Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  Ironic, that. Marriage would be the perfect damper for this charge of attraction fizzing between them. Delight would turn to duty the moment he said “I do.”

  As they mounted the steps, he recalled the interview he had denied his steward in London before he left for Ware, all the myriad obligations awaiting his attention once he returned to Laidley. His mother’s troubled, confused face rose before his mind’s eye and a mixture of guilt and defiance washed over him. He was not responsible for the way things were between them. Any chance they had to make things right was lost when Andy died.

  He sighed. He had no wish to go back. He almost wished Gemma had not relented so soon.

  He paused at the top of the stairs and gazed over the patchworked fields with their neat hedgerow borders, to the lake all golden and glittering in the afternoon sun.

  Frowning, he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. He had not given much thought to how Gemma would survive her months at his ancestral pile. London in the Season would have been better, infinitely so. The house in Berkley Square had somehow escaped his father’s bitter taint. In town he might have left the task of snaring Gemma a husband in his sister’s hands and not spent more than one evening in ten at home.

  But Laidley was different. He could not leave Gemma to fend for herself there. He could not count on a ready supply of suitors eager to pluck the newest heiress from the marital tree. He would have to apply himself to the task of finding her a husband. Once she was safely betrothed and out of his sight, he might then apply himself to the task of forgetting her.

  The thought made him clench his jaw.

  A blade of pain sliced through him, punishing him for his folly. Putting his fingertips to the hinge of his jaw, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, almost relishing the pain the movement caused.

  He needed to stop this growing obsession with Gemma, nip it in the bud before it burgeoned out of control. Perhaps a stay at Laidley was exactly what he needed—a blanket of gloom to smother this blossoming tenderness, damp down this flaming desire.

  Gemma waited for Sebastian to take his last look at a Sussex sunset and wondered what he was thinking. His shoulders bowed a little before he straightened and walked towards her. Her brow furrowed in concern.

  The truth was, she felt utterly mortified at what she had done. Interfering in a fight? She knew better than that. Only, for some stupid reason, when she saw Sebastian coolly toying with Bellamy, the need to protect the younger man had made her launch herself at Sebastian without thinking.

  Grandpapa would be disgusted. She was disgusted. How did she think to step into Hugo’s shoes if she could not observe the gentlemanly code? She should have known neither man would thank her for her interference.

  She saw Sebastian working at his jaw. “Does it pain you very much? Come down to the kitchens. Cook will have something you can put on your face.”

  “No need,” he said, brushing past her. “I will attend to it myself.”

  His brusque tone winded her like a punch to the stomach. Obviously she was not forgiven. “Scovy!” She hurried after him, into the dim hall. “Scovy, I said I was sorry. I will not do it again.”

  “What?” He had set one foot on the stair, but he turned at that, looking at her oddly. “Oh. The fight.” He hesitated. “Well, just see that you don’t.”

  FORTUNATELY, no one carried the tale of that afternoon’s doings to Aunt Matilda, or she would have dealt Gemma a severe scold. Gemma had hoped Matilda would be too caught up in her silent battle with Sybil over household tasks to remember her duty and accompany Gemma to Laidley. However, when Gemma joined the other ladies in the drawing room after dinner, it became clear that Matilda had not forgotten.

  “Sebastian most particularly desired me to accompany Gemma to Laidley,” said Matilda in a quavering voice that bordered on the shrill. “There can be no question of sending only her maid.”

  Sybil raised her brows and smiled. “I believe I know what is best for my daughter, Aunt Matilda, dear. And just think, who will run the household while Gemma is not by if you do not? Hugo needs you. Dorry is a steady, sensible woman, perfectly adequate protection for the journey, and Sebastian’s mama will chaperone Gemma while she remains at Laidley. I do not think there is any more to discuss.”

  “But Sebastian—”

  Sibyl gave a delicate laugh. “Oh, Matilda! If you mean to hold up Sebastian Laidley as the arbiter of what is right and proper, I must begin to fear for your wits.”

