A Matter of Scandal (4 page)

“Shh, Emma. The rehearsal.”

Snapping her jaw shut, she continued reading to herself. “‘While a sentence or two was of passing interest, it unfortunately did not address the matter lying between your Academy and Haverly. I have enclosed the rental agreement for your signature. I shall collect it this evening after your play, which my friends and I have been persuaded to attend.’” There was no long list of titles and honors at the end of the letter; just the word “Wycliffe,” scrawled across the bottom of the page.

Emma blanched. He was coming to see the play.

“Are you well?” Isabelle asked, clutching her elbow as she abruptly took a seat.

“Yes, quite.” She couldn’t tell her students, of course; their confidence and concentration would be ruined as soon as they learned a duke—especially a large, golden lion of a duke—would be in attendance.

She scowled. That was probably why he had informed her—so her girls would be nervous and make a bad showing. Her first instinct was to tear up the letter, tromp on the pieces, and set the re
maining bits on fire. While that would be immensely satisfying, though, it wouldn’t take care of her problem.

“Isabelle, Sir John will be in attendance tonight, won’t he?”

“
Oui
. He said he would come early, to help Tobias secure Juliet’s balcony and the ladder.”

“Good.” Basingstoke’s resident solicitor, Sir John, had always been a staunch supporter of the Academy. She refolded the letter and the agreement and stuffed them into her Nurse padding. The Duke of Wycliffe might think he could bully her into doing what he wanted, but she had no intention of giving in without a fight—or a war.

A chorus of giggles from the stage caught her attention. Lady Jane leaned behind the curtain and grimaced at her. “‘O, here comes my nurse,’” she said loudly, “‘and she brings news.’”

“Oops.” Emma jumped to her feet and hobbled onto the stage. Now that dratted Wycliffe was interfering with her instruction—another black mark against him. “‘Ah, weraday, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!’”

Or he would wish he were, when she was finished with him
.

M
iss Grenville’s Academy looked more like a military camp than a girls’ school as Lord and Lady Haverly and their guests made their way through the long, rambling building to the old converted church at the far end. Stout women stood guard at every hallway juncture and staircase, no doubt to prevent any males from wandering into the bed chambers and interfering with the marriageability of the students.

Or perhaps Miss Emma feared that Grey meant to collect the rent from the pockets of the infants. If she suspected how little contact he wanted with marriageable young ladies, she might have realized that a better strategy for protecting the school would be to send the chits charging at him.

“I had no idea this was a finishing school for
grandmothers,” Tristan murmured as they passed another of the gray-haired sentries. “I am supremely disillusioned.”

“I have no idea why you wanted to come, Grey,” Alice put in from his other side, her voice plaintive. “In London, we could be at the opera with Prince George.”

“I know why we’re here,” Lady Sylvia said smoothly. “Our duke has been wanting to throttle the school’s headmistress since he received her letter yesterday.”

Sylvia was right; he
did
want to see Miss Emma, to learn of her reaction to this morning’s letter. Throttling her, though, wasn’t as high on his agenda as simply getting his hands on her. All over her.

“Even so,” Blumton grumbled from the rear, “a gaggle of females playing at Shakespeare? Edmund Keene is performing
Hamlet
in London. I’ve gone to view it twice. Magnificent. Nothing resembling this insult to the bard, I’m sure.”

“I doubt the Academy’s insulting anyone,” Uncle Dennis countered with a patient smile. “Their production of
As You Like It
last year was quite impressive.”

“By Hampshire standards, perhaps.”

Alice rubbed her bosom against Grey’s arm. “You’re being quiet tonight.”

“I’m enjoying the sights.”

In truth, he was a little nonplussed. The interior of a girls’ school, in his infrequent imaginings of such a thing, had a great deal more lace in the windows. Though crocheted pillows and throws did cover the couches and chairs in the common rooms, they were the only feminine trappings in
sight. Most surprising of all, hordes of young females about to make their debuts in Society hadn’t appeared to gawk at and giggle and flirt with every male present.

“Lord Haverly, Lady Haverly, good evening,” a female voice said from the dim depths of the hallway in front of them.

Grey’s pulse jumped, then steadied again as a tall, dark-haired young woman appeared. It wasn’t
her
.

“Miss Santerre,” his aunt replied, more warmth in her voice than Grey had heard since his arrival. “A good evening to you.”

“I am pleased you and your guests could attend,” Miss Santerre continued in a light French accent.

“We’re pleased to be here.”

“Emma would have greeted you herself, but the students have recruited her to perform this evening.”

“Which part?” Tristan asked, before Greydon could.

The woman smiled. “The Nurse. If you will follow me, I shall show you to your seats.”

“I will require a word with Miss Emma sometime this evening,” Grey said, falling in behind the female, a determined Alice still attached to his arm.

