One Night Of Scandal

Chapter Seven

‘T oday, ladies, I thought that we might move on to discuss the poetry of John Dryden,’ Lady Sally Saltire said, opening a copy of the same poetry book that Richard Kestrel had given to Deborah the previous week. ‘We have plenty of poems to choose from. Would you prefer “London after the Great Fire” or “Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor”?’

There were groans from several members of the reading group. ‘Must we read something so dry, Sally?’ Lily Benedict besought. She gave Deb a sly, sideways glance from her slanting dark eyes. ‘I am sure that the majority of us would rather talk about love poetry, would we not, Deborah? How about those faithless Cavalier poets-Rochester or Sedley?’

Deb flicked open her book. She felt a little self-conscious. She had spent quite a while reading through the poems and wondering whether they had also been Richard’s favourites. She could picture him alone in the library at Kestrel Court, one candle burning at his elbow as he flicked through the pages. A lock of dark hair would fall across his forehead and in the pale light he would look like one of the poets of old, penning lines to his lady love…

A line of text caught her eye. ‘If I by miracle can be this livelong minute true to thee, tis all that heaven allows…’

Deb sighed. If anything was true of Richard Kestrel, then it was that. He would never be able to be constant to one woman for longer than a minute and probably not even that. She was foolish to imagine it could be so.

Since Lady Sally’s ball the previous week, Deb had thought long and hard about Richard Kestrel-too long and too hard, probably. She had not been able to come to any conclusions other than that she was spending an unconscionable amount of time on him, which was unprofitable and made her heart ache. Her only hope was that the trip to Somerset for her brother’s wedding would distract her thoughts-and that the appointment of a temporary fiancé would give her both purpose and interest.

She looked up to see that the other members of the group were watching her. Lady Benedict’s eyes were bright with malice and Lady Sally Saltire looked shrewd, as though she had already divined the cause of Deb’s trouble. Deb dragged up a bright smile.

‘Why do we not read “The World” by Henry Vaughan?’ she suggested. ‘It is a very beautiful poem.’

Some half an hour later the discussion had flagged and Lady Sally encouraged them to put their books aside and come out into the conservatory.

‘I am most excited,’ she confided. ‘You will recall that I had commissioned a watercolour calendar a few months ago? Well, I received my first copy from the publisher today. Only come and see. It is even better than I had envisaged. The ladies of the ton will be mad to buy it when I go up to London next month!’

When Lady Sally had first mooted the idea of a watercolour calendar featuring pictures of various local gentleman, the members of the reading group had been quite scandalised. Even though the project was for a charitable cause, it had seemed utterly outrageous to parade a group of eligible gentlemen simply to whet the appetites of ladies of fashion. The vicar, Mr Lang, on hearing of the calendar, had even taken to preaching against it from his pulpit, much to Lady Sally’s amusement. Already her rakes’ calendar, as she called it, had achieved exactly the effect that she desired. Anticipation amongst the ladies of the ton was extremely high and charitable causes would benefit!

The ladies crowded around the easel where Lady Sally had mounted the book. Helena Lang grabbed Deb’s arm in a thoroughly overexcited manner.

‘Oh, Mrs Stratton, I heard a rumour at the ball that Lord Lucas Kestrel had agreed to be sketched without his shirt!’

Olivia Marney, overhearing, could not help but laugh. ‘I fear that is completely untrue, Miss Lang, although if anyone were likely to be so outrageous I suspect it would be Lord Lucas. In fact, I had it from Ross that he posed in army uniform, and very fine he looked too.’

Lady Benedict was pushing all the other ladies aside in her haste to be first to view the calendar. She pressed one white hand to her lips to stifle a peal of laughter.

‘Oh, Sally-all our rakes, and in magnificent style!’

It was true. As Lady Sally turned the pages of the calendar slowly and the ladies viewed the pictures, it became evident that the conservatory at Saltires was one of the hottest places in the kingdom. The pictures were magnificent. There was the Duke of Kestrel, looking handsome and athletic mounted on his coal-black horse, Thunderer. There was Cory, Lord Newlyn, adventurer par excellence with the wicked twinkle in his eye that had melted the heart of every lady for miles around. Lucas Kestrel looked every debutanté’s dream and every chaperon’s nightmare in his army uniform, whilst Richard Kestrel was dark and dangerous in evening dress. Deb felt her breath constrict in her throat and turned the page quickly, to where Ross Marney was depicted, virile and good looking in navy uniform, with the wind ruffling his dark hair and his blue eyes smiling.

