A Scandalous Connection, page 1
IT WAS HARDLY AN INNOCENT DECEPTION . . .
Had he said too much? His Grace did not altogether want Amy to guess who he was. It was fascinating, he found, to conduct a flirtation without his blasted rank standing in the way of everything.
“Are your credentials so unimpeachable then?”
“Oh, decidedly so,” he said. “They give me entrée into most drawing rooms.”
“How felicitous.”
“Yes, is it not? Though I am usually condemned to talk to either the companion or the potted plant.”
Amy’s lips twitched. “How sad, and what a terrible waste! You must have very poor hostesses!”
“Alas, the lot of all impoverished gentlemen!”
“Ah, so you are impoverished.”
The duke bowed, a little mockingly. Well, he spoke no more than the truth. And if it misled the fair Amy a smidgen, so much the better.
He expected her to withdraw a little. He braced himself for this, in fact, for Miss Mayhew was clearly a sensible girl and encouraging impoverished gentlemen masquerading as butlers was neither sensible nor prudent.
In his wildest dreams, he did not expect what happened next. Miss Amy Mayhew, late of the emerald green traveling dress, kissed him. . . .
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A SCANDALOUS CONNECTION
Hayley Ann Solomon
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
IT WAS HARDLY AN INNOCENT DECEPTION . . .
BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Copyright Page
One
Lady Caroline Darris smiled cheerfully as she carefully dotted her last i. She then very virtuously affixed a cross to one of her untidy ts, and blew hard. The ink dried almost instantly under this exuberant treatment, but at the expense of the ink pot. This teetered for a moment at the edge of the table before spilling little streams of purple onto the floor.
“Bother!” With great presence of mind, her ladyship heroically saved the letter. She was not so fortunate with her gown, however, this being splattered a quite noxious shade of violet.
“It will stain!” Lady Caroline cried out.
“I am delighted. You have been wearing that rag for years. The hem is too short and the sash is sadly—horribly—outmoded.” Lady Caroline’s companion was most unsympathetic. Indeed, she actually nodded approvingly as she looked up from her pattern cards.
“Now maybe you will be coaxed into the sea-green poplin we—”
“Nonsense! It is nothing. Now listen to this, Martha . . .”
But Martha was not paying attention, for the tea was being brought in, and it was her delightful task to pour.
Lady Caro therefore took the opportunity of dabbing at the faded Aubusson carpet, smudging her fingers and rereading her missive in silence. Apart from underlining a few key words here and there, she believed she was satisfied. Consequently, she took up the noble seal of Darris and carefully franked the very lightweight letter.
It would be conveyed to London with the first post. His Grace, the duke of Darris, may have his pockets horribly to let, but his consequence remained enormous, a fact that Caroline could not help but remain aware of, for in Bath there were forever people bowing and scraping and staring after her as though she were some prize monkey rather than merely the sister of the highest ranking peer in England.
Fortunately for her, she never resided in Bath long enough to allow the matter to irk her, though she did giggle a little at its foolishness. At Darris, at least, the duke’s chief seat, she was free to do as she pleased. And this she did, with a winsome air of innocence that endeared her to every one of the duke’s tenants, from the blacksmith to the baker. No one seemed to mind that she invariably set out without a groom, or stopped to eat wild blackberries off the hedges, or almost never wore a bonnet, though she was several months past seventeen. Her good nature and lively spirits quite made up for any deficiencies of hauteur, and so her governesses had told her, even when they had meant to scold.
Now she was past needing a governess, and was prim enough to actually have a companion, but since this was only dear Martha, who had nursed her since she was three, she did not mind this too dreadfully.
Lady Caroline allowed an irrepressible chuckle to escape her lips. Martha—or rightfully speaking, Miss Bancroft—eyed her suspiciously.
“You are up to your tricks again, Caro!”
“Me?” Caroline contrived to look hurt, though her eyes danced quite shamelessly.
“Well, only a small trick, Martha, dearest, and I am sure we have already discussed it a dozen times or more. Now do be a dear and unpoker your face long enough to listen to this.”
Without waiting for a reply, she buoyantly ripped open her newly sealed missive and read it aloud with relish.
“Demian,” it ordered,
“Do not—I repeat—do not come home till Sunday next. Martha’s gout is healing and I have hopes we might save that confounded fox. For all his stealing ways—very tiresome, I admit—he appears to be a handsome fellow. Can you try to procure some more of that liniment? Oh, and my gowns are progressing marvelously and I am now the proud possessor of three glorious feathered bonnets, thanks to Dilly, Vicar Pendergast’s peacock. Remember her?
“I am very busy with fittings for all manner of trifles—I can hardly keep track. Pelisses, muffs, gloves, bonnets with hideous names like poke and cottage and. . . oh, Martha knows. The main thing, Demi, is don’t come back. You will be bored to tears. (As I am.) Oh, and dear, dear, Demian, do try to not to be too dismal! I have a perfectly clever plan up my sleeve, but you are not to pester me for particulars.
