Born to Scandal

by Diane Gaston

  Brent welcomed the change in subject, although it pricked at his guilt even more. She’d sent him one letter shortly after her arrival at Brentmore, but he’d not written back to enquire further.

  ‘Fairly well, last I heard.’ Was the passionate Miss Hill making the children happy? He certainly hoped so.

  Perhaps he would write to her tomorrow to ask if the children needed anything that he could provide. He had no clue as to what his children might need or desire. He’d tried to keep their lives as quiet and comfortable and unchanged as he could, knowing firsthand how jarring too much change could be. That was why he’d left them at Brentmore Hall, to disrupt their peace as little as possible with his presence.

  Who could have guessed their old governess would die? He’d not protected them at all from that trauma. How difficult for them that the woman’s death to come so soon after their mother’s accident.

  If a second marriage could accomplish all Peter said, how could Brent refuse? If Miss Rolfe was indeed the paragon Peter vowed she was, perhaps she could give the children a better life.

  He and Peter turned on to Somerset Street and knocked upon Lord Rolfe’s door. A footman opened the door and a few minutes later led them to the drawing room and announced them to the Rolfes.

  Baron Rolfe immediately crossed the room to greet them. ‘Lord Brentmore, it is a delight to have your company.’ He shook Brent’s hand. ‘Peter, it is always good to see you.’ He turned to two ladies who stood behind him. ‘Allow me to present you to my wife and daughter.’

  The wife was a pleasant-looking woman, the sort whose face just naturally smiled. She was soft spoken and gracious.

  The daughter had a quiet sort of beauty. Her hair was a nondescript brown, her eyes a pale blue, her features even. There was nothing to object to in her. Brent gave her credit for being remarkably composed in the face of being looked over by a marquess as if she were a bauble in some shop.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, my lord.’ She had a pleasant voice, not musical, perhaps, but not grating. ‘Peter has told me so much about you.’

  He hoped Peter had told her everything. He’d learned the hard way it did not pay to assume she already knew. He’d assumed Eunice had known of his early life. After their marriage when she’d learned of it, she’d been shocked and appalled.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you as well, Miss Rolfe.’ He bowed.

  He ought to say something witty or charming, but he was not trying to impress. If this idea of Peter’s was to work, Miss Rolfe must know him as he was. There should be no illusions.

  They sipped sherry as they waited for dinner to be served. Conversation was pleasant and amiable. Brent liked that these people were very fond of his cousin and were as comfortable as they were in his presence. He was supposed to be the family’s salvation, after all, but they refrained from fawning over him and labouring to earn his regard.

  The dinner proceeded in like manner. He was seated next to Miss Rolfe, which gave him an opportunity to share conversation with her alone. She, too, retained her poise, although she did shoot occasional glances to Peter, for his encouragement or approval, Brent supposed.

  * * *

  When dinner was done, Brent broke with the convention of the gentlemen remaining at the table for brandy and the ladies retiring to the drawing room.

  ‘May I speak with Miss Rolfe alone?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Of course,’ Lord Rolfe said.

  Miss Rolfe glanced at Peter before saying, ‘I would be delighted.’

  Brent and Miss Rolfe returned to the drawing room.

  She went to a cabinet and took out a decanter. ‘My lord, would you like a glass of brandy as we speak?’

  He was grateful. ‘I would indeed.’

  She poured his glass and settled herself on the sofa.

  He chose a chair facing her. ‘It is clear that Peter discussed this matter with you and your parents, as he did with me.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘He did.’

  ‘I need to know your thoughts on this.’ She had to be fully on board with the scheme or he would not proceed.

  She raised her head and gave him a direct look. ‘It is a reality that I must marry well...’ She paused. ‘It is also a reality that my prospects to marry well are very slim. My dowry is very modest—’

  He put up a hand. ‘Money means nothing to me.’

  She smiled. ‘Actually, money means nothing to me, either. It is far more important to me to marry a good man.’ Her gaze faltered. ‘Peter—Peter assures me you are such a man.’

