A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World

by Jo Beverley

  “Prepare it, but first she must come down to see the body.”

  “Oh, your ladyship, is that necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, your ladyship,” the maid said, and left.

  Lady Hernescroft grimaced at the thought of the storm clouds gathering, but then she heard someone else enter the room, and turned.

  Thank God. One of her sons, the Honorable Peregrine Perriam, had arrived, slender, elegant, and despite the early hour, perfectly dressed for the occasion in dark gray. Perry was distressingly dilettante, but he was a master at court and Town protocol.

  “You must handle matters in society,” she said quietly to him, “and control what is said. Unpleasant suppositions are already stirring.”

  “Poor girl.” Perry was fond of his sisters, if perhaps less so of his brothers.

  “Is it true, do you think?” she murmured.

  “Georgie and Vance? He’s not the type for fashion and boudoirs. Maybury invited him to manly affairs for his sporting abilities, but I doubt Georgie saw much of him.”

  “Logic won’t carry weight when she’s indulged in so many follies, some of them with men. You should have steered her to a better path.”

  “She had a husband,” he pointed out.

  “Who was not up to the task. What details have you gleaned?”

  “At this hour, very little. I spoke with the men below. According to Kellew, his second, it happened last night at a tavern. There’d been a race and they were in their cups when Vance sneered at Maybury’s driving skills. Maybury threw his wine in Vance’s face and the duel was on. Dickon Maybury was a dolt of a driver, but I’d have said he was too easy natured to go to swords over it.”

  “Quite,” Lady Hernescroft said. “Which is dung that will enable this weed to grow. Trivialities are often used to protect a lady’s name in a duel, and what lady could be the cause here but Maybury’s flighty wife?”

  “The cats who envy Georgia’s beauty and charm will delight in this. Wives have fled abroad in such situations.”

  “No Perriam will become an outcast. About your work. Ensure that the right story greets the beau monde when it wakes today. I’ll make sure the gentlemen below see her in all her raw grief and carry that tale to the clubs. Tell her maid to bring her robe.”

  She went forward to draw her weeping daughter up from the bed. “Come now, you must want to see him.”

  “Must I?” The wide, reddened eyes seemed like those of a child—a shocked child, bewildered by fate.

  “You must. No need to dress. See, here’s your maid with your robe.” She herself helped her daughter to put on the pink silk. “No, don’t attempt to tidy her hair. Come along, daughter. I will be with you.”

  Perry had gone to his allocated task, and she could trust him there. Lady Hernescroft thanked God her husband was at a race meeting. He was inclined to thunder, but this required a more subtle touch.

  A mere two months ago Lady Lowestoft had fled after a similar duel, but all the world had known that she was the killer’s mistress and that she’d run off with him. There was no true similarity, but vicious tongues would find one. Would it be best to take Georgia away from Town or compel her to face the world to put paid to any comparisons?

  She guided her trembling daughter along the corridor and down the stairs of the fashionable Mayfair house to where Maybury’s body lay on a chaise. His bloodstained shirt had been changed for a fresh one and his body covered to the neck with a red brocade coverlet. His eyes had been closed, but he did not look as if he slept.

  At sight of him, Georgia made a choking sound, and Lady Hernescroft wondered if she would vomit and whether that would have good or bad effect.

  Instead her daughter stumbled over, hands outstretched. “Dickon? Oh, Dickon, why?” She brushed brown hair from his temples but then flinched back. “Already cold. Cold!” She collapsed down, pink robe and Titian red hair spread over the crimson brocade. Lady Hernescroft was not poetical, but it was a striking effect.

  “Oh, why, Dickon, my darling, why?”

  Lady Hernescroft slowly let out a breath. Without any artifice, her daughter was putting on just the right show. Two of the four men were dabbing their eyes, and Kellew was sobbing.

  After a few moments, Lady Hernescroft gently drew her daughter up and into her arms. “You must leave him now, my dear. Come with me. We’ll get you a sleeping draught.”

  She guided Georgia back upstairs and helped the maid settle her in her bed.

  Lady Hernescroft couldn’t help but notice what a deplorable frivolity that bed was. The whole thing was painted white, with details picked out in gold. Cupids supported the four posts, and nymphs and shepherds frolicked on the headboard. Part and parcel with her youngest daughter’s extravagant, frivolous life.

  She and Hernescroft had expected the young couple to live most of the year at Maybury Castle, which lay close

  to their seat, Herne in Worcestershire. Even when they weren’t at Herne to supervise, their various officers could, and Dickon’s mother had continued to live at the castle.

  Instead, as soon as Maybury achieved his majority and control of his large fortune, they’d moved to Town to become leaders of fashion. Visits to Maybury had been brief, and in most cases Dickon Maybury had visited alone. Georgia had lived in this Mayfair house, which was done up in the very latest style, leaving London only in the heat of summer for a Chelsea villa they’d named Sansouci.

  Without care.

