Brenda Hiatt

by Scandalous Virtue

Against the prim formality of Prudence’s drawing room, he appeared more outrageously handsome than ever—and perhaps the slightest bit ill at ease. Prudence’s expression, as she rose gracefully to greet their guest, showed more acute discomfort.

  “How nice to see you again, my lord,” she said stiffly.

  Lord Foxhaven bowed over her hand with perfect propriety. “Lady Creamcroft.” Then, with another bow in Nessa’s direction, “Lady Haughton. I’m honored to have this chance to pay my respects to you both.”

  Nessa bobbed her head in return. “Good morning, my lord.” She kept her voice low, as she had last night, and watched him closely for any sign of flirtation, or of a secret shared.

  It did not come.

  “Pray take a seat, my lord, while I ring for a tray,” suggested Prudence, motioning to a gold and white striped armchair.

  He complied, then made an innocuous comment about the unseasonably fair weather. “So much more pleasant than our usual autumn rains, don’t you agree?”

  Prudence assented with a further comment on the weather and Nessa nodded again, feeling oddly disappointed. This was the scandalous rake her sister had warned her against?

  “You are abroad early, my lord,” Nessa observed. “You must not have kept particularly late hours last night.”

  Prudence cast her a startled glance, and Nessa herself was nearly as shocked at her own boldness. But her eagerness for even a tiny glimpse into a rake’s night life had overset her well-learned reticence. What must it be like, to—?

  “No, I retired shortly after returning from Lady Mountheath’s entertainment. I am finding that late nights do not agree with me so well as they once did.”

  Nessa regarded him suspiciously, but he appeared perfectly serious. Only for the briefest instant did she imagine that she caught a hint of amusement deep in his blue eyes—but whether directed at himself or at her she had no idea.

  “That’s very commendable, Lord Foxhaven,” Prudence said approvingly. “Rationality and restraint generally develop with maturity, I have observed.”

  “Indeed, Lady Creamcroft,” he agreed. “I’ve also found that dissipation, while passingly enjoyable, leaves no lasting reward.”

  Though Prudence’s eyebrows arched ceilingward at even this oblique reference to his purported wildness, Nessa stifled a sigh. Was all his debauchery behind him, then? No doubt she should be pleased, for his sake, but…how very dreary.

  Indeed, he and Prudence seemed to be trying to outmatch each other in moral platitudes. “So I have always been taught, my lord. One need look no further than the Book of Proverbs for numerous examples.”

  With difficulty, Nessa refrained from rolling her eyes at her sister’s words—and wondered at herself. Whence had come this new impatience with propriety? Or…was it so new? Hadn’t she always secretly—so secretly—chafed at the strictures laid upon her? Her chafing was becoming more overt after a year of relative freedom, that was all.

  Lord Foxhaven nodded as sententiously as any octogenarian at Prudence’s moralizing, making Nessa wonder if he could possibly be the same man she had met at the masquerade. Where was the humor that had attracted her?

  As though aware of her thoughts, he turned toward her. “I’m more familiar with the Song of Solomon than with Proverbs, I must confess, but I am willing to be instructed.” The slightest of winks accompanied his words, making Nessa’s pulse flutter unexpectedly. For a moment she found herself drowning in his deep blue gaze.

  A faint gasp from Prudence recalled her abruptly, reminding her that she should be equally shocked at his reference to the one book of the Bible their father had forbidden them to read.

  “Very commendable, my lord.” Nessa managed to keep her voice from quivering with the laughter that threatened. “Don’t you agree, Prudence?”

  “Certainly,” Prudence replied stiffly, with a pointed glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Lord Foxhaven took the hint at once. “I see I have exceeded my quarter hour,” he said, rising. “The fascinating company must be my excuse.”

  Seeing him about to depart, Prudence unbent to the extent of a genuine smile. “You are too kind, my lord.”

  “I will bid you both good day, ladies,” he said. “I leave tomorrow for Kent, to deal with various estate matters, but I hope to see you again upon my return in a fortnight.” Then, to Nessa, “Perhaps then you will permit me to take you for that drive.”

