The Scandal of the Season

by Aydra Richards

  He just hadn’t expected to find himself now facing those same obstacles. He hadn’t expected Mouse—who had claimed to love him—to have so swiftly marshaled her defenses and shut him out. She had refused calls, letters, gifts—short of lying in wait outside her residence for her, on the rare occasions that she did venture out these days, his options to reach her had been severely limited.

  And lately, she hadn’t gone out with any fewer than three strapping footmen in tow. One or two he could likely have taken, but three would have been pushing his luck.

  “You ought to give John a try,” Davenport suggested. “He’s got no mother at home badgering him into marriage, and for all that my mother would place herself in that capacity, he doesn’t live with the woman.”

  “I suppose,” Grey said, noncommittally. It was true enough that Mouse did not know John Darling, but she was clever enough to deduce the connection, and the moment she did, John, too, would be persona non grata in her residence.

  “I’ll send him over,” Davenport said. “He’s an amiable sort. He’ll be happy to assist.”

  Grey grunted out a sound that was neither assent nor refusal, and snagged a decanter of his own as he sat at the bench before the pianoforte. Just a few inches from the toe of his boot was a grey splotch that had once been one of Mouse’s ink footprints, now scrubbed into a formless stain.

  An odd tightness took hold of his chest. It had been nearly three weeks since Mouse had gone, and still he saw her everywhere. His brain conjured up images of her at the pianoforte, on the stairs, at the table. Curled up on a window seat in the library. Sneaking into the laundry room, or washing dishes in the kitchen. In her bed. In his.

  The great tragedy of it all was that, had he not been such a coward—had he not treated her with such rank condescension and disdain—she would be here even now. Perhaps she would have entertained him with her music, or cajoled him into explaining to her various aspects of his business interests. Perhaps she would be sprawled across the floor, her skirts in disarray, playing with her puppy.

  He could see it so clearly in his mind. It would have been so simple a thing to keep her, to accept the love he had not deserved but which she had offered anyway. Instead he had chided her for it, as if her capacity for love, for kindness, for forgiveness, represented a personal failing. Whether or not he had deserved her mercy, she had granted it anyway. She would have given her love with the same generosity, but for the fact that he had refused it.

  What had it cost her to sit there in his office and let yet another man savage her pride? How much had it hurt her to plead with him to let her stay? Her pale face and that flicker of pain that had crossed it for just a moment haunted him. He’d seen the same expression, however briefly, that day in Andover’s office—a devastation she had desperately wished to mask.

  Only this time, he had been the villain from whom she had struggled to conceal it.

  “Grey,” Davenport inquired, his voice tinged with concern, “are you quite well?”

  “No,” Grey said, in all honestly. “No, I don’t think I am.” And he affixed his gaze to the rug, precisely upon the dark, shapeless blotch of ink that formed a footprint which only he could see.

  Chapter Thirty

  Serena considered the elegant escritoire that was tucked up against the wall of the sitting room attached to her bed chamber with something like chagrin, and wondered if she could haul it out to the hallway and heft it over the railing on her own.

  Not so very long ago she had thrown an unholy tantrum and destroyed one very like it, and it had been immensely satisfying. But she could only imagine the judgment Sarah would heap upon her shoulders if she did such a foolish thing again—and how monumentally unkind it would be to create such a mess only for someone else to clean it up. Now she knew the kind of effort that went into scrubbing a floor and cleaning a carpet.

  But she could not like the presence of the offending object, now that there were any number of people that would have coveted letters from her…and the only person to whom she might have wished to write was someone she had sworn to herself never to acknowledge again.

  Grey. Because before he had been her lover, he had been her friend, and she had so few of those. Even when she had resolved to dislike him, she had enjoyed his presence—enjoyed badgering him and attempting to provoke him into anger or annoyance, though rare had been the occasions upon which she had succeeded.