  He glanced away. ‘It is important to me that you realise precisely what you are agreeing to.’

  ‘Peter was quite forthright.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘I know about your Irish parentage and your wife’s infidelities. I also know that you keep your word and pay your creditors and fulfil your responsibilities to your tenants, your servants, and your country.’

  He felt his cheeks warming. ‘That is high praise.’

  She lowered her lashes. ‘It is what Peter told me.’

  All Brent truly did was what any decent man should do. It seemed no great thing to him.

  He changed the subject. ‘What of children?’

  Her cheeks turned pink. ‘Our children?’

  Lawd. He had not thought that far.

  ‘You shall, of course, have children, if you wish it.’ He could not contemplate bedding her, not at the moment. There was nothing about her to repulse, however. He could imagine becoming fond of her in time. ‘What I meant was your feelings about my children. Are you willing to take charge of them and rear them as your own?’

  Her hands fidgeted, twisting the fabric of her skirts. ‘If you think they would accept me in that role.’

  He had no idea. Sadly, his children were strangers to him.

  She spoke more confidently. ‘I am the eldest of five. I am certainly well used to the company of children. I would try my best for yours.’

  The words of his new governess came back to him—I would please you, my lord. I am certain I would—spoken with a passion Miss Rolfe lacked.

  Perhaps that was fortunate. Passion must not be a part of this decision.

  ‘Do you have any questions for me?’ he asked her.

  She tilted her head in thought. ‘I need your assurance that you will help my family, that you will help launch my brothers and sisters if my father is unable to do so. My father will repay you if he can—’

  He waved a hand. ‘I do not require repayment.’

  ‘He will desire to, none the less.’

  Brent had made enquiries about Lord Rolfe. His debts appeared to be honest ones—crop failures and such. His needs were a far cry from Eunice’s father’s incessant demands that Brent pay his gambling debts.

  Brent shrugged. ‘I am well able to assist your family in whatever way they require.’

  ‘That is all I need,’ she said, her voice low.

  He stood. ‘What I suggest, then, is that we see more of each other. To be certain this will suit us both. If you are free tomorrow, I will take you for a turn in Hyde Park.’

  She rose as well. ‘That would give me pleasure.’

  Brent ignored the sick feeling inside him and tried to sound cheerful. ‘Shall we seek out your parents? And let Peter know his scheme might very well bear fruit?’

  She blinked rapidly and he wondered if she was as comfortable with this idea as she let on.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Let us tell my parents...and Peter.’

  * * *

  ‘We do not need a physician!’ Anna was beyond furious.

  Three weeks in her new position had also meant three weeks of battling Mrs Tippen, who seemed intent on keeping things exactly as her late marchioness had wanted them.

  ‘I have sent for him and that is that.’ Mrs Tippen gave her a triumphant glare. ‘We cannot have you endangering the children like this.’

  ‘Endangering!’ Anna glared back. ‘The boy was running. He fell and cut his c
hin on a rock. He has a cut, that is all!’

  ‘That is all you think,’ the housekeeper retorted. ‘You are not a physician.’

  ‘And you are not in charge of the children!’ Anna retorted.

  From all she’d heard this woman had never expressed concern when the children were kept virtual prisoners in the nursery, rarely going out of doors.

  Anna glared at her. ‘If you have something to say about them, you will say it to me. Is that clear?’

  Mrs Tippen remained unrepentant. ‘You may bet Lord Brentmore will hear about this.’

  Anna leaned into the woman’s face. ‘You may be assured Lord Brentmore will hear about this! He gave me the charge of the children, not you.’

  Mrs Tippen smirked and made a mocking curtsy before striding away.

  Anna bit her lip as she watched the woman. Would Lord Brentmore believe the housekeeper over her? What would he think if Mrs Tippen reported that the new governess behaved in a careless fashion and allowed his son to fall and injure himself?

  She and the children had been playing a game of tag on the lawn when Lord Cal tripped and fell. It had frightened him more than anything. A small cut right on his chin produced enough blood to thoroughly alarm his sister. Dory wailed loudly enough to be heard in the next county.

