Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 2

They said Castle Rayne was haunted.

They said the ghosts of the lords and ladies who’d once dwelled within the sprawling estate roamed the halls and that was why no sane man or woman would take work there now. But then, most people, sane or otherwise, were not as desperate as Miss Eve Ormond.

From somewhere deep within the Earl of Lavery’s stone manor, better suited a medieval keep than a country estate, a door slammed. On a gasp, she jumped.

Heart racing, she focused on drawing in smooth, even breaths. It is just a door. Of course there were no ghosts here. At seven and twenty years of age, she’d long ceased fearing ghosts and goblins and shadows in the night. Time had proven there were far greater perils among the living.

She heard the rapid footfalls of people rushing through the halls and then silence once more fell. Eve stared at the closed door, tension thrumming inside her. She’d no place being here.

By the dark history that stretched between her family and the Raynes, these people would sooner see her to the devil than in their employ. Even if they did require reliable staff. Any staff, given the reports she had inadvertently been handed at the agency where she sought employment.

They’ll never know you as an Ormond. To the family she’d soon serve, Eve would exist as nothing more than a dutiful maid, overseeing whatever tasks they charged her with. They’d not know that she shared blood with the same ancestor who’d robbed them of an ancient artifact and then sold it off to their rival family.

She thrust aside the unwanted guilt in being here. The problem with being an unwed woman past the bloom of youth was that there were few options. For security. For work. For really, anything. It was that truth which brought Eve to the Earl of Lavery’s Kent estate. That...and also, the need to escape.

Seated in one of the earl’s parlors, Eve took in the room. The mahogany piano and gold satin wallpaper adorning the walls were at odds with the jagged stone mantel that harkened to long ago times. Everything in this property exuded wealth and influence. It was not vastly different from the world she’d once known, a world she’d been neatly and deliberately snipped out of. Her insides twisted in a vicious knot.

The elaborate gladius, glimmering in the morning light snagged her notice. Restless, Eve shoved to her feet and wandered past the broad piano, over to the mantel to take in that great weapon. The metal shone bright and mocking. The ornate hilt and marked carvings bespoke its origins. This was the piece that families had fought for. The gladius that her late ancestor, Captain Tobias Ormond, had stolen and sold. This same sword had seen the Ormonds ruined and now made them outcasts throughout England.

Not that Eve held Society, polite or otherwise, at fault. After all, welcoming the daughter of a traitor, hanged for treason, would take a wealth of generosity, she’d not expect of them, or anyone.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, as the shock and horror revisited her as real now as it had been the day she’d discovered her father’s treachery. Nay, his evil. For her father, the late Lieutenant Colonel Ormond, who’d proved a man could sell more than his soul, even now burned for his crimes against his country. Her gaze wandered once more to that gleaming sword.

Then, hadn’t the Ormonds proven their greed years earlier when they’d wrestled control of an ancient gladius from the Rayne family and sold it off to another, all to increase the size of the Ormond purses?

Eve balled her fingers into her skirts, welcoming the hate rolling through her. Hate for the father who’d betrayed his country and sold battlefield secrets to the French. She allowed that hate to calm her. Hatred for her late sire was good. It was safe. It kept her from thinking about her own precarious circumstances, as the fates rightly found her serving penance for her family’s sins.

“An impressive weapon, is it not?”

She gasped and spun around.

A young gentleman, tall with dark hair, stood in the doorway. With his sharp, angular features and broadly muscled frame, he’d be considered handsome by any Society standards. Yet, there was a jaded quality to his brown eyes that put Eve in mind of those unyielding marble statues; beautiful, but icy and unfeeling.

“Forgive me,” she said on a rush, sinking into a curtsy. “I did not hear you enter, sir.”

He ignored her greeting and came forward with a cocksure arrogance. Then stopped abruptly at the fireplace—beside her. His gaze lingered on the heart-shaped birthmark at the right corner of her lip. She held her breath until her lungs ached.

The Ormond mark, her father had once called it. And yet, any lord, lady, or servant in between could bear such a mark upon their skin.

When he again met her eyes, there was no hint of knowing. There was nothing more than that jaded hardness, before he looked again to that blade. “Men have fought and died for this sword, Mrs. Nelson,” he said suddenly, unexpectedly.

