The Birthday Scandal (32 page)

“Why are you wandering around the gallery in your nightclothes?”

I’m sleepwalking,
Emily thought wildly. Wasn’t that the excuse Gavin had considered using? But her father would instantly see it as the faradiddle it was.

“Has Athstone’s man accosted you, Emily?”

Benson cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, my lady. My lord, if I might enlighten you—”

“Yes,” Chiswick said coolly. “Please explain yourself— Benson, is it?”

Explaining would be good, Benson. Especially since I haven’t the shadow of an idea what you’re going to say.

Benson bowed slightly. “My lord, Lady Emily heard a sound earlier—a sort of thud, as she has just described it to me. She thought it came from the duke’s rooms and was afraid it meant he might have fallen.”

“A thud,” Chiswick repeated evenly.

“Yes, my lord. A thud—as though some large object had struck the floor. She immediately came out of her room to inquire, but she naturally hesitated to disturb the duke or his man, in case the sound had
not
come from the duke’s rooms. Of course, her sensibilities are too delicate to permit her to go lightly into a sickroom.”

If Benson keeps going on about me like this, any minute now I’m going to have to faint dead away to prove just how delicate I am.

“When she saw me coming out of Lord Athstone’s rooms after delivering his morning tea, my lord, she asked that I go and check on the duke in case something has gone awry.”

Emily had to admire Benson’s glib delivery. At least the tale he was telling about why she was in the hall in her dressing gown was semiplausible, which was a great deal more than could have been said about any story she’d have created. She wondered if Benson had ever considered penning one of the three-volume romantic stories that were so popular in the lending libraries.

“I was just seeing her back to her room before doing as she requested, my lord. But it might be better if you were the one to inquire about the duke’s health.”

Emily gulped. That was going too far—a mere valet sending Chiswick to check on the duke, especially when he knew quite well there was nothing wrong. Had Benson run mad?

Nervously, she twisted her toes against the cold boards of the gallery floor and waited for Chiswick to lay into Benson with the sharp side of his tongue.

Instead, Chiswick seemed to dismiss the valet entirely, and his gaze came to rest on Emily’s feet. “You must indeed have been concerned about your uncle, to have come out without your slippers. Go to your room immediately, before you catch a chill.”

Ignoble though it might be to run, Emily beat a quick retreat. Once inside her own bedroom, she leaned against the door for a while, trying to get her breathing under control, and then dived under the covers of her cold bed.

She tossed and twisted for half an hour, but finally gave up the idea of sleep and rang for her maid. Better to face the music straightforwardly than to huddle in her room and worry about what her father might say. If he had seen through Benson’s ruse…

Besides, she was starving. Why had no one ever mentioned that taking a lover increased one’s appetite at least threefold?

Just as she crossed the entrance hall, Gavin caught up with her. “Good morning, Lady Emily,” he said formally, and bowed over her hand. His warm breath tickled her wrist, and the gentle brush of his fingertips brought back memories of the night and made her midsection go as gooey as cheese held over an open fame.

He might as well be holding
her
over an open fame. Worse, he knew exactly the effect he was having, for Gavin’s eyes danced with glee.

“You left your slippers behind,” he murmured. “Apparently you kicked them off in a hurry last night, and they slid under my bed.”

Her cheeks famed. “I’m certain you’ll think of some creative way to return them.”

“I plan to make souvenirs of them. I could tuck one under my pillow to dream on.”

“You wouldn’t! The chambermaid…she’ll find it when she straightens your bed.” Too late, she saw Gavin’s grin. She bit her lip, annoyed that she’d reacted exactly as he’d expected.

“She might think I have very small, delicate feet.”

“And that you like to wear pink slippers?” Emily’s gaze dropped to the toes of his top boots, polished to a gleam that was almost mirror-bright. The boots were beautifully made, but the feet inside them were anything but small and delicate—as she was certain any female in the castle would have noticed.

“Well?” Gavin said, offering his arm. “I understand that you arrived safely and I must therefore double Benson’s wages.”

She said tartly, “You’d be wise to keep an eye on him. Any servant who can lie so glibly—and to my father, of all people—can’t be entirely trustworthy in other areas.”

“He’s never lied to me.”

“But he’s so very good at it—how would you possibly know?”

He smiled. “Don’t fret, my dear. Benson’s very clear about where his loyalties lie.”

Emily sniffed. If that was what Gavin wanted to believe, there was no point in trying to warn him. She’d done all she could. Loyalty! Benson had faced down a peer of the realm and lied through his teeth!

Only to protect me.

No, that wasn’t quite factual. Benson hadn’t been protecting Emily; he’d been protecting his employer. Gavin was correct about that much: Benson would do whatever was necessary to advance Gavin’s interests. To protect him.

The valet hadn’t stepped into the mess this morning to preserve Emily’s reputation, for Benson didn’t care a rap about her. He had been saving his master. Looking back, she could even see that he had taken his cues from Gavin. Benson wasn’t the one who had been most anxious to get her back where she belonged without consequences; Gavin had been far more edgy and worried than the valet was.

Your father would come down on us with the force of all Napoleon’s cannons, and you’d find yourself married before the day was out.

But if that had happened, it wasn’t only Emily who would have ended up married. Gavin would have been drawn into the coil as well. Both the master and the manservant had foreseen that complication and acted swiftly to avoid it.

