by Julia Donner
Even as a girl she’d never been afraid of Hopton, more snarl than bite, and he’d gotten her out of a few disasters. He never lied on her behalf, merely avoided answering questions he knew would bring her to grief.
She gestured for him to follow her. He stepped ahead to open the green baize door to the hallway. She paused on the threshold. Under her breath she asked, “What have I done this time?”
He grunted and scowled at his staff. “They don’t know you. The previous Lady Exton-Lloyd hired them.” He glanced over his shoulder, and with an upward jerk of his chin, ordered everyone to resume work. “Mayhap they figure you’ll sack them for some reason. Most likely they’re covering for the lads. They’ve spoiled them all out of proportion.”
To impress the servants pretending not to watch, Emily nodded as if Hopton had relayed sage advice and whispered, “Sir Hugh thinks they’ve been terrorized by them.”
Hopton showed his disdain of that remark with another grunt. She asked, “So the guilty looks are for covering for the boys?”
“I best be back to my work, my lady.” Before he turned away, he muttered, “Have a care when you go up.”
“Boy traps?”
“You were always a canny one.” He closed the door.
Emily didn’t know what to expect when she turned down the passageway. Due to Hopton’s warning, she wasn’t surprised to see Ferris waiting by her bedchamber door, wringing her hands.
“Oh, my lady, you don’t want to go in there.”
“Are there dead bodies?”
Appalled, Ferris said, “Certainly not, my lady, but you might want to avail yourself of this.” She extended a folded, pressed handkerchief. “To be placed over your mouth and nose.”
Emily stared at Ferris for a moment then accepted the cloth. Shaking it out, she refolded it in half and did as Ferris instructed. The maid stayed in the corridor as Emily stepped inside. She expected another carcass of some sort but not what she discovered.
The entire room was covered in a film of white. The rascals had rummaged through her belongings, discovered her favorite talc, and flung the contents of three boxes around the room. This time, she did a slow burn, not because of the loss of the expensive talc, but due to the risk involved. She’d heard of death from inhaling too much dust. The boys were too young and foolish to realize how close they had come to suffocating. The games would have to stop.
Emily closed the door. “Have a bath brought up to Sir Hugh’s dressing chamber. I smell like a fishmonger. Then gather the maids and have them start on the cleaning.”
“Which room would you like made up? It will take days to clean this.”
“I refuse to make more work for everyone by readying another room. I’ll sleep in Sir Hugh’s. He won’t be back for another week. Tell the maids to cover themselves as you instructed me and not to hurry. That will cause the powder to rise. See to the bath, please, Ferris. Then I must nap.”
“Will you wish to have Master Waldo and Howard sent up?”
She thought about that. “No. Let them think about this. They’ve no idea what they’ve done. The upstairs servants won’t be happy about the extra work. Perhaps they will encourage the kitchen staff to cease coddling our little devils.”
After Ferris left, Emily relieved her frustration behind the bedchamber’s closed doors with a spate of spicy epithets. She’d laid her irritation to rest by the time Ferris returned with maids and footmen carrying pails of hot water. The bath helped to calm her nerves, but she couldn’t stop from thinking about the recklessness and danger of this latest stunt.
She snuggled into a comfy position but didn’t sleep. The lethargy was there but not the relaxation to sleep. Her mind refused to settle. Perhaps she should ring for some milk.
She rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. The canopy had been removed from the bed. Coldstream was a snugly built house with few drafts, and she suddenly recalled how Hugh had always felt warm. In winter, she had snuggled close to him on the carriage drives to church. He would sometimes hold her hands during the service, and when she asked him why, he’d said her lips had turned blue.
A wave of shame brought her upright. Why had she persisted in tormenting him throughout their childhood? Although fastidious, Hugh was too rigid in his attitude to ever be designated as romantic, but there was nothing effeminate or affecting in his style. His strong features and closed expression didn’t lend itself to the present mode of Byronic beauty. He was a stiff-rump, yes, but also kind and thoughtful.
A subtle scent hung in the air. She sniffed. She couldn’t define the scent, but soon recognized that the room smelled of Hugh. She dug her fingers into the coverlet patterned in dark brown and blue. Had he and Beryl made their sons in this bed? Put off by that image, she slid across the counterpane and went to the narrow divan in the dressing room. His scent was stronger here, but the harder surface offered a more restful place to sleep without the disturbing images.
Chapter 7
Hugh adjusted the knot of his cravat in the mirror. Clarice had obviously not expected a visit. She’d drenched the room in scent, which he disliked, and removed his clothes and hair brushes. He raked his fingers through his hair. Sultry weather made it curl every which way. Emily would adore the romantic look of disheveled waves. He couldn’t feel any degree of comfort when things were out of order.
He turned to look at Clarice. “What have you done with my brushes and shaving kit?”
Clarice sprawled across the rumpled bed. Her pearl-white skin gleamed in the afternoon humidity. “You never sent word that you would visit. Ring for the girl to come up. I’ll tell her where I’ve stored them.”