  “All the more reason for me to go with her,” hissed Matilda. “That man is wicked, depraved. He cannot be trusted with our dearest girl.”

  The debate went on, but Gemma took no part. She did not doubt the outcome. Snatching up her embroidery, she stabbed her needle through the linen, thinking it really did not matter who chaperoned her, they might place absolute trust in Sebastian keeping the line. He had not spoken a syllable more than necessary to her all through dinner, and when she had attempted to joke him out of the sullens, his bruised, handsome face could have been fashioned from granite for all the response he gave.

  By contrast, his manner towards Bellamy bordered on brotherly. Incomprehensible, the ways of men.

  It was not just her interference in the fight that bothered him, Gemma thought, as the rumble of deep voices heralded the gentlemen’s entrance. There was something else, but what?

  Sebastian tried to appear unaware of the dusky blue eyes that followed him as he moved around the room, but ever since he had resolved to stay away from her, his wayward senses did nothing but seek Gemma out. The cadence of her voice wove through the general chatter and ripple of the pianoforte to caress his ear. Her scent, the fresh scent of spring, seemed to surround him, even when she was not near. He could not look at her without wanting to touch her, to soothe that troubled crease from her brow, trail his fingers over her lips, and throat.

  He closed his eyes.

  The best effort he could make at self-preservation was to place a buffer between them, but soon he realised his attempt to thrust Matilda into the breach had not met with success. Sybil Maitland watched him assimilate this with a smile of delicious satisfaction, like a cat presented with a brimming pot of cream. What was the woman playing at? Was she unaware of her daughter’s danger, or did she think she had scared him off with her warning last night?

  Feigning interest in the sonata Matilda played with surprising skill and feeling, Sebastian tried not to remember Gemma’s kiss, the sheer rightness and delicate power of her embrace. How could he be so comfortable with a woman and yet so excited by her at the same time? In his previous experience, the two had been mutually exclusive.

  Why try to analyse it? There was no future for them together. If he could turn back the clock, undo every decadent, reckless folly he had committed since Andy died, they might still have a chance. But he had moved far beyond that innocent, ardent boy she thought she knew. That boy no longer existed, and a hardened, heartless rake had taken his place. She would not heed the rumours, but she would find out soon enough for herself. Sebastian gazed at that untouched, vibrant beauty, and his black heart bled for her, for one day she would realise that everything they said about him was true.

  LATER that evening, Gemma put her head around the library door. “Grandpapa?”

  Hugo sat in his favourite wingback chair by the fire, a book open on his lap, though he did not appear to be reading it. He turned his head to look at her, and his rare smile clutched at Gemma’s heart. In the preparations for her departure, she had almost forgotten she would be leaving him, as well as Ware. A rush of affection flooded her. She ran to sit in a flurry of muslin skirts at his feet.

  They remained like that in silence, staring into the flames. For so long, it had been just the two of them, together against the world. Gemma had a notion that for better or for worse, that was about to change. This last night, she wanted to tell him how much he meant to her.

  He was the only one who had never left.

  But she could
not put it into words, and knew he would not want to hear them even if she could. It was enough to sit quietly with him in the firelight, to sense that he understood.

  After a while, Gemma began to drowse. Vaguely, she wondered whether she should go to bed, when a trembling hand touched her hair.

  “Gemma.”

  She tilted back her head to look at him. “Yes?”

  The hooded dark eyes held a faint frown. His free hand clenched and unclenched. She laid hers upon it.

  “What troubles you, Grandpapa?”

  His mouth twisted. “Maudlin nonsense, that’s all.”

  She smiled and brought his hand to her cheek. “I shall miss you, too, Grandpapa.”

  His trembling fingers clenched around hers. “Gemma, you’re a good girl. Young, beautiful. You should not be tied to an old man.” He paused, before muttering, “I just hope to God I’ve done right this time.”

