Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 2

Tarek Remy leaned on the ship’s railing, watching the docks of Southampton, England approach. The cool, moist air was much different than the climate of Tunisia, and smelled of fish and mud. Overhead, the sun slipped behind clouds. It turned into a silver coin, then emerged again to lay pale light across the deck.

He appreciated the contrast from the hot sunlight and olive trees of the Mediterranean coast, and even the vineyards of his small estate in France.

“I hope you find London agreeable,” his traveling companion, the Marchioness of Fulton, said. She stood beside him on the deck, her face pointed toward the city. “The English can be rather stultifying, not to put too fine a point upon it.”

Tarek glanced at her. “I’m sure my visit will go well. And any new place is interesting.”

“At first.” Lady Fulton let out a low sigh and adjusted her maroon hat, which matched her travelling outfit. “At least it’s summer. I hope England does not wear upon you overmuch, and that you’re granted a prompt audience with the queen.”

“I don’t see why not. I come from Ahmad Bey himself, after all.”

“Unofficially,” she reminded him.

“Well. Yes. But surely I’ll be able to see the queen.”

His task was to meet with Queen Victoria and quietly discuss the possibility of English assistance in dealing with the French, who were angling for political control of Tunisia. They had already overtaken neighboring Algeria. It was a difficult situation, since the Bey did not want to offend the French or precipitate any hostilities. However, the ruler needed the backing of another European country should matters grow strained.

Although Tarek’s father had been a French comte and he’d inherited a title and estate in Burgundy, his mother was cousin to the Bey of Tunisia himself. Tarek had been raised in both countries, but did not consider his loyalties divided when it came to Tunisia. Independence was the best, and only, course, and they must hold fast to it.

He hoped Queen Victoria would be amenable to sending a diplomatic party back to Tunis with him, if only to give the French pause.

“However long it takes for you to meet with the queen, I trust that my daughter can come up with various entertainments while you wait,” Lady Fulton said.

Tarek was not so sure. The marchioness’s daughter sounded like a prim and boring young woman from what he’d been able to gather.

“I’m certain you’d be more enjoyable company,” he said.

Although he hadn’t spent much time with the marchioness, aside from their journey together from Tunis, she was a lively and well-spoken woman. At dinner, the topics of conversation were far-ranging, and he liked hearing of her various travels and adventures.

“My company is far too interesting for your purposes. Syrine is the perfect choice.” The wind pushed her brightly patterned scarf in front of her face. She tucked it away and frowned. “Although she insists on going by Lady Sara.”

“How very English of her. Why did you name her Syrine?”

He turned to lean his back against the railing and the wind ruffled his hair, disheveling it even more than usual. The dark curls he’d inherited from his mother were unruly even when cut short, but he’d done his best to make himself into a proper gentleman. Appearances were important when dealing with foreign royalty.

Lady Fulton looked over the water, her face sad for a moment. “I’ve always had a fondness for the exotic, and I’d hoped to have a daughter who shared that sentiment.”

“Syrine is a lovely name.”

“So is Sara.” She cleared her throat. “And Lady Sara has never once overstepped the bounds of propriety. She and her aunt will do an excellent job of steering you through the shoals of Society’s expectations.”

A prick of unease went through Tarek. “You’re not abandoning me to them?”

“No.” She gave him a reassuring glance. “I’ll attend a few events with you—a ball, and perhaps the opera. But it’s best if I’m not seen overmuch in your company.”

He nodded, just as the ship’s whistle blew. They were coming into port, and he turned around again to watch the pewter water reach toward the shore.

“Don’t lose your heart to some English girl,” his mother had said as she bade him farewell. “Are you not staying beneath the same roof as Lady Fulton’s daughter?”

He’d laughed at her. “I’ve never even mislaid my heart, let alone lost it. Don’t fret, omi. I’ll be back from England safe and sound before you know it.”

“I hope so. The last thing we need is more foreigners marrying into the Bey’s family.”

“You’re the one who wed a Frenchman!” He’d shaken his head.

