“And this one is for you, Fanny, from our brother, who no doubt is in need of being bailed out again.” Antoinette traded envelopes, opening her letter as she adopted a pose of great relaxation, turning the pages with a great deal of oohing and aahing.
Until she cried out, “My goodness, Fanny! Mrs Compton has been delivered of her baby! Oh my! A full three months early, Mrs Brice tells me! No one was expecting it, least of all Mrs Compton’s husband. He’s livid, apparently!”
“Really Antoinette, this is not the place…” Fanny tried to remonstrate with her sister, who now had her hands to her cheeks and was laughing, while Lady Indigo stamped her cane on the floorboards and demanded to know what was so amusing.
Not surprisingly, Venetia continued to sew with stolid determination, looking like she barely cared what the excitement was about. Restrained at the best of times, the girl looked like she was inhabiting a different plane today. Poor thing. There was no fire in her, Fanny decided. No wonder the gentlemen didn’t take to her if she showed such habitual lack of enthusiasm.
“It’s too shocking, Lady Indigo,” Fanny said, reluctantly returning her attention to Lady Indigo who continued to demand that she be apprised of the facts. She was embarrassed to be asked to divulge the details to a no-doubt disapproving old woman, much less an innocent young lady like Venetia. Not that Venetia looked like she was paying attention.
“Shocking it no doubt would be if you’re talking about that...designing creature, Mrs Compton.” Lady Indigo appeared to be shaking with rage, and Fanny watched, fascinated by the way her hands shook, and her nostrils flared. “Is it the same woman? I don’t wonder her husband wanted to divorce her! Oh, but she likes the gentlemen!”
Fanny saw that Antoinette, like herself, was taken aback by the extent of Lady Indigo’s spleen.
Her sister dropped the letter in her lap. “Yes, it’s the same Mrs Compton your nephew was visiting when he fell from her windowsill! And Mrs Brice has even more details if you’d like to hear them.” She stopped when she caught Fanny’s warning look for Lady Indigo was in the midst of such severe palpitations that Fanny feared her heart might give out on her.
“Antoinette, where are your smelling salts?” she entreated her sister, but Lady Indigo waved away the suggestion, saying, “Thanks to that scheming jezebel my nephew is dead. What has the evil woman got up to this time? Whose husband has she cuckolded now? Her husband was going to divorce her but then didn’t! Tell me all the details!”
Another rapping of the cane upon the floorboards precipitated Antoinette to answer with more detail than she might otherwise.
Though perhaps she’d have answered with such detail, in any case.
“Mrs Compton’s husband was going to divorce her when he learned she was going to have a child, and he believed the...er...timing indicated the father was, in fact, his arch enemy,” said Antoinette, referring to the letter once more.
“Who was his arch enemy?” Fanny asked.
“Sir Redding to whom he’d lost a great fortune some years earlier, then fought a duel, causing him to suffer a terrible disfigurement.”
“And why would Mr Compton think Sir Redding was the father of Mrs Compton’s child?” asked Lady Indigo.
“Because Mr Compton found Sir Redding in his wife’s bedchamber.”
Lady Indigo drew in a labored breath as she shifted her feet and sucked on her gums. “Sir Redding made a lucky escape! He got out of Mrs Compton’s bedchamber, alive. Unlike Theophilus!”
Fanny tried to puzzle it out while offering Lady Indigo the required sympathy. “The gossip sheets were full of the scandal regarding her affair with Sir Redding, but then it died down until, of course, the gossip sheets were full of the scandal involving Sebastian Wells.”
“Indeed, they were!” Antoinette agreed. “Possibly unfairly, Mrs Brice writes,” she added, tapping the letter on her lap. “For she says here that Mrs Compton was heard confessing to having lured Mr Wells into her bedchamber for the single purpose of trying to allay her husband’s ire by claiming Sebastian was the father.”
“Poor Sebastian,” Fanny said on a sigh. “Not that she could have got away with it when the timing would have revealed the truth, regardless.”
