The Birthday Scandal (35 page)

“Is that all? He already told me as much—and you may inform his lordship that he has mistaken the situation. I have spoken to Mr. Lancaster and everything is quite normal.”

She brushed past Benson and went back to the garden party. The first thing she saw was Gavin, halfway across the lawn with a Carew sister on each side of him. One of them seemed to have said something hilarious, for as Emily watched, Gavin threw back his head and laughed.

He was
otherwise engaged,
all right. So he’d assigned his servant a troublesome duty, then wiped the problem from his mind.

So much for her concern that he might feel responsible for her! Emily was glad she’d learned the lesson so easily—for it was perfectly clear that to Gavin, she was no more than a passing thought.

Lucien finally managed to break free from a crashing bore—an old friend of the duke’s who had pinned him up against a brick wall for half an hour while he recounted every embarrassing incident from Lucien’s childhood visits to the castle.

With a relieved sigh, he settled himself on the stone coping surrounding a gently splashing fountain near the main marquee, where he had a good view of a group of girls eating ices. One of them was Chloe Fletcher, and though he tried not to stare, Lucien couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting back to her every time he forced himself to look away. He hoped that her laugh didn’t sound as uncomfortable to those girls as it did to him. But they didn’t know her as well as he did; they might not even suspect that anything was wrong.

Lady Stone, the old gossip, started past him and paused, her beady black gaze intent on his face. “You look as though you’re longing to have one of them.” She nodded toward the girls.

Lucien choked. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“The ices. What did you think I was referring to, Hartford? The girls?” She gave a rusty laugh. “What has the youth of today come to?”

Belatedly, Lucien rose from the low stone wall and bowed, careful not to spill his glass of ale. Perhaps if he acted as if he hadn’t heard that last jibe, she would move on.

Instead, Lady Stone settled herself on the wall as if she intended to stay all afternoon. She planted her ebony cane in the grass at Lucien’s feet, propped her folded hands on the knob, and surveyed the girls. “Chloe Fletcher is very young to be a stepmother.”

She was obviously fishing for information, and Lucien was not about to venture into those troubled waters by giving an opinion.

“Especially when the stepchildren-to-be are all older than she is. She’s barely nineteen. What are you now, Hartford? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?” Lady Stone shook her head. “It’s too bad of your father, you know, even to think of marrying her. I never would have expected it of him, considering how badly he’s missed your mother all these years. He’s hardly been the same man since Drusilla died.”

Lucien bit his tongue hard to keep from giving Lady Stone his own unadulterated opinion.

“Besides, Chiswick doesn’t need to add Sir George Fletcher’s land to his holdings.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it, young man. Sir George’s estate is not entailed. He’s only a baronet, a rank he earned by some kind of service to the crown long ago. His title will end with him, and Chloe is his only natural heir. Whoever marries her will own Mallowan one day.”

Lucien sucked in a deep breath. Finally he understood what he’d seen in Captain Hopkins’s eyes that day in the army stables when he’d handed over Chloe’s letter. The expression had been so fleeting Lucien hadn’t had time to recognize it—but now it all came clear in his mind. As the captain realized that his hopes had been dashed and his patience had been for nothing, he had looked chagrined.

Captain Hopkins had hoped to marry Chloe the heiress. But it would be a different thing altogether to elope with Chloe the disowned daughter, and live on her minuscule allowance with no hope of inheriting her father’s rich acres. A poor bride was not an attractive proposition to an ambitious young man who had only his army pay and a hundred guineas a year.

This explained everything. The captain’s instant flash of annoyance when he had read Chloe’s letter. The fact that he had not sent back any message for Lucien to deliver to her. The way the captain had merely grunted at Lucien instead of thanking him or raving about his lovely bride-to-be.

Lucien allowed himself a moment of pure triumph, basking in the conviction that he had been right all along about Captain Hopkins’s intentions. Lucien was as certain of it in his own heart as if the man had told him outright that he had no intention of showing up tonight.

But his triumph quickly gave way to uncertainty. How could he possibly break this news to Chloe? She would never believe him. She would listen, and shake her head, and tell him that he didn’t know Captain Hopkins—and she would be right. How could Lucien persuade her that he had read the man’s character more accurately in just a few minutes than she had in however many weeks or months she had known him?

Besides, with her freedom at stake—when giving up her dream of eloping with her soldier would mean she was once more caught in a betrothal to a man she detested, with no escape in sight—everything in her would want to trust Captain Hopkins. She would not lightly be swayed from believing in him, and in her plans.

Even if somehow Lucien could convince her not to go out to the folly tonight, part of her would always wonder whether her lover had come after all and found her to be the unfaithful one.

So though he was as certain as it was possible to be that Captain Hopkins would not appear in that dark back lane tonight with a chaise and four ready for a trip to Scotland, Lucien was also positive that Chloe would not be dissuaded from her plan. It would do no good to tell her what he had discovered; she would have to face the truth for herself. She would no doubt wait in the folly until her heart broke rather than believe that her lover might not come for her.

But maybe there was still something he could do to ease the pain.

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Stone said. “The only possible conclusion is that it’s a love match.”

Lucien had the vague impression that she’d been talking to herself the whole time, working through a convoluted line of logic on her way to an incredible conclusion. But who was this fount of gossip talking about? Could she possibly know about Chloe and Captain Hopkins?

