“You wish to go to the folly, I believe you said?” Gavin asked quickly. “Point the way, Your Grace.”
As he trundled the wheeled chair along the graveled paths, Gavin tried to smother his fears.
It’ll all be settled tonight, Lancaster had said.
That meant Emily would be all right through the rest of the day, he assured himself. But when Lancaster said tonight, what did he mean? Before dinner? During the ball? After the dancing was over, in the small hours? Just before dawn?
And what made the man so certain he would prevail, that he could convince Emily to marry him after all?
As Gavin went off to the library to answer the duke’s summons, the Earl of Chiswick nodded a dismissal to Lucien and turned back toward the drawing room.
Lucien cleared his throat. “Sir, if I might have a word with you?”
“You wish to converse with me, Hartford?” Chiswick frowned up at the sky. “Did I miss the sun rising in some other direction besides the east, this morning?”
Lucien bit his tongue. “I was thinking about what you said earlier, about family customs and traditions. And also about estate management.” He thought he caught a flash of surprise in the earl’s face and was heartened by it; it wasn’t often anyone could startle the Earl of Chiswick. “I am not the fool you think me, Father. Someday Chiswick will be mine, and I wouldn’t like to make a bad job of running it. But before I agree to come back and spend my time learning about the estate, I have some terms to set out.”
Chiswick raised both eyebrows. “Oh, do tell me what you demand,” he purred. “This should be amusing.”
“First, there must be a sizeable increase in my allowance.”
“Whatever for? You will have no expenses beyond your tailor.”
“If I am taking on additional responsibility, it is only fitting that I be able to maintain my position—and that includes keeping my rooms in London as well as a carriage. Which brings me to the second condition—I will not be tied to the estate. I must be free to come and go as I wish, without asking permission from you or anyone else. If I want to spend time in Town, or visit my friends…”
“Including the wastrel set headed by your friend Aubrey? Yes, Hartford, I do know who you associate with. Tell me—exactly how does this proposal of yours differ from the current situation? For I must tell you, I don’t see any advantage for myself in agreeing to your terms.”
“I’m not going to make myself a slave to Chiswick,” Lucien snapped. “The idea of being trapped there—never able to leave—makes me queasy.”
“But as long as you have the freedom to come and go as you please, your intention would be to spend the majority of your time at Chiswick?” The earl’s voice was very soft.
Lucien hesitated. His father had laid a trap there somewhere, he’d wager—but he was damned if he could see it. “That is what I intend, yes, but—”
“And what of your objection to sharing the estate with my new wife? That matter has not changed in the few hours since you expressed your reservations.”
But Chloe won’t be there.
Lucien’s mind went blank. Oh, God—did I say that out loud?
Chiswick maintained his customary calm, and Lucien found if he was careful he could breathe again. He must not let on that anything had changed; he must not hint that the earl’s marriage plans were doomed to come to nothing. “You convinced me that she will not interfere.”
Chiswick’s eyes narrowed. “Did I? There seems to have been a remarkable improvement in my powers of persuasion.”
“But I still think it would make a difficult situation for a pair of newlyweds, if they had to share their home with a grown son.”
“How thoughtful of you to consider my comfort, Hartford. I’m sure you have a solution in mind?”
Make it sound good, Lucien. Improvise. “I might move into the dower house.”
“You want your own establishment?”
“You keep telling me I’m old enough to set up my nursery,” Lucien pointed out. “Managing my own roof would be a good start.”
“No wonder you demanded a larger allowance.” Chiswick tapped his fingers on the stone railing. “You have made an interesting proposal. I’ll consider it. And I have a few terms of my own.”
Lucien waited for the hammer to drop, but before Chiswick had gathered his thoughts, Sir George Fletcher burst through the double door between drawing room and terrace, and his bluff, hearty greeting made it impossible to continue a serious conversation.