“Yes, poor Sebastian,” said Antoinette. “I think she may have hoped Sebastian would have championed her and provided support if Mr Compton had thrown her out.” She sighed. “It would appear that Sebastian never found the dark-haired beauty he went in search of the day after Dorothea’s funeral.”
“No,” agreed Fanny. “He just found trouble at the hands of Mrs Compton, who used him as a scapegoat.”
“Indeed, she did!” Antoinette’s excitement grew as she scanned the few lines once more. “Why, Mrs Compton must have been more than three months gone when she and her friend, Lady Banks, set their trap. And there was the poor fellow, so recently returned from the Continent, knowing nothing of the reputation of these two wicked ladies.” She clicked her tongue. “He’s such a kind man, isn’t he, Fanny? But to his detriment, it would appear. Lady Banks petitioned him to sell some of her jewelry so she could pay a debt without her husband knowing. Three men, who knew she was not to be trusted, had already refused. But Sebastian fell victim to her tears and, unfortunately, was discovered in Lady Banks’s bedchamber.”
“He sounds more like a fool, if you ask me!” said Lady Indigo.
“Well, Lady Banks was holding a soiree with Mrs Compton and some other friends when her husband was supposedly away, and she told Sebastian she couldn’t prize the safe from beneath the floorboard and asked him if he would go up and help her,” said Antoinette. “I’ve asked gentlemen to do such favors for me, and I don’t consider them fools.”
“No, I’m sure you’re right, Antoinette,” said Fanny.
“Besides, Sebastian had just returned from the Continent, and Mrs Compton led him to believe she was a widow,” Antoinette went on. “What was that? Did you say something, Venetia?”
Fanny glanced at Venetia whose needlework, she noticed, was on the floor at her feet. “You look a little heated, Venetia. Are you well?” she asked, her attention diverted by the sound of a departing carriage. “Well, there he goes now, poor fellow,” she said, glancing toward the window. “He’ll be enormously relieved that there can be no doubt Mrs Compton’s child is not his.”
“Such a shame our matchmaking didn’t fall on fertile ground this time,” said Antoinette. “I was so sure he and Miss Reeves made a good match, but you were right, Fanny, though I hate to say it. Lord Yarrowby probably will make her the better husband. She looked positively radiant when her father announced their betrothal last night. Did you say something, Venetia?”
To Fanny’s surprise, Venetia was gripping her chair in some agitation. The girl also seemed to have trouble formulating her sentence before she finally got the words out. “Who did you say Miss Reeves is going to marry?”
“Lord Yarrowby. I thought everyone had heard the news. Her father announced it last— Goodness!”
It was an exclamation echoed by all three remaining ladies as they watched Venetia rise in such haste that her chair toppled to the ground.
Even more surprising was that she made no attempt to right it.
And that she was running.
Yes, running across the enormous Aubusson carpet toward the door.
“Venetia!” exclaimed Lady Indigo, rapping her stick on the ground. “Where are you going? Come back this moment!”
“I’ve got to stop Sebastian!” the girl cried out, wrenching open the doors and disappearing into the corridor, leaving Fanny and Antoinette gaping at Lady Indigo.
“Sebastian?” It was Antoinette who repeated his name on a question. “Why would she want to stop Sebastian?”
Fanny rose, as the answer that seemed too outlandish to countenance came to her.
Lady Indigo rose also.
And Antoinette.
In a party of rustling skirts and piqued curiosity, they went to the large w
indows that looked out over the driveway.
The driveway where they could see the horses pulling Mr Wells’s carriage gaining speed.
The driveway where they now saw the small, slight form of Miss Venetia Stone in a most unladylike, and most unexpected fashion, sprinting after the ponderous equipage that was rolling down the gravel driveway toward the stone gates at the entrance to the park.
“Dear lord, what has come over Venetia,” murmured Lady Indigo. “I think she has finally lost her mind.”
