“Caroline Michelle Waring,” the duchess spoke sharply. “That is impertinent! You will apologize to Miss Camden this instant!”
“But, Mama,” Caroline exclaimed, clearly puzzled, “it’s true.”
The duchess’s voice gentled as she looked at her daughter’s contrite expression. “It may be, but a person’s wardrobe is very personal and should not be discussed in public.”
“But we are not in public,” she persisted. “We’re at home. And there’s no one here but us.”
“That is also true,” the duchess conceded, “however, Miss Camden is not a relation, and discussing her personal clothing in front of gentlemen is not appropriate.”
Caroline glanced in the direction of her father and brother. “Oh.”
Corinna glanced from mother to daughter. To be sure, she was mortified when Caroline mentioned the lamentable state of her wardrobe, but now she felt sorry for her.
“Caroline?” There was a wealth of warning in that one word.
Caroline slid off the sofa and approached Corinna. Raising solemn violet eyes to Corinna’s face, she said slowly, “I’m sorry.”
Corinna reached out and gave her a hug. “I know you meant well.”
“But we still need to go shopping,” Caroline whispered in her ear as she returned Corinna’s hug, nearly causing Corinna to laugh out loud.
In less than a week, both children had wormed their way into her heart. They were high spirited, yet well-behaved, competitive, but not spiteful, independent, inquisitive, warm and open. In short, they were children with no fear of the world around them, who loved their parents and knew they were loved in return.
She had been like that once. She never doubted her parents’ love and never wanted for their attention, but her older siblings often managed to rob her of her joy. Her childhood innocence died with her parents.
The duke left a short time later, taking Michael with him to check on the new foal which had arrived only two days prior. The duchess wasted no time in picking up where Caroline had been cut off.
“Despite my daughter’s lack of manners,” she began, “I hope you will not consider it an imposition if we order you a few dresses. We did the same for Miss Kendall when she arrived, so you need not feel it is out of the ordinary.”
“But I’m only here temporarily,” Corinna protested faintly. “I could be gone next week and you would not get any return on your investment.”
“Oh, pooh,” the duchess said in her forthright way. “I’m sure we can stand the cost of a few simple dresses without bankrupting ourselves.”
“But,” Corinna began, only to be cut off by Caroline.
“Oh, please, Corrie. It will be ever so much fun. I’ll help, too.”
Corinna didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, some new clothes would be welcome, and she couldn’t help but think of the trunks full of clothes she’d left behind at Houghton Hall. She didn’t want to feel like a poor relation, but for the time being that’s exactly what she was. Their generosity was yet another reason she could not tell them about Marcus until she was able to write to him.
“Perhaps we should let Miss Camden think on it for a day or two,” the duchess said to her daughter.
But Caroline turned to look up at her again, and Corinna could not resist the entreaty in her eyes.
“Perhaps just a few dresses would not be too much,” she capitulated. “If you will help me decide on the colors.”
The duchess smiled, but Caroline threw her arms around Corinna’s neck, squealing with joy at the prospect.
“I will have Madame Maud come round tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure she will be able to have something for us before we leave.”
“Leave?” This was the first Corinna heard about anyone going anywhere, although she welcomed the thought of leaving London behind. They were too close to her own family and possibly Vincent for her peace of mind.
The duchess started, then said, “I forgot to inform you it is nearly time for us to leave London. At the end of the Season, we travel down to Collingswood with my sister and her family and usually stay for a few weeks, then we return north to The Downs for the remainder of the summer. Sometimes, however, we go on into Cornwall to St. Ayers. Do you like the sea?”
Surprised by the question at the end of the duchess’s explanation, Corinna stuttered, “I-I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
“You’ll like it there,” Caroline informed her authoritatively. “Are we going to St. Ayers this year, Mama?”
“Perhaps. Your father and I have not discussed this summer’s plans yet.”
“Oh.”
