Born to Scandal

by Diane Gaston

  * * *

  By the last course, however, all she desired was solitude. ‘Mr Parker, I wonder if you would excuse me. I am suddenly very fatigued. I believe I shall retire for the night.’

  His expression turned solicitous. ‘Of course you are fatigued. A day’s carriage ride is vastly tiring.’

  She rose from her chair and he stood, as well.

  ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘I will bid farewell to you now. I am leaving as soon as the sun rises.’

  She extended her hand to shake his. ‘I wish you a safe trip.’

  She returned to her room and readied herself for bed without summoning Eppy to assist her. After washing up and changing into her nightdress, she extinguished the candles and sat for a long time in a chair, staring out the window overlooking extensive gardens, landscaped so naturally she wondered if they had been designed by Inigo Jones.

  Beautiful, but unfamiliar.

  She took a deep breath and forced her emotions to calm. She must accept what she could not change.

  * * *

  The next morning Anna woke to the sun shining in her window. She rose, stretched her arms and gazed out her window. The sky was clear blue and cloudless and the country air smelled every bit as wonderful as at home—at Lawton, she meant. This was home now.

  When a maid entered to feed the fire in her fireplace, Anna introduced herself and asked the girl to have Eppy attend her when it was convenient.

  * * *

  A quarter-hour later, Eppy knocked on her door. ‘Good morning, miss,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Are you ready for me?’

  Anna had already washed and donned a gown. ‘I just need a little assistance with the laces.’

  ‘Certainly!’ Eppy tightened her laces.

  Anna looked over her shoulder. ‘Are the children awake?’

  ‘They are indeed, miss. Eating their breakfast in the nursery.’ She tied a bow.

  ‘I am anxious to make their acquaintance.’ Best to jump in right away.

  Eppy frowned. ‘You are supposed to tour the house. Mrs Tippen was very clear about that.’

  ‘Do the children know I am here?’ she asked.

  Eppy lowered her head. ‘I told them. I could not keep it secret any more.’

  ‘You did right, Eppy,’ Anna told her. ‘But I’ll not keep them wondering another minute. The tour of the house can wait.’

  She followed Eppy to the nursery.

  ‘I’ve brought someone to meet you,’ Eppy called out as she entered the room. She turned to the doorway. ‘Your new governess.’

  Anna put on a brave smile. ‘Good morning! I am Miss Hill.’

  All she saw at first were two small faces with wide eyes. Both sat ramrod straight in their chairs. The little boy was dark like his father; the girl so fair she looked like a pixie.

  Anna approached slowly. ‘I’ll wager you did not expect a new governess today.’

  The girl relaxed a bit, smiling tentatively.

  Anna turned to Eppy. ‘Will you do the introductions, Eppy? I should like to know these children.’

  Eppy hurried over.

  ‘Miss Hill, may I present Lord Calmount.’ She squeezed his shoulder fondly. ‘We call him Cal.’

  ‘You call him Lord Cal,’ the girl corrected.

  Eppy grinned. ‘That I do, because I’m your nurse.’

  ‘Do you know what you wish me to call you?’ Anna asked the boy.

  His eyes remained fixed on her.

  His sister answered. ‘He likes Cal or Lord Cal.’

  Anna smiled at both of them. ‘Very well.’

  Eppy put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and shook her fondly. ‘This little imp is Lady Dorothea—’

  ‘Dory,’ the little girl piped up.

  ‘Dory,’ Anna repeated. She looked at each one in turn. ‘And Lord Cal. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  Lord Cal remained as stiff as before, but little Dory now squirmed in her chair.

  ‘What plans did you have today,’ Anna asked, ‘if I had not arrived so suddenly?’

  ‘Cal said you came last night,’ Dory said. ‘He peeked out the door and he said you were our new governess, but how he knew we were to have a new governess, I cannot say.’ Her expression turned solemn. ‘Our other one died.’

  Anna matched her seriousness. ‘I know that. That must have been dreadful for you.’

  The girl nodded.

