by Olivia Drake
“Ye ought to take a thimbleful, too,” he said, eyeing her critically. “Ye look too pale today. It’ll put some color back in them cheeks.” Upon uttering that unsolicited advice, he made a creaky bow and ambled out of the parlor.
Rory busied herself pouring the tea. It was a relief to have something to do to alleviate her anxiety over Celeste. “Sugar or cream?”
“A drop or two of rum should suffice,” Lady Milford said.
“Oh, you needn’t feel obliged…”
“Nonsense. Everything ought to be tried at least once.”
Rory added a trickle from the little pewter pitcher, then handed the cup to Lady Milford. In her present state, she was half tempted to fill her own cup with straight rum. But liquor would not drown her worry over her sister.
Resuming her seat, she stirred a morsel of sugar into her steaming tea. “The Duke of Whittingham must be more than twice Celeste’s age. I remember him as being rather stodgy—and that was eight years ago. He’ll be even more set in his ways by now.”
“He is forty, I believe.” Lady Milford took a sip of rum-laced tea. “Mm. This is curiously delicious.”
Rory paid no heed. “She’s only eighteen! I can’t believe she would agree to such a mismatch!”
“Few girls would turn down the chance to become a duchess. As to her age, it is customary for men of distinction to take a younger wife. They must consider the need to ensure an heir.”
“But why Celeste? Her portion is hardly large enough to tempt a duke!”
“Whittingham is a man of great wealth, so he is free to marry where he pleases. And your half sister is exceptionally pretty. Quiet and shy, too, just as such noblemen prefer. She will make him an obedient wife.”
Rory set down her teacup so abruptly that it clattered in the saucer. “Obedient, bah! He is far too old and snooty for her! He will crush her spirit!”
“Then perhaps, Miss Paxton, you ought to rethink your decision about not returning to London.”
Realizing that she’d been masterfully manipulated, Rory huffed out a breath. “A better solution is to allow the stolen letters to be published. If they are as sensational as you suggest, it will put an immediate end to this misbegotten betrothal!”
Over the rim of her cup, Lady Milford regarded Rory benignly. “Alas, such a scandal will taint your sister, too. Is that what you wish? Do you truly want her to be made an outcast as you have been?”
The very thought withered Rory’s objections. It had taken years to stop missing her life in London, and although she had found contentment at last, she had no right to condemn Celeste to spinsterhood, too. In her letters, Celeste had expressed a yearning to fall in love and become a wife and mother. Rory could not ruin that dream for her gentle, tenderhearted sister. Especially if there was the slightest chance that Celeste truly did want to wed the duke.
There was only one way to find out.
“All right, then,” Rory snapped. “I’ll go to London to see what can be done. But I cannot promise that I’ll help my stepmother.”
“Fair enough. It will be up to Mrs. Paxton to convince you.” Lady Milford reached for her reticule and untied the silken drawstring. “Now, since you’ve been gone for so long, your wardrobe will need replenishing. If you should attend a ball or party—”
“I won’t be rejoining society. My stepmother would never allow it.”
“Yet your sister is betrothed to a duke. You must be prepared to accompany her to various events. Perhaps these will come in handy.”
To Rory’s astonishment, the woman drew a pair of shoes out of her velvet reticule. The elegant dancing slippers were fashioned of rich garnet silk and covered in tiny crystal beads that sparkled in the daylight. The sight stirred an instant covetousness in her. Even in her days as a debutante, she had never seen anything so exquisite, not even in the finest London shops.
She tore her gaze away to look at Lady Milford. Why would the woman offer such a peculiar, personal gift? It wasn’t as if they were friends.
“I don’t need charity,” Rory said stiffly.
“Oh, the shoes aren’t yours to keep, merely to borrow for a short time. You must return them to me when you no longer need them.” Lady Milford leaned down to place the pair on the rug. “Go on now, do try them on.”
Rory wrestled with her pride. If they were indeed only a loan, it would be churlish to refuse. “They aren’t likely to fit,” she warned. “I’m taller than you and no doubt wear a larger size.”
