Grey scowled. “If it had been someone besides you coming through that door, that damned female would—”
“—Would be Her Grace, the Duchess of Wycliffe, by now. But she’s not the only female you’ve seen naked, or the only one who’s tried to seduce you into marriage.”
“It’s not that. It’s the being trapped, and it’s that bloody finishing school education. They’re trained from birth to hound us and hunt us down. Thank God for fast horses and Haverly.”
“They’re not all like that, I’m sure. The Academy here has a fine reputation.”
“Caroline attended it.”
The viscount sat straighter. “Damn. Well, just because you’re jaded beyond redemption doesn’t mean I’m becoming a monk—even for a short stay in Hampshire. Why don’t—”
“No females,” Grey stated, as annoyed hazel eyes flitted across his vision. “There’re too many here already.”
“Humph. You might at least thaw enough to go see that play. Maybe you’ll realize females aren’t all feather-brains and lavender-scented snares.”
Grey lifted an eyebrow. “Which play?”
“I don’t remember which one it was. The one at the girls’ school.”
Grey leaned back, feigning resignation. This was going to be even easier than he’d anticipated. “If it’ll stop you from complaining, I suppose I could manage to attend,” he grumbled.
“Good. Another evening playing whist with Alice, and I’d be ready for the priesthood.”
The duke glanced at his friend again. “There’s no reason you can’t go back to London, Tris. I told you Hampshire didn’t have much to offer in the way of excitement.”
Tristan lifted a duck-shaped, bronze paperweight from the desk. “I just hate to admit when you’re right about something.”
Greydon grinned. “You should be used to it by now.”
The butler scratched at the half-open door. “A letter has arrived for you, Your Grace.”
Curiosity stirring, he gestured for Hobbes to bring it in. “Who knows I’m here?”
“Your mother?” Tristan suggested dryly.
“Good God, I hope not. I’m not ready to be discovered yet.” Suppressing a shudder, he removed the missive from the butler’s tray and flipped it over to see the address.
“Miss Grenville’s Academy?” Tristan read, leaning over the desk. “Who in the world do you know there?”
Grey knew precisely who must have written it. His pulse heated, and he had to stifle the urge to smile. “Hm? Oh, I’m attempting to settle a rental dispute for Uncle Dennis.” He broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the missive. “This is undoubtedly the headmistress’s reply to my query.”
“Your uncle’s letting you deal with a girls’ school?” the viscount asked skeptically. “That girls’ school?”
“I think I’m qualified.”
Tristan watched as three pages of closely spaced writing unfolded. “That’s quite a reply.”
“Rental dispute, indeed.” Alice swept into the room, an arch smile on her face. “I’ve figured you out, Wycliffe. You’ve led us all here so you can carry on some clandestine affair with one of the pretty young schoolgirls at the Academy.” She snatched the letter from his fingers before he could even read the salutation. “Let’s just see, shall we?”
In London, she would never have attempted such a stunt. Obviously desperation had outweighed her scanty common sense. “Miss Boswell,” Grey said, anger dropping his tone by half an octave, “I don’t recall asking you to view my private correspondence. There are several fine volumes of poetry in the library if you want something to read.”
“I’m only bored, Grey,” she tittered, but with a swish of her skirts she returned the missive to the desk. “Beast.”
“Hm. He seems terribly sensitive about something,” Lady Sylvia said silkily from the doorway. “Wouldn’t you agree, Cousin?”
Grey cursed under his breath as Charles Blumton strolled into the office behind Sylvia. Now Tristan was eyeing him, as well. Damnation, all he wanted to do was read a blasted letter in private. With a heavy sigh, he folded the missive and dropped it beside the stack of ledgers. “You lot are pitiful.” He pushed away from the desk and stood. “I’m going fishing. Anyone care to join me?”
“Fishing? I say, that’s splendid, eh, Sylvia?” Blumton took her hand and squeezed it.
“You’ll have to teach me, Grey,” Alice said, all charm again. “Viscountess Leeds fishes. She says it’s an elegant sport.”
