The Notorious Lady Grantham

by Amanda Weaver

  The Notorious Lady Grantham

  by

  Amanda Weaver

  Copyright @2018 by Amanda Weaver

  Cover design by T.M. Franklin

  Copy editing by Lisa Hollett at Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be produced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from the author. Short excerpts for review purposes are excluded.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, places or events is purely coincidental.

  For my mother. I miss you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  London—December, 1897

  The Bashcombes’ ball was quite crowded, considering it was only the Little Season and creeping close to Christmas. The best families had yet to appear in London, but there were enough interesting people in attendance to keep Genevieve Grantham’s current protégé, Hazel Shaw, entertained.

  “I’ve just heard from Kitty Ponsoy that the Earl of Wrexham is in attendance tonight, and he’s a widower,” Hazel said upon returning from the Ladies’ Retiring Room. “An unmarried earl, and it’s not even the Season yet. That’s quite good, don’t you think?”

  “What have I told you about gossiping with Kitty Ponsoy?” Genevieve scolded gently. “That girl is a snake.”

  Hazel gave a subtle roll of her eyes. “I can handle Kitty Ponsoy. She’s not so clever. But she does seem to know all the best news. Now, what shall we do about the earl? What do you know of him?”

  Genevieve blinked, startled to find that her memory was atypically blank. Ordinarily, she could call up the family tree of any member of the nobility four generations back. Why could she suddenly recall nothing about the Earl of Wrexham?

  “Kitty says he’s never been to London before. At least, no one seems to know him,” Hazel continued, oblivious to Genevieve’s discomfort.

  That piece of information jogged her memory, however. Kitty was right, for once. No one in London knew the earl. A few details memorized from Debrett’s now trickled back in.

  “Yes, he was the youngest son, but he ascended to the title when his two elder brothers died. The principal estate is near the Scottish border, I believe. I’ve never seen the earl in London. I don’t know that anyone has, until now.”

  An eager smile spread across Hazel’s face. “An unknown, unmarried earl washing up in London. Christmas has come early. He’s come to London to find a new wife, I am sure of it. He’s old, nearly forty, Kitty says. But that can’t be helped, I suppose. He’s still much better than that tiresome Conte Santini who’s been chasing me. How shall we manage to meet him?”

  “Hazel, forty is far too old for you.”

  Hazel shrugged. “He’ll be eager for a young wife, don’t you think? They always are. Surely he needs money to support that Scottish estate of his. He needs a rich wife, and why shouldn’t she be me? Hazel, the Countess of Wrexham. That sounds quite good. Come on, Gen, how will you manage to throw me in front of him? You must have some clever idea.”

  Once again, Gen’s mind went blank, although Hazel was right. This was her job—introducing her wealthy young ladies to titled Europeans, hoping to arrange a match. And Hazel was right about the opportunity. Unmarried earls didn’t wander into London ballrooms too often. It was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to pass up.

  But when she looked at Hazel—blossoming into a beauty at nineteen, vivacious and smart, and eager to tie herself to a man old enough to be her father, one whom she hadn’t even set eyes upon—something like sorrow squeezed her heart. Over the years, she’d arranged dozens of these matches. Middle-class manufacturing heiresses and impoverished nobility. It was her stock in trade. Why did the idea of arranging one more for Hazel leave her so depressed? Why did it suddenly seem so wrong? Where did these tender scruples come from now, at this stage of her life?

  The truth was, it had been creeping up on her for some time.

  It had begun on Victoria's wedding day, which should have been Genevieve's triumph, the crowning glory of her career. A mere Miss Victoria Carson, beautiful and rich, but American, and saddled with the crassest sort of parents, marrying the handsome Earl of Dunnley, heir to the ancient Waring dukedom. To London Society, it seemed a stunning achievement for Genevieve, one of her girls climbing impossibly high.

  But they didn't see Victoria's face that day. They hadn't seen her go pale with fear at the thought of her future at her new husband's side. They hadn't seen the way Dunnley and his family had treated her, like a despised burden thrust upon them, even as her fortune was saving them all from ruin.

  Genevieve had had Victoria Carson, Amelia Wheeler, and Grace Godwin with her for years. She cared for all the girls she trained, but those three had been special, almost like her own. Kissing Victoria goodbye and seeing her off in the carriage, alone with her husband who was little more than a stranger, packing her off into a dubious future most certainly devoid of affection, had been the hardest thing Genevieve had ever done.

  The next year had brought more of the same. She'd had to actively encourage Amelia to pursue Lord Radwill, knowing he'd never make her happy, knowing that a life with him would crush the fiery spirit right out of the girl.

  And then last year's near miss with her darling Grace. She'd actually been engaged to marry Rupert Humphrey. Grace, with her fine mind and deep understanding, about to sacrifice the rest of her life married to a man who would never have been a match to her intellect and abilities, all in a desperate bid for security.

