Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Gascony’s brows lifted high. “Good lord, Lady Mairin, where were you to be exposed to such violence?”

  Mairin side-stepped the question by saying, “I have purchased a pistol, Gascony, and now I am taking lessons on how to use it. If I carry the pistol with me, then no ruffian can ever come close enough to lay a hand on me.”

  Gascony considered her, his refined nose lowered. “How…extraordinary!”

  “Extraordinary, perhaps,” she said patiently. “But sensible, oui? I cannot always count upon being in the company of a man who can protect me.”

  Gascony’s gaze sharpened. “That might yet be arranged,” he said, his tone thoughtful.

  Since her confession, Gascony seemed to grow even more determined to dominate her time and company.

  “You have become interesting to him,” Iefan explained to her, when she told him of the deepening of Gascony’s attention. “I am quite sure not a single other woman in his life has decided to learn how to protect herself if she must. You’ve signaled to him in one pass that you can reason and you will follow through on your decisions. No, don’t let your wrist cock. It’ll increase the recoil.”

  “I find it ironic that this season, when I am absent more often than not from the usual affairs of the season, men are now taking notice. I had a full dance card at the ball last night and Lord Aberstein took three waltzes before Gascony could.”

  “I’m not surprised at all,” Iefan said, his voice low. “You’re letting the muzzle drop again. It’s why you missed.”

  Now she knew for certain Iefan had no other motives for keeping her company than a mild desire to show her the world in repayment for misdirecting Westgate at the beginning of the season, she could relax when she was with him.

  In addition to the gun lessons, Iefan continued to take her to parties and outings with his friends, in between society soirees and dinners.

  There was nothing she could say to Iefan which ruffled him. It meant she could speak of anything on her mind at all and not worry about how it would be received. Nor did she concern herself with being judged for the topics she raised.

  It wasn’t until Iefan told Mairin the story of how Aunt Anna met his father, Rhys, that she realized the freedom to say anything extended in both directions.

  Iefan told her the story while sitting on the floor in front of the dying hearth in a great country house in Surrey where he and his friends had come for a weekend house party. They both sat Indian fashion on the hearth rug, for everyone else had retired to their borrowed bedrooms long ago.

  In a low voice, his eyes on the tiny flames still dancing along the logs, Iefan related the tale of a royal family’s madness, of Rhys’ saving of Annalies and the murder which threatened them both, that they had solved together.

  “It is a happy story, in the end,” Mairin told him. “So why do you look is though you have bitten into a lemon?”

  “It was a long time ago. Times change…or so I’m told.”

  “You are dodging my question,” Mairin said.

  Iefan ruffled his curls with a irritated motion. “It bothers me.”

  “I can see that.”

  “My mother is a princess. She is cousin to the Queen. Yet not a single relative lifted a hand to help her even though they all knew about the madness which ailed her father. It was a commoner and a bastard who saved her. What does it tell you about the world we live in?”

  “It tells me exactly what you have always maintained, Iefan,” Mairin said gently. “That people look the other way when they do not know how to deal with something unpleasant.”

  Iefan made a growling sound in the back of his throat. “The unpleasantness has long gone, yet my mother is still not publicly acknowledged by the royal family. She says she prefers it that way. I don’t believe her. I think it hurts her, when she lets herself think about it, which she does not. She fills her life, instead, with books and politics and education.”

  “Aunt Anna is almost single-handedly responsible for the opening of the ladies college at Cambridge University,” Mairin pointed out. “Hers is not a useless life at all.”

  Iefan sighed. “I suppose you are right.” He ruffled his hair again.

  “You are irritated because you have your father’s Welsh temperament and your mother’s sensibilities. Poor you,” Mairin teased him. “Torn between passion and logic.”

  Iefan laughed. “I think you are the first to ever point that out. Most people call me a scoundrel and leave it at that.”

  “That is because you deserve the title.”

