by Candace Camp
“Mother.” He went around the table and bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Aunt Tessa. How kind of you to visit.” Graeme smiled. One could not help but smile at his aunt.
Aunt Tessa, of course, rose as he turned to her and flung her arms around him. “Graeme! My favorite nephew.” She stepped back, hands on his arms, and tilted her head, studying him. “Handsome as ever, I see.”
“Your only nephew,” he reminded her. “And you are as radiant as ever.”
“Flatterer.” Tessa smiled in her impish way. “Just what I like in a man.”
“Mother, must you flirt with every man you see?” James joined them.
“Don’t be such a stodgy old man.” Tessa turned the same fetching grin on her son. “One has to practice one’s art when one can, you know.”
“Mm. So I’ve noticed.” James sat down beside her, nodding toward Graeme. “Better get yourself a cup of tea, coz. You’ll need it. A dollop of whiskey might help.”
Graeme sat down, accepting the cup of tea the butler poured. He took a sip and gave a nod to Fletcher, who discreetly melted away, closing the door behind him. “Very well. I am braced for the worst. What is going on, and why did Grandmother send you?”
“I told you. Your absent and very unlamented wife has returned to London.”
“Really, James,” Tessa protested. “You haven’t the faintest idea how to tell a story properly.” She turned to her nephew, eyes sparkling. “She appeared last Tuesday at Lady Rochester’s soiree. No one had the least idea who she was. She was wearing this marvelous satin gown of midnight blue, with the most wonderful lace draped—”
“I don’t think Graeme is concerned with the style ball gown she wore,” James interrupted drily.
“Mirabelle and I are.” Tessa addressed her sister, “It was just divine, Mira; you should have seen the satin roses over the bustle. It was made by Worth or I know nothing of fashion.”
“No one would dispute your eye for clothes, Aunt Tessa,” Graeme said with more amiability than Tessa’s son. “But why is Abigail here?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Tessa gave a careless shrug. “Neither has anyone else. But of course, everyone is guessing like mad. Lady Crowley is certain she’s come to confront you—but you know Lady Crowley, she is always so dramatic.”
Graeme shot a laughing glance at his cousin at the prospect of Aunt Tessa’s deeming anyone dramatic. “But what would she confront me about?”
“That is why everyone is so interested, darling boy.”
“Surely she could not be angry with Graeme.” Mirabelle frowned. “It was she who left him, after all.” She sighed. “And she seemed such an unexceptionable girl. I rather liked her.”
“You like everyone, Mirabelle.” Tessa took up her tale again. “The most popular theory is that she has come to act as a matchmaker.”
“Matchmaker! What are you talking about?” A sizzle of alarm ran up Graeme’s spine.
“For wealthy American girls, dear. They say she will use her British connections to find noblemen in desperate need of an infusion of cash and match them up with American heiresses. After all, she did it for herself.”
“What connections?” Graeme asked. “She has no British connections.”
“There’s you,” James pointed out.
“I’m not going to help her find her victims,” Graeme said in an affronted voice.
“You know that, but does she?” James retorted. “Personally, I think you should help her if it means she’ll leave the city.”
“Of course, there are those who believe she simply wants to flaunt her, um, friend in your face.”
“Friend?” Graeme’s voice iced over. “What friend?”
“There’s an American who dances attendance on her,” James said. “Apparently he’s a business associate of her father’s.”
“Business associate?” Graeme’s lip curled. “Fellow crook is more like it. Is her father here, as well?”
“No,” James told him. “Thurston’s still in America, no doubt perpetrating stock swindles on other unsuspecting souls.”
“At least there’s some relief in that.”
“I don’t know how that dreadful man can do such things,” Mirabelle said, her eyes suddenly glinting with tears. “Poor Reginald. He had no idea . . .”
“No, of course not, Mother.”
“It’s my opinion Thurston Price should have gone to gaol, enticing innocent people to invest in something just so he could make an enormous profit, then leaving them to crash.” Mirabelle pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
Her sister reached over and patted her hand. “Reggie always was inclined to great optimism.”
