Scandal

by Carolyn Jewel

  “I was not aware until then,” Vedaelin said, “that Banallt had been acquainted with your husband. Nor that the earl brings back memories you find painful.” He studied her. “My wife, the duchess, has been gone nearly ten years. I understand the heartache of loss.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “May I say how sorry I am for your loss.”

  Vedaelin pressed her hand. “Your brother approached me because he was worried his association with me would inevitably bring you in contact with Lord Banallt.”

  “And if it does?” she said, too tartly. She softened her tone. “I’m a grown woman, Your Grace. If I have reason to know he lives a less than exemplary life, though not quite as depraved as Mrs. Adcock would have it, I think I have been, and am now, quite capable of avoiding him.”

  “What if you cannot? Your brother has the right of it. Your temperament is too sensitive and delicate. Your loss still recent enough to cause you hurt.”

  Sensitive and delicate? “Then so be it.” Sophie rolled her eyes. Perhaps she was, but she’d still managed to keep a household together when her husband seemed determined to spend every last penny from beneath her feet. “If I cannot avoid Lord Banallt, I won’t swoon, I promise you that. I’m not so delicate as you seem to think. Nor will I show him a cold shoulder. It’s perfectly possible for me to say, ‘Good afternoon, my lord’ or ’Yes, the weather is wet this evening. I think we shall have fog.‘ Honestly. John had no right to decide how I feel.” And none to tell Vedaelin about it.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Evans, one once heard a great deal that was not to Banallt’s credit.”

  “Yes,” Sophie said. “That’s so.” She was weary of Banallt as a subject of conversation, and she was now angry with Mrs. Adcock for bringing him into their conversation in such an unpleasant manner. And angrier still at John. She forced herself to smile at the duke. “If I have any delicacy at all, Your Grace, it is in how I shudder to think what will happen should Lord Banallt arrive and Mrs. Adcock be obliged to carry out her threat.”

  Vedaelin smiled back, some of his earlier tension dissipating with her joke. “A scandal to be sure. But as to the gossip one might hear of him these days, I’ve occupied his hours the better part of every day since his return from Paris. For which the government is most grateful, I assure you. Today, Mrs. Evans, we shall have no scandal from him. I keep him too busy for that.”

  She frowned. “May I ask why you make use of a man whose reputation is of so little credit to him? Whether what’s said is true or not, I mean.”

  Vedaelin set a finger by his nose then tapped his temple twice. “Whatever his reputation, the Earl of Banallt is a man of extraordinary intellect and powers of persuasion.”

  “I’ll grant you that, sir. And yet.”

  “Come now. If Canning and Castlereagh may shoot each other, then I thing the government will readily survive Banallt’s reputation.” It was the duke’s turn to frown. “I should like to set your mind at ease, Mrs. Evans. Not long ago I would have refused his acquaintance. But some time ago, shortly after his wife’s death, I observed a divergence between the gossip and his behavior. That divergence continues to this day.”

  “Mrs. Adcock notwithstanding?” she asked.

  Vedaelin turned and nodded his head in the direction of a young man with a beaver hat on his head. “Do you see that young dandy there? The one with the violently purple waistcoat?”

  “What of him?”

  “If we’re to have a scandal this season, it will come from him. Mr. Frederick Drake. Not from the Earl of Banallt.”

  Mr. Drake was perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four with a smile that lit his eyes. His blond curls were not long enough to be styled à la Byron, yet not short enough that he wasn’t daring. He had a rather stout young lady on his arm, and it was plain to Sophie that his companion was besotted and that Mr. Drake was doing everything in his power to see that she stayed that way. And yet, she did not think he was in love with the girl. There was something familiar about Drake. “She’s an heiress, isn’t she?” Sophie asked.

  “Miss George. Sixty thousand in the five percents, a substantial property from her maternal aunt, Lady Yelvers. And a doting father.”

  Sophie’s heart turned. Her own dowry had not been so much greater than Miss George’s, and she, too, had inherited property from her mother’s side of the family. And like Miss George, she’d been dazzled by the attentions of a handsome young man. “Mr. Drake is without a fortune of his own, I collect.”

