The Scandal
By S. Faith, © 2007
Words: 49,307 (soooo close)
Rating: A strong T / weak M (I never know how to classify these things)
Summary: Someone has it out for Mark Darcy. And someone else has Bridget under a microscope.
Disclaimer: Sadly, these characters, this universe… none of it belongs to me except the story. Wish that it did.
Notes: The original character in this story is based fairly heavily on a character from a miniseries that a young Colin Firth appeared in. Gold stars and thumbs up to anyone (except C.) who can guess who he might be based on. :) (I'll reveal who it is when the last part is posted, if no one can guess.)
While I have scrutinized the scenes in EOR featuring Mark's house (and pondered the layout) at great length, I have had to throw my hands up and take liberties with where rooms are and what's in them, because we don't see as much of it, and it's much more complex a structure than Bridget's flat. Ironically, I'm mostly basing where the rooms are on Jean and Lionel's house from another British series, "As Time Goes By".
I do not live in the UK, so while I strive to be as accurate as possible with regards to legal and police procedure, inevitably there will be errors, and they are all my very own. If there's anything hugely glaring, please do let me know.
Complete and Utter Gratitude (a.k.a. the dedication): to my dearest C., who was kind enough to send me the series in question and suggested not only the plotbunny for this story but the whole subplot involving this original character (which became merged with the larger story), emailed me, chatted with me, and brainstormed with me, and even got her dear hubby to recommend wine for the character's meals. You're a nefarious influence and a fabulous muse… and you're always right. :)
O, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
—William Shakespeare, Much Ado about Nothing. Act iv. Sc. 1.
Tuesday.
V. v. black day.
She stared at the words she'd written on the page, watched them blur out and disappear as her eyes filled again. She blinked, spilling a flood out onto her cheeks, which she then brushed roughly away. She looked down to find her teardrops were making her handwriting bleed, and she realised it was probably all the entry really needed. It was not likely she'd ever forget the events leading up to it.
………
As days go, it started out ordinarily enough. She was drinking coffee and pulling a hairbrush through her hair in an effort to get ready and get to work on time when her telephone began trilling. The only person who ever called her at that time of the morning (when she was least able to talk) was her mother, so she chose to let it go to the answerphone.
The voice was Jude's. "Bridget. Bridget! If you are there, pick up! This is very, very serious!" Bridget ran for the phone; it was not Jude's depressed-over-Vile-Richard-bleating-sheep's voice, but something far more ominous and desperate.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Bridget asked as she swiped the phone up. "Is it Shazzer? Tom? What's happening?"
"Bridget," she said darkly. "Have you had the news on this morning?"
For a moment she almost fell into habit and lied like she always did to her boss, because it was ridiculous to work in television and not to be aware of current events. "What? No, of course not; I'm getting ready for w—" she began.
"I think you'll want to phone in today. Switch on the news. We'll be over as soon as we can."
Jude disconnected, and utterly puzzled, Bridget slowly returned her phone to its cradle. She couldn't imagine what Jude could be so worked up over, so rather than speculate, she pressed the power button on the front of the telly.
As the screen came to life, the thing that immediately caught her eye was that just over the left shoulder of the news presenter there was a picture of her very own fiancé dressed as he usually was in his dark suit for work. Unfortunately the telly was muted—leftover from the previous night when Mark had dropped by after work for a quick but thoroughly enjoyable visit—and the remote was not in obvious view. She started rummaging through the pillows of the sofa, throwing them onto the floor until she found it and triumphantly pointed the thing to un-mute the sound.
She would soon discover she wished she hadn't.
"—allegations coming to light from Peabody Laboratories, where a former junior technician, now supervisor at the lab, has come forward claiming he was bribed by Mr Darcy to falsify the results of a forensic test analysis in order for Mr Darcy to win an acquittal for his client, Timothy—"
She didn't really hear anything after that. Sinking to the sofa, the remote slid from her hands. She felt sick and dizzy. There was no way it could be true, no way in the world that Mark Darcy, a man who refused to enter a zebra crossing against the light, ever could have done such a thing.
Snapping to attention and back to reality, she jumped up. She needed to call him, to hear his voice.
Unsurprisingly, his line was engaged. She tried his mobile; it went straight to voice mail. All she could do was leave a shaky message begging him to please call her as soon as he could.