  With a start, Nessa realized—as Lord Foxhaven must—that in a fortnight her year of mourning would be over. Her spirit seemed to expand within her at the thought. Conscious of Prudence stiffening again at her side, however, she only said, “That might be pleasant, my lord.”

  “Until then.” Lord Foxhaven bent over Prudence’s hand and then her own, his gloved fingertips lingering on hers for just a fraction longer than was strictly proper.

  And then he was gone.

  The next two weeks seemed an eternity to Nessa. No further invitations included her, beyond an art viewing followed by tea one afternoon. Prudence’s circle of friends seemed more staid and, yes, boring, than ever.

  “You were unusually quiet today,” observed her sister as they rode back to Upper Brook Street. “Mrs. Heatherton twice asked you about Warwickshire, but you gave her only the briefest of answers.”

  “I am sorry, Prudence. I must have been woolgathering. I hope Mrs. Heatherton was not offended.”

  “No, I think not. She mentioned something privately to me about your grief still preoccupying you.”

  Nessa nodded absently. “May we go shopping tomorrow?”

  Prudence blinked. “Why…I suppose so. Is there something in particular that you need? A new bonnet, perhaps? The milliner at the corner of—”

  “Oh, let’s make a day of it,” said Nessa, as though on impulse. “I haven’t been shopping for an age.” And I plan to make up for it over the next few days, she vowed.

  Though clearly puzzled, Prudence did not hesitate to agree. Half-guiltily, Nessa hoped her sister wouldn’t overly regret her compliance.

  The next morning they left early, at Nessa’s urging. “Let’s start with Madame Fanchot’s,” she suggested as they stepped into the carriage.

  Prudence gaped, for Madame Fanchot was the most au courant modiste in Town, dressing those at the very pinnacle of fashion. She offered no objection, however, to Nessa’s relief. If her sister had balked at this early stage, there was no knowing how she might react once she had a hint of what Nessa was really about.

  She soon found out.

  “Look at this pearl gray, Nessa,” said Prudence only minutes after they were ushered into the display room by Madame Fanchot herself. “This would be the very thing to ease you out of your blacks when you are ready.”

  Nessa looked, then winced. Her sister had unerringly chosen the only drab swath of fabric in sight, and looked as though she thought even that might be too daring. It was now or never.

  “Oh, I am quite ready, Prudence,” she said, steeling herself against the shock on her sister’s face. “My proscribed year ends two days hence, and I wish to be ready. Madame, might I see that jonquil silk over there?”

  “But that is so…bright,” Prudence hissed as the modiste went to fetch the bolt of yellow fabric. “It scarcely seems proper. I had thought you might go to half-mourning soon—grays, browns, perhaps a subdued lilac—”

  “No.”

  Prudence’s eyes widened further.

  “Many widows, I’ve observed, go to half-mourning after the first six months of their bereavement. I feel I’ve done my duty and over by wearing nothing but unrelieved black for the full twelve.”

  “But…but Father—” Prudence sputtered, her pretty head shaking helplessly from side to side.

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that Father’s standards were hardly those of the world in which we now live?”

  “He was very proud of that,” Prudence reminded her severely.

  Nessa sighed. “Yes, I know. Lord Haughton
was the same. Admirable men, both of them. Most admirable. But now I am ready to experience life on my own terms, and wearing color—more color than I was allowed even as a daughter or wife—is a way to begin. Can you not understand that?”

  Prudence still looked doubtful. She, of course, had never rebelled against their father’s tutelage, even though her husband was of a different stamp entirely—more was the pity. Still, she looked a fraction less shocked than she had a moment ago. “Perhaps,” she finally said. “Though I am still not certain—”

  “Here we are, Lady Haughton!” Madame Fanchot spread the jonquil silk upon a low table for her inspection. “Will you want this made up before or after presenting it?”

  “Presenting it?” Now Nessa was puzzled.

  “It is to be a gift, is it not?”

