A Beastly Scandal

by Shereen Vedam

  He bowed and gallantly held open the door. Belle rather liked Mr. Jones, even if he was a liar.

  To her mind, there were at least three types of men. There were Unprincipled Cads like Lord Fitzgerald, who took advantage of innocent women caught in unusual circumstances. Then there were Men In Disguise, like Mr. Jones, who might have a perfectly good reason for hiding their true selves, and she hoped that time and closer acquaintance would help unmask him. Lastly, there were Incomprehensible Mysteries, like Lord Terrance, who had a fiery temper and a scorching appeal. But approaching too closely might get her burned.

  I wonder into which of those categories Jeffrey fit? Then she added a fourth. Cowardly Cold Fish.

  Earnest led the way back to the games room. He wore a proud grin on his long face as he checked back, which he did frequently, to ensure Belle and her friends followed close.

  As they passed the stairs, Belle wondered if either of the Lord Terrances, alive and dead, might indeed get wind of her game.

  THE NEXT MORNING at breakfast, Rufus was alone in the dining room but for his aunt. He listlessly picked at his warm and delicious eggs and bacon rashers. Other than the servants, apparently he and his aunt were the only members of his household who had bothered to wake with the dawn of a new day.

  Hair pulled back and dressed in a mobcap and black gown, Mrs. Jones appeared a somber matron. The only good thing about her company at table was that she sat at the other end.

  Too far away to berate me, thank heaven.

  His gaze shifted to the door. It remained shut. Hours kept at Clearview were different than in Town, but he recalled country people waking earlier, not later.

  The butler, Felton, entered the room and bent beside him to speak. “Mr. Nightingale has arrived, my lord.”

  Rufus nodded. “Show him into the study.”

  Mr. Nightingale, the Agent in Chief of the family’s Cheshire holdings, had sent Rufus regular reports to the London townhouse. Busy ferreting out the events that led to his father’s death, Rufus had neglected them. Now, back at Clearview, he had taken the opportunity to read the man’s missives thoroughly, and what he discovered did not please him.

  This was his first interview with Nightingale, and he had better present a more congenial aspect than the tone of his reports had conveyed. In writing, he came across as rude and presumptuous, and he had intimated that Rufus was more interested in his Town activities to the detriment of his assets.

  His father would have never tolerated anyone so ill-mannered to stay in his employ. Rufus, too, was ready to discharge the man out-of-hand, but then remembered how he must have seemed to the vicar yesterday and decided to hear Nightingale out. Everyone deserved a second chance.

  He stood and pushed away his half-eaten breakfast. “By your leave,” he said to his aunt, who barely nodded.

  He had reached the door when she spoke. “Where are you off to, Terrance?”

  The clipped tones and unfamiliar address stopped him in his tracks. In all his years, she had always called him “boy.” It was only since the death of his father that she addressed him by name. The formal address gave him little pleasure, since each time she said “Terrance,” it still sounded like “boy.”

  “I meet with Mr. Nightingale on business, aunt.”

  “I will accompany you then.” She put aside her letters.

  “Not necessary.” Bad enough he had to breakfast under a cold shower. He did not need one while he berated Nightingale.

  “Since your dear mother is hardly capable of holding two thoughts at the same moment without confusing issues,” she said, “I often assisted my brother with estate business. It took his mind off such pedantic details. Although this is my holiday, as you are my brother’s son, I will help you, as I did him.”

  “That will not be necessary.” He ground his teeth at the insults poured on his mother’s head, and she not here to defend herself. For that matter, where was she? “I will take care of my own business.”

  “A sign of maturity is knowing when to ask for help.”

  Rufus mastered his temper. How did Phillip tolerate her? But his cousin did, and seemed to care a great deal for his mother. For his sake, Rufus softened his tone.

  “If I need help, I shall be sure to ask. Good day.” He shut the door with a firm click before she thought to follow.

