Scandal's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “Please, don’t back away, my dear Kate! However seriously I am tempted, I will try not to kiss you tonight, or at least, not unless you attempt to rouse the household again. I had rather hoped to speak to Mary when she came in to see to the fire, but I suppose it’s too late?”

  “This is unpardonable, sir! The servants have gone to bed. You must by now have realized it. Why do you wait here? Do you plan to steal the plate, or rob the strongbox in the study?”

  A hint of something reckless—even dangerous?—lurked at the corners of his mouth.

  “Perhaps I was hoping to steal your honor. It’s hard to say, isn’t it, when dealing with such a terrifying renegade? But I’ve come only to steal what’s already mine.” The little knife that she had left on the mantel was suddenly in his hand. He tossed it and deftly caught it again by the handle. “And Mary’s confidences, of course.”

  “As you stole her sister’s virtue?”

  “Did I? How very disgraceful of me!” The knife disappeared.

  He walked back to the chair and picked up the book, reading apparently at random where the pages happened to fall open.

  “Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, / And Constance was beloved no more. / ‘T is an old tale, and often told.”

  Catherine quoted from memory. “ ‘In vain for Constance is your zeal; / She—died at Holy Isle.’ The difference seems to be that Marmion did repent in the end.”

  “And I do not? Are you so sure? Perhaps because her name was Milly and not Constance. So much less romantic! I have had little enough of poetry these last years, Miss Hunter. You must forgive me if I seem lacking in the nobler emotions.”

  He closed the covers with a snap and held out the book. Catherine took it. Why would her hand not stay steady?

  “Don’t you think you should leave, Mr. de Dagonet?”

  “Without what I came for? I should hate to think that I’ve so upset the family for nothing. They are upset, I take it?”

  “Your aunt, Lady Montagu, is in a constant nervous agitation, sir. Is that your wish?”

  “I’m sorry to discompose her. Lady Montagu is not my object, in spite of the pearls. I would far rather it was George who suffered. Even though he cares nothing for it, he enjoys being lord and master of Lion Court a little too much, don’t you think? There’s a certain humility lacking in his manner.”

  “No more than is lacking in yours, sir! How dare you come here like this?”

  He laughed, but the sarcasm disappeared from his voice. “I would dare a great deal for Lion Court: every stone, every pane of glass, and every ivy leaf. The house looks too sad and the tenants work too hard.”

  Catherine sat down. He had only stated what she herself had noticed. “What do you really want here?”

  “A few honest words with Millicent Trumble’s sister. Mary’s keeping to the house; there’s no way I can approach her. I don’t want to frighten or coerce her, but I would like her to meet me. Would you give her a message?”

  “No, I will not.”

  He shrugged. “Then there’s no more to be said.”

  “How can I lend myself to your schemes?”

  “There’s no reason, of course, why you should.”

  He stepped over to her and took her hand, executing a perfect bow as he did so. His lips barely brushed her fingers and they were released. In a moment he had stepped to the window and given her a charming smile.

  “George really ought to lock the windows at night,” he commented lightly. “There’s no telling who might get in.”

  He was gone.

  Catherine sat for a few moments staring blindly at the book in her hands, waiting for her heart to stop thudding so uncomfortably in her breast. She knew for a fact that the butler locked all the doors and windows every evening and that Sir George followed, checking their security for himself. Yet the intruder had also eluded the menservants set to watch for him, and the dogs hadn’t barked—

  Obviously he could come and go as he pleased, in spite of Sir George’s efforts. But then this had once been his home and his inheritance.

  She could quite easily see how Devil Dagonet had gained his nickname. Yet in spite of everything, there was something about him that invited her trust. She knew she had almost given in and offered to help him. Well, thank goodness she had not! There was no reason at all for her to get involved.

  Her resolution made, Catherine stood and left the room

  When she arrived upstairs, Lady Montagu was asleep.

