Scandal's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Ooh, look!” one said in wonder. “This one likes my hair.”

  “Their claws are sharp.”

  “Indeed,” Patience warned, “and so are their teeth.”

  She looked up at that moment and saw Catriona—Patience raised her brows in question. Catriona smiled and shook her head.

  “Ow!”

  Patience turned back. “Now be careful—they’re only very young and don’t mean to hurt.”

  With her manor filled to bursting, and yet, at peace, Catriona headed on to the stillroom.

  She was there an hour later when Patience put her head around the door. “Can I interrupt?” Catriona grinned. “Please do—I’m only refreshing the linen sachets.”

  “Perhaps I could help.” Pulling a stool up to the other side of the table at which Catriona sat, Patience settled and picked up one of the small linen bags. “I’ll sew them up, if you like.”

  “You can interrupt me any time,” Catriona informed her, pushing the needle and thread over the table. “That’s the part I hate.”

  Once they’d settled to their tasks, Patience said: “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend anything to help settle my stomach.” She caught Catriona’s eye and grimaced. “Just in the mornings.”

  “Ah.” Catriona smiled and dusted off her hands. “I have a tea that should help.” She had the canister to hand. “It’s mainly chamomile.”

  The family had celebrated Patience and Vane’s good news with a boisterous round of toasts around Richard’s bed some nights before. Honoria had tried to take a backseat, claiming a second pregnancy was less news than a first—they hadn’t let her succeed. However, other than exchanging warm glances, she and Richard had said nothing; both, independently, had felt the need to keep their news to themselves for a time—to savor it fully before sharing it with others. Setting the canister down, she found a cloth bag and filled it with the leaves. “Have the maid brew this for you every morning and drink it before getting out of bed—it should soothe you.”

  It worked for her.

  Patience took the bag gladly. “Thank you. Honoria doesn’t seem to be affected—she says she only feels woozy for about a week.”

  “All women are different,” Catriona assured her as she returned to her task of stuffing dried herbs into the linen sachets.

  A companionable silence descended, then the door opened; Honoria looked in. She smiled. “There you are. Perfect. I wanted to ask if you had any remedies made up for teething infants.” Pulling up another stool to the table, she picked up an empty sachet and started to stuff it. “Sebastian’s cut his first two teeth, but the rest seem to be causing him more bother. He gets so fractious—and, if anything, he can out-bellow his father.”

  Patience chuckled.

  Catriona grinned and slipped from her stool. “Cloves should help. I have an ointment made up here somewhere.”

  While she poked about and found the jar, then filled a smaller jar for Honoria, the other two industriously stuffed and sewed.

  “Actually,” Honoria said, handing a stuffed sachet to Patience, “when you come to visit I must get you to go through our stillroom. I know the basics, of course, but I’m sure you could give me a few lessons to good effect.”

  “Hmm.” Patience looked around at the neat rows of bottles and jars, all filled, all labelled. “And when you’ve finished in Cambridgeshire, you can come and visit in Kent.”

  Ordinarily, she would instantly have said that she never left the vale; instead, visited by an impulse she couldn’t define, Catriona smiled warmly. “We’ll see.”

  They all gathered for lunch that day—when the gong sounded, the three ladies left the stillroom where they’d spent a companionable hour finishing the linen sachets and comparing household notes. As she strolled with her sister-in-law and cousin-in-law to the dining hall, Catriona could not recall any similar experience. She’d never been party to such a discussion before, never been exposed to the warmth of shared confidences and freely offered advice.

  She’d never felt as close to any other lady as she now did to Honoria and Patience. Yet another revelation of what she had not known could be.

  The dining hall was its now customary hub of noise and energy. As she took her seat, she looked over her guests with an affection she’d never before experienced. A growing affection.

  They, of course, simply took it as their due; they smiled, grinned and even winked at her, then settled to entertain themselves and everyone else. They were all so powerfully alive, so sure of themselves, so innately confident, yet not high in the instep at all; the manor folk, the vale folk—all her people—had taken them to their hearts.

