The Book Of Scandal (11 page)

She admired the countryside, filled her lungs with the clean air. She gave her horse her head, letting her run freely up and down the sloping terrain. But she was careless—she didn’t recognize some of the markers she’d once known as well as the back of her hand, and found herself on a crest overlooking the neighboring estate.

Evelyn reined the horse to a halt on the rise and looked down at the mansion where the DuPauls lived. She felt a prick of deep hurt that she’d thought was long gone. Alexandra DuPaul had been her friend, but when Robbie died, Evelyn could not find space in a heart overflowing with grief and rage for friends or family. It had been her great surprise, then, to ride up on this crest one morning and find her husband walking arm in arm with Alexandra, their heads bent together, so lost in one another that they barely noticed her on the path ahead.

Alexandra had tried to pretend they were merely walking and had invited Evelyn to join them. But Evelyn had seen the look in Nathan’s eyes and knew she was intruding. She’d seen them together many times after that, always huddled together like lovers…

Part of her wanted to ride down there and announce that she had returned. But another part of her was too cowardly—she turned her horse around and headed back to the abbey.

Unfortunately, at the abbey, there was nothing to occupy her thoughts or her hands. She paced in her rooms a bit, feeling that thing, that restlessness in her chest. When she thought of her things arriving on the morrow as Benton said they would, she thought of how final that seemed. How would she return to London? When she thought of London and of Princess Mary, and Harriet, poor, sweet Harriet, and everyone between Buckingham and St. James’s, she thought of Pierce.

Oh, but it was useless thinking of him now! No matter how high his regard for her, he’d not challenge Nathan openly for her! The moment Nathan had carried her off like a bag of seed, he’d destroyed her flirtation with Pierce. There was nothing she could do to change that. She was in her husband’s house now, here in the bed that she’d made when she’d married Nathan ten years ago. Don’t feel. She couldn’t return to her marriage, it was impossible! She didn’t love Nathan anymore.

She just wanted out.

There was no escape from her thoughts—until it suddenly occurred to her.

Evelyn looked up and smiled. “Benton!” she called, knowing full well he was out of earshot. Never mind that. She knew what she would do. The house looked like a young buck’s hunting lodge. She would restore it to its glory.

With pencil and paper, Benton accompanied Evelyn from room to room in the main corridor, the part of the house most frequented by guests and visitors, and distinct from the wing where the family rooms were situated.

Evelyn dictated notes: they would remove the draperies and have them cleaned, and if the stench of tobacco was not removed, she would have new draperies made. They determined that the carpet in the petite salon just off the foyer would need to be replaced, as mud had been tracked onto it once too often.

They had moved into the green salon—a less formal but larger receiving salon—when a pair of footmen carried in a rickety old secretary for Evelyn’s perusal.

She stood with her hands on her hips, gaping at the thing.

“There you are, madam,” Benton said with a thin smile. “A place to pen your letters.”

“Yes…but the secretary I had before was made of cherrywood. And it had these lovely gold inlaid scrolls,” she said, painting a scroll with her hand in the air. “Where is that secretary, Benton?”

“That secretary has been sent up to the Marchioness of Sudley.”

“To the marchioness?” Her mother-in-law had quite a lot of secretaries, as Evelyn recalled. Why on earth would she need another? But Nathan was solicitous of his mother, and three years ago, Evelyn had been intimidated by that. Three years ago, she would have smiled when he’d sent the secretary and pretended not to care at all.

Well. She was hardly that mealymouthed, naïve, cake-headed woman any longer. She was not the young mother they all believed had gone mad with grief and should be tucked away so they could all forget about the tragedy.

“His lordship remembered this piece in the attic,” Benton continued. “Mrs. Gillette oiled it.”

“Mrs. Gillette should have burned it.” How was she supposed to write on that thing? It looked as if it was barely nailed together. “But you must thank her for me,” she added.

“There is foolscap and ink in the drawer,” Benton continued.

“Foolscap?” She shot a look at the butler, who actually blinked. “Haven’t we any vellum?”

“We do, my lady. But his lordship specifically suggested foolscap. He said the economy of it would be greater, as he suspected you intended to write quite a lot of letters to London.”

