A Matter of Scandal (3 page)

The earl cleared his throat. “Well. Ladies first, then.”

Something was definitely going on. As she’d taught her students, though, one didn’t pry. “All right. You know my aunt began restoration and repairs on the various parts of the Academy that were beginning to show their age. In the two years since Aunt Penelope passed away, though, I’m afraid I haven’t kept up the project as I should have.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that. I know how busy you’ve been, my dear. Taking on the running of the Academy at the age of three and twenty wasn’t easy on you, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Even so, it would be decidedly unwise to wait much longer. The stable roof is a sieve, and I’m afraid the north wall might collapse in the next strong wind. So, I was wondering whether you were still willing to consid—”

He stood, the speed of the movement startling her. “Speaking of your aunt,” Haverly rushed, striding around the desk and sitting again, “I’m—I’m going to have to raise the Academy’s rent.”
He pushed a paper toward her. “Here are the calculations and the terms. If you’ll sign at the bottom, we can conclude this as painlessly as possible, and then we can have some apple tarts in the garden. I know you like apple tarts. Regina had Mrs. Muldoon bake them especially for you.”

Emma looked at him. The earl seemed utterly serious, and yet…she forced a laugh. “My goodness. If you keep this silliness up, I shall have to make you pay a shilling to see our play.”

“It’s…well, it’s not silliness, Emma. I hate to do it, but it’s become unavoidable.”

Emma glanced down at the paper he’d placed in front of her. Her heart skipped a beat as she read through the figures and the precise, legal-sounding terms. “This is
triple
what the Academy’s been paying.”

“Yes, I know, but I haven’t increased the rent in…in a very long time.”

She shot to her feet. “That is certainly not my fault!”

His ruddy complexion darkened. “Now, now,” he said, patting the top of the desk, “I know that. Calm yourself, Emma. Please.”

Emma forced herself to sit again, despite an unladylike urge to throw something. “You and my aunt, and you and I, have had a very cordial relationship. I consider you a dear friend, Lord Haverly.”

“And I you,” he returned in a soothing tone. “This is not personal, I assure you. If it makes you feel any better, Wycliffe has had me increase the rent of all my tenants. Everyone’s been quite understanding.”

So this was that Wycliffe person’s idea
. Handsome
or not, Emma decided that she didn’t like the golden lion at all. Not one whit. “If your other tenants are paying you more, there’s very little reason for the Academy to do so,” she said, trying for her calmest tone. She was very logical; everyone always told her that was her strongest suit. “We are an institution of learning. Surely for that reason alone the Academy deserves special consideration.”

A muscle in his round cheek twitched again. “Well, I—”

“And Miss Grenville’s Academy has earned a fine reputation for itself in London,” she continued quickly. Overwhelming him with facts seemed her best chance. “Just in the last two years, we’ve seen our graduates marry a marquis, two earls, and a baron. That can only reflect well on you, as our landlord. We could never have fared so well under some harsh dictator’s hand.”

“I’m hardly a dictator, Emma.”

She smiled, squeezing his hand. “No, you aren’t. You are very kind, and helpful, and understanding. Which is why I won’t press you any further than to ask that Haverly take in the Academy’s horses while we repair the stable roof. I hope that is agreeable—and I won’t ask you for anything more.”

“I—no, that’s—that’s not a problem. Of course.”

The earl looked befuddled, which Emma took as her cue to retreat with as much speed as she could manage. She needed to think up a strategy before Haverly’s new rent ruined her plans for the Academy. She stood, nodding. “Thank you,
my lord. I trust I’ll see you and Lady Haverly on Thursday evening, for
Romeo and Juliet?
”

“Ah, yes. Yes.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Emma escaped out of the office, down the hall, and through the front door with no one calling her back to empty all of the change out of her pockets. This was a disaster. Worse than a disaster. The groom was nowhere in sight to help her into the saddle, so she grabbed Pimpernel from a pen and led the mare back toward the Academy as swiftly as she could. Her tactics, though not the most scrupulous, would at least give her until Thursday to come up with a way of countering this Wycliffe person’s idiocy.

