A Scandalous Connection, page 7
Lady Caroline Darris checked the diamonds at her throat. Yes, they sparkled superbly, as did the ruby ring, the hairpin of emeralds and the crescent of sapphire cabochons that hemmed together Lady Tryon’s old court dress of gold filament on rose satin. She would not be seen dead in such a dreadfully coming ensemble in the ordinary scheme of things, but it seemed the merchant wives and their daughters were after vulgarity, and vulgarity was something she could contrive to see that they got. She almost giggled at her reflection, especially as the servants’ doors swung open, and His Most Noble Grace, the fifth duke of Darris, afforded her a glaring look of disbelief.
“I should have spanked you. Remind me to do so when this is over.”
“Very good, my lord.” Caroline curtsied saucily—for she was not in the least afraid of any threats from Demian—then raised her hand in a languishing manner and bade him announce her, forthwith.
At which her brother’s brows drew together rather ominously.
“Go, Demian! I’ll warrant they are in a fever of anticipation!”
When His Grace threw open the doors of the breakfast room—as he had seen his footmen do several hundreds of times over—all eyes focused expectantly on his countenance.
“Ladies, may I announce my mistress, the Honorable Lady Caroline Darris. Proceed with your dinners.”
Then Lady Caroline wafted in, all scent and silk, her hands flowing languishingly in the air. She nodded a brief dismissal to Pemberton, who eyed her closely, then bowed himself out. If he had wished to linger, perhaps, on a certain young lady in soft emerald green, he was not given the chance. Besides, that lady, he’d noted, with one swift, comprehensive sweep of the room, was no longer seated. She was pacing about like a caged animal and seemed to have no thought for any of the delicacies that Caroline had managed to purloin from his kitchens. Well, not only his kitchens. Also, he mused, rather ruefully, his game forests, his lakes and his cellars. Just as well he was betrothed to the lovely Lady Raquel, else he would never recover the blow. The thought cast him into such dire agonies of gloom that he did not notice Miss Bancroft trailing down the stairs, a vision in a corsetted gown of stiff, ocher-striped cord. She had removed her traditional delicate, lace cap and was now wearing a starched white tippet in its place.
“A fine lady’s maid I shall be,” she grumbled, “if Caroline does not so much as let me brush her hair! Did you see what a tangle it was in when she made her grand entrance? I declare it was a disgrace!”
The duke’s lips twitched. “Never mind, Martha, dear. I believe it was all obscured under a coronet of sorts.”
Miss Bancroft, though delightful, was unfortunately of too serious a nature to know when the duke was jesting. Consequently, she replied rather earnestly that Caroline was wearing the famed Darris emeralds, a hairpin that, though not inconsequential, could not possibly be mistaken for a coronet.
The duke gravely allowed himself to be corrected and directed Miss Bancroft neatly from the breakfast room, from whence a great deal of chatter was emanating toward the kitchens.
“Oh, no! Caro will be needing my assistance.”
“I think not! My little minx of a sister seems to be managing perfectly fine without either of us.”
“But . . .”
“No buts about it, Miss Bancroft. The guests would certainly stare if the lady’s maid entered for a meal.”
This argument held a certain force, causing dear old Martha to chuckle a little at the notion.
“Oh, very well! But it is very ill managed! I should have masqueraded as the companion, rather.”
Since she was the companion, the duke found himself in perfect agreement. Thus grumbling in mutual harmony, the unlikely pair found their way down to the kitchens, where Betsy had resumed her duties and the scullery maid dropped two of the duke’s crystal goblets at this strange invasion. His Grace was swift enough to save one, but the second, unfortunately, sustained a severe chip to its rim, a fact that set the scullery maid wailing in his ear and the cook rushing over to alternately scold and curtsy.
“No, don’t box her ears!” Demian broke in. “It was entirely my fault for scaring her.”
