The Birthday Scandal (3 page)

No wonder Uncle Josiah was giving away his personal fortune rather than leaving any more than he must to this unwelcome heir, the new Marquess of Athstone. A strange sort of duke the fellow would make; he was probably bragging to his fellow colonials about being a duke in waiting.

But at least, Lucien thought with a yawn, this new cousin was related only through Lucien’s mother—and therefore he would never be the head of the Arden family. Though, come to think of it, even an odd American could hardly be worse to deal with than Lucien’s father was.

Good old Uncle Josiah. Lucien suspected it wasn’t just the Earl of Chiswick who would end up feeling he’d had a finger stuck in his eye, but Josiah’s heir as well.

With the windows of the Red Dragon’s best private parlor standing open to London’s September sunshine, Gavin Waring, the new Marquess of Athstone, could almost have closed his eyes and imagined he was back in Baltimore. From the street, shouts resounded as carriages jockeyed for position, while horses snorted and costermongers called their wares. And as for the smells…

From his place on the most uncomfortable settee he’d ever encountered, Gavin looked up at the small, trim man who stood facing him. “Benson, is it?”

“Yes, my lord. Here are my references, for your review.” Benson held out a sheaf of paper.

Gavin took the small bundle, but he didn’t look at the pages. “The names won’t mean much to me. I assume you know I’m not exactly English.”

“Yes, my lord. It was mentioned.”

“And if you hadn’t been warned already, the way I talk would have told you. I don’t know the men you’ve worked for, or whether they’re gentlemen or bounders, so I haven’t any idea whether their recommendations are reliable.”

The small man stiffened slightly. “I assure you, sir—”

“So let’s just get to know each other a bit, shall we?”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“
Sir
will do, Benson. This
my lord
business makes my ears tired. Please sit down.”

“I prefer to stand when receiving instructions, sir.”

“I don’t blame you. I can’t think the chair would be any more comfortable than this settee is.” Gavin pushed himself to his feet and walked across to a table where a decanter stood. “I don’t suppose you’d like a glass of Madeira, either?”

Benson’s face was wooden. “Certainly
not
, sir.”

Gavin set the decanter down without pouring. “You’re the seventeenth valet I’ve interviewed, by the way.”

“You must be very hard to please, sir, if not a single one of them met your expectations.”

“It was more a matter of me not meeting theirs,” Gavin said pensively. “They…er…tended to look down their noses at me, and I’m afraid I could not support that attitude every morning before breakfast.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you, I wonder? I’m looking for something more than a gentleman’s gentleman.”

“More, sir?”

“I am not a lackwit, but there are many things I don’t know.”

“May I assume, sir, that one of those things is how to get on in English society?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s different where I come from.”

“I should think it would be, sir. For a start, I believe we shall require a different tailor.” Benson cleared his throat. “If, that is, you should choose to give me the position.”

“There’s no time for things like that. I arrived in London only two days ago, and I am to leave the day after tomorrow for the duke’s birthday celebration.”

“Lack of time is not an issue for a gentleman, sir. Not when the gentleman is the Duke of Weybridge’s heir.”

Gavin tapped his fingers on the table. “Very well, Benson,” he said anally. “You have the job. Go forth and start working your magic.”

“I shall be pleased to do so, sir.” Benson bowed and half turned, then paused. “If I may say so, sir, you are far more English than you think. Despite the accent, you have a manner of command, of ease, which comes naturally to those of noble blood.”

Gavin eyed him narrowly. “Don’t overdo it.”

“I shall exercise caution, my lord.” The valet went out so quietly that Gavin, picking up the letter from the duke that had been awaiting him when he arrived, had to look around to be certain he was alone.

With a snap of the wrist, he unfolded the letter and read it once more.

“What a lot of damned cheek,” Gavin muttered. What did the duke expect—that he would arrive with a shipload of drunken sailors whom he’d met on the voyage over? Or a bit of muslin to share his bedroom? And as for answering to a damned title, instead of his perfectly good name…

He frowned. The duke might be crotchety because he was ill. It must have cost Weybridge dearly to add that last sentence. And he
was
sending a post-chaise…

“Benson,” he called. When the valet silently appeared in the doorway once more, Gavin folded the letter and slid it into his pocket. “When a gentleman prefers not to spend a day or two cooped up inside a post-chaise, how does he go about getting himself across England?”

“A curricle and team, sir. But the skill required to drive such an equipage—”

“Never mind that. Can you get me set up by the day after tomorrow?”

The duke had made clear that his word was law in the castle, but he hadn’t said a thing about what went on outside the walls. Gavin figured that as long as he didn’t drive the curricle up the stairs and through the public rooms, how he got to the castle was his own business.

Even more important, as long as he had a means of travel he could call his own, it would be his choice—and not the duke’s—as to how long he stayed.

T
he Beckhams’ hunting lodge was only a few hours from Weybridge Castle, so Isabel’s post-chaise swept through the gates with a flourish and pulled up in the huge inner courtyard by midafternoon. A footman paid off the postboys, and by the time the housekeeper had come to greet Isabel, her single trunk had been brought in.

