Across the table, Cornelia sawed her venison into ever smaller pieces.
Lady P was right. She is a hussy!
She suddenly felt very sorry for Mr. Bongorge, laid up in bed somewhere or other.
“If thrilling tales are the order of the day, you’d do worse than ask Mrs. Mortmain to spin a few.” Burnell was looking at her still, his eyes alight. “She’s an invaluable asset at the British Museum—helping with the security of exhibits, no less.”
“Really?” Lady Pippsbury peered in Cornelia’s direction. “One would think they had men to handle that sort of thing; hardly a lady’s realm. Whatever brought about such a strange situation?”
“Mrs. Mortmain’s expertise has long been recognized in the cataloguing of ancient artefacts; knowledge passed down by her father.” Burnell tapped his nose. “But her skills extend far beyond the usual. Just the other week, she fought off a thief attempting to steal one of the Palekmul treasures. If it weren’t for her vigilance, who knows what might have happened. Apparently, she had the fellow pinned until he begged for mercy.”
“Good Heavens!” Lady Pippsbury looked utterly taken aback.
Cornelia’s heart had been beating progressively faster. Now, it threatened to leap from her body altogether.
Burnell was obviously enjoying seeing her squirm.
Pinned down indeed!
Staring boldly across the table, he raised his voice just enough that no one would have trouble hearing. “Mrs. Mortmain is no ordinary woman. No siree! She’s as fearless as a tiger.”
Cornelia was aware that the room had grown quiet.
Mrs. Bongorge looked as if she’d eaten something unpalatable.
Lady Pippsbury’s left brow was twitching.
Burnell gave her one of his half-quirked smiles. “How lucky can a man get! True love only comes once in a lifetime they say, and here I am gettin’ the chance to discover what I’ve been missing all these years.”
Twenty pairs of eyes swivelled from Burnell, to land upon Cornelia.
“Love?” Lady Pippsbury’s voice emerged as a squeak. “But you’ve only been in the country five minutes. You can’t be in love!”
“Childhood sweethearts, ma’am.” He raised his glass, in toast, to Cornelia. “Here’s to the woman who has won my heart.”
“Marvellous news, Burnell.” As the duke raised his own, everyone followed suit. “To true love!”
“And fearless tigers,” added Blanche, with only the faintest of hiccups.
Cornelia emptied her glass in one great swig.
Chapter 7
Cornelia was relieved, at least, that throughout the following courses of luncheon, the baron made no further attempt to paw her. No doubt, he was rendered speechless by Burnell’s tall tales of her exemplary horsemanship (she’d only attempted once, and had hardly kept in the saddle), of her keen marksmanship (she’d never held a gun) and her purported importance at the British Museum (Mr. Pettigrew would have a conniption).
As they drifted out afterwards, Cornelia’s aunts steered her to a quiet corner of the drawing room and Burnell meandered over.
“That went swell, don’t you think? There was a helluvva lot more I coulda told ‘em, but it was a good start.”
Cornelia clenched her fists. “You’ve said more than enough. Your nose ought to be a foot long by now. If you don’t mind, I—”
“Stop right there, sweet pea.” He had the audacity to place a finger against her lips. “You’re rightly overwhelmed. But save whatever you’re thinking until you’ve calmed yourself. It’s never a good idea to speak in haste.”
Looking far too pleased with himself, he gave her a wink. “Studborne’s planning a new folly or somesuch for Rosamund’s birthday and wants me to take a look at the plans, but we can rendezvous later—let’s say the library. I’ve not found it yet but a place like this is sure to have one.”
“I’m sure it has.” Cornelia bit her tongue. “Very well, but I’d appreciate you not reminiscing any further on our courtship until we’ve had a chance to confer.”
“Anything for you, my love.” He kissed her hand in just the way the duke had done for the duchess. “But remember to play your part, Cornelia. We’ve a deal, which entails you appearing enchanted by my company, being madly in love and all. You’ll only be happy when everyone else melts away, leaving us alone to canoodle.”
