“Quietly, huh?” He folded his arms. “Except for when you’re taking down burglars in the night.”
Something hard lodged in Cornelia’s throat. All this time he’d known, and had no doubt been laughing at her. It bothered her more than she expected.
“Calm yourself, ma’am.” His eyes flashed with amusement. “No one needs to know about your alter-ego, though I’ve a feeling it would be a deal more entertaining if you let that side out to play now and then.”
Cornelia disliked this sort of jesting, where one person made the other squirm. “If you’ve nothing else to say, Mr. Burnell, perhaps return to your contemplation of the countryside.”
Her abruptness had him raising his hands. “Whoa there! I meant no offence. Only that there’s more to you than meets the eye. Most people would consider that a compliment.”
Still peeved, Cornelia chose not to reply.
“As I say, I’m curious; most especially as to why you haven’t found yourself another husband. After all, you’re not so bad looking.” From his grin, it was obvious he was teasing.
“Your courtesy knows no bounds. If you really want to know, I’ve not ‘found’ anyone because I haven’t been looking. It is possible for a woman to have a fulfilling life without a man in tow, and there are a great many freedoms a widow may enjoy that a young unmarried woman may not.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I hadn’t pegged you for that sort of widow.”
“Really! If you’re going to be crude, this conversation is at a close.” Cornelia gave him the benefit of her most penetrating glare.
She had an urge to turn the tables on him and see how he liked being under scrutiny. “So, what’s prevented you from finding wedded bliss, Mr. Burnell? Too much time spent with willing widows?”
“Touché, Mrs. Mortmain, but I don’t suppose it would be difficult to find someone to walk up the aisle. A healthy figure at the bank is enough to ensure that for any man, and one thing I don’t lack is funds.” He lounged back in the seat.
“But, seeing as you’ve asked, I’ll oblige you with an answer. My father and I didn’t get along. He wanted me to take over the business. I disagreed. Being the bastard he was, forgive my language, he said he’d cut me off unless I found a bride and provided an heir for his precious empire.”
Cornelia chose to ignore the uncouth choice of words. Despite everything, her interest was piqued. “Most men would see that as a reason to marry, rather than the opposite.”
“For some, maybe. I called his bluff and walked out the next day. I’d only been gone a few hours when the mean old devil had some sort of seizure.”
Dear God! Cornelia felt suddenly wretched. “I’m so sorry.”
Mr. Burnell had told his story without indication of distress; without any sign of emotion at all, his face expressionless. But, no-one could be so unfeeling. She understood he was an only son. As such, his relationship with his father must have been close, even if they had disagreed on some matters.
He shrugged. “I sold everything and I’ve been directing the proceeds into my work ever since. As for an heir, I vowed not to give him that satisfaction. As such, I’ve no interest in being fixed up with a bride. Rosamund’s intentions are good, but she was the one who escaped. I spent years living with the man who commanded my filial duty.”
Cornelia was speechless. She knew people held grudges, with good reason on occasion, but she couldn’t imagine what had driven such a wedge between Ethan and his father; a hatred he was nursing long after his father’s passing.
Better than anyone, she knew that painful memories ought to be let lie. No doubt, he’d regret telling her all this soon enough.
“Anyhow.” He passed his hand through his hair, looking suddenly weary. “That’s something you can help me with, if you’ve a mind to. It’s true that I was curious about you, given the circumstances of our reacquaintance, but I’ve another motive—a proposal of sorts—which I’m hoping may appeal.”
“A proposal?” The train gave another of its lurches, flinging Minnie unceremoniously to the floor. With an objecting yap, the terrier looked about her, evidently unsure of where she was or what was going on.
Aunt Blanche’s head lolled from one side to the other and Eustacia gave another snort and a strangled squeak, but both appeared to continue sleeping, much to Cornelia’s relief.
“There, there, Minnie. Up you come.”
The terrier, not needing to be asked twice, leapt back onto the banquette, this time forsaking Cornelia’s lap to rest its paws on the window ledge, looking outwards at the dusky landscape.
