Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  He forked ham onto his plate and looked around, narrowing his eyes at Romney. “And I don’t want Gemma caught in the middle of your ridiculous tomfoolery again.”

  One tawny eyebrow lifted. “Gemma?”

  “Miss Maitland to you.”

  Romney gave a low whistle. “Lord! I thought she looked familiar, but in the heat of the moment, I couldn’t place her. Are you telling me you have Sybil Maitland’s daughter under your roof?”

  Sebastian gave him a long, cool look. “No. I am not telling you anything of the sort. Miss Maitland is a virtuous young lady and she will be treated as such.”

  Romney put down his knife and fork. “Have you forgotten I’m betrothed to your sister?”

  “That’s not what she says.”

  “Well, I am. Till death do us part and all that rot.”

  Sebastian smiled. “I think you’ll find that’s marriage.”

  Romney swallowed a mouthful of toast. “Y’know Sebastian, when I agreed to take Fanny on I’d no notion what it would mean. It’s supposed to be a marriage of convenience, for God’s sake, and yet it’s been the most inconvenient damned thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Sebastian finished his selection and came to the table. “If you take my advice, you’ll leave her alone. Wait for her to come about.”

  “Can’t do that.” Romney contemplated his buttered eggs.

  “Why not?”

  He shifted in his chair, but kept his eyes on his plate. “I can’t, that’s all. So you’ll just have to live with me awhile longer.”

  Ten

  GEMMA turned back to an empty bedchamber. “Fanny?”

  Still clutching her wrapper around her, she scanned the room. It was so sparsely furnished, there were few places Fanny could hide. The large fire screen concealed no secrets, and anyone lurking behind the threadbare curtains would be clearly silhouetted against the pale morning sunlight.

  Gemma knelt and lifted the skirt of the coverlet to peer beneath the ancient four-poster bed. Nothing. Not even dust—Dorry had made sure of that.

  Then came a click and a soft whine. Gemma scrambled to her feet and started towards the sound. She froze, and watched, open-mouthed, as a large panel in the wall beside the fireplace swung open to reveal her friend.

  “Gracious, is that where you went? I thought you’d vanished like Banquo’s ghost.”

  Fanny stepped into the room and turned to close the secret door behind her.

  “Wait.” Gemma crossed the floor towards her. “Show me how that works.”

  “Oh, it’s quite easy,” said Fanny. “You just press inwards, like this. And voilà! It opens.”

  “You say that as if I ought to be pleased.” Gemma tried it herself. A sharp jab of the fingers, and the door sprang open with daunting alacrity. She caught the panel, closed it again, and frowned at the apparently innocuous wall. “Where does this lead? Can one lock it from the inside?”

  “The corridor runs past the principal bedchambers,” said Fanny. There’s an old set of stairs that leads to the servants’ quarters on the floor above and to the kitchens below. The servants don’t use it anymore because we no longer require them to add invisibility to their other duties and it is less convenient than using the back stairs. I think everyone but me has forgotten it’s there. Why should you wish to lock it?”

  Gemma glowered at her. “Perhaps so I might get some sleep. I did not intend to keep cock-crow hours here.”

  She took Fanny’s elbow and propelled her towards the conventional door. “Now, Fanny, be a dear! Do go away while I dress. I’ll see you in the breakfast parlour presently.”

  “I shall breakfast in my room,” said Fanny with affected unconcern. “I do not wish to see him.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “Yes, you have made that abundantly clear. Something tells me, however, that Romney will not be denied. You might as well give him his marching orders face-to-face, before he tries some other hare-brained trick and ruins your reputation. Then you’ll have no choice but to marry him.”

  Delicate colour rose to Fanny’s fine-boned cheeks. “You are right. He will not stop at that small reverse.” The tip of her tongue touched her lower lip. Her dark eyes glinted with speculation. She traced the blond lace edging Gemma’s sleeve with her finger. “I wonder how he will go about it. There is a sturdy trellis beneath my window.”

  Gemma threw up her hands. “You are incorrigible! I’m beginning to believe Sebastian’s right. You and Romney are well suited.” She looked at Fanny curiously. “He seemed very upset. Are you positive he does not care for you?”

