It Started with a Scandal (10 page)

H
E WATCHED H
ER
leave and was surprised at the impulse to catch her by the elbow before she disappeared from sight.

He turned and looked at those three letters. More remained. But at least these three letters would stem the flow of need and concern and demand for a little while longer. But he could feel the familiar pressure building up in him. Time passed too swiftly. And there never seemed to be enough money. He was like Tantalus, always reaching for something just out of reach.

He drew the one to his grandfather toward him. He was confident his grandfather wouldn’t share a word of it with Marie-Helene, which was as it should be.

He frowned down at it faintly.

This one, unfortunately, would need to be rewritten.

Because a word was already blurred almost beyond recognition.

Very like a tear had dropped upon it.

He pressed his thumb very gently against the word, as tenderly as if he were brushing it from her cheek. It was indeed damp.

He lifted it to find the word “home” imprinted there in Mrs. Fountain’s handwriting.

E
LISE INSTINCTIV
ELY PLACED
her hand on the banister and let it guide her down the stairs, rather than take them at her usual dash. Somehow the smooth wood helped ground her careening emotions, a bit like a lightning rod might.

She rather wished she
was
a clock or a barouche, and not a woman. Because then she wouldn’t be pulled this way by charm, that way by pathos, moved when she wanted to be made of stone, when she couldn’t
possibly
be more significant to him than a clock or barouche, because servants were meant to be just that impassive. Oh, to be able to simply plant one’s feet wide and adopt a steely stare and coolly shoulder everything the world chose to heap upon you, just like Lord Lavay.

“You may
go
,” she mocked cheekily in a stern baritone whisper. An attempt to cheer herself up. He would always be able to summon or banish her, just like that. She was never going to like it. But she would simply have to endure it.

Just as she would have to endure the word “nuptials” and the eventuality of them, and why on earth should it matter in the least to her? He was only here temporarily, after all. Men like that married for money and for heirs, and bred more men just like that, who employed housekeepers, and so forth. That was nature’s way.

She tossed her head with a sniff.

She slowed, savoring the silken glide of the fine wood beneath her hand.

It was just . . .

She stopped.

The break in his voice when he’d said the word “home.”

That little break was very like a crack in his facade through which light poured.

How she longed to see through to the other side.

And she had felt, in that moment, her own heart crack a little for him.

She’d begun to suspect “steely and impassive” was in fact the opposite of “coldhearted and indifferent.”

She recalled his face when she’d offered him the willow bark tea. He’d actually looked guilty today at the very notion of being in pain.

As if he hadn’t the right to it. As if he was
supposed
to be impervious.

She was a believer in counting her blessings, and it was a blessing that she would be able to take out her stormy emotions on the baking of apple tarts this afternoon.

She sniffed and dashed at her eyes.

Thank
God
he hadn’t seen her shed a tear. At least she had that to be grateful for.

Chapter 10

A
N HOUR LATER,
E
LISE
brought the rolling pin down with a satisfying
thud
and leaned with all her weight on the dough, rolling it, flattening it. She seized up a handful of flour and let it sift down through her fingers like fairy dust, then gave the dough another vigorous flattening.

She’d patrolled the efforts of her staff first pleased to discover all of them vigorously laboring, Dolly Farmer included. They hadn’t simply leaped into motion when she’d appeared. They’d been moving furniture, sweeping floors, polishing, rolling rugs and taking them outside to be beaten, all under their own volition.

She’d sent them in to re-beat the rugs in one room when she’d detected a dusty spot beneath the leg of one chair. She hadn’t, not really, but she’d learned the efficacy of keeping her staff on guard. She’d also pointed out a patch of dust on a strip of molding.

“I suspect you’re just a bit out of practice,” she’d said sweetly. “Unlike, doubtless, the other servants lining up to apply for your positions. A prince of the House of Bourbon should not suffer one bit of dust.”

She was probably testing her luck quite a bit, but there was no denying that Lord Lavay’s influence was useful. Not to mention versatile. She could wield his name in all manner of ways. As a teacher, she’d learned to use whatever tools had been at her disposal to get her students to do whatever she’d wanted them to do.

A sheet of light entered the kitchen through the rain, and inspiration poured in along with it.

She might not be allowed to throw things in a fit of pique, but she could certainly sing.

Oh, you’d better not get in the way

Of the dour Lord Philippe
Lavay,

He’ll throw a vase or cup or two

Or he might decide to run you through!

He fought with dozens and dozens of men

And he’d happily do it all again

So you’d better run away from him

Before he gets you, too!

Ohhhhh. . . .

you’d better not get in the way of the wayy—
acccck!

She whirled, brandishing the rolling pin, when she saw something move in the corner of her eye.

And the floor seemed to drop out from beneath her when she saw it was the man himself.

In the horrible moment that followed, her life flashed before her eyes.

Silence rang, and a cloud of flour hovered, sinister as London smog. Much of it, she feared, sifted down over her hair.