Deb saw Olivia put a hand up to her throat and saw the pink colour stain her cheeks and smiled to herself that, for all their difficulties, Olivia and Ross were not indifferent to each other.

‘Good gracious,’ Olivia said, her voice not quite steady, ‘Mr Daubenay certainly knows how to present a gentleman looking his best. This book should make his reputation as a water colourist, Sally.’

‘I hope so,’ Lady Sally said, smiling. ‘He did have remarkably good raw material to work on!’

Lady Benedict was fanning herself ostentatiously. ‘I do believe that I need to sit down, Sally,’ she said, ‘and perhaps a cool drink, after that display of unabashed manhood. One scarcely knows where to look.’

Deb knew it was evident from the reaction and from Lady Sally’s self-satisfied smile that the project would be a raging success. None of the ladies of the ton would be able to resist parting with their money for such a good cause-and for the benefit of ogling a dozen personable gentlemen.

‘You will have ladies beating a path to your door to buy a copy, Lady Sally,’ she said, with feeling.

Lady Sally laughed. ‘I plan to hold a ball at the end of October to launch the book and I am trying to prevail on all the gentlemen to attend. I am hoping it will be quite a sensation. In fact…’ she ushered them back into the drawing room and rang the bell for refreshments ‘…I had another idea. I thought to auction the original of the book as well as sell copies. I suspect there might be much competition for the original version.’

The ladies were much struck by this and whilst they drank their cooling lemonade they discussed the plans for Lady Sally’s ball. Helena Lang, whose father the vicar disapproved so heartily of the calendar, was extremely upset that she would not be able to attend the London ball, and Lady Benedict also expressed her disappointment that her husband’s ill health kept her, as always, in the country.

‘What would be simply marvellous,’ she said, eyes lighting up, ‘would be if you were to hold a special private view here, Sally, before auctioning the calendar up in London. It would attract a great deal of notice-why, the Hertfords and the Prince of Wales might even attend!’

Helena Lang clapped her hands. ‘Oh, please, Lady Sally! That way I may persuade Papa to allow me to be present…’

Deb’s heart sank. She felt peculiarly out of sorts at the thought of Lady Sally’s calendar heroes displaying their undeniable physical prowess before the ton. However, since everyone else thought it a marvellous idea, she was obliged to concur and walked back to Midwinter Marney with Olivia in rather a bad mood.

‘Is Lord Marney at home?’ Olivia enquired casually of the butler as they went under the Doric portico and through the big front door.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Ford replied. ‘Lord Marney and Lord Richard Kestrel returned a little while ago and are down in the stables.’ He hesitated. ‘Shall I ask them to join you for tea, madam?’

Deb pulled a face and shook her head, for the thought of Lord Richard’s company was the final strain on her poor temper, but unfortunately Olivia was stripping off her gloves and appeared not to notice her sister’s disapproval.

‘Please do, Ford,’ she said. ‘We shall all take tea together.’

Deb sighed and went through to the drawing room, whilst Olivia went upstairs to remove her bonnet. The maid was already laying out afternoon tea in preparation for their return. Deb reflected that her sister’s household ran like clockwork. Olivia was so efficient. Nothing ever seemed to go awry in her life.

There was the sound of voices raised in the hall and the gentlemen came in.

‘If you wanted to go to Newmarket this week, I should be delighted to accompany you, Ross,’ Lord Richard was saying.

Although she had known that he was present, Deb found that she was so flustered to see Lord Richard again that she dropped her poetry book on the floor. It skidded across the polished wood and bumped against the leg of the rosewood table. She bent to pick it up and a sheet fell out. Cursing herself for her clumsiness in loosening the pages, Deb whisked the paper up and hoped that Lord Richard had not noticed her carelessness with his gift. She stuffed the loose sheet inside the cover and put the book under her arm.

‘Good afternoon, Deb,’ Ross said, coming over to kiss her cheek. ‘Did you enjoy your meeting of the reading group?’

‘It was quite pleasant,’ Deb said. She could feel herself blushing under Richard’s scrutiny with all the self-consciousness of a green girl.

‘How do you do, Mrs Stratton?’ he said. His tone was scrupulously courteous, but the message in his eyes was very different, warm and speculative, and it heated Deb down to her toes. ‘Were you studying Christopher Marlowe this afternoon?’

