The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  She narrowed her eyes. “Would the Longstones be very shocked if I slapped you?”

  “I’m sure they expect it. But are you willing to come so close?”

  She swallowed and finally dragged her gaze free. “No. And I think we have courted quite enough for one day. Where is Jane?”

  Chapter Five

  Dinner that evening was deliberately informal, since the baggage had not yet arrived back from London and the guests had nothing to change into. However, Cecily and her aunt went through the motions with the aid of Shilton, refreshing themselves and allowing the maid to repin their hair.

  Cecily left her bedchamber almost on the heels of the maid, meaning to collect her aunt and go down to the drawing room, but a faint commotion from the far end of the passage attracted her attention. Shilton was disappearing through the door to the servants’ stairs, while Mrs. Longstone glared after her.

  “Why is that woman still here?”

  “It is none of our business, Mama,” her son said hastily from what was, presumably, the open door to his bedchamber.

  “My daughter has had no need of her for five years!” Mrs. Longstone exclaimed. “And there has been no other lady here for her to serve.”

  “Well, we cannot say there have been no women here,” her son said wryly. “I’m sure they enjoy the services of a good lady’s maid.”

  Mrs. Longstone snorted. “I’m sure he does, too.”

  Cecily whisked herself the few paces to her aunt’s door, her one desire to escape the unpleasant conversation she had not been able to help overhearing. In fact, had they meant her to hear it? Even making allowances for the grief of the late Lady Verne’s family, it was surely not their place to question which servants he employed.

  On the other hand, Shilton’s retention here with nothing to do and no one to serve was strange. She should have been engaged by another lady long since. Least of all did Cecily like the suggestion that Verne kept her to look after his mistresses, or that the maid herself was his mistress. The whole conversation seemed unhealthy and left her with a sense of discomfort.

  Of course, it was not her business. It wasn’t as if her upcoming engagement was real. The incident only served as a warning, for she knew she had enjoyed the flirtation in the garden just a little too much. Whatever else he might be, Verne was not boring.

  Neither, it seemed, was Henry Longstone, whom she sat next to at dinner. He talked amusingly on many subjects and appeared to enjoy her company. Occasionally, she glanced across the table at Verne, who watched proceedings with sardonic humor.

  After the meal, as the ladies left the gentlemen to their wine, Cecily wondered what on earth they would say to each other.

  “Your family and the Vernes must have known each other for a long time,” she said to Mrs. Longstone.

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Longstone sat on the sofa, her eyes softening. “We are each other’s closest neighbors. I was so glad when Verne—the late Lord Verne—offered for my Marjorie.” She smiled a little mistily. “It seemed the perfect match.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Cecily said gently.

  “It would have been, had he not lived in the same house!”

  “Cousin,” Madame de Renarde admonished, patting her shoulder. “Nothing is achieved by dwelling in the past. And after all, the late Lord Verne could not have had his brother sleeping outside the house!”

  Mrs. Longstone looked as if she had a few such outdoors locations in mind, but she lowered her lashes and gave a small laugh. “You must not mind me, Lady Cecily. I am a grieving mother still.”

  “The grieving need someone to blame,” Madame de Renarde observed. “It is human and natural, but it is not always fair.”

  Cecily regarded her with increased interest, although she could not help saying to the older lady, “If you blame the current Lord Verne, why did you come here?”

  Mrs. Longstone raised her gaze to Cecily’s. “To be sure he ruins no one else’s life.”

  Stupidly, Cecily wanted to defend him. At the same time, a hundred questions rose to her lips, all clamoring to be asked.

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, cousin,” Madame Renarde said mildly. “Lady Cecily, come sit by me and tell me the latest on-dits from London.”

  Civilly, Cecily allowed herself to be steered to a nearby sofa while Lady Barnaby sat with Mrs. Longstone.

  “I’m sorry if my cousin’s words make you uncomfortable,” Madame de Renarde said with rather less drawl than usual.