And then she called her boss.
………
"Whatever you do, don't ring her back."
Mark furrowed his brows, clapping his phone shut to disconnect voice mail. "Why in the world not? She's my bloody fiancée. She's the one person I do want to talk to."
"She works in television, isn't that what you told me?"
Mark turned to train his eyes on the man there with him, waving silver hair combed back from his face, wizened blue-grey eyes returning the gaze without flinching, his jaw set as firmly as stone. Mark knew that look all too well, had spent many years imitating and perfecting it himself. "Yes. She does."
"You can't talk to the media right now, even if she is your future wife," the man said disdainfully. "This is your lawyer advising you, Mark, not your uncle."
Mark blinked in surprise. "I have not retained counsel, Uncle Nick," he said curtly and pointedly.
The older man sighed, breaking his stance at last to pace to the window and back.
"They're still out there, you know. And they are not going anywhere anytime soon."
"You needn't remind me." Mark sighed, thinking of the throng of reporters on the sidewalk in front of his home as he ran his fingers back through his hair. It had been fortuitous timing that his mother's younger brother, Nicholas, had recently arrived for a visit from where he lived and worked in New York City. The man was a genius, a legal powerhouse, and the inspiration in Mark's choosing his own career. Nick was the sort of man Mark wanted by his side during a crisis of this proportion, even if the phrase 'leave well enough alone' didn't seem to be in his personal lexicon.
"So your fiancée," began Nick, "is the same girl you turned down Abbott and Abbott for, am I right?"
"That has nothing to do with anything," Mark said, turning away and pinching the corners of his eyes, weary of feeling like he was being cross-examined.
"It has everything to do with why I came in the first place," Nick advised; Mark turned back to him in surprise. "Elaine told me about your engagement and 'how wonderful and lovely she is and how much I like her'—" Nick lilted into an uncanny impression of his sister, then continued in his normal voice, "—but you know I've never trusted her judgment regarding character, excepting your father, thank God. And Lord knows I don't want another one for you like the last one. So I came to see for myself."
You don't think any woman has a brain worth mentioning, thought Mark with an exhalation of breath, not even your sister. "So what you're saying is that you don't trust my judgment, either?"
Nick's steel-trap gaze fixed upon Mark. "Even the best of men make errors in judgment when it comes to a pretty face or a nice figure. And you have erred before."
That comment cut him to the quick, but he was careful not to show it. "Your solution to this is not to meet her, then," he said.
Nick came close to pat his nephew's shoulder. "One problem at a time, Mark. We've got to get this thing with the technician straightened out first."
Mark hoped his choice of words was a slip of the tongue, or Nick's mind was already set against her.
"Or you never know," Nick added after a pause. "She may have just be ringing to break it off with you." Mark was horrified until he realised an impish grin had spread across his uncle's face. Mark opted to remain silent for the sake of peace in the family. The man never ceased to amaze—or frustrate—him.
………
"It's got to be a huge mistake."
Bridget blinked. "Shaz? When did you get here?"
Shazzer stared at her like she'd sprouted a second head. "About twenty minutes ago. You let me in." Shaz and Jude were flanking her on the couch, and they each had an arm around her, one at her shoulders and one about her waist.
"I'm sorry," Bridget said with a sigh, tears rising in her eyes again.
"It's all right," said Jude. "You've had a horrible shock."
"And we know he didn't do it," reassured Shaz. "We know first-hand what he did to get you out of prison—he was bound and determined to do everything within the law so nothing could be challenged later."
"So we know he'd be incapable of offering a bribe! Or of suborning perjury for any reason," added Jude. "He would never jeopardise everything he's worked so hard for."
"Absolutely!" reiterated Shaz.
Bridget nodded. She was so glad to have her friends on her side through this, knowing to their core that Mark couldn't have done what he was accused of. "I'm just…. He hasn't called back, and I just feel so helpless."
"I'm sure there's a very good reason he hasn't rung back," offered Tom, who swept in from the kitchen with four small glasses of wine on a tray. It brought to Bridget's mind every past phone-related crisis she'd ever heard Tom say those exact words about, and she promised herself she'd never again get histrionic about not being rung up. "Here. It's a bit early yet, but it's for medicinal purposes."
