A Marriage Made in Scandal

by Elisa Braden

  “Male or female?”

  “Male. Wore a brown hat, coat, breeches. Moved like a boy.”

  Drayton had said the same thing. Jonas pointed again to the sketch. “Could that have been him?”

  Reaver looked again. “Never saw his face. I gave chase, but he disappeared quick as rum from a sailor’s flask. You believe the boy who shot Drayton is the killer?”

  Jonas’s neck itched. “Perhaps. How tall was he?”

  “Bit shorter than you. Thin. Fast.”

  Jonas leveled a hand across the bridge of his nose. “About this tall?”

  “Taller.”

  Jonas moved his hand to his forehead.

  “Aye.”

  Bloody hell. Too tall. The killer had been described by Randall’s staff as around five-foot-eight. If Reaver’s memory was right, it could not be the same man.

  With a grim scowl, Reaver looked to Dunston. “Does Miss Gray know of the blackguard’s fixation?” Reaver asked. “Is she safe?”

  Everything inside Jonas shot to attention. His neck prickled. His hands itched. His hair nearly stood on end. Admittedly, his reaction was extreme, but the last topic he’d expected hear out of Reaver’s mouth was … her.

  “Curious how Miss Gray was your first thought,” Jonas said softly, keeping his tone mild despite the odd urgency running through him. “Why is that, Mr. Reaver?”

  Dunston cleared his throat. “Perfectly reasonable, my good man. Being Holstoke’s sister puts her within the killer’s sights—”

  “But why her, specifically?” Jonas moved closer to the giant. “Why not the woman Holstoke married? Or Holstoke, himself?”

  A hard, black gaze scoured and scanned, flashed and calculated. Finally, Reaver replied, “Because if this whoreson admires Lady Holstoke, he must surely despise the girl who shot her.”

  Shot her. Sweet Christ. The cold, untouchable Miss Hannah Gray? He could not picture her deigning to lay her delicate fingers upon a gun, much less fire one. Jonas looked to Dunston, unaccountable fury rising in his chest.

  Dunston glared at Reaver. “There was little need to tell him.”

  “Every need,” the giant retorted. “She’ll be in danger. Again. If he’s to stop this blighter, he must know that.”

  Danger again? Why the hell had she been in danger at all? “I need to know everything, Dunston.” Jonas snapped. “Everything.”

  The other man sighed. “Hawthorn, all you need know is the girl suffered mightily because of Lady Holstoke. She shot the countess in defense of her life and that of others in the room, including me and my wife.”

  “The records from the magistrate in Dorsetshire made no mention of this.”

  Reaver answered, “We all vowed to protect her, and so we have. Bloody, bleeding hell, she’s been through enough, eh? Dunston is right. You needn’t know details. Just know she may be a target again.”

  “Was it because she was a by-blow? Did Lady Holstoke—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dunston said flatly.

  It mattered. Enough to make him want to pummel answers out of both men. Why, he could not say. Hannah Gray was the haughtiest of haughty females. Beautiful, of course. Cream-white skin. The most stunning eyes he’d ever seen. But from the moment they’d met, she’d treated him like the leavings of an ill-bred mount—repulsive and best avoided.

  He should not give a damn whether she was in danger. He should not care that she’d “suffered mightily,” and had “been through enough.”

  Just like he should not be dreaming of her at night and waking hard as stone.

  Life was full of should.

  They were interrupted by Reaver’s wife, who entered without knocking. She was tall. Auburn hair. Confident and regal. She swept toward her husband, one gloved hand resting upon her round, swollen belly. “Bastian, your sons have decided to steal Mr. Duff’s boots and ride them like a pony. Perhaps you can—oh!” She blinked. Glanced from Jonas to Dunston. “Lord Dunston. And …?”

  Reaver moved to her side. The giant slid his arm around her, bracing her fully. “This is Hawthorn. He works at Bow Street.”

  She inclined her head in queenly fashion. “A pleasure, Mr. Hawthorn.” Then, she gave a regretful smile. “Gentlemen, I fear I must steal away my husband.”

  A deep, rumbling chuckle sounded. “Are the boys givin’ ye that much trouble, Gus?”