  “There is a lot that is uncomfortable about this house,” Cecily allowed. “And as she says, she is a grieving mother. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  “It was, and leaves no one untouched. Sometimes, my cousin forgets Patrick’s own pain.”

  “But you do not,” Cecily observed. Apart from Jane, Madame de Renarde was the first person she had heard use Lord Verne’s Christian name.

  “Patrick and I are old friends. I understand him.”

  Cecily was fairly sure she understood the other woman, too, but she refused to think about a closer relationship between the Frenchwoman and Verne. Certainly, she would not talk about it. “Then you do not believe he was responsible for the fire?”

  “He did nothing wrong and was never accused,” Madame de Renarde said impatiently. But there was no irritation in her eyes. Only… pity. “Not under the law, at any rate. My dear, Lord Verne is a complicated man, a man of impulse and sudden passions that change like the weather. He may be innocent of arson but yet not of the other crimes the world attributes to him. Do you understand me?”

  “No,” Cecily said starkly.

  Madame de Renarde sat back. “I think you do. He is charming, mercurial, just dark enough to intrigue one who is bored by the shallowness of London’s social whirl. But the darkness is there. Make no mistake, my lady, he is a dangerous man. Never more so than when he concentrates all that unconventional attention on a young, innocent girl who imagines she is sophisticated enough to deal with him. She is not.”

  A flush rose into Cecily’s cheek, not just because the other woman imagined her to be this smitten young innocent, but because according to Verne’s plan, that was exactly who she had to be. She had rarely felt so frustrated, so hobbled, in her life.

  “It is fortunate,” she managed at last, “that if any such comes along, she has you to warn her off.”

  An amused twinkle pierced the boredom in Madame’s bright, blue eyes. “Exactly.”

  Verne and Longstone strolled into the room.

  “That is five minutes longer than I imagined,” Madame drawled. “And look, they have not killed each other.”

  “Does Mr. Longstone also believe in Lord Verne’s guilt?”

  “Who knows what Henry believes? The enmity between them goes back much further. But I’m sure you have had enough of my gossip. Just remember I am your friend, should you need one.”

  As she stood and glided away to Mrs. Longstone, pausing only to exchange a few words with Verne on the way, Cecily thought Madame de Renarde was the last friend in the world she would choose.

  Verne eased his long person into the space on the sofa beside her.

  “I used to think my family was strangely disunited,” Cecily said.

  “Until you met mine? But I think you’ll find them all pretty united against me.”

  She searched his face. “Don’t you mind?”

  “No.” His lips curled. “Why would I? I worked da—very hard—to alienate them.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? They’re Marjorie’s family, mere connections.”

  “And neighbors,” she pointed out, “whom you are quite happy to make use of.”

  “What else is family for?”

  “Connections,” she corrected, and he laughed.

  “Incidentally,” he said, “I’m told your baggage has just arrived, along with two maids and a pack of coachmen and grooms.”

  “I hope you don’t mind putting them all up.”

  “The more the m
errier,” he said carelessly. “I believe it was my idea. Walk with me in the moonlight.”

  She blinked. “That would be stretching propriety too far.”

  “I suppose it would, although it does have the advantage of getting us out of this benighted room.”

  She frowned at him. “I am quite happy to be in this room. Or at least I was.”

  A faint smile played around his lips. His eyes gleamed with more challenge than amusement. “Don’t you know I can’t be dismissed like all your other, callow suitors?”

  Her heart bumped. “You are not my suitor at all,” she said crossly.

  “Hush,” he mocked. “Someone will hear.”

  She was about to answer back in kind, when some strange expression in his eyes halted her. Some black, determined despair.

  “Are you doing it to me now?” she blurted.

  “Doing what to you?”

  “Alienating me.”

  She thought she glimpsed confusion before his thick lashes swept down, concealing.