At the sound of the front door closing, Greydon set aside the Hampshire planting almanac he’d been reading and rose. He could sympathize with his uncle’s reluctance to increase the rent of Haverly’s tenants, in all instances but one. A finishing school for females—bah. They might as well have named it the
How to Trap a Husband
Academy. He could vouch for how successful the damned establishment was; Caroline had attended it, and she’d nearly gotten the wedding shackles locked around his neck.

He’d left the library door open, hoping to hear the exchange between Miss Grenville and Uncle Dennis, but they’d managed to keep it fairly civilized, and he’d only discerned an occasional murmur of raised voices.

Dare and the others had deserted Haverly for the day, ostensibly to tour Basingstoke and the surrounding countryside. He knew better, though; Tristan had gone looking for the pert
miss from the roadside. He wouldn’t have minded running across her himself, and he added the lost opportunity to his list of Miss Grenville’s faults. Crossing the hallway, he rapped on the office door and strolled inside. “I assume your news displeased the old spinster?” he asked, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

The earl stood by the window, gazing into the garden. “You don’t need to enjoy it so much,” he grumbled.

“You’re a better man than I am.” Grey joined him, shifting a white pawn on the chess board to counter his uncle’s move. “Nevertheless, being compassionate won’t save Haverly. Did you schedule the payments?”

Dennis frowned. “No. I—” He stopped, and to Greydon’s surprise, chuckled. “Outmaneuvered me, she did. Outsmarted me, really.”

“What are you talking about?” With a scowl of his own, Grey strode to the desk and grabbed the agreement he’d painstakingly drafted last evening. “She didn’t sign,” he said unnecessarily. He glared at his uncle. “Why didn’t she sign?”

“I believe it was because she was more concerned with having me board the Academy’s horses while she repairs the stable roof.”

“Damnation! Haverly’s not entailed, Uncle. And I doubt the rich merchant you end up having to sell to will be as generous with his tenants as you’ve been,” Greydon growled.

“She makes a good argument.”

“I don’t care. You would allow a
female
to bring your estate to ruin?”

“It’s not as desperate as—”

“It will be, if you allow this to continue!” Fold
ing the paperwork, he jammed it into his pocket. “
I
won’t allow this to continue.”

He strode out of the office. A barked inquiry to Hobbes informed him that the headmistress had arrived on horseback, so he commandeered one of his uncle’s mounts and went after her.

She had apparently decided to take the morning to savor her victory, because he caught up to her less than a mile from the manor, on foot and leading a small sorrel mare.

“Miss Grenville!” he bellowed, charging up behind her on his uncle’s big bay gelding, Cornwall.

She jumped, spinning around to face him with one hand to her breast. And Greydon forgot what he’d been about to say.

Large hazel eyes, wide and startled, gazed up at him, and her soft, full lips formed a perfect, soundless
oh
. The chit from the roadside. The one he hadn’t been able to get out of his thoughts. The one Tristan had gone into Basingstoke this morning to find.

“
You’re
Miss Grenville?”

The
oh
snapped into an annoyed line. “I am Miss Emma Grenville. Miss Grenville was my aunt.”

Was
. “You’re the headmistress of that blasted Academy.”

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. “Yes. And thank you for your condolences about Aunt Patricia.”

Grey narrowed his eyes. He had no damned intention of being chastised by a chit who looked barely out of the schoolroom. “You’re just…a girl. You can’t be old enough to—”

One fine eyebrow lifted, mocking him. “I am
five and twenty—a grown woman, by any definition. I suppose, though, that you didn’t charge out here to inquire after my age. Or did you, sir?”

“Your Grace,” he corrected.

The surprised look came into her eyes again.
She should never play cards
, he thought abruptly. He could read her from a mile away.

“You’re a duke,” she said dubiously.

He nodded. “Wycliffe.”

Miss Emma Grenville stared up at him for another moment, while an absurd feeling of triumph ran through Grey. He’d found her, and Tristan hadn’t. She was his. As he had the first time he’d set eyes on her, he knew precisely what he wanted to do with her. And it would involve silk sheets and naked skin.

“Wycliffe,” she mused. “Greydon Brakenridge. One of my friends spoke of you.”

“Which friend?” He doubted any of a glorified governess’s friends would be acquainted with him.