  Fanny snorted. “Oh, don’t let his barbarian ways fool you. Romney sees me as his possession, and he will move heaven and earth to have me, but once I am his he will lose interest. The minute I succumb, he will be off chasing the next thing in skirts that looks at him twice. I know his sort exceedingly well.”

  “Do you indeed?” Gemma marvelled at Fanny’s certainty. She herself found it impossible to fathom the ways of men. She supposed that came of largely disregarding them, of missing the London Season, and of steadfastly ignoring her mama’s frequently dispensed gems of worldly wisdom.

  But Fanny, it seemed, experienced no doubts. “Yes, and I’ll tell you one thing, Gemma. My brother is no different from Romney. They are hell-born babes, the pair of them.”

  Gemma smiled at the expression issuing from Fanny’s lips, but unease prickled her nape. The memory of Sebastian’s mouth teasing hers, the devious way he had lured her into taking snuff from his wrist, flickered a warning. “Scovy—I mean, Sebastian—is not so bad, surely?”

  Fanny’s eyes rounded. “Worse! When our brother Andrew died, Sebastian turned wild. I believe Papa would have disinherited him if he could, but the entailment means Sebastian gets everything.” She paused, tilting her head. “Why do you call him Scovy?”

  “Oh!” Gemma tried to look innocent. “I don’t really remember.”

  Wistfully, Fanny said, “I never knew Sebastian as you did. He was rarely here. Always, he was at school or at Ware. Now he makes his home in town.” She smiled. “I used to dislike you intensely, you know. Sebastian was my favourite brother, and yet I hardly ever saw him, only sometimes at Christmas. He was always with you.”

  Guilt clawed inside Gemma, but she refused it purchase. “You must have known that was not my doing.”

  “Yes, but I detested you all the same. Silly, isn’t it, the way children think?” Fanny laughed and tucked her hand in Gemma’s arm. “Now I have met you, it is quite different. You are charming, and I have made up my mind to find you a husband while you are here.”

  The quick change of subject startled Gemma. She broke free of Fanny’s hold. “A husband? Oh, no.”

  “Why not? You cannot have met anyone eligible at Ware or you would be married already. You are quite the most . . . well, I was going to say beautiful but that’s not right, is it?”

  Fanny observed her through narrowed, assessing eyes. She sighed. “You, dear Gemma, are ravishing.” She held up a hand at Gemma’s protest. “Yes, ravishing, that is the word. It describes you perfectly. Now, I am accounted handsome among the ton.” She wrinkled her nose. “Such a lowering description, as if I were a barouche or a yacht or something.” She caught Gemma’s wrist and coaxed her to stand before the cheval glass. “But together we make quite a pair, don’t you think?”

  Gemma was reduced to incoherence by this frankness. She could only stare at their reflections, one slender, dark, and elegant despite the deficiencies of that morning’s toilette ; the other fair and disarranged, slightly blowsy, if she must be honest. Like a milkmaid or some bosomy tavern wench with a rather expensive taste in lingerie.

  “A pair?”

  Fanny bestowed a smug smile on their reflection. “Yes, indeed. We shall form a two-pronged attack.”

  Gemma did not doubt that in the battlefield of love Fanny would prove a formidable general, but she had no taste for strategic manoeuvres, no desire to wed. The last thing
she needed was a husband.

  All she wanted was Ware.

  ROMNEY stared at Sebastian’s proposed guest list as though comprehending plain English were a feat beyond his powers. “Algernon Mosely? Gervase Stone? What is this, a list of England’s most boring bachelors?”

  Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “Respectability does not necessarily equate with tedium.”

  “But it all too often does.” Romney flicked the paper with a spatulate finger. “Why are you inviting a load of Friday-faced parsons to Laidley? And why aren’t there any females on the list?”

  “Ah. I thought you might be able to help me there. I need . . .” Sebastian frowned and ran the feather of his pen through his fingers. “I might as well tell you as long as you promise to be discreet. I am trying to find Gemma a husband.”

  Romney started in surprise, then a smile burst over his face. “Oh, by God, that’s rich! Sebastian Laidley, confirmed bachelor, throwing his hat in the ring with the matchmaking mamas. And Miss Maitland is acquainted with this plan of yours?”

