A Scandalous Secret

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Dedication

For Michelle, one of the dearest friends I’ve ever had. Thank you so much for always being in my corner. I love you like a sister.

August 1813 – English Channel

Lady Hannah Campbell leaned against the rail of a roiling frigate. She sighed as her hair blew in the sea breeze, and she pulled the blue and green Campbell tartan closer about her shoulders. England was barely on the horizon, a land she hadn’t laid eyes on in more than a dozen years.

Hannah frowned, plagued once again with the same worry that had haunted her since she and her boys had left Spain. How would the three of them get along in England? After so many years following the drum, she wasn’t sure she knew how to function in polite society anymore.

“Mama?” a tiny voice called from her side as a small hand tugged on her scratchy, wool traveling dress.

With a start, Hannah looked down into the expectant face of her seven-year-old son, Ewan. What was the lad doing up on deck? She’d left the poor little fellow sleeping in bed after another bout of seasickness. “What are ye doin’ out of the cabin, my love?”

A tear formed in Ewan’s dark eyes and his lip trembled as he spoke. “Alasdair says I smell like a chamber pot.”

Hannah pursed her lips. She should have guessed Alasdair was responsible for his brother’s fretful state. After all, her oldest son was definitely having the hardest time adjusting to their new situation. She pulled Ewan into her arms, smoothed his tears away, and kissed his swollen little cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, ye doona smell like a chamber pot.”

Someone snorted behind them, and Hannah knew without a doubt that Alasdair had followed his brother on deck. “Alasdair Murdoch Campbell—” she didn’t even glance over her shoulder to face her oldest son— “how many times have I asked ye ta be kind ta yer wee brother?”

When he didn’t respond, Hannah turned her head and met his bitter and brooding green eyes. Alasdair shrugged his shoulders, a hardened look on his twelve-year-old face. “Soldiers doona cry and run ta their mothers, Ewan.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes on her oldest boy, but he met her glare with an icy one of his own. When had Alasdair become this petulant child? Not that he didn’t have a reason or a right to be angry. They all did. But all they had left was each other now. “Wheesht! Alasdair! Ye have seen just as many soldiers cry as I have, and I will no’ let ye chastise Ewan. Do ye understand?”

Alasdair stared at her for quite some time before he let out a deep sigh and finally nodded. “Aye, Mama.”

Hannah smiled with more cheerfulness than she felt. “Good, then come over here so ye can see England.” She had both boys’ instant attention and she pointed to the land just barely visible in the distance. “Right there. Do ye see it? We’ll be home today.”

Home. She’d never thought to lay eyes on England again. Not England, not Chet…
Havers!
Where had that thought come from?

“Tell us again, Mama.” Ewan’s tiny voice broke her from her reverie. “What’s London like?”

London.

It had been a lifetime ago. Thinking back on it now, she’d been just a naïve lass at seventeen when she’d arrived in London. “It’s a grand city, Ewan. With parks, theatres, museums, and—”

“Aye, we will be stayin’ with yer Uncle James, yer Aunt Bethany, and all five of yer cousins,” she assured him for what seemed like the hundredth time. But she could understand his reluctance to believe such a thing; neither Ewan nor Alasdair had enjoyed the same address for an extended period of time. Neither boy had ever set foot on English soil or the Scottish homeland of their ancestors, for that matter. Both of her brave little soldiers had been born on the continent while she followed Malcolm’s regiment from one camp to another.

But those days had abruptly come to an end on the battlefield outside Vitoria when Malcolm had taken a ball in the chest. If God had been merciful, Major Campbell would have died on the field that day, but there was very rarely mercy in war. Malcolm had somehow managed to drag his battered body back to camp. Though the surgeons were able to extricate the bullet and stop his bleeding, infection was an entirely different matter. He stubbornly held on to life for more than a week, but in the end Major Malcolm Campbell lost his final battle.

Hannah tried to be grateful for Malcolm’s last days. At least the boys had been able to say their goodbyes to their father. But that didn’t make his passing any easier on any of them. They’d followed Malcolm for so long, she wasn’t sure they knew how to live on their own without him.

The only comforting thought in the back of Hannah’s mind was that her brother James would see to her wellbeing. She and the boys were sure to be a burden on James, but her brother would make certain they were well cared for. Hannah heaved a sigh as the first bit of sun peeked over the horizon and her heart lightened a bit. Of course James would take care of them. He always had, after all.

