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Authors: Jane Ashford

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“Do you think so?” Katharine gazed into her cousin's kind, narrow face. She remembered, as she often forgot, that Mary had been reared very strictly in a country parsonage and had never been to a town larger than Grantham before she herself summoned her. “I fear I must disagree with you,” she told her gently. “You know, Mary, I had two seasons before I went to India with Father. I met no one I liked enough to marry during the first, so they insisted I should have another, even though I didn't want it at all. I have seen a good deal of fashionable society.”

“Yes, dear, I know.” Mary eyed her anxiously. “And I know you didn't care overmuch for it. I understand completely. I am sure a great many fashionable people are quite shallow and silly. But there must have been
some
you liked.”

“Of course there were. I still see them now. You have met them all.”

“But, Katharine…”

“No, Mary. I am sorry, but I must insist that I understand this subject better than you can. Let me tell you something. I was quite as eager as you could wish when I first came out. I thought, as you do, that I should meet all sorts of wonderful people and have splendid conversations every night. But it simply wasn't so. Why, the man whom the
ton
calls the greatest wit alive is the most arrogant, unfeeling creature on earth! I have not the least desire to see any of them ever again.”

The older woman gazed at her, still looking anxious. “Well, my dear, I must suppose that you are right. I have no experience upon which to base any argument. But, Katharine…” She hesitated.

“What is it? You look so worried. There is no need to be, I promise you.”

“I'm not so sure of that.”

“Why?”

Mary Daltry hesitated again, then said, “I don't wish to seem prying, or…or impertinent, my dear, but I can't help wondering what you mean to do with your life?”

“What I mean to do with my life?” repeated Katharine in an astonished tone.

“Yes. Twenty-seven is still very young. Do you mean to stay here in this house and grow old, chatting with me and painting and perhaps traveling to Bath in the summer? Is this to be your life?” She stopped, started to add something, then fell silent.

Katharine seemed genuinely struck. She did not reply for a long time, and her cousin was very satisfied with the expressions that followed one another across her face. Clearly she had never really considered this question before, and her companion astutely left her to visualize the future it implied.

At last Katharine looked up. Mary met her amber gaze. For a moment their eyes held; then, abruptly, Katharine laughed, throwing back her head. “You have planted me a facer, Cousin. I admit it. You are right. I shall not be content to do what I have been doing the past four months for the rest of my life.”

Mary nodded.

“But,” continued Katharine before she could speak, “that does not mean that I shall break down and embrace the
haut
ton
. It only means that I must do some thinking.”

“That is all I ask, my dear.”

Katharine laughed again. “And a jolly good thing, too, for I shan't promise any more.” Her smile faded. “But I must do that, clearly. I see suddenly that independence might be a very daunting thing. When one can do whatever one likes…” Her voice faded; then she murmured, “What do I like, I wonder? Besides painting.”

Silence fell again, but it lasted only a moment before Katharine stood up. “That is all very well, but it cannot be decided in a moment.
Now
, I must write the promised note to Eliza Burnham, and then I am going back to my studio until luncheon.” And she strode over to the writing desk and sat down.

Her cousin watched her scribble the note, smiling slightly as she finished and sealed it with her customary haste. But Mary's eyes showed concern, not amusement, and they did not change even when Katharine had hurried from the room and left her alone.

Three

The season opened with its customary brilliance, and Katharine Daltry resolutely ignored it. She passed her days in the quiet routine she and her cousin had established since their arrival in London—reading, walking, painting, and occasionally seeing friends at small private gatherings. Mary did not bring up the question of the future again, knowing that Katharine would puzzle over it in her own time. Elinor Marchington called on several occasions, but she was not encouraged to stay long, and she was never permitted what she called a “real talk” with Katharine, who was far more socially adept than her younger cousin and well able to deflect her rather obvious curiosity. Elinor was so excited by the new experience of going into society that these mild rebuffs hardly touched her. Lady Burnham's invitation had been only the first of many, and Elinor was thrilled beyond measure by the
ton
and the nightly parties and concerts she attended.

Thus, it was with some surprise that Katharine received her on an afternoon early in May, for as soon as Elinor entered the drawing room, it was clear that she had been crying. The younger girl looked around the room, then heaved a deep sigh. “Oh, good, you are alone. I
must
talk to you, Cousin Katharine. I don't know what I am to do.”

“What has happened? Come and sit down.”

Elinor sank onto the sofa next to her cousin and groped in her reticule for a handkerchief. Katharine saw with concern that tears had started in her eyes once again. “Oh, Katharine,” she sniffed. “I wanted so much to come to London. I never imagined it would be like
this
.”

“What is it? Has someone snubbed you? You know, Elinor, there are all sorts of odious snobs in the
ton
. It doesn't mean anything.”

Elinor shook her head, her voice momentarily submerged in tears. Katharine waited as she struggled for control. “It is Tom,” she blurted finally. “He has gone mad, I think. I don't know what to do.”

