“My father.” Kate rolled her eyes. “And which of his secrets are you helping him to research now?”
She had been, to use a word which she had recently employed to great effect, displeased recently when Evan told her the mysterious Anne Jones they were to find was, in all probability, the mother of Sir William Chandler’s daughter. If so, Kate had a half-sister no more than a year or two older than Nora.
Another one of those changes that had tugged at her heart in unexpected ways. “Con had an illegitimate child. My own father has an illegitimate child. Are there any men who can keep their cocks under control?”
Evan feigned offense. “There most certainly are. I myself am a model of calm and control.”
She had settled into the curve of his arm, laughing at the ridiculousness of it, crying a bit at the secrets held so long. When she became calm and reached for him, he acted in a way that completely belied his vow of control.
So, a reply had finally come to all of the news of the past month. Kate looked at the sky, letting the paleness fill her vision. “And what did my father have to say to you?”
“We were thinking it couldn’t be the same Anne Jones, right? Because of all the myriad Anne Joneses in the world, what would be the chances that the one your father sought would settle right by you?”
She already knew the answer. “He doesn’t think it a coincidence, does he?”
“He does not. As Janet Ahearn and as Anne Jones, she traveled all the time. Her excuse was that she visited family in Dublin, but likely, she was in Wales or England. Working with God knows who on God knows what scheme. But she needed a place to settle, and so she picked…here.”
“Sir William Chandler’s daughter.” Kate scuffed her toe against the path. A light mist began to fall, chill but not unpleasant. “She came here because of me. The smuggling took place from here because of me.”
A cold drop slapped her in the face. “In a way, Con died because of me.” She tipped her head. “I don’t mean to blame myself. But—it’s odd, isn’t it? The threads of the past are attached in so many ways.”
Evan stopped walking. He straightened his arm, dropping her hand, only to embrace her shoulders instead. “Con no more died because he married you than he died because he and I argued. His death was a tragedy, the result of many bad choices. I think marrying you, and having a friend who cared enough to argue with him, were good choices.”
She rested her head against the wall of his chest. “The best ones he ever made.” Another drop hit her face. This time she put out her tongue and tried to catch another. “I’ve been thinking about something new,” she added.
“Thus begins another wondrous adventure. And what shall it be?”
“That is exactly what I have been wondering. You liked lecturing so much. If you remain in Ireland, what will you do?”
“A fair question. I don’t know that there’s a need now for a stuffy old prune to talk about false antiquities. We’ve cut off the flow at its source.”
“This time.”
“This time,” he allowed. “But do you really think Tranc would return, now that we know what she looks like?”
“No, not here. But in case she does, the new magistrate will keep watch. Once we have a new magistrate.”
Evan regarded her narrowly. “You are wearing a dangerous sort of expression, my love. What are you thinking?”
“Well.” She feigned innocence. “The new district magistrate will be appointed by Dublin Castle. I can’t imagine who it’ll be, but I can put in a good word. The new master of Whelan House might not be a bad choice.”
He shook his head. “Me, sitting over petty sessions? Can you imagine it?”
“Making the sort of wry comments you make at your lectures? I think you’d have excellent attendance, and you’d do an admirable job. Now you’ll get to lecture on lawbreakers instead of history breakers.”
His mobile brows lifted. “It’s a thought.”
“A thought about which you think…what?”
“I think…I like the idea. I’ll put myself forward. I wouldn’t do a perfect job, but—”
“You would be just right for Thurles.”
“Exactly.” He grinned.
“And I’ll support you at every step.” She matched her actions to her words, grabbing his arm again, and setting them back to walking.
“Every step? Even the steps to—”
“Oh, Lord. Here it comes. A clever remark designed to topple my words over and start me to giggling.”
“Is it working?”
“That depends what the next word would be.”
“Biggie,” he said, and tickled her in the side until she was tottering down the path, tipsy with giggles and rain spattered over her face.
“I was thinking something else too,” she said.
“What did I do to deserve you?” Evan kissed her on the head, getting a faceful of sable hat.
“All sorts of dreadful things, probably. But if you miss teaching a group of people, Ireland is surely full of folks who would like to learn about history. Or study a magic lantern and see the images it makes.”
“I don’t know about all their kings and things—the true Gaelic history of the place. A classical education has little bearing on one’s homeland.”
“Then maybe you would like to learn. You can join Nora and Declan for lessons.”
“Damn lessons,” he said with a laugh, then sobered. “You know, I would like that. If this is to be my home—our home—then it ought to feel like such. I wonder who could teach me?”
“Maybe old Petty. Or maybe there’s an archive somewhere.”
“Then we could paint some new slides. What would you like to show?”
“Something with gray in exactly the right amount.” She slipped an arm around his waist. “For you.”
“For me,” he replied, “gray seems far away right now. And by will and activity, maybe I can keep it at bay.”
“If you do not, and if the gray comes over you all the same, then the good things in life will be waiting when it recedes.”
“Will they? What are those good things?” The look in his eye was devilish.
