A Secret Consequence for the Viscount

by Sophia James

  Nicholas’s present was now revealed and Eleanor had to smile. Lucy had made him a painting for his library which she had framed in rainbows and kisses. The image showed the three of them at Bromworth Manor with their arms around each other. Victor was seated next to them, almost as large as they were, his pink tongue lolling.

  ‘I shall hang this family portrait above my desk,’ Nicholas was saying. ‘Right where I can see it when I sit down to work.’

  ‘You really like it, Papa?’ There was a shy hopefulness in Lucy’s voice. She always addressed him as Papa whenever she was able to. A vestige of five years without him, perhaps, that now translated into a need of constant ownership?

  ‘I love it,’ Nick was saying, her arms coming tightly around his neck in reply as he kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘I want one for my library, Lucy,’ Jacob said. ‘Can I commission you?’

  ‘Comm...ishin? What does that mean, Uncle Jacob?’

  ‘It means he will pay you money for a portrait of him and Rose and the new baby when it comes. Make sure it’s a goodly sum for he can certainly afford it.’ Nick was smiling as he explained this and Lucy nodded.

  ‘I think we should all have one, Lucy, of each family.’ Oliver’s voice was serious. ‘It can become a new tradition.’

  ‘Because the old ones are seeming more and more irrelevant?’ Frederick laughed and his hand slid into Cecilia’s. ‘I don’t think that Christian and his friends know quite what they are inheriting with their acquisition of Vitium et Virtus.’

  ‘A monster?’ Oliver smiled.

  ‘A way of life that is fleeting,’ Jacob amended, ‘and yet...look what it had brought us. I wouldn’t have met Rose had I not found her at the club late one night trying on one of the performer’s dresses.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘The fabric was so beautiful I couldn’t resist pretending for a moment that instead of being the maid I was a high-born lady dancing with a handsome gentleman.’

  Lucy clapped her hands at the story and Rose blew her a kiss. ‘Dream big, Lucy,’ she said, ‘just like I did.’

  ‘Here’s to Vitium et Virtus,’ Oliver spoke next. ‘And to the beautiful Madame Coquette who came my way because of it.’ He lifted his glass to Cecilia, who smiled back at him, her brown eyes alight with tenderness.

  ‘If you had not come to Paris on business for the club...’ Her voice tailed off in worry.

  ‘I would have met you somewhere, my love. Trust me on that.’

  Frederick stood now with a toast. ‘To Georgiana with her perfect but foolish plan at avoiding an arranged marriage. Vitium et Virtus was the venue for her fall into notoriety and that in turn brought her straight to me.’

  ‘There is a silver lining, Frederick, in every cloud of hopelessness.’ Georgiana raised her own glass and drank.

  That left only Nicholas to give the others his memory of meeting her at the club. Only they hadn’t met there in any shape or form, his pool of blood discovered in the alley behind the day after he had disappeared.

  ‘For me Vitium et Virtus was always about a family I never had. It was about friendship and freedom and if the place encouraged excess and recklessness then it also helped me to understand what I truly wanted my life to be like. Here’s to you, Eleanor and Lucy. My jewels. My home. My family. The virtue to my vice.’

  Frederick lifted his glass. ‘To family then and to friendship. Christian told me as I left tonight that he hoped we enjoyed our one last party at the club. He has opened the cellar and given the entertainers the evening off. He said tomorrow they shall all be back and heaven help anyone who thought Vitium et Virtus had become proper.’

  ‘He sounds like us, back then when we were young.’ Nick laughed as he stated this.

  ‘Well, it’s in safe hands at least.’ Oliver’s voice held a good deal of the same humour. ‘He has not paid us for all the bottles of liquor stored in the cellar after all, so we need to be sure to drink up deeply.’

  ‘Can I come with you, Papa? Can I go to the club, too?’

  ‘No, you may not, Lucy, until you are at least twenty years older and hopefully not even then.’ Nicholas sounded like a protective father, his tone all that of a man who had never had a wild and reckless youth. ‘It’s bed for you in order to be up early for all the celebrations. But your mama, on the other hand, is most welcome to dance just with me until the morning.’

  His eyes were bright with love, the wary distance gone now to be replaced by joy. A family man, a man of the land, a man who had discovered his place in life and in her heart.

  Eleanor raised her own glass.

  ‘Here’s to the Christmases past and all those to come, for blessed is the season that makes the whole world love.’

  And under her breath she thanked God for the best Christmas present she had ever received, the first fluttering of a new life quiet in her womb.

  Tonight she would tell Nicholas when they were alone, tucked in their bed under the patched quilt on the second floor of the Bromley town house, a waxing Yuletide moon outside.

  Breathing in, she looked over at her husband and when his glance caught hers she tipped her head and he tipped his back, a secret smile across his face.

  Perhaps he already knew?

  Her world was so full of promise and hope that she felt her own mother and father close.

