Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  “We’ll go there one day. But this is business, and you, my love, are a distraction.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Take care of Romeo and Marmot, and don’t venture off to the tower unless you tell Sadie or Lionel.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. I shall see you in less than a week.”

  Before he climbed up on his horse, he grabbed Gwen by the shoulders, pulled her toward him, and kissed her on the mouth. Her arms immediately came around him, and he deepened the kiss, wanting it to go on, knowing he had to be on his way so he could come back to her.

  “Behave.” She gave him a saucy smile. “Perhaps when you return, you shall have a reward.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Filled with a warming glow, he mounted his horse and turned down the lane, sure she would watch him until he disappeared. Expecting more of a fight, he’d thought carefully about what to say to convince her to remain. Gwen was headstrong, her own person, and lying to her—even a lie of omission—was no longer acceptable.

  Only a tiny one this time, one that can be forgiven.

  They had an enemy, and he needed to discover who it was and why. When he could put the problem to rest, he would take Gwen to Longley. He wanted her to see where he and Jeremy had grown up. She’d love the lake, the wooded hills, and the folly.

  Her visit to Mother would be carefully orchestrated with prior warning about what might occur. And he’d be there to protect her. Maybe then she’d understand why they couldn’t risk having children.

  Sadness washed over him. He hated to disappoint her.

  Life goes on, and we make do with the cards we are dealt.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gwen watched John until he was no longer in sight. Turning, she stopped to study the façade of her home.

  Whoever had expanded the original building by adding a central portico and another nearly identical wing had done a good job. Each wing had a door in the center, although the new entrance sitting between the two wings was now the main one. Someone had taken care to match the exterior stone. Unfortunately, since the fire, the east wing’s façade looked like it had been pelted with mud.

  Should we even bother to repair it?

  The new wing, now their comfortable home, had all the rooms they needed. She had to remind herself while living in one wing made the home smaller, it was perfectly adequate for her and John and any children they might have. In time, if their family grew, they could refurbish the east wing. The lower area could become public rooms with perhaps a small family chapel on one side to echo the building’s origins. She pictured a ballroom on the floor above with more bedchambers for guests.

  For now, she was satisfied to have workmen clean the walls, clear out all debris, and leave it vacant.

  The tower drew her today, but instead, she strode into the house, seeking her sitting room. She owed letters to Miranda and Mama and could not put them off any longer. The fire and her confinement in the tower were not subjects she wanted to put on paper. All three would worry—especially Mama—and she and John could not prove those weren’t bizarre accidents even though they both thought otherwise.

  Perhaps she and Sadie would venture into town and see if the bookseller had any other interesting acquisitions. She had finished her novel, and while she did not believe in ghosts or mad monks, it had been highly entertaining.

  Instead of her letters, she sat in her chair and moved the novel she’d finished. It lay on top of the other book she had not yet read. She lifted the book on abbeys and set it on her lap. Thumbing through the listed topics, she was thrilled to see descriptions and ink drawings made by the traveler.

  Oh La, I should have looked at this book sooner.

  She took off her half boots and curled her legs under her in the chair by the fireplace. Turning the pages, she let her mind fly free as she imagined the life of a Cistercian monk in the twelfth century. The white-robed monks had established several abbeys with extensive grounds and rare plantings. Some of their establishments had stained glass windows. She sighed, remembering the jewel-like glow of windows she’d viewed in a few private chapels.

  Encouraged by the sketches, she scanned the pages, hoping to find information about Woodhaven. When she found it, she gasped. Where one wall with various foundations stood today, a full building was depicted, along with the tower and smaller buildings that no longer remained. But it was the drawing on the next page that caused her indrawn breath. The east wing stood unadorned, yet fully functional. The doorway was intact, the windows had wooden shutters, and a garden flourished where the west wing now stood.

  She turned the pages back to begin the piece on Woodhaven. The writer had visited when most of the walls of the old abbey buildings remained, but the premises were long abandoned. He had made his drawing from a painting he’d found in the residence on the property, a building that once served as housing for the monks but was occupied by relatives of a Scottish heiress who had acquired the property many years before.

  He must be referring to John’s grandmother.

  Gwen dropped the book and scrambled out of her chair, excitement washing over her. According to the narrative, the Hawksburys had purchased the abbey early in the seventeenth century. They also owned adjoining land, land that was acquired by Lord Livesley when he married Lady Prudence Longworth, Viscount Hawksbury’s eldest daughter.

  Had John’s ancestor not won Woodhaven Abbey and its lands in that fateful card game, would it have become part of Lady Livesley’s dowry?

  John must see this.

  She used the newly installed bellpull to call Sadie.

  “Do you need me, my lady?”

  “Pack our bags. Summon the groom. I must go to Longley immediately.”

  The maid looked at her oddly. “Will you be taking the new curricle?”