And she was glad of it, Emily told herself fiercely. Very,
very
glad.

As the door closed behind her husband, Isabel sat bolt upright in bed and tugged furiously at the bellpull to summon her maid. Her delicious lassitude was gone, blown away by Maxwell’s parting comments.

Did you want this to happen, Isabel? Do you—despite all your denials—want to give me my heir?

What an absolute unmitigated ass her husband was! How arrogant did a man have to be, anyway, to assume that a woman was so swept away by his lovemaking that she could think of nothing else? No, it was even worse than that. He believed that even before he had ever made love to her, Isabel had schemed and planned how best to lure him into her bed. He was convinced she had done all this on purpose, that the bargain she proposed had been nothing but a strategic maneuver.

She buried her face in her pillow and shed a few angry tears. Then she pounded her fists on the mattress and shrieked.

Isabel didn’t realize Martha had already come into the room until the maid jerked in surprise and almost pulled the bed hangings down on Isabel’s head. “Ma’am? My lady? Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” Isabel said icily. “But I do not wish to lie abed with chocolate this morning, Martha. Is my blue walking dress ft to be seen?”

“I washed and ironed it myself just yesterday, my lady. But—”

Isabel slid out of bed and reached for a wrapper. “Yes, Martha, I know that dress is hardly elegant, and it’s not the sort of thing I’d choose to wear for my uncle’s garden party. But you of all people know my wardrobe is seriously limited.” At least Maxwell had stopped tearing up her clothes, after that one ruined dinner gown, or she would be in desperate straits by now.

“Not quite so limited as yesterday, ma’am.”

“What do you mean?” As Isabel turned toward her dressing table, her gaze fell on a gown hanging on the wardrobe door. A walking dress—one she had never seen before.

The dress was primrose yellow, a color that had always flattered Isabel’s midnight-dark hair and made her hazel eyes look bigger and brighter. Though the style was simple, the puffed sleeves and slightly scooped neckline were the very latest fashion. The muslin was the lightest she had ever seen, for even the stray air current she caused as she moved toward the wardrobe set the deep flounce at the bottom of the skirt swaying. At the hem, around the neckline, and scattered across the skirt, flowers had been embroidered in a slightly darker yellow.

“Where did that dress come from, Martha?”

“I brought it up just now. The seamstresses finished the decorative stitching only this morning. There’s a note, my lady.”

Isabel put out a hand for the message, but she was still looking at the dress. “How generous of Uncle Josiah, to provide this as well as the ball gown,” she murmured. “And to make it a surprise…” She opened the page.

In spiky black writing—nothing like the duke’s—were a few words.
Just a trifling gift, in appreciation for all you plan to give me. I will enjoy seeing you wear this for your uncle’s garden party.
There was no signature, but none was necessary.

Isabel sputtered. If Maxwell thought he could turn her up sweet with a dress—as though she could be bought off with mere clothes—she would soon disabuse him of that notion.

She crossed the room and flung open the connecting door, and only when she stood on the threshold did she stop to think that it might have been wise to plan what she wanted to say.

But he was not there. His valet was near the washstand, rhythmically stropping a razor, and he turned politely. “My lady?”

Isabel was puzzled. Had she lost track of time? She’d thought only a few minutes could have passed since he had left her bed—not long enough for him to dress and go out.

Before she could embarrass herself by asking his valet where Maxwell was, a little furry behind her drew Isabel’s attention back to her own room. Martha stood holding the open door to the gallery for Emily, who was wearing a new pale-pink walking dress—cut differently from Isabel’s but also in one of the latest styles.

“My dear, however did you manage it?” Emily twirled around, showing off the narrow skirt. “I came up from breakfast to find this lying across my bed. I thought your pockets were just as much to let as mine are.”

Isabel bit her lip. “I didn’t manage anything.”

“But the note said the dress was a gift from you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Isabel said. “It was Max—” She choked back the rest of the name.

How perfectly calculating he was, to have included Emily in his gift. By giving her sister a dress, Maxwell made himself look both generous and thoughtful. By claiming that Emily’s gown was a gift from Isabel instead of from him, he presented himself as sensitive—too well-mannered to embarrass his sister-in-law by offering such a personal gift.

Emily frowned. “Isabel? Since when do you call him
Max
?”

Isabel coughed and said irritably, “Since the frog in my throat kept me from finishing the word. Don’t be ridiculous, Emily.”

If she refused to wear the gown he had provided, Isabel would look foolish—especially when Emily was turned out neat as a pin—and Maxwell would be entertained by her stubbornness. But if she did wear it, he’d not only have the satisfaction of seeing her decked out in a gown he had chosen, but he’d be amused because he had out-maneuvered her.

He wouldn’t laugh at her—not openly; he was too much the gentleman for that. But in the last few days she had learned his expressions—and from the glint in his eyes and the tiny curve of his mouth, she would know exactly how much he was enjoying himself at her expense.

B
y midday, the courtyard of the castle bustled with carriages coming and going. The sweeping lawn was alive with tents and marquees, with tables full of food, and with musicians strolling among the early guests. Looking out over the scene from the drawing room terrace, Gavin heard snatches of lively songs and occasional trills of laughter, and once in a while the gentle breeze brought the scent of roasted meat to his nose, along with something that smelled like warm apples and cinnamon.