Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  “Yes, so she had to take the only position she could get.”

  Will sighed, wishing he could express his pity, yet he was frozen in his own musings. He had heard of such things happening, and the only factor that might make them worse was that the father of the woman’s child could be the lord of the manor. He would not say to Miss Brooke that she was lucky her mother and father could marry. It would be terribly gauche of him. But at the very least, she could claim her own parentage.

  Still, it had not been her mother’s fault, and he felt that she should not have been punished for what was very likely done under some duress.

  Clearly, the woman before him was pragmatic. But what called to him was the way she spoke without bitterness, without an edge to her words. She had been wronged. She had been treated unfairly. So had her mother.

  But it had not warped Miss Brooke. He admired that.

  Irresistibly, he was now in the habit of contemplating her. Not just her origins, whatever those were, but her as she was before him.

  More than once, he had caught himself looking upon her—admiring some remark she’d just made, or surreptitiously eyeing her bosom where it swelled out of the neckline of her dress.

  He suspected that Jane had caught some of these stares, too, but she had just deigned not to comment.

  I have to stop, especially now that I know what transpired between her mother and her father, he thought. It’s not gentlemanly.

  But even now, he continued to watch her, thinking about how a painter might create a delightful scene of her reflecting within the gazebo.

  “Lord Ainsworth,” she called, which jarred him from the thought of paintings. “I see you have decided to go outdoors on this fine day.”

  “Aunt Jane sent me to fetch you,” he said. He did not quite think that his aunt had done so with any specific plan in mind, but also he could not entirely understand why she could not have just accompanied Miss Brooke back to the manor herself.

  “Oh, goodness, have I been up here so long? I shall be down in a moment.”

  Will immediately felt a sense of loss at the thought of her being removed from his sight. He hastened to reassure her. “No, you may take as long as you desire. My aunt is quite adamant when she believes something should be done, so I had no choice.” He chuckled. “When I suggested that perhaps you’d simply found something to catch your fancy in the gardens, she still insisted I come and find you.”

  A smile lit up her face. Though he was often genuinely irked by Jane’s adamancy, he smiled, too. It’s part of her charm.

  “I am sorry to have caused you any disruption,” she teased. “Lady Jane is, indeed, a strong-willed woman.”

  “It’s quite all right. I think I needed to stretch my legs. At the least, it is important to take the air when one can.” He paused, then called, “Is that ludicrously enormous crow still bothering the sheep?”

  She laughed enough for it to carry on the warm breeze. “Unless there is more than one, I do believe it is. You may come up to see for yourself,” she said.

  He wasted no time in making his way up the stairs. “Ah, it never tires of this ritual,” he said when he was in the gazebo with her, stationing himself just so, so that he could continue to look at her while gazing into the fields below. He had observed the bird doing this over the last fortnight—dashing toward the ground, then the sheep, then hopping away as though it had never meant to cause a fuss. Of course, the sheep were hard to rattle as it was.

  Complacent creatures, he thought.

  He caught her smiling behind her hand but he said nothing about it.

  She turned to watch with him. “Is it not the same with people, my lord?”

  “How so?”

  “We play our games and have our rituals, often seeking just our own amusement. I feel the bird is simply amusing itself.”

  Will considered this. “It is not being cruel, no.”

  Her glance flickered over him. “Well… I didn’t mean to imply that man is not cruel.” Her eyes lingered on his scars, but he found that he did not mind and didn’t feel at all self-conscious under her pointed stare. “Only that we all play our games, whether or not we realize it. Some create no damage, whether physical or spiritual. On the other hand, some men delight in cruelty.”

  This was taking a disturbingly philosophical bent, he decided. He was used to her obscuring or evading any talk of who she was, but he was not used to this nearly erudite, almost opaque way of speaking. Not from her. Though it was not because she was lacking in intelligence, that was plain. It was more that she did not seem to have a use for thinking more philosophically, and so she did not.

  “Is there something in particular you wish to discuss, Miss Brooke?”

  “No, but I find myself feeling very thoughtful, today.”

  He could tell that she was lying, or at least diverting him from part of the truth. Her demeanor was hesitant, conflicted. “Perhaps it is the location. This specific one, I mean to say.”

  Miss Brooke nodded. “It encourages introspection.” She smiled wistfully and when she exhaled, he felt her breath just barely on his face. It smelled of the coffee she had had earlier this afternoon. The gazebo barely fit both of them together, so they were nearer to one another than they had previously been while both were standing. “I don’t know if that is necessarily a bad thing.”

  “It rather depends on what you are thinking about, doesn’t it?”

  He was no stranger to introspection, and his own mind often went in directions he did not enjoy. It was not easy to avoid, so in the months since Salamanca, he had learned to allow the negative thoughts to wash over him, then he let them go. There was no other way to be about it. Otherwise, they could consume him. It was a skill cultivated by dedicated practice, and it was one he’d had to learn through trial and error.

  Will had no desire to cause her any distress, but he could, however, guess what she was thinking.