  You would have loved Nicholas, she thought, just as the Yuletide log suddenly flared.

  They were watching with Ralph, she knew they were, from up above. Tonight of all nights she understood the eternity of family as she had not before as somewhere close the strains of a Christmas song could be heard on the wind.

  Hark! the herald angels sing

  Glory to the newborn king!

  Peace on earth, and mercy mild

  God and sinners reconciled

  * * * * *

  If you missed the first,

  second and third stories in

  THE SOCIETY OF WICKED GENTLEMEN

  quartet, check out

  A CONVENIENT BRIDE FOR THE SOLDIER

  by Christine Merrill

  AN INNOCENT MAID FOR THE DUKE

  by Ann Lethbridge

  A PREGNANT COURTESAN FOR THE RAKE

  by Diane Gaston

  Keep reading for an excerpt from A GOVERNESS FOR CHRISTMAS by Marguerite Kaye, a story from SCANDAL AT THE CHRISTMAS BALL.

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A Governess for Christmas

  by Marguerite Kaye

  A story from SCANDAL AT THE CHRISTMAS BALL

  Chapter One

  Thursday, 24th December 1818, Christmas Eve

  The first flurry of snow had begun to land on his carriage roof as it swept up the long drive in mid-afternoon, as if announcing his arrival, though he’d thought at the time that sunrise might have been more apt. This invitation was, after all, intended to herald a new dawn for him. Now, gazing distractedly out of the tall drawing-room windows in the shadow of the long blue curtains, Drummond MacIntosh saw that the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore’s extensive grounds were covered in a glittering and, for the moment at least, pristine seasonal white blanket. This particular window faced due west, but he could see no sign of the sun through the thick, leaden sky. Behind him, the other guests took tea and made polite conversation. He ought to be doing both of those things himself, but now he was here, Drummond was more ambivalent than ever about the reasons for his presence at this party.

  It ought to be clear cut. This was the opportunity he had been seeking to forge a new life for himself, to finally escape the purposeless existence he had been forced to endure. Three and a half years since that fateful day which had brought his life crashing down about his ears, it was time to accept that he needed help.

  Drummond sighed, reminding himself that he was damned lucky to be here. The unexpected summons and subsequent discussion which had precipitated his invitation to Brockmore was a most surprising Christmas gift, and yet, now he was here at this most prestigious house party, instead of embracing the event, he was prevaricating. Why couldn’t he just do as he was told? Of course, if he always had done so, he wouldn’t need to be here in the first place.

  They would be greening the house later, though seaweed rather than holly would be more appropriate decoration for this particular room. The painted silk wall hangings of the drawing room were cobalt blue. Grotesque sea creatures were carved into the gilded arms and legs of the blue-damask sofas which lined the walls, and the art which adorned the walls also had a maritime theme, the overall impression intended to be, he supposed, that of an underwater cavern. Which by rights should be inhabited by mermaids and denizens of the deep, instead of this collection of well-heeled, well-dressed members of the haute-ton.

  It was three years past June since he had attended his last great social occasion, before the tragic events which had precipitated his catastrophic fall from grace. The Duchess of Richmond’s now famous, indeed infamous, ball had been held on the eve of the battle of Waterloo. The crime Drummond had subsequently committed had been heinous, and though he still firmly believed that the crime he had refused to commit was even more so, his mutiny had been ultimately pointless. One life had been destroyed, his own changed for ever by the summary justice meted out. It had been justified, there was no arguing that fact. Just as there was no doubt, as far as Drummond was concerned, that he had been right to act as he did, even though his superiors deemed it utterly wrong.

  Right or wrong, it was done now, and ancient history, according to the Duke of Wellington, his ex-Commander-in-Chief. It was apparently time for Drummond to re-join society. Drummond himself believed it long past time. After a year moping in the country trying to come to terms with events, he’d taken a deep breath, cast aside his deep regret along with his lingering resentment and his shame, and forced himself back out into the world. But the people who inhabited his milieu had summarily rejected him. Never mind that his military record until that fateful date had been impeccable. Never mind his commendations, his years of dedicated service to his men and to his superiors and his country. Only that last treasonous act mattered. Doors had been slammed. Familiar faces had been averted. He could not deny that he deserved this treatment, for ultimately, he was guilty. Yet he could not quell a lingering sense of injustice.

  Clearly, none of the guests politely sipping from the dainty Royal Doulton teacups emblazoned with the Brockmore coat of arms either knew or cared about his ignominious past, for all had greeted him politely, not one had snubbed him. Actually, it struck him for the first time as odd that despite his own many connections, he wasn’t acquainted with a single person here. Not even his hosts, who had been cajoled by Wellington to extend this most exclusive invitation.

