A Winter Scandal

by Candace Camp

  “Thea, I am so glad you have rescued me,” Damaris murmured as she slipped her arm through Thea’s and started to stroll away with her. “I vow I have been positively drowning in tales of Lord Morecombe.”

  Thea chuckled. “I have no doubt. Were they talking of the carriage full of women of doubtful character who drove over from Cheltenham? Or the wagonload of brandy and ale coming by night in a very suspicious manner?”

  “Smuggling in liquor to his cellars? I doubt that would raise many eyebrows around Chesley,” Damaris retorted. “Though the amount he brought in might. No, Mrs. Dinmont was regaling Mrs. Cliffe the younger with stories of shooting contests that involved picking out the candles of the chandelier. Mrs. Cliffe countered that the man has no maids in the house because no self-respecting female will work there. Of course, they both agreed that they are nevertheless waiting with bated breath to meet the legendary lord.”

  “Mm. Everyone seems to be.” Thea refused to think about her own dancing nerves. “I am sure his fortune and the fact that he is a bachelor will overcome any objections anyone may have to his moral character.”

  “I believe his face plays a role, as well. Everyone agrees he is as handsome as Lucifer before the fall.”

  “Yes. I suppose.” Thea could feel heat rising in her face, and she looked down at her glove, rebuttoning the little round button through its loop.

  “Have you ever seen him?” Damaris went on. “I have not.”

  Thea shrugged as she turned her gaze out on the crowd. “His friend Lord Wofford is my second cousin, though I scarcely know Cousin Ian more than to say hello.”

  Damaris looked at Thea thoughtfully, but if she found it odd that her friend had not really answered her question, she did not say so. “Well, I shall be interested to see him, I admit, but I am growing rather weary of hearing about our local lord. Let us turn to a more interesting topic. You will be pleased to know that I received a shipment of books this week. You shall have to come round and look at them.”

  “Really? How delightful.”

  “They included Cantos I and II of Lord Byron’s Don Juan.” When Thea did not respond, her friend glanced at her, surprised. “Thea?”

  “What? Oh, I am sorry.” Thea blushed. “I am afraid my mind wandered.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I am just a bit distracted tonight. I am sorry. I fear you said something that I was not attending to—something about the books you received?”

  “Yes. I got in Lord Byron’s new poem.”

  “Did you?” Thea’s eyes widened appreciatively. She understood now why Damaris had been so startled by her lack of response to the news. Thea was an avid reader, and until Damaris arrived, no one else in Chesley shared her love of books except her brother, Daniel—and his tastes ran more to the scholarly. Books of history or even the philosophical and religious texts her father had enjoyed were all very well, of course, and Thea read whatever her father or brother ordered from London. But she also had a love of poetry and novels and satire, which were all too scarce in the study at home. When Thea first met Damaris, and their conversation had turned to books, Thea knew she had found a friend. “Is Don Juan terribly shocking? It is supposed to be, but I confess, I cannot wait to read it.”

  Damaris laughed, and Thea joined in, though afterward she said, “I would not tell anyone but you that. I fear I am not a very good example to Daniel’s flock.”

  “Well, they are his parishioners, after all, not yours.”

  “I know. But I do have a certain duty.” Thea let out an unconscious sigh.

  “I promise I shall not tell anyone that you are borrowing it.”

  “Have you read it yet?”

  “My dear, the very evening I got it! Though I shall go back for a longer perusal, of course. But it is wonderful. You will not be disappointed, I assure you.”

  “I am sure that I will not. It is very kind of you to lend it to me.” Thea glanced toward the front of the hall, where the Squire and his wife were still receiving guests. She noted that she was not the only guest who kept turning to look at the entrance. Everyone, it seemed, was awaiting Mrs. Cliffe’s “very special guest.”

  “If Lord Morecombe does not attend, it will spell disaster for Mrs. Cliffe’s party,” Damaris said, following Thea’s gaze.

  “It is foolish in the extreme, of course, to put so much interest in the appearance of one person,” Thea said, feeling a bit guilty at being caught looking. Resolutely she turned so that her back was toward the door.

  “No doubt it is, but still, ’tis difficult not to be caught up in it.”

