Scandalous Scions Two

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Where is Bronwen, anyway?” Jasper asked. “I checked in the library on the way upstairs. She isn’t at her usual spot.”

  “On the ladder?” Lilly smiled, despite the aching in her chest. “How on earth she finds perching upon a hard ladder comfortable when there are perfectly good armchairs within reach is beyond me. If she is not in the library, then she is most certainly out walking. Possibly with Agatha, if the poor woman is up to it. I hope they don’t get wet.”

  Jasper glanced through the window. “It is cloudless out there.”

  “Look at the horizon. There’s rain coming,” Lilly assured him.

  “I will take your word for it,” Jasper replied, glancing through the window once more and frowning.

  “And the distraction?”

  Jasper hesitated. She felt small tension build in him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “My brother is here.”

  Lilly stared at him. For a moment, she could not think of who Jasper’s brother might be. Jasper was a bastard and alone in the world.

  Then the necessary facts came to her.

  Lilly tried to sit up. “The Archeduke of Silkeborg is in the drawing room? You left him there?” Horror spilled through her. “Jasper, my God! You can’t leave the room without a royal’s permission! You must go back. Now.”

  “I know the protocol,” Jasper told her. Warmth and humor were building in his eyes. “Actually, he’s no longer in the drawing room. He’s in the second-best guest room, where Warrick put him.”

  “The second best?” Lilly cried, alarm forcing her up and bringing her feet to the floor, in a tangle of mohair and tartan.

  Jasper laughed. “Bronwen has the best room. I suppose Warrick didn’t want to turn her out.”

  “What is he thinking?” Lilly said, trying to untangle the blanket from the flounces on her dress and her heels. “Of course Bronwen must vacate the room. One doesn’t offer royalty anything but the best one has.”

  Jasper unwound the blanket and dropped it on the green velvet next to her. “While Tor is here, he does not want to be royal at all. Warrick thinks he is a distant cousin, visiting from Denmark. Tor Besogende.”

  Lilly grew still, absorbing Jasper’s extraordinary statement. She could feel her eyes widen.

  Jasper picked up her hand again and held it between his two warm ones. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t have the full details. I don’t know the man, yet the sensation I got from talking to him for just a few minutes…it was odd, Lilly. I kept thinking he’s just like us. He’s reeling, looking for something to hold on to while he finds his way forward.”

  Lilly’s chest ached. “The poor man,” she breathed. “We must surely be able to help him while he is here, Jasper.”

  “I would not put it so boldly to Tor,” Jasper advised her. “He has the same prickly pride Annalies sometimes displays.”

  “The haughty look she gives, when the strangest things offend her?” Lilly asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Lilly squeezed his hand. “My God, Jasper…Bronwen!”

  Jasper shook his head. “I’ve been worrying how he might react to Bronwen. Only, I think—I suspect—Bronwen’s ways might be just the cure he’s looking for.”

  “We’re used to her, Jasper. Tor—is that what we’re to call him? Tor is not used to anything but the most genteel and mannered people. He’ll be shocked by her. Maybe even disgusted.”

  “Shocked, perhaps. A man who manages to pack his own valise and travel through a strange country by himself when he’s never done either…that sort of man has a resilience that will not let him descend to disgust.”

  Lilly considered it. “As distractions are measured, Jasper, I think you may have outdone yourself with this one. The next little while will be very interesting.”

  * * * * *

  It had taken days of shouting before Bronwen had conceded and promised that, no matter what she might get up to during the day, she would present herself at dinner and attempt to be civilized for the duration of the meal.

  Lilly’s pale face, the first time Bronwen had stayed out in the woods for the night, had been a shock to Bronwen, as had Jasper’s ringing, scathing tirade about responsibility, respect and empathy. He had been as worried as Lilly, a fact that had only made itself known to Bronwen after she had scared them silly.

  Bronwen always made her way back to Northallerton if she was out, now. She would arrange to arrive before the dinner hour so she could wash and dress in her one presentable gown. Sometimes, she even tried to pin her hair up, although most of the time, she did not bother.