  “Why would I trouble? I imagine you’re utterly alienated already.” His lip curled. “And if you weren’t before, you will be after this evening. Bear up, it will all soon be over.” He stood up and strolled over to Lady Barnaby.

  His place was quickly taken by Mr. Longstone. “I’m told you plan to leave us for London in just a couple of days.”

  “We feel that is quite long enough for an impromptu visit! You have all been so kind to us.”

  “Not at all. But at least you will be more comfortable now you have been reunited with your servants and your baggage.” He hesitated. “I shall be visiting London myself in a couple of weeks. I hope I may call upon your aunt.”

  “Of course, you must.”

  The tinkle of pianoforte keys interrupted their conversation, drawing their attention to the instrument by the windows. Verne had lifted the lid and was running one finger across the keys.

  “It’s still mostly in tune,” he said, as though surprised. He raised his gaze. “I’m sure you play, Lady Cecily.”

  “With more enthusiasm than accuracy,” Cecily replied.

  “Oh, please play for us,” Mrs. Longstone said brightly.

  “Do,” her son urged. “Let me help you choose the music and turn it for you.”

  Cecily, who played largely from memory—hence the frequent comments about her inaccuracy—agreed politely. Eventually, she found a French song she remembered from childhood, and set it on the stand. Longstone stood protectively beside her, but he had no competition for the honor of turning the pages. Verne sat back on the window seat, apparently waiting to be entertained.

  She tried to ignore him as she played and sang, but all too often she felt his gaze burning into her skin. It might have added a little too much emotion to the plaintive song, so when pressed for another, she played a short comic piece from memory, and then stood up to laughter and applause.

  While she gathered the music and put it away, Verne said in her ear. “You play from the heart.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Cecily said lightly. “I have no heart. Ask anyone.”

  “Just because the fools cannot win it, doesn’t mean it is not there.”

  “Oh, well said, sir. So I shall tell them.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Lady Cecily?”

  “Of course not,” she said in shocked tones. “That would be rude.”

  Their eyes met. His lips quirked. “You are a minx, aren’t you?”

  Before she could respond, Mrs. Longstone called her to her side, and when she next saw Verne, he was strolling out of the room.

  It appeared he was an erratic host, for he did not come back while tea was served. Afterward, they played cards until Lady Barnaby asked Cecily to fetch her shawl. As soon as she crossed the wide hallway to the bedchamber wing, she could hear a commotion. A woman was crying, and another woman’s voice was raised until a male roar bade her hold her tongue.

  Cecily hurried to see what on earth was the matter, praying that none of her servants were responsible for whatever contretemps was taking place. The door to Jane’s chamber, where Cecily had spent last night, stood open to reveal several maidservants she did not know, and Shilton, who was doing the weeping.

  They all looked petrified, staring at someone she couldn’t see. She heard, though, as soon as he spoke. It was Verne, and he was furious.

  “The only reason any of you are still here is because my niece is not in the room to hear you. As it is, you and you will get to your own quarters now and stay there. You’ll leave first thing in the morning. I will not tolerate such behavior in my house, or to my servants. Those of you with duties, get on with them. Those without, go to bed.”

  “Please, sir, Miss Jane…” one of the maids all but whispered.

  “You are her new nursery maid? She’s asleep in the library. I’ll carry her up in a moment. The rest of you, get out.”

  “Sorry, my lord,” Shilton whispered as the maids fell over each other to get out of the room and fled toward either the servants’ stairs or other bedchambers. There was a manservant among them, too—Longstone’s valet, no doubt. “I like to look after Miss Jane, but they said I had no business to be there, said such—”

  “I know what they said,” Verne said, much more gently. “I heard them.” He stepped into Cecily’s view, putting a hand on Shilton’s shoulder. “You know you always have a place here. No one shall make you leave against your wishes.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” There was enough devotion in the look she cast up at Verne to shock Cecily. But Verne, perhaps sensing the other presence, frowned toward the door and saw Cecily standing there. His hand slid off the maid’s shoulder. “Off you go, Shilton.”

