House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2)

by Elizabeth Kingston

  Helen made a tart remark about how she was not made of glass, then kept hold of Marie-Anne’s hand as they sat down and she demanded to know exactly what was going on. Not eager to explain it all, Marie-Anne was happy for Stephen to recount the facts as he had come to know them – and he seemed to know everything. He even made some remarks that made her think the gossip pamphlets were not a mystery to him. But then of course he would know, he was very clever about learning these things. He could print his own gossip papers and put the others out of business, if he wanted.

  It took quite a long time, with Helen asking many questions and Stephen taking great pains to be as thorough as he could be. As he talked, Marie-Anne managed to eat some toast and eggs. It was done more out of a sense of duty to Helen, who cast concerned looks at Marie-Anne’s full plate, than any kind of appetite. But after an hour or so she did feel better, and more able to listen to Stephen dispassionately listing Mason’s deceptions.

  “But have you taken any action against him?” Helen asked, when she had begun to grasp it. “Ravenclyffe mentioned some American investment last night at the dinner party, surely you must warn him.”

  “I don’t feel particularly obliged to save Ravenclyffe from making an ass of himself,” said Stephen, but he was looking at Marie-Anne now. “I did suggest to him and other interested parties that it was best to wait, and fortunately my suggestions are seldom disregarded in business matters. But I saw no need to entirely ruin Mr. Mason’s reputation, unless Marie-Anne should wish it.”

  “But why should Marie-Anne not wish – oh!”

  She was looking at Marie-Anne with sudden comprehension and, just as compassion began to creep across her features, Marie-Anne dropped her eyes. She could not quite bear to see it.

  “Well,” she said with an effort at what her friend would call a very Gallic shrug, “You did hope I would meet someone to put stars in my eyes, if you remember.”

  “Oh, the blackguard,” Helen seethed. “The beastly cad. The – he – oh–” She gave up in English and, bless her, let loose a string of obscenities in French. Marie-Anne had taught them to her a long time ago, and was greatly cheered to see how well the lesson had been remembered.

  “He is not a cad, mon amie,” she explained once Helen had finished. “Well I suppose he is, but you may trust me when I say he is not a bad man. And he has not treated me with dishonor.” She looked to Stephen. “I would not like to see him ruined. He will not make trouble. I think he will probably just… go away.”

  Then she had to stop, because she really did not want to begin weeping again. She listened as Stephen assured her he would be very discreet. He spent some time apologizing to his wife for not telling her immediately, insisting that he feared she would make herself ill with worry for Marie-Anne. Helen was very cross to hear this, but Marie-Anne privately thought Stephen had done right – Helen did tend to overreact when faced with deceptive men, and she might easily have made herself sick with fear for Marie-Anne. But now that she could see her friend was perfectly safe and well, Helen only grumbled a bit and pressed Marie-Anne’s hand in sympathy.

  “There is more to tell you about Mason,” Marie-Anne said to her. “But it is nothing to do with money or false names. I must tell you how he is a very great artist who squanders his talent, and he asked me to marry him, but maybe we are finished now and I do not know what to do because I am terribly in love. Do you have some mysterious and important business affairs you can attend to, Stephen? I would like to steal your wife, and probably some wine. I would like to drink very much, I think.”

  “Oh, my.” Helen was standing, and leading the way to the morning room. “It’s hardly noon, Marie-Anne.”

  “Ah, you are right. If we want to be properly shocking we should have the whisky.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The thing about falling in love with someone like Marie-Anne, Mason reminded himself, was that she was indisputably worth the risk. Any risk. He wasn’t sure if he’d leave the Earl of Summerdale’s office in shackles or in triumph – or just deeply humiliated – but he was sure that he wouldn’t regret trying.

