HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

Voices carried stray words through the study door, none Hazel cared to hear.

  “Ruined!” someone shouted.

  “Scandal!” someone else shouted.

  “Whore!” Mrs. Butterbest screeched.

  Mrs. Butterbest demanded the Trethows be cast out; she would not have her boys under the same roof as a harlot. Either the Trethows go, or her family goes, she threatened.

  Had it only been Lord and Lady Collingwood with Mr. Trethow this situation might be brushed under the rug. Hazel would have had to live with the shame of it, but in all likelihood, the baron and his wife would not have said a word more about it, leaving the reprimands to Mr. Trethow. As it happened, the Butterbests had seen all. Nothing could be swept under the rug. Before nuncheon, the guests would know everything, certainly if Mrs. Butterbest had her say.

  Hazel could see no way to resolve this aside from her and her father, along with Agnes, leaving for home, heads bowed, never to darken the Trelowen doorstep or those of any good society again. If there remained any hope, Lord Collingwood controlled it. He had the power to save her from scandal. How, she did not know, but he was wealthy enough, well connected enough, and respected enough to resolve even this problem. With Mr. Trethow being his childhood friend, surely he would do something to help.

  The door to the study cracked open wide enough to admit Cuthbert Phineas Trethow.

  Hazel drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin, ready to face the gallows with strength and determination. From the room beyond, she could hear murmurs but not distinct words.

  Mr. Trethow gripped the front edges of his coat, his gaze meeting Hazel’s shoes. Without making eye contact, as though ashamed to look at her, he said, “Best return to your room. I’ll sort this; don’t you fret. I’ll see this to right. Stay in your suite until you’re called. Understood?”

  Hazel nodded, her eyes warm with fresh tears, though there could not possibly be more to shed.

  With a tentative pat to Hazel’s shoulder, Mr. Trethow returned to the study, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Chapter 8

  Harold took the servants’ stairs two at a time to his bedchamber, his clothes soaked, his mood grey.

  The boating on the lake had been tedious at the best of times, but Miss Evans’s behavior frayed Harold’s nerves. When she first stepped into the boat, the sun shone overhead. From one side of the lake to the other, she had twirled her parasol and regaled him with a never-ending tale of her new bonnet—he assumed in an effort to offer her conversation skills as an admirable quality of a potential bride. At worst she was tiring. Until the surprise rain shower.

  The unassuming cloud that drifted overhead was initially a godsend, truth be told, signaling the end of the boating and his hopeful return to sanity. Then her shrieks echoed those of the other ladies on the lake as she rocked the boat in some inane attempt to gain a better look at shore or prompt him to row faster or whatever her logic. Water sloshed onto their feet, sending her into further shrieks and panic until they came dangerously close to tipping into the lake.

  Her primary concern? That the rain would ruin her parasol. Yes, her parasol. Harold would have laughed had he not been trying his hardest to steady the boat and calm her. The rain, after all, was only a drizzle. More than once on the way back to shore he had considered intentionally tipping her into the lake. Ungentlemanly perhaps, but any man in his position would have thought the same. He resisted. Only just.

  After seeing her to safety, Harold had lingered at the shore, watching the groundskeeper’s crew pull the boats into the boathouse, ensuring all guests had returned to the wilderness walk for the path to the house, and avoiding the gaggle of ladies accompanying Miss Evans.

  When Harold reached his dressing room at last, Abhijeet stood waiting.

  “Bless,” the valet said under his breath.

  “I see it as my duty to keep you busy.” Harold smirked as Abhijeet began removing the offending clothes.

  “After seeing the guests racing the rain, I expected dampness, but you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Undressed, Harold donned a banyan and took the chair next to the fireplace. A chill seeped into his bones with the wet clothes removed. He shuddered.

  Abhijeet cast him a sideways glance as he hung the sodden garments. “A warm bath then? Or are you remembering the company you were entertaining?”

  Pulling the collar of the banyan higher about his neck, Harold barked a laugh. “Both.” He felt foolish for shivering, but there it was. A grown man shivering by the fire. As long as he did not catch a chill.

  “I know one lady’s company you weren’t keeping today.”