  She gazed up at her husband with flagrant adoration. Then, she patted her belly. “This one is. He has dreadful timing.”

  Reaver’s heavy muscles went rigid. Black eyes went wide. “No. Not for another—”

  “Two weeks.” His wife sighed, her expression sheepish. “My calculations may have been off slightly.”

  “Bloody, bleeding hell.”

  “I do apologize, gentlemen.”

  “Never mind them. We must get you home. Where is the coach?”

  “The same place it was before. I asked Duff to collect the boys. They were not particularly cooperative.”

  “Time to leave.” Reaver, looking panicked, bent and scooped his wife into his arms.

  “Bastian! I am neither an invalid nor a valise. And this is the hardly the first time—”

  Without another word to Jonas and Dunston, Reaver strode out of his office carrying his wife, who appeared to be on the verge of delivering him another babe.

  Dunston retrieved Jonas’s sketch from the floor and handed it to him with a wry grin. “That will be the extent of his assistance, I’m afraid. Reaver is single-minded when it comes to his family.”

  Jonas tucked his sketch into his pocket and gave Dunston a hard glare. “Which leaves you to answer my questions. A bit more fully this time, if you don’t mind.”

  The dapper earl grinned. Then chuckled. “Come, Hawthorn. It so happens I am a member here at Reaver’s. Let us drink brandy and pretend we are civilized.”

  Jonas did not smile. “I will have answers, my lord.”

  “I do not doubt it, my good man.” Dunston clapped his shoulder with force rivaling Rude Markham’s. “Civilization first. Plenty of time for hunting hens later.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Gardening is not a gentlemanly pursuit, my dear boy. No lady wishes to discover the hand leading her through a waltz has soil beneath its fingernails.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Holstoke in a letter explaining the proper role of an earl and the improper nature of dirtying one’s hands in tasks best left to servants.

  Genie’s first glimpse of Primvale Castle came long after its surroundings had rendered her both speechless and breathless. And that came long after she’d begun to despair that she might perish for want of civilization.

  The landscape of Dorsetshire was rolling, the air cool and breezy and faintly marine. In short, it was much like other parts of England she had seen before, though less populated—unless one counted cows.

  Her apprehension had grown as she saw fewer and fewer villages among the wind-waved grass. The last had been at least five miles back, little more than a cluster of white, thatch-roofed cottages. No shops. No other carriages. Not even an inn. Here, where the land emptied out, long, shallow valleys resembled rolling water, the grass itself rippling like a splash. It felt as though she were embarking on a long sea voyage with few supplies, fewer comforts, and disagreeable company.

  She’d begun silently mourning the nothingness when the coach topped one of the swells, and she gasped. Genie reserved her gasps for only the most extraordinary sights. This was one.

  Ahead, along a great, looping drive was a living fence in full bloom. Blushing pink and white, the blossoms were beginning to drop, showering the drive in a profusion of white petals. They sprinkled upon the coach like a nature goddess’s blessing.

  But she had little time to contemplate the effect, for everywhere, tall trees and leafy shrubs and jewel-bright blooms formed spectacular, painting-like scenes along each bend in the winding drive.

  Genie wondered if she would run out of gas
ps before they’d reached their destination. Then, slowly as they rounded a particularly gnarled and ancient oak surrounded by dazzling orange lilies, the green of the trees and hedges gave way to a half-moon clearing bordered by a low stone wall. A bench sat cradled inside the curve. That was where the sea appeared. Blue and infinite, it merged into the sky, the only distinction being the shimmer of light upon water. Wondrous blue was framed inside an arch of drifting white petals and great, arm-like branches.

  The coach rolled by, but Genie’s heart remained within the spot, idling away an afternoon sketching glorious, sea-inspired hats.

  As they continued along the drive, she experienced the same sensation—of leaving a bit of her heart in each small alcove or cleverly designed scene—again and again. Truly, it was a series of wonders.

  Then, the drive forked. To the left, she glimpsed a sprawling, square brick structure centered by a massive arch. Through the arch was a courtyard with a fountain and more lush plantings. The coach house and stables, perhaps? The carriage continued along the right fork, rounding a statue of a dragon and a knight at least twelve feet tall. Genie sighed, wondering how Mr. Moody was faring. The coach topped a rise and, at last, the castle came into view.