  After Sebastian’s recent coldness, Gemma could have echoed that hope on her own account. But she raised her chin, not allowing a shadow of her doubt to cross her face. “It was my decision to go to Laidley, Grandpapa. Please, do not fret yourself. I shall write to you, and you have Aunt Matilda and Mama and—and Bellamy to keep you company. I shall be back before you know I am gone.”

  Eight

  STORM clouds gathered in a dense mass low on the horizon. As Gemma’s chaise rounded a bend, the clouds seemed to thicken, solidify, and resolve into a hulking expanse of grey stone.

  Laidley. The Earl of Carleton’s principal seat.

  The chaise bowled under the arch of a crenellated gatehouse and down the straight, chestnut-lined drive. On either side, the jewel-green lawns of the park sprawled forever, and a scattered herd of deer gently raised their heads to watch the intruders pass.

  There was a faint, salt tang in the wind that buffeted Gemma’s bonnet as she let down the window. Ignoring Dorry’s protest, she leaned out a little way to study Sebastian’s home.

  Imposing. Vast. Sombre.

  Benighted, more like. Laidley stood closed and impenetrable, as though it had hoarded dark secrets for hundreds of years. She sat back against the cushions and tucked her wind-whipped hair back under her bonnet. A shiver ran down her spine, despite the day’s warmth. Gemma chuckled and cursed her penchant for gothic romance.

  Sebastian had ridden ahead to warn of their arrival. He had barely spoken to her beyond strict necessity since they left Ware. Not for the first time, Gemma wondered why she had travelled all this way and left Ware, her bright, beloved home.

  For what? she would like to know. To show Hugo how much Ware needed her? To help with Lady Fanny’s wedding? Or on the faint, illusory promise of a kiss?

  The carriage swept around the circular drive, then slowed and drew to a gentle halt.

  As the footman opened the carriage door and folded down the steps for her to alight, Gemma tried to quell the uneasy fluttering in her stomach. Not an auspicious beginning. None of the family was there to greet her, not even Sebastian.

  They will show you no mercy.

  Remembering her aunt’s words, Gemma realised she had given little thought to any of the inhabitants of this place besides her old playmate.

  Sebastian only had one sister, Fanny, who was about to be married. Andrew, the eldest, had died in a sailing accident off the Cornish coast. Sebastian had rarely spoken about his family, even as a child, so Gemma did not know what to expect. Would she be welcome in this house? She had never been invited here before.

  Dorry trudged up the steps as though marching into battle, the ribbons of her sensible grey bonnet fluttering like standards in the brisk wind. She clutched Gemma’s dressing case in one mittened hand and muttered to herself, no doubt holding the household up to scrutiny, finding it lacking, and planning a complete rout of the enemy by teatime.

  Still, no one came to open the door.

  Gemma glanced around and hesitated, as if setting foot on the first step would commit her irrevocably to stay—as if she had not been committed from the time Sebastian had kissed her, whispered that heated plea against her lips, made her promise to come.

  Suddenly, the door flung open and he stood above her, looking as grim as the Cornish-quarried stone that framed him. He still wore his riding garb, leather breeches and an oilskin coat, though his head and hands were bare. Had Gemma been a fanciful heroine of a gothic romance, she would have called his appearance sinister. As it was, she squared her shoulders, jammed her bonnet more firmly on her head, and summoned a jaunty grin.

  “Gracious, Scovy, had I known you were lord and master of all this, I would have paid more heed to your consequence. But now I see it is all a façade, and you are in fact reduced to performing the duties of your butler.”

  Sebastian’s lips twitched as he jogged down the steps towards her, and she exhaled the breath she had not realised she’d been holding. He flourished a bow and extended his hand. “Welcome to my far-from-humble abode.”

  She laid her hand in his large, warm one. He smiled at her, and that smile gave her the courage to face whatever lay ahead.

  As they entered the house, Sebastian said, “Mama would have been here to greet you, but she has met with a . . . an unfortunate accident. She asks that you excuse her for the moment. My sister is with her, but she will join us directly.”

  Gemma was too well-bred to inquire further, even of Scovy, about his mother’s “accident,” so she said nothing and allowed herself to be handed over to a flustered house-maid and conducted to her bedchamber.

