Too late for that, she’d thought cheekily. I suspect you already are troubled, Lord Lavay.
She’d run past a big black horse tethered loosely to the shrubbery, as though the rider had leaped off and flung the reins in. Her head almost whipped right off her neck when she thought she saw the king’s coat of arms on the saddlebags: she glimpsed a rampant lion and an azure field as she raced by.
But there wasn’t time to investigate that. Who knew what Lord Lavay got up to.
Her concerns were more mundane.
Thank God Thank God Thank God Thank God the Earl and Countess of Ardmay hadn’t wanted anything to eat. She could not recall ever feeling so awkward and terrified and gauche, so at sea, not even on her first day teaching at Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy. All day long she’d felt like an actor who hadn’t been handed a script before opening night and who’d been thrust onstage before a critical, drunken crowd armed with things to throw. Fortunately, she’d had worse days. The day she’d informed Miss Marietta Endicott she’d been with child, for instance. That had certainly been without precedent.
She’d get through it the way she’d gotten through everything, by relying on nerve, pride, brio, and breeding, all of which, ironically, could conspire to get her sacked. Especially the pride part.
The nerve of him betting against her.
Which, she suspected, was exactly what he’d been doing when he’d exchanged a pound note with the Earl of Ardmay, another large man, more rough-hewn and more exotic, somehow, than Lavay. Who was not so much rough-hewn as sleek and hard as a rock polished over and over by wave after wave of time and experience. Her father had attended to the ills and injuries of all the local Northumberland gentry, but never before had she seen the likes of the Earl of Ardmay or Lord Lavay.
Before she’d bolted, she’d left Dolly with instructions to put together a meat pie for him out of the ingredients in the pantry.
The vicarage was a relief after the Dour House of Lavay: noisy, bright, warm, and full to bursting with children—redheaded ones, mostly, belonging to Mrs. Sylvaine’s sister, some of them destined for Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy, Elise was nearly certain. Somewhat incongruously, what appeared to be flower arrangements far too spectacular for a vicar to afford were scattered about, stuffed in vases and jars. Every color was represented.
This was new.
“A rather exuberant approach to decorating, Reverend Sylvaine.”
His laugh tapered into a sigh. “I was just remarking on its resemblance to a jungle. I think those are of tropical origin.” The towering and handsome Reverend Adam Sylvaine gingerly poked at a spiky affair the livid color of a sunset. “My cousin Olivia sent them over, with instructions to distribute them over graves in the churchyard. It seems some of her suitors haven’t yet heard the news that she’s engaged—and even if they have, they will persist in sending hothouse flowers. Landsdowne may be forced to call them out eventually.”
Elise laughed. Lord Landsdowne was Olivia Eversea’s fiancé. The one all of London never dreamed she’d have, ever since Lyon Redmond— Violet Redmond’s brother, the oldest Redmond and heir—had disappeared, taking, it was said, her heart with him forever. No one had truly believed she’d consider another man.
No one had counted on how determined Landsdowne was.
“I brought apple tarts, Reverend!” She proffered her cloth-wrapped bundle. “I will exchange them for one child.”
The reverend’s wife, Evie, laughed, then raised her voice. “Jack, where have you gotten to?”
Whereas Elise had done it for the pleasure of the thing, the reverend’s wife, the former infamous Evie Duggan, had done it for money. She’d been a professional courtesan; surely this ranked higher on the scale for Fallen Women, if such a thing existed? The difference, however, was that Evie had never truly been respectable and had disappointed nobody, whereas Elise had been and had disappointed everybody.
But now Evie was happily married to the vicar Adam Sylvaine, who had single-handedly restored church attendance in Pennyroyal Green and Greater Sussex through charm, selflessness, sheer pigheadedness, and devastating good looks. Together, they were kindness and acceptance personified. They were among the few who knew the truth about Elise’s . . . circumstances.
Evie craned her head. “Jaaack—oh! He’s right . . . here!”
A blur shot into the room and flung his arms around Elise’s waist.
“Mama!”
She seized Jack and lifted him up in a squeeze. He was almost too heavy for that now.
“Good evening, my love. We must fly. Thank you, Reverend, for everything. May I ask you a question? I fear it’s more in the way of another favor . . .”
“Anything we can do for you, Mrs. Fountain, as you know.”
“My new position . . . well, it seems I won’t be able to come fetch Jack home in the evenings from now on. I’m taking a bit of a risk now. I shall have half a day away on Sunday. Do you know of anyone who would be kind enough to escort him home? In exchange for . . . apple tarts?”
Her entire life was stitched together by an intricate network of barters and favors of time and skill and knowledge, of baked goods and canned goods, unused bolts of cloths and hand-me-downs, and herbs and cheeses and books and advice and tutoring.
“I’m a big boy, Mama! I can walk home on my own!”
“I’ll do it.”
Standing in the doorway was Evie’s brother, Seamus, who whisked Elise with a surreptitious but adroit look that implied he wouldn’t mind throwing his arms around her waist, too.
