Reaching the far end of the room, she swivelled for one final look back. He was frowning and, for a moment, she feared he would follow her. She held up her hand in protest. “No need to see me out. Please do carry on. Everyone is so looking forward to seeing the treasures when your gallery is ready, Mr. Burnell. Don’t let me detain you.” Without further ado, she made a dash for the basement stairs.
Only once she was out on Great Russell Street and climbing into a Hansom cab did she allow herself to breathe freely again. Throughout the entire fiasco, she had avoided revealing to Mr. Burnell her full identity—and thank Heavens for that small mercy!
But something else nagged at her.
Ethan...
None of her acquaintances bore that name and yet her tongue remembered it. The shape of it was already in her mouth.
The sun was high and the sky was blue and the sea was far off, leaving a great stretch of sand. The boy running ahead turned a cartwheel and gave a whoop and her little legs ran hard to keep up. She was calling his name and laughing.
Was it real? Or something she’d dreamt?
She gave herself a shake. All that mattered was keeping her head down. While Mr. Burnell was at the museum, she’d simply have to remain out of his way. Under no circumstances could there be a second meeting.
Chapter 3
Portman Square, London
Later that evening
Taking her usual seat in the drawing room, Cornelia eased back, careful not to spill from her coffee cup. She was certain that a bruise was coming on the upper half of her bottom. She’d have to apply some arnica cream before retiring to bed.
No sooner was she settled than the scruffy little Jack Russell at her feet leapt onto the sofa, placing her head in Cornelia’s lap. The dog looked up with beseeching eyes.
“Alright, Minnie. As long as you don’t wriggle.” Cornelia gave the terrier’s ears a rub. Minnie rolled promptly onto her back, presenting her tummy for more luxurious caresses.
Eustacia, seated closest to the hearth, lowered her copy of Madame Potins’ Nouvelles de la Société and cleared her throat. “My dears! The most delightful scandal! Cousin Cynthia has outdone herself!”
Cornelia paused in stroking Minnie’s soft ivory fur. “Really, Aunt, I do wish you wouldn’t persist in taking that horrible scandal sheet. Most of it is complete invention and the remainder none of our business. I know Cynthia likes to make herself the centre of attention but I’m sure she’s done nothing to warrant public censure.”
The old lady’s eyes glinted mischievously. “I rather wonder if Cynthia isn’t a deal more cunning that we gave her credit for. Apparently, she laid herself out on her husband's library desk, completely nude but for the family jewels. Not just the rubies but all of them at once, including the emerald tiara! And three footmen in attendance, serving her champagne when Lord Sturgeon walked in.”
Aunt Blanche spluttered on her whisky. “How uncouth! You’d think Cynthia would know better than to wear mixed gems, even for an informal occasion. Still, I’m hardly surprised. Cynthia’s taste has always been questionable.”
“One can hardly fault her taste in footmen though.” Eustacia gave a playful smirk. “She was promenading them quite shamefully at last month’s Whist gathering.”
“Why, yes! And the tightness of their breeches! The poor fellows must have been dreadfully uncomfortable, especially as she kept finding excuses to make them bend over.” Blanche licked her lips wistfully.
“You are both dreadful and should be very much ashamed!” Cornelia gave each of her aunts a disapproving glare. “Besides such comments regarding the male anatomy being crudely objectifying, you are treating the matter without the least portion of empathy. Cynthia must be beside herself with worry—and she’s been very kind to me; to all of us! I’ve no idea why she would behave in such an outrageous manner, but we must rally to her side.”
“Calm yourself, Cornelia.” Eustacia folded the paper in her lap. “I tend to forget that, despite your marriage to that awful man, you lack experience of these matters. Lord Sturgeon has been far too neglectful of his wife. Cynthia was merely reasserting herself to gain his attention. Jealousy is an emotion easily manipulated. Admittedly, when our dear cousin hinted at her intention, I had no idea she planned to be so inventive, but it appears her daring has paid off. Lord Sturgeon made a dreadful fuss at first but the two have since left for Paris—to patch things up.”