Nevertheless, she removed her own sadly scuffed leather shoes. Then she wiggled her stockinged toes into the fine slippers. Softness enveloped her feet as if the shoes had been stitched by a master cobbler expressly for her.
Buoyed by an irresistible sense of lightness, Rory arose from the chair and turned around in a pirouette, admiring the shoes that peeked out from beneath her faded blue skirt. Foolish or not, they made her long to dance again. How wonderful it would be to twirl around a ballroom in the arms of a handsome gentleman …
Lady Milford regarded her with a mysterious smile. “I see the slippers do fit you, after all.”
“Amazingly so! But I don’t know where I’ll wear them.”
“Why, anywhere you please, my dear. Perhaps even tomorrow on your journey to London.”
Chapter 4
It is a disgrace that naïve girls are so often maneuvered into loveless matches with older gentlemen.
—MISS CELLANY
As Rory stepped into the entrance hall of the house that she’d once called home, a bittersweet sense of homecoming enveloped her. How well she knew these pale green walls, the black-and-white marble floor, the staircase with its wrought-iron rail. The tasteful decorations included several landscape paintings, a pair of gilt chairs, and an urn of white roses on a stone pedestal. The fragrance of the flowers blended with the clean aroma of beeswax. Yet perhaps she had grown accustomed to Bernice’s clutter, for this place looked almost austere in its perfection.
“Shall I take your wrap, Miss Paxton?”
She turned to the black-clad butler who stood waiting, his lips thinned in his narrow face, his brown hair neatly combed. Grimshaw had always been able to make a simple question resonate with disapproval. Judging by his disdainful expression, he believed the prodigal daughter ought to have come to the tradesmen’s entrance instead of the front door.
Rory handed her cloak and bonnet to him. As a debutante, she’d despised him for his unforgivable interference in her life. But now it tickled her fancy to find a chink in that stiff façade. “There are bags under your eyes, Grimshaw. Is my stepmother running you ragged?”
On cue, he bristled. “I am perfectly hale. Now, you must not linger here where anyone might see you. Follow me.”
Grimshaw led the way along a corridor toward the rear of the house. Falling into step behind him, she glanced up as they passed the stairway. The muted sound of voices floated down to her.
“Wait,” she called. “I wish to see my sister at once.”
He fixed her with a gloating stare. “Miss Celeste departed ten minutes ago to take tea with the Duke of Whittingham and his mother in Berkeley Square.”
Blast! It would be an hour or more before she returned, perhaps longer if they were discussing wedding plans. Rory itched to find out if Celeste was being forced into the marriage. After today’s long journey, it seemed a fickle turn of fate that her half sister wasn’t even here.
Lady Milford had made all the travel arrangements. The previous day, after relaying her shocking news of blackmail and betrothal, the dowager countess had gone to visit a friend some ten miles distant. Her coachman had returned to Halcyon Cottage late in the evening. He and the footman had spent the night in the stables, and then at the crack of dawn this morning, with Rory ensconced alone in the coach, they had departed for London.
Bernice had stood waving in the doorway. Rory had invited her along, but Bernice couldn’t abide big cities. Perhaps it was best for her aunt to remain in Norfolk, anyway.
She was blissfully unaware of the secret blackmail scheme since Rory had let her believe the visit concerned Celeste’s engagement.
Grimshaw proceeded down the long corridor. His steps were as clipped as those of a soldier on parade, the sound echoed by the tapping of her borrowed shoes. Ever since Lady Milford had loaned the fancy slippers to her, Rory had been beset by butterflies in her stomach, as if something of great importance were about to happen.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Mrs. Paxton is entertaining guests. She instructed me to have you wait in the library.”
Rory didn’t know whether to be more irked that her return to London was taken for granted, or by the fact that the disgraced stepdaughter was not permitted to mingle with fine company. But what did it matter, really? She had not come to rejoin society, only to assure herself of her sister’s happiness.
Grimshaw ushered her into the cozy room that had doubled as her father’s study. “I shall inform Mrs. Paxton of your arrival,” he intoned.
The butler gave a curt nod and vanished out the door.
As Rory surveyed the surroundings, a tide of memories inundated her. The same bottle-green curtains framed the windows that overlooked a tiny walled garden. Oak shelves stretched to the ceiling, the many books filling the air with the rich scent of leather. And there, lying with Stefano on the russet chaise by the hearth, she had committed the worst mistake of her life.
That particular memory was best consigned to the dustbin of history.
Blotting it out, she turned toward the mahogany desk that dominated one end of the room. In her mind, she pictured Papa sitting there, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, his quill pen scratching across the paper.
The leather chair was empty now. Papa had died less than a year after her banishment. She hadn’t even had the chance to say good-bye.
Rory blinked away the tears that blurred her eyes. As a little girl, she’d often visited her father here in the afternoon. It had been their special time together. He would push aside his ledger books or his letter writing and give her his full attention. They had played cards for amusement or read stories together. On several occasions in the misty past, he’d taken tea with her and her favorite doll.
That had been before he’d remarried.
Rory had no memory of her real mother, who had passed away shortly after giving birth. It had been Papa who had tucked her in at night. Papa who had taken her for walks in the park. She had been nearly eight when Kitty Paxton had come into their lives. Celeste had been born soon thereafter and everything had changed …
Rory walked to the desk and sat down in her father’s chair. She fancied the faint aroma of his sandalwood cologne still lingered in the air. All of his papers and books had been cleared away, leaving only a barren, polished surface. Had Kitty purged everything of his from this room?
Hoping to find some forgotten token, Rory opened the top drawer and rummaged through the contents. A wistful smile touched her lips. His favorite goose-feather quills were still here, along with his silver inkpot and the stationery imprinted with his initials. She picked up a small dish of sand and sifted the grains through her fingers, remembering how he’d sometimes allowed her to sprinkle the sand over a letter to blot the fresh ink.
What would Papa have thought of her essay writing? Would he have been proud to learn that her modern opinions had been published in The Weekly Verdict under the pen name Miss Cellany? She yearned to believe he would have applauded her efforts.
“Aurora! Why are you poking through those drawers?”
Startled, Rory spilled the pot of sand on the pristine desk. She looked up to see Kitty Paxton standing in the doorway. Her stepmother had not changed much with the exception of a few fine wrinkles around her eyes and a slight graying of her fair hair, worn in sausage curls around her face. She had the stout look of a matron now, too, her waist thick beneath a striped yellow silk gown with lace ruffles along the cuffs and neckline.
Rory used the edge of her hand to brush the sand back into the dish. “I was only wondering what had happened to Papa’s things,” she said coolly as she rose to her feet. “Pray forgive me for prying. I forgot for a moment that this is no longer my home.”
Kitty pursed her lips for an instant. Then a contrite smile eased her expression. She closed the door and swooped toward Rory. “My dear girl, it is you who must forgive me. What must you think of me for failing to welcome you after all these years?”
Rory found herself enveloped in a rose-perfumed embrace. She returned the hug in a perfunctory manner. Though half of her wanted to believe Kitty felt a genuine affection, the other half acknowledged that her stepmother was likely scheming to cajole Rory into helping her.
Drawing back, she decided to skip straight to the point. “I came the moment I heard the news about Celeste’s wedding. You cannot really mean to allow her to wed the Duke of Whittingham.”
Kitty blinked. “Of course I do! Why would I object to such a splendid match?”
“For one, he’s old enough to be her father.”
“Bah. His maturity only ensures that he has sown his wild oats and is ready to settle down and devote himself to her happiness.” A beatific look on her face, Kitty clasped her hands to her ample bosom. “Whittingham is madly in love with dear Celeste. You should see the many gifts he has showered on her, bracelets and flowers and shawls—and an heirloom diamond ring that would rival the Queen’s jewels.”