Blumton’s brow furrowed. “Well, I don’t know about—”
“‘Your Grace,’” Tristan’s low drawl began, “‘our recent conversation has made it clear to me that you have several misconceptions concerning the curriculum of Miss Grenville’s Academy. It is my pleasure, then, to correct any misapprehensions.’”
Greydon stopped dead, a dozen curses at Tristan Carroway and all of his inbred ancestors springing to mind. Of course the letter was going to be insulting; that was why he’d wanted to read it—to savor it—with no one around to interrupt him. “That’s enough, Tristan,” he growled.
“It sounds very interesting,” Sylvia countered, taking a seat. “Please do continue, Lord Dare.”
Tristan cleared his throat, glancing up at Grey, then lowered his gaze to the letter again, his penchant for causing trouble clearly stronger than any concern over reprisals. “‘You were correct in your assertion that the Academy teaches what we have termed “the Graces”—elegance, modesty, manners, politeness, and fashion. An accomplished lady is expected to have mastered these Graces, and so we would be foolhardy to neglect including them in our students’ studies.’”
“Miss Grenville is a bluestocking,” Alice said.
“Apparently,” Grey grumbled. “Tris—”
“It’s just getting good. ‘Your opinion, as I recall, was that the sole function of the Academy is to produce wives.’ She’s underlined ‘wives’ several times here,” Tristan added.
“A splendid argument, Wycliffe,” Blumton interjected.
“Stay off my side.”
“‘The goal of this Academy under both my aunt’s and my direction is to produce competent women.’ More underlines here, by the way. ‘To that end, in addition to the Graces, we offer instruction in literature, mathematics, language, politics, history, music, and the arts, as I have detailed below.’”
“Ye gads,” Alice muttered, shuddering. “That’s horrifying.”
Tristan flipped through the rest of the letter. “The next pages are a detailed curriculum.” He glanced at Greydon. “I won’t read that part.”
“Thank you,” Grey murmured.
“There is another bit at the end, though. ‘As you see, Your Grace, I make every effort to see that my students receive a complete, well-rounded education. Your behavior, on the other hand, suggests to me a severe deficiency of instruction in the Graces. If you wish, I can recommend several books on the subjects of politeness, modesty, and manners for you to peruse at your leisure. Yours in sincere concern, Miss Emma Grenville.’”
After a lengthening moment of silence, Lady Sylvia burst into laughter. “Poor Grey. You’ve failed to impress the headmistress of a girls’ school.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. She only says she’s sincerely concerned.” Tristan returned the letter to the desk.
Grey let them have their amusement. In fact, he barely heard what they said. He was imagining a very satisfying manner of closing the mouth of that hazel-eyed sprite. Miss Emma Grenville obviously had no idea with whom she was dealing, but she was about to find out.
Miss Elizabeth Newcombe fell back against the empty whiskey barrel that represented the central well in the fair city of Verona. “‘Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man,’” she croaked, clutching her side.
Shifting the padding which bulked her up for the part of Juliet’s nurse, Emma smiled. No one could fault Elizabeth for shyness. In fact, in another year or so, she would have to begin work
in earnest to mold her youngest student’s wild humor into wit. They’d already come a far way with it, yet the last thing she wanted to do was stifle Lizzy’s natural openness and charm.
“Miss Emma,” her nearly deceased Mercutio called, straightening, “can’t I use just a little berry juice for blood?”
“Eeewww. If you do, I shall faint,” Mary Mawgry said, using the tip of her sword to clean one fingernail.
“No, you may not.” Emma entered Verona from the backstage area. “That’s what the red scarf symbolizes. You all worked very hard on your splendid costumes, and I won’t see them ruined, even for the sake of drama. Now please continue; this is our last dress rehearsal. We debut in six hours.”
She retreated backstage again as Elizabeth finally succumbed to her wound, and Romeo and Tybalt began their duel. Despite Mary’s frequent threats to faint, the shy miss had improved so much as Romeo that Emma wanted to cheer. Miss Mawgry’s parents would be amazed at the change the next time they saw their “mumbling” daughter, as they’d referred to Mary on far too many occasions.
