Scandal in Spades

by Wendy Lacapra

  He lowered his head and stepped off the stair, narrowly missing evidence of horse. He stared down at the reflection of her yellow dress in his buffed hessians.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I will leave you in peace.”

  He took a step away.

  “Wait,” she said softly.

  He hadn’t chosen to obey. Nevertheless, his feet stalled by her side. The scent of lavender perfume assaulted his senses, pricking like pins at the inner corner of his eyes.

  All these years and her scent hadn’t changed.

  She paid her portion of the fare and bid goodbye to the female companion, who remained inside the hackney. Apparently, her son was not of enough importance to bother with introductions.

  Old anger pooled under his skin. Old anger, and new hurt.

  Together, they watched the yellow carriage turn the corner. Then, she faced him.

  “Won’t you come in?” Her tone rendered her request not so much as an invitation as a challenge.

  Come into the house where she lived with her artist? Come into the place she’d wanted so badly she had been willing to shatter his world? He shook his head no.

  Her features remained blank. Only the tightening of her bodice suggested a ragged breath.

  “A walk, then.” Her gaze drifted to something over his shoulder. “There’s a garden down the road. The daffodils are set to blossom any day now.”

  Memory unfurled—Bromton Castle’s flowerbeds. Yards of carefully tended, yellow buds crowding up against the castle like a necklace of citrine and peridot. He’d left the flowers to the weeds after she left—a childish and unwarranted act.

  He held out his arm. She placed her hand on his elbow. They walked.

  She spoke of daffodils while, inside his heart, black crows picked away at intangible carnage. Part of him wanted to beg her forgiveness; another part wanted to curse her anew. Instead, he remarked upon the temperature.

  They passed through the iron gates and into the gardens. She stopped by a bed of flowers. She reached down and ran a gentle, gloved finger over a bud whose petals were tight with refusal to bloom.

  “Alas,” she said with a sigh. “It is not yet time.”

  No, indeed.

  “I am,” he said abruptly, “to be married.”

  This time, her intake of breath was audible. She recovered quickly. “Lady Clarissa wrote to say she no longer expected you to offer for her hand. I am relieved she was mistaken.”

  He stiffened. “My betrothed is Lady Katherine Stanley of Southford Manor. She is,” he paused, “the sister of a good friend.”

  She frowned, her eyes moving as if she were paging though a book that existed only in her mind. “Lady Katherine…Lord Markham’s elder sister?”

  He raised his brow. “Yes.”

  Her frown deepened. “She’s a cousin, then. To the fourth degree.”

  Good lord. Had she memorized the family tree?

  “She is of the Langley line.”

  Her eyes bored into his. “There is truth, I hope, between you.”

  Truth? Truth? Did she think he would announce their mutual shame to the world? “She—she does not know.”

  “Oh, Bromton.” Disappointment laced her voice. “What have you done?”

  Of all the possible responses, this was one he could not have predicted.

  What had he done? He’d solved the problem she’d created. He’d carefully contrived a way to restore honor to the Bromton line. He’d deceived Lady Katherine of Southford Manor into a lifetime yoked to a bastard, all in service of a lineage that had been more important to her than her own son.

  Rawness burned up his throat. “Madam, you, of all people, should understand why it is imperative I choose a wife from the Langley line.”

  She blinked. “Your father wanted you to marry Lady Clarissa.”

  “The marquess?” He lowered his voice. “Or my true father?”

  Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and he immediately regretted his words. What demon made him cut his mother when he wanted nothing more than to matter to her?

  Yes, he’d been the one to oust her from his home, but she’d wanted to wed.

  It had been unthinkable for him to allow the Marchioness of Bromton to become plain Mrs. Blackwood, wife to a working artist. When he’d told her as much, she’d threatened elopement. In response, he’d reduced her funds. Money was insignificant, she’d declared. She was in love.

  She was in love? What did Her Coldness know of love?

  It was then she’d used her secret as a cudgel.

  “You must not enter into marriage on false pretense.” She paused, teeth clenched as she internally debated. “Not only is such an alliance cruel, it will destroy you both.”

