by Olivia Drake
Bernice couldn’t accept that her niece had rejected romance in favor of writing pithy commentary on modern society. “A husband would put a stop to my essays,” Rory said. “I am quite content to be the anonymous Miss Cellany.”
“If the fellow loves you, he’ll allow you your own pursuits. Why, a woman as clever as you can wind him around her little finger if only she puts a bit of effort into it.”
Rory had once been adept at flirtation, but those games were behind her now. She would rather expound on topics such as the injustice of confining a lady’s education to sewing, dancing, and etiquette, while gentlemen expanded their minds through the study of Latin and Greek, algebra and geography. A London newspaper, The Weekly Verdict, recently had picked up several of her articles. The pay was a mere pittance, but she had been thrilled to see her nom de plume, Miss Cellany, beneath the headline.
The rapping sounded again, louder this time.
“It’s surely Mr. Nesbitt, for that’s a man’s knock,” Bernice said, reaching out to straighten Rory’s collar. “And here you are looking like a scullery maid. What will he think?”
“He’ll think I was cleaning out the attic. And that he ought to have warned us before coming to call.”
“Foolish girl! Run upstairs and change into your rose-pink gown.”
“No. He’ll have to accept me as I am. With luck, the sight shall suffice to frighten him away for good.”
Marching forward, she flung open the door. A brisk sea breeze whipped several strands of black hair around her face. But Rory was too busy gawking to take notice. An impeccably garbed footman stood on the stoop. From his white-wigged head to his leaf-green livery, the servant might have been transported here straight from a ducal palace.
“Miss Paxton?”
“Yes. Who—”
Before she could say more, he bowed to her and then retreated to reveal the elegant lady standing behind him.
She glided forward, a slim woman in a fur-trimmed mantle over a rich plum silk gown that rustled faintly with her every step. A bonnet decorated with egret feathers framed a face of lustrous beauty. Though clearly a mature woman, she had coal-black hair and smooth skin that made her precise age difficult to determine. With her long-lashed violet eyes and flawless features, she exuded a loveliness that was timeless as well as mesmerizing.
A sense of unreality gripped Rory. Her mind dredged up a name from the past. Though it was wildly improbable, she recognized this visitor.
“Lady Milford?”
A smile lent warmth to that fine face. “You are Miss Aurora Paxton, I believe. I remember you from your London season.”
She did?
Lady Milford was a doyenne of high society. They’d never before met since Rory’s family was mere gentry and lower on the social scale. Rory had only glimpsed her from afar at balls and parties in the company of titled gentlemen or government officials. Then she flushed to realize it must be the infamous scandal that had made her memorable to this woman.
Lady Milford was eyeing her with keen interest. She would be remembering Rory’s terrible disgrace. But what could have brought her to this secluded house so far off the beaten path?
Just then, Rory noticed the splendid coach parked beside the scrubby grasses along the drive. Painted a rich cream hue, it looked like something out of a fairy tale, with oversized gilt wheels and gold appointments. A coachman stood by the team of white horses, and the footman had gone to join him.
“Has your coach broken down? Did you require help from us?” Rory bit back a gurgle of hysterical laughter at the image of old Murdock attempting to repair such a fancy vehicle.
“Certainly not. My coach is in perfect working order. Rather, I’ve come from London to call on you, Miss Paxton.”
“Me?” Rory was floored. What interest could this woman possibly have in her? And to travel such a distance! Aware of gawking like a fool, she recalled her manners. “Oh, do pardon me. Please come inside.”
She hastily stepped back to allow Lady Milford to enter the house. The woman brought to mind a fine jewel cast into a pile of junk. Thankfully, she was too polite to stare at the primitive pottery, religious statues, and other bric-a-brac that cluttered the small foyer.
Bernice watched, her eyebrows hiked in frank curiosity. “Who have we here?”
Rory performed the introductions. “Lady Milford, this is my aunt, Mrs. Bernice Culpepper. Auntie, this is Lady Milford. She’s … an acquaintance from London.”