  Nor did she bother this evening. The rain had caught her as she had been walking home after seeing Agatha was warm and comfortable in front of the fire pit in her little one-room cott, next to the Willow Beck. Bronwen had left the rosemary with Agatha to prepare for drying, up in the roof of the cottage.

  Because her hair was damp, Bronwen left it loose rather than fight to pin it in a simple coil, the most she ever bothered with. She glanced at her muddy boots and left them off, too. The floor in the house was always warm underfoot, except for the slate in the front hall.

  Lilly had hemmed Bronwen’s calico gown and her petticoats so she could wear them without hoops and not trail the hems along the ground. That made the wearing of them considerably more comfortable.

  She didn’t bother looking in the mirror. The same plain, unremarkable face would stare back at her as usual. Instead, she went downstairs to the drawing room. Even though this was backwater Northallerton, Jasper and Lilly still insisted upon a civilized apéritif and conversation before dinner was announced.

  It had taken more weeks for Bronwen to understand that they insisted upon the formality because they liked to hear about her days and how she filled them. Nothing shocked either of them and Bronwen had stopped trying. That was when she learned the one thing that terrified them was unnecessary risks that threatened her well-being. Outside that single limit, Bronwen was free to do as she pleased.

  As Bronwen was not interested in risking body and soul, either, it was an arrangement everyone had grown used to.

  When she reached the drawing room, Bronwen saw Lilly was sitting on the end of the sofa, as usual. Jasper was beside her. He had hovered close to her since the loss of George.

  Bronwen let out a soft sigh at the reminder.

  There was a third person in the drawing room. The man remained seated in the wing chair by the fire, holding a sherry glass in his big hand and staring at the flames. He turned his head as she entered and Bronwen came to a confused halt by the pianoforte.

  It was the passenger she had tended on Bullamoor Road that morning. His eyes widened just as Bronwen could feel her own eyes doing.

  Jasper got to his feet, as polite and formal as always, even though Bronwen didn’t care about such matters. He glanced at the man in the wing chair and gave a tiny gesture with his hand.

  The man rose to his feet and cleared his throat. He looked at Jasper expectantly.

  Bronwen did, too.

  “Bronwen, may I present to you Master Tor Besogende, from Denmark. He is a distant cousin of mine. Tor, this is Miss Bronwen Natasha Davies, daughter of Princess Annalies of the royal house Saxe-Coburg-Weiden and the Honorable Rhys Davies, of London.”

  Tor Besogende hesitated, then bent in a bow. “Miss Davies.”

  Startled, she nearly curtsied back. His bow was stiff and regal and unexpected in a commoner. “Mr. Besogende,” she acknowledged, struggling to pronounce his name correctly. “Are you staying at Northallerton?”

  “I am,” Besogende confirmed. “I hope that does not inconvenience you…or anyone here.”

  “Jasper and Lilly cope with my comings and goings. I’m sure you’ll be a simple guest in comparison,” Bronwen told him.

  His brow lifted. “No one ever finds my company simple.”

  Bronwen almost laughed. The arrogance of the man!

  Lilly got to her feet. “Perhaps you
should introduce Tor properly,” she told Jasper. “It would allow Tor to relax, if he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”

  “Tor?” Jasper said.

  Bronwen looked from one man to the other. There was a resemblance there, about the mouth and chin, enough to tell her they were related in some fashion.

  Why was Jasper deferring to his cousin, though? He was the head of the family.

  Tor sighed and nodded. “Your lady-wife is correct. It would be easier to not have to guard my every word.”

  Bronwen frowned. “Guard against what, precisely?”

  Lilly’s smile had a measure of wickedness in it.

  Bronwen looked at Jasper once more.

  Jasper held out his hand toward Besogende, frowning. “I can’t introduce you formally.”

  Lilly sighed and stepped forward. “Let me do it. Then there is no formal recognition. Bronwen, Tor is Jasper’s brother. His half brother, to be precise.”

  Bronwen frowned. “Only, your brother is…the Archeduke Edvard Christoffer…”

  Besogende’s brow lifted. “At your service,” he murmured and bent in another low bow.

