Return of Scandal's Son

by Janice Preston

  ‘There now, that is better, is it not? Do you think we might be friends again, or should I grovel some more?’

  Eleanor almost burst with the effort of not laughing. ‘G-grovel? C-correct me if I am mistaken, but I have seen little s-sign of grovelling from you, sir. Cajoling, yes. Grovelling? I don’t believe so.’

  It was difficult to maintain her righteous indignation in the face of Matthew’s teasing, but Eleanor was not yet ready to fully forgive him. The truth was that her feelings were much more complex than mere anger. There was anger—smouldering still—after his behaviour last night. Her heart quailed when she thought of the implications had they been seen; her reputation would have been ruined for ever. And she was hurt by his lack of trust. Why had he not told her the truth earlier, particularly after she had confided in him about her mother? And then there was the humiliation over those kisses and the lowering realisation that—even last night, when she was so furious—she still would not have rebuffed his kiss.

  As for his argument with James—

  ‘Tell me you do not place any credence on your cousin’s suspicions,’ Matthew said.

  She shot him a startled look. How could he know what she had been thinking?

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Your eyes tell a different tale,’ he said. ‘You doubt me and my motives. I can see how you might suspect a sinister agenda after everything that has happened to you, but please believe that I told you the truth last night about my reasons for not using my real name.’

  Eleanor hesitated. Her doubts about Matthew, raised by James and fuelled by last night’s events, had shaken her to her core, but a restless night had brought some perspective. Should she judge him through James’s eyes, or through her own experience? His actions—those times on the journey to London when he had saved her from her own naivety—were surely not those of a fortune hunter? Even last night, it had been Matthew who had stopped before their lips had touched.

  ‘I will admit that yesterday did raise doubts in my mind,’ she said, still not ready to completely let him off the hook.

  ‘I can only hope you will not allow those doubts to fester,’ he replied. ‘I thought I could protect you as Matthew Thomas, but I was wrong—the risk to your reputation if I was exposed was too great. Believe me when I say that is the only reason I have reclaimed my own name now. You remain in danger. I have sworn to protect you, and I hope you will accept my continuing protection and allow me the opportunity to expose your attacker.’

  Calmness settled over Eleanor at his words. She could not deny her feeling of vulnerability with only footmen in attendance, but she would not admit that to Matthew.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I accept. If only to keep Aunt Lucy happy; she feels much safer when there is a gentleman around.’

  ‘For Aunt Lucy’s sake,’ Matthew repeated, very slowly.

  Eleanor glanced at him, suspecting he was poking fun at her, but he remained straight-faced.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I am pleased that is settled. Now, I’ve been dying to ask...who is the gent with the splendid whiskers?’

  Eleanor bit back a smile as she looked ahead to Aunt Lucy and her escort. ‘They are quite magnificent, are they not? He is Sir Horace Todmorden and I believe he is courting Aunt Lucy. Is that not delightful?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Two days later, Eleanor and Aunt Lucy returned to their house in Upper Brook Street, having enjoyed another pleasant walk in Hyde Park escorted by Matthew and the increasingly attentive Sir Horace Todmorden. Eleanor sensed Pacey’s disquiet as soon as he opened the front door. Her normally unflappable butler gave every impression of having to restrain himself from chivvying everyone inside.

  ‘What is it, Pacey? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘There has been An Incident, my lady.’ His precise enunciation of those two words spoke volumes.

  Eleanor removed her spencer and bonnet and handed them to Lizzie, barely noticing the squirm of apprehension deep in her belly, it had become so familiar.

  ‘You had better come up to the drawing room and tell me what has happened.’ She led the way to the room.

  ‘One of the kitchen maids was accosted on her way home from running an errand this morning,’ Pacey said.

  ‘This morning? But why did you not tell me earlier?’

  ‘The silly girl was too scared to say anything at first, but Cook finally managed to wheedle it out of her,’ Pacey said. ‘In the normal course of events, I would not bother you with such a triviality, my lady, but in view of the goings-on I thought I must apprise you of the incident immediately upon your return.’