  But his offended emotions could not be shut out as easily. How dare she suggest that I am incapable of handling the estate? Had she voiced this doubt to Father? Was that why he held such a low opinion of me?

  Rufus entered his study still seething. His agent was walking around the room, looking at all the books strewn on the floor and tables. Rufus had spent his morning alone searching for clues to his father’s activities. He had gone through every book in his father’s study, looking for a secret note or a hidden safe in the paneling. He had found nothing.

  His agent’s arms were crossed; his face was pinched the way Rufus’s aunt’s face often looked before she lectured him about a misconduct.

  Rufus’s back stiffened in rejection of any lecture on his behavior from this agent. The moment the man spotted Rufus, he stood to attention, his posture showing respect, but his eyes condemned his master.

  “Good day, Mr. Nightingale. I am glad you could accommodate my request for this meeting.”

  “I am at your service.” His stance was stiff, eyes sullen.

  “Be seated.” Rufus reclined in his chair behind the desk.

  The man walked over to the chair and perched on the edge of his seat.

  “I have gone through your reports.” Rufus tossed the pages across his desk. With a flutter and crinkle, they scattered across the wide surface.

  Mr. Nightingale’s neck stretched, and his mouth thinned.

  “The farms’ profits are down,” Rufus said. “Have decreased for a good number of years. The local mill has needed repair for the last three years. Our boot industry, which thrives elsewhere in Cheshire, shows a loss in Terrance Village. Your records show funds from the estate were drained on a regular basis. It is a wonder I have any left to pay your wages.”

  Stony silence greeted him as Nightingale’s lips tightened so much they formed a straight line.

  Rufus drummed fingers on his chair arm, and when the man remained silent, he said, “I am grateful for my father’s investments in shipbuilding and income from overseas trading. They appear to be better run. Now, tell me, Mr. Nightingale, why I should retain you as my man of business when your records indicate your talents are abysmal? I wonder if you are capable of handling your position.”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed several times. His eyes, which had widened with Rufus’s every word, shut along with his lips. He then stood and marched toward the door, stopped and appeared to almost turn, then opened the door and departed without a word, quietly shutting the door.

  As confrontations went, this one had been startlingly peaceful. Rufus had just gathered the scattered paper when a violent scream rang through the halls. Then there was a moment of silence before Mr. Nightingale re-entered the study.

  “My lord,” the man said in a clipped tone, “you have grievously harmed me. I shall not forget this. Mark my words, I shall not forget this injustice. My resignation will be on your desk by this afternoon. Good morning!”

  The door slammed on his second exit, shaking the house.

  Rufus stared in astonishment, and then his lips twitched, and a laugh burst out. Mr. Nightingale had shown the presence of mind to leave the room before he vented his temper. And he had stood up for himself and spoken his mind. All admirable traits.

  Rufus stood and hurried to halt Nightingale’s imminent departure. After all, second chances often required a deeper second look.

  As he stalked toward the door, he heard a scraping behind him. He swung around. All was quiet, but
now that he could see the room from this angle, he realized he had made a royal mess. One of the servants would have to put everything back on the shelves. What had he heard? Perhaps a stack of books had tipped over. It was hard to tell among all the chaos.

  He turned back to follow after Nightingale and had his hand on the door when he heard the scraping sound again, followed by a soft wooden tap. This time when he looked back, he saw what had moved. His father’s portrait was tilted sideways and looked as if it was about to fall.

  He rushed toward it, having to jump over a pile of books to get to the wall before the portrait crashed. He straightened the frame, checked that it was level, and released it. It immediately tilted. With a frown, he took down the portrait and looked behind it. The hook and string were in place. He then wiggled the nails on the wall. They seemed secure, so he placed the portrait back. This time it stayed in place. With a satisfied nod, he hurried to the door, hoping he had not missed Mr. Nightingale because of the delay. As he left the room, he heard scraping again. He shivered at the sound and increased his stride, refusing to look back.

