Last Night's Scandal

by Loretta Chase

  She looked away.

  It was true. She was his friend but she was like the simoom: a sudden, immense whirlwind racing across the desert and sucking up the sand into a great tidal wave and sending everyone running for cover. It tore up tents and scattered belongings and flung people and animals about as though they were toys. It was beautiful and dramatic and it rarely killed, but it left so much damage in its wake.

  She was a human simoom, and he couldn’t deny that she was one of the reasons he stayed away, but he’d cut his tongue out rather than tell that truth again.

  He bent to peer at her face. “You’re not really crying, are you?”

  She turned her head further away, toward the fire. The firelight danced on her hair, striking coppery sparks in the wayward curls.

  If she had truly been his sister, he might have stroked her hair. If she had been his lover . . . but they couldn’t be lovers. Ever. He couldn’t dishonor her and he couldn’t marry a simoom, and it was as simple and irrevocable as that.

  “Why should I waste tears on a heartless brute like you?” she said. “Why should I allow myself to be cut to the quick by the fiendish injustice of your remarks?”

  Fiendish injustice.

  Drama. That was good. True, too. The weight on his chest began to ease. If she was trying on the guilt technique, forgiveness was forthcoming—though it would take a while and involve stunning verbal abuse, which he fully deserved.

  “Why, indeed,” he said. “I’ve never minced words with you, and I should be sorry to start. Though I will, if that’s what you want. I’ve had practice enough. But I must tell you, that will be more depressing to my spirits than Scotland’s infernal climate and my infernal parents and their accursed castle. If we’re to be together for who knows how long, in that wilderness, with those two beldams, and I can’t speak my mind to you—”

  “Don’t try that with me,” she said. “Don’t pretend I’m your confidante when you’ve done and said everything to assure me I’m not. If your idea of speaking your mind means abusing me in that despicable way—”

  “Despicable!” Excellent. And quite right, too.

  “I’m not a dog you can kick when you’re in a foul mood,” she said.

  “You could kick me back,” he said. “You usually do.”

  “I wish I could,” she said. “But as you see, I’m temporarily disabled.”

  He looked at her feet, naked in the water. He remembered the feel of her foot against his bare leg. Pandora’s Box. He slammed the lid shut. “Is it still very bad?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I merely turned my ankle. But Bailey imagined it was swelling, and made me soak it. I must do as she says or she’ll leave me, and if she leaves me, you know I’ll go all to pieces.”

  “She won’t leave you,” he said. “And neither will I, until this idiotish Noble Quest is accomplished. You’ve dragged me into it and now you must live with the consequences. Like it or lump it, Olivia. You brought this on yourself.”

  He told himself that was as good an exit line as any. He told himself an exit was the intelligent move. He’d been forgiven, more or less, and he no longer wanted to hang himself.

  . . . but her foot.

  Bailey believed it was swelling.

  Not a good sign. He knew a great deal about such things. He’d learned from Daphne Carsington how to tend to the servants’ and crew’s frequent illnesses and injuries.

  Perhaps Olivia hadn’t merely turned her ankle. She might have sprained it, or fractured one of those scores of tiny bones.

  He knelt before the basin. He blocked out the feminine garments and the firelit curls and all the rest of the fragrant womanliness and focused on her right foot as though it were a separate object altogether. “It doesn’t look swollen to me,” he said. “But it’s hard to be sure while it’s under water.”

  Gently he grasped her foot and lifted it from the basin.

  He heard her suck in air.

  Something was trembling, either his hand or her foot.

  “Does it hurt?” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “It looks all right,” he said. Carefully he turned the foot this way and that. A slender foot, elegantly proportioned, the toes in gracefully descending size, like the feet of Egyptian statues. The wet skin was so smooth under his hand.

  “I think you’ve looked at it long enough,” she said in a choked voice. “It’s getting cold.”

  Yes. Long enough. Too long.

  “Time to stop soaking it, in any case,” he said briskly. He heard the catch in his voice. He hoped she didn’t. “It’s getting wrinkly.” He reached for the folded towel placed near the basin, set it over his thigh, and put her foot on his thigh. He gently massaged her foot with the towel, working his way from ankle to toes. And back again. And up her calf to her knee. And back again.

  She remained perfectly still.

  He set the injured foot down on another towel, and attended to the left foot in the same way.

  He was careful to keep the towel between his fingers and her skin. All the same, he felt every graceful contour of her foot: the fine bones, the turn of arch and ankle, the delicate line of her toes.

  “If you’re kneeling at my feet,” she said unsteadily, “this must be an apology.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” he said.

  This was the selfsame foot she’d slid up his bare leg the other night.

  He raised the foot, as though to set it on the towel, as he’d done with the other. He hesitated. It was only for an instant, and it was a lifetime. A wave of longing rushed through him, unbearable.

  He bent and kissed the front of her lower leg.

  He heard her sharp inhalation. He could scarcely breathe for the furious pounding of his heart, the heat racing downward.

  Carefully he set her foot down. Smoothly he rose.

