Scandalous

by Karen Robards

  “Just think, Claire, by this time next year you’ll probably be a married lady,” Beth said with wonder, bouncing a little on the seat. With all the lurching the carriage was doing, such movement seemed redundant, but Beth had been unable to sit still ever since learning that they were going to London.

  “I have been thinking of that,” Claire confessed, sounding faintly troubled. Her eyes met Gabby’s. “To tell the truth, I—I’m not sure I wish to be married, after all. I don’t want to leave you two behind—and—and I am much afraid that the gentleman will turn out to be—well, like Papa.”

  This piece of frankness left the other three occupants of the carriage without anything to say for a moment. Gabby was the first to recover her power of speech.

  “You need not marry anyone if you don’t wish to,” she said stoutly, and meant it, too, despite everything, though the possibility that all her desperate scheming might be for naught sent a sudden chill down her spine. This was an outcome she had not considered; she could only hope that Claire, with her soft heart to make her susceptible and her breathtaking looks to provide her with opportunity, would tumble headlong into love upon being exposed to a world full of eligible, and, it was to be hoped, handsome and charming men. If not—well, they would cross that bridge when they came to it. “And as for worrying about your prospective groom being like Papa—well, I don’t think very many gentlemen are—are mean with money, or reclusive, or—or so unloving to their wives and children as he was, so you need not concern yourself overmuch about that.”

  “No indeed,” said Twindle feelingly. “His Lordship was quite unique in that regard, believe me.”

  “And perhaps Gabby and I and Twindle will come to stay with you, after you’re married,” Beth added with a grin. “So you need not worry about losing us, either.”

  Gabby, taking care to keep her expression under control as her youngest sister, in all innocence, hit the nail squarely on the head, again directed the conversation into safer channels.

  They passed that night in Newark, continuing on the next day. Their first glimpse of London was had at sundown. The carriage topped a rise, and suddenly there was the city spread out before them like a banquet. Crowding the windows, they marveled over the spires and rooftops, the seemingly never-ending cluster of buildings, the meandering silver ribbon of the Thames, all glittering jewel-like under the rays of the setting sun. However, by the time the carriage entered London proper, clattering across the bridge into streets crowded with vehicles of every description, it was, due to a series of maddening delays, full dark, and Gabby thanked providence for the light of a rising moon. Progress was necessarily slowed, and soon even the novel sights of the metropolis ceased to make them forget their fatigue. Plastered to the windows once again, they at first viewed with wonder the bustling tide of humanity through which they wound their way. Illuminated by newfangled gas street lamps which lent a yellow glow to the smoky haze that lay like a blanket over everything, the sights of London were as fascinating to their country-bred eyes as visions of another world. Then they realized that those citizens on foot seemed, for the most part, to be both ragged and dirty, while those on horseback or that could be glimpsed aboard passing conveyances appeared standoffish and in many cases positively surly. Odiferous smells began to permeate even the walls of the carriage, making them wrinkle their noses and glance at each other in consternation. The cause was soon identified as narrow ditches, thick with floating refuse, that ran alongside the roadways. Shabby half-timbered buildings crowded so closely together on both sides of the road that they seemed after a while to create a single, wall-like facade. This was bisected at irregular intervals by narrow dark alleys into which dangerous-looking characters disappeared like rats down a hole. Observing one particularly evil-looking fellow, Claire echoed the sentiments of all by expressing thanks aloud that the shabby appearance of their carriage and the faded condition of the crest on the door made an assault by robbers unlikely. As they at last entered the posher environment of Mayfair, identified in a thankful tone by Twindle, the traffic thinned and the streets grew markedly less populated. By the time the carriage swayed to a halt on the cobblestone street outside Wickham House, the moon was climbing the sky and there were few people about. The occupants of the carriage were hungry, exhausted, irritable, and, in Claire’s case, extremely travel sick. It was with relief that Gabby, who was closest to the door, sucked in a breath of fresh, relatively sweet-smelling air as Jem opened it and let down the steps, then held up a hand to help her alight.

  “Thank heavens. Much longer, and we all would have been ill,” she said. Bestowing a quick smile on her frowning servant as she gained the dark, windy street, Gabby gathered the billowing folds of her cloak closer about her person in response to the unexpected, although not entirely unwelcome, chill of the April night. At least, she thought in the spirit of trying to find a positive thought to dwell on, the rain had ceased, though puddles stood on the street, gleaming black in the moonlight.

  “’Tis not too late to draw back from this mad scheme o’ yours, Miss Gabby,” Jem said in a worried undertone. As Gabby glanced at him their gazes held for a pregnant instant. The worst thing about servants who had known one from the cradle, and, indeed, had practically helped to raise one, was that they felt quite free to speak their minds whenever they chose, Gabby reflected with some annoyance, however unwelcome their observations might be.

  “Yes, indeed it is too late. I have quite made up my mind, Jem, so you may as well stop pestering me about the matter.” Her tart reply was as low voiced as Jem’s warning.

