Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  “Miss Maitland, may I say how happy I am to see you here?” Ripton’s softly spoken London accent was a direct contrast to the housekeeper’s rollicking Cornish burr.

  Surprised, Gemma inclined her head. “Why, Ripton, I’m flattered.”

  He made a harassed gesture. “You must have guessed how it is at Laidley, miss. I do not like to speak out of turn, but it makes my heart ache to see the old house so rundown as she is. It’s the mistress. She’s not well, and there are those who’ve taken sore advantage of her indisposition. There are those who will try to put a spoke in the wheel of your house party, miss.”

  Mrs. Penny. That had already been made clear to her. What remained clear as mud was why Mrs. Penny should wield such power. In Gemma’s household, such insubordination would be dealt with summarily.

  “I wish you to know, miss, that I shall assist you in any way I can. Even had my lady not required it, I should have offered you my services.”

  She smiled at him. “Splendid! Let us start, then, with this list. You will know who in the village might assist us. We need a seamstress and a carpenter, at least, and a few more girls to help in the house, especially the kitchens. We will use what materials and labour may be provided locally and send posthaste to London for the rest.”

  Ripton permitted himself a smile. “Thank you, miss. I should be delighted.”

  EARLY the following morning, Gemma summoned Dorry to help her dress in her charcoal riding habit. She was still trying to decide whether to keep her appointment with Sebastian when Fanny walked in.

  “Now that is fortunate! I was just about to go for a ride myself,” said Fanny.

  Gemma raised her brows. “You have decided to venture out of your self-imposed exile, then?”

  “I have it on excellent authority that Romney and my brother made sharp inroads on the brandy last night and we’ll not be seeing either of them before noon. I shall be quite safe.”

  So, it appeared, would Gemma. She did not know whether she was entirely happy about that.

  She told herself she wanted to see him again to clear the air that had suddenly turned hot and thick between them, to recapture their former, easy friendship. But part of her knew there was no going back. Part of her longed to feel his arms about her, his mouth fitting so perfectly over hers.

  “Are you coming?” asked Fanny, turning back at the doorway.

  Gemma started. “Oh! Yes. Let me get my hat.”

  THE glossy black mare that awaited her on the drive made Gemma cry out in delight. Sebastian had judged her taste to a nicety. She spent some time becoming acquainted with her new mount before she allowed the groom to assist her into the saddle.

  While the groom attended to Fanny, Gemma let the mare dance beneath her, shaking off her fidgets. The horse had just settled when a large post-chaise bowled around from the back of the house and pulled up before the front steps.

  Gemma recognised Sebastian’s crest on the panel. The front door flung open and three footmen laden with baggage descended the stairs in a stately procession. Gemma exchanged a puzzled glance with Fanny.

  Sebastian emerged, clad in a caped greatcoat, gleaming Hessians and beaver hat. He looked crisp and elegant, as if he had never heard the word brandy spoken. Romney followed, his appearance considerably more disreputable.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” demanded Fanny. Gemma was glad of her friend’s forthrightness. It was exactly what she wished to know.

  Romney inclined his head in an ironic bow. Sebastian answered. “London. I have urgent business there.” He turned his head to regard Gemma, and the first inkling of his overindulgence the previous evening showed in a strange glitter about his eyes. “How do you like Black Dancer? She seems to like you.”

  “Very much, thank you.” Gemma found it difficult to be as cool as she wanted when he had lent her such a prime piece of horseflesh. His gaze trailed fire over every line of her body, a heated reminder of her folly the day before.

  Her pulse fluttered. She cleared her throat. “You will be back for the house party, I presume.”

  His mouth quirked in a half smile. “Oh, yes. Well before that. Write to me at Laidley House if you need anything. I shan’t be away too long.”

  SEBASTIAN sat in Madame de Cacharelle’s cream-and-gilt showroom and calculated he had been celibate for precisely twenty-seven days. No wonder he could not control himself with Gemma. Having endured the good-natured teasing of Madame at the change in measurements from his last commission, he recalled, for the first time since he left London for Ware, that Eleanor might be wondering where he was.

