The Birthday Scandal (36 page)

The duke dismissed Gavin at the bottom of the stairs, as soon as the two burly footmen appeared to carry his chair up the long fight to the gallery. “I’ve had enough of your company for one afternoon, Athstone. Go back out to the garden and take care of my guests.”

The man was exhausted but far too proud to admit it. Or else, Gavin thought as he looked out over the lawn, the duke agreed that garden parties were the most boring activity on the face of the earth. He must have forgotten that fact when he’d planned this one, or surely he’d have used the excuse of his illness to avoid it.

The annual Weybridge garden party was a tradition, the Earl of Chiswick had said. He made it sound as though the castle itself would collapse if the party wasn’t held on schedule. But then that might not be such a bad thing, Gavin thought. If there was no castle, there wouldn’t be a place to hold garden parties, much less balls—and the upcoming dance promised to be every bit as dull as the garden party, only warmer and more crowded.

He descended the wide stone steps to the lawn and plunged once more into the throng, nodding and smiling and chatting, till he ended up near the big marquee and spotted Lucien sitting on the edge of the low stone basin of a fountain. Gavin dropped down beside him. “Where did you find that glass of ale?”

Lucien shook his head a little as if he were just waking up, and he looked at the glass, apparently surprised to see what he was holding. “Around front, in the courtyard. The innkeeper brought a barrel, but he’s keeping it under wraps. Favored customers only.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” But Gavin didn’t move, because as he scanned the crowd, he saw Emily with Lancaster and young Baron Draycott. Apparently, Benson hadn’t yet been able to pass along the message to her, or surely she wouldn’t be standing there making eyes at the man.

Lucien stood up suddenly. “I’ll bring you a glass. If you go out to the courtyard yourself, half the crowd will notice and probably follow you. The heir, you know—everyone’s watching you.”

“And here I thought my main job was to flirt with every unmarried woman within twenty miles.”

Lucien grinned. “That, too.” He saluted Gavin with his glass and strolled off.

Gavin looked back at Emily. Lancaster had gone, leaving her with Baron Draycott. That was interesting, Gavin thought. Was it possible he’d read too much into the fragment of conversation he’d overheard? Or maybe Lancaster had known he was standing there just outside the smoking room door and had been goading him. The duke had called Gavin’s name from the foot of the steps—Lancaster could have heard that and decided to have a little fun.

There was nothing he could do about it now—or, rather, he’d done everything he could by warning Emily. Surely she would take care of herself. And what could Lancaster do in the middle of a garden party, anyway?

The Carew sisters sidled by with their eyes modestly cast down, and he rose to bow politely just as one of them lost her shoe and seized his arm to steady herself. Gavin smothered a sigh and helped her back into her footwear, and wished he were still trundling the duke’s chair around the garden.

A by-blow. A side-slip. A bastard…

As soon as she was away from the folly, Isabel found a stone bench in a secluded corner of the garden, as far as she could get from the laughter and joy of the party. She barely felt the cold of the shaded stone seeping through her fine new dress. She was making a mental list of all the names, from euphemistic to blunt, for a child born out of wedlock—because occupying her mind with semantics for a while let her avoid thinking too deeply about what she had overheard.

But the respite from her pounding thoughts was fleeting.

Maxwell sent money to a young lady who had borne a child without being married—because, he had fatly told Lady Murdoch, he was responsible.

All this time, Isabel had despised Philip Rivington— because he had been a cad and a fool, because he had destroyed Emily’s life, because he had ruined Isabel’s own marriage. But now it seemed that Philip Rivington had not been the guilty party after all—because Maxwell was.

Isabel had never before wondered why Philip Rivington had met his challenger in a duel rather than seek some other, more honorable solution. If he
had
been the father of Miss Lester’s child, he could have muddled through the mess by breaking off his betrothal to Emily and marrying the young woman he had seduced. Even Miss Lester’s irate brother would have agreed to a quiet marriage, no matter how much he despised Philip Rivington, because the alternative was worse—a scandalous duel, a ruined sister, and a bastard child.

But if Maxwell had been the father instead, he would have had no such option—for by the time the challenge was issued, he had already married Isabel.

For the first time, she considered the odd timing of that duel. She’d always thought it purely coincidence—annoying and inconvenient, but coincidence nonetheless—that her new husband’s friend had been called out to face justice on the very night after her wedding. But since it was also the day that Emily’s betrothal had been publicly announced, she had never questioned which event might have been the actual trigger.

But what if it should have been Maxwell instead who faced that pistol at dawn—and Philip Rivington had stepped into his shoes, taken the blame—and paid the price?

You have to ask him. You have to know the truth.

