One Night of Scandal (10 page)

As soon as she reached home, Deb hurried into the study, threw herself down into a chair and opened the only reply to her advertisement. Dangling her bonnet from her hand, she read the letter once, frowned, then went in search of Mrs Aintree. She found her companion settled in the drawing room with her netting frame set up beside her. Mrs Aintree looked up and smiled. Deb handed the letter over without a word. Mrs Aintree fixed her glasses more firmly on her nose, cleared her throat and read aloud:
The odd conciseness of your style pleases and intrigues me. If I should like you as well as I like your advertisement, I think I could venture to help you. If you wish for further communication, address to Lord Scandal at the Bell and Steelyard Inn in Woodbridge.

She put the letter down in her lap and looked at Deborah with great reproof. ‘I knew you would not take my advice and tell your father the truth. But advertising for a gentleman—have you run mad, Deborah?’

‘Never mind that!’ Deb said impatiently. ‘What do you think?’

‘Saucy,’ Clarissa Aintree said, shaking her head. ‘Very saucy indeed. What character did you anticipate in your…um…betrothed, Deborah?’

‘I thought of someone moderate, agreeable and open to my guidance,’ Deb said. ‘He would need to be quite biddable.’

Clarissa Aintree made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a cough. ‘Then Lord Scoundrel cannot be the man for you.’

‘Lord Scandal,’ Deb said.

‘Whichever. He cannot be the right man for this role, for every line of his communication screams arrogance.’ Mrs Aintree put the letter down on the little table beside her. ‘Throw the letter in the fire, my love. Better still, throw the entire paper, advertisement and all, into the flames. Advertising for a fiancé indeed! Outrageous!’

‘I need to find myself a gentleman most speedily,’ Deb argued. She got to her feet and walked across to the drawing-room window. ‘My father expects me to arrive at Walton Hall with my betrothed.’

‘Really, Deborah, was there ever anyone like you for getting yourself into a scrape?’ Mrs Aintree said, not quite managing to eradicate the reproach from her voice. ‘Instead of solving the problem, you come up with a solution that creates a further difficulty!’

‘You do not think that Lord Scandal could be the answer to the problem?’

‘With a name like that?’ Mrs Aintree enquired drily.

‘I thought that it might be his real name.’

Mrs Aintree raised her brows. ‘And are you called Lady Incognita?’ she asked, drier still. ‘Now I consider it, I do believe Lady Incognita to be the sobriquet for one of the most notorious courtesans in London. No wonder that you have Lord Scandal answering your advertisement!’

Deb sighed and pushed the curly fair hair away from her face. ‘I suppose that you are right. No, I
know
that you are right. I was merely clutching at straws. Lord Scandal will not do. I shall have to wait a week or so for other replies to my advertisement.’

‘No,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘I do believe that you should give up this silly notion of a temporary fiancéat once, Deborah. No good will come of it. No gentleman of respectable means would ever respond to such a notice. This is not like advertising for a butler, you know.’

Deb sighed again. She knew that Mrs Aintree, the epitome of common sense, was absolutely right. But she had hoped—expected—that there would be so many more replies from which to choose. She had been certain that there would be at least one sensible gentleman whom she might select from the crowd. Alas, it seemed that the gentlemen of Suffolk were far too conservative, too stuffy, to respond to an intriguing invitation. All except for Lord Scandal, who was clearly a rogue of the first order.

‘You are correct, as always, Clarrie,’ she said, slumping on to the window seat and propping her shoulders against the panelling in a deplorably hoydenish manner. ‘It was a silly plan. I shall forget about it and go to dress for Lady Sally’s ball. What do you do this evening?’

‘I shall sit here and compose advertisements for the news
papers,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘They will read:
Mrs Prim requires new post as a lady’s companion. She is utterly unable to cope with the demands of her current place and requires a quiet life with a sober, respectable, elderly lady.
’

Deb laughed and hugged her. ‘You know that you would not care for a quiet life, dear Clarrie! You would miss my hoydenish behaviour. Come now, confess it. You would be quite lost without me!’

