Scandal and the Duchess

by Jennifer Ashley

John beamed like a puppy who’d been praised. He bowed to Rose, mumbled a thanks, and scooted off.

  “Curious,” Rose said, her excitement returning. “Shall we adjourn to the summerhouse?”

  Steven glanced through the high window, which showed nothing but rain and clouds. “The weather is wretched. Why don’t you sit in a comfortable room with the housekeeper bringing you tea and cakes, and I’ll tramp through the mud and search the summerhouse?”

  “No, indeed.” Rose leaned to him and closed her fingers around the key. “I’ll not sit here, trembling and nervous, waiting for your return. I’m going with you, and that is that.”

  ***

  Rose regretted her eagerness a bit when they were halfway to the summerhouse, the wind biting them and bringing tears to her eyes. The summerhouse lay on the far end of the huge formal garden, right on the edge of the estate, a lengthy tramp along paths that had become overgrown and rough.

  Rose, bundled up warmly, walked with Steven, arm in arm, their heads down into the wind. One of the dogs that had come back to the house with the steward and Albert—a black bird dog with a lolling tongue—followed them, and nothing could dissuade him from it.

  Rose had never been to the summerhouse. According to Charles, they’d stopped using it years ago. It was an old thing, apparently, built at the beginning of the century, when every gentleman had to have a summerhouse or folly to simulate Roman or Greek ruins.

  This summerhouse was reached by a narrow path beyond a gate at the end of the garden, and up a rather steep hill. The small building was round, imitating a rotunda, with pseudo Roman columns encircling it. It looked as though it had once been painted warm yellow, but years of wind, rain, fallen leaves, and English damp had rendered it a streaked gray, with the original stones showing through. A true ruin, instead of a false one.

  Steven inserted the large key into the rusting lock of the summerhouse’s door. He had to put all his strength into turning it, grunting with the effort. Just as Rose feared the key itself would break, the lock screeched, the tumblers moving.

  “No one’s oiled this lately, that’s for certain,” Steven said.

  He pulled at the door—which nearly fell on top of him. The hinges were weak, rust flaking from them as they pulled partway out of the wall.

  Steven started to laugh. “I see I needn’t have bothered wrestling with the lock. Careful, Rosie.”

  He propped the door open, took Rose’s arm and steered her inside. The dog, who’d sat down patiently while Steven had fought the lock, pushed past Rose, his head up, nose working.

  The interior of the summerhouse was dank and dim. The rotunda floor had once been paved with fine marble, but now the blocks were chipped and loose. Light came from windows high above to show them dirt and bird droppings, niches containing now-empty pedestals, and a jumble of furniture, covered with overlapping sheets, in the middle of the floor.

  The dog sniffed around this pile curiously, then sat down and wagged his tail as Steven reached for the sheets.

  “Hold your breath,” Steven advised.

  Rose backed away, grabbing the dog by its scruff and dragging him with her.

  Steven started pulling the old sheets away. He gathered them into his arms, trying to mitigate the cloud of dust that rose from them, but he lost the battle. Rose sneezed, pressing her finger under her nose. The dog sneezed as well, throwing droplets of moisture through the air. His entire body rippled as he drew another breath and sneezed again.

  The dust settled over Steven, coating his black coat a light gray. He ruffled his hair, sending up another cloud of dust, and tossed the sheets aside.

  The furniture beneath didn’t look like much. Odds and ends, much of it broken.

  Rose started to express disappointment, then she wiped her streaming eyes and pointed. “What’s that?”

  Steven waded among the chairs with no seats, the canted table with a broken leg, and lifted a shell of a bookcase out of his way.

  Buried beneath the jetsam of mahogany and walnut was a hint of black and a gleam of gold. Steven started throwing aside the broken furniture, which shattered to the floor like so much firewood.

  “This is it,” he said, then he stopped. “Dear God, what a mess.”

  Rose hurried to him. The dog, caught up in the excitement, dove under the wrecked furniture, emerging with a large stick that once belonged to a spindle-backed chair. The dog presented it to Rose, wagging his tail faster.

