A Scandalous Connection, page 5
“Not nasty, Demian.”
Caroline could not keep the hurt from her voice. Demian’s tone softened. “What, then? I am not a monster, I shall not eat you!”
“No, but you may have me soundly whipped.”
“Good God, is it as bad as that? Reveal all, Caroline, before I shake you!”
And so, helped a little by Miss Bancroft, at certain intervals where the discourse became entirely unintelligible, Lady Caroline unveiled to the duke the full extent of all her meddling.
There was a stunned silence. Caroline coughed, for now, gazing upon Lord Darris’s immaculate shirt points, she felt more than a trifle foolish. Demian was man enough by anyone’s standards to do whatever required to be done. He had no need to be led by his foolish sister’s apron strings. Much less, she realized, when the plan was flawed with a million knots, and ten thousand pounds, though admirable, was hardly enough to restore Darris to its ducal glory.
She choked back a tear and watched Martha sniff loudly, then reach in her great, hideously unfashionable reticule for a large—an extra large—handkerchief, decorated with French lace. Martha buried her face in it, but Caroline was not so fortunate. The tears stung at the back of her eyes so much that eventually they spilled down her elfin face. She rubbed at them crossly.
“Add handkerchiefs to your season’s order with Madame Verlow, Caro. I’ll warrant you’ve forgotten them again. And, here, use mine.”
Demian indulgently wiped his sister’s face dry, then shook her till her teeth rattled. Strange to say, his sister appeared to like this treatment, for she giggled a little and the last trace of her tears vanished beneath a sparkling smile.
“Oh, Demian, I thought you would be as cross as . . . as hogs.”
“Crabs, Caro dear, and I am.”
“Yes, but”—she peeked at him cheekily—“not unforgivably so?”
The duke sighed. The glimmer of a twinkle, however, appeared in his dark, thoroughly rakish eyes.
“Not unforgivably, no. But, Caro, you might have saved yourself a good deal of conniving. I am . . . ”
But what he was was lost to everyone, for at that moment there came a rumble of carriages across the long stone flagway leading up to the castle.
Miss Bancroft fluttered to the window, then emitted a sharp gasp of horror. Not only were the guests arriving early, but the first snowflakes were beginning to fall. If past seasons were anything to go by, they would be snowbound by evening.
“Oh, gracious, my lord . . .”
Demian stepped up to the window. His gaze fixed on an enormous plumed bonnet that was emerging from the first carriage. He closed his eyes.
Caroline set down the handkerchief that she was still clinging to and peered out from behind Demian’s shoulder. Tom, the hostler, was looking decidedly flustered at the unexpected arrivals. A few imperious commands wafted up to the balcony. None of them was very auspicious.
“I shall send Hedgewig down at once to inform them we are not at home to visitors. Perhaps they will just go away.”
“And perhaps they will not. There is the small matter of the ten thousand pounds, after all.” Miss Bancroft coughed apologetically as she drew the drapes.
“Then we shall return it. Caro, you shall pen a quick apology to that effect, and Hedgewig shall deliver it upon the instant.”
“Demian, you forget you dismissed Hedgewig an hour ago!”
“Then go and recommission him.”
“Was the decanter half empty or entirely empty?”
“What odds?” His Grace was growing impatient as the sound of several more traveling chaises ground to a halt. Thank goodness the party had all obviously decided to wait for each other. There had been no bold knocks, as yet, upon the ducal door.
“Well, if it was empty, Hedgewig will be rolling in some meadow by now, singing to the cows.”
“Oh! Yes! How stupid of me. The fellow’s inebriated. Where is Parsons?”
Caroline lifted helpless hands. “We are down to a skeleton staff, now, remember?”
Demian did. The thought engulfed him with gloom. At least that was one good thing to come out of his betrothal. Parsons and Dawcett and all the upper chambermaids could return en force.
“Have you the note, yet?”
“Just a minute, I am blotting it. Perhaps Martha . . . Martha, dear, do you think you can pretend to be a housekeeper? Only to give them the note, you understand.”
