That Scandalous Summer

by Meredith Duran

  The signora, dark and sloe-eyed and quite trim for a woman of about fifty, might have passed easily for an Italian had her craft not required her to speak. When she did, her vowels slid madly across a geography that had never existed in the real world: a curious combination of France, Trieste, and the slums of London.

  For all its unlikely provenance, her low, growling voice caused the assembly to quiet immediately. “I have been summoned here tonight by Madam Chudderley,” she said, pulling her black lace shawl—a peculiarly Spanish touch—tighter around a gown of plain black wool, cut high at the throat and loose over her waist and hips, reminiscent in its own way of the habit of medieval nuns. “But I do not come to serve her. I serve no one and nothing but Truth.”

  Oh, that was very good. Liza stepped back a little from the cluster of guests, discreetly watching as two footmen circulated the perimeter of the room, turning down the gas lamps and lighting great branches of candles in their stead.

  “Must we endure this without a drink?” came Sanburne’s voice in her ear.

  She felt disinclined to humor him. Not turning, she said, “Oh, you’re still here? I wondered if you and Lydia had gone back to London.”

  “Went for a walk around ten in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “It turned out to be longer than expected.”

  “Oh, I’m certain. Will I hear scandalized reports from some farmer whose crops you crushed?”

  “No, but Lydia is absolutely fascinated with these cairns. She’d never been to Cornwall. Can you imagine?”

  She glanced over at his sigh. He had a dreamy, distracted look on his face. She followed his attention and discovered his wife creeping through the doorway, still smoothing her evening gloves over her elbows.

  Liza cleared her throat. “James, it simply grows embarrassing now.”

  “In what regard?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “The way you fawn on her. You’re in friendly company, of course—”

  “Yes, the Hawthornes would make our lord and savior weep with approval.”

  “You’ll be mocked to kingdom come, all right, if you carry on in town this way.”

  “Oh, come now, Lizzie. Are you saying a man can’t be madly in love with his wife?”

  Another voice replied for her: “It runs contrary to popular wisdom,” said Michael as he stepped up.

  “And how goes that wisdom?” asked James.

  Michael shrugged. “Why, that marriage is the quickest cure for love.”

  “Ah, yes,” said James. “I believe I’ve heard you say that before. One would hope you’d developed some new witticisms since your school days. If you’ll excuse me . . .” And with a bow to the both of them, he crossed the room to join his wife, who was listening to the signora’s low speech. Indeed, everybody looked rapt save Jane, who was leaning around the baron to steal a peek at Michael.

  Liza squared her shoulders. “You’re doing terribly,” she said. “I didn’t see you touch her once today.”

  “Must I touch her?” He looked surprised. “I spoke to nobody else at the picnic.”

  “You were lecturing her on medical hygiene!”

  He pulled a face. “She asked me whether it wasn’t true that soap was injurious to the skin. Really, Elizabeth, I don’t know where you found her—”

  “She’s sharper than she seems. Perhaps if you’d treat her as though you take her seriously, instead of preaching at her as though she were a child who didn’t know to wash her hands—”

  His hand closed on her arm, exerting a subtle pressure that forced her to turn toward him. In this dim, temperamental light, his face was mostly lost in shadow; she saw only half of his rueful smile. “And now you’re instructing me on how to flirt? Perhaps I should return the favor. Does Hollister really wish to know the mineral composition of your properties?”

  She tried to tug free, but his grip only tightened. “He’s a businessman,” she said. “He expressed an interest in the state of the mining industry in these parts.”

  “Oh, and I’m sure he has no employees to answer such questions.” His gaze dipped to her mouth. “In fact—I’m wrong. Probably wouldn’t have mattered if you’d nattered on in gibberish. He simply wanted to watch your lips move as you spoke.”

  For some reason the implicit compliment irritated her. She jerked free. “Actually, I think he was quite intrigued by what I had to say. He complimented me on being so learned. Imagine that: a man more enamored with my brain than with my face!”

  He frowned. “And you think I’m not?”

