Family Scandals

by Denise Patrick

  She cast a sharp look at him, but did not pull away as he led her toward the terrace doors. He glanced back into the ballroom just as they reached the doors, pausing for a moment, before they stepped out into the cool night air.

  Corinna looked up from her conversation with an acquaintance from school and suddenly went still. Another person passed in front of her and she blinked as Julianna Pingree, Lady Barber, garnered her attention again. The moment passed, but left an oddly uncomfortable feeling in its place.

  Glancing back at the terrace doors, she wondered if she had really seen Vincent there, or had her imagination been playing tricks on her again. Last evening she thought she’d seen him at the Marsden’s, and the night before at the Gillendale’s.

  It was as if being back in London her fears had suddenly begun to prey on her and now, like a specter, he seemed to be haunting her. She believed Marcus when he said she had nothing to fear, but she wished her mind would not continue to play these tricks on her when she was least prepared for them.

  Corinna glanced up as she descended the steps of Waring House, taking in the low-hanging clouds and the hint of moisture in the air. Despite the somber skies, she smiled to herself. The carriage stood waiting, a footman rushing forward to open the door for her to enter. Irma scrambled in behind her, taking the seat opposite her mistress.

  They were only heading to Hatchard’s book shop, but Corinna felt as if she had escaped from confinement.

  After only a fortnight in London, she was beginning to long for St. Ayers and Cornwall. It was not that she didn’t like London. Although scaled back, the fall season was everything she had dreamed about. The balls, parties, routs, at homes, musicales and more were all wonderfully exciting to someone who had lived in obscurity for their entire life. And she was enjoying every moment of it, for the most part.

  What she was not enjoying was being smothered. Marcus, Felicia, Brand, Eliza, Trent and all her various newfound cousins and extended family seemed bent on protecting her from the world at large. She was not, by nature, shy or retiring, but she had learned the value of unobtrusiveness and reticence during the two years she had lived at Houghton Hall after leaving school. The lessons had been reinforced during her time with Aunt Mirabel where she had learned to make herself scarce when Vincent happened by.

  Perhaps it was this reserve her relatives all sensed, interpreting it as timidness. Despite that she thought herself a coward, she’d learned to be brash and outspoken as a child. Unfortunately, her new relatives hadn’t seen that side of her and she was utterly sick of being protected. Which was why she and Irma were on their way to Hatchard’s while Felicia was occupied with the arrival of her nephew, Davey. A handsome young man of seventeen, he’d been at sea on one of Brand’s ships for the last five years. She’d left as Felicia and Davey were debating the merits of him going to Devon to see his mother.

  Piccadilly, she surmised, would be safe enough. Hatchard’s, she had been informed, was a favorite for those in the ton who simply had to have the latest novel, or just wanted to peruse the bookshelves for something of interest. A book shop seemed a safe enough place for her first foray.

  Leaving Irma seated on the bench with other maids in the front of the establishment, Corinna spent nearly an hour leisurely browsing the current literary offerings. As she was flipping through Dickens’ Great Expectations, she felt as if she was being watched and looked up to find Vincent standing at the end of the aisle.

  Frozen for a moment, she kept her wits enough to calmly return the book to its place on the shelf as Vincent strolled toward her.

  “Well, well,” he drawled. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  At least she now knew she probably had seen him last night and at the other times.

  “What?” he pressed. “No welcome for your cousin?”

  “You are as much my cousin as Gregory is my brother,” she said as calmly as she could, relieved her voice did not betray her sudden apprehension. Vincent appearing like this did not bode well.

  Vincent’s eyes flashed with anger, but his voice when he spoke did not betray it. “You wound me,” he declared dramatically. “After all my mother did for you, taking you in when no one else wanted you, allowing you to live off her generosity.”

  Corinna looked away. She did not want to admit he was right, but Aunt Mirabel had taken her in when she arrived on her doorstep. And Aunt Mirabel had housed and fed her, despite her limited funds. She had repaid the kindness by nursing her aunt when she fell ill, but she knew she owed Aunt Mirabel more than she could ever repay.

  “That was your mother,” she said now. “Not you.” Turning to walk away, she was stopped when Vincent took hold of her arm. Without bothering to turn to look back at him, she said, “Let go of me.”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

  Taking a deep breath to give herself courage, she turned back to look up at him. It was then she noticed he was expensively dressed. She knew his mother had only had a pittance to live on before she died. If he’d had any funds, he had never shared them with his mother.

  His blond hair was carefully combed back from a square forehead. Dark eyes under golden brows situated a little too close together for her liking, a long, sharp nose, and thin lips in a thin face reminded her a bit of a weasel. He was probably considered handsome by some, but she wasn’t one of them.

  “I don’t think I care to hear anything you have to say,” she informed him with icy disdain. Intimidation had always been his best weapon, but she would not allow it to affect her this time. Despite that she knew he had a violent temper, she would not allow herself to be afraid of him. At least not as long as they were in a public place.

  “Oh, I think you do,” he smirked. “Or do you want your husband to find out that he’s married to a murderess?”

