Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  Yes, Brooke was a worthier man.

  Young Tilney was a waste of the air he breathed, his mind paltry and his figure skinny, but he stood heir to a baronetcy and owned a tidy estate in one of the shires. Gemma could rule the roost in his house, which would be to her taste, no doubt. A sure point in his favour.

  Sir Gervase Stone and Algernon Mosely were both cut from the same cloth—fustian perhaps. Dull and worthy— either would make a solid, if unexciting husband for Gemma.

  Lord, what was he thinking? He couldn’t bear to see her with either of those prune-faced bores. Imagine looking at that over your steak and kidneys every morning.

  He passed several other gentlemen under review and concluded glumly that Brooke really was the pick of them, damn his steely grey eyes.

  And Brooke was hanging out for a wife.

  As the evening wore on, Sebastian watched Gemma unfurl like a blossoming rose under Brooke’s smooth flatteryand felt a primitive urge to smash something— preferably Brooke’s smiling face.

  But he needed to do what was best for Gemma. And right now, it looked like Brooke was it. Sebastian sank his chin into his cravat and observed the two fair heads bent close together, the faint smile on Gemma’s lips as she listened to whatever honeyed words Brooke poured into her ear.

  Truly, a perfect match.

  He sighed. It was only a matter of time.

  “DID you see Romney tonight, Gemma? He actually drank tea!” Fanny brushed her dark hair with short, vigorous strokes.

  Gemma smiled. “Yes, and entertained all the shyest ladies in the party, too, and made himself agreeable to their mamas. You must be proud of him, Fanny.”

  “Ha! He did not even speak to me.”

  “Well, words have not worked so far with you, have they? I believe he means to show you he knows how to behave himself.”

  “He actually drank tea.”

  “Greater love hath no man than this . . .” murmured Gemma. She stood behind Fanny’s chair and watched her friend’s disconsolate reflection in the glass. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind Fanny’s ear, Gemma said, “Darling, don’t you think it is time you put him out of his misery?”

  “But I have! I did. I told him I could not trust him not to pursue his fancy women after we are married. He accepted that our betrothal is at an end. But now he has formed this stupid scheme to win me, and I never wanted him to become all prosy and boring. I just—” She broke off, biting her lip.

  Gemma dropped her hands to Fanny’s shoulders. “Do you know what my mama once said to me?” She smiled. “I do not usually take my mother as a model, but you may be sure that she is a woman who knows a great deal about men.”

  “What did she say, then?”

  Gemma met Fanny’s eyes in the looking-glass. “She said that a rake in love makes the best kind of husband.”

  LONG after the ladies retired, the gentlemen played cards, drank, smoked, and generally disported themselves in a manner unbefitting the presence of said ladies.

  Sebastian remained unusually sober. He wondered if Romney’s leaf-turning had rubbed off on him. And then Brooke strolled up and started on about Gemma.

  “Marvellous,” muttered Sebastian.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, yes, she is marvellous, isn’t she?”

  “Sublime,” Brooke agreed. “There is an openness, a freshness to her that is intensely appealing, don’t you think?”

  “Appealing, yes,” said Sebastian.

  A long silence passed, and Sebastian was damned if he’d break it. He knew it was his duty to bat hard for Gemma, since she would do none of the work herself. He shrugged and tossed off the rest of his brandy. He didn’t feel like matchmaking tonight.

  “You have an interest there, perhaps?” Brooke’s mouth was grave but his eyes mocked.

  “My only interest is in Miss Maitland’s happiness and well-being,” answered Sebastian stiffly. “Her grandfather consigned her to my care.”

  A warning. And not a very subtle one.

  Brooke swirled his brandy. “Did he, indeed? A wise gentleman. Well, I am sure you will not disappoint him.”

  Sebastian inclined his head. Suavely, he said, “Oh, you may be sure of that.” He smiled through gritted teeth as Brooke strolled away.

  He then proceeded to get thoroughly foxed.

  Romney sauntered over later, teacup in hand.

  Sebastian blinked up at his friend from his sprawling position in a comfortable leather armchair. “Taking this to extremes, aren’t you, old fellow?”