  “He wouldn’t be the only young man in London looking to marry an heiress,” Vedaelin said. “But, yes. He’s rather thin in the pocketbook.”

  She was looking at her own past. She’d not been stout when she met Tommy, but she had certainly been physically awkward. She recognized the infatuation in the young lady’s eyes, because she’d felt it herself when she met Tommy, when she was too green a girl to know when a man was sincere in his affections. “One hopes her family is paying close attention,” she said.

  “This, ma’am, is what comes of a girl whose reading is not strictly regulated.”

  She turned to a path less crowded. Vedaelin followed. “How so?” she asked.

  “Horrid novels, Mrs. Evans.” His expression of revulsion told her everything she needed to know about his opinion of such works.

  “Good heavens. Do you truly think reading novels leads a young girl to ruin?”

  “We shall hope Miss George does not come to grief.” He took her hand, and they walked for some minutes in silence. “Banallt has known bitter tragedy,” he said softly. “You are not, I think, aware of the extent of his personal loss.” Sophie glanced away, remembering a day when her life had come crashing down around her. A day when Banallt had betrayed their friendship. “His wife’s passing was a sad event,” Vedaelin said. “But that was not the loss that brought him low. I don’t call many men friend, Mrs. Evans, but he is one.” He looked at Sophie with such tempered sorrow that she thought to herself, Why, he quite means it! The notion shocked her, that someone like Vedaelin should hold Banallt in such high regard.

  She could not dismiss the image of Mrs. Peters in Banallt’s arms and wished violently for a change in subject. “Is there some reason you’re telling me this?”

  Vedaelin pressed her hand between his. “Only so that you know why Banallt has earned my regard, Mrs. Evans, and my esteem. I am convinced that whatever you thought of him in the past, that poor opinion is not now justified. There is no reason for you to feel pained by his presence.”

  Someone called to the duke, and he pressed her hands again. “Have I helped at all?”

  Sophie summoned a smile. “Yes, you have. Thank you, Your Grace.” The duke took his leave of her. She’d not been standing there long when Reginald Tallboys presented himself.

  “I wanted to come over much sooner,” he said. “But you and the duke looked far too serious to interrupt. Have you solved the troubles of the world?”

  “Yes, quite,” she said. Had Banallt truly transformed himself? Her heart constricted. She did not wish to feel anything. Her feelings toward Lord Banallt were set and justified upon her personal knowledge of the sort of man he was. She had made the right decision in declining Banallt’s offer of marriage. She had. His offer had not been from the heart. She lifted her head, having mastered her sudden welling of emotion. Perhaps she had not, though, for her throat felt too narrow, and she was afraid to speak.

  Tallboys held out his arm and Sophie took it. “Shall we stroll farther, Mrs. Evans?”

  “I should like that very much.”

  “That’s if we can make our way through this infernal crush. I don’t recall inviting so many people.”

  “Then your party is a success, sir.”

  “For an intimate gathering of two hundred of my closest friends, most of whom I don’t recall meeting, yes. I’ve already sent my butler around to all the neighbors to scavenge more food and drink.”

  “I’ve heard no complaints of a shortage, Mr. Tallboys.”<
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  “A mercy. I see I shall have to award my butler a bonus for today’s heroism.”

  “Have you seen my brother, Mr. Tallboys?”

  Tallboys chuckled. “There are a great many lovely ladies here. Your brother is quite popular with them all, I’ll have you know. Dozens of young ladies have their eye on him.”

  “Of course,” she said. She didn’t keep back the note of pride in her brother. “He’s a gentleman. Handsome and jovial and one day he’ll make some woman a splendid husband.” He patted her arm. “Our father always said John would make a politician one day, and here he’s done it.” She leaned against his arm and noticed that her hand curled around muscle. “So now I must ask you, in your opinion, are any of these ladies present worthy of my brother, Mr. Tallboys?”

  He laughed. “One or two perhaps.”

  “You must give me their names. I should like to meet them.”

  “Will you make an inventory?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I believe I will.”

