Scandal's Heiress

by Amelia Smith

  Hyacinth frowned at that. “It does,” she agreed, “but I do think that education could improve these girls' prospects, or give them hope of a less... a less beastly life.”

  “Beastly?” Thomas said. “It can't be all bad, if your grandmother prospered enough to will you an estate.”

  “No,” she said. “I've read her journals, or some of them, anyway. I only got them yesterday, except for the last one, which was mostly peaceful. She came so close to death, so many times. It's a miracle that she even lived through all of that.” Hyacinth wiped a tear from her eye. “Come on. I think I should rejoin the others.”

  He wanted to say something, but what was there to say? He let her have the reins. She kicked her reluctant mount back to the group of young people, gathered on the path under a cloud of Lady Talbot's disdain. Hyacinth seemed to wish that she'd known her grandmother, which was only natural, but difficult, if your grandmother were so notoriously a courtesan. It was too bad that her family were so awkward, Thomas thought. Then he recognized the thought for what it was: pure aristocratic snobbery. Her grandmother had survived and prospered. Her aunt appeared to represent everything he despised about London society, but Hyacinth wasn't her aunt, any more than he was his uncle, and by Jove, she was fascinating.

  Georgiana winked at him as he returned.

  “Be quiet,” he grumbled.

  She rolled her eyes. “Go on with your ride then,” she said. “We'll see you back at the house.”

  Thomas let Polaris gallop again, but once out of the park he slowed to a walk and drifted home by a circuitous route, not ready to face his gaggle of half-grown cousins over kippers and coffee. He was so preoccupied that he almost collided with the carriage in front of him as it turned into Windcastle house. Only Polaris saved him, swerving and carrying him into the courtyard alongside it. The carriage bore the duke's coat of arms. Thomas drew back sharply on the reins.

  “Sorry there, boy,” he said to the horse, who was tossing his head at the affront of the near-collision, and his rider's inattentiveness.

  Thomas did not feel at all ready to face the duke. Or his father, for that matter. He had no time to collect his thoughts, let alone flee into the house, before the footman opened the carriage door.

  At the first glimpse of a delicately slippered foot, he tensed. The lady turned back to speak to someone else in the carriage. The voice was familiar, but for a moment he couldn't place it. Even her traveling dress rustled with bits of silk. Thomas dismounted from Polaris and handed the reins to a groom. The woman turned around.

  “Mother?” he said.

  The half-smile on her lips faded. “Am I?” Heloise, Baroness of Lawton, looked him over slowly. “I could have sworn that none of my boys were ever so brown.”

  “India will do that to a man,” Thomas said after a pause, straining to maintain a sociable smile. His mother looked well for a woman with grown sons, though crow’s feet were settling around her shrewd eyes. She had inherited the title, and although Lawton was hers by inheritance, her husband had ruled it from the moment he married her, if Thomas recalled correctly.

  “I see the subcontinent has not ruined you utterly,” she said, affecting a jaded tone, though her eyes brightened, as if she were holding back a smile. “But you must excuse me, Tommy.” She turned back to the carriage to help someone else down.

  A young lady emerged, clutching his mother's arm with a pale, thin hand. She had a smooth face which was almost heart-shaped, and her eyes were a bright, tear-stained blue. Although her hands were thin, her waist was not. Her belly bulged beneath her travelling coat.

  “Thomas,” his mother said. “May I present Lady Caroline.”

  Thomas bowed to her. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  “Hmm,” his mother said. Lady Caroline opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She looked at Thomas as if he were a viper preparing to strike. Thomas backed away.

  “Lady Caroline is Marquess Gravely's widow,” his mother informed him. “Poor Gregory.”

  “Gregory?” Thomas said. His heart lightened. “How wonderful.” He smiled more broadly than he had in months, maybe even a year. “I am delighted. Simply delighted to meet you. And I hope, along with everyone else here, that you bear a son, a good, healthy son.”

  Lady Caroline's impossibly smooth brow wrinkled with puzzlement. “Truly?” she said.

  “Yes, truly,” Thomas said.

  His mother cleared her throat. “Thomas,” she chided. “You must not keep us standing here in the cold. Our journey has been wearying, and we are not quite collected yet.”

  The footmen had taken their trunks down, and were awaiting instruction.

  “I will meet you in my parlor in an hour’s time,” she said to Thomas. With that decree, she took Lady Caroline's hand and walked into the house, not looking back once to see the son she had cut off a decade before.

  #

  Thomas paced up and down the library carpet, reading the book’s spines through the glass doors on their shelves. He had never liked waiting, but maybe it was good to have a little time to prepare himself. He wondered if she would have spoken to him, even after so long, if Richard had lived. He didn’t think so.

  He had not expected to see his mother, so much so that he’d missed Georgiana’s broad hints that someone, if not his father, would soon be arriving from the country. Looking back, he realized that she’d as much as told him that his mother, the Baroness of Lawton, would be coming. There was a real, honest hope that poor, sickly Gregory had managed to sire an heir. Thomas hoped that his pale young bride might win out, and bring the next Duke of Windcastle into the world. But first, he must face his mother.

  He thought back to the last time they had spoken, all those years ago.

  Thomas had been home from his second term at Cambridge. On a ride into the woodlands, he happened upon his father and a village girl, only slightly older than himself. He should perhaps have turned away, but he didn’t think to leave until it was too late.

  “You cannot do this to us!” the girl said.

  His father had laughed, the old humorless laugh that he’d always had when he was about to punish one of his children for a minor infraction.

  “There, you are wrong, my dear,” said the Sir Pently. “I can do whatever I like.”

  The girl said nothing to that, only walked away… straight towards where Thomas sat, half-concealed, on his horse. Her eyes startled for a moment when she saw him. They were red from crying, and they were cold, calculating, just like his father’s. He had ruined her. That must have been what was going on.

  “Help me,” she pleaded.

  Thomas was reaching down to help her up onto his horse when he looked up to see a gun pointed at them.

  “Who goes there?” demanded the Sir Pently.

  Thomas spurred his horse forward.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, clearly annoyed. He lowered his gun, though.

  “I was out for a ride,” Thomas said. “I did not intend to intrude upon your tryst.”

  “It was no tryst,” his father said coldly.

  “I do not believe you,” Thomas had said. He turned to aid the girl, but she had already disappeared into the underbrush.

  “Stop!” his father ordered.

  Thomas, despite himself, reined in his mount and turned at his father’s command.

  “You will say nothing of this. Is that understood?”

  “Why would I say anything?” Thomas said. “You despoil the village girls and expect them to fend for themselves afterwards?”

  “I do no such thing,” said the Sir Pently.

  “But you do. It is despicable. I am ashamed to be your son,” Thomas had said. Looking back at that memory, he wondered where he'd found such moral fervor, but then he realized that it wasn't that, at all, or at least not entirely. His father had never been there, at the estate with his children, or if he was, it was only to make an ill-tempered appearance at the supper ta
ble. He felt... jealousy, perhaps, that his father's unwelcome attentions were elsewhere, and not with them: himself, Richard, and even Nate.

  Back at the house that long-ago day, Thomas decided to pack his trunks and go back to Cambridge. His valet dallied. If he had been able to leave immediately, that might have been all, but a storm blew in, making the roads too muddy and dark for travel.

  He'd been summoned to his father’s study. The whole scene was repeated, more or less, except that the village girl was not there, and his mother was. They told Thomas that he had misinterpreted the scene. Thomas had not believed them. His father had ordered him off the estate, and Thomas had gone, gladly, as far as the seas could carry him, all the way to India.

  As he waited for his mother to call him in again, he tried to remember what their excuse had been for his father’s dalliances. If he remembered correctly, they had offered none.

  Jones appeared at the door. “The Baroness Lawton will see you now,” he said.

  Thomas nodded and stalked to the door.

  “There’s no need to worry, Sir,” the butler said. “I’m sure the maharajas were much more fearsome.”

  Thomas shook his head. “There, you’re wrong. Though they wore more jewels, as a rule.”

  “Did they, Sir?” the butler asked.

  Thomas forced himself to relax as he entered his mother's sitting room. A fire burned in the grate. The room had been redecorated since Thomas had seen it last, with a burgundy brocade on the walls. His mother stood with her back to the door, looking out the window into the blustery day. Clouds blew across the sky, echoing the day when Thomas had left so many years before.

  “Leave us, Jones,” she said.

  The door clicked shut.

  His mother remained silent for a moment before finally turning to look at him.

  “I take it that Father is well?” Thomas said.

  His mother shook her head. “Not what one would call well. Rather sickly, in fact, and no more bearable for his infirmity. Your uncle, on the other hand, seems to have sprung back from last winter's influenza, but he is not young. You must be on hand. Babies are frail, and some of them are girls.”

  “I am in no way prepared.”

  “You will have to be,” she said.

  “Is that all?” Thomas asked.

  His mother looked him over in silence. “Yes,” she said. “I think you will do after all.”

  Thomas grimaced. He turned to go. His hand was on the doorknob when his mother spoke again.

  “You were wrong about that girl,” she said. “Your father was in no way dallying with her. She was his daughter. She had been tolerably well looked after.”

  Thomas hesitated. Yes. The pieces could fit together that way, too. It was a wonder he hadn’t considered the possibility before. He gritted his teeth. The revelation made him feel keenly how very young he had been at the time.

  “You thought that he had ruined her,” his mother continued, “but he had not. He never dallied with a girl who had not been thoroughly ruined before he met her. With the possible exception of myself.”

  Thomas’s ears pulsed. She had no reason to lie about this, though he would have preferred not knowing, and certainly not hearing it from his mother's own lips. His father had taken everything he could from her. Thomas was not a child any more, though, not even in his mother’s estimation. He preferred the story he’d held on to through all his years of exile, but the truth changed nothing. His father was still no one to be admired, emulated, or bowed down to.

  “I am sorry,” he said to his mother. “So sorry.”

  #

  Chapter 13: The Ball

  Hyacinth's gown was fitted, tried on, and re-fitted again. She had thought it perfect the first time, but Aunt Celia demanded adjustments: a tuck here, an extra bit of lace on the sleeves, less at the hem. The house buzzed with preparations all day Friday, the day before the ball.

  “We must rest tomorrow,” Aunt Celia said.

  Hyacinth would rather have gone riding in the park again, even with the recalcitrant horse she'd had the day before, if only to escape her aunt's realm, the house with its well-kept front rooms, its respectable address. A ride in the park would also offer a small chance of seeing Thomas again, but even without that thought she would have longed to escape.

  Lady Talbot was resting in her bedroom, in preparation for the exertions of the night ahead, so Hyacinth and Sophie were alone at breakfast.

  “Does your mother ever entertain here?” Hyacinth asked Sophie.

  Sophie glanced sidelong towards the servants' door. “No,” she whispered. “She says she won’t do it if she can’t do it in the finest style, and for that she would need a French chef.”

  “Couldn't she get one?” Hyacinth asked.

  Sophie shook her head. “Cook has been with us since she was a girl. Mother could never stand to let her go. We wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

  Hyacinth nodded. She had assumed that the servants in Aunt Celia’s house came and went. She’d overheard more than one quarrel among the staff since she’d arrived. But perhaps her aunt appreciated their loyalty, and recognized that she might not find others who were so able to endure her moods.

  Hyacinth was still musing on this when the butler appeared a few minutes later.

  “Miss Grey?” he said. “There’s a man here to see you. He is waiting in the hall.”

  “A man to see me?” Hyacinth said. Then she remembered. “Oh! Is it… is it Mr. Butler?”