  She was relieved she had confided in Marcus. Otherwise, she might believe Vincent’s assertion. She didn’t laugh out loud at him, but he couldn’t help but notice her amusement when she smiled up at him.

  “And who am I supposed to have murdered?”

  Vincent was surprised by her demeanor.

  “I know you deliberately gave my mother an overdose of laudanum.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And how do you know that?”

  Vincent blinked, suddenly unsure.

  “The doctor told me.”

  “I see.” She stared up at him for a few moments, with eyes that held nothing other than mild interest, then said, “I suppose you’ll just have to tell the authorities then.” Turning, she took a couple of steps away from him, then stopped and turned back. “I’m sure you can tell them where to find me if they want the truth.” Then she forced herself to turn and calmly walk away, collect Irma, and leave.

  Corinna managed to hold on to her composure for the seemingly interminable ride back to Waring House. She hadn’t let him see her trepidation. Knowing it was unreasonable and Marcus had assured her she had done nothing wrong helped, but a part of her still feared Vincent. Perhaps it was because she knew he hated her and blamed her for his mother’s death.

  Once back at Waring House, she sent Irma for some tea and went up to her sitting room. Curled up in the window enclosure wrapped in a snug blanket, she was lost in thought when Irma brought her the requested tea, barely acknowledging the maid as she left the tray on a small table beside her seat. She was too immersed in memories.

  Returning to Houghton Hall after her final year at school had been painful. It had been made worse by the obvious dislike she was subjected to by Ellen. Gregory merely ignored her, but Ellen made it clear that she was nothing more than a poor relation and should be thankful they were willing to allow her to live there at all. Furthermore, Ellen expected her to help out and be available if the housekeeper needed an extra pair of hands, something that seemed to happen daily. Finding Aunt Mirabel’s name and direction in the Bible among her mother’s things had buoyed her spirits, but it had taken her nearly two years to scr
ape up the courage to leave Houghton Hall in search of her.

  For months before the day she walked away, she had worried over whether her grandfather’s sister would welcome her or turn her away. She hadn’t dared to write in case her great-aunt wrote back. If Gregory or Ellen found a letter for her in the post, they might have opened it.

  The thought of arriving at her great-aunt’s home and finding herself unwelcome had frightened her. She’d told herself often as a child that she was afraid of nothing and no one, but the truth was she was terrified of being alone. Of being unwanted and unloved. That fear had kept her at Houghton Hall until the day Ellen demanded she don a maid’s uniform and help serve guests at a house party.

  “Mary is sick, so you’ll have to fill in,” Ellen had told her. But the look in her eyes said it all. She hadn’t cared Mary was sick, nor was she particularly worried about being short-handed. What she really wanted to do was humiliate Corinna further. Requiring Corinna to help out in the kitchen had not been enough. She wanted to further Corinna’s abasement—and do it publicly.

  Corinna had not answered. Instead she nodded in apparent acquiescence, then turned and walked away. Hiding out in the stables for the rest of the day and into the night, she had known then she had no choice but to leave. She didn’t know how Ellen would react to her defiance, but she knew no one at the Hall would help her.

  The next day she had slipped back into the house while the party was out sightseeing, packed a small valise, and taken a small amount of money from the funds Ellen kept for the household accounts. Returning to her hideout in the stables, she had waited until the house was quiet, then walked away.

  Aunt Mirabel had been everything she had hoped and prayed for. Affectionate, warm and loving, she had taken Corinna in and given her a home, treating her like the daughter she never had.

  The first time Vincent had come home and found her there, he had mistaken her for one of the village girls his mother occasionally took in. Assuming her assent, he had attempted to take liberties with her, but his mother had intervened and told him in no uncertain terms that Corinna was off limits. Vincent ignored her.

  After the third time, his mother had told him he was no longer welcome in her home. When Corinna insisted she shouldn’t keep him away, Aunt Mirabel had confided that Vincent only came to see her if he needed money, and since she had none to give him, she was just fine if he did not turn up on her doorstep from time to time. Aunt Mirabel had also confided in her that Vincent had turned out too much like his father, with a violent temper that was easily set off when he was thwarted.

  When Aunt Mirabel fell ill and could no longer keep Vincent away, the two of them had foiled Vincent’s growing obsession by making up a pallet for Corinna in his mother’s room and using the pretext that she needed Corinna during the night.

  It was Aunt Mirabel who suggested Corinna ask Miss Ridley for help in securing a position as a governess or companion. It had not occurred to Corinna to ask her former school’s headmistress for assistance, but after Aunt Mirabel’s death, she had nowhere else to turn.

  Although she believed Marcus’s assertion that she had done nothing wrong, she knew the ton might not see it that way. The doctor and magistrate might say Aunt Mirabel’s death was from consumption, but it would only take a few dropped hints that all was not as it should be and she had something to do with it, and she and Marcus would be shunned. The scandal might very well follow them for years.

  Marcus entered the sitting room, drawing her from her thoughts. She looked up and smiled, the morning’s unpleasantness forgotten at the sight of his handsome features.

  “Knowing that Felicia was busy with her unexpected guest, I thought you might like some company for lunch,” he said.

