by Erin Rye
A Most Unusual Scandal
The Marriage Maker
Book Fourteen
Daughters of Scandal
Erin Rye
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
A Lady’s Book of Love
This is a Scarsdale Publishing Scarsdale Voices romance and is part of The Marriage Maker series written by Tarah Scott and Sue-Ellen Welfonder.
A Most Unusual Scandal The Marriage Maker Book Fourteen: Daughters of Scandal
Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer McCollum
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Dreams2Media
Cover Art: Period Images
Editor: Casey Yager
Chapter One
A Man’s Inheritance
Ashton Bentley, the Earl of Strachan, lifted and stared at his wine glass in an effort to curtail his mounting frustration. Between his grandmother’s perpetual frown and the growls from the black pug ensconced on her lap, the meal had been torturous.
“Ashton,” Lady Leighton said, “is it really so difficult for you to endure my company for a mere hour?”
Ashton regarded her across the candle-lit dinner table. “Not at all, Grandmother.”
He set his glass down.
The pug growled.
“Come now, Angel, behave.” Lady Leighton scratched the dog’s chin.
Two years ago, when he’d last seen her, she hadn’t had the dog. The animal was at least four years old. Had its previous owner abused it? Whatever its history, the animal certainly wasn’t an angel. What had possessed his grandmother to bestow the name on such an ill-tempered creature?
Lady Leighton dabbed the corners of her mouth with her fine linen napkin as she locked gazes with him. The fire on the hearth crackled. The innkeeper, in his zeal to please the Earl of Strachan and his elderly grandmother, had placed enough wood on the fire to bake them.
She released a sigh. “As you clearly have no desire to share anything about your life, I suppose we should get down to business.”
He offered a placating smile. “As I said earlier, there is little to tell. I feel certain you are aware that I have been working at Stanhope Hall.”
“That is always a safe assumption with you, Ashton.”
He reached for his wine glass. Angel growled. “Easy there, lad.” Ashton sipped his wine. He returned his attention to his grandmother. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
“On the contrary, you know full well I've always admired your determination and work ethic.”
“You simply wish me to focus my attention elsewhere.”
An uncharacteristic light of sadness shone in her eyes. “I only wish you wouldn't ignore Kinnettles. How is the harvest going at Stanhope?”
“Better than last year.” Which was not a lie. But for the fourth year in a row, he would go into debt feeding the tenants—which was why he’d agreed to meet his grandmother tonight. He set down his wineglass.
Angel lifted a lip and flicked back his ears.
“I wish I could visit,” his grandmother said.
He eyed the dog. “You are welcome to visit anytime you like.”
Lady Leighton graced him with a cool smile. “I know you wouldn't turn us away if I showed up on your threshold, but you do not relish such a visit.” He opened his mouth to rebut—to lie—but she waved him to silence. “It is neither here nor there. I grow too old for long journeys.”
“Rubbish,” he said. “I know men half your age who don't have the stamina and determination you do.”
She grunted a laugh. “Be that as it may, the body doesn't cooperate like it used to. Which brings me to the reason for this meeting.”
He tensed. Here is where he would pay the price for not visiting her these two years past. He’d known letters wouldn’t be enough, but had told himself he simply couldn’t afford the time away from Stanhope.
“Are you aware that Duncan's wife is pregnant?” she asked.
Ashton felt as if he'd taken a fist to the gut. His cousin's wife pregnant? Dread wound through him. His grandmother didn’t lapse into idle gossip. He could easily guess why she mentioned the pregnancy.
“I suppose felicitations are in order,” he said.
“As you know, Kinnettles has been passed down to the women in our family for seven generations. You may not care for Duncan, but even you must admit that Linda is a good woman.”
Ashton remained rigid. “What she sees in Duncan, I will never know.”
“That aside, I know she would care for Kinnettles.”
The death knell tolled for his inheritance. He said nothing. What was there to say?
“Have you asked Anne to marry you?”
Ashton blinked in surprise.
“I am acquainted with her mother, as you are aware,” she said into his silence.
“Then you know that I have asked for her hand,” he said.
“I will be honest, Ashton.”
His brows shot up before he could stop the action.
Her eyes narrowed. “In this, I would prefer to keep my own counsel. As I said, I am old. I don't have the luxury of time I once did.” She paused. “I am more partial to Linda than Anne.”
He wasn’t surprised.
“I will return here in three days,” she said. “Despite my partiality to Linda, if you are married by the time I return, I will give further consideration to naming you my heir.”
Ashton stared. This was unexpected—and too good to be true. When he’d turned eighteen, and Duncan twenty-one, she had informed them that one of them would inherit Kinnettles and her fortune. Ashton hadn’t cared. Duncan had. When Ashton turned twenty-seven, he began to realize that Stanhope Hall, his father’s ancestral home, was in financial trouble. After five years, he realized that his father had neglected the property and land too long. In favor of Kinnettles, no doubt, he thought with disgust. Without a large infusion of money, he and his tenants would labor for years before Stanhope’s fortunes reversed—if he didn’t lose the estate first.