“Welcome to Halcyon Cottage,” Bernice said. “If I may be blunt, we don’t often have visitors from London. Or any visitors at all, for that matter.”
With dainty kid-gloved fingers, Lady Milford shook Bernice’s chapped hand. “Pray forgive me for intruding without notice. I came to speak to Miss Paxton on a matter of some urgency.”
The prospect of an accident or illness alarmed Rory. “Celeste—”
“Rest assured, your sister is in excellent health, as is your stepmother. Rather, I’ve come for another reason entirely. A private matter.”
Rory released a breath. Thank goodness her sister was well. Celeste had been only ten years old when Rory had been banished. They had not seen each other since then, although they occasionally exchanged letters.
Just then, Murdock came shuffling along the corridor that led from the kitchen. A wrinkled black suit hung from his stooped shoulders, and he listed to one side as if tipsy. His white hair stood in wild disarray as if he’d been jolted out of an inebriated nap. “Blimey!” he grumbled. “I heard a knock loud enough to wake the dead!”
“Lady Milford has come to call,” Rory said, aiming a severe stare at him. He was apt to blurt out salty opinions, and she had no wish to offend their exalted guest if there might be news of Rory’s family. “Will you kindly fetch us tea and bring it to the parlor?”
“Tea?” He squinted at their visitor, looking her up and down. “Rum’s what ye’ll want, milady. A bracing nip will take the damp chill from yer bones.”
“Tea,” Rory repeated firmly. “And a plate of Cook’s gingerbread. Straightaway, if you will.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n.” Murdock saluted her, then made a wide circle and stumbled off in the direction from whence he’d come.
“Such a dear man,” Bernice said fondly. “He was my husband’s first mate for many years. A bit eccentric, but a great help around the house. I don’t know what we would do without him.”
“When one finds an excellent servant, one must endeavor to keep him,” Lady Milford said with masterful diplomacy.
As Bernice led their guest into the parlor, Rory caught sight of herself in the age-speckled mirror on the wall. Her hair resembled a rat’s nest. Numerous black strands had escaped the coil at the back of her head. She plucked out several sticky bits of cobweb, repositioned a few pins, then untied her apron and stuffed it into an oversized Chinese vase. But she still looked like a servant in the faded blue gown.
Should she run upstairs and change, after all?
No. Honest work was nothing for which to be ashamed. She was no longer a member of society, anyway, so why should it matter what their guest thought of her? This was hardly a social call in a Mayfair drawing room.
She headed into the cramped parlor to find Lady Milford removing her bonnet and cloak. Rory took the items and laid them over one of the African drums that flanked the doorway. As the woman seated herself on a sagging brown chaise, her every movement was a study in grace and refinement. She gave no indication of noticing the lumpiness of the horsehair cushions or the sadly frayed arms.
Bernice was using the fire iron to stir the embers on the hearth. The small blaze they’d lit to ward off the morning chill had died while they were up in the attic. Her aunt tossed another log onto the grate and poked a few more times until the flames began to dance.
“There,” she said, propping the tool against the mantel and turning her attention to Lady Milford. “May I say, I’m pleased to see one of Rory’s London acquaintances come to c
all at last. Although she was banished for good cause, she need not be cut off forever.”
“I quite agree,” Lady Milford murmured. “You are to be commended for opening your home to her. That was most generous of you.”
Bernice took measure of their guest, then nodded as if satisfied. “I’ll just run along, then, whilst you two have yourselves a nice chat.”
Chapter 3
If a lady allows a gentleman liberties, she alone will bear the brunt of shame.
—MISS CELLANY
As her aunt cruised out of the parlor like a ship at full sail, Rory swallowed an objection. She had hoped Bernice would help alleviate the awkwardness of conversing with someone from Rory’s old life in London.
Someone who clearly knew about her fall from grace.
Discomfited, she seated herself by the fire and arranged her skirts to conceal the holes where the stuffing protruded from the chair’s upholstery. Lady Milford was engaged in taking off her kid gloves. The snapping of the logs and the distant crashing of waves filled the silence.