  Iefan didn’t just laugh. He propped himself on one hand and held his belly, his whole body shaking.

  IN EARLY JUNE, IEFAN took Mairin to her first football match. The field was marked by twine strung between wire stakes driven into the closely mown grass. The spectators stood behind the twine and cheered their favorite team and players.

  The players wore plus fours and striped jerseys in two different colors to distinguish themselves. Their caps matched their jerseys.

  Once Iefan explained the rules of the game to her, Mairin found the match mildly interesting. The people watching the match were far more intriguing. She used her parasol to shade her face and hide that she observed the people more than the game.

  This was not remotely a society affair. The audience were working-class families, for even their children stood watching and clapping. They were far more vocal than any upper-class audience would be. They seemed to be happy shouting at the umpire and challenging every decision.

  The game was played in two halves. In the interval, everyone sat on the grass where they had been standing, to eat and drink and discuss the merits of the game.

  Iefan spread a blanket and Mairin sank without a murmur onto the wool to share the roast beef sandwiches they found in the basket Iefan’s cook had packed.

  “I had an interesting conversation with Lord Bromley last night,” Mairin said.

  Iefan chewed and swallowed. “As I know Bromley and you mention the conversation now, I presume it was about me.”

  “Very much so.”

  Iefan’s eyes danced. “I can see you are champing at the bit to ask your question.”

  “You know what I am about to ask, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Two women, Iefan? At the same time?”

  Iefan’s gaze swept around them, taking in who might overhear.

  “There is no one paying us any attention at all,” Mairin assured him, for she had checked already. “Is it true?”

  Iefan took an enormous bite of his sandwich and chewed. The light of laughter still glowed in his eyes.

  “Then you had the bad judgement to be caught with them, by both their husbands,” Mairin said, dropping her voice.

  Iefan cleared his throat. “You forgot to add that they both forgave me.”

  “After you fought them both at the same time. What I find extraordinary about the whole affair is that Lord Bromley is one of them and now counts you as one of his dearest friends.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Iefan said dismissively.

  “What did you do to make them like you after that?” Mairin demanded.

  He shrugged. “I took them to a party.”

  “One of your parties?” Mairin asked sharply, as she spotted a glimmer of the answer. “It would explain much.”

  “Uncle Iefan!” a childish voice piped, startling her…and Iefan, who looked up, his eyes narrowed.

  Four urchins in grubby pinafores and rough woolen shirts, with dirty cheeks and bright blue eyes were all running between the picnicking audience, heading for the blanket which Iefan and Mairin sat upon.

  The tallest boy arrived first. He threw himself at Iefan, his little arms wrapping tightly about Iefan’s neck.

  Iefan held the boy just as firmly. The other three arrived and piled into his lap, too.

  Mairin reached over and slid the basket of food out of the way.

  A woman not much older than Mairin w
alked up to the blanket. She had glorious red hair and the same blue eyes as the children. “Iefan, I wondered if I would see you ‘ere,” she said, with a strong French accent.

  “Marie,” Iefan said in acknowledgement, as he sorted out the wriggling bodies trying to cling to him. “Alicia, let go for a moment, ma cherie, and let me untangle your braid from my buttons.”

  Marie said something quickly, in French, with a sharp tone. All four children stepped back off the blanket and lined themselves up alongside their mother.

  Iefan got to his feet and helped Mairin to hers. “Mairin, this is Mrs. Etienne Martel. Marie, my cousin, Lady Mairin.”

  Marie nodded, with a small smile. “I ‘ave met few of Iefan’s family, even though I ‘ear much about them. It is a pleasure, Lady Mairin.”

  “Likewise, I am sure,” Mairin said politely.

  “And this is Adam, Daniel, Ève and Alicia,” Iefan added, touching the head of each child in turn, from tallest to smallest. The oldest, Adam, could only be eight at the most. Alicia looked as though she was barely walking.