  Thea glanced around and let out a little sigh as her eyes fell on the row of people seated against the wall. “I had better pay my respects to the Squire’s mother. Would you like to come?”

  Damaris chuckled. “Thank you, but I have already done my duty there this evening. I am afraid you must face the gorgon on your own.”

  Thea had to smile at the comparison. The old woman, who was wrapped in a shawl and grimly studying the occupants of the room, often made one feel as if she could turn one to stone. “If you think the experience is treacherous for you, think of those of us whose every childhood misstep is known to her!”

  Thea bade good-bye to her friend and made her way toward the rear of the room to make her curtsy to the elder Mrs. Cliffe.

  “It’s good to see you, ma’am.” The polite lie slid off Thea’s tongue with the ease of long practice. “I hope you are well this evening.”

  “Hmmph.” The old woman cast a baleful glance at Thea. “As well as I can be, I suppose, with one foot in the grave.” She thumped her cane against the floor and nodded toward the chair beside her. “Sit down, sit down, girl, can’t crane my neck looking up at you like that.”

  Thea sat down beside the old woman. She could not see the door from here, which would serve to keep her from glancing toward it all the time.

  “Bunch of ninnies,” Mrs. Cliffe declared, glaring at the rest of the room. “All agog over seeing some lord no better than they are, when all’s said and done. Well, at least you aren’t as big a fool as the rest.”

  Thea was not sure how to respond to this halfhearted compliment, so she merely nodded.

  “Look at my granddaughters—putting on ribbons and lace and airs, just to meet some popinjay from London who won’t take a second look at them. And their silly mother encourages them—as if some lord from London would have any interest in a bunch of young chits who’ve never been farther than Cheltenham. Isn’t as if any of them are beauties, either. I always say, you only make yourself look foolish acting like you’re a diamond of the first water when anyone can see you’re merely paste.” The old lady turned to Thea and gave her a sharp nod. “Now, you my girl, look just as you should. Neat and no-nonsense.”

  Thea felt a sharp, familiar burn in her chest, but she told herself not to be foolish. She could hardly fault the Squire’s old mother for expressing the very sentiment Thea had used as her own watchword tonight: it was better to be thought a dowd than a fool.

  “Course, no telling my son’s wife that. Maribel’s pumped the girls’ heads so full of nonsense, they can hardly see straight. She’s been in a tizzy all week, half the time up in the boughs over her catch and the other half worrying herself to a frazzle that he won’t come. Hah! Serve her right if he didn’t, for going around puffing it up to everyone that he’d accepted.”

  “Still, I am sure that you would not really wish to see her disappointed.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” The old lady slid a dark, glittering glance at Thea, then let out a heavy sigh. “No, you’re probably right. She’d spend the next week nattering on and on about it till I’d have to keep to my room just to avoid her.”

  Thea looked down at her hands to hide her smile.

  “Well, tell me, girl,” Mrs. Cliffe went on, “is that sister of yours coming home for Christmas?”

  “Oh, yes.” Thea smiled. “I am quite looki
ng forward to it. We get to see her and her children so rarely. But it is always delightful to have all their noise and activity. It makes the house seem truly alive and filled with the spirit of Christmas.”

  “That is the life of a naval wife, I fear, stuck off in some seaport somewhere.”

  Thea did not point out that Portsmouth was hardly the ends of the earth, saying only, “Well, she will be here in just a few more days, so we are happy about that.”

  “Pretty girl, Veronica,” the old woman mused. “Not surprised she made a good marriage. But I never did hold with her having a Season and you not. I told your father so, as well. ‘Vicar,’ I said, ‘you’re slighting your youngest, and she’s got as much right as anyone to have a go at catching herself a husband.’”

  “I was needed at home,” Thea replied somewhat stiffly. “And, indeed, I had little interest in a London Season.”