  Anna had to admit she’d been alarmed herself. She’d scooped him up and carried him back to the house, but a closer examination showed the injury to be quite minor. She wrapped him in bandages and told the children about men in India who wore turbans for hats. Soon he and Dory were looking in a book with engravings of India and calm had been restored.

  * * *

  Until two hours later when Mrs Tippen informed her that the physician had arrived.

  Trying to damp down her anger, Anna strode to the drawing room where the doctor waited.

  She entered the room. ‘Doctor Stoke, I am Miss Hill. The children’s new governess.’

  He stood and nodded curtly. ‘Miss Hill.’ The man was shorter than Anna, stick-thin, with pinched features and a haughty air. ‘Inform me of the injury, please.’

  ‘I fear you’ve made an unnecessary trip.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Lord Calmount fell outside and suffered a tiny cut to his chin.’

  ‘A head injury?’ The doctor’s brows rose. ‘Did the boy become insensible?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ she assured him. ‘It was not a head injury. Just a minor mishap, needing no more than a bandage—’

  He broke in. ‘Are you certain he did not pass out? Were you watching? A blow to the head can have dire consequences. Dire consequences.’

  What had Tippen told him?

  She gave the doctor a direct look. ‘He did not pass out and he did not suffer a blow to his head. I was right there beside him. He fell and cut his chin on a rock.’

  He responded with a sceptical expression. ‘I must examine the boy immediately.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  She led Dr. Stoke up the stairs to the nursery wing.

  ‘How old is the boy?’ he asked as they walked.

  He’d not asked the child’s name, she noticed. ‘Lord Calmount is seven years old.’

  She led him to the schoolroom where she’d left the children with Eppy to draw pictures of Indian men in turbans in their sketch books.

  Anna made certain she entered the room first. She approached Cal and spoke in a soft, calm voice. ‘Lord Cal, here is Doctor Stoke. Mrs Tippen sent for him to examine your head so we may be certain it is only a very little cut.’

  Cal gripped his pencil and glanced warily at the doctor.

  ‘Hello, young man!’ Doctor Stoke spoke with false cheer. ‘Let me see that head of yours.’

  The doctor reached for his head and Cal shrank back.

  ‘None of that now,’ the doctor said sharply, pulling off the bandages.

  Cal panicked and pushed the man and soon was flailing with both fists and feet.

  ‘No!’ Dory caught her brother’s fear and pulled on the doctor’s coat to get him off. ‘Don’t take his turban! He wants to keep it!’

  ‘Lord Cal! Dory! Stop it this instant!’ She’d never seen them this way. She turned to Eppy. ‘Take Dory out of here!’

  Eppy carried a screaming Dory from the room.

  Anna pulled the physician away and placed herself between him and Lord Cal. ‘Cal, it is all right. The doctor will not hurt you. He wants to look at your cut and then we will make a new turban.’

  Cal shook his head.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ Doctor Stoke demanded of the boy.

  Cal, of course, did not answer. He pressed his hands against his chin.

  It took a great deal of coaxing on Anna’s part, but finally Cal allowed her to coax his fingers away and show the physician the cut. It had stopped bleeding and looked all right to Anna. She doubted it would even leave a scar.

  The doctor then tried other examinations, like having the boy follow his finger as it moved side to side and up and down. Lord Cal refused. Cal also refused to answer any questions put to him, even those that could be answered with a nod of his head.

  Doctor Stoke made no secret of his impatience with the boy. He finally gestured for Anna to leave the room with him.

  ‘Come to the drawing room,’ Anna said. ‘We can speak more comfortably there.’

  He was grim-faced as they walked to the drawing room, a room nearly as gloomy as the man himself.

  Doctor Stoke stood stiffly as he faced Anna. ‘How long has the boy been this way?’

  ‘I think he was frightened,’ she explained. ‘It was a surprise to him that you came and he is not used to strangers.’

  The physician pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘It was a mania.’

  ‘A mania?’ How ridiculous. ‘It was a temper tantrum.’

