The Birthday Scandal (5 page)

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not suggesting that you aren’t fond of your uncle, only that there might have been some additional inducement to encourage you to leave your chosen party behind to join this one instead. Your fellow guests must have been devastated to lose you, to say nothing of your disappointment at having to come away to a dull family gathering.”

Not for the world would Isabel admit to her husband that she hadn’t enjoyