A little scandal

by Patricia Cabot

  Posie looked in just as Kate was uttering a silent amen.

  “Well?” she asked excitedly. “What did he want, then?”

  Kate released the cat, who’d been struggling for some time in her arms. “Oh, Posie,” she said with a sigh. “I am utterly wretched.”

  Posie shook her head. “New coat, then, is it? The bastard. Them titled blokes is all the same, acting like posh gentlemen, when underneath, they’re nothin’ better than money-grubbers. Well, I’ve got a bit saved up, if you need a loan, miss. I won’t even charge you interest, how’s that?”

  Kate sank down onto the hearth. “It wasn’t the coat, Posie. He wasn’t here about the coat at all. He wants to hire me, Posie, to chaperone his daughter during her first season out for two—no, three hundred pounds a year.” Kate took a breath. “And I said no.”

  Posie was across the room in three strides. She took hold of Kate’s wrist and said, “I lied to you. I suspected he wasn’t here about the coat. I saw you run up the stairs, and then I heard a dreadful crash from the liberry. I reckon he’s broke something, since Fusspot and both the Sledges went runnin’ in there. I’ll wager he’s still there, gettin’ the business from Mister and Missus. We can stop ’im afore he gets to the door, and you can tell ’im you’ve changed your mind. Come on, now. Look sharp, or you’ll miss ’im.”

  Kate snatched her hand from the younger girl’s grip. “Posie, I can’t.”

  Posie stared down at her, dumbfounded. “You can’t what? You can’t live like a queen on three hundred pounds a year? Do you have any idea how much money that is, miss? That’s more money than either of us is ever likely to see in a lifetime, that’s how much it is!”

  Kate winced as Posie’s voice rose to a shriek. “Posie,” she said weakly. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re right I don’t understand! I have to tell you, miss, I like you better’n any of those stuffy bitches they had watchin’ the boys before you. But if you don’t go an’ work for his lordship, I swear to you I’ll never speak to you again!”

  “Posie.” Kate dropped her face down into her lap. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled by her skirt. “I can’t work as a chaperone. Not here in London.”

  Posie glared at her. “And why not?”

  She couldn’t, of course, tell Posie. She had told no one in the Sledge household of her past. She wasn’t sure what they made of Freddy—if they wondered where she had met him, or how the two of them had come to be such friends. No one had bothered to ask. They were a particularly incurious household.

  But the fact was that Kate had selected her employers with care. The Sledges—like all of the families for whom Kate had worked before them—were not, though wealthy, members of the beau monde. They were not invited with any regularity to the season’s finest balls. They did not even go to the theater, or attend the races. They did not number amongst their acquaintances anyone who might remember the name of Mayhew, or who might have had occasion to own a diamond mine.

  And that, as far as Kate was concerned, was just fine. The quieter the lifestyle of her employers, the better her chances at maintaining the comfortable anonymity she’d managed, after seven long years, to attain. Not that, as a governess, she was in much danger of discovery. Occasionally, she was required to escort her young charges to birthday parties and the like. But even there, the chance of being recognized was low, for she invariably encountered only other governesses like herself.

  But as a chaperone—and to the daughter of a wealthy marquis—Kate would be thrust into the very same circles in which she had used to travel a lifetime ago. She would visit households in which she’d once been entertained as a guest, encounter persons with whom she’d once shared intimate friendships, meet, after her long absence, old acquaintances ... not to mention old foes.

  And she would be forced to endure, all over again, the snubs, the catty remarks, the suspicious looks, she’d finally managed to escape.

  No. She had lived through it once. How, she hadn’t any idea. But she had survived it. She would not endure it again. She could not.

  For she despised them. She quite thoroughly despised the beau monde, for their hypocrisy, their snobbery, and their self-serving deceit. Men like the marquis, who thought that because they had money they could treat human beings any way they saw fit. Men like the marquis, who had seen to her father’s ruin. Men like the marquis, who had coldly turned their backs when Kate needed them.