He masked his irritation. He paid for this dwelling and for her company. She should have the place ready for him at all times. That she did not evoked suspicion. It came over him suddenly, a resentful disenchantment with this arrangement, or perhaps it had been there all along. Beryl had never known and certainly wouldn’t have cared. Emily said she had no objections. They were women of his social class, accustomed to their spouses carrying on with discreet affairs. But for some reason he couldn’t precisely place, it now felt oddly sordid.
Reaching for his jacket, he said, “You have an air of displeasure about you. Was I too rough?”
“Not unusually so, but your eagerness reveals that you’ve not been with anyone else. Not even this new wife.”
“We have a convenient arrangement.”
He was immediately sorry he’d said that. Clarice had no right to know anything about his marriage. Another twinge of irritation ruined the relaxation that usually resulted after intercourse. He’d been counting on relief from an ongoing tension, an undercurrent of dissatisfaction since his marriage. He knew the reason, of course, but didn’t wish to delve too deeply into the cause.
“Which reminds me,” he added, “I need you to relocate. Stirling is too small and too close to Callander. Perhaps Glasgow.”
Clarice sat up. Her nightgown gaped open in front, an intended provocation. “Why should I move? I’ve lived her for years. This house is perfect.”
“I’ve explained that this location is too close to Callander. I will not have my wife suffer any embarrassment due to gossip.”
“You said your marriage was one of convenience. Does she expect you to live like a monk?”
She adjusted her position on the bed, lying back and allowing her knees to fall open. “Or have you become bored with me? Perhaps it’s time to explore other possibilities, something more interesting.” She raised her arms. The silky material slid down as she pressed the backs of her wrists to the headboard. “You could lash me to the bedposts, like so.”
A sudden vision of Emily, arms extended, tied to his bed swamped his vision. Heat roared through his veins, setting a fire inside his head that blinded. He turned away, confronted his flushed reflection in the mirror, and forced himself to breathe.
Behind him, Clarice laughed, low and gratified that she’d hit her mark. “You like that
idea, do you? I adore being tied, utterly controlled. Even hurt a little. You should try it.”
He focused on catching his breath and inhaled deeply. What seemed lurid with Clarice became unbearably erotic with Emily. The sexual heat had traveled south faster than usual. He would deal with his lust for an indifferent wife in a loveless marriage later. For now, there was an unfaithful mistress.
He infused plenty of chill in his tone when he asked, “And with whom, Clarice, have you investigated this penchant?”
She sat up, a more demure pose. “Why, I’ve been with no one else, Hugh. It happened before you, of course.”
“So you say, but there’s been ample opportunity. When you don’t follow me to London, we may not see each other for weeks. I’ve allowed you that freedom.”
“Allow me to show you my appreciation.”
The inviting purr and promise in her voice didn’t move him as it once had. She smiled when he considered her with a narrowed gaze. “You’ve had my protection for close to a decade. The abbess I procured you from promised no diseases.”
“Madame Antoinette kept only the best sort of companions for her clientele or I would not have stayed with her establishment.”
“Clarice, we have been together for many years. The possibility of subterfuge between people who know each other so well is near nonexistent. Let us be candid. You had few options and accepted my terms when we began our association. You came to me of your own volition and in clean health. Our arrangement was that you stayed that way.”
“But Hugh—”
He turned back to the mirror, made an adjustment to the knot in his neckwear. “It’s a simple matter of questioning the maid. She’s paid by me. She’ll tell me the truth or be sent off without a reference.”
Clarice answered with a pout and put-upon huff. “Very well! It was only once. Last year. You were gone for two months. I was most dreadfully lonely.”
He doubted that. Revulsion rolled through him. He was sick of the pretense. He understood why mistresses were necessary, but must they all be so conniving and cold? Before this, it never bothered him that women pretended affection and satisfaction. That was their role, and he paid them handsomely for it. One never expected one’s wife to tolerate the things a mistress was paid to do. A man married because it was expected, to carry on the line, and become a valuable part of a community. He heard himself mentally drifting and turned back to the worst of all women, an unfaithful mistress.
“I shall provide ample compensation, but you will vacate this house by the end of the month.” Over her weepy pleas that escalated into sputtering outrage, he continued to instruct. “The house here and the pied-à-terre in London will be sold, so do not think you can use either establishment for any form of personal gain.”
She pounded her fist against the coverlet. “Why are you being so unfair, Hugh?”
“There is no need to articulate the specifics of my meaning. Since you have left off with your dramatic bout of tears, and now stare daggers, I think I shall amend your eviction date to the end of the week. You will receive a handsome parting gift. Good luck to you, Clarice, and good-bye.”
After he exited, a hurled object shattered against the door. As the breakage clattered to the floor, he felt a heaviness lift from his shoulders. Nor did it bother him when Clarice screamed and threw things out the window as he walked down the street.
How and why had he ever gotten involved with such a vulgar female? Then he calmly accepted that there were certain habits and physical inclinations that beset a man that could not be ignored, which demanded attention. Visions of Emily flashed and evolved into lurid creativity. At least the images no longer made him feel guilty.
Chapter 8
Emily fought guilt for the necessity of having to crush rebellion out of the boys but something had to be done before their games went too far. A bit of humiliation and a dose of reality would not do lasting damage. She hoped. They were sensitive lads at heart. It was time for them to move beyond the loss of their mother before their father’s patience came to an end. She’d never seen Hugh’s temper. An inner sentinel whispered that he should never be pushed to that point.
