“Me, sir?”
“Get the footmen to do it.”
“You haven’t any.”
“Then tell the stablemaster to send a groom to help, and by all means, go into the village first thing in the morning and hire a footman. Maybe a housemaid, too. Cook can advise you. I’ll be damned if I’ll let my best friend sneer at my less than fastidious habits, as he so nicely put it.”
The valet raised his eyebrows. “You want me to offer employment? It’s not done.”
“I cannot do it in my present state, and I have no butler. That leaves you, Lester.”
“What about Mr. Drake, your steward. Shouldn’t he be hiring staff?”
Andrew rubbed his eyes. His brain had grown fuzzy of late. “Yes, yes. ’Tis Drake’s job. Deliver my message then.”
Ralston was right. He needed to change. Start his life again. Take an interest in his estate. Find a proper housekeeper and butler to run the household.
When he’d sold out, he’d arrived home to an empty house, devoid of life and servants. What had happened to his father’s retainers? When he’d come home briefly to bury his father, they’d still all been here. Perhaps they had retired or found employment elsewhere. The only ones left were the stablemaster, a groom, and Drake, the steward. Even with the house closed, horses had to be cared for and tenants had to be managed. Drake had hired the cook, but was waiting for direction before bringing in any other staff. He should have remembered.
After my next dose of laudanum. I’ll think about it then.
He poured brandy in his glass and welcomed the fog that dulled his brain. Perhaps a small nap before the tub arrived.
He lay back against the cushions, and his thoughts turned to Emily.
She’d be in London this time of year, enjoying the entertainments. Why hadn’t she married? She’d been the epitome of grace and beauty, a woman any man would be proud to call wife. Surely she’d had offers.
You know why, you rogue.
Once the deed had been done, he’d brought Caroline here to Cardmore Hall and left her with Father, eager to escape. He’d cared not if Father and the Woodleys complained about his behavior. The only person he wanted to see was Emily. He owed her an explanation. When he’d presented himself at the Langston townhouse in London, her father had refused him entry, blistering his ears with well-chosen words before having him unceremoniously thrown out.
Not that I blamed him.
He winced as he rose, his shoulder on fire. The damn wound should have healed by now. Maybe he should ride to London and consult one of the Harley Street physicians. The local surgeon had poked and prodded the wound and declared himself totally perplexed. Except for a disfiguring scar, the wound seemed healed, he’d said. There should be no pain.
But there was.
He made his way into his bedchamber, his forehead clammy. Perhaps the bath would help. Until then, he needed to lie down. A large gray-and-white tabby with a stub for a tail jumped up beside him and curled next to his body. He’d found it shivering and starving in the barn when he first arrived and had promptly brought it into the house. The old cat had a damaged shoulder, causing her to walk with a limp.
Kindred spirits, that’s what we are, girl.
The cat closed her eyes and began to purr. Andrew reached over and stroked the animal’s soft coat.
Perhaps he should return to society. Take up the life of a gentleman. Repair his relationship with Emily. They’d spent their childhood together. Perhaps they could be friends again.
If only he was worthy, which he was not.
Without disturbing the cat, he reached over and picked up the glass he’d placed on his bedside table, draining it as the welcome haze of inebriation washed over him.
Tomorrow. He’d think about all this tomorrow.
Chapter 2
Langston Grange, a mile south, later that day
“I won’t hear of it. You’re coming back to London with us.” Lady Langston glared at her daughter. “Do you not want to be married? You are five and twenty. Nearly on the shelf. Soon you’ll be sitting with the matrons.”
I already sit with the matrons.
Emily lowered her head and studied her embroidery frame. The delicate stitches formed a border of colorful flowers on the edge of a child’s bonnet. The garment was for Cecily, the daughter of her friend, Lady Gwendolyn Montague.
“I’m quite comfortable here, Mama. I have my books and my pianoforte. You know I love to sew. London entertainments hold no allure, and I find I am content to be a spinster.”
“But you hate the country.”
She looked up. “Do I? Perhaps in the past I wished for more excitement. No longer. I find the country relaxing.” She set her project aside and folded her hands in front of her, waiting for the inevitable lecture. Gentlewomen don’t sew their own clothes. You’re not reading those dreadful novels, are you? You should be at parties, not moldering in the country.
A warm fire crackled in the fireplace, but did nothing to heat the sudden chill in the room. Mama and her maid were due to depart in the morning. Papa had remained in London.
A frowning Lady Langston rose from her chair and settled next to Emily on the love seat. The scent of violets she always associated with her mother surrounded her as Mama’s fingers curled around her hand. “Look at me.” Mama’s tone was insistent. “Tell me you are not still brooding over the marriage of your cousin to the Earl of Longley. ’Tis true, everyone thought he would offer for you, and I know you were not averse. But that was years ago, and you’ve shown no interest in a man since.”
Emily cast her eyes downward. Must she go through this discourse again? Gwendolyn had asked her the same question.
“You know I am not. There is no man involved in my decision.”
Only that wasn’t quite true. There was a man, but Mama would swoon if she knew the primary reason her daughter wanted to remain in the country.
