“She’s quite attractive, as game pullets go,” he told Aubrey carelessly after the play, as they cracked the first bottle of wine at their club. “Have her with my blessing.”
Aubrey snorted. “You know, Lucien, it’s just as well you’re not looking for a high-flyer, for you damned well couldn’t afford her.”
Lucien forced a smile. “She’s not my sort, as it happens.”
“Balderdash—she’s any man’s sort.”
Not mine, Lucien thought absently. He might have said it aloud if the sentiment hadn’t been so startlingly true. How odd—for the chorus girl had been a prime piece, buxom and long-limbed and flashy, as well as incredibly flexible as she moved around the stage. How could he not be interested?
Aubrey was looking at him strangely, so Lucien said, “If she’s so much to your taste, I’m surprised you didn’t go around to the stage door after the performance and make yourself known.”
“Strategy, my friend. Never let a woman guess exactly how interested you are.” Aubrey waved a hand at a waiter to bring another bottle, and as they drank it, he detailed his plan for winning the chorus girl. “It’s too bad you can’t join the fun, for I’m certain she has a friend,” Aubrey fin-ished. “The gossips have it that your father is never without a lightskirt, so why should he object to you having one?”
“Oh, not a lightskirt. Only the finest of the demimonde will do for the Earl of Chiswick.” Lucien drained his glass. “I’m meant to be on the road to Weybridge at first light—for the duke’s birthday, you know. A few hours’ sleep before I climb into a jolting carriage will not come amiss.”
“Too late.” Aubrey tilted his head toward the nearest window. “Dawn’s breaking now, if I’m not mistaken. You won’t mind if I don’t come to see you off? Deadly dull it is, waving good-bye—and I’ve a mind for a hand or two of piquet before I go home.”
Lucien walked from the club to his rooms in Mount Street, hoping a fresh breeze might help clear his head. The post-chaise Uncle Josiah had ordered for him was already waiting. The horses stamped impatiently, snorting in the cool morning air, and the postboys looked bored.
Nearby, Lucien’s valet paced—but he brightened at the sight of his master. “The trunks are already strapped in place, my lord. The moment you take your seat, we can be off.”
Lucien rubbed his jaw and thought longingly of his bed—or failing that, at least a hot towel and a close shave. But in good conscience, he couldn’t keep the team and the boys—or Uncle Josiah—waiting any longer, so he climbed into the post-chaise and settled into the corner.
Sleep eluded him, and the sway and bounce of the springs made him feel like casting up his accounts. I must change clubs. The wine there is frightfully bad, to leave me with a head like this.
As they left London behind to bowl along the Great North Road, he looked across at his valet, who was sitting primly upright on the opposite seat with his back to the horses. “I assume you brought the letter?”
“Of course, my lord.” The valet drew it from a small hand valise.
Lucien had read the duke’s message so often in the last two days that the words felt engraved on his brain, so he skipped to the most interesting parts.
My dear Hartford,
My birthday is next week, and though my doctor does not actually say it will be my last, his opinion is clear…
As one man of the world to another, I understand how you must feel about your father keeping you on such a short leash. I have told him many times how unwise he is not to allow his heir adequate means to sample all the temptations of the city, but Chiswick was always better at giving advice than taking it…Since I shall not long be in need of my worldly goods, I look forward to making it possible for you to take your proper place in society. And if my gift allows each of us to put a finger in your father’s eye, so much the better.
Your devoted great-uncle, Josiah Weybridge
P.S. I hope you will believe me, Lucien, when I say that you have always been my favorite of your mother’s children.
Uncle Josiah, Lucien thought sleepily, was the best of sports. Too bad that his only son had died in infancy. Then the rest of the family had succumbed one after another, and now the dukedom would fall to the most unlikely of fellows, a cousin from a branch so distant that Lucien hadn’t even known they existed. Some blighter from the former colonies would be the next Duke of Weybridge, he had heard—and a bloody great time it had taken the solicitors to find him there, too, with yet another war dragging on. It was over now, finally—but what was wrong with those American fellows, anyway? Did they like fighting so much they simply couldn’t walk away from a tussle?
No wonder Uncle Josiah was giving away his personal fortune rather than leaving any more than he must to this unwelcome heir, the new Marquess of Athstone. A strange sort of duke the fellow would make; he was probably bragging to his fellow colonials about being a duke in waiting.
But at least, Lucien thought with a yawn, this new cousin was related only through Lucien’s mother—and therefore he would never be the head of the Arden family. Though, come to think of it, even an odd American could hardly be worse to deal with than Lucien’s father was.
Good old Uncle Josiah. Lucien suspected it wasn’t just the Earl of Chiswick who would end up feeling he’d had a finger stuck in his eye, but Josiah’s heir as well.
With the windows of the Red Dragon’s best private parlor standing open to London’s September sunshine, Gavin Waring, the new Marquess of Athstone, could almost have closed his eyes and imagined he was back in Baltimore. From the street, shouts resounded as carriages jockeyed for position, while horses snorted and costermongers called their wares. And as for the smells…
From his place on the most uncomfortable settee he’d ever encountered, Gavin looked up at the small, trim man who stood facing him. “Benson, is it?”
“Yes, my lord. Here are my references, for your review.” Benson held out a sheaf of paper.
Gavin took the small bundle, but he didn’t look at the pages. “The names won’t mean much to me. I assume you know I’m not exactly English.”
“Yes, my lord. It was mentioned.”
“And if you hadn’t been warned already, the way I talk would have told you. I don’t know the men you’ve worked for, or whether they’re gentlemen or bounders, so I haven’t any idea whether their recommendations are reliable.”
The small man stiffened slightly. “I assure you, sir—”
“So let’s just get to know each other a bit, shall we?”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Sir will do, Benson. This my lord business makes my ears tired. Please sit down.”
“I prefer to stand when receiving instructions, sir.”
“I don’t blame you. I can’t think the chair would be any more comfortable than this settee is.” Gavin pushed himself to his feet and walked across to a table where a decanter stood. “I don’t suppose you’d like a glass of Madeira, either?”
Benson’s face was wooden. “Certainly not, sir.”
Gavin set the decanter down without pouring. “You’re the seventeenth valet I’ve interviewed, by the way.”
“You must be very hard to please, sir, if not a single one of them met your expectations.”
“It was more a matter of me not meeting theirs,” Gavin said pensively. “They…er…tended to look down their noses at me, and I’m afraid I could not support that attitude every morning before breakfast.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you, I wonder? I’m looking for something more than a gentleman’s gentleman.”
“More, sir?”
“I am not a lackwit, but there are many things I don’t know.”
“May I assume, sir, that one of those things is how to get on in English society?”
“Yes, exactly. It’s different where I come from.”
“I should think it would be, sir. For a start, I believe we shall require a different tailor.” Benson cleared hi
s throat. “If, that is, you should choose to give me the position.”
“There’s no time for things like that. I arrived in London only two days ago, and I am to leave the day after tomorrow for the duke’s birthday celebration.”
“Lack of time is not an issue for a gentleman, sir. Not when the gentleman is the Duke of Weybridge’s heir.”
Gavin tapped his fingers on the table. “Very well, Benson,” he said anally. “You have the job. Go forth and start working your magic.”
“I shall be pleased to do so, sir.” Benson bowed and half turned, then paused. “If I may say so, sir, you are far more English than you think. Despite the accent, you have a manner of command, of ease, which comes naturally to those of noble blood.”
Gavin eyed him narrowly. “Don’t overdo it.”
“I shall exercise caution, my lord.” The valet went out so quietly that Gavin, picking up the letter from the duke that had been awaiting him when he arrived, had to look around to be certain he was alone.
With a snap of the wrist, he unfolded the letter and read it once more.
Athstone,
I understand from my solicitors that you have at long last seen fit to darken England’s shores with your presence. It is to be hoped that in making this journey to the land of your ancestors you have come to terms with your heritage and plan to embrace your future.
It is my wish that you attend me on the occasion of my birthday, and therefore I have arranged for a post-chaise to bring you to Weybridge Castle. Please do not interpret this as permission to invite others to accompany you. The castle will be yours soon enough to do with as you will; for now my word is law here and I expect you to act accordingly.
Josiah Weybridge
P.S. My health is not good, and there is much for you to learn before you step into my shoes.
“What a lot of damned cheek,” Gavin muttered. What did the duke expect—that he would arrive with a shipload of drunken sailors whom he’d met on the voyage over? Or a bit of muslin to share his bedroom? And as for answering to a damned title, instead of his perfectly good name…
He frowned. The duke might be crotchety because he was ill. It must have cost Weybridge dearly to add that last sentence. And he was sending a post-chaise…
“Benson,” he called. When the valet silently appeared in the doorway once more, Gavin folded the letter and slid it into his pocket. “When a gentleman prefers not to spend a day or two cooped up inside a post-chaise, how does he go about getting himself across England?”
“A curricle and team, sir. But the skill required to drive such an equipage—”
“Never mind that. Can you get me set up by the day after tomorrow?”
The duke had made clear that his word was law in the castle, but he hadn’t said a thing about what went on outside the walls. Gavin figured that as long as he didn’t drive the curricle up the stairs and through the public rooms, how he got to the castle was his own business.
Even more important, as long as he had a means of travel he could call his own, it would be his choice—and not the duke’s—as to how long he stayed.
Chapter 2
The Beckhams’ hunting lodge was only a few hours from Weybridge Castle, so Isabel’s post-chaise swept through the gates with a flourish and pulled up in the huge inner courtyard by midafternoon. A footman paid off the postboys, and by the time the housekeeper had come to greet Isabel, her single trunk had been brought in.
“You’ll be in the green suite as usual,” Mrs. Meeker said. “And may I say, my lady, how good it is to have you here? It will be a tonic for His Grace to have the family gathered once more.”
“Then we’re all to be here? Hartford and Lady Emily as well?” She hadn’t seen her brother since the Season ended months ago—not that she had encountered him with any frequency even then, for Lucien had no patience with musicales and soirees. And as for Emily—the last time Isabel had seen her sister had been more than a year ago, not long after the calamity.