“Yes, he was, wasn’t he?” Mirabelle gave her a tremulous smile. “It was one of the many things everyone loved about him.”
Everyone had loved his father altogether too much, Graeme thought, but he said only, “Unfortunately, what Mr. Price did was not illegal.”
“Hmph. Only wicked.” Mirabelle sniffed.
“Yes, wicked indeed. But that is long past. It has nothing to do with why Miss Pri— I mean, Lady Montclair, is here. Is she having—” He glanced at the women. “I beg your pardon, Mother, Aunt Tessa. This is not a fit topic for ladies.”
“Good heavens, Graeme, don’t stop just when you’re getting to the interesting part,” Tessa exclaimed. “One can be too polite, you know.”
Graeme looked at James, whose eyes were brimming with laughter. “Oh, very well. Is she having an affair with this American chap?”
“I have no idea.” James shrugged. “The thought doesn’t seem to disturb you.”
“I don’t care what she does. If she thinks to hurt me with an affair, she’s fair and far off.”
“But, Graeme, dear,” his mother said in a soft voice. “What about the heir? What if she . . . you know . . . bore another man’s son? What would you do?”
“It would be a dreadful scandal,” Tessa agreed, her voice threaded with excitement. “Even if she doesn’t have a child, it makes for titillating gossip. Merely by appearing in London again, it has stirred up all the old gossip. Everyone is rehashing the wedding—”
“Oh! That ostentatious display!” Mirabelle shook her head.
“Perhaps more importantly,” James added, “there was the matter of the new bride taking to her heels the following morning.”
“Yes, really, Graeme, couldn’t you have held on to her for longer than a night?” Tessa asked.
His mother whirled on her sister. “Tessa! It wasn’t Graeme’s fault! He could hardly have kept her prisoner. I am sure leaving is what she had in mind all along.”
“Well.” Tessa turned up her hands in an eloquently questioning manner. “There were all those rumors . . .”
“Could we please not discuss the details of my wedding night?” Graeme ran his hand back through his hair. “You said Grandmother sent you with a message for me. What is it?”
“She wants you to come back to London and deal with your wife,” James said tersely. “It’s Lady Eugenia’s opinion you should bring her to the estate, where she can’t create any more talk.”
“Bring her here? To Lydcombe Hall?” Graeme straightened. “You can’t be serious. She wants me to live with Abigail?”
“Men have been known to live with their wives,” James offered mildly.
“I won’t. I refuse to have her here, to subject my mother to—”
“Oh, no, dear, I won’t mind.” Mirabelle leaned across the table and patted his hand. “Truly. I am sure she cannot be that disagreeable. It’s a large house. No doubt we could all rub along well enough for a while, at least until the scandal dies down. Maybe she regrets running off like that years ago. It could have been a momentary impulse, just a fit of nerves, you know, and now she would like another chance.”
“Speaking of great optimism,” Graeme said in an exasperated voice. He sighed and squeezed his mother’s hand gently. “No. I don’t think the Prices
are given to fits of nerves. I don’t know what she wants, but I feel sure it is nothing good. And Grandmother is right, as always. I shall have to go to London to settle the matter.”
“Will you bring her back here?” Mirabelle asked. “What room, I wonder, should I make up for her?”
“Don’t bother, Mother. I don’t intend to bring Abigail home. I am going to make sure she leaves.”
chapter 2
Two hours later, Graeme was on the road in James’s carriage, rolling toward London.
“The train would have been faster,” Graeme remarked, twitching aside the curtain to gaze out.
“I’ve found that other passengers tend to resent having Dem on board.” James nodded toward the brindle mastiff lying sprawled across the floor of the carriage. The dog responded with a thump of his tail against the door.
“Can’t imagine why. After all, he does leave a few inches open where one can place one’s feet.”