She gritted her teeth and gave him what she hoped was a withering look. “I’ll do my best to employ my acting skills, but you must rein in your storytelling. If I decide to be interested in any of the men here, I don’t want them thinking I’m a lunatic.”
“No sweat, Nellie. I’ve already conducted an appraisal, and none of them are right for you. The best you can hope for is for them to admire from afar and spread news of your dazzling charm when they return to roaming free in London Society. Then, you can watch the invitations roll in.”
“Urgh!” She wrenched her hand away. “You’re impossible—and don’t call me Nellie. I’m Mrs. Mortmain, thank you.”
Laughing softly, he gave a small bow to each of her aunts and moved on.
As soon as he’d departed, Blanche and Eustacia were all questions.
“My dear. I’d no notion your talents were so varied. You never mentioned winning the amateur ladies’ pistol contest in Hyde Park. You’re far too modest, darling. No wonder Mr. Burnell is infatuated.” Blanche gave her arm a squeeze.
Eustacia was just as excited. “I always knew you were clever, Cornelia—but to think of being part of a secret team working on deciphering the Rosetta Stone. Utterly thrilling!”
Cornelia suppressed a groan.
“Flattered as I am that you believe me capable, I must remind you of Mr. Burnell’s plan. It’s all an invention, remember; his ridiculous theory that no one will care about my dubious history if I appear interesting enough in the present.”
Cornelia rubbed her temples. “Except that he’s reaching too far. No one’s going to believe this nonsense—and if I substantiate anything he says, I’ll be complicit. It’s all getting out of hand.”
Blanche’s disappointment was palpable. “All untrue? Even the bit about helping the Royal Opera House authenticate its sets for Aida?”
“It appears so, dear.” Eustacia patted Blanche’s hand. “Best that we leave Cornelia to herself. She has much to ponder…and Colonel Faversham mentioned something about a game of whist.”
“Oh yes!” Blanche perked up a bit. “We’ll catch up later then, darling—and we’ll want all the juiciest details.”
How Cornelia wished it were not still snowing. When she needed to think, a brisk walk seemed to help in sorting whatever jumble occupied her mind. Besides which, Minnie needed a breath of air.
Burnell had been right about one thing, at least. What she wished to say to him shouldn’t be said in anger, and certainly not in a public place. If she was going to tear him off a strip, a closed door would be necessary.
Minnie gave an aroooo as soon as Cornelia entered her room, jumping about friskily as her mistress shrugged on her coat and outdoor shoes.
“We’ll take you outside for a few minutes, Minnie. Now, you must walk nicely beside me. No running off.” In answer, one canine tongue gave Cornelia’s palm a lick, and four legs fell into step beside two.
Cornelia was relieved to find that she was more easily remembering her way, and they were soon back in the grand entrance hall. With the opening of the main door, a gust of chill air swept in, and a flurry of snow, but Minnie wasn’t in the least perturbed. Cornelia was left with a parting view of a fluffy behind as the terrier made a dash for freedom.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, Minnie launched herself along the path, achieving the far end in a matter of moments and disappearing round the side of the house, in pursuit of liberty.
Dreadful dog! And my fault entirely for not teaching her better manners.
Hurrying behind, Cornelia was in time to see her take a flying leap into a pile of heaped snow. From w
ithin the powdery hillock came excited yapping then a panting face appeared, bearded in white flakes.
“Yes, you’re very brave; now, out you come before we both freeze.” Cornelia stamped her feet.
With another happy bark, Minnie scampered out, giving a good shake. Before she could take off again, Cornelia grabbed her, holding the bundle of furry mischief to her chest.
“No more adventures for you. It’s far too cold to be messing about.”
Cornelia buried her face in Minnie’s fur, wishing she’d had the forethought to put on a scarf.
She was about to return the way they’d come when she noticed they were standing directly in front of a rather large orangery and someone was inside. With a quick tap on the window, the little door was soon opened and Cornelia stepped inside, to welcome warmth and the scent of citrus blossoms.
