Scandal of the Season

by Liana Lefey

  A sudden wave of nausea threatened. The swaying of the coach was causing her difficulty. Strange, I’ve never suffered carriage sickness before… Taking a deep breath, she tried looking through the window to settle her stomach. But the feeling only receded a little, leaving behind an uncomfortable tightness.

  What really rankled was knowing he’d see some girl straight out of the schoolroom as more of an adult than her. Age wasn’t her problem. The problem was his perception of her. Hers was a war with two fronts; on one side hovered the inviolable specter of Jane, on the other stood Sorin’s view of her as an eternal child.

  What if she did manage to succeed in making him see her in a romantic way? What if they did marry? What would it be like? Would their friendship hold, or would they find life with each other intolerable? She didn’t like to consider the latter. The thought of losing his friendship pained her more than she’d thought possible.

  “I suppose you must be very excited to see London again, Lady Eleanor,” chirped Lady Yarborough. “I have not been in years, myself. Not since Sir Yarborough died.”

  In a way, Eleanor was grateful to the woman for breaking her melancholy woolgathering. At least if she was busy being talked to death she wouldn’t have time for pessimistic what-iffing about impossible things. “I’m quite happy in the countryside, but I’ll admit to missing the variety of musical entertainments offered in Town.”

  “I am so looking forward to seeing several of my old friends,” continued Lady Yarborough with a dramatic sigh. “We’ve written countless letters, of course, but it’s not the same as seeing one another.”

  No, it was certainly not. “I’m sure you will be received with great joy,” Eleanor answered politely.

  The woman’s face pinked at the compliment. “My son jested this very morning that he fears I might not wish to return at the end of the Season and that he’ll have to send me home tied in a sack,” she said with a giggle that sounded absurd coming from a woman her age.

  Eleanor bit back a groan. “I’m certain we will all be glad to return home once the heat arrives. London is simply not to be borne in summer.”

  “Mmm, I suppose you’re right,” said Lady Yarborough. Another lengthy sigh burst from her. “And yet I shall miss the thrill of it all. There is nothing like London during the Season. Tell me, Lady Eleanor, have you already made a great many plans for while you are there?”

  And thus began the anticipated fishing. A mischievous urge came over Eleanor to bait the hook with misinformation, but she squelched it. “Indeed. Several,” she replied lightly.

  Lady Yarborough deflated a little, plainly disappointed. Having been left with no openings to further the thread she’d attempted to begin, she turned to Rowena. “I also greatly anticipate seeing our new London residence for the first time. It is in a very fashionable part of town—Golden Square.” She paused, clearly expecting a reaction to the announcement that she and her progeny had risen in the world.

  Immediately, questions arose in Eleanor’s mind as to how they could afford such an address. It was no secret that the late Sir Yarborough had been suffering financial difficulties. Everyone in the county knew he’d been depending on his son to secure the family fortunes by means of an advantageous marriage.

  “How lovely for you,” said Rowena, sounding only mildly awkward. “I’m sure you will enjoy it immensely.”

  Lady Yarborough’s plump cheeks lifted in a smug smile. “I’m sure I shall. My Donald surprised me with the news of our relocation upon his arrival. At first, I was quite wroth with him for his tardiness, but I forgave him at once—his delay was owed to the need for the house to be refurbished, you see. According to him, the previous owners lacked taste entirely. Donald described the place as being utterly ghastly.” She drew the word out, emphasizing it with a disdainful wave of her pudgy, glittering hand. “He said the house looked like a fusty Tudor relic, and that there was no alternative but to gut and redecorate—in the Greek style, naturally.” She sniffed. “He tells me the gardens are in need of a complete redesign, but that will have to wait until next year so as not to interfere with several events we plan to host over the Season.”

  Eleanor ignored the blatant hint, privately mourning for the house in Golden Square. To think of it being gutted and “modernized” made her sick at heart. She sincerely hoped the previous owners never saw what had become of their former residence.

  After a moment, Lady Yarborough shook her head and again sighed. “If only my husband had lived to see our son’s triumph.”