  Wrong. Wrong. So wrong. Unfair to him, to her, to everybody. But it was done, and he’d stopped, and his frock coat concealed what she’d done to him—or he’d done to himself.

  “Or maybe I’m getting even,” he said.

  Out of the room he sauntered, his gait cool and casual, while the simoom roared across his inner self.

  As soon as the door closed behind Lisle, the one to the adjoining room opened, and Bailey came in.

  “Miss, I’m sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t think I ought to—”

  Olivia held up her hand. “Never mind,” she said. She barely recognized her own voice. Breathless. Because her heart still beat so painfully hard, so fast. “He . . .” She trailed off.

  What the devil was he thinking? They’d agreed, had they not, that the Episode in Stamford was a Terrible Mistake. But they’d crossed a line . . . and he was a man, and once a man got those ideas in his head—oh, what nonsense! Men always had those ideas. But he was supposed to keep his distance from her.

  He was not supposed to seduce her, the great idiot!

  Whether it was meant to be an apology or revenge, he was taking a suicidal risk—with her future! With his!

  “Men,” she said.

  “Yes, miss,” Bailey said.

  “It was my own fault, I suppose.”

  “I don’t know, miss.”

  “I was furious, you know.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “The things he said.” It still hurt to recall them.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I should have covered my feet when he came in, or at least drawn down my skirts.”

  “Yes, miss, but I could have done that, and I did desert you.”

  “Not your fault, Bailey. I’m a DeLucey. It doesn’t matter that I’m other things as well. The DeLucey always takes over. He hurt my feelings, and I had to get even by being provocative. Could I have been more foolish? Did
I not size him up at Great-Grandmama’s party? Wasn’t it clear enough, the invisible sign over his head? Danger. Don’t play with this fire. Any DeLucey would have seen it. The trouble is, any DeLucey would do it anyway.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “It’s so hard to resist a risk.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “But he’s too risky.”

  His too-clever hands and their touch, unbearably intimate. So patient and methodical. If he set out to seduce a woman, that was how he’d do it. Patiently. Methodically. The way he’d kissed her the other night: absolutely focused attention. No quarter given.

  If any other man had touched her in that way, kissed her in that way, her morals would have disintegrated, and she’d have let them, happily.

  “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t,” she said. “If one is married, one might have affairs. But marriage is a very bad gamble for a woman. Play the wrong card—wed the wrong man—and spend the rest of your life in one kind of hell or another, some worse than others, but all of them—or nearly all—hells.”

  “That’s true enough, miss,” said Bailey, who did not have a high opinion of men. Watching the way men behaved around Olivia would destroy any young woman’s illusions. “All the same, her ladyship, your mother—”

  “Pray don’t use Mama as an example,” Olivia said. She’d found the love of her life. Twice. “It’s not the same at all. She’s good.”

  Tuesday 11 October

  Olivia tried to rise before dawn, as she’d done the two previous days. Today, though, the prospect of dragging those naughty ladies from their beds in the dark—again—and leading Lisle a merry chase had lost its entertainment value.

  The sun was well up and streaming through the window when she was at last ready to face the day.

  Bailey brought in the breakfast tray. On it lay a letter.

  The outside read “Miss Carsington.” The precise, angular writing was all too familiar.

  Olivia broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read:

  Alnwick

  Tuesday 11th Instant

  Dear Olivia,

  By the time you read this, I shall have already set out, because I’m determined to reach Gorewood while sufficient daylight remains for reconnoitering. It belatedly occurred to me—and given that I’m a man, you won’t wonder at its being so belated—that we’ve no idea what the monstrosity holds in the way of furnishings. Very little, I suspect. It seems I must impose on your good nature to undertake some shopping in Edinburgh for me. Nichols has made a preliminary list, which I enclose. He’ll make an inventory after we arrive, and I’ll send it on to you in Edinburgh.

  Being accustomed to camp beds or blankets on tomb floors, I’m certainly not one to fuss about colors or styles. Use your own judgment—and if you think of anything else that may be wanting, pray don’t hesitate to add it to your purchases. In any event, I’ve no doubt that your taste in such matters is far superior to mine.

  I’ve directed a letter to Mains, my father’s agent in Edinburgh, informing him of your errand. All bills are to be sent to him. I know that he, like every other sentient male, will be happy to assist you in any way you require. You will find his name and direction on Nichols’s list.

  I shall look forward to seeing you in a week or two at Castle Horrid.

  Yours sincerely,

  L

  “Oh, really, Lisle,” Olivia said. “That crossed-out bit is so childish. Still . . .” She considered. “Yes, you aren’t a complete imbecile. You’ve seen the error of your ways, I don’t doubt. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Miss?”

  Olivia waved the letter at her. “A reprieve, Bailey,” she said. “He’s gone and we’re going shopping.”

  Edinburgh

  12 October

  Dear Lisle,

  Rather than Subject the Ladies to another Long Day in the Carriage, I decided to continue to Edinburgh by Easy Stages. We arrived this day in the Late Afternoon—and oh, what a Sight came into view, exactly as Scott described:

  Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,

  Where the huge castle holds its state,

  And all the steep slope down,

  Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,

  Piled deep and massy, close and high,

  Mine own romantic town.