  “Yes, but only as far as the closest coaching inn on the North Road. We’ll take the mail coach. It travels at night, and we can be in Longley Village by late tomorrow if all goes well.”

  Sadie stood unmoving, her mouth open.

  “Did you wish to say something? You know you can speak freely, Sadie.”

  “Are you sure you wish to do this, my lady?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “When have you known me to do what other ladies do? I am my own person, I follow my own rules, and Mr. Montague is happy that I do.”

  Most of the time.

  “This can’t wait,” she continued. “He’s there to search through property records pertaining to Longley. Perhaps there are some relating to Woodhaven, since the abbey belonged to his mother’s family. Mr. Montague is riding, but the mail coach makes good time. We should arrive not long after he does.”

  Perusing her armoire, she chose a gray wool traveling dress, her warmest pelisse, and an older bonnet. Practical clothing would be suitable for her stay. She would not be attending any functions. Still, she would need a proper day gown for when she introduced herself to the Dowager Countess of Longley.

  Energy nearly burst from her as she scurried around the room, collecting items to take with her.

  When Sadie returned and packed Gwen’s bag, Gwen wrote a quick note to Lionel telling him where she was going. She’d leave it with the groom to deliver.

  The afternoon sun was about to dip below the horizon, but they could still make the inn in time to be on the next coach.

  In her wildest imaginings, she would never have placed an ancestor of Lady Livesley as the gambler who lost the property in a card game. It must still rankle because she had never mentioned it. But it might explain her overt animosity. In her cold heart, she might believe the abbey should be hers.

  Ready to go, she handed the note to the groom, and she and Sadie climbed into the curricle. The groom flicked the backs of the horses with a long whip, and they lurch
ed forward on their way to the posting inn.

  I am doing the right thing, am I not?

  A flicker of doubt assailed her. If it came to naught, John would not be pleased.

  Hopefully, she was not imagining its importance.

  Chapter 27

  John sneezed and wiped his nose. Dust motes danced in the air as he lifted a heavy wooden crate full of papers off a shelf in the upper reaches of Longley Manor. The room was a graveyard of discarded furniture. A dresser from another era occupied a corner next to chairs with missing legs and scratched tables. A trunk full of old clothes from a century ago smelled of mold, and a pile of yellowed cravats were askew on the floor.

  If Gwen were here, she’d want to go through every trunk, looking for books.

  The soft, secret smile he reserved for thoughts of his wife curved his mouth. He placed the crate on the floor, lowered himself to his knees, and began to sort the papers inside.

  Papa had not only been a hoarder, but a sloppy recordkeeper as well. He’d also been eccentric, insisting on keeping his own books and storing personal papers in inappropriate places. The files John searched for would likely be stored here with other remnants of life at Longley. Why Papa hadn’t kept vital records in his study was a dilemma.

  He picked up a letter dated two and thirty years before, the ink almost faded. A flower pressed in its folds disintegrated in his hands. He glanced at the end of the letter and found a woman’s signature. Not his mother’s. He put the page aside.

  Another letter from a discarded mistress he and Jeremy had met on several occasions had no flower, but the words written in the first paragraph made him blush. He placed it near the other letter.

  Why Father kept letters from mistresses was beyond odd. Perhaps Mother had found them.

  Digging to the bottom of the crate, he drew out a leather pouch. This was more likely to be what he sought. He’d seen his father’s solicitor on more than one occasion remove papers from a similar pouch for Father to sign. The documents in this pouch were bills of sale for horses and carriages. He set it aside, lifted everything out of the crate, and stack by stack put the papers back in. He repeated the process with each crate of papers he found. After several hours, he had a large pile of documents to peruse.

  Stuffing them into pouches, he put the wooden crates back on their shelves and picked up the bags to take downstairs. His limbs ached from sitting in one position so long. He was accustomed to keeping busy. He was not one to sit on his arse on a hard floor for hours.

  The chair in Jeremy’s study would be far more comfortable than the floor, and he had another two hours of reading before he could relegate this pile back to its home in the attic.

  Everything would be simple if the deed and any other pertinent papers had been given to me when I reached my majority.

  He knew why they were not. Father had been rarely home, choosing to spend his time in London or visiting friends, leaving the running of the Longley estate in the hands of his steward. He’d probably forgotten about John’s inheritance.

  Nor am I blameless in the matter.

  At the first opportunity, John had left Longley and taken up residence in the London town house. The place was so big he’d rarely seen father when he was there. Those were his wild days when he’d ogled women from the pit at Covent Garden and Theater Royal and stayed out most nights drinking and gambling with single gentlemen of his acquaintance.

  Reaching the study, he fell into the chair and gazed at the portrait of Mother as a young bride.

  Traces of her beauty lingered, but the face he saw when he thought of the dowager countess was one contorted in rage. That image filled him with dread that he would bring someone like her into the world, or worse, become like her himself.