  Rose absently took the stick and tossed it for the dog to chase. “It’s ruined,” she said dispiritedly.

  Steven pushed more furniture aside, revealing what once had been a finely crafted, if ugly, settee. “No wonder it was brought out here with the discards.”

  Rose had seen the piece before her marriage to Charles, when he’d brought her to the house to show her where she’d live. The settee had rested in an unused parlor high in the house, given pride of place under wide window and flanked by tall, ebony and gilt candelabras.

  After the wedding, Rose had been caught up in preparations for her new life and then Charles’s death. She’d never noticed the settee had gone from the house, hadn’t much thought about it until now.

  It had been placed out here for mice to nest in, it seemed, and for the wood to be split and ruined by damp. Only the inlay had survived, though it was covered in dirt and muck. Steven scraped at the patterns with his gloved fingers to reveal more gold.

  “Someone painted over that,” Steven said. “What a bizarre thing to do.”

  “Maybe hiding its worth?” Rose suggested. “Not that sitting out here for a year and a half hasn’t destroyed it. Why would Charles do such a thing? Or did the servants lug it away by mistake?”

  Steven stepped back to survey the room and the settee’s position in it. “No, this was set here on purpose, buried under a pile of useless junk. Charles hid it, love.”

  “But why would he?” Rose took the stick from the dog, who’d brought it back to her. He sat down and looked at Rose expectantly, so she tossed it for him again. “And why would he draw the rose on the back of the sketch? Not to mention hiding the sketches in the cabinet?”

  “He was saving them for you,” Steven suggested. “He must have changed his will at the same time, to add you to it and leave you the furniture.”

  “But he didn’t know he was going to die so soon,” Rose said. “How could he?”

  Steven came to stand next to her, his warmth cutting the chill. “Maybe he did, love. Doctors might not have told him his heart would give out, but maybe he knew, deep down inside. Perhaps he didn’t expect it to happen as quickly as it did, but he must have known he’d have to leave you to Albert’s mercy.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  Steven slid his arm around her, pulling her close. “A man doesn’t like to confess weakness to a lady, especially not one he loves. Trust me on this.”

  “Poor Charles,” Rose said. Her heart ached for him.

  She knew now, after these few days with Steven, that while she’d loved Charles, she’d loved him in a different way than she did Steven. Charles had been kindness, comfort, caring. Steven was passion, excitement, offering her a world behind her narrow confines. Steven was a man who felt deeply, never mind that he covered it up with joking, self-deprecation, and drink.

  Steven held Rose close, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He had such strength, such warmth, a pillar more solid than the columns of this summerhouse for her to lean on. Charles was like this ruined place—Rose’s past. Steven was whole and new—Rose’s life now. And her future? She couldn’t know.

  Steven kissed Rose gently on the lips and wiped a tear from her face. “Whatever reason he stashed it out here, Charles wanted you to have this,” Steven said. “Let’s shift it, and get back to our cozy hotel.”

  ***

  Rose helped Steven push the old furniture aside to release the settee. Its once bright seat cushion was a tattered mess, stuffing from nearly a hun
dred years ago hanging out of it in gray threads. Even the mice had abandoned it.

  The dog tried to help, digging at the loose marble tiles around it. Finally Rose and Steven had cleared a path that allowed them to drag the settee to the door and out to the summerhouse’s porch.

  Rain was falling steadily, coming on gusts of wind that spattered heavy droplets across the steps. Steven shoved the settee to the leeward side of the porch and dusted off his hands.

  “I’ll go back to the house and tell Albert he is going to lend us transport,” he said. He looked out between the trees to the windswept garden beyond. “You can wait here, out of the rain, at least, though it’s bloody cold.”

  “I’m resilient,” Rose said. “And I have a dog.”

  Steven went to Rose and took her hands. It was never cold where he was—when Rose had woken this morning wrapped around him, she’d never been so happy.

