Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  “I am sure that is so.” Raymond smiled at Greta. “And very lovely.”

  “Greta and I are German,” Ivo stated with a slight frown.

  Raymond’s gaze remained on Greta’s face. “Then the German ladies are enchanting.”

  “You are still the same incorrigible flirt.” Andrew laughed and shook his head.

  The butler came in and poured more wine into their glasses and set a plate of sweet biscuits on the table. He bowed and retreated.

  “Will you stay on for the shoot next week?” Andrew asked. “We should be delighted should you decide to. You will know many of the guests.”

  His cousin cast him a grateful glance as he picked up his glass. “Thank you. I should be delighted.”

  Andrew wondered if there was another reason for Raymond’s visit. He supposed he’d learn of it soon enough.

  That evening, Andrew joined his guests again at dinner. Across the table, Raymond looked what he was, a well-built gentleman in well-cut dinner clothes. His black hair was curled into a Brutus, his cravat exquisitely tied in the complex Neapolitan. But Andrew’s earlier observation of his cousin seemed correct. Raymond’s face was finely drawn, and he looked older than when he’d seen him last. Still in his twenties, he should rightly still have the fresh-faced youthfulness of a young man in his prime. Perhaps his mother had been right. Aunt Augusta feared the life Raymond led in London was self-indulgent, and perhaps even bordered on dissipation. His father had been a gambler, and early on in his life, Raymond showed signs of following in his footsteps. He gambled away money he could ill afford on curricle races, cock fights, boxing matches, and horseracing, and he was a friend of the reckless Baron Alvanley who was busily going through his fortune.

  Andrew toyed with the idea of asking Raymond if he needed funds, but thought better of it. A man had pride. If Raymond was in bad straits, he would come to him, as he had before. Andrew supported Raymond’s widowed mother, as he did all his relatives; it was his duty as head of the family. But he disliked throwing good money after bad.

  Raymond was laughing at an amusing aside from Greta. The expression in his eyes caught Andrew’s attention. He was looking at the baroness as if filled with a kind of painful longing. For some reason, Andrew found it disturbing. He turned to discover Ivo frowning at them both.

  Chapter Four

  William usually rode immediately after breakfast. Jenny feared he would become impatient if none of the grooms were available to accompany him, and might ride off on his own. If only she could ride with him. The green wool riding habit hung from a hook in her cupboard. Why had she brought it here? Homesickness, and the struggle with her loss of independence stirred again, although it had begun to ease. There was little point in wishing for the moon. Her father, furious with her, had decreed it. This was her fate and she must accept it. She was well fed, with a roof over her head, which many could not claim, though she did wish for more company. Nanny was kind, if a little vague at times, while the children warmed her heart and gave her days a sense of purpose.

  Yesterday, a letter arrived from her sister, Arabella, in York. News from home was always accompanied by a flutter of anticipation. Jenny pulled the crumpled paper from her pocket, smoothed it out and reread every word while she partook of her porridge, tea, and toast at the table in her room.

  At seventeen, six years Jenny’s junior, Bella kept her up to date with the latest happenings at home. It seemed that Papa still buried himself in his library engrossed in his Medieval studies and turned his back on the rundown estate. As with Jenny, there was no money for a London Season. Papa’s hopes rested on Bella, the prettiest of the girls, who he was confident would attract a gentleman of means at the York or Harrogate Assembly dances, now that she’d turned seventeen.

  Her sister wrote about how she longed to escape the miserable atmosphere at Wetherby Park. Jenny prayed Bella’s union would be a love match. That she wasn’t pushed into marriage with someone she disliked. Her sister would not be able to refuse an offer as Jenny had done.

  Jarred, the eldest at twenty-four, was scholarly like their father, but he had to give up his dream of attending Oxford, and now worked as a clerk at the Inns of Court, hoping one day to become a barrister. Jarred sent money home whenever he could, but living in London took most of his wages. Colin at twenty was away in the navy. Jenny’s other three siblings were too young to venture out into the world. Her gentle sister, Beth, was thirteen, then there was twelve-year-old Charlie, and Edmond, the youngest, who was eight. It remained a sorry state of affairs, which Jenny felt would not have come to pass had her mother lived. Mama had been practical and capable, and life had been much better then.