“Em,” Isabelle whispered, waving a letter at her as she made her way through the wardrobe area, “I think you’ve received an answer.”
Finally. She’d waited over a day for it. The sudden fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with concern over her students’ performance. She wasn’t certain why she’d felt the need to write Wycliffe when he so obviously didn’t give a hang about the Academy, but knowing he had her letter had kept her restless and awake all night.
Emma took the missive from her French instructor and unfolded it. The sight of the dark, masculine scrawl made her pulse skip—until she read it. “‘Madame,’” it began, “‘I am in receipt of your recent overblown correspondence.’” She shook the letter at Isabelle, annoyance flooding in.
“Overblown? He says my letter was overblown!”
“Shh, Emma. The rehearsal.”
Snapping her jaw shut, she continued reading to herself. “‘While a sentence or two was of passing interest, it unfortunately did not address the matter lying between your Academy and Haverly. I have enclosed the rental agreement for your signature. I shall collect it this evening after your play, which my friends and I have been persuaded to attend.’” There was no long list of titles and honors at the end of the letter; just the word “Wycliffe,” scrawled across the bottom of the page.
Emma blanched. He was coming to see the play.
“Are you well?” Isabelle asked, clutching her elbow as she abruptly took a seat.
“Yes, quite.” She couldn’t tell her students, of course; their confidence and concentration would be ruined as soon as they learned a duke—especially a large, golden lion of a duke—would be in attendance.
She scowled. That was probably why he had informed her—so her girls would be nervous and make a bad showing. Her first instinct was to tear up the letter, tromp on the pieces, and set the remaining bits on fire. While that would be immensely satisfying, though, it wouldn’t take care of her problem.
“Isabelle, Sir John will be in attendance tonight, won’t he?”
“Oui. He said he would come early, to help Tobias secure Juliet’s balcony and the ladder.”
“Good.” Basingstoke’s resident solicitor, Sir John, had always been a staunch supporter of the Academy. She refolded the letter and the agreement and stuffed them into her Nurse padding. The Duke of Wycliffe might think he could bully her into doing what he wanted, but she had no intention of giving in without a fight—or a war.
A chorus of giggles from the stage caught her attention. Lady Jane leaned behind the curtain and grimaced at her. “‘O, here comes my nurse,’” she said loudly, “‘and she brings news.’”
“Oops.” Emma jumped to her feet and hobbled onto the stage. Now that dratted Wycliffe was interfering with her instruction—another black mark against him. “‘Ah, weraday, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!’”
Or he would wish he were, when she was finished with him.
Chapter 4
Miss Grenville’s Academy looked more like a military camp than a girls’ school as Lord and Lady Haverly and their guests made their way through the long, rambling building to the old converted church at the far end. Stout women stood guard at every hallway juncture and staircase, no doubt to prevent any males from wandering into the bed chambers and interfering with the marriageability of the students.
Or perhaps Miss Emma feared that Grey meant to collect the rent from the pockets of the infants. If she suspected how little contact he wanted with marriageable young ladies, she might have realized that a better strategy for protecting the school would be to send the chits charging at him.
“I had no idea this was a finishing school for grandmothers,” Tristan murmured as they passed another of the gray-haired sentries. “I am supremely disillusioned.”
“I have no idea why you wanted to come, Grey,” Alice put in from his other side, her voice plaintive. “In London, we could be at the opera with Prince George.”
“I know why we’re here,” Lady Sylvia said smoothly. “Our duke has been wanting to throttle the school’s headmistress since he received her letter yesterday.”
Sylvia was right; he did want to see Miss Emma, to learn of her reaction to this morning’s letter. Throttling her, though, wasn’t as high on his agenda as simply getting his hands on her. All over her.
“Even so,” Blumton grumbled from the rear, “a gaggle of females playing at Shakespeare? Edmund Keene is performing Hamlet in London. I’ve gone to view it twice. Magnificent. Nothing resembling this insult to the bard, I’m sure.”