  All except Freddy. Kind, simple Freddy, who had stuck by Kate, even in her darkest hours.

  He had been unwavering in his friendship to her. He was the only one. The only one from the ton who hadn’t let her down when it had really mattered.

  And he was the only one she could now abide.

  She couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t. Not for all the money in the world.

  “I can’t, “Kate said, lifting her face from her hands. “Don’t you see? I would have to go to dinner parties and balls and the like.”

  Posie snorted.

  “Oh, aye,” she said sarcastically. “A fate worse than death. You might even have to drink champagne and eat caviar every night. And get paid three hundred pounds a year for it! It’s shocking what people will ask of a girl these days.”

  “You don’t understand,” Kate said, with a shake of her head. “It isn’t what it seems from the outside, Posie. Those people—the marquis and his friends—they’re not like you and me. They’re not even like the Sledges. They’re horrible. Truly horrible. All of them. They haven’t any loyalty, any sort of human decency. All they think about is themselves and their precious money. They can ruin someone’s life with just a single well-placed whisper. It doesn’t matter whether or not what they say is true. The fact that it was said at all is taken as proof of its veracity.”

  Posie regarded Kate wryly. “If a bloke gave me three hundred pounds a year, people could say whatever they wanted to about me. With three hundred pounds, what would I care?”

  “But you would care, Posie.” Kate got up suddenly, and paced the length of the schoolroom. “You would care, because it hurts. Especially when it isn’t true.”

  “It only hurts,” Posie remarked, “if you let it.”

  Kate stopped pacing and stared down at the younger girl. It was easy, she supposed, for Posie to believe something as trite as that. Posie had never been hurt, not once in her short life. Oh, certainly, the occasional love affair gone wrong, maybe ... but never irrevocably wrong. The eldest of a happy brood of twelve, both of Posie’s parents were still living. It was easy, Kate told herself, for Posie to be brave. She had never lost anything she cared about. She hadn’t lost everything she cared about, as Kate had.

  Suddenly, Kate smiled. She couldn’t help it. She had never been capable of allowing anything to depress her for long, and now was no exception.

  “What’s the use?” she asked, spreading her arms wide. “Even if I thought I could put up with it—life in the ton—the marquis isn’t likely to want me now. I hit him, Posie.”

  “You what?”

  “Hit him. Over the head.” Kate mimed the action. “With an atlas. He tried to kiss me, just like the Reverend Billings, the conceited dolt.”

  Posie’s mouth, Kate saw, had formed a perfect O of astonishment. A second later, she’d jumped up and, clutching Kate by the wrist, tried to pull her bodily toward the door.

  “It ain’t too late,” Posie said. “He might still be down there. Go on and apologize.”

  “Apologize? Me? Posie, are you mad? Didn’t you hear me? He tried to—”

  “I’ve got three words for you, Miss Kate,” Posie said. “Three hundred pounds. Understand me? Now go down there and apologize. On your knees, if you have to. But do it.”

  “Posie,” Kate said, digging in her heels. “Lord Wingate is hardly the type of man to forgive a girl for whacking him on the head.” Her grin grew broader. “But if you’d only seen his face when I did ... though I don’t suppose there’s anything funny about los
ing three hundred pounds.”

  “Can’t think of anythin’,” Posie agreed. “ ‘Specially considerin’ how long a body could live on three hundred pounds, an’ never even have to work.”

  Posie’s voice rose to a squeal as Kate dropped a hand to her arm and squeezed it, hard.

  “Oh,” Kate said, through lips that had suddenly lost all hint of color. There was no humor in her voice now. “Oh, God, Posie!”

  Posie said, quite calmly considering the pressure on her wrist, “Change your mind about the unfeelin’ rich, did you? I thought you might.”

  “I didn’t think,” Kate whispered. “I didn’t think ... I forgot all about her. But three hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds would pay her rent for a long while ....”

  Posie had no idea what the older girl was talking about. All she knew was that Kate had finally come to her senses.