“Oh Antoinette, did we miss what was right under our noses,” gasped Fanny as they continued to watch the extraordinary sight of Venetia putting on enough speed to reach the carriage and beat upon the windows.
“Where’s my quizzing glass!” cried Lady Indigo. “What’s going on?”
But neither Fanny nor Antoinette had any intention of leaving the scene of such entertainment to fetch Lady Indigo’s quizzing glass, instead regaling her with the extraordinary events now unfolding.
“The carriage is slowing!” cried Antoinette.
“It’s stopped, and someone is getting out,” Fanny said.
“Who’s getting out?” demanded Lady Indigo.
“It’s...it’s Sebastian, of course!” Fanny squinted, clasping her hands on a gasp as she squealed. “And he’s kissing her. Goodness! In front of the coachman and...my lord...in front of Mr Wells. Yes, he’s just got out of the carriage too.”
“And he’s still kissing her!” Antoinette cried. “And now he’s just untied her cap and thrown it away.”
“But he’s still kissing her!” said Fanny. “And running his fingers through her hair. Such beautiful dark-brown hair.”
“Good lord!” breathed Lady Indigo after some moments during which they all watched, transfixed, through the window. “He can’t still be kissing her! What is Mr Wells doing? He surely must be trying to make them stop.”
“He’s just standing there,” said Fanny. “Oh, and now they’ve stopped. And Mr Wells is shaking Sebastian’s hand.”
“Oh my!” cried Antoinette. “Now Mr Wells is embracing Venetia. Would you believe it?”
“I would not!” Lady Indigo looked enraged. “It’s outrageous! I said it before, and I’ll say it again. Venetia has lost her wits together with all sense of decorum. She will be severely punished.”
Fanny exchanged glances with Antoinette. “I think,” she said, “that might not be possible.”
“What do you mean?” Lady Indigo asked sharply.
“Venetia is getting into the carriage with Sebastian and his father,” said Fanny.
“And they’re ignoring the gardener who is running after them holding out Venetia’s cap,” said Antoinette. “So, I think they’ll ignore you, too.”
“I’m afraid so,” agreed Fanny with feigned regret. She smiled at Lady Indigo. Then she smiled at Antoinette. “I think that Sebastian has finally found the girl with the dark-brown hair he’s been looking for all this time. His long-lost true love.”
About Beverley Oakley
Beverley Oakley an Australian author who grew up in the African mountain kingdom of Lesotho, emigrated to South Australia when she was young, and married a Norwegian bush pilot she met while managing a safari lodge in Botswana’s Okavango Delta.
Beverley writes historical romance laced with mystery, scandal and intrigue. She lives north of Melbourne (overlooking a fabulous Gothic lunatic asylum) with the same gorgeous Norwegian husband, two daughters and a rambunctious Rhodesian Ridgeback.
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And if you enjoyed The Courtship Caper, you can read the rest of the series here, on Amazon
Duncan’s Christmas
by Ellie St. Clair
Chapter 1
London, 1855
“I despise this city.”
Duncan McDougall folded his arms across his chest as he peered out the window into the inky London night. It was disconcerting, staring out onto the city beyond and seeing lights dotting his view every way he looked. Night was supposed to be lit by the moon and stars, as his Highland hills of home were — certainly not by the machinations of man.
A snort resounded from behind him. “Is it the city you have ill feelings toward or the reason you are here?”
Duncan sighed as he lowered his arms and turned around to face his friend.
“I must confess ’tis a bit of both, Niall,” he said, sliding into the uncomfortable wooden chair next to him. “No man steals from a McDougall and gets away with it.”
“No man steals from a Highlander, you mean,” Niall corrected him. “Especially right out from under your very nose. You usually have better instincts, Duncan.”
Duncan fixed a dark look upon him, and Niall shrugged, unaffected, unlike most who found themselves set upon by the McDougall glare.
“A simple observation.”
“An Englishman ran away with my betrothed,” Duncan said through gritted teeth. “I promised Campbell I would find his daughter and return to Aldourie with her. I’m a man of my word.”
