Scandal of the Year

by Olivia Drake

  She strolled into the dressing room to ready herself. Having no maidservant to assist her, she chose a pale blue gown because it had the fewest buttons. Unfortunately, it was sadly wrinkled from being stuffed in her portmanteau. There had been precious little space for her belongings. But she didn’t mind giving up her vast wardrobe. In her new life, she would have no use for fancy ball gowns.

  Humming under her breath, Blythe returned to the window. While arranging her hair in a loose knot, she looked out over the rolling front lawn. The pastoral scene enhanced her sense of contentment. Sheep cropped the grass, and a stream glinted in a distant copse of trees.

  Gradually, the noise of hoof beats and rattling wheels caught her attention. Having finished her hair, she leaned on the stone casement and gazed out in curiosity as a fine black coach appeared around a bend in the drive.

  It was heading toward the house.

  Blythe drew back in faint alarm. Had one of the neighbors learned of their arrival? Would there be sticky questions about their presence here?

  She mustn’t worry. She and James had a perfect right to stay at Crompton Abbey. Any visitor would have to be received and placated and then sent on their way.

  The coachman drew the vehicle to a stop in front of the porch. Her gaze went to the footman who jumped down to lower the step. His blue livery looked disturbingly familiar.…

  At the same moment, the door opened. Two people emerged from the coach, a woman in a dark hooded cloak and a middle-aged man in a top hat and overcoat.

  Her mother and father.

  Chapter 29

  Her hand stifling a gasp, Blythe backed away from the window. All the happiness leached out of her, leaving her cold and anxious. How in the world had her parents found them so swiftly? Had she and James been spotted on the road? Even so, it seemed impossible for anyone to have guessed where they had been going.

  Perhaps her parents were merely stopping here on their way to Gretna Green. They might have no idea at all that she and James were staying here.

  But not even that made sense. Why not head straight to Scotland?

  One thing was certain. She would not cower like a child here in the bedchamber. Explanations must be made to her parents, their feelings soothed, their objections overcome. They must be coaxed into understanding that she had chosen James as her husband and they would accept him—or lose her forever.

  With trembling hands, she checked her appearance in the pier glass. Oh, how she wished she’d asked Mrs. Grimshaw to iron her gown. Blythe wanted to be dressed in her very finest for this difficult interview. Mama might infer that a slovenly appearance reflected upon Blythe taking up with a man of the lower classes.

  Nothing could be more wrong. They simply must be made to see the goodness in James.

  Where was he, anyway? Perhaps it was best if he had gone for a walk. A long walk would keep him away from the house for a while. By making haste, she might be able to plead her case and calm her parents somewhat before they confronted him.

  Oh, heavens! Papa would be furious that she’d run off with a footman. He might even attempt to punch James. Papa had nearly done that very thing when Colin had kidnapped Portia two years ago—and Colin was a peer of the realm.

  How much worse James would fare!

  Blythe hurried down the broad oak staircase. The great hall was empty, but the sound of voices drew her down the corridor to the library. Her heart pounding, she stepped through the doorway.

  There, she halted in dismay. James already faced her parents in the center of the room. Papa stood rigidly at attention in front of a massive stone fireplace. He gave Blythe a troubled stare, but his lips were taut and she wasn’t sure if he would welcome a hug from her.

  She was startled to see her mother curtsying to James. “Your Highness,” she said. “We came as soon as we could.”

  Blythe swallowed an hysterical laugh. Of course, her parents knew him as Prince Nicolai.

  James must not have mentioned in his note to them that he was a footman. Perhaps he had feared to anger them even further.

  She went to James and slipped her arm through his. “Mama, Papa, I’m sorry you had to travel halfway across the country. I never wanted to cause you any worry. But now that you’re here, I would like you to meet my—”

  “Blythe,” James cut in. “Go back upstairs. I’ll handle this matter.”

  “No. I won’t leave you here to suffer their recriminations alone.”

