Scandalous (4 page)

"Really, Claire, you are far too old to go casting up your accounts in carriages." Beth, having reached the street, directed this complaint up at the open carriage door.

Gabby had to smile a little at Beth's outraged tone, but otherwise she paid scant attention to her sister's grumbling. Instead she turned her gaze to Wickham House, and was pleased with what she saw. From outward appearances at least, Stivers and Mrs. Bucknell had done an outstanding job. For all that it had been closed for years, the house appeared in no different case from its neighbors around the square. Indeed, it might almost have been held to have been one of the handsomest among them. Certainly it looked as well kept.

"Next time
you
may sit across from her." Beth scowled and brushed disgustedly at her black skirts as she moved to stand at Gabby's elbow. Claire, who had just appeared in the doorway looking as pale and woebegone as a daffodil after a storm, called down apologetically, "I'm truly sorry, Beth."

"Now, Miss Beth, Miss Claire can't help being sick, and you know it, so just give over, do. And as for you— using cant terms is never becoming in a young lady, and so I've told you time out of mind," Twindle said in a scolding tone, appearing in the aperture as Claire, clutching Jem's hand, began to climb down.

"Being sick all over one's sister is even less becoming in a young lady than using cant terms, if you want my opinion," Beth retorted. As Twindle and Jem fussed over a still-apologizing Claire, Gabby, long innured to such petty squabbles between her sisters, turned her attention back to the house.

Its facade was impressive, she noted with some pride: made of brick with elegant stone steps and iron railings, Wickham House stood four stories high. The amount of work Stivers and Mrs. Bucknell had done in just a few days to make the dwelling ready must have been staggering: all appeared pristine, from the gleaming brass knocker on the door to the immaculately swept steps to the sparkling glass in the four rows of windows. But what was most surprising was that the lamps on either side of the door burned bright with welcome, and every room in the house seemed to be lit up. Although the curtains were drawn, light glowed behind them, making the grand house appear almost as though a party was being held inside.

"Stivers timed our arrival to a nicety, don't you think?" Beth said with admiration, breaking into Gabby's thoughts. Behind them, John-Coachman was already beginning to unload the baggage from the roof by the simple method of untying the bundle and then tossing individual pieces to the ground. Having turned Claire over to Twindle, Jem stood below, catching the newly liberated pieces and assembling them into a pile.

"Have a care with that one. It contains Miss Claire's vanity case," Twindle shrilled from some paces behind them, alarm obvious in her voice.

John-Coachman's reply was an unintelligible mutter, followed by a thud and a moan from Twindle.

"Stivers appears to have done a remarkable job," Gabby agreed, making a mental note to instruct the butler to be more sparing with candles in future. Under the circumstances, she did not mean to spend more than she must. Such profligacy was unlike Stivers, she thought with faint puzzlement as, treading warily, she began to ascend the steps. Steps were ever difficult for her, and only by maintaining a slow, careful pace could she be relatively confident of not stumbling. Beth was just behind her, and Claire, supported by Twindle's arm, brought up the rear.

The door opened before Gabby reached it. A strange footman peered out at them: one of Stiver's new hires, no doubt. Behind him, the hall seemed as well-lit as the assembly rooms at York, where, in the months before their father's death, Claire had, under Gabby's chaperonage, twice attended dances.

"Hello," Gabby said, summoning a smile for the footman as she gained the top of the steps. "As you have no doubt guessed, I am Lady Gabriella Banning, and these are my sisters, Lady Claire and Lady Elizabeth. And this is Miss Twindlesham."

"Yes, my lady, we were expecting you all the afternoon," the man said, stepping back with a bow and opening the door wide. "Shall I send someone down to carry in your bags, my lady?"

"Yes, thank you," Gabby said, walking past him into the hall. What immediately struck her was how warmly alive the house felt. Despite having had no members of the family in residence for a decade past, it seemed almost to hum with vitality. The marble floor gleamed; the chandelier sparkled; the tall pier glass to her right reflected walls papered in a soft cream and green pattern that looked surprisingly unfaded, and the mirror's ornate frame, as well as the frames of various paintings adorning the walls, were so bright a gold that they might well have been recently gilded. The deep reds and blues of the oriental carpet underfoot were as vivid as if it had been laid down the day before. The banister of the wide staircase that rose steeply on the right was silky with polish. Not the faintest musty scent or odor of mildew could be detected, sniff though she might. Spring flowers in a Meissen bowl added their scent to the smell of beeswax and— dinner? Surely not. Surely Stivers could not have timed their arrival as precisely as that.

