Scandalous Scions Two

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  The coach came to a halt. Now that Borgmester Østergård was not a passenger, the driver did not seem to care about throwing his passengers around with sharp stops and starts.

  Bronwen sat back upon the seat and looked through the window. There were two tall figures standing on the narrow balcony at the front of the Magistrate’s house. “Why, that is Benjamin, isn’t it?”

  Annalies ducked to look through the window, too. “And Wakefield!”

  Sharla hurried out onto the balcony and waved at them. “I brought your turmeric!” she called.

  “I asked that she send it,” Bronwen breathed, stunned. She looked at Elisa.

  Elisa shrugged. “I may have stressed the urgency a tad.”

  The driver did not climb from his bench to open the door for them, so Ben leapt down the stairs to the road and opened it, instead. He helped them out while Sharla hugged them one at a time and Dane bowed over each of their hands.

  When Bronwen held her hand out to step down, Ben’s dropped away as he studied her. “Oh my lord!” he breathed.

  “That’s not what you say to a lady, idiot,” Dane said, coming forward. He held out his hand. “Although Ben has just cause. You are a most delightful and beautiful version of your former self.” He bent over her hand, not quite kissing it. His gaze met hers. His eyes twinkled. “Do I detect a man at the root of this great change?”

  Bronwen pulled her hand from his, trying not to rise in response to his accurate teasing. “Dane, Ben, Sharla, there was no need for you to rush to Belgium for the sake of a pound of turmeric,” she told them. “Though it is very good to see you.”

  “A pound of turmeric and this,” Dane said, digging in his coat. He pulled out a letter with a flourish and presented it to Annalies. “The same coat of arms is on the front as was on mine. You, your Highness, have been invited to attend the coronation of King Leopold the Second, in Brussels, on the seventeenth of this month.”

  “That’s three days from now,” Sharla added. “That’s why we brought it ourselves. Dane didn’t want to use even a private courier and risk you missing the letter and slighting the new King.”

  Dane waved toward the coach. “We have a special waiting at the train station. How fast can you pack your trunks?”

  “It only takes a few hours to reach Belgium from here,” Annalies pointed out.

  Natasha shook her head. “A coronation is usually accompanied by a ball. That’s why Sharla looks so pleased.”

  Sharla’s smile widened. “Paris is a day away. That leaves a day to buy a ball gown and I want to visit the House of Worth to buy mine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Smithfield Show, Agricultural Hall, Islington, London. December, 1865

  “He can’t be here,” Jack said. “Even if he is then how, in God’s good graces, are we supposed to find him?”

  Will stepped around a trio of Irish Wolfhounds being escorted by leash through the narrow aisle. He readjusted his coat and brushed it to rid it of coarse dog hair. “I tell you, he’s here. Travers was certain. Cian left the townhouse this morning after breakfast, the same as always and said he was coming to the show.”

  Jack stepped over to the side of the busy aisle, moving out of the tide of men, dogs and even a pig or two and looked around helplessly. The huge hall had a domed roof that soared to ninety feet at the top of the peak. Because the hall was longer than it was wide, the ridge ran for more than a hundred yards. The hall should have been airy and fresh because of it, however, every spare inch was fenced off into tiny paddocks. Each enclosure was strewn with calf-deep hay and each enclosure held a staggering array of bulls, cows, sheep, pigs. All of them were bellowing, snorting, bleating and squealing. Exotic chickens, with spots and colorful tails, added to the din.

  Hay dust floated in the air above the heads of the thousands of people squashed into the narrow aisles between the display pens. The stench was unbelievable. If the roof had been any lower, the aroma would have been intolerable.

  “Why didn’t Cian send that new estate manager of his here? Why come himself?” Jack demanded, as Will waved his hand in front of his nose.

  Will shrugged. “Because it’s what he’s always done?” He scratched at his beard. “It’s Cian. He’s always been a law unto himself. Let’s divide up the place. An aisle each. Up and back, then meet back here at the top. It’ll go faster. I have an appointment in the city at two.” He pulled out his watch and flipped the lid, then frowned.