  “You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever had the fortune to know,” Steven said. “Thank you, Rose.”

  She stared up at him. “For what?”

  “For teaching me what courage means.” Steven leaned to her, his breath brushing her lips before he kissed her.

  The kiss held all the heat of their loving night, and the light of new day.

  Rose pulled Steven close, savoring him. If she had nothing else, she’d remember this, the two of them private in the cold, and the intimacy of waking up next to him in his bed. These were memories she’d hold to her for the rest of her life.

  Steven flashed her a grin as he straightened up. “I’ll run all the way.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And then we’ll feast on hot tea and whiskey.”

  His smile could change her world. Rose clung to his hands another moment, then she gave a little laugh and let him go.

  Rose watched Steven dodge his way through the trees, his head down against the wind. He truly did run, moving so fast his wind-whipped greatcoat and kilt exposed his strong thighs.

  Rose kept her gaze on him until the trees obscured him, then she shivered and moved back into the relative shelter of the summerhouse. The dog whined after Steven, but turned and entered the summerhouse with Rose.

  Rose stood in the middle of the rotunda, looking over the wreck of the furniture, the dog warm against her legs. “If I had a match, I could built us a nice roaring fire,” she said, patting the dog’s side. He waged his tail and gazed up at her, his vitality coming through her gloved hands.

  “Then I’d have the constables on you.” Albert’s voice floating in before his body blocked the open doorway. “When your paramour comes back for you, you go and stay out of my sight. I never want to see you here again, or I will have you arrested for trespass.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Albert glared at her, the dim light sparkling on his blue eyes. He glared at the dog as well, who shrank into Rose’s side.

  “I hadn’t intended to return after this,” Rose said, keeping her voice even. “I will take what Charles wished me to have, and go.”

  Albert didn’t move. “It’s criminal you should have anything at all.”

  Rose frowned at him. “It’s what your father wanted. You can dance around with your solicitors trying to tie up my settlements, but this was written out very plainly.”

  “I intend to prove my father wasn’t in a sound mind when he wrote it. Won’t be hard to prove. He had to be mad to marry a woman less than half his age.”

  “There was absolutely nothing wrong with Charles’s mind,” Rose said indignantly. “He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever known.”

  “Kind was he?” Albert balled his fists as he stepped inside. He hadn’t donned a hat, or else it been torn off in the wind, and his thin, graying hair was a mess. “He wasn’t kind to me, was he? His own son—his only son!”

  “You shunned him,” Rose said, lifting her chin. “When I met Charles, he was very lonely. In all the time I was betrothed to him, and then married to him, you never once called on him, or tried to meet with him, or wrote him any letters except having to do with business.”

  “How do you know? Did you read his correspondence?”

  “Of course not. He told me—very sad that you couldn’t bother to even have a conversation with him.”

  “You know nothing!” Albert shouted, the words ringing to the high ceiling. “You stupid tart! My father never had time for me—ever. Not when I was a boy, not when I left school, not when I became a man. He never cared that I made my own living without taking a penny from him, and a good living. No, he only cared about this sodding house and the bloody title and the family name. He didn’t care about me at all!”

  Rose bit back her next retort, sensing she was wading into murky waters. Charles had always spoken of Albert sadly, as someone estranged from him. A gap between us, my dear Rose, he’d said. More like a chasm. I thought perhaps we didn’t see eye to eye because of our ages, but you are younger than he, and you and I rub along very well, don’t we?

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said to Albert. “It’s clear you two had much friction, and I’m very sorry about that. You needn’t worry about seeing me anymore. I’ll take what he left me and go.”

  Albert wasn’t listening. He took another step toward her. “My father was wrapped up in my mother. The sun and moon rose and set on her. I thought, I hoped, after she was gone, that he’d turn to me. Embrace me. At least talk to me. But no. You came along and put paid to that, didn’t you? He saw you, and again he forgot I existed. You played him, you little whore. You wrapped him around your finger, and he couldn’t see anything but you. Stupid bugger—at his age, what could he really poke? But you stroked his vanity and turned him from me, and I was cut out again.” Another step, the rage boiling from him. “Then you killed him. He tried to be young again for you, and it killed him. And so, I’m making sure you don’t get one penny of Southdown money. Not cash, not a trust, not a house, not a room in a house. You’ll get your two pieces of bloody furniture, but only if it’s scrap wood.”

