House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2)

by Elizabeth Kingston

  He raised his eyebrows, and she was pleased to see that the purple was starting to fade from his neck. “You really think that’s all that matters?” His voice was heavy with skepticism.

  “Bien. No, it matters who you know. But now you are friends with the Huntingdons, and Dahlia who will be a duchess, and Raven–”

  “And I’ll tell them I’m abandoning my thriving business in America to study painting, as a beginner and a pauper, in London.” He smiled. At least she had succeeded in amusing him. “None of them are very sharp, so I suppose I could try it. But I’m not fond of that much risk. I’ll get found out eventually, one way or another.”

  When he was found out, she knew, he would run away. She didn’t want to think of it, because she suspected that when the moment came she might ask to run away with him.

  His hand was sliding through her hair, and she must go to her own room before morning came. Later, she told herself. Later, she would devote time to considering how she had her own friends, and how she might convince them to be of some help in this.

  For now, though, she wound her arms around him in the dark, and felt the beat of his heart against her bare chest. “They are not better than you, these people,” she whispered into his ear. It was the secret to everything, if she could make him believe. “They are not better.”

  To waste time was to waste life. She intended to use every minute with him very well, and in every way available to her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fortunately, he seemed to have the same voracious appetite for her company as she did for his.

  They tried out the hidden little alcove in the east salon the next day – a perfect place, since no one ever seemed to use that salon. The next afternoon Marie-Anne recalled the priest hole as they passed the north staircase, whereupon she tugged at his wrist and gave a meaningful look that confused him. But he, adventurous and clever as always, took her hint and met her there an hour later. After she pulled open the little hidden door to the small room and began unbuttoning his trousers, he wondered aloud if the people who’d built this house were smugglers. That was when she learned he was not at all religious and did not object to compromising her virtue in a place that once hid outlawed priests.

  They made use of all the trysting spots that Joyce had told her about. It was a very pleasant way to pass the days – just as pleasant as the nights. Only once were they almost caught. It was in the hedge maze, and thankfully they had only been kissing when they heard Amy and Phyllida approach. Mason grabbed her hand before they were discovered and they ran like children, dashing off to the folly beyond the maze. It was overgrown with weeds and vines, left that way to seem like an abandoned Roman ruin which was most convenient as it meant no one else ever thought to venture inside.

  She liked hiding there with him so much that she devoted much of her imagination to inventing ways to meet him there more often. One afternoon in the midst of her musing on how to arrange it again, Amy sought her out. She begged Marie-Anne to find some way to end Phyllie’s infatuation with the hermit. Marie-Anne realized, rather to her chagrin, that she had completely forgotten her original reason for being here at all. She hadn’t thought of it in days – weeks, even – because she was so preoccupied with her own romance.

  According to Amy, things had progressed quickly now that Phyllida had broken with Mr. St. James and he had left to begin his studies. Now Phyllie was venturing out to see the hermit daily, dragging Amy along with her.

  “Of course it’s tedious, especially the way she sighs over him – over absolutely nothing, he barely says a word! But I worry she will do something untoward. Already the servants are talking. And Mr. Harner finds it unseemly.”

  “It will pass on its own,” she assured Amy. “Does this tyrant uncle object to what he cannot even see? And why does he hesitate still to give the living to Mr. Harner? There is no excuse for it.” She was warming to her theme. Amy’s infatuation, if it could be called that, with this dreary vicar alarmed her far more than any of Phyllida’s nonsense. Marie-Anne gave a little huff. “I think this uncle must object to Mr. Harner and not to you.”

  “Perhaps he does,” said Amy. “But there is nothing in Mr. Harner that is objectionable, except for his choice in a bride.”

  She had tears in her eyes as she said it, and Marie-Anne was immediately awash in remorse. She bit her tongue against detailing the many objectionable things about Mr. Harner, and put an arm around Amy.

  “Oh ma petite, you are a perfect bride in every way. I would say even too perfect. You are so busy in pleasing him with your perfection that you leave no room for yourself. No room at all.”

