Of course, that was assuming they could continue to keep the manner of the previous viscount’s death a secret.
They would likely spend the season at Edenwhite, as returning while in mourning would be inappropriate. Besides, Sheridan had duties to fulfil as the new Viscount and much to do to acclimate himself to the new position.
By this time next year, the ton would have forgotten about her little indiscretion. Perhaps her friends would even allow her to rejoin her charity groups. If not, well, she had become a viscountess with the wealth and means to begin her own organization.
Perhaps when they returned to London, it would be with a babe in tow.
The thought caused a small smile to curve the corner of her mouth. A babe was a possibility she’d known to be inevitable, but one she hadn’t given much thought to until now.
With their intimate life made right, trying to make an heir would become far more enjoyable. She looked forward to the day she could tell Sheridan she carried their child.
She spent the rest of the day daydreaming about babies and nurseries—as thoughts of Petra, Sheridan, and the passion they’d shared together in London and Brighton would only cause her to become aroused. There would be time enough for that once they’d arrived at Edenwhite.
She couldn’t pretend not to be disappointed that their time with the sultry Madame had ended. There remained so much they’d yet to experience together.
By the time they reached the estate, her melancholy had returned. The sky had turned overcast, hinting at a coming storm. All around them, Edenwhite had fallen into an odd sort of stillness, as if all of its inhabitants felt oppressed by the looming cloud of death.
The servants awaiting them on the front steps of the manor made a somber portrait—dressed all in black with the gray sky hanging overhead. Cecily tried to ignore them and study her new home as Sheridan handed her down from the carriage.
She craned her neck, taking in the smooth, white pillars and looming front doors. The manor looked quite different now than it had during the winter. Green ivy climbed the house’s façade, and the neatly-manicured lawns would look quite beautiful when the sun shone. Smiling, she turned her gaze up to meet his from beneath the brim of her hat.
She maintained her smile and polite demeanor while she was introduced to each member of the household staff. By the time they were ushered into the house with promises of a light supper, her feet ached and her face hurt from smiling so much. Yet, it seemed a small price to pay to put the staff at ease. She did not know what sort of mistress the previous viscountess had been, but Cecily had always been easy to please.
As they stood in the main hall being relieved of their coats and hats, the butler, Bosworth, approached them and cleared his throat.
“My lord, my lady, a visitor awaits you in the garnet drawing room.”
Sheridan scowled. “A visitor? With my family in mourning and us only just arrived? Whoever it is, send them away. We are not taking callers today.”
The butler cleared his throat again. “I am afraid the visitor has taken up residence in one of the guestrooms. We felt obligated to allow it until you arrived, my lord.”
It became Cecily’s turn to frown. “You would not happen to refer to the dowager viscountess, would you?”
Bosworth inclined his head. “Indeed, my lady.”
“For God’s sake, man!” Sheridan thundered, brushing past him and heading toward said drawing room. “The dowager is hardly a guest in her own home. Of course she can remain. In fact, I want the dower house prepared for her immediately. It is hers, as promised in her marriage settlement agreed upon by my father. I intend to uphold that promise.”
The butler indicated no feeling on the matter one way or another. With a stiff bow, he departed to carry out the viscount’s instructions.
Aaron’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion, as if detecting an offending odor. “I will not suffer her presence, Sheridan,” he declared. “I can hardly be expected to dine at the same table with her.”
“Then you’d best get on the road for the village before the sky begins to darken,” her husband said without turning around. “I am certain there are plenty of warm, dry rooms, and a fine meal there you can take by yourself.”
Cecily turned away from her brother-in-law’s reddening countenance and hurried after Sheridan, who had paused before the door to the garnet drawing room—so named because of its rich, red décor. She pressed a hand to the small of his back and gave him an encouraging nudge.
“Would you like some privacy?” she offered.
She understood that despite his hatred for his father, Sheridan might have mixed feelings about facing a woman who stood accused of murdering him. If he felt anything like Cecily did, he might be torn between hugging her tight while thanking her, or pretending not to know the truth … or rather, what might be the truth. No confession had been forthcoming.
He turned, wrapping an arm around her and kissing the crown of her head. “I’d like you to come in, too, if it’s not too much trouble. Perhaps she’ll be more at ease with another woman in the room.”
“Whatever you need,” she replied.
He opened the door to reveal his stepmother, seated in an armchair near the fire. She appeared quite gothic in her dark, red surroundings, shrouded in unrelenting black. Her porcelain complexion had gone ashen, her dark brown eyes dull and lifeless. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a simple chignon, without even a single strand left free to soften her features.
Yet, even dressed as a widow, the dowager viscountess appeared little more than a child. Cecily recalled that she and her stepmother-in-law were of an age.
She stood as they approached and curtsied, keeping her eyes lowered to the carpet.
“My lord,” she murmured. “Welcome home.”
“Hello, Jeanette,” he replied, forcing a smile. “You look well.”
She scoffed, resuming her seat in the chair. “Nonsense. I look ghastly. I only arrived this morning, just ahead of you.”
