The Birthday Scandal

by Leigh Michaels

  This explained everything. The captain’s instant flash of annoyance when he had read Chloe’s letter. The fact that he had not sent back any message for Lucien to deliver to her. The way the captain had merely grunted at Lucien instead of thanking him or raving about his lovely bride-to-be.

  Lucien allowed himself a moment of pure triumph, basking in the conviction that he had been right all along about Captain Hopkins’s intentions. Lucien was as certain of it in his own heart as if the man had told him outright that he had no intention of showing up tonight.

  But his triumph quickly gave way to uncertainty. How could he possibly break this news to Chloe? She would never believe him. She would listen, and shake her head, and tell him that he didn’t know Captain Hopkins—and she would be right. How could Lucien persuade her that he had read the man’s character more accurately in just a few minutes than she had in however many weeks or months she had known him?

  Besides, with her freedom at stake—when giving up her dream of eloping with her soldier would mean she was once more caught in a betrothal to a man she detested, with no escape in sight—everything in her would want to trust Captain Hopkins. She would not lightly be swayed from believing in him, and in her plans.

  Even if somehow Lucien could convince her not to go out to the folly tonight, part of her would always wonder whether her lover had come after all and found her to be the unfaithful one.

  So though he was as certain as it was possible to be that Captain Hopkins would not appear in that dark back lane tonight with a chaise and four ready for a trip to Scotland, Lucien was also positive that Chloe would not be dissuaded from her plan. It would do no good to tell her what he had discovered; she would have to face the truth for herself. She would no doubt wait in the folly until her heart broke rather than believe that her lover might not come for her.

  But maybe there was still something he could do to ease the pain.

  “Yes, indeed,” Lady Stone said. “The only possible conclusion is that it’s a love match.”

  Lucien had the vague impression that she’d been talking to herself the whole time, working through a convoluted line of logic on her way to an incredible conclusion. But who was this fount of gossip talking about? Could she possibly know about Chloe and Captain Hopkins?

  “A love match?” he said unsteadily.

  “Stop woolgathering, Hartford.” Lady Stone rapped him across the knuckles with her fan. “I mean Chiswick and your soon-to-be stepmother. As far as I can see, there’s no other way to account for it. But you look shocked—so tell me, is there some factor I’ve overlooked?”

  Chapter 15

  As Isabel followed the path through the gardens to the folly at the far end, she kept her eyes open for guests who seemed uncomfortable or lost. Not many had come so far, and before long she was able to simply enjoy the quiet.

  She knew she was probably freetting over nothing, to worry so about Uncle Josiah. But why had the duke wanted to come all the way out here anyway, so far from his guests?

  Uncle Josiah had looked much healthier in the last couple of days than he had on the evening the family had arrived. Probably that was just the effect of having something to think about besides his illness, and some entertainment that was livelier than the usual castle routine. However, the fact that he felt somewhat better might have prompted him to attempt too much.

  The folly stood on a little knoll that commanded some of the best views on the entire estate. An octagonal structure that looked like an oversized lantern, it had a steep slate roof with deep overhangs. Its open sides were partially sheltered by trellised wisteria vines, which provided shade and windbreak all year, as well as glorious aromas in the summer.

  Isabel heard voices coming from the folly—a woman’s laughing tones—and she hastened her step in case Lady Murdoch was annoying the duke.

  Then a man’s voice cut across the laughter. But it wasn’t Uncle Josiah’s voice, and it wasn’t Gavin’s.

  The Earl of Maxwell was in the folly, with Lady Murdoch. Isabel’s husband—with the woman who had been rumored to be his mistress.

  Isabel stopped in a secluded spot behind a row of tall, thick boxwood. She had no intention of eavesdropping, she told herself. Besides, nothing could happen, for Uncle Josiah was there, too. Wasn’t he?

  Through the vines, she caught a glimpse of a bright-red skirt, and very close to it, a deep-blue coat—the one Maxwell had been wearing. And there were no other voices.

