Anita Mills

by Scandal Bound

  The next three days passed swiftly, and Trent gained strength. His fever no longer came up even at night and his cough was improving. He decided almost abruptly that he was able to withstand the rigors of a carriage ride, and he ordered everything packed. It was an easy task for Ellen, who had only the Mantini’s ruined dress and the few ill-fitting garments Mrs. Bratcher had given her. She folded everything she was not wearing and sighed. In clothes like those, she would not even get past the servants into her aunt’s house. No butler worth his salt would let a young female whose ankles showed in the front door.

  Trent confronted his valet as he came out of his chamber, still tying his neckcloth with careless but expert hands. “Where is she? About to set out, do you think?”

  “Packing, milord, but she’s naught to wear. You cannot take her to her relatives dressed like a milkmaid, sir.”

  “I know. We’ll have to procure some things for her in York itself before we try to beard her aunt, I suppose.” He stopped a moment as though suddenly struck with an awful thought. “Make sure that she does not lay by a few jars of pork jelly for my health.”

  “Pork jelly, sir? Never heard of it!”

  “Be thankful that you have not. Just the same, be on the watch, and consign any you find to the trash heap.”

  Thus charged, the valet caught Dobbs as he was putting the last of the boxes onto the coach. He pointed to the food hamper and told the coachey, “Make sure there is no pork jelly in that—his lordship’s orders.”

  “Pork jelly? Ugh!”

  “Yes, well, I have gathered his lordship is not especially fond of it, either.”

  “I hope them starchy relatives o’ ’ers don’t turn up their noses at ’er,” Dobbs confided to Crawfurd as he strapped the final box on top. “She ain’t in th’ common way fer a lady, but ’er’s a good un.”

  “I admit that I thought her like the rest.” Crawfurd nodded. “But she isn’t. Now I would not say her name in the same breath with any of the others. I don’t know how or where he found her, but I wish he would keep her.”

  “ ’E can’t—she’s Brockhaven’s, yer fergit.” Dobbs straightened up and surveyed the top of the carriage. “All right and tight,” he decided as he checked the straps. “Eh, we ain’t got no driver.”

  “Do not look at me. I am cow-handed when it comes to driving. And do not be complaining to his lordship, either. He’s wild enough to take the reins himself and he’s just up from his sickbed.”

  “I dunno what’s ter do.”

  “I expect you will drive. With a little good fortune, you might even get promoted.”

  “Lud!”

  10

  “YOU CANNOT BE serious, my lord,” Crawfurd sputtered indignantly. “I am a gentleman’s gentleman—not a lady’s maid! What would I know of such things?”

  The carriage was stopped in front of a dressmaker’s shop in the city of York. A sign in the window indicated, “A large selection of the latest stuffs, twills, satins, and bombazines executed in the French style.” A card below proclaimed further, “A good variety of pelisses, dresses, millinery, flowers, and feathers of adornment.”

  The marquess gave him a decidedly pained look. “Have I ever imposed on you before, Crawfurd?”

  “Frequently. But I simply cannot do this.”

  “Do you remember Leach?”

  “Alex, do not tease Mr. Crawfurd. I shall choose my own gown, thank you.” Ellen reached for the door handle and started to twist it before Trent caught her arm.

  “Goose! Would you have everyone see you like this? No, I did not think you would,” he noted smugly as a flush crept into her cheeks. “Just so. We cannot take you to Augusta Sandbridge’s dressed like a gypsy beggar, but we cannot openly take you shopping either.”

  “And how am I to fit her, I ask?” Crawfurd continued to protest. “I have no experience in such things. Would you have me go in and say as nice as you please, ‘I should like a lady’s gown and whatever else ’tis necessary, but I am not precisely sure as to the size’? They should laugh me out of the place, my lord.”

  “Oh, very well!” Trent snapped irritably as he owned the truth of the aggrieved valet’s complaint. “I suppose I shall have to see to it myself.”

  Dobbs swung down and opened the carriage door with a flourish. “And would yer ’ave us walk th’ horses, yer lor’ship?”