  “Oh…” Bronwen breathed, stunned.

  “While he is staying here, Bronwen, Tor will be just Tor Besogende to everyone.”

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?” Bronwen asked him.

  Tor looked startled. He glanced at Jasper. For help or guidance, or perhaps both.

  Jasper just smiled.

  Tor cleared his throat. “I…suppose…because I grew weary of the unceasing predictability of my life.”

  “You’re an Archeduke. Can’t you just wave your hand and demand it change and it is done?”

  Jasper’s smile grew. Even Lilly was amused.

  Bronwen realized she was yet again too forward, her speech too blunt. Only, it was too late. She had spoken. So she lifted her chin and waited for Tor to answer.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think you misunderstand the intricacies of royal life.”

  “I’m half royal,” Bronwen shot back. “I have arranged my life to suit me. Why can you not?”

  “It isn’t that simple…”

  “Why not?”

  “I cannot just abandon my responsibilities and duties. A whole county of people would come to grief.”

  “You’re in Northallerton, hiding behind a commoner’s name. Does that not define abandoning your people?”

  Tor’s eyes narrowed. “You are direct, aren’t you?”

  “And you are avoiding answering my question.”

  “Bronwen…” Lilly breathed.

  “No, Lilly,” Jasper said. “If Tor wishes to be just Tor Besogende while he is here, he must get used to questions both blunt and direct and deal with everyone equally.”

  Tor held up his hand. “I will answer, although I suspect Miss Bronwen is far more blunt than the average Yorkshireman.” He looked at her. “As I have no need to cling to royal graciousness, I will ask you a rude question of my own. You are the daughter of Princess Annalies. That station in life comes with expectations of its own. By your appearance and from your actions this morning, I can attest you are failing to meet those expectations at every turn. In fact, you appear to delight in not meeting them. Tell me why you shirk your duties, Miss Bronwen and I will tell you why I have put mine aside.”

  Bronwen’s heart thudded. She stared at him, unable to pull together a reasonable answer. His attack had been swift and stunning.

  His gaze was as steady as it had been that morning.

  Bronwen licked her lips. “I find myself without appetite. Jasper, please excuse me from dinner.”

  She turned and left, moving as fast as her uncooperative limbs would allow.

  “What happened this morning?” Lilly asked, behind her. She was not talking to Bronwen.

  “You’ve met Bronwen before just now, Tor?” Jasper added.

  “Briefly, on my way here…” Tor began.

  Flouncing from the room had not stirred a single one of them, not even him.

  Their indifference inflamed her. Bronwen stomped across the hall, until her bare foot came down upon a sharp pebble that had not yet been swept up. The sting was minor, yet her eyes filled with tears.

  She hated crying. It was such a weak, womanly thing to do. That made her even angrier. With a soft cry of rage, she pulled up her skirt and petticoat and looped them over her arm, then ran up the steps two at a time and locked herself in her room.

  Damn him.

  Who did he think he was?

  The Archeduke Edvard Christoffer of Silkeborg, her treacherous memory reminded her. Answerable to no one but himself.

  “Not while he’s here, he’s not,” she whispered to herself, rubbing her foot where the pebble had bit.

  She would make him rue his masquerade. Oh, yes and she would like doing it.

  Chapter Five

  “Why on earth they must start these things in the middle of the night is beyond me,” Jack muttered, fussing with his cloak. His hood fell back again.

  Cian yanked the fronts of the cloak back into place for him. “They’ve been doing it this way time out of mind. No one will change it now. Anyway, it’s only nine in the evening. You make it sound as though midnight has come and gone.”

  “Palmerston isn’t a royal. It’s the Queen who decided he should get a state funeral. While she was deciding that, you’d think she’d decide to hold it at a convenient time.”

  Cian might have made a jest about Jack’s sour mood, except that Jack had been in a sour mood for well over a year. Everyone in the family knew why, so no one teased him about it.

  “We’re so far back in the line,” Jack added, glancing across the length of the Horse Guards Parade. “You’re an earl for heaven’s sake.” He pulled his hood back up over his face. “We’re in an alley at the back end of the procession. It’s dark as pitch here. I can’t see what I’m doing.”