Mr. Burnell cleared his throat slightly. “A proposal, yes. One to our mutual advantage. It’s unconventional, to be sure, but I’m asking you to hear me out.”
Cornelia was still reeling. Of course, he didn’t mean ‘a proposal’. Though he had the appearance of a romantic poet (one, perhaps, with a very hardy constitution and more musculature than was usual among that set) this was no declaration of undying passion.
Once again, Cornelia decided to take the high road. Reaching into her reticule she pulled out a handful of butterscotch. Whatever he was about to say, she would find it easier to hear with something sugary to suck upon.
She offered him one but he shook his head.
“Since there is another half hour until we reach our destination and little other distraction, my ears are yours.”
“Half an hour? Journey went a lot quicker than I was thinking. Suppose I’d better get right to it, while I have you to myself.” His grin reappeared. “I’m saying we’ll spin a story, since nobody else knows the history between you and I.”
It was Cornelia’s turn to look surprised. “So trifling an amount of history, sir, that we might call it none at all.”
He looked a little hurt, but ploughed on regardless. “We concoct details for what’s missing. All these years, we’ve kept up a correspondence.”
“Even while I was married?” Cornelia frowned.
“Nothing improper. Mostly the same as I’ve written to Rosamund. We were childhood playmates, remember? But, low and behold, I was back in London. Both being unattached, we promptly formed an attachment.”
The butterscotch made a dive for the back of Cornelia’s throat, making her splutter in a rather unladylike way.
“There’s bound to be speculation on whether we’ve shared more than a few tours of the British Museum galleries, but the upshot will be that those females Rosamund has lined up will see I’m taken. It’ll give me breathing space until I can get back where I want to be.”
The sweet found itself crushed suddenly between Cornelia’s clenched jaws. “How very convenient for you, Mr. Burnell. So, you avoid being besieged by would-be-brides, while I get to look like a floozy. Worse than that, a rejected floozy, since the arrangement is designed to last no more than a week or so.”
Mr. Burnell appeared to contemplate. “Two weeks at the most, and don’t worry about the part where we split. I’ll arrange it so that you appear the injured party. You can find me kissing one of maids or something and cast me off in righteous indignation. I’ll tell everyone I’m broken hearted; that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me; that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.”
Sitting back, he folded his arms, looking more than a touch satisfied with himself. “Nobody will blame you.”
Nobody would blame her? Cornelia ripped the wrapping from another sweet. The whole plan sounded cockeyed. Besides which, she’d already been on the receiving end of idle judgement, and she wasn’t in a rush to invite more.
“I thought you mentioned mutual benefit. What exactly do I gain from this arrangement, besides yet more ignominy heaped upon my name?”
“I’m guessing that some part of you is still hopeful of finding the right man. You’re telling me you’re content to hang up your dancing shoes and live out your days as a spinster, but I’m not buying it.”
Bloody presumptuous, thought Cornelia. As if I don’t know myself wh
at I want.
However, much as she hated to admit it, he wasn’t altogether wrong.
“Alright, Mr. Burnell. I haven’t given up all hope of remarriage, but the chance of my soulmate appearing at this point seems extremely low.”
He looked at her askance. “What makes you think so?”
“My list of requirements is exacting.”
“Exacting? Is that code for your wanting a man so persnickety perfect that he likely don’t exist?”
Cornelia lifted her chin a little. “On certain things, I’m not willing to compromise.”
“Because you’re so perfect yourself, of course.” He gave her another of those infuriating wide-mouthed smiles and she thought how very much she’d like to ball her fist and give him a good thump in the chops.
“My own merits are irrelevant, Mr. Burnell, thanks to the unjust bias that has attached to my name.”
He rubbed at his chin. “I did hear a little about that, and I can see why you’re sore about it.”
A rush of heat flooded Cornelia’s cheeks. He’d only been in London a few weeks. Part of her had begun to hope that her scandals were far enough in the past that people would have ceased mentioning them. Clearly, she was wrong.