  “Mark my words, missy, no good will come of it,” he muttered direly, then was forced into silence as Beth appeared in the door of the carriage. Beyond casting him a sharp look, Gabby ignored him after that, looking about her instead as she waited for her sisters and Twindle to be handed down. Gaslights burned on each corner of the square. Their flickering glow, coupled with the bright moonlight, made visibility quite good. A wheeled cart rattled along farther down the street, she saw, pushed by a pie man calling out “Meat pasties! Meat pasties for sale!” as though he had not much hope of being attended to. Another carriage, newer and far more fashionable than their own, swept by, its wheels rattling over the street, its flickering lights and open curtains permitting Gabby just a glimpse of an elegant lady and gentleman inside. In the grassy area at the center of the square, a pair of ragged-looking urchins conversed with another, lantern-bearing man whom Gabby guessed—hoped—was the watch.

  “Really, Claire, you are far too old to go casting up your accounts in carriages.” Beth, having reached the street, directed this complaint up at the open carriage door.

  Gabby had to smile a little at Beth’s outraged tone, but otherwise she paid scant attention to her sister’s grumbling. Instead she turned her gaze to Wickham House, and was pleased with what she saw. From outward appearances at least, Stivers and Mrs. Bucknell had done an outstanding job. For all that it had been closed for years, the house appeared in no different case from its neighbors around the square. Indeed, it might almost have been held to have been one of the handsomest among them. Certainly it looked as well kept.

  “Next time you may sit across from her.” Beth scowled and brushed disgustedly at her black skirts as she moved to stand at Gabby’s elbow. Claire, who had just appeared in the doorway looking as pale and woebegone as a daffodil after a storm, called down apologetically, “I’m truly sorry, Beth.”

  “Now, Miss Beth, Miss Claire can’t help being sick, and you know it, so just give over, do. And as for you—using cant terms is never becoming in a young lady, and so I’ve told you time out of mind,” Twindle said in a scolding tone, appearing in the aperture as Claire, clutching Jem’s hand, began to climb down.

  “Being sick all over one’s sister is even less becoming in a young lady than using cant terms, if you want my opinion,” Beth retorted. As Twindle and Jem fussed over a still-apologizing Claire, Gabby, long innured to such petty squabbles b
etween her sisters, turned her attention back to the house.

  Its facade was impressive, she noted with some pride: made of brick with elegant stone steps and iron railings, Wickham House stood four stories high. The amount of work Stivers and Mrs. Bucknell had done in just a few days to make the dwelling ready must have been staggering: all appeared pristine, from the gleaming brass knocker on the door to the immaculately swept steps to the sparkling glass in the four rows of windows. But what was most surprising was that the lamps on either side of the door burned bright with welcome, and every room in the house seemed to be lit up. Although the curtains were drawn, light glowed behind them, making the grand house appear almost as though a party was being held inside.

  “Stivers timed our arrival to a nicety, don’t you think?” Beth said with admiration, breaking into Gabby’s thoughts. Behind them, John-Coachman was already beginning to unload the baggage from the roof by the simple method of untying the bundle and then tossing individual pieces to the ground. Having turned Claire over to Twindle, Jem stood below, catching the newly liberated pieces and assembling them into a pile.

  “Have a care with that one. It contains Miss Claire’s vanity case,” Twindle shrilled from some paces behind them, alarm obvious in her voice.

  John-Coachman’s reply was an unintelligible mutter, followed by a thud and a moan from Twindle.

  “Stivers appears to have done a remarkable job,” Gabby agreed, making a mental note to instruct the butler to be more sparing with candles in future. Under the circumstances, she did not mean to spend more than she must. Such profligacy was unlike Stivers, she thought with faint puzzlement as, treading warily, she began to ascend the steps. Steps were ever difficult for her, and only by maintaining a slow, careful pace could she be relatively confident of not stumbling. Beth was just behind her, and Claire, supported by Twindle’s arm, brought up the rear.

  The door opened before Gabby reached it. A strange footman peered out at them: one of Stiver’s new hires, no doubt. Behind him, the hall seemed as well-lit as the assembly rooms at York, where, in the months before their father’s death, Claire had, under Gabby’s chaperonage, twice attended dances.

  “Hello,” Gabby said, summoning a smile for the footman as she gained the top of the steps. “As you have no doubt guessed, I am Lady Gabriella Banning, and these are my sisters, Lady Claire and Lady Elizabeth. And this is Miss Twindlesham.”

  “Yes, my lady, we were expecting you all the afternoon,” the man said, stepping back with a bow and opening the door wide. “Shall I send someone down to carry in your bags, my lady?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Gabby said, walking past him into the hall. What immediately struck her was how warmly alive the house felt. Despite having had no members of the family in residence for a decade past, it seemed almost to hum with vitality. The marble floor gleamed; the chandelier sparkled; the tall pier glass to her right reflected walls papered in a soft cream and green pattern that looked surprisingly unfaded, and the mirror’s ornate frame, as well as the frames of various paintings adorning the walls, were so bright a gold that they might well have been recently gilded. The deep reds and blues of the oriental carpet underfoot were as vivid as if it had been laid down the day before. The banister of the wide staircase that rose steeply on the right was silky with polish. Not the faintest musty scent or odor of mildew could be detected, sniff though she might. Spring flowers in a Meissen bowl added their scent to the smell of beeswax and—dinner? Surely not. Surely Stivers could not have timed their arrival as precisely as that.