  Eleanor braced herself. Here it comes…

  “The fine education he insisted upon for our Donald has greatly benefitted him, you know. Within the space of just one year he’s improved the estate in ways his father never imagined.”

  As determined as she was to refrain from encouraging the woman, Eleanor couldn’t help herself. “How so, if you don’t mind my inquiring?”

  The gleam that entered Lady Yarborough’s eyes confirmed it was just the sort of question for which she’d hoped. “Not at all, my dear,” she said, reaching across to pat her hand as if it were the most natural and appropriate thing in the world.

  Eleanor barely stopped herself from jerking away. Fixing a placid smile on her face, she prompted her to continue. “Do go on, Lady Yarborough.”

  The smug smile broadened. “Well you see, ten years ago my husband inherited land in Ireland, a great lot of land that was unfortunately populated by slothful tenants who rarely paid their rents and produced nothing save grief and more mouths to feed. I tried to convince him to do as some of his friends had and raise the rents, which would have enabled him to rid us of the squatters and thus free the property for more profitable uses, but he refused. My late husband always was far too softhearted, bless him.”

  The woman’s tight lipped, scornful demeanor told Eleanor that the statement was anything but a fond eulogy.

  In an instant, however, Lady Yarborough’s scowl disappeared, replaced by a sickly sweet smile. “My Donald, however, saw at once the merit of such a plan and began to implement it immediately upon inheriting, thank heaven,” she said with aplomb.

  Eleanor’s stomach turned. The woman’s tone was so pompous—as if rack-renting and the forced eviction of the humblest of the working poor were acts worthy of pride! It was painfully clear now that the bully of her childhood had not changed one bit. He was still a brute. And now she knew where he’d learned to be so callous. The old Sir Yarborough might have been softhearted, but at least he’d had a heart.

  Lady Yarborough nattered on, apparently unaware that there was anything in her boasts to inspire bile. “Fortunately, a much more pleasant alternative was found before he’d invested too much effort. While seeking an agent to oversee the management of our Irish interests, Donald learned that several of his friends’ families had sold similar Irish millstones to private investors—investors willing to pay a good deal more than the pittance the crown had offered,” she said with a hard nod that jiggled her chins. “He made arrangements to meet with one such man. The negotiations went very well.” A toothy smile spread across her face as she reached up to finger the ostentatious necklace of gold and pearls nestled against her décolletage. “A most pleasing end to a terrible bother.”

  “And what of the tenants?” Eleanor asked, ignoring Rowena’s warning glare.

  An indifferent shrug lifted Lady Yarborough’s round shoulders. “No longer our concern, thank goodness. Donald told me the new owner has already begun a purge.”

  Eleanor struggled to keep from showing her anger and disgust…and failed miserably. “I cannot begin to imagine committing such a contemptible act against another human being.” Across the way, she saw Rowena close her eyes in defeat. But it was too late now. “You speak not of vermin, madam, but of men who have very likely worked that land all their lives, men whose fathers probably worked it for several generations. Men with families—innocent children who will now be condemned to suffer the most inhumane privation, possi
bly even death. Are they not deserving of some compassion?”

  The subject of her censure flushed an ugly brick red. Holding her spine stiff, Eleanor steeled herself. But though the woman was clearly displeased, the anticipated explosion didn’t occur.

  Instead, Lady Yarborough fixed her with a cold stare and smiled unpleasantly. “Your concern for your fellow man is quite admirable, my dear. Such altruistic idealism is fine for one so young and unburdened with responsibility. But we who are so burdened must be more practical. Those…” She paused for a beat and then began afresh, her tone growing even more patronizing. “Those people were not paying their rents. The land was supporting them while doing nothing for its rightful owners. You cannot expect us to have supported them without compensation indefinitely.” In an obvious dismissal, she then directed her full attention to Rowena. “With the proceeds from the sale, we will improve and modernize our properties here in England. Golden Square is but the first step of many.”

  And the next will no doubt be to secure a rich, gullible wife for your hateful son. Eleanor fumed silently as the woman continued to boast about their plans. Plans that were, for all their surface polish, full of holes.

