One Night of Scandal (Avon Historical Romance)

by Teresa Medeiros

  “Very well. It’s not as if I have a choice, do I, Mummy?” This time the name was delivered with withering scorn.

  “I’m not your mummy, Allegra,” Lottie said quietly, “and you needn’t pretend I am.”

  “Then you needn’t pretend to like me.” The girl hugged one knee to her chest, gazing in the direction of the sea. “Nobody else does.”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s entirely true. Your father seems to like you a great deal.”

  “Ha! He doesn’t like me. He only buys me expensive gifts like that silly doll because he pities me.”

  Lottie frowned, disturbed by the absolute conviction in the child’s voice. “You’re his daughter. Why on earth would he pity you?”

  Allegra turned to look at her, her dark hair blowing in the wind. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “No,” Lottie responded truthfully.

  Allegra rolled her eyes and went back to studying the jagged cliffs scarring the coastline. “He pities me because my mother was mad and I’m going to be mad, too.”

  Although she was the one who was supposed to be giving the lessons, Lottie suddenly realized there was much she could learn from this child. She wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that Hayden’s wife had suffered from insanity. Surely only a madwoman would cuckold a man who could kiss like that.

  “Did your father tell you that you were going to be mad?”

  “Of course not,” Allegra said scornfully. “He won’t talk about it at all. He won’t talk about anything that matters. But I hear the servants talking about it all the time when they think I can’t hear. ‘Poor child. She’s just like her mama,’ they whisper, looking at me and shaking their heads as if I’m blind as well as mad.”

  “Do you feel mad?” Lottie asked, studying the little girl’s sullen face.

  Allegra looked taken aback by the question, as if she’d never really considered it before. “No,” she finally replied, blinking as if surprised by her own answer. “But I feel angry a great deal of the time.”

  Lottie laughed as she swung down to the next branch and began to make her way to the ground. “So did I when I was your age. Don’t worry. It will pass.”

  Reaching the ground, Lottie shook out her skirts. She briefly considered rescuing her doll, but after a moment’s thought decided to leave her to Allegra’s dubious care. Draping her shawl around her shoulders, she started for the house.

  “He’ll never love you, you know.” The wind carried Allegra’s voice to her ears. “He’ll never love anyone but her.”

  Lottie tripped over a hillock of grass. Hoping the girl hadn’t witnessed her stumble, she resumed her brisk pace, muttering, “We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

  Chapter 11

  I soon learned that there are more frightful horrors in this world than wailing white ladies…

  May 25, 1825

  Dear Miss Terwilliger,

  I am writing to express my profound sorrow for any embarrassment or distress I might have caused you during our years together at Mrs. Lyttelton’s. After much earnest soul-searching and painful reflection, I have come to realize that I was not nearly half as clever as I believed myself to be.

  While there is a certain amount of vulgar amusement and social cachet among one’s peers to be derived from leaving livestock in a bedchamber for an indeterminate amount of time, the cost in both personal belongings and dignity is far too high to be borne. (You really ought to be thankful I only left a pony! I can assure you that a goat has a much heftier appetite, especially for silk undergarments and any blossom or ribbon that might adorn one’s favorite hat.)

  I can also promise you that having the fingers of your gloves stitched together is not nearly so unpleasant as having the seams of your pantalettes tightened so that your first attempt to sit results in a noise so odious and mortifying it cannot be referred to in polite (or impolite) company.

  As I struggle to emulate your unfailing composure, I am beginning to develop a new appreciation for the depths of your restraint. When I feel a scream of outrage bubbling up in my throat or when I find my fingers curling into the precise shape of a dainty little female throat, I think of you and grit my teeth into an indulgent smile. When I find myself testing the blade of my butter knife against my thumb with more attention than is duly necessary, I remember your forbearance and find the strength to carry on without slapping a single soul.