  Lady Murdoch and Maxwell. No wonder he hadn’t been anywhere on the castle lawn. Only now did Isabel realize she’d been watching for him. She wondered if she had suspected this, when Lady Murdoch announced that she planned to seek out the duke. Why else would Isabel have had that sudden and overwhelming fear that something might have happened to Uncle Josiah, except that it had formed an excuse to come all the way down here and see for herself? Why had she insisted on coming, when Emily had volunteered?

  Because you wanted to know. And now what are you going to do about it?

  “Isn’t your tedious little bride with child yet, Max? Do hurry it up—because now that I’ve provided my husband with his heir, I’m free to do as I like. And what I’d like is…”

  Her voice dropped, but Isabel had no difficulty in filling in the rest of the sentence.

  “You’d risk losing your husband’s money by flaunting a lover in front of him, Elspeth?” Maxwell sounded good-humored, almost lazy.

  “I expect we’d need to be discreet.” Lady Murdoch’s laugh sounded just a bit forced. “But Murdoch is Scottish, you see. All that lovely money and he won’t let go of a single farthing. So it doesn’t matter whether I please him or only myself—all I’ll have is my marriage portion. But at least I could have you.”

  Isabel gritted her teeth as the flash of red skirt moved even closer to the dark-blue coat.

  It was only a moment later—though it seemed forever to Isabel—when Lady Murdoch said, “What’s wrong, Max? You haven’t gone sentimental on me, have you?”

  Isabel’s breath caught. If he wasn’t seizing the lure Lady Murdoch held out, why not? Was it possible that Maxwell intended to honor his vows?

  She knew better than to let her thoughts wander in that direction, of course. More likely he was delaying only because he wanted to make certain that his tedious little bride was pregnant before he devoted himself to a lover.

  “What is it, Max? You’re not still feeling guilty about that young woman, are you? Miss Lester?”

  Isabel fought off a dizzy spell. She hadn’t heard that name in a very long time. But what had Maxwell to do with the young lady Philip Rivington had ruined? Maxwell had been drawn into that duel only because he was Philip Rivington’s friend—and that, Isabel thought, was bad enough. Surely he had no other involvement with the young woman Philip had seduced.

  Lady Murdoch sounded accusing. “You’re still sending her money—aren’t you?”

  Foreboding descended on Isabel like fog, so dense and gray and heavy that she could barely breathe.

  “It is none of your business what I do with my money.”

  “Just because she was supposed to be a lady, and ladies are expected not to get themselves with child, is no reason for you…”

  “It’s little enough to do for her and the child, since I am responsible for her situation.”

  Isabel clutched her arms tightly across her body and wished she had never come down the path to the folly. Each word seemed to tear deeper into her heart.

  “Oh, Max,” Lady Murdoch soothed, “don’t be so silly about this. How foolish you’re being—what would people say if they knew? She got herself into this mess, after all. A sensible female would have taken care not to get with child.”

  “A sensible female like you, Elspeth?”

  Lady Murdoch laughed. “Yes, darling, a sensible female like me. You needn’t be afraid that I’ll saddle you with a by-blow. Now come here, Max—and kiss me.”

  Blind with pain, Isabel turned back toward t
he castle, and with the last of her self-control she slipped silently away.

  The duke dismissed Gavin at the bottom of the stairs, as soon as the two burly footmen appeared to carry his chair up the long fight to the gallery. “I’ve had enough of your company for one afternoon, Athstone. Go back out to the garden and take care of my guests.”

  The man was exhausted but far too proud to admit it. Or else, Gavin thought as he looked out over the lawn, the duke agreed that garden parties were the most boring activity on the face of the earth. He must have forgotten that fact when he’d planned this one, or surely he’d have used the excuse of his illness to avoid it.