  Jack shook his head. “I have a better idea. Look.” He pointed into the air, high over their heads. A large board hung from chains. Painted on it in gold and white lettering was the announcement, “Dining Saloon,” with a hand pointing to the left.

  Will saw what he was looking at. “Brandy,” he said and clapped Jack’s shoulder. “I do believe you’re right. Let’s start there.”

  They eased their way through the aisle to where the entrance to the dining room cut through the pens and punched through the side of the hall. Beyond was the soaring roof of yet another hall, although no hay dust floated in the air.

  They stepped through into the far quieter, smaller hall and Will sighed and patted his coat, then readjusted the sit of his hat. “This is better.”

  There were dozens of small tables, each with a white tablecloth, condiments and cutlery. As it was nearly noon, many of the tables had occupants. Waiters with white aprons scurried between the table, bringing trays of meals from the kitchen on the far side. There were few women in the hall. Most of them were vigorously waving their fans to disperse the rich aromas in the air.

  There was also a bar on the other side. Jack slapped Will’s arm. “There he is.”

  “As close to the brandy decanter as he can get,” Will confirmed.

  They walked around the tables and up to the bar. Cian stood at the bar, his hat next to him, a nearly empty glass in front of him. He was the tallest man at the bar, although his height was not apparent because he had his head bent, reading.

  Jack and Will walked right up to him before he noticed them. He looked up, his clear eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

  “And good morning to you, too,” Jack said.

  Will cleared his throat. “We heard the news, Cian.”

  Cian didn’t react.

  “About the storm off the Dubh Artach reef in Scotland,” Jack added. Alarmed, he added, “You know about it, don’t you? It has been in the papers the last two days now…”

  “Twenty-four ships lost at sea,” Cian said crisply. “Yes, I read about it.” He folded up the letter he was reading. Before the content was hidden, Jack saw the letterhead.

  His alarm increased. “That’s a letter from Eleanore?” he asked.

  “As it happens, yes.” Cian picked up the glass and swallowed the large mouthful that remained, then dumped the glass back on the bar with a loud knock. He shoved the letter into his inner pocket, crumpling it. “It was in this morning’s mail. All the way from Skye in only five days. The modern mail system is an absolute marvel, is it not?”

  He picked up his hat and walked swiftly along the side of the hall, heading for the exit doors at the end.

  Jack looked at Will. Will shook his head, frowning.

  Both of them hurried after Cian, jogging to catch him.

  “They’re reporting Gainsford as one of the passengers lost,” Jack said. “Was Eleanore on the Highland Queen with her father? Was she coming back to London for Christmas, too?”

  “That is what her letter says,” Cian said, his tone crisp. He didn’t stop walking.

  Will caught Jack’s eye again. Jack could see the worry in his glance.

  Jack caught at Cian’s arm. “Wait, Cian. Stop, just for one moment, will you?”

  “Can’t, sorry. Things to do.” He shrugged off Jack’s grip, not missing a step. He moved around a group of people standing right in the middle of the exit with a long side step. Jack and Will bobbed around the group, muttered apologies and hurried out into the crisp air, follo
wing him.

  Cian was still walking, now heading for busy Upper Street, where the usual long line of private carriages stood waiting for their owners to return. Beyond the clogged thoroughfare was Islington Green, the grass a dull brown now the snow had melted.

  Jack and Will caught up with him again.

  “Cian,” Jack began once more. “Talk to us.”

  Cian still did not stop.

  Will swore and took a huge step around Cian, putting himself in the way so Cian could not progress without either moving around him or pushing him.

  Cian tried to step around him. Jack put himself in the way and grabbed his arm. “No you don’t.”

  “Talk, Cian. I want to know you are not…” Will began.

  “Deranged?” Cian asked him, his voice flat. “Out of my mind with secret grief?”

  Jack didn’t like the empty expression in Cian’s eyes. “You know she’s likely dead, Cian?”

  Cian’s gaze swiveled to him. “Of course she is dead.”