  She would have said more if Amy had not given her the strangest look. It seemed for a moment that she might actually burst into tears or shout at Marie-Anne. But then she gathered herself, quickly controlling every little thing inside, as she so often did. “That may be, but it is Phyllida who is my greater concern,” she said. “I do worry about Phyll for her own sake, you know, and not just as her behavior reflects on me. But of course she is very headstrong. You’ve been such a help that I forget you cannot actually perform miracles.”

  She pulled away before Marie-Anne could point out that she’d done very little at all.

  That night she stretched out in Mason’s bed as he sat drawing at the desk, and told him she didn’t like the idea of Amy marrying Mr. Harner, and could he think of some way to prevent it?

  “Not any honest way.” He barely looked up from his work as he answered. He was making drawings to illustrate the latest rumors about the king’s illegitimate son, according to Freddy’s most recent communication. “And believe it or not, I have acquired some principles over the years. They don’t include interfering in anyone’s romance just because I don’t like the fellow.”

  She was tempted to grumble at length about how it could hardly be called romance by her definition, but she was more interested in something else. “Where did you acquire them, these principles?”

  “Oh here and there,” he said vaguely, concentrating on his moving pencil. “I must’ve been born with a few or I wouldn’t have run away. Then I picked up some more as time went on.”

  “You ran away from your uncle? When?”

  “That same time as I told you about, when I was maybe thirteen years old. Ten years ago or so.”

  Her mildly stunned silence drew his eye from his paper. She tried to compose her face but it was no use. It was very simple math.

  “But you are so much younger than me!” she blurted, and instantly regretted it.

  She was thirty-one. When he turned thirty-one, she would be almost forty. When she turned fifty, he would be –

  Well it didn’t matter, she told herself sternly. She was not supposed to think past this summer. When she was fifty, he would most likely be a memory. A very beloved, favorite memory. A wave of melancholy washed over her when she pictured it. She would sit alone in her cottage in Bartle by the fire and remember this room and the way he always smiled at how she said the word Kentucky. She would remember the intense concentration on his face when he sketched, and what an excellent kisser he was, and how dismayed she was when he told her his age. It would be good, to have such memories. Well, not good. But at least it would not be so bad, if the village baker kept her in fresh bread.

  “Is it that tragic?” He had abandoned the desk to come hover over her where she lay in the bed struggling to regain her good cheer. He had the dearest look of concern on his very young face. It was the freckles. She’d thought he only looked young, because of the freckles. “If it’s any consolation, I’m guessing my age,” he offered. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Then I will tell myself you are much older,” she declared, determined not to sulk. “And I will tell you I am much younger.” He smiled, displaying the dimple among the freckles that had so misled her. “But it is very young, thirteen, to run so far from your home. How did you get by?”

  His hand was pulling the sheet from her, reveal
ing her nakedness. “Can we talk about my sordid past another time? I’m a little distracted right now.”

  “Young people are so easily distracted,” she sighed with a welcoming smile. “Dieu merci.” She pulled him to her and didn’t ask again about this past that pained him.

  The question of what she should do about Amy’s engagement to Mr. Harner still haunted her, though, and she spent several days trying to think what dear Richard would have wanted for his sister. To be safe and cared for, that was the answer – but would he have disapproved of this Harner? Richard had cared more for the immediate, material well-being of those he loved than anything as ephemeral as happiness. But that was, as he had said to her once, a reason why he had loved Marie-Anne so much: she always concerned herself over whether a soul was nourished as well as the body that housed it. He habitually overlooked such intangible things.

  She finally convinced herself that Richard would want her to act on her concerns. She was still trying to think of what she might do or say make Amy see she was choosing an unhappy future, when a most unlikely intervention occurred.

