All three turned to him expectantly.
Damn! Jason had hoped they would not call his bluff, but these old birds were tougher than he had anticipated. He searched his mind for an appropriate response, realizing any lies he concocted could make the situation far worse.
“I simply will not gossip, ladies.” He lifted his nose in the air and assumed the superior expression that his brother had perfected over the years. The one that made Jason want to strangle him. “You need to look beyond rumor and innuendo and take my word on the matter. I firmly believe you are all courageous and enlightened enough to do so—pray, do not disappoint me.”
He sniffed for good measure, wishing he wore a silly quizzing glass so he could peer through it at them and thus create a total look of intimation.
The women released a collective sigh. They stared silently at each other for several seconds before returning their gazes to him.
“If we do as you ask, will you then plan a house party with your friends and acquaintances from London?”
Mrs. Merrick asked.
“Your unmarried male friends?” Mrs. Tiltondown added.
Jason cleared his throat. “I shall. The place will be knee-deep with eager young men of good character and breeding. And I promise to extend invitations to each of your families.”
The concerned frowns slowly vanished. Though the women fought to conceal it, there was no hiding the triumphant grins that appeared on their lips.
“Then we are in accord, Lord Fairhurst,” Mrs. Merrick said. “We shall do our best to ensure that Miss Ellingham is welcomed into ever y household when you are her escort.”
He did not miss the limitations of their answer, but Jason realized that all things being equal, this was as good a bargain as he could strike at this stage.
“You are most gracious, ladies.”
They all stood. Jason rang for Snowden, instructing him to show the ladies out. They paraded from the room like a gaggle of geese, with Mrs. Merrick firmly in the lead. It had been a rather delicate negotiation and Jason was pleased with himself. By tempering his emotions and considering how his brother would have reacted, he was able to successfully achieve his end.
And most surprisingly, Jason realized he was actually smiling when the women left the room.
Chapter Nine
The noise at the doorway of the library startled him. Cyril Ardley drew in a harsh breath to steel himself, but his panic disappeared when he saw who stood so near.
“You should not have come.” He sighed and lowered his head. “Fairhurst is at home this afternoon. He already seems curious about our relationship. If he sees you have come again to visit me, he might start asking more pointed questions.”
Fletcher Ellingham puffed out his breath. “I will not let that London dandy dictate my life.” He strolled into the library, bold as brass, and stood in front of the steward. “We have been friends for years and I refuse to pretend otherwise. Let the viscount think what he likes.”
As quickly as it came, the anger bled from Cyril’s face.
“We run a great risk, Fletcher. The viscount is no fool.
He pores over the account books as if they are priceless antique tablets that hold the key to understanding the mysteries of civilization. He has already found several inconsistencies. If he continues to dig, I fear he will eventually uncover the truth. And then we shall both be ruined.”
A heavy silence fell.
“’Tis merely a stroke of ill luck that has brought the viscount here at the worst possible time,” Fletcher replied, helping himself to the bottle of port that sat open on Cyril’s desk. “He will soon grow tired of our quiet country life and return to London, where he belongs.”
Cyril dragged his fingers through his gray hair. Oh, how desperately he wanted to believe that would happen.
“He seems in no hurry to leave, especially now that he has started showing an interest in the local society.”
“He’ll get bored soon enough. We are far from an interesting lot.”
Cyril shook his head slowly. “I fear not, especially since he is showing a marked interest in your niece. A relationship that I would not encourage.”
“I agree. If he were available, now, that would be an entirely different story.” Fletcher gulped the remaining port in his glass and refilled it. “Too bad the man is married. With such deep pockets, he would make an excellent in-law. ’Tis just my luck he already has a wife.”
“Is that not the only type of luck we have, my friend?
Bad luck.” The steward took a long swig of wine, barely tasting it. His brow lined with worry. He did not share Fletcher’s confidence that the viscount would soon be gone. This trip was different somehow; the man himself seemed different. Cyril sighed. “You realize, of course, that I could lose everything.”
Fletcher settled into a chair and leaned forward anxiously. “You have picked a most inconvenient and dangerous time to lose your nerve. You need to stiffen your spine and your resolve or else all surely will be lost.”
Turning away, Cyril reached for the bottle and poured himself another generous serving. “There is actually very little I can do at this point. Except pray.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Fairhurst might have his suspicions, but he will not act without proof.
And if he had that proof, you would not be standing here. You’d been in prison.”
The notion horrified Cyril, far more than anyone could ever realize. To have risen so far and then fall so low was a terrifying notion. He had built this estate from near ruin. When he was hired as steward ten years ago the tenants were barely surviving. Their farms were in an abysmal state; their spirits even lower.
Cyril had several radical ideas for making improve-ments on the estate that the young Lord Fairhurst had listened to, and then, amazingly, had allowed him to try. The viscount had put his trust in him and, under Cyril’s guidance, the tenants had been supplied with new equipment and encouraged to tr y new farming methods.
The gradual implementation of these new techniques and experimentation with different crops had saved the estate fields as well as the tenant farms. The results had been healthier produce and grains, higher yields, and increased incomes for everyone.
With the land producing a steady income, attention shifted to the manor house, which had also been in dis-repair—overgrown flower gardens choked with weeds, the lake covered with a thick green carpet of scum, far too many of the nearly one hundred windows on the mansion broken and boarded up.
Lord Fairhurst had taken a more personal and active part in this project, but had still left Cyril to manage the majority of the work. The steward had enthusiastically supervised it all, from fixing the shaky banister on the main staircase to replacing the widows and repairing the leaky roof.
He had been charged with the task of turning the property into a thriving, profitable estate and restoring the house to its original beauty. As he looked around the library now, with its gleaming woodwork, silk draperies and priceless antique furniture, Cyril took enormous pride in knowing he had succeeded beyond his employer’s expectations. And been handsomely rewarded for a job well-done.
Perhaps he should tell his lordship the truth? He was uncomfortable with the lies and evasions and worried about his chances of succeeding with this cover up. The viscount was a clever man; it was difficult to stay one step ahead of his thinking. A logical man must admit it would only be a matter of time before the truth was revealed.
Perhaps if he explained the situation fully, admitted his mistakes and promised to make restitution, the viscount would forgive his behavior?
Or he would have him thrown in jail.
“I know you have only paid back a small amount of the coin we borrowed, but how many items have you managed to buy back and return to the estate?” Fletcher asked.
Cyril squirmed uncomfortably. “Less than half of what we took.”
Fletcher gasped. “We agreed the items would be put back first! I know
I’ve given you money to buy more.
How can it be that you have made so little progress?”
“The moneylenders are bleeding me dry!” Cyril exclaimed. “The interest compounds daily. Just when I feel I am getting close to being free, another payment is due.
’Twill be impossible to ever pay off the debt.”
“Then you must give more to the moneylenders who hold our markers and less to the estate. Once we have settled up with them, we can buy back the reminder of the paintings, silver and other antiques we pawned.”
“If only it were that easy,” Cyril muttered beneath his breath. “I cannot get blood from a stone.”
“Aye. Well, at least we no longer play at the tables.
We have successfully beaten the gambling demon that had plagued us.” Fletcher raised his glass to toast the sentiment.
Cyril lowered his gaze. Had they truly beaten it? He thought about the market day horse races they had each bet heavily upon two weeks ago, and lost, and wondered if they were merely fooling themselves. Just because they no longer played cards did not mean they no longer gambled.
Cyril could feel his teeth start to grind. “If I lose my position then all hope of making restitution is lost.”
“I know.”
The band of fear around Cyril’s chest twisted tighter as he tried to squelch the burst of unfamiliar guilt. It had gotten out of hand so damn quickly. He had never meant to take so much money from the estate. It had started in small increments, just enough to cover his loses from a vigorous night of card play. He had fully intended to return the sum the moment his luck changed.
And he had. Within two weeks the money was back, along with a few extra shillings of interest to assuage his guilt for taking it in the first place. But the following month he had needed more funds and those were not so quickly returned. This time Cyril had pawned several antique vases, knowing that even if the servants noticed they were gone, they would never say anything.
He was forced to eventually replace them with cheap imitations, since he had never recovered the necessary blunt to buy them back, though he vowed to himself he would one day purchase the originals. Then, in a maudlin mood in the wee hours of the morning after drinking too much wine, Cyril had foolishly confessed his sins to his gambling companion, hoping Fletcher would be able to lend him some money.
Instead, Fletcher had asked for a “loan” of funds to cover some of his outstanding debts, forcing Cyril to steal twice the usual amount. Fletcher had promised to pay it back, yet over the course of the next year, the pair had taken far more than they had returned.
“We must keep our heads and pray that Fairhurst grows tired of the simplicity of country life and returns to the excitement of the city,” Fletcher insisted. “Given enough time, we will be able to set everything to rights.”
Cyril took another swallow of wine and clung to the precarious hope. “Though I have worked for him for years, I never knew him well. Yet somehow he seems a changed man. He not nearly as proper and stiff, nor as formal at times. It’s a puzzling difference.”
Fletcher shrugged. “Maybe marriage has changed him.”
“Perhaps. But why does he live apart from his bride?”
“That might explain why he is so relaxed. Life is far easier without a female around to nag you every minute.” Both men laughed. “Take heart, my friend.
The viscount will leave, this muddle will be fixed and you and I will be freed from our financial burdens.”
Cyril nodded glumly. “Yet never free from the guilt.”
Fletcher snorted. “Do not speak to me of guilt. I have squandered the majority of my nieces’ dowries in my quest to lift myself from this debt. Who would have ever believed that Gwendolyn’s scandal would turn out to be such a blessing? No man of decent birth will have her to wife, which means there is one less dowry for me to replenish.”
“Fairhurst seems to have taken a liking to her. That might spawn other men’s interest.”
Fletcher’s face darkened with concern. “His lordship’s attention has not escaped my notice. With his help, Gwendolyn is trying to re-enter society, but given the strong feelings against her, I doubt even he will succeed in fully restoring her reputation.”