Miss Bancroft blushed, though she was well past her first youth. “I shall have to change . . . ”
Caroline didn’t like to say that her dull, starched mourning black looked exactly like a housekeeper’s anyway. She may have been flighty, but there wasn’t a mean bone in her body, so she agreed, adjuring Martha only to “Hurry up!”
The duke shook his head, suppressing the whisper of a grin, for Miss Bancroft looked utterly stricken with panic. He winked at Caroline, who was so relieved that he was not completely furious, she threw her arms about him.
“Now, now, Caro, there is no need to cast my valet into agonies. If you continue on in this reprehensible manner my very elegant shirt points shall be quite ruined. Now”—he put her from him gently and resumed a sterner tone—“it is high time for all this foolishness to be put to a halt.”
Miss Bancroft looked at him hopefully.
“Sit down, Martha. Caroline is merely being ridiculous. You are eons away from a housekeeper; nobody will be fooled for a moment. Come. I will put a quick end to this most dismal of all episodes by going down myself. I may be an impoverished duke, but I am, nevertheless, a nobleman. I believe that that satisfies the most elementary of their requirements! I shall give them a draft off Addleburies for their wretched ten thousand pounds—my credit, I believe, can stand that particular blow—direct them to the Red Hart Inn, and brook no further nonsense. I am tired of all these charades.”
Caroline, quite reconciled to her brother taking charge and destroying all her plans, looked up at this. “Not the full ten thousand! That is ridiculous! Return, if you have to, the retainer. I have it in my drawer upstairs. . . oh, no! I paid for the confectionery . . . ”
Demian sighed. “How much, exactly, were you given?”
“Two hundred pounds.”
“Very well. I shall refund them four hundred immediately, to cover the expense of their travel—”
“Oh, Demian! I am so sorry. Is there no other way?”
“None that I can think of. Hush, now! I believe that is the knocker.”
Indeed, it was, and that quite loudly. From below the stone balcony came the muffled trills of laughter and the odd shriek as flounces were patted down and downy fur pelisses were tucked becomingly over shoulders. Despite her mortification, Caroline could not help parting the saffron-colored curtains and gazing upon the scene in the courtyard.
The last of the carriages—a ponderous landau—was wending its way toward the stables. What the poor groom must be thinking, Caroline could only speculate. At least they had kept Potter on, and old Farley, too, though by the looks of the cattle they were all prime beasts. Still, doubtless Mrs. Murgatroyd’s entourage of servants would be able to muck in and help.
Six young ladies were assembled upon the doorstep. Five of them, Caroline noted, were looking determinedly at the handle of the castle door. Though it was brass, and very fine, it did not warrant such fixed glances as it now received. Caroline nearly giggled at such obvious determination to enter the hallowed portals of Darris. There were two matrons accompanying them, obviously quite swimming in riches, for both were wearing tiaras crusted with gems, but whilst the one was slender and rather bony looking, the other was plump and sported two rather enlivening double chins. She turned, now, to the assembled group, and pointed out several of the gargoyles that graced the turrets. “See, my dear, generations old. Gothic, positively Gothic, or so I am told. Or is that Grecian? Oh, one or the other, possibly both. I daresay Darris is particular to all the styles. Amelia, dear, you must ask him, when you converse.”
“Tut, tut, Hyacinth!” The bony one assumed a cold, rather knowing air. “You know perfectly well Amelia cannot tell a pilaster ceiling from a Doric column! Now Daphne, here . . .”
But Daphne’s talents were lost to the eavesdropping Caroline, for the few snowflakes were now dropping down like veritable snowballs and one of the young ladies actually screamed.
“My muff! Mrs. Murgatroyd, I am not used to being kept out in such hideously inclement weather! Knock again! ”
“Patience, my dear Miss Anderson! Doubtless the servants are even now preparing for our arrival. We are early, remember!”
“Only because you insisted we leave whilst it was still dark!”
“Well, had I not, the roads would have been impassable. Besides, it will now be most uncivil of the duke to turn us back. I am persuaded, my dear ladies, that our sojourn at Darris will be longer than we had anticipated.”
Was there a smirk of satisfaction about her thin lips? Caroline was too high up to tell, but by the smugness of the woman’s tone she would have wagered a groat on this being the case.