“Yes, and it is difficult, trying to find a balance between two worlds.” She’d given him a pensive look. “You manage it well, but you should marry a local girl. Fatima is very sweet.”

“I’m not marrying Fatima—or anyone. We can discuss this after I return.”

Not that he wanted to do so. He couldn’t envision finding someone he would want as his companion for life. And even if he did, she would certainly not be some starched and staid English lady. He was quite certain Lady Sara Ashton posed no danger to his emotions whatsoever.

***

Sitting in her favorite wingback chair in the front parlor, Sara pretended to read the latest Lady’s Gazette. Every clatter of carriage wheels over the brick streets of Mayfair made her glance up. Mama was arriving today, with her Tunisian paramour.

Nervous anticipation fluttered in Sara’s stomach. Much as she tried to deny it, she missed her mother. Aunt Eugenie was never able to fill the void left in Sara’s heart each time Mama went away.

But it was foolish to still feel like a little girl, watching out the window as her mother set off once more—especially as Mama was arriving, not leaving.

In fact, there was the carriage now, the Fulton coat of arms emblazoned across the doors. Sara tossed the Gazette on the side table and jumped up from her chair. Going to the window, she flicked the lace inner curtain aside so that she could watch Mama and the mysterious Comte du Lac disembark.

The footman handed Lady Fulton down, and Sara could not help thinking that Mama hadn’t aged a bit. Her auburn curls still gleamed in the fitful sunlight, and her smile was charming as ever.

Then a man exited the carriage, and Sara leaned forward, trying to get a better view. Goodness, he was young! She tried not to be shocked at Mama, but really, the Comte du Lac looked to be only a few years older than herself.

He was well turned out in a brown coat and top hat, with a blue silk tie about his neck. A tousle of thick, dark curls that would make any woman envious framed his face, and his eyes were a startling shade of amber in a very sun-bronzed face.

His figure was trim and tall, his gesture when he held his arm out to Lady Fulton assured. In truth, the Comte du Lac was the sort of gentleman that would set all the ladies atwitter. Handsome, a touch exotic, and no doubt possessed of a most delicious accent.

Sara clenched her jaw. She’d been prepared for an older gentleman to accompany Mama. This fellow was nothing like she’d envisioned, and certainly spelled trouble for them all.

“Are they here?” Aunt Eugenie hurried into the parlor. “You were supposed to ring for me when the carriage arrived.”

“My apologies.” Somehow, Sara could not stop watching as Mama and the Comte du Lac ascended the stairs to the front door. “I was… distracted.”

“Luckily, Mr. Carlisle alerted me.” Her aunt gave her a disapproving look. “Come now, paste on a smile for your mother.”

The front door opened and Sara heard Mama’s voice, and lower tones that must be the comte.

“Aunt, I should warn you—”

“The Marchioness of Fulton has arrived,” Mr. Carlisle announced, appearing in the hallway outside the parlor door. “And her… guest, the Comte du Lac.”

“See them in,” Aunt Eugenie said. “And let Sally know to bring the tea trolley.”

“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed, then stood back to admit Lady Fulton.

“Margaret, how good to see you again,” Aunt Eugenie said, moving forward with her hands outstretched.

Then the Comte du Lac stepped through the door, and Aunt Eugenie froze. Her expression rather resembled a fish for a moment—bulging eyes and a pursed mouth—before she was able to gather herself and complete the greeting.

For her part, Sara was equally affected by his presence, though she hoped she did not appear quite as trout-like as her aunt. In person, the Comte du Lac radiated a contained energy that made it difficult to look away from him. With his even features, aquiline nose, and intense gold-colored eyes, she could see why Mama had taken up with the man. He was quite compelling.

As if aware of her stare, he glanced at her and winked.

Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly dropped her gaze to the vine-patterned carpet beneath their feet. From the corner of her eye, she caught Mama smiling.

“Welcome to England,” Aunt Eugenie said, sounding almost as though she meant it. “You must be the Comte du Lac.”

