One Night of Scandal (2 page)

Deborah gave a gusty sigh. ‘Oh, I know that I am a selfish creature,’ she said, ‘but what am I to do?’ She threw herself down in her chair again, half-heartedly buttered a piece of toast and then pushed it aside. ‘I cannot produce my fiancé for my father’s approval, for he does not exist.’

Mrs Aintree shook her head sadly. ‘I have told you before, Deborah dear, that one deception leads inevitably to another. I suggest that you tell your father the truth.’

Deborah wrinkled up her nose. She could see both the logic and sense of Mrs Aintree’s advice, but matters were not that simple.

‘You know I cannot do that, Clarrie. If I confess that there
is no betrothal, Papa will see me removed to Bath before you can say purse strings!’

Mrs Aintree frowned. ‘Would that be so bad? You are often saying that you miss the diversions of a town. I know that at the beginning you thought it best to live quietly, but it is not right for a young lady such as yourself to be immured in the country with nothing to entertain you. And the company in Bath can be very elegant—’ Mrs Aintree stopped, glancing at Deborah’s strained, white face. ‘No, how foolish of me. It would not serve at all.’

Deborah shook her head. ‘If that were all that there was to it, then you know that I would heed your words, Clarrie. But it is not!’ She rubbed her forehead in a gesture of despair. ‘You know that I love my family, but I would run mad within a day if I had to live with them again. Too much has happened for us to try and pretend otherwise, yet my parents behave as though nothing has changed. Mama wants to throw me in the path of any man who has fortune and address, just as she did before I was wed. As for Papa…’ She hesitated. ‘He has an unshakeable belief that he knows what is right for all of us, and he has not given up hope of promoting a match for me with cousin Harry. He wrote to me on the subject not two months since and put me in a dreadful turmoil. That was the reason that I invented my fictitious suitor in the first place!’

Mrs Aintree nodded, her face sympathetic. ‘You know that Lord Walton only wishes to secure your future, Deborah,’ she said, striving to give the balanced view. ‘Most people would consider it a dreadful shame that you would not countenance remarriage when you are young and attractive and have your entire life before you—’

Deb made a sharp movement that sent the remaining chocolate slopping into her saucer in a miniature tidal wave.

‘No! I cannot marry now. Not after Neil…’

Mrs Aintree touched her hand. ‘I know. I understand.’

Deb turned away, her face tense. She seldom spoke of her short marriage to Neil Stratton, if marriage it could be called. The memory was still acutely painful after the passage of three years and she had learned a swift and bitter lesson, one she would never forget. She had been a silly, flighty girl of nineteen when she had eloped, and she had been looking for a means of escape from the stifling restrictions of life at Walton Hall. She had thought that she loved Neil, but it had not been long before she realised that she had been deeply mistaken in him and that his feelings for her were no more than a charade. Her marriage had been a sham and it had left her with an abiding fear of making the same mistakes again.

Deb’s elopement had been yet another impulsive act in a long line that led back to her days in the schoolroom. In her childhood, her scrapes had generally been of a relatively harmless nature, such as releasing mice down the staircase at Olivia’s come-out ball or putting spiders in Guy’s socks to make him wail. The elopement had had rather more severe consequences for her life. After that, Deb had recognised that she was prone to act on impulse and had tried hard to temper her more rash actions by stopping to think first. It did not come naturally to her. Sometimes she was able to repress her impulses and sometimes she could not.

Deb nibbled the corner of the piece of toast. So the mention of her imminent betrothal had failed to throw her father off the scent. Nevertheless, she could not afford to give in now. She would
not
admit that she had made it up, return meekly to Bath and to the impossible prospect of being married off to her cousin Harry. She needed a plan.

She watched Mrs Aintree out of the corner of her eye. Clarrie had always had an uncanny knack for spotting when Deb was hatching a plot, but now her companion looked
quite serene, as though she thought the matter settled. Deb knew that it was not. Somehow, a temporary fiancé must be found.