The scullery maid seemed to brighten under such soothing words. She sent the cook a defiant glare. The cook, fortunately, did not notice. She was too busy gazing at her lord and master in his shirtsleeves. He was smiling at her in the most endearing of manners, so that it was no wonder her heart melted as quickly as the butter set aside for the lobster Périgord. For, though she had told Lady Caroline time and time again that she did not approve of such havey cavey goings on, the duke was impossible to resist—especially when he looked at you so, and took the hot kettle off the fire and mixed up some chocolate in a large jug, then set it upon the table invitingly, making it clear he meant everyone to sample it, not just his most revered self.
This they did, the groom, the scullery maid, the one remaining footman—though this was a rather grandiose title for the work he was now doing—several assorted housemaids, Betsy, Cook and Miss Bancroft. The rest of the stable hands and the remainder of the merchant ladies’ maids were still to come in out of the snow.
His Grace signaled to his staff and apprised them, in a low voice, of the situation. He was not so vulgar as to mention the money involved, but indicated the matter was one of a wager. At that, the loyal skeleton of Darris retainers nodded wisely and muttered they would be “as mum as the grave”—a promise the duke had to be content with, for the Murgatroyd contingent of staff were all now entering en masse.
His grace felt very much like he was fighting a battle on two fronts, with suspicious eyes cast upon him from all sides. So he stood up, waved regally to the incoming crowd that they might take their seats, and beat a hasty retreat. Cook, he was sure, would be able to deal with impertinence from the lower orders. He was very sure that he, at this point, could not.
The cursed matter of the snow still bothered him, for though he was inclined to call Mrs. Murgatroyd’s bluff and not offer succor for the night, it was increasingly obvious his options were limited. So, coming to a swift decision, he knocked upon the breakfast room door and entered.
The smell of roast duck was the first thing that assailed his senses. It was being served, in quantities, onto Mrs. Corey’s plate, together with Cook’s famous cherry sauce. Something told him he knew, at least, where the remainder of his Madeira had been sacrificed. Quelling the sudden urge to sit down and dine—he had ridden all day on an empty stomach, and had partaken of nothing since his light repast at Gentleman Jacks—he bowed stiffly and awaited Lady Caroline’s notice.
She, capricious creature, seemed content to stuff herself languidly with fresh peaches from his hothouse and chatter to Mrs. Murgatroyd, seated on her right, about her desire for “complete lack of ceremony” in the household.
“Of course, when His Grace is in residence, all is quite different. I grow quite fatigued with the number of footmen who hover about us at every meal. Impossible to converse, of course.”
Mrs. Murgatroyd looked about her. “Oh, I wondered why we served ourselves! Such a novelty, you know! In my house, dear Mr. Murgatroyd insists on a lackey at every setting!” She tittered. Mrs. Corey looked across at her, disapprovingly.
“My dear Honoria, surely you know that the most genteel of houses consider such displays vulgar? That is so, is it not, my dear, dear Lady Caroline?”
Lady Caroline steadfastly avoided catching her butler’s eye. Instead, she smiled graciously, sipped a little wine—Demian thought she’d had quite enough—and avoided his eye. “Oh, quite so, quite so. Of course, there are occasions where one simply cannot have too much help. Entertaining the prince regent, for example, requires both His Grace’s households to be in residence. Not Shrewsbury, of course—that is too far—but certainly all the London staff are necessary. Even several under butlers are hardly sufficient for an occasion such as that. We usually engage our housekeepers to take on whatever further staff they need. But then, of course, there are the liveries to be made up . . . oh, it is all so drearily fatiguing!”
Even Mrs. Corey appeared impressed.
“Do you entertain His Royal Highness often?”
“Oh, whenever he happens by Darris. He and the duke are such particular friends, you know.”
His Grace, at that point, choked. A Corinthian of the first stare did not take kindly to being classed in the same category as the Prince of Wales. For His Royal Highness, despite being England’s future king, was a rather frippery fellow, his finances in as poor a shape as his figure.
Lady Caroline frowned across the table. “Pemberton! Do you have some problem?”
“No, my lady. Begging your pardon, my throat was merely dry.”
“Ah. Well. Perfectly understandable, I am sure.” She then turned toward her dinner companions as if he were a mere fly on the wall.
“You were saying . . . eh . . . Mrs. . . . ?”