  Hesitating, he said haltingly, “I believe we should discuss something. An important matter.”

  Judging by her expression, she seemed to know exactly what this matter was, but she said nothing. She turned slightly toward him to indicate her willingness to converse about it.

  He began directly, with no preamble or attempt at artifice.

  Though it had originally been his wish that she be removed very quickly from the manor, he couldn’t find pleasure in saying the same, now. Still, it had to be said. His aunt had also grown fond of her, which rendered things rather fraught. He knew that the women would miss each other.

  Hell, he would miss Miss Brooke and he could hardly admit it, or fathom why.

  But she must have been on her way somewhere when fate brought us together so abruptly, he thought. Not home, because she seems so reluctant to go home. But elsewhere. He had the sinking instinct, though, that he was only telling himself this to try to make himself feel better.

  “Am I correct in observing that you are very nearly mended? Though you may not be, strictly speaking, fully recovered?”

  She did not wait long to nod her affirmative.

  “I am so pleased to see that you have regained most of your strength,” said Will, wanting to hit himself for sounding so formal.

  “Yes, my lord. I don’t think a full recovery is very far from me, now.”

  “I am happy to hear it, Miss Brooke.”

  “Thank you.” She stared at him impassively but with, he thought, a faint note of sadness.

  “If it is not too indelicate for me to ask… have you considered going on your way?”

  Miss Brooke blanched.

  “I do not mean to insinuate that you are taking advantage of the situation,” he said hurriedly.

  “No, Your Grace,” she said, almost as quickly. “I do not think you believe I am a designing woman… I just… I was reflecting on the subject before I noticed you were in the gardens looking up at me.”

  “I see,” said Will, relieved. “Would you mind sharing your reflections, then?”


  She looked at the sheep, frolicking as they were, then back at him. A soft breeze lifted her hair slightly from the base of her neck. “I have to confess that I am at a loss as to what I should do.”

  Gently, he said, “I want to help. Please, tell me what you were thinking.”

  When did it become so simple to be gentle toward her?

  Miss Brooke became visibly agitated, plucking slightly at her borrowed, dove grey gown. “I think I should tell you what I have omitted so vigilantly these last few weeks.”

  Without looking too eager, he hoped, Will nodded. “If you feel it is best.”

  Finally! he wanted to crow.

  “You see,” she began, the words falling from her mouth almost heavily like they had physical weight, “I was running from my father that night you found me. He is responsible for all the marks you have observed on my person.” She paused, not to gauge his reaction, for she was not looking at him, but seemingly to gather her strength.

  Will’s surge of triumph abated, and he schooled his features from dismay to calmness.

  “One of his greatest pleasures is beating me. It was not his first time, and it would definitely not be the last if I chose to return to him.”

  Horrified, though perhaps not truly surprised, Will could only listen. Amongst both the ton and common classes alike, it was not unusual for men to discipline their children, and particularly their female children, with physical force. Will would not go so far as to call himself “lucky” because he deplored the very idea of such abuse and to his mind, it should not be so commonplace, but his father had never lifted a hand toward him or either of his brothers.

  “I only wanted to be away from him, my lord.” Miss Brooke’s affect was rather flat, but fraught with repressed emotions—a hallmark of having these abuses throughout her life. “I didn’t know where to run and, indeed, I have nowhere to go. I just… ran. And unfortunately, I fell by the brook. It was dark. I had been recovering from a fever. He was spitting angry that night, because I had not felt well for days and was not keeping up with the housework in the manner he expected.” She sighed. “It was my intention to find a position far, far away from Brookfield.”

  Will’s heart was pulled in two directions: one, sheer anger toward her father, who was clearly a horrid person with no sense of honor, and secondly, sorrow for her. The marks on her body were varied and many. Some were quite old, while others were fresh. As she’d said, and as he had suspected even on that night, the violence was not singular to that occasion. He did not know it was her father at the time, but now that he knew, he should have suspected.

  He gave her a moment to collect herself. She was not crying, but she was shaken.

  “What is your name, then? You must know by now that we will not give you over to him. I’ve relented in my earlier, very adamant assertions that you must go. I believe, especially after hearing you say all of this, that you should stay.”

  But she missed his self-deprecating note and said seriously, after exhaling, “I am Miss Augusta Copperweld, Lord Ainsworth.” Her eyes were both pleading and, somehow, full of fire.

  Will smiled at her. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Copperweld.”

  She smiled, albeit reluctantly.

  Curiously, he asked, “What would you have me do with you? My aunt and I have wondered.”

  “I still think I should like employment,” she said, thinking, the smallest of frowns crossing her rosy lips.

  I wonder what it would be like to kiss them, he thought. But as soon as it came, he rejoined it with, Stop that, immediately.

  Will waited, and did not tell her how he’d mentioned sending her to the Sisters of Mercy. Somehow, he felt this might lead to him being stared down with an icy glare.

  She might even try to run away again and take a sharp fall from the gazebo. He would not put it past her, and it would be his luck.