“You’ll have to catch me to find out,” Kate said. And laughing, she ran along the path toward her home, knowing that Evan would be with her all the way.
For more Theresa Romain
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If you loved Scandalous Ever After, don’t miss Theresa Romain’s sparkling Regency Matchmaker trilogy. Read on for an excerpt from
One
July 1815
Tallant House, London
It was no good. The canvas still looked as though a chicken had been killed on it.
Henry Middlebrook grimaced and stepped back, casting his eye over his work. In the cooling light of early evening, his vermilion paint looked ghastly.
He dragged his brush over one corner of the canvas and regarded it again. A slight improvement. Now it looked as if someone had killed a chicken on it, then tried to clean up the evidence.
No matter. He could fix it later somehow. Or hide it in an attic.
As he stepped forward again, ready for another artistic attack, Henry’s foot bumped the fussy baroque table on which he’d set his palette. The palette rattled perilously close to the edge of the table, and Henry swooped for it before it tipped. He lost his grip on his paintbrush and could only watch, dismayed, as the wide brush flipped end over end and landed with a faint thump on the carpet.
Well, damn.
“How lovely!” came a cry behind him, and Henry turned.
His sister-in-law Emily, the Countess of Tallant, was standing in the morning room doorway smiling at him. She wore a gown the watery, fragile pink of rose madder, with some part of it p
instriped and some other part of it beaded, and her auburn hair arranged with a quantity of pink-headed pins.
Henry did not understand all the details of women’s fashion, having spent the past three years learning the significance of shoulder epaulets, forage caps, and stovepipe shakos. Still, the effect of Emily’s ensemble was pleasing to anyone with the slightest eye for color—which Henry had, though no one looking at his canvas would possibly think so.
“Good evening, Emily,” he said, shifting his foot to hide the fallen paintbrush. “I might say the same to you. You look very well.”
“Nonsense, Hal,” she said. “This gown is a full year out of fashion and is suitable for nothing but lolling around the house. I must go change for the ball, as must you. What I meant was that it’s lovely to see you painting again.”
She craned her neck to look behind him. “And it’s even lovelier to see you resting your palette on that dreadful table. Jemmy’s Aunt Matilda gave it to us as a wedding gift. I can only conclude she must have hated me.”
Emily walked over to Henry and held out her hand for the paintbrush, which he sheepishly retrieved from the floor. She scrutinized it, then began to daub the gilded table at Henry’s side with red curlicues.
“I’m not the expert you are, of course, but the texture of this red seems a bit off.”
“Yes, it’s too oily. I’m out of practice.”
“Well, that’s easily enough fixed by time. I’m glad we still had some of your supplies left from… well, before.” Emily signed her name with fat, bold brushstrokes to the ruined tabletop. “There, that’s the best this table has ever looked. If you can stand the sight of the beastly thing, then you must have it for your own use while you paint. Surely we can find a studio for you somewhere in the house. You could even keep painting here in the morning room if you don’t mind rolling back the Axminster, of which I’m rather fond.”
Henry looked at the heavy carpet guiltily. A splotch of warm red paint marred the fine sepia pattern of scrolls and bouquets. “I should have done that first thing. I’m sorry, Em.”
She waved a hand. “I understand artists are remarkably forgetful creatures. Once the creative mood seizes you, you cannot be responsible for your actions.”
“Are you giving me an excuse to be an aggravating guest? This could be entertaining.”
Emily’s mouth curled into the cunning smile that meant she was plotting something. “You’re much more than a guest, as you know. But you’re right. I should demand that you pay me a favor for spilling paint all over my possessions.”
Henry took the brush from her and laid it carefully across the palette, atop the newly adorned table. “Let me guess. You already have a favor in mind, and you are delighted I have ruined your carpet, since now you can be sure I’ll agree to whatever you ask.”
Emily looked prouder than ever. “Excellent! We shall slip you back into polite society more easily than I could ever have hoped. Already you are speaking its secret language again, for you are correct in every particular of your guess.”
“I’m overjoyed to be such a prodigy. What, precisely, have I guessed?”
“Tonight, I am going to introduce you to your future wife. What do you think?” She beamed at him, as though she expected him to jump up and start applauding. Which was, of course, impossible.
Henry gripped the edge of the fussy little table tightly. It was difficult to imagine feeling comfortable amidst the ton again—as difficult as it had seemed to leave it three years ago.
But he was just as determined on the former as he’d once been on the latter. Choosing the right wife could be exactly the key he needed to unlock London.
Emily passed a hand in front of his face. “You didn’t answer me, Hal.”
Henry blinked; stalled. “Don’t call me Hal, please.”
She raised her eyes to heaven. “You know perfectly well that I shall never be able to stop calling you Hal in my lifetime, just as you cannot stop calling your brother Jem. We are all far too set in our ways. But that’s not the answer I wanted. What do you think of my idea about finding you a wife? Actually, it was Jemmy’s suggestion, but if you like it, I shall claim it for my own.”
Fortunately, Henry’s elder brother Jeremy, the Earl of Tallant, poked his dark head into the doorway at that moment, saving Henry from a reply. “Em? Aren’t you ready yet? I’ve already had the carriage brought around.”