“We might be able to use Fairhurst’s interest in her to our advantage,” Cyril ventured. Even in his semi-drunk state he knew he was crossing the line by implying an im-propriety, but was feeling desperate enough to do it.
Fletcher shrugged. “Gwendolyn is too moral a girl to be of any use to us in that department.”
Shocked by the response and angry with himself for even mentioning it, Cyril rose unsteadily to his feet and walked to the window. The sight of green fields reminded him of what he had worked so hard to achieve and could now possibly lose.
“You’re fretting again,” Fletcher obser ved. He put down his glass and joined his friend at the window. “You must not take it so to heart. You are hardly the first cor-rupt steward in England.”
It was a truthful and wholly depressing statement. “I might not be the first, but if Lord Fairhurst uncovers my misdeeds before I have a chance to correct them, I could very well be the last.”
Gwendolyn was quick to notice that the mood of the community exhibited a subtle change over the next few days. Though she never felt unconditionally welcomed at any of the events she attended, she nevertheless did not experience the same degree of censure from the local matrons. When she met them at these events, or even in the village, conversations between her and her neighbors was not as forced, not as strained.
At the viscount’s behest, she continued in her role as his social companion, though she arrived with her aunt and uncle and departed in the same manner. By unspoken agreement, she was never alone with Lord Fairhurst and Gwendolyn told herself she was not in any way disappointed.
She was, in truth, relieved. Relieved that the viscount was conducting himself in a wholly appropriate manner, was treating her in a polite, distant manner, as was proper and correct, given their circumstances.
It would be complete disaster to do otherwise. They were together for one reason only, so she could assist him in easily knowing the members of the local society.
Once the task was finished, and it would be soon, she would rarely see him.
This evening’s soiree had been hosted by the vicar and his wife and it had been a surprisingly pleasant affair, with good food, excellent wine and lively conversation. Gwendolyn was pleased to have been included and she once again acknowledged that her life had improved with Lord Fairhurst about. And while he might be a master at making her skin heat, her heart race, and her mind wander toward all sorts of improper thoughts,she steadfastly refused to cross the boundaries of propriety.
Gwendolyn looked out the carriage window at the night sky and sighed. She should be feeling a sense of satisfaction and pride that she was doing the right thing.
Yet why did it leave her feeling so cold and empty inside?
“I imagine a picnic in the countr y can be different from those we have in London, Miss Ellingham. You must alert me to any specific customs so I commit no overt faux pas,” Lord Fairhurst said with a charming smile.
“I would be honored, my lord.”
Emma’s voice held a breathless wisp of excitement and Gwendolyn did not have the heart to tell her younger sister that the viscount had not been addressing Emma with his question, but had instead directed the inquiry to her.
“Thank you, Miss Emma. I shall value your counsel greatly.” The viscount bowed his head elegantly and Emma beamed a smile at him.
Gwendolyn smiled too, appreciating how the viscount did not correct the mistake, thus avoiding any embarrassment to her youngest sister. She settled back against the comfortable squabs of the open carriage and tried to relax and enjoy the remainder of the ride. They were off to a picnic at Bartwell’s home, an event that Gwendolyn assumed would be over-the-top, since that was how Mr.
Bartwell and his wife preferred doing things.
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They were traveling in the viscount’s carriage, a beautiful vehicle, no doubt the finest and most expensive made. To complete the picture, the viscount had brought along two grooms and three outriders, ensuring they would make an entrance worthy of the prince regent.
“I am sorry that Dorothea was unable to join us,” Lord Fairhurst commented.
“I’m not,” Emma said honestly. “She is going with Mr.
Harper and his family, which makes it all the better for me. You only have two arms, my lord, and if Dorothea were along I would not get to hold on to one of them.”
Gwendolyn opened her lips to scold her sister, but Lord Fairhurst’s rumble of laughter drowned out her words.
“You are an original, Miss Emma,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with humor. “I vow, when you make your debut, you will have half of London’s most eligible bucks dancing to your merry tune.”
“Only half?” Gwendolyn questioned.
“Dorothea will have the other half,” Emma announced. “In that instance, I shall not mind sharing.”
“Most generous of you,” Lord Fairhurst added.
Gwendolyn shook her head and glanced across the carriage at Lord Fairhurst. Though he spoke to Emma, he was looking at Gwendolyn. When she caught his eye, he smiled and winked. Gwendolyn shifted in her seat, confused anew about him.
The gesture was part of the mystery of his personality. He had not been wrong when he told her that he could be stiff and formal. He had displayed that trait more often than she liked over the past few days. Especially at the musical evening hosted by the Scarbrough family last night.
At the conclusion of the final piece, he had stared with his one eye through a monocle and pronounced the entertainment passably pleasant. His manner was mildly condescending, but it was the monocle, an affectation that Gwendolyn found exceedingly annoying, which was so objectionable. It seemed forced and unnatural and she longed to tell him that he looked ridiculous peering through it.
How to Enjoy a Scandal Page 13