“Murgatroyd. Of Murgatroyd, Murgatroyd and Parsons, Inc.” Mrs. Honoria Murgatroyd leaned forward across the damask. She was eager to impress her superior standing on the hapless Lady Caroline. It did not occur to her limited intelligence that Lady Caroline might not ever have heard of Murgatroyd, Murgatroyd and Parsons, Inc. She hadn’t, but had the good sense not to say so. Instead, she managed a haughty, but vaguely interested, “indeed?” that seemed to satisfy Honoria, for she shot a smug glance at Miss Daphne Murgatroyd, as if to say, “there, that will make Lady Caroline take note!”
Amelia Corey seemed annoyed, for she tittered in rather a high voice and managed to mention, in passing, that although her family might not be as famous, perhaps, they at least had the distinction of being bankers.
Mrs. Corey laughed a little self-consciously. “Now, now, Amelia, my love, we must not put the Murgatroyds in a pelter, you know. It is not their fault, after all, that they smell so distressingly of the shop.” She lifted her finger delicately in the air as she sampled some of Demian’s prize champagne. “Ah, an excellent vintage, I believe.”
But Mrs. Murgatroyd did not seem concerned with the vintage. She was engaged in glaring at Mrs. Corey, as though she were a viper.
Caroline, noticing that a skirmish might be about to take place, drew some of the other young ladies into the conversation, begging Miss Anderson to take another slice of game pie and answering Miss Fletcherson’s carefully rehearsed questions with some rather obscure and imaginative answers. They would have had Demian in fits had he not been otherwise preoccupied.
“No, Miss Fletcherson, high poke bonnets are not in vogue at all, unless, of course, one was inclined for a picnic on the Thames, which the weather, these days, quite definitely precludes. . . . I personally favor an ensemble of capote and cottage bonnets, though of course, nothing can really rival the feathered turban.” Demian did not wait to hear her strictures on the psyche knot versus the à la Titus mode, for his eyes were wandering, again, to the lady who had now stopped her pacing and seated herself rigidly across from the potted plant. She did not, he noted with approval, contribute one syllable to the nonsense that was patently being uttered around her.
In profile, she seemed almost more beautiful than Demian recalled. He wondered if she was aware of his staring at her, for though her back remained utterly straight, her fingers now fiddled with the silver dessert spoons. He walked over to her and leaned across her shoulder.
“May I be of assistance, madam?”
“No, I thank you. I am not hungry.”
“You look pale. Would you like to withdraw to an antechamber?”
Her eyes startled. Demian thought rather ruefully that he had probably overstepped the mark a little. Butlers never made personal observations. It was fundamental to their creed.
“No.” She hesitated, then looked up. He was still hovering over her solicitously. He filled her glass and their gazes locked for an instant.
Amy was shocked. The eyes that met hers had not been those of a butler. She did not know how she knew, only that she was certain of it. He was moving, now, from her setting, and edging quietly toward Miss Simmons in the crimson gown. Amy could not help feeling a sudden, disquieting sense of loss. There was no accounting for such foolishness. She took a sip of the champagne. It was sweet and fresh. Lemonade. How perceptive of him to make the switch! And how presumptuous! It was true, though. Another glass of the champagne would have brought on an almighty headache. Already, the room was feeling close and stuffy, and she rather wished that the fire had not been stoked so hot, inclement weather or not. If only she had not permitted herself to be persuaded into this excursion! Already it was hellish, and they had not yet begun to traipse through the galleries. And if Mrs. Murgatroyd was right, and they did manage to insinuate themselves into the castle overnight . . . oh! The thought was appalling!
She stood up, all of a sudden, a deep flush in her rosy cheeks. For an instant, she felt the room sway and she had the most galling sensation she might faint away. But then, she was being steadied by firm arms, and she did not have to look up to know that they belonged to that of the impeccably attired gentleman who was somehow passing himself off as the help.
Seven
“Allow me.” The voice was quiet but firm. She nodded, hardly knowing what she was acquiescing to.