  “We are not so terribly unhappy,” Mrs. Crompton said with a wan smile, as she removed her gloves and cloak and set them on a chair. “After all, you are now Princess Blythe of Ambrosia.”

  “But Mama, I’m not. You don’t understand—”

  “Do you mean to say he hasn’t married you?” Her father stepped toward them. He shook his fist at James. “You lied in your letter summoning us here. Have you ruined her, then? By God! Royal or not, you’re a bounder of the worst sort!”

  James half-pushed her toward the door. “Go,” he ordered. “Now.”

  She balked, digging in her heels. His tone held a harshness that she couldn’t comprehend. “Do stop, James! It’s very gallant of you, but you needn’t protect me from my own parents.”

  “James?” her mother asked. “Why are you calling him James?”

  “He isn’t Prince Nicolai, Mama. He never was. It was merely a silly ruse. His name is James Ryding, and we were married yesterday.”

  The effect on her parents was stunning. Her father froze in his tracks, his face turning deathly pale, his fist falling to his side. Her mother staggered back a step and clapped her hand to her mouth. Both of them were gazing wide-eyed at James.

  As if they’d seen a ghost.

  “James Ryding,” her mother whispered. “Oh, dear God…”

  A clock bonged somewhere in the bowels of the house. Blythe looked from her parents to James. They were staring at him as if they’d forgotten her presence here. She sensed an undercurrent that puzzled her.

  “Then you do realize that James is a footman?” she asked.

  Papa gave her the oddest look. “A footman?”

  “Yes,” James said coolly. “I’ve been employed in your London house since the start of the season.”

  He again took Blythe by the arm and steered her toward the open doorway. There, he caressed her cheek as if willing her to obey. “It’s best you go upstairs, truly it is. I beg you, darling, trust me on this.”

  Blythe hardly knew what to think. What was going on that he was trying to protect her from knowing?

  A noise came from the passageway behind her: the shuffle of feet.

  James cursed under his breath.

  Coming down the corridor was a thin old woman dressed in homespun garb and assisted by an elderly gentleman. There was something about the man that tugged at her memory.

  James’s fingers pressed into her back. “In the name of God, go.”

  Urgency glittered in his dark eyes. She had the strangest feeling that whatever was happening here would finally provide the key to understanding him. “No, James. I’m staying.”

  * * *

  Bleak with despair, James watched her walk back into the library. Her presence dealt a mortal blow to any hope he’d had of shielding her from this confrontation. Short of using bodily force, he could not eject her from the room.

  The note of instruction he’d left for her parents had specified this appointment here today. They were to arrive not a moment earlier or later than the designated time. Surmising that Edith would be too fearful to come to Lancashire, James had signed the letter as Prince Nicolai, on the theory that she would not be able to resist assuring herself of a marriage between her daughter and the prince.

  There had only been the problem of how to safeguard Blythe.

  God! She had been slumbering peacefully when he’d left her. While making love to her half the night, he had been desperate to imbue her with a fire that could never be extinguished. He’d wanted her to remain abed until this int
erview was over and her parents gone. Then he could find some means to gently break the story of his true identity.

  Yet perhaps this way was for the best. It would be a fast, if devastating, blow. She would learn the whole sordid story. There would be no more secrets between them.

  She also would find out who her parents really were. She would know who he was.

  And that knowledge would destroy her trust in him.

  He waved the approaching pair to a bench just outside the door. “Wait here,” he murmured.

  Fighting dread, James stepped back into the library.

  Blythe was guiding her mother to a wing chair. “Do sit, Mama. You look as if you’re about to swoon. I never meant to upset you so.”

  “Blythe,” her father said heavily. “You should obey … your husband. Leave this room.”

  “I’m staying,” she reaffirmed. “There is nothing any of you can say to stop me.” Going to her father, she briefly rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Papa, I promise you will like James if only you give him a chance. He may be a footman, but you’ll see he’s more a gentleman than any of the lords I met in society.”

