Scandal's Deception

by Pamela Gibson

  Screeching and laughing from the corner filled the room, making Ralston wish he had something to stuff in his ears. He loved his nieces and nephews—every last one of them—but they were loud enough to be actors at the Drury. And if he plugged his ears, he wouldn’t be able to hear what Elizabeth said.

  Which, in the long run, might be a blessing.

  “You started to say something about a friend until the din in this room rose to the level of a bare-knuckle boxing match.”

  “I’m talking about Katherine. My dearest friend. You know her, Gil. Do not pretend you don’t. Blond hair? She lives in Mayfair not far from your friend Cardmore.”

  “You have a lot of dear friends, Elizabeth.” He drew his brows together as he tried to visualize all the Katherines he knew. Her sister’s friend might not be part of his set.

  Elizabeth was ten years older. His sister, Beatrice, nine. His late brother, Miles, had been a year younger. Sometimes he wondered if his own birth and his brother’s had been an accident. His parents had lived together a few months of each year, but were apart more often. The late Lord Ralston had been a botanist and an explorer, and Gilbert had barely known him.

  Now which Katherine is it?

  He avoided society as much as possible, not wishing to be trapped into marriage by being tricked into committing some scandalous sin. Not that he would. He was careful, unlike his friend Lord Cardmore, who was once caught in a parson’s mousetrap. Thankfully, the man was happily married now.

  “Does Katherine have a last name?”

  “How droll you are, Gil. It’s Stafford. Katherine Stafford, Lady Siltsbury. Surely you remember her. She has a marriageable daughter.”

  “Ah yes. I can place her now.” He scratched his chin. “Wait. Did I recently receive an invitation to her daughter’s birthday ball?”

  “Yes!” Elizabeth clapped her hands, drawing the attention of the child on her lap who clapped his hands, too.

  Ralston nodded and spied a chair. Lifting a black-and-white cat out of it, he sat, wondering how much fur he’d collect on his trousers. What scheme was his sister concocting? Did she want him to court the daughter? She knew he planned to remain a bachelor. His title could go to his eldest nephew, with his blessings.

  The noise level in the room escalated to a shouting match.

  “Children! Can you please take your game to the nursery? I need to speak to your uncle in private.”

  The three jumped up, the oldest participant lifting her hand over her head with the last biscuit from a plate still on the floor.

  Jonah screeched, “Mama, why does she get the last cookie?”

  “Because I’m oldest, you lout.”

  “Caroline! Ladies do not utter such words. Where is your governess?”

  Caroline popped the biscuit in her mouth and chewed noisily, a grin on her face, while her two brothers scowled.

  “John, take Henry with you. He’s squirming. I believe he needs the chamber pot.”

  The younger boy took his brother’s hand and led him away, the others following. With sudden quiet, Ralston wasn’t sure what to do. He could actually hear himself think. What a change.

  “Now then,” said Elizabeth. “Where was I?”

  “We established you are speaking of your friend, Lady Siltsbury. I remember her now. Cold woman.”

  She smoothed the wrinkles in her gown and folded her hands primly in her lap. “She needs a man she can trust to help her with a problem, and I have suggested you.” She stretched her lips into a smug smile and sat back in her chair.

  He cocked his head. “What kind of problem?”

  “It has to do with her daughter.”

  Ralston straightened in his chair, his suspicion growing. “Yes?”

  “She needs someone to school her in the ways of the ton. You know, teach her how to comport herself in society, discuss the rules, teach her to dance.”

  “Are we talking about the daughter who is nearly twenty years old? Doesn’t she know these things?”

  “Apparently not.”

  He rose and began his pacing again. “I’m astonished. Young ladies who are raised by ton mothers have rules bred into them from the cradle. They have dancing masters. Their governesses see to whatever is lacking.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Wait. I am not speaking of Jocelyn. Of course she knows everything necessary to a well-bred young lady. She was presented to the queen last year and received vouchers for Almack’s around the same time.”

  “Who else? If I remember correctly, your friend Lady Siltsbury is a widow, and her daughter is an only child.”

  Elizabeth looked away and kneaded the skirt of her gown. “It appears Jocelyn has a sister.”

  Ralston stopped pacing and wondered if he was gawking. “She had a daughter out of wedlock? Prim, proper Lady Siltsbury? I don’t believe it.”

  “Apparently she had two daughters at the same time. Jocelyn is a twin.”

  Gilbert would have choked if he’d been drinking. He stared at his sister, his mouth agape, his hands dangling at his sides. A twin? He searched his brain for any rumors he might have heard about the family. Nothing came to mind. Nor could he remember anything about the death of Lord Siltsbury. Perhaps the man never existed, and this was some elaborate ruse. If that were the case, his sister would not be engaging him to do something equally scandalous.

  Male friends did not instruct young ladies in how to get on in society. Governesses did.

  He eyed the chair which was again occupied by the cat. Shaking his head, he chose another, seating himself to think in the blessed quiet.

  “You’re overthinking this, Gil. The girl should arrive in a week, and Katherine wants her stashed away until she’s brought up to snuff. No one will know you are her teacher.”

  “Why me? Why not hire some impoverished gentlewoman to do it?”