  Carefree might seem all very well, but careless was to be deplored. Maybury had paid little attention to his estates, and Georgia had cared for nothing but amusement and fashion.

  Lady May, they called her, as insubstantial as a mayfly, but darling of much of the beau monde.

  The “beautiful world” could turn vicious in a moment, especially toward those it envied. As Perry had said, as soon as they heard the news, the jealous cats would be sharpening their claws, ready to shred Lady May’s reputation.

  The maid carried the sleeping draught toward the bed, but Lady Hernescroft put up a hand to halt her.

  “Georgia, listen to me. You shall drink the potion and sleep a little, but then you will leave Town with me and return home to Herne.”

  “Herne? No, no, I’ll go to Sansouci.”

  “Are you with child?”

  Georgia looked away. “No.”

  Lady Hernescroft turned her daughter’s tear-soaked face to her. “Pay attention. You said that Maybury came to your bed last night. No, don’t weep again. Does that not mean you could be with child?”

  Georgia wiped away tears. “Perhaps. But…but it’s been three years, Mother. Why would last night make any difference?”

  That was true. Three years and no conception.

  If a miracle had happened, it would be revealed in time, but that in itself could cause problems. An heir conceived around the time of the husband’s death was always suspect. Georgia must be carefully chaperoned so that many could testify that she could not have coupled with some other man after the duel.

  Then there were the rumors about Vance. No matter the truth, people would speculate.…She should have told Perry to make haste to take hold of Vance so that he could assure everyone that the duel had been over driving skills and no lady was involved.

  Perry would think of that on his own.

  It was a damnable mess, however, and all her flighty daughter’s fault. Her daughter, who did not yet grasp the situation.

  “If there’s no child, Georgia, Sansouci is no longer your home, nor is this house, nor Maybury Castle. All will go to Maybury’s heir, his uncle, Sir William Gable-Gore.”

  “What?” Georgia looked as shocked as at the death. “Everything gone? Everything?”

  “Everything except your personal possessions.”

  “No.…”

  “Here, my dear. Drink this and sleep.”

  Georgia took the glass and sipped, then screwed up her face at the bitter taste. It seemed to act as a res
torative, however, for she braced herself and drained the glass in one go.

  That was one good thing—her willful daughter had never lacked courage. She’d need it now. Her path back to the world would not be easy, no matter how skillfully this crisis was managed.

  The maid took away the glass and gave Georgia one of water to wash some of the taste away.

  First Georgia must return to Herne and live quietly there in mourning, allowing the furor to die down. There would have to be a few visits from neighbors to scotch any rumors that she was, in fact, abroad with her lover.

  Here in Town, Perry and others would make it clear that the duel had been exactly as it seemed—a folly of young men soaked in drink. If the truth was otherwise, it must be suppressed.

  Ah. There would be an inquest, of unfortunate interest to the curious. That must be managed too, so that the Perriam name wasn’t dragged in the dirt.

  Lady Hernescroft looked ahead. In a year, Georgia would seek another husband, but this time he must be more suitable. An older man with necessary sternness.

  Georgia drained the last of the water. “Last night, everything was as usual, delightfully so. I was at Lady Walgrave’s ball. I was Lady May. Beaufort flirted with me, as did Ludlow. Sellerby composed a rhyme in adoration of my shoe buckles. Now I have nothing.” She looked up. “How can that be?”

  Lady Hernescroft had never been a doting mother, but that piteous question touched her heart. She embraced her daughter, kissing her unkempt hair.

  “Your life has undergone a great change, Georgia, but you are not left with nothing. You have your widow’s jointure, your own fine qualities, and above all, your family. Trust in your family. We will take care of you. We will keep you safe.”

  Chapter 1

  September 29, 1764

  Herne, Worcestershire

  Dear Lizzie,

  Your letters have been a great comfort to me, and I can only beg you to forgive me for not replying. It seems I’ve slept through summer, hardly noticing the passing days, or even the blooming and fading of the flowers. I think I sank for a time into the grave with poor Dickon.

  Something has awoken me now, however, perhaps simply that it’s Michaelmas Day, when country servants consider whether they wish to stay in their employment or seek some other place.

  I would certainly seek some other place if I could.

  When I returned to Herne, I half expected to return to the schoolroom bedchamber I shared with Winnie. Instead, I’m installed in a handsome set of rooms, but in all other ways I could be sixteen again! I have no more say in the running of Herne than I did at sixteen, when I so recently was accustomed to managing three houses.

  I have no money! In truth, I do, for I have my portion back, but it’s returned to my father and he doles out a few guineas a month. I wasn’t aware a portion could be returned, but I suppose anything is possible if all parties agree to it. The new Earl of Maybury was eager to shed the commitment to pay my jointure of two thousand for perhaps sixty years, even at the cost of twelve thousand now.

  You will understand how bitter it is to have a pittance in my pocket. Father pays my bills, but I’m sure he feels entitled to question my purchases, and as all this is done through his clerk of accounts, you will appreciate how it galls me.