“Pray, do not leave me in suspense. How does the rest of the song go, Mrs. Fountain?” He said this idly. Almost a purr. That delicious accent that could so easily caress or menace.

He was leaning against the door frame, filling her escape route entirely. His arms were folded across his chest, his face stony and impassive.

The rest of the song? She’d lost her ability to speak, let alone sing. She held the rolling pin up like Poseidon holding a trident.

“Lord Lavay . . .” she managed faintly. “I . . .”

She
what
?

“That is, indeed, my name. And how very convenient that so many things rhyme with it.”

It truly was, in fact, quite convenient, but she wasn’t about to agree at the moment.

She nodded.

Why had she
nodded
?

Oh, God. Her face was scorching.

His
face was strangely taut, as if he was holding back something.

“Lay down your weapon, if you will, Mrs. Fountain.”

“My weap—oh.” She gently, soundlessly put the rolling pin down and, needing something to do with her hands, folded them tightly and faced Lavay.

“Here is my concern,” he said gravely, and her heart sank and sank. “There are many facets to me, you see, Mrs. Fountain. You’ve captured my warriorlike qualities quite well, but I am renowned for other qualities, too. For instance, you haven’t yet used the word ‘charms,’ which rhymes so beautifully with ‘arms.’ ”

She froze.

And then delight surged through her.

“Not to mention ‘cause for alarm,’ ” she risked. Because God help her, she couldn’t help herself.

He regarded her thoughtfully, and something about that look traveled up her spine like a trailed finger.

“Am I?” he said silkily.

Dear God, yes. But not in the way he ought to be.

Heat had begun at the back of her neck.

“You’ve a lovely singing voice,” he said abruptly.

Now she
knew
for certain he was teasing her.

He smiled. Slowly, to allow her to fully appreciate it, to give it time to snake around her heart and stop her breath. It spread, wickedly, delightedly, and it made him look twenty years younger. His beauty
hurt
in a delicious way.

And the smile felt like a benediction.

It occurred to her that there was very little she wouldn’t do to earn those kinds of smiles.

“You look
lovely
when you smile,” she breathed.

Dear God! She hadn’t meant to say that aloud!

What’s worse, she’d sounded incredulous.

She put her hand up to her mouth, as if she could belatedly stuff the words back into it.

He laughed.

That’s
what he’d been trying to suppress. It was an enormous laugh, as wonderful as sunlight after storm. It echoed in the kitchen, and sounded free and natural. And this, she decided, was precisely what the house needed to cleanse the corners and freshen the air. Lots of this kind of laughter. Even if it was at her expense.

“ . . .
And I haven’t done it for a while
,” he sang in a baritone lilt.

Her jaw dropped.

And then she laughed and brought her hands together in a clap that sent up a cloud of flour. She coughed and spluttered, but beneath that she could hear him laughing again, and the sound trailed off into a happy sigh, and he shook his head to and fro. As if she was an endless source of amusement.

“If you would kindly send up apple tarts and willow bark tea when you have finished with the baking, Mrs. Fountain. My purpose for coming down the stairs can wait. Oh, and you’ve flour on your . . .” He waved an index finger to and fro in the general area of his left breast.

Wicked, wicked man.

And then he strolled off singing,

Ooohhhh, you’d better not get in the way

of the powerful Lord Philippe Lavay—

“I think ‘powerful’ works better there, don’t you, Mrs. Fountain?” he called over his shoulder.

He’ll have an apple tart or two

Right before he runs you through!

She thought she saw him gesture the “running through” with an invisible sword.

The willow bark tea must certainly be working.

And as she watched him go, she fought a suspicion, a radiant, unnerving suspicion, that the reason he had come all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen . . . was to see her. Just to see her.

She went still for a moment and stared at the place where he’d disappeared. She knew many underservants in large homes never even got a glimpse of the master of the house, so separate were their worlds, even beneath the same roof. And often masters of the house never learned the names of the underservants, let alone saw them or noticed them. Most masters of the house dealt only with a butler or steward.

Servants were meant to be acquiescent and unobtrusive and obedient.

If he was assessing her on those criteria, she had already failed.

She gave her head a toss.

“What ruddy nonsense, Elise,” she told herself firmly. “He came down to the kitchen because he
can
. You’ve restored mobility to the man with willow bark tea, and now he’ll simply be everywhere when you don’t expect it, like chestnuts in the bed and mice swinging from porcelain closets, just to keep you on your guard.”

The mice reminded her of her impending confrontation with the servants during which they would tell her whether they were staying on, which perversely improved her mood. As she’d told the servants, challenge only made her more cheerful.

And the anticipation of seeing Jack in just an hour or so shifted everything back into perspective. No one, not even the appeal of Lavay, was a match for a mother determined to care for her child.

E
LISE STOOD
AT
the kitchen door, her eye fixed on the area of the downs between the house and the vicarage, and her heart leaped when two figures, one small and running, as usual, the other taller and running after him, waving his arms in a vain attempt to get the smaller one to slow down, came into view.