“Goodness, ye be shivering, ma’am.” The gardener gave a worried frown. “Here, take off that’n coat and rest beside the woodstove if it please ye; quickest way to get dry. I can send for your’n maid.”
“No need.” Cornelia smiled, pulling off her gloves and settling on the little stool he pulled forward. “I’ll just sit here a few minutes as you suggest, then I’ll go and change.”
“If ye be sure, I’ll leave ye be, then. ’Tis a pleasant spot, in any case; best in the abbey, I do think.” Having placed another log within the burner, he turned away, taking the watering can with him.
Cornelia was inclined to agree. The garden room was filled with trees in bloom and others in fruit—oranges and lemons on one side and apricots on the other. And, she had it all to herself.
Not far off, a fountain was playing, blocking her view of what lay beyond, but she guessed the orangery extended the length of this side of the house. Truly, it was like some Mediterranean haven. She would have to bring Blanche and Eustacia to see.
Unlacing her boots, she stretched her toes towards the stove, grateful to let its heat work on her damp stockings. Minnie seemed to have the same idea, laying prone on the warmed terracotta tiles.
Cornelia closed her eyes. With all that had happened, she’d been feeling rather cross but this place was wonderfully soothing.
So much so that Cornelia found herself jerking awake as her chin nodded forward.
The snow had ceased falling and the Eastern horizon was now tinged violet through broken clouds. Even her feet were almost dry.
No matter how comfortable she was, she ought to return to her room. However, she was just lacing her boots when a voice drifted to her from somewhere beyond the fountain.
“If one of you doesn’t catch his eye over the coming week, I simply won’t believe you’re trying. That Mortmain woman may have attached herself to Mr. Burnell for the time being but she’s unsuitibobble to become any respectable man’s wife. Everyone knows that Mortmain wouldn’t have touched her if it weren’t for the dowry her father put up.”
Ice gripped Cornelia’s heart. The voice was Lady Pippsbury’s.
“The Everlys like to think themselves a cut above, but they made their fortune little differently than my father made his—importing wines and spirits no less. Their connections cannot be compared with our own. You, my dears, have good breeding and gentiliquette.”
One of the girls interjected. “But, Mama, wasn’t Lady Sturgeon an Everly before she married the viscount? She must have had some qualities to recommend her, to make such a match.”
“Piff paff! An animomoly! She was pretty enough in her youth and had a handsome dowry. Like all the Everly women, she lacks true refinement, as that business with the footmen amply demonstrated. Lord Sturgeon is a fool, or he’d have cast her off years ago.”
“Footmen, Mama?”
“Not for you to know, Paulina!” Lady Pippsbury was making no effort to lower her voice, the words carrying quite clearly to Cornelia’s burning ears.
“You need only cast your mind to the actions of Mrs. Mortmain’s mother. Throwing over her husband to abscondicate with a penniless artist! I ask you! Flighty and featherbrained! Such recklessness runs in the blood. Mark my words, the daughter will come to a bad end herself. No loyalty, no integrity, and no sense.”
Cornelia didn’t want to hear the poisonous words. Hadn’t she berated her aunts for eavesdropping on the train? One rarely heard good of oneself, as the saying went. But, how could she not listen?
“Remember, girls. A true lady is not ruled by passions. Now, we must hasten to the drawing room. Lady Studborne wishes us to hear her brattish offspring recite some twaddle, and we must oblige. The duchess’s good favour is sure to count for something with her brother, and there are other gentlemen to practise upon. None are as wealthy as Mr. Burnell, but Lord Fairlea is no paltry catch and the baron is not without means. We must cast our nets where the fish are flipping, my dears.”
As their footsteps retreated, Cornelia let out a great gulping cry. She was familiar with smirks and smug expressions, titters behind fans, amused whispers, and sudden silences as she passed. She’d hardly ‘fitted in’, even before her mother’s departure. Afterward, women like Lady Pippsbury had treated her as if she were unworthy to associate with them; as if she were tainted—like a mud-spattered slipper.
Men had regarded her with a more speculative eye.
Her father had asserted that his wife was visiting an elderly relative in Paris, and continued to send Cornelia to dance parties and soirées.
