The Birthday Scandal (25 page)

Early afternoon found Lucien once more within a few miles of the castle. As though his horse had sighted the towers and landmarks of home, the animal tossed his head and whickered eagerly. Lucien patted the gelding’s neck. “You’re tired out, aren’t you, and longing to run for your stable? But it’s not a good idea to start a race now, after the day we’ve had.”

He had started to skirt the village when he thought better of the idea and drew up in front of the inn instead. Resting the horse for an hour would mean he wouldn’t turn over an exhausted mount to a stable master who would without doubt question what he’d been up to.

A coin to an ostler assured that the gelding would be brushed down, watered, and supplied with hay and grain, and Lucien himself went off to the taproom while he waited. He could almost smell the innkeeper’s ale all the way from the yard.

Delivering Chloe’s letter had not been the simple errand she had seemed to think it would be. Merely finding Captain Hopkins had been a challenge. The army barracks had been full of bustle and noise, and Lucien had had to stop soldiers three times to ask directions. Finally he located his quarry at the smithy, where the captain had been overseeing a blacksmith who was tending to his horse—an animal that in Lucien’s opinion was a great deal more show than substance. To add to Lucien’s problems, Captain Hopkins had not been of a mind to interrupt his pursuits to listen to the confidential business of a complete stranger.

Lucien’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dimness inside the taproom when he heard his name called. “Lucien! Where in the name of heaven have you been all day?”

Lucien strode across the room to where Gavin sat by the window with a tankard of ale the innkeeper had just set in front of him. He plucked the tankard out of Gavin’s hand and drained it. “Thoughtful of you to have a drink ready for me, Cousin.” He turned to the Earl of Maxwell, sitting across the table, and eyed his tankard as well. “And you, too, Max—I couldn’t have asked for more of a welcome than this.”

The earl prudently moved his ale out of reach and gestured to the innkeeper. “You don’t look as though you’ve been laboring in the fields all day, Lucien. What causes the great thirst?”

“Never knew I needed a reason to be thirsty,” Lucien said. “Especially not when the ale is as good as this.” He settled himself at the table as the innkeeper delivered another round. This time he sipped slowly and appreciatively.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the two of them had quizzed him. But Maxwell only raised an eyebrow and Gavin smiled a little, and Lucien relaxed. This might work out for the best after all. They could enjoy their ale, then ride back to the castle together—and with luck no one would ask exactly when he had turned up or where he might have gone before that.

“Are you two escaping the party preparations or the dress fittings?” he asked.

“Riding the estate,” Gavin said. “Meeting tenants, seeing the land.”

Lucien gave a soundless whistle. “Uncle Josiah approved that? I’d have liked to hear the conversation!”

“He told me to look around, get a feel for the estate.”

“It was hardly a formal inspection,” Maxwell added, “but enlightening nonetheless. And it fitted well with Gavin’s urge to escape Lady Fletcher’s call.”

Lucien silently gave thanks for the impulse that had made him stop at the inn rather than ride straight on to the castle.

Maxwell consulted his pocket watch. “I suppose if we don’t turn up at a reasonable hour, and in a reasonably sober condition, there will be a price.”

“Surely not for you,” Lucien said idly. “Isabel seems to prefer it when you’re nowhere in sight.”

Maxwell’s hand clenched for a moment on the handle of his tankard, and then relaxed.

Lucien wondered why Lady Fletcher was making the trek over to Weybridge today, of all days. They’d all been together for dinner the night before, and the garden party and ball were tomorrow. Why wasn’t she staying at home for once? Surely, just like his sisters, the Fletcher ladies needed to occupy themselves with—oh, things like ribbons and fripperies, he thought vaguely, and whatever else females did all day when getting ready for a big occasion.

Worry gnawed at him. Max seemed to think this was an ordinary call—but then Max had no reason to be suspicious of Lady Fletcher’s motives. Surely Chloe would be careful not to let her mother suspect she was up to something—wouldn’t she? But they did say mothers had a special sense about these things.

Lucien was just glad he didn’t have to face Chloe’s dragon of a mother right now—before he had a chance to talk to Chloe herself. He wished he didn’t have to wait until morning, when they had agreed to meet once more in the linden grove, to work out a story.

Yes, he was looking forward to their rendezvous in the morning—even though he had yet to decide what he would tell Chloe about Captain Hopkins and his reaction to her letter.

When Emily finally fitted into the drawing ro5om, Isabel was just starting to pour tea—which probably meant that the Fletcher party had settled in for the long term. Emily made her curtsey to Lady Fletcher and Chloe, tossed a quick smile and a greeting to Mr. Lancaster, and surveyed the room. A mere glance at the tea tray showed just half a dozen cups and saucers set up neatly in a row—enough for the people currently presently in the room, with only one extra.

So Isabel was not anticipating that the gentlemen of the castle would turn out in force. Emily wondered which of them her sister did expect to join the group. She supposed Isabel might still be hoping that Gavin would make an effort to cement his interests with Chloe—though Emily thought it rather a bad bet.

Isabel handed a steaming cup to Lady Fletcher. “I expect our father will be down shortly. I believe he intended to visit with Uncle Josiah.”

“The dear earl,” Lady Fletcher said fondly. “Such a lovely man.”

Emily swallowed hard in an effort to keep herself from choking.

“And the dear duke, too. We are so fond of him, Sir George and I. Chloe, of course, has always regarded him almost as a grandfather.”

Chloe seemed not to notice what her mother had said—or else she had heard but merely had a better command of herself than Emily would have expected. She seemed to be studying the stitching in her gloves, except when she sneaked glances at the tall clock in the corner. Emily could sympathize, for it seemed impossible to her that no more than five minutes had passed since she’d come into the room. It felt like an age.