The corner of James’s mouth twitched in something that might have been a smile. “Buck up, coz, it doesn’t take long. Even my mother managed it.”
“That would have been something worth seeing.” Graeme tried to imagine his luxuriously dressed aunt in close proximity to the animal.
“Mm. There was a bit of a contretemps over his drooling on a ruffle.”
“One would think you’re more attached to that dog than you are to your own brothers.”
James shrugged. “Well, you’ve met my brothers.”
“Point taken.” After a moment, he went on, “You didn’t need to haul me back to the city, you know. I would have gone anyway.”
“Ah, but I have a direct order from the dowager countess. I wouldn’t dare do otherwise. It doesn’t matter—I would have returned in a day or two anyway. My cousin Maurice has graced us with a visit; over a day in his company, and I would likely be jailed for homicide.” He cast a sideways glance at Graeme. “I saw a letter from Miss Hinsdale on the entry table.”
Beside him Graeme tightened. “She has kept up a correspondence with Mother. Her late mother was my mother’s friend, you know. Don’t worry. I have no correspondence with her.”
James quirked an eyebrow. “You think I care if you write her? That my morals would be offended?”
“No. You simply were—and always are—the voice of cool reason.”
“It comes in handy now and again.”
“I rarely see Laura. Only sometimes at a party when she comes to London to visit her aunt and cousin. I don’t pursue her.” Seeing her now and then was difficult enough—her slim, serene blond beauty awakened far too many thoughts it was better to keep buried, reminding him all over again how much he had lost. “I wouldn’t cast any doubt on her honor. No doubt that strikes you as laughable.”
“No. Unfamiliar, perhaps.” James studied the other man for a moment. “You still . . . feel the same about Miss Hinsdale?”
“Do I still love her? Yes, of course. Did you think I would just forget her? Like a lost toy?”
“It’s been ten years, Graeme. Even widows move into half mourning eventually.”
“Love doesn’t die just because time passes,” Graeme shot back. “But that is something you wouldn’t know about.” He stopped abruptly, and the temper that had flared in his eyes died. “I’m sorry, James, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not? It’s common knowledge that I am unacquainted with the gentler emotions. As I remember, you told me the same thing after my, um . . . conversation with Miss Hinsdale.”
“I stopped laying the blame for that at your door long ago. I know you had the best of intentions when you convinced Laura not to marry me. You did it for the family’s sake.”
James snorted. “To hell with the family. If you think I gave a farthing for your dragon of a grandmother or the Parr name or that beloved land of yours, you’re mad as a hatter. I spoke to Miss Hinsdale to keep you from making a foolish, lovesick mistake.” James turned his gaze to his cuffs, tugging them into perfect alignment. “Besides, if I’d let you follow your love into poverty, I would have had you and your beautiful lady turning up on my doorstep, as well. It’s bad enough having to support my siblings.”
“Ah, of course.” A faint smile hovered on Graeme’s lips. “Well, you needn’t be concerned, cousin. I assure you that I do not weep into my pillow every night or spend my days bemoaning my fate. I am well content with my books and managing my ‘beloved land’ and the occasional foray into London for a bit of recreation.”
Graeme saw no reason to mention the ennui that seemed to tighten its hold on him almost daily or the loneliness that would settle on him in the evening. He would not reveal the way his heart sped up when he happened to see Laura at a party or how eagerly he went forward to take her hand in greeting. How he would stand across the room, drinking in the way she looked, so that he could take out the memory later and savor it. Least of all would he tell James of the emptiness that dwelt deep inside him, a hollow space that neither duty nor brandy nor even the soft, warm body of an occasional mistress could fill.
“There.” Molly settled the decorative pin in her mistress’s curls and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “There won’t be a lady there who can hold a candle to you, Miss Abby.”
