Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)
Page 40
Above, the stucco ceiling was most prettily finished, its cherubs carrying garlands of roses between them, surrounding a central chandelier of magnificent proportions.
The window panes were patterned with frost and the snow was falling harder than ever, piling deep against the French doors leading to the terrace. The grand vista over open parkland was blanketed white, the lake iced beyond.
Nancy had been right. In this sort of weather, no further guests would be arriving; nor would any be leaving.
Taking her seat, Cornelia realized that not only was Mr. Burnell absent but Lord Studborne also.
The duchess rang a little bell to summon everyone’s attention and, looking to each in turn, gave her welcome. “It gives me great pleasure to have gathered so many dear friends to our home. Be assured we have much fun planned and, despite the not-far-off-arrival of another Studborne—” Here, she rested her hand upon the swell before her, “I intend to join in the festivities.”
There were a few titters and a murmur of approval about the table.
“Please accept my apologies on His Grace’s behalf.” She indicated the empty seat at the far end. “He asks us not to delay. Despite the inclement weather, his Grace took my brother on a tour of the estate and they came across some sheep in trouble in the lower meadow. Not wishing to be bested by a snow drift, the two set about hauling out the livestock by hand. They returned a few minutes ago, and should be with us shortly.”
Another wave of respectful mutterings greeted the announcement, alongside a cry of ‘Hoorah for his Grace, Saviour of Sheep’, which met with subdued chuckles.
“Thank you Lord Fairlea.” The duchess smiled benignly. “I’ve been wondering what to embroider upon his Grace’s handkerchiefs; now, I have my answer.”
The laughter came freely at Lady Studborne’s joke and, at her nod, the footmen stepped forward to serve the soup.
“Oh, courgette and pea, my favourite.” The matron next to Cornelia inhaled appreciatively. “It was a rather tricky walk up the lane from the rectory but I’m so glad we came. The duke and duchess are wonderful hosts. Have you known them long?”
Cornelia observed Mrs. Nossle taking note of her name card, balanced within a holly sprig at the head of her place-setting. Nothing in her demeanour indicated that the name Mortmain was familiar, and Cornelia couldn’t help but feel relief. “Some small acquaintance when I was a child, though my aunts have a long-standing correspondence with the duchess. I haven’t met the duke as yet.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll like him very well. Everyone does.” Mrs. Nossle lowered her voice, so that Cornelia was obliged to lean a little closer. “A vast improvement on his father. One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead but something wasn’t right there. For a time, Reverend Nossle helped place some girls from Weymouth orphanage in the old duke’s employ but none of them stayed long. Always a sign, don’t you think, that all isn’t well in a house.”
“I really couldn’t say…” Cornelia gave an inward sigh.
Mrs. Nossle was clearly as great a gossip as the rest. When she heard of Cornelia’s past, no doubt, she’d be whispering about that instead.
“My husband, the Reverend, sees it as his duty to discover all he can about the history of the parish.” Mrs Nossle went on, between mouthfuls of soup. “The Abbey is built on the foundations of the old monastery, with only a small portion of the original remaining. It was founded by a Franciscan monk who travelled to Mexico, they say: one Friar Vasco de Benevente. During the Reformation, it all passed to private hands, like many of the holy buildings in these parts. It was then that King Henry VIII created the title of Duke of Studborne.”
Mrs. Nossle broke her bread roll and heaped a generous slather of butter upon the morsel. “The Reverend was eager to write a whole history of the Abbey but the duke and duchess weren’t keen.” She popped the bread into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Can’t blame them for wanting a mite of privacy I suppose. When people read those sorts of books it only makes them more desirous of visiting, and there are crowds enough already on the Abbey’s summer opening days.”
“There’s a lot to be said for a quieter life.” Cornelia agreed. “To be so much in the public eye must be wearing.”
Mrs. Nossle looked somewhat plaintive. “I suppose you’re right, but one can live too quietly. I wouldn’t mind a spell up in London—to take in the shows and observe the bustle of all that’s new.”
“There are amusements but one tires of them quickly. Since my husband’s passing, I’ve chosen a modest existence. I’ve no desire to ‘see and be seen’ as many have.” As the second course found its way to the table, Cornelia wondered how she might guide the conversation in some other direction.
“Oh, to be sure!” declared Mrs. Nossle. “A widow may not need chaperoning in the same way as a maidenly young woman but she must guard her reputation, nonetheless. People do love to talk, don’t they? You’re very sensible, Mrs. Mortmain, I’m sure, to keep away from the fleshpots and such.”