But, he wasn’t gloating, or bestowing his pity. Instead, his tone was forthright. “It’s none of my business how your mother found her happiness. You don’t need to explain anything, but you still haven’t really answered my question.” He set his hands on his knees, looking at her earnestly again.
“Finding the right sort of man would be my problem, Mr. Burnell, not yours—and I believe it’s questionable whether my mother found ‘happiness’, as you put it.” She pursed her lips. If she carried on talking, she’d reveal far more than she wanted to. The past was the past, and she’d learnt long ago that it did no good to stew over what might have been.
“So, to recap, you believe that my association with you will cause a different sort of gossip, making me seem more…” She gave an exasperated sigh, unsure of quite the right word.
“More interesting? More bewitching? More…desirable?” He arched an eyebrow.
Damn him. He was definitely laughing at her.
“Well, yes! I suppose so—although it’s not what I’d have thought advantageous.”
“You mean you want people to think you’re dull?”
“No, of course not. Not dull.” He was willfully misinterpreting her. “I’m merely pointing out that being escorted about by you, however fascinating that may be…” she swallowed and looked out through the window again, anywhere but at him, “Might not attract the sort of man who’d make a good husband.”
“A good husband, eh? And what does one of those look like?”
Cornelia sat a little straighter. “Someone upstanding and good-hearted, whom I can rely upon. Someone content to live quietly. Someone who won’t mind that marriage to me will mean restricted invitations within Society.”
Someone not at all like Oswald, she might have said.
“Well, if that’s your idea of perfect, it’s all dandy. However, I’d say you’d be going about things the wrong way. When a man’s compelled to pursue a woman, it’s rarely because he thinks she looks dutiful and respectful. It’s because he sees the firecracker inside, however prim she might appear—a woman who knows she’s good enough just as she is, without needing to change for anyone. You ought to be showing them you’re a prize worth the challenge. I’ve a reputation for finding adventure. If my sister’s guests are convinced I’m besotted, believe me, you’ll have suitors flocking.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Though what with your uptight list and all, it’s likely that none of them will be up to the mark.”
Cornelia gritted her teeth. “You think it will work?”
Another of his smiles lit his face. “Does a coyote howl in the desert?
Their arrival at Weymouth was announced by Minnie’s barking, immediately awakening Eustacia and Blanche.
From the window, Cornelia saw the Studborne carriage waiting to drive them the final twenty miles to the Abbey—a handsome equipage in black, the family crest painted large upon the door.
Soft flakes of snow had begun to fall, covering the platform and all about them in a thin layer of white. Mr. Burnell gave his hand as they descended.
“So nice to have a gentleman helping one.” Blanche flashed her most flirtatious of smiles.
“My pleasure entirely, Miss Everly. Now watch your step. If you fall into my arms, I’ll have to carry you the rest of the way—and then all the ladies will be wanting the same treatment.”
Blanche’s foot wavered, as if she might be contemplating the wisdom of just such a move.
“Do get a move on, dear.” Eustacia hissed from behind. “Rosamund mentioned blankets and warming bricks in the carriage and a flask of hot toddy. I for one am more than ready.”
Hoisting Minnie against her shoulder, Cornelia caught Mr. Burnell’s eye over her aunt’s head.
He gave her a slow wink.
Chapter 5
Studborne Abbey
Early morning, December 18
Cornelia woke to the tinkling of china.
“It’s just me, come with your porridge, Mrs. Mortmain. There’s cream an’ honey, as you like it.”
Tugging back the heavy curtains, Nancy peered out the window. “The snow still be comin’ down. Lucky you an’ the mistresses arrived when you did. I don’t see no other guests gettin’ up that narrow lane—an’ only half gotten here as was planned for, I be told.”
Fat flakes had begun falling steadily the evening before, filling the rutted tracks off the main coastal road and making difficult their way to the Abbey. By the time they’d pulled up, it had been past midnight and, with everyone retired, the butler had shown them to their rooms. Cornelia had barely slipped between the sheets before falling asleep.