He had her at a disadvantage. “Gladius,” she automatically corrected.

Those piercing eyes made narrow slits that threatened to see inside her soul to all the darkness and lies there.

He knows. My God, he knows. How could he know?

“Aidan!”

They looked as one to the entrance of the room. A small, plump lady stood in the doorway, studying her. At the interruption, a wave of relief so strong gripped Eve, her shoulders sagged.

“I’m merely giving the young woman a lesson on the importance of the gladius,” the younger man groused.

The lady glared at him in return and then turned to Eve. “You are Mrs. Nelson, I assume?” she asked, coming over.

“I am, my lady,” Eve replied, attempting to place her. Surely she was too young to be the Countess of Lavery and, yet, she commanded respect and attention of a room with an ease, the queen would envy.

The other woman favored Eve with a smile. A real smile. So unlike the dark-frowning stranger before her. Or the glares and glowers that had greeted her almost two years earlier, upon her return to England. She fought to formulate a proper word or reply. Would the young woman be smiling now if she knew my identity?

After all, from a bad crow a bad egg.

“Mrs. Nelson doesn’t require a history lesson,” the young woman said dryly. “You must forgive Mr. Rayne.” She continued over Mr. Rayne’s glower. “I am Captain Rayne’s sister.” Oh, bloody hell. The duchess. “The Duchess of Devlin and this,” she waved to her brother, “angry, mistrustful man is my youngest brother.”

Eve’s skin pricked under Mr. Rayne’s scrutiny. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Eve murmured, sinking into another flawless curtsy befitting the ballrooms of Europe. “I did not realize—”

“She was staring at the gladius,” Mr. Rayne put in through tight lips.

Eve balled her hands. Granted, the Rayne kin were deserved of their protectiveness of that long fought-over relic. Yet the last thing she wanted was to touch the sword that had so cursed her ancestors.

“It is an impressive piece that anyone would be hard-pressed to not admire,” the duchess countered and she gave Eve another supportive smile. “Aidan, if you’ll excuse us. Mrs. Nelson doesn’t need to begin her tenure here with you questioning her motives.” The gentleman frowned. “Go,” his sister said firmly.

The pair remained locked in a silent battle. Ultimately the kind-eyed duchess triumphed and her brother took his leave, but not before he favored Eve with a warning look.

The Duchess of Devlin sighed. “You must forgive him. It is a beloved artifact that had been lost to our family for many years. He’s wary of all who come near it.”

Had he gathered Eve’s identity, Mr. Rayne would sooner toss her out on her arse than let her gaze upon that gladius.

“Please, sit,” the duchess urged, motioning to a chair. “It is my understanding you’re here as a maid of all work,” the regal woman said, after they’d both sat.

Yes, which made this meeting with a duchess and countess, unorthodox, to say the least.

“I am, Your Grace,” she confirmed. Having returned to England two years ago, Eve had landed, in total, five posts—until her identity had invariably been discovered. Before that, however, she’d been welcomed into household staffs. Never had she been greeted in a parlor by the powerful peers who’d hired her.

Some of the light went out of the duchess’ eyes. “I would speak with you about my brother, Captain Rayne,” she began in halting tones. “Before you meet him, there is something you should know.” Eve stilled. Why should she know anything about the lady’s brother? It wasn’t a maid’s place to know anything of her employer’s kin. “He is not...” Whatever words she’d share were cut into by the sudden appearance of an older woman with graying hair and aged eyes.

Eve’s mind teemed with curiosity. He is not, what?

“Mother,” the duchess greeted. Eve dipped another curtsy for her employer, the Countess of Lavery.

“Mrs. Nelson,” the older woman said without preamble. “Will you please sit?” She gestured to the seat Eve previously occupied and then claimed the delicate ivory settee opposite her.

Both mother and daughter stared on in silence. Eve, however, had long grown accustomed to quiet. She was the daughter of a lieutenant colonel who had ingrained into his only child the skills that ultimately went with the military—tenacity, adaptability, and the ability to maintain silence.

Prepared for the enumeration of her responsibilities, she was, instead, stunned by the countess’ words. “It is my understanding you followed the drum.”

