The Lady's Guide to Scandal

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  So engrossed was she that she didn’t stir at his approach. At last, he coughed discreetly.

  “The illustrations in that one are particularly good.”

  She looked up, blinking rapidly, as if surprised to be reminded of where she was, and to find that he’d crept up on her so quietly.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her brow creased.

  She sniffed, then composed her face into a more ladylike smile. “I thought you’d be here already. I’ve been waiting.”

  “I was caught up with Studborne—longer than I intended—but I see you found something worthwhile to pass the time, and got yourself pretty comfortable, too.”

  She closed the book—Catherwood’s Views of Ancient Monuments in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan—and laid it aside. Stretching out her legs, she smoothed down her skirts.

  He was well aware she’d been angry with him before, but she was in a whole other mood now. She’d been crying for one thing; that he could see plain as day.

  A heavy feeling pricked inside his chest. If he was responsible for her being upset, he deserved to feel bad. He’d treated this like a game, knowing he had nothing to lose. It wasn’t the same for women. That side of things needed a delicate hand, and he’d charged along like a bull following an irresistible flash of red cape.

  He’d come clean and let her know they could laugh off the whole harebrained scheme. He’d play things however she thought best and do his utmost to make it right for her. He was tempted to dive right in and tell her so—that he didn’t need her to pretend anymore. But, he could see that might make her riled, after all the things he’d said about needing her help.

  Better to put her at ease. Let her see that he valued her for something other than what she could do for him.

  He nodded towards the book. “It’s a first edition I sent to Studborne a few years back. Twenty-five colour lithographs, if I recall, reproduced from the watercolours Catherwood painted during his expeditions.”

  She glanced back at the cover. “They’re more accurate than Waldek’s. Though his are beautiful, they’re far too romantic and embellished. His illustration of the pyramid at Uxmal, for example, makes it look Egyptian, which I’m sure can’t be right. It makes far more sense for those temples and great cities to have been made by the native people of the area. It’s insulting, really, to attribute their construction to anyone else.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying for years.” Burnell took a seat in the armchair opposite. “Waldek was full of horseshit, if you’ll pardon my French. Some people only see what they want to see; not what’s right in front of them. He put out a story that he lived in the ruins of Palenque for three years, but everyone I’ve met insists it was more like three months, and he spent most of that lazing around with his mistress.”

  Cornelia made as if to say something but her cheeks reddened and she looked away, making no reply to his coarseness.

  He could kick himself. Being in the jungle for the better part of ten years was no excuse for being crude.

  “I made a study of the site myself. It’s a fascinating place. As with the main pyramid at Palekmul, the steps number three hundred and sixty-five—the number of days in the Maya solar year. My theory is that the Maya viewed the summit temples as axis mundi, uniting the earth with heaven and the dark realm of the underworld. We know that human sacrifices took place, having found the bones, but there are sculptures too—depicting that very act—which bring to mind darker forces.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it’s possible.” Cornelia sat up a little straighter. “Mine is an amateur interest only, but one I’ve entertained since I was young, reading Maudslay’s exploration of Copan and Chichen Itza, then studying Mahler’s photographic records. I have copies of Lloyd Stephens, de Charnay and Holmes’ works. It’s clear that strict scientific methods are essential in excavating and documenting the sites, or the conclusions are mere fancy. And, I must say that I admire your efforts, Mr. Burnell, to preserve and protect your discoveries at Palekmul.”

  Ethan inclined his head in recognition of her words. He remembered the way she’d looked at the exhibits back in London. Reverentially, yes—but also with a critical eye. Now, her tone was impassioned.

  “But, it irritates me that women are so rarely mentioned, when they’ve clearly played their part—cooking and carrying and supporting the expeditions. The names of Livingstone, Stanley and Burton are well known around the world but, even in fiction, travel is seen through male eyes.” She paused only momentarily.