Cornelia felt her cheeks flushing. The passing of time had done little to dim the painful memory of her own appearance in Madame Potins’ pages. How anyone could seek to make a spectacle of themselves, encouraging lurid gossip, she couldn’t fathom. The more salacious the tidbit, the faster rumours travelled, and household staff could rarely be relied upon to be discreet.
“Well, as long as Lady Sturgeon isn’t in distress, it’s hardly my place to pass judgement.” Cornelia pursed her lips. “It’s commendable that Lord and Lady Sturgeon are making a go of things. I wish them well.”
“I say brava. Although rather thoughtless of her to break up our Whist Four at short notice.” Blanche gave a sly smile. “Perhaps we should enquire about the footmen. In light of what’s happened, they might be seeking employment elsewhere. I’m sure we could find something for them to do.”
“All three?” Eustacia sat up a little straighter and Blanche gave a throaty laugh.
“I love you both, but you are incorrigible.” Cornelia sighed.
“We are suitably chastened, but I fear it won’t stop Eustacia reading Madame Potins’ gossip. One reaches a certain age where much of life must be lived vicariously.”
“Speak for yourself, Blanche.” Eustacia returned to her pages. “There’s an advertisement on page eleven with a rather exciting proposition—a clandestine soirée of some sort. Guests of ‘an adventurous disposition’ are invited. It sounds most intriguing. I shall put ink to paper in the morning and attempt to find out more.”
“How thrilling!” Finishing her glass, Blanche sidled over to add another inch. “I suppose you’re right. One is never too old to try something new.”
Replacing her cup on the table, Cornelia folded her hands in her lap. “I know you’re only saying such things to jest with me, so I shall pretend not to have heard a word!”
Blanche rose to place a kiss on Cornelia’s forehead then wandered over to the cigar box. “Much the best thing, although it does to maintain one’s sense of humour, dearest.” She struck a match then inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring across the room. “Far too many aspects of life are predictable, or depressingly banal. A little innocent fun is often the best tonic.”
“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word ‘innocent’, and I do wish you’d give up that horrible habit.” Cornelia wrinkled her nose.
“For once, I’m in accord.” Eustacia retreated further behind Madam Potins’ pages. “It’s a vice too far, darling.”
Cornelia nodded. “If you must puff, at least open the window and blow that hideous smell outside.”
"Very well.” Inclining her head, Blanche clucked her tongue. “Come on Minnie. You can help.”
The terrier immediately pricked her ears and hopped up to perch on the rear of the sofa. In one great leap, she landed on the padded bench beneath the bay window and, balancing on her back legs, reached her paw to the handle.
“Clever dog!” Blanche gave the dog a quick pat as the window swung open, and directed her next exhalation of cigar smoke into the night air. The terrier, meanwhile, poked its head out to survey the passing of a carriage down on the square.
Cornelia jumped up in alarm. “Minnie, down at once!”
With a rueful final glance at the outside world, the terrier leapt to the floor and skulked off to hide behind Eustacia’s armchair.
“Don’t tell me Minnie learnt that on her own. You’ve been teaching her tricks again, haven’t you?” Cornelia glowered at Blanche. “This really must stop. First showing her how to take up the poker and prod the fire;
now encouraging her to open windows. She might fall to her death or set the place on fire, or any number of awful things!” A wave of frustration and irritation and despair suddenly rushed up, breaking over Cornelia’s head. For a moment, she thought she might scream but, seeing the startled look upon Blanche’s face, she simply buried her own in her hands. A great sob heaved up from inside.
Extinguishing her cigar, Blanche hurried over, putting her arms around her niece. “There, there darling. You’re overwrought, and have been ever since you came through the door. I don’t know what’s going on at that stuffy old place but I don’t believe the museum is making you happy, and there are so many more amusing things you might be doing. As to teaching Minnie a few party pieces, it’s only harmless fun. The weather was quite awful today; the time does go so slowly, and Minnie was bored, too, waiting for you to return home. You’re neglecting her, just like Lord Sturgeon with cousin Cynthia.”