  Perhaps he had been correct after all, that it had been unavoidable that she would have grown to depend upon him, to love him. A part of her hoped that it was true—that it was only a temporary emotion that would fade with time and distance, because she couldn’t imagine carrying the weight of that burden around in her chest for the rest of her life.

  There was a painful tightening in her breast, as if her heart wished to remind her that it still existed, still ached, still yearned for something unattainable.

  The wretched, treacherous organ.

  “My lady, you have callers.” Davis’ brusque voice interrupted her maudlin thoughts, and Serena turned her attention away from the escritoire, surprised by his stealthy appearance. How a man so large, so brawny, could also be so light of foot was simply beyond her comprehension.

  “Oh?” she inquired.

  “Yes, my lady. Lords Lansdowne and Pershing, as well as Lady Arabella Carrington.” Davis extended to her a set of calling cards, which she examined with little interest.

  So William had brought his fiancée and her father to call. She supposed she would have expected as much eventually, but she had always taken the Earl of Pershing for a starchy sort, and she could not imagine that even her subsequent rise after her fall from grace would have erased the stain of scandal in his eyes.

  “I will see them,” she said. “If you would send for some tea and find Sarah—”

  “She has gone down already, my lady,” Davis said. “But I’ll send for tea at once.”

  “Thank you, Davis.” Serena took a brief glance in the cheval glass to assure herself that her hair was still neatly pinned and then headed for the stairs, pleased to find that Sarah was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Though Sarah had protested the elevation, Serena had placed Sarah in the new position of lady’s companion, because now that Sarah was no longer directly employed by Grey, Serena had disliked the thought of her friend waiting upon her. But for all that she had claimed not to be suited to the role, it had been an out and out lie, and Sarah had taken to it admirably.

  William rose swiftly the moment they entered the drawing room, but the Earl of Pershing was slower on his feet, as if he had not realized that Serena was still a lady deserving of that respect. Still, Pershing managed a contrived smile—a little too bright, a little too wide—in stunning contrast to William’s sulky mien. Lady Arabella looked merely haughty, but then Serena has always found her to be a woman in the make of her father, with a nose that had an appalling tendency to tip up in the air despite its slight hook.

  “Lady Serena,” Pershing said, his voice imbued with a sort of sticky-sweet false fondness that oozed over her ears. “How lovely to see you.”

  Lady Arabella gave a small, tight smile, and a nearly imperceptible nod of her head, which made it perfectly clear to everyone in the room that she had come only out of obligation and intended to make nothing more than the most minor of concessions toward courtesy.

  It was a deliberate, if subtle, slight, and one that had not gone unnoticed by William, whose jaw tensed.

  “Lord Pershing,” Serena said softly as she took a seat on the sofa and gestured for Sarah to sit beside her. “Lady Arabella. William. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  Pershing attempted a jovial laugh, which Serena thought sounded rather awkward and forced, given that he looked as though he had never once in his life been tempted to laughter and she had not known him to be a man in possession of so much as a shred of humor. His thick mustache twitched over his lip as he said, “Oh, come, Serena—we’re to be family. Surel
y family needs no excuse to call.”

  “Are we?” she asked blandly, unmoved by the sudden attempt at familial piety. “I wonder that you desired no such relationship with me only a few weeks ago, then.”

  A dull flush climbed in Pershing’s cheeks, mottling his sallow skin. His back stiffened in outrage, as if galled that Serena had questioned his integrity, and it occurred to her that it had not occurred to him that she might take issue with his pretense of devotion. Perhaps she had been such a mouse once, after all, that he could think she would simply accept his words at their face value.

  Sarah coughed into her fist to disguise a giggle, but she had been none too delicate in the doing, and Pershing fixed her with a glare designed to intimidate. Though Sarah boldly stared back, not at all intimidated, Serena resented Pershing’s arrogance.

  Pershing chose to ignore Serena’s prior comment, to pretend as if his claim to kinship were beyond questioning. “As it happens,” he said, in grating, supercilious tones, “this is a family matter. I think a little privacy would be beneficial.” He stared at Sarah as he spoke, his gaze glacial.