So it was that nearly three weeks after first entering Waring House, Corinna found herself in a very comfortable traveling coach with the twins, their baby brother John and his nurse, headed for Collingswood, one of the estates of the Marquis of Thanet.
The day started out blustery and looked as if it might rain, but by the time they left not long after luncheon, the gray skies had turned blue and no rain had fallen. It was Miss Timson, John’s nurse, who informed her the trip would only take a couple of hours.
“We’ll be arriving just about tea time. Lady Thanet insists on country hours when she’s at Collingswood, so tea is usually served at five.”
“I see,” she acknowledged. “And do the children partake as well?”
“Sometimes,” the woman answered. Corinna watched her shift three-year-old John onto the seat beside her, and cover the sleeping child with a light shawl. She then turned intelligent black eyes back on Corinna, as Corinna asked her about the duchess’s sister.
“The Marquis and Marchioness of Thanet are the brother and sister of the duchess,” Miss Timson answered. At Corinna’s surprised look, she laughed lightly.”Her Grace and the Marquis share a father, and the Marchioness shares a mother with her.”
“It seems strange the Marquis would marry his own, what? Stepsister?” Corinna asked incredulously.
Miss Timson nodded. “True. But he was away at sea when his father married Her Grace’s mother.”
“Oh.” A thought suddenly occurred to Corinna. “Where does Lord Wynton fit in? I thought he was the duchess’s brother.”
“He is. He, Lady Thanet, and Her Grace all have the same mother.”
Corinna found the story fascinating and familiar. Putting herself in the duchess’s place, she couldn’t imagine Douglas marrying her sister, Diana, even though they, too, were not related by blood at all.
Chapter Two
“I write to inform you of the deaths of my father and his wife this past week…”
Baron Gregory Houghton, Bedfordshire, England, to Captain Lord Douglas Camden, Bombay, India, April 1867
“He’s dead.”
Marcus heard the pronouncement as if from a long distance away and wondered who they were talking about. The speaker sounded suspiciously like Francis, but he was certain it wasn’t. Francis would never dare to appear in his dreams, unless he could learn something to his advantage from them.
“If he’s not, he will wish he was when I’m through with him,” a second, louder, more forceful voice answered. This one he recognized as Colonel Bromley. What the devil was Bromley doing in his dream?
“He hasn’t moved in days,” the first speaker said.
“And how would you know?” the second voice asked. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen him in days?”
“I haven’t,” was the defensive reply, “but it stands to reason. Just look at the amount of beard he’s grown.”
“Well, let’s see if he’s departed for the hereafter, or just plain drunk. Odds are if his chin whiskers are still growin’ he’s not dead.”
Marcus only had time to think someone was about to experience something very unpleasant when he suddenly felt as if he’d fallen into the sea. Water sluiced over his head, soaking the pillow and mattress he lay upon. He sat up with a roar, waving his fists wildly. He wasn’t sure what his fist connected with, but the grunt of pain he
heard assuaged his wet sensibilities somewhat.
“Hold on now, Waring,” Bromley’s voice stopped him.
Marcus shook his head and blinked, bringing the room into focus. Francis Teatherton stood beside Colonel Bromley, doubled over, clutching his stomach. His pale, weasel-like features were twisted in pain.
Colonel Bromley stood over him, his hand on Marcus’s chest, restraining him from further violence.
“What the hell are you doing in my rooms?” he demanded. “Who let you in?”
The colonel folded thick arms over a massive scarlet-covered chest and regarded him through eyes the same shade as obsidian. Having been the subject of the colonel’s censure before, Marcus ignored him, concentrating on the unwelcome presence of Lieutenant Teatherton.
“How did you get in?” he demanded again. “And don’t tell me Barnes let you in. He knows better.”
“He did, Major,” the colonel answered. “I insisted. And now I know you are alive and well, I shall save the conduct of my interview for a better location.” He looked to the young lieutenant and gestured toward the door. Still obviously in some discomfort, the young man straightened and turned toward the door. “Wait for me downstairs,” the colonel ordered.