Cornelia dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She’d been tempted to tell all over dinner, but the incident with Mr. Burnell was just too humiliating. Besides which, she knew her aunts too well. They’d simply latch onto the ‘exciting’ parts of the story, and ask her a hundred questions about the American, rather than understanding how worried she was.
Patting Blanche’s arm, Cornelia attempted a smile. “I’m fine, and I do enjoy being at the museum. I’m just thinking of Lord and Lady Sturgeon… It’s wonderful, really, to see them making such efforts to win one another over. And, it’s the time of year, perhaps. Too many memories, making me over-emotional.”
Blanche’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Cornelia! Simply thoughtless of me! It’s the anniversary tomorrow isn’t it.” Her expression was transformed by remorse. “Do sit down and I’ll bring you a brandy.”
While Blanche poured her the restorative, Eustacia bustled to retrieve her imported box of Turkish Delight, pressing Cornelia to take a piece.
With her aunts seated on either side of her, Cornelia reminded herself of how very fortunate she was. They did exasperate her at times, but she didn’t know how she’d manage without them. Without the least hesitation, they’d travelled up from their beloved cottage in Dorset. Cornelia knew Eustacia missed tending her roses and, though Blanche had kept up her watercolours, there was no seascape to inspire her from the Portman Square residence.
The anniversary they spoke of had nothing to do with her father’s passing. Rather, they were referring to the death of the man who had, briefly, been her husband. The man who’d taught Cornelia the folly of trusting one’s heart to a stranger, and who’d shuffled off the mortal coil under the most humiliating of circumstances, five years ago.
Oswald Mortmain—who had not loved her, nor even pretended to; who had cared nothing for her happiness, merely giving her the respectability of his name—such as it was. As the nephew of an impoverished viscount, he had little else to recommend him.
It had taken barely a month for Cornelia to realize that her marriage was a sham. How thrilled she’d been to receive the invitation to the festive gathering at the Mortmain family seat, in Hampshire. She still remembered that fateful night, when she’d woken to an empty bed and the commotion of guests and servants, milling about the passageway outside her room.
He was not the first husband to take his lusts to some other woman’s chamber, nor the first to suffer an attack of the heart, swift and sudden, mid-coitus, but few gentlemen managed such a spectacular end atop the lady of the house.
The matter had been impossible to conceal and, to Cornelia’s shame, the family had spoken as if it were her fault that her husband had indulged in night-wanderings—and with the wife of his uncle, no less.
It had hardly helped that the incident followed so closely on the heels of the other ‘Great Scandal’, the fact of which had obliged her father to arrange the hasty marriage to Mortmain in the first place.
Oswald had taken her not for love, nor for the running of his household. Not even for the bearing of children, as far as Cornelia could gather. His only interest had been in her dowry, the generosity of which had been in counterpoint to the enormity of her mother’s scandalous behaviour.
“It is all rather unfortunate, my darling.” Eustacia rubbed Cornelia’s back. “To have one’s reputation smeared while having done nothing remotely scandalous oneself.”
“Horribly unfair,” agreed Blanche. “As if you can help what happened with your mother, or that dreadful husband of yours.”
Cornelia could only nod her agreement. By any reckoning, she’d experienced her fair share of misfortune. Moreover, she couldn’t escape a sense of responsibility—if not for Oswald’s behaviour than for her failure to fulfil her father’s wish to see her happily wed.
Her father’s passing, two years after Mortmain, had only compounded her misery. It was all a monstrous mess.
And now, through her own imprudence, she’d jeopardized the pursuit of her one true interest. If she were no longer permitted to help at the museum, how mundane her days would become.
Shaking out her handkerchief, Cornelia gave her nose a good blow. Of course, there was no point in worrying about things before they’d happened. She really ought to pull herself together.
Assuming as cheerful a countenance as she could muster, Cornelia patted the sofa and called to Minnie, who immediately flew to her place by her mistress’s side, wriggling between the multitude of skirts. With her head tucked under the crook of Cornelia’s arm, the terrier looked up with baleful eyes.