  I like to think that you would be proud of the model of virtue and maturity that I have become. Please know that I will always be…

  Ever your humble servant,

  Carlotta Oakleigh

  P.S. Can you recommend something that will take raspberry currant stains out of boot leather?

  May 30, 1825

  Dear Aunt Diana,

  Although we are parted, I know you haven’t forgotten that I’ve a birthday coming up this summer. I was rather hoping you might send me a new bonnet and some lovely unmentionables? (Oh, and a charming little pair of nankeen half-boots would not be looked upon with disdain.)

  Your doting niece,

  Lottie

  P.S. Give Uncle Thane and the twins my love, but please don’t mention the unmentionables.

  June 4, 1825

  Dear George,

  How you must have laughed when you learned that your baby sister had become—oh, I can hardly bear to contemplate it!—a mother! You, who always said that I never cared for any child except myself. (Although we both know that’s not entirely true, for I’ve always been very fond of the twins and my own dear niece and nephew, Nicholas and Ellie. And contrary to what you’ve always said, I don’t just adore Ellie because she is the mirror image of myself at that age. She has many other winning qualities, not the least of which is her unshakable belief in her own wit and beauty.)

  I’m sure you’ll also be surprised to learn that I am conducting myself with the mature refinement and decorum expected from a woman of my station. I strive to set a positive example for my impressionable young stepdaughter, guiding her actions with a firm, but loving hand.

  So hold that image of the carefree girl you once called “Sister” (among other things) in your heart, for the tender joys “of motherhood have finally made a woman of her!

  Maturely,

  Carlotta

  P.S. You were wrong about brown spiders. Their bite is not fatal. Not even if one inadvertently finds its way into your shoe.

  June 8, 1825

  Dear Laura and Sterling,

  Please forgive me for not writing sooner, but I’ve been too busy basking in the tender affections of my husband and stepdaughter. They are such a joy to me that I find it difficult to tear myself away from their company to perform even the simplest task!

  I’m well aware that you had reservations about this marriage, but I want to assure that I have gained not only an adoring husband, but a loving daughter as well. Please don’t suffer a single moment’s remorse or regret on my account. I could not bear it if you did!

  I promise to write more soon. Until then, picture me surrounded by the convivial bliss that only a joyous union between man, woman, and child can bring.

  Ever your adoring,

  Lottie

  P.S. Could you please send me another yellow parasol? I seem to have sat on mine and broken all of its spokes.

  June 10, 1825

  Oh, my dearest Harriet,

  Forgive my cramped and crooked handwriting, but I am penning this missive in the relative privacy of a broom cupboard. (Picture your once fashionable and elegant friend reduced to sitting in the gloom on an overturned bucket, paper balanced on one knee while a mop handle pokes her in regions best left unnamed.) Why am I in the broom cupboard, you ask? Be patient, my dear friend, for in time all will be revealed!

  I was quite dismayed when George wrote to tell me you had chosen to return to the bosom of your own family immediately after I departed for Cornwall. Sterling and Laura would have been delighted to have you finish out the Season as their guest. It gave me gre
at solace to picture you making the rounds of the afternoon teas, taking phaeton rides in Hyde Park, flirting and dancing the night away at all of the balls and soirees I might have attended had I not squandered my own Season for the price of a kiss. (Although it was admittedly a very fine kiss.)

  Lest you picture me cowering in this cupboard to escape some hulking brute of a husband, let me assure you that the marquess has been the very model of solicitousness. Sometimes I wish he would shout and rail at me if only to prove he is aware of my existence. Although he plays the gentleman with unfailing courtesy, he tends to look through me rather than at me. (And as you well know, I’ve never excelled at being ignored.)

  No, it is his daughter I seek to escape—the ten-year-old step-bratling who plagues every waking moment of my existence. I know I can’t hide in here forever, as our afternoon “lessons” are due to begin in an hour. On most days, those lessons consist of me patiently conjugating French verbs while the cunning little imp yawns and taps her foot and gazes out the window, plotting her next nefarious deed. Only yesterday, I returned to my chamber to discover that all the precious ink in my bottles had been replaced with boot polish. While my first inclination was to hunt her down and dump them over her smug little head, I refused to give her the satisfaction.