  He took two more strides inside, then started beating the pile of furniture with his walking stick. Pound, pound, pound!

  Rose skipped well back, the dog hiding behind her, whining. Chairs broke, tables fell, the wood rotted, the cloth and rush seats exploding in dust.

  Albert beat it all, his face red, arms straining. Rose saw with alarm that he’d started to smile—a gruesome smile—as though breaking up the furniture his father had put out here released something feral inside him.

  Rose started to edge around him. Wind and rain notwithstanding, she wanted to be hurrying up the path after Steven, not shivering while Albert rained destruction inside the summerhouse.

  Albert saw her. He snarled at her and rushed her, shaking his walking stick.

  Rose yelped and scrambled back. The dog, cringing no more, braced himself in front of Rose and started to bark at Albert.

  Albert seemed to come to himself a little. He lowered the stick but swung around and scuttled for the door.

  “You can wait in here for you lover,” he snapped. “I never want to see you again.”

  The idea sat well with Rose. Albert could be left alone with his bitterness and rage, and that would be fine with her.

  Albert turned around and glared at her again, his face blotchy, eyes protruding. Then he stepped onto the summerhouse’s porch, wrestled a moment with the big door, and managed to shove it closed.

  The summerhouse shook with the impact, raising dust. Rose started sneezing again, the dog echoing her.

  She put her hand over her nose and mouth and headed for the door, stopping in dismay when she heard the key screech in the lock.

  No matter, Rose thought in irritation. The hinges were flimsy enough. She’d wait until Albert was gone, then pry the door loose from the wall.

  The next moment, she heard a scraping, heavy sound of the ebony settee being dragged along the porch and thumped in front of the door.

  “Albert!” Rose yelled. She pounded on the door’s flaking panels
. “Let me out at once!”

  More pounding, as Albert presumably took his stick to the settee as he’d done to the other furniture. Then came more dragging—this time it sounded as though Albert piled large tree limbs, easy to find in this neglected woods, on top of the settee to block her in. Rose pushed at the door. The hinges gave a little, enough to let in light, but she couldn’t shove the door far enough to slip out.

  “Albert!” she shouted.

  She heard another drag, thump, and rattle of a heavy branch. The light between the slit in the door was muted.

  “Damn and blast you, Albert!”

  She heard his tread as he stomped away, then silence but for the wind and rain. Rose balled her fists and beat on the door again. The dog pawed at it, then looked up at her, worried.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Rose pressed her hands flat on the door, then reached down and gave the dog a reassuring pat. “Steven will be back in a few minutes. Won’t he?”

  The dog wagged his tail, but looked perplexed, as though wondering why on earth Rose wasn’t letting them out of there.

  Rose gazed around at the wreck of the summerhouse and the ruined furniture in sadness. Charles must have sent the extra furniture out here to disguise the settee, but still, these things had been part of the house, part of its history. Albert apparently hated that history.

  It was also sad that Charles and Albert had never had a chance to settle their differences. Albert blamed Rose, but Rose could feel no remorse or guilt for that. Either man could have tried to talk to the other, regardless of Rose’s presence. She’d certainly done nothing to keep Charles from Albert—she’d barely known Albert. Charles could have made overtures to his son, but it was also clear that Albert was a spoiled brat, even at his age.

  These thoughts went through Rose’s head distractedly as she let out an irritated breath. She was cold, rain pounded down on the roof, and who knew how long it would be before Steven and Albert’s staff could trundle a wagon down here?

  The dog left Rose’s side to circle the room, his head down. He might smell rats or birds—the dog would have been trained to fetch grouse or other game from fields after a shoot.