  Going from the terrace to the rear gardens took them nearly half an hour. She did not see John even once. But then, Tallboys was constantly stopped, and introductions had to be made, so that Sophie felt quite wrung out with all the hand lifting and knee bending and polite murmurs.

  “See there?” Tallboys said, nodding toward a young woman surrounded by at least a dozen men. The crowd shifted, and she was not surprised to see Miss Llewellyn at the center. Beside her, in pride of place at her side, stood Adonis in the form of Mr. Frederick Drake. Her perfect match, nearly as lovely as she, with his booted foot propped on the metal arm of the bench on which his Aphrodite sat. His laughing brown eyes rarely moved off the young woman. He’d quite abandoned Miss George. And why not, when he was not sincere in his affections? Sophie looked at Tallboys and then back to the breathtaking young woman. He was a bold fortune hunter indeed to chase after a relative of Banallt’s. “I’ll wager we’ll have a scandal from Mr. Drake before the end of the season,” Tallboys said. “And I’ll have you know, he had no invitation from me.”

  “You think Mr. Drake has designs on Miss Llewellyn?”

  “If he dares, Banallt will tear him limb from limb.” Tallboys laughed and so did Sophie. “However, that was not my reason in pointing her out. Behold, Mrs. Evans, for there sits your brother’s match.”

  She faced Tallboys. She fisted her hands behind her back. “To my knowledge, John has not paid Miss Llewellyn any special attention. Why, they’re barely acquainted.” She felt a little panicky, because she remembered that John had sent Miss Llewellyn flowers. And she had worn one of the blossoms near her heart. “How can anyone predict that they’ll make a match of it?”

  “You’ve only been in London a short while,” Tallboys said. “Last season was a different matter.” His expression was solemn, and Sophie’s heart misgave her. Was it true? Did John love Miss Llewellyn?

  “What do you mean?” She bowed her head, staring at the tips of her slippers. Must everything come back to Banallt? She knew her brother well enough to know he’d never marry her when it meant bringing Banallt into the family. Not even if it meant he didn’t marry the woman he loved.

  “I mean that last season there was all but an understanding between them.” He fell thoughtful. “I wonder what’s happened?”

  Sophie felt ill. “Were they very much in love?”

  “That was my impression.” He pulled her off the path to let a veritable herd of young ladies go past. “I don’t recall inviting them, either,” he said as they went past. “Lately, one hears that Miss Llewellyn and Banallt will make a match of it before much longer. If the field remains clear, I expect they will.”

  Sophie studied Miss Llewellyn. She was a lovely young woman, and no silly girl, either. Or course John had fallen in love with her. She ought to have realized. “I’d no idea. Really, none at all.” She linked arms with him, leaning against him and taking them along the path again, and said, “Come, let’s inspect the roses. They are a passion of mine. I adore gardening.”

  “I work very hard with the roses here. I’ll be pleased to hear what you think of them.”

  Behind them, the texture of conversation changed. A buzz. No other description sufficed. She and Tallboys turned at the same time.

  Banallt walked onto the gravel path outside and scanned the crowd. He had not come here to socialize. He wore his greatcoat and held his hat in one hand. She and Mr. Tallboys stood fifteen or twenty feet to his right, and at the moment, Banallt’s attention was to his left. Looking for Miss Llewellyn? The woman he intended to marry? Whatever the source of his attraction, Sophie had ample time to study his face. On the path behind him, Vedaelin strode toward him, his expression intent.

  Tallboys tensed. “Something’s happened,” he said.

  Lord Banallt’s head turned, and Sophie felt to her soul the moment when his gaze found hers. There was only a moment’s pause, the space of a heartbeat, and then his gaze moved to Tallboys. He continued toward them, gripping his hat by the brim. Sophie’s heart thudded hard.

  “Banallt,” Tallboys said when Banallt reached them.

  He bowed. His mouth was tense. He looked at Sophie, and again their eyes locked and Sophie found herself trapped in his gaze. His eyes were such an odd color. “Have you seen Vedaelin?”

  “Just there,” Tallboys said. Banallt looked over his shoulder and saw the duke making his way toward them. “Mrs. Evans,” he said turning back. As if he’d never cried in her arms. As if he’d never offered for her. So cold and distant. Exactly as she would have hoped after all that had happened between them. “Good afternoon. I hope you are well.”