  As she drew off her gloves, Gabby realized with a deepening frown that there was even a slight buzz of conversation in the background. It seemed to emanate from beyond the closed pocket doors that led to the salon on the left; the dining room, she supposed.

  “Miss Gabby, Miss Beth, Miss Claire, welcome!” A smile warmed Stivers’s usually cadaverlike face as he hurried toward them from the back of the house. “Miss Gabby, forgive me. I have been on the watch all afternoon, and would have been on hand to open the door to you myself, but I was called to the kitchen to settle a slight dispute. That chef of His Lordship’s—well, you know how Frenchies can be—has no notion of how to go on in a proper English kitchen. But I handled the difficulty, I fancy, quite well! I only hope that his foreign concoctions suit your palate, Miss Claire.” This last was added on a fatherly note.

  “Stivers, you have been very busy. I commend you,” Gabby said as Claire murmured something inaudible in reply to this reference to her notoriously delicate stomach. The feeling that something was amiss was growing ever stronger within Gabby’s breast. She frowned at Stivers. “But what do you mean, that chef of His Lordship’s? Have you purloined someone’s cook?”

  The question was meant to be half in jest, but the joyous grin that transformed Stivers’s face in response alarmed her to the core. In all the years he had served them—and that was all the years of her life and more—Gabby had never known Stivers to look joyous.

  “No, Miss Gabby. It’s His Lordship’s chef, that he has brought with him from foreign parts. His Lordship, your brother, the earl of Wickham. He is here, Miss Gabby.”

  For a moment Gabby could do no more than stare at the butler in stupefaction.

  “Wickham? Here? Whatever are you talking about, Stivers?” Gabby demanded when she regained command of her tongue. Just then the doors to the presumed dining room were thrown open. What seemed like a positive crowd of dazzlingly dressed people spilled into the hall, laughing and chatting as they came.

  “We shall be late for the farce,” complained one woman, a ripe blonde in a shockingly low-cut yellow gown who laughed up into the face of the man to whose arm she clung. He was tall, well built, black haired, clad in immaculate evening attire, and at the center of the approaching throng.

  “My lord,” Stivers said with a deprecating cough.

  The black-haired man’s gaze swung around inquiringly. Perceiving the newcomers, he, along with the entire party, came to a halt. Gabby was suddenly conscious of being the cynosure of all eyes. Aware of the poor appearance that she and her sisters must present in their travel-stained, outdated mourning gowns, and of the slight scent of sickness that, she feared, clung to them all, she was conscious of an inward shrinking. Then it occurred to her that she was being made to feel uncomfortable by strangers who were most incomprehensibly making themselves at home in her house. She stood a little straighter, squaring her shoulders, raising her chin, and regarded the interlopers with eyebrows lifted in faint hauteur.

  For an instant, no longer, she and the black-haired man locked eyes. His, she saw, were a dark blue, deep set beneath thick black brows. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, and his skin was very tan, as though he had spent much time exposed to a hot, unEnglish sun. His features were chiseled, his face hard and handsome. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped form was well suited to the frilled shirt, long-tailed black coat, silver waistcoat, black knee breeches, and silk stockings which he wore.

  “Ah, so you have arrived at last,” he said genially, just as if he knew them well and had been expecting them, and disengaged himself from the lady at his side. “Ladies and gentlemen, you must give me a moment to greet my sisters.”

  Gabby felt her jaw go slack as he strolled toward her.

  “Gabriella, I presume,” he said with a slight smile as she goggled up at him, and, possessing himself of her suddenly nerveless hand, carried it to his mouth. “Welcome to Wickham House. I trust your journey did not prove too tiring?”

  3

  She was unremarkable in every way save for the hauteur with which she regarded him, he thought. The hauteur nettled him: the daughter of an earl she might be, but she was also well past the first blush of youth, shapeless as a stick, dowdy in unbecoming, head-to-toe black, faintly disheveled, and, unlike the high flyer on his arm, possessed of looks that would never merit so much as a second glance from a connoisseur of women such as himself. He set himself to banishing the hauteur fro
m her manner, and, he congratulated himself, succeeded admirably with his very first words. In fact, by the time he raised her hand to his lips, she looked as shocked as if he’d struck her. Her parted lips quivered, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened on his face until they were the size of coins. The delicately-boned hand he brushed against his mouth was suddenly cold as ice—or a corpse’s. And, speaking of corpses, what small amount of color there had been in her face drained away in seconds, leaving it deathly pale.