Rory lifted her chin. How foolish to care what this grande dame of society thought of her! “You’ve come a long way,” she said, making polite conversation. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
“Yes, though I find myself more intrigued by your situation, Miss Paxton.” Lady Milford neatly placed the gloves in her lap. “All this time, no one knew where you had gone. I found out only yesterday upon visiting your stepmother. Mrs. Paxton said it was your late father’s wish that you live here with his sister.”
Rory’s heart squeezed. It hurt to be reminded of Papa’s disappointment in her. She could still see his sad brown eyes, so full of censure. He had died of a fever the year after her banishment, and she’d never even had the chance to say good-bye to him.
“I’ve been very content with Aunt Bernice,” she stated. “I much prefer the country, anyway.”
“Do you? From what I recall of your debut season, you seemed to thrive upon the entertainments of society and the company of friends.”
“People change. I’m a different person now.”
“Indeed, it is the experiences in life that shape us. However, I cannot imagine you would relish being cut off from your acquaintances. Especially in so abrupt a manner.”
Lady Milford’s expression was kind, though Rory bristled nevertheless. Was that why the woman had come here? To dredge up old gossip? Was her purpose to ferret out all the sordid details of that long-ago disgrace?
“I’m glad to have witnessed the foibles of high society,” Rory declared. “It is a place where gentlemen are allowed discreet affairs. They are even admired for their conquests. Yet young ladies are vilified if they so much as…”
She pressed her lips shut. It wasn’t necessary to explain herself to this woman. Besides, she had made her peace with what had happened. She was no longer the reckless, gullible girl craving excitement, bowled over by the courtship of the most handsome, charming man she’d ever met.
How was she to have known that Stefano had a wife back in Italy?
“The rules a young lady must follow may seem unfair,” Lady Milford said mildly. “Yet surely you can see that a gentleman only wishes to ensure that the firstborn son of the marriage is indeed his child. But enough about the past. That is not my reason for seeking you out.”
“Oh?”
“Allow me to go straight to the point. Your stepmother is entangled in a matter of grave concern. You see, a packet of letters was stolen from her recently. And she is being blackmailed for their return.”
“Blackmailed!” Rory gripped the arms of the chair. Nothing could have startled her more. Kitty had always been a stickler for propriety, overly conscious of protecting the Paxton family’s modest rank in society. To imagine her guilty of some scandalous intrigue boggled the mind. “But … by whom?”
“Mrs. Paxton has a suspicion, though she lacks proof. She already has relinquished a diamond necklace, but the villain has yet to return the letters.”
“I—I hardly know what to think. What on earth was in those letters? A secret of some sort?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal your stepmother’s confidences. If you wish to know, you’ll have to ask her yourself.”
Rory gave a sharp, cynical shake of her head. “When would I have such an opportunity? She wants nothing to do with me. She made that perfectly clear eight years ago.”
Ever since, Kitty Paxton had refused all communication with her stepdaughter. Even when Papa had died, it had been Celeste who’d relayed the wretched news in a letter. By the time Rory had received word, it had been too late to attend the funeral.
Lady Milford wore a consoling look. “I think you’ll find that time has tempered her animosity. She no longer holds you in contempt. In fact, she admitted to me that she greatly misses your company.”
Rory released an unladylike snort. Kitty must have been making polite conversation with Lady Milford, nothing more. “I very much doubt that.”
“I am merely repeating what she voiced to me. According to her, you are cleverer than she is, and far more resourceful. Considering the delicate nature of the situation, you’re the only one she dares to trust with this problem.”
“Me?”
“Yes, she believes that you alone have the wit to solve this mystery and recover those letters. It must be done swiftly to avert a scandal. That is why I offered to stop here. To relay that she begs you come back home at once.”
A disbelieving laugh choked Rory’s throat. “Return to London? To help her? Absolutely not!”