  Hands tucked under his armpits and legs crossed, Harold dipped his chin for Abhijeet to continue.

  “Miss Trethow.”

  His valet held his full attention.

  Abhijeet carried on with the garments before fetching a blanket for Harold to wrap around himself. He carried on some more with bath preparations, ringing for water to be boiled and brought up, setting out the soap, and Harold knew not what else. The daft man was dragging out the suspense. From time to time, the valet glanced his way with a coy grin as if to say he had a secret Harold wanted. And he did want it.

  “Out with it!” Harold insisted with a laugh.

  The sadist hummed to himself for a few more moments before saying, “Miss Trethow spent her lake time in the parlor.”

  “And?”

  “With the Earl of Driffield.”

  Harold’s blood turned cold.

  “Let me be the first to tell you they were not whinging over the bland English food.” The valet gave him a knowing look.

  Whatever humored curiosity Harold had felt drained, leaving him angry, frowning, and chilled. “Tell me.”

  The valet nodded, his expression sobering. “Everyone has a different tale of what transpired in the parlor, but enough of the staff saw the comings and goings and overheard the conversation in Lord Collingwood’s study to satisfy their curiosity. Miss Trethow was caught alone with the earl. Some say she was in a state of undress. Some say they were embracing.” He shrugged. “No one will ever know the truth. The baron and baroness, her father, and two other guests caught them in the room alone, and that’s enough truth for the masses.”

  Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, Harold released the edges of the blanket to rest his head in his hands. “I never took her for a title hunter. It would seem she caught her man.”

  “No, indeed. He’s refused to marry her. According to his valet, he’s already engaged to the eldest daughter of the Duke of Milford.”

  Harold looked up, shaken. Had Driffield tricked her with false promises or…was she the man’s lover? He was torn between being appalled that this happened under the Trelowen roof and pitying her naivety.

  Abhijeet continued, “Nothing’s been decided, but one of the lady guests who witnessed the scene is demanding the Trethows leave.”

  “I can’t see my father allowing that. He wants Trethow’s investment capital too much. My guess is he’ll hush it up.”

  Whistling, the valet shook his head. “To think, not too long ago she was to be your bride.”

  Of one truth Harold was certain. A woman like that would never be mistress of Trelowen.

  “Life is ruined!” she wailed. “How can I ever face him again? How can I face you again?”

  Hazel patted Agnes’s back, the former dry eyed, the latter burying her face into a pillow that muffled whatever she said next.

  Seated at the edge of Agnes’s bed, both Hazel and Melissa offered equal portions handkerchiefs and reassurance. Hazel was stoic. She had little choice. To console Agnes meant to disguise her own concerns.

  Melissa crooned. “He fooled us all. Don’t take it to heart.”

  Hazel nodded to the back of Agnes’s head. “You’ll find love again, and next time, he�
��ll not be a scoundrel but will love you back on equal terms.”

  Fresh sobs shook her shoulders as Agnes cried louder against the pillow. “I’ve ruined your life too. You must hate me. You’re a fool if you don’t.”

  “Then call me Miss Fool.” Hazel leaned down and rested her cheek to Agnes’s tangled hair.

  She meant what she said for she could never blame Agnes for what happened. It had been her idea for Agnes and Driffield to meet unchaperoned and her idea to stand sentry. Even beyond that, Agnes did not make the rules of propriety or spread malicious gossip and was as much a victim as Hazel, never mind that Agnes was not directly tied to the scandal and could continue forward with life to find a new love. Agnes was touched by this in far different ways. A broken heart. Guilt. Trepidation to return to her father. That was a different kind of hopelessness. Hazel would much rather face her problems head on than be in Agnes’s shoes.

  A half hour of soothing softened the tears but did not ease Agnes’s pain. Melissa and Hazel retired from the room after calling for the lady’s maid.

  With Melissa’s hand tucked in the crook of Hazel’s arm, she guided them both away from Agnes’s room and down the hall towards Hazel’s door. With a glance down the hall, she lowered her head to say, “Rumor has already spread.”

  Hazel had known it would. One afternoon was all it took with Mrs. Butterbest at the helm.