The refreshing thing about Seamus Duggan was that he never pretended to be anything other than what he was, which was a Charming Rogue who would do anything to avoid an honest day’s work if a bit of fun could be had instead.
The dangerous thing about Seamus was that he was handsome in a way that caused female heads to whip around violently to get another look, and he was, in truth, a delight: quick to laugh, a bit too ready to fall in love, a bit too ready to forget that he was allegedly already in love when someone new caught his eye, always up for a lark or a prurient joke or a fight.
Hence his nickname locally: Shameless Duggan.
The vicar had taken him in hand and kept him too busy to get into too much trouble. It remained, however, a slippery and delicate challenge, akin to being careful not to hold a bar of soap too tightly.
Children loved him. Ever since he’d arrived in Pennyroyal Green, nearly all the older boys had doubled their profanity vocabularies and knew where babies came from, and he was kind to shy little girls.
He leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, green eyes sparkling, mouth curved in a teasing smile. Elise couldn’t help but smile back at him now. All the ready smiles in this house were balm right now.
She’d seen Seamus with his sister’s children. She was absolutely certain Jack would be safe with him, and that he wouldn’t learn anything too untoward.
“Kind of you, Mr. Duggan, thank you.”
“I’ll escort ye back even now, if ye wish, Mrs. Fountain.”
“That won’t be necessary, Seamus,” all the adults said simultaneously.
His smile broadened. “But it’s truth. I’d be pleased to walk him home of nights, Mrs. Fountain. ’Tis no trouble at all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Duggan. We must fly . . . and one more favor, Reverend Sylvaine. Would you . . . would you mind terribly if I took away a few of these bouquets?”
“You would be doing a favor for me, Mrs. Fountain.”
PHILIPPE AWOKE THE next morning wearing a faint smile. He’d had such a pleasant, if homely, dream: he’d lifted his head at the sound of a coal hod clanking, seen the back of a woman wearing a soft white cap, heard the rustle of a fire being lit, and had felt all was right with the world.
An hour or so later he woke again because he was actuall
y a little too warm. And he normally slept shirtless, so this was seldom the case.
He lifted his head off the pillow and peered.
The fire was blazing.
So it hadn’t been a dream. In the air he drew an invisible point with his index finger. One point to Mrs. Fountain for getting the servants to do their jobs. For at least today.
He got himself upright and froze, his hand automatically reaching for the pistol he kept on the night table. He hovered. He thought he’d heard whispering outside his door.
Since The Attack, mornings were the hardest—every appendage he possessed was reluctant to bend, and everything else was stiff, and not necessarily in an exciting way—but his survival instincts managed to overcome pain, and he crept to the door and put his ear against it.
“Now remember, Mary, he’s just a man. He puts his legs in his trousers one at a time. In all likelihood he won’t bite.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t all of his teeth, anyway. He’s not young, Mrs. Fountain.”
Was that stifled giggling?
He couldn’t hear what Mrs. Fountain said to that.
“But he’ll be awake when I go in this time. He was asleep when I built up the fire.” This was Mary the maid. Coward! he thought, half amused.
“Very well. I’ll do it. But you will do it from now on.”
An instant later there was a smart rap on the door.
He managed to fling himself back into the bed and pull the covers up to one armpit.
“What is it?” he demanded. His voice was a hoarse rasp. Everything that ought not have been jostled was singing with pain from the sudden brisk motion.
The door swung open, and in bustled Mrs. Fountain. “Good morning, my lord. I’ll just leave this tray here and pull the . . . pull the . . .”
He squinted up at Mrs. Fountain, who looked fresher than anyone ought to at this hour of the day, at least in the filtered morning light.
She seemed to have frozen.
She looked down at him longer than she ought, too.
She seemed too young for apoplexy, but one never knew.
“What the devil is that?” he rasped.
“That?” she parroted. Almost literally parroted, as her voice was a bit of a dry squawk.
“Come now, we’ve established you’re not deaf, Mrs. Fountain. On the tray.”
He began to sit up, and the sheet slid from his torso like avalanching snow.
“Coffeeandantwoappletarts.” The words rushed out as if they’d merely been briefly dammed by something else.
“Apple—”
“I’ll just leave it here, shall I?” she said brightly and pivoted, turning her back to him.
He could hear the tray rattling in her hands as she walked over to settle it on the nearby writing table.
And then she flung the curtains aside.
“Arrgh!” A torrent of sunlight struck him square in the face.
At least it wasn’t raining.
She departed so quickly that she was nearly a blur, the door clicking shut adamantly behind her.
ELISE PAUSED WITH her back to the door, one hand clutching the knob, as if to prevent him from getting out.
Or perhaps to prevent herself from getting back in.
She stared unseeing for a moment at Mary, who hovered anxiously in the hallway.
Or not necessarily unseeing. Elise didn’t expect to forget what she’d seen in there any time soon.
“Did he take it from you, Mrs. Fountain?” Mary whispered, as if they’d been holding out a beefsteak to a finicky captured wolf. “Shall I do it tomorrow?”
Elise thought quickly.