“The question that concerns me is not whether he is in love, but whether she is. Did you force her into this engagement?”
“Certainly not! Celeste was delighted to accept his offer. What girl would not be thrilled at the prospect of becoming a duchess? Only think of how it will elevate her status in society!”
And Kitty’s status, as well. To be the mother of a high-ranking noblewoman was the summit of her ambitions; she had made that clear during Rory’s debut, too. She would never admit to coercing her daughter. Realizing the futility of the discussion, Rory decided to abandon the topic of her half sister’s betrothal for now. Only a private, heart-to-heart chat with Celeste would reveal the truth.
“I daresay the wedding may never take place, anyway,” Rory observed. “I understand there is the threat of an imminent scandal.”
A shadow dimmed Kitty’s china-blue eyes. With the melodrama of a stage actress, she pressed a trembling hand to her brow. “Indeed! You cannot imagine how terribly distraught I have been…” She gave Rory a sidelong glance. “Just how much did Lady Milford tell you?”
“She said you’re being blackmailed over a stolen packet of letters. And that I would have to ask you to explain the rest.”
“It’s so horrid, I can scarcely bring myself to speak of it. This past week, I’ve not slept a wink.” Her abundant bosom heaving, Kitty swayed on her feet. “The very thought of what could happen makes me feel about to swoon.”
“Then do sit down, for pity’s sake.”
Familiar with her stepmother’s histrionics, Rory helped her over to the chaise by the fireplace. Kitty wilted against the russet cushions and drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, using the scrap of lace to fan herself. Rory went to the cabinet behind the desk and poured a generous measure of sherry into a glass, delivering it into Kitty’s dimpled hand.
“Bless you, my dear,” she said, taking a large swallow. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re here. You were always so much more capable than I at handling difficult situations. Why, you didn’t even weep when your papa and I were forced to send you away.”
Rory had wept, all right. In the privacy of her bedchamber during the dark of night, she had shed tears of anger and misery, reliving the memory of her humiliation and aghast that she had wounded Papa with her reckless actions. But she had indulged her self-pity only that one time. Ever since, she’d been determined to use the experience to reshape her life.
She sat down beside her stepmother on the chaise. “It’s time you told me t
he entire story. I want to know every detail of what happened.”
Kitty eyed her warily over the rim of the glass. “Every detail?”
“Yes. Let us start with the disappearance of the letters. When was it?”
“Over a week ago. I was in the morning room, rereading some old correspondence, when a visitor arrived. I tied up the packet with a ribbon and stuffed it under the cards of thread in my sewing basket. I was so busy with the arrangements for Celeste’s engagement party that I quite forgot about the letters. It wasn’t until two days after the ball that I realized they’d gone missing. And then only because … because I received that awful note in the post.”
“The blackmail demand?”
“Yes, it was written in a gentleman’s hand, and he directed me to surrender my diamond necklace—the one your father gave me as a wedding gift. If I failed to do so, he said, my private matters would be smeared all over the scandal sheets. Oh, you cannot imagine what a tizzy I was in!”
“I’ve a fair notion of it,” Rory said dryly. “Which leads me to ask, what exactly was in those letters?”
Kitty thrust out her lower lip in a pout, while her fingers twisted the handkerchief. “That doesn’t signify. There is no point in revealing it.”
Rory resisted even the slightest pang of sympathy. Her stepmother was no child to be indulged or protected. “You will tell me at once. Or I shall walk out of here and leave you to your own devices.”
“All right, then.” Kitty released a shuddery breath. “They were private letters of … of affection. Billets-doux written to me by … a former lover.”
Rory sat very still. The possibility of a love affair had crossed her mind on the journey here, though she hadn’t wanted to believe it. The letters also could have contained government secrets from her father’s work at the Admiralty, or perhaps just catty commentary about members of society that would have embarrassed her stepmother if it was made public.
How ironic that Kitty was guilty of the very sin that had resulted in Rory being banished.