“You’ll be in the green suite as usual,” Mrs. Meeker said. “And may I say, my lady, how good it is to have you here? It will be a tonic for His Grace to have the family gathered once more.”

“Then we’re all to be here? Hartford and Lady Emily as well?” She hadn’t seen her brother since the Season ended months ago—not that she had encountered him with any frequency even then, for Lucien had no patience with musicales and soirees. And as for Emily—the last time Isabel had seen her sister had been more than a year ago, not long after the calamity.

“Yes, my lady. Would you like tea brought to your room right away?”

“No, later in the drawing room will be fine. But I haven’t even asked after my uncle. How is he, Mrs. Meeker?”

The housekeeper’s face tightened. “Dr. Mason shakes his head, my lady, but His Grace has a strong will, so we must hope for the best.”

“Just let me wash the road dust from my face, and I will go and make my curtsey to him.”

“He left orders for no one to disturb him. He is resting now so he will be able to come down for dinner.”

“I see,” Isabel said slowly. Even the duke’s letter hadn’t made her believe the situation was truly dire; she supposed that was because he had written it himself rather than turning the matter over to a secretary.

The footmen had already brought up her trunk, and her maid was unpacking when Isabel reached the green suite. She washed her face slowly, enjoying the restoring touch of warm water against her skin, and decided not to take the time to have Martha brush her hair. Instead, she captured the loose ends that had slipped out of the knot at the back of her head, tucking them back in place and smoothing the blue-black strands until they gleamed once more. She was about to go downstairs when she heard a soft tap on the door.

“Are you in there, Isabel?”

Isabel waved her maid away and opened the door herself. “Emily? I thought I was the first to arrive. How long have you been here?”

“No more than half an hour. I heard a ruckus in the hall and knew it must be you. I thought we might meet up on the road.”

“Traveling together would have been fun—but I didn’t come from Maxton Abbey. I was at a hunting party.”

“At this season? What on earth were you hunting?”

“The Beckhams are training a new pack of foxhounds—though the best I can say for the sport is that the pursuit was never predictable.” Isabel held her sister by the shoulders and studied her. Emily was even more slender than she’d been the last time Isabel saw her, but her golden-brown hair displayed a healthy glow and her dark-brown eyes sparkled with the refection of her butter-yellow dress. “I still think it unfair that you grew two inches taller than I am. But Emily, you look wonderful! What is your secret?”

Emily laughed. “I find it helps not to read Father’s letters. They all say the same thing anyway.
It is past time to give up these crotchets and come home. I’ve arranged for you to meet a man of good character who will overlook your past
…”

Isabel gasped. “As if what happened was
your
fault! I can hardly believe he’s still trying to marry you off.”

“Quite seriously, too. He’s run through the entire roster of unmarried earls and viscounts, and most of the barons. In fact, his last letter mentioned a plain mister—but one of
excellent
family, I assure you.”

“I thought you said you didn’t read his letters.”

“Well, there’s always the odd chance that someday he might say he’s sorry for how the last betrothal he arranged for me turned out. I wouldn’t stake my jewelry on it even if I still owned any, but…”

“Oh, Emily. I was so afraid—” Isabel broke off.

“That I would go into a decline over Rivington?”

“That you would be haunted forever by this misfortune.”

“Not I,” Emily said.

But on closer inspection, Isabel thought a shadow lay deep in her sister’s eyes, and Emily’s smile was not quite as sunny as it once had been.

Emily took a deep breath. “Has Mrs. Meeker told you about Uncle Josiah?”

“Only that he’s resting this afternoon. Have you seen him? Is it as serious as he seemed to think when he wrote?” Belatedly, Isabel noticed that her maid was listening. “Martha, go and get settled. You can finish unpacking later. I’ll wear—oh, let’s see. The blue, I think, for dinner tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take it down to press.” Martha removed the dress from the sparsely filled wardrobe.

As the door closed behind the maid, Emily tipped her head to one side and regarded the meager contents remaining in Isabel’s trunk. “That’s all the clothes you brought? I thought you said you were at a hunting party. Didn’t you have to change your dress four times a day?”

It was silly to feel so sensitive in front of her sister, but Isabel wasn’t ready to admit what a very tight budget she was on. “I would have spent the week in perfect comfort if my favorite dinner gown hadn’t suffered an unfortunate encounter with a glass of red wine on my first evening with the Beckhams. Then a clumsy young man trod on a hem while we were dancing. Anyway, this is only family, and no one will care if they see me in the same few garments over and over.”

“And here I was hoping to supplement my outdated wardrobe by borrowing your magnifcence, Lady Maxwell!”

“
You
, outdated? Only because you live in the tiniest village you could find, I’ll wager, with no dressmaker at hand.”

“You would lose, for I’ve no money for new gowns. Even a cottage is expensive when you must pay for everything yourself. At least you have a home.”