Caro ”
Caroline folded the letter again and resealed it in a new envelope. It was a bit crumpled now, but she knew her esteemed and noble brother, for all his impeccable address, cared less about such trifles than she did. She grinned at her confused companion.
“Now that should keep him away for a fortnight! I’ve never known a man to stand by idly when a lady has nothing to discuss but her bonnets and sashes and pelisses and gowns. Demian will have no patience with it. He is lucky he is a man. Goodness, Martha, do you really think I need that many?”
It was the hundredth time she had asked such a foolish question, so Martha did not hurry to respond. Rather, she sipped her tea with singular enjoyment, then stirred in a little sugar. When she’d had at least five such invigorating sips, she pushed a brimming china cup under Caroline’s nose and nodded her graying head firmly.
“Caroline, you have no idea what a season requires! As the sister to a duke you will be expected to be a veritable fashion plate! You need walking gowns, morning gowns, bombazines, brocades, silks—the list is endless. Your court gown was one thing, but now you need ball gowns, theater gowns, opera gowns, riding habits . . . and no! You cannot appear twice in the same outfit—it is unthinkable.”
Bright eyes twinkled in response. “Stuff and nonsense! If lords and ladies of society cannot tolerate the same outfit twice then I have no wish to enter such a rake shame set. They should all be ashamed of themselves.”
Miss Bancroft sighed and took up the faded jaconet she’d been pilfering for its excellent pearl studs. Caroline was a dear, but she could be so pigheaded at times! She simply had no notion of what was owing to her station.
Now, the elevated young peeress of the realm watched Martha for a moment, gulped down her scalding-hot tea in a most unladylike fashion, and nodded approvingly.
“Keep that jaconet. I am sure we can use it for something.”
There was an ominous silence as Miss Bancroft searched about for a sufficiently biting retort. Then she nodded.
“Yes, like as not the chimney sweep could do with a few extra yards of sweeping cloth.”
“Martha!” But Caro’s lips trembled on t
Her companion merely sniffed and waved her needle airily. “Tush! I have all the gowns I need. It is not I who is going to be the talk of London when she is presented! And, Caro, I can only say I have a funny feeling about this scheme of yours. . . .”
“Oh, don’t, Martha, dear! It is perfectly foolproof! Some wealthy—hideously wealthy—people want to traipse through a ducal residence. What can possibly be the harm in that? They shall see all our arbors and topiaries and stone statues and gargoyles. . . . Then, when they are pleasantly tired out from this exclusive enterprise, they shall have a superb view of the galleries, the libraries—goodness, we had better remove the holland covers—the marble floors and pilasters, the Aubusson carpets, the fountains, the turrets—we had better make the north one respectable—perhaps we can move in a carpet—the gold plate, the hideous candelabrum and so forth. We shall dress up in all the Darris finery—Demian gave me the key to the jewels eons ago—and we shall look exactly the part.”
“The part? This is not a pantomime, Caroline!”
“Oh, but it is, really! These widows and merchants are not paying ten thousand pounds—ten thousand, mark you—for a sight of me in worn frocks and you in your blacks! No, they want splendor and pomp and . . . and . . . majesty! They want gilded clocks and interminable feasts, and—”
“Caroline! Even if I were to countenance this harebrained scheme, where are we going to muster these sumptuous feasts? We have been living on jugged hare for days, now!”
“Only because we insist on it! I daresay if I speak to Williams, the game keeper, he could procure some pheasant and duck and boar and such. I believe there is even still game, though Demian stopped stocking the woods about a year ago. Still, we can cook it all in the kitchens, and if we raid our Christmas supply . . .”
Miss Bancroft looked sadly unconvinced. In particular, she was not quite partial to the “we” that her honorable charge was bandying about so liberally. Lady Caroline eyed her with an impish gleam of amusement. However much she disapproved, dear Martha could always be relied upon to fall in with her schemes. That was what she so particularly liked about her. Impulsively, she clasped her hands.
“Ouch!” A stray needle was pulled impatiently from her doeskin glove. Then that bewitching, beseeching smile of Caroline’s that Miss Bancroft never could like, simply because it was too delightful to resist. . . .
“Don’t look so glum! I have some simply splendid recipes jotted down from Miss Apperton’s Seminary. And we can raid Demian’s store of wines—the cellars are not completely contemptible yet—”
“Over my dead body! His Grace will kill you!”
“Not if we present him with the sum often thousand pounds, he won’t! He can discharge all his mountainous debts, buy the best king’s burgundy and still have change to spare! Then he need not nose about for some detestable wife. . . .”
Miss Bancroft was silenced for a moment. The argument was certainly the most powerful of any that Caroline had yet produced, for truly it would be a shame to see a man as splendidly handsome and spirited as the current duke marry for the sake of convenience alone. Surely Demian, whom she had known since short coats, deserved better? Caroline was right. If there was a way, they should seize it. Still, there was no need to throw caution to the winds.