  “If your father doesn’t insist on removing tomorrow morning, you ought to suggest leaving. You can’t remain among the guests now. Agnes is in no shape to stay either and is likely to make the situation worse if left to her own devices. Chauncey and I will do what we can to staunch rumor, but if you stay, the guests will cut you. Or worse.”

  Drawing back her shoulders, Hazel said, “Unless Papa forces it, I will not leave. Even if it means sitting at the same table as Driffield for all to see. By leaving, I admit guilt. By staying, I draw doubt to Butterbest’s accusations.”

  Melissa shook her head. “Leaving is about self-preservation, not an admittance of anything. You’re already guilty in the eyes of the guests whether you stay or leave.”

  “I’ll not be cowed.”

  Chapter 9

  Harold was still dressing for the early morning hunt when a footman brought a summons from Lord Collingwood.

  Was it too much to hope he would be granted a reprieve from the hunt? Not that he disliked riding to hounds. Quite the contrary. But there was far too much to do. The past several days had been devoted to entertaining his father’s guests. Time wasted in his estimation. Aside from calling on Nana, he had accomplished little in the way of estate management, which now fell on his shoulders with the absence of the steward and the distractions of his father. He needed to visit the tenants, see to repairs, walk the farms, and a long list of tasks. Instead, he was planning a social morning with a foxhunt.

  There was little doubt the nature of the summons: the Trethow debacle. While no one said a word aloud about it during supper, it was all anyone could focus on, everyone exchanging knowing glances, eyeing the empty chairs, chatting louder than normal about marriage and morals and polite society.

  If Harold wagered a guess, he was being summoned so his father could tell him what happened—assuming his son was none-the-wiser—and inform him the Trethows, along with Miss Plumb, had departed well before dawn that morning.

  Even while censuring her behavior, his heart went out to Miss Trethow. There was no coming back from this incident. Be it by her naivety or failed manipulation, this would ruin her family irrevocably. How could his heart not go out to her? There was a double standard between the behavior of men and women. Despite her reasons, she took the brunt of the blame while Lord Driffield enjoyed his supper, port, and drawing room tea, unaffected by the incident.

  Yes, his heart went out to her. Loose morals or not, she was a young girl to be pitied.

  Once Abhijeet fitted him with riding boots, Harold made haste to his father’s study.

  “Come in, my boy!” Eugene greeted him with a broad smile and waved him to take a seat before the desk. A footman followed with two cups of black coffee.

  Harold tensed.

  His father was never this cheery or thoughtful unless something monumental had gone his way, or he was about to have something monumental go his way. Perhaps both.

  To prepare, Harold fortified with the coffee.

  Eugene leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his chest and grinning. “We’ve done it! We’ve enough to see our plans through, all set into motion.”

  The hairs on the back of Harold’s neck stood on end.

  “I’ve found a way to resolve all our problems,” his father said when Harold did not respond. “We’ve enough to cover the capital and line our pockets for the years to come without being inconvenienced with stewards and all that. Oh, my boy! We. Are. Set.”

  Nursing his cup, he eyed his father over the rim.

  “My secretary has personally dispatched the contracts to the London solicitors to seal the deal. After all is settled, I’ll have you return to London to see to the accounts, the investment, and so forth.” Eugene waved his hand as if to brush off the unpleasantness of details and London trips. “For now, the necessary paperwork is drawn, signed, and soon to be delivered.”

  The empty cup met its saucer with a muted clink.

  Eugene’s grin slipped at the corners when Harold did not follow with a request for more information or a cheer of celebration. For Harold’s part, he saw little reason to celebrate. By the sound of it, his father had convinced the gentlemen to invest at an inflated enough amount to cover his own portion. A pity.

  “If we set the wedding for Monday,” the baron continued, “that will encourage the guests to stay a few days longer, allow travel time for family to arrive, and permit time to secure the common license from the bishop—a quick trip to the Diocese of Exeter to meet with Lavington will do the trick. I had hoped to set it for Friday, the morning of the soiree, but your mother helped me see reason.”

