Last Night's Scandal

by Loretta Chase

  Lisle knew she saw worlds more than he did.

  All he saw, really, was Olivia, in a pose that was so like her. He remained for a moment, simply watching her stand so still that a fanciful person would believe she was spellbound.

  Since this was Olivia, she was undoubtedly spellbound. One needn’t be fanciful to know that. One needed only to know her.

  What, he wondered, would she make of the Pyramids?

  Stupid question. She’d be enchanted. She wouldn’t mind the hardships. She’d grown up on the streets of Dublin and London. She’d be happy and excited . . . until the novelty wore off and she grew bored.

  His life wasn’t always as exciting as she imagined. The work itself was repetitive and tedious. Finding a tomb could take days, weeks, months, years of patient searching. Day after day in the heat, overseeing workers carefully shifting sand . . . the slow, meticulous work of copying the images on tomb and temple walls, of making drawings of monuments, because they could easily disappear.

  Whole walls and ceilings had been cut out and taken away to adorn museums and private collections. Temples had been dismantled, their stones used for factories.

  He missed it, the repetitious, tedious work. He missed finding, measuring, sorting, imposing order.

  She understood his passion for Egypt but she’d never understand his passion for such slow work. The reality of his life there would bore her witless, and he knew what happened when Olivia became bored.

  She’d see the Pyramids someday, he didn’t doubt. She’d visit as others did, the aristocrats who sailed to Egypt in their yachts and went up and down the Nile, and went home again in a few months, the yachts piled with anteekahs.

  She turned then, while his mind was still continents away. Unprepared, he felt the world drop away. Nothing remained but her beautiful face, the blue, blue eyes and the pearly skin, the color rising in her cheeks like a sunrise.

  And things stabbed, tiny daggers to his heart.

  “Ah, there he is, the laird of the manor,” she said with a thick Scottish burr she must have picked up in Edinburgh.

  The sound jolted him from his reverie. He hoped she hadn’t picked up bagpipe playing as well.

  He approached. “Tell that to the natives,” he said. “They seem to think I’m the tax collector or the hangman.”

  She laughed the low, velvety laugh. He could feel himself being drawn in, a dunce of a fly skirting the edges of the spider’s web.

  Facts. Stick to facts. He studied her clothes as though they were ancient artifacts.

  Over the mass of red curls she wore the usual milliner’s insanity: a thing with a brim the size of a flagship’s foredeck, with feathers and ribbons sprouting out of the top. She wore the usual dressmaker’s insanity—sleeves the size of wine barrels and puffed-out skirts that made her waist seem tiny enough for a man to encircle with one hand.

  Seem wasn’t a fact. Seem was fantasy. He flung the thought away as though it had been a useless piece of rubble.

  He swept off his hat and bowed, to give himself something rational to do. “Welcome to Castle Horrid,” he said. “I hope it’s hideous and gloomy enough for you.”

  “It’s wonderful,” she said. “Beyond anything I could have hoped for.”

  She was well and truly thrilled. It was there, unmistakable, in the flush of excitement in her cheeks and the light in her eyes.

  If they’d been children, she would have run at him and flung her arms about his neck and cried, “I’m so glad I came!”

  He felt a moment’s grief, a sense of loss—but one couldn’t be a child forever, and one didn’t want to be.

  He put his hat back on his head and turned his attention to Gorewood Castle and its facts.

  “Motte and bailey style,” he said. “U-shape. Main block containing basement and three floors. Two wings projecting from the west face of the main block, with three main floors above the basement. The height is one hundred six feet from ground level to the top of the parapets. The walls, on average, are fifteen feet thick. It is far from a common type of structure, I agree, and it is certainly extraordinary in having survived for so long, relatively intact.”

  “Thank you for the architecture lesson.” She gave a little shake of her head that made the curls bounce about her face. “You never change, do you? I referred to the atmosphere. So grey and forbidding. And the light, at this time of day—the lowering sun piercing the clouds to drive long shadows over the bleak landscape, as though Gorewood Castle spreads its gloom over the surrounding valley.” While she spoke, a flock of crows, disturbed by something, started up from the north tower, cawing. “And there are your dark ghosts,” she said.

  “Atmosphere is your department,” he said. “I’ve had as much atmosphere as I can take. It’s done nothing but rain.” Too many short, dark days of rain, followed by long, dark, rainy nights. All the while wondering what he’d done in his life to deserve being sent into exile here. Wishing he had someone to talk to, and telling himself he didn’t mean her, but someone sensible. But here she was, glowing like an Egyptian morning, and stabbing at his heart and lifting it at the same time.

  “Then I pronounce the atmosphere completely correct,” she said. “The perfect setting for a horrid tale like Frankenstein or The Monk.”

  “If that’s your idea of perfect, you’ll be ecstatic with the inside,” he said. “It’s damp and cold and dark. Some of the windows are broken, and we have chinks in the mortar. As a result, we get interesting shrieking and wailing sounds as the wind blows through.”

  She came nearer then, and peered up at him from under the gigantic rim of her bonnet. “I can’t wait,” she said. “Show me—now, while we still have the light.”

  Olivia had been enthralled, yes, but she hadn’t failed to notice the castle’s dilapidated entrance arch, through which her train of carriages and carts and wagons passed. She’d expected to see Lisle appear there. She’d imagined him standing next to the equally dilapidated and picturesque drum-shaped gatehouse for a time, watching the vehicles pass and looking for her. Then he’d spot her and come out and . . . well, he wouldn’t open his arms so that she could run into them. But she’d expected him to come out from there, to greet her, as the lord of the manor would do.

  Instead, he’d appeared out of nowhere, in exactly the place where the lowering sun could catch at his hair when he swept off his hat and bowed. The sun made glittering gold trails in his hair and danced on the straw and dust from the carts and wagons, making golden sparks fly about him.

  It was very aggravating of him to suddenly appear, all gleaming gold like a figure in a medieval tale. For a moment, she’d imagined him sweeping her up on his white charger and carrying her away. . .

  To where? Egypt. Where else? Where he’d drop her in the sand and forget about her as soon as a crumbling, smelly mummy caught his eye.

  But he couldn’t help it, any more than she could help who she was. And he was her friend.

  Her friend, she discovered on closer inspection, had shadows under his eyes. Under the shade of his hat brim the bruised eye was barely noticeable, but that same shade emphasized the lines of weariness in his face.

  He was unhappy as well. He was being stoical, but she could hear it in his voice and see it in the way he carried himself, all determination and no zest.

  She said nothing, though, only listened as he went on in his pedantic way while they passed under the entrance arch into the weedy courtyard.

  The curtain walls were crumbling, she saw, but the stables at the far end of the courtyard were merely shabby. Overall, it was not in nearly so ruinous a state as the Athertons had made out. Not altogether surprising. Both she and Lisle had understood the castle was merely a means to an end.

  They neared a set of stairs leading up—perhaps thirty feet—to a door in the castle.

  “
This is how we get to the first floor,” he said. “One used to cross a drawbridge and pass under the portcullis, but those disintegrated long ago. When major repairs were done last century, my ancestor must have decided stairs were more practical. A wise decision, I think. A drawbridge and portcullis serve no useful purpose nowadays, and they’re the devil to maintain.”

  She could picture the drawbridge and portcullis. She could picture the castle as it had been long ago, when the walls about it were strong, and men kept watch from the towers and gatehouses and parapets.

  Before she could start up the stairs, he touched her wrist to stop her. If he’d been the romantic figure she’d imagined, he would have pulled her into his arms and told her how much he’d missed her.

  She, to her vexation, had missed him. She’d wished they might have explored Edinburgh together. Even he would be disarmed by its beauty. Even he would appreciate how different it was from London, like another world entirely.

  But his gloved hand barely touched hers before he drew it away to indicate a doorway, blocked by weeds and rubbish, at ground level.

  “There,” he said. “We’ve a basement comprising three rooms in the main block. Arched vaults. A well room in the south wing. I’ve assigned you women to the south tower. It’s a bit warmer and brighter. The Harpies will be on the lower levels because the stairs will kill them.”

  She looked up, up, up, to the top of the castle. The inner stairways would be narrow and steeply winding. And dark. In olden times, any enemies who managed to get inside could easily be trapped and killed before they got far.

  “A drawbridge and portcullis would be more romantic,” she said, starting up the unromantic stairs.

  “Would a dungeon make it up to you?” he said. “Because we’ve a fine dank one in the north wing of the basement.”

  “I’m sure it will come in handy,” she said.

  “It isn’t functional at present,” he said. “Except for the well room, the basement rooms are in a ruinous state. One of the stairways leading down from the first floor has been vandalized. Still, that and the curtain wall seem to represent the worst of the depredations.”

  She reached the top of the stairs. The door opened and she stepped past the servant holding it into and through a short passage. Then she simply stood stock-still and gaped like the veriest yokel.

  “I had the same reaction,” came Lisle’s voice from behind her. “To hear my parents carry on, you’d think we had trees growing in the fireplace and birds nesting in the minstrel gallery.”

  She’d known his parents had exaggerated. They always did. Still, nothing had prepared her for this sight.

  It was a great banqueting hall, and yes, she’d been in plenty of them. But those were richly furnished, offering every modern comfort. They didn’t show their origins as plainly as this one did.

  Above her rose a great pointed vault. To her left, at the end of the long hall, a fire blazed in an immense fireplace with a cone-shaped stone hood. On either side of it were large niches where someone had set candles.

  The room was splendid. Though almost completely unfurnished, it was much as it would have appeared centuries ago, when Mary, Queen of Scots, visited.

  This, she thought, must be a little of what Lisle felt when he first came upon an ancient temple: a sense of stepping into another, older world.

  She was vaguely aware of servants moving out into the hall, lining up, waiting, and she knew she was supposed to marshal them into order, but for the moment, all she could do was take in her surroundings.

  “Fifty-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide,” came Lisle’s voice beside her. “Thirty feet from the floor to the top of the pointed barrel vault. The minstrels’ gallery seems to have been replaced in the last century. There was a screens passage under it. I’m not sure that needs to be replaced.”