  Papa did not expect you to accept his ultimatum to either marry Mr. Judd, or leave us, Bella wrote. He misses you, Jenny. I think he sorely regrets you leaving. You are the most like Mama, and Papa has not been himself since she died. I am still unsure what was said between you before you left us. I know you disliked Mr. Judd. I haven’t warmed to him myself, although Papa thinks he’s a capital fellow, they are often in the library pouring over old tomes and chuckling together. I wish you would come back. I miss you dreadfully. We all do.

  Bella.

  The letter cast Jenny into despair. Was Judd still visiting them? He would be, of course. It should have occurred to her. Walter Judd had fostered a shared interest in Medieval literature with her father. They spent hours reading poetry and discussing it, and she suspected her father had begun to regard Judd as a chivalrous knight. She should be there. If she’d accepted Judd’s proposal, she might have been able to help her siblings. But after what she’d discovered about him, she just couldn’t.

  Her mind on her appointment with His Grace at eleven o’clock, she finished her breakfast, tidied her hair, and made her way to the stables to check on William.

  The autumn mist still hovered high in the trees, the grass sparkling with dew as Jenny walked toward the stable yard.

  Suddenly the duke rode out of the woods on his stallion, thundering down the driveway toward her, scattering gravel. For a moment, Jenny stood still and admired him. A glorious sight, he and the horse moved as one. If William was with him, it would delight the boy, but there was no sign of him riding behind his father.

  The duke drew rein as he came up to her, close enough for her to read his expression. She gasped. His dark eyebrows were lowered in a heavy frown as he pulled his mount up, the magnificent chocolate brown horse’s nostrils flaring. “Miss Harrismith, do you know which of the bridle paths my son might take?”

  Jenny stepped back, although it was obvious the duke was in complete control of his mount. “Yes, Your Grace. Lord William prefers to ride to the river.” With a feeling of foreboding, she pointed toward the bridle path which angled away through the beech trees and disappeared deep into the wood. “Is something wrong?”

  The stallion threw up its head, pale mane flying. “William’s riding Storm Cloud,” the duke growled. “That horse is almost as big as Cicero and has a nasty temper.”

  She started. “Lord William knows he is not allowed to ride one of the big hunters!” she said, her uneasiness about the boy having proved right. “Isn’t the stable master, Ben, or Jem with him?”

  “Ben is laid up with an injured leg, and Jem has escorted the baroness and her brother over the estate,” the duke threw back over his shoulder as he wheeled his horse away.

  “Lord William would wish to impress you with his horsemanship, Your Grace,” she called after him. He would not like to hear such a comment from a governess, and indeed he ignored her. He nudged his horse’s flank, and urging the animal into a canter, disappeared into the trees.

  William could not have saddled the horse himself. Did he ride bareback? She’d seen him ride one of the smaller horses without a saddle, but Storm Cloud? That was ridiculous. But she couldn’t quell her fears as she hurried along praying it would come to nothing. William would manage the horse quite well as long as he didn’t try to jump a high
gate, or a fox or hare didn’t startle the horse.

  She hurried under the archway and entered the stable yard, a large cobbled area made up of the stables, coach house with the staff accommodation above, and storehouses. Inside the duke’s immaculate stables, the stable boy was scouring out a stall with vinegar and baking soda, the same as they used at home in York. The air was tinged with the faint smell of urine, overlaid with oil and leather. Horses shuffled in the loose boxes, but several stood empty, swept and clean.

  “Did you see Lord William ride off, Sam?”

  “I did, Miss, but I was out forking straw bales off the cart and couldn’t stop ’im. Not that his lordship would’ve listened to me.”

  “Storm Cloud was saddled?”

  “One of the stable lads did it for ’im, Miss.”

  “Well there’s that at least. I imagine His Grace will find him.” But William would be in trouble, she thought gloomily. An unfortunate beginning when father and son were just getting to know each other. She left the stables to wait in the yard.

