That Scandalous Summer

by Meredith Duran

  Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.

  “Mama,” she said softly. The lifting breeze gently touched her cheek; it carried the scents of summer, a hint of the day’s oncoming warmth, the trace of smoke from some hearth where the morning meal was being warmed.

  She went to her knees in the grass. Carefully she laid the roses back in their place. From me, Mama. They were always from me.

  She’d been so afraid to face this place. Shame had kept her away. But her mother was not here. And even if her mother had lingered in this place . . . she would never have judged Liza so harshly.

  That voice in her head . . . it had always been her own.

  “I miss you,” she whispered.

  A flutter of movement from the corner of her eye: a small brown finch had alit on her father’s grave. The bird tilted his head, eyeing her.

  How had Mama borne the separation from him? She had mourned, but she had never lost herself in her grief. Her kindness, her compassion, her gentleness—they had never diminished. She’d always had love to spare.

  Michael was right. Every child required an example. And Liza would learn from her mother’s.

  She rose to her feet. Strange, that even as her beloved left her on a London-bound train, as she stood in a graveyard surrounded by fading names and forgotten souls, she might, at last, feel her loneliness lift. Alone, but not lonely.

  With her mother’s death, she had imagined that she would never again find someone to love her unconditionally. But she had forgotten that there would always be someone who did so: she, herself.

  You are a wonder, Michael had told her.

  She was determined to be nothing less. But if she failed, sometimes, to live up to his view of her . . . then she would love herself anyway. Never again would she allow herself to do otherwise.

  “Sweet dreams, Mama.”

  Turning on her heel, she started back for the house.

  • • •

  Two hours later, she sat at her dressing table, half listening to Mather’s recital of the morning’s business. Tomorrow the remaining guests departed, and their travel arrangements involved a good many particulars, all of which Mather seemed to have well in hand.

  “And the Forbeses are taking the earlier train,” Mather said, “but that should not pose a problem, for Lord Hollister arrived with his own equipment, and is glad to take Lord Weston and Mr. Tilney to the station in his vehicle.”

  “That’s fine.” Liza looked over her powders and rouges and kohl. Her hope was to assemble a face that did not look puffy and red from last night’s weeping. “You and I will go in the pony cart, then. No need to rush Jane; she can join us at her leisure.”

  Mather frowned. “But . . . where are we going, ma’am?”

  “To the station. I want to be on the first train as well.” She tapped the lid on the powder jar, then decided against it. No amount of cosmetics was going to make her look beautiful today. The idea, strangely, did not bother her in the least.

  “I—I hadn’t realized,” stammered Mather. Poor girl; she never liked sudden changes of plan. “But the town house is closed, ma’am. I’ll need to wire the staff there at once—”

  “Oh, they can open the shutters after we arrive,” Liza said. She had two pieces of business that could not wait on such niceties—an appointment with Nello, followed immediately thereafter by a visit with the Duke of Marwick.

  “Another thing,” she went on as she turned on her stool. “You must prepare to soothe the staff. My financial plight will soon become public. I expect the staff will be very uneasy about it. You must assure them that I have no intention to let anyone go.” Yet. “Not without proper notice,” she added. She could hold on for another six months, give her employees a generous measure of time in which to find new positions.

  It was a mark of her surprise that Mather fell into a seat without asking for permission. Such a stickler, she was. Liza would miss her terribly.

  “I don’t understand,” the girl said. “Why would—that is, how would anyone know of it?” Her russet brows dipped suddenly. “Mr. Nelson. You mean to . . .” Her lips folded abruptly, trapping the thought unspoken.

  Liza shrugged. “It was bound to come out eventually.” And certainly would, once Nello realized she had thrown him to the dogs—or rather, to the Kingmaker. For she had no intention of protecting him. The more fool he, for imagining she might place her pride, and her prospective financial gains, over the chance to see him squirm.

  Mather studied her a moment. “Very well,” she said slowly. Then, as Liza started to rise: “There is one more thing, madam.” She held out a letter.

  Taking it, Liza caught her breath. It was not addressed to her.

  She looked sharply up at Mather. “Why bring me this? You should have posted it onward to Lord Michael.”

  Mather’s lashes lowered, veiling her expression. On a girl best known for her bluntness, this abashed look screamed as loudly as a confession. “I thought you might like to read it.”

  Liza realized she was gaping. “Why, you cunning little thing! Have you been taking lessons from the Hawthornes? I would not read another man’s letters.” No matter how burning the temptation was, now that Mather had suggested it. “Why on earth—”

  But she stopped as Mather’s brows rose to a speaking arch. Come now, that look said. I’m no fool.

  Liza sighed. “Was it so obvious, then?”

  Mather shrugged. “Sometimes I eavesdrop, madam. It’s a vice.”

  “Heavens, Mather. Do I even know you?”

  The girl reddened. “I worried last night that Mr. Nelson would not behave. I wanted to be ready to help should he . . .” She scowled. “And one can hardly say he behaved, at that! Such a nefarious scheme.”

  So she knew about the matter of Marwick? “Gracious, what else have you overheard?”