  She turned to him. “It’s splendid.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said. “I hope you’ll convey its splendor to the servants. They seem to be dubious.”

  “I will,” she said fervently. She knew exactly what to do. This was what she’d come for. To turn a ruin into something magnificent and bring a village back to life. To do something worthwhile.

  She turned her attention to the line of servants, who didn’t appear at all happy. Strangely, the ones who’d been here for a few days did not seem to be in a greater state of trepidation than those who’d come with her. She supposed that Lisle had done his best to keep up morale. But they were all London servants, after all. They must have felt they’d stepped into the Dark Ages.

  She didn’t square her shoulders visibly, but she did it mentally. This part she could easily do. The sooner she did it, the more quickly their work here would be done.

  Then he could go back to his one true love and she—

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she was only two and twenty. She still had time to find her own true love, too.

  The odds weren’t good but she’d beat long odds before.

  Only look at how far she’d come since the day she’d met him. And now she had a castle—not forever, but then, she wasn’t a forever sort of girl.

  An hour later

  Lisle knew Olivia was a chameleon. She could mimic not only accent and dialect but posture and manner. He’d seen her fit in among street urchins and pawnbrokers and peddlers. Why shouldn’t she as easily assume the role of chatelaine of the castle?

  Still, he was startled when, shortly after entering, she took off her ludicrous hat and turned into her step-grandmother, Lady Hargate. The romantic, breathless Olivia he’d seen standing in the road became cool and detached and absolutely in control, as she set about directing the servants.

  The first priority was making the great hall comfortable, since they’d be spending most of their time here. Nichols had had the first group of servants clean the room. After inspecting their work, Olivia set about directing the placement of furniture and such.

  When Lisle realized he was studying her the way he’d study a mummy’s wrappings, he collected his wits and left the hall.

  He went to his room and gave himself a lengthy and logical lecture about spellbinding women who turned into sandstorms. Then he gathered his plans and drawings and returned to her.

  Very coolly and logically, he said, as he gave them to her, “I thought you’d find it easier to understand the castle’s layout if you had these.”

  She took out the sheets of paper and set them out on the large table the servants had hefted into the center of the room. She studied them for a time, and the firelight and candlelight danced in the curious arrangement of curls her maid had made atop her head.

  “Oh, Lisle, this is brilliant,” she said.

  If he wrapped one of those curls about his finger, what would it feel like?

  “I have some of your cousin Frederick Dalmay’s books and papers,” she said. “They do contain drawings and plans, but nothing so detailed as these.”

  “It’s what I usually do when I come upon an unfamiliar structure,” he said. “I needed to be doing something productive. The downpour limited activity, and that started the first day.”

  “It rained in Edinburgh, a little every day.” She didn’t look up. She was still studying the drawings and plans and notes.

  “It was more than a little here,” he said. “The cold stream of rain commenced at Coldstream, our first stop after Nichols and I left Alnwick. I suppose that’s Scotland’s idea of a joke. It rained throughout the ride here. It didn’t stop raining until last night. Surveying the house kept me busy.”

  It was supposed to keep disturbing thoughts at bay, too. That part hadn’t worked so well.

  “Is this what you do in Egypt?” she said.

  “Yes. After we clear away the sand.”

  “Your drawings are beautiful,” she said, looking up at
last.

  He looked at the drawings spread out on the table, then into her face.

  That beautiful color in her cheeks. It seemed to come from within, but perhaps the candlelight enhanced it. Even in daytime, not much light survived the long journey from outside through the narrow windows and fifteen-foot wall.

  “I’m not joking, and it isn’t flattery,” she said. “Your draftsmanship is excellent.”

  They exchanged a smiling glance, and that said everything, he thought. They were thinking the same thing: The first day he’d met her, she’d told him that his drawings were dreadful.

  “It’s taken me only a decade to progress from ‘execrable’ to ‘excellent,’ ” he said.

  She turned back to the drawing. He watched her slim finger trace the outline of the first floor’s great bedchamber.

  “This simplifies everything,” she said.

  Did it? Or had everything become impossibly complicated: the slender, graceful finger and her fine-boned hand and the way her skin glowed in the dusky light of this ancient hall and the smile at a shared memory.

  He stepped a pace away, before he could be tempted to touch. “It makes it easier to set priorities for repairs,” he said. “When and if we ever get workmen, I’ll know precisely where they’re to begin and what they’re to do.”

  “That’s why you were in the village today,” she said.

  “For all the good it did,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you had no luck with the villagers,” she said. “You manage hordes of workers in Egypt.”

  “It’s different there,” he said. “I know enough of the various languages to communicate, and I know their ways. Scotland’s culture is altogether different. But I suspect Gorewood’s inhabitants are being thick on purpose because they don’t want to understand me. And I’ll wager anything they lay the burr on thick on purpose because they don’t want me to understand them.”

  “I’m wild to get to the bottom of that,” she said. “You’re the laird’s son. They have a problem with your castle. They ought to feel they can confide their worries to you.”