In his sleek black tailcoat, mathematical-tied linens, and waistcoat of bronze silk, Jem looked every inch the earl. Every inch, that is, except the one between his forehead and nose. His eyes—a bright lapis-blue, the only feature the brothers had in common—held an ignoble amount of doubt just now. “Hal? Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Henry decided on deliberate obtuseness. “For Lady Applewood’s ball? No, I still have to change my clothing.”
“I’ll send my man up to help you,” Jem replied too quickly.
Emily crossed her arms and regarded her husband slowly, up and down. “You look very elegant, Jemmy. But why are you ready? We aren’t leaving for an hour.”
Jem’s expression turned puzzled. “An hour? But I thought—”
“We must make a grand entrance,” Emily said in a hurried hush. “I told you we shan’t leave until nine.”
Jem shrugged, squeezed by his wife, and came to stand next to Henry. “It’s too dim in here,” he decided as he regarded the painting. “I can’t tell what you’ve painted.”
Henry swept his arm to indicate the baroque table. “This table, for a start. And your carpet. And my breeches a bit.” He regarded his garments ruefully.
Jem nodded. “Rather ambitious for your first effort.”
“Yes. It’s served me well to be ambitious, hasn’t it?”
Jem managed a smile as his eyes found Henry’s. “I suppose it has. Well, best get ready. Em’s told you about our grand plan, hasn’t she?”
“If you mean the plan to marry me off, then yes. I can’t say I’m shocked. I’m only surprised it took her two weeks to broach the subject.”
“She’s been plotting it for weeks.” Jem sighed. “Quite proud of the scheme.”
“I’m still right here,” Emily said from the doorway. “And I am proud of it. It’s just…”
When she trailed off, both brothers turned to her. Emily’s merry face looked sober all of a sudden. “We think you’d be happier, Hal. If you were married.”
Henry pasted a smile across his face. “Don’t worry about me. I’m quite as happy as can be expected.”
Emily studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “One hour, Hal. Jemmy, do come with me. You may help me decide which dress to wear.”
The earl followed his wife. “It doesn’t matter, Em. You always look marvelous. Besides which, you never wear what I choose.”
“That’s because you’d send me out with no bodice. Honestly, Jem!”
Their voices quieted as they moved down the corridor, and Henry allowed the smile to drop from his face. He could guess what they’d begun talking about: just how happy was he?
He’d given them a truthful answer on the surface of it. He was as happy as could be expected. But a man in his situation had little enough reason for happiness.
Still, he had determination. Surely that was even more important. With enough determination, happiness might one day follow.
He dragged his easel to the edge of the morning room and gave his painting one last look.
Just as horrible as he’d thought. But in time, it would get better.
With a rueful shake of the head, he left behind his first foray back into painting and went upstairs to prepare for his first foray back into London society.
* * *
Frances Whittier was too much of a lady to curse in the crowded ballroom of Applewood House. Barely.
But as she limped back to her seat
next to Caroline, the Countess of Stratton, she found the words a gently bred widow was permitted to use completely inadequate.
“Mercy,” she muttered, sinking into the frail giltwood chair. “Fiddle. Goodness. Damn. Oh, Caro, my toes will never recover.”
Caroline laughed. “Thank you for accepting that dance, Frannie. The last time I danced with Bart Crosby, he stepped on my toes twelve times. Oh, and look—I think I’ve cracked the sticks of my fan.”
Frances wiggled her feet. “He’s improving, then, for I’m sure he stepped on mine only ten.” She exchanged her own unbroken fan for Caroline’s. “And if you would quit batting everyone with your fan, it wouldn’t break.”
“I can’t help it,” Caroline said. “Lord Wadsworth puts his hands where they don’t belong, and the only way to remove them is by physical force.”
“In that case, we should have a new fan made for you of something much sturdier than ivory. A nice rosewood should help him remember his manners.”
“Or wrought iron, maybe?” Caroline replied, and Frances grinned. Caroline was in quite a good humor tonight and more than willing to share it.
The role of companion to a noblewoman was often seen as thankless, but except when her toes were trod upon, Frances found her position quite the opposite. Maybe because her employer was also her cousin, or maybe just because Caroline was cheerful and generous. The young countess had been locked away in the country for the nine years of her marriage; now that her year of mourning for her elderly husband was complete, she collected admirers with the deliberate joy of a naturalist catching butterflies.
Frances enjoyed helping Caroline sort through the possibilities, though she knew her cousin was as determined to guard her independence as Frances had once been to fling hers away.
“What’s next, Caroline? Are you of a mind to dance anymore?” Frances leaned against the stiff back of her chair. It was not at all comfortable, but it was better than having her feet stomped on.
“I think I will, but not just yet.” The countess leaned in, conspiratorial under the din of hundreds of voices bouncing off a high ceiling. “Emily has told me she’s bringing her brother-in-law tonight, and she intends to introduce us. He’s a war hero, just back in London after three years on the Continent.”
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