“I doubt the Academy’s insulting anyone,” Uncle Dennis countered with a patient smile. “Their production of As You Like It last year was quite impressive.”
“By Hampshire standards, perhaps.”
Alice rubbed her bosom against Grey’s arm. “You’re being quiet tonight.”
“I’m enjoying the sights.”
In truth, he was a little nonplussed. The interior of a girls’ school, in his infrequent imaginings of such a thing, had a great deal more lace in the windows. Though crocheted pillows and throws did cover the couches and chairs in the common rooms, they were the only feminine trappings in sight. Most surprising of all, hordes of young females about to make their debuts in Society hadn’t appeared to gawk at and giggle and flirt with every male present.
“Lord Haverly, Lady Haverly, good evening,” a female voice said from the dim depths of the hallway in front of them.
Grey’s pulse jumped, then steadied again as a tall, dark-haired young woman appeared. It wasn’t her.
“Miss Santerre,” his aunt replied, more warmth in her voice than Grey had heard since his arrival. “A good evening to you.”
“I am pleased you and your guests could attend,” Miss Santerre continued in a light French accent.
“We’re pleased to be here.”
“Emma would have greeted you herself, but the students have recruited her to perform this evening.”
“Which part?” Tristan asked, before Greydon could.
The woman smiled. “The Nurse. If you will follow me, I shall show you to your seats.”
“I will require a word with Miss Emma sometime this evening,” Grey said, falling in behind the female, a determined Alice still attached to his arm.
“I shall inform her of your request,” Miss Santerre answered, “though she will be quite busy tonight.”
“You’re being avoided, Wycliffe,” Charles supplied. “I know all about that.”
“I’m sure you do.” Tristan grinned at Sylvia, who gave him an arch smile.
At the mention of his name, the French-woman’s gaze sharpened for just a second before her face resumed its placid expression. The Academy females seemed to have been gossiping about him. Females were always gossiping about something. So be it. He didn’t want much to do with any of them, anyway—with one exception.
He definitely wanted to do so
mething with Miss Emma Grenville, to the point that he was actively avoiding Alice. He’d even taken to locking his bed chamber door the last few nights against her. And he did not, under any circumstances, enjoy being chaste.
When Miss Santerre showed them to the back pew, Grey was sure his party was being singled out for persecution. Neither his aunt nor his uncle, though, looked the least bit surprised, and they slid onto the bench without protest.
“Not entirely proper etiquette, I know,” Dennis said, as Blumton gave the French woman an insulted glare, “but I always insist on sitting in the back so as not to rattle the girls.”
“That’s generous of you, Lord Haverly,” Lady Sylvia said, seating herself beside him.
The remaining pews of the old church were occupied, anyway, with what looked to be the entire population of Basingstoke and the surrounding countryside. From their clothing, a few other gentry were present as well, no doubt landowners from neighboring estates who’d forgone London this Season. That perked up Alice, and she made a show of taking the seat beside him.
A half dozen girls, dressed in simple dark robes, emerged from the rear doors and one by one snuffed the candles in the wall sconces. Tristan leaned across Alice as the audience quieted. “I still haven’t seen that blasted chit from the road. You would think she would be here.”
“Perhaps you’ll glimpse her later,” Grey replied in a low voice. “Now shut up; the curtains are parting.”
The viscount straightened, offering a mock salute. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Unlike the audiences in London’s Mayfair theaters, tonight’s attendees actually seemed interested in watching the play. Many had turned to view the Haverly party as they entered, but once the curtains parted, the only things in view were the backs of a hundred heads. Grey settled back on the hard oak bench to watch, as well.
The major characters seemed to be acted by older students, though even girls barely in their teens swarmed onto the stage for the initial Montague-Capulet brawl, swords swinging enthusiastically. “Good God, they’re ferocious,” Tristan murmured. “I’m terrified.”
A Matter of Scandal Page 4