In Hugh’s absence, she asked Ferris to conduct a discreet interrogation downstairs to apprise her of events during the years since she’d lived at Coldstream. Hopton was not a talker. She’d get little from him. The present household staff had changed but a few remained from before she left for school. Ferris slowly gleaned the tidbits required to fill in the puzzle of all that had happened while she was at seminary. She’d been directly taken from there to be presented in London, then engaged, and had not been back to Scotland.
What little she’d heard had come from when she’d spoken briefly with Hugh at her wedding breakfast. She didn’t see him again until his marriage to the well-dowered and beautiful Beryl. When she did encounter him in town, he never spoke of Beryl or his children, other than accepting her congratulations at their births.
There were gaps that needed explanation, especially how it came about that the boys were allowed to run wild, even have dominion over the house. Whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, was immediately supplied. She had to suppose that it was the staff’s way of making up for their mother’s death and the coddling had become habit.
Hugh had never been spoiled and wouldn’t tolerate it in his children. Being male, he had no notion of how to handle the shock a youth suffered from the loss of a parent. Like his father, he expected his sons to carry on, chin up, no sign of weakness. He did realize that female guidance in some form was needed to bring Waldo and Howie back into line.
At first sight of the boys, her goal had shifted from fulfilling her part of the bargain in the marriage to genuine affection. When they were receptive, she would supply all the affection they would ever need, but lines had to be drawn and limits observed for children to feel safe and not confused. She would use the recent talcum powder incident to bring her point home and begin a new reign.
Emily had Hopton assemble the entire household in the foyer. She stood on the third step in order to be clearly seen. She ignored Waldo and Howie, even though it wasn’t easy. Waldo was the image of his father in every way. Rough play clothes somehow refused to look rumpled as he stood at attention, calm, composed. Beside him, Howie looked like a properly grubby cherub with smudges, rips and stains. He did have his father’s scowl, but on him, it looked adorable. She focused on her task in order not to laugh.
“I have asked you here to speak about a recent incident. I am indeed sorry that so much time was needed to set my rooms to rights. The cleaning unfortunately involved everyone. It did not escape my attention that it was an exhausting endeavor that required the taking down of draperies and beating of carpets. The silk wall covering was especially trying, I’m sure. Not as easily managed as the wood paneling in the rest of the house. All this had to be accomplished in addition to your usual tasks.”
Although she didn’t look directly at them, Emily noted Howie’s glance at his taller brother, who had stiffened his posture. The extent of the trouble they had caused needed to be pounded into their crafty brains, especially Howie’s.
Disliking what she had to do, Emily finished. “This regrettable incident caused me little discomfort, but you were made to do much extra work. Therefore, tomorrow afternoon, take a half-day to do as you like. We will not require dinner. Ferris will act in your behalf. You are excused, with the exception of Master Waldo and Howard. Hopton, please remain for a moment.”
She stepped down and crossed the foyer to stand in front of the boys, whose confusion and discomfort were now apparent, but they stayed in place. Hopton shuffled up to her and grumbled low, “And what am I expected to be doing while the rest of them are gallivanting about the countryside?”
“Whatever you like, Hopton. Take a nap or read. If I recall, you are a port lover. I’m sure Sir Hugh has laid down a few bottles. Get one for your room. Put your feet up and drink it down.”
When he a
ttempted a rejection, she continued, speaking over his grumbling complaints. “Hopton, can you tell me, that painting, what is the subject?”
He looked over his shoulder at the landscape, a graceful Palladian manor set on rising ground. Verdant lawns sloped down to a placid lake. Willows draped trailing branches in the water where a punt waited on the shore. Sunlight glowed on the elegant house and grounds. As if rising up from the past, fog obscured the outline of castle ruins in the distance.
Hopton grunted. “Everyone knows that’s Réveillez.”
Emily raised her eyebrows. “Do they?” She eyed the boys and centered her attention on Waldo. “You will one day assume your father’s title. What can you tell me about your birthright lost?”
Waldo glanced at his brother, then up at her to reply. “You know our family history?”
“I am part of that history. Can you tell me why you don’t live at Réveillez?”
Waldo lifted his chin. “Burned to the ground when Father was a boy.”
“Exactly. And were you told about the castle behind it?”
When both boys shook their heads, she sternly said, “You should know it, since it’s your lineage, and the source of the estate’s name. Réveillez is seeped in history. It stood during the crusades, more wars after that, including Cullodon. It was lost and gained back by marriage, just like Coldstream. Aunt Agatha Graham married Lord Goring for the purpose of keeping this house in the family.”
Waldo announced with hope, “The date carved in the stone on the front lintel is fifteen-thirty-one, built by a Graham.”
“Very good, Waldo, but Réveillez was acquired during the second Crusade. Did you know that you—we come from military families? Perhaps you are not interested in battles and such.”
Eyes rounded by interest, they answered in unison, begging the stories told, but Howie broke off to say with confusion, “Father wasn’t in the last war with Boney.”