  ‘A Brockmore house party,’ Wellington had informed Drummond, ‘can be the making of a man. Everyone knows that Marcus and Alicia invite only those and such as those. Men of influence, women of breeding. They can smooth your path to rehabilitation, for where the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore lead, all of society follow. Even myself,’ he’d added with one of his ironic smiles. ‘You would be a fool to refuse this opportunity, and despite evidence to the contrary, I know that you are not a fool. I have plans for you, MacIntosh, and I am a man who gets what he wants,’ the Duke of Wellington had informed him, in that magnanimous tone he had, of conferring great favour which would be accepted unquestioningly with great gratitude. ‘You’ve a practical mind, a cool head, if we are to discount that one aberration, and you’ve a natural authority that make men inclined to follow you. Between ourselves, though it will not be announced for another two days yet, I am very soon to be in a position where I need a man like you, for Lord Liverpool has appointed me Master-General of the Ordnance. With the Brockmore name firmly behind you, doors will open again, allowing you to make a success of the posting.’

  Wellington had proceeded to outline the terms of his rehabilitation, much in the manner he used when issuing his battle plans. ‘You have paid the price for your rash actions, MacIntosh. I m willing to make an exception and give you a second chance, but you do not need me to tell you it will be your last?’

  Drummond did not need telling and so here he was, with twelve days to impress his hosts sufficiently to earn their patronage and repair the major wound he had inflicted on his reputation. In one sense, he was fortunate indeed, for the other tragic victim of that day’s events could have no such second chance. Thinking about that even after all this time made him feel sick to his stomach. So he’d better stop thinking about it and get on with the job in hand.

  A guest list had most helpfully been left on the dressing table in his bedchamber along with the agenda for the festivities. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, had proved to be a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of white-grey hair that was more leonine than fox-like. Alicia, his wife, her gown of dark blue watered silk the exact same shade as both her husband’s waistcoat and the curtains, was the kind of elegant, classically beautiful woman whose looks were timeless.

  ‘They make a striking couple, do they not?’ Drummond’s solitude was interrupted by a slim, ungainly-looking young man with rather thin brown hair which curled lankly over the high starched collar of his shirt. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he continued, extending his hand, ‘I am Edward Throckton. You, I think, must be Captain Milborne.’

  In contrast to the gentleman’s rather limp appearance, his handshake was surprisingly firm. ‘Drummond MacIntosh, actually. Plain mister.’

  Edward Throckton’s eyebrows rose. ‘How odd, I was sure you must be our military guest. There is something—I think it is the way you survey the room, as if you are expecting us all to fall in to serried ranks. Forgive me, that is a deuced personal remark to have made.’

  A vibrant flush of colour stained his cheeks. He was young, perhaps only twenty-two or -three, and judging by the way he was tugging at his cravat, rather bashful. ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance,’ Drummond said, ‘I don’t know a single soul here.’

  ‘Really? I thought I was the only one—that is, I assumed—but I must say, Mr MacIntosh, I’m relieved to hear you say so. There is nothing worse than being—well, not so much an outsider as a—’ Edward Throckton broke off, tugging once more at his cravat. ‘Not that I can imagine for a moment that you would experience...’


  ‘I assure you, Mr Throckton, I’m feeling every bit the outsider,’ Drummond said. ‘I’ve noticed you circulating amongst our fellow guests while I’ve been lurking here. I’d be very grateful if you’d share what you have gleaned.’

  ‘Are you really interested in my modest intelligence-gathering?’

  How many similar eager-to-please lads had he taken under his wing over the years? Drummond wondered. And a good few, once they’d gained a bit of confidence, had been moulded into excellent officers. ‘I am very interested,’ he said, smiling encouragingly. ‘Please, fire away.’

  ‘Well then, let us start with the group at the fireplace. The good-looking young man with the golden hair who is admiring himself in the mirror is Aubrey Kenelm, heir to the Marquess of Durham, and the flame-haired woman beside him is Miss Philippa Canningvale. Miss Canningvale’s charms, in that emerald-green gown, are indisputable, but one can’t help but feeling there is a touch of bravado in that display—though that is, of course, merely speculation on my part.’

  Drummond, who had been expecting nothing more than a bland recitation of names and titles, gave a snort of surprised laughter.

  ‘Beg pardon,’ his surprising acquaintance said, blushing predictably, ‘I have been presumptuous. I did not mean...’

  ‘Oh, but you did mean, Mr Throckton,’ Drummond said, grinning. ‘You have a very sharp eye. It’s a gift that could get you into a lot of hot water, but not with me. Please, pray continue.’

  ‘It is true, I do rather pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, which is why I was so certain you were a military man. It seems I am not infallible,’ Edward Throckton said, with a rueful smile. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, the woman in cherry-red is Lady Beatrice Landry. A true beauty, if you are inclined towards marble statues, which I confess I am, rather. Not that Lady Beatrice would deign to notice someone as lowly and as wet behind the ears as I am.’