Sir George was so obviously pleased with the world that Lucien had a very hard time keeping himself from warning the man that trouble was brewing, or hinting that he shouldn’t count on the Earl of Chiswick becoming his son-in-law.
But Lucien knew if he breathed even a single word, he’d betray Chloe. Her father would step in and prevent her from trying to elope. She would consider Lucien a traitor, and she’d be right.
However, would things turn out any better for Chloe if he stood aside and let her plan proceed? If Captain Hopkins came to get her tonight and took her straight to Scotland, what then? Would her new husband expect her to follow the army? How could anyone think that an exquisite girl like Chloe, brought up in the midst of luxury, could trail along after her soldier from one army camp to the next? Chloe was special—she deserved to be treated gently.
Lucien realized grimly that the real reason he was so suspicious of Captain Hopkins was not because he feared the man would ignore her plea for help. He was afraid the soldier might after all sweep up in a chaise and four tonight and carry Chloe away.
The garden party had barely started, with only the first few guests wandering up and down the paths and checking out the entertainment and food in the tents and marquees, when Isabel’s internal warning system went off. The nape of her neck itched and her nerves began to quiver.
A moment later her husband murmured into her ear, “You look lovely wearing my gift, Isabel. How do you plan to thank me for it?”
Isabel had to fight off the sudden and irrational urge to lean back against him, to draw his arms around her. She took a step away and turned to face him. “I do not regard it as a gift.”
He paused with her hand half-raised to his lips. “What do you think I intended? If you’re suggesting I meant it as payment for services received—”
Her cheeks felt hot. “I consider it nothing more than a replacement for the gown you ruined. Therefore no thanks are required, since you were merely paying a debt.”
“Ah, yes. That abominable dinner gown you insisted on wearing over and over. I had almost forgotten what fun it was to tear you out of it.”
And now you’ve reminded him. Isabel gritted her teeth. What a fool you are!
“I hope you’ve kept other old dresses for me to practice on. No, don’t tell me—for it doesn’t matter. If I may treat your wardrobe as I like, I shall not mind replacing it regularly, my dear.” His gaze slid down over her bodice as if he was considering where best to start ripping.
Isabel gave a little whoosh of irritation and turned her back on him. “Lady Fletcher, I hoped you would soon arrive. Mrs. Meeker—the housekeeper, you know—has assigned you and Sir George the burgundy suite. It’s at the southeast corner of the new wing and looks out over the courtyard. Miss Fletcher will be directly next to you.”
Chloe took a deep breath. “Dear Lady Isabel, I wonder if I might be moved to somewhere in the back of the castle instead. The noise, you know—carriages coming and going. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Lady Fletcher said. “You mustn’t act like a troublesome child. I’m sure the castle is quite full, and Lady Isabel has many more important things to do than shuffle room assignments.”
Was that a plea in Chloe’s eyes? Isabel wondered what the girl could possibly be up to.
“Besides,” Lady Fletcher went on, “you’ll be dancing to the wee hours—and even after the ball is over, I warrant you’ll be too excited to sleep, so
the carriages cannot possibly disturb you. I know—we’ll make a second party of it, drinking chocolate and reliving all the excitement. Just the two of us—unless Lady Isabel and Lady Emily would like to join in?”
“We’ll see,” Isabel said. She found she didn’t mind Chloe after all—the girl was really rather endearing—but she’d rather be roasted on a spit than sit on a bed and gossip with Lady Fletcher about who had danced with whom, and who had exchanged melting looks, and who had slipped away from the ballroom for a minute too long to be quite proper. She’d rather spend another night with Maxwell.
The thought came so naturally that Isabel almost didn’t notice, and when she did, she had to laugh at herself. As though she had a choice in where—and how—she spent her nights!
Emily had kept an eye out for Mr. Lancaster all through the party, intending to avoid him—but after Gavin’s comment, she was intrigued enough to seek him out. Lancaster’s plotting something. That accusation covered a great deal of territory, and it made her curious. What had sparked Gavin’s suspicion and made him warn Emily?