“Yes, my lady. Would you like tea brought to your room right away?”
“No, later in the drawing room will be fine. But I haven’t even asked after my uncle. How is he, Mrs. Meeker?”
The housekeeper’s face tightened. “Dr. Mason shakes his head, my lady, but His Grace has a strong will, so we must hope for the best.”
“Just let me wash the road dust from my face, and I will go and make my curtsey to him.”
“He left orders for no one to disturb him. He is resting now so he will be able to come down for dinner.”
“I see,” Isabel said slowly. Even the duke’s letter hadn’t made her believe the situation was truly dire; she supposed that was because he had written it himself rather than turning the matter over to a secretary.
The footmen had already brought up her trunk, and her maid was unpacking when Isabel reached the green suite. She washed her face slowly, enjoying the restoring touch of warm water against her skin, and decided not to take the time to have Martha brush her hair. Instead, she captured the loose ends that had slipped out of the knot at the back of her head, tucking them back in place and smoothing the blue-black strands until they gleamed once more. She was about to go downstairs when she heard a soft tap on the door.
“Are you in there, Isabel?”
Isabel waved her maid away and opened the door herself. “Emily? I thought I was the first to arrive. How long have you been here?”
“No more than half an hour. I heard a ruckus in the hall and knew it must be you. I thought we might meet up on the road.”
“Traveling together would have been fun—but I didn’t come from Maxton Abbey. I was at a hunting party.”
“At this season? What on earth were you hunting?”
“The Beckhams are training a new pack of foxhounds—though the best I can say for the sport is that the pursuit was never predictable.” Isabel held her sister by the shoulders and studied her. Emily was even more slender than she’d been the last time Isabel saw her, but her golden-brown hair displayed a healthy glow and her dark-brown eyes sparkled with the refection of her butter-yellow dress. “I still think it unfair that you grew two inches taller than I am. But Emily, you look wonderful! What is your secret?”
Emily laughed. “I find it helps not to read Father’s letters. They all say the same thing anyway. It is past time to give up these crotchets and come home. I’ve arranged for you to meet a man of good character who will overlook your past…”
Isabel gasped. “As if what happened was your fault! I can hardly believe he’s still trying to marry you off.”
“Quite seriously, too. He’s run through the entire roster of unmarried earls and viscounts, and most of the barons. In fact, his last letter mentioned a plain mister—but one of excellent family, I assure you.”
“I thought you said you didn’t read his letters.”
“Well, there’s always the odd chance that someday he might say he’s sorry for how the last betrothal he arranged for me turned out. I wouldn’t stake my jewelry on it even if I still owned any, but…”
“Oh, Emily. I was so afraid—” Isabel broke off.
“That I would go into a decline over Rivington?”
“That you would be haunted forever by this misfortune.”
“Not I,” Emily said.
But on closer inspection, Isabel thought a shadow lay deep in her sister’s eyes, and Emily’s smile was not quite as sunny as it once had been.
Emily took a deep breath. “Has Mrs. Meeker told you about Uncle Josiah?”
“Only that he’s resting this afternoon. Have you seen him? Is it as serious as he seemed to think when he wrote?” Belatedly, Isabel noticed that her maid was listening. “Martha, go and get settled. You can finish unpacking later. I’ll wear—oh, let’s see. The blue, I think, for dinner tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take it down to press.” Martha removed the dress from the sparsely filled wardrobe.
As the door closed behind the maid, Emily tip
ped her head to one side and regarded the meager contents remaining in Isabel’s trunk. “That’s all the clothes you brought? I thought you said you were at a hunting party. Didn’t you have to change your dress four times a day?”
It was silly to feel so sensitive in front of her sister, but Isabel wasn’t ready to admit what a very tight budget she was on. “I would have spent the week in perfect comfort if my favorite dinner gown hadn’t suffered an unfortunate encounter with a glass of red wine on my first evening with the Beckhams. Then a clumsy young man trod on a hem while we were dancing. Anyway, this is only family, and no one will care if they see me in the same few garments over and over.”
“And here I was hoping to supplement my outdated wardrobe by borrowing your magnifcence, Lady Maxwell!”
“You, outdated? Only because you live in the tiniest village you could find, I’ll wager, with no dressmaker at hand.”
“You would lose, for I’ve no money for new gowns. Even a cottage is expensive when you must pay for everything yourself. At least you have a home.”
Maxwell provided her with a place to live, that was true—but neither Maxton Abbey nor the London house had ever felt like home, and Isabel expected they never would. But allowing herself to think like this would only make her maudlin, so she forced a smile. “If we get too bored, we shall exchange dresses. At least then we will each have something different to look at.”
Emily laughed. “Come, Isabel, I’m longing for my tea. I do hope the tray is already waiting.” She linked her arm in Isabel’s.
“Is Mrs. Dalrymple resting from the journey, or shall we collect her before going down?”
“Now there’s a story,” Emily said. “She isn’t here.”
“Your faithful companion has deserted you? She can’t have been offered a better job.”
The Birthday Scandal Page 2