“Lady Victoria Fontaine.” She revised that. “I mean Victoria, Lady Althorpe.”

“The Vixen?”

She must have heard the disbelief in his voice, because she put her hands on her hips. “Yes, Vixen.”

“And what did the Vixen say about me?”

A touch of amusement entered her eyes. “She said you were arrogant. Now, I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance, Your Grace, but I do have a class waiting for me. Good day.” She walked on.

“You didn’t sign my uncle’s rental agreement.”

She stopped, then looked up at him again from
beneath the brim of her prim green bonnet. “That matter, Your Grace, is between Lord Haverly and myself.”

His towering over her didn’t seem to be intimidating her in the least, but it was making him feel like a bully. Grey swung out of the saddle. “If you don’t wish to pay the increased rent,” he continued, torn between irritation at her statement about his arrogance and the desire to untie the green bow under her chin and pull off that ridiculously strait-laced bonnet, “you can find another location for your school.”

The petite headmistress lifted her chin. “Did Lord Haverly ask you to ride me down and threaten me?”

Somehow this wasn’t going quite the way he’d envisioned. “I’m stating facts.”

“Hm. The
fact
, Your Grace, is that you obviously don’t approve of the education of women. The
fact
is, Haverly belongs to Dennis Hawthorne, and I will conduct any and all negotiations with him. If you’ll excuse me.”

With a flounce of her green riding skirt, she stalked off down the road again. Grey watched for a moment, admiring the angry sway of her hips. After her bonnet, her dress would be the second thing he removed. A girls’ school headmistress. She probably starched her shift. The thought had the unexpected result of arousing him, and he tugged on Cornwall’s reins to follow her.

“For your information, I
do
approve of educating females.”

She kept walking. “How wonderfully condescending, Your Grace.”

Greydon swore under his breath. “Your
Academy,” he continued, trying to maintain a grip on his temper and his damned unexpected lust, “doesn’t educate females.”

That got her attention. She faced him, folding her arms across her small, pert bosom. “I beg your pardon?”

Her breasts were just the right size to fit a man’s hands. His hands. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but—”

“Oh, I intend to.”

“—But you instruct your students in etiquette, do you not?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And dance? And polite conversation? And dress?”

“Yes.”

“Aha. You know as well as I that all that nonsense is for the ultimate purpose of enabling your students to marry—and to marry well. You, Miss Emma, are a paid matchmaker. And in less polite circles, you would be called worse.”

Her face went white. He hadn’t meant to be so biting, but she kept making him lose his train of thought—he had no idea why he was lusting after a prim headmistress. Now, he supposed, she would swoon and expect him to catch her. Grey sighed, taking a step closer in anticipation.

Instead, she laughed. It wasn’t an amused laugh, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the last thing he expected to hear. Women, as a rule, didn’t laugh at him.

“So, Your Grace, if I might reiterate,” she said, her voice clipped, “you disapprove of women who feel they need a husband to make their way in the world, despite the fact that this is exactly
what society has dictated since before the Norman Conquest.”

“I—”

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “And at the same time, you deride me for taking up a career which leaves me completely independent from the male of the species.” She stalked closer, glaring up at him. “What I think, Your Grace, is that you like to hear yourself talk. Thankfully, that does not require my presence. Good day.”

He suddenly realized they had reached the Academy grounds, and swiftly stepped back as the heavy wrought-iron gate banged shut with a clank Miss Emma Grenville must have found utterly satisfying. A moment later she and her horse vanished behind the high, ivy-covered walls.

Grey stood where he was for a moment, then turned and swung into the saddle to head back to Haverly. He couldn’t remember ever having been shut down so efficiently, even by his mother—who was renowned for her razor-sharp tongue. And surprisingly enough, he was as amused as he was infuriated and aroused.

One thing was for damned certain. He was going to see
Romeo and Juliet
on Thursday. Miss Emma Grenville was not going to escape that easily.

“M
en perform only one necessary function in the world,” Emma growled. “I have no idea how they managed to convince themselves of their superiority in every other aspect of creation, just because of a stupid accident of biology.”

“I assume your conversation with Lord Haverly did not go well, then?”