  So despite his uncertainty as to the outcome, detailing his sins to an actual lord of the manor was an improvement over the vast oceans of regret he’d been feeling from the moment he’d let Marie-Anne walk away. Admittedly, it wasn’t even a whole day, but it had felt like a lifetime of misery. He didn’t know for certain if she was in this house – perhaps she had gone off to her little village already – but just thinking she might be nearby made him feel more like himself. More like he could be himself, and not give in to the impulse to invent someone new to get himself out of trouble.

  “There were no other gentlemen you told about the scheme directly, then?” asked Lord Summerdale. He was polite and distant, like they were talking of something as inconsequential as the coal delivery. “Just Whipple and Ravenclyffe?”

  “Taney asked me about it. I think he got it from Whipple. I did tell them both to keep it under their hats. Doesn’t seem like it did much good.”

  “On the contrary, they were both impressively tight-lipped. It was Ravenclyffe who told anyone who would listen. He began a very small frenzy.”

  “Well, at least it’s small. It’ll die out sooner that way. Even sooner if I have a word with him.”

  “You needn’t worry. It’s been seen to. Discreetly.”

  “You told them I’m a fraud?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  Mason just looked at him, dumb, as he absorbed the meaning of this. He hadn’t ever been face to face with this kind of power before. It took some adjustment. The Earl of Summerdale had seen to it, discreetly. He’d said a few chosen words to a few people, who believed him without question when he said that – what? It was a bad investment, he’d probably say, and that would kill it on the spot. It was nothing but the flick of a wrist to him, and he presented it with as much ceremony as that. There wasn’t even the tiniest hint of disdain in his face to betray what he thought. Nothing.

  “Why discreetly?” Mason asked. He could not imagine why his name should be spared, especially given that it was a fake name.

  “I thought it best.”

  That was all he was going to get out of him, it was clear. Mason made a mental note never to play cards against the man. “Even Ravenclyffe will stop talking about it?”

  “Especially Ravenclyffe. It seems he wants to give himself a reputation as a shrewd investor. He advocated loudly for this investment, in an effort to demonstrate his superior intellect and acumen. Now that I’ve let him know he’ll only look a fool if he keeps it up, he’s been eager to rescind his former endorsement, to show how very knowledgeable he is. I understand he spent last night at his club talking of little else.”

  “Well, that’s convenient. Can I ask how you found all this out if you haven’t even been in the country?”

  “I left instruction for my secretary, who is very adept.”

  There seemed to be little more to say on the topic. He could feel the earl watching him, and Mason forced himself to meet his eyes. “There’s something else. Like I said, I never planned to go through with it. I didn’t come to London to trick people out of their money.”

  He reached into the smaller folder he had brought and pulled out three pamphlets. He’d gone through them all and chosen these specifically because they were the only ones where Freddy had written anything about Summerdale and his wife. It was just the usual imbecilic society chatter, nothing cruel: speculation as to the worth of her diamond choker, rumors that his mother was not a cherished guest in their home, that sort of thing. He waited, palms sweating and heart pounding, as Summerdale looked through the pamphlets. But Summerdale showed no surprise, and his glance only barely lingered over the page where his name was mentioned.

  “This is why I came here, and why I told everyone…what I told them.”

  Mason held his breath as Summerdale took in the drawing of the marquess caught in bed with his mistress. I
t could easily be a friend of his. All these people he’d spent months ruthlessly mocking – these were Summerdale’s people.

  “It’s how I’ve made my money,” he explained, and set the small folder filled with all the other pamphlets he’d drawn on the desk between them. “They’re all here.”

  Well, there it was, all his offenses laid out in front of a man who could throw him on a prison barge without batting an eye. But it was not as hard as he’d thought it would be. It was for Marie-Anne, and the new life she wanted. And that meant not hiding from any of it, no matter the consequences.

  Summerdale pulled out a pamphlet that featured a drawing of Ravenclyffe. He held it up. “Ravenclyffe was most keen to get people talking about his ingenious investment in the hopes that it might deflect from less flattering stories that are circulating about him.” His mouth twitched. “He’s unamused by his sudden, wide reputation for depravity.”