“Thanks to you.” Abby smiled into the mirror at her maid. Molly was not what anyone would consider a proper lady’s maid. She had been Abigail’s nurse as a child and had simply grown into the role as Abigail got older. Though Molly had proved to have a surprisingly adept hand at creating coiffures, she often seemed as much mother as employee to Abigail, readily scolding or cosseting or giving Abigail the benefit of her advice.
“Och, without that bonny face of yours, wouldn’t anyone notice the way your hair’s arranged.” Her voice carried a faint trace of her Scottish ancestry. “What jewels will you be wearing tonight, then?” She eyed the delicate dragonfly of diamonds and silver wire that she had just secured in Abigail’s dark hair. “Diamonds?”
“No, the jet necklace, I think, to accent the dress.” Abby glanced over at the creation that lay across the bed. An underskirt of rich black satin was overlain by a shimmering silk overskirt, pulled back and pinned to fall in extravagant folds over the bustle and into the short train. The front of the silver bodice and overskirt were marked with a few bold black chevrons, the finishing touch a delicate black strip of lace lining the edge of the heart-shaped neckline. “The dress itself is the real jewel.”
“Aye, that it is, and cost as much, too, I’d say.”
Abby smiled faintly. “But well worth it.”
“Everyone will be looking at you tonight,” Molly agreed, setting the jewelry chest down on the vanity table before Abigail. “He’ll see you, sure enough, if he’s there.”
“I am told he will be.” Abby picked through the drawers of the chest until she found the necklace of faceted jet beads and handed it to the other woman. “And if he isn’t, well . . .” She shrugged. “There will be another time. He won’t stay away long; after all, it’s his duty to his family.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Molly grumbled, settling the string of beads around Abigail’s slender throat. “If you want my opinion, which you dinna, that man is the last thing you ought to wish back in your life.”
“It’s been ten years. Don’t you think he might have changed? I know I have.”
“Aye, well, you’ve become the lovely woman you were always meant to be. I dinna know what that Sassenach devil’s become.”
“To be fair, he was in love with someone else. He didn’t want to marry me.”
“Aye, well, then, he should have married her, not you.”
“He had to marry me in order to save his estate. I can’t fault him for doing his duty to his family. I am sure my father pushed him, as well. You know how he is.”
“Aye, well enough.”
“I was just too young and foolish to see how it was. I assumed Lord Montclair was content enough to marry me. I took his behavior as British r
eserve, gentlemanly restraint, not resistance. Indeed, I think I didn’t want to know the truth. He was . . .” She tilted her head to the side, remembering, and her eyes softened. “He was so handsome, so refined. Not at all rough or consumed with making money like my father and his friends. Not wild and extravagant like their sons.”
“He had a bonny look to him,” Molly admitted.
“Yes, he did, didn’t he?” Abby smiled and met her maid’s gaze in the mirror. “I wonder if he still does.”
Molly snorted. “If he got his just desserts, he’s balding and has a paunch.”
Abigail chuckled, standing up and taking off her robe. “It’s been a decade, not two or three.”
“Och, well, dissipated living can do much to a man.”
“He didn’t seem ‘dissipated.’ More upright than anything else.”
“I suppose.” Molly was reluctant to give up her vision of the man. Picking up the whalebone corset, she wrapped it around Abigail. “Breathe in now.” As she pulled in the ties, she went on, “I canna see why you don’t set your sights on someone better suited for you. Mr. Prescott would do anything for you. Look at the way he came to London with you.”
Abby waited until the ribbons were fastened to let out her breath and speak. “I believe Mr. Prescott had business to attend to here, as well.” Molly gave an eloquent shrug, and Abigail continued, “And Mr. Prescott is not my husband.”
Molly sighed. “I know. That’s the devil of it, isn’t it?”
They continued the dressing ritual, pulling on her petticoats and fastening the bustle attachment. Then, finally, Molly stepped up on a stool and carefully lowered the magnificent Worth creation over Abigail’s head without disturbing her coiffure. She fastened the buttons up the back and gently adjusted the train that cascaded over the bustle and flowed out a few inches onto the floor behind Abigail.