‘We were reading Henry Vaughan,’ Deb said coolly. She knew that she had blushed; she could feel her face radiating the heat like a glowing fire. Life was going to be excessively difficult if she could not conquer this curious susceptibility she had to Richard Kestrel. It seemed to get worse every time she saw him.

Olivia came in and Richard turned to greet her, giving Deb the breathing space she desperately needed. She took the opportunity of surreptitiously trying to put her book back together again. However, when she looked at the loose sheet she realised that it was not poetry at all and could not have come from the same book. It was a curious page of printed symbols. There was an anchor and a seagull and a ship and some wavy lines that she thought must represent the sea. Deb frowned. Her first thought was that it looked rather like a coded message, with the symbols representing certain words…

‘May I pass you a cup of tea, Mrs Stratton?’ Richard Kestrel said, at her elbow. Deb jumped. She had not noticed his approach and now she put the book and the sheet aside on the rosewood bookcase and reluctantly allowed Richard to draw her over to the long French windows that looked out over the garden. Olivia and Ross were sitting on the sofa, conversing in low voices over the relative merits of chicken or lamb for dinner. Deb sighed. She supposed that she should be grateful they were talking at all.

Rather than accept a tête-à-tête with Richard as he so clearly wished, Deb spiked his guns by raising her voice to include the whole group.

‘Did Olivia tell you that we saw a copy of Lady Sally’s watercolour book this afternoon, Ross?’ she asked. ‘We thought that you looked very fine.’

Ross laughed. He looked pleased. ‘Thank you, Deb. I imagine that Lady Sally’s calendar will cause quite a stir.’

‘It will cause a riot,’ Deb agreed ruefully.

‘You also observed that Lord Richard’s picture looked most elegant, did you not, Deb?’ Olivia said sweetly. ‘I remember you commenting specifically on it on our way home.’

Deb bit her lip. It was true that she had made an unguarded remark to Olivia on the subject, but she had hardly expected her sister to repeat it. Richard was laughing at her, his brows raised quizzically.

‘I am flattered, Mrs Stratton.’

‘I suppose you looked quite well to a pass,’ Deb said ungraciously, fidgeting with her teaspoon, ‘but then, Mr Daubenay is a very talented artist.’

She heard Lord Richard smother a laugh in his teacup. ‘I imagine he must be, to make something of such unpromising material,’ he agreed.

Deb frowned. It was difficult to try and depress a man’s pretensions when he had no vanity to deflate. Despite the fact that Lord Richard Kestrel was one of the most handsome men of her acquaintance, it appeared that he actually had very little personal conceit. It was rather annoying when she so earnestly wished to take him down a peg.

‘I am sure that you do not need me to add my praises to the positive cacophony of other ladies,’ she said. ‘If you wish for acclaim, then you need only wait for the private view, when I am persuaded you will be drowned in a sea of feminine admiration!’

In response, Richard put his hand on her wrist and drew her slightly apart. Her hand shook slightly; the teacup rattled and she placed it quickly on the windowsill.

‘You mistake me, Mrs Stratton, if you think I wish for general acclaim,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Yours is the only good opinion I seek.’

Deb’s eyes widened. ‘I may lead a sheltered life, Lord Richard, but I recognise a line of flattery when it is spun for me.’

Richard laughed. He leaned closer so that his lips brushed her ear and all the hairs down the back of Deb’s neck stood on end.

‘If you wished your life to be less sheltered, you could reconsider my dare,’ he murmured. ‘A private view of our own would be far more enjoyable…’

Deb gasped. She threw a hasty glance over her shoulder, but Ross was now moodily perusing The Times and Olivia was apparently engrossed in the Ladies Magazine and neither of them was paying their guests the slightest attention. Deb could not believe that they were so insensitive to the atmosphere in the drawing room when she felt as though she was about to spontaneously combust. Her head was buzzing with tension and awareness and Lord Richard was still holding her wrist lightly. The touch of his fingers against her bare skin was sufficient to send a prickly kind of sensation all the way along her nerves.

‘Thank you,’ she said, hoping that her voice was steady, ‘but you have no need to repeat your offer. My refusal still stands.’