  William was determined to show his father how accomplished a rider he was. She hoped the duke would keep a cool head, and not drive a wedge between them, although she feared he might, for he did look furious.

  A lady trotted her horse into the stable yard with two gentlemen, a groom following behind them. Their mounts crossed the cobbles to the mounting block.

  The tall dark-haired gentleman dismounted effortlessly, threw the reins to the groom, called goodbye and left, walking away toward the house. Jenny knew him to be the duke’s cousin, Mr. Forsythe, come to visit, because the nursery maid, Mary, had told her so when she’d brought her breakfast.

  The groom assisted the dainty lady to dismount. She was dressed in a scarlet-colored habit edged with black braid in the military style, and a jaunty black riding hat. A golden lock curled over her shoulder. Thanks to Mary’s penchant for gossip, Jenny knew the guest was Baroness Elsenberg. Her brother, Herr Von Bremen, strolled over the cobbles toward Jenny, peeling off his leather gloves. He removed his hat, and smoothed his hair, the same color as his sister’s, back from his brow.

  The handsome man stood before her. Close up he was younger than she’d first thought, but still several years older than her. “How charming. And who are you, pretty lady?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.

  Jenny bobbed. “Miss Harrismith, sir. The governess.”

  Bright blue eyes smiled into hers. “Do they allow you to ride, Miss Harrismith?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You must be allowed some measure of freedom. Perhaps you might show me the rose garden.”

  “I’m afraid the roses are not at their best this time of year, sir,” she replied.

  “Ivo, come away. Let the domestic be,” the baroness called in a cross voice. “Please accompany me to the breakfast room. I fear only English food awaits me, but I declare I’m famished.”

  With one last glance at Jenny, which took her in from head to foot, Herr Von Bremen nodded and went to take his sister’s arm. “It is inelegant for a lady to mention her stomach,” he rebuked her. “I hope you don’t do it in the duke’s company. Where did he ride off to, by the way?”

  “He’s gone in search of his son,” the lady’s voice drifted back as they left the stables. “I do hope the boy doesn’t demand too much of his time.”

  Jenny stood stunned. Well, how rude, but the comment was not meant for anyone’s ears. Anyone that mattered, at least. Was the lady about to marry the duke? She didn’t seem the sort who would make the children a good mother. Surely the duke was too smart to be fooled by a beautiful face and elegant figure. But men, even clever ones, could so easily be taken in by sapphire blue eyes and a tiny waist. While ladies, she admitted, might be caught by Ivo’s handsome smile.

  *

  Andrew rode out of the woods into a clearing. His son sat on the bank throwing pebbles into the river. Nearby, Storm Cloud cropped at the grass. William glanced anxiously up at him. As Andrew’s rapid heartbeat eased, he buried his intention to chastise him.

  William stood. “Have I made you angry, Father?”

  Andrew dismounted, still patently aware of the governess’s remark. There was condemnation in her tone, which irritated him, because he knew she was right. He reminded himself of his own youthful misdemeanors as he walked over to his son. “I was worried, William. That horse is called Storm Cloud for a good reason. A good hunter, but needs a strong hand. I’m relieved you’re not hurt.”

  “I can ride him, Father,” William said eyeing Andrew’s stallion. “I can ride any horse, even Cicero.”

  “Perhaps you can,” Andrew said mildly. “But I’d rather you didn’t until you’re older. Please don’t do it again.”

  William glanced down at the smooth pebble in his hand. “Very well, Father.”

  It was pleasant here with a shaft of sunlight warming the ground, the familiar smells of mud and water and wet reeds stirring up memories from his past. For a moment, some of Andrew’s concerns eased, as he focused on William. “Do you come here often?”

  William turned and skimmed the pebble over the water. It bounced several times before it sank a fair way across the river. “I ride every day before lessons. Ben usually accompanies me, but he’s hurt his leg.”

  Andrew hunched down and selected a perfectly smooth flat pebble. He stood and spun it over the water as he’d done as a boy. It bounced three times then sank just short of William’s.