  The butler nodded.

  “Show him in to the library, if you could,” Hyacinth said. “I will be with him directly.”

  “I don’t know if Lady Talbot would approve, Miss.”

  “In that case,” said Hyacinth, “we will converse on the doorstep.” She would not allow her aunt’s scruples to interfere with her meeting with the solicitor. She would not.

  The butler sucked in his breath theatrically. “Well then, Miss, I will show him to the library.”

  Sophie leaped up the moment he was gone. “Who is it, Hy?” she demanded, clutching Hyacinth's arm. “Is he another suitor?”

  Hyacinth laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “He is my grandmother’s solicitor and man of affairs. He is here to discuss details of my inheritance with me.”

  “Oh!” Sophie said. “The inheritance mama didn’t want you to collect?” she whispered.

  “The very one,” Hyacinth said.

  “Is it a terribly big fortune?” Sophie asked breathlessly.

  Hyacinth shook off her younger cousin. “You have been reading too many romantic novels, haven’t you?” she said. “I really must go, now.”

  Sophie released her reluctantly. “Mother will know. She'll be down in a flash.”

  “She's not down yet, though, is she?” Hyacinth said. “I'll be in the library.”

  #

  When Hyacinth arrived at the library, Mr. Butler had already spread out an array of documents on the rarely-used desk, under the butler's watchful eye.

  “Miss Grey,” he greeted her with a smile. “So good to see you again.”

  Hyacinth returned his greetings, but the array of documents distracted her. There were two piles of what appeared to be stock certificates, some deeds to land, and a bundle of letters, along with an appraiser's list of the contents of the house.

  “There is really quite a lot, isn’t there?” she said.

  The solicitor considered. “I don't think you will find it overwhelming, once you get acquainted with it all. Where shall we begin?”

  Hyacinth chose to start with the estate. Its income had amounted to about three thousand per annum in the last few years – not a princely sum, but more than her father's income, which was respectable enough for a Navy man. The solicitor expressed the opinion that the orchards on the estate might become even more profitable with careful management. She inspected some of the maps he’d brought with him, and asked how long it would take to travel there.

  “About four or five da
ys, in good weather, maybe a bit less in summer,” the solicitor said. He glanced at his watch. “Shall we move on to the stocks, now?”

  They were about half way through the next set of documents when Lady Talbot burst in.

  “What is this?” she demanded.

  Mr. Butler stepped back while Hyacinth turned to face her aunt.

  “This,” she said, “is a long-delayed meeting with my grandmother’s man of affairs.”

  “Behind my back?”

  “You would not allow me to do it in front of your face, so yes, I had to arrange things on my own.”

  “I will not countenance it!”

  “I didn’t imagine that you would. I will take myself off directly and find lodgings,” Hyacinth said.

  “You will do no such thing!”

  Mr. Butler cleared his throat. Both women ignored him.

  “That would be most unwise,” Aunt Celia said. “Think of the scandal it would cause! Think of my reputation!”

  “You have looked after your own reputation well enough to this point,” Hyacinth said. “I think you could recover well enough.” She made a move to begin gathering up the maps and folios of stocks, but the solicitor shook his head and waved her away. Her aunt clutched the back of a chair with one white-knuckled hand. She had gone quite purple in the face. She gulped, took a deep breath, and spoke again.

  “I have my reputation thanks only to my elder’s careful council, and a few heavy-handed maneuverings when I was a young lady. You are still young, and if you were a year or two younger, and paid more attention to your attire, you'd be hailed as a diamond of the first water. You clearly have no idea what trouble could come your way. I will not allow you to make such a serious mistake.”

  A diamond of the first water? Surely she exaggerated. Hyacinth wondered again what her aunt’s ancient indiscretion had been, but for the moment she was more concerned with her own fate.

  “A serious mistake?” Hyacinth said. “How, pray tell, is taking charge of my inheritance, becoming knowledgeable about my property, a serious mistake?”