“Mama!”

“Good evening, Jack, my love!”

He crashed into her thighs, laughing, and flung his arms around her in a hug.

“Whoops!” He laughed. “Mama, we’ve something for you.”

Seamus came panting up behind him, came to a halt, bowed, then put a hand over his heart and recited:

Roses are red,

Violets are rare

Mrs. Fountain would look splendid with both in her hair.

But all we have are lilies, so there.

He and Jack presented flowers. Indeed, lilies.

She took them and curtsied, laughing. Jack’s lily was rather more crushed than Seamus’s.

Who, bless his fickle rogue’s heart, was like balm after Lavay. Seamus didn’t fascinate or enrage or move or toss her emotions about like fall leaves in a windstorm, or occupy a good part of her mind for the whole of the day. But he did flatter, and he was certainly easy to look at.

Surely, for some women, Seamus was temptation incarnate.

His
eyes were green, and they were sparkling at her now.

“Lilies
and
a small ruffian delivered unto me. Could a woman be any luckier? Good heavens, Jack, did you get jelly on your collar?”

“No, it’s blood, Mama!” he said cheerfully.

Elise clutched at the door frame in shock that was only a little feigned.

“Dinna ye worry, Mrs. Fountain. They wrestled a bit and Jack’s elbow caught Liam in the nose.”

“They were wrestling? I wasn’t aware this was part of the curriculum.”

“It’s what boys do, Mrs. Fountain. One moment they’re doing their lessons, the next it’s warfare. Adam, er, Reverend Sylvaine, and I managed to part them. They’re still the best of friends.”

“It’s mostly Liam’s blood,” Jack said cheerily. “The vicar made us stand in the corner and think about violins, and why they are not the answer.”

“Violin . . . oh, I think you mean ‘viol
ence
,’ Jack, darling. Violins are the little musical instruments you play like this.” She mimed drawing a bow across the strings. “ ‘Violence,’ with the short
e
sound, means fisticuffs and wrestling and the like.” She mimed putting up her fists. “And he’s right. It’s nev—well, seldom the answer.”

Because an image of six men coming at Philippe Lavay in the dark of the moon rushed at her, and inwardly she inserted herself into the scene, throwing her fists at all of them before they could get anywhere near him. No one who had a smile like his should ever be subjected to violence. The very idea knotted her stomach.

Where the devil had
that
untoward thought come from?

“Oh.” Jack scrunched his nose. “Well, I thought about violins while I was in the corner. Dunno what Liam thought about. Seamus plays the violin. He’s going to play the violin in the Christmas pantomime.”

“Fiddle,” Seamus said modestly. He hoisted an invisible fiddle to his shoulder and mimed vigorous playing, concluding with a flourish.

“I’m not surprised.”

“ . . . that I’m a man of many talents?” He smiled. “Violence may not be the answer, Mrs. Fountain, but fiddles often are.”

“Mama makes up songs, Seamus.” Jack was leaning against her now.

Elise felt herself blushing again. “Jack,” she said warningly.

“Do ye now, Mrs. Fountain? Come down to the Pig & Thistle on yer night out, and join in the singing. We’ve a tin flute player, and a drummer, and someone who claims he knows all of the verses to the ‘Ballad of Colin Eversea.’ Everyone comes, the vicar, Mrs. Endicott, the Eversea boys. If you bring the little one, we’ll swear to only sing the decent verses. If there are any left.”

“That’s a kind invitation, Mr. Duggan. Perhaps one day I’ll join all of you. For now, thank you for bringing Jack home. Here are four jam tarts for your trouble.”

She thrust out the cloth-wrapped bundle, and he handed off to her the cloth she’d wrapped his tarts in yesterday.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. ‘Tis naught but a pleasure, Mrs. Fountain. Until tomorrow.”

He bowed and turned, sauntering off, and a high, clear, lilting Irish tenor rose into the air over the green.

Oh, if ye thought ye’d never see

the end of Colin Eversea, then come along with me, lads, come along with me!

She watched him go, smiling faintly, and wondered vaguely if Seamus Duggan was . . . courting
 . . .
her?

Surely not. When plenty of young women who hadn’t any children would fling themselves into his arms with less provocation or incentive than a bouquet of flowers.

Poor, poor foolish young women. If only they knew.

She liked to think that Edward had essentially inoculated her against men like Seamus.

Or any men who possessed formidable, suspect charm, really. She’d been susceptible once before. Surely she possessed formidable resistance now?

She hovered in the doorway awhile longer, watching Seamus become smaller and smaller as she thought about another man entirely.

Just to be safe, she would send up James or Ramsey with willow bark tea and an apple tart later.

A
N HOUR LATER,
after she’d gotten Jack fed, they all gathered around the long kitchen table like a tribunal.

It felt to Elise like she was the one on trial.

“We’ve some conditions,” Dolly drawled, after they’d all silently filled their plates with stew and bread that wasn’t, as it turned out, intolerable.