Marcus watched him leave through narrowed eyes. Lieutenant Francis Teatherton had been a thorn in Marcus’s side since his arrival in Calcutta in January. Young, brash, and too full of himself, he tried to ingratiate himself with his superiors by becoming a tattler. Not many of the junior officers trusted him, but he quickly became Colonel Warner’s right-hand man. Thankfully, Colonel Bromley was Marcus’s superior officer and seemed to have little to do with the weasel. So, what were they doing in his rooms together?
The colonel waited until Teatherton’s footsteps faded before pinning Marcus with his dark gaze. “One hour. My office,” he snapped. Turning on his heel, he headed for the door, and threw over his shoulder, “Don’t be late.”
Then he was gone, and Marcus was left sitting in the middle of a soaking wet bed.
A few moments later, Barnes, his valet, hurried into the room.
“What do you mean, letting that scum Teatherton in here?” Marcus demanded, peeling the wet sheet away from his bare skin. Uncaring of his nakedness, he stood and dropped the wet material back onto the bed.
“I didn’t let him in. The colonel did,” Barnes defended himself. “I let the colonel in, but when I tried to keep the lieutenant out, the colonel overrode me. Said they were together.”
“Hmmph,” Marcus snorted. Going over to the washstand, he grabbed his brush and razor. Looking in the mirror, he noted more than his usual growth of stubble. “How long was I out this time?” he asked.
“Two days,” Barnes replied, laying out his small clothes, then retrieving a clean uniform from the armoire. “That woman left the next morning, but I made sure she left with exactly what she came with.”
Marcus grimaced as he shaved. Looking in the mirror, he wondered if anyone who knew him in London would recognize him. He had grown so thin, he looked almost gaunt. His face was a study in angles and planes, sun browned and weathered. His nose stood out on his face, as bold as that of the Sphinx, but sharper, situated between wide-spaced, dark brown eyes under dark brown brows. The Indian sun had lightened his coffee-colored hair and added golden streaks to it, reminding him of his brother and sister.
“She was none too happy,” Barnes continued. “Said when she was mistress, I would be the first to go.”
“And did she say when that would be?”
“Hmmph.” It was Barnes’s turn to snort. “I told her that would never happen.”
Marcus chuckled. He could see the little valet, who was as much friend as he was servant, telling his latest paramour she was whistling in the wind thinking that he, Marcus, would marry her.
But that was neither here nor there. Right now, he had to come up with an adequate explanation for Colonel Bromley to explain away the last two days. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have allowed Anjeh to talk him into taking the opium again. She insisted his performance in bed was incredible when he took it, but the last couple of times she had talked him into it, he had awakened more than a day later, unable to remember anything that passed between them. It was a feeling he didn’t like.
One of these days he wasn’t going to wake up. He had seen too many good men waste away to nothingness to allow himself to do that. But it seemed harmless enough to do every so often, except it was becoming more frequent. Perhaps he needed to give Barnes strict orders not to let him take the stuff again, but that made him feel as if he couldn’t control himself. And he was a better man than that.
Wasn’t he?
His stomach growled as Barnes carried in a tray. Steaming black coffee washed down the eggs and toast, appeasing him for the moment.
Exactly one hour later, washed, shaved, dressed, and with a full stomach, he was staring at Colonel Bromley in shock.
“Go home? But, why?”
Colonel Bromley sat behind a massive ebony desk with intricately carved sides depicting jungle scenes. The side Marcus sat facing showed a tiger in a tree, a hunter directly below about to fire the lethal shot. He knew how that tiger felt.
“You have been in India for how long? Eight years?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with it?”
“It’s time,” Bromley told him. “As I remember it, you have some unfinished business to attend to.”