  He forced himself to look away, back at the dusty pouches he’d brought down from the attic. He sincerely hoped somewhere in these fading brittle pages was the deed to his property and the answers to lingering questions.

  He took off his waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

  After three hours, he stopped. He needed to stretch his legs. No deed had emerged from the pile, and knowing there were two other piles exactly like the one he’d sorted, he was not eager to return to his task today.

  He threw open the French doors and exited into the garden. He hadn’t visited the folly in ages, and it was far enough away that he could replenish his mind with fresh air while the aches worked out of his body.

  The inevitable loomed large in his mind—a visit to Mama. If she had a lucid day, she might be able to answer all his questions. If not, he might spend days going through the crumbling piles before he found what he sought.

  For now, he would enjoy the air and be grateful he’d been able to persuade Gwen to remain at home. He was not ready to reveal Mother’s condition. Even if keeping her secret was a constant source of guilt.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gwen’s first look at Longley Manor took her breath away. “It is beautiful, Sadie. Miranda never talks about it, but she is probably immune. Her father is the vicar here. She grew up with John and his brother.”

  The carriage they hired in the village drew up in front of stone steps. She paid the coachman, and she and Sadie knocked on the front door. It was opened by an older woman instead of a butler.

  The dowager countess was ill, and Miranda and Jeremy were still in London. It was not unheard of for peers to reduce staff at their country estates when they were not at home.

  “May I be of service?”

  “I am Lady Gwendolyn Montague, the wife of Mr. John Montague. I have come to join my husband.”

  “And I am Mrs. Sheridan, the housekeeper.” She opened the door wide and bid Gwen and Sadie to enter. “His lordship keeps very little staff at Longley when he and his countess are in town. Mr. Montague’s arrival was a complete surprise. I am astonished he failed to mention you would be arriving, my lady.”

  They went into the main hall and up the curving stairs to a drawing room. The room had an Egyptian motif that immediately made Gwen shudder.

  Oh la. John’s mother must be another lover of Egyptian-themed goods.

  Miranda had told her she planned to redecorate the house, room by room, but had only seen to the rooms they used most. This room was not one of Miranda’s makeovers.

  “Please be seated while I summon a housemaid to show you to your room. I’m sure you will want to rest after your journey. Would you like tea?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “I’ll have it sent up.”

  Sadie wandered over to a portrait of a distinguished-looking man.

  “Excuse me for asking, my lady, but did you say Mr. Montague was here at the request of his brother?”

  “I did. Perhaps I misunderstood.” Or John told another falsehood.

  She couldn’t imagine why. This was a beautiful house any man should be proud to show his wife. Longley and Miranda welcomed her into their London home. They would be happy she was finally visiting their country estate.

  A young housemaid in apron and cap entered the room, curtsied, and took them to a bedchamber on the floor above. It was pleasantly appointed and looked out over a forested hill.

  “Mrs. Sheridan said to show you to a guest chamber. Your husband’s room is across the hall.”

  “Has Mr. Montague been informed I am here?”

  “He was in the study but apparently has gone out. If you wish anything, please ring the bellpull. Only two maids, two grooms, the cook, and housekeeper are in residence at the moment, milady, but we are happy to be of assistance.”

  “Where is the rest of the staff?”

  “At their homes in the village or in town with his lordship’s family. Mr. Longstreet, the steward, has his own cottage, and the gardener and stable lads sleep over the barn.”
r />   “Surely the dowager countess is in need of more than two housemaids and a cook.”

  A startled expression that immediately became benign passed over the young maid’s face. “Her needs are met, milady.”

  “Is she abed? I was told she’s ill.”

  “She dwells in the dower house.”

  Of course. She should have known. It was probably smaller and had its own staff. No need to keep a household full of retainers when the principals were not in residence.

  “What time is dinner served?”

  “Mr. Montague dines early, but you have plenty of time for a rest before you change.” The door opened, and the second housemaid entered. “Here’s your tea.”

  “Thank you.”

  She’d often been tired of late, and if John was out, she had time for a short nap. But she was eager to see him. She was sure he’d want to know what she’d discovered in the travel guide. Together they could consider its significance.

  She picked up her tea and warmed her hands against the cup. Perhaps she would not nap but would go out to the garden. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip.

  Then why am I feeling apprehensive?

  Chapter 28

  Rested and changed, Gwen explored while waiting for John to return. Late afternoon sunlight sent shafts of gold through overhanging trees as she followed a path through a wooded area. She’d seen a lake through her window that appeared to be much larger than the one at her father’s country estate. Perhaps John would come this way, and she would meet him.

  The path of hard-packed earth was easy to follow, but before she got to the lake, she emerged into a clearing with a high wall. The sturdy gate appeared to be there to discourage visitors, although the house—what she could see of it—seemed to be well-proportioned with four chimneys and mullioned windows, at least on the first floor.