“I shall inform her of your request,” Miss Santerre answered, “though she will be quite busy tonight.”

“You’re being avoided, Wycliffe,” Charles supplied. “I know all about that.”

“I’m sure you do.” Tristan grinned at Sylvia, who gave him an arch smile.

At the mention of his name, the French-woman’s gaze sharpened for just a second before her face resumed its placid expression. The Academy females seemed to have been gossiping about him. Females were always gossiping about something. So be it. He didn’t want much to do with any of them, anyway—with one exception.

He definitely wanted to do something with Miss Emma Grenville, to the point that he was actively avoiding Alice. He’d even taken to locking his bed chamber door the last few nights against her. And he did not, under any circumstances, enjoy being chaste.

When Miss Santerre showed them to the back pew, Grey was sure his party was being singled out for persecution. Neither his aunt nor his uncle, though, looked the least bit surprised, and they slid onto the bench without protest.

“Not entirely proper etiquette, I know,” Dennis said, as Blumton gave the French woman an insulted glare, “but I always insist on sitting in the back so as not to rattle the girls.”

“That’s generous of you, Lord Haverly,” Lady Sylvia said, seating herself beside him.

The remaining pews of the old church were occupied, anyway, with what looked to be the entire population of Basingstoke and the surrounding countryside. From their clothing, a few other gentry were present as well, no doubt landowners from neighboring estates who’d forgone London this Season. That perked up Alice, and she made a show of taking the seat beside him.

A half dozen girls, dressed in simple dark robes, emerged from the rear doors and one by one snuffed the candles in the wall sconces. Tris
tan leaned across Alice as the audience quieted. “I still haven’t seen that blasted chit from the road. You would think she would be here.”

“Perhaps you’ll glimpse her later,” Grey replied in a low voice. “Now shut up; the curtains are parting.”

The viscount straightened, offering a mock salute. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Unlike the audiences in London’s Mayfair theaters, tonight’s attendees actually seemed interested in watching the play. Many had turned to view the Haverly party as they entered, but once the curtains parted, the only things in view were the backs of a hundred heads. Grey settled back on the hard oak bench to watch, as well.

The major characters seemed to be acted by older students, though even girls barely in their teens swarmed onto the stage for the initial Montague-Capulet brawl, swords swinging enthusiastically. “Good God, they’re ferocious,” Tristan murmured. “I’m terrified.”

Finally the Montagues exited the second scene, and Grey straightened as Lady Capulet and Nurse took the stage. There she was. It seemed longer than two days ago that he’d last seen her, and the view from the rear pew didn’t do anything to quell his impatience over that fact.

“
That’s
your unrelenting foe?” Tristan chuckled.

“That plump, white-haired old bat?” Alice elbowed Grey in the ribs. “She looks ninety.”

“Shh. I’m watching.” He couldn’t quell his abrupt satisfaction; Tristan had no idea of whom he was making fun. Grey, though, had no trouble at all recognizing her despite the wig and the con
siderable padding and the god-awful fishwife’s tone she’d adopted.

“‘Where’s this girl?’” she called, and he grinned in the darkness. “‘What, Juliet?’”

Juliet, a lovely young lady with long, coal-black hair, glided onto the stage. “‘How now, who calls?’”

“Now, that’s more like it,” the viscount muttered, sighing happily.

Several rows in front of them, a slim young man stood and began applauding. He continued until the actress on the stage looked in his direction, blushing. Ignoring the annoyed looks of his fellows in the audience, he slowly seated himself again.

“Apparently you’re not Juliet’s only admirer,” Grey whispered.

Frowning, Uncle Dennis leaned across Sylvia and Blumton. “That’s Freddie Mayburne,” he whispered, gesturing. “He’s been in pursuit of Lady Jane all year.”

“Poor fellow,” Grey muttered, his eyes on Emma.

The rest of the play proceeded without further interruption and nearly without flaw, and Grey joined the rest of the audience on their feet as the curtains closed and then opened again to reveal a stage full of beaming young actresses taking their bows.

“You see, Mr. Blumton?” Uncle Dennis said proudly, applauding. “They were splendid. Brava, ladies! Brava!”

“Very passable, for females,” Blumton said grudgingly.

“That pint-sized Mercutio could give Edmund
Keene a run for his money,” Tristan said, chuckling, as the curtains closed again.

“Might we go now?” Alice asked, putting her shawl across her shoulders and exiting the pew behind Lord Dare. “I have no wish to be accosted by half the farmers of Hampshire.”

Grey could sympathize. Now that the play was over with, Lord Haverly’s party seemed to have become the center of everyone’s notice. All that lacked was for eligible young females to begin throwing monogrammed handkerchiefs in his direction, and he could imagine himself back in London with his mother and the unwed hordes hounding him.

He was daft to enter a girls’ school, he decided belatedly. Lusting after the damned headmistress was affecting his brain.

