you around the ship.” He tipped his hat. “Good day, miss whomever you are.”

  The boat dipped and Eva’s pencil slipped once more on the paper. “Blast.” She reached for her eraser and cursed the ferocious storm raging outside.

  For six hours now, the steamship had tossed and turned in the rough seas. Beyond her tiny window the rain pelted down from leaden, angry skies. Fortunately she’d not yet experienced mal de mer. Her stomach remained steady the entire time, possibly because her concentration stayed on her work and not the surroundings.

  They were due to arrive in New York Harbor tomorrow. For the past eight days she’d kept to her cabin to review and polish her new ideas, hoping to impress Mr. Mansfield, the owner of the new hotel project. Now that time was almost up. Nerves fluttered in her chest but she pushed them down. It would be fine. Mansfield would be agreeable and the building would be finished on time.

  Honestly, all the financiers she’d
dealt with merely wanted her father’s name on a project. They didn’t give a whit about whether her father actually showed up to meet with engineers and plumbers. As long as the benefactor could brag about owning an “E. M. Hyde” masterpiece, they were happy. Mansfield would be no different. He hadn’t even come to London to meet with her father, as many preferred when hiring an architect. He’d cabled and written some letters in which they’d settled on terms. Three weeks ago, she’d sent the final revised drawings to his home in Manhattan and hadn’t heard a word since.

  What worried her was Mansfield’s reputation. Upon digging, she’d learned he was widely regarded as an exacting, even ruthless, hotel owner. The entire restaurant of his Boston hotel had been ripped out and redone at his behest because the tile had been manufactured in Greece, not Italy as promised. His employees respected but feared him, and his letters to E. M. Hyde had been quite specific in outlining his expectations with regards to quality, timing, and budget.

  For example, if the building went over schedule, E. M. Hyde would forfeit one thousand dollars every day until completion.

  If the building went over budget, E. M. Hyde would forfeit 15 percent of the total architect fee back to Mansfield.

  Furthermore, if any of the materials were substituted without Mansfield’s prior written approval, the job would be redone at the expense of E. M. Hyde. Considering the budget for the hotel was around three million dollars, Eva couldn’t fathom having to cover a portion of this cost herself. Redoing one part alone would bankrupt her and her father.

  More than anything, the hotel must succeed. She needed to keep her reputation away from the project; otherwise everyone would associate her bad luck with the hotel. No one wanted to stay in a building designed by Lady Unlucky. As long as Mansfield was kept happy and the work completed under E. M. Hyde’s name and not hers, all would be well.

  A weak knock on the adjoining door caught her attention. Her maid, Mollie, appeared in the doorway, her hand clutching the jamb. “Milady, will you . . .” The girl swallowed hard. “Will you be wanting to dress for dinner?”

  The gray hue of Mollie’s skin alarmed Eva. She shot to her feet and quickly crossed the cabin. “Are you unwell?”