  It began when Mr. St. James unexpectedly returned one rainy afternoon. Marie-Anne was with the Shipley girls in the library, of all places. They had strewn every surface with bits of the Lady’s Magazine, sent by Dahlia in a plea to aid her in narrowing her choices as she planned her trousseau. Just as they were agreeing that it would be best to plan a trip to London to visit Dahlia, the door opened and Lady Huntingdon appeared.

  “Oh yes, here you are, my dears.” Joyce seemed politely befuddled. She gestured to the gentlemen who followed her inside the library. “As you see, Mr. St. James has returned to us and brought a visitor. Mr. Nigel Harner is uncle to our own Mr. Harner, who I had thought to find here with you. Your nephew is so often in the library,” she said warmly to the older gentleman. “He is quite devoted to his theological studies.”

  “It’s no surprise to me, none at all,” said the cheerful man. He spoke loudly, as if he was hard of hearing. Or from the look of him, perhaps he was more accustomed to shouting hunting cries from horseback. “I’ve told him since he was in short trousers that his nose will be stained permanently black from the ink if he doesn’t take it out of the books from time to time. But do you know what he says to me? Eh? He says it would be a mark of honor, and how do you like that?”

  “I like it very well indeed.” Joyce beamed at him. She had always just adored jovial old gentlemen like this, especially when they sported such impressive whiskers. “I shall leave you and Mr. St. James to wait here while I go and see if I can find your nephew, shall I?”

  There was an awkward silence when she left. Mr. St. James seemed both nervous and grim, which was such an odd mixture of emotions that it captured Marie-Anne’s attention entirely. Though to be fair, it was also because she had forgotten how ridiculously good-looking he was.

  “I happened to meet Mr. Harner in London,” he said, his eyes skittering over each of the ladies in turn before settling on Amy. “I explained to him that I’d recently been a guest with his nephew here, and in due course learned he had not yet had the honor of meeting you, Miss Shipley.”

  “Yes, and this fine young man offered to introduce me!” He clapped a hand on St. James’ back. “Been trying for months now to get a glimpse of this girl my nephew has his eye on. Now which one of you is it?”

  Poor Amy looked like she might be ill. She patted her hair nervously and then snatched her hands away. She swallowed several times and finally said, “I am Miss Amarantha Shipley, sir.” This was accompanied by an uncharacteristically clumsy curtsy. She managed to stutter out introductions, and was clearly praying that Phyllida would not say anything to mortify her.

  In the few moments where the old gentleman looked her over, Marie-Anne saw St. James give a somewhat apologetic look to Phyllie, who for once did not seem at all inclined to her usual dramatics. She only nodded at her former beau in a very friendly way, and looked quite pensive.

  “Well I must say I don’t see why Charles has hidden you away from me,” the older man bellowed with a genial grin. He leaned in confidentially, but still spoke at a volume that could probably be heard several rooms away. “I don’t think I’m supposed to know about you at all. I had my suspicions, but he’s never said a word! And I keep away in the country, you know – don’t like all this society bosh.”

  Amy was momentarily speechless with confusion, a polite smile frozen on her face. This account was contrary to the situation as Mr. Harner had painted it. This strict uncle was not strict at all. He did not seem remotely superior and didn’t care one whit for society’s opinion. And he could not possibly be withholding approval of an intended bride when he had not even been told there was one.

  Fearing that Amy would not confront the kindly gentleman with these facts, Marie-Anne opened her mouth, prepared to do so with gusto. But just then Joyce reappeared with the nephew in question. At the sight of him, Marie-Anne blurted something entirely different than what she’d intended.

  “Are you quite all right?”

  The younger Mr. Harner was alarmingly flustered and his neck was a brilliant red. It was impossible to say what emotion caused it, but he truly looked like he might have an apoplexy. His wild-eyed glance hit Marie-Anne for an instant before moving on, but he said nothing.

  “Charles! There you are, my boy, and you see I’ve met Miss Jibney, you can’t keep her a secret anymore.”