  He took a step back. “You,” he said harshly, “left me no choice.”

  “I left you no choice?” The blazing fire in her eyes dimmed. “There is always a choice…something I should have learned sooner.”

  He turned his gaze away from the pain vibrating like a plucked string in her eyes and toward the ancient sycamore lording over the park. His attempt at reconciliation had become a tangled mess—not unlike the chaotic branches of the multihued tree. The air restricted, as if hands had wrapped around his throat.

  “Please, Bromton,” she said with broken sincerity, “do not become your father.”

  His head snapped back. “Little chance,” he lowered his voice, “since I do not know my father.”

  “The marquess raised you,” she hissed. “I gave up everything to fulfill his wishes.”

  “Everything?” Bromton asked with a snort. “Everything but your lover, you mean.”

  A frightening chill entered her eyes—a glacial cold beyond anything he’d ever seen. “I will see myself home. You are no longer welcome to call.” She lifted her chin. “I pray for the poor child you intend to wed.”

  She retreated with slow grace, every inch the haughty marchioness. His hands hung limp at his sides—the anger and shame welling up like a great tide, as if he were a scolded child.

  Once, his mother’s tales of chivalrous knights had provided a heartbeat beneath armor melded by the marquess. Why had she abandoned him entirely to the marquess’s care? And after he’d become the man the marquess expected, why had she used the truth to cut him down?

  Answers could not be shaken from a barren tree, nor scraps begged from the penniless.

  Nor did the truth remain intact, buried beneath three decades of decaying deception.

  …

  Bromton urged his horse to a standstill and rubbed his hands. Smoke from the chimney of the coaching inn swirled up to the heavens in a beckoning dance of warmth. If he pressed on, he could be back at Southford within a quarter hour.

  He imagined Katherine greeting him with a shy, knowing smile. He’d feel, at once, renewed. Everything would be just as if he’d never left.

  The wind slapped the collar of his greatcoat against his face, stinging his cheek.

  His mother’s warning had been ominous and sincere—his betrothal was cruel and would destroy Katherine. I pray for the poor child you intend to wed. He could not shake the sensation of having been cursed.

  The happy, domestic image he’d created disintegrated.

  Everything would never be as it had been before he left. Meeting his mother had stirred darkness within his heart, leaving his head as muddied as his boots and his coat. Yet, he refused to break with Katherine based on the predictions of a woman who had twice delivered him to hell.

  A sign proclaiming The Pillar of Salt squeaked as it swung in the increasing wind. He glanced toward the heavens. The scent in the air was ripe with impending storm. Shelter. He needed shelter.

  He’d had a decent meal here after hunting with Markham, and he was lured by the promise of a room with a basin and rag to wash away the road, and a pint—or ten—to rinse the residue from his mind.

  Katherine was too vigilant. If he returned to Southford, she would notice his change in his spirit, a
nd the last thing he wanted was for her to attribute his change to his having second thoughts.

  He stabled his horse and then entered the low-ceilinged cave of a room that served as lobby and dining hall. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. An oversized hearth with a smoking fire cast the greatest light. At a table next to the hearth, a few grizzly looking men enjoyed a pint and a laugh. Their conversation ceased as he shrugged off his coat.

  He saw himself through their eyes—another tuft too wealthy and stupid to understand one did not waste good clothes on a dirty ride. They judged him not worth their time.

  They were right, of course.

  When he’d come here with Markham, he’d dismissed whomever had occupied the table with equal assurance. Their cheap clothes and heavy accents had marked them as far beneath his notice as he was above theirs.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “No problem at all,” the largest of them answered. He tilted his chair on its hind legs as he yelled toward the kitchen. “Lizzy, you’ve got a new chap.” His chair hit the ground with a thud, and he turned back to his companions. “As I was sayin’, the peace ain’t going to last. Addington don’t think so either, else he would’ve ended the damn tax.”

  Bromton hadn’t given a thought to politics in months. The last thing he wished to think about now was England, once again, declaring war on France. He made his way to a table on the opposite side of the room.