But as she went upstairs to dress, Deb reflected that it would not do to dismiss Lord Scandal quite yet. She had not completely relinquished her plan and, unless some other gentleman came forward, he was all that she had. An arrogant reprobate…Deb paused with her hand on the banister. She knew one such man already and if it were not for the fact that she doubted he ever read the local press, she would have sworn that Lord Scandal bore a strong resemblance to Lord Richard Kestrel. That was impossible, of course. Even if he did read the
Suffolk Chronicle
, Lord Richard would surely never respond to an advertisement.

At any rate, it did not matter, for she would not take Lord Scandal up on his offer. Soon she would have any number of respectable responses from which to choose and in the meantime she would go to Lady Sally’s ball and greet Lord Richard Kestrel with a cool composure that would soon depress his amorous intentions. It was a good resolution, but she could not help wondering, with a little shiver of premonition, whether she would be able to keep it.

Chapter Six

P
romptly at nine, the carriage from Midwinter Marney Hall drew up on the gravel sweep outside Saltires. None of the occupants of the coach was in a particularly sunny mood. Olivia and Ross had been sitting in a simmering silence for the entire journey. Deb was torn between exasperation with them and a most unfamiliar nervousness on her own account. She felt as shy and awkward as a débutante at her first Assembly. In consequence she chattered even more than usual, until Ross had brusquely suggested she save her energies for the dancing. The silence had then become even more strained and it was with relief that they arrived at Lady Sally’s ball and made their way under the arched portico and into the hall.

Many of Lady Sally’s guests had already arrived and the air was thick with perfume and the scent of fresh flowers. The sound of a string quartet tinkled in the background and servants passed unobtrusively through the throng, offering glasses of champagne and lemonade.

‘We have only an impromptu dance tonight, my dears,’ Lady Sally said, as she ushered them through into the Great Hall. ‘Society in the Midwinter villages seems sadly lacking these days, with Lord and Lady Newlyn gone to Cornwall
on their honeymoon and the Duke of Kestrel and his brother up in London—’

‘Richard Kestrel is gone to London?’ Deb enquired. She felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. ‘I thought that he had promised to be here tonight.’

‘No, it is not Lord Richard who is absent,’ Lady Sally said, laughing. ‘Justin and Lucas Kestrel are gone, as you know. Richard remains in Midwinter for the time being.’

Deb bit her lip, annoyed to have betrayed an interest. ‘Oh, how unfortunate,’ she said. ‘I keep wondering when he will be leaving.’

Lady Sally viewed her face with shrewd amusement. ‘Would you prefer to exchange Lord Richard for one of his brothers, Deborah? A pity, when he told me that he was looking forward to dancing with you this evening!’

Deborah set her lips tightly. Lord Richard had given her fair warning, after all. The prospect of crossing swords with him again filled her with a shivery anticipation.

But even as she thought it, she saw Lord Richard through the crowd, chatting to Lady Benedict of Midwinter Bere. Lady Benedict was a most elegant woman and her exquisite gown of pale lilac with an overdress of pearl-sewn gauze made Deborah feel rather provincial in her own two-year-old rose pink satin. Lord Richard seemed very taken with his current companion and, although he met Deb’s eye and inclined his head with studied courtesy, he made no move to leave Lady Benedict’s side. Deb, who had never even entertained the idea of having a rival until that moment, and still less of feeling piqued if Lord Richard showed a lack of interest in her, was suddenly assailed by the alien emotion of jealousy. It seemed that in a short space of time she had begun to consider Lord Richard Kestrel her property. She stared at him for several seconds longer than she ought, saw him glance back at her with raised brows and realised that
once again she had given her feelings away. She felt the red colour mantle her face and clash horribly with the pink satin dress. She turned abruptly away, wondering if she would ever achieve the town bronze that she desired.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Mr Owen Chance,’ Lady Sally said, smoothing over the awkward moment. ‘Mr Chance is but recently come to Woodbridge to visit his uncle and aunt, the Jacksons of Church Place. Mr Chance, may I introduce the Honourable Mrs Deborah Stratton from Mallow House?’

Lady Sally smiled impartially on them and moved away to speak to some of her other guests, leaving Deb and Mr Chance looking at each other with a cautious friendship.