  Shilton sniffed, wiped her nose on her cuff, and scuttled off, casting a quick glance at Cecily as she went, like a dog expecting to be kicked.

  “Can I help?” Cecily asked mildly.

  Verne wrinkled his nose. “There are times when I feel the lack of a mistress for this house. I am not the man to sort out stupid servants’ squabbles.”

  “Should not Mrs. Longstone do it while she is here?” Cecily asked. “Especially since these other servants appear to be hers.”

  “She will only defend them, especially against Shilton, whom they use quite shamefully for no better reason than rumor and gossip.” He dragged his hand through his already wild hair. “Has the poor girl not suffered enough?”

  “I don’t know,” Cecily said. “I am a stranger. But… she is a trifle odd for a lady’s maid.”

  “She wasn’t always so,” he snapped. Then, when she raised her eyebrows, he shrugged impatiently. “She was my sister-in-law’s maid.”

  “So she told me.”

  He drew in his breath and spoke in a rush. “She saved Jane, brought her out of the flames. Daniel had to stop her going back in.”

  “You didn’t stop her?” She didn’t know why she said it. Just that there seemed to be some bond between him and the maid.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. A strange little smile flickered across his lips and vanished. “No. I didn’t stop her. But she lives with guilt. I understand that.” He stirred. “What brings you here so early in any case? Bored with the company already?”

  “Hardly. I came for my aunt’s shawl. Um… why is Jane asleep in the library?”

  He shrugged. “I let her. Sometimes, she looks at the books until she falls asleep.”

  “That’s where you vanished to!”

  His eyes gleamed. “You noticed. I shall treasure the memory.”

  “I’d be surprised, but please do,” she said cordially.

  “This chamber is directly above the library. I couldn’t fail to hear the racket and went to tell them off. Even before I realized they were baiting poor Shilton.” He walked out of the room toward her, and she backed away instinctively.

  “I’ll fetch the shawl,” she muttered, hurrying toward her aunt’s chamber. Before she reached the door, she heard him running downstairs, presu
mably to the library.

  He was a man of many layers and contradictions, but she could not doubt he cared deeply. For some, at least.

  Chapter Six

  A French door led from Verne’s library into the gardens where he’d walked with Cecily earlier that day. He stepped outside, raising his face to the breeze and breathing in the fresh night air. Sometimes, it helped him to sleep.

  “Waiting for someone?” asked a soft female voice in the darkness.

  Yes, but she won’t come. He turned toward the voice, and made out the figure of a woman near the side door. Isabelle de Renarde. “Izzy. Afraid to sleep in my house?”

  “Why should you imagine that?” she wondered, picking her way toward him.

  “I thought you were leaving,” he said flippantly.

  “No, you didn’t. I’m merely taking the air, like you. Recalling times past. Again, like you?”

  “I don’t dwell on the past.” Except when it gives me no choice. “I prefer to look to the future.”

  “And what does the future hold for my wild lord?” She halted close to him.

  By the light spilling from the library, her beauty shone as it had always done. Perhaps it was his eyes that had grown dim. At any rate, her use of the teasing nickname she had given him as part of their love play, served to irritate rather than inflame him. Even though she gazed up at him with her offer clear in her sultry eyes.

  He stepped back and looked up at the sky. It was clear tonight, the stars bright in their velvet blackness, although there was little light from the still-new moon. “I thought I might see about rebuilding the north wing. And hire a few more servants.”

  “If they’ll come,” she said contemptuously.

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “If they’ll come.” He brought his gaze back down to her face. “And what of you, Izzy? Playing the governess for long?”

  “God, no, but I need to be somewhere since Pierre shows no signs of saving what fortune we have left.”

  “Then make him, Izzy. We all know you can make any man do whatever you want.”