Mama’s face held concern, and Emily hated telling a lie. In truth, she had not seen her neighbor but had heard by way of kitchen gossip he had returned from the continent and was once again in residence. Did she want to see him? Was that why she refused to return to London with Mama?
Foolish girl. Andrew Quigley isn’t worth your time or your thoughts.
Mama cleared her throat. “If you stay, you will have to mind your reputation. I understand Cardmore is at home. A recluse now, they say. Surviving Napoleon only to come back to a closed, cheerless house. I cannot countenance what he did to you all those years ago, but I do have compassion for a man who lost his wife in childbirth and then, a few years later, his father.”
Startled, Emily peeked up at her mother. Could Mama read minds, or had she audibly given voice to her thoughts? She resumed her stitching, averting her eyes from Mama’s face. “Aunt Lily lives here, Mama. I am chaperoned, although why an educated woman who is past her prime needs a chaperone is beyond my understanding.”
Lady Langston narrowed her eyes. “You do not sound at all surprised by my news. Did you know your former fiancé had returned?”
“’Tis a small village, Mama. The comings and goings of peers are difficult to keep secret. But please don’t concern yourself about Cardmore. I would never receive him.”
Not that he would dare show his face at my door.
“Very well then.” She gathered her skirts and rose. “Remain here this time, but do reconsider. Not all eligible gentlemen are searching for a young bride among the debutantes. Some want a mature, refined woman to run their households and bear their children. You may have a small blemish on your reputation from the past, but your lineage is impeccable. You are the granddaughter of a duke.”
Small blemish? More like a grotesque scar.
“Please do not worry about me, Mama. I shall be fine here, and I promise to g
ive your invitation additional thought.”
“Do not wait too long. You are getting a bit long in the tooth.” She leaned over, kissed Emily’s cheek, and bustled toward the door. When it closed, Emily set aside her embroidery frame and moved to the comfortable wing chair in front of the fireplace. The chill had morphed into full-fledged foreboding as her thoughts settled on the man less than a mile away. Mama’s mild scold had nothing to do with it.
She had not encountered Andrew in the village, but then, she did not know the extent of his wounds. Were they physical, or emotional? Both, probably.
Andrew, now Lord Cardmore, had been praised as a war hero. The news in the sheets said he saved his regiment, preserving lives for another fight, the more important, fateful one at Waterloo.
Perhaps his character has changed. And if it has? He is still nothing to me.
Emily eyed the decanter of brandy on the table next to her and poured a tot of the smoky liquid into a delicate crystal glass.
Papa had a fine cellar at Langston Hall—had added to it yearly—brandy being only one of the many beverages stocked. Unfortunately, it wasn’t her favorite, but she felt the need for something to calm her nerves. Taking a small sip, she let the liquid slowly burn its way down her throat, wrinkling her nose and closing her eyes as a memory flashed.
She and Andrew had once pilfered the key to the cellars and sampled a wonderful, bubbly Rothschild, drinking the Champagne straight from the bottle. They’d giggled after taking several swigs, and shared a chaste kiss behind the shelves. Barely out of the schoolroom, she’d regarded Drew—a few years older than she—as her dazzling knight and defender when in fact he’d often been the one to initiate mischief.
Drew, the man who’d promised to marry me and instead callously married someone else.
Her thoughts drifted to the day she’d discovered her betrothal had ended. She’d never seen Papa so angry, and he’d refused to tell her what happened, saying it was unfit for a lady’s ears. He’d let it be known everywhere that Lady Emily Sinclair had ended the engagement. Bewildered and weeping, she’d begged to be told why and instead was sent to her room.
For three days she’d remained in her bed, eating very little, wondering why no one would answer her questions. One night she’d crept into Papa’s study and secretly searched his mail, hoping to see a letter from Drew.
One was there.
The note, which Papa had not given her, simply said Drew was sorry and was leaving for the continent. She did not have to fear seeing him at some entertainment. And by the way, she could keep the betrothal ring.
As if I was a soiled dove being cast off by a protector.
Her mother had finally told her the sordid truth. She’d given her heart to a man who was not to be trusted, a man who’d lied and hidden his true nature, a man who’d seduced a gently-bred unmarried girl at a house party Emily had been invited to but had declined to attend because Mama had been ill.
Papa had insisted they remain in town and face down the gossip. Emily had done nothing wrong. She was not at fault. What ensued was the worst nightmare Emily had ever encountered.
The sneers were not as bad as the whispered comments behind painted fans, the furtive glances cast in her direction, the painful words, using initials of course, in the gossip sheets. Lady Emily Sinclair became everyone’s favorite on dit.
And then she’d met Lady Gwendolyn.
Gwen had scoffed at the gossip and invited her to her Thursday salons. They became the best of friends, and slowly she regained her confidence among the odd bits of society who frequented Gwen’s afternoon soirees. No one judged her there. No one commented on her misfortune. Gwen’s cheerful disposition and positive outlook had brought her back to life.
Emily learned to live two lives and lived them still.