  “Sarah is my companion, Lord Pershing,” Serena said evenly. “Her place is with me.”

  Unaccustomed to being refused, Pershing soldiered on. “Nonetheless, her presence is unnecessary. She must—”

  “You do not give orders within my house, Lord Pershing.” She was rather proud of how firmly the words had emerged, how quickly they had deflated Lord Pershing’s sails. By the incredulous lift of his brows, she suspected that she had shocked him, that whatever he had expected of her, it had certainly not what he had gotten.

  William had forgotten decorum entirely; with each passing moment he grew more uncomfortable, his gaze fixed firmly away from hers, slumping in his seat. Serena suspected that had had been badgered into coming—that whatever purpose had been intended by this visit, it had not been of his doing or devising. Still, he had allowed himself to be led to it.

  Lady Arabella made a scathing sound in her throat, the sort of noise one did not make in polite company. “Lady Serena, my father is an earl and he is deserving of your respect.”

  Serena felt her lips twitch into a snide smile. “I seldom find that it is the circumstances of one’s birth which merit respect,” she said, “but instead the character one displays. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Arabella?” By the sour look she received in response, she could see that Lady Arabella most certainly did not agree.

  And neither did Lord Pershing, who fisted his gloved hands. “My God,” he said to Serena. “You were born a lady, and yet you’ve surrendered every grace with utmost ease. It is clear you are not yourself, incapable of managing your own affairs. That is why, in the absence of your father, we have decided it would be best if I managed them on your behalf.”

  If one of the maids had not brought in a tea tray at that very moment to set upon the small table between them, Serena suspected she might have committed some unpardonable social sin. Perhaps even a criminal one—it had been tempting, for a moment, to strangle Pershing with his own expertly-knotted cravat.

  She took her time concocting a reply as she fixed a cup of tea for Sarah and then herself, notably leaving her guests to fend for themselves. “I see,” she said at last. “I assume you mean to take over the management of my funds, my household, and the accounts that Lord Granbury has graciously opened for me at various shops.” The unmistakable gleam of avarice shone in Lady Arabella’s eyes, and Serena did not doubt for a moment that she would demand a list of every shop at which Serena had carte blanche to spend freely of someone else’s money.

  The recitation of her assets had discomfited Pershing, and she began to suspect that he was not, perhaps, quite so well-off as he would have liked the rest of the Ton to believe. “Just so,” he said. “My dear, you are very young. You will require someone to guide you, someone with a head for estate management—”

  “No,” Serena said succinctly. Only that, and no more.

  For a long, beautiful moment, silence hung over the room, and it was just as delicious as the crisp lemon wafer that melted on her tongue.

  Lady Arabella’s mouth dropped open, her crooked front teeth jutting past her upper lip. “William,” she hissed. “William.” With her elbow, she nudged him, as if expecting him to jump in with a defense of her father.

  “What?” William snapped unpleasantly. “I told you—”

  But Lord Pershing had recovered his bluster. “Lady Serena, I don’t much like your tone.”

  As if she were a child to be called out onto the carpet for some transgression. “I don’t much like your suggestion,” she replied. “I’m entirely capable of handling my own finances.” Likely better than any of them, she thought crossly.

  “You think you are,” Pershing persisted. “But I must insist that you bow to the wisdom of your elders. It is for your own good, and I think your father would agree—”

  Serena set her cup down upon the table with a clatter that would have given her governess apoplexy. “My father,” she said, “never deserved that title. If he had even so much as a crumb of affection for me, I never saw evidence of it. And as he has left England permanently to avoid ruin, it does not much matter what he might have wanted.”

  “Then your brother should act in the capacity of your guardian,” Pershing said smoothly, with a vague gesture toward William, and Serena guessed that Pershing had determined that he could force William to bow to his wishes. Malleable William, who could so easily be manipulated and managed—mostly spineless, content to coast through life so long as he could avoid unpleasantness.