  Well, no surprise – beware of tangled webs and hoisted petards, he and his cousin used to warn each other. They were an occupational hazard. There was some kind of balance, at least, in Ravenclyffe trying to improve a fabricated reputation by using a fabricated business venture, and exposing Mason to the earl’s increased scrutiny in the process.

  “Is it too hopeful to think the reputation I gave him will last longer than his talk about my brilliant investment opportunity?”

  “Not at all. He was always a lecherous rogue, but it was never considered noteworthy. Your pamphlets changed that. Now that it’s become a favorite joke, not just to his immediate acquaintance but to all of London, I doubt he’ll ever disassociate himself from it.”

  Mason experienced a small burst of satisfaction at this news. He really should have dedicated himself to dragging down more of these hateful people, it was such a rewarding feeling. It’d teach him to be even more discerning in the future. If he had a future.

  Summerdale was sifting through the papers. “I am very fond of the one where he’s helplessly enchanted by the voluptuous curve of a horse’s derriere.”

  Mason gave a light snort and leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. “That one was Marie-Anne’s idea.”

  The earl’s eyebrows lifted for a moment, and then he verifiably grinned. It was quick and almost immediately suppressed, but there was no mistaking it, or the lingering amusement in his face. “I must remember to tell her that it’s become one of the most popular prints the shop has ever sold, according to the printer. You have exceptional talent.”

  It took far too long for Mason to say “thank you.” It seemed to be a genuine compliment, and he had to fight against his natural inclination to contradict it. But he managed to spit it out, and then gripped the larger folder still in his lap in an effort not to fidget. He didn’t know how to do this next part, especially since he wasn’t sure if they were done with this part. Surely, Summerdale would have more questions about the pack of lies Mason had strewn about England. Or maybe not – he seemed to know everything anyway. Including how well the prints had sold, for God’s sake. He took a deep breath and made himself speak.

  “I’m hoping to make something of it. As a profession. In a more honest fashion, I mean. Here, if I can. I want to draw…not like I did for the papers.” God, this was torture. He was so ignorant he didn’t even have the words to describe what he meant. “To make real art, I mean.”

  Summerdale considered him for a long time. Mason could only endure it by keeping Marie-Anne firmly in mind. She had asked him to find the courage, because she didn’t know – she couldn’t know, what it was like to open this part of himself to strangers and let them look and judge him. She was right to call him afraid. Just the thought of it made him queasy with fear.

  But in the early hours of this morning he’d caught himself thinking nothing’s worth going through that, and it finally woke him up from the sullen misery that had held him for hours. Because Marie-Anne was worth it. There was no question. And among all the myriad reasons why she was worth it was this one: because she knew that, deep down in the most secret corner of his heart, he wanted this.

  He didn’t have much courage, but he could try. You have to try, Aloysius St. James had told him, if you want a thing so badly, if you love it like it’s a part of yourself. What else can matter? he’d asked. And Mason was fairly sure he was better at art than St. James had ever been at poetry.

  “You surprise me,” Summerdale said, watching him closely. “I thought you’d slip away quietly, given the opportunity. You prefer to stay in England to live as an artist?”

  “If I can. I don’t know what I’d have to do. I don’t even know where to start.”

  Summerdale rose from his chair and came around to the front of the desk. He leaned against it and folded his arms, looking down at Mason. It could have been an intimidating pose, but it wasn’t. He seemed slightly less guarded, and vastly more human. “I presume you’ve had no formal study? There is the Royal Academy, of course – unless you prefer to begin taking commissions immediately.”

  Taking commissions. Right.

  “I don’t…” He was going to be purple soon, better to spit out what he could and have it over with. “I might have to start somewhere smaller, sir, I don’t even know if I’m good enough for the Academy.”

  Summerdale shrugged. “That’s the point of the Academy, it’s open to all. May I?” He indicated the large folder in Mason’s lap. “I’m no great judge, of course. Just curious.”