Bridget shook her head.
Tom, Jude and Shazzer shared a pointed look, as if refusing wine was the last thing they'd expected.
"Hon," said Tom, "you need this."
She needed to keep a clear head, and reiterated with a firm, "No."
"What about your parents? Should we call them for you?"
She shook her head in negative again. "They've taken a holiday together in Greece." She was at least pleased that the reconciliation had been a success, as much as she would have liked to see them during this catastrophe. "What I need is to see Mark," Bridget said firmly.
Shaz tightened her arm around Bridget's waist. "It's a madhouse over there." She pointed to the telly, which sadistically they'd kept on, although had muted the sound. There was the front of Mark's house with a dozen or more reporters milling about, before it cut to footage of Mark leaving the Aghani-Heany trial after that victory, followed by a cut to Bridget's own interview of Mark for Sit Up Britain.
"God. This is how Finch respects my wishes," Bridget said, pressing her palms into her eyes. He'd seemed understanding enough when she'd called to say she couldn't come in for at least the next few days—he had in fact been expecting it—and she'd asked him to not ask her to try to wangle another interview out of Mark, which he agreed to without hesitation. Now she knew why.
"He's a fucktard," proclaimed Shaz, taking a sip from her own glass. "I should get you on at my paper."
"Yeah." Though Shaz was a journalist, Bridget trusted her friend implicitly and knew that Shaz would never angle for a story at the expense of their friendship. "That doesn't help with the current disaster, though."
"Ah, but we're clever tool-using monkeys," reminded Tom, who then grinned broadly. "And I have an idea."
………
Amidst the murmur in the crowd of reporters the shrill ringing of a mobile phone began to sound. This was followed by the sharp crack of a flip phone being opened and an ensuing conversation that the others there could not help but overhear, even though the recipient of the call tried to muffle her words.
"Yeah? Uh-huh. Right. Right. Greenwich, eh? Right. Got it." She hurriedly scrawled down some notes onto her pad. "I know where it is. I'll pack up straightaway and get over there. Cheers." She crouched down, looking around herself surreptitiously, and hastily began shoving her half-eaten apple and her notebook into her bag. She then stood, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
"Oy," said a young man accompanied by another with a camera. "Where you buggering off to?"
"Uh," she said with a start, looking back and forth in a panicked fashion. "Nowhere."
The young man cocked his thumb to another of the throng. "'ey, Jer, she's hell for leather out of here for 'nothing'."
Jer grinned evilly. "Smells like an exclusive for whoever gets there first."
She turned and began to walk away, but could still hear them talking.
Another piped up: "Greenwich? What's in Greenwich?"
"Dunno, but let's find out."
"Come on," said another. "I don't even think he's home anyway."
She headed around the corner and slipped into the passenger seat of a blue Mini, which then shot off towards Greenwich. The others were hot on their heels… but the Mini lost them easily in midday London traffic.
………
Nick was still keeping vigil from their second floor post in Mark's bedroom; thankfully he knew better than to step too close to the window and be spotted by the reporters. When he uttered an uncharacteristically incredulous "Hm," Mark turned to see that his uncle's brows were quite thoroughly furrowed.
"What is it?"
"The reporters are dispersing."
"What?" Mark stood to see for himself, and sure enough, they were all scattering towards their respective vehicles and shooting off down the street. They watched in silent amazement until every last one of them had gone. "What's going on?" Mark finally asked, turning to look at his uncle.
Wryly Nick said, "Maybe someone's given a politician a—hey." Forgetting protocol for a moment, he bent even closer to the window. "Someone just ran up the walk to the front door."
Alarmed, Mark asked, "What? Who?"
"Couldn't tell. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt."
Mark strode to the door and then took the stairs two at a time. Nick was directly behind him. He reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see a hooded figure facing the front door, quietly closing it.
"If you leave now I will consider not calling the police—" began Mark in his most menacing of voices, stopping short when the figure turned, pushing back the hood. He was filled with relief and he smiled for the first time that day when he saw it was Bridget; he was, in fact, never so happy to see her in all of his life.
………
Bridget ran to Mark and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He held her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't care. "Mark," she managed, "please tell me what's going—" She stopped when she opened her eyes again and realised they were not alone. She pulled away from him.