  Anna sat in a chair opposite them. ‘Lord Cal was very clever to learn of my arrival and to figure out who I was.’

  A look of anxiety flashed through the boy’s eyes.

  She faced him directly. ‘I greatly admire cleverness.’

  She thought she saw surprise replace the anxiety in his eyes. Eppy had not been exaggerating about him being very quiet. Up close he appeared to be a miniature version of his father. The same eyes that bore into you. The sensitive mouth. The nearly imperceptible cleft in his chin.

  The same austere expression.

  She smiled at him. ‘Lord Cal. You look a great deal like your father.’

  He glanced away.

  ‘Do you know our father?’ Dory asked, eyes wide again. She acted as if her father was some mysterious legend she’d only heard about.

  Anna turned to her. ‘It was your father who decided that I should be your governess.’

  The girl’s eyes grew even wider. ‘He did?’

  ‘He did,’ Anna said firmly. She pointed to their breakfast plates with remnants of bread crusts and jam. ‘I see you are finishing your breakfast. I have not yet eaten my breakfast. I wanted to come meet you right away.’ She also needed a tour of the house and grounds. ‘I will leave you for a little while, but I have an idea, if you both should like it.’

  Dory leaned forwards, all curiosity. Cal at least turned his gaze back to her.

  ‘I must have a tour of the house and grounds and I wondered if you would come with me. I would love to see this lovely place with you.’

  Dory popped up. ‘We would!’ She thought to check with her brother. ‘Wouldn’t we, Cal?’

  The boy apparently gave his sister his approval, although its communication was imperceptible to Anna.

  Proud of herself for thinking of bringing the children on the tour with her, Anna left them to go in search of her breakfast and the waiting Mrs Tippen.

  The footman in the hall directed her to a parlour with a sideboard filled with food. Although the parlour had the same wainscoted walls as the rest of the house she had seen, it had a large window facing east. The room was aglow with sunshine. She selected an egg and bread and cheese, and poured herself a cup of tea.

  No sooner had she started eating when a scowling Mrs Tippen entered the room. ‘I expected you earlier.’

  Mrs Tippen’s disapproval continued, apparently. What could be the source of such antipathy? The woman did not even know her.

  Anna understood the servant hierarchy in country houses, having grown up in one. She knew a housekeeper would consider herself second only to the butler in overseeing the servants, but a governess would not be under her control. Was that what Mrs Tippen resented?

  Anna lifted her chin. ‘Good morning, Mrs Tippen,’ she said in as mild a tone as she could manage. ‘If there was an urgency about touring the house, I was not informed of it. In any event, my duties are to the children. I needed to meet them right away.’

  The woman sniffed. ‘I have many responsibilities. I will not be kept waiting by a governess.’

  Anna gave her a steady gaze. ‘I grew up in a house much like this one and I am well aware of the housekeeper’s responsibilities. I did not ask you to wait for me, however. It matters not to me when I see the house and grounds. Name me a time convenient to you—’

  ‘A half-hour ago was convenient for me,’ Mrs Tippen snapped.

  Anna held up a hand. ‘You will address me respectfully, Mrs Tippen. As I will address you.’ Goodness. She sounded exactly like Lady Lawton reprimanding a servant. ‘I will be ready in an hour for the h
ouse tour. If that will not do, name a time and I will accommodate you. We are done discussing this, however.’

  Mrs Tippen turned on her heel and left the room.

  Anna took a sip of tea and fought to dampen her anger. The last thing she desired was to be engaged in a battle. She was no threat to a housekeeper. She was no threat to anyone.

  * * *

  An hour later Anna and the children waited in the entrance hall. Anna half-hoped Mrs Tippen would not show. In that event, Anna had already decided she’d ask the children to show her the house. She wished she’d thought of that earlier. It would certainly be more enjoyable than enduring Mrs Tippen’s company.