  Jack swayed back, shocked by his flat, certain tone.

  “It’s not as sure a thing as that,” Will said. “They’re still fishing people out of the sea…” He trailed off, as uncomfortable with Cian’s lack of reaction as Jack.

  “Oh, she is dead,” Cian told him. His high cheek bones seemed stark, his cheeks thin and drawn. The glassy look in his eyes matched the bleak expression. “It’s better this way.”

  “What in hell, Cian?” Jack ejected, stunned.

  Cian shrugged. “It’s better she is dead and completely out of my reach, than married and dangling there were I can see her every day.”

  Jack gasped, sick pain spearing him, as a memory of Jenny’s pale face under her wedding veil came to him.

  Will gripped Jack’s arm. “He doesn’t mean it that way, Jack. He doesn’t know what he’s saying right now,” he said softly and urgently.

  Jack let out another shuddering breath. “Let him go drown his sorrows by himself. He doesn’t need us. I shouldn’t have bothered rushing down from Lincolnshire. Let him go.”

  Cian looked at Will’s hand, still holding his sleeve. “You heard the man. Do you mind?”

  Will let his sleeve go and stepped back. “Jack’s right. You’re a cold, heartless bastard.”

  “Thank you.” Cian moved through the two of them, shouldering Jack aside. He walked on and Jack turned to watch him leave, unable to believe the callousness Cian had just shown.

  The new cabriolet Cian had purchased to travel about the city was standing by the curb. Cian strode toward it, digging in his coat. He withdrew the letter he had been reading at the bar and unfolded it as he walked.

  Only, he didn’t stop at the cab. He moved around it, his head down, reading the letter. Then he walked between his cab and the nose of the horse behind it, still reading. A yard beyond the cab, the heavy traffic of Upper Street clattered.

  “God in his heaven…” Will breathed.

  Jack ran, an all-out sprint that was better than any time he’d ever made at Cambridge. Will, who was usually faster, could only keep pace.

  Cian walked out onto Upper Street, as if he was strolling Rotten Row.

  The driver of a carriage yelled and hauled on his reins, making the horse neigh and his hooves skid on the cobbles.

  Cian didn’t react. Instead, he took another few steps and came to a halt, head down, still reading. He stood in the far lane of traffic. Coming from the south was a charabanc and pair. The driver yelled and stood on the brake, as the passengers screamed.

  Jack didn’t know how he made it. He remembered nothing of his sprint and lunge across the street. He could only see Cian, standing in the middle of the street. He dove, his arm out, and took Cian right off his feet.

  They rolled three or four times and came to a stop on cobbles. They were still on the street. Jack cringed.

  Will gripped the shoulder of his coat and hauled. Cian slid along with him. Will was dragging both of them. Jack could hear him grunting with the effort.

  The gutter was filthy. Jack didn’t care. He rolled over it, onto the footpath beyond, breathing hard, then lifted himself up to examine Cian.

  Cian lay on the pavement, staring up at the sky. It was as if nothing had happened. His face was placid. His lips moved as if he was speaking.

  Jack shook him. “Cian!”

  Will bent over the two of them, breathing hard. “Bloody hell!” he muttered.

  People were gathering around them, exclaiming and jabbering.

  Jack bent close to listen to Cian’s whispers.

  “She was never mine. Now, she will never be anyone’s…”

  Jack sighed. He looked up at Will. “You may have to miss your appointment.”

  Will nodded, his eyes grave.

  * * * * *

  The carriage was roomy enough for six people. Dane paid the driver a large tip to nudge as close to the cathedral as possible. It would give them the best view of the entrance, where attendees to the coronation were gathering. After Dane and Annalies had exited the carriage and joined the mass of attendees moving into the cathedral, there were five of them left to huddle beneath the lap robes and watch the procession.

  Sharla, who was wearing a new day dress, had been disappointed to learn she must remain in the carriage.