  “Consider the watercolour by Catherine Frere, the daughter of the governor of British South Africa. Her work shows women standing alongside the men in Stanley's expeditionary force, which travelled through the heart of the African continent, from Zanzibar to Angola.”

  Her colour was rising. Whoever had laced her stays needed to give her a bit more breathing room.

  “And then there’s Isabel Arundell, Burton’s wife. Besides tending livestock, she learnt to strip and reassemble guns, and to fence, so she could defend them while in the wilderness together.”

  “I take my hat off to them all, but particularly Isabel.” He could’ve told her a great deal on that subject, but he doubted she’d be comfortable hearing it. “Burton wasn’t easy to get along with, so I’ve been told. Isabel’s Catholic sensibilities were often distressed by his liberalism.”

  “Oh, I know all about that.” As soon as she made the admission, she reddened, dropping her gaze briefly to her lap before raising it again, as if challenging him.

  If she knew the half of it, he’d be surprised, but she’d clearly come across something relating to Burton’s translations. Perhaps her father had purchased them and failed to keep them effectively locked away.

  The Thousand and One Nights had made Burton 16,000 guineas—much of that success down to him embellishing the parts that couldn’t be read aloud and, of course, there was his version of the Kama Sutra. Rumour had it that the long-suffering Isabel had burnt most of Burton’s translation of The Perfumed Garden within hours of her husband breathing his last.

  Cornelia had perked up a little, anyway, and it was time for him to bite the bullet.

  Leaning in, he looked her right in the eye.

  She’d been feeling horribly sorry for herself, and angry, and all sorts of other things she was in no mood for examining.

  Burnell had led her into this situation—and was having a grand old time, while she was the one bearing the consequences. And, if there was one thing she was heartily sick of, it was being made to deal with other people’s expectations of how she ought to be conducting herself.

  She was working up to telling him so—that he had some cheek using her as his ‘blind’; that any man worth his salt would be more considerate. However, before she had a chance, he jumped right in and said the one thing she couldn’t argue with.

  “Mrs. Mortmain, I owe you an apology.”

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he interlaced his fingers, looking as uncomfortable as any man did when admitting they’d been wrong.

  “I got myself carried away, but I hope you’ll see your way to forgiving me. Under other circumstances, I’d likely be courting you for real.” His mouth quirked, but she only stiffened in response. It wasn’t a subject she felt inclined to joke about.

  “I suggest we take a step back. I’ll make it clear that I hold you in the highest regard but that we’ve realized our situation is impossible. You deserve a man who’s happy to stick around and make babies, while my work takes me to the other side of the world—a place far too inhospitable for me to drag a wife, let alone a family.”

  He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll say I got carried away. Jumped the gun. Spoke without consulting you. That’s all mostly true, anyhow.” He had the grace to look sheepish.

  “And I’ll do whatever I can to help, if one of the other gentlemen catches your eye. Lord Fairlea, for instance; he looks like someone you might want to know better. I’ve squared things with Studborne, so he knows
our attachment was never real, and he’s promised to speak to Rosamund on my behalf, so she knows why I made the damn fool decision in the first place.”

  Cornelia knew she should be relieved—ought to graciously accept Mr. Burnell’s apology, and be glad the pretense was over. But, all she could imagine was the delighted expression Lady Pippsbury would be wearing when she found out. She knew full well what the old dragon would say—that Burnell had come to his senses and had second thoughts, realizing that Cornelia wasn’t what he’d thought her. Perhaps, that someone had shared with him the sordid details of her past. Lady Pippsbury would gloat, her face triumphant, assured in her belief that Cornelia had never deserved such attentions in the first place.

  She oughtn’t to be concerned by what Lady Pippsbury said, or anyone else for that matter.

  But she was.

  And the thought of them crowing over her failure to keep the regard of the man who’d professed to love her just hours ago was more than she could bear.

  It had been one thing for Burnell to suggest her finding him in an indiscretion in the final days of the house party. At least, then, she’d have been able to assert that she held herself in too high regard to continue a liaison with a man whose attention was so easily swayed.