Marcus blinked. Bromley picked up a glass and took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid. His dark hair was combed back from a wide forehead which was now creased with concern. A slightly bulbous nose dominated a clean-shaven face.
“That’s been waiting for eight years. What’s the hurry now?” He knew to what the colonel referred. His family situation wasn’t settled. He had left both parents very much alive in England eight years ago, only to be informed they had both died within months of his departure. He had known his father wasn’t well when he left, but his mother had been in perfect health and he suspected her death hadn’t been due to natural causes.
The first letter he received after arriving in India had been a posthumous one from his father. It had been written in anticipation of his death and instructed Marcus bluntly that he was not to return to England unless his brother or the family solicitor wrote to him. There had been no explanation of why, but Marcus had developed his own reasons for his father’s dictates. The letter from his sister informing him of his mother’s death had shaken him, but there was little he could do about it in India.
Letters to his brother and sister on the subject of his mother’s death remained unanswered, although they corresponded about other things. His brother was overseeing the estate he had been left by his father, and Marcus had his own intuition concerning his mother’s sudden demise, but knew he’d find no answers until he returned to England. Despite his curiosity, he had no real interest in returning to England. There was little enough for him to return to.
The colonel sat back in his chair and regarded the young man on the other side of the desk thoughtfully. One of his best officers, Major, then Captain, Waring had been devastated at the loss of his friend and fellow officer, Captain Camden, five years ago. He had nearly sent the captain home then, but he’d insisted he would be fine. And he had seemed so, for about a year.
Over the last four years, however, he had changed. Even being promoted to Major and receiving extra responsibilities hadn’t stopped the slow downward slide Colonel Bromley could now look back on and see had actually begun with Camden’s death. Then Lord Mayo had been murdered earlier this year on a trip to the Andaman Islands.
Not only had Major Waring been a strong supporter and right-hand man of Lord Mayo, but he had been there that fateful day in February. It had been Captain Camden all over again, and the similarities were too close for comfort. This time the effect had been immediate and obvious. Major Waring had descended into a depression. The regimental doctor had prescribed a local tonic for him. It se
emed to help, but lately the major seemed to be taking more risks and walking a little too close to the edge.
The situation with his latest paramour was the final straw. Anjeh Daskarit was a lovely young widow. In England she would never have been accepted by the strata of society Major Waring moved in, but in Calcutta things were different, and as the widow of a minor Punjab officer, she was considered acceptable. Although she was well known, the colonel could not ever remember hearing her name linked with anyone’s until she became involved with Major Waring. And, if his sources were right, and they usually were, she was out to snare an English husband.
Major Lord Marcus Waring was perfect. He was still young, handsome, well-liked, rich, the brother of a duke, and, above all, titled and landed. It was no secret he was also unattached. His weakness was that he was soft-hearted when it came to women, and Anjeh had swiftly exploited that weakness.
“I realize, sir, you could simply order me home, but I thought we were beyond that,” Marcus said now. “Why don’t you just tell me what is going on.”
“Very little,” the colonel responded, “which is why I feel comfortable letting you go.” Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the polished surface of the desk, he stared at Marcus for a moment longer, then said, “And Madame Daskarit is beginning to make things a mite uncomfortable.”
“Anjeh?” A warning bell went off in Marcus’s head. What had Barnes said? Said when she was mistress, I would be the first one to go.
“She’s claiming you are to be married.”
Marcus put his head in his hands. He wished dearly he could remember what happened between him and Anjeh two nights ago. Had they just had sex, or had he been beyond foolish? He wouldn’t marry her, at any rate. He had told her so at the outset of their affair. That she hadn’t believed him was not his concern, except now she was trying to force his hand. Well, he refused be forced.
Looking up at the colonel, he smiled humorlessly. “That’s highly unlikely, as I’m already married.”
Bromley’s mouth dropped open for a second before he snapped it shut. Marcus could see the speculation in his superior’s eyes before he shuttered them, too.
Family Scandals Page 2