The last two years, he’d known he should have attended to his grandmother. But the same determination she claimed to admire in him was the same determination that drove him to ignore good sense. That, and a liberal dose of pride.
“Don’t be an impoverished, proud fool,” she said.
He shook his head. His grandmother read him too easily.
“If you have asked her to marry, then nothing stops you from saying the vows.”
In three days’ time?
She pushed back her chair. He rose. Angel growled as Ashton strode around the table to assist her rise.
“Come now, my pet,” his grandmother soothed as she set the pug on the floor. �
�Let’s learn our manners, shall we?”
The wee beastie barked and bared his teeth from the safety of his grandmother’s skirts as Ashton offered her his arm. “Shall I escort you to your room?” he asked.
She scowled. “I can reach my bedchambers without assistance.”
He stepped back. She might be able to read his mood, but, after all these years, he miscalculated her moods more often than not.
She crossed the room. Angel trotted behind. The little dog growled until he escaped Ashton’s reach, then pranced to the door. His grandmother paused with her hand on the knob. “I was just your age when Aisla married your father.”
He tensed.
“She was so very beautiful. Gregory was so handsome, and he worshiped her.”
Ashton’s heartbeat raced.
“He was only four years my junior. Douglas was so pleased. But, in truth, had she not wanted to marry him, he wouldn’t have forced her. She was only seventeen. Did you know that I was seventeen when I married Douglas? I never regretted a day with him.” She went silent but didn’t leave. “She was a wild one. I feared… I hoped she would find the happiness Douglas and I had.” She sighed. “Perhaps one day you will understand…and forgive.”
“Forgive?” he blurted.
She twisted the knob and looked over her shoulder. As usual, her expression baffled him. “I convinced your mother to marry him.”
Without another word, she left him staring at the open doorway.
Chapter Two
The Demon Earl
The single candle in the washroom flickered in a draft. Ella glanced from the cracked mirror to the table where the candle sat. They would be fortunate if the taper lasted the night.
“Ella, I don’t want to—”
Ella shot her little brother a glare in the mirror and murmured a single world, “Stealing.”
He dropped his gaze and pulled his knees against his chest where he sat on the upended washtub. She returned her attention to her reflection and jabbed the last of her auburn locks under the cap she’d borrowed from him. She squinted in the dim candlelight and studied herself. The tan breeches hugged her slim legs. The stress of the past two years—the last few months, in particular—had taken a toll. Her once voluptuous figure had melted away and her rosy cheeks were now pale and drawn. She released a slow breath. She’d always dreamt of having a willowy figure. Now—thanks to her father’s fall from grace—she had one.
She glanced at Cyril. Shame and excitement warred on his young face. The worry she’d fought these last months niggled harder. Thankfully, he hadn’t suffered as much physically as she had. With youth came exuberance—and innocence. He was so gullible, the perfect victim to the street urchin’s schemes. Which is what brought them to their current dilemma.
She faced her brother. How far they’d fallen. A little less than two years ago, she’d dined with the princess. Even seven months ago, despite her father’s conviction for killing his wife’s lover, she and Cyril had attended house parties with the last close friends who would associate with them.
Ella gave her reflection a final scrutiny. “I’ll pass for a man, or at least a youth.”
Even at this early hour of the night, the neighborhood drunks were out en force. It would be dangerous for a woman to walk the streets without adult male companionship. A too-familiar fear rippled through her at the memory of another danger she’d faced in her own home only seven months past: her cousin Gavin. Her heart twisted. Cyril and she would have moved into a modest cottage in the country…if not for Gavin. When he’d appeared on their doorstep twenty months ago, she’d turned him away. Her father, however, had set Gavin in charge of their finances—including her inheritance and dowry.
Now, she and Cyril ate day-old bread, if they were fortunate, at a table in a dismally dark and rat-infested wash room located in the slums of Edinburgh. From dawn until dark—indeed, long into the night—she scrubbed clothes. When her work was done, she stumbled to a corner pallet and fell into an exhausted sleep next to her brother. When the sun rose, she started again. And that start wasn’t far away.
“Cyril—”
“It was a dare, Ella,” the boy cut in.
She crossed the room in three steps. “Is the watch yours, Cyril?” She gave his ear a twist.
The child squirmed under her grip like a worm on a hook. “Sean said he was a demon. The Demon Earl. It was a dare. I had to prove I was a man.”
Ella pursed her lips. “You’re far too trusting. If I hadn’t come along, Sean would have taken the watch and sold it. He’s having you steal for him, Cyril. Can’t you see?”