  Sophie curtseyed. No one would guess he was a disappointed suitor. But then, he’d not really spoken to her out of love, she thought. Only vexation that he should have been dismissed by anyone. “I am, my lord. And you?”

  “Quite well, ma’am.” Vedaelin joined them, and Banallt’s attention moved to the duke. “Your Grace.” His gaze darted to Sophie, then to Tallboys, and then to Vedaelin. “Forgive me, but you are needed at Whitehall. Immediately. There is news—” Again he glanced at Sophie.

  “The moment I saw you, I sent Mercer on ahead,” Vedaelin said. He bowed to Sophie. “My apologies, ma’am, for sending your brother away. Tallboys, we’ll need you, too, I expect.”

  “There is news from Rothschild,” Banallt said softly in response to Tallboys’s inquiring look. “Castlereagh awaits us.”

  Vedaelin nodded. “Tallboys, with me, if you don’t mind.”

  “Your Grace.”

  “Mrs. Evans will need an escort home. See her safely to her door, won’t you, Banallt? Do you mind, Mrs. Evans?

  Banallt bowed. “So I anticipated,” he said in a voice as dry as sand.

  What could Sophie say but, “Of course not.”

  Twelve

  SEEING TALLBOYS STARING AT SOPHIE LIKE SOME HEART-SICK fool sent an arrow straight into Banallt’s heart. And she, of course, demonstrated no awareness whatever that Mr. Reginald Tallboys or His Grace the Duke of Vedaelin had a tendre for her. Her expression was sober, vivid with intelligence as always. God, what a web this was. He knew very well that Mercer was in love with Fidelia. That bit of old news had come to him months ago. Mercer, understandably, had given up hope where Fidelia was concerned. Her father had loftier hopes for his daughter. Christ. He did not care to be at the center of this tangle, yet here he was.

  Banallt offered Sophie his arm after Tallboys took his leave, with more apologies to Sophie. He doth protest too much, he thought. The man was too charmed by half. He waited while Sophie watched Tallboys go. Would she take his arm, or was he to have a cold shoulder? “You are uncomfortable,” he said at last. He’d not given the butler his hat nor had he put it back on when he came outside to find Tallboys looking ready to go down on one knee. He had to concentrate on not crushing the brim. “Shall I find someone else to escort you home? I can fetch Tallboys back if you like.” He scowled again. He was damned if he’d send Soph
ie home with Tallboys. “My cousin, Mrs. Llewellyn, has a carriage here. I’m sure she’ll not mind sending you home.”

  She took a breath. “I take it your carriage is waiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let us go.” She settled into one of her unreadably calm expressions. “I don’t wish to delay you with foolish errands. I’ll finish scolding Mr. Tallboys myself when next I see him.”

  If she hadn’t spoken in so fond a tone, he would have felt better to hear she’d been scolding him. As it was, she sounded on far too intimate terms with the man. They hardly knew each other. “Do they call often at Henrietta Street?” he asked. Well. And so. Of course they must. Both of them were free to call when they liked. A knife twisted in his heart.

  “Who?”

  “Tallboys and Vedaelin.”

  “From time to time. He’s amusing. Tallboys, I mean. And he calls, the duke does, when he needs something of John.” She didn’t sound like a woman who understood the many excuses that could bring a man to her home. “Which is often.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her after that, and so he said nothing. She walked beside him with a brisk, no-nonsense stride. Their silence was not uncomfortable. Silence between them never had been, unless she was angry with him. He let the silence continue. What, after all, did a man say to the woman who had refused his heart? Though he would allow that perhaps his had been badly offered. In such a circumstance, nothing was the perfect reply. He was aware, damn it all, far too aware, of her dainty figure at his side. He could ignore his response to her. He could. And would.

  “Mrs. Evans?” a woman’s voice called out. The tone shrilled in his ears. Years of experience had honed his instincts for the high-in-the-instep matron whose disapproval had just locked on him and must be voiced. He knew, therefore, what he would face if they stopped.

  But Sophie stopped and so, therefore, did he.