  Romney stared glumly at the innocuous beverage. “Don’t think I’ve been sober at this hour since I was in short coats.”

  “Your cons— your consti— your liver will thank you for it.”

  Romney made a face and put down his cup. “Your sister is a flirt.”

  “Yes.”

  “I never noticed that before.”

  Sebastian smiled. “That’s because she always flirted with you.”

  “Did she?” Romney grimaced. “And how fares your scheme to marry off the lovely Miss Maitland? M’cousin seemed very taken with her.”

  “Yes, he is. He told me so.” Sebastian frowned in an effort to remember. “Believe I warned him off.”

  Romney’s eyes quickened. “Did you, now? And why would you have done that?”

  Sebastian grunted and stared into the depths of his glass. “You know why. Brooke knows why.”

  His friend waited.

  “Want her for myself, of course.” He flailed a hand, spilling brandy over his coat sleeve. “Well of course I want her. Any man in his right mind would. But it’s more than that. She knows me too well. I feel comfortable with her, and yet—”

  “And yet every time she looks at you it’s like a kick in the guts,” finished Romney.

  “Lower.”

  “Hmm, nasty.”

  Silence.

  “Would it be so terrible to marry her yourself?”

  “Yes. No. Perhaps. I don’t know.” He clutched his friend’s sleeve. “One thing you could do for me, if you will, Romney.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep Eleanor away from her.”

  Fourteen

  WHEN Gemma answered the summons to Lady Carleton’s boudoir early the next morning, she found her hostess sitting pensively at her dressing table, wearing fashionable dishabille, her dark hair swept up beneath a pretty lace cap.

  “Gemma, my dear.” She held out her hand.

  “Oh, you look so much better today, ma’am!” Gemma crossed the room, took her outstretched hand and pressed it. “Will you not come down to dinner this evening? Everyone asks after your health. I am sure they would love to see you.”

  Lady Carleton gave a faint smile, but did not answer. She gestured for Gemma to sit on a spindle-legged chair at her side. Fiddling with a pot of cream on her dressing table, she said, “Are they kind to you, Gemma? Are the young ladies agreeable company?”

  Gemma blinked. “Why, yes. They are kind.” In fact, Sebastian had been right. No one referred to her background or slighted her because of her mama. Their behaviour perplexed her. She wondered if Sebastian had anything to do with it.

  She discovered she had little in common with any of the females of the party, but that was the fault of her unusual upbringing, not theirs. Ladylike pursuits always made her impatient, and with no riding or other outdoor activity to be had during three solid days of inclement weather, this dawdling existence threatened to suffocate her. But she would not tell Lady Carleton that.

  “And the gentlemen? I hear you have many admirers.”

  Gemma repressed a grimace. “They are also kind.”

  “I understand Alistair Brooke has taken particular interest in you,” pursued Lady Carleton, watching her out of the corner of her eye. “A most eligible gentleman.”

  Oh, dear! Now Lady Carleton had decided to play matchmaker, too. Her experience with John Talbot had shown her that no respectable gentleman would ever wan
t her. She shook her head. “Mr. Brooke is charming, but he has no serious intentions towards me. And besides, I do not wish to marry.”

  “Not marry?” Lady Carleton gasped. She swivelled in her chair to face Gemma full on, her dark eyes avid. “If that is so, I admire your courage, my dear. What do you mean to do if you do not wed?”

  Startled at Lady Carleton’s enthusiasm, Gemma almost laughed. She had never in her life met with such a reaction to her ambition. Even Sebastian, though understanding her reasons, seemed to treat her plans as belonging to the realm of fantasy. “I wish to run the Ware estate. That way, I would be a burden to no one, because Hugo would not have to pay an agent to do the work.”

  “Remarkable!” Lady Carleton gripped her hands together. “But do you not think you might be lonely without a family of your own? Do you not wish for children?”

  Children. The word was like a blow to her chest. A moment passed before Gemma could summon the breath to speak. With difficulty, she answered, “I have long since given up the thought of children of my own.”

  She hurried to change the subject. “At all events, Hugo is against the idea of me running Ware, so it will all come to nothing if I cannot persuade him.”