“Never said you weren’t,” Niall said, lazily crossing an ankle over his other knee. “Although it can’t be denied this lass went willingly.”
He braced himself, obviously prepared for Duncan’s wrath, but Duncan turned to look out into the frigid London evening. Niall’s words chafed at him, but he couldn’t rebuke them — for they were, quite sadly, the truth.
“What are ye going to do when you find them?” Niall asked, standing and walking over to the pitcher of ale on the sideboard. “You’re going to retake a woman who’s freely given herself to an Englishman, choosing him over you? Never would have thought you’d be satisfied with another man’s seconds.”
“Nay!” Duncan shook his head forcefully. “I’ll return her to her father and be done with them.”
“Your family’s been friends with the Campbells for years,” Niall said, his voice growing louder as his footsteps approached from behind Duncan, who only turned when he felt the touch of a cool glass on his bared arm, and he accepted the drink from his friend with a nod.
“They have. And we will continue to remain friends. ’Tis not the father’s fault that the girl became flighty.”
“Perhaps you frightened her.”
“She’s not the type to be scared off,” Duncan said, shaking his head before biting out, “and I barely spoke two words to her!”
Niall shrugged. “That could have been part of the problem.”
Duncan swore and turned from the window, draining the amber liquid in his glass in one long swallow.
“What do you know? It’s not like you’ve ever had a woman attached to your name.”
“By choice. Although—”
Just then the door of the rented house banged open behind them and Keith came stumbling through.
“I’ve found her.”
Duncan and Niall turned as one.
“Ye have?” Duncan asked, and Keith confirmed his words with a nod. He seemed somewhat the worse for wear, ale on his breath and rouge on his collar, though he was no longer warmed by whoever’s embrace he had found, for he was shivering from the cold air that had entered into the room with him. “Where were you?”
Keith smiled sheepishly. “A few clubs. I had to search out information. Took a while to find someone who had heard of your woman and her minister.”
“She isn’t my woman any longer.”
“Well, the woman you’re searching for,” Keith said, shrugging. He had known Duncan since they were babes and was one of the few not affected by his gruffness. “They live in a vicarage just a few neighbourhoods away. I walked by. ’Tis small — a couple of stories. Not much to look at, but tidy. Quaint. Shouldn’t be much trouble t
o find in the morning.”
“In the morning?” Duncan repeated, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll not wait ’til morning.”
“What are you meaning to do, Duncan?” Niall asked, eyeing him with equal parts suspicion and interest.
“I’ll do what any good Scot would do.”
Niall began muttering to himself as he turned away and picked up his plaid, throwing it over his shoulders.
“We’re going to go steal back the woman.”
Jane stepped out of the front door, the wooden boards creaking beneath her weight.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the cool night air as she gazed out over the small houses that lined Mary’s neighborhood. She rubbed her hands over her arms as the skin turned to gooseflesh. The air held the scent of moisture, and she wondered if snow here would be much the same as it was in the Highlands.
Home.
She sighed. It had only been a few days, and she missed it already. It would be weeks, or perhaps a couple of months, however, until she would return. She had a most important task to complete first.
“Jane?”
She turned her head, forcing a smile on her face when she saw her sister’s silhouette in the doorframe.
“Mary. I thought you were sleeping.”
“I couldn’t,” Mary said, shaking her head before holding out a wool blanket to Jane. Tears pricked at Jane’s eyes when she saw that it was a plaid from home. “Here. If you’re going to be out here risking catching cold, then you should try to stay warm.”
Her sister stepped forward and wrapped it around Jane’s shoulders, leaning her cheek on Jane’s back for a moment.
“Thank you for coming, Janey,” she said softly. “I know how hard this must be for you, being so far from home and in less than ideal circumstances.”
“It’s fine,” Jane said, patting the hand that rested on her shoulder.
“It’s not, really,” Mary said, “but I appreciate it all the same.”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 71