  ‘Goings-on?’ Sir Horace queried. ‘What goings-on?’

  ‘I think you had better tell us exactly what happened to the maid, Pacey,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Wait!’ Eleanor said. ‘Before you do...’ She turned to Sir Horace. She had no wish to become the subject of gossip, so the fewer people who knew of her misfortunes, the better. ‘I am sorry, Sir Horace, but—’

  ‘You must not object to Sir Horace knowing what has happened, Ellie,’ Aunt Lucy said, settling into a chair by the fireplace. ‘He is most discreet. You must not think he will bandy your business about in the clubs. He was a cavalry officer, you know. He is used to all sorts of dangerous situations. He will be a valuable ally.’

  A cavalry officer? Eleanor bit back her cynical retort. Quite what use a cavalry officer might be against her unknown assailant she could not imagine, but Aunt Lucy seemed smitten, and Eleanor had not the heart to deny her.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Pray continue, Pacey. Which girl was it? Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, she is now. Once it was all in the open, she calmed down. It was Agnes, one of the kitchen maids. Cook sent her to the grocer’s at Shepherd’s Market for some almonds and spices. She noticed a man outside the house and he followed her. Then, on her way home, he began to walk beside her. She wasn’t suspicious at first. She said he seemed harmless enough and pestered her about when she had time off and so forth. But then he began to ask about the house, and the routines, and about you, my lady. Agnes got scared and told him to go away and that our household was none of his business. He threatened her then and said if she told anyone about him, he would find her and hurt her.’

  ‘I wish she had told us immediately,’ Eleanor said, ‘although no doubt the man would have run off as soon as she came indoors. Did she describe him?’

  ‘Yes. She said he was about five and forty, and medium height with mousy brown hair. He was dressed respectably, in a brown suit.’

  ‘A brown suit.’ Eleanor’s stomach clenched. It sounded like the man she had seen. Who was he? Why was he watching her? Was it he who had tried to kill her and had attacked that poor girl in Stockport.

  ‘Yes,’ Pacey said. ‘And a pointy nose.’

  Eleanor sank on to the sofa. ‘Thank you, Pacey. That will be all, but please ensure one of the men accompanies any of the maids if they have to go out on errands, will you? I do not want any of my household put in jeopardy.’

  ‘Pacey,’ Matthew said, as the butler walked to the door, ‘just to be certain...did Agnes tell him anything about the house or Lady Ashby that might endanger her?’

  ‘She says not, sir. But I cannot be certain she did not let something slip without realising its significance.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’ When the door closed behind Pacey, Matthew continued, ‘Does that sound like the man you saw the other day, El...my lady?’

  Eleanor nodded.

  ‘Will someone please tell me what all this is about?’ Sir Horace demanded.

  ‘May I tell him everything?’ Aunt Lucy asked Eleanor. When Eleanor nodded, Aunt Lucy said, ‘Come here and sit by me, Horace, and I shall tell you what has been happening.’

  Sir Horace settled into the chair opposite Aunt Lucy and Matthew sat on the sofa next to Eleanor. Their conversation in the park seemed a lifetime ago. All she could feel now was relief that he was here and tha
t he hadn’t walked away in the face of her suspicions and doubts.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked in a low voice.

  All right? Would she ever be all right again? All she wanted was to feel safe.

  ‘Yes. I am fine,’ she said.

  She squirmed under his sceptical blue stare. ‘No,’ she admitted finally, ‘not really.’ She bit her lip, thinking. ‘Would you do something for me?’

  ‘It depends.’

  Hmmph. In her head, his response had been unequivocal. Anything, he had said. She might have known he would not simply dance unquestioningly to her tune.

  ‘Well? What is it you want?’

  ‘A pistol,’ she said, ‘a small one that will fit into my reticule.’

  ‘No.’

  Was that unequivocal enough, Eleanor? Her lips curved into a smile despite her best efforts to maintain a straight face. She had—really—expected no other response.

  ‘You do know,’ she said, ‘that I could simply go out and buy a pistol myself? Or send one of the servants to do so?’