She saw Richard’s lips curve into a wicked smile. ‘And yet you kissed me as though you meant it. Several times, in fact…’

Deb met his gaze. This was a tricky statement to rebut since she was all too aware that she had succumbed to Richard’s skilful seduction with what could be considered a certain amount of enthusiasm. In fact, she had succumbed not once, but twice, so there was no possible way that she could dismiss it as an aberration.

She burned to think of their kisses. She had enjoyed being in Richard’s arms and wanted to be there again. Yet she remembered the comparison with eating the truffles. They seemed like such a good idea at the time. They were delicious, sinful, a wicked indulgence to which she knew she should not surrender. She was equally certain that she should not surrender to Richard. She gave him a cool smile.

‘Remember that I have consigned you to the same category as drinking too much wine, my lord,’ she said, ‘the category of being very, very bad for me.’ She spun away from him and turned towards the door. ‘Excuse me, I must go home. I am promised to drive along the river with Mr Lang this afternoon and do not wish to be late.’

Richard smiled easily. ‘My route takes me back the same way as yours. I will escort you.’

‘No thank you,’ Deb said. ‘I enjoy walking alone. Besides, you know full well that Mallow is not on the way to Kestrel Court.’

‘It could be,’ Richard said, smiling engagingly. ‘Besides, I feel that it would be safer for you to be accompanied.’

Deb arched her brows. ‘Having an escort may be safer in general but in this specific case I do not require your company.’

Richard laughed. ‘You are always refusing me.’

‘I am.’ Deb smiled sweetly. ‘That should tell you something, I believe.’ She called a hasty farewell to Ross and Olivia and slipped out into the hall, congratulating herself on her swift escape.

She had not gone more than a few paces before she heard Richard’s footsteps behind her and he caught her up as she reached the main door, putting a hand on her arm.

‘A moment, Mrs Stratton,’ he said. ‘You have left your book behind.’

Deb felt annoyed at her carelessness. She had hurried out, wishing to escape his troubling presence, but in doing so she had given him a genuine reason to follow her. Now she could hardly be uncivil as a result. She took the book of poetry and tucked it under her arm, reining in her exasperation as Richard held the door open for her and accompanied her down the steps and on to the gravel.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying not to sound too grumpy. ‘There really is no need for you to escort me to Mallow, you know.’

Richard smiled and fell into step beside her. ‘No need other than to take pleasure in your company.’

Deb laughed. ‘Why do you persist where there is no hope, my lord?’

Richard gave her a very straight look. ‘Perhaps I am of stubborn disposition, like you yourself, madam.’

He held open the little white-painted gate that opened on to the path to Mallow and stood aside for her to precede him. To Deb’s surprise he made no attempt to engage her in teasing repartee and even less to force his attentions on her. They spoke politely enough on a number of topics, from the state of the roads to the current invasion threat and the political situation. To converse with Richard in an entirely natural manner proved dangerously enjoyable to Deb, for he was a most interesting man to talk with. Occasionally he would hold a gate open for her or pull aside a spray of briars from her path with exemplary courtesy. Deb found it disconcerting, not because she had imagined him without manners, but because it made her feel quite ridiculously cherished. She was rather annoyed with herself for being so receptive to his thoughtfulness, but she could not deny that the walk, in the late summer sunshine, was a very pleasant experience.

The path joined the lane to Midwinter Mallow and from there another white-painted wooden gate led into the back of Deb’s gardens at Mallow House. At the gate Deb paused, preparing to make her farewells and fidgeting a little with her book of poetry as she did so. She realised that she had pulled some of the binding loose and peered at it with dismay.

‘Oh dear, I-’ She stopped, staring. ‘Oh-but this is not my book!’

Richard came across to her. Deb opened the book and flicked through it. Now that she was looking closely, she could see that this book was exactly the same as the one he had given her, except that it was a little older and more worn. The list of odd symbols that she had tucked carelessly inside the front cover was also missing now. She searched the pages, the frown deepening on her brow.

‘Are you looking for this?’ Richard enquired affably. He put a hand inside his jacket and retrieved a folded paper. Deb stared from it to his face. He was watching her, but with neither the speculation nor the admiration to which she had become accustomed. There was an unreadable expression in his eyes and a hard line to his mouth and Deb felt a sudden chill. She put out a hand for the sheet, but he twitched it out of her grip.

‘Oh, no, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, his voice pleasant but definite. ‘It is scarcely that simple. I believe that you have some explaining to do.’