  “I would have been fine with a tray up here, but I’m glad for the company.”

  Looking down at her, he noticed the blanket and turned and glanced back at the fireplace. It was empty. He frowned.

  “Something wrong?”

  He reached down and took her hands in his.

  “You are cold,” he stated unnecessarily.“Why are you sitting in front of the window instead of the fireplace? And why is there no fire?”

  “I like looking down at the garden,” she responded, but she looked away as she answered.

  “That doesn’t explain the lack of a fire,” he insisted. “I shall have to remind Wharton to make sure there is a fire in here and the bedroom now that the days are becoming cooler.”

  “There’s no need,” she said quickly, standing to head for the door. “I’m fine without a fire. In fact, I prefer not to have one.”

  “Why?”

  “I–I just do,” she replied evasively. She turned toward the door, but Marcus’s fingers tightened on hers. “I’m hungry, Marcus.”

  Marcus hesitated for a moment longer then let her go. He followed her from the room and was still frowning when he joined her at the top of the staircase. Over lunch she was surprised to discover Davey had left.

  “He had plans to meet Jay and Brand for lunch to discuss what he was going to do next,” Felicia said. “He’s at that awkward age right now where he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.”

  “A difficult time in any person’s life,” Marcus remarked.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was wonderful to hear of your good fortune. I wish you the very best.

  Miss Theresa Ridley, Miss Ridley’s Academy for Genteel Young Ladies, to Corinna Waring, Countess St. Ayers

  Corinna descended from the carriage before St. Ayers Place with mixed feelings. The plain, brick-fronted, three-story-plus-attics house looked much like the other houses situated on the fashionable square, including Kent House, which faced it across the small fenced park in the center. She was looking forward to having her own home and entertaining.

  Jeffers, the overseer, came out to meet them, ushering them into the large foyer. A slight man with overlong, dark hair tied back with a leather thong, he had a large, leather apron tied around his small frame. Taking in the dust covering him from head to toe, Corinna was glad she had chosen to change into one of the dresses she used to wear while out playing with the twins.

  While Marcus conversed with Jeffers, she wandered into the room to her left. Two large windows let in generous amounts of daylight, the afternoon sun pooling on the faded carpet. This was to be the main drawing room. It, and the ballroom, would be the main entertaining spaces. With that in mind, she had decided on St. Ayers colors—red, black and gold—for this room.

  Eliza warned her she was breaking new ground as most drawing rooms were decorated with decidedly feminine overtones, and in pastel colors.

  “I know,” she laughed, “but not many drawing rooms are quite as large as this one, so I don’t think the dark colors will make the room seem so small and close. And there’s also the fireplace to consider. Black marble would not blend well with all those light colors.”

  “Black?” Eliza had been astounded. “The fireplace is of black marble? How unusual.”

  “I thought so too. There is also one in the master bedroom.”

  Corinna approached the fireplace now and reached up to retrieve the large packet she had left there. Opening it, she pulled out the samples she had put together for this room, imagining what it would look like once the room was furnished. The gold wall covering with red roses would blend well with the gold velvet drapes. In the end she had chosen a carpet with an oriental pattern because those were the only ones she could find in the colors she was looking for. The pattern, she decided, wouldn’t matter much once the various sofas, chairs, settees, a chaise or two, and a few small tables, all upholstered or covered in red and black, sat upon it.

  Satisfied with her selections, she returned to the foyer.

  She could hear Marcus and Jeffers in the library across the way, but she headed toward the back of the house to a smaller drawing room that overlooked the garden to see what was being done there. Glancing in, she noted workmen on ladders
plastering the ceiling and decided against entering. Eliza would approve of her plans for that one and another on the first floor. The one facing the garden she had decided to decorate in peach and blue and the second-floor drawing room would be decorated in a floral motif with leaf green drapes and carpets.

  Marcus and Jeffers were emerging from the library as she returned to the front foyer. Jeffers left the two of them and headed toward the back of the house while they climbed the staircase.

  As they stood in what was to become the sitting room of the master suite, she noted, “I’m sure this was probably the Countess’s room before, with a sitting room through there.” She pointed to a door in one of the walls.

  “Would you prefer to have your own suite?” he asked.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she answered. “I know most homes have something like St. Ayers has—with separate bedrooms—but my parents didn’t have separate rooms.”

  “Your parents were unusual within the ton.”

  “Because they loved each other?”

  Marcus did not reply. Crossing the room to the window, he stood looking out over the back of the house.

  “What about Eliza and Trent, and Felicia and Brand? Are they unusual?” She moved to stand beside him. When he did not answer, she finally asked, “Do you not believe in love, Marcus?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “What about your parents?”

  His laugh was one of incredulousness. “As a child, it was likely I believed that my parents cared for each other. I know my father cared deeply for Brand and Eliza’s mother, and, remembering what he was like, I have a difficult time believing he would have even started an affair with my mother if he wasn’t attracted to her. So perhaps there was something there to begin with.” He took a deep breath and blew it out noisily. “But as an adult, it is extremely difficult to believe my mother ever saw my father as anything other than a means to an end. People simply do not murder those they care for.”