Owen Chance was a well set-up young man of about five and twenty, with an open, friendly face and a laugh that came easily. It quickly became apparent that he found Deb a charming companion, and although Deb discovered that her attention was inclined to stray to Lord Richard Kestrel with the same predictability of a compass swinging to north, with concentration she could keep her gaze riveted on Mr Chance instead. They enjoyed two dances together, a quadrille and a country dance, by which time Deb’s card was starting to fill with other partners. Owen Chance then reclaimed her for supper in Lady Sally’s artfully decorated conservatory, and they had the opportunity of furthering their acquaintance.

The conservatory had been decorated in a rustic style with coloured lamps hung from the ceiling and the water splashing into small rock pools amongst the greenery. Deb thought that Olivia should be in ecstasy to see such picturesque decoration, for horticulture was an interest that she shared with Lady Sally. Olivia, however, was still looking rather glum. As she chatted to Mr Chance, Deb watched her sister, who was taking supper with Mr Lang and his wife and daughter.
The vicar was a thin man who looked as though he were sucking on vinegar, and his wife was a plump woman with an aggrieved expression. No one in the party appeared to be enjoying themselves.

Ross Marney, in contrast, was dining with Lady Sally herself, and seemed to be having a splendid time. Deb noted that he filled his own and Lady Sally’s wineglass with abandon, and at one point it seemed he was about to commit the somewhat questionable act of feeding his hostess with strawberries from his own spoon. Deb felt a little chilled at the sight, and embarrassed to see that Owen Chance had also observed it. In her opinion, Ross was behaving disgracefully and, whilst Lady Sally was gently restraining his wilder excesses, something simply had to be done. Deb decided to tackle Ross about his deplorable conduct.

Her opportunity arose when Mr Chance went to claim his cousin, Miss Jackson, for the polonaise, and Sir John Norton came to ask Lady Sally to dance. Deb was about to slip into Lady Sally’s vacated seat when she saw Richard Kestrel come across and have a word in Ross’s ear. Richard threw a smiling glance in Olivia’s direction, and Deb saw Ross smile ruefully in return, run his hand through his tousled dark hair and get to his feet. To Deb’s surprise, Ross then went across to the Langs’ table and gave his wife a very creditable bow. The two of them headed towards the ballroom and Lord Richard Kestrel, smiling slightly, came across to Deb’s table.

‘Good evening, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, with a bow.

‘Good evening, Lord Richard,’ Deb said coldly. She had forgotten her earlier vow to rebuff him, but she did remember how elegant Lady Benedict had looked hanging on his arm—and how pleased Richard had appeared to have her attention. Just the thought of it made her determined to freeze him.

Richard gestured to the empty seat beside her. ‘May I?’

‘If you wish.’

Richard sat. ‘Your tone implied that that might be in doubt, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, smiling sardonically. ‘I assured you earlier that I was looking forward to our meeting.’

‘So you did,’ Deb said, feigning nonchalance and hoping that she could carry it off. ‘I had forgot.’

Richard’s smiled broadened and challenged the truth of her statement.

‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘And I am disappointed that you have not yet delivered the cut direct, but perhaps you are saving yourself for a particularly acerbic set down?’

Deb smiled, despite herself. ‘I am sure that I can come up with a suitable snub,’ she said, ‘if you will just give me a moment. You took me by surprise, my lord. I thought that Lady Benedict was your companion of choice for the evening.’

Lord Richard’s sardonic smile deepened. ‘I see. I hope that you felt suitably jealous, ma’am?’

‘Jealous? Not I!’ Deb said, with an airy wave of the hand. ‘It would be too much to expect you to confine your attentions to one lady.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ Richard looked vaguely offended.

‘Of course,’ Deb said. ‘You are as fickle as the day is long, my lord. Everyone says so.’

‘You should trust your own judgement rather than the observations of others, ma’am,’ Richard said.

‘Oh, I do.’ Deb toyed with her glass, then looked up and met his eyes. ‘When we met this afternoon I told you that I considered you faithless and unreliable and downright dangerous—’ She broke off, realising that her tone demonstrated her feelings for him more clearly than any words. She looked down, vexed, and concentrated rather intensely on the leftover strawberries in the bowl.

A second later, Richard’s hand covered hers and stilled her fidgeting fingers. ‘You should give me the chance to show myself faithful,’ he said. ‘You might be surprised.’

Deb summoned up all her resistance. ‘I
should
be surprised,’ she said tartly. ‘Very surprised.’