  Chapter Five

  With fingers crossed that she was not too late for breakfast, Belle descended the stairs with Earnest. A scream brought her to a startled halt. A neatly dressed young man stood outside the study door. Had the sound come from him?

  His flushed face seemed to indicate this was the case.

  Before she could inquire after his well-being, he went into the study. Within a few seconds, however, he was out and marching double time toward the front doors.

  Earnest growled. The young gentleman moved at a swift clip, but he was not fast enough to beat Earnest. The dog leaped forward and pounced on his quarry. Once felled, the Irish wolfhound stood proudly over his prey, teeth bared.

  Belle ran over, grabbed Earnest’s scruff, and gasped, “So sorry, good sir. He probably thought you wanted to play when you ran from the study. I hope he did not hurt you.”

  She tugged the dog from the stranger’s back. At her firm, “Sit,” the hound sat, as docile as a dove from heaven.

  As she helped the young man up, she took note of his appearance. His brown jacket was clean, and his white linen shirt and brown breeches pressed. His neck cloth was tied neatly, if not expertly. Unlike his humble attire, what rocked her back on her heels were the gentleman’s emotions.

  He seethed with overwhelming anger and hurt. Overshadowing that was a helpless sense of devastation.

  “Sir, what ails you?” she asked with concern.

  “I have been grievously injured.” He sounded close to tears.

  Belle, in a bid to divert and disarm his fury, said, “Earnest did not mean to attack you.”

  He glanced past her toward the study, and in her mind a silent, black-and-white vision formed of Lord Terrance, strung from the ceiling by a rope wrapped round his neck. His eyes bulged, his tongue was blue and gray, and his legs dangled.

  She fought the urge to race into the study to check on his lordship. True visions of real events always came as a cacophony of color, texture and sound. She would have seen details about the rope, a toppled chair, and heavy breathing. This mind picture was a daydream. She must believe that.

  Also, Lord Terrance’s presence, alive and well, throbbed from nearby. She would swear to it. His essence was unmistakable. She had not been able to shake that essence of him since she stepped foot into his home.

  But where had the image come from? Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. It was a fantasy of the man who stood before her. It was up to her to draw him back from that abyss.

  “He is still rather young,” she said. At the man’s startled look, Belle indicated the dog. Still trying to draw the gentleman from the emotional cliff he straddled, she added, “His name is Earnest. As I said, he did not mean you harm. Or does the winter gloom trouble you, sir? Such foul weather can make anyone feel indisposed.”

  He blinked rapidly, a definite sign that her wandering speech had distracted him. The image of Lord Terrance strung up faded. Encouraged, Belle kept up her nonstop one-way, inconsequential chatter. “I believe that light is important to a sound soul. I was about to take the dog outside for that very reason. Some light, fresh air, and a bit of exercise. Would you care to join us, sir?”

  He straightened his jacket, as if suddenly aware that he spoke with a lady. “How can you invite me when you do not know who I am . . . I could be a murderer, for aught you know.”

  “But you have such an innocent countenance.” She smiled mischievously.

  He hesitated. Then the lines of tension smoothed, and a smile tugged at his lips. “You are funning me.”

  “I only wish to take your mind off Earnest’s bad behavior.”

  He shot a glance toward the dog and then back to the study door. When he finally focused on her, his shoulders relaxed, and he stood tall and in control of his emotions. He gave her a credible bow. “I am Mr. Nightingale. I am Lord Terrance’s agent.” The smile wavered. “Or I was, until this morning.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Nightingale.” She curtsied, ignoring the tremor in his last words. “I am Lady Belle Marchant. Well, I am happy to hear your good news. You must be thrilled.”

  He gazed at her in confusion. “What do you mean, my lady?”

  “Why, if you have finished your employment with Lord Terrance, then it must mean you are off to a new adventure. No doubt to better and brighter things.”

  He stared at her, open-mouthed, and then burst out laughing. “That is exactly right. My world has not ended. It has expanded to allow room for more opportunities. Why, you have described my future to perfection.”