  This was becoming more difficult than she’d anticipated, but she refused to waver. “No indeed, Madame. It is for me. However, that rose muslin would complement my sister’s coloring nicely. May we see it? Pray bring us a few pattern books as well. I expect we shall be here for a while.”

  Two and a half hours later, a well-satisfied Nessa and a dazed Prudence left the shop laden with various accessories to round out the six gowns Nessa had ordered for herself and the two she had ordered for Prudence, after wearing down her protests. The jonquil silk was to be delivered Friday, the day after her year would be up, and the others would follow over the next week.

  “Come, Prudence, let us stop for coffee and ices at Gunter’s so that you can rally a bit before we go on.”

  Prudence paused in the act of handing her parcels to the coachman. “Go on?”

  “Certainly. I said we would make a day of this, did I not?” Nessa resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. She had the oddest feeling that her father and husband were watching her with disapproval. Defiantly, she raised her chin. “I’ve only just begun,” she declared, as much to those dour shades as to Prudence.

  “Is that the last one, Havershaw?” Jack stretched his arms high over his head to relieve the tension in his shoulders, produced by several hours bent over a desk.

  “Yes, my lord. I must say, you have kept at it. You’ve made it through this backlog of paperwork in record time.” The respect in the steward’s voice made Jack glance up in surprise.

  “Really? I can’t imagine that I’ve been as efficient as my grandfather in dealing with the estate business. I’m still learning as I go, after all.”

  Havershaw smiled his thin smile, but Jack was further startled to see a trace of genuine warmth in it. “Indeed, my lord, you’re doing far better as a novice than your Uncle Luther ever managed, and though you have not yet his experience, you are in a fair way to match your grandfather in cutting to the heart of most business matters. I believe you may have a natural bent for this sort of thing.”

  Jack grimaced. Three weeks ago, he’d have sworn on everything sacred that he’d be a terrible landowner and that the details of running a large estate would drive him to distraction or drink—or worse. Reluctant as he was to admit it, however, he’d almost enjoyed these past two weeks immersed in tenancies, harvests, land improvements, and foreign investments. Jack Ashecroft, responsible landowner? It seemed so unlikely.

  “Have I passed the test, then?” he asked with a grin. “Do you deem me respectable? With that trust money, I could have the roof leaded and drain the lower acreage before the winter rains set in.”

  “No doubt you could,” said Havershaw dryly, “but this quarter’s rents will just cover those items, I believe. True reformation takes time.”

  Jack bit back a curse. If the rents all went for repairs, he’d have precious little spending money when he got back to Town. “Can you perhaps give me a clue as to what your standards are to be, Havershaw? I’ve no mind to spend years at this endeavor while Foxhaven falls into ruin for lack of funds.”

  “I rather doubt that is a serious risk, my lord.”

  And of course it wasn’t. It was Jack’s lifestyle that was at risk. “A wife, then. If I marry a woman of unimpeachable reputation, will you count me reformed?”

  He held his breath while Havershaw hesitated. If he said no, Jack realized, he wouldn’t have to get leg-shackled after all.

  But the steward finally nodded. “If you can get such a woman to marry you—willingly—I suppose that would be as objective a measure as any.”

  Jack let out his breath, his brief hope gone. Pushing the mound of finished paperwork aside, he stood. “In that case, I shall make it my first priority. On the morrow I’ll head back to Town for what remains of the Little Season.”

  “Will you be returning for Yuletide, my lord?” Havershaw, imperturbable as ever, began gathering up the papers.

  “That will depend on how my wooing goes, won’t it?” replied Jack sourly. “I’ll send word.”

  When he reached his chamber, Jack rang for Parker, his valet. A few years older than he, though slighter in build, Parker had been with him throughout his military career and held a position of trust with his employer enjoyed by vanishingly few servants.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “We leave in the morning, Parker. Be good enough to get everything ready for our departure.”

  “I’ve done so already, my lord.” The valet proceeded to remove his master’s boots.

  Jack shook his head. “Don’t know why I trouble myself to tell you anything. You’ve been reading my mind with ease for years now. Know me better than I know myself.”

  Parker only smiled.