  Ah. Harold understood. The mention of a wedding startled him at first, so jarring from the original conversation of contracts and investments, but on further thought, it made sense. Driffield had agreed to marry Miss Trethow after all. Sensible to host the wedding at Trelowen, see it all through, have the guests present as witnesses, and turn gossip into excitement—and how much more exciting to share tales of witnessing the union of a love match than to claim to have spent a week under the same roof as a rake and his mistress.

  Clearly, his father had been hard at work the day prior. Investment gathering and wedding planning. All completed while Harold rowed the ladies across the lake, recovered from an afternoon chill, and supped with the guests.

  “I assume you have something appropriate to wear?” Eugene asked.

  “To the wedding?” were Harold’s first words in the conversation. “I hope I won’t be expected to attend the ceremony, only whatever breakfast or tea Mother has planned for afterwards.”

  The baron stared at his son with mouth agape. “But of course, you’ll be attending the ceremony. You’re the bridegroom.”

  Had Harold been holding the coffee cup, it would have slipped from his fingers onto the rug. Thankfully, he held only his composure, which slipped instead. “I beg your pardon.”

  Eugene’s smile returned. “The dowry couldn’t be refused. We’ll not easily find its equal. It took some convincing, but in the end, he saw reason, saw the noose tightening, as it were. When a man sees the end of the rope, sees his opportunity for investing closing, the ruination of his daughter, the ruined future of his son, scandal…Well, it makes a man realize that the aid of a dear friend is the only solution. Now, the scandal will be silenced, and the son will look forward to a future of far more wealth.”

  Harold heard the words but could not understand them. Perhaps his father intended it to be that way, or perhaps Harol
d was so stunned he could not make sense of any words spoken.

  Gripping the arms of his chair, Harold asked, “Whom am I marrying, pray tell?”

  With a clap of his hands, Eugene said, “Miss Hazel Trethow, of course!”

  He heard the words, and this time he understood them, but they made no more sense than the rest of his father’s announcements thus far.

  Before he could respond, his father launched into an impassioned speech. “We. Are. Set! If you had seen me working over Trethow, you would have been proud of your old Papa. I convinced him to convince himself this was the only way to save his family. In the end, it’ll work out for all of us, rest assured, so I’ve done him a favor he could have never done for himself. When this investment sees the earnings I expect it will, his son can marry any woman he wants, someone to bear his sons and negate the entailment. All the while, we’ll be living as kings!”

  Harold interrupted. “What entailment?”

  “It’s brilliant what we agreed to, my boy. Brilliant. First, I had to convince him I wouldn’t allow him to invest in my deal with a scandal overhead. And then I had to convince him I might consider you as a husband if the dowry were enough to compete with the other ladies’ dowries. If the two of you wed, the scandal would be hushed, and then he could invest. You see the brilliance? There was a touch of difficulty, though. Nothing I couldn’t handle. You see, he didn’t have as much ready money as I had anticipated, not for both dowry and investment.”

  Harold interrupted again. “This has nothing to do with saving her reputation, I take it. Or even me marrying. This is all to do with your opium deal. She’s a pawn.” His disgust tasted acrid. “You’ve made the girl a pawn. You’ve made us both pawns.” He looked away, his mind working and reworking through scenarios, all unlikely but none beyond his father’s cunning. “Was Driffield part of it too? Did you set them up to be compromised so you could hold the scandal over Trethow’s head?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” The baron waved his hand to dismiss the accusation. “Now, where was I? To meet the capital, since he didn’t have ready money, I promised to front him the funds—using her dowry, of course, but he needn’t know that. To reimburse me for what I’ve covered, plus interest, he agreed to allot a percentage of his annual estate income to our accounts until the loan is repaid. We’ll earn money from his estate, you see. Brilliant. What sealed the deal was the entailment—I wouldn’t accept the dowry without it. He agreed to a fee tail special, entailing his property to Miss Trethow’s first-born son, unless Trethow’s son has a son of his own, of course. You needn’t be concerned, my boy, for in all likelihood his son will have a boy of his own, but if not, Trethow will make so much money from the investment, it’ll pay for the dowries of a dozen granddaughters. Meanwhile, we’ll earn the annual percentage and know that any son you sire from Miss Trethow might look forward to one day possessing that estate, and a lucrative estate it is.”