  The exterior of the house had prepared Gemma somewhat for inside. A heaviness pervaded the great hall, no doubt a result of the bare flagstones, the paucity of windows, and the dark tapestries smothering the walls. To her left, two suits of armour guarded a display of truly barbarous looking weaponry. Swords and axe-heads gleamed dully in the dim light.

  Even the atmosphere seemed weighted down, thick with dust and . . . and smoke? Gemma sniffed the air and frowned. If there was one thing she could not abide, it was a smoking chimney. But why would they need fires here in the daytime at the height of summer? Was there an invalid in the house?

  She and Dorry followed the maid up the steps and turned left at the landing, where the stair branched in opposite directions. As they continued to the gallery above, a door opened at the top of the stairs across the way.

  A billow of smoke rolled into the hall. A man wearing the green livery of a footman shot into the passage, slamming the door behind him. He bent over and put his hands on his knees as he gasped for air.

  Gemma stared, but on catching sight of her, the footman straightened, righted his powdered wig, and continued on his way with a majestic, measured tread. His dignity might have been restored completely were it not for the scorch marks on the ragged tails of his coat.

  Dorry threw Gemma a glance signalling her intention of discovering the whys and wherefores of this strange behaviour at the first available opportunity. Gemma bit back an answering smile. This was all most intriguing—hardly what she had expected from Sebastian’s family. From the scant details he had let fall, she had always imagined them to be pompous and stiff.

  However, now was not the time to investigate. They hurried to catch up with the maid, who had continued on, oblivious. After a brisk journey through a series of galleries and corridors, they reached the chamber set aside for Gemma’s use.

  Gemma ran a critical eye over her new living quarters. She found nothing that could not be fixed with a little concentrated effort. Well, quite a lot of concentrated effort, really, but she had no doubt she and Dorry were up to the challenge.

  The rolling burr of the little housemaid’s speech broke into her plans for improvement. “Begging your pardon, miss, but there weren’t the time to prepare . . .” It was a good thing Sebastian had often indulged his talent for mimicking the local accent, or Gemma would not have made out one word the girl said.

  “No, that’s quite all right,” she said briskly, stripping off her gloves. “As lon
g as the bed linen is well aired and I may have hot water for my bath this evening, that is all I require for the moment. Will you return in half an hour and show my maid to her quarters?”

  “Yes, miss.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and left.

  Gemma inspected the woefully shabby room. Wallpaper peeled away in two corners and damp patches bloomed on the outer wall. Carved nymphs and demons and goodness knew what else cavorted up and down the heavy mahogany posts on the ancient, canopied bed. Holes riddled the drab brown velvet curtains until some parts resembled cobwebs. Gemma met Dorry’s horrified gaze and burst out laughing.

  “Oh! Do you think it is our presence that has thrown this household into disarray or is it always like this?”

  “I don’t know that, Miss Gemma, but I shall find out,” said Dorry, her lips set in a determined line.

  “Now, don’t you go upsetting everyone below stairs. I shall do perfectly well, once we have made some changes. We must proceed with caution and tact.” She glanced about her with satisfaction. “Only think! I expected I should be bored to tears here, but already I have been presented with a mystery and a muddle. What could be better?”

  Gemma gingerly drew back the curtains and uncovered a dirt-encrusted diamond-paned window that obscured more of the scenery than it revealed. Stifling a sneeze from the dust she had dislodged even with that circumspect movement, she tried to force one open, but it resisted her attempts as surely as if it had been nailed shut.

  Taking a handkerchief from her reticule, Gemma rubbed a patch of grime from the thick glass and peered out. On the horizon, the storm clouds seemed to have cleared, revealing an expanse of pale sky that deepened into blue-green sea. In the foreground, grass of an impossible chartreuse spread from beyond the sheep pastures right to the cliffs’ edge, broken now and again by purple smudges of heather. Squinting, she could even make out a small, sheltered beach, nestled at the foot of the cliffs.