  ‘Do you know how to shoot? Or even how to load a pistol, or to care for it?’

  ‘No. That is why I am asking for your help. I want you to teach me to shoot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I do not feel safe!’ In her agitation, she swivelled to look at him. ‘Because you cannot always be here. Because, sometimes, in the dead of night, I lie awake and I think about what happened to that girl in Stockport.’

  A low growl rose from deep in his chest. Heartened, Eleanor pressed on. ‘It would be safer, surely, for you to guide me in the choice of pistol. And you will be able to reassure yourself that I am capable. And competent.’

  ‘And bl—impossible!’

  ‘That, too,’ she said, smiling her satisfaction. ‘So you will do it. Excellent. Shall we say tomorrow morning? At eleven?’

  * * *

  The thunderous knocking on his front door continued unabated. Where was Henry? Matthew put down his book and went to answer the door.

  ‘Did you not take the hint?’

  ‘Come in.’ Matthew stood aside as his eldest brother, Viscount Claverley, swept past. He indicated the sitting-room door, which opened from the small hallway.

  ‘Go on through.’

  Henry appeared, red-faced and breathing hard, from the direction of the cellar steps. ‘Sorry, sir. I was—’

  ‘It is quite all right, Henry.’

  It wasn’t, not really. If Henry had been around to answer the knock at the door, he could have denied Claverley admittance, told him Matthew was from home.

  On the other hand, this meeting had to take place at some point. Perhaps it was best to get it over with. At least he would know what he was facing. Judging by the scowl on Claverley’s face and his opening salvo, it was not destined to be a warm ‘welcome home, brother’.

  Matthew followed his brother into the room. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  Claverley rounded on him with a cold glare. Matthew was gratified to see that he now topped his eldest brother by a good couple of inches.

  ‘You were told never to return. Father—’

  ‘Did he send you to tell me that?’

  Claverley’s mouth snapped shut. Matthew waited. Unless he had changed a great deal, he knew his brother would not lie. It was about the only thing to admire about him—his innate truthfulness.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He does not know I am here.’ He looked around the room with a curl of his lip. ‘Is this the best you could afford to lease? I knew you would never amount to anything.’

  Matthew held his temper in check. Claverley. Same smug, self-serving swine he had always been. Matthew’s nose throbbed in an echo of the pain of that lucky punch...he would never forgive Claverley for the cowardly way he had caught Matthew off-guard and knocked him unconscious.

  ‘Why,’ he asked, suddenly overcome with curiosity, ‘have you always disliked me so much?’

  ‘You have to ask? You are a cheat. I despise any dishonesty.’

  ‘Good God, you are such a pompous bag of wind. You haven’t changed a jot, have you? Did it ever—?’ Matthew thrust his face close to his brother’s and gained some small satisfaction from the leap of doubt in Claverley’s eyes as he recoiled.

  Good! Let him wonder what kind of man I have become. Coming into my home and throwing his weight around.

  ‘Did it ever,’ he repeated, ‘occur to you that I wasn’t guilty of cheating?’

  ‘You would say that. Father tried everything to prove your innocence. I told him he was wasting his time.’

  ‘And I’ll wager you were delighted he could not find that proof, were you not? Why have you always resented me?’

  Claverley stiffened. ‘I do not have to explain myself to you, Matthew. I have come to tell you to leave. Before Father finds out you have returned. You are not wanted.’

  Matthew grinned mirthlessly. ‘Not by you,’ he said, ‘but I knew that, anyway. Besides, my being here is not negotiable. This is my house. Yes,’ he said in response to Claverley’s look of surprise, ‘I own it. Outright.’

  ‘If you are indeed that flush in the pocket, you are in a position to repay Father for the debts you left behind for him to settle.’

  ‘And whose fault was it that I was not here to settle those debts myself? You made damned sure I had no choice.’

  ‘Do you think we should have allowed you stay here and continue to taint the family name?’

  ‘But I had done nothing.’

  ‘You had done plenty, even before that night. Debauchery and profligacy. You were a disgrace to our family.’

  Matthew clenched his jaw. ‘In your eyes, maybe, but then you always were a sanctimonious bore. You are wasting your breath and my time, brother. I have business interests here in London and I am here to stay.’

  Claverley’s face darkened. ‘Do what you have to do, but don’t think Father will forgive you, for I shall do my utmost to make sure he does not.’

  He stalked from the room, leaving Matthew staring at the half-open door. Claverley had become even more self-important and self-opinionated in the years Matthew had been away. What was it about some people that their opinion of themselves grew out of all proportion to reality as soon as they were placed in a position of authority—even if that position was simply due to the random chance of being firstborn?

  Still, his brother’s visit had achieved one thing. For the first time since his return to England, there was a glimmer of hope that his father might forgive Matthew. Surely Claverley would not be so agitated otherwise?

  Whether Matthew could forgive his father...well, that was another question.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘This,’ said Aunt Lucy, as they wound their way up the magnificent staircase at Beauchamp House in Grosvenor Square, ‘is the ball of the Season. Everyone who is anyone is invited, and no one—unless they are on their deathbed—refuses.’

  ‘It was good of the duke to send us an invitation,’ Eleanor said, as they waited their turn to be greeted by their host—the widowed Duke of Cheriton—and his family.

  ‘It was indeed. Although he could hardly hold the ball of the Season without the Catch of the Season gracing his ballroom with her presence, could he?’ Aunt Lucy took great delight in teasing Eleanor about her newly minted title.

  Eleanor was saved from replying by the duke himself.

  ‘Indeed I could not,’ he said, his deep voice warm with amusement. ‘And grace my ballroom you most certainly will.’ His silvery-grey gaze skimmed Eleanor in her blue-silk gown, his appreciation clear. He bowed. ‘You are both very welcome.’ His expression sobered and he leaned towards Eleanor, lowering his voice. ‘I have doubled the footmen on duty, Lady Ashby, so you need not fear for your safety in this house.’

  ‘I...’ Words failed Eleanor. How did he know?

  ‘And if there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,’ he added. ‘Now, please allow me to introduce my son, Avon—’
the youthful Lord Avon was the spitting image of the duke as he bowed elegantly ‘—my sister, Cecily, and my brother, Vernon.’

  Lady Cecily and Lord Vernon—both unwed, as Aunt Lucy had informed Eleanor in the carriage on their way to the ball—smiled as they greeted Eleanor. They were very alike, with auburn hair and green eyes, in contrast to the duke’s dark colouring.

  ‘Most of our guests have arrived by now, Leo, so you won’t miss me from the line-up,’ Lord Vernon drawled, eyeing Eleanor with as much appreciation as his brother. He stepped forward and crooked his arm. ‘Might I escort you into the ballroom, Lady Ashby?’

  ‘Why...yes. Thank you, my lord.’

  Eleanor shot a look at Aunt Lucy, who merely raised her brows in response. Lord Vernon Beauchamp’s caution in never allowing his name to be linked to any woman was common knowledge, as was his determination never to marry. Was he, like the duke, privy to her personal business?

  As they descended the short flight of steps into the glittering ballroom Eleanor frowned as she noticed a seemingly casual, but consistent, movement of the people nearest to her. What was going on? A distinct area of clear space materialised at the foot of the steps. Stationed—really, there was no other word for it—around the perimeter of the clearing were five tall, broad-shouldered gentlemen whom she recognised as some of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. Not one of those gentlemen had formed part of her court since her arrival in London—they were the older bachelors, the most pursued and, from Eleanor’s observation, the most determined to avoid matrimony. She had danced with some of them, but it was clear none were on the lookout for a wife. They had indulged in a little light flirtation with her—as was to be expected from men of their ilk—but none had subsequently called upon her, or sent her flowers.

  So why were they now so focused on her? For focused they were. Even as their gazes ceaselessly scanned the other guests, she could feel their attention.

  ‘What,’ she whispered to Lord Vernon, ‘is going on?’

  Vernon glanced down at her, eyes crinkling, as he led her deeper into the ballroom. The other men formed a rough circle around them, keeping the other guests at bay.