“Well, he is right about that. I intend to write a lot of letters. A lot. So many letters that he’ll need a carriage to carry them all! I will need more foolscap, Benton! Boxes of it, if you please! And a carriage to carry them all to London!”

Benton’s lip twitched.

“Mr. Benton, Cook says she must speak with you,” one of the footmen said.

“If I may?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” Evelyn said, waving at him, still staring at the secretary. “I can finish here.”

She gave the secretary a push with her hand as Benton and the footman went out. It swayed on its wobbly legs. “Oh for heaven’s sake!” she muttered. She kicked at one of the legs; it moved an inch or two inward. She kicked it harder. The leg gave way.

A quarter of an hour later, she had the old secretary completely dismantled, and had marched into the foyer, determined to clear her lungs of the dust the thing had kicked up.

Outside, she was hit with a brisk western wind, and pulled her cloak tightly around her. She took the long way around the house—she could not see the churchyard where Robbie was buried, even at a distance.

But she passed by the small ornamental rose garden just outside the morning room, where she had recognized the first signs of the illness that would take Robbie’s life. Evelyn couldn’t help herself—she peeked through the gate. The garden was wildly overgrown. Decaying petals littered the ground and blooms hung sorrowfully from long, spindly branches.

Why had it been neglected? Where was the bloody gardener?

She moved on.

At the orangery, Evelyn found similar conditions. The bushes in front of the large French windows were overgrown and the grass too high. In addition, the door was locked, bolted with a rusty old lock that, try as she might, she could not budge. “Blast it all,” she muttered irritably. She looked down the row of windows and the bramble bushes that grew untended, picked up her skirts and cloak, and stepped behind a bush. The edge of her cloak caught; she yanked it clear as she inched her way behind the bushes until she reached the first window.

Cupping her hands around her eyes, she pressed her face to the windows and peered in. The window was so grimy she couldn’t see a thing. So she moved farther down, peering into each window until she finally found one through which she could almost see.

Was she seeing things? Was the orangery truly empty? Were her miniature orange trees and the furniture she had selected so carefully and the beautiful landscape paintings that had hung on the wall all gone?

Evelyn stepped back, looked around, and stooped down to pick up a rock. She backed up, took aim, and threw the rock with all her might. The pane shattered. Using her sleeve, she banged the shards of glass away and then carefully leaned forward, peering through.

J ack Haines, the fourth earl of Lambourne, was in a jolly good frame of mind, having divested Aaron Major, an officer of the Royal Regiment of Dragoons, of two hundred pounds.

Lindsey had not been as fortunate, although he’d had the hand to win. But he’d seemed distracted, as if something was weighing heavily on his mind. Jack could very well guess what that might be. No one had been more surprised than he to see the countess at the abbey. Frankly, he’d thought the marriage doomed.

He’d have the story from Wilkes when he returned, Jack supposed, but in the meantime, Lindsey had, in uncharacteristic fashion, quit the game early by tossing in his hand and downing his ale. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I am not much for sport today.”

Jack almost fell out of his chair. If there was ever a man who was ready for sport—at any time, day or night—it was Nathan, and thank heavens for it. Jack might have perished in the dreadfully boring English countryside had it not been for his good friend’s lust for life.

“I beg your pardon!” Major exclaimed. “There is an unpaid debt, my lord!”

“Yes, yes,” Lindsey said, and patted the pockets of his waistcoat. “I thought I had brought along a bank draft,” he said, his brow burrowing in thought. “I suppose I forgot it, Major. I’ll have my man bring it round. Good day.”

And out he’d stalked from the private room, his cloak snapping at his ankles, his hat pulled low over his brow.

“He bloody well owes me a hundred pounds,” Major said angrily.

“Ach now, lad,” Jack said congenially as he raked in his earnings. “You know very well that Lindsey is good for it.” He stood, smiled at the man. “Seems as if the game is done, aye?”

He left a loudly complaining Major and paid a call to Lucy Wren, a favorite of his in the back of the public house. Lucy had generous hips and a beaming smile, and she was always happy to see him. He was a man who had a strong appetite and enjoyed variety—in life and in love. In the country, however, women were too concerned about their virtue. Bloody virtue. It was really given far too much importance to his way of thinking. Ah, but there was Lucy, and he showed her a rousing time, if her flushed round cheeks were any indication.