As she drew off her gloves, Gabby realized with a deepening frown that there was even a slight buzz of conversation in the background. It seemed to emanate from beyond the closed pocket doors that led to the salon on the left; the dining room, she supposed.

"Miss Gabby, Miss Beth, Miss Claire, welcome!" A smile warmed Stivers's usually cadaverlike face as he hurried toward them from the back of the house. "Miss Gabby, forgive me. I have been on the watch all afternoon, and would have been on hand to open the door to you myself, but I was called to the kitchen to settle a slight dispute. That chef of His Lordship's— well, you know how Frenchies can be— has no notion of how to go on in a proper English kitchen. But I handled the difficulty, I fancy, quite well! I only hope that his foreign concoctions suit your palate, Miss Claire." This last was added on a fatherly note.

"Stivers, you have been very busy. I commend you," Gabby said as Claire murmured something inaudible in reply to this reference to her notoriously delicate stomach. The feeling that something was amiss was growing ever stronger within Gabby's breast. She frowned at Stivers. "But what do you mean, that chef of His Lordship's? Have you purloined someone's cook?"

The question was meant to be half in jest, but the joyous grin that transformed Stivers's face in response alarmed her to the core. In all the years he had served them— and that was all the years of her life and more— Gabby had never known Stivers to look
joyous.

"No, Miss Gabby. It's
His Lordship's
chef, that he has brought with him from foreign parts. His Lordship, your brother, the earl of Wickham. He is here, Miss Gabby."

For a moment Gabby could do no more than stare at the butler in stupefaction.

"Wickham? Here? Whatever are you talking about, Stivers?" Gabby demanded when she regained command of her tongue. Just then the doors to the presumed dining room were thrown open. What seemed like a positive crowd of dazzlingly dressed people spilled into the hall, laughing and chatting as they came.

"We shall be late for the farce," complained one woman, a ripe blonde in a shockingly low-cut yellow gown who laughed up into the face of the man to whose arm she clung. He was tall, well built, black haired, clad in immaculate evening attire, and at the center of the approaching throng.

"My lord," Stivers said with a deprecating cough.

The black-haired man's gaze swung around inquiringly. Perceiving the newcomers, he, along with the entire party, came to a halt. Gabby was suddenly conscious of being the cynosure of all eyes. Aware of the poor appearance that she and her sisters must present in their travel-stained, outdated mourning gowns, and of the slight scent of sickness that, she feared, clung to them all, she was conscious of an inward shrinking. Then it occurred to her that she was being made to feel uncomfortable by strangers who were most incomprehensibly making themselves at home in
her
house. She stood a little straighter, squaring her shoulders, raising her chin, and regarded the interlopers with eyebrows lifted in faint hauteur.

For an instant, no longer, she and the black-haired man locked eyes. His, she saw, were a dark blue, deep set beneath thick black brows. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, and his skin was very tan, as though he had spent much time exposed to a hot, unEnglish sun. His features were chiseled, his face hard and handsome. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped form was well suited to the frilled shirt, long-tailed black coat, silver waistcoat, black knee breeches, and silk stockings which he wore.

"Ah, so you have arrived at last," he said genially, just as if he knew them well and had been expecting them, and disengaged himself from the lady at his side. "Ladies and gentlemen, you must give me a moment to greet my sisters."

Gabby felt her jaw go slack as he strolled toward her.

"Gabriella, I presume," he said with a slight smile as she goggled up at him, and, possessing himself of her suddenly nerveless hand, carried it to his mouth. "Welcome to Wickham House. I trust your journey did not prove too tiring?"