Her slender frame heaved in indignation. “Of all the conniving, despicable turns! That old shrew never intended it to be a day party!”
“Well, Caroline, I did fear that—”
“I know, I know, and there is nothing worse than being told I told you so! But I can’t help being thankful, now, that Demian has returned He will make mincemeat of them, I fancy.”
“Yes, just think how shocking it would have been if they were forced on us for a week!”
“They would just have had to eat jugged hare.” Caroline sounded unusually grim. She was just withdrawing from the window when her gaze was arrested by the sixth lady of the party. The only one, she realized, who had not been avidly staring at the door knocker. Unlike her contemporaries, she was wearing a traveling dress of the deepest green merino, and though it was undoubtedly costly, it was also rather more sensible than the flimsy morning dresses of her companions, who shivered a great deal upon the steps.
She was regarding Mrs. Murgatroyd with such an open expression of contempt that even from the relative height of her balcony, Caroline could see the quiet curl of her lips and the hard expression in her slate-gray eyes. Lady Darris could not immediately perceive the color, but she had the fleeting impression of flint. Surprised to see such an expression on the countenance of the tall, willowy young lady, she moved closer to the arch of the window. Definitely intriguing.
“Caroline! Come away from there! You will be seen!”
“Who cares? They are going, anyway!”
To no avail did Miss Bancroft mutter little phrases peppered with words like “decorum” and “death of me.” Caroline was too busy watching the elegant young lady turn her back on the assembly and wordlessly walk down the marble steps.
“Miss Mayhew!” The bony one seemed to shriek the words out, and there was a moment’s pause as the young lady hesitated on the stair.
“Where do you think you are going? You will wait with the rest of us.”
The lady turned. She was very lovely, though a trifle tall. Caroline admired the way her dark hair shone with luster and her lips curved ever so slightly. She adjusted the merino skirt, and Caroline was afforded a glimpse of a very well turned ankle beneath all those swathes of petticoats.
“I think not, Mrs. Murgatroyd. You may keep your two hundred pounds. I believe I have changed my mind about the day’s excursion.”
Lady Caroline Darris had to strain to hear the words, for in truth, she spoke rather too low for any eavesdropper’s comfort. Miss Bancroft had to forget her strictures on decorum and stretch forward to prevent Caro falling from the window.
“And why, pray?”
The voice was shrill, accompanied by a fussy tut-tutting from the round lady, who for once found herself in agreement with her arch rival, Mrs. Honoria Murgatroyd.
“Why?” The voice was heavy with scorn. “If you have to ask, madam, it makes matters all the worse.”
Both ladies looked mystified but no less venomous. The young lady in the emerald gown turned her back, once again. She was stopped only by the snow that was now covering the ancient flagway in a frosty carpet of white. The matrons laughed, which seemed to break the tension, as five other ladies did the same.
“Well! Changed your mind, did you, dear? Now, I warn you, I will not tolerate missish spasms.”
“Is it a missish spasm to object to foisting myself upon an unwilling host? Even if his lordship were in residence, which I take leave to inform you he is not, it would be the height of presumption—not to say encroachment—to expect him to house us in these snows. Can you honestly say, Honoria, that that is your intention?”
Miss Amelia Corey giggled. Now that whey-faced Miss Mayhew was in the suds! Mrs. Murgatroyd did not take kindly to being called by her Christian name. She shifted her position, agog to hear what would develop next. Oh, how she had begged Mama to exclude Miss Hoighty-Toity from the party! But no, Mrs. Corey had the liveliest dislike of paying a penny more than she needed to. Amy’s share of the costs had proved vital.
“Is, was, and always has been. Why, you stupid girl, do you think I chose this time of year? If I am going to pay ten thousand pounds, then I will dashed well get my money’s worth! Besides, Daphne looks charmingly in the winter. So much less prone to freckles.” She cast a satisfied eye upon a young lady dressed in primrose jaconet. “It is as well we packed the fur tippet, my love.”
Miss Amy Mayhew’s lips compressed. She had never before been so furious in all her life. She drew herself up to her full height.