  “Because it must be done in absolute secrecy.” She took a lace-edged handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at a spot on her bodice. “Katherine can’t leave Jocelyn at this important time, and the only other person who knows about this is me.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair as he stared into space. “You realize, as an unmarried gentleman, if anyone found out about this harebrained idea, the girl’s reputation would be in tatters. Or worse, I would be forced to marry her.”

  “It will be perfectly proper, I assure you.”

  “How do you know? Servants gossip. Tradespeople have eyes and ears and know when something is havey-cavey.”

  “Will you stop fooling with your hair? You are making me twitchy.”

  He sighed, sat back, and folded his arms. When his sister summoned him—as she was wont to do on more occasions than he could count—he should have known she was plotting. He liked pleasing people, found it hard to say no to them. While Elizabeth was probably counting on this character flaw, he feared he was going to make his sister very unhappy in about ten minutes.

  “Go on. Tell me how this could possibly be considered proper.”

  “The girl’s father has made you her guardian.”

  He roared then, like a wounded lion. A maid scurried into the room and stopped at the door. Elizabeth shook her head and the maid departed, closing the door firmly behind her. Ralston glared at his sister, sure that horns were somehow hidden in her coiffure. This had to be her doing. Even when they were children, Elizabeth had always been the one to design the most complicated traps. This time she’d overstepped, and he would not forgive her.

  After taking deep breaths to regain his composure, Ralston stared at her in amazement. “How could I be made the guardian of someone I don’t know?”

  “’Twas Lady Siltsbury’s doing.”

  I very much doubt that.

  “If this girl is the second daughter, am I also the guardian of the f
irst?”

  “’Twould seem so.”

  “Bollocks!” He jumped up and stomped around the room, his hand on his forehead. “I shall never forgive you for this.”

  “Calm yourself. Jocelyn will be married before the year is out. There’s already someone in her sights. All you will have to do is see to the settlements. As for the second girl, Aunt Amelia in Painswick has agreed to house her while you groom her for the ton.”

  He shook his head. This could not be happening. “Wait. Why would a man whom I have never met name me as guardian to his daughters?”

  Elizabeth twisted a handkerchief in her lap. When her eyes met his, the shame of guilt reddened her face.

  “I do believe . . .” She cleared her throat. “I do believe he knew our father.”

  “And . . .?”

  “I do not believe he was aware that Father had died, and when Katherine wrote and suggested Lord Ralston, a man of great integrity and sterling reputation . . . well . . .”

  “Hell and damnation!”

  “Do not swear, Gilbert. ’Tis unseemly.”

  “I need to hear this story. All of it. Leave out nothing, and start at the beginning.” He scanned the room for a decanter of brandy, port—anything stronger than his sister’s weak tea. “And have your maid bring me something to keep me from walking straight down those stairs and out the front door.”

  Chapter 3

  The smell of rotting fish and the boisterous shouts of men unloading cargo assailed Jane’s senses as she sat on her trunk waiting for her guardian. At least the voyage had ended without incident despite a near collision with another ship as they entered the Thames.

  The guardian was late. Was that not to be expected? Gentlemen of a certain age surely remained in their beds until long after the sun rose. Papa liked to sleep in, and Lord Ralston had been one of Papa’s schoolmates at Cambridge.

  What surprised her more was that her mother wasn’t the one meeting her, unless she planned to accompany him.

  On the long voyage, her fertile mind had created additional circumstances to account for her mother remaining in England while her father raised their child. Had he kidnapped her out of spite, for some transgression her mother had committed? No, she couldn’t imagine Papa breaking the law, let alone being spiteful. Was her mother mentally ill and not suitable to raise a child? If so, Papa would not have sought her counsel when he discovered he was dying.

  None of the excuses she imagined seemed right, hence her eagerness about meeting her mother for the first time. What did she look like? Was her hair dark like her daughter’s? Her face wrinkled? Did she have all her teeth? Mrs. Murdock couldn’t help. She had never met Lady Siltsbury, having lived in America for years.

  Jane snuggled into her cloak as the wind whipped strands of hair across her face, blowing away the morning fog that hovered like a gray wraith. Activity was brisk at the London Dock in Wapping where she waited with her chaperones. Cargo bound for other ports lined the quay, ready to be loaded, while ships anchored in the river waited for space to bring their goods ashore. The merchant ship they’d arrived on carried tobacco and rice.

  She stood and took a step, stopping to get her balance. After weeks on the water with an undulating deck beneath her feet, the wharf seemed to be moving. The sensation wasn’t new. When she’d traveled to New York, the imaginary motion had been the same. Papa had called it mal de disembarquement. While unsettling, it would soon go away.

  Mrs. Murdock, a scented handkerchief to her nose, sat stiffly on her own trunk and did not appear to enjoy the activity around her.

  The voyage had taken seven weeks with one violent storm that sent every passenger to a bunk. Jane, who found it invigorating, had not been allowed above, condemning her to breathe foul air and obligating her to care for her chaperone. When she’d nearly succumbed to seasickness herself, a steward had kindly guided her to a hatch that was well protected. The cold, fresh air laced with rain, which she much preferred to the cabin, had restored her.