Glaring toward Haverly didn’t seem to be causing the estate to burst into flames, so Emma stalked away from the office window and plunked herself down at her desk. “They want to triple our rent, Isabelle.”

The French instructor’s pencil tip snapped off. “
Zut!
”

The curse startled Emma out of her black ruminations. “Isabelle!”

“Beg pardon. But triple? How can the Academy afford that?”

“We can’t. And we won’t pay it.”

Isabelle set down her examination papers. “Did Lord Haverly give a
raison?
He and the countess have always supported the school.”

“It wasn’t he, I’m sure.”

“I do not understand. Who else—”

“Someone I hope you never have the displeasure of meeting.” Miss Santerre was beginning to look at Emma as though she’d become rabid, but she couldn’t keep the scowl from her face. That arrogant lion of a man was impossible. She had been trying to have a civil discussion with him, and he kept looking as though he wanted to leap on her and devour her for luncheon. For some reason, the thought made her blush. “Lord Haverly’s nephew. The glorious Duke of Wycliffe,” she sniffed.

“A duke? A duke is making us pay more rent?”

Emma clenched her hands together. “He is not doing any such thing.” In the two years since she’d become headmistress, she’d managed irate parents, lovestruck young ladies and their beaux, storms, influenza, and innumerable calamities without ever being this…annoyed. “Do you know what he called me? A matchmaker! A
paid
matchmaker! He practically accused me of being a…a…procurer of flesh!”

“
What?
”

“Yes. He obviously has no idea what we do here.” That sparked an idea, and she gave a grim smile. “I shall have to enlighten him.”

She yanked open a drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper. Stacking them neatly on the
desk, she dipped her pen in the inkwell. “‘Your Grace,’” she said aloud as she wrote, “‘Our recent conversation has made it clear to me that you have several…misconceptions concerning the curriculum of Miss Grenville’s Academy.’”

Isabelle stood, gathering up her papers and books. “I shall leave you and your correspondence in peace,” she said, her tone amused.

“Laugh if you want, but I will not tolerate any abuse—verbal or otherwise—directed at this Academy.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Em. I am only wondering if His Grace has any idea what he is in for.”

Emma dipped her pen again, ignoring as best she could the anticipation that coursed through her at the French instructor’s words. “Oh, he will—soon enough.”

Grey glanced up as the office door opened, then went back to his calculations. “How was Basingstoke?”

Tristan dropped into the opposite seat. “Dull as wet sheep.”

A small breath of satisfaction went through the duke. “You didn’t find anyone interesting to chat with, then?”

“I’m beginning to think we imagined her. There aren’t that many places in west Hampshire she could be hiding. Winchester Cathedral’s too far a walk, so she can’t be a nun, thank God. I’d ask your aunt, but I think she’s been corresponding with your mother. Your entire family hates me, you know.”

“I know. And I’m sure you’ll run across your
mystery woman sooner or later.” Grey wasn’t certain whether he was simply torturing Tristan, or whether he just wanted to keep the knowledge of Emma Grenville’s whereabouts to himself. Either way, the idea of extending his stay had become much more tolerable.

“Is that what you’re going to be doing the entire time we’re here?” the viscount asked, gesturing at the mounds of paperwork on the desk Grey had commandeered from his uncle.

“Probably.”

“Ooh, fun. We might have stayed in London.”

Grey felt his jaw clench. “No, thank you.”

Tristan lifted an almanac, then with a grimace replaced it on the desk. “You escaped her, you know. It’s not likely that she’ll confront you again.”

No one but Tristan would dare even speak to him about Caroline, and he wished the viscount had chosen a different topic of conversation. “I knew she wanted to marry me,” he said slowly, “but for God’s sake—disrobing in the coatroom of Almack’s?”

“How do you think I felt? I was just looking for my hat.”

Grey scowled. “If it had been someone besides you coming through that door, that damned female would—”

“—Would be Her Grace, the Duchess of Wycliffe, by now. But she’s not the only female you’ve seen naked, or the only one who’s tried to seduce you into marriage.”

“It’s not that. It’s the being trapped, and it’s that bloody finishing school education. They’re
trained from birth to hound us and hunt us down. Thank God for fast horses and Haverly.”

“They’re not all like that, I’m sure. The Academy here has a fine reputation.”