***

After an enjoyable afternoon at his club, Chester Peyton, the Marquess of Astwick, arrived at his home in Waverton Street and was promptly greeted by his butler, Linton. The middle-aged servant was losing his light red hair, and at the moment, he looked as if he was losing his mind as well. “Lord Astwick,” he whispered in greeting.

Linton’s demeanor should have given Chet enough warning to flee his home without a second thought, but instead he furrowed his brow and studied his butler’s face. “Have you lost your voice?”

Before Linton could reply, Chet heard it—the one sound that sent chills straight to his bones…the rap of his mother’s cane. “Chester, don’t you even think about escaping,” she bellowed from his closest parlor.

Linton, at once, looked apologetic. “Lady Astwick is in the gold parlor, my lord.” Then the butler whispered, “She has guests.”

“Linton, I can hear you!” the marchioness barked, and all the color drained from the poor butler’s face.

Chet would have felt sorry for his servant, but as he was about to walk into the lion’s den, all thoughts of sympathy were directed squarely at himself. “Thank you, Linton.”

“Best of luck, sir,” the butler whispered even quieter.

Chet was going to need all the luck he could get. His mother was not one to visit without a purpose, and there was no purpose he was eager to discuss with her.

As soon as he entered the gold parlor, Chet found his mother sitting in a high backed chintz chair. If one imagined her cane as a scepter, she looked like an angry Hera holding court on Mount Olympus. Well, perhaps only to him. If one didn’t know her, one might think she resembled a kindly old grandmother, small-framed and silver-haired with steely blue eyes that crinkled when she smiled. But looks could be deceiving, and she didn’t smile all that often. No, she was most definitely an angry Hera at the moment. And her sights were focused on him.

Across from the stern marchioness sat two other women. The first was a young, pretty girl who had to be fresh from the schoolroom. She had auburn hair and big hazel eyes that twinkled with intelligence.

But it was the second woman who caught Chet’s eye, as he knew
her
rather well. In fact, he’d watched Caroline, Viscountess Staveley, grow from a child into the cunning lady she was today. And at the moment, the cunning lady in question was lounging across a brocade chaise, looking at him with obvious delight. Caroline smirked—actually smirked—at him then rose from her seat, her golden brown curls bobbing up and down. “Chet, darling, so wonderful to see you.”

He caught a sparkle in Caroline’s hazel eyes, and Chet cringed. He knew that sparkle. He’d seen it time and again over the years, and it always meant trouble for someone. As she was grinning at him, Chet was fairly certain that his future was most assuredly grim. “Caro, you’re looking lovely,” he said cautiously.

“Always so charming,” Caroline gushed as she kissed his cheek, then she playfully smacked his hand. “But I am put out with you at the moment, darling.”

“Enough with this chitchat, Lady Staveley,” his mother barked from her throne of a chair and pounded her cane on the floor as though it was an exclamation point. “I haven’t got all day.”

Caroline smiled at the old dragon. “Lady Astwick, it has been my experience that one gets more out of men when one is pleasant and not quite so direct.”

“Bah!” The marchioness glared at Chet. “I only want what I’ve been promised.”

Chet’s stomach dropped. There was only one thing he’d promised his mother—recently anyway. And if the marchioness had enlisted Caroline Staveley’s help in getting it from him, Chet was doomed. He’d find himself leg-shackled to some chit in the blink of an eye, and he wouldn’t even know how he ended up that way.

Caroline’s soothing voice interrupted his thoughts. “Be that as it may, my lady, I think Astwick can be reasonable. After all, a promise is a promise. And Chet is an honorable man. I have no doubt that he’ll fulfill his end of the bargain.”

Chet considered ducking out of the room and letting the women sort out the details without him, but the pretty young girl once again caught his attention, and Chet gulped. Certainly they were not interviewing prospective candidates for him to marry. And certainly they were not discussing the bargain he’d made with his mother in front said prospective candidate. He couldn’t think of anything more inappropriate, or embarrassing. So, he cleared his throat to recapture his guests’ attention. “Caroline, perhaps we can discuss this later.”

She winked at him. “Tell me, darling, did you actually promise your mother that you’d marry within the year in exchange for her helping Robert last June?”

Unfortunately, he had. Of course, at the time he hadn’t had much choice. The reputation of his oldest friend’s wife was hanging in the balance. And dragons were capable of certain things, like bending the will of the
ton
in one direction or another. His mother had upheld her end of the bargain, ensuring the respectability of Lady Masten; but as to date, Chet had not held up his end of the deal.