“He’s definitely a bit surly in the morning,” she said slowly, with a great show of martyred magnanimity. “Perhaps I ought to do it instead.”
IT SEEMED TO take an inordinately long time to dress in the mornings, given that nothing on his body really wanted to bend the way it ought. Hastening the process caused him to pause, tense, and turn the air blue with swearing until he was ready to try again. Getting his coat on was the most difficult. Shaving with his left hand was another matter altogether. He had never anticipated needing to stay in Sussex longer than a fortnight, so he hadn’t anticipated the need for a valet. He’d once heard Hercules, the temperamental cook on their ship, wistfully describe a wife as someone who would “help you get yer boots off.”
He imagined describing it just that way to Alexandra, Lady Prideux, his potential bride, and hearing her peals of laughter. Alexandra was accustomed to having an army of servants to do her slightest bidding.
He flexed his right hand, which really was the cause of most of his irritation and frustration.
Philippe halted on the threshold of the study. Something was definitely different.
He entered cautiously. Just two steps.
And then he moved through it slowly, as if in a dream. Little reflected fragments of himself caught at the corners of his eyes.
Everything—every inch of the surface of his desk, the frames on the walls, the intricate turns on the chair and settee legs, the crevices of the buttocks of the hearth cherubs—had been dusted and polished. The room almost pulsed, it was so brilliantly clean.
An enormous rectangle of sunlight lay over the carpet. The curtains had clearly been taken down and the dust shaken from them, and were now tethered away from the windows by their golden cords. They were at least a shade brighter than they had been yesterday. The carpets had been beaten within an inch of their lives. The scrolling browns and creams and oxblood were rich again, and his feet sank into them as he prowled his environs, both hopeful and suspicious as a cat.
But another scent mingled with the lemon and linseed and burning wood.
A peculiarly disorienting smell, which, for a moment, made him think that this was certainly all a dream, from the giggling outside his door to the preternaturally bright room. Sometimes at sea he’d awaken with a smile on his face, that scent just drifting away from his awareness.
And then he saw it.
There, on the mantel, was a jar bursting with a profusion of lavender and hyacinth.
In other words, the flowers of Provence.
He gave a short, stunned laugh.
He drew another mark in the air for Mrs. Fountain.
He strolled over and touched them gingerly. They were just a little wilted, as if they’d been clutched in a hot fist for some time before being transported to the study and arranged neatly in the jar. Or perhaps the bountiful fire was doing its part to hasten their demise.
Still, they were beautiful.
Something in him eased. As if one item, the size and weight of a lavender and hyacinth bouquet, had lifted from his invisible burden.
He rotated slowly again, scanning the rest of the room for any other little surprises.
The brandy decanter was full and gleaming.
And tempting.
He turned his back on it as if it was a doxy crooking her finger, then rang for Mrs. Fountain.
Chapter 6
MRS. FOUNTAIN STILL LOOKED untenably fresh and guileless, given that she had clearly risen well before dawn to flog the worthless serving staff into cleaning.
“Good morning again, Mrs. Fountain. I would like you to retrieve my correspondence from Postlethwaite’s Emporium in town today. The mail coach should have been in.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Is there anything in particular you would like for dinners this week? I will do the shopping in town today.”
“I should like boeuf Bourgignon, but I will be content with recognizable meat, served perhaps alongside peas, or some other recognizable vegetable. And wine. And perhaps bread. Surprise me, Mrs. Fountain.”
“The meat pie last night . . .”
“Was edible. In the absence of an excellent chef, I infinitely prefer simp
ler food prepared well rather than awkward attempts at complexity.”
“Thank you for your clarification,” she said evenly. “I will inform the cook.”
She didn’t say You rude bastard aloud. But the air pulsed with it.
He was almost amused.
“And I feel I must give you my verdict on the apple tart,” he said gravely.
“Very well.” She straightened her spine and folded her hands before her like a penitent.
“And as you know, I feel strongly that one ought not to lie if it can be avoided.”
“You made that clear, sir, yes.”
And now her breath was clearly held.
He was not a sadist. He did, however, possess a sense of drama. So he allowed the silence to continue for a beat or two.
“It was Heaven on a plate, Mrs. Fountain. Thank you.”
Her face went slowly luminous.
She was as radiant as . . . as radiant as . . .
Well, as radiant as the furniture in this room.
How had he forgotten the simple pleasure of making someone else happy?
“I’m very pleased you are pleased,” she said somberly. But her eyes were fairly dancing.
“I should like my days to begin just that way from now on if I don’t rise before dawn. With perhaps the exception of the assault of sunlight. Perhaps a more gradual introduction of light in the room would be more merciful.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“That is all,” he said and turned from her, toward the correspondence he would once again attempt to answer. And likely fail.
When she didn’t move, he turned, a quizzical brow cocked.
“Lord Lavay” came her voice, tentatively. “If I may ask another question.”
He sighed. “I must request again that you issue questions with great economy, Mrs. Fountain, as my patience is not infinite.”
Another silence, of the mustering-nerve sort.
It Started with a Scandal Page 6