“Caroline attended it.”

The viscount sat straighter. “Damn. Well, just because you’re jaded beyond redemption doesn’t mean I’m becoming a monk—even for a short stay in Hampshire. Why don’t—”

“No females,” Grey stated, as annoyed hazel eyes flitted across his vision. “There’re too many here already.”

“Humph. You might at least thaw enough to go see that play. Maybe you’ll realize females aren’t all feather-brains and lavender-scented snares.”

Grey lifted an eyebrow. “Which play?”

“I don’t remember which one it was. The one at the girls’ school.”

Grey leaned back, feigning resignation. This was going to be even easier than he’d anticipated. “If it’ll stop you from complaining, I suppose I could manage to attend,” he grumbled.

“Good. Another evening playing whist with Alice, and I’d be ready for the priesthood.”

The duke glanced at his friend again. “There’s no reason you can’t go back to London, Tris. I told you Hampshire didn’t have much to offer in the way of excitement.”

Tristan lifted a duck-shaped, bronze paperweight from the desk. “I just hate to admit when you’re right about something.”

Greydon grinned. “You should be used to it by now.”

The butler scratched at the half-open door. “A letter has arrived for you, Your Grace.”

Curiosity stirring, he gestured for Hobbes to bring it in. “Who knows I’m here?”

“Your mother?” Tristan suggested dryly.

“Good God, I hope not. I’m not ready to be discovered yet.” Suppressing a shudder, he removed the missive from the butler’s tray and flipped it over to see the address.

“Miss Grenville’s Academy?” Tristan read, leaning over the desk. “Who in the world do you know there?”

Grey knew precisely who must have written it. His pulse heated, and he had to stifle the urge to smile. “Hm? Oh, I’m attempting to settle a rental dispute for Uncle Dennis.” He broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the missive. “This is undoubtedly the headmistress’s reply to my query.”

“Your uncle’s letting you deal with a girls’ school?” the viscount asked skeptically. “
That
girls’ school?”

“I think I’m qualified.”

Tristan watched as three pages of closely spaced writing unfolded. “That’s quite a reply.”

“Rental dispute, indeed.” Alice swept into the room, an arch smile on her face. “I’ve figured you out, Wycliffe. You’ve led us all here so you can carry on some clandestine affair with one of the pretty young schoolgirls at the Academy.” She snatched the letter from his fingers before he could even read the salutation. “Let’s just see, shall we?”

In London, she would never have attempted such a stunt. Obviously desperation had outweighed her scanty common sense. “Miss Bos
well,” Grey said, anger dropping his tone by half an octave, “I don’t recall asking you to view my private correspondence. There are several fine volumes of poetry in the library if you want something to read.”

“I’m only bored, Grey,” she tittered, but with a swish of her skirts she returned the missive to the desk. “Beast.”

“Hm. He seems terribly sensitive about something,” Lady Sylvia said silkily from the doorway. “Wouldn’t you agree, Cousin?”

Grey cursed under his breath as Charles Blumton strolled into the office behind Sylvia. Now Tristan was eyeing him, as well. Damnation, all he wanted to do was read a blasted letter in private. With a heavy sigh, he folded the missive and dropped it beside the stack of ledgers. “You lot are pitiful.” He pushed away from the desk and stood. “I’m going fishing. Anyone care to join me?”

“Fishing? I say, that’s splendid, eh, Sylvia?” Blumton took her hand and squeezed it.

“You’ll have to teach me, Grey,” Alice said, all charm again. “Viscountess Leeds fishes. She says it’s an elegant sport.”

Blumton’s brow furrowed. “Well, I don’t know about—”

“‘Your Grace,’” Tristan’s low drawl began, “‘our recent conversation has made it clear to me that you have several misconceptions concerning the curriculum of Miss Grenville’s Academy. It is my pleasure, then, to correct any misapprehensions.’”

Greydon stopped dead, a dozen curses at Tristan Carroway and all of his inbred ancestors
springing to mind. Of course the letter was going to be insulting; that was why he’d wanted to read it—to savor it—with no one around to interrupt him. “That’s enough, Tristan,” he growled.

“It sounds very interesting,” Sylvia countered, taking a seat. “Please do continue, Lord Dare.”