  She huffed out a breath. “Recall yourself, Michael. Your interests are not my concern.”

  A titillated murmur rose behind them. For one horrible second she feared that everyone had overheard her—that their reaction was for this silly spat.

  But, no, Signora Garibaldi had issued some apparently impressive pronouncement. The space around her had widened considerably, as though everybody had taken a step back.

  Liza exhaled. Suddenly she felt very foolish. What was she doing over here, quarreling with him? Quarreling like . . . lovers?

  “Take heart,” Michael said. “I had it from Weston that Hollister longs to settle down with a woman who will help him win a welcome in the more fashionable corners of society. I imagine you might qualify . . . even if he hasn’t looked this way once.”

  “How kind of you to keep track for me,” she said through her teeth. “But don’t trouble yourself. If you’ll watch, now, you’ll see that I require no aid in my own flirtations.”

  As she walked away, she caught his murmur: “Oh, I’m always watching.”

  His words sent a shiver of pleasure up her spine. She tried to battle it down as she stepped into hearing range—and then promptly forgot it as she absorbed what the signora was actually saying.

  “A great war,” she said, her eyes closed, her brow knit fiercely. “Blood in the fields, blood and iron and smoke, unnatural smoke, smoke that kills with the first breath—”

  Good God! This was not at all the thing! “Signora,” Liza said stridently, but then Weston cut her off.

  “Germans, I’d wager? It must be the bloody Germans!”

  “Ja,” affirmed the signora, “ohne jeden Zweifel”—evidencing in the process that her accent did not stretch so far east as Germany. Without a doubt, she’d said, but she’d mangled it almost beyond recognition.

  “And now for something a bit more cheerful, please,” said Liza.

  “Oh, but it’s terribly interesting,” called Lydia. “She was speaking of giant iron horses, which, as you may know, is also the phrase by which many Indian tribes in North America refer to trains.”

  “I wonder if this army shall be transported chiefly by train, then,” said Baroness Forbes.

  “Why not in a magical puff of poisonous smoke?” drawled Tilney. “Emitted, no doubt, by very large dragons.”

  Titters went up from the Hawthornes, and as simply as that, the eerie mood was dispelled. Signora Garibaldi opened her eyes and drew a great breath. “The vision fades now. But if you’ll give me a moment . . .” Encountering Liza’s glare, she visibly started. “Ah—that is, I am seeing a new vision. A vision of . . .”

  “Love?” suggested Jane shyly. Weston beamed at her, and she ducked her head, blushing.

  Drat it. How did she so perfectly manage that routine? Liza unobtrusively edged closer to Hollister, who was idly examining his nails.

  “Oh, yes, love,” said the signora gustily. “I see . . . so much of it. Fated, destined. Give me your hand, child!” She reached toward Jane.

  “We have hired a palmist,” Liza said pointedly. Jane’s fortune was not the one at stake here.

  “But of course,” the signora said smoothly as she withdrew. “Then let me see . . . oh! A vision of you, Madam Chudderley!”

  Oh, that was too transparent. She did not like how Katherine was smirking. “Why not Miss Hawthorne?” she asked, gesturing toward the woman. “Has the vision any bearing on her?”

 
As the clairvoyant obediently turned, Hollister leaned down to murmur in her ear. “Have you some mystical powers, madam? For you seem curiously able to direct these visions.”

  She gave a light laugh. “And if I did, would I tell you, sir? A woman must guard her mysteries.”

  “Perhaps true,” he said, “if her mysteries are few in number. But I feel certain that a man could study you at his leisure and never find himself short on the most . . . pleasant brands of speculation.”

  She felt a very agreeable quickening of her pulse. Was Michael watching? Against her better judgment, she took a quick glance over her shoulder.

  He was staring at her as though no one else was in the room.

  Breathless now, she turned back to Hollister. He had followed her look, which was a very bad piece of luck. “I do wonder why some people refuse to join in the fun,” she said brightly. “As the hostess, I can do only so much. Merriment, I think, is an inborn talent.”

