Running from Scandal

by Amanda McCabe

  Then she heard something else, the rumble of hooves pounding on gravel behind her, coming on fast. She peered over her shoulder, holding on to her bonnet, to see a large, gleaming black horse barrelling down on her. It was suddenly so close she could see the sheen of sweat on the beast’s flanks and the capes of the rider’s greatcoat flapping around him like wings.

  Terrified, she shrieked and dived toward the hedgerow, sure she would be trampled by the hooves. She tripped and fell into a puddle, her redingote quickly soaked.

  ‘Blast it all,’ she cursed. Tears of rage choked her. What else could go wrong with her life? It was all so terribly unfair!

  Melanie pounded her fists on the ground, sending up more muddy splashes. Now she would have to go straight back to her uncle’s house to bathe and change, no consoling gossip with Mrs Smythe.

  ‘Are you quite all right, miss?’ a man shouted. ‘I am so terribly sorry. I thought no one was around.’

  Melanie looked up to see the greatcoated man swooping down on her. He swept off his wide-brimmed hat and for an instant she was dazzled by the halo of light around him.

  She blinked and saw that he really was quite angelic-looking. Dark coppery-blond hair fell in curls to his collar and his eyes were a deep, dark, chocolate brown set in a handsome face. Surely he was some sort of dashing poet, like Lord Byron!

  She felt like she was caught in a beautiful dream.

  ‘Are you injured?’ he said.

  ‘N-no,’ Melanie gasped. ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘But I did at the very least cause you a fright, for which I am profoundly sorry,’ he said. ‘Please, let me help you to your feet.’

  Melanie held out her hand to him. His gloved fingers closed around hers, strong and warm, and he supported her as he raised her up. He held on to her until she could stand on her own, the dazzling dizziness slowly righting the world around her. All the boredom she’d felt only moments before was gone when she looked at her rescuer.

  ‘I have not seen you here before, sir,’ she whispered.

  ‘I have just arrived in the area on a business matter,’ he said with another dazzling grin. ‘I would have come much sooner if I had known there were such beauties to be seen. May I beg to know your name?’

  Dizzy with his compliments after so long in the arid loneliness of no society, she laughed. ‘I am Miss Melanie Harding, sir.’

  ‘And I am Mr Philip Carrington, very pleased indeed to make your acquaintance,’ he said. He lifted her muddied glove to his lips for a gallant kiss. ‘Please, let me see you home to begin to make amends for my terrible behaviour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carrington,’ she answered. The name was vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite fathom why amid the delightful feelings of Philip Carrington’s touch on her arm as he led her to his horse. Not since Captain Whitney first appeared in her life had she felt that way.

  He lifted her up into his saddle, his hands strong and steady on her waist. Then he swung up behind her, holding her close to him as he urged the steed into a gallop. The wind rustling past her seemed exhilarating now where before she had hated it.

  Suddenly the world seemed fun again.

  * * *

  Philip watched as his pretty damsel in distress dashed up the narrow steps to a village house. She paused at the door and turned to give him a flirtatious little wave. Even under the dust of her fall to the road, Philip could see how lovely her pert little face and the pale curls peeking from beneath her bonnet were.

  An angel lurking in the dismal depths of the countryside. Who could have imagined such a thing?

  Miss Melanie Harding. Philip tipped back his head to peer up at the tall, narrow house. He had a feeling he would be hearing that name again soon. He was determined to see that fair face and slender figure once more.

  Philip sighed and wheeled his horse around. In the meantime he had to find lodgings and seek out the agent of this dismal journey—Emma Carrington.

  At least things looked a little more fun now...

  Chapter Nine

  Sansom House didn’t look very forbidding, Emma thought as she studied its front door. All the novels she had been reading lately led her to think the house of a recluse would look like a medieval fortress. That it would come complete with a moat and a watchtower, at the very least some crenellated walkways where the hidden occupant could lurk about and watch for intruders.