  The annual Weybridge garden party was a tradition, the Earl of Chiswick had said. He made it sound as though the castle itself would collapse if the party wasn’t held on schedule. But then that might not be such a bad thing, Gavin thought. If there was no castle, there wouldn’t be a place to hold garden parties, much less balls—and the upcoming dance promised to be every bit as dull as the garden party, only warmer and more crowded.

  He descended the wide stone steps to the lawn and plunged once more into the throng, nodding and smiling and chatting, till he ended up near the big marquee and spotted Lucien sitting on the edge of the low stone basin of a fountain. Gavin dropped down beside him. “Where did you find that glass of ale?”

  Lucien shook his head a little as if he were just waking up, and he looked at the glass, apparently surprised to see what he was holding. “Around front, in the courtyard. The innkeeper brought a barrel, but he’s keeping it under wraps. Favored customers only.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” But Gavin didn’t move, because as he scanned the crowd, he saw Emily with Lancaster and young Baron Draycott. Apparently, Benson hadn’t yet been able to pass along the message to her, or surely she wouldn’t be standing there making eyes at the man.

  Lucien stood up suddenly. “I’ll bring you a glass. If you go out to the courtyard yourself, half the crowd will notice and probably follow you. The heir, you know—everyone’s watching you.”

  “And here I thought my main job was to flirt with every unmarried woman within twenty miles.”

  Lucien grinned. “That, too.” He saluted Gavin with his glass and strolled off.

  Gavin looked back at Emily. Lancaster had gone, leaving her with Baron Draycott. That was interesting, Gavin thought. Was it possible he’d read too much into the fragment of conversation he’d overheard? Or maybe Lancaster had known he was standing there just outside the smoking room door and had been goading him. The duke had called Gavin’s name from the foot of the steps—Lancaster could have heard that and decided to have a little fun.

  There was nothing he could do about it now—or, rather, he’d done everything he could by warning Emily. Surely she would take care of herself. And what could Lancaster do in the middle of a garden party, anyway?

  The Carew sisters sidled by with their eyes modestly cast down, and he rose to bow politely just as one of them lost her shoe and seized his arm to steady herself. Gavin smothered a sigh and helped her back into her footwear, and wished he were still trundling the duke’s chair around the garden.

  A by-blow. A side-slip. A bastard…

  As soon as she was away from the folly, Isabel found a stone bench in a secluded corner of the garden, as far as she could get from the laughter and joy of the party. She barely felt the cold of the shaded stone seeping through her fine new dress. She was making a mental list of all the names, from euphemistic to blunt, for a child born out of wedlock—because occupying her mind with semantics for a while let her avoid thinking too deeply about what she had overheard.

  But the respite from her pounding thoughts was fleeting.

  Maxwell sent money to a young lady who had borne a child without being married—because, he had fatly told Lady Murdoch, he was responsible.

  All this time, Isabel had despised Philip Rivington— because he had been a cad and a fool, because he had destroyed Emily’s life, because he had ruined Isabel’s own marriage. But now it seemed that Philip Rivington had not been the guilty party after all—because Maxwell was.

  Isabel had never before wondered why Philip Rivington had met his challenger in a duel rather than seek some other, more honorable solution. If he had been the father of Miss Lester’s child, he could have muddled through the mess by breaking off his betrothal to Emily and marrying the young woman he had seduced. Even Miss Lester’s irate brother would have agreed to a quiet marriage, no matter how much he despised Philip Rivington, because the alternative was worse—a scandalous duel, a ruined sister, and a bastard child.

  But if Maxwell had been the father instead, he would have had no such option—for by the time the challenge was issued, he had already married Isabel.

  For the first time, she considered the odd timing of that duel. She’d always thought it purely coincidence—annoying and inconvenient, but coincidence nonetheless—that her new husband’s friend had been called out to face justice on the very night after her wedding. But since it was also the day that Emily’s betrothal had been publicly announced, she had never questioned which event might have been the actual trigger.