  Hollister recovered his smile. “One that you possess in full measure, I think. Your invitation made me the envy of all my friends.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Weston turning to focus fully on Jane. Very well, let her have him. “And your acceptance won me the envy of all of mine,” she replied.

  Hollister’s eyes narrowed slightly. He gave her a slow, deliberate smile.

  And so it begins. On a thrill of triumph, she set her hand lightly atop his arm. “Would you walk with me around the room, sir? Perhaps we might learn whether our mutual envies were justified.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He tucked her fingers more firmly into the crook of his elbow before leading her along the wall.

  He was witty. Open in his interest. Surprisingly erudite for a financier. And as she parried his repartee, her attention grew curiously divided. Half of her laughed and flirted and focused on her posture, shoulders down, spine straight, the better to show her figure to its best advantage. The other half fixated on the man who stood on the opposite side of the room, watching so closely that she could feel his attention, like the stroke of a finger along her cheek.

  It . . . affected her. Of course every woman carried with her the constant knowledge that she was being watched, her actions evaluated and judged. But Liza had never set out to woo one man under another man’s auspices. To have Michael’s eyes on her as she flirted . . . it felt, to her growing unease, deeply erotic.

  It should not be so. She should not find herself angling her face so he could see her smiles as clearly as Hollister could. Should not find her glance wandering to him every time Hollister bent to murmur in her ear.

  But every time she looked over, his eyes remained fixed on her. And it was not her imagination that his face grew stonier and stonier.

  Perhaps he had more than half her attention, for when he abruptly stepped away from the wall and launched himself into the group still riveted to the clairvoyant, her words hitched. The barest pause. She recovered herself almost instantly. “. . . But I prefer Monte Carlo,” she said. Where was he going? To Jane. Of course! Well, it was high time he took her advice. “The stakes are higher, and if one enjoys gambling, there’s really no other place to do it.”

  “You’re preaching sin to the Devil,” said Hollister. “I am a gambler not only by trade but also by nature, Mrs. Chudderley. Having made a fortune wagering on the market, I intend to make several more, for the sheer pleasure of knowing that I can.”

  His frankness grew more startling by the moment. “Very bold,” she said. “You must know such talk will not endear you in these circles.”

  “Ah, but I have no great interest in these circles,” said Hollister. “I am speaking only to you now, am I not?”

  That comment finally riveted her entire interest. She eyed him, suddenly uncertain. He spoke almost as if he knew her predicament—and was listing his qualities as though to persuade her that he was the solution.

  Why should that unsettle her? Shouldn’t that properly be a very welcome relief?

  “I certainly don’t carry tales,” she said finally. “If that is what you mean. Your words are safe with me, sir.”

  He laughed. “Oh, you may tell whomever you like, Mrs. Chudderley. I do not apologize for myself to anyone.”

  She blinked very rapidly. That was her philosophy.

  “But I will confess to you,” he went on, “that I should be most disheartened if you felt I should apologize for it. For I thought I’d found in you a kindred spirit.” His smile lingered as he looked her over, his appreciation so frankly sexual that she felt her pulse skip once despite herself. “A woman unafraid to flout convention, and to embrace—how did you put it? Ah, yes: an inborn talent for merriment.”

  She should be encouraged. For he was handsome, and confident, and he did seem a kindred spirit—and the very kind of man she would have been, had nature given her the opportunity. How much better to gamble on the market than on marriage!

  Yet her unease only grew. She slipped free of his arm. “That sounds like the prelude to a proposition—and not, perhaps, the proper kind.”

  “Then you mistake me,” he said. “There are easier places to seek a brief affair than a country house in Cornwall.”

  She stared at him. Her heart was beating very quickly, disbelief being the goad. Hollister was all but dancing around the main question—and so quickly!

  Too quickly. He knew nothing of her.

  “From the moment I first saw those photographs of you,” he said in a murmur, “I knew I’d found a woman who knew her own worth.”

  “Ridiculous!” This bellow came from Baron Forbes, causing them both to turn. All the people gathered around the clairvoyant were shaking their heads.