  It was true they were at the tail end of the funeral procession, which was ready to move forward. The casket would emerge through the tunnel at any moment, although they were so far away from the head of the procession they would not see it. However, they were not the only ranking peers standing about the alley in their cloaks and hoods, waiting to begin. There were dukes and petty princes among them, too.

  When royalty from across Europe, heads of state and peers had come to pay their last respects to England’s Prime Minister, mere earls of the realm must come last.

  The light was a different matter. Cian glanced at the flickering gas lamps that lined the narrow alley. They were flaring and dimming with irritating irregularity, sending shadows leaping and making the horses skittish. A line of private family carriages waited along the alley, for no one could leave their conveyances directly in front of the Parade. There simply wasn’t room.

  “There must be something in the gas, making them jump in that way,” Jack said.

  “An impurity. It happens,” Cian said.

  The line of the carriage closest to the nearest lamp was familiar to him. Cian’s heart squeezed as he studied the shield on the door. Gainford’s coach.

  Once before he’d examined the coach and raised his gaze to find Eleanore looking at him. She would not be in the empty, darkened coach tonight, yet he still lifted his gaze to the glass in the door.

  Eleanore was there, watching him.

  Cian’s breath evaporated. His heart rocked.

  She was here, the last place he would expect her to be. She had not said she would be, in her last letters, although the funeral had been arranged quickly.

  As his gaze met hers, Eleanore pressed her fingers to the glass.

  Cian knew she had come out tonight not to keep her father company, but on the chance she might see Cian. That daring was in her blood, a part of her.

  There were too many people around them who knew both Cian and her for him to risk approaching the carriage openly. She would know that, too.

  Eleanore gave him one of her heated
smiles, the one that made his belly crimp and his innards to tangle. His pulse, already unsteady, spiraled upward.

  Jack said something.

  Cian fought to calm his breath, to reveal nothing.

  “I said, it’s started,” Jack growled. He tugged on Cian’s cloak, coaxing him to turn away, to face in the direction the procession was moving.

  The line of gas lamps along the alley flared once more, the brightness chasing away the shadows. Farther down the alley, a lamp exploded with a bang and a woofing sound as the gas escaped into the night air and ignited. Glass tinkled on the cobbles below, as people gasped and reared backward.

  Horses whinnied and shuffled. Coach wheels squealed as the horses’ movements twisted and scraped them over the cobbles.

  Then the lamp closest to the Gainford coach exploded.

  Jack winced and ducked, as did most of the cloaked figures around them.

  The gray mare reared, her eyes rolling. Her hooves pawed the air, then landed, sending up sparks. That further alarmed the creature and she bolted.

  Cian glimpsed Eleanor’s wide eyes, her hand clutching at the grab rail, as she tumbled backward in the carriage.

  There was no thought in it. No decision. Cian ran after the carriage as it rattled down the alley, causing the cloaked men to scatter in alarm. Their cries and shouts added to the horse’s terror. The coach picked up speed.

  Cian had been rather good at track and field at college. He had the long legs that gave him a competitive edge and he was fast. He gave it his all, now. It was still early enough in the evening that the night mist had not set in. The cobbles were not slippery yet, which gave him the extra power he needed for a burst of speed that put him within reaching distance of the rocking carriage. He leapt and caught at the top of the luggage shelf railing and hung on.

  The carriage picked up speed as the horse took the sharp corner at the end of Horse Guards Road, careening down Great George street. There were no other carriages, no cloaked figures here. The echo of the rattling carriage bounced off the buildings, which would not reassure the mare or give it reason to slow.

  Cian tugged at the ties at his throat and let the wind of their passage tear the cloak from his shoulders. Then he climbed up onto the rack. The Gainsford coach was a hard-topped model, which allowed him to climb over it and onto the driver’s bench. It was difficult, for the carriage was rocking and swaying wildly. He stayed down low, easing his way forward until he could drop onto the cushion on the driver’s bench with a gusty sigh of relief. His lungs were bellowing and his heart slamming in his chest.