Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 1

London, July 1847

“Lady Sara, a letter from your mother.” The butler deposited a cream-colored envelope beside Lady Sara Ashford’s breakfast plate.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle,” Sara said, though she was not actually grateful for the correspondence. A letter from Mama was something to be wary of.

She did not pick it up right away, but instead took another sip of tea from her gold-rimmed cup and studied the envelope. The heavy paper was slightly crumpled along one edge, and an array of colorful postage stamps decorated the upper right-hand corner. The flourishes and colors were distinctly non-European.

Sara’s Aunt Eugenie, seated at the head of the table, gave her a pointed glance and then transferred her gaze to the letter, brows raised. Sara brushed the envelope with her index finger, wondering what Mama was up to. Having the notorious Marchioness of Fulton as a relative was not an easy thing, but lucky Aunt Eugenie was only related by marriage. It was worse for Sara, being the woman’s daughter.

“Blood will tell,” the gossips murmured at balls and parties, giving Sara sidelong glances over their fans. “She’ll be as wild as her mother any day now, you’ll see.”

To their disappointment, however, Sara had reached the venerable age of one-and-twenty without doing anything remotely scandalous. Speculation about her had almost entirely trickled away, now that she was no longer seen as competition for the most eligible gentlemen. After all, she was practically on the shelf.

The thought made her chest tighten. It was true: her prospects of making a match were beginning to wane. But she and Aunt Eugenie had a plan.

“I wonder where your mother is now.” Aunt Eugenie continued to stare at the envelope. “Still in Persia?”

Sara nudged her plate aside and pulled the letter in front of her. “No—she was in Egypt last time, don’t you remember?”

Her aunt frowned. “Without a map, I find it difficult to keep your mother’s wanderings in my memory.”

Sara did not have that problem. When she was younger, she’d spent hours studying the globe in the library, running her fingers over the bumps of mountains and smooth dips of lakes until she’d memorized the entire world.

That was before she understood that gallivanting about the globe was not an option for a young lady of good breeding. Not if she wanted to preserve her reputation. When her father died and Aunt Eugenie had taken over Sara’s upbringing, that fact was made quite clear.

“It’s all very well for your mother to hare off to those exotic destinations,” her aunt had explained when ten-year-old Sara had voiced her hopes of joining Mama on her travels. “She is a rich widow and can afford to raise eyebrows if she pleases. But she was wise to leave you in my care now that your father has gone to his eternal reward, God rest his soul.”

“Doesn’t she want me anymore?” Sara had asked, fighting back tears.

“She wants what is best for you, which is to remain with me so that I might, despite the obstacles, turn you into proper young lady and ensure that you make a suitable match. A young woman has only one thing of value in this world, and that is an impeccable reputation.”

For the last eleven years, Aunt Eugenie had been true to her word. Sara had, indeed, grown up to be a proper young lady, and had learned to quash any foolish notions of adventure. Though it was harder when Mama’s letters came.

But Sara’s immaculate reputation and flawless deportment were finally about to produce the desired results. Next month there was to be a house party at Lord Whitley’s estate, and the viscount had specifically invited Lady Sara and her aunt to attend.

True, the gentleman in question was several years her senior, and not the brightest candle in the bunch—but he possessed an estate, and was generally regarded as a decent catch.

Especially for a lady teetering dangerously close to spinsterhood.

“We will ensure you spend as much time as appropriate with Lord Whitley.” Aunt Eugenie’s eyes shone at the prospect. “I’m certain you’ll be able to bring him to the point by the end of the house party. You’ll have a solid fortnight in his company, after all.”

Two weeks to wring a proposal from Lord Whitley. Sara had nodded. She must do her best. There were perilously few other options available to her, except to become Aunt Eugenie’s companion into old age. It was not an invigorating thought.

“Are you going to open that?” Her aunt nodded at the letter resting under Sara’s fingers.

“Yes.” There was no point in delaying any longer.

She took up the letter opener, a sharp-edged implement with the bejeweled head of a tiger that her mother had sent back from India three years prior, and slit open the thick envelope.

She read, giving Aunt Eugenie the salient points as she went.

“Mama has been travelling about the Mediterranean basin. The heat is invigorating, the food spicy. She found Tunisia very accommodating.”