  It might not be as large as Lady Wallingham’s gargantuan Grimsgate, but then, few castles were. Still, it was massive—five splendidly symmetrical stories of smooth, gray stone. Square and perfect, Primvale boasted a round tower on each corner, a multitude of windows, and a long series of steps leading up to a terrace partially covered by a portico with a pointed arch. Inside its shadow was a set of enormous wood doors.

  “Good heavens,” Genie breathed, noting yet another fountain at the center of a circle drive. “Is that a griffin?”

  “Battling a sea serpent, yes,” came Hannah’s reply.

  Genie had nearly forgotten the girl was there. Through sheer persistence, she’d managed to coerce a few civil sentences over the past two hours. It was progress, but Genie anticipated difficult days ahead for Hannah, who had little notion of how determined her new sister-in-law could be.

  As the coach neared the fountain, she squinted. The two creatures at its center were twisted up together, spiraling into the sky. Wounded and at the edge of death, the griffin’s wings were bound inside the serpent’s long coils as the serpent sank its fangs into the creature’s feathered throat. It was a savage, compelling portrayal of death and dominance.

  “Lady Holstoke commissioned it,” Hannah commented softly.

  For a moment, Genie thought the girl might be digging at her, implying Genie’s new title made her as poisonous as its previous owner.

  But Hannah’s expression was neither petulant nor resentful. It was haunted.

  Her heart twisted. It took a moment to answer casually, “Hmm. Beautiful work, but a rather grim welcome. Why did Holstoke keep it?”

  “I do not know.”

  Knowing something of what Hannah had endured at the previous Countess of Holstoke’s hands, Genie’s heart fairly squeezed into a knot. She considered giving up her self-assigned task then and there.

  But the last thing Hannah needed was more coddling.

  “Well,” Genie replied, brushing at her skirts. “It is ghastly. Primvale will be much improved by its removal.”

  Hannah offered no reply, but a thoughtful crinkle appeared between her brows.

  The carriage stopped at last, and Genie breathed a loud sigh of relief. “I do hope the offerings for luncheon are better than this morning’s ham. Dreadful stuff.”

  Blinking slowly, the girl answered, “We do not serve luncheon.”

  Genie clicked her tongue. “Don’t be silly. Of course we do. A good meal soothes many, many ills. And after the vagaries of a long journey? It is a requirement.”

  Hannah once again frowned.

  “Trust me. This is one change you will enjoy.”

  Before Hannah could protest that she didn’t want any changes, Genie threw open the carriage door and stepped down onto smooth, wedge-shaped stones laid in a radius pattern. Once again, she sighed. What a magnificent place. Maureen had been right to dub it palatial, although Genie thought even that word a bit weak. Perhaps she should have listened more closely, but Maureen did tend to natter on about gardens to a tedious degree.

  She strode toward the ghastly fountain and turned in a circle. Everywhere—positively everywhere—were gardens the likes of which she had never seen. Walled gardens and sunken gardens and watery gardens and flowery gardens. Acres upon acres of them. She gasped when she spotted a peacock strutting beneath a nearby tree. To the west, she spied the peaks of glass houses glinting in the sunlight. To the east, an expanse of ornate hedges gave way to vividly green pastures dotted by cows and wildflowers in orange, white, and indigo.

  And she could smell the sea on every breeze. She could not see it while standing on the drive beside the fountain, as the castle was set hundreds of yards inland, but she wondered if it might not be visible from the first floor.

  Hurriedly, she climbed the steps to the entrance and spun about. There it was—a ribbon of blue at the southern horizon, framed by gently rolling land and leafy trees. Between the castle and the sea, yet another series of gardens stretched outward in winding fashion. She suspected the vistas grew more spectacular as one approached the water or ascended the castle’s floors.

  Coming up the drive from the direction of the stables was the man who had engineered this splendor. Something in Genie’s chest pressed outward. Made her breathless. Made her heart pound.

  He was weary—she saw it in his stride, which was more careful than usual, and the squint of his eyes. For all his exhaustion, however, his gait was agile, his demeanor calm.