At the base of the stairs stood a tall, distinguished-looking older man dressed in a suit. The expression on his face conveyed thinly-disguised annoyance, and his eyes bore imperiously into her.
Mark took her hand and squeezed it gently. She wondered if it meant she looked as intimidated as she suddenly felt. "Nick. This is Bridget Jones. My fiancée."
"I gathered," said the man gruffly, turning his gaze to Mark.
"Bridget, this is Nick Wentworth, my uncle. My mother's brother."
"Oh," she said. She didn't even know his mother had a brother. "It's, um, nice to meet you, Mr Wentworth."
"Likewise, Miss Jones," he said, though it seemed perfectly clear what his true feelings about meeting her were. The sidelong glance Mark gave to his uncle told her that he was not at all pleased with his uncle's behaviour.
He drew her close again. "I'm so glad you're here," Mark murmured as he smoothed down her hair with the pads of his fingers. "Was it you that lured away the mob outside?"
She nodded. "Shaz—er, my friend Sharon—" Her eyes darted to Uncle Nick; for his sake she explained who her friends were. "—infiltrated the reporters and hung out with them for about an hour. Then Tom, my other friend, called her mobile and she faked like she'd just been given a scoop. Jude, another friend, was waiting 'round the corner in her car for Sharon, and then the two of led all off the reporters off on a wild goose chase. And I… had the key you gave me."
"Hm." For a moment, the tone of Nick's voice verged on approving, but then he continued. "I'm sure they won't be away for long when they realise they've been duped."
"It was long enough," Mark said. She thought his voice was softer than he probably intended it to be in the presence of his uncle, but then he looked into her eyes, muttered, "Brilliant," and kissed her.
Bridget felt herself flush red. She didn't quite understand the dynamic between uncle and nephew just yet, but she instinctively knew that she was, somehow, a point of contention. She took his hand again and led Mark to the sitting room, explaining she was eager to know what had happened. Frankly, she was almost more eager to draw attention away from herself.
"Well," began Nick, who had not seated himself on the chair near them, but instead had taken to pacing back and forth in a somewhat unnerving fashion. "A few years ago my nephew defended a man that everyone was certain was guilty of murder. You probably remember it. The Tim Calhoun case."
Her eyes went wide despite herself, and she clasped his hand even more tightly. Calhoun, an Irishman, had been arrested and charged with killing his girlfriend. He had claimed from the start that he was innocent, but had no verifiable alibi, and circumstantial evidence pointed to him. The case had peripherally caught her interest because the murdered girlfriend bore a striking resemblance to Janey 'Jellyfisher' Osborne. "I certainly do remember it. I had no idea that was your case, Mark."
He nodded.
Nick continued: "It was the sort of case that makes careers, and it made Mark's. Forensic analysis of the evidence determined that the DNA under her fingernails, commingled with her own blood, excluded Calhoun completely. He was found not guilty and was subsequently released. He changed his name and moved back to Ireland."
Bridget asked Mark, "So someone's saying you bribed the lab to falsify those results?"
Mark nodded solemnly. "The person claiming this was my primary contact at Peabody Labs. He's saying I did this because I was determined to win the case at all costs specifically because it would put me on the map. He's only now coming forward because he, and I quote, 'can't live with the agony of knowing what I did'."
"What about the evidence from the case?" asked Bridget. "Can it be retested?"
"Unfortunately, the samples have disappeared from evidence storage."
Bridget felt desperation surging in her chest, and she took in a breath to calm herself. "But… but… how can he say this without proof to back up such a ridiculous claim?"
Mark's eyes sunk to where his hands were entwined with hers in his lap; Bridget's stomach lurched. His uncle spoke in Mark's stead. "This man has alleged that he has bank records to back up the claim of the bribe."
Bridget felt her mouth go slack.
Nick finished: "According to what we've been told, there was a very large deposit into this man's bank account three days before the test results were presented in court."
"No. No. There must be some kind of mistake." Bridget's eyes shot from Mark to Nick and back again.
"There must be," echoed Mark. He looked to her again with a brave face, but his eyes attested to his fear. "I haven't yet seen this so-called proof myself and I have every intention of going through it with a fine-toothed comb, but I won't lie, Bridget. It looks bad."