  “And what will you do if he refuses?”

  Gemma shrugged and gave a rueful laugh. “I shall remain at Ware and keep meddling until I am sent away, I suppose. After that . . . I don’t know. Perhaps I might live with Mama in Kensington.”

  The thought of cohabiting with Sybil and her young lover in a townhouse far from her beloved Ware filled her with gloom. “I trust it won’t come to that. I must convince Hugo I am right.”

  Lady Carleton regarded her seriously. “Well, if that is what will make you truly happy, my dear, I hope very much that you do.”

  ON the first fine day they had enjoyed since the house party began, most of the young people went out riding, while the older ladies paid calls or gossiped in the drawing room. Though itching for a good gallop herself, Gemma stayed behind to organise activities for the following day. Lady Russell had proposed an archery tournament, so Gemma sent servants to ransack the attics for bows, arrows, and targets.

  Cook took the change of plans to al fresco dining in her stride, but the fierce head gardener objected to a parcel of nobs playing merry hell with his lawns, so Gemma negotiated a compromise. Finally, they agreed to hold the tournament in a large clearing in the park.

  She was leaving to run some errands in the village when Hugo’s carriage drew up outside, bearing Matilda and enough trunks and bandboxes to last a month.

  Gemma called a welcome, hoping her aunt did not intend to stay that long. But together with the usual exasperation came a warm feeling of familiarity. She realised she was glad Matilda had come. Perhaps now she might glean news of how the estate went on in her absence. Letters from Ware had not told her the things she most wanted to know.

  “Aunt! How do you do?” Gemma hurried down the steps to meet her, rapidly reviewing and discarding vacant bedchambers for Matilda’s use. She took her aunt’s lilac-gloved hands, kissed her withered cheek, and led her up the steps.

  Ripton met them at the door and bowed a welcome.

  “The rose room, I think, Ripton, don’t you? Will you have a tea tray sent to my aunt’s chamber, please?”

  Matilda fluttered. “Oh, no, Gemma. I shall join you downstairs directly. You will wish to make me known to everyone before dinner.” She looked around her with interest. “What a noble house! It is not at all as I imagined. What is through here?”

  She scurried towards the door that led to the library, Sebastian’s retreat. Gemma ran after her. “Aunt! That is private.” She caught Matilda’s elbow and drew her to the staircase. “Do come up and refresh yourself. I am sure you would like to change your dress after your journey.”

  By the time Matilda had complained about her chamber’s dimensions, décor, and aspect, the softness of the bed’s mattress, the hardness of the pillows, and the room’s distance from Gemma’s bedchamber, Hoskins and the rest of Matilda’s baggage had arrived. As the maid arranged Matilda’s grey locks, Gemma peppered her aunt with questions about Ware.

  “And is the harvest in yet? Did Mr. Porter follow my advice about the new fencing?”

  “I’m sure I know naught about that side of things,” said Matilda pettishly. “The estate runs itself without any help from me. Yes, the harvest is in, but as for Mr. Porter, he is a very capable man—Hugo says so—and far above taking advice from the likes of you, miss!”

  Matilda sprinkled lavender scent on her handkerchief. “But all our neighbours ask after you, and the tenants as well, until I’m tired of telling them how you go on. You should write more, Gemma, so I have more to say. I am sure you never tell the sort of things I most wish to know.”

  A wave of homesickness struck Gemma. Until now, she had been too busy to indulge in longing for Ware. What a pity Sebastian would not take her advice or lift a finger about the Laidley estate. There was so much she could do here. Already, despite the ramshackle household and the strangeness of Cornish ways, she found herself attached to the place. But for all that, Laidley wasn’t Ware.

  When Hoskins was finished, Gemma led Matilda downstairs and introduced her to the matrons of the party who had not accompanied the younger set on their excursion. Satisfied that her aunt was fast making new friends, Gemma slipped away to the village.

  When she arrived, she found the square bustling with people in high spirits carrying garlands of wheat and flowers, trestle tables, benches, and barrels of ale. It seemed they planned a celebration.