  “No. I shan’t be long.”

  “Ellen wished she could have seen the expression of the modiste’s and shopgirl’s faces when the Marquess of Trent swept in and demanded a complete toilette for a lady of fashion on the instant. She was denied the treat, however, and he returned some twenty minutes later trailed by a manservant carrying two boxes. Trent took them and thrust them into the coach in front of him. “There—that should take care of everything, I believe,” he told her as he settled in across from her. “I have instructed Dobbs to seek a secluded lane where you may change.”

  “I cannot dress in the open, Alex,” she told him flatly.

  “Well, you certainly cannot dress in her drive either, can you?” he responded reasonably. “Crawfurd and I will get out while you dress. You will find everything you require in those boxes, I even thought of a hairbrush.”

  “But there is not room. I cannot even stand to straighten my skirt, much less twist to do my buttons in such a narrow place.”

  “Do you have a better notion, my dear?”

  “No,” she admitted reluctantly, “but I shall feel the veriest fool.”

  “It is a simple gown, Ellie, and should not require much help. And when you are done, Crawfurd will help you with your hair.”

  The carriage rolled to a halt a short distance out of town, and Trent looked out the window before nodding. “Aye, this appears deserted enough for our purposes, I think. Come on, Crawfurd, let us step down and give her some privacy.”

  “I should not think of doing otherwise,” the valet muttered. “But I take leave to tell you, sir, that I have not the least experience with female hair.”

  “I should think it all to be the same,” Trent shot back as he jumped down.

  “Alex—”

  “Ellie, I have not come the length of England, faced highwaymen and robbers for you, fought off pneumonia, and stolen poor Chudleigh blind just so you can turn missish on me in the last instant. You will open that box and get into that dress, if you please.”

  “But ’tis broad daylight.”

  “Alas, I have no control over the sun, else I should put it out for you. Now, do you change your clothes or do I change them for you?” He flashed her a wicked grin and added, “I could, you know.”

  She waited until she was certain that they were out of sight before even untying the cord on the biggest box and lifting out a simple pink muslin dress of very demure cut, a creation more suited to a schoolgirl than a runaway bride, and a chemise, white silk stockings, and beribboned garters. With a wary eye on the window, she stripped out of Maggie Bratcher’s homely gown and worn-out underclothing. Fishing deeper in the box, she found the pink silk pantalettes and the zona, and her face flamed to think he’d selected such things for her. Hastily, she threw everything on and was surprised to find that it all fit.

  The other box yielded toilet articles—hairbrush, comb, mirror, and pink flowers for her hair—as well as soft pink kid slippers. It was there that he’d erred, for the shoes were so long they would have to be tied on. But that was of little consequence, she decided.

  “Dressed, Ellie? Let me help you down and straighten out your gown for you.” Before she could answer, he’d opened the coach door.

  “Much good it would do me if I weren’t!” she retorted sharply.

  Grinning, he reached to circle her waist with his hands and lift her out. Setting her on the ground, he twitched the narrow skirt in place and straightened the high-banded waist under her bosom before she could protest. Turning her around, he deftly did the small satin-covered buttons while calling out to Crawfurd, “Come tie the sash, will you
?”

  “I? I’ve never tied a bow like that in my life.”

  “Neither have I,” Trent admitted, “but between us we’ll have to.”

  Somehow, they managed to get it into a semblance of order. Trent stood back and surveyed her with amusement. “None would mark you for a married lady, Ellen. You look like you cannot be a day above fifteen. Crawfurd, throw out that rag she was wearing, if you please, and dispose of the empty boxes. I would not have the fortune she is wearing crushed.”

  “Fortune? Alex—”

  “Aye. You are wearing the only hundred-pound muslin I ever heard of, my dear, and I had a devil of a time getting it, I can tell you. ’Twas being made for a Miss Fenton, and the dressmaker made me ransom the damned thing.”