“Fleshpots!” The man on Cornelia’s other side perked up and gave a roguish grin, revealing teeth stained with blackcurrant jus. “Lead the way, I say. Life’s too short and all that! Though too much hedonism does play havoc with the innards. I’m a slave to the gout, but not done for yet!” Baron Billingsworth addressed Cornelia over a fork of roasted venison.
“Pretty young things oughtn’t to be without a husband. Don’t deny it! I know the urges of youth; too much temptation to fall into wicked ways.” He fell to energetic mastication.
“The Reverend will agree, won’t you Nossle?” The baron’s voice carried across the table at an alarmingly loud volume. “Attractive women shouldn’t be allowed to prowl Society too freely, setting the men aflame. Disruptive to the general peace and all that; widows are the worst of the lot…or the best, I should say.”
Turning a disturbing shade of purple, the Reverend dabbed at his face with a napkin but refrained from a reply. While others turned away, clearly unwilling to engage in such inappropriate discourse, Cornelia caught Lady Pippsbury’s eye and was certain she witnessed smirking.
The baron gave a lascivious wink and, under the table, rubbed his knee against hers. Cornelia dropped her knife with a clatter. With shaking hands, she retrieved it, wondering if it was sharp enough to stab the baron’s straying thigh.
The odious man had just begun recounting a treatment he’d heard of for the relief of stiffened limbs, and his belief that a woman’s hands were best suited for the technique when all heads turned towards the drawing room.
Looking up, Cornelia saw two tall figures silhouetted in the connecting entranceway.
“Please do carry on, everyone.” The duke pressed his lips lightly to Lady Studborne’s hand before walking to his place at the opposite end of the table.
Burnell, meanwhile, was bearing down on Cornelia’s side. Though he was formally dressed, there was no mistaking that he’d recently been outside. His cheeks bore the sort of ruddiness that came only from exposure to the elements, and his bearing spoke of having recently undertaken physical exertion.
He came to a halt behind Baron Billingsworth’s chair and, for a moment, Cornelia thought he might hoist him from his seat in much the same way as she imagined he’d dragged out the errant sheep.
A tick was working in his jaw but he merely bent to the baron’s ear.
“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk about widows, or women of any persuasion.”
The baron’s moustache worked furiously above gnashing teeth but he refrained from answering back, instead raising another forkful of food to his mouth.
Standing tall, Burnell clapped a hand vigorously upon the baron’s shoulder, causing him to half-choke on the cabbage he chewed.
With that, he strode round to the vacant seat between Mrs. Bongorge and Lady Pippsbury.
“Why, Mr. Burnell,” the marchioness simpered. “How gilligallant you are—like a knight of old defending a woman’s honourables.”
Cornelia noticed that Burnell’s eyes were still trained on the baron, and looking none too friendly. “I did what any self-respecting man would.”
His gaze then moved to her. “Mrs. Mortmain and her aunts are old friends of my sister and I; they deserve to be accorded every civility.”
“But, of course,” cooed the marchioness. “And I do so hope that we may become friends, too, Mr. Burnell. My daughters and I have followed your exploititudes with avid interest. Such tales you must have! The days shall fly by, hearing tell of your adventures. You may be certain of a rapacious audience. We shall want every detail.”
Burnell inclined his head in recognition of the compliment but his answer was firm. “A man can hear too much of his voice, Lady Pippsbury. I haven’t the inclination to relive every aspect of my past; some of it, to be sure, isn’t fit for a lady’s ears, anyhow.”
“Oh, but those are the details we shall most relish.” Mrs. Bongorge rested her hand upon his arm, smiling conspiratorially. “You needn’t fear shocking me, Mr. Burnell. My body may be that of a soft and fragile woman, but my spirit is made for adventure. I can only begin to imagine how you might make me gasp.”
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 with amusement. “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 just eaten something unpalatable.
Lady Pippsbury’s left brow was twitching.
All ears were Burnell’s, and all eyes were upon him. He 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 to land upon Cornelia instead.
“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 8
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 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 I’d no idea you were part of a secret team working on deciphering the Rosetta Stone. Utterly thrilling!”
Cornelia suppressed a groan. Burnell would be convincing them she’d done a stint with the Drury Lane Theatre unless she had strong words with him.
“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 going 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 with authenticating their sets for Aida?”
“It appears so, dear.” Eustacia patted Blanche’s hand. “Best that we leave Cornelia to herself, perhaps. She has much to ponder…and Colonel Faversham mentioned something about a hand of whist.”
“Oh yes!” Blanche perked up a bit. “We’ll catch up later then, darling—and we’ll want all the juiciest details.�
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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 herself.
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 within 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 launched herself out again, 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 wrap a scarf about her.