  “Ho there, Bromton! Is that you?”

  He squinted past the light spilling through a small, dirty window. Though the light was dim, he would have recognized the spectacled profile and lopsided grin anywhere. Farring. What could he be doing here?

  “I don’t think he heard you, Clubs.”

  Rayne, too? Unfortunately, yes. And looking as elegant as ever, his ice eyes shaded by an onyx wave of tidy hair. Bloody hell.

  Bromton approached their table, his wind-burnt cheeks cracking with a false smile. “I thought I detected a foul stench.”

  Farring leaned toward Rayne. “Och, he’s in bad spirits.”

  “I’m not in spirits at all,” Bromton replied. Though, he fully intended to be. “May I ask why the two of you are here?”

  Farring pushed his glasses up his nose. “Markham invited us to your impending nuptials. Didn’t he tell you?”

  Giles glanced to Rayne. “It must have slipped his mind.”

  “We set out as soon as we received the invitation,” Rayne added, betraying no visible reaction to his impending nuptials. “London’s been a bore.”

  “Ah, Diamonds. London is never a bore,” Farring countered. “I, for one, came in hopes of another high-stakes game.”

  Bromton snorted.

  “So,” Farring’s brown eyes danced with teasing, “you lost your estate to Markham and somehow ended up betrothed to his sister. It’s not every day a man sticks his foot in the parson’s trap on the turn of a card.”

  Bromton arched a brow—usually enough of a warning. “Let’s just say we’ve settled the debt.”

  “Have you settled your debts?” Rayne asked ominously.

  “Join us.” Farring kicked out the extra seat. “We were discussing whether the rain would hold out long enough for us to reach Southford.”

  “The verdict?” Bromton asked.

  Farring grinned. “One more round, of course. Oh, Lizzy, love, would you bring us another?”

  Bromton sat down as a hearty woman with an I’ll-be-taking-no-nonsense expression approached the table.

  “A pint for you as well?” she asked.

  Ale? Bromton glanced to the bearded man with a penchant for politics. He’d bet his best hessians that Grizzly over there had something stronger in his tankard than ale. And hadn’t Katherine mentioned something about The Pillar brewing fine, if not quite legal, tipple?

  “Do you have anything stronger?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said sarcastically, “I got me collection of fine frog brandies in the back.”

  “Ale it must be, then.” Likely, the establishment did not have a license for whatever they brewed. He’d have to gain the serving woman’s trust, and that wasn’t going to happen while Rayne and Farring were here.

  Farring took a swig of his ale and frowned.

  “You know,” Bromton said, “life’s too short to abide swill. Perhaps you should continue on.”

  “Actually,” Farring replied cheerfully. “We’ve rooms upstairs. We don’t even have to continue on today.”

  “You aren’t staying at Southford?” Thank heaven.

  “The chance to witness your humiliation is one thing.” Rayne shuddered. “The dangers of sleeping in a house with unmarried ladies is quite another.”

  Farring held up a finger. “One unmarried lady. One, betrothed.”

  “Betrothed.” Rayne snorted. “What are the odds?”

  Rayne’s tone, and the glacial cold in his eyes, gave Bromton pause. But no—they had settled their differences over his failure to offer for Clarissa. And if Clarissa had secured St. Alden as Markham suggested, Rayne no longer had reason for complaint.

  Rayne tapped the table. “What is The Unmarriageable Maiden like?”

  Perfect. Not that Bromton was going to let on how hard he’d fallen.

  Farring bit his lip and squinted. “From what I can recall—and mind you, it’s been five years—she is tolerable enough. Hair like Markham’s. Perhaps plumper in the cheek.”

  “She could have grown hideous since.” Rayne’s gaze grew pointed. “Bow-legged. Mole-faced—”

  “Have a care,” Farring interrupted. “Spades is turning violet.”

  “That bad, is she?” Rayne smiled for the first time. “Is she a screeching harpy, too?”

  “Enough, Rayne,” Bromton growled. “Is that how you wish to refer to my future wife?”