  She was a bit disappointed there was nothing like that at all. Sansom House was more a large cottage than a castle, comfortable and modern with a pretty front garden and smoke curling out of the chimney. It wasn’t even particularly hidden, merely tucked off the main lane behind a stand of trees.

  Mr Sansom hadn’t been seen about in a long time, but Emma supposed if one had to be reclusive it could be done just as well in comfort. She wondered what sort of man she would find inside. Would he be something like an older version of Sir David?

  Emma rather hoped not. She’d already spent too much time thinking about Sir David since they last met at the assembly. She kept images of him away well enough during the day, as she walked Murray on the Barton grounds, worked on decorating her little house and spent time with Mr Lorne learning how to run a bookshop. When she was busy, there was no time to remember how it felt when he kissed her. How it felt to feel life stirring within her again.

  But at night, when her cottage was quiet around her and she had only the company of a book and her dog, the thought of him would not be banished. That was when she dreamed of what it would have been like if his kisses had gone even further...

  Emma shook her head and climbed down from the seat of the pony cart she’d borrowed from Jane’s stable. She couldn’t have Sir David in her life. She knew that very well, especially after hearing the sad tale of his wife’s scandalous elopement. She shouldn’t even have thoughts of him.

  A groom hurried over from the side of the house to take the reins and she made her way along the walkway to knock at the front door. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed her new lilac-coloured spencer jacket that she had bought now she had received her inheritance. Surely Mr Sansom could not be so very fearsome, yet she still felt quite unaccountably nervous as she waited. Her reception in the village had been so varied, she didn’t know what to expect here at this house.

  A neatly clad maid in a white cap and apron opened the door and took Emma’s card. ‘Of course, Mrs Carrington,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘Mr Sansom is expecting you, if you’ll just follow me.’

  She was expected—that was surely a good sign. Emma trailed behind the maid as she was led through narrow, winding corridors and past closed doors. She could see why Mr Lorne was so eager to do business with Mr Sansom. Every inch of space was taken up with books, piles and stacks and overflowing shelves full of books. They blotted out most of the light from the windows and she was eager to stop and peruse the titles, to explore the treasures that might be hidden there.

  But the maid kept up too brisk a pace for any explanation and Emma had to keep up with her. They came to the end of a dim hallway and the maid pushed open a door.

  ‘Mrs Carrington to see you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Send her in, send her in,’ a voice, much heartier than Emma would have expected, called. ‘And fetch us some tea, please.’

  Emma ducked past the low doorway and into what seemed a cave of wonders. There was a crackling fire in the grate and comfortable dark-velvet chairs and sofas grouped around it, but every other inch was covered in more books. Stacked on every table, around the floor, teetering on shelves. Finally, behind the highest stack of all, Emma saw a man.

  He sat in a deep armchair close to the fire, wrapped in a warm shawl with another over his legs, despite the mild day outside. Except for the spectacles perched on his nose, he didn’t much resemble Sir David. He was thin and waxy-white, with
sparse, untidy waves of grey hair. But his blue eyes were bright as he waved her forwards.

  ‘Mrs Carrington, so good of you to come to my little house,’ he said. ‘Do forgive me not standing, my rheumatism you see...’

  ‘Oh, not at all, Mr Sansom!’ Emma cried as she hurried to greet him. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble at all. It was kind of you to answer my letter.’

  Mr Sansom pushed forwards a chair for her and gave her a twinkling smile that made her like him right away. ‘Not at all. I’m always happy to meet another book lover. Mr Lorne is a good friend, but we have known each other so long we have little left to say to each other. It seems all my other old friends have left the world without me.’

  ‘Life does have a way of changing when one isn’t looking, doesn’t it?’ Emma said.

  ‘Quite right. But books are always the same. Books can always be relied upon. I know you must agree with me, as you are your father’s daughter. Now there was a man who valued learning.’

  ‘So he did, Mr Sansom,’ Emma said. ‘I was so excited to learn that you knew him.’

  ‘We shared many interests. And I’m sure he would be most intrigued to learn you intend to take over the good Mr Lorne’s shop.’