Young Baron Draycott came up to her as she was scanning the lawn for Lancaster. “If you’re looking for Lord Athstone,” he said, “I believe he and the duke were—”
“Why would I be looking for Athstone?” Her voice sounded sharper than she’d intended, and Draycott looked startled. Emily took a firm grip on herself. She was both annoyed and a little frightened by his observation—if Draycott had reason to link her name with Gavin’s, she shuddered to think what her father might have observed. Had she not been as careful as she’d thought?
“I assumed you’d be looking for your uncle,” Draycott said, “only it would be much easier to spot Athstone instead of the chair, because he’s so tall.”
“Oh.” Emily felt as if someone had stuck a pin in her and let all the air out. “That makes sense. I’ve already greeted my uncle, however, so I have no need to notice Athstone’s height.”
She couldn’t help looking, though. Her gaze drifted across the garden until she spotted Gavin, halfway between the castle and the unique little folly. Even from a distance, there could be no mistaking Gavin—not only his height but the breadth of his shoulders made him stand out. His strength was apparent, too, from the easy way he was pushing the duke’s chair over the gravel path.
Draycott cleared his throat, and Emily shook herself a bit and turned back to him, startled to see that Lancaster had joined them.
“Lady Emily,” he said with a deep bow. “I am delighted to see you again. I hope to win a dance with you at the ball this evening.” He kissed her hand with exactly the right degree of deference, and moved off before she could do more than nod politely.
Lancaster’s plotting something, Gavin had said. It seemed more likely Gavin was seeing things that didn’t exist, for Lancaster was being perfectly proper. Even distant.
She wondered if Gavin had some misguided notion that she needed protecting—or a conviction that it was his place to look after her.
A good deal later she was outside the main marquee, trying not to yawn over an interminable tale being told by an old crony of the duke’s, when Isabel caught up with her. “Emily, do you know where Uncle Josiah is? I haven’t seen him for half an hour at least.”
“The last I knew, Gavin was taking him down to the folly. Why, I have no idea. But surely he’s back inside by now, resting.”
Isabel chewed her lower lip. “I just want to be certain he’s all right. I saw them headed in that direction, and a little later Lady Murdoch said she was going down to chat with Uncle Josiah. But she hasn’t come back. What if she’s annoying him?”
“I think Uncle Josiah would put her in her place, Isabel.”
“Or what if something happened and Gavin couldn’t leave him to get help?”
“Then he’d send Lady Murdoch to fetch someone. Oh, all right, Isabel. I’ll walk down if it makes you feel better.”
Isabel shook her head. “I’ll go to the folly. But will you check the castle and see if he’s there? It’s possible I just didn’t see them come back.”
Emily thought the whole thing silly, but it was a good excuse to escape from the crony. As she crossed the lawn, she noticed that Mr. Lancaster was so busy flirting with one of the Carew sisters that he didn’t even nod as she passed. Just wait till she had a chance to talk to Gavin again about his idiotic suspicions—she’d have enjoyed catching him down in the folly and tearing into him.
The castle was cool and dim and quiet compared to the garden party, and she stopped in the hall outside the billiard room for a moment to let her eyes adjust. “Chalmers?” she called as a dark-clad figure crossed the hall. “Is that you?”
The moment the man turned toward her, Emily recognized him.
“No, my lady,” Benson said. “I believe the butler is currently engaged with the footmen who are replenishing food in the tents outside. If I may be of assistance?”
“Do you happen to know if the duke has returned to the castle?”
“Yes, ma’am. He is in his rooms.”
“Thank you.” Emily turned to go back outside, and the valet stepped into her path. “You presume, Benson. Because you did me a favor this morning doesn’t mean you’re allowed to—”
Benson coughed. “My lady? I beg your pardon, but I recall nothing of the sort.”