  She hadn’t wanted to have a Season; she really hadn’t. Thea had known as well as anyone—better, really—that she hadn’t the sort of looks necessary to make a splash in London. Veronica was the acknowledged beauty of the family. Whereas Thea’s hair was a nondescript color, neither red nor brown, Veronica’s hair was a lush, deep auburn, a beautiful contrast to her creamy white skin—which never, ever was touched with the freckles that decorated Thea’s cheeks if she forgot to put on her bonnet when she went out into the garden. And no one would compare Thea’s solemn gray eyes, hidden behind her spectacles, to the color of bluebells, as more than one young swain had said about Veronica’s eyes. Veronica’s form was sweetly curved and delicately feminine, and next to her, Thea’s tall, thin frame looked distinctly storklike. Clearly, just as her father had decreed, it did not make sense to spend the money on Thea’s Season, and anyway, her father had needed Thea to copy out his sermons and keep the house and the vicar’s life running smoothly.

  “Nonsense. Don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t have liked to go to London. I wasn’t born yesterday, far from it.” Mrs. Cliffe let out a cackle of laughter. “But you’re a good daughter not to brook criticism of your father.”

  There was a rustle of movement near the door, and a swift susurration of noise swept around the room. Thea lifted her head, her pulse suddenly pounding in anticipation.

  “Well?” Mrs. Cliffe demanded. “What’s happened? Did he come? Don’t just sit there, girl. Stand up and see what’s going on.”

  Thea was happy to oblige. She popped to her feet, but too many people were between her and the door to see anything. All of the guests were shifting toward the front of the room, their faces turned toward the door.

  “I think he must be here,” Thea told her companion. “But I cannot see.”

  The elder Mrs. Cliffe grimaced and brought her cane down with an irritated thump. “Never mind. She’ll bring him over to introduce him to me—Maribel won’t be able to resist tweaking my nose with it. Sit down, and we’ll pretend we didn’t even notice. Always better to look like you don’t care, I say.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Thea retook her seat. She wondered what it said about her that she found herself in sympathy with this crotchety old woman.

  “Tell me about this silly live Nativity that Maribel says you’re planning for Christmas Eve.”

  “I think it will be quite affecting, ma’am. St. Thomas Church in Holstead-on-Leach did it last year, and I believe it was very successful.”

  “Quite chilly, I’d say,” Mrs. Cliffe snorted. “Hope you know what you’re in for, letting my granddaughter play Mary. Course, you had no choice there. Maribel would have hounded you to your deathbed if her eldest weren’t chosen.”

  Thea decided it was probably better not to comment on that. Instead, she launched into a description of their efforts to mount the production, knowing that the mishaps that occurred at each rehearsal would arouse Mrs. Cliffe’s prickly sense of humor. As Thea talked, she kept an eye on the room in front of her. The guests, after the initial movement forward, began to part down the middle like water before the prow of a ship, and before long Thea could see the younger Mrs. Cliffe moving slowly through the room beside a tall, dark-haired man. Two other men were with him, but Thea noticed only the one to whom Mrs. Cliffe clung.

  His hair was thick and black, swept back from a sculpted face. His brows were as black as his hair, sharp slashes over large, intense dark eyes. He was, as gossip had rumored him, sinfully handsome, and his black jacket and breeches were elegantly tailored to fit his muscular frame. His pristine white neckcloth was tied simply and held in place by a sapphire stickpin; he wore no other adornment save a gold signet ring on his right hand. Tall and broad-shouldered, he walked with the confident stride of one who was accustomed to being the center of attention.

  Gabriel Morecombe. Thea’s heart thudded so hard she feared it might leap right out of her chest. The blood seemed to rush from her extremities to her center, leaving her face pale. She tried frantically to pull her thoughts together, to have a smooth, polite greeting ready. The group moved slowly, Mrs. Cliffe stopping to introduce her prize to each guest. Beside Thea, Mrs. Cliffe’s mother-in-law rumbled with a low laugh.

  “Wants him to get a long look at all four of the girls—and Meg’s just sixteen. Poor little sparrows; she’s got their heads stuffed full of nonsense about catching a peacock.”

  Lord Morecombe looked, Thea thought, rather glassy-eyed. No doubt he was stunned by the succession of simpering Cliffe daughters—not to mention every other halfway marriageable female in the room. The thought made Thea chuckle, and it eased her nerves a bit. But then Mrs. Cliffe pivoted and led him toward where Thea sat, the other two men trailing along behind.

  “Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Robert Cliffe, my husband’s mother. Mother Cliffe, this is my honored guest, Lord Morecombe. And his friends, Sir Myles Thorwood and Mr. Alan Carmichael.” Thea noticed that her cousin Ian had apparently not joined the group.