“I am.” His voice was deep and melodious, with the expected accent. Sara couldn’t decide if it were French or something more exotic. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“This is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Ashford,” Mama said. “And my daughter Lady Sy—” She checked herself. “Lady Sara.”

“A pleasure.” The comte stepped forward and took Sara’s hand, bowing over it.

The touch of his skin against hers sent a warm shiver through her.

How dreadful, to find herself so affected by the man! Not only was he Mama’s paramour, he was the type of fellow people would not be able to stop gossiping about. Thank heavens she would be leaving London next week. Guests or not, she must attend Lord Whitley’s house party.

Until that time, she would just have to pretend the Comte du Lac was no more attractive than a lump of coal.

“It’s good to be back in London,” Mama said. “I apologize for the short notice, and for bringing along an unexpected guest. You’ll find that Tarek is good company.” She slanted a smile at the comte.

Aunt Eugenie cleared her throat. “I’m certain it’s no trouble to have Lord du Lac here.”

The comte let out a laugh. “There is no need for such formality, surely? I’m not used to being addressed by such a name.”

Aunt Eugenie gave him her most frigid stare. “You are in England now, my lord. Here, we observe the proprieties.”

“I’m afraid you must become accustomed to your title.” Mama set her fingers lightly on his arm. “Lord du Lac has a certain ring to it, you must admit.”

“I suppose.” His lips twitched up into a wry smile. “Still, will you all indulge me within these walls, and call me Tarek? It will help me feel more comfortable.”

Aunt Eugenie let out a huff from her pinched nostrils. Sara did not know how to respond. It was ungentlemanly of him to ask for such an intimate form of address—but clearly he was unused to their customs. And he was their guest.

Sally bustled in with the tea trolley, breaking the awkward silence.

“Come, sit.” Aunt Eugenie gestured toward the chairs and sofa.

Sara took her usual wingback. Unfortunately, it placed her directly across from the comte, who settled next to Mama on the green-striped sofa.

“Sara, why don’t you pour out?” her aunt suggested.

It was partially to showcase her skills as a hostess, Sara knew, but also so that her aunt might interrogate Mama and the comte without needing to pause to discuss lumps of sugar and amounts of milk.

Of course, the only person Sara needed to converse with about such matters was the comte himself. She knew that Mama preferred her tea black with a tiny bit of sugar, while Aunt Eugenie liked copious amounts of milk and two sugar cubes per cup.

Sara served the ladies. Then, empty cup in one hand, silver teapot in the other, she looked at their guest.

“How do you take your tea, sir?” she asked.

From the twinkle in his eye, she feared he was going to give her some improper answer, but he paused a moment, perhaps thinking better of it.

“With lemon,” he answered.

It surprised her—firstly that he even knew it was an option, and secondly because that was how she preferred her tea. Heavens, she hoped he would not think she was mimicking him when she made up her own cup.

Aunt Eugenie noticed, however, and left off questioning Mama for a moment.

“I don’t understand some tastes,” her aunt said. “Sara enjoys her the same way, but I’ve always found lemon too tart to put into my cup. Now, Margaret, tell me more about your plans while you’re in London.”

Mama began a litany of shops and museums, and Sara poured a cup of tea for their guest, complete with a thin slice of lemon.

The comte took it with a nod of thanks, then leaned toward her.

“I’ve often wondered if the amount of sugar a person puts in their tea is inversely related to the sourness of their disposition,” he said in a low voice.

She could not help smiling, though she tried to suppress it. “I’ve had that very thought myself, from time to time.”

“Aha,” he said. “So you do know how to smile.”

She straightened, her amusement gone. “If that’s an attempt to flirt with me, I consider it in rather poor taste.”

“You English are so prim.” He shook his head. “Am I supposed to pretend that I’m not seated across from an attractive young woman?”

Base flattery. Sara did her best to ignore the feathery brush of pleasure his words gave her.

“That is correct. Given the circumstances.” She could not help glancing at Mama.