  “Settle, Brom,” Farring said. “We’re just having a bit of fun.”

  Bromton turned to Rayne. “I will take the liberty of rescinding Markham’s invitation if you cannot agree to treat Lady Katherine with respect.”

  Rayne flinched.

  “Come, Bromton,” Farring said, “You know I—”

  “I am not worried about you,” Bromton interrupted.

  “Far be it from me to show disrespect.” Rayne glanced out the window. “Weather’s holding. Shall we go?”

  “Very well,” Farring sighed. “How long will you be?”

  Bromton’s gaze wandered between Farring and Rayne. Not as long as he’d first intended. “Just as long as it takes to wash off the smell of horse.”

  Rayne harrumphed. “Could be a week.”

  “Go,” Bromton said, “if you wish to go.”

  Rayne lifted his hands in mock surrender and disappeared out the door.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Farring said. “He and his mistress had quite a row.”

  Bromton frowned. “Are you certain he’s not intent on interfering?”

  “He wouldn’t dare. Besides, it’s not as if you really care—” Farring stopped abruptly, pulled down his glasses, and studied Bromton’s face. “Good God, Brom, you’re smitten, aren’t you?” Farring started to laugh. “I never thought I’d—”

  “Out!” Bromton repeated.

  “I’m going!” Farring said, backing away with a lingering chuckle.

  As soon as the door closed, the serving woman returned to pick up the emptied tankards.

  “Lizzy, is it?” Bromton asked.

  She slanted him a suspicious glance.

  “Lady Katherine tells me you brew a fine tipple.”

  “Lady Katherine?”

  Bromton lifted the miniature from his pocket. “My betrothed.”

  Lizzy’s eyes widened.

  “I’d like a room and a basin of hot water to wash up, as well as a glass of your best.” Bromton slid a pile of coins across the table. “Everyone’s next round is on me.”

  “Well, then. Why didn’t you say so from the first?” Lizzy slipped the coins into her bodice and then s
miled—this time genuinely. “I’ll be back with a tankard of my best.”

  Bromton eyed the men as Lizzy disappeared into the back. He, Rayne, and Farring had concerns and responsibilities, but their responsibilities, for the most part, waited on their leisure. The contrast couldn’t have been more distinct. These men worked at the demand of the sun and the seasons. They were here only because the threatening storm had granted them reprieve.

  He listened to their lively—and surprisingly informed—conversation, growing more ashamed of his swift judgments and arbitrary categorizations.

  Then, Lizzy returned with a tray of tankards. Bromton nodded toward the farmers so she would serve them first. He waved his hand in an informal salute as the largest of them eyed him appreciatively.

  “Join us?” the man asked.

  The marquess who’d raised him would have been appalled.

  “I’d be delighted,” he answered.

  …

  Fully aware of the gathering storm, Katherine rose to take her leave of Miss Watson, after having made her weekly visit. She placed a light kiss on the old woman’s smooth cheek.

  Miss Watson grasped her hand in a bird-like grip. “I will miss you, but I am happy—so happy—you have found love.”

  Katherine’s features softened. Miss Watson possessed a truly pure heart—and a far too perceptive mind. “I said nothing of love,” she responded, “just marriage.”

  Miss Watson’s eyes twinkled. “I may need spectacles, but I am not blind.”

  A feather of panic tickled her throat. She swallowed. “What do you see, Miss Watson?”

  “You are glowing, my lady.”

  Was she? Glowing?

  Her last kiss with Giles had sparked a potent kind of magic. After years of striving and failing, suddenly she had become femininity incarnate, and it had happened without any effort at all.

  No, she could not deny there had been a change, and a drastic change at that.

  “Thank you, Miss Watson.” She embraced her friend. “No matter where I go, I will write as much as I can.”

  Miss Watson grinned. “Be sure to include the good gossip, won’t you?”

  Katherine’s glance tsked. Then, they both laughed.

  “In all seriousness,” Miss Watson continued, “you must promise me that when you return to London, you will take the Town by storm.”