  It was Mr Tippen, the butler, who presented himself, which was hardly better than his wife. Mr Tippen reminded Anna of an engraving she had once seen of Matthew Hopkins, the witch-hunter. Mr Tippen resembled him, with his long, narrow face and pointed chin. Put him in a capotain hat, cover his chin with a beard and the picture would be complete.

  He frowned down on the children.

  Anna spoke up in their defence. ‘The children will accompany me on the tour, Mr Tippen.’

  His nose rose higher. ‘The marchioness preferred the children to stay in their wing.’

  ‘The marchioness?’ Anna was confused.

  ‘Lady Brentmore.’

  But Lady Brentmore was dead. How insensitive of him to mention her in front of the children.

  Anna straightened. ‘I am in complete charge of the children now, am I not?’

  One corner of his mouth twitched. ‘So Mr Parker informed us.’

  ‘Well, then.’ She smiled. ‘Shall we get started?’

  Lord Cal stared at the floor, looking as if he wished it would open up and swallow him.

  Dory took Anna’s hand and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. ‘You were insolent to Mr Tippen!’

  She whispered back, ‘Not insolent.’ What a big word for a five-year-old. ‘I am in charge of you. Your father said so.’

  Cal’s head snapped up.

  The little girl’s eyes grew wide. ‘He did?’

  ‘He did,’ Anna repeated.

  Mr Tippen began the tour in the formal parlour where hung a portrait of the late marchioness, fair like her daughter, and beautiful, as Mr Parker had said. She looked regal and aloof, and also as if she could step out of the canvas and give them all a noble dressing down.

  The children, poor dears, barely looked at the portrait.

  Anna directed their attention to a portrait of their father on the opposite wall.

  ‘This looks very like your father!’ she exclaimed, mostly because their late mother’s image obviously upset them. Lord Brentmore’s portrait, though of him younger and leaner, perfectly conveyed his sternness, but there was also a sad yearning in his eyes that tugged at her heart. His son’s eyes carried that same sadness, she realised, but the boy looked as if he’d given up yearning for anything. Anna’s heart bled for the child. How could she help him? she wondered.

  Lord Brentmore’s voice came back to her. Provide my children what they need. Make them happy.

  How could she make them happy?

  As the tour continued Mr Tippen turned out to be a competent guide, able to explain the family connections in the myriad of portraits and other paintings all through the house. He proved knowledgeable about the furnishings and about the house’s history, when parts of it were built and by which Lord Brentmore.

  The children remained extraordinarily quiet, gaping at everything as if seeing it for the first time. How often had the children seen these rooms? Surely they had not been always confined to the nursery.

  Mr Tippen, opening a door that led to the garden, seemed to read her mind. ‘As you have seen, these rooms are filled with priceless family treasures, Miss Hill. They are not play areas. The children are not allowed in them—’

  Anna stood her ground. ‘If you are attempting to tell me how to manage the children, Mr Tippen, you would do better to be silent.’

  Dory was holding Anna’s hand. The little girl squeezed it and grinned up at her.

  Anna grinned back. She was being insolent again.

  She only hoped it did not make matters worse for all of them.

  Chapter Three

  Brent walked with his cousin up Bond Street, heading towards Somerset Street, where Baron Rolfe had taken rooms for the Season.

  ‘I do not know why I let you talk me into this, Peter.’

  Peter’s grandfather had been the old marquess’s younger brother, making Peter and Brent second cousins. The two of them were all that was left of the Caine family.

  Besides Brent’s children, that was.

  ‘All I am asking of you is to meet her,’ Peter responded.

  They were to dine with Lord and Lady Rolfe, and, more importantly, Miss Susan Rolfe, their daughter.

  Almost a month had gone by before Peter again broached the topic of Brent marrying again. Peter considered Miss Rolfe the perfect match for Brent.

  The Rolfe estate bordered Peter’s property and Peter had known this family his whole life, had practically lived in their pockets since his own parents passed away. Brent was slightly acquainted with Baron Rolfe, but he could not recall if he had ever met the man’s wife or the daughter.

  ‘You could not find a finer woman,’ Peter insisted.

  Yes. Yes. So Peter had said. Many times.