Lady Caroline, seated some several places down, looked up sharply. “Good Lord, the lady is as white as a sheet! Is she unwell? Shall I get her some—”
“Oh, no! Dear Lady Caroline, do not put yourself out on Miss Mayhew’s account! I assure you, it is a nervous spasm of sorts. She is sadly prone to the megrims.” Mrs. Corey tittered and Amelia shot Amy a particularly spiteful glance.
“Sit down, Amy. It is useless to put on die-away airs, you know. It is not as if His Grace is at table.”
“No, to be sure, it is a great pity he is not, but indeed, my dear, even if he were, I am sure there is nothing more calculated to give a man a disgust of one than such coming airs! I am right, am I not, Lady Caroline?” Mrs. Corey preened and looked to Lady Darris, whom she obviously considered the ultimate voice of authority on such matters.
But Caroline, for once, was not even amused by the situation that made her the sole arbiter of fashion and decorum. Lord, up to this afternoon, she could not even remember to don a common bonnet, never mind employ a groom when riding about on the estate. Hardly etiquette the ton would approve of, but then, Mrs. Corey knew nothing of the ton, not being privileged, as Lady Darris was, to move in the inner circles.
She therefore ignored Mrs. Corey’s comment on gentlemen’s preferences, and cast a meaningful look at Demian through her jewel-studded fringe. He nodded, ever so slightly, so she took up her cue and rather imperiously demanded that he lead Miss Mayhew out. A small imp of mischief beset her, however, so that instead of recommending him to one of the smaller drawing rooms, she rather improperly suggested a bedchamber. She ignored her brother’s fulminating glance quite superbly before taking yet another sip of Darris Castle’s finest.
“Take her up to the rose chamber, Pemberton. I am certain you can find some reviving sal volatile of sorts for the young lady. Oh! And you may take this envelope up to His Grace’s apartments when you return.” She handed him an envelope quite obviously thick with banknotes. The balance, he supposed, of the treacherous sum owing. He would avoid her eyes, otherwise he might laugh. Little minx!
Lady Caroline then dismissed them both with a regal waft of her hand that paid no attention at all to the faint protests from Miss Mayhew.
Making matters even more difficult for Amy, Lady Caroline rose from the table and invited her remaining guests, with a cordial but languid smile, to enter the first of several portrait galleries she hoped “might prove of invaluable interest.”
There was nothing for it but for Miss Mayhew to allow herself to be led out of the breakfast room. She was fortunately spared many poisonous glares, for the ladies of her party were engaged in retrieving their reticules and fans and fur-lined tippets and smiling graciously upon their hostess. If she gave the matter any thought at all, she would have known that her own predicament was instantly forgotten in the general quest to begin the ducal exploration.
The duke said nothing as he led Miss Mayhew down several very thick-piled carpets, a glass herbarium and a marble gallery before arriving, finally, at the foot of a wide, spiral staircase. All the while, his arm just—only just—touched her elbow, so she drew strength from his presence without actually feeling the need to draw away. He moved quickly and confidently, slightly ahead of her, so Amy had an excellent view of his noble stature and entirely edifying physique without appearing either base, rude or overly curious. Nevertheless, she sensed a curve of amusement on his lips when they finally halted at the foot of the stairs and their eyes, unavoidably perhaps, collided.
“Sir, you shall think me a fraud! I feel perfectly fine, now, I assure you.”
“Madam, I beg to differ, but you appear, to me, to be breathless.”
There was a moment’s pause where Amy felt more than just breathless. She felt positively delirious, and the sensation had nothing, whatsoever to do with the weather, cold or otherwise.
The butler smiled. “Might I not tempt you to a little peace and quiet? The rose chamber is situated with an excellent view onto my . . . uh . . . onto the forests. It is very restful, I assure you.”
Amy thought she would feel anything but rested if she followed her inclination and allowed herself to be guided into the chamber. The wicked notion brought a sudden glow to her cheeks that the duke found interesting. Well, truth to tell, he found everything about the delicious Miss Amy Mayhew interesting, but he was wise enough—and cautious enough—to maintain a strictly subservient distance.