  The girls had turned out well in the end, but none of that had been owing to Genevieve’s efforts. It was just luck that all three of them had somehow stumbled into happy, loving marriages. Because Genevieve's business had nothing to do with happiness or love. It was about money and advantage. Love was the enemy.

  She supposed she should be grateful for Hazel’s hard-hearted opportunism. Vic, Amelia, and Grace had done what they had to do to secure advantageous marriages, but all three of them had detested it. Hazel was eager for her marriage of convenience. It would make Gen’s job easier—but no more palatable.

  Perhaps she’d been doing this too long. Years of arranging these loveless matches had done something to her soul. She thought she’d left sentiment and optimism behind her at nineteen, but here came those inconvenient emotions to plague her at thirty-six. She was too old to start wishing for happy endings.

  “Gen?” Hazel’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “The earl?”

  “Yes, right,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It was easy, of course. Gen knew nearly everyone on the London social scene, and she was well-known to them. Everyone knew her purpose here, and one or two well-placed comments led her to Lady Fitzherbert, whose husband had known the earl’s late father a bit—well enough for Lady Fitzherbert to provide the necessary introductions.

  “Why, of course,” Lady Fitzherbert trilled, taking a deep breath, which swelled her magnificent bosom to epic proportions. “I’m sure the earl would be delighted to meet your lovely Miss Shaw.”

  Hazel smiled shyly at Lady Fitzherbert but said nothing, as a well-bred young lady wasn’t meant to look too
eager in these situations. Even though Hazel had been ruthlessly angling to meet the man half an hour ago, now she stood demurely at Gen’s side, as if such a thought had never crossed her mind.

  The angling and planning would be left up to Genevieve.

  “We’d be delighted to make his acquaintance,” Gen said levelly. “If you don’t think it would be an imposition.”

  “Oh, not at all, my dear Lady Grantham.” The majestic lady craned her neck to look around the crowded ballroom. “Just let me find my Walter, and he’ll be happy to introduce you.”

  “That would be—” But Genevieve never got to voice her gratitude.

  “Oh!” Lady Fitzherbert said with a startled laugh. “Here’s the very man himself, come to meet you!”

  Genevieve turned around to face the Earl of Wrexham, and the world abruptly fell out from underneath her as the past she’d been running from for seventeen years caught up with her in the worst place imaginable.

  “Archie…” His name left her lips on a shocked exhale.

  He’d always been tall, well over six feet, but the last time she’d seen him, he’d still been lanky and youthful. His shoulders were broader now, and his chest had filled out, giving him an imposing, mature power. His hair had been much longer when he was younger, a romantic tangle of glorious chestnut curls that fell into his face and brushed his shoulders. It was trimmed short and conservative now. And his face…

  Those lean features—the narrow nose, the high, angled cheekbones, the expressive, slashing eyebrows—they were all recognizably his, but they wore an expression unfamiliar to her. Gone was the carefree happiness, the teasing, easy grin. Now fine lines bracketed his familiar green-gold eyes. Where once he’d had dimples, now deep grooves framed the hard line of his mouth. Lips that had been so soft, beautiful, and quick to smile now looked carved from granite. His eyebrows were drawn together in a ferocious frown, eyes narrowed as he stared down that patrician nose at her. Oh, how very patrician.

  “Gen.” His voice dripped with disdain. Of course, he must have been sure he’d left his unseemly dalliance behind him in Paris. Now she’d turned up in a London ballroom. How terribly unpleasant for him.

  As the realization that it was Archie, here in London, after all these years, sank in, terror bloomed in its wake. This man had the power to ruin everything she’d spent years building. As much as she’d like to sneer at him and lash out in anger, that was impossible. The best course of action would be to distance herself from him immediately, and pray that he understood she intended to stay firmly out of his way.

  “I see you’ve met?” Lady Fitzherbert nervously broke the strained atmosphere.

  Archie hesitated, then spoke, his voice cold and forbidding. “We crossed paths very briefly in Paris, years ago.”

  She’d known he was from somewhere in the British Isles. She could hear it in his accent back then. But she hadn’t known he was English because they’d only ever spoken French to each other. If she’d realized, she might have been more on her guard all these years. But it was too late now. He’d found her.

  “Ah, yes! Lady Grantham’s years on the Continent. You must have met so many interesting people, my dear.”

  “Indeed,” Gen murmured.

  Archie—no, she mustn’t think of him as Archie, because he wasn’t anymore. Lord Wrexham raised one of those infernally mocking eyebrows at her. “Lady Grantham?” He had some nerve, taking exception to her title.

  “Yes,” the oblivious Lady Fitzherbert tittered. “And Lord Wrexham, might I present to you Lady Grantham’s young friend, Miss Hazel Shaw, from America.”

  Hazel offered her hand and dropped into a perfect curtsy, a smile lightly hinting at flirtation playing around her lips. “I’m delighted to meet you, Lord Wrexham.”

  He took her fingertips and bowed briefly over her hand. “A pleasure, Miss Shaw.”

  “I’ve been told this is your first visit to London,” Hazel hazarded, clearly ready to make a charge at her quarry.