  To end things now would smack of rejection—and she just couldn’t bear it.

  “No!” The word came out far more forcefully than Cornelia anticipated.

  Minnie’s head jerked up, her eyes anxious, clearly wondering what she’d done.

  “There, there, not you Minnie.” Cornelia patted her lap, letting the terrier jump up to receive reassurance.

  “I take it that word was directed at me, then?” Burnell looked just as surprised.

  “Yes, it was.” Cornelia took a deep breath. “I appreciate your apology, and I agree you’ve been utterly selfish, and vexatious in the extreme, but I can’t have it end like this.” She set her face into determined lines. “I need you to carry on.”

  Burnell couldn’t have looked more taken aback. “You want me to continue pretending I have the hots for you?”

  “Well, I’d prefer it to seem a more elevated passion, but that’s the general idea, yes. It’s probably just as well you’ve let the duke and duchess know, as it wasn’t sitting well with me to deceive them, but I don’t want anyone else to realize that your regard is fictitious.”

  Burnell raked his fingers through his hair, still evidently confused. "Am I allowed to ask what's brought on this sudden change of heart?"

  “It’s really not complicated.” Cornelia lifted her chin. “For the moment, I've decided it suits me for you to be smitten. Just stop telling everyone ridiculous stories about me winning wrestling competitions with the swans in Hyde Park, or being the leading authority on taxidermy of arachnids, or whatever it is that pops into your mind at a moment’s notice.”

  He grinned. “It won’t be nearly as fun, but I’m sure I can manage—and you’ll give me the nod when you’re ready to call off the game?”

  “Yes, leave that to me.”

  All that mattered, right now, was to make the others believe Burnell cared for her. She’d deal with the rest later. Playing along would still make her cringe but the vexation would be worth it to sock one in the eye to Lady Pippsbury.

  Chapter 9

  Alone again, Cornelia retrieved her boots. She’d barely laced then up when she heard the door click open again. She whipped around, her pulse quickening, but it wasn’t him.

  Rather, it was Colonel Faversham.

  “Oh, Mrs. Mortmain. Hope you won’t mind. Your aunts have fleeced me of ten shillings; far too good at whist! Can’t deny it was fun, but must keep an eye on the pocketbook. Just need somewhere peaceful to sit, ’til it’s time to put on the bow tie, you know.”

  “Take the chair by the fire, Colonel.” Cornelia picked up her coat, folding it to one side.

  “Marvellous.” He pulled over a footstool, ignoring Minnie’s curious sniffing of his soles. “A quick forty winks will do me. You carry on, my dear. Pretend I’m not here.”

  Retrieving the book she’d been earlier perusing, Cornelia returned it to the lower shelf of a side table.

  And then she saw it—a book very different from the others stacked there, bound in pale pink leather and embossed in gold: The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful.

  A strange title to find in the duke’s collection. Opening the cover, she read the inscription:

  To my darling Rosamund,

  On your twenty-first birthday

  Wishing you a lifetime of happiness

  All love

  Mother

  Of course, the edition belonged to the duchess.

  It was the sort of book young women often received on coming of age—a mixture of household tips and etiquette, and pearls of wisdom on various subjects.

  Flicking through, she stopped at L: lace, and lamb (the cooking thereof) and lemons (good for bleaching elbows, apparently)—and, rather vaguely, ‘life’.

  Our human existence is a series of adventures, each end bringing a new beginning. Others enter our lives for a brief time to share the journey, or stay a longer while. Where friends offer their hand, be glad, and do not fear unexpected paths. Life ends at the same destination for us all—and, there, we shall never sigh for what we dared, only for those adventures left untasted.

  They were wise words, she supposed, although one needed caution in whose hand one grasped. Not all paths, after all, brought joy.