  “Lady Belle.” The call came in clipped tones.

  Both she and Mr. Nightingale swung around.

  Lord Terrance stood by his open study door. He looked angry, but then when did he not? Belle was pleased no cord hung off his neck and that his eyes were still in their sockets. In truth, he looked exceptionally handsome in a black serge spencer jacket that covered his wide shoulders. Beneath it, he had on a white shirt, a beautifully cut waistcoat with silver buckles, and black drill trousers that outlined long legs to perfection. To cap off the outfit, a cravat overflowed the high starched points of his collar, oriental style.

  Mr. Nightingale stiffened, obviously not as impressed as Belle by his lordship’s excellent physique or dashing apparel. He moved closer to and a little in front of her, as if in a protective gesture.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said, and looked for the Irish wolfhound. “I was about to take Earnest for a walk.”

  As if to call her a liar, Earnest had disappeared.

  “Nightingale, did we miss something in our discussion?” Lord Terrance asked.

  “No, my lord,” he said. “I believe all that needed was said. Good day.”

  Still, Mr. Nightingale hesitated. His expression reminded Belle of the ones that Earnest sported in Lord Terrance’s presence—a flash of hope, followed by dismay.

  Belle reached out and squeezed Mr. Nightingale’s hand, and he started. The light returned to his eyes, and he bowed. “Until we meet again, my lady.”

  “That is highly unlikely, Nightingale,” Lord Terrance said.

  Belle was surprised to find him suddenly by her side, his hand on her elbow. When had he moved closer?

  “You have work to do,” he said and gestured to the butler to come with the gentleman’s jacket.

  Mouth shut tight, Mr. Nightingale shrugged into his coat and hat. “I shall be back with the letter of which we spoke.”

  “If I want a letter from my staff, I shall ask for one. What I want from you, Nightingale, is your proposal for removing my Cheshire holdings out of the abysmal condition they are in. It will list every farm’s and every business’s particulars and their immediate intentions for improving their business thi
s coming year. All of that information is to be outlined in detail. When I am satisfied with your submission, then we will discuss your future in my employ. Good day, sir.”

  Felton gently propelled the young man, who seemed to have lost his power of speech, out the door. Then he quietly removed himself from the entryway, leaving Belle and Lord Terrance alone.

  Belle withdrew her arm from his lordship’s grasp, thinking to also quietly remove herself from the line of danger. “I am off to breakfast.”

  “Not so fast,” Lord Terrance said tersely. “Must you flirt with every man you meet?”

  She stared at him, appalled, “I did no such thing.”

  “You took Nightingale’s hand.”

  “I merely commiserated with him. He was under the impression he had been summarily discharged. Do you plan to do that to the poor man?”

  “Whom I employee or dismiss is my concern.” He took a breath, and she suspected he silently counted to ten. She wished she had vanished like Earnest had the moment Lord Terrance appeared. But she had been so relieved he had not been hung that she had stayed rooted.

  “I do not wish to argue with you,” he finally said.

  “Then why do you do so?”

  He clenched his jaw. “May we have a private word?” His open palm indicated the study door.

  Her heart dropped to her belly. Why? Had he found out about her midnight game with his mother and sister? His face gave nothing away. Had a servant seen her last night? Or reported on the shrunken larder contents? Or had Phillip told the tale?

  No matter. With chin up, she entered the study, ready to do battle.

  He closed the door and indicated that she should sit. She frowned at the untidy appearance of the room. Perhaps he was having the servants rearrange the shelves in a new order. She took the seat before his desk. Instead of moving behind the desk, he leaned in front of it, looming over her.

  “Did you have a pleasant night?” he asked.

  Belle’s conscience pricked. To gain some upper ground, she focused her extra senses on him. If she could read his mood, she could turn the course of this conversation onto safer channels. But while her extra senses could see past most people’s dissembling to the truth in their hearts, she had the hardest time sensing this man’s true feelings.