  His cousin went on. ‘You need marriage to a respectable woman. It will counteract the unfortunate scandal that surrounds you.’

  Brent averted his gaze. This was exactly what Brent had told himself before his first marriage. Eunice, he’d thought, had been the epitome of a good match.

  In the end she’d only compounded the scandal.

  Peter glanced around, as if a passer-by might overhear him. ‘There are those who still believe your blood is tainted because of your poor Irish mother. Some claim that is why Eunice was unfaithful.’

  Brent’s gaze snapped back.

  His grandfather had hammered it into him that his blood was tainted by his mother, the daughter of a poor Irish tenant farmer. Brent could still hear Eunice’s diatribe on the subject, which had indeed been her justification for blatant infidelity.

  Brent remembered only a smiling face, warm arms encircling him and a sweet voice singing a lullaby. He felt the ache of a loss that was over a quarter-century old.

  ‘Take care, Peter,’ he shot back, his voice turning dark and dangerous.

  His cousin merely returned a sympathetic look. ‘You know I do not credit such things, but your children are bound to hear this same gossip some day, as well as stories of their mother. These will be heavy burdens for them to bear. You need to do something to counter them or they will grow up suffering the same taunts and cuts that you have suffered.’

  Peter rarely talked so plainly.

  Brent held his cousin’s gaze. ‘My one marriage certainly did nothing to increase my respectability.’

  He’d stayed away from Eunice as much as possible for the children’s sake. There was no reason the poor babes should hear them constantly shouting at each other.

  He’d been completely besotted by Eunice from their first meeting. She’d been the Diamond of the Season, the daughter of a peer, the perfect match for a new marquess, and she’d accepted his suit.

  After marriage, however, Brent learned it was his title and wealth that had value to her. The day he’d held their newborn son in his arms, thinking himself the most fortunate man in the world, Eunice had told him how happy she was that her duty was done. Now they were free to pursue other interests. After that her interests—her infidelities, that is—kept tongues wagging.

  At least the war offered him ample opportunity to stay away from her.

  Unfortunately, it had also kept him away from his son.

  Brent consoled himself that most aristocrats had little to do with their children, instead hiring nurses, governesses and tutors, sending them away to schools and seeing them only at brief intervals
until the children were old enough to be civilised, the way the old marquess had reared him. How he had spent his early years was considered strange—suckled by his own mother, cared for by his Irish grandfather in a one-room, windowless mud cabin.

  Brent and Peter reached Oxford Street, a lifetime away from the land of Brent’s birth.

  He turned his attention back to the present. ‘Peter, what makes you think another marriage would not make matters worse?’

  In no way would Brent allow his heart to again become engaged as it had done with Eunice. It had cut to the core that she’d married the title and scorned the man.

  Peter responded once they were on the other side of Oxford Street. ‘Marry a woman of high moral character this time. A woman whose own reputation is unblemished and who can be trusted to be a faithful wife and attentive mother.’ He glanced away and back. ‘Miss Rolfe is all these things.’

  Brent kept his eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. ‘What makes you think Miss Rolfe will accept me?’

  ‘Because you are a good man,’ Peter said simply.

  Brent rolled his eyes. ‘You may be alone in believing that.’

  ‘And because you could be such a help to her family.’ The young man’s tone was earnest.

  At least it was out in the open this time. Miss Rolfe needed to marry into wealth. Her father was only a hair’s breadth away from the River Tick, and the man had a huge family to support—two sons and two more daughters, all younger than Miss Rolfe. Brent’s money was needed to save Rolfe from complete ruin.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Brent nodded. ‘My wealth is greatly desired.’

  ‘By a worthy man,’ Peter emphasised. ‘The most important thing is Miss Rolfe will make a good mother to your children.’

  His children. The only reason he’d consider this idea of marriage. Brent might not see his children frequently. He might not keep them at his side like his Irish grandfather kept him, but he wanted the best for them.

  ‘Speaking of your children, how is the new governess working out?’ Peter asked.