  Oh, good heavens. Hazel had already set her cap at him. Would Gen be forced to stand by and watch the two of them flirt with each other? Perhaps, but not on this night. “If you will excuse me for a moment? There’s someone here I should speak with.”

  Lady Fitzherbert, mistakenly believing Gen was leaving her charge free to ensnare Lord Wrexham, threw her a conspiratorial wink. “Of course, my dear. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Miss Shaw.”

  Gen hesitated. What to say to him? She wanted to turn her back and say nothing, but cutting him would be foolish in the extreme when he held so much power over her. Instead, she inclined her head slightly and said, “Enjoy your evening, Lord Wrexham.”

  Before she turned away, she met his eyes, unable to help looking for a last glimpse of her Archie. But he wasn’t there. Only the cold, arrogant Lord Wrexham looked back at her. Of course, the Archie in her mind had never really existed at all, had he? She’d learned that the hard way nearly two decades ago.

  Escaping into the garden wasn’t an option in this cold, so Gen sought refuge in the Bashcombes’ well-stocked library. Standing in front of the fireplace, staring into the dying flames, she pondered her situation.

  What was she going to do? That all depended, she supposed, on what he would do. If he chose to spread the word about their past—about what he knew of her—her life here in London as Lady Grantham was over.

  She had some money. Not a lot, but from the start, she’d insisted on preserving that cushion for herself, her insurance policy in case this life she’d built for herself crumbled. She could take the money and go. But go where? London was home. The only other place she’d ever lived was Paris, and returning there was impossible. Starting over somewhere else—somewhere where she knew no one and no one knew her—was a daunting proposition. She’d done it once. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to do it again.

  “So, it’s Lady Grantham, is it?”

  He’d followed her, of course, and now lounged against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Suddenly, she was impossibly weary. Of all of it. The girls, the loveless marriages that seemed the sum of her legacy, and now this—her past come back to haunt her. Well, best to get this over with, see what he intended to do, and then plan accordingly.

  “Archie—”

  “It’s Archer.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Archer Carlyle,” he said, straightening and moving slowly into the room, although not in her direction. He wandered toward the desk, keeping his gaze away from her. “And you’re Lady Grantham. Your given name?”

  “Geneviève.” She used the French pronunciation. She couldn’t have said why, when no one in London ever did. Seeing Archie again had her lapsing back into all her French habits.

  He nodded pensively. “I thought it was Gen,” he said, also using the French pronunciation.

  “That was just a nickname—”

  “No, Jeanne.”

  Now she heard the subtle difference she’d missed when he was speaking French. The French had called her “Gen,” and he’d heard “Jeanne.” Not that it mattered at all.

  “And you’re English,” he continued. “Not French.”

  “I’m English by birth. I grew up in Paris.”

  “And how long have you been in London?”

  “Seventeen years.” Ever since then. She’d left Paris immediately after.

  He shook his head ruefully. “No wonder.”

  “I never lied to you.” No, he was the liar.

  “But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

  Her temper flared hot at the accusation. How dare he accuse her? “Neither did you!”

  “I didn’t realize it would make such a difference.”

  Oh, he wouldn’t, would he? Men never did. “I’m sure.” Sweeping her skirts to the side, she made for the door. Time to end this interview and pray there wouldn’t be another. “Lord Wrexham, since we’ve managed to avoid crossing paths for this long, I hope we can contrive to continue doing so fo
r the duration of your stay in London.”

  He let out a soft huff of humorless laughter. “Right. Because you’ve grown quite respectable. I asked around about you and your…business. I suppose it wouldn’t do for the parents of all your young charges to know the truth about you.”

  Gen spun around to face him. Her heart was pounding with terror, but she refused to let him see that, channeling her emotions instead into an icy fury. “It would ruin me, as I’m sure you’re quite aware. You know you have that power over me. All I can do is hope your sense of decency as a gentleman will persuade you not to wield it. If such a thing exists in your heart.”

  Archie had turned to face her, and as she flung those last words at him, his face leeched of color, anger sparking in his eyes. “You’re impugning my character? You?”

  That stung. There was a time she’d thought he was different. His actions had proved otherwise, but seeing the naked contempt with her own eyes hurt more than she could have imagined. It seemed some small part of her heart had still been clinging to that image of her old Archie. If she needed further proof that man had been an illusion, he’d just provided it.

  “That sentence tells me I have every reason to doubt you. I hope you prove me wrong.”

  She didn’t stay to see how he absorbed that swipe. They’d already said far too much tonight. Now she would retreat—and wait to see what her future held in the morning.

  Hazel acquiesced to leaving the ball early easier than Genevieve predicted. Perhaps it was because of two facts she’d garnered about the Earl of Wrexham while Gen was otherwise engaged with the man himself. One: he had two small children, so he wasn’t seeking merely a new wife, he was also seeking a new mother. Hazel wasn’t eager to become a mother quite so quickly. And two: he wasn’t impoverished, which appeared to be the real sticking point for Hazel.