“I have ordered the dower house prepared for you,” he said, coming straight to the heart of the matter.
Jeanette smiled, transforming her face and reminding them of the radiant beauty she’d once been. Before marriage to the viscount had turned her into the meek, mousy thing seated before them.
“That is kind of you.”
Sheridan shrugged. “It is no more than you are owed. As well, what remains of your dowry will be released to you—use it as you please. In addition, I hope you will allow me to provide a stipend for you. I wish to see you well taken care of.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Do you? Why, I wonder?”
His brow creased. “It is my duty as the new viscount to see to your well-being. Consider it … a form of compensation for …”
“For the years I bore your father’s cruelty?” she finished, pursing her lips.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There is nothing I can do to compensate you for that. However, I hope to make the rest of your life comfortable.”
Jeanette fell silent for a moment, her gaze becoming unfocused. Sheridan glanced at her, seemingly concerned and uncertain how to proceed. Cecily cleared her throat.
“Jeanette, you seem distressed,” she said, keeping her voice low and even. As things stood, the woman looked as if a slight-raised voice might send her into a fit of tears. “Perhaps it will help to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you. We are still family, after all. His lordship and I want to help you in any way we can.”
The widow laughed aloud, seeming genuinely amused. “Help me? I suppose you feel obligated to try. No need, my dear. If there is one thing being married to Baldwin taught me, it was how to take care of myself.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I can see you are quite a resourceful woman.”
“We quarreled that night, you know,” she said.
Cecily nodded encouragingly. “That happens in a marriage. Sheridan and I quarrel often.”
; A bald-faced lie. They hadn’t been married long enough to fight, and had spent much of the last few weeks sharing a female lover. However, Jeanette did not need to know that. She seemed on the verge of a confessions and Cecily did not want to ruin that.
“It was awful,” Jeanette continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I had bought a new ballgown and thought to surprise him. It was a lovely thing—periwinkle with cream lace and pearl adornments.”
She smiled. “It sounds quite lovely.”
Jeanette frowned. “When I met him in the front hall, to leave for the Amerson’s annual fête—he told me I looked like a whore.”
Sheridan drew in a sharp breath. Her heart ached for the poor thing. She had been too young, too beautiful, and too sweet to endure a man like Baldwin Cranfield.
“I am certain he didn’t mean it,” Cecily soothed, even as she knew the words were a lie.
Jeanette snorted. “Of course he did. It was quite decadent—with quite a low neckline. I just thought …” She trailed off and sighed.
“You wanted to look beautiful for him,” Cecily supplied. “There is nothing wrong with that.”
She shrugged. “I suppose I thought if he were pleased with my appearance, perhaps … oh, it was so silly! I’d hoped he would be pleased enough to treat me well, for a change. Even just one night. I’d grown so tired …”
Sheridan nodded. “A sentiment I well understand. He was an impossible man to please.”
“As he proved that night,” she said. “He took my arm and dragged me upstairs to my chambers, where he proceeded to question me about who I had dressed to please.” She paused, laughing out loud and grasping her stomach. “He accused me of having a lover—as if I were ever allowed to go anywhere without him or one of his footmen dogging my every step. It did not matter what I said—he would not believe me. He told me if he could not pry the truth from me, perhaps …”
Her husband’s shoulders tensed, his neck cording, the vital vein beneath this skin throbbing.
“He would beat it out of you,” he whispered.
She nodded, lowering her eyes. A tear fell onto the back of her hand. “When it was over, he left me lying in bed, crying. He’d torn the sleeve of my dress and ripped the pearls along the bodice loose. I so loved that gown.”
Cecily leaned forward, perched on the edge of her chair and in danger of falling on her arse on the floor at any moment. Sheridan seemed to hold his breath, as well, while they both waited for her confession to come.
Jeanette sniffled and raised her head. Tears streaked her face, her nose and cheeks stained red.
“I must have lain there for hours, crying. I believe I fell asleep—honestly, I cannot remember. I can only recall closing my eyes for a moment, and awakening to the sound of screams. A chambermaid had discovered his body in the library. On his desk sat an empty bottle of port. In his hand, a revolver. The room still reeked of gunpowder and blood when I arrived to find him dead.”
Sheridan leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. “The gun was in his hand, yes?”
She nodded. “Yes. I cannot fathom what drove him to do it, Sherry. Your father had always been a prideful man. I never would have dreamed he would take his own life.”
Cecily watched them both—the sniffling Jeanette, and her pensive husband. She digested the widow’s words, turning them over in her mind and searching for any hidden meaning she might have missed.
“Jeanette,” he said, his voice low. “I am certain you know that my father was partial to his right hand.”
A small sound, akin to a gasp, escaped her. Cecily would have missed it if she’d dared to breathe. Jeanette’s gaze flitted away for a moment, then came back to Sheridan.
“Of course.”
His jaw ticked. “The pistol was found in his left hand. Odd, that.”
She raised her chin a notch, her nostrils flaring. “Your father was a man of many … eccentricities. As I am sure you are aware.”
His jaw tightened, and his folded hands gripped each other tight.