If only she could produce a gentleman for her father’s approval, then the whole matter might be dealt with and forgotten quickly. It would not do simply to turn up at Walton Hall and
pretend
to be an engaged woman. Her father was shrewd and would smell an enormous rat if she arrived without the necessary gentleman in tow. No, she needed a
real
gentleman to endorse her story. The counterfeit betrothal would buy her time, and once she had returned to Midwinter she could write vaguely to her parents about her wedding plans, finally letting it be known that the engagement had ended with mutual goodwill some twelve months later. No doubt by then the threat of invasion would have receded, cousin Harry would have found another bride, and her father could be persuaded to let her stay in Midwinter Mallow.

The plan seemed sound, but even Deborah could see the huge flaw in the strategy. She did not have a fiancé and, further, she had no idea how to find a suitable gentleman to fill the role.

Deb made a quick inventory of her male acquaintance. It did not take long, for the list was small, society in the Midwinter villages having few eligible gentlemen. It was one of the reasons why she had chosen to live there; she did not wish to be troubled by masculine attention. Most of the men she knew were already married, like her brother-in-law, Ross Marney, or Lord Northcote of Burgh. There was Sir John Norton, of course. He was a bachelor. The drawback there was that she did not like him. And then there was the Duke of Kestrel, who was far too eminent to involve in such a plan, and his brother, Lord Richard Kestrel, who was far too…Deb paused. The first idea that had come into her
head when she thought of Richard Kestrel was that he was far too
attractive
for her to ask him to be her counterfeit fiancé. The thought made her acutely uncomfortable and she shifted on the dining-chair’s embroidered cushion. Richard Kestrel was too attractive, too dangerous, too forceful and too…
everything
…to be in the least bit suitable. If she were looking to find a lover rather than a husband, then he would be ideal. Deb gave herself a little shake, uncertain where that idea had come from. She wanted neither lover nor husband and the inevitable trouble that would follow with both.

Her inventory over, Deb sat back with a sigh. The lack of appropriate candidates at least spared her the embarrassment of having to approach a gentleman of her acquaintance and ask him to pose as her temporary suitor. Perhaps it would be easier to make a business arrangement with a stranger instead. She could pay someone to act the part.

Various objections rose in her mind and Deb dealt with them one by one. She had no money other than her allowance, which her father could remove at any moment. That was a practical consideration, but she was sure she could find a way around it. Perhaps she could persuade Ross to fund her. It was not an insuperable problem.

Far more daunting was the thought of pretending to be engaged to a stranger. Yet if she were to hire an actor, for example, it might be quite easy. He would know how to carry off the part. And they would only be visiting Walton Hall for a week at the most.

A feeling of nervousness gnawed at Deb’s stomach. Every instinct that she possessed told her that it was a foolish, ridiculous and even downright dangerous idea to hire herself a husband. She should not even be countenancing it. Ladies simply did not behave in such a manner.

And yet, what alternative did she have? She did not wish to return to Bath and a life she had left behind three years
ago. She did not want to marry cousin Harry. She did not want to marry
anyone
. That was impossible.

The newspaper rustled as Mrs Aintree turned the pages. She was reading the
Suffolk Chronicle
, which Deborah knew carried advertisements for everything from the efficacious effects of bear’s grease on the hair to Mr Elliston’s patented beaver hats. As she watched her companion skimming each page, an idea slowly began to form in Deborah’s head. Perhaps she could place an advertisement for a fiancé in the newspaper. After all, people were always advertising for servants and this was not so very different. She needed a gentleman to perform a specific task. She was prepared to pay him. The newspaper was a way in which she might find him. She would have to be careful, of course—she would need to make sure that she involved someone else in the interview process and that she took up proper references for the gentleman concerned, but the fundamental idea might just work.

Deborah considered the plan whilst buttering another piece of toast with renewed enthusiasm. It was not an orthodox manner in which to find a fiancé, but there was no doubt that such a businesslike approach had its merits. The more she thought about it, the more she could see that it was akin to interviewing a butler or some other employee. There was also another big advantage. If she made a business arrangement, there would be no unfortunate misunderstandings about love.