“Are you certain they stated that much? I can hardly credit such extravagance.”
“I am certain. Here, see the letter for yourself.”
Her ladyship scrabbled in the folds of her seventh-best overdress to procure the much vaunted missive. She handed it over to Martha with a small smile.
“See, Mrs. Murgatroyd is most specific. Ten thousand pounds upon admission—I believe it is to be a party of no more than a half dozen young ladies—and a further bonus if all is found to be exceedingly satisfactory. She included a small retainer as a deposit. We can use it to buy teas and sugared plums and such. Also some feathered quilts, though naturally they shan’t be staying overnight.”
“Are you certain?”
“As the day I was born! Why, we should never be able to keep up the charade. Well, at least I don’t expect we should!”
“Well, of course we shouldn’t, you silly child. A day shall be hard enough.”
Caroline smiled. No, she did more than that. She leaped from her seat and threw her slender frame around the rather more buxom one of Miss Bancroft. “Oh, I knew you would see reason! I shall write at once to say that Tuesday at nine will be acceptable. I shall use Demian’s stationery and seal it with the ducal signet. No doubt they shall be dazzled from the splendor.”
“Well, I hope so. They will need to be dazzled if they are not to notice the shabbiness of this place,” came the dry retort. “I remember the day when Darris Castle was the finest residence in all of England—”
“Yes, Martha, dear,” Caroline hastily interjected, for Martha could certainly run on at times, especially when it came to the long gone days of ducal magnificence. If only Richard, the fourth duke of Darris, had been a little more frugal . . . but she had not the time to start on that worn out old hobbyhorse.
“I wonder what is required to make the outing exceedingly satisfactory and therefore qualify for the bonus?” Miss Bancroft mused, squinting at the letter.
Caroline flushed. “Oh, we shall disregard that part!” “But why? If we can attain the bonus, then His Grace will be able to restore his stables—”
“Oh, I know! It irks me dreadfully how he has had to sell off the best of his broodmares, and even the riding stock is sadly depleted, though he has left me Windspur, for which I am naturally very thankful.”
“It is an impossible beast! Not fit for a lady!”
“No?” Caroline grinned. Her smile was infectious.
“Oh, get on with you, you know you are a bruising rider, I shall not deny it. But you circumvent the issue. Why shall we not try for the bonus Mrs. Murgatroyd hints at?”
Caroline made a face. It was not ladylike, but beyond a small sigh, Miss Bancroft let it pass.
“I believe their requirement is impossible.”
“Impossible? How singularly unfair! What do they want?”
Caroline sighed. “I cannot be certain, for they only delicately hint, you know.”
“Hint? At what?”
“They want, dear Martha, no less than the presence of my esteemed brother, Demian, the duke, himself.”
“Ah.” Light dawned in Martha’s old, but nonetheless shrewd-sharp eyes.
“They are spinsters, then, this party?”
Caroline grimaced. “It may be purely coincidence. They never said, after all. . . .”
“They didn’t need to, did they? Ten thousand pounds is a prodigious sum. No doubt they regard it as the investment of the century.”
“Crackpot gamble, more like. But if they are silly enough to think that Demian . . .”
“Perhaps they have heard he is searching for an heiress.”
“Perhaps. Still, it shall not help them overmuch. We shall not see hide or hair of him for a fortnight at least.” And with these fateful words, Lady Caroline waved her missive in the air, buttoned her pelisse, forgot all about her walking bonnet of sea green chip straw, and skipped out of the room.
In a decidedly unfashionable part of London—though definitely more opulent than some of the understated addresses at the revered Grosvenor Square or Cavendish Gardens—a similarly fateful conversation was taking place. This, rather a monologue, for it consisted chiefly of the words of a large lady dressed sumptuously in scalloped sleeves and skirts. These, sadly, were dwarfed almost entirely by her turban, which was emerald in color and sported enough feathers to dress an ostrich, if that contingency was ever necessary. It would be unkind to say that the woman actually resembled that bird, for indeed, the feathers had been dyed such an outrageous assortment of colors that no one—not unless they were demented or dreaming—could have made such a dire mistake. Still, she presented an interesting sight, certainly more colorful than that of the unexceptional young lady seated beside her, who was remarkable for nothing but the luster of her dark, cropped hair, and the peculiar spark of intelligence behind slate-gray eyes. Certainly, her gown would have drawn no particular comment, for though it was undoubtedly of the first stare, it was also understated in the extreme, being a gentle dove pink and bedecked with not even one cluster of redeeming rosettes. Even the ribbons, drawn modestly across a deliciously—had she but known it!—intriguing bodice, were silver, not the more modish shades of flamingo and crimson and gold. Now, she folded her gloved hands patiently in her lap and attended the monologue with not a little resignation.