Her heart stopped and a sickening dread slithered around her insides. In crafting false references for employment at the agency, Eve had shown her father’s ruthlessness and presented herself as a war widow. There was far more kindness shown a hero’s widowed wife than a traitor’s spinster daughter. She searched the countess’ features for any hint of accusation or knowing that an Ormond sat before her, but her eyes revealed nothing but curiosity.

Eve cleared her throat. “I did, my lady. I followed the drum in the Peninsular Campaign—”

The Duchess of Devlin gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. From over her palm, her eyes formed perfect circles. Oh, God, she’d said too much. Eve firmed her shoulders and braced to be shown the door.

“Do you know anything about my son, Mrs. Nelson?”

At the unexpected question, she slowly shook her head. As a girl, her father regaled her with tales of their family’s battle with the Raynes. Beyond those stories of long ago, she knew nothing about the people before her. “No, my lady.” As it was, most young women being interviewed and assigned employment were not afforded the details of the lofty employers whose households they’d been assigned.

Tears filled the other woman’s eyes and she blinked. “My son fought in the Peninsular Campaign. He was taken from the fields of Talavera...” With the countess’ words droning on in her mind, Eve focused on breathing. Oh, God, this was to be her penance for her family’s sins. The constant reminder of war and warfare, and her father’s treachery, even in the countryside, there was no escaping it. Her family had betrayed the Raynes, not once, but twice. And with my presence here, a third time. “And he is not the same,” Lady Lavery finished.

Because of my father. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed hard to keep from casting up the contents of her stomach. How many soldiers and their families suffered because of the greed and crimes of her own sire?

“He is angry,” the duchess put in quietly. “He barely speaks.” Her throat worked. “Except to order people coldly about and hurl obscenities.” Well, having moved freely among soldiers for the better part of her life, Eve was more at home with that rawness and realness than the polite affairs she’d attended through the ballrooms of Europe.

“He has run off nearly all the servants. The only members of the staff remaining are our oldest, most loyal souls.” She struck the air with her wildly gesticulating hand. “Even the remaining servants will not enter his chambers but to bring his food and tray, and...” The countess ceased her nervous prattling and coughed into her hand. “I hope to find a servant who might not only care for his chambers but also read to him, and...” The lady’s lips pulled in a grimace. “Talk to him.” Lady Lavery covered her eyes briefly with her palm. “I should not be leaving for the London Season,” she murmured. Her daughter claimed her fingers, giving them a squeeze.

Eve stared, momentarily transfixed by that foreign bond of mother and daughter. Her own mother died giving life to her. She’d never known anything but a gruff, military-minded papa.

The countess continued speaking. “My son is...was—” She grimaced and gave her head a shake.

She stored enough secrets and silence to rival the Home Office that she’d no business to even a jot of curiosity about that slight, telltale movement. And yet, intrigue stirred for this dark family with their sad expressions and unfinished sentences. “May I speak freely, my lady?” she asked quietly.

“You do not want the post,” the countess blurted.

Eve cocked her head. She’d no right to the post, but wanted, nay needed it, anyway. It proved with her self-serving presence here, how very much of her blood she shared with her dead father. “I—”

“I more than understand,” the older woman interrupted. “I can offer you greater wages,” she continued, wringing her hands together. “Or mayhap—”

“My lady,” Eve said, blending gentleness with that slight command, in a tone she’d heard her late father use with countless soldiers. “I am not a young miss. I’m a woman of nearly thirty. I’ve...seen war.” Memories trickled in of picking her way around a battlefield slick with blood, helping those men who could be helped. Their cries and shouts of agony pealed around her mind.

“Mrs. Nelson?” the duchess’ query, laced with concern, wrenched her back to the moment.

Eve’s neck heated at that revealing weakness. “I’ve heard things no lady ought to hear.” Sounds of dying a death far darker than any curse words strewn together could be. “I’ve no intention of abandoning my post,” she said with a firm resolve. She’d no choice.

A slow smile wreathed the lady’s gaunt cheeks and she came to her feet. “Come, then, allow me to show you to my son’s chambers and introduce you.”

She fell into step behind the Duchess of Devlin and Countess of Lavery. By the employment agency and Captain Raynes’ family’s own admission, he’d run off numerous servants before her. Eve, however, had faced angry men, bitter soldiers, and ruthless warriors. How difficult could one gentleman be?