He stared at her a moment, and she saw comprehension flash in his eyes. Then he set his cup down and burst into laughter.

Aunt Eugenie pursed her lips. “Gracious me. What an outburst.”

“What is it?” Mama asked, turning to regard him.

“My apologies, ladies.” The comte’s smile was very white against his dark skin. “I believe there is a misunderstanding. Lady Sara, while I admire your mother tremendously, she is a friend and a patron to me. Nothing more.”

“Oh.” Sara stared at him a moment, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

He and Mama were not lovers after all? That changed everything—and not necessarily for the better.

Mama’s eyebrows lifted and she covered her smile with her fingers. “Oh, dear. While I’m flattered by your assumptions, let me reassure you that the comte and I are not involved in a—”

“Certainly not,” Aunt Eugenie said loudly. “He’s young enough to be your son. And you would never strain our reputation in such a manner, no matter what the gossips say.”

Sara did not fall back into her chair, precisely, but her shoulders were glad of the support of the wingback. Whatever was Mama thinking, bringing such a fellow as her guest? Was she trying to undo all Sara and Aunt Eugenie’s years of hard work?

She must know how unsuitable the Comte du Lac was. French and Tunisian, possessed of an improper sense of humor, far too handsome for anyone’s peace of mind; the gentleman was a walking scandal magnet.

The next few days were going to be a trial, indeed. Thank heavens for Lord Whitley and his house party. It was imperative that Sarah escape to Hampshire before the combination of Mama and the Comte du Lac tarnished her reputation beyond repair.

***

Mirth still bubbling through him, Tarek drank his tea and listened to Lady Fulton and Mrs. Ashford speak about London. Lady Sara studiously avoided his gaze, despite his efforts to catch her eye.

What an odd lot these English were. So tightly cinched up in their clothing and opinions, their notions of what was proper and improper.

But despite her decorous appearance, he was already beginning to suspect Lady Sara of hidden depths. There was something about her smile, the flash of humor in her leaf-colored eyes, that indicated an adventurous spirit. Rather like her mother.

It was as though the young woman named Syrine was there, hiding beneath Lady Sara’s layers of decorum and respectability. Would it be possible to coax her out further? He was greatly tempted to try.

For such an outwardly prudish pair, he found it comical that Lady Sara and her aunt had assumed he and the marchioness were lovers. Lady Fulton was a marvelous woman, but the thought of conducting an affair with her had never crossed his mind.

The marchioness seemed equally amused, most likely by how uncomfortable the idea had made her sister-in-law. Mrs. Ashford seemed the sort to be offended by everything. Tarek hadn’t missed her shock when he’d, mostly in jest, asked them to call him by his given name.

Indeed, given the reaction, he thought he might insist upon it—though he expected that both Lady Sara and her aunt would go out of their way to avoid addressing him directly.

Before the journey had begun, Tarek had suggested he stay at a hotel in London instead of the Marchioness’s townhouse, but Lady Fulton would have none of that.

“They need some stirring up,” she’d said. “Besides, you’ll need Syrine—I mean Sara’s—help if you want to come up to snuff, as they say.”

“I’m considered a gentleman in both in Tunis and Paris,” he’d said, slightly offended.

Lady Fulton had waved a dismissive hand. “You and I both know that manners in Tunis are a far cry from London. And the English simultaneously admire and look down their noses at the French. No—if you want Queen Victoria to take you seriously, you must fit in with English standards of propriety.”

He’d overstepped those bounds several times already, but not out of ignorance. Lady Sara and her aunt were simply too tempting, and—at least in Mrs. Ashford’s case—too easy to shock.

Outside the walls of Fulton House, of course, he knew how to behave. Still, he had admit that his first glimpse of the rigid manners of the English had taken him aback. He hadn’t understood how very precise London rules of etiquette were, though the marchioness had tried to warn him.

It went against his nature, but he would have to curb his mischievous streak even further and clamp down upon his emotions, as a proper English lord would do. He only hoped he could gain an audience with the queen before the proprieties of England smothered him completely.