  What does the marquess make of his daughter’s mischief, you ask? Although I suspect our little clash of wills is a secret source of amusement to him, he acknowledges it with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or the most imperceptible twitch of his lips as he ducks behind the most recent edition of The Times. He seems perfectly content to let the two of us battle it out, with all the spoils going to the victor.

  My only solace lies in settling myself before my writing table each evening and penning some more glimmering shards of prose for my novel. (I did mention my novel, didn’t I?) Fortunately, the nights have been peaceful, as the ghost has yet to make another appearance. (I did mention the ghost, didn’t I?)

  Wait! What’s that I hear? Is it a stealthy footstep on the stairs? A shudder of dread courses down my spine as I crack open the cupboard door and steal a peek into the corridor. Ah, sweet relief! It’s not the step-demon, but only the new maid, fleeing Martha’s wrath. I’ve yet to catch a good look at the poor clumsy creature. She spends all of her time scuttling like a nearsighted crab from one domestic disaster to another. You can follow her progress through the house simply by listening for the sound of breaking crockery and Martha’s bellowing.

  There is so much more I want to tell you, but it’s only a matter of time before I am discovered. Oh, dear, sweet Harriet, my friend and confidante, how I wish you were here!!!

  Eternally yours,

  Lottie

  P.S. If I find one more bug in my shoe, I fear my husband won’t be the only one in this house guilty of murder.

  Two days after Lottie posted her letter to Harriet, the late afternoon sun came peeking out from behind the clouds in a rare appearance. Craving a taste of spring, Lottie decided to escape both the house and Allegra for a little while. She was strolling past the stables when she felt a now familiar prickling at the nape of her neck. Weary of being toyed with, she swung around, fully intending to blast Hayden’s sullen little snoop of a daughter into next week.

  A tiny yellow kitten was teetering after her on unsteady legs.

  Lottie began to back away as if it were a Bengal tiger. “Oh, no, you don’t! The last thing I need right now are more cats cluttering up my life. You just toddle right back where you came from.” She continued to walk backward, making shooing motions with her hands.

  Undaunted by her rejection, the kitten simply increased its pace until it ran full tilt into her ankles. Groaning, Lottie reached down and scooped the creature into her palm. With its hoarse mews and tufted yellow fur, it was more like holding a baby duck than a baby cat.

  A gangly lad with a thick shock of black hair drooping over his brow came rushing out of the stables. When he saw her cradling the kitten, he skidded to a halt and doffed his battered cap. “Sorry for the trouble, m’lady. It’s mum has gone missing. Left this wee one and three others just like it to fend for themselves.”

  Lottie barely resisted the urge to groan again. “Three others, you say, Jem?”

  “ ’Fraid so.” The boy shook his head sadly. “And the poor mites barely big eno’ to feed themselves.”

  As if to underscore his words, three more kittens of varying shapes and colors came waddling out of the stable, looking like a motley pack of overgrown rats.

  As the yellow kitten scrambled up Lottie’s arm and onto her shoulder, she blew out a sigh of defeat. “I don’t suppose you have a basket in there as well, do you?”

  Hoping to smuggle the kittens back to her bedchamber without being spotted, Lottie ducked through an open French window on the side of the house facing the sea. She batted her way through the smothering weight of the velvet drapes, finally emerging only to find herself facing an imposing mahogany desk stacked high with leather-bound ledgers.

  A desk her husband just happened to be sitting behind.

  He was eyeing her with detached interest, as if she were some exotic worm that had just tunneled its way out of the woodwork.

  She clutched the basket to her chest, thankful that she’d had the presence of mind to tuck a kerchief over it. “Why, hello there!” she boomed, hoping to drown out the kittens’ sporadic squeaking. “It’s a grand day, isn’t it? I’ve been out gathering…” she struggled to think of any sort of fruit or vegetable that might grow in such stony and inhospitable terrain “…walnuts. I’ve been out gathering walnuts.”