  “Invitations to a coronation are about title and rank,” Elisa told her. “Even Dane will have to stand at the far back of the cathedral. He may see nothing of the coronation itself. To fail to attend, though, would be an insult the royal family would remember.”

  “The ball tonight is a different matter,” Natasha added, sipping her mulled wine. Steam rose from the cup. “Dane and Annalies were both invited. The invitation includes ‘friends’. That means all of us may attend.”

  Ben put his arm around Sharla and pulled her against him and rubbed her arms to warm her. “You’ll get to show me and Dane your pretty ball gown, yet,” he told her.

  Sharla wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps I didn’t buy a new gown.”

  Ben laughed. “You’ll still be the most beautiful woman there, even in an old gown.” He kissed her cheek.

  “The coronation is about ceremony,” Natasha said, as Elisa smiled at the pair. Natasha’s gaze met Bronwen’s. “The ball is about politics. That’s why the invitations are loosely phrased. Everyone is interested in currying favor with the new king.”

  “And because the balance of power in Europe has shifted around the new King, everyone else will shore allegiances and form new ones,” Bronwen finished.

  Natasha said, with a small smile, “People expect upsets at times like this.”

  Bronwen peered through the window at the thinning crowd around the steps of the cathedral. Footmen were trying to guide them up the steps. “It will start soon,” she said.

  “Tall, blond, clean shaven…is that him there, Bronwen?” Elisa asked, tapping the window. “Over by the far doors. He’s by himself.”

  Bronwen shifted her gaze, looking for a lone man.

  Tor was climbing the steps, his gaze ahead. She studied him hungrily. Was it her imagination, or had he lost weight? His hair was the same thick thatch, only trimmed and brushed into order now, instead of whipped about by the wind and hanging over his forehead and shadowing his blue eyes.

  He was wearing a formal military uniform, one that Bronwen had never before seen. The great coat was light blue, with red braid curling and swirling up the sleeve and across the chest. The tunic beneath was also blue, with a red, high collar and gold buttons.

  Then someone moved ahead and she saw him from head to toe. His uniform trousers were blue, too, with red stripes up the side. He held a gold helmet beneath his arm. Feathers waved from the top of it.

  As the Archeduke of Silkeborg, Tor was by birthright one of the most senior generals of the Danish kingdom’s army. Bronwen had read about the Danish monarchy, more than once. Now it was a solid reality, with personal meaning.

  He was once more the man she didn’t know. “He looks so d
ifferent,” she whispered.

  “When he kisses you, he won’t be,” Sharla whispered.

  Bronwen looked over her shoulder at Sharla. “If he kisses me.”

  “Oh, he’ll kiss you,” Ben said, his tone warm.

  Sharla slapped his arm.

  Ben pulled her back against him. “If the man has an ounce of warm blood in him, he’ll take one glance at Bronwen in her new finery and he won’t be able to help himself.”

  “That’s even worse, Ben!” Sharla told him.

  “If I were you, I would stop speaking at once,” Natasha told him.

  “No, let him hang himself properly,” Sharla muttered, her eyes narrowed.

  Bronwen brushed the bodice of her golden brown velvet walking suit self-consciously, watching Tor as he disappeared through the big cathedral doors.

  “I only mean,” Ben continued, “that other men might feel that way. I, however, look at Bronwen and all I see is her doing cartwheels on the croquet court, her skirt over her ears and her bare feet and muddy ankles waving.”

  Bronwen saw a familiar figure on the far side of the cathedral, standing next to a rented carriage of the same size as theirs. Baumgärtner, Tor’s secretary. The old man watched the last of the dignitaries move inside the cathedral, then stepped up into the carriage. Through the carriage’s window, Bronwen could see the blonde woman sitting, staring at the cathedral as Bronwen had just been doing. She wore a fur hat and jewels at her ears. Her dress was also trimmed with pale fur.

  She was every inch a lady.

  Bronwen sighed. “What if Tor is like Ben?” she asked everyone in the carriage. “What if he looks at me and all he sees is the woman he met in Yorkshire?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Now turn slowly, so I can see every inch,” Sharla instructed.