  ‘I hope to. I need something useful to occupy myself and earn my bread, and books seem to be the only thing I know well. That is why I’m hoping you could help me.’

  Mr Sansom chuckled. ‘By letting you sell my books? I confess I would find it very hard to part with my old friends, though I know some day I must. I suppose seeing them go to new homes where they would be appreciated would be best, even if they must be separated.’ He gestured to the portrait hung over the fireplace mantel, an image of two young, dark-haired ladies in the stiff satin gowns of the last century. ‘You see them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma answered. ‘They are very pretty.’ And she couldn’t help but notice the younger one had very familiar-looking bright grey eyes.

  ‘My sisters. Anna, the elder, married a diplomat and went off to ports unknown, where she used to write the most fascinating letters to me. My health never let me travel as much as I would have liked, but through her I did. She died young with no children. Amelia, the younger, married Sir Reginald Marton of Rose Hill and lived close, but sadly she was a girl of little imagination. Her only son is a most intelligent man, but he is so busy he does not have the time to read as he should. So I have no family who would want all these dusty tomes.’

  Emma thought Miss Beatrice Marton might one day want the ‘dusty tomes’, as well as Anna Sansom’s letters from ports unknown. She was dying to ask Mr Sansom more about David. What was he like as a child? What other secrets lurked in his family’s past? But fortunately the maid appeared with the tea tray before she could appear too eager to learn about his nephew.

  ‘Perhaps you could pour, Mrs Carrington, while I find the books I have here that once belonged to your father,’ Mr Sansom said. As Emma sorted out the tea, he dug about in the piles of volumes next to his chair.

  ‘I was most excited to hear you had some of them, Mr Sansom,’ Emma said.

  ‘Yes, he sent them to me before he died, my poor friend. Was afraid your mother might sell them off if he didn’t, I dare say.’

  Emma had to laugh. ‘I fear she might have. Mother wasn’t a great reader, nor did she share some of my father’s—ideas.’ Like the search for the lost Barton treasure. The idea of it consumed her father and sent her mother into fits of temper, and he never even found it in the end.

  Nor had Emma.

  ‘I like you, Mrs Carrington. You are not missish at all. I can’t bear missish women.’ Mr Sansom came up with a bundle of faded green leather-bound volumes. ‘Ah, here they are. Handwritten, of course, and not the easiest to read, as I’m sure you will find. But rewarding, if you are interested in local history as your father was.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ Emma said. She passed Mr Sansom a plate of cake and took the books in exchange. ‘I hope to settle here again and learn all I can about the area.’

  ‘Done with wandering, are you, Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Then I do hope you can make a go of the bookshop. This place would be an utter desert without it. Tell me your plans for it.’

  As they finished their tea, Emma told him some of her ideas for expanding Mr Lorne’s business and finding new, further-flung clients interested in antiquarian works. She also told him about Jane and Hayden’s work at Barton Park and listened to some of Mr Sansom’s most recent studies. The time was passing so pleasantly that Emma was startled when the maid reappeared.

  ‘Sir David Marton is here to see you, sir,’ she announced.

  ‘Well, well! Two visitors in one day. I am becoming quite popular,’ Mr Sansom said cheerfully. ‘Send him in. Mrs Carrington, you have met my nephew, have you not?’

  ‘We have met a few times,’ Emma murmured. She felt her cheeks turn warm at the memory of what happened the last time they met, the overwhelming kiss that exploded between them. The memory that wouldn’t leave her. She turned to stare into the fire, hoping she could excuse her sudden blush on its heat.

  ‘It is very good to see you again, Mrs Carrington,’ David said quietly. ‘I am sorry, Uncle. I didn’t realise you had a guest or I would have called another time.’

  Mr Sansom chuckled. ‘Because I usually live so hermit-like? That is very true, David, but Mrs Carrington has kindly come along to remedy that. Sit, join us for some tea.’