  Casting him a glance of loathing, Sebastian grunted. “No.”

  “I see.” Romney’s grin spread wider, if that were possible. “Well, your Miss Maitland is a filly with a good dose of spirit in her. I can’t picture her bedding down with any of those wet blankets you’ve picked out.”

  Sebastian’s nostrils flared. “You will refrain from speaking of Miss Maitland in those terms, if you please.”

  His friend held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Oops. Beg pardon, wasn’t thinking. Here, let me have a try.”

  Reluctantly, Sebastian handed over paper and writing implements. Romney pulled his chair closer to the other side of the desk. He reached over to dip the pen in ink, blotted it and tickled his stubbled chin with the feather as he thought. “What about Pinkerton?”

  Sebastian snorted. “That fribble! She would have nothing to say to him.”

  Romney raised his brows as he wrote. “He’s a viscount and full of juice besides. Most women wouldn’t look further than wealth and title in their choice of a mate.”

  “Well, this one does! Or she will if she knows what’s good for her.” Sebastian gritted his teeth. “And she would never so much as glance at Pinkerton.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Ladies seem to take to him very well, don’t they? Always fluttering about him whenever I’ve attended any of those dashed dull affairs at Almack’s. Well, I’ve put him down, anyway. Now. Who else . . .”

  Romney slapped his knee. “My cousin, Brooke. The very one! Now, you can’t say he’s a fribble, Sebastian. Dashed fine figure of a man. Top-of-the-trees Corinthian and wealthy to boot. His maternal grandmother died last year. Left him very plump in the pocket.”

  This discussion was not proceeding as Sebastian had planned. “Look, forget about the men. I have them sorted already. I want some females, but I need ones who aren’t . . .” He broke off, floundering under Romney’s ironic gaze.

  “What?”

  He sighed. “Competition. I need Gemma to stand out and I don’t want any diamonds competing with her.”

  Romney’s hazel eyes brimmed with laughter. His shoulders shook from holding it in. “So, you want hideous crones who have no money, no prospects, and no connections?”

  Sebastian brightened. “Do you know any?”

  Romney burst out laughing. “Oh, Lord! I suppose I could prune a couple from the family tree, but why? Your Miss Maitland would outshine the greatest beauties of the day.”

  At this praise, Sebastian fought an odd sense of pride. Coolly, he said, “She is past price, isn’t she? Not your classical beauty, but all the same, she has an abundance of charm.”

  “Yes, I noticed her, er, abundance.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just that I noticed her charms.”

  Sebastian half rose from his chair, then made himself sit back. “Listen, Romney, I don’t need to tell you that I consider you still bound to my sister. Furthermore, if you think to pay court to Gemma, I shall have no compunction in kicking you down the stairs.”

  A sardonic smile played about Romney’s mouth. “Not to mention your sister would have my guts for garters. No, I thank you. I agree that your Miss Maitland is a highly finished piece of nature, but my appreciation is purely aesthetic. If she has a sizeable dowry, you’ll have no trouble firing her off. But why should it be left to you? Doesn’t she have family?”

  Knowing his friend would think the joke too rich for words, Sebastian omitted the history of his bargain with Hugo. “Her grandfather also happens to be my godfather.”

  “The one who is dying?” Romney gave a silent whistle.

  Sebastian sucked in a breath. Hearing it out loud was more painful than he had thought possible. “Yes, but Gemma doesn’t know that. I promised him I would find her a husband, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  Romney swung a booted leg over the other. “Which begs the question: Why don’t you marry her?”

  “I? Certainly not.”

  His companion shrugged. “Seems the simplest solution to me.”

  “No, it is the worst possible solution. Please keep your mind on the task at hand. Females.” He counted down his list. “Twelve of them. Including chaperones, I suppose. Fortunate, that. We need only invite half the number of unattached ladies to even the numbers.”

  “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

  Sebastian looked at him.

  Romney shrugged. “Invite Brooke, then. He’s hanging out for a wife.”