  “But you shouldn’t have! Alex, I have to repay you and I never—”

  “Nonsense. ’Tis a parting gift to a rare lady who saved my life.” He stared at her for a moment with an unusual warmth in his blue eyes and then he turned away abruptly. “Crawfurd, do something with her hair.”

  “Really, my lord”—Ellen shook her head—“I shall just brush it and wear it down. ’Twill be all of a piece with this dress.”

  Everyone in the coach was strangely silent the rest of the way to Greenfield, the Sandbridge estate, each apparently given over to his own thoughts. Trent stared determinedly out the window while Ellen studied him for the last time. His hat was pushed back and a black curl fell rakishly forward as his face was profiled against the pane. A heavy sigh escaped her and she had to look away. It was time to say good-bye to a man she’d grown to respect in spite of his awful reputation, a man she truly liked—nay, loved, she had to admit to herself in these waning moments with him. No doubt, once he returned to London, she’d hear more of his amatory exploits, but she had to own that he’d been exceedingly kind and good to her, expecting absolutely nothing in return. She’d had that rare chance to look beneath the rakehell and see the man. What did Trent really think of her? she wondered. Would he have treated her differently had she not been Brockhaven’s bride?

  “Something amiss?” he asked gently as he became aware of her downcast mien.

  “I don’t know. I shall miss you, my lord, although I expect you will be heartily glad to wash your hands of me. I was thinking that I very likely will never see you again.”

  “Ellen …” He reached to take her hands in his, and his face was uncharacteristically sober. “Once you get to your aunt’s, knowing me will be nothing to your credit, I am afraid. I am not fit company for a lady like you.” He waited for her to look up and meet his eyes before continuing, “But if you ever have need of me, I will give you my direction and you can send word to me. Word of a Deveraux, I’ll not stand by and let anyone send you back to Brockhaven.”

  A lump formed in her throat that threatened to suffocate her. “I—I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me, my lord,” she choked out. “And I thank you, but—oh, dear friend—I shall miss you!”

  The carriage was already slowing as it entered the long, tree-lined drive, and the huge house loomed ahead of them. Crawfurd cleared his throat to hide his own sadness at the parting. As far as he could see, Ellen Marling had been nothing but a good influence on Alexander Deveraux.

  “Your aunt keeps a large house,” Trent observed to break the gloom that was descending over them.

  “Yes, and there is but Aunt Augusta and Lady Leffingwell to share it. You will like Aunt Gussie, but I fear you will find Lady Lavinia a sore trial.”

  “No, I won’t,” he told her as he released her hands, “for I cannot stay. Besides,” he added lightly, “entertaining elderly females is not just in my style. Once you are safely delivered, I mean to leave.”

  When Dobbs finally opened the door, Trent gave her a wry smile and handed her down. Following her, he leaned to whisper, “Buck up, Ellie—after what you have been through, ’twill be easy.”

  He stepped up and banged the knocker loudly. She hung back, afraid of what her aunt would say when she saw her. He turned and caught her elbow and held it for reassurance. It seemed like an age before an elderly retainer finally opened the double doors.

  “Be pleased to inform Lady Sandbridge that the Marquess of Trent awaits her,” Trent ordered imperiously.

  “Madam is not at home, my lord.”

  “Very well, we’ll wait, but be so good to send some sherry ’round to the library—and some ratafia for the lady. By the by, where is the library?” Trent walked in with the authority of a man rarely denied anything.

  “I am afraid Lady Sandbridge is in London, my lord—gone to visit the Marlings. And Lady Lavinia has gone with her.”

  Ellen sank into a reception chair in the hallway and covered her face with her hands to prevent Trent’s seeing her cry. Her shoulders shook noiselessly and her whole body seemed to go limp with despair.

  “A devil of a coil, my dear,” he soothed as he bent over her and clasped her shoulder. Seldom moved by feminine wiles or bouts of tears, he was touched that she would still try to control herself in the face of the devastating news. She gulped and nodded.

  The butler stared at her in fascination. “Is she all right, sir?”