During the three years that she had lived in Midwinter, Deb had been subjected to the attentions of various suitors, several of whom had professed an ardent regard for her. She had found the experience uncomfortable, given that she had a distaste for marriage and no wish to mislead a gentleman into thinking she would make another match. When she had gently tried to dissuade her admirers they had all, without
exception, taken offence, as though it was impossible to accept that any one of their suits could not be irresistible to her. The whole experience had left Deb even more set against a love match and with the reputation for being as cold as ice. Under the circumstances, a business transaction had to be the best option.

Her appetite restored and her decision made, Deborah wolfed down the rest of the piece of toast and another one besides, which she larded with strawberry jam, before excusing herself and returning to the small study where she had left her father’s letter. It was a sunny day in late summer and she was itching to get outside. A ride would be most pleasant before the heat of the day grew too extreme. And that afternoon she had planned to walk over to Midwinter Marney Hall to see Olivia. But first she had a task to accomplish.

Drawing pen and paper towards her, Deb started to draft out her advertisement:
Lady seeks temporary fiancé…

She paused. That sounded a little abrupt. People might think that she was mad. She needed to be rather more subtle in her first communication. Still, she felt it should not prove too difficult to sketch out a suitable notice, for Mrs Aintree had told her that, of all the Walton family, she was the one most accomplished at her letters. She bent to the task again.

A half-hour later, she had come up with something with which she was almost satisfied.

A lady requires the assistance of a gentleman. If any gentleman of honour, discretion and chivalry will venture to answer this notice and despatch a reply to Lady Incognita at the Bell and Steelyard Inn, Woodbridge, Suffolk, then he shall have no reason to repent his generosity.

Deb bit the end of her pen as she considered the wording, then she blotted the page and sealed the note decisively.
There was no time for hesitation. They were to depart for the wedding in Somerset in less than two months’ time, and, if she was to advertise and interview a suitable candidate, she needed to start at once.

She crept back in to the breakfast room, the letter tucked under her arm. Mrs Aintree had gone, but the newspaper fortunately remained and it was the work of only a moment to discover the address for advertisements and the price for a modest three lines of text. Deb rang the bell for the maid and placed the letter in her hand, with instructions for the gardener’s boy to take the gig into Woodbridge and deliver the letter at once. Then, feeling slightly breathless at her own audacity, she made her way upstairs to change into riding dress. She squashed an unworthy desire to run after the maid and snatch the letter back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And, after all, if she disliked the tone of any of the replies, she need not answer them. No one would ever know.

Within another half-hour she was out in the stable yard and was waiting for Beauty to be saddled. The fresh morning air restored her spirits. She decided to ride without a groom and whilst she was out, to consider the attributes that she required in a transient fiancé.

She trotted down the drive and out on to the lane. Her fiancé would have to be a gentleman, of course, or at least someone who could consistently act the part. She could not foist some upstart upon her family and expect them to accept him. On the other hand, he had to be biddable.
She
was the one in charge of this situation and required her betrothed to recognise that fact. He could not challenge her authority. He would do as she told him. Smiling slightly, she set Beauty at the fence and galloped off into the fields.

Lord Richard Kestrel had been cantering full tilt along the lane that passed Mallow House when he saw Mrs Strat
ton’s gig approaching, driven at a cracking pace by the gardener’s boy. The gig passed within two inches of him and one of its rickety wheels almost came clear of the road. The boy righted it without the least appearance of concern and continued on his way whistling. But a letter that had been on the seat beside him slid from the cart and came to rest on top of a tall spike of thistles at the side of the road. Richard bent down, plucked it from its perch and looked at it with interest. It was written in Deborah Stratton’s strong hand, which he had previously read on one memorable occasion, and it was addressed to the editor of the
Suffolk Chronicle
. Richard dusted the missive down, caught up with the gig and passed it over to the gardener’s boy, who stowed it away gratefully.