  “From the Hawthornes’ talk, enough to gather that you were right: Lord Michael is not a suitable solution to your financial difficulties.” Mather’s jaw was assuming its most mutinous cast. “However, it took no eavesdropping to see how you might wish it otherwise.”

  A brief silence opened, which Liza did not know how to fill. Her secretary would have made a very good spy! “You understand most of it, then. I still won’t read that letter.”

  Mather’s hands twisted together in her lap. “Then I have another suggestion. You won’t like it, though.” In a great rush, she said, “You may use those letters to blackmail the duke into accepting you. To—to force him to pay off your debts, as Mr. Nelson suggested, but also to give his blessing to your wedding with his brother.”

  Liza sighed. She might have been shocked . . . had the idea not crossed her mind in the hour before sunrise. “But I couldn’t,” she said—gently, for judging by the increasing pallor on Mather’s face, her secretary was also seeing the ill in it. “Lord Michael loves his brother. When the truth came out, how would it serve me any good for him to know that I had held those letters over his brother’s head?”

  Besides, she had a very different threat in mind for the duke. Not being in the habit of blackmail, she could only assume that threats were best issued in the singular.

  “No, of course that wouldn’t suit,” Mather said. “But if somebody else were to employ the letters for your sake—”

  “Goodness, no. I wouldn’t drag anyone else into this mess.” Her eyes fell to the letter in her hand. It seemed to grow hotter the longer she held it. “And I can’t read this,” she said, thrusting it back at the girl.

  “But . . .”

  Mather looked highly agitated now. As Liza studied the girl, a terrible suspicion overcame her. “Mather, how did you know that Lord Michael required his brother’s approval to wed?”

  If possible, Mather went even paler now. Her freckles looked livid.

  Liza groaned. “Do not tell me you read it.” Her eyes fell to the seal, which appeared unbroken. Mather was gripping it so tightly that her knuc
kles were white.

  “I . . . won’t,” said Mather, her tone muted.

  Liza covered her eyes briefly. God help her. “You are not to tamper with correspondence! Never, ever again!”

  “I won’t, ma’am! I promise you!”

  “Then . . .” Her hand fell, and she drew a great breath. “You seem to think I would find its contents interesting. Tell me—why is that?”

  Mather swallowed audibly. “I expect . . . if you were to read this letter . . . you would gather how deeply Lord Michael cares for you . . . and how much an ass is the Duke of Marwick!”

  Liza managed a smile. “Well,” she said. That put paid to the last of her hopes—a hope she had not realized until this moment that she’d been nursing in the most private corner of her heart. “No need to read what I already knew.”

  “He has closed the hospital! Shut it up and turned out the patients!”

  She sucked in a breath. That, she had not known. And it made her mission in London all the more urgent. “Mather, be sure to book those tickets for us—the earliest train, please. I mean to be in London by tomorrow midnight.” She paused. “And—post the letter onward for me, will you?”

  “You are a better person than I,” Mather said hoarsely—startling from Liza another laugh.

  So. It seemed she would keep laughing, then, no matter what. That was good to know. Perhaps she did not have her mother’s kindness—but her gift for merriment would never fade, even in sad circumstances such as these.

  “Mather,” she said, “that is a very flattering verdict for me, and a very grim one for you—despite your talent for espionage. Now, take that letter away—and make sure the seal appears unbroken.”

  “Yes, ma’am. At once.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  For the second day in a row, Michael sat down across from his brother. Today he would not scream. Today he meant to match his brother for coldness.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” he said calmly. If they were going to end up in court—if history was determined to repeat itself—then he would, at least, edit it somewhat. The newspapers would have no cause to report screaming fights and vitriol. The aggrieved party would provide no nasty quotes.

  “I confess, I was surprised to hear you announced,” Alastair said. Once again, he sat behind his desk. Jones said he spent most of his days here in the study, and still refused to budge from the house. His decline had grown more marked, particularly in his alarming gauntness; had he been a patient seeking help, the sight of him would have alarmed Michael into ringing for hot broth and a hearty repast.

  But though Alastair’s flesh was sallow and withering, his will remained hard as diamond. It is for your own good, he’d said yesterday. A widow, a notorious whore, no, I will not approve of such. You waste my time and insult my intelligence with this proposition.

  The memory made it easy to hand over the sheaf of papers. He felt nothing as he watched his brother look over them.

  “I don’t understand,” Alastair said flatly.

  “This is a legal action drawn up by Smythe and Jackson.” The solicitors had accepted him as a client yesterday, agreeing to draw their fees from his winnings. “If you will not surrender the allowance vouchsafed to me in our father’s will, then I will take my request to the courts. In addition, I am suing for your removal from the hospital’s board of directors. You overstepped your bounds in ordering its closure. I have asked Weston to replace you. Hollister may come aboard as well.” Michael had spoken to both men before leaving Havilland Hall.

  “Interesting,” Alastair murmured. He cast aside the papers, his hand fluttering down to rest anemically atop them. His signet ring hung loosely on his finger, sliding all the way to his knuckle. “Yet I doubt they have any interest in funding your efforts.”