  Thus far I’ve only purchased mourning clothes and a few essentials, but now I’m awakened, I’m tempted to order something outrageous. What do you think it should be?

  A jewel-encrusted prayer book? A gold-plated chamber pot? I can see you laughing and shaking your head, and it makes me smile and cry at the same time. I would order a carriage now and race to see you, but I know you expect a new treasure at any time, so I’ll restrain myself. I’d inflict myself on Babs except that she and Harringay are in France.

  Ah, Versailles! Will I ever see Versailles again?

  Yes, of course I will, you say, as soon as my year’s over and I choose a new husband. I also hear your usual scathing comment on the French court, you country mouse.

  May I beg an invitation to your country haven for Christmas, my dearest friend? Mother strongly recommended that I stay at Herne for my six months, and given the ridiculous stories circulating about me—Vance, Lizzie! Who could ever imagine me in his bed? When he killed my Dickon! My only desire is to run the foul wretch through with his own sword!

  But by Christmas all fires of scandals will have burned to ash, and I’m resolved to shed Herne along with my blacks. I have distinct memories of this place in winter. Huge chambers and marble floors in many rooms. What insanity to build in such a style in England.

  Your Jacobean manor house is much better suited, and Dickon and I so enjoyed the one Christmas we spent at Brookhaven. I will know he’s watching and smiling as I dote on your darlings, play hoodman blind, kiss beneath a mistletoe bough, and flirt with all the men. That is, if anyone wishes to flirt with me in dove gray and lilac, neither of which suits me.

  You laugh again, but truly, both shades do odd things to my complexion.

  When I leave you, I will return to Town for the winter season. No one shall prevent me, for I die for Town! Until I return there, I will not truly be alive.

  Oh, see, a tear’s blotted the ink, and it’s not my grieving for the beau monde, but from imagining you shaking your head again, my dearest, dearest friend, and missing you so very, very much.

  I look forward to your next letter and hope it contains news of your easy, safe delivery,

  Your dearest,

  Georgia M

  December 6, 1764

  Lizzie!

  Have you heard the news? Dickon’s mother has departed this life. I suppose I should express my grief, but as she was relentlessly unpleasant to me for most of my marriage, I will not play the hypocrite.

  How unfair she was to blame me because we moved to Town, when it was Dickon who was desperate to escape as soon as he was of age and in control of his fortune. Yet it was to me she wrote, complaining of our extravagance.

  Oh, but I complained of all that at the time. Did I tell you of the letters she sent after Dickon’s death? I think not. Written in acid with a fiery pen. I tried to respond moderately, Lizzie, I truly did, for I understood the anguish of a mother who had lost her only child, but in the end I had the letters kept from me. I didn’t return them, for I feared that would cause her greater pain, but I could not read any more of them.

  She believes the foulest stories about me. I not only took Vance as a lover, but every single man in my court, and of course I seduced Vance into getting rid of my unwanted husband.…

  Oh, I will write no more of her, think no more of her! But alas, I fear I cannot visit you at Christmas. I won’t play the hypocrite, but I must give my husband’s mother the honor of at least a month of mourning.

  If you and Torrismonde don’t go to Town for the winter season, perhaps I may visit you in January. For now, I am gathering my shawls, thick stockings, and woolen mitts in hope of surviving to see you again.

  Your frozen friend,

  Georgia M

  “Perry!”

  Georgia ran down the grand staircase to hug her favorite brother as soon as he entered Herne, but then she dragged him toward the stairs. “Don’t shed a scrap of clothing until you’re in my boudoir, or you’ll die of the cold.”

  Laughing, Perry tossed his hat to a footman and went upstairs with her.

  “I couldn’t believe it when you wrote to say you’d visit,” Georgia said. “In such weather and with Christmas a mere week away. Are you en route to visit friends farther north? This is so delightful, whatever the cause. It’s months since your last visit.”

  “And that solely to see you. I like Herne as little as you do, Georgie.”

  “Kindred spirits. Here, come in. I manage to keep this room and my bedchamber tolerable, and thus I rarely leave them. Mother and Father aren’t due to arrive for Christmas until the twenty-third. I suppose then I’ll have to brave the dining room.”

  “Which they will keep as warm
as possible, damn the cost.” He shed gloves, scarf, and fur-lined cloak into the arms of Georgia’s maid, Jane Nunn.

  Georgia tossed her own warm cloak on the settee and then hugged him again. He was only a few inches taller than she, and of slender build. This led some to underestimate him, but he was strong and a skillful swordsman. Some also thought his stylish ways made him shallow, but there was more to Peregrine Perriam than met the eye.

  “What refreshment can I offer? A meal, tea, ale, wine?”

  “Tea now and any meal that can be thrown together. Soup would warm my bones.”

  “Tea and soup for my brother on the instant, Jane, and whatever else we can provide for a dinner. And make sure his room is as warm as mine.”