For one vivid instant, Katharine pictured this statement as the literal truth. She saw the stolid Tom Marchington run mad, and her lips twitched. But she sternly controlled this lamentable reaction and said, “What do you mean, Elinor? Has Tom done something silly?” Various explanations occurring to her, she added, “You know, gentlemen are interested in the oddest things. If Tom has been to a cockfight or lost money in a gambling hell, it is no more than dozens of young men do every day. Quite unaccountable, of course, but I believe they get over it.”

“Oh, if it were only that.” Elinor took a shaky breath. “I know about gaming, and boxing, and all those horrid things. Indeed, Tom told me he meant to go to Jackson's and Cribb's Parlor and…and those sorts of places. It is not that.” She looked at Katharine with wide tragic eyes. “It is a…a woman.”

Katharine stared at her.

“He has become utterly infatuated with Countess Standen. He positively hangs over her at parties, and I know he goes to her house. Everyone is talking. Katharine, what am I to do? You must help me!”

“But…but, Elinor, you must be mistaken. You are not used to town manners. Perhaps you misunderstood some remark, or…” Katharine trailed off, unconvinced by her own feeble excuses. She had heard of the countess. The woman was notorious for her indiscretions, and for her complete indifference to both the world's opinion of her and the feelings of others. She had been pointed out to Katharine during her own first season, and though they had never met, she had seen the countess at more than one
ton
party behaving in a way to make any observer blush. Thus, even considering Elinor's inexperience, it was possible that she was right. Katharine could imagine that it might amuse the Countess Standen to entangle a twenty-year-old boy fresh from the country, and though she certainly would not remain amused for long by dazzled innocence, it might well be long enough to ruin Tom Marchington's marriage.

“I am not mistaken,” said Elinor, hanging her head. “Other people have noticed it, too. Your friend Lady Burnham came to speak to me at Almack's last night, expressly to warn me. I nearly sank with embarrassment. I didn't know what to say to her. Katharine, you must help me before it is too late.”

Katharine's eyebrows drew together. If Eliza Burnham had noticed this indiscretion, it must be real. She met her cousin's tearful brown eyes. But whatever could she do about it? She had never spoken to Countess Standen in her life, and she hadn't the least idea how to wean a young man who was nearly a stranger to her away from a dangerous older woman. Katharine had an uneasy suspicion that the countess would be up to any stratagem she could think of, not that she could come up with
any
at this moment.

“You
will
help me?” repeated Elinor. “There is no one else I can turn to. Mother is so busy with the children, and besides, she would never understand. She would only tell Tom's father, and then there would be a great scandal.”

Katharine brightened. “But, Elinor, surely that is the answer? Tom's father is the proper person to deal with this. He will be as anxious as you to keep it quiet. I think he should be told at once.”

Her cousin stared at her. “You don't know Sir Lionel!”

“No. I believe I met him once, but—”

“He would storm up to London and take us both home at once. Everyone would know, and we should never be allowed to forget it. We would both be in disgrace forever!”

“But, Elinor, surely you would not—”

“He would blame me,” Elinor interrupted hysterically. “He thinks the family is all the woman's responsibility. I have heard him say so! Oh, Katharine,
promise
you will not tell Sir Lionel.”

“Very well. Don't put yourself in a taking. I simply thought that he would be able to deal with the situation far better than we. But if it is impossible, then we shall have to think of some scheme on our own.”

Elinor clasped her hands tightly in front of her and gazed at Katharine with huge anxious eyes. “Oh, yes, please, Cousin Katharine,” she replied.

Seeing the trust and dazed helplessness in her face, Katharine sighed inaudibly. What could
she
do about this tangle? She had no more idea than Elinor of any “scheme.” But the younger girl continued to look at her with such touching relief she had to offer her something. “I must…ah…look over the situation,” said Katharine. “Perhaps I will get an idea then. Do you go out tonight?”

“No. But there is Lady Sefton's ball tomorrow. Tom means to go; he said so.”

“Lady Sefton? Yes, I have an invitation to that. I refused it, but I shall write a note. I shall see you there, Elinor, and we shall try to make a plan.”

“Oh, thank you!” The other girl heaved another great sigh and shook her head. “It is all so horrid. But I feel better now that you are helping me.”

“Yes, well, I shall do what I can.” Katharine felt very uneasy. It seemed wrong to give Elinor hope when she had no notion how to rescue her.

“Everything will be all right now,” answered Elinor, vastly increasing her cousin's discomfort.

At this moment, the drawing-room door opened, and Mary Daltry came in. Elinor rose, saying, “I must go. I promised Tom's great-aunt that I would call. I am sorry to run away, Cousin Mary.”

Mary Daltry excused her amiably, and Elinor took her leave. As soon as she was gone, Mary said, “Whatever has cast you into the dismals, Katharine? You look as if you had lost your dearest friend.”

Katharine grimaced. “We are going to a ball, Cousin Mary.”

Her despair was so comical that the older woman laughed aloud.

***

As she dressed the following evening, however, Katharine could not help but feel a twinge of excitement. She had not been to a ball in more than a year, and though she disliked society, she was very fond of dancing. She surveyed herself in the long mirror over her dressing table as she fastened her mother's amethysts around her neck. Though she was still in half-mourning, the clear lavender of her gown became her, and the trim of silver ribbons was very fine. With the amethysts and matching silver slippers, she looked very fashionable indeed, and she could not resist making a face at her reflection in the mirror before pulling a gauze wrap around her shoulders and starting downstairs to find her cousin.