“Hmph.” Aunt Eugenie’s mouth formed into a disapproving line.

“Oh dear.” Sara kept reading, her blood going cold.

“Well? What does she say?”

“She is coming back to England this month.”

“High time! She hasn’t seen you in three years. One might think she’s entirely forgotten she had a daughter.”

Except for the regular letters, Sara refrained from pointing out. And the money that went to support both herself and Aunt Eugenie in fashionable style at the widowed Marchioness of Fulton’s Mayfair townhouse.

No, she didn’t think Mama forgot she had a daughter. Merely that she found her offspring an inconvenience, though not a large enough one to prevent her from living her life in the manner she preferred. Namely, having disreputable adventures everywhere she went, and then writing home about them.

Aunt Eugenie folded her napkin and set it precisely even with the edge of the tablecloth. “The timing is not the best, with Lord Whitley’s house party imminent. You know as well as I that your future must take precedence even over your mother’s visit, but surely she will be here at least a month. One can’t gallivant about the world nonstop. Does she say how long she plans to stay?”

Sara took a hasty swallow of tea to moisten her throat. The fact of Mama’s return wasn’t the most dreadful part of the letter. She was coming back to London—and bringing a visitor with her.

“Mama doesn’t mention any particular length of time.” Sara drew in a breath. “However, she does say that she’ll be accompanied by Tarek Zafir Remy, the Comte du Lac, and that she has offered him our hospitality.”

“Good gracious.” Aunt Eugenie abruptly set her cup on the table. It was a measure of her agitation that some of the tea spilled over the edge, causing a wet stain to spread over the damask tablecloth. “It’s one thing to take up with foreign men of dubious background, but to bring one here! I declare, the very notion makes me feel faint.”

Sara was equally taken aback, but there was nothing they could do about it. Mama and her visitor were already on their way to England.

Her gaze went to the window, where the white roses were in full bloom just outside. She did not like bringing up the indelicate subject of Mama’s lovers, but in this case it seemed warranted.

“Perhaps he’s not…”

Aunt Eugenie made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. “If he’s not, then why ever would she bring him to England?”

“Mama says he’s coming on a sensitive diplomatic matter, to see the queen.”

“Well, I hope he takes care of his foreign business and leaves forthwith. Imagine, hosting some wild Ottoman fellow for the rest of the summer!”

Sara picked up the letter again. “The Comte du Lac sounds rather more French than Turkish.”

Aunt Eugenie waved a dismissive hand. “Those other names, though! Zarek Taffir what-have-you. There can be no mistaking that the fellow is a heathen.”

“I’m certain Mama would not bring an utter barbarian to be our guest,” Sara said, though she really had no idea what Mama might do.

“I can’t even contemplate it.” Aunt Eugenie rose from her chair. “All of this has me rather overset, my dear. I believe I must spend the rest of the morning lying down. Pray, do not let this terrible news discompose you too greatly.”

The implication being that Sara ought to take to her own bed in a fit of the vapors. In her opinion, that was going a bit far.

“I shall do my best, Aunt,” she said.

After Aunt Eugenie departed the breakfast room, Sara reread the letter, taking frequent sips of tea to fortify herself.

She had not revealed everything to her aunt. No, she would leave it to Mama to make her own explanations, and bear the brunt of her sister-in-law’s reaction, when she arrived.

It seemed that not only would the Comte du Lac be staying with them, but that Sara herself was expected to help him navigate the waters of Society.

What value she had to offer to an aging foreign diplomat, she’d no notion, except that perhaps Mama realized her own association with the comte would make things difficult. Which, of course, it would. It was one thing to read about the Marchioness of Fulton’s exploits in the papers and quite another to be seen associating with her.

Especially if one were trying to win the favor of Queen Victoria, who was adamantly devoted to her own family and took a dim view of women adventurers. The Comte du Lac, being a foreigner, would be granted some leeway, but his behavior would still be scrutinized and any misstep remarked upon.

The situation would be very awkward indeed—at least until Sara and Aunt Eugenie could escape to Lord Whitley’s estate in Hampshire. Hopefully, by the time they returned from the house party, Mama and the comte would have departed, and Sara would have the viscount’s betrothal ring upon her finger.

Then all would be right with the world. Her future settled, and her good reputation assured—at last.