“You disgust me, all of you. Honoria! I wish to leave for that watering post we passed some miles back. We won’t make London, but I shall not batten on the duke’s sister, whatever you may all wish to do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs. Corey bristled with indignation and silenced the chatter behind her with a tilt of her plump hand. “You have no chaperon, and no equipage to convey you anywhere. I am certainly not having the horses reharnessed for such a foolish excursion. Why, it is freezing already! If you wish to leave the party, then you must do so at a time more convenient to us all. Indeed, I am certain Mr. Froversham Worthing would have much to say if you disappointed him in this matter.”
Amy bit back the urge to retort that dear Uncle Froversham would probably smile at her weakly and bestow a mild pat upon her shoulder before ringing for some chocolate and forgetting about the episode entirely. But her aunt was another matter. Aunt Ermentrude would suffer agonies of disappointment! Still, the whole thing was a matter of principle. She did not think, after being so strictly reared at Miss Simpson’s Academy, that she could ever bring herself to be as unprincipled as Mrs. Honoria Murgatroyd, Mrs. Hyacinth Corey and, indeed, five pairs of youthful eyes apparently required. They were all glaring at her now, so that they had not noticed that the great castle door was standing open. His Grace, for all his frugality, kept the hinges well oiled.
Five
How much of the conversation taking place between the ladies had been overheard could not be known, but it must have been Miss Oliver, or possibly Miss Farrow, who first noticed the stark outline of the gentleman at the entrance. Both spluttered, then giggled, for in truth, neither had ever clapped eyes on anyone quite so wondrously proportioned or eminently endowed with classical features in all their lives. And he the butler! How much more could they expect of the master! Miss Oliver murmured something of the kind to Miss Amelia Corey, and both regarded the figure rather brazenly before chuckling into their handkerchiefs.
As one, Mrs. Murgatroyd and Mrs. Corey stepped forward. It was fortunate that the top stair was as wide as it was, for undoubtedly neither would give way to the other. Mrs. Murgatroyd assumed the most ingratiating of smiles and looked past the butler into the wide and hallowed halls. The ceilings were satisfyingly high and the sparkling ebony- and rose-colored marble all that she could have wished. She sighed in satisfaction, her swift eyes darting shrewdly to the stairs. Perhaps she might be the first to catch a glimpse of their host.
Mrs. Corey’s air was less obvious. Unlike Mrs. Murgatroyd, who was prepared to be gracious to anything that smelled ducal, Mrs. Corey was more discerning. Her graciousness did not extend to butlers, however lofty. Consequently, she berated the man for leaving them all standing in the entirely infelicitous weather and handed him her card regally. “Be so good as to convey this to the duke . . . or to Lady Caroline. I believe we are expected.”
Her eyes snapped at the impertinent amusement she detected in the man’s dark, ridiculously handsome eyes. Then she clutched at her ebony fan as she noted his expression harden. Well! Of all the insolent upstarts! She opened her mouth to reprove him heartily, when his gaze drifted past her, past five young maidens, all shivering with cold yet nonetheless contriving to regard him coyly, to the sixth and most promising of the group, who regarded him with melting eyes that shimmered silver with defiant tears.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the intensity of his gaze hushed her, as did the slight warning motion he made with the crook of his signet finger. No one saw it, for all were staring at her with varying degrees of dislike, their backs to the castle door. Amy noticed it, though, and the deeply intimate nature of both gesture and expression startled her. Well, it did more than that. It intrigued her beyond measure. More disconcerting was that the man’s glance, brief as it had been, had left her feeling quite unutterably breathless. It was as if a sudden, decidedly unexpected assault upon her senses had taken place in this, the most inauspicious of places.
Contrary to Miss Corey’s belief, Amy was not missish. Indeed, she had been privy, in her four and twenty years, to a number of discreet kisses—all upon the hand, of course—from several rather expert libertines. Many had been motivated by her enormous fortune, but some few had also been driven by passion. And never once, Amy mused, had she been as moved by a single caress as she’d been by this slight lifting of the butler’s finger. Or was it, she wondered, because the action was coupled by the smooth tilt of infernally dark brows? She tried not to think of the approving expression in his black—no, not black, merely molten—eyes. The thought would have unhinged her. Even so, she felt herself color and caught the glimmer of answering amusement from the top stair.