Mary was waiting in the drawing room, somberly dressed in gray silk, and she smiled when she saw her charge. “You look lovely, dear.”

Katharine wrinkled her nose, and her cousin thought, not for the first time, that she really was beautiful. Her pale glittering gown accented her dark hair and warm glowing skin, and her amber eyes lent a piquant flavor to the whole.

“Are you ready for the gauntlet?” asked Katharine. After considering the matter, she had told Mary Elinor's story, so that the older woman was fully aware of the reason for their outing tonight.

“I am,” she replied. “I shall do my best with the chaperones. I don't know any of them well, but gossip never waits for close acquaintanceship. I shall hear whatever is being said about Tom, if anything is.” She shook her head. “I cannot help but hope that Elinor has made a mistake.”

“No more than I do,” was the positive reply, “for all our sakes. But let us go and see.”

They arrived at Lady Sefton's town house about ten, threading their way through a great press of carriages and linkboys with flaring torches and ascending the staircase with a crowd of other guests. Their hostess greeted Katharine effusively, twitting her on her avoidance of society since her return to England. Fortunately for Katharine's temper, the crowd was such that she could not keep them lingering long, and in a few moments the two cousins entered the ballroom and looked about them.

“Well,” said Mary, “it certainly is lovely. I have never seen so many flowers.”

Katharine was suddenly aware of the fact that her cousin had never before attended a real London ball. She felt ashamed of having deprived her of this treat, and almost glad that Elinor's plight had dragged her out. Mary, at least, should enjoy this evening. “It is beautiful,” she agreed. “And there is Elinor.”

The girl was indeed hurrying toward them, with such a woebegone expression that Katharine nearly exclaimed her annoyance aloud. Did the girl wish everyone to know her feelings? She would cause no end of gossip by looking so unhappy. When Elinor joined them, Katharine could not help repeating these thoughts, and the younger girl hung her head and looked even worse. “I cannot smile,” she murmured. “It is all so horrid. Look, they are there.”

Katharine followed the direction of her glance and saw Tom Marchington leaning over the back of a sofa by the wall. On it, a glittering figure reclined, and it was obvious that Tom was fascinated by her. Katharine surveyed the Countess Standen with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. She was certainly lovely, tall and commanding with a stunning figure clearly outlined by a clinging gown of green gauze. Her neck and shoulders rose out of this proudly, her blond hair was a cloud of ringlets, and her features were classically perfect. At that moment, the countess looked up and met Katharine's gaze. Her eyes were a brilliant green, visible even across the room. She raised one exquisitely arched eyebrow, then smiled a charming, crooked smile. In spite of herself, Katharine was almost lured into answering it with a smile of her own. She looked away, as if merely scanning the ballroom for acquaintances, but she was far from feeling the unconcern she tried to put in her expression. However was
she
to combat a woman such as this? She had no doubt now that Elinor's suspicions were correct; one had only to look at Tom to see that he had lost his head. But what could
she
do?

“Oh, dear,” murmured Mary Daltry, “she is…ah…so very…ah…”

“Exactly,” replied Katharine dryly.

“What shall we do?” whispered Elinor.

“For now, nothing. There is nothing we can do at a public ball, and I must think, in any case. Try to at least
seem
to enjoy yourself, Elinor. Dance, or go and talk to some of your friends. The less concerned you appear, the less talk there will be.”

“But, Katharine, I
can't
.”

“Of course you can. Make an effort.”

Ruthlessly she sent the younger girl off to join a group of her contemporaries. Elinor went, but anyone looking at her must have seen that she was extremely uneasy.

“Poor girl,” said Mary. “Perhaps you were too hard on her, Katharine.”

“No, sympathy would only have caused her to break down entirely. And that would have gone round the
ton
in a trice. How I hate their petty little world! No, Mary, she must try to put on a brave show, and we must do what we can to help her.”

“Yes, dear.” The older woman sighed. “I shall go sit with the chaperones.” Katharine nodded, and Mary walked away, leaving her charge sorely puzzled. What ought she to do? Would a serious talk with Tom Marchington solve the problem, assuming, that is, that she could muster the effrontery to interfere in that way?

“Katharine Daltry!” exclaimed a male voice behind her. “What incredible luck. I can't believe my good fortune in finding you here, and alone.” She turned to face a slender young man with brown hair and an impish expression. As soon as she met his dancing eyes, he took her hand and bowed over it. “I kiss your hand. I worship at your feet.” He dropped gracefully to one knee for a moment, then stood, grinning.

“Don't be an idiot,” said Katharine.

“Alas, is this the way you greet an old friend after years and years? When I think of the way I pined for you, unable to eat or sleep, almost putting a pistol to my head.”

“Still telling outrageous bouncers, I see, Mr. Tillston. I had several correspondents in London during my absence, you know. They never mentioned your misery.”

BOOK: Marchington Scandal
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