  Relieved to have discovered the source of the strange discontentment that had been plaguing him, he decided to stroll round to Mount Street to call on his latest paramour after he’d finished with Madame de Chacharelle.

  That settled, he put her out of his mind and concentrated on the modiste’s suggestions for Gemma’s new wardrobe. He had asked Fanny to winkle Gemma’s dimensions from that fierce maid of hers and presented them, together with an exact description of Gemma’s colouring, to Madame.

  De Cacharelle tsked and tutted and oh la la’ed. Having explained what an impossibility it would be to design clothes for a lady she had never seen, she rapidly drew sketches and ordered her girls to model various costumes. At the end of a dazzling parade of gauzes, muslins, lustrings, merinos, satins, and silks, she shot him a look of birdlike inquiry. “Why so secretive, milor’? This new amour, she is special, no?”

  Sebastian stared at her impertinence, but Madame rattled on gaily, unabashed. “Oho! So coy. But we must let you have your secrets, non?”

  “Just so, Madame.”

  “And now for the more intimate apparel, hein? I shall show you my pièce de résistance. Only for my most favoured customers, you understand.” Madame bustled off to the back room and returned with a filmy concoction of peach gauze and cream lace, a dashing peignoir fit for a high-class courtesan.

  Sebastian gazed at the garment and swallowed hard. He could not stop imagining how Gemma might look inside it.

  Wrenching his mind from a fantasy he would never realise, he said carelessly, “Oh, very well. Throw that in, too.”

  Madame would only grow more suspicious if he declined such a ravishing ensemble for a woman she assumed was his mistress. He would have the boxes sent directly to him and remove the offending garment before it reached Gemma.

  Having completed his transaction with Madame to her patent satisfaction and his considerable expense, he left the elegant showroom. With a sense of grim determination hardly commensurate with his amorous purpose, he strode around to Mount Street.

  Eleanor kept him kicking his heels downstairs for a long time, no doubt making certain preparations. He smiled to himself when the butler bade him go up. With Eleanor, at least, one did not have to waste time talking.

  “Darling.” In a sinuous movement, she wound her arms around his neck, gusting him with Eau de Nuit, a scent he had purchased for her, but now found slightly overpowering.

  He drew back a little and explained about the house party, the reason for his absence.

  Not that she would care. Eleanor never asked him to explain himself. If she took other lovers, he did not demand the details. A perfectly convenient, amicable relationship. But then why did her embrace feel like a stranglehold?

  “A house party and I am not invited?” The delicate, skilled hands slid to his shoulders. Her lips formed the slightest pout, as if she knew very well how tempting her mouth looked in that pose.

  On the pretext of taking out his snuffbox, he disentangled himself. “Just a dull affair full of cousins. You would not be amused, my dear.” He looked up. “I am surprised you would wish to attend.”

  Eleanor shrugged and turned away. He watched his high-born mistress drift around her boudoir, and for the first time, he noticed the artifice behind her sensual movements, the cosmetics carefully applied to emphasise her features, the way every inch of her dishabille had been
designed and draped to enhance her figure. Surely he had known all that before, thought it a cultivated elegance, valued her none the less for it.

  Irritated at this sudden twinge of dissatisfaction, he said, “Well, why not? You will undoubtedly enliven what promises to be the most tedious affair. I shall include your name among the invitations.”

  Eleanor inclined her coiffed dark head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  She seemed to be waiting for something, though he had no idea what. She opened her mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. She smiled, and her teeth showed very white against her rose-tinted lips. “I am afraid I am not at leisure this afternoon, Carleton.” She held out her hand. “Until Laidley, then.”

  Almost relieved, Sebastian took her proffered hand and raised it to his lips. “Until Laidley, my dear. I shall live in anticipation.”