  Mason took a deep breath and handed it over. Now more than just his palms were sweating. Rather than watch Summerdale flip through the pages, he looked down at his own hands where they rested on his knees. He concentrated on breathing very calmly, to combat the flush that wanted to creep up his throat and the fear that wanted to suffocate him, and thought of Marie-Anne. She was worth this. Absolutely.

  He did look up, finally, when he heard Summerdale say, “That’s my wife.” He wasn’t angry. He just did as Marie-Anne had done, a soft look on his face as he let his fingers hover over the page.

  “You can touch it,” Mason told him. “It’s just graphite.” It showed Lady Summerdale leaning close to Marie-Anne’s ear, as though to share a secret. He had drawn it only a week ago, intending to surprise Marie-Anne with it. “Her face is hard to capture.”

  “And yet you’ve managed to capture it. Even though you only saw her once, at a distance.”

  He didn’t think the Earl of Summerdale would like to hear that his wife left quite an impression. He just kept his mouth shut and waited until the man was ready to say something else.

  “You’ve said you wish to leave your former life behind. It is an admirable sentiment, but I hope you will forgive me my doubts. After all, you have only ended this charade because you’ve been discovered. You’ve lied to everyone you’ve met for months, with great ease.”

  Mason nodded, unsure how to defend himself. How to explain his life to someone who grew up in a house like this one? No – many houses, and bigger than this one. He probably had a castle somewhere. This man had never known deprivation or uncertainty for a day in his life.

  “It’s what I know how to do. It’s what I grew up with, the way you grew up being a lord. But if it’s what I really wanted, I wouldn’t have left Kentucky.” He’d already told him a little about how he was raised and everything about what he’d done here in London. He should have rehearsed it in his head more, the right things to say to convince him he wanted to leave it all behind. But he was used to practicing lies, not truth, so here he was at a loss for words.

  “I know it’s not honorable, the things I’ve done here,” he finally said. “And I know you all set a lot of store by honor. But I did my best to make sure no one was ever really harmed by anything I did. The most that was ever at stake was reputation or money, and only from people who had plenty to spare.”

  Summerdale didn’t respond to this. He only looked at him for a long moment, then returned to his seat at the desk. He opened the large folder again and went through the h
andful of drawings, lingering over the portrait of his wife before turning to one that showed Marie-Anne and Phyllida arranging flowers. That one wasn’t quite as good – he should have chosen easier flowers.

  “Marie-Anne de Vauteuil is one of the best people I have ever known,” Summerdale announced. “It is one of the greatest honors of my life that she calls me friend, and an even greater privilege that I can call her the same.” He closed the folder but did not hand it back. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone who is a superior judge of character. And she has said, only hours ago, that you are a good man.”

  “She did?”

  “Well, not a bad man – those were her exact words, and it’s a useful distinction. Regardless, she believes you are worth the effort it might take to establish you in some sort of honest life. She also declared her affection for you, and described you as a great talent.” He actually smiled. “I see no reason to disbelieve any of her assertions.”

  He was sure Summerdale had all sorts of reservations about him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing much mattered to Mason at all except for the tentative relief that began to trickle through him, and the knowledge that Marie-Anne had been here only hours ago.

  “Is she still here?”

  The earl smiled a little more broadly. “One thing at a time.”

  At the height of her inebriation, Marie-Anne had confided in a very loud whisper, “He has a miraculous mouth, Hélène. No matter where he puts it!”

  “Marie-Anne, please.”

  “Do not worry your blushes, I will not say more to shock you. This is another way to for me to know it is love, because I do not want to tell you every detail to make you turn red. I do not want to share things like that about my Mason, even to mortify you.”

  “Excellent, thank you. Shall I call for tea now?”

  “Mm tea. It is excellent. If I were rich I would build a monument to it. Not the tea, his mouth. To commemorate its great feats.” She began to giggle. “An obelisk. Just the right size, you know, not too–”