  “I have reached my majority, my lord. I need no guardian to manage my assets,” Serena said. It felt as though there were a trap closing around her, but she could not quite sense it. Still, her agitation seemed to have disturbed Sarah, who placed a hand gently upon her shoulder.

  “I doubt the courts would agree.” The oily satisfaction in Pershing’s voice sent a shiver up Serena’s spine. “You’ve been rather…notorious of late, I think you will agree. Should such a case be taken to court, well—with your brother pleading for guardianship of you, I doubt the courts would rule in your favor.”

  Sarah gasped and smothered a vicious curse in her palm, and Serena was tempted to let loose one of her own. Though she had little doubt that Grey had arranged matters such that it would be difficult—if not impossible—for her brothers to lay hands on her funds, just the thought that William had gone along with this scheme felt like a betrayal of the worst order.

  But he was her brother. For all his faults, as many as there were, she did love him.

  “William?” she prompted, gently. “You would bring suit against me?”

  He seemed to shrink before her eyes, curling in on himself as if to ward against her censure. His lips thinned, flattening to a firm line, and a hot sweep of color bloomed over his cheekbones. Ducking his head, he cast his gaze toward the corner of the room, looking more like a sulky lad of six than a grown man of nearly thirty. Serena felt her heart drop to her toes, felt Sarah’s hand on her shoulder tighten in sympathy.

  Lady Arabella tipped her chin up, her smile triumphant. “You see, Serena, we are all in accord—”

  “No,” William interjected, in a short, clipped tone. “No, we are not in accord. I told you—”

  “Hold your tongue, Lansdowne,” Pershing snarled. “I will remind you that the betrothal contract is not yet signed.” A none-too-subtle warning that both Lady Arabella and her generous dowry could yet slip through William’s fingers.

  William snapped to his feet, and his face was a mix of fury and shock, as if he had surprised even himself with his pronouncement. “No, Pershing—I will not be party to this,” he said, his voice growing stronger by the moment. “At your behest, I abandoned my sister before. I will not do it again.” And then he was striding across the floor and taking Serena’s hands in his. “Serena, I am so very sorry. I am—I am not a strong man.”

  This, Serena had always
known. Their father had not been the sort to encourage anything even approximating strength in his children, as it would have made them a threat to a man like him. Instead he had encouraged vices and other weaknesses in his sons, the better to control them, to force them to his purposes.

  Serena counted herself lucky, having seen what had become of her brothers, that although her father had never had a single kind word for her, he had also largely ignored her—which had left her own strength of will intact in a way that neither William nor Hugh could claim.

  “However,” William continued, “I would like to be a better man than I have been. And if I must sacrifice my engagement to do it”—he swallowed, no doubt mourning the loss of Lady Arabella’s dowry more so than the lady herself—“then so be it.”

  “William!” Arabella gasped, her hand going to her throat in horror. “What are you saying?”

  “Nonsense,” Pershing bit out. “Complete nonsense. Unless you fancy a breach of promise suit, Lansdowne.” This was uttered with all the gravity of a threat, and Serena tensed, because William had never borne up particularly well beneath such pressure.

  But he surprised her, his face smoothing into stony resolve even as his voice tripped through an idle, if snide, retort. “Breach of promise?” he echoed. “There is no signed contract, my lord. A regrettable situation, is it not, Pershing?”

  Serena squeezed his fingers, a supportive gesture designed to reassure him.

  “It is all but signed,” Pershing protested, coming to his feet, bringing his considerable girth with him. “You would jilt my daughter—”

  “Not I,” William said. “I will not cry off. If Lady Arabella wishes to be free of our engagement, then she may say so.” William turned to fix the unlucky lady with a firm stare, one that alluded to a spine that Serena had long despaired of ever presenting itself. “But you must know, Arabella, that I will not be pulled about like a child on leading strings. I will not be manipulated, or threatened, or persuaded to do anyone’s bidding but my own.”