  “Of course she is all right. She is merely overset that we have missed Lady Sandbridge. Come, my dear.”

  “But—”

  “Would you be wishful of leaving your card, my lord? I cannot tell when she might return, but I collect it will be several weeks.”

  “No. My sister and I were just in the neighborhood.”

  “Ah, then perhaps you will see her in London.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They took their leave and Trent held her arm tightly as they stepped back outside. “Careful, Ellie—just hold together a little longer and then you can turn into a watering pot with my blessing.”

  “I am together,” came the muffled reply, “but I need to think what I am to do now. I cannot go back and throw myself on Papa’s mercy—I cannot!”

  “Ellie,” he murmured softly as he slid his hand down to hold hers, “I am tired of running all over the countryside. I have been ill and I have no wish to face Sir Basil either. We are going to my home in Berkshire.”

  Mortified, she looked at the ground. “I cannot go home with you.”

  “We are going home,” he repeated. “My house is your house.”

  “I cannot live with you.” She pulled back awkwardly and looked up through wet lashes. “I’ve no claim to you, my lord, and besides, think of the scandal.”

  “We’ve been together for weeks, anyway, Ellen, so what difference will a few more weeks or months make now?”

  “But you do not understand! It was all right because we were coming here. It was the means to an end. There was no impropriety between us, and we both knew it was just until I got here. No one had to know about it except Aunt Gussie.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to make the best of it. I’m taking you to the Meadows.”

  “But think what people will say—think of the scandal!”

  “Look, Ellie, there are worse things—you said so yourself. You do not want to return to Brockhaven, do you?”

  “No, but this isn’t a carte blanche offer, is it?”

  “Lud, no! Ellie, a man does not take a mistress home with him.”

  “But—”

  “We are going home,” he repeated firmly, “and I will do my damnedest to see you are not hurt by any of this. Come on, you’ll like the Meadows and you’ll like my brother Gerry.”

  11

  LORD TRENT’S ARRIVAL at the Meadows was a surprise to everyone. His hasty note to his younger brother offered no explanation for his sudden decision to rusticate in his country home. If he had again quarreled and dueled, he would have gone to France rather than returned to the Meadows. Gerald Deveraux reread the tersely worded missive and puzzled over it. It was most unlike Alex to leave the delights of London before the absolute last event was over. And it was more than six weeks until Christmas. Besides,
several weeks before, a friend had written that Trent was involved with a new opera singer.

  “Well, Biddle,” he told the butler, “ask Mrs. Biddle to remove the holland covers from the main drawing room. As best as I can make out from this, Trent will be home today or tomorrow and he will be bringing a guest.”

  “A hunting companion, perhaps?”

  “No, Alex does most of his hunting in London. But I gather that it is a rather important personage. He asks that we reopen Mama’s rooms for him.”

  A younger son, Gerald Deveraux cheerfully accepted his lot in life. It never occurred to him to curse a fate that gave him a brother nearly five years his senior, a brother to whom both title and estate passed when they were both still boys. But having been left with a generous allowance and a princely portion himself, he found jealousy an unnecessary vice. Nominally a captain in the dragoons, he was frequently afforded the opportunity of a few weeks at home, something he’d been unable to enjoy before the previous year’s Waterloo.

  “It’s him! It’s him!” A servant shouted from the wide porch at the front of the house. And from all over the huge mansion, people scurried to be a part of his welcome. Alexander Deveraux was immensely popular with his own servants, and they took relish in recounting his wild exploits among themselves. The boy—never mind that he was nearly thirty—was a handsome devil, and they were sure there was not another like him anywhere. His looks, his easy grace, his aristocratic bearing, even his famed exploits with his rapier—all were things his people admired in him. That he was a Deveraux would have been explanation enough, that he had been a marquess when in short coats, unhampered by the restrictions of parental discipline, was but icing on the cake. They delighted in hearing about his reckless carriage races, his conquest of one beautiful mistress after another, his fantastic gaming successes, and even his duels. In short, he provided them with pride in their own.