  Watching them, James faced the ugly moment of truth. The moment when Blythe would find out just how she had been duped.

  “Blythe, I am a gentleman by birth,” he said. “I was merely posing as a footman.”

  She gazed at him blankly. “What?”

  “Your parents know precisely who I am.” He turned his gaze on George Crompton. “I would venture to guess my name was a topic of great interest to them over the years.”

  George—or whoever he was—said nothing. Edith caught an audibly ragged breath.

  “I don’t understand,” Blythe said. “Why would they know your name?”

  Hardening his heart, he met her gaze without flinching. “I was born James Ryding Crompton. George Crompton is—or was—my cousin.”

  He watched the terrible light of comprehension enter her beautiful eyes. Little did she know, it would be worse in a few minutes.

  Far worse.

  “But…” Blythe shook her head in denial. “That would mean … we’re related by blood.”

  “No, we are not. You’ll understand in a moment.” Hands on his hips, he walked back and forth in front of the doorway. “As you know, my father died when I was sixteen. Ever since, I’ve been living in the West Indies on a plantation that was my only inheritance. About a year ago, I received a letter from Percy Thornton, the retired estate agent here at Crompton Abbey. He told me that he had visited George Crompton in London to ask him for a pension. Thornton had reason to suspect that the man was not my cousin at all. He believed George was an imposter—as was his wife.”

  Blythe made a small sound of disbelief. She sank onto the edge of a chair as if her legs would no longer hold her upright. Her incredulous gaze flitted to her parents, then back to him. “Imposters? Papa—and Mama? Why would you believe such a ludicrous tale?”

  “I didn’t at first. I hadn’t seen them since I was a boy of ten, so I sought a position in their house where I could observe them. Eventually, I was able to determine that Thornton was correct in his assumption.”

  “I remember you now,” George said coldly. “You were snooping in Edith’s bedchamber one night, while she was away at a ball.”

  “Yes.” James held the man’s gaze until he looked away in obvious guilt.

  Staring down at the unlit hearth, Blythe’s father ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I knew it would eventually come to this,” he muttered. “We should never have returned to England.”

  “Hush,” Edith said fiercely. “I deny these allegations. They are false. He cannot prove any of it.”

  “I have the letter,” James said. “The one from your prayer book.”

  Edith gave him a stark look of horror.

  He stepped to the doorway and motioned to the old couple. Percy Thornton helped the woman into the library. Frail and white-haired, Mrs. Bleasdale had difficulty walking. Despite the infirmity, however, her hazel eyes held a spark of vitality in the wrinkled landscape of her face.

  It was a look that James recognized well.

  God help him. She was Blythe’s grandmother. He had been so absorbed in his scheme that he’d overlooked that fact.

  Blythe had no notion of it, either. When he glanced at her, she regarded him with wary reproach. Her expression was skeptical, as if she suspected him of making all this up for some evil, unknown purpose.

  He wanted desperately to take her into his arms, to reassure her of his love. But he had destroyed her faith in him. When she realized the full ramifications of her situation, it would only make matters worse.

  Yet he had no choice but to see this through.

  He took the woman’s arm and guided her to Edith. “This is the woman whose letter you saved for years. Your mother, Mrs. Hannah Bleasdale. You wrote to her and told her that her daughter, Mercy, was dead.”

  Edith sat rigidly in the chair. Her fingers gripped like claws to the arms. She had the frightened look of a cornered animal.

  “Are ye my little Mercy? Can it really be true?” A quavering smile on her elfin face, Mrs. Bleasdale reached out a palsied hand. “Why, ye are, praise be to God! Here ye are alive and garbed like a fancy lady!”

  Edith buried her face in her hands. Her slim body shook with silent sobs.

  Mrs. Bleasdale shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around Edith. “There, there, my girl. ’Tis a day for celebration, not tears. My little Mercy, home again after all these years.”