  In the haberdasher, Gemma met Polly, one of the girls she had hired to help prepare for the house party. “What is going on, Polly? Is it the harvest feast?”

  “Oh, yes, miss,” said Polly. “The harvest be almost done, so they will hold the crying of the neck this afternoon and there’ll be a church service, and dancing after. Why don’t ye come along?”

  Gemma’s blood tingled at the prospect. How she longed for plain country fare and dancing after the stuffy restraint of the last few days. But could she manage to slip away? Or better yet, perhaps the whole party might enjoy such a merry evening.

  WHEN she returned to Laidley, she tracked down Sebastian in his library. He rose hastily at her entrance and bowed, seeming ill at ease. She gave him a teasing smile and dipped a formal curtsey in response. Only when his thoughtful gaze ran over her old habit did she recall his promise to dress her himself if she did not wear the gowns he had bought.

  A faint shudder ran through her. She hoped the sudden heat in her cheeks did not show itself in a blush.

  A little short of breath, Gemma broke the silence. “I have been to the village. There is a feast tonight, and dancing to celebrate the end of the harvest. Do you think we might make up a party and join them?”

  He quirked an eyebrow, snapping closed the small book he held. “They invited you?”

  “Why, yes. I have become acquainted with many of your people while I’ve been at Laidley. Why should they not invite me?”

  He smiled, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “Why not, indeed? It seems wherever you go, people love you, Gemma. It is your particular gift.”

  She was almost sure he did not intend that to be a compliment. More of an accusation, though she could not guess why. She tilted her head and moved to rest her fingertips on his desk. “You know, Scovy, it would be the perfect way for you to become better acquainted—”

  He cleared his throat and tidied some papers. “Thank you, but they all go on perfectly well without me. My presence would only cast a pall on their amusement, I daresay.”

  He blinked rapidly. When he lifted his gaze to hers, his dark eyes were turbulent, but she could not quite bring herself to feel sorry for him. It was within his powers to endear himself to his tenants if he wished. He managed well enough with the people at Ware. But Sebastian was stubborn, and she did not know how to move him from this uncharacteristic resolve to shun his respon
sibilities. Why it should matter so much to her, she could not have said.

  “I don’t understand you, Scovy,” she whispered. “Not at all.”

  He shrugged. “People change, Gemma. I am not the boy you remember. Perhaps I never was.”

  The silence stretched until she realised he did not intend to say any more. That was the end of the matter.

  She made an effort to smile. “Well, then. You won’t object if I ask the others, will you?”

  He took a hasty step towards her, one hand slightly lifted. He stopped, letting the hand fall. “No. You may go with whomever you wish.”

  But when she proposed the outing that afternoon, the other guests instantly dismissed her suggestion. The gentlemen had agreed to attend a prizefight in nearby St Just that evening. Gemma frowned. Despite his impassive expression, she suspected she had Sebastian to thank for that sudden decision.

  Gemma appealed to the rest of the party ladies, but Lady Russell could imagine nothing more tedious than hobnobbing with a load of rustics over the corn stubble. All the other ladies agreed. Miss Taylor proposed parlour games, and her suggestion was endorsed by the rest of the guests who stayed behind.

  With a sigh, Gemma resigned herself to another evening of boredom.

  ROMNEY clutched the side of Sebastian’s curricle and held on to his hat as they swept round a bend. “Steady on, old man. We’re not dragging, y’know!”

  Sebastian threw him a sidelong glare and drove his greys faster out of the turning. “Love sent you soft, has it?”

  Romney snorted. “Not soft in the head, at least.”

  “And just what are you implying?”

  “If you can’t guess, then you’re further gone than I thought. For God’s sake, slow down, man, or you’ll overturn us. What has she done now?”

  “Nothing. I’m driving fast. I always drive fast. Why should it have anything to do with her?” Sebastian flicked his whip so it cracked in the air, just above the leader’s left ear. The curricle surged forward.

  Romney threw up his hands, grabbed for his hat again, and raised his voice against the wind and rattle of the carriage. “I’ve half a mind to back you against the champion tonight. You can work off some of your spleen on his hide instead of near-killing me on the way home. Why are we going to this mill, anyway?”