  The Dowager sat beside McArdle and lectured him on taking more exercise, something Catriona had tried to hint to him for years. The Dowager didn’t hint—she told him. With extravagant gestures cloaked in Gallic charm.

  And, of course, McArdle listened, and nodded his head in agreement.

  Cook and Honoria compared notes on the success of their efforts with the roasted meats, while the twins called everyone’s attention to the highly varied loaves scattered about the tables, prettily sharing all compliments thus gained with Cook’s three girls, who turned beet-red with confusion.

  Henderson, Devil and McAlvie sat at another table, deep in discussion of who knew what; farther along, Vane and Gabriel were chatting with Corby, Huggins and the stable-lads—about horses if their gestures were any guide.

  Outside the weather was still raw and cold, but inside, the manor was aglow with warmth and laughter. Smiling benignly, Catriona looked out over her extended household and silently blessed them, every one.

  Later that afternoon, she left Richard, grumbling, to rest, and went out to watch the riding lessons.

  Vane had discovered Richard’s attempts in that direction—he’d told Devil and Gabriel.

  The children were now in alt. They were getting riding lessons every day, sometimes twice a day, from their very own instructors, all ex-cavalry officers. Catriona had learned that last from a breathless Tom, later confirmed by Devil.

  “I’m probably the strongest rider,” he’d said, “but Demon’s the best.” He’d glanced down at her and smiled. “You haven’t met him yet—he’s Vane’s brother.”

  Catriona was quietly grateful Demon hadn’t turned up at the manor, too—multiple Cynsters were a lot to get used to all at once.

  But they were very good riders—and very good with children.

  Slipping unobtrusively into the yard, she perched on the corner of the water trough in its center and watched the three groups into which they’d divided the children. The youngest were with Devil—totally unafraid of him—giggling and laughing as he patiently held them on and taught them how to sit, how to hold the reins. The next group in age, including young Tom, were with Vane, being coached in the rudiments of active riding. The last group, composed of the stablelads and young farmhands who could ride after a fashion but were definitely not up to the Cynster mark, were drilling under Gabriel’s eagle eye.

  Catriona watched for some time, trying to comprehend the rapport that seemed so effortless, between Cynster men and horses, and also small humans. In the end, she inwardly shrugged, smiled and accepted it—they were, transparently, naturals in both spheres—that was all there was to it.

  And she, and all the vale, were going to miss them when they left.

  Later that evening, Richard lay on a daybed in their bedchamber, ten feet away from the bed. That was the present limit of his strength, a fact he found disgusting. At least his witchy wife had let him get out of bed; he could now stand, but beyond a few paces, his strength seemed to fail.

  Apparently delighted with his mild progress, and finally convinced the poison had departed his system for good, Catriona had brought him up a special herbal brew, guaranteed, so she’d said, to help him regain his strength. Nothing else, she declared, now stood between him and a full recovery.

  And freedom. The wild expanse beyond their w
indows.

  The potion tasted vile, but Richard doggedly sipped—and planned how to celebrate his vigor once it returned.

  His musings were interrupted by Devil, who opened the door and strolled in, followed by Vane and Gabriel.

  “While our wives and esteemed parent are busy hatching plans, we thought we’d come up and commiserate.” Devil grinned. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” Draining the last of the potion and swallowing it with a grimace, Richard realized that was true. He set the beaker aside. “I suspect I’ll have to endure a few more days, but . . .”

  “Just make sure you recover fully,” Gabriel cautioned. “Be damned if I’m riding this far north again if you suffer a relapse.”

  Vane chuckled. “Your wife seems convinced you’ll be your old self any day, and I rather suspect she knows best.”

  “Hmm.” Richard eyed them speculatively. “Actually, I was just planning a little adventure, so to speak, to celebrate my return to the living.”

  “Adventure?”

  “How little?”