  “Shipley. It’s Miss Shipley,” said Mr. St. James reflexively, as if he’d made the same correction many times. He was looking at Harner now, and he was angry. “Sir, I must congratulate you. Your uncle tells me that he has had the pleasure of granting you, immediately upon your ordination, the living of a parish.”

  Marie-Anne was so thoroughly absorbed in the way the two young men glared at each other (while the older man was pleasantly oblivious) that the significance of this statement did not immediately register. It was only when Phyllie gasped loudly that she realized.

  Amy was staring very fixedly at absolutely nothing. “But Mr. Harner was ordained last year.” Nothing but silence answered her until she looked at her fiancé and asked, “Is it true? Charles?”

  His failure to reply, along with his inability to look at her, supplied all the answer that was needed.

  “I see.” Amy spoke just barely above a whisper. Her sister, however, was incapable of such a hesitant response in the face of this treachery.

  “Oh, you…” Phyllida was breathing fire, pointing at Mr. Harner like she would put a curse on him. “Oh…you!”

  She would begin screeching at him soon enough, if she did not go immediately for his eyes. Marie-Anne rushed to put herself between Phyllie and the gentlemen.

  “Lady Huntingdon!” she said very loudly, and gave Joyce her most desperate and pleading look. “Perhaps Mr. Harner’s uncle would like to see… He could see the grounds?”

  And say what she might about the stifling politeness of the upper classes: it had its uses. Everyone who had been a moment away from shouting – Phyllie, young Mr. Harner, and St. James – immediately clamped their mouths shut and waited in silence while the elder Mr. Harner pretended to want nothing more than to see the Huntingdon estate. Joyce hurried off with him, pulling the door closed behind them. Marie-Anne quickly suggested, with a significant look at Phyllie and Mr. St. James, that they join her for a walk in the garden.

  “It’s raining,” replied St. James flatly, still glaring at Mr. Harner.

  Marie-Anne resisted the urge to grumble about his sudden appreciation for reality. She reached for Phyllie’s hand so that they might leave, but Amy stopped her with a word.

  “Please stay, Marie-Anne.”

  “You would not like some privacy?” she asked.

  Amy shook her head. “You are as much entitled to an explanation as I am. When I think that you came here,” her voice was gaining strength now, “That you returned to London after so many years and endured the insults of my parents – only be
cause I asked it of you, and only in the hopes of preserving…” She looked at Mr. Harner, who did not meet her eye. “Did you ever plan to marry me, sir?”

  “Of course!” He had the audacity to look affronted. “What do you think I am?”

  “I think you are a liar and a cad,” she replied, impressively calm. “I should only like to know why you tormented me so.”

  “Tormented! My dear Miss Shipley, I only ever sought to improve your situation. You will recall how you expressed regret that you were not better suited to the role of a clergyman’s wife, and the behavior of your sisters has caused you great distress–”

  “You see, Miss Shipley, it is as I’ve told you.” Mr. St. James had not taken his eyes from the red-faced Mr. Harner. “Even now he faults you, as though you are responsible for his deceit. There can be no reason to pretend that his future depended upon the approval of his uncle, except as a means to restrain your conduct and suffocate your spirit.”

  “Oh!” Phyllida had a look of discovery on her face. “That was the inspiration for the poem about the goldfinch, wasn’t it? With its xanthic plumage muted ‘neath Albion’s leaden heritage?”

  This was met with a brief and uncertain silence, during which Marie-Anne tried, reflexively and fruitlessly, to decipher Mr. St. James’ tortured verse. Thank heavens he had turned his effort to law. Xanthic plumage indeed.

  “But you!” Phyllida rounded on Mr. Harner now, no longer thinking of goldfinches. “Despicable man! That you dared to lecture me on my behavior, to appeal to my love for my sister and hopes for her future! You vile hypocrite! A liar and a cad indeed! Feet of clay!”

  “Well said, Phyllie, another poet is born.” Marie-Anne patted the girl’s arm in hopes of calming her, worried that her shouting would upset Amy further. “But me, I would like to hear what this terrible Harner has to say for himself now.”