“Yes, he was. Still, one cannot help but wonder …” He trailed off, giving her a pointed look. “If you knew of someone who wished him ill, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Jeanette chuckled, appearing delirious even in the midst of her grief. “Would I, my lord? Should I?”
“You owe him nothing,” he agreed. “Nor are you indebted to me in any way. But I … I need to know.”
Her eyes darted as she seemed to search her mind for any shred of truth. Cecily wondered if the woman would share it with them, even if she found it.
“Your father was a powerful man,” she whispered. “He had no enemies that I knew of. Besides, no one was at home but us.”
“What of the household staff?” Cecily asked. “Perhaps a servant with a grudge?”
She shook her head. “Our staff are loyal. They would never go against him. Oh, there were a few who indulged me behind his back. I suppose they felt sorry for me. They might have looked the other way while I spent more than I was allowed, or flirted a bit. I am so grateful to them all.”
Sheridan sighed, running a hand over his haggard face. “Forgive me. This is has all been so …”
“Arbitrary?” Jeanette said. “Outlandish? I could not have written a greater farce for the stage if I’d tried.”
“Forgive us,” Cecily cut in, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. “I am certain you’re exhausted after your journey. We did not mean to turn this into an interrogation.”
Sheridan looked tense, but did not contradict her. “Her ladyship is right; of course, we do not mean to interrogate you. This has been a shocking event, and we are all a bit surprised and tired after such a long journey. Will you join us for dinner?”
Jeanette stood. “Thank you, but I believe I’ll turn in early tonight. I would love to take breakfast with you in the morning, however.”
Sheridan stood and extended a hand to her. “We would enjoy that, thank you.”
She placed her hand in his, and he bent to kiss it. Jeanette breezed past him to find Cecily in her path. She paused, gazing up at her expectantly.
Cecily reached out and took her hands, gripping them tight. “I hope if you need anything, you will come to me. I know that you are my stepmother-in-law, but we are of an age. I am here for you, whatever you need.”
Jeanette became teary again, gripping her hands tight. “Thank you. You are a good woman. A fine wife for my stepson.”
She reached out and pulled the other woman into an embrace.
“Let me help you,” she whispered, her voice so low, only Jeanette could hear her. “Tell me which servant killed for you. I know you did not do it, but … the circumstances …”
Jeanette’s fingers dug into her back and she held fast. “Peter,” she whispered. “A footman. He always pitied me because of Baldwin’s rough treatment. We were not lovers but … I think we might have wanted to be.”
Pulling away, Cecily gave her a nod. Composing herself quickly, she smiled.
“Rest well.”
Jeanette curtsied to them both. “Good night.”
After she had left, her husband turned to her.
“What on Earth was that about?” he asked. “A more bizarre moment, I couldn’t have imagined.”
She laughed. “It only seemed bizarre because you aren’t a woman. Everything she said seemed perfectly clear to me.”
With a smirk, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against his body. “Care to enlighten me?”
Taking his face in her hands, she stared deep into his eyes.
“She didn’t kill him,” she whispered. “Her lover did. Or, rather, the man who loves her did.”
He sighed, as if in relief, sinking into her. “That is all I wanted to know. I don’t give a damn about the bastard, and I’m certain she does not, either. His death is the best thing that could have happened to us both.”
“I know, and now it’s over.”
“I only wish I knew how to
reward her,” he replied. “She, or her amour, have performed what I like to think of as a civic duty.”
She grinned. “There is a footman named Peter living at Perth House. I think it would be nice if he were relocated to Edenwhite. I do believe the dower house is understaffed. He would do nicely to round out the household.”
His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. Then, he smiled, and chuckled.
“You, my love, are a wonder. Not just beautiful and passionate, but sharp as a nail. Have I told you lately how much I adore you?”
Reaching up to grasp her bodice, she jerked it down, exposing her breasts. Her nipples hardened at the sharp gasp that escaped his throat, caused by the sight of her bare tits. He ground his hips into hers, pressing his hard cock against her soft mound.
“Perhaps you should show me,” she murmured. “Right here, right now.”
Lifting her until she wrapped her legs around his waist, he strode toward the nearest couch.
Chapter Thirteen
Nine months later …
Sheridan Cranfield, Viscount of Perth, stepped from the confines of Brooks’ and into the dark, snowy night. Inhaling, he purged his nostrils of the stench of stale cigars and brandy, filling it with the fresh, clean scent of winter. His lungs burned from the cold, but he embraced it. Swinging his walking stick, he set off toward home, glad he’d decided against bringing a carriage.
The old Sheridan might have ridden in a carriage. He might have remained late into the night with his friends, who would have once made him feel obligated to stay. All in the name of amity.
Amiable. Selfless. Predictable.
Those attributes might have described Mr. Cranfield in the past, but the Viscount of Perth had become a new man. Gone was the voice of his father dictating his every decision. The weight bearing down upon him and reminding him of his past had been lifted, and with his father’s death had come a freedom unlike anything he’d ever known.
A Marriage Most Scandalous (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 2) Page 11