  Gabriel stepped forward and executed a formal bow to the old lady. “My pleasure, madam, though surely you must have married very young indeed to be the Squire’s mother.”

  Mrs. Cliffe let out a short crack of laughter. “Ah, you’re a smooth-talking devil as well as a handsome one.”

  “Mother!” The young Mrs. Cliffe’s face flooded with color. She rushed on, “And this is another of our lovely young ladies, Miss Bainbridge.”

  Thea rose on somewhat shaky legs. “My lord.”

  Lord Morecombe turned to her, his eyes moving over her without interest. “Miss Dandridge.” He sketched a polite bow before moving on with Mrs. Cliffe.

  Morecombe’s two companions bowed to her in turn, greeting her by the same name. Thea nodded to them instinctively, not really hearing them, aware of nothing but the hard, cold knot forming in her chest.

  Gabriel Morecombe had not remembered her.

  Two

  Thea sat back down with a thump as the men walked away.

  “Well, I must say, he’s a handsome one. They didn’t lie about that,” old Mrs. Cliffe said, turning toward Thea. “Are you feeling quite right? You look pale as a sheet.”

  “Yes, I mean, no—I—I’m not sure. If you will excuse me, ma’am, I do think I should leave the room. It’s a trifle warm.”

  Scarcely waiting for Mrs. Cliffe’s response, Thea slipped out the nearest door. A short distance down the corridor, she ducked into a small room, unlit except for the light spilling in from the hallway. She dropped into a chair and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  Gabriel Morecombe had not remembered her. There had been not even the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes when he looked at her. She had tried to prepare herself for his reaction, whatever it might be. She had thought he might look at her, unsure, and she had little doubt that he would probably not remember her name. After all, it had been ten years since they had met at the wedding of Lord Fenstone’s eldest daughter. She had even braced herself for the possibility that Lord Morecombe would remember everything, down to the last embarrassing detail, or that, even worse, he migh
t blurt out something about that night. It had been her first ball of any consequence, and while Veronica shone as she always did, Thea had merely watched, hoping and yet dreading that the handsome young lord would take notice of her. In the years since, Thea had often thought of him as one would a fond dream—wistfully and without expectation of seeing it again.

  But while she knew their encounter was for him nothing of consequence, she had not really considered that Lord Morecombe would not have even the smallest recollection of having met her. Danced with her. Kissed her.

  Thea braced her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands, humiliation burning through her. The night that she had remembered so well had been such a small thing in his life that it had entirely slipped his mind. She had not expected him to recall it as vividly as she did. After all, he was a sophisticated London bachelor. No doubt since then he had kissed scores of girls—hundreds, even—whereas she … well, that had been the only kiss that the spinster Althea Bainbridge had ever received. But it scalded her that it had been so commonplace, so meaningless, so utterly forgettable that he registered not even the faintest recognition or, at least, some degree of discomfort.

  She leaned back against the chair, and her mind went back to that long-ago evening at Fenstone Park when she had first met Gabriel, Lord Morecombe.

  Thea’s father, Latimer Bainbridge, was cousin to the Earl of Fenstone. Latimer’s father had been the youngest brother of the family, and the Earl’s father, the eldest. Latimer, in turn, was the youngest son of his family and had, in accordance with family tradition, gone into the clergy. He received his living from the Earl, as his son would receive it from the Earl after Latimer’s death. While Thea’s family moved in an entirely different world from the Earl’s, on special occasions, when the entire Bainbridge family gathered for one reason or another at their family seat, Fenstone Park, Latimer and his wife and children were invited.

  One of those occasions was the wedding of the Earl’s oldest daughter ten years ago. Fenstone Park was packed with relatives and friends, so that not only did Thea and her sister, Veronica, share a chamber, but they shared it with their mother, as well. Latimer and Daniel were in another, equally small room. They were shunted off into the oldest wing of the house, and Veronica was acutely aware that their dresses were not of the first stare of fashion, as were those of most of the other girls. Thea frankly had not cared; she was simply glad that she was old enough to put her hair up and her hems down and participate in all the festivities as an adult instead of being thrust in with the nursery group as she had been three years before.