3

She was unremarkable in every way save for the hauteur with which she regarded him, he thought. The hauteur nettled him: the daughter of an earl she might be, but she was also well past the first blush of youth, shapeless as a stick, dowdy in unbecoming, head-to-toe black, faintly disheveled, and, unlike the high flyer on his arm, possessed of looks that would never merit so much as a second glance from a connoisseur of women such as himself. He set himself to banishing the hauteur from her manner, and, he congratulated himself, succeeded admirably with his very first words. In fact, by the time he raised her hand to his lips, she looked as shocked as if he'd struck her. Her parted lips quivered, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened on his face until they were the size of coins. The delicately-boned hand he brushed against his mouth was suddenly cold as ice— or a corpse's. And, speaking of corpses, what small amount of color there had been in her face drained away in seconds, leaving it deathly pale.

Her response was extreme even though the unexpected presence of her brother in London must come as a considerable surprise. He was barely able to stop himself from frowning as the thought occurred to him: was her response
too
extreme? Did she, in fact,
know?

Not unless she was possessed of the second sight, he assured himself. How could she, after all? The trail which had brought him here was known to no one save himself and a few— very few— trusted confederates. He had chased Marcus's killer all the way to Colombo, then lost him. Instinct had taken him to the port's crowded dock area. There he had picked up the scent again, and followed it clear to London, where he had found his quarry at last, rotting in a rented room in a flophouse so disgusting that the scent of a corpse could pass unnoticed for three days. Someone had clearly gotten to the gunman first. That someone was, he guessed, his quarry, his
true
quarry. The man who had ordered Marcus's death. The message with which Marcus had summoned him to Ceylon had read, in part,
Come at once— believe it or not, I've found what you seek.
He hadn't believed it, not really, but had gone nonetheless. But still, he'd been too late— Marcus had been killed before his eyes, ironically lending credence to his message. Now all he could do was try to flush out the man who had ordered Marcus's death. The best way to do that, he'd decided, was to assume Marcus's identity in hopes that the killer, befuddled into believing that his first stooge had failed him, would try again. So far, though, the scheme hadn't worked. Having flaunted himself throughout London without success, he was coming to the reluctant conclusion that the man he sought was intelligent enough to lay low.

Now here was Marcus's sister, looking at him like he had just crawled out from under a rock. But she could not know he was not Marcus. Not unless she'd had a spy in Ceylon.

Still, he looked at her carefully, sizing her up with a keen intelligence veiled by lowered lids. She was dressed in deep mourning suitable for the death of a close relative, and her astonishment at seeing him seemed disproportionate to the circumstances. But if she were truly in mourning for any recent death, she would not now be in London planning to launch her sister into the
ton,
which, courtesy of the voluble Mrs. Bucknell and the less loquacious but corroborating Stivers, he knew was the reason for the ladies' very inopportune intrusion into his plans. A closer glance was sufficient to disclose that the garments she wore were not only not in the current style, but well worn. Her bereavement, then, was most likely a long-standing one.

What, then, was he to make of her reaction to his presence? Was she, perhaps, of that stamp of female who was overset by the least departure from the ordinary?

Looking at that square jaw, he wouldn't have thought so.

"M— Marcus?" she said. Her voice was low and hesitant, and surprisingly husky.

"Am I really such a surprise, dear sister?" he asked lightly, releasing her hand and smiling down into her widened eyes. Still a shade wary, he looked closely into their depths. The gray irises were as cool and clear as the never-ending English rain. Their very clarity reassured him: this woman— this proper English
lady—
was the keeper of no secrets. In him, she saw no more than the obvious: her older brother, head of her family, a man she did not know who, now that he came to think about it, held her future in his hands, arrived out of the blue to possibly interfere in her and her sisters' lives. Looked at that way, her astonishment could be reinterpreted as at least partly consternation, and became more understandable. Clearly, whoever the mourning was for, it was not for Marcus Banning, seventh earl of Wickham. In other words, not for him.

Relaxing slightly, he looked beyond her to where the other three females in the party stood regarding him with no more than the normal amount of surprise and interest. The gaunt old woman sizing him up with a narrowed, weighing gaze he immediately recognized as some kind of an upper servant, naturally protective of the young ladies in her charge. The beautiful girl— indeed, she was ravishing enough to make his eyes widen before he got his expression under control— who leaned on the old woman's arm had to be the second sister, Claire. And the plump, smiling youngster with the carroty hair was Elizabeth.