Two hours later, feeling rather warm and benevolent given the two hundred pounds in his pocket and the romp between the sheets, Jack rode back to Eastchurch Abbey. He had in mind rousing Donnelly and paying a call to the Franklin sisters. He liked to tease Donnelly that he’d end up on the wrong side of a church altar if he didn’t curb his efforts to seduce the older sister. She was no match for Donnelly’s ability to seduce—neither were half the chambermaids at Eastchurch—but Miss Franklin nearly swooned each time he so much as smiled. Aye, it was a wonderful diversion.

But as Jack walked into the main hall, tossing his hat and cloak to a footman, he heard voices and followed them to the red drawing room.

He found Lindsey inside with his neighbor, Mrs. DuPaul. She turned and greeted him warmly. Jack liked her. She was small and pale, and had a little oval face. She was very friendly and her husband seemed a good man.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, I was just leaving,” she explained to Lambourne.

“No’ on my account?”

She laughed. “Of course not! My husband is waiting. But I’d heard in the village that Lindsey was back from London.”

“It is good to see you, Alexandra,” Lindsey said. It was apparent to Jack that Lindsey had affection for Mrs. DuPaul, much like he had for Jack’s sister, Fiona.

Mrs. DuPaul put her hand on Lindsey’s arm and smiled up at him. “Shall I invite your parents to a weekend? I know they’d very much enjoy seeing Evelyn.”

“If I were you, I’d—what is it, Benton?” Lindsey asked, looking over Jack’s shoulder.

The three of them turned toward the door as Benton walked in, his arms outstretched, holding the debris of what looked like a piece of furniture.

Lindsey frowned. “What is that?” he asked as Benton put the pieces on the floor at his feet.

“It is the secretary you sent to her ladyship returned, my lord.”

Lindsey’s expression darkened, and in it, Jack saw the same befuddlement he’d noted earlier today at the card table. It struck him as odd—Nathan Grey was one of the strongest, most assured, and accomplished men he knew. He could not imagine that anything might rattle him—but he was clearly rattled.

“I don’t understand,” Lindsey said dumbly.

“The countess asked that I inform you the secretary did not hold up to her writing, and requests you ask if the Marchioness of Sudley might possibly return her secretary.”

Mrs. DuPaul bit back a smile and looked at the ground.

“I see,” Lindsey said low, his gaze darkening.

“In addition, the countess has requested more foolscap, for she intends to write quite a lot of correspondence to London.”

That brought Lindsey’s head up, and he glared at Benton. “Is there anything else the countess wants?”

“Indeed there is, my lord. The countess would like a carriage to convey all the correspondence she intends to post,” Benton responded calmly.

They all looked down at the debris.

Jack edged one piece with his toe. “It looks as if this piece was broken over a knee.”

“She didn’t break it over her knee, Jack,” Nathan said irritably. “But perhaps she ought to be put over a knee.”

The delicate cough behind them prompted the four of them to turn. The countess was standing at the threshold, her brows knit in a vee of displeasure.

“Evelyn!” Mrs. DuPaul cried, and hurried around the debris to greet Lady Lindsey. She took Lady Lindsey’s hands in hers and kissed her cheeks. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you home!”

“Thank you,” Lady Lindsey said a little stiffly. “I…I didn’t know you were expected, or I—”

“Oh no! No, I wasn’t expected at all. I just stopped by because I’d heard Nathan had returned from London.”

The countess gave Lindsey quite a look at that.

“We must have you over for tea soon,” Mrs. DuPaul continued. “I want to hear all about London and waiting on the queen!”

“Yes,” Lady Lindsey said, glancing at the floor now. It seemed to Jack as if she forced her smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Now I really must go,” Mrs. DuPaul said.

Lindsey moved to escort her out, but Mrs. DuPaul stopped him with a gentle laugh. “Please, Nathan—you too, Mr. Benton. Stay right where you are. I know my way out. Good day, everyone.”

“Good day, madam,” Jack said.

An awkward silence followed Mrs. DuPaul’s departure. None of them spoke. Jack was uncertain what to say. But then the countess suddenly moved, marching into the room, deliberately stepping over the broken furniture. Jack noticed that her windblown hair had come loose from its coif, and in places, thick strands of hair hung down, one curving over a cheek. Her skin was flushed, and her eyes bright.