  SEBASTIAN had meant only to stay in town long enough to wait for Gemma’s gowns to be made up, execute some trifling business with his solicitor, and call on the few of his friends who happened to be in London still when the rest of the ton had removed to Brighton or their country estates.

  But he lingered, and Romney lingered with him. He did not visit Eleanor again, noting that she had not wished to see him until the date of the house party. He wondered why he should consider it in the nature of a reprieve.

  Still less could he fathom what idiotic whim had led him to invite her to Laidley. Eleanor was discreet, the widow of a baronet. No one would question her presence at a ton party, and he believed few knew of their connection anyway. But he would know, and for some reason it made him uncomfortable to think of her in his home, mixing with his mother and sister and meeting Gemma.

  “How about Crockford’s?” Romney swung his Malacca cane idly as they strolled along St James’s after dining at their club.

  “Crockford’s?” Sebastian raised his brows. “Don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s a new hell. Play is deep, but the wine’s tolerable.”

  Sebastian grimaced. He had not much taste for gaming, but Mortimer’s suggestion of visiting Fatima’s House of Pleasure in Covent Garden held little appeal either. He had an inkling of why that should be, so he said, “I vote for Fatima’s. Lead on, Mortimer.”

  A stifling mix of heat and cheap scent assailed him as he handed his coat to the attendant. The establishment was not one of the more exclusive ones Sebastian had ever patronised, but the women made up in exuberance what they lacked in refinement.

  After a brandy or two, he had begun to convince himself that a cheerful tumble with an uncomplicated young whore was precisely what he needed, but when a rosy brunette thrust her generous bosom in his face and demanded in ringing tones whether he fancied some, he could barely conceal his disgust.

  Romney sat at a corner table, drinking steadily and snarling at anyone unwise enough to approach him. Mortimer had his hands full with twin redheads, the undisputed attraction of the house.

  As if from a vast distance, Sebastian surveyed the tawdry, tragic gaiety that frolicked around him. He felt like an outsider, a stranger to the riotous life he had led since Andy died.

  Quietly, he finished his drink and slipped away.

  Twelve

  AFTER a month, Sebastian returned to a house transformed by a whirlwind of light, fresh air, and excellent taste. Laidley, which could once have earned a starring role in one of the hoarier gothic romances, now appeared elegant, comfortable, and welcoming—at least on the inside.

  The great hall remained essentially the same, though plush red Turkey carpets sprawled over the flagstones to lighten the atmosphere and a couple of Sheraton tables supported huge Imari vases full of crimson roses. Armour and medieval weaponry conceded their places to a magnificent collection of Meissen porcelain, which used to grace the long gallery, if he remembered correctly. The air smelled of beeswax and lavender, and even the tapestry hangings on the walls looked fresh, rejuvenated by skilled, careful hands.

  Faint sounds of sawing and hammering disturbed the tranquil setting. The work was not yet done.

  Sebastian turned on his heel, jogged up the stairs, and strode along the corridor, eager to see what transformation Gemma had wrought in his bedchamber.

  He stopped short on the threshold.

  The room had been altered along the same lines as the great hall, but with one significant difference: Suspended from the pelmet of his four-poster bed, glittering with gilt and scarlet embroidery, was a cobalt-blue silk hanging depicting the family crest.

  Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “Ripton!”

  In a few moments, the butler’s measured tread approached. “My lord?”

  “Find Miss Maitland for me, will you, and ask her to attend me here.”

  Ripton hesitated. Sebastian shot him a searing glance.

  The butler bowed. “Yes, my lord. At once.”

  In a few minutes, Gemma joined him, smiling a welcome. He was too irritated to return the smile, even though the vision of her sweet face had haunted him since he left Laidley.

  He jabbed a finger at the hanging. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Gemma glanced from him to the abomination behind his bed. “The crest? That was my idea. Don’t you like it? Fanny told me all your predecessors hung it over their beds.”

  Sebastian gritted his teeth. “Not this one.”