  But what if it should have been Maxwell instead who faced that pistol at dawn—and Philip Rivington had stepped into his shoes, taken the blame—and paid the price?

  You have to ask him. You have to know the truth.

  Her entire body shuddered away from the confrontation. They were finally beginning to find their way to a sort of peace, but now she would have to upset that fragile balance…

  Isabel pulled herself up short. What was she thinking? There was no peace between them, no balance. Only a bargain—a straightforward swap. How had she, even for a moment, forgotten that?

  Because you wanted to forget.

  She gasped as the harsh truth struck home. Sometime in the last few days, she had stopped thinking of the ben-efts she would get from their bargain—full possession of Kilburn and complete independence from her husband— because the fact was she didn’t want to leave him after all.

  Maxwell’s reasoning, annoying though she had found it, had been correct. Though she hadn’t admitted it even to herself, Isabel could no longer deny the facts. She had deliberately set out to make their marriage real. She wanted to be his wife. She wanted to give him his heir.

  Sometime in the last year, even while she had been constantly telling herself she wanted nothing to do with Maxwell, she had fallen in love with her husband…only to find out now, in the most painful way possible, that she had never known him at all.

  Even though he’d scarcely taken his eyes off Chloe all afternoon, Lucien almost missed her signal as she left the group of girls she’d been sitting with under the edge of the marquee and started off toward a quieter corner of the garden by herself. In fact, he wondered for a moment if she’d acquired some sort of tic, the way she was tossing her head around.

  Oh. She must be beckoning for him to join her.

  He groped for an excuse to walk away from Gavin and finally mumbled something about getting his cousin a glass of ale. But instead of heading for the courtyard and the innkeeper’s barrel, Lucien took a path that paralleled the one Chloe was on, watching her progress from the corner of his eye. Only when they were out of sight did he push through a hedge and come up next to her.

  She wheeled around to face him. “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you, Hartford?”

  He hadn’t expected an attack. “Nothing. Why?”

  “Then stop watching me! Someone will notice and wonder why you’re so interested.”

  “Why wouldn’t I watch you? You’re quite pretty, you know.”

  She turned a little pink and seemed—to Lucien’s relief—to calm down. At least her voice was lower and steadier. “I forgot to ask you this morning. Did he give you a time?”

  “Give me a…? Oh, you mean Cap—”

  “Shush! Someone could be listening.”

  “We’re in the midd
le of the knot garden, Chloe.”

  “With hedges all around, so someone could be lurking on the other side. Anyway, we mustn’t be away from the party for long. Did he tell you what time he’ll be here?”

  “No,” Lucien said honestly. And he didn’t tell me anything else, either—this fortune-hunting soldier of yours.

  Chloe lifted her pinky finger to her mouth and nibbled at her nail. “He won’t be late, I’m certain, for he’ll want to put a great deal of the journey behind us before anyone realizes I’m gone. So of course I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “Not good for the horses,” Lucien agreed, “standing around in the damp air.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “It will already be dark by the time the dancing starts, but I must at least make an appearance at the ball. My mother would never believe that even the most dreadful headache could make me give up the entire evening. Then I’ll have to go back upstairs, after I make my excuses and leave the ballroom.”

  “Why? I left your valise in the folly, just as you requested—tucked under the bench farthest from the castle.”

  She rewarded him with a smile, but it was far from her best one; she was obviously distracted. Lucien was disappointed. He hadn’t realized that he looked forward to her smiles.

  “Because I’ll have to stuff something into my bed to make it look as if I’m lying there sound asleep, or else my mother will want to come in after the ball and share all the gossip.”

  “My sisters used to do that sort of thing.”

  Chloe seemed not to hear him. “I wouldn’t like to keep Captain Hopkins waiting, but I should stay at the ball till the last possible moment.”

  “Yes, because it would be a shame to miss any of the fun.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Lucien. The sooner I leave, the more likely it is that I’ll be missed before we can get well away. I wish he had told you when he’d arrive.”