Her entire body shuddered away from the confrontation. They were finally beginning to find their way to a sort of peace, but now she would have to upset that fragile balance…

Isabel pulled herself up short. What was she thinking? There was no peace between them, no balance. Only a bargain—a straightforward swap. How had she, even for a moment, forgotten that?

Because you wanted to forget.

She gasped as the harsh truth struck home. Sometime in the last few days, she had stopped thinking of the ben-efts she would get from their bargain—full possession of Kilburn and complete independence from her husband— because the fact was she didn’t want to leave him after all.

Maxwell’s reasoning, annoying though she had found it, had been correct. Though she hadn’t admitted it even to herself, Isabel could no longer deny the facts. She
had
deliberately set out to make their marriage real. She wanted to be his wife. She wanted to give him his heir.

Sometime in the last year, even while she had been constantly telling herself she wanted nothing to do with Maxwell, she had fallen in love with her husband…only to find out now, in the most painful way possible, that she had never known him at all.

Even though he’d scarcely taken his eyes off Chloe all afternoon, Lucien almost missed her signal as she left the group of girls she’d been sitting with under the edge of the marquee and started off toward a quieter corner of the garden by herself. In fact, he wondered for a moment if she’d acquired some sort of tic, the way she was tossing her head around.

Oh
. She must be beckoning for him to join her.

He groped for an excuse to walk away from Gavin and finally mumbled something about getting his cousin a glass of ale. But instead of heading for the courtyard and the innkeeper’s barrel, Lucien took a path that paralleled the one Chloe was on, watching her progress from the corner of his eye. Only when they were out of sight did he push through a hedge and come up next to her.

She wheeled around to face him. “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you, Hartford?”

He hadn’t expected an attack. “Nothing. Why?”

“Then stop watching me! Someone will notice and wonder why you’re so interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I watch you? You’re quite pretty, you know.”

She turned a little pink and seemed—to Lucien’s relief—to calm down. At least her voice was lower and steadier. “I forgot to ask you this morning. Did he give you a time?”

“Give me a…? Oh, you mean Cap—”

“Shush! Someone could be listening.”

“We’re in the middle of the knot garden, Chloe.”

“With hedges all around, so someone could be lurking on the other side. Anyway, we mustn’t be away from the party for long. Did he tell you what time he’ll be here?”

“No,” Lucien said honestly.
And he didn’t tell me anything else, either—this fortune-hunting soldier of yours.

Chloe lifted her pinky finger to her mouth and nibbled at her nail. “He won’t be late, I’m certain, for he’ll want to put a great deal of the journey behind us before anyone realizes I’m gone. So of course I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

“Not good for the horses,” Lucien agreed, “standing around in the damp air.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “It will already be dark by the time the dancing starts, but I must at least make an appearance at the ball. My mother would never believe that even the most dreadful headache could make me give up the entire evening. Then I’ll have to go back upstairs, after I make my excuses and leave the ballroom.”

“Why? I left your valise in the folly, just as you requested—tucked under the bench farthest from the castle.”

She rewarded him with a smile, but it was far from her best one; she was obviously distracted. Lucien was disappointed. He hadn’t realized that he looked forward to her smiles.

“Because I’ll have to stuff something into my bed to make it look as if I’m lying there sound asleep, or else my mother will want to come in after the ball and share all the gossip.”

“My sisters used to do that sort of thing.”

Chloe seemed not to hear him. “I wouldn’t like to keep Captain Hopkins waiting, but I should stay at the ball till the last possible moment.”

“Yes, because it would be a shame to miss any of the fun.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Lucien. The sooner I leave, the more likely it is that I’ll be missed before we can get well away. I wish he had told you when he’d arrive.”

“I don’t suppose he knew how long it would take a post-chaise to get here.”

“To be safe, I’d better make my move after the very first country dance.”

Lucien was still thinking about her smile—and realizing that if Captain Hopkins showed up tonight, he would never see her smile again. He would probably never see Chloe again, for the orbits of an earl’s heir and a woman who had eloped could never cross.

He couldn’t bear the thought. Still, it was cruel of him to wish for her hopes to be dashed solely because he didn’t want to give up her smile.

All this might work out for her after all, Lucien told himself. He might be imagining Captain Hopkins as a villain because he didn’t want to see another side of the man. But maybe the captain
wasn’t
just a fortune-hunting soldier. Maybe he loved Chloe enough to do without her father’s money. There would be nothing incredible about that, for Chloe Fletcher was eminently lovable.

I love her that much. Why shouldn’t he?

For a moment Lucien didn’t even hear what he was thinking, and when the knowledge hit him, he staggered a little.

“Are you all right? Lucien Arden, have you been swilling ale all afternoon?”

I love Chloe Fletcher.

Her laughter. Her feisty attitude. Her determination not to be traded off in marriage. Even the smooth way she’d maneuvered him into helping her. God help him, he loved all of her.