  “What sort?” Richard grinned. “Nothing too outrageous, but we haven’t had any serious excursions, not since Waterloo. I don’t know about you, but two weeks in a bed has sharpened my appetite.”

  “That’s hardly suprising,” Devil returned, “in the circumstances. But what about this adventure?”

  Richard threw a cushion at him, which landed on target and made him feel much better. “If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I won’t tell you. I’ll just ride off one morning and you’ll have to wait until I get back.”

  “Ride?”

  “Where to?”

  “I promise to be excessively civil.”

  “Well . . .”—Richard pulled at his earlobe—“it so happens I’ll need help for this venture—at least a couple more riders. If, of course, you think you can spare the time for a little lark before heading south to more civilized climes?”

  Devil raised his brows in mock exasperation. “Forget the jokes—what’s the plan?”

  “Catriona?”

  Caught in the act of pushing away from the desk in her office, Catriona looked up. Devil stood in the doorway, with Vane just behind him. “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  “No, no!” Devil entered; Vane followed. Devil smiled ingenuously. “We just wondered if you could spare a few minutes to explain a few things to us.”

  He wanted something; Catriona could tell by that smile. Calmly settling back in her chair, she waved them to the two chairs facing her. Melchett had just departed, having looked in to tell her all was on track for the spring plantings to be done as she’d directed. Upstairs, Richard was with Worboys, getting dressed for his first attempt at the stairs. Her world was serene, on course. And the two before her were now part of it. “How can I help you?” she asked. “Whatever it is, if it’s in my power, naturally, you have only to ask.”

  Devil’s smile broadened. “It’s about the crop yields. Richard told me what you achieve here—”

  “And Corby happened to mention the tonnage you clear from your orchards—and how old your trees are.” Vane raised his brows. “Frankly, if I didn’t know he wasn’t lying, I’d have said he’d dreamed the figures up.”

  Catriona smiled. “We do very well, that’s true.”

  “Not very well,” Devil corrected her. “Astonishingly well.” He met her gaze. “We’d like to know how you manage it.”

  Catriona held his gaze and swiftly considered her options. She had said she would give them anything in her power; there was no reason she couldn’t answer their question. Her only worry was that they wouldn’t believe her—or wouldn’t have a sufficiently open mind to understand. Then again, they had come to her and asked. And, as one of The Lady’s disciples, it behooved her to spread Her message as widely as she could.

  Drawing a slow breath, she nodded. “Very well. But you’ll need to bear in mind that what I tell you is a . . . a philosophy rather than a prescription.” She glanced at Vane. “So the answer is the same for both crops and orchards, indeed, for anything that grows. And the philosophy holds true for all arable lands, whether in the shadow of Merrick, or in Cambridgeshire, or in Kent.”

  They both nodded. “So . . .” Devil prompted.

  “So,” she said, “it’s a question of balance.”

  “Balance?”

  “What you take out must be put back, if you wish to take out again.” Catriona leaned forward, resting her arms on the desk. “Each patch of soil has certain characteristics, certain nutrients which allow it to bear crops of such and such a nature. Once the crop is grown, however, the nutrients used in the bearing are depleted in the soil. If the soil is continually planted, it will continue to deplete and bear poorer and poorer crops until it fails. Crop rotation helps, but even that does not return the nutrients to the soil. So if you want to continuously crop, and crop well, then you need to renew the soil, replace the nutrients used, after each cropping. That’s the fundamental point—the need for balance—in and out.”

  Vane was frowning. “Just go back a minute. Do you mean that for each particular crop, in each particular field, you need to work out a . . . a . . .”

  “An understanding of the balance of the nutrients involved?” Catriona nodded. “Precisely.”

  “This balance,” Devil leaned forward. “How’s it measured?”

  They questioned her, and she answered and explained; Devil asked for paper and sketched some of his fields—Vane listed the fruits and nuts he grew. They discussed, and even argued, but not once did they doubt, or give any hint that they dismissed her guidance. Quite the opposite.