  She manufactured a laugh. “What can she be saying now?” she asked. “More talk of a strange war?” She was infinitely grateful for the distraction. Those dratted photographs. He had fallen in love with her face.

  But why should she feel so stung by disappointment? Her face was her greatest hope, was it not? She had always depended on it.

  “It will be war, or love, or an unexpected fortune,” drawled Hollister. “Perhaps a long-lost family member. These performers have their set routines.”

  “I believe what Mrs. Hull wishes to know is whether she will find her soul mate,” said Weston loudly.

  Jane covered her eyes with one gloved hand, precious as a kitten. “Oh, goodness,” she said. “Do not tease me so!”

  Michael was finally feeling competitive, Liza saw, for he stepped forward to gently pry Jane’s hand from her face. “Don’t be shy,” he said, in tones so rich with affection that a brief, startled silence fell over the room. “You’ve every right to be curious.”

  Katherine and Nigel Hawthorne exchanged a speaking look.

  “Well,” said Liza. That remark had served its purpose, and suddenly she had no more stomach for flirtation. Not without several glasses of wine first. “Shall I ring for refreshment?”

  • • •

  At ten the next morning, Liza swept into the entry hall, lowering her voice in case it carried up the stairs. “Any notable mail?”

  Ronson lifted a brow to telegraph his disapproval, but he had the pile ready for her, promptly handing it over.

  She thumbed through it quickly, one eye out for her guests. She was keeping track of who was writing letters to whom. Tilney and Katherine Hawthorne had written to Nello—but not Nigel or anybody else. It was good to know who were her friends, and who were mere spies.

  One particular letter gave her pause. It was addressed to His Grace, the Duke of Marwick, in a hand she had never seen before. The penmanship was bold, confident, but not at all elegant.

  Ronson cleared his throat. “From Lord Michael, ma’am.”

  Yes. She would have guessed that he would write like this. His script somehow conjured the way he walked. She could see it in her mind’s eye, that confident, aggressive pace.

  How starkly it contrasted with his manner when he spoke of Marwick. This letter might con
tain a bold challenge, but she would wager what remained of her assets that instead it expressed his earnest concern.

  They had not spoken again last night after the clairvoyant’s talk had turned to soul mates. He had been too busy showing his particular considerations for Jane, and she . . . She had taken respite in her obligations as hostess. Sparing smiles here and there for Hollister, for she meant to keep him on the hook, she had drifted from person to person, producing her best witticisms, her most daring jokes.

  The evening had been a great success. Jane had looked very gratified by Michael’s attentions.

  Liza had been sure to drink enough to fall directly to sleep on her return to her rooms.

  But he had stayed up. He had stayed up to write a letter to his brother, who certainly did not deserve letters from him.

  The impulse was on her to go find him. To ask him what he had written. He had looked so troubled when speaking of Marwick . . . and he had nobody to talk to about it, for he was keeping the secret of his brother’s odd behavior from everybody.

  Everybody except her.

  She bit her lip. She did not want to feel tender toward him. But one could not help but admire a love that survived bullying and threats. Such loyalty spoke so well of him.

  Bah! What was she doing? She thrust the letters back at Ronson. “If you see Mather, tell her I’ve gone to consult the palmist,” she said briskly. She meant to ensure there would be no more talk of wars, and smoke, and Germans.

  • • •

  Michael made a late start to the morning. He’d been up for hours composing a testing letter to his brother—a few bland, careful lines to hint at an interest in a demure young widow. Easier said than done to compose bait that did not also seem like a challenge or a taunt.

  As he walked through the gallery, bound for a late breakfast, he caught sight of Elizabeth hurrying down the hall ahead of him. Instantly he withdrew behind a statue, guided by some fleeting instinct. The look she threw over her shoulder before rounding the corner rewarded his suspicion: it struck him as distinctly furtive.

  He wrestled with an impulse to follw. That letter had not been the only thing to keep him stewing into the wee hours. It was clear to him now that he had a bad case of . . . jealousy. Was she stealing off to find Hollister?