  Over the years, the Yarborough estate in Somerset had slowly dwindled as outlying portions of it had been sold off to neighboring landowners in order to cover its owners’ mounting debts. It was unlikely the little that remained would be sufficient to support the family without the Irish rents to provide a steady, if modest, income. Old Sir Yarborough had been right to hold on to his Irish inheritance. By selling it, his foolhardy son and greedy widow had effectually condemned themselves to a slow decline. The money from the sale was a temporary sop for an incurable financial hemorrhage and wouldn’t support them forever. It would have been wiser to sell off the remainder of their English estate and relocate to Ireland. Looking at her, Eleanor knew Lady Yarborough would probably sooner die than give up the pleasures of London.

  It struck her then that the house in Golden Square, the new baubles and finery, all of it was an expensive ruse. A carefully baited hook to lure some unsuspecting heiress into marriage so that they could use her wealth and connections to save themselves from ruin. The insult was that the woman thought her too stupid to see it.

  She started as an elbow connected with her ribcage. Turning, she saw Caroline staring at her with a worried expression.

  But before she could respond, Lady Yarborough again spoke. “Do any of you know anyone else in Golden Square?” she demanded, her nasal voice grating on Eleanor’s nerves like the screech of an un-oiled carriage wheel.

  “We do not,” answered Rowena.

  A smile tugged at Eleanor’s mouth, and she ducked her head to hide it. Rowena’s response had been decidedly chilly. At least she was not the only one to find their traveling companion vulgar and irritating!

  “I believe Lady Wincanton may have a friend there,” offered Caroline, speaking up for the first time. “I heard her tell Lord Wincanton this morning that they must visit her the week after their arrival. She specifically mentioned that she lived in Golden Square.”

  “Oh, indeed?” said Lady Yarborough, visibly delighted. “Thank you, Miss Caroline. You are a most helpful young lady,” she added, flicking a cold glance at Eleanor to let her know she was not. “I shall have to inquire of Lady Wincanton and ask to be introduced.”

  Eleanor didn’t know whether to cringe in horror or laugh. It was one thing for a friend to ask you to introduce them to someone else in your circle, but Lady Yarborough had never been among Lady Wincanton’s set.

  According to Rowena, upon marrying Sir Yarborough, the woman had spent just one summer in the country before claiming an adverse reaction to the air and insisting on remaining in London year-round for the sake of her delicate constitution. Looking at her now, Eleanor found it hard to imagine anyone less delicate. It was rumored that she’d returned to Somerset only because her lord husband had finally put his foot down after their son had been born, refusing to let the child be raised in Town.

  Lady Yarborough had mourned her exile bitterly and publicly, effectively alienating everyone in the county that might have been willing to offer friendship. Now that her son was on the market, however, she was trying to be sociable—an endeavor which was fast proving disastrous. Lady Wincanton would undoubtedly deem any request for an introduction highly improper, to say nothing of the insult of being perceived as naught more than a rung on the social ladder. To Eleanor’s knowledge, the only time the two women saw each other was at church.

  Rowena must have been thinking along the same lines. “Oh, yes. I do remember something about her having a friend there now—but I don’t think she would be anyone of interest to you,” she said carefully. “If my memory serves, the lady in question is quite elderly.”

  But Lady Yarborough wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Nonsense! I shall be most obliged to meet her and extend the hand of friendship. After all, we’ll practically be neighbors.” A calculating look entered her eyes, and she laughed a little. “I shall at the very least invite her to tea. Perhaps you might join us, Miss Caroline?”

  Eleanor looked at once to Rowena, but her face remained impassive save for a slight tightening around the eyes. For Lady Yarborough to so obviously exclude them was a deliberate and shocking affront, especially when one considered that she was being allowed to share their transport to London. Now Eleanor knew just how angry the woman really was over her chastisement—enough to toss all good sense straight to hell.