  “Oh? Well, I shall have it removed, then.” Gemma’s matter-of-fact tone made him feel as if he’d overreacted.

  And he had, hadn’t he? Churlish of him to pinch at her for the one thing she had done that was not to his taste. He should be on his knees thanking her for her efforts in his absence.

  “Was that all, your lordship?” The irony in her voice told him she agreed with his silent assessment.

  He turned to her. “I’m sorry, Gemma. I don’t like to be reminded—”

  “That you are the earl? But you are, you know. And you cannot continue trying to escape it.” She started for the door.

  Keeping a tight rein on his anger, Sebastian followed her. “Forgive me, but you do not know the circumstances.”

  Gemma kept walking. “I know that it is not in your nature to shirk your duty, Sebastian. I wonder why you insist upon pretending you don’t care.”

  Irritated at having to address her straight little back as she marched along the corridor, he stalked after her. “Where are you going?”

  “To a quiet place where we may talk.”

  “Marvellous!” That’s just what he needed—a quiet place to wring Gemma’s interfering neck.

  She led him downstairs in silence, through the heavy oak door to the east wing of the house and on past the state rooms—grand, richly decorated salons; the principal dining room; and the ballroom. All had been stripped of their Holland covers and appeared repaired, refreshed, polished, dusted, and ready for use.

  Sebastian glanced through doorways as Gemma led the way down the corridor. “Never say my staff did all this?”

  “Not all of it,” said Gemma. “I hired a lot of help from the village, but your servants set to with a will, Sebastian. They are excited about the prospect of entertaining again.”

  They continued to the end of the wing. Gemma passed through the double doors with a look of mingled mischief and triumph on her face. “Now, you will be surprised!”

  She led him through the music room and flung open a pair of doors. Sebastian pulled up short and stared around in amazement.

  A small oasis of lush green foliage and bright flowers arranged in beds and urns and hanging baskets met his appreciative gaze, all set under a dome of panelled glass to catch the sun. A fountain tinkled in the centre of the stone courtyard. Love seats were scattered about, flanked by potted orange trees and palms. On the other side of the conservatory, long windows opened to a sprawling green lawn beyond.

  “You did all this in four weeks?”

  Gemma nodded. “It is not quite finished, but well enough for our guests. The glaziers were not precisely dagger-cheap,
but the result is magnificent, don’t you agree?”

  Sebastian swallowed, humbled and sick with guilt at having left Gemma to do all of this. He’d had no idea what lengths she had meant to go to, or he would not have stayed away so long.

  “Gemma, I . . .” Words failed him.

  She smiled, understanding what he wanted to say. “Now, about the hanging over your bed, Scovy.”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, you are right. I should not have taken such a liberty.” She sat down on a love seat and regarded him with her open, candid gaze. “Fanny told me you did not wish to take over your father’s apartments when he died.”

  Sebastian inspected a stone urn spilling geraniums. “That is correct.”

  “Yes, well, I thought you ought to have something in your rooms to indicate that you are master here. Perhaps even a reminder of your heritage?”

  Sebastian barked a laugh. “Gemma, I don’t need a reminder. My position here hangs about my neck like poor Coleridge’s albatross. I cannot escape it.”

  “Much as you might try?” Gemma’s dark blue eyes were serious, penetrating. She saw too much. “Sebastian,” she added, “I need to speak to you about the estate.”

  He nipped a crimson geranium from its trailing stem and leaned over to tuck it behind Gemma’s ear. He smiled down at her, though it was an effort. “Don’t let us quarrel. I am really not in the mood, and these delightful surroundings aren’t conducive.”

  She raised her brows. “Why must a discussion about the estate necessarily be quarrelsome?”

  He sighed. “Because you wish me to act as you would, and I simply don’t have the stomach for playing lord of the manor. It is as much as I can do just to be here, Gemma. Don’t ask any more of me. Not now. Let us face the hurdle of this house party and the wedding, and put the rest aside for the moment, shall we?”