While proper to a fault when forced to appear in society, she explored her creativity when alone. She’d learned to paint and play the pianoforte, to compose music, and to design her own gowns. She devoured the books in her father’s library and even tried writing one of her own. Gwen once introduced her as a Renaissance woman, a woman of many talents, mostly hidden away beneath benign smiles and a stiff spine.
Gwen now lived in Yorkshire, having found her soul mate. Emily had decided living with Aunt Lily was almost as good as having Gwen about.
The door opened, and her aunt entered the room, pulling her out of her reverie. Two brown-and-white spaniels followed her, settling near the fire.
“Thought I’d find you here.” She glanced around the room. “Has she gone?”
Emily laughed. “It’s safe. Mama won’t comment on your shabby gown or disheveled hair.”
“And my posture. Don’t forget that.”
“Mama has retired for the night, and you will have to rise early if you want to see her off.”
“Larks. I am glad I missed her.” She sashayed over to the chair opposite Emily’s and plopped down. She reached for the decanter and poured a bit for herself. “Your mother does not approve of me, and her constant set downs are exhausting.” She sniffed the brandy, breathing deep, before taking a small sip.
“Perhaps. But Papa adores you. He often tells tales about how you two were quite wicked as children.”
Aunt Lily patted her messy hair and closed her eyes, as if recalling a juicy tidbit of gossip. “Did he tell you the one about the vicar? About the time we put salt in the sugar bowl knowing the vicar took four spoonsful of sugar to sweeten his tea.” She sat back in the chair, cradling her glass.
“When he took his first sip, his eyes grew as large as eggs in a skillet, and he scrunched up his lips like he wanted to spit. Of course your grandmother could not understand what he was about until she heard us snicker behind the pianoforte. We were confined to our rooms for two days.”
Emily set down her glass. “I can see you as a hellion, Aunt Lily, but to be honest, Papa does not strike me as anything but the epitome of propriety.”
“Like your mother, eh?”
Mama lived for parties and gaiety, although even she hid away in the country from time to time. Mama had lost her only sister at a young age—or so she’d thought until she met Miranda Comstock, now the Countess of Longley, who’d revealed a dark family secret.
Emily and Miranda should have been friends, but circumstances had set them each on a different course. Now Miranda was happily married, and Emily was firmly on the shelf.
But not unhappy.
Fate had a way of interfering in the best laid plans, and Emily believed in fate, especially after what happened to her seven years ago.
What she didn’t understand was how it had come to pass and why. Andrew had tried to see her in London before he’d left for the continent. Had the meeting been allowed, she would have asked her questions then.
Perhaps now she had an opportunity to find answers.
Do I want to know? Perversely, I do.
Pain, so acute you wanted to curl up in a dark closet, eventually lessened, but the questions remained. Why would a man profess his love and betroth himself to one woman, and then compromise another?
She’d known Andrew all her life. They’d been constant companions as children. She refused to believe he would have betrayed her this cruelly without a good reason, something deeper than the exterior circumstances everyone knew.
Lady Caroline Woodley had made her curtsy to the queen a year before Emily. Caroline had been a diamond of the first water, a woman always surrounded by suitors. Had Andrew been so dazzled by her beauty that he’d felt he had to seduce her and be found in flagrante delicto in order to have her choose him? If so, why betroth himself to Emily? It hadn’t been for money. His father had been rich as Croesus. He hadn’t needed any woman’s dowry.
Andrew had loved her—Emily—not Caroline. She was sure of it.
; Aunt Lily narrowed her eyes. “You look like you’re planning your funeral. Brighten up. Your mama is going back to London, and Auntie Lily minds her own business.”
“What?”
“Ha. You have that faraway look. The one that tells me you’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she did, of course, and telling a bouncer to her aunt rankled more than telling one to Mama. She fisted her hands in the folds of her skirt. “You’re right. I am thinking of Lord Cardmore. Curious, more than anything else. I overheard two kitchen maids talking about the paucity of household staff at Cardmore Hall. How does one go on with only a valet and a cook in a house that large?”
“I don’t see that Cardmore or his household is any of your concern, now, is it?” Aunt Lily’s gentle voice held a hint of steel.
Emily shrugged.
Except that Andrew has details I need to hear from his own lips. Only then will I find closure.
Aunt Lily rose and stirred the fire. “I think it’s time you left this house and did something fun. There’s a fair tomorrow in the village. I’ve ordered the carriage for one o’clock.”
“A fair?”
“You know . . . games, food, frivolity. ’Tis the annual harvest fair.”
“I’m surprised they’re having it. The harvest was dismal.”
Aunt Lily’s smile reached all the way to her eyes. “It will do you good to get out in the fresh air.”
“I walk every day.”
“But you don’t see anyone.”
“I prefer seclusion. I can be myself here with you.”
“I’m going, and you’re coming with me. It’s settled.” Aunt Lily pursed her lips as she unpinned her red, curly hair and let it fall around her shoulders. She shook her unruly mane and combed it back with her fingers. “Ah, the pins were pinching my scalp. This is much better.”
Scandal's Promise Page 2