  Smiling pleasantly, Hayden reached for the tasseled bell pull dangling behind his chair. “Why don’t I summon Martha? Perhaps she can ask Cook to bake them into a pie.”

  Lottie couldn’t quite hide her horror. “Oh, no! Please don’t do that! I much prefer to eat them right out of the shell.”

  “Suit yourself,” Hayden murmured, returning his attention to the ledgers.

  She crept toward the door.

  “Carlotta?”

  “Yes?”

  Without looking up, he said, “They’re bound to be hungry. You might as well stop by the kitchen for some kippers and cream.”

  Lottie froze in her tracks. Allegra was right. The man was insufferable. She gazed down at the undulating kerchief on top of the basket. What was it Laura and Diana had told her on the night before her wedding? That it was not uncommon for lovers to exchange small thoughtful gifts to woo one another outside of the bedchamber?

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, my lord,” she scolded, turning to face Hayden.

  He at least did her the honor of glancing up from his work. “I should?”

  “Yes, you should. Because now you’ve gone and spoiled my surprise.” She approached the desk, inordinately pleased that she had succeeded in stirring some emotion in him, even if it was only suspicion. “I was hoping to tie a pretty ribbon around your gift before I presented it to you.”

  Plopping the basket down on the desk, Lottie whipped away the kerchief with a flourish. The kittens came spilling out in all directions, teetering about the desk on unsteady legs. Hayden could have looked no more horrified had she dumped a nest of poisonous vipers onto his blotter. Acalico kitten began to gnaw on the end of his pen while a black one darted toward an open bottle of ink.

  He snatched up the ink in the nick of time. The kitten went careening over the side of the desk and into a wooden wastebasket, where it proceeded to set up a shrill mewing.

  “Oh, look!” Lottie pointed to the yellow kitten. It had pounced into Hayden’s lap and was sucking blissfully on one of the cloth-covered buttons of his waistcoat, its purr audible even over the other kitten’s piteous pleas for rescue. “Isn’t that darling? The little fellow thinks you’re his mother.”

  Grimacing, Hayden gingerly detached the kitten, holding it at arm’s length. “Well, I most certainly am not!” He shifted his glower from the cat to Lottie. “I appreciate y
our generosity, my lady, but what exactly am I to do with these…these…creatures.”

  Lottie backed toward the door, feeling as if she’d just lapped up a saucer of fresh cream herself. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you should ring for Martha and have her bake them into a pie.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he growled, shaking his leg in a futile attempt to dislodge the black kitten, who had finally managed to turn over the wastebasket and was now clawing its way up the leg of Hayden’s doeskin trousers.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lottie assured him, flashing a saucy smile before ducking out of the room.

  Lottie was still smiling as she strolled through the entrance hall, heading for the kitchen. She figured she should at least help scrounge up some kippers and cream, although she couldn’t have said whether it was out of pity for Hayden or the kittens. Perhaps she should even consider implementing some more of her aunt’s and sister’s suggestions. If nothing else, she had finally succeeded in getting her husband’s undivided attention.

  As she started down the corridor that led to the basement stairs, Meggie was approaching from the opposite direction, her coppery braids poking out from beneath her mobcap. Instead of pausing to bob a deferent curtsy as she usually did, the young maid brushed past Lottie with barely a mumbled pardon, her reddened face averted.

  Lottie stared after her, shaking her head in puzzlement before proceeding.

  Even before she reached the bottom of the stairs, the buzz of excited voices and merry laughter assailed Lottie’s ears. Ducking beneath the rack of copper pots hanging from the plastered ceiling, she peeked around the corner to discover a group of servants gathered around the battered pine table, all gazing at something scattered upon its surface. Neither Giles, Martha, nor Mrs. Cavendish were anywhere in sight.