  “And,” Posie said, “he’s bound to have plenty of atlases, a rich bloke like that. You could just chuck one at ’im, every time he gets fresh. Like as not he’ll get the message.”

  Kate felt as if something cold had clutched her heart. “Do you suppose he’s gone?” she asked, through lips that seemed to have gone numb.

  “Only one way,” Posie said, “to find out.”

  The two girls tore from the room so noisily that Lady Babbie, who’d retired to the desk, puffed out her tail to three times its normal size, and growled ferociously before settling down again atop the papers Kate had left behind.

  The Marquis of Wingate had not, in fact, gone. He was standing in the foyer, making out a note to the Reverend Billings, which was what Mr. Sledge had requested in lieu of compensation for the loss of his stained-glass window. It galled Burke to the core, writing this note—especially since it was for twice what the window was worth—but what else could he do? He’d already attempted the unpardonable—stealing a neighbor’s servant. He didn’t dare add insult to injury by refusing to pay for something he had broken quite purposefully.

  What made it worse was that the Sledges hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d broken the window, or even why he’d come to call in the first place. They thought no more of Miss Mayhew than they bothered to think of anyone else outside of Papua New Guinea. Even their own children, who came trooping through the front door just as he was signing his name to the note, inspired no more than a brisk “Wipe your feet before you come in.” Not even a peck on the cheek or a “Stop striking your brother with that riding crop.”

  In fact, it was Burke himself who snatched the crop away from one of the boys before the lad did any serious damage. His sharp admonishment, “You could put your brother’s eye out with that,” was met with a sneer, convincing him that Katherine Mayhew must be an angel. How else could she so ably manage Sledge’s little beasts?

  An angel, or a witch. He was beginning to suspect the latter, since he doubted the former would have left him with the pounding headache he was currently suffering.

  And then, as if the very thought of Miss Mayhew summoned her, there she appeared on the stairs. No one else seemed to notice her. Mr. Sledge was still going on, at some length, about the barbaric treatment of dogs by the natives of that ubiquitous country, one more utterance of the name of which was likely to cause Burke to go mad, while his wife was announcing to some women in a nearby drawing room that they needn’t get up, it was only the Marquis of Wingate, who frequently stopped by to call upon her husband. The butler very glumly passed by, carrying a dustpan filled with broken shards of brightly colored glass, and the children kicked at one another with their muddy riding boots.

  And yet, somehow, above it all, Burke was able to hear Miss Mayhew’s voice call from the stairway, which was as near to him as she could get, with all the people in the entrance hall: “Lord Wingate, I’ll gladly come, if you’ll still have me.”

  Burke Traherne had been quite rightfully accused of many things in his day, but stupidity was not one of them. He hadn’t the slightest idea what had caused the girl to change her mind—though he had a suspicion that the redhead in the maid’s uniform standing behind her might have had something to do with it, especially since she seemed to be poking Miss Mayhew quite forcefully in the back.

  But he wasn’t about to stand there and question her decision.

  Oh, he was not at all charmed by the way she’d rebuffed his advances. He was insulted and a little chagrined. But she was, after all, only a servant, and undoubtedly knew no better. His father had always warned him not to dally with the help, advice Burke now saw as quite sage.

  The girl was clearly a man-hater. That was the only explanation for it, really. Burke had never in his life been rebuffed by a woman, so the experience had been particularly demoralizing ... and unique.

  But a man-hater, while irritating, would make a splendid chaperone for Isabel, and so he gave a low bow, and said, his deep voice carrying easily over the tumult around them, “Miss Mayhew, I’m honored. May I send my footmen this evening, then?”

  She nodded mutely. Indeed, she couldn’t have spoken if she’d wanted to, since the din in the entranceway had risen to such a level that no one, not even Burke, would have been able to hear her if she’d tried. He cast her a final, appraising glance—really, but she was uncommonly pleasant to look at. It was a shame about the man-hating thing. Then he retrieved his own cloak and hat, since the butler seemed busy, and there was no footman that Burke could see, and left the house, satisfied that he had just purchased not only peace of mind for himself, but a bright future for his daughter. And all for the bargain price of three hundred pounds.