  “I’ll try it,” Devil declared, “and you’ll have to come and talk to my foremen when you visit.” He folded the sheet of paper on which he’d jotted notes. “If we can achieve even half of what you do here, I’ll die happy.”

  Considering his own sheet of notes, Vane grinned. “My men are going to think I’ve taken leave of my senses, but . . . it’s my fields—and my gain.” Looking up, he smiled at Catriona. “Thank you, my dear, for sharing your secret with us.”

  “Indeed.” Rising as she did, Devil waggled his brows at Catriona. “Doubtless the most useful lady’s secret I’ve ever learned.”

  Laughing, she waved them out; they went with sweeping bows. Sitting back down, she couldn’t stop smiling. After a minute, she tidied her desk, then went upstairs to gauge Richard’s strength.

  “Ah—there you are.”

  Catriona looked up from the garden bed she’d been contemplating, one she hoped would soon show a few green shoots. Gabriel was making his way between the beds toward her, patently trying to see what she’d been studying in the winter brown earth.

  “Is there anything there?”

  “No.” Catriona grinned. “I was merely checking. Is there something you need?”

  He straightened and smiled. “Not exactly—I heard of the advice you gave to Devil and Vane.”

  “Ah, I see.” Catriona waved him to join her as she ambled on down the path. “And what do you grow?”

  “I don’t—at least, not in the same sense.” He grinned down at her. “I grow money—from money.”

  “Oh.” Catriona blinked. “I don’t think I can give you any advice there.”

  “Probably not,” he affably agreed. “Not but what that balance idea of yours is quite close to the mark—but in investing it’s risk and return that create the balance.”

  Catriona held his gaze. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that I don’t really know much about investing.”

  His grin widened. “Few people do—which brings me to my point. In light of your sterling advice to the others—which in turn benefits me, as Devil’s wealth underpins the family ducal purse and both he and Vane invest through me, so the more funds they have to put in, the wealthier we all, myself included, become—I’d like to offer you my help in making investments in the same way I help all the rest.” He stopped and smiled at her. “You’re fa
mily now, so it’s only fair.”

  Catriona stared into his eyes, a light hazelly brown, and let his words and his smile warm her. “I . . .” She hesitated, then nodded. “I think I’d like that. Richard invests with you, doesn’t he?”

  “All the family do. I oversee the investments, and Heathcote Montague, our joint man of business, acts as our executor.” Gabriel grinned. “That means I do all the talking and investigating and he takes care of the boring formalities.”

  Catriona nodded. “Tell me more about what you do. How do these investments of yours work?”

  They ambled through the gardens for close to an hour, by which time she’d learned more than enough to know that he, at least, knew precisely what he was talking about. “Very well.” With a nod, she halted at the entrance to the gardens. Here was an opportunity to establish the vale’s future income for all time. Gabriel would invest their excess funds for her—the income would be there to tide the vale over any lean years, should such ever come to pass. She nodded again and refocused on Gabriel’s face. “I’ll talk to McArdle and get the funds transferred—Richard will know the direction.”

  Gabriel’s easy smile lit his face; hand over his heart, he bowed. “You won’t regret it, I swear.” He straightened, eyes twinkling. “Welcome to yet another aspect of our family.”

  Richard entered the dining hall that evening to a rousing chorus of cheers. The whole household stood and clapped. His slow stroll disguising his lack of strength, he grinned and nodded gracefully, his expression one of amused affability. But when he met Catriona’s gaze as he reclaimed his seat beside her, she could see the warmth, the joy, the affectionate acceptance, burning in the blue of his eyes.

  She smiled mistily and quickly sat so that he could sit, too. The cheering subsided, and the first course was brought out.

  Beneath the table’s edge, Richard clasped her hand briefly, then frowned at the serving dish placed before him. “Good heavens! Is that turbot?”

  “Hmm-mm.” Drawing the dish closer, Catriona heaped some on his plate. “Cook said it was one of your favorite dishes.”