“There, there, gorgeous thing.” Cornelia cupped her palm to one furry cheek. “You know I love you. Together, we’ll soldier on.”
“That’s the spirit.” Blanche beamed. “We must rise above mishap and tribulation; it’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.”
“Now, dearest, I want to show you the other item of interest from Madame Potins.” Eustacia rose to fetch the paper, folding it over and holding up the relevant page for her to see.
Cornelia swallowed hard. Looking back at her, in black and white, was a photograph of Mr. Ethan Burnell, taken on the steps of the British Museum. There was no mistaking that he was one and the same with the man Cornelia had accosted, exuding the same aura of restiveness—unruly and wild and unpredictable.
The caption read: ‘The Deliciously Dangerous Man Every Hostess is Inviting to Dine.’
Cornelia scanned the first few paragraphs. Really, Madame Potins was quite shameless. Though her experience as a married woman had been limited, even Cornelia could appreciate the innuendo. Moreover, Mr. Burnell’s physical attributes were listed in a most inappropriate manner. His achievements in the realm of archaeology and exploration were given but cursory mention, Madame Potins focusing most prominently on how long Mr. Burnell had been without the benefit of elegant female company.
“This is hardly news, Aunt. All the papers have been fêting Mr. Burnell. Some have even gone as far to include facts rather than making up twaddle like this.”
“Bish-bosh! Madame Potins is only saying what half of London is thinking. The man is divinely handsome, and his adventures into little explored realms only render him more fascinating. But, you’re missing the point, Cornelia.” Eustacia tapped the photo impatiently. “Surely, you recognize him?”
Cornelia bit her lip. There was something about him that contrived to appear familiar, but some people’s faces were simply like that, weren’t they—giving one the feeling that they’d always been known.
“Dorset, darling.” Blanche interjected. “Eustacia and I have been unravelling the threads. Over the years, we’ve kept up correspondence with Rosamund, and she mentioned her brother setting off to Mexico on some jaunt or other, but we didn’t put two and two together until earlier today.”
“Rosamund?” Cornelia didn’t think she knew anyone of that name. There had been a few girls she’d made friends with during her brief season but none had wanted to maintain a connection after the debacle with her mother.
“That first summer you spent wi
th us at the cottage. Weather was glorious. We were on the beach every day. Rosamund’s mother was rather disapproving, because we let you run about with bare feet—but then her own boy insisted on doing the same. They were renting the villa on the clifftop. You and he were inseparable for a time. You must recall, dear.”
“You were only six. I warned Eustacia that you might not remember.” Blanche patted Cornelia’s knee. “A charming family, although the mother was a little overprotective.”
The realization stole Cornelia’s breath away. Growing up, she’d spent almost every summer with her aunts. Their garden had a gate leading straight to the beach and they’d always given her far more freedom than her parents would have conceived of. She’d played mostly on her own, but sometimes with other children and, from the furthest corner of her memory, she pulled out the image of the dark-haired boy, slightly older than herself. Had his name been Ethan? Perhaps…
“I’m surprised you didn’t say something yourself, Cornelia dear—what with Mr. Burnell’s exhibition being organized at the Museum. You seem to have been there more than at home lately. We wondered if you might have crossed paths.” Eustacia dipped her chin, peering at her niece over her spectacles.
Blanche gave an impatient sigh. “We hoped…that is to say, you’re your own woman of course, and there’s no necessity for you to ever be bound to a man again, but he is remarkably attractive.”
“And intrepid,” Eustacia added.
“And American.” Blanche clasped her hands, her eyes alight with excitement. “They aren’t half so stuffy over there, especially in the mid-West, so I’ve heard. He won’t know anything about…you know.”
“Even if he does learn of it, he likely won’t care.” Eustacia was positively beaming. “Americans are masters in the art of reinvention, and you’re still young enough to start again Cornelia—to begin anew with a man who adores you, to raise a family together, to share all life’s wonders hand in hand.”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 35