  The boy’s face lit up. “I say, I beat you, sir.”

  “Fair and square,” Andrew said with a smile. “Time to return to the house. I’ll give you a leg up.”

  William backed away, offended. “No need, Father.” He untied the horse’s lead from a branch and was up on the horse’s back as fast as a jockey at Ascot. Storm Cloud turned his big head, his black eye fixed on William while he chewed on a mouthful of grass, but put up no objection when William walked him toward Andrew’s horse.

  Chuckling, Andrew mounted, and after William rode on ahead, turned Cicero’s head for home. He would join Greta for breakfast and apologize for missing their ride.

  Andrew found Greta and Ivo in the breakfast room dawdling over their coffee. While he ate his kidneys, eggs, and bacon, Ivo drawled on about the delights of Viennese society, which made Andrew wish the man would go back there. He drank down the last of his coffee, made his apologies and rose. After noting Greta’s pout, he invited her to meet the children that afternoon, then returned to the library and his letters.

  His temper flared again. This time it was directed at a letter which had just been delivered by a mounted messenger, recalling him to London to address a problem at Whitehall. He would be forced to leave his guests to their own devices for a day or so.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come.”

  The governess entered, just as the mantel clock struck eleven. Well, she was nothing if not punctual.

  “Ah, Miss Harrismith.” Andrew put down his pen and nodded to her as she came to stand before his desk. He was reminded again of how she’d called after him as he’d ridden off to find William. While he approved of her defense of his son, he did not like the implication, however slight, that he needed advice. Presumptuous! His gaze roamed over her. He couldn’t fault her tidy appearance, but the demure forest green gown was ill fitting. The bodice strained across her bosom, and as if aware of it, her fingers toyed with a brooch there. He averted his gaze. For some reason, he found Miss Harrismith unsettling.

  Andrew did not invite her to sit. He needed to deal with any problems swiftly and be on the road within the hour. And there was one large problem. Greta would be most displeased, shut away here with little society for two days. He toyed with the idea of inviting her to come with him and sighed. No doubt she would expect him to squire her about Town, and then it would be a week before they returned to Oxfordshire. Still, he would welcome time to spend in her company. After all, it was a chance to get to know Greta better away from the
distractions of society, and her brother.

  “Now, what do you wish to speak to me about, Miss Harrismith?” he asked, aware he sounded impatient. “Is it imperative for us to discuss it now?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I consider it imperative. But you may not, Your Grace.”

  He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “Semantics, Miss Harrismith. There is obviously something that you wish to advise me of, so please do so. I shall be leaving for London shortly.”

  “Oh. The children will be disappointed.”

  He was tempted to grind his teeth. She was frowning at him again. “I’m afraid not everything can revolve around my children, Miss Harrismith. That is why I have employed you.”

  She took a step closer to the desk. “I am concerned about Nanny Evans, Your Grace. She is becoming very tired. It is taxing caring for the children for someone of Nanny’s years. Not Lord William, so much, but Lady Barbara can be quite determined.”

  He frowned. “Nanny Evans?” Nanny was almost as much a part of the fabric of Castlebridge as those whose portraits lined the picture gallery. Andrew recalled with fondness the woman who had cared for him when a youngster. He must make time to visit her. How old would she be now? Not in her dotage surely. “Nanny has always been most capable. I don’t see why that would change.” He sat back, folded his arms, and cocked an eyebrow. Miss Harrismith’s gaze dropped to her hands clasped in front of her. As he’d suspected, the young woman overreacted. “Barbara is a most amenable child, I fail to see how she could cause anyone bother.”

  “Lady Barbara is delightful, but strong-minded. She is also quite creative. If you would care to visit the schoolroom…”

  “I certainly plan to. When I return,” he said shortly.

  She gave a quick nod. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Andrew found himself studying the charming shape of her upper lip. Dash it all, governesses shouldn’t be so attractive. Wasn’t that a stipulation made to employment agencies? Good-looking women got into trouble. Hence the last governess who was now in Cornwall with the footman.