  He held up a halting hand. ‘No. No. Definitely a disorder of the mind.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his mouth. ‘I feel it my obligation to inform Lord Brentmore that his son is lapsing into lunacy. I’ve seen this happen before—’

  ‘Lord Cal is not a lunatic!’ she cried.

  He tilted his head condescendingly. ‘Ah, but you cannot deny the boy is prone to fits and is mute—’

  ‘He is not mute!’ she responded. ‘He merely doesn’t talk.’

  The doctor smirked again. ‘The very definition of mutism. I will write to the marquess this very day and inform him of this unfortunate circumstance. I will, of course, recommend the very best asylums. I know just the place. The child needs expert care.’

  Anna’s anxiety shot up. ‘You will not write to Lord Brentmore!’

  The doctor’s mouth twisted in defiance.

  She had to stop this! Who knew what Lord Brentmore would think if such a letter came his way?

  She changed tactics. ‘I mean, this is not something for a father to read in a letter. Lord Brentmore...Lord Brentmore is...is due to arrive here very soon. You should speak to him in person. Surely there is no harm for the boy to remain a few more days at home. We...we will watch him carefully.’

  Doctor Stoke averted his gaze as if thinking.

  ‘I—I am certain it would be a good thing to meet the marquess in person. He is bound to have questions only you can answer.’

  The doctor turned back to her. ‘Very well. I will wait. Two weeks, no more. After two weeks I will summon the marquess myself.’

  No sooner had the doctor left than Anna hurried to the library for pen and paper. She must write to Lord Brentmore immediately and convince him to come to Brentmore Hall.

  Lord Cal was no lunatic! He was merely a frightened and timid boy who needed time to emerge from his shell. He was like Charlotte had been, although Lord Cal had no doting parents to support him. Lord Cal’s parents had been anything but doting.

  This time Lord Brentmore must not neglect his parental duty. He must come! Anna would show him his son was a normal little boy, albeit an unhappy one. He would see for himself his son
was no lunatic.

  She laboured to word her letter carefully.

  After three tries, she composed the letter as well as she could. She ended it with: You must come, Lord Brentmore. You must. Your son needs you.

  * * *

  Four days passed, too soon to hear back from Lord Brentmore. If he answered her right away, his letter could arrive tomorrow. Meanwhile she would do what she’d been doing since the doctor’s ridiculous call. Keep the children busy.

  Today they were outside again, taking advantage of glorious blue skies and bright sunshine. The weather had been cool for early June, but today the sun felt deliciously warm.

  Anna dressed the children in old clothes, old gloves and perched wide-brimmed straw hats on them. She marched them outside to a small square near the kitchen garden that the gardener had prepared for planting at her request.

  She and Charlotte had loved planting seeds and watching them grow into beautiful flowers, so why would Lord Cal and Dory not like such an activity as well? Besides, they had been so confined, it would be lovely for them to get a little dirty.

  She made the whole enterprise a school lesson. In the school room they had read books about how plants grew from seeds. She’d discussed with the gardener what they might plant. He had suggested vegetables instead of flowers. Boys, he said, would value vegetables over flowers.

  An excellent idea! Much more appealing to the practical Lord Cal, she was sure. Plus, eventually they could eat what they planted.

  ‘We’re going to plant peas and radishes and we are going to care for the plants until they are ready for eating,’ Anna told the children as they walked towards the small plot of tilled earth.

  As they reached the garden plot, a man stepped forwards. ‘Good morning, miss.’

  Anna smiled at him. ‘This is your gardener, Mr Willis.’ Mr Willis, a kindly man with children of his own, had proved a willing participant. ‘Mr Willis, Lord Calmount and Lady Dory.’

  Mr Willis had told her that he’d rarely even glimpsed the children up to now, even though he’d worked on the estate their whole lives.

  Anna’s anger burned at the thought of these children living as recluses. They’d been sheltered, clothed and fed, but not much more from what she could tell.

  She had a theory about why Lord Cal had ceased speaking. It was not out of lunacy—he’d stopped speaking because no one but his sister had been there to listen to him.