  As you may recall, I had visited in my Childhood, but my Memories were confused, and I thought I’d dreamed it: the Castle crowning the Great Rock, rising through the Smoke and Mist, the Spires and Steeples poking through the broody atmosphere, the Ancient Town with its tall Buildings, perched on the ridge. But there it was, the Most Astonishing City In The World—and yes, I should defy even the Sphinx to match it for Atmosphere.

  But I know my Effusions bore you. Therefore I proceed to Business. The Picturesque Old Town is crowded with Shops of every Description. There are still more to be found in the far less romantic New Town of Edinburgh, in a plain to the northwest. (That is where your cousin used to live, by the way, in an Elegant House cluttered to an astounding degree with old Books and Papers.) Beyond a doubt we can fulfill all of our most pressing commissions with a few days of Shopping.

  I shall send ahead to you all but the servants we cannot do without. Edwards, who is to act as our Butler, will wish to do what he can to make the Castle habitable in advance of our Arrival. In the meantime, I shall visit the Servants Registry and make our needs known. Given the locals’ FEAR OF THE PLACE, we shall have to rely upon our Own Small Force, at least for a Time. I’m fully confident, however, that we shall speedily Get to the Bottom of this HAUNTING, and re-establish a proper Scottish staff—for as you know, our London Servants are on loan, and must be returned soon, preferably before Mama finds out I’ve Stolen them.

  Yours sincerely,

  Olivia Carsington

  On Wednesday Roy and Jock Rankin returned from Edinburgh, their pockets jingling with the profits from the most recent sale of things that didn’t belong to them. They found Gorewood’s public house buzzing with news: The Marquess of Atherton’s son, the Earl of Lisle, was moving into Gorewood Castle with a full retinue of London servants. One carriage had already arrived with boxes, trunks, and a set of servants, and more were coming in a few days.

  Roy and Jock looked at each other.

  “Not likely,” Roy said. “Some Londoners coming to stare at the old castle, like they do sometimes. Everyone hereabouts gets fool ideas. Always thinking someone’s moving in. No one’s moved in since the old man moved out—what was it?—ten years ago?”

  But the people about them were excited, much more than they ever were when traveling visitors from England turned up wanting to explore the castle.

  After a time, the brothers left the tavern and went out in the rain to see for themselves.

  Their neighbors, they found, had got the story right for once. From the road, through the steady drizzle, they could make out light in at least three windows. When they sneaked in closer they discovered a carriage and horses in the ramshackle stable.

  “This won’t do,” said Roy.

  “We’ll have to put a stop to it,” said Jock.

  Thursday 13 October

  The butler Edwards was not as drunk as he wanted to be. It had been raining steadily since he’d arrived at Gorewood Castle. It was an ugly heap of stones, dank and stinking of disuse. They’d brought bedding but there were no beds. It was one thing for the master, who was used to sleeping on stone floors or bare ground, but it wasn’t what Edwards was used to.

  They’d been working from sunup to long after sundown, trying to make the great dungeon of a place habitable for the ladies. The villagers were not cooperative. They steadfastly refused to understand simple English and even the master, with all his knowledge of heathen languages, couldn’t make heads or tales of their sp
eech.

  The London servants were treated like an invading army. You would think the shopkeepers would want the custom, but ask them for this or that and all you got was a blank look. And when at last they condescended to recognize you as a customer, they got the order wrong.

  At least they’d got it right at the Crooked Crook public house—after making him go through a dozen gyrations and finally having to write it down. He’d stopped there to warm his insides before trudging back to the curst castle in the wet.

  The road was lonely, not a streetlamp anywhere. To one side he made out the ragged outlines of the church that had burned down last century. He could see the churchyard, the gravestones sagging at untidy angles, as though the rain and the dark and the cold weighed them down.

  He was looking that way, shivering, when he heard the rustling. Then suddenly it loomed in front of him, a white figure with glowing eyes.

  He screamed and turn and ran.

  And ran and ran and ran.

  Gorewood Castle

  Friday 14 October

  Dear Olivia,

  You had better find another butler. Edwards has disappeared.

  Yours sincerely,

  L

  Chapter 10

  Gorewood

  Monday 17 October

  She stood in the road, looking up at the monolith that crowned the rise.

  Lisle had left the village and arrived in time to see Olivia’s carriage stop next to the graveyard and ruined church. He’d watched her alight and move to one side of the road. There, hands clasped over her bosom, she gazed, obviously enraptured, at Gorewood Castle.

  A parade of vehicles—mainly carts and wagons, heaped with who knew what—had preceded hers. Others followed. All of the village’s inhabitants had stopped whatever they were doing and come out to gape.

  He’d gaped, too. He hadn’t seen a line of vehicles that long since King George IV’s coronation, a decade ago.

  She was oblivious to the horses, carts, and wagons passing by her. She was oblivious to everything but whatever it was she saw in that great, grim rectangular heap of stone.