  RELUCTANTLY, Gemma decided to postpone her exploration of the Laidley estate in favour of taking stock of the house. She donned an old dark blue round gown, perfect for household chores. Lady Carleton had not rejoined them yet and Fanny showed a high-bred disdain for domestic matters, so Gemma rang for the housekeeper to attend her in the south parlour, where she and Sebastian had taken luncheon the day before.

  Having awaited the woman at the appointed place for more than fifteen minutes, Gemma’s temper rose. After a prolonged search, she found a maid daydreaming over her work polishing the banisters on the central staircase and inquired where the housekeeper might be found.

  “In ’er sittin’ room, miss,” came the bewildered reply.

  Grimly, Gemma requested directions, thanked the maid, and stalked upstairs to Mrs. Penny’s room.

  When she knocked on the door, a rich, deep voice bade her enter.

  Mrs. Penny was a shiny-faced, rounded individual, her generous girth suggesting she was unaccustomed to moving quickly, or, perhaps at all. Like the housekeeper herself, her surroundings were ample and richly appointed. A handsome burgundy carpet sprawled over the floor and several overstuffed armchairs ranged around the hearth in a cosy circle. The hangings were old and faded, but free from dust. The curtains that framed a charming view of the formal gardens were crisp, clean, and, most important, intact.

  Gemma’s eyes widened as she sat down. No wonder the house was in such a poor state. All of Mrs. Penny’s effort seemed directed towards looking after herself.

  Gemma introduced herself to the woman and explained Sebastian’s instructions on the matter of the house party.

  She smiled. “Of course there has not been the necessity to prepare for a party of this magnitude at Laidley in many years. I believe the former earl did not care for company, but with Lady Fanny’s wedding day approaching, we must make ready for a large number of guests.”

  Mrs. Penny beamed at her and nodded with native Cornish charm. “Oh, yes, miss. Never you mind your pretty head over that, never you mind. I shall see to it, miss. Oh, yes.”

  Gemma smiled back. “But you see, Mrs. Penny, Lord Carleton charged me specifically with minding my head over the arrangements. That is why I am here. Now, I wish to inspect the guest bedchambers first. Once we have taken note of what needs doing there, we will move on to the staterooms.”

  Ignoring the housekeeper’s blank look, she went on. “I shall also require all the
counterpanes, rugs, and hangings beaten and washed where possible, the furniture polished, the linen bleached and mended, and I should like an inventory of the still-room and the storerooms and larder.”

  Mrs. Penny blinked. “May I offer ye some cake, miss?” She waved her hand, indicating a sumptuous array of cakes and savouries on a small round table by the window.

  “No, thank you, I have just breakfasted. Now, about those bedchambers—”

  “What about a nice samwich, then? I’ve salt beef or ham?” The kindly blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Bonny lass like you needs your susteynance. Tea?”

  Gemma eyed the silver tea urn, a more handsome specimen than she had seen in the breakfast parlour that morning. She wondered what the lady of the house made of Mrs. Penny’s lavish notions of what was due to her. She suspected Lady Carleton remained ignorant of the housekeeper’s practices. That raised intriguing questions, but Gemma lacked the leisure to mull them over at that moment.

  Not many more minutes spent in her company convinced Gemma that Mrs. Penny regarded the position of housekeeper as purely nominal. Short of lighting one of Whinyates’ infamous rockets under her, there seemed to be no way of moving her from her comfortable roost.

  Gemma tilted her head, considering. She could simply order the woman to cooperate, but that would only incite resentment. She would have to do her best on her own. Once Lady Carleton was fit to see her, she would assess the strength and will of the mistress of this ramshackle establishment and from there consider her best strategy.

  She left the housekeeper’s domain and decided her first port of call might as well be the room that required the most extensive refurbishment—the burnt-out shell of a salon where she had found Sebastian the day before.

  Gemma opened the door without knocking, not expecting to find anyone within. A tall woman, her jet-black hair streaked with grey, turned swiftly on Gemma’s entrance. She stood at the window, framed by tendrils of tattered curtains patterned with filmy sunlight.

  “So foolish.” She put a bandaged hand to her cheek. Her dark gaze wandered the room, then came to rest on Gemma. “Only look what I have done. How my lord would have berated me.”