She hadn’t understood, at the time, why men who’d previously ignored her now stood much closer. Stray hands would touch her bottom; an arm would brush her breasts. She’d learnt to avoid quiet passageways and dimly lit terraces.
Thus had Cornelia first learnt what it was to be the subject of sordid gossip, and to know that she was viewed as an apple falling from the same tree as her runaway mother.
And, all the while, her father had been negotiating—finding someone who’d take her regardless of the rumours, fishing for a man who wouldn’t be fussy, baited by a large enough dowry.
Brushing aside her tears, she tiptoed after the Pippsburys. One thing was certain; she couldn’t face joining the other guests for whatever frivolity was underway. The duke and duchess would be busy and wouldn’t notice her absence. She’d retreat to her room, pleading a sore head if necessary.
Only as she crossed the great hall, making her way towards the stairs, did she remember her arrangement to meet Burnell in the library.
Meanwhile, in the duke’s study…
* * *
Studborne clapped Ethan on the shoulder in sympathy. “Not a problem, old man; leave Rosamund to me.”
Ethan hadn’t thought to confide his plans, but his brother-in-law had been effusive in his congratulations—asking even if they needed to send an announcement to The Times. He’d felt obliged to confess.
Truth be told, he’d thrown himself into the whole make-believe with more gusto than he’d intended, and Cornelia’s irritation about it had been the icing on the cake. She was an easy one to rile.
He hadn’t realized how easy it would be to convince everyone, and now they were panting for a formal announcement. No matter how he was enjoying the charade, he’d have to wrap this thing up pretty fast.
It wasn’t fair on Cornelia, and it sure as hell wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
Half the wedding-hungry mamas and bright-eyed daughters Rosamund had invited had cried off, thanks to the weather, but his fooling around with the delicious Mrs. Mortmain hadn’t seemed to put off the ones who’d made it through the snow.
Lady Pippsbury was like a rattler in the desert, fixing him with those snake-eyes of hers.
Meanwhile, the one seated on his other side at lunch had left him in no doubt that nothing was off the menu. Hers was the sort of deal he’d have happily taken advantage of once upon a time. It wasn’t like this was his first rodeo.
But, for whatever reason, he wasn’t tempted.
Darn it! Truth was, he didn’t set his mind on more than one woman at once, and the one he was ke
en on wasn’t offering her favours quite so freely.
He hadn’t been lying about having his curiosity piqued. That little girl he’d scooted about with on the beach had grown into a damn fine woman and, for all that talk of her reputation being tarnished, she seemed a yard an’ a half more principled than most of the women he’d met.
If he was going to sweet-talk anyone into his arms, it would be her—at least for the duration of this interlude.
It was a relief in any case, to have set things straight with Studborne. He’d understood straight off. Rosamund was the best sister in the world, but she was misguided on the romance front. Not every man wanted to get hitched—plain and simple.
The duke had agreed to have a quiet word, downplaying Ethan’s interest. At the end of the festivities, he’d melt away, back to where he needed to be, and Cornelia could return to whatever she’d been occupying herself with before he rolled up.
It only remained to put her in the picture.
Chapter 8
Ethan took the door leading directly from the duke’s study to the library, emerging into a shadowed corner, furthest from the window. Ethan had to concede, this was one room in the house that had his admiration. It smelt of leather and tobacco and, needless to say, of books. There were no tapestries here, only endless volumes—ranged floor to ceiling on sturdy dark oak shelves. The floor, polished to a high shine, was scattered with Turkish carpets, and a desk of mahogany, with a large, wing-backed chair behind, sat under mullioned windows. The only other furniture was clustered about the fires, which crackled cheerily at either end of the room.
As he stepped forward, he saw her head bent over her book. She was absorbed in reading, with legs tucked up beneath her and a green blanket wrapped around. For some reason, her coat was thrown over the back of the sofa and her outside footwear was kicked off by the hearth. Her dog, resting its chin on one boot, cocked its ears as he drew closer.
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 8