Her brother’s eyes widened. She blew a long, desperate breath. This latest incident of the watch wasn’t his first brush with trouble. With his blond hair, blue eyes and chubby cheeks, he even looked like the angel he was. Of course, the pickpockets would use him to their advantage. Eight-year-old boys should be in school, but there was no hope for that. What could she do? The only thing she could.
“You’ll stay with me and help wash clothes,” Ella said. The wash house was hardly a safe environment, but it was the best she could provide.
“But, Ella,” he whined.
“That’s the price you’ll pay, young man. There’s no excuse for stealing. You’re no thief, you’re a…” She caught herself before she said ‘Nicholson.’
With her father in prison for murder and her mother in France with her latest lover, being a Nicholson was something she’d rather forget. Indeed, she’d assumed her mother’s maiden name of Wetherby in order to distance herself from her family’s scandal—and from Gavin. She had every confidence he would never forgive her for disappearing before he could take her maidenhead.
She took a deep breath and started again. “You’re a gentleman, Cyril. Never forget that. A gentleman—not a common street thief.”
Cyril scowled. Ella tousled his fair head and went to the baskets of folded clothes stacked in the corner of the room, ready for tomorrow morning’s delivery. She’d washed several men’s coats that afternoon. Surely, she could find one that fit. She quickly located a gray twill overcoat, somewhat smaller than the rest.
“This will do.” She shrugged into the coat. “Now, get your coat, Cyril. Let’s see this done.”
He darted away, and Ella returned to the table and picked up the watch. Though old, with a cracked crystal, the timepiece was finely crafted. She turned it over and read the initials A.S. engraved on the back and edged with gold filigree. The glitter as it caught the candlelight reminded her of the glisten of diamonds under the light of hundreds of beeswax candles. Her gaze caught on her hands, raw, red and roughened by the harsh lye soap. She tucked the watch into her pocket.
“Are you ready, Cyril?” she called.
Her brother dashed back from the shadows. “Ready,” he chirped as he fastened the last button on his coat.
“Right, then.” She gave a curt nod. “Let’s return this watch to its owner before he discovers it gone.” And before her employer discovered her gone from her place of work.
“The Demon Earl had a coach and six, Ella.” Cyril’s young voice trilled with excitement as they stepped into the darkened street. “Do you think they’re demon horses?”
“Nonsense.”
Coach and six? She snorted. Such an overt display of wealth. But her bravado didn’t quite disguise the ripple of fear that radiated through her. Long ago rumors said The Demon Earl of Strachan had murdered his own father—after the man had thrown his wife, Ashton’s mother, from the castle tower. The rumors had swept the country for months. Of all the people for Cyril to have stolen from, why did he have to choose the son of a murderer turned murderer himself?
Ella huffed and then realized her brother still stared at her expectantly. “Sean was simply goading you, Cyril. You can’t be so gullible. Learn to question what you hear. Most likely, your Demon Earl is as tame as a kitten.” A lion cub, more like.
She led him from the room and out onto the street. Night
had come early with dark storm clouds. She prayed they could finish this business and reach home before it rained. They rounded a corner near the church just as a drunk burst through a door. Ella snatched her brother out of the man’s path as the drunk staggered past, bleary eyed and mumbling loudly. She gripped Cyril tightly by the arm and hurried down the street. A bitter Autumn chill bit through her cloak and she prayed Cyril’s coat was warm enough. How would she afford a winter coat for him? She hurried them through the maze of Edinburgh’s alleys and twisted, cobblestone streets. Across the ravine, the castle stood high on its hill, overlooking the city.
“Why ever were you so far from home, Cyril?” Ella growled. “I told you to stay close to the washroom, didn’t I?”
“But, Ella, it was the Demon Ea—”
“If I hear one more word about this Demon Earl, I swear, I will box your ears,” she snapped as they turned onto Prince Street.
He clamped his mouth shut as they passed the church and headed for the bridge that spanned the ravine. The castle loomed large above them as Ella shooed her brother up the narrow stairs leading to the Royal Mile.
“Now, let’s find this Beehive Inn, return the watch, and hurry back. I’ve still three tubs of clothes yet to wash.”
They emerged onto the main thoroughfare as a fine, gilded carriage rumbled past. Ella glimpsed a young woman with fur-trimmed gloves tucking a perfectly curled ringlet behind an ear that dripped with diamonds.
Longing seized her. Not so long ago, she sat in such elegance. Those fur-trimmed gloves would have protected her hands—soft, milky-white hands, not the red, rough, and blistered ones she now shoved into her pockets. She rubbed her calloused fingers together. It didn’t matter. At least her hands kept her and Cyril fed and a roof, as miserable as it was, over their heads.
“Come,” she muttered as they turned up the street.
The Beehive Inn stood near the top of castle hill, a fine, large-windowed establishment sandwiched between two gray-stone buildings. Ella winced. She couldn’t very well waltz in through the front door.