  James had anticipated this moment for weeks. By allowing the woman to embrace her, Edith had as much as admitted Mrs. Bleasdale was her mother. Thornton stood by the door as his witness. James now had the proof of foul play.

  But instead of satisfaction, he felt hollow inside. Edith continued to weep noiselessly, and he could not take pleasure in her downfall.

  Blythe stared wide-eyed at the pair of them. “Papa, I don’t understand. Is she really … my grandmother?”

  George stood with his shoulders bowed, his hands gripping the back of a chair. “Yes, my dear, she is.”

  “Why did you not tell me? You and Mama always said we had no living relatives.”

  “He didn’t dare admit the truth,” James said. “Because to do so would be to acknowledge his own crime—that he and Mercy Bleasdale had taken over the lives of my cousin and his wife.” Burning with renewed anger, James took a step toward him. “You will confess the rest of this sordid story. I want to know who you are and what you know about the disappearance of my cousin and his wife in India.”

  Blythe sprang up from the chair. “What are you saying?” she cried out. “Do you dare to suggest that my father is a murderer?”

  Her outrage was a blow to his heart. But he could not back down now. “That question is for him to answer.”

  George lifted his head, his face desolate. “I assure you, sir, I am no killer. But you’re right, it is time the truth be known. It has been a millstone around my neck all these years.”

  “No,” Edith whispered, pulling away from Mrs. Bleasdale. “Keep silent, George, you mustn’t say a word.”

  He slashed his hand through the air to silence her. “Enough! The charade is over.” He turned his somber gaze on James. “As you’ve already guessed, my wife is really Mercy Bleasdale. She was personal maid to your cousin’s wife when they sailed to Calcutta. At the time of their arrival, I was a shipping agent in George’s firm. I was known then as Timothy Arkwright.”

  Blythe made a strangled sound of distress. She was sitting on the edge of her chair again, her eyes fixed on her father, her fingers gripping the folds of her skirt. She did not even look at James. How devastated she must be to learn that her own father had been born with a different name, that he had been living a lie.

  Just as James had lied to her, too.

  “Mercy and I met and married,” Arkwright went on. “Shortly thereafter, there was an outbreak of cholera. People were
healthy in the morning and dead by nightfall. Since the Cromptons had two young daughters, they decided to take the children out of the city and to the hills, where they would be safe from contagion. I went along, as did Mercy. But we were not far down the road when George and Edith took ill. Neither of them lasted the night.”

  Was that the truth? James had to conclude so. George—Timothy Arkwright—looked too haunted to be lying. And this time, he had no trouble meeting James’s eyes.

  “Why did you not report their deaths?”

  “People were dying by the hundreds. Everything was chaos, we were traveling … and so we decided to pretend to be George and Edith, just for a time. The ruse began for the purpose of protecting the girls, so that no other English authorities we encountered might attempt to take them from us. Eventually, we decided to continue the deception. Instead of returning to Calcutta, we traveled to the other side of India, to Bombay, where no one would know us.” He opened his hands. “You must understand, Portia and Lindsey were so very young, hardly more than babies. We couldn’t abandon them to strangers.”

  “You might have brought them back to England,” James said.

  Edith lifted her head from her hands. “There was only your father,” she said scornfully. “He was a known profligate. Were we to send two innocent children to live with such a man?”

  James conceded the point, although he suspected she’d also been driven by her own ambition to live as a wealthy lady. “So Blythe is your only true daughter, then.”

  “Yes, she was born shortly thereafter,” Arkwright said, directing a beseeching look at her. “But I assure you, all three girls were raised as sisters. I never showed any favoritism. I love them equally.”

  Blythe turned her head away, her eyes tightly closed. Her beautiful face was a mask of anguish. James had to leash the frantic need to console her. And not just about the crime of her parents. She must be horrified to learn that Portia and Lindsey were not her sisters by blood.