Tristan cleared his throat, glancing up at Grey, then lowered his gaze to the letter again, his penchant for causing trouble clearly stronger than any concern over reprisals. “‘You were correct in your assertion that the Academy teaches what we have termed “the Graces”—elegance, modesty, manners, politeness, and fashion. An accomplished lady is expected to have mastered these Graces, and so we would be foolhardy to neglect including them in our students’ studies.’”

“Miss Grenville is a bluestocking,” Alice said.

“Apparently,” Grey grumbled. “Tris—”

“It’s just getting good. ‘Your opinion, as I recall, was that the sole function of the Academy is to produce wives.’ She’s underlined ‘wives’ several times here,” Tristan added.

“A splendid argument, Wycliffe,” Blumton interjected.

“Stay off my side.”

“‘The goal of this Academy under both my aunt’s and my direction is to produce competent women.’ More underlines here, by the way. ‘To that end, in addition to the Graces, we offer instruction in literature, mathematics, language, politics, history, music, and the arts, as I have detailed below.’”

“Ye gads,” Alice muttered, shuddering. “That’s horrifying.”

Tristan flipped through the rest of the letter.
“The next pages are a detailed curriculum.” He glanced at Greydon. “I won’t read that part.”

“Thank you,” Grey murmured.

“There is another bit at the end, though. ‘As you see, Your Grace, I make every effort to see that my students receive a complete, well-rounded education. Your behavior, on the other hand, suggests to me a severe deficiency of instruction in the Graces. If you wish, I can recommend several books on the subjects of politeness, modesty, and manners for you to peruse at your leisure. Yours in sincere concern, Miss Emma Grenville.’”

After a lengthening moment of silence, Lady Sylvia burst into laughter. “Poor Grey. You’ve failed to impress the headmistress of a girls’ school.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. She only says she’s sincerely concerned.” Tristan returned the letter to the desk.

Grey let them have their amusement. In fact, he barely heard what they said. He was imagining a very satisfying manner of closing the mouth of that hazel-eyed sprite. Miss Emma Grenville obviously had no idea with whom she was dealing, but she was about to find out.

Miss Elizabeth Newcombe fell back against the empty whiskey barrel that represented the central well in the fair city of Verona. “‘Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man,’” she croaked, clutching her side.

Shifting the padding which bulked her up for the part of Juliet’s nurse, Emma smiled. No one could fault Elizabeth for shyness. In fact, in an
other year or so, she would have to begin work in earnest to mold her youngest student’s wild humor into wit. They’d already come a far way with it, yet the last thing she wanted to do was stifle Lizzy’s natural openness and charm.

“Miss Emma,” her nearly deceased Mercutio called, straightening, “can’t I use just a little berry juice for blood?”

“Eeewww. If you do, I shall faint,” Mary Mawgry said, using the tip of her sword to clean one fingernail.

“No, you may not.” Emma entered Verona from the backstage area. “That’s what the red scarf symbolizes. You all worked very hard on your splendid costumes, and I won’t see them ruined, even for the sake of drama. Now please continue; this is our last dress rehearsal. We debut in six hours.”

She retreated backstage again as Elizabeth finally succumbed to her wound, and Romeo and Tybalt began their duel. Despite Mary’s frequent threats to faint, the shy miss had improved so much as Romeo that Emma wanted to cheer. Miss Mawgry’s parents would be amazed at the change the next time they saw their “mumbling” daughter, as they’d referred to Mary on far too many occasions.

“Em,” Isabelle whispered, waving a letter at her as she made her way through the wardrobe area, “I think you’ve received an answer.”

Finally. She’d waited over a day for it. The sudden fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with concern over her students’ performance. She wasn’t certain why she’d felt the need to write Wycliffe when he so obviously didn’t give a hang
about the Academy, but knowing he had her letter had kept her restless and awake all night.

Emma took the missive from her French instructor and unfolded it. The sight of the dark, masculine scrawl made her pulse skip—until she read it. “‘Madame,’” it began, “‘I am in receipt of your recent overblown correspondence.’” She shook the letter at Isabelle, annoyance flooding in.

“
Overblown
? He says my letter was overblown!”