  David stood in the doorway for a long moment and Emma began to wonder if he would make his excuses and leave. If he couldn’t stand to be around her and remember his uncharacteristic loss of control. But then she heard the echo of his boots on the old wooden floor and he moved some books from the chair next to hers before he sat down.

  He was so close Emma could feel the warmth of his lean body brush against her skin, more enticing than any fire on a cold, lonely day. He smelled of the sun and the wind, and of the faint, clean cologne she remembered from the assembly. It made her want to bury her nose in his cravat and inhale him, to be as close to him as she could.

  But she just glanced at him and gave him a tentative smile, half-fearful of his response. He smiled at her in return, a careful, polite smile, but it was a start. At least they could be in the same room together without her melting into a puddle of embarrassment.

  Hadn’t Mr Sansom said he admired her for not being missish? She felt terribly missish now, as if she would start giggling at any moment! That simply wouldn’t do.

  ‘Shall I ring for more tea?’ she said briskly as she pushed herself to her feet. She hurried across the room to tug at the bell pull.

  ‘Don’t go to any trouble for me,’ David said. ‘I shouldn’t stay long and interrupt your conversation.’

  ‘We were just talking about books, weren’t we, Mrs Carrington?’ Mr Sansom said. ‘An endlessly fascinating topic. Mrs Carrington is going to run the bookshop.’

  ‘So I have heard.’ David watched Emma as she went back to her seat next to him. The firelight glinted on his spectacles, hiding his eyes from her. ‘Were you trying to beg my uncle’s books, Mrs Carrington? After he declared to Mr Lorne he didn’t want to sell at the moment?’

  Emma felt vaguely discomfited by his question, as if she were caught doing something she shouldn’t. She knew that feeling very well. She fidgeted with her skirt, trying to decide what to say.

  ‘Don’t be so ungallant, David,’ Mr Sansom said with another chuckle. ‘It’s not at all like you. Mrs Carrington was merely offering assistance in finding good homes for my friends.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Carrington,’ David said with a small bow.

  ‘Not at all,’ Emma answered, still pleating her skirt between her fingers. ‘You are quite right to look after your family. Perhaps Miss Beatrice would care to take some of Mr Sa
nsom’s library? She seems to have very advanced reading tastes for her age.’

  David picked up the large volume on top of the teetering stack next to him and glanced at the spine. ‘Perhaps not quite ready for Tacitus. But you are right that she has advanced beyond lessons with her nanny.’

  ‘A bluestocking in the making, is she?’ said Mr Sansom, clapping his hands in delight. ‘Most gratifying indeed. You must take her any of these books you think she would like.’

  David picked up another book and examined it. He didn’t look at Emma, but she glimpsed the quirk of an almost-smile at the corner of his lips. Was he—could he be—softening toward her?

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Carrington should advise us what Beatrice might like to read, Uncle,’ he said. ‘My daughter has said more to her in the few times they’ve met than she has to anyone else of late.’

  Emma couldn’t help a warm flush of pleasure at the knowledge that Miss Beatrice liked her, for she was a most intriguing child. But did this mean that David would let her be around his daughter, after his wife’s scandalous elopement? ‘I would be happy to help Miss Marton any way I can,’ Emma said. ‘She’s a lovely child.’

  ‘That all sounds settled, then,’ Mr Sansom said. ‘You must both help me sort out which books to sell and which to start little Miss Marton’s library. In the meantime, David, tell me if you could use anything in those agricultural pamphlets I sent you. I could make little of them, but then I am not a farmer...’

  * * *

  After another half-hour of tea and pleasant chatter about books, Emma took her leave along with David. She found her pony cart waiting at the garden gate, along with David’s horse, saddled and ready to go.

  ‘Your uncle is a most interesting man,’ Emma said. She concentrated on tugging on her gloves, uncomfortable to be suddenly alone with him.

  ‘He is that indeed,’ David said. ‘I always enjoyed our visits to him as a boy. I have been trying to help him with his financial straits lately, as he has not been in good health.’