  Of course, there was also the matter of the sizable welt on his forehead. But he had a feeling that that was best left ignored. He’d behaved ignobly, and Miss Mayhew had very properly let him know it. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Or, if it did, he’d see to it there weren’t any heavy books lying about.

  Chapter Seven

  Kate dashed up the stone steps, her heart hammering in her ears, her throat constricted so tightly with fear, she could hardly breathe. Please, she prayed. Let it be unlocked. Please let it be unlocked. Please—

  The front door swung open, however, before she even had a chance to touch the handle. Vincennes, Lord Wingate’s butler, looked down at her quizzically. “Miss Mayhew,” he said, pleasantly enough. “How do you do? Did you—”

  But Kate hadn’t time for pleasantries. She pushed past him, seized hold of the door, and shut it behind her.

  Vincennes, to his credit, looked as if this extraordinary behavior was perfectly normal, and said only, “I do hope you managed to get to the post office before it closed, miss.”

  Kate hardly heard him. Rushing into the drawing room just off the foyer, where a fire had not yet been lit for the evening, she went to one of the large casement windows, and parted the drapes.

  “Mr. Vincennes,” she panted, gazing out onto the street. “Do you see that man out there? Standing on the corner, in the light from the gas lamp?”

  The butler obligingly peered over her shoulder. “Indeed, I do, miss,” he said.

  So! It hadn’t been her imagination! Not this time.

  “Pardon me, miss,” the butler said, as the two of them stood in the darkened room, staring down at the rain-soaked street. “But do you have reason to dislike Mr. Jenkins?”

  Kate’s breath fogged the pane through which she was peering. She reached up to rub at the spot. “Mr. Jenkins? Who is Mr. Jenkins?”

  “The gentleman we’re looking at.”

  Kate squinted astonishedly up at the butler. “You know him?”

  “Certainly, miss. He’s a physician. He frequently pays calls in this neighborhood ....”

  Kate, feeling her cheeks heat up, let the curtain drop. “I’m such a fool,” she confessed sheepishly. “I thought ... I thought he was someone else.”

  “Perfectly understandable, miss,” Vincennes said kindly, “in fog like that.”

  But Kate could not so easily dismiss her mistake. Freddy, she th
ought dejectedly to herself, as she made her way up the wide, curving staircase to her room, had been quite right. She did have too much imagination. What on earth would Daniel Craven be doing, standing on a street corner—in the rain, no less—in London, when no one had seen or heard from him in seven years? She was being ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous. Hysterical, even.

  But when she approached the door to her bedroom, and saw that it was slightly ajar—when she had most definitely closed it when she’d left—she grew suspicious. Surely Vincennes would have told her if someone had come calling for her. And he certainly wouldn’t have allowed the visitor into her room! No, it had to be one of the maids, or—

  Kate flung open the door and was more than a little surprised to see the Lady Isabel Traherne—lying on her stomach with her feet in the air—stretched out across Kate’s bed, petting Lady Babbie.

  “I didn’t know you had a cat, Miss Mayhew!” Isabel cried, when she noticed Kate upon the threshold.

  So much for keeping Lady Babbie’s presence a secret, Kate thought to herself. All that trouble she’d taken, smuggling the indignant cat into the house in a basket, had been for naught.

  And good thing to know that in the future, if she didn’t care for visitors, she’d best keep her door locked.

  Aloud, however, Kate said, “Be careful. She bites, when she’s in the mood.”

  Lady Babbie, probably just to be contrary, allowed Isabel to scratch her ears without the slightest protest, however.

  “Listen to her purr!” Isabel sighed. “I always wanted a cat, but Papa always said I was too irresponsible to take care of a plant, let alone an animal, and he’d never let me have one. What’s her name, Miss Mayhew?”

  Kate cleared her throat uncomfortably as she undid her bonnet strings. “Lady Babbie,” she said.

  “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

  “Lady Babbie,” Kate said, a little more loudly.