  The rest of the trip was pleasant enough, with night skies full of stars and days filled with reading, thanks to the ship’s captain who had a shelf full of books in the saloon. Mrs. Murdock had slept day and night and when awake embroidered intricate designs on squares of cloth destined to become handkerchiefs. Her husband had seemed to be in constant discourse with a clergyman who had also made the trip as a private passenger.

  Jane scanned the street to see if any of the elderly gentlemen alighting from carriages could be looking for their party. She knew nothing about her guardian except what Mr. Hornsby had told her on the day she left Baltimore.

  When drawing up the will, Papa had told Hornsby that Lord Ralston had been a friend from his days at Cambridge. Both had been younger sons and had not expected to inherit, which had led Papa to the law, and then to America to join Hornsby in his legal practice. His friend Ralston had become a botanist and world traveler, publishing many important papers on the fauna and flora of the places he’d visited.

  Hornsby said Papa had been both pleased and surprised when Lady Siltsbury recommended Lord Ralston. He had known Ralston to be a man of good character and approved of her choice. Laws, both in England and America, required that a guardian be named in the will for any children who had not yet reached the age of one and twenty. Papa had remarked that Lady Siltsbury had praised Lord Ralston as having a sterling reputation. No rumors of dissipation had ever been associated with his name.

  Lordy, the guardian would be as old as Papa and had sounded as pious as a monk.

  Murdock took out his timepiece and thrust it back in his pocket. “The man is late. I’ve sent the steward who looked after us to inquire if that tavern across the street has a private room. We can wait there out of the wind. It isn’t safe to be standing here on a public wharf alone. The place is overrun with thieves, especially after all the unfortunate occurrences of the past two years.”

  Referred to as the year without summer, 1816 had dreadful weather that had created a famine in Europe and riots in England. Crops had been sparse in America as well. Unrest had carried over into 1817 and even now, a year later, had not yet abated.

  The man hurried back, spoke to Murdock, and took the coins offered him. Then he sat on the trunk vacated by Mrs. Murdock and folded his arms in front of his chest.

  “Come ladies,” said Murdock, holding his arm out to his wife.

  Jane followed as they strolled across the street into the dark recesses of the tavern. It was sparsely occupied and smelled of ale. Men back home had gathered in taverns like this, assembling in the afternoons and evenings to discuss politics and business. She’d been told various stages of the American Revolution had been debated in such places.

  A bald man wearing a leather apron came forward, bowed, and led the way to an enclosed private dining room where they seated themselves.

  “I’ve ordered tea and buns,” said Murdock. “Hopefully the buns are edible. I long for a good English meal now that we are on land.” He took out his timepiece again and stuffed it back in his pocket. “I do hope Ralston arrives soon.”

  “Perhaps he hasn’t been informed of our arrival, Horatio.”

  “I sent word to his London townhouse the minute we docked and received a note in response that he would come personally to escort Miss Stafford to her new home.”

  Jane tapped her fingers on the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Murdock. Did he mention if my mother is coming to meet me as well?”

  He pulled out the paper for his perusal. “The missive does not mention Lady Siltsbury. Perhaps he is taking you to her.”

  Her mother was not coming? How odd. She would have thought her mother would be the first to want to greet her long-lost daughter, unless she considered a grown daughter to be an impediment. After weeks of analyzing various scenarios, she’d abandoned most and decided her mother must be one of
those frivolous women who wanted others to believe she was younger than her age and for that reason had never reached out to Jane.

  Cast away like a shoe that didn’t quite fit, then forgotten.

  Annoyance warred with the excitement of knowing she had a mother, and the practical need to understand the situation. But at times, the resentment took the forefront, threatening to boil over and scald everyone around her. Today was such a day. The Murdocks, while stiff, had not been unkind. They didn’t deserve her ill humor. She doubted they even knew the particulars of her situation. Hornsby had only known what Papa had shared.

  Jane counted her breaths. Maddie had said it was an old trick, taught to her by her mother in Martinique long ago. Whenever anger surges, breathe in and out slowly, and count each intake of air. She’d used it so often she was surprised she still bothered to count.

  Her dead father had been the object of most of her anger. How dare he not tell her the woman who gave birth to her still lived. Had he feared she’d leave him and sail back to England to live with someone who hadn’t wanted her?

  Withholding the fact he had a title and extensive land holdings was bewildering more than annoying. If he hadn’t wanted to be known as anything other than Mr. Stafford, that was his business, and as long as someone in England was in charge of his property, she couldn’t fault him for being irresponsible. The estate had apparently prospered under the guidance of a steward.

  The will also indicated her father had owned two properties that were not entailed. Jane would inherit a place called Seacliff Cottage, and someone named Jocelyn Stafford would inherit a house in London.

  Who was Jocelyn? It must be her mother’s name.

  Hunger drove her to devour what they called a Bath bun, along with her cup of tea. When Mr. Murdock rose and vigorously greeted an elderly gentleman who limped in with the aid of an ornate cane, Jane held her breath. The man looked distinguished, but appeared to be much older than Papa. Was she not told Lord Ralston was his schoolmate?