  By contrast, Caroline’s face was full of worry—a good sign in Eleanor’s opinion. Perhaps now she had a better understanding of what she’d be getting into if she encouraged the woman’s spawn. “Caroline? I’m sure you’d find that lovely, would you not?” she prompted, giving her friend the tiniest of nods to let her know all was well and to accept the invitation. To decline would only set the ill-mannered cat against her, too, and Caroline could ill afford an enemy.

  “I—I should be delighted,” answered Caroline, looking anything but.

  Lady Yarborough’s haughty gaze rested squarely on Eleanor as she replied, “Excellent. I shall be sure to send an invitation as soon as we are settled. Now, how far did you say it was to our first stopping point, Lady Ashford?”

  Too far, thought Eleanor, turning to look out of the window so as not to further provoke the contemptible woman. There were 116 miles between Holbrook and London. It was going to be a very long journey. She wondered how the gentlemen were faring.

  They’d not yet traveled five miles before the pressure building at the back of his head made Sorin want to turn his horse around and gallop straight back to Holly Hall. Yarborough had not ceased bragging about his so-called “accomplishments” since they’d passed the main gate at Holbrook. The lad was more of a fool than he’d thought possible. Worse, he was a fool with a cruel streak as broad as the Thames.

  The blackguard seemed to delight in the misery of those he viewed as less clever than himself—which, Sorin suspected, was everyone. His caustic witticisms spared none, not even those he named friends.

  A rich, but rather dim cousin duped into marrying a pauper by means of borrowed gowns and paste jewelry was the source of amused warnings and much unsolicited advice on how to avoid being similarly deceived. Then there was the chum from university unfortunate enough to marry the toast of the Season only to find himself a cuckold a few months later, a story that elicited Yarborough’s crude laughter and bawdy jests about how to be certain one’s wife truly bore her lord’s fruit and not the offspring of a lover. “Not that I shall ever have to worry about that,” he’d added with a nasty leer. “I shall keep my field well planted and leave no room for another to till it.”

  Several times Sorin experienced an almost overpowering urge to draw his horse alongside and knock Yarborough senseless. Had Eleanor not been a member of their party, he would have done it. He could tell Charles was growing annoyed, as well, and wondered how the ladies were faring.

  “Mothe
r and I plan to host a ball this Season,” said Yarborough for the third time. “The ballroom in our new house in Golden Square is simply splendid. I thought at first to have the frescos redone but in the end I decided I rather liked the existing ones, even if they are a bit out of fashion. I’ve furnished the place with the best London has to offer, though I expect my bride will want to redecorate according to her own taste.” He glanced back at the coach and smirked. “I shall, of course, defer to m’lady’s wishes.”

  Sorin ground his teeth. If this lack-wit thought Eleanor would succumb to his smooth words and dubious charms, he had a rude awakening ahead of him. “One hopes that your bride and your lady mother will be in accord regarding such matters,” he said, striving for detachment.

  Ahead of them, Charles began to chuckle. “He’s right, you know,” he cast back over his shoulder. “Many a marriage has been soured by contention between warring females. When I first married, I was more worried about how my wife and my mother would get on than anything else. I count myself blessed that they liked each other so well.” Another chuckle. “Though I will admit it could be quite uncomfortable when all of the females in my house were united against me.”

  An impertinent grin split Yarborough’s face. “My mother will be so happy to see me married that I doubt she’ll object to anything my wife wishes. Her sole desire is to witness the birth of my heir—which will of course be my first priority once married.”

  Again, Sorin’s jaw tightened as Yarborough once more glanced back at the coach bearing Eleanor. The thought of this wheckering muck-spout ever spawning was bad enough, but to imagine Eleanor as the vessel turned his stomach. “I’m going to fall back and check on my mother,” he announced, reining in.

  The look Charles shot him was a piercing one, and again he wondered if his old friend suspected something. It didn’t matter. Another minute of listening to Yarborough and he would open his mouth and give himself away for certain. As he fell back, the coach containing Eleanor passed him by. Someone—Eleanor—was delivering what was unmistakably a scathing recrimination. Before he could catch any more than the briefest snatch of the conversation, however, the carriage passed out of earshot.