Despite her resolve to remain calm, she sprang up from the chair and stalked to one of the windows overlooking the sea. Through the wavy glass, whitecaps spun long strips of lace against the greenish-blue satin of the water. Gulls screeched amid the muted hiss of the waves. The sight and sound of the sea usually soothed her, but not today.
Today she was too agitated to appreciate the view. How dare Kitty request her assistance after shunning her all these years! It was typical of her stepmother to wheedle other people to do her bidding. She was a clingy, self-centered woman who cared only for her position in society. Rory couldn’t imagine what was in those letters, but if they caused trouble for Kitty, then it was her own fault.
Nevertheless, a longing as powerful as the tide tugged at Rory. She missed the hustle and bustle of London, the delight of having friends her own age, the pleasure of visiting a variety of posh stores instead of just one tiny shop in the village. Of course, even if she were to accept this unexpected request—and she had no intention of doing so—that didn’t mean she’d be permitted to rejoin society. Kitty would never allow it.
Nevertheless, her stepmother had been so distraught that she’d blurted out the story to Lady Milford. And had prevailed upon her to come here …
Rory spun around. “How is it that you know about this blackmail scheme? My stepmother was never one of your confidantes.”
An enigmatic smile touched Lady Milford’s lips. “I happened across certain evidence that she was in trouble. When I questioned her, she admitted the sordid story. I offered my services at once. Since I am on my way to visit a friend, stopping here was no hardship.”
Rory couldn’t shake the suspicion that the woman wasn’t telling her everything. But what did it matter? Rory had no intention of going anywhere. “Kitty will have to find her own way out of this mess. I shall write to her at once of my refusal.”
“Please do reconsider. The scandal will affect your half sister, Celeste, too. That is why your stepmother is so desperate to retrieve the letters. If they are exposed to the public, she fears the wedding may be called off.”
“Wedding?”
“Celeste’s nuptials to the Duke of Whittingham. The ceremony is set for St. George’s Church four weeks from now.” Her violet eyes alight with concern, Lady Milford leaned forward. “Oh, my dear girl. Didn’t you know? Did no one write to inform you?”
Rory mutely shook her head and brace
d her hands on the windowsill. Celeste, betrothed? Sweet little Celeste, who until last year had sewed doll gowns as a hobby and sketched silly pictures in her letters? When she hadn’t written in the past few months, Rory had presumed her to be busy with her debut, the dress fittings and the dance lessons, the balls and the parties.
Yet it was only late April, and already Celeste had accepted a proposal of marriage. She would be a wife in a scant few weeks. And to such a high-ranking nobleman! From her own debut, Rory recalled the Duke of Whittingham as a haughty fellow who had regarded lesser beings with disdain.
He was not the gentle, loving husband she had envisioned for her sister.
Her stomach lurched. Never had she felt more isolated from her family. She should have been there to counsel Celeste. Such a grand alliance had to be Kitty’s work. Her stepmother had long schemed to elevate herself in the social hierarchy through the marriage of one of the Paxton girls, first by throwing Rory at various titled gentlemen, and when that had failed, by focusing her ambitions on Celeste.
The sound of shuffling feet came from the foyer. Murdock hobbled into the parlor, his knobby form hunched over a silver tray. It tilted slightly, making the cups slide and rattle, putting them in danger of crashing to the floor. “Yer tea, milady.”
Rory sprang forward to rescue the tray. She placed it on a table in front of the chaise, relieved to see that he’d remembered to use the only remaining pair of porcelain cups without chips or cracks.
He shuffled closer, his rheumy eyes fixed on Lady Milford. “I took the liberty of includin’ a pitcher of rum on the tray. Nothing better than a wee dram in yer tea to fortify yerself.”
“How very kind of you,” Lady Milford said with perfect civility. “I confess, it’s something I’ve never tried.”
“O’ course, I recommend takin’ yer rum straight up,” he rambled on. “Aboard ship, we had daily rations with every meal, even breakfast. Why, I recall one voyage when our stores ran out and the crew near mutinied—”
“Thank you, Murdock,” Rory broke in. “That will be all.”