  She let the pages flutter through persistence and pride, coming to rest on puddings. She was very partial to treacle tart, and to syrup sponge. Was this the sort of book that included recipes? Their cook at Portman Square was rather too reliant on serving jam roly-poly.

  However, before she could read further, her attention was caught by low growling.

  Minnie was no longer slumbering by the fireside but had jumped onto the arm of the chair in which the colonel was gently snoring. His chin lolled forward, setting his hairpiece askew.

  The terrier’s little black nose twitched as she took stock of what sat upon the colonel’s head. A thousand years of ratting instinct would not be quelled when such an excellent specimen was ripe for the taking.

  “Minnie, stop that!”

  But, with an agile flick, the toupée was between Minnie’s teeth. She hopped to the floor and gave her hairy victim a shake.

  “Drop!” hissed Cornelia. She lunged but Minnie was quicker by far. Skittering across the polished wood, she came to a sliding stop before the closed door.

  Cornelia hurried over. The hairpiece would be inevitably damp, but she might smooth it down sufficiently that the colonel wouldn’t notice.

  Minnie looked from her mistress to the handle of the door. Weighing her chances, she took a horizontal leap. A nudge of her head sprung the mechanism, allowing the door to swing open.

  Without missing a beat, Minnie scampered through. With the toupée still clutched keenly in her mouth, she scooted up the stairs.

  Panting, Cornelia ran behind. It seemed Minnie was taking the way she knew best, along the passageway to Cornelia’s bedchamber.

  Sure enough, as Cornelia rounded the corner, the terrier was sitting patiently, waiting to be let in. Having a rounded knob rather than a levered latch, it was the sort of handle Minnie had yet to master, although Cornelia wouldn’t put it past Blanche to teach her some technique for this too.

  “In you go, naughty thing!” Thanking the heavens no one had seen them, Cornelia ushered Minnie inside without delay.

  Leaping onto the bed, the terrier deposited her prize on the quilt, giving it a proprietorial lick.

  Cornelia sighed. She’d have to dry the wretched thing before attempting to replace it.

  She was still clutching Rosamund’s book.

  I bet there’s nothing in here about catching Houdini-esque dogs.

  Cornelia tossed it aside and made a dive for Minnie but, in a flash, the terrier snatched up the toupée and was off the bed. This
time, she made for the window seat, pressing her nose to the glass.

  Cornelia had a horrible feeling.

  The lead-paned windows used an old-fashioned lever handle to open, rather than a sash, and the feisty little terrier was extending her paw.

  “No!” Cornelia threw herself across the room. Too late, she grabbed at retreating hind legs.

  Cornelia hardly dared look but a yap told her Minnie was still alive.

  A deep ledge with a balustrade ran across the building, no more than three feet below.

  Leaning out, Cornelia extended her arms. “Come here, Minnie. I’ll lift you back in.”

  Looking up at her mistress, she seemed to consider the offer, then trotted further along the ledge.

  “Get back this minute!”

  It was completely dark and the snow was crusting with ice. Minnie sat down, just out of reach.

  “Don’t make me come and get you…” Cornelia waggled her finger, to which Minnie responded by wagging her tail, sweeping powdered whiteness in an arc behind her.

  Cornelia looked again at the ledge. If she went on her hands and knees, she’d be able to crawl along, and the balustrade would provide some protection. As long as she didn’t stand up, she’d be perfectly safe. Once she had Minnie tucked under her arm, she’d be able to shuffle back and pass her through the window.

  The thought of climbing out made her head swim but, whatever she was going to do needed to be done immediately.

  Swinging her legs over, Cornelia held onto the window ledge until, finding her feet, she lowered herself into a crouch. Touching the snow, her palms prickled with pain. She should have put on her gloves; but, of course, they were in the pockets of her coat, which she’d abandoned in the library.

  She inched forward, wincing as the damp seeped through her skirts.

  Minnie, watching from several feet away, cocked her head to one side then the other, clearly bemused at the unexpected turn of events.