  “Being that’s the case,” Jack continued, “perhaps you can enlighten me as to my conflicting inclinations on matrimony. Think you it’s too high a price to pay for mere money?”

  Parker turned to regard him, pale hair falling across his high forehead. “I think the right woman could be the making of you, my lord, if not of your reputation.”

  “Blast it, Parker, the making of my reputation is the whole point of the thing! What do you mean by that?”

  But Parker merely shrugged and seized his other boot. Explaining his cryptic pronouncements had never been his way, though they almost invariably proved true in time.

  They left for London before the morning was far advanced. Jack reflected that the habit of retiring and rising early, which he had adopted almost without thought while in the country, appeared to agree with his constitution. Very odd, that—and not a little disturbing.

  As he neared Town a few hours later, Jack could almost feel the calm of the country seeping from him, to be replaced by the excitement of the city. Yes, surely this was where he truly belonged, amid the bustle of humanity. Here, he could live by his wits and the cards, as he’d done before, and to hell with that damned trust. If it weren’t for his grandfather’s memory, that’s just what he’d do. Perhaps respectability wasn’t meant for the likes of him after all.

  But even as he said this to himself, he found his thoughts turning to what he had hoped might be the means to that respectability: Lady Haughton. Her period of mourning should have ended three days since, by his calculations. With her puritanical upbringing, of course, she might well intend to observe half-mourning for another twelvemonth. It would not surprise him, in fact, if Lady Creamcroft demanded it of her. If that were the case, pursuing a courtship could be problematic.

  Pondering his options, Jack disembarked from his traveling coach and climbed the stairs to Foxhaven House—one of the finer establishments on Berkley Square. The effect was somewhat marred by the disheveled appearance of his butler, who’d clearly hurried into his coat to answer the door.

  Jack handed his hat and cloak to the man with some degree of misgiving. “I’ll be going out after I’ve had a wash and a change,” he advised Carp, or whatever his name was. “Tell Cook I will most likely dine at my club.”

  Once in his bedchamber, Jack returned to the matter of Lady Haughton. Ought he to call upon her this afternoon? He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Were she in the whirl of Society, he might find her in Hyde Par
k in a couple of hours, but that seemed unlikely. No, he would wait and call upon her in the morning, as was proper, and invite her out for a drive the next afternoon.

  “My blue coat, I believe, Parker.”

  His valet, with customary prescience, already had the requested garment in his capable hands. Jack stripped off his travel clothes and splashed his face with cold water from the ewer, all the while working out his strategy.

  Surely, he thought as Parker helped him to shrug into the blue superfine, he would be able to cajole the fair Lady Haughton out of her blacks in fairly short order. If she had masqueraded as the lovely “Monique,” she could not be nearly so trammeled by propriety as her sister. The occasional sparkle he had glimpsed in her eyes suggested a sense of humor, as well. Still, a lifetime under the thumbs of Lords Cherryhurst and Haughton would have left its mark.

  He would go slowly, he decided, tying his cravat with a flourish. He did not wish to shock his quarry—particularly this early in the campaign. If on the morrow he found her in half-mourning rather than unrelieved black, he would take it as a hopeful sign and proceed from there. He had no particular desire to rush matters—as long as the roof at Fox Manor didn’t spring another leak, anyway.

  Well satisfied with this remarkably prudent decision, Jack set out for his club, hoping that Harry or Peter might be there to catch him up on the news of the past two weeks.

  5

  Neither of his closest friends was at the Guards when Jack arrived, so he ordered a bottle of port and settled in to wait. He was refilling his glass for the first time an hour later when Harry turned up.

  “Jack! Good to see you back in Town!” he exclaimed, signaling for another glass. “I see you’ve only just arrived.” He nodded at the nearly full bottle.

  Jack didn’t bother to correct him. “Hello, Harry. Is it my imagination, or is London already a bit thin of company?”

  Harry’s glass arrived then, and he filled it before answering. “Perhaps a bit. Hadn’t really noticed. Fair number of house parties, I believe—that might account for it.” He tossed off half of his port at a single swallow, making Jack wince slightly.