  She surveyed her surroundings again then returned her gaze to him. She’d long known he was honorable. And everyone knew he was brilliant—one need only converse with him a handful of times to be intimidated by his intellect. Yet, she’d not comprehended how impressive her husband was until this very moment.

  The weary, tall, brilliant man now rounding the ghastly fountain was her husband. Fancy that.

  Heavens, could admiration infect one’s heart and lungs like a disease? She was full to bursting inside. She wanted to dance down the steps and kiss him again. It was true he was frequently oblivious to the nuances of sentiment, trampling her feelings without realizing it. And he ordered her about in the most abrupt, high-handed fashion.

  Nevertheless, he’d married her. Protected her. Kissed her in a way that made her long for another experiment.

  Her heart sped into a thundering patter. She shook her head and dropped her eyes to the stones of the castle’s terrace. She must stop mooning over the man.

  Her eyes returned to him as though tugged by strings. He did look tired. She’d noticed it at the inn, when he’d been so perplexed by her anger. Nibbling her lip, she began planning. A good meal and a bath would serve as a start.

  He climbed the steps, his eyes finding her hips and rising to her bosom then finally landing upon her face. “Eugenia.” His voice cracked as though it, too, was spent.

  She managed to smile, though inside, that expanding pressure now sparkled and bubbled and made her breathless. “Holstoke,” she murmured. “Show me my new home, won’t you?”

  Subtle lines of tension along his brow eased. He sighed as he reached the terrace and offered his arm. “With pleasure, Lady Holstoke.”

  Glimpsing Hannah at the base of the steps, frozen and staring up at them, she paused. Turned. Waved the girl forward. Hannah frowned, and Genie clicked her tongue. She descended the steps to Hannah’s side and gently tapped the girl’s elbow. Hannah jerked at the contact, but Genie paid the reflex no mind. “It has been a long journey, I daresay. Shall I ask one of the footmen to carry you?”

  Hannah’s long glare was her answer.

  “Oh, pooh. Do come along. I shall need your help.”

  “For what, pray tell?”

  Genie flared her eyes. “Planning luncheon.”

&n
bsp; “We do not—”

  “Yes, yes. But the correct phrasing would be ‘did not.’ Past tense. One must never become so attached to what has been that one cannot imagine anything better.” She offered her arm. “Come along.”

  Hannah sniffed. Glared. Tilted her chin stubbornly. But she started up the steps toward the door and clasped one arm of a thoroughly baffled Holstoke.

  Genie grinned and followed, taking Holstoke’s other arm as they waited for the giant wooden doors to open. A white-haired butler bowed deeply. “My lord. And Miss Gray. Welcome home.” His eyes—blue and gentle—fell upon Genie. “My lady.” Another bow. “We are honored to welcome you to Primvale Castle.”

  Holstoke introduced the butler, whose name was Walters, before leading both Genie and Hannah forward into the entrance hall. Which was enormous. The floor was white and gray marble squares. The walls were velvety gray stone. The arches all had points. And at the far end were five sets of glass doors leading out into a central courtyard.

  “Heavens,” she breathed. “Is that a third fountain?”

  “Mmm,” Holstoke replied. “Would you like to see it?”

  She glanced up at him. Noticed the redness around pale green eyes, the dust on his hat and coat, the lines of weariness around his mouth. “Not just yet,” she murmured before turning to the butler. “Walters, I must ask a boon, I’m afraid. Miss Gray informs me Primvale rarely serves luncheon, yet I find I am famished after our journey.”

  “Of course, my lady. It will be my pleasure to arrange a tray, if you like.”

  “Thank you, but I think a proper luncheon will serve best. Whatever you have on hand should do. His lordship and Miss Gray will benefit from the refreshment, as well.”

  Hannah sniffed. “Nothing for me.”

  “Nonsense,” Genie replied, peering past Holstoke to meet Hannah’s challenge. “You must eat, as it is the only way I shall feel content to let you alone.” She grinned, knowing she had won.

  With narrowed eyes, Hannah huffed. Spun on her heel. Stomped from the hall through one of the arches without another word.