“All right, we’ll leave…” he began, trailing off as he spied a short, rotund form making its way through the admiring crowd toward them. “In a moment.”

“Grey, do you have to talk with that old witch tonight?”

“Yes.” He stepped forward as she reached them. “Miss Emma.”

“Your Grace.”

She curtsied, the motion elegant despite the enormous amount of padding beneath her frocks. Grey’s fingers twitched with the desire to begin unstuffing her. He shook himself. That could wait until after they settled the damned rent issue. “Do you—”

“Please excuse me, Your Grace,” she interrupted, turning her attention to his uncle, “but Lord and Lady Haverly traditionally join the cast
for punch and cake after the performance. I wanted you and your guests to know you’re all welcome tonight.”

“We would be delighted,” the earl returned warmly. “We shall meet you in the dining hall.”

“Oh, lucky us,” Alice muttered, offering her arm to Grey.

He evaded capture, placing her hand over a surprised Tristan’s elbow and striding off after the headmistress before she could vanish into the crowd. “You received my letter, I presume?” he asked as he caught up to her.

She slowed, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Yes, I did. It was remarkably rude.”

“Just carrying on the tradition your letter began,” he said amiably.

“I was not r—”

“Oh, Miss Emma.” Another female, taller and nearly as rotund as the padded headmistress, swept up to clasp both of Emma’s hands. “I nearly fainted when Juliet woke up, looking for her Romeo, and him already dead beside her. It was even better than last year’s play.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’m so glad you could attend. And I see even Mr. Jones came this year.”

The large woman chuckled. “He said it would be nonsense, but I saw him wiping away a tear at the end.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Not that he’d ever admit to it, of course.”

“It’ll be our secret,” Emma whispered, smiling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Adjusting her padding, she waddled off again.

Grey wasn’t about to let her escape that easily. “Parents won’t appreciate your turning their well-bred daughters into actresses, you know.”

“That wasn’t the purpose of this exercise, though I don’t expect you to understand.”

As she continued down the long hallway, turned another corner, climbed a flight of stairs, and entered a small office, he abruptly wondered whether she hadn’t led him into some sort of ambush. A tall, silver-templed gentleman stood at one window, gazing in the direction of Haverly.

“Your Grace, this is Sir John Blakely, my solicitor,” Emma said, moving to the far side of an old oak desk. “Sir John, His Grace, the Duke of Wycliffe.”

“Your Grace,” Sir John said, coming forward and offering his hand, “it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Grey shook it, his attention on the headmistress. “Why am I meeting your solicitor?”

“Because I thought you might listen if a man explained to you that you cannot order me to do anything. My telling you obviously has had no effect.”

“I beg your pardon, but…”

He trailed off as she removed her wig and dropped it onto the desk. Disheveled auburn hair cascaded down past her shoulders in a riot of red-tinted curls.

She looked up at him. “But what?”

Grey tried to concentrate his attention on the solicitor. “My uncle has approached me to make certain changes in the management style of Haverly. Increasing his tenants’ rent is but one of them.”

“And do you have this transfer of authority in writing, then, Your Grace?”

Emma rose and walked through a door on one
side of the office, then returned with a wash basin. She dipped a cloth in the water and began wiping at the heavy makeup on her face. Slowly the white and grey mask faded, replaced by the soft, lustrous cream of her skin. Usually Grey had no difficulty at all separating business from pleasure, but Miss Emma Grenville was distracting the hell out of him. “I can get it in writing, if that is what you require,” he said shortly.

“That would be helpful,” Sir John continued. “And of course, the document would have to be notarized by a solicitor.”

The headmistress reached around her back for one of the ties that held her bulky frock on, presumably over some other garment. Whatever he might like to imagine, he didn’t think she intended to render herself naked in front of two men.

“Fine. Please direct me to the nearest solicitor,” he said curtly.

“Ah. That is a difficulty. I am the only solicitor residing in Basingstoke at the moment, and as you see, I am representing Miss Grenville’s Academy. It would be a conflict of interest for me to—”

“Here, let me get that,” Grey interrupted, closing the distance between himself and the headmistress. Before she could do more than squeak, he had untied the four fastenings at her back. Slipping the heavy garment down her arms, he let it slide past her hips to the floor. Her hair smelled of lemon and honey, and he was seized with the sudden desire to run his fingers through the soft auburn tangles.

She moved away from him at high speed before he could act on his impulse. “So you see,
Your Grace,” she stammered, her fresh-scrubbed cheeks flushing prettily, “you will have to return to London or somewhere and employ a solicitor.”

“I employ a dozen solicitors already,” he said, stifling a scowl. “And I don’t need a notarized document; all I need is for my uncle to repeat his request in front of witnesses.” He pinned the solicitor with a glare. “Isn’t that correct, Sir John?”