  “Hello,” Mairin told them.

  They all smiled sunnily at her. “‘ello!” they all chorused.

  Ève tilted her head. “Your dress is pretty.”

  “Thank you,” Mairin said gravely.

  “Are you enjoying the game?” Iefan asked them.

  The two boys nodded, while Ève wrinkled her nose. Alicia just smiled at him.

  Iefan looked at Marie. “I heard they are selling ice cream at the end of the field.” He dug in his waistcoat pocket.

  “No, really, Iefan, there is no need—” Marie began, holding up her hand.

  “Now I have said it, there is no taking it back,” Iefan said. He smiled at Adam. “Right?”

  Adam nodded his head vigorously.

  Marie sighed and turned her hand palm upward. Iefan dropped the coins upon her hand and she nodded. “My thanks, as always, Iefan. We will see you on Thursday?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come along, children,” she told them and shepherded them back the way they had come. “It was nice to meet you, Lady Mairin.”

  “And you,” Mairin said, watching the slender Frenchwoman walk after her children.

  Then she turned to Iefan. He was seated once more, pawing through the basket with steady concentration.

  Mairin sat and waited until his gaze met hers. She raised her brow.

  “They are not mine, if that is what you are thinking.”

  “I know they are not. They look nothing like you and I would suspect any child of yours would take on your appearance just through sheer force of personality. They would not dare do otherwise.”

  “Well, then.” He shrugged and held up a silver flask. “Ah ha!” he crowed and unstopped it and sniffed. “Brandy. Perfect.” He took a deep swallow.

  “Iefan,” Mairin said patiently, not at all fooled by his performance.

  He held out the flask. “I do apologize. Here.”

  She took the flask so he could not use it to avoid her question again. “Iefan.”

  He sighed and ruffled his hair. “Etienne was a friend. He helped with some of my business arrangements, occasionally. He died in the Siege of Mexico City in 1867, so I…we put together a small stipend to help Marie with the children.”

  “We being…?”

  “Other associates.”

  “None of whom visit the children every Thursday,” Mairin concluded. “You’re still helping Marie financially.”

  Iefan looked away, his awkwardness radiating from every stiffly held line of his body. “It’s little enough,” he said, his tone irritable.

  Mairin had never seen him embarrassed, the way he was now. It was novel and would require reflection. She deliberately lightened the mood. “They’re lovely children,” she said with a thoughtful tone. “I can just imagine you with your own children, Iefan. You would make a good father.”

  Iefan’s gaze snapped back to her face. Horror filled his. “Never,” he breathed. “To be trapped that way? God forbid.”

  Mairin stared at him, stunned. Then, because it was in her hand and she didn’t know what else to do, she lifted the flask and drank deeply, her heart thundering. The brandy burned all the way down and she welcomed it.

  Chapter Nine

  The Derby was the next day. Mairin had grown used the abrupt shift in atmosphere and expectations when coming from one of Iefan’s affairs to a society event. Lately, the constant need to remember correct behavior and to guard her tongue had grown burdensome, after the freedom of speaking her mind when in Iefan’s company.

  The Derby was the epitome of a society event and on everyone’s calendars. Women spent a small fortune on their dresses. Men wore morning coats and flowers in their lapels. At least one member of the royal family attended each year, too. Mairin had sighed when she remembered the upcoming affair, for no excuse would save her from having to attend.

  Now, though, she was eager to slide back into the banal chatter of peers and friends, even if the champagne was poor. With more enthusiasm than she had felt in a long while, Mairin let Gascony escort her to the railing to watch the end of the race. Of course, ladies did not wager on the outcome, although Gascony had laid money upon Fabien’s Pride purely because of the name. It was as good a reason as choosing a boxer because of a look in his eyes. Mairin clapped and shouted her encouragements for the mare with the French name, too.