Lady Fletcher sipped. “Do tell me, my dear Lady Isabel—is Weybridge up to the exertions of a garden party, and the ball? It seems so odd that he would spend his strength to host such a party if he is as ill as it is reported.”

“If the choices are to lie helpless and dull in bed,” Emily said, “trying to husband one’s vital force merely to extend the time one can lie helpless and dull in bed, or to spend one’s strength in a last glorious event, I believe I know which I would choose.”

“You are so full of the vital force, Lady Emily, that it is difficult to see you doing anything else but living life to the fullest,” Lancaster chimed in.

With great effort, Emily resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Too bad Gavin wasn’t present to hear that. She wondered what his reaction would be—and whether he’d be able to hide it. He probably wouldn’t try. She suspected his eyes would glint and that little half smile would toy with the corner of his mouth. And she might even get a peek at the dimple that occasionally came out of hiding in his left cheek. Such an unexpected thing that dimple was, in such a masculine man—but all the more charming in her mind for being so improbable. And he’d have some unanswerable rejoinder to put Lancaster in his place.

Unless, of course, Gavin no longer cared what she did.

Emily caught herself up short. This arrangement of theirs had never been more than physical. No matter what she did, it would be none of his business—especially now that their
affaire
had come to such a sensible end.

With an effort, she pulled her mind back to the drawing room and to Lancaster, just as he said, “Surely now that you are away from your exile, Lady Emily, you have reconsidered the choice to bury yourself in a village.”

She frowned. “Barton Bristow is hardly exile, Mr. Lancaster.”

He gave her a small, pitying smile. “I understand the reason for retreating from the world for a while, of course. Such an action made you a mysterious figure to the
ton
—even a tragic one.”

She paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “You think that was my aim?”

“But you must not expect that society will remember indefinitely, Lady Emily. Past a certain point, you will no longer be considered inscrutable—merely eccentric.” His voice dropped. “You may even be seen as
odd
.”

“Such a pity that would be,” Emily said crisply.

“Indeed it would. The duke’s ball is the perfect opportunity to make clear that you wish to rejoin your world, by asking the guests to extend the hand of forgiveness.”

“You’re suggesting I should
ask for forgiveness
?” Emily could feel heat rising in her face. How dare he suggest that she should beg to be once more part of society? She hadn’t been the one who created the scandal!

“You did turn your back on your friends,” Lancaster reminded quietly.

Emily’s hand was shaking, and her teacup rattled in the saucer. She set it down carefully.

Before she could gather her thoughts and blast him, a footman wheeled the Duke of Weybridge’s chair into the drawing room, and the force of habit brought her to her feet to make her curtsey.

The interruption couldn’t have been timed better. There would be no convincing Mr. Lancaster that he sounded like a fool, so it was better to leave him entirely alone.

What had she been thinking, anyway, to start flirting with him again? Gavin wasn’t present to watch—and what was the point in flirting if there was no audience?

For a moment the thought didn’t even register, and when it did, Emily was puzzled for a moment. Why had the mere thought of flirting with one man brought another—very different—man to her mind?

You only did it because Gavin made it clear he doesn’t want you.

But that was nonsense, for Gavin hadn’t done anything of the sort. He’d just been sensible—pointing out the fact that even a very large castle was no guarantee of privacy when it was full of family members. Emily was relieved to know that he wasn’t going to press her for more than she was willing to do.

Really she was.

Belatedly, she turned her attention to the gushing welcome Lady Fletcher was dishing up for the duke. “Your Grace, you are looking so well!” she exclaimed. “I was fearful, after the reports—but indeed, you have seldom looked better.”

Emily caught Isabel’s gaze. Her sister seemed to feel the same raw astonishment Emily did. Which was foolish of both of them, since the one thing that had been clear about Lady Fletcher from the start was that she had no native tact. To tell a dying duke that he looked quite well was wishful thinking of the highest order.

Emily hadn’t seen the Duke of Weybridge since breakfast, and then he had looked pale and drawn…or had he? She had been so caught up in her own ticklish conscience, half expecting someone to guess that she had spent a good part of the night in Gavin’s bed, that she hadn’t looked closely at Uncle Josiah.

He
did
look better. He seemed rested, and there was more color in his face and a bit of a sparkle in his eyes.

He must be excited by the upcoming celebration. Such a boost might not last, for it was probably not an actual improvement in his condition. But even if that was the case, seeing him lively again—if only for a short while—was enough to lift her spirits. She caught his eye and smiled.

“I had doubts of your wisdom in holding a party,” Lady Fletcher confided. “Even a small party—much less two separate ones.”

The duke frowned. “Small? Compared to some that have been held here in the past, it could be called small, but this is hardly to be an intimate gathering. The rest of the houseguests should start arriving at any time now, I believe. I hope you and Sir George intend to take part in all the festivities.”

“That might be difficult,” Lady Fletcher murmured.

“Not at all. You must bring everything you need for the ball when you come for the garden party—so there is no need to go all the way back to Mallowan in between. Of course, you’ll stay overnight after the ball as well. No sense in driving home in the dark.”

Joy. We’ll have Lady Fletcher with us full-time.

Chloe suddenly sat up straighter. For the first time since Emily had entered the room, the girl looked almost excited.

Emily glanced toward the entrance hall, half expecting to see the Earl of Chiswick—for surely only the sight of her betrothed could cause such a contrast in a young woman’s demeanor. But it was only the gentlemen returning from wherever they’d gotten to all afternoon—Gavin, and Maxwell, and Lucien. Their boots clattered on the marble floor of the hall, and one of them laughed. That must be Maxwell, she thought, though she did not remember ever hearing him laugh before—but had it been either Lucien or Gavin, she would have recognized the sound.