She sighed, grasping for any hope possible. "But what about your own bank records? Surely if you'd paid this person off there would be a record of a withdrawal?"
Mark smiled weakly. "I do have that much going for me. There's nothing like that in my own bank records. My accountant has looked into the month in question (and the months prior to that) very carefully, and there's nothing unusual, not even a series of smaller withdrawals equaling the total—he will gladly testify to that in court."
She shuddered at the mention of testifying.
"Ahhh, but that doesn't mean the money didn't come from somewhere else," Nick said, and for a moment he sounded like more than just the devil's advocate. "That's what they'll say, that you've got a secret Swiss account somewhere. Or that the statements from your accountant were forged."
"I know," Mark said grimly, then looked to Bridget again, sadness and anxiety in equal measure upon his face. "You should go."
"What? No!" she exclaimed rather too loudly. "Why would I leave you at such a time?"
"Because the reporters will likely be back soon. They might see you leaving and I don't want to drag you into this with me."
She pushed down her anger at his damnable nobility. "I'm already in this with you," she reminded. He allowed a reluctant smile, and squeezed her fingers gently in acknowledgement. "Mark," she said quietly, "why not come stay with me for a while? No one need know you're there."
"No," answered Nick. "Mark's house is far easier to secure against the media or other… intruders." He shot Bridget an unpleasant look. "There's always someone here, and he has a state-of-the-art alarm."
"Which only helps if it's actually on," said Bridget tartly.
"Bridget," cut in Mark's impatient voice. "He's right. Come on. I'll walk you to the door." He stood, pulling her up with him, then guiding her through the foyer and to the front door with his arm about her waist as if she were a naughty child, to her growing annoyance.
"There's no need to frog-march me out of here," she said crossly, breaking away from him, pulling her sweatshirt hood back up in preparation to leave.
"I'm sorry. I know you're frustrated. So am I." He grasped her wrist again, pulling her close, then raised a hand to her face to caress her cheek softly. "Thank you for… not asking."
Puzzled, she asked, "What, if you did it? I didn't need to; of course you didn't."
He smiled wearily, then bent to kiss her properly and at length, and for a moment she forgot the nightmare that had dropped down upon them and thought of only his lips on hers. As he stood up straight again, his hand lingered on her jaw. "I'll call you soon. I promise."
Tears rose quickly in her eyes. "I'm scared, Mark."
He nodded. "The only thing that's keeping me going right now is knowing I'm innocent… and you." He then kissed her again before opening the door and letting her out.
………
"I'll grant you this," came Nick's voice from behind Mark, "she does really seem to love you."
Mark dropped his head. "Please let's not go into this right now."
"Set your alarm," Nick reminded, pointing to the front door, before heading back into the sitting room, undoubtedly to pour himself a tumbler of scotch.
After Mark punched in the arming code, he realised he had not yet gotten a chance to phone his parents and he knew they must be worried out of their minds. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed their number.
After several rings—during which he feared they were not answering their phone due to being bombarded with calls from reporters—his mother picked up with a shaky, breathless, "Mark?"
"Hello, Mother," he said, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. Very unlike him.
The line was silent, but he knew she was there by the sound of her breathing. "Oh, Mark," she said at last, "I don't know what to say. Why would anyone want to do this to you?"
He laughed lightly with a measure of relief in spite of everything; his mother (and his father too, he was certain) wouldn't need to ask, either. "I could think of at least ten cases I've worked on where I've made someone very unhappy with me."
"Mark, don't say that. You do such good work."
"I'm sure the Congolese government, amongst others, would beg to differ."
His mother sighed heavily and he felt dismal for being the cause. "You'll get through this," she said with obviously forced brightness. "You have your uncle and your family, your firm, and most importantly, you have Bridget there with you. I know she has unwavering belief in your innocence."
He smiled genuinely for the second time that day, though suddenly felt Bridget's absence quite acutely. "I am indeed very thankful."
"We would come to the city in an instant if you needed us to," she said.
"I know you would."
She paused again. "Don't hesitate to ask," she said quietly. "I mean it."
"I know you do."
It was an agony disconnecting that call, for being the cause of her anguish and being unable to comfort her. With a sigh, he decided to join his uncle in the sitting room for two fingers of scotch.