  “I do not wish to impose upon you as a guest when I am neither a real guest, nor used to being idle. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  Will cocked his head, motioning slightly with one hand for her to continue.

  “Would you consider employing me in the manor for a month or two? I think I could be useful and I already know my way around the estate.” She was showing obvious signs of struggling with the request. Her mouth was now fully downturned.

  Pride? guessed Will. Does she not like to ask for help? Clearly, work is not the trouble.

  Miss Copperweld continued, saying, “I have no money if you turn me out immediately. But with some saved earnings, I would feel more confident striking out on my own if that is what you wish for me to do.”

  “I will not turn you out immediately,” said Will, with a shade of dryness. He couldn’t allow himself to fathom it and, on top of that, his aunt would flay him alive if he tried.

  “I had hoped not, my lord,” she said, with a note of good humor returning to her voice.

  “You must allow me some time to deliberate,” Will said, rubbing the back of his neck reflexively. “I hate to make any decision in haste. It’s one of my flaws, though indubitably, not my only one.”

  Her eyes crinkled with mirth. “I have not noticed many, but perhaps this is the only one that has truly impacted me.”

  He smiled a little bashfully. “Perhaps. But in seriousness, I don’t believe it will be a problem. The household already knows you.” He longed to tell her she did not have to stay on as a servant, but he knew the very idea would not sit well with her. He shook his head a little and said, “This… your father. He lives here in Brookfield.”

  “We live just outside the village,” she sighed. “He recently came into possession of a small farm. I don’t know how he did it. I feel as though something untoward or exceedingly lucky must have happened at the gambling tables, for he came home one evening both foxed and with a deed in his pocket.” She stopped speaking, gathered her thoughts, then spoke again. “He says the taxes that you collect are ridiculous. I don’t believe him when he says anything, normally. But evidently, this is how many of the villagers feel.”

  This was an entirely new claim to Will, who was appalled at the very suggestion.

  He scoffed, more out of shock than disdain. “While I do not claim to acquaint myself directly with the affairs of the people in the village, I employ the services of an excellent steward. Your father must be mistaken, for anything I collect has not changed since I have returned. It is the normal rate and was calculated well before my father’s death to take into account the seasons, each person’s livelihood, inflations… I daresay he was merely very intoxicated.” He was perplexed.

  They studied a yellow butterfly whose feather-light wings fluttered lazily between the meager space that separated them. Augusta was evidently reluctant to disagree, but she still murmured, “I have no love for him. But I have heard from many that they have recently been forced to give up almost half of their earnings.”

  Will felt his mouth drop open and only managed to close it a moment later. What devilry is this? “I assure you that I do not benefit from such a practice. Nor do I engage in it.”

  “I do not believe you would,” she assured him. “I’m only telling you what is said.”

  “Why, half! That is preposterous!” His family was wealthy enough; his father had never seen the point—unlike some landlords—in straining his local tenants.

  “There appears to be either an opportunist or a liar, or both, then,” said Miss Copperweld. “Somewhere in your employ, or somewhere in the village.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You are sure that you trust this steward?”

  “I thought I did,” Will muttered grimly.

  He was almost amused at how shrewd she was.

  “Well…” she ventured. “You have not asked my advice or what I would do, but I might start by going to Brookfield and rebuilding a relationship with your tenants. They say you are not at all yourself… meaning no offense. They say that your time on the battlefield ruined your mind. No one, to my he
aring, has ever said anything unkind about you personally. They do wonder why you will not speak to them, now.”

  “What do they say about me?”

  This is it, he thought. This is your “Lord Malliston” moment. He steeled himself for the worst.

  Miss Copperweld laid a gentle hand on the crook of his arm, which seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him. “If you must know, I can tell you what I’ve heard.”

  At last, Will studied her, then her hand on his arm. He knew a wry smile crossed his lips. “And are you very embedded in the village gossip, then?”

  “No,” she said, blushing. “I keep to myself. My father has that effect on me.” She nibbled her full lower lip. “I think I resent the people I knew who saw marks upon me and did nothing. So I was… am… not much for socializing.”

  Irrational, hot anger warmed Will’s blood. Although he had never been, strictly speaking, a violent person, he now had a deep and clear urge to find this man and throttle him. He swallowed. “But you converse enough to know that Lord Ainsworth is the subject of speculation and derision… or his taxes are the subject of derision, anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “Pray, enlighten me.”

  “The elders in particular talk most. They remember when you used to work in the village. When you would attend to people who were ill or injured. When you’d help the midwife deliver babies.”

  Will thought back to that time and it seemed a lifetime had passed since then. “I did.”

  “Do you miss it? They say you were kind, and compassionate, and very good at your calling.”

  “I do.”

  She nodded. “I can tell.”

  How? Will wanted to ask. How can you see something within me that has died? He did not voice his thoughts aloud. “Then perhaps I am not so monstrous as they say.”

  “No one does,” she insisted. Her grip on his arm tightened. “That is just it. The villagers, the decent ones, anyway, they claim you must be sad. It is especially so when I encounter someone who used to know you from boyhood.”