Someone had lit the fire, thank goodness—giving the room a cheery feel, despite the feebleness of the morning light. Minnie, laying full stretch across the bottom of the golden damask quilt, lifted her head briefly before flopping down again.
The maid bustled to Cornelia’s side, lifting the tray onto her lap. “A good job I came a day ahead with the luggage, too. Your gowns be hangin’ nicely.” Nancy beamed at Cornelia. “I packed like Miss Blanche told me and only your best things; it bein’ a festive gatherin’ an’ all.”
“You’re very kind, Nancy—and I am sorry to drag you away from Portman Square so close to Christmas. I hope we didn’t disrupt your plans.”
Nancy’s large bosom wobbled to the accompaniment of her laughter. “Done me a favour, more like. It warms my heart to be back in Dorset where I was raised, an’ it do look grand downstairs, what with the decorations bein’ up. I never saw a tree so tall in all my life. Right pretty it is, covered all in ribbons. Wait ’til you see it, ma’am.”
Cornelia began on the porridge. “Are my aunts comfortable, Nancy?”
“Oh yes. They both be in Miss Blanche’s room through the connectin’ door there, havin’ their own breakfasts. I was just tellin’ the mistresses how nicely done the gardens are. Not that I’ve been out there myself yet, it bein’ so wintery, but the maid whose room I be sharin’ with was describin’ it very poetic like. There be the usual parklands and orchards o’ course, an’ a walled garden as the monks what lived here in past times relied upon for their vegetables. The lake be full o’ trout as well, apparently, though ’tis all frozen now.”
Cornelia had seen for herself the grandeur of the abbey, approaching by moonlight through an avenue of limes. It was undeniably beautiful, hewn from honey-coloured stone, its many turrets reaching skyward. Although the original monastery had clearly been added to over the centuries, the original structure remained, its narrow windows lead-paned.
It was imposing indeed and, no doubt, the guests waking in the various rooms through the house would be similarly intimidating. How many of them would recognize her, she wondered—or recognize her name, if
nothing else.
“I be off then, ma’am, to fetch the water for washin’. I’ve laid out yer russet wool on the chaise—the one with the little roses through the weave. Might as well give it a bit o’ warmth from the fire afore you put it on.” With that, Nancy scuttled out.
Finishing her bowl, Cornelia shrugged on her dressing gown and hastened through to check upon her aunts.
While Blanche remained in bed, Eustacia had taken the armchair closest to the fire. It was burning considerably brighter than the one in Cornelia’s room, banked high with logs. Meanwhile, her aunt’s head was buried in an edition of The Strand.
“Come and give me a morning kiss,” called Blanche, plumping her pillows. “Eustacia has no conversation this morning, and won’t let me near her magazine until she’s read Mr. Conan Doyle’s latest. Something wonderfully lurid, with dancing men in it.” Blanche’s sharp eyes sparkled. “She’s refusing even to read out the good bits.”
“They’re not those sorts of men!” Eustacia tutted. “Holmes has just received a note with a mysterious sequence of stick figures. It’s clearly a code of some sort. I suspect blackmail. It usually is.”
“It doesn’t sound as exciting as his Colonel Gerard stories.” Blanche sipped wistfully at her tea. “I much prefer him to that stuffy Sherlock and imbecile Watson. I’ve long been partial to a man in uniform but Gerard is especially good; so very accomplished, and a gallant lover.”
Cornelia couldn’t help but smile. She’d read some of the Colonel Gerard tales. The Frenchman was unspeakably vain, always thinking himself the greatest swordsman and bravest soldier. The satire was delicious.
Eustacia held up her page, showing Cornelia one of the illustrations. “They look a bit like those Palekmul engravings that Mr. Burnell’s keen on working out, don’t you think, dear?”
* * *
* * *
Cornelia frowned. The only time she’d heard him talk about the hieroglyphics was during their train journey, when both her aunts had appeared to be entirely asleep—but she knew better than to take anything at face value where those two were concerned.
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 5