  “As to that,” Michael said, “Weston has offered a sizable amount, and both men support my proposal to expand our services to patients of the middling class. Fees from the new clientele will support our charitable operations.” He had gone over the budget last night. Provided the bourgeoisie would consent to be treated at a charity hospital, it might work. He was not overly hopeful, of course. But it was a chance, and that was more than he’d had three days ago.

  Alastair’s smile was slight, and faded so quickly that it left the impression of exhaustion. “I would not count on Hollister remaining involved. I have been a great friend to him, as you may know.” He pushed the papers toward Michael. “And I do not appreciate men without loyalty. Indeed, I tend to make sure they repent the lack of it.”

  Michael gritted his teeth. “Funny thing, that. Until recently, I had imagined that brotherhood might entail loyalty. But I see your understanding of the term is a far match from mine.” He shoved the papers back toward his brother before coming to his feet. “And now, I’ll bid you good day.”

  “Wait.” Alastair stared up at him. “You . . .”

  Michael waited impatiently, trying to ignore how his brother’s eyes seemed to be sinking back into his skull. Alastair looked more and more like a death’s-head. “What?”

  “You really mean to do this,” Alastair said. “To take me to court.”

  Michael called up his grimmest smile. “A fine irony, is it not? And here you wished to keep your name free of scandal.”

  A muscle flexed in Alastair’s jaw. He started to stand, and—Christ, but he had to use his hands to do it; palms down on the desk, he shoved himself up with visible difficulty.

  His jacket hung limply from his shoulders. There simply wasn’t the flesh to fill it anymore.

  And despite his best effort to remain cold—for Alastair deserved nothing from him; nothing—Michael felt his indifference crack. “Good God,” he said. “Good God, Al. You are killing yourself. You—”

  But what was there to say that he had not said already?

  There was one thing. “I love you,” he said with difficulty. “That has not changed. My God—you and I were in hell together as children. And you were everything to me. My only ally. My dearest friend. My protector and support. If I emerged whole, it was only because of you. How can I ever forget that? You will always be my brother.”

  A scowl was dawning on Alastair’s brow. “And how nobly you show it,” he said. “This brotherly affection.”

  “You leave me no choice.” Michael shook his head. “Alastair, you have become the man you once sought to protect me from. You are our father reborn—but I am not our mother. God knows, you raised me better than that. So, yes—I will show you no mercy. I will take you to court and fight for what is mine, and I will win. And I vow to you, that day will mark the end of our connection. Though it grieves me, I will leave you to our father’s fate—for by your own hand, you will have earned it.”

  Alastair stared at him for a long, unblinking moment. And then he laughed, a laugh that sounded like the rasp of dry leaves. “Very dramatic,” he said. “But I fear you misunderstand my disbelief. I only wonder at your foolishness. You’ll win, will you? No. I will crush you. So easily. So easy to suborn Weston and Hollister! And I have solicitors on retainer who specialize in ending these cases quickly . . . and always, always to my opponents’ detriment.”

  Michael sighed. “Right. You forget now to whom you’re speaking. I’ve had years to witness your operations. But if it cheers you to dwell on what power remains to you—for all of London whispers now that you’ve run mad—then by all means, dwell on it. And exercise it against me as you must.”

  Alastair narrowed his eyes. “It is not me whom society will mock. You are the one who once again will make us the object of ridicule. And for what—some woman? What do you imagine people will say? De Grey makes a spectacle of himself, bankrupts himself for a hussy who sells her photographs for money; who collapses at balls from too much drink; who, by all reports, has taken lovers who—”

  “Enough!” Michael stepped backward lest he lunge forward; lest he smash his fist into his brother’s face. “I would hit you,” he said through his teeth, “only I
think it would kill you, in this pathetic condition you’re in. But listen to me carefully now: that woman is the woman whom I love. And unlike my love for you now, what I feel for her is earned.” A black laugh escaped him. “And you would judge her based on the tales your spies collected? You, who saw how eager the world was to believe the worst of our mother? My God, I would ask you where you’d misplaced your sense of shame—but I expect you left it where you left your sanity! I wash my hands of you, Alastair. But I vow, if you raise one finger to trouble her, I will change my mind. I will come back here and strike you down like the wrath of God.”

  The words had been washed out of him by a red wave of rage. He stepped back again, for the rage had not abated; it wanted to tug him forward, to make him do something he’d truly regret.

  But he controlled himself, and saw at last his brother react as a human might. Alastair blinked very rapidly and all but fell back into his seat. He looked, finally and at last, shaken.

  Michael did not let himself hope, though. He was through with praying that such signs portended a revelation. “I am done with you,” he repeated softly—as much to himself as to Alastair. Done.

  And then he turned on his heel and walked out.

  In the hall he passed Jones, who threw him a scandalized look. Perhaps the old scoundrel had been listening at the keyhole. Michael quickened his step, desperate to be out of this house, to drag in a breath of air not poisoned by his brother.

  At the top of the stairs, though, he stopped dead. For below, in the entry hall, stood a figure that made his heart turn over once.

  By sheer instinct he retreated to the alcove that screened the entrance to the west wing from view. His heart, which had sat in his chest like clay throughout his interview with Alastair, now suddenly came back to life, pounding wildly.