  On the other side of the enclosure were more people in street clothes, also enjoying the Derby. They did not have parasols or pavilions or footmen providing champagne at the lift of a finger. They made up for the lack with sheer enthusiasm. As the audience at the football match had done, these people screamed and shouted, waving their fists and jumping up and down as the horses thundered down the home stretch.

  Fabien’s Pride did not win. Viscount Falmouth’s stallion, Kingcraft, took the ribbon. As the bay crossed the finish line, Mairin heard groans and soft, muffled curses behind her.

  On the other side of the enclosure, people still cheered. Screamed, really.

  “At least someone is pleased by the outcome, no?” Gascony asked, nodding toward the fence.

  Mairin turned to look once more. Clearly, the group of men jigging and jumping about had backed the winner. She smiled at their happiness, as they threw their caps and hats into the air. One of them swept the woman beside him into his arms and kissed her, right there in public.

  Her arms came around him and she leaned into him, the lines of her body both eager and soft at once.

  “Ah…” Gascony breathed. “Amor. Is it not a great leveler?”

  Mairin spun away, turning so the wide brim of her hat hid the couple from view, and Gascony, too. Her heart was hurting and her pulse was thready.

  “My lady?” Gascony enquired.

  “I…have a headache,” Mairin lied. The lie made her throat tighten and her stomach to crawl. “Too much sun, I believe. I’m sorry, Louis, I must return home.”

  She had made it all the way out to the front of park to hail a cab, before she remembered she had called Gascony by his first name.

  IEFAN’S BUTLER, STAMP, DIRECTED Mairin to the George Inn in Southwark on the other side of the Thames. She was too impatient to care that a lady did not step into a public drinking establishment, especially not on her own. Mairin moved into the front room of the inn and sniffed the air. It reeked of hops and cigar smoke.

  Iefan, Alex, Gordie, Lord Markham and others Mairin knew from previous occasions all sat about a table in the darkest corner. They had not noticed her arrival because they sat with their shoulders hunched, talking. A large mug of ale sat in front of each of them.

  Mairin went up to the table, ignoring the startled and speculative glances of the other clientele.

  Gordie nudged Iefan as she drew closer. She had been noticed now.

  Iefan looked about. His eyes narrowed.

  “You are the picture of summer, Mairin, dear,” Gordie said.

 
; “Thank you,” Mairin said, although she could barely take her gaze off Iefan’s face. “What are you all doing in this place, anyway?”

  “Saying farewell to a friend,” Gordie replied. His face fell. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Charles Dickens is ailing,” Alex said. “This was one of the last places he visited, so we thought…”

  “He really is a friend?” Mairin asked, astonished.

  “He has been ill for a long time,” Gordie said. “Then his publisher insisted upon public appearances.” His mouth turned down. “He collapsed yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mairin said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Why are you not at Epsom?” Iefan asked.

  “I was. May I speak to you, Iefan?”

  He got to his feet. “May I get you something?” His tone was polite.

  “Brandy,” Mairin said.

  His brow lifted. He went over to the inn keeper and gave the order, as he dug coins from his fob pocket and put them on the counter. He brought a drinking glass back. It was not a brandy balloon, although the liquid inside was the right color. “There is a private salon, back here, if you would prefer?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Mairin said. She followed him into a narrow corridor, then into a room with a hearth, a pair of chairs and a bench under the high window. The table in front of it was stained from hundreds of mugs of ale and glasses of liquor.

  Iefan turned to face her. “Is this about yesterday?” he asked. “I am aware that I was crass, although I thought you would understand.”

  “I did. I do,” she said quickly. “That isn’t why I am here. Well, yes, in a way, it is.”

  Iefan crossed his arms. He had not sat down and Mairin didn’t want to, either. She realized she was holding the drinking glass, her lace gloves digging channels into her flesh because of the strength of her grip. She lifted the glass and tossed back the liquid and put the glass on the scarred table.

  Iefan tilted his head. “My, something bothers you, doesn’t it?”