Emily knew she should be grateful for his discretion—but instead she felt a wave of color wash over her face. What had she been thinking, to refer to that mortifying trip back to her bedroom? Even the valet displayed more common sense than she did.
“My apologies, my lady, but I have a message for you from his lordship.”
She paused in midstep. “From Athstone? What now?”
“Since he is otherwise engaged, his lordship asked me to convey to you his concern that Mr. Lancaster may have designs on you.”
“Is that all? He already told me as much—and you may inform his lordship that he has mistaken the situation. I have spoken to Mr. Lancaster and everything is quite normal.”
She brushed past Benson and went back to the garden party. The first thing she saw was Gavin, halfway across the lawn with a Carew sister on each side of him. One of them seemed to have said something hilarious, for as Emily watched, Gavin threw back his head and laughed.
He was otherwise engaged, all right. So he’d assigned his servant a troublesome duty, then wiped the problem from his mind.
So much for her concern that he might feel responsible for her! Emily was glad she’d learned the lesson so easily—for it was perfectly clear that to Gavin, she was no more than a passing thought.
Lucien finally managed to break free from a crashing bore—an old friend of the duke’s who had pinned him up against a brick wall for half an hour while he recounted every embarrassing incident from Lucien’s childhood visits to the castle.
With a relieved sigh, he settled himself on the stone coping surrounding a gently splashing fountain near the main marquee, where he had a good view of a group of girls eating ices. One of them was Chloe Fletcher, and though he tried not to stare, Lucien couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting back to her every time he forced himself to look away. He hoped that her laugh didn’t sound as uncomfortable to those girls as it did to him. But they didn’t know her as well as he did; they might not even suspect that anything was wrong.
Lady Stone, the old gossip, started past him and paused, her beady black gaze intent on his face. “You look as though you’re longing to have one of them.” She nodded toward the girls.
Lucien choked. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“The ices. What did you think I was referring to, Hartford? The girls?” She gave a rusty laugh. “What has the youth of today come to?”
Belatedly, Lucien rose from the low stone wall and bowed, careful not to spill his glass of ale. Perhaps if he acted as if he hadn’t heard that last jibe, she would move on.
Instead, Lady Stone settled herself on the wall as if she intended to sta
y all afternoon. She planted her ebony cane in the grass at Lucien’s feet, propped her folded hands on the knob, and surveyed the girls. “Chloe Fletcher is very young to be a stepmother.”
She was obviously fishing for information, and Lucien was not about to venture into those troubled waters by giving an opinion.
“Especially when the stepchildren-to-be are all older than she is. She’s barely nineteen. What are you now, Hartford? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?” Lady Stone shook her head. “It’s too bad of your father, you know, even to think of marrying her. I never would have expected it of him, considering how badly he’s missed your mother all these years. He’s hardly been the same man since Drusilla died.”
Lucien bit his tongue hard to keep from giving Lady Stone his own unadulterated opinion.
“Besides, Chiswick doesn’t need to add Sir George Fletcher’s land to his holdings.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it, young man. Sir George’s estate is not entailed. He’s only a baronet, a rank he earned by some kind of service to the crown long ago. His title will end with him, and Chloe is his only natural heir. Whoever marries her will own Mallowan one day.”
Lucien sucked in a deep breath. Finally he understood what he’d seen in Captain Hopkins’s eyes that day in the army stables when he’d handed over Chloe’s letter. The expression had been so fleeting Lucien hadn’t had time to recognize it—but now it all came clear in his mind. As the captain realized that his hopes had been dashed and his patience had been for nothing, he had looked chagrined.
Captain Hopkins had hoped to marry Chloe the heiress. But it would be a different thing altogether to elope with Chloe the disowned daughter, and live on her minuscule allowance with no hope of inheriting her father’s rich acres. A poor bride was not an attractive proposition to an ambitious young man who had only his army pay and a hundred guineas a year.
The Birthday Scandal Page 24