“A love match?” he said unsteadily.

“Stop woolgathering, Hartford.” Lady Stone rapped him across the knuckles with her fan. “I mean Chiswick and your soon-to-be stepmother. As far as I can see, there’s no other way to account for it. But you look shocked—so tell me, is there some factor I’ve overlooked?”

A
s Isabel followed the path through the gardens to the folly at the far end, she kept her eyes open for guests who seemed uncomfortable or lost. Not many had come so far, and before long she was able to simply enjoy the quiet.

She knew she was probably freetting over nothing, to worry so about Uncle Josiah. But why had the duke wanted to come all the way out here anyway, so far from his guests?

Uncle Josiah had looked much healthier in the last couple of days than he had on the evening the family had arrived. Probably that was just the effect of having something to think about besides his illness, and some entertainment that was livelier than the usual castle routine. However, the fact that he felt somewhat better might have prompted him to attempt too much.

The folly stood on a little knoll that commanded some of the best views on the entire estate. An octagonal structure that looked like an oversized lantern, it had a steep slate roof with deep overhangs. Its open sides were partially sheltered by trellised wisteria vines, which provided shade and windbreak all year, as well as glorious aromas in the summer.

Isabel heard voices coming from the folly—a woman’s laughing tones—and she hastened her step in case Lady Murdoch was annoying the duke.

Then a man’s voice cut across the laughter. But it wasn’t Uncle Josiah’s voice, and it wasn’t Gavin’s.

The Earl of Maxwell was in the folly, with Lady Murdoch. Isabel’s husband—with the woman who had been rumored to be his mistress.

Isabel stopped in a secluded spot behind a row of tall, thick boxwood. She had no intention of eavesdropping, she told herself. Besides, nothing could happen, for Uncle Josiah was there, too. Wasn’t he?

Through the vines, she caught a glimpse of a bright-red skirt, and very close to it, a deep-blue coat—the one Maxwell had been wearing. And there were no other voices.

Lady Murdoch and Maxwell. No wonder he hadn’t been anywhere on the castle lawn. Only now did Isabel realize she’d been watching for him. She wondered if she had suspected this, when Lady Murdoch announced that she planned to seek out the duke. Why else would Isabel have had that sudden and overwhelming fear that something might have happened to Uncle Josiah, except that it had formed an excuse to come all the way down here and see for herself? Why had she insisted on coming, when Emily had volunteered?

Because you wanted to know. And now what are you going to do about it?

“Isn’t your tedious little bride with child yet, Max? Do hurry it up—because now that I’ve provided my husband with his heir, I’m free to do as I like. And what I’d like is…”

Her voice dropped, but Isabel had no difficulty in filling in the rest of the sentence.

“You’d risk losing your husband’s money by flaunting a lover in front of him, Elspeth?” Maxwell sounded good-humored, almost lazy.

“I expect we’d need to be discreet.” Lady Murdoch’s laugh sounded just a bit forced. “But Murdoch is Scottish, you see. All that lovely money and he won’t let go of a single farthing. So it doesn’t matter whether I please him or only myself—all I’ll have is my marriage portion. But at least I could have you.”

Isabel gritted her teeth as the flash of red skirt moved even closer to the dark-blue coat.

It was only a moment later—though it seemed forever to Isabel—when Lady Murdoch said, “What’s wrong, Max? You haven’t gone sentimental on me, have you?”

Isabel’s breath caught. If he wasn’t seizing the lure Lady Murdoch held out, why not? Was it possible that Maxwell intended to honor his vows?

She knew better than to let her thoughts wander in that direction, of course. More likely he was delaying only because he wanted to make certain that his
tedious little bride
was pregnant before he devoted himself to a lover.

“What is it, Max? You’re not
still
feeling guilty about that young woman, are you? Miss Lester?”

Isabel fought off a dizzy spell. She hadn’t heard that name in a very long time. But what had Maxwell to do with the young lady Philip Rivington had ruined? Maxwell had been drawn into that duel only because he was Philip Rivington’s friend—and that, Isabel thought, was bad enough. Surely he had no other involvement with the young woman Philip had seduced.

Lady Murdoch sounded accusing. “You’re still sending her money—aren’t you?”

Foreboding descended on Isabel like fog, so dense and gray and heavy that she could barely breathe.

“It is none of your business what I do with my money.”

“Just because she was supposed to be a lady, and ladies are expected not to get themselves with child, is no reason for
you
…”

“It’s little enough to do for her and the child, since I am responsible for her situation.”

Isabel clutched her arms tightly across her body and wished she had never come down the path to the folly. Each word seemed to tear deeper into her heart.

“Oh, Max,” Lady Murdoch soothed, “don’t be so silly about this. How foolish you’re being—what would people say if they knew? She got
herself
into this mess, after all. A sensible female would have taken care not to get with child.”

“A sensible female like you, Elspeth?”

Lady Murdoch laughed. “Yes, darling, a sensible female like me. You needn’t be afraid that
I’ll
saddle you with a by-blow. Now come here, Max—and kiss me.”

Blind with pain, Isabel turned back toward the castle, and with the last of her self-control she slipped silently away.