  * * * *

  Miss Amelia Hunter walked through Fernbridge the next morning without stopping at any of her favorite shops. She carried a little basket in which to collect wild berries. This strategy would take her past the gates of Stagshead, where it would be only natural for her to stop in for a few moments. She was very competently chaperoned by her little sister Annabella, who held her by the hand, except when something caught her attention and she skipped off for a moment before remembering that, at twelve, she was very nearly a young lady.

  There was, however, no reply to Amelia’s tentative knock at the brass doorknob, shaped appropriately enough like a stag. The girls heard instead faint strains of harpsichord music from the back of the house. Even though David Morris did not play, there was a music room there, with instruments and music stands and French windows giving onto the garden.

  Amelia’s pretty mouth was set rather oddly as she grasped her sister by the hand and, before she should lose her nerve, swept around the house to the gardens. Did Captain Morris have a musical visitor and was she young and pretty? She meant to take just a peek, for she knew the player’s back would of necessity be to her, and her little boots were silent on the soft grass, but as she and Annie came up to the French window, the music stopped and the player swung around on his stool to face them.

  “Miss Amelia Hunter, I presume? An unexpected pleasure! And who is this charming young lady?”

  “My name is Annabella Hunter, sir. Who are you?”

  “A visitor. Won’t you come in for some refreshment? Captain Morris will return very shortly.”

  Amelia blushed under the bland emerald gaze and the charm with which he indicated the waiting chairs, but she stepped into the room.

  “You ought to tell us your name,” Annie persisted, also a little red-faced. “It’s not polite otherwise.”

  “Very well,” the handsome gentleman said, sweeping them both a bow. “I am neatly trapped. Charles de Dagonet, at your service!”

  Amelia went white.

  Annie’s eyes became instantly as round as carriage wheels. “Devil Dagonet!”

  The door to the room opened.

  “Mr. de Dagonet is my guest, Miss Annabella,” Captain Morris said, smiling. “That’s not a very courteous way to address him, is it?”

  “I’ve been discovered, as you see, Morris, like Moses in the bulrushes. But now you don’t need to keep my scandalous presence hidden from your affianced bride any longer. David’s been very uncomfortable about not telling you, Miss Hunter, but the blame is entirely mine. I would have run him through with my sword had he breathed a word.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?” Annie said. “Did you really jump your horse through the lych-gate?”

  Dagonet laughed. “Come into the garden, Miss Annabella, and I’ll tell you. Captain Morris wishes to speak to your sister in private.”

  Annie went with him willingly enough and sat down on a garden bench opposite the object of her curiosity, who relaxed against the convenient trunk of a tree. She could see from where she was sitting that Amy and the captain were deep in conversation.

  “Well?” she said, arranging her short skirts. “I don’t believe you could have done it. I’ve looked every time we went through it to church and the roof is too low. You could jump a horse over the little gate and the bench where they set down the coffins, between the pillar things, but the rider would bang his head on the beams under the thatch and come off.”

  “That’s what my cousin thought wh
en he wagered me that it couldn’t be done.”

  “Then how did you win?”

  It was a pity that no one but Annabella could see his face just then. The expression was entirely without sarcasm, relaxed and open with a warmth of humor in the green eyes.

  “I hung from the side of my horse’s saddle like a savage. He cleared the gate with an inch to spare, and his ears brushed the fringe of the straw. It took a very exact approach, but then he was a very good horse. My grandfather had given him to me. Yet it was a stupid thing to do and I was lucky not to get killed.”

  Annie’s face lit like the sun. “I wish I could have seen it! What did you win from the wager?”

  “A promise from George; he’s Sir George Montagu now, of course. Obviously, I can’t tell you what it was.”

  “Why not?”

  “A matter of honor between gentlemen.”

  “I bet he didn’t even keep the promise!”

  Dagonet laughed. “You’re as sharp as you’re pretty, Miss Annie.”

  “I’m not pretty.”

  “Yes, you are. You’ll grow up to be as lovely as your sister Amelia.”

  “Cathy’s just as pretty as Amelia. It’s cruel that nobody says so. I think brown hair is just as good as gold.”

  “And so do I. I’m a great admirer of brown hair, but you will keep that a secret from your sister Kate, won’t you?”

  Annie nodded very earnestly. Her own hair was the exact color of a brown mouse and she had always been in despair over it. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Good, because I shall ask you to keep another one and not tell anyone that I’m here. Will you do that?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

  Within moments Dagonet had her in merry laughter over another story entirely.

  Amelia looked around at the sound. “He’s charmed Annie, anyway. If you wish me to accept him as a friend, of course I will, for your sake.”

  David Morris smiled warmly. “I should have told you before, but he wants nobody to know that he stays with me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him, you know. I owe him my life more than once.”

  “And so you trust him absolutely?”

  “We were together more than four years in the Peninsula, Amy. Dagonet is the truest, bravest fellow I have ever known. What happened at Lion Court all those years ago, I don’t know; he won’t talk about it. But I will never believe that Charles de Dagonet has ever done anything deliberately cruel or dishonorable in his life.”

  And since that gentleman and Annabella were at that moment distracted over a joke, David stole a quick kiss from his beloved.

  * * * *

  “I apologize freely, David, if my presence embarrassed you with your betrothed,” Dagonet said after the young ladies had gone. “It comes from being such a desperado. They will tell no one, of course. The Hunters seem to be an extraordinary family.”

  “You’re up to something, aren’t you? You look like a pig in clover.”

  Dagonet grinned. “Who, me? It’s not my fault that Catherine Hunter’s living at Lion Court.”

  “You promised me you would not involve her.”

  “Kate Hunter has already entangled me, my friend. I’m a helpless victim, ensnared by the Lorelei.”

  “I wish I could tell when you’re being serious.”

  “I’m always serious, my dear friend, especially about the fair sex.” His green eyes were bright with laughter, as if they had never been shadowed. “Cousin George doesn’t deserve to live under the same roof. However, if I’m to win that roof back for myself, the presence of Miss Catherine Hunter cannot be allowed to stop me.”

  Chapter 5

  They were enjoying a spell of extremely hot, dry weather, perfect for the late harvest. Two days after Catherine’s sisters had discovered a stranger playing David Morris’s harpsichord, Lady Montagu had decided to take the air. She planned to visit her neighbor, Major Cartwright, and had taken Charlotte and George with her in the landau. Since, in Mrs. Clay’s opinion, her mother’s companion was not a necessary accompaniment on any social visit, Catherine was able to spend the glorious day mostly as she pleased.

  After quickly taking care of the minor chores that Lady Montagu had left her, Catherine walked across the Lion Court estate down to the home farm, where the workers were taking in the last of the grain. The men formed a long line down the field, each bending and lifting in rhythm, their short badging hooks flashing in the sun. The standing wheat fell neatly, until a scattering of half sheaves replaced the waving golden carpet.

  Each man then worked back up the other side of his ‘natch’ until he had another half sheaf, which he bound to the first in a single movement. The women, coming behind their menfolk, stacked the finished sheaves together into shooks to cure, until the field was covered in neat rows of the tiny stacks.

  Catherine propped herself on a large stone near the gate and watched. Sometimes one of the women paused to dash a hand across a hot forehead or rub at an aching back, but no one stopped, not even for the normal break times. Even the children toiled the same long, hot hours in the baking sun.

  Devil Dagonet was right: the people were worked too hard. Why were extra hands not hired to help?

  Clouds of dust rose from the field and the lanes were powdered with fine dirt. In spite of her parasol and bonnet, Catherine felt as if she were being slowly roasted, but she couldn’t bear to go back into the house. Instead she walked thoughtfully up past the lake and followed Rye Water into the cool shade of the woods.

  She soon arrived at the little grotto, carved out between low cliffs. Part of the stream had been diverted so that it ran over the blunted curves of a stone nymph and flowed unendingly into a pool from her upturned urn. Between the base of the cliff and the edge of the water, the patch of short turf was intermingled with moss, yet a briar rose had managed to take root on the face of the rocks and still held a few late flowers.

  The pool shimmered invitingly in the dappled light.

  Catherine took off her bonnet and dabbled her fingers in the water. It felt delicious.

  The temptation was overwhelming. She knew the routine of every member of the household. Lady Montagu and her offspring would be gone all day. No one would come here.

  She hesitated only another moment, before stripping off her half boots and stockings. Why not?

  * * * *

  Water splashed, like a musical accompaniment. Someone was in the grotto, singing an old folk ballad in a soft soprano.

  “We lingered where the water flows, sweet promises her eyes did make; I gave her but a single rose, but she my heart and soul did take.”

  Dagonet walked out of the trees and up onto the rocks above the grotto.

  He looked down at the pool. Desire, pure, forbidden, pierced him like a lance.

  Miss Catherine Hunter had flung aside bonnet, shawl, and parasol, and left her boots and stockings on the grass. Her green-striped muslin dress fell straight from the high waistline just below her breasts. Puff sleeves bared her arms. She was paddling thigh-deep in the pool, her skirts gathered up in one hand, while she splashed water over her neck and shoulders with the other. In the sun-dappled light she seemed ethereal.

  Yet her naked legs gleamed. His attention riveted on the smooth white of her thighs, her calves and ankles, the tender step of her feet. Cold water ran in rivulets, tracing the curves of her neck and breasts. The wet fabric of her dress was almost translucent.

  Damnation, damnation, damnation! Reverend Hunter’s innocent, lovely daughter—impossible! Never, never for him!

  She was totally oblivious to his presence. He should leave.

  Instead, he climbed silently down the cliff face, leaned back against the rock where it met the short turf, and softly took up the song.

  “I am a knight without a grail, I am a tower without a dove; I am a ship without a sail, and lost am I without my love.”

  * * * *

  Catherine spun about and felt color rush t
o her cheeks. Devil Dagonet!

  He looked perfectly relaxed, as if he came across young women losing all sense of propriety every day. His jacket was flung over one shoulder. Broken sunlight mottled white shirt and tan riding breeches, and struck dull lights in his dusty boots. His dark hair fell over his forehead, disordered, as if he had just run his fingers through it, but a wicked smile lurked at the corners of his lips.

  “What?” she asked. “Only an old folk song? No pertinent quote from the poets, sir?”

  He dropped his jacket on the grass and crossed his arms over his chest. Carefully banked desire shone in his gaze, yet with a touch of yearning—as if for something deeper . . . the right to even be there?

  “I’m struck dumb, Miss Hunter. Pray, don’t let me disturb you! You present such a charming picture, I shall be desolate if you don’t go on singing.”

  “Then be desolate! How dare you stand there and watch me? Any true gentleman would have left without making his presence known, before so embarrassing a lady.”

  “As I thought you were already aware, dear Kate, I’m not reckoned to be a gentleman. Don’t you believe me a thief and a rogue? Besides, what well-brought-up young lady would splash around barefoot in a woodland pool with such recklessness?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “If you would be kind enough to leave, sir, so that I could recover my shoes without further impropriety, I would rectify my foolish behavior this instant.”

  “An impetuous action, once taken, cannot be rectified though, can it? Even if I were to leave this instant, you would still know that I had found you out.”

  “Then you wish to mortify me?”

  His glance swept over her. “It’s my humble opinion, Miss Hunter, that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She decided deliberately to misunderstand. “I’m all wet, sir! And I’m standing over my knees in water. If that falls within the bounds of what’s considered acceptable in polite society, then you’ve been moving in very different circles than I!”

  “In Paris,” he continued blandly as if she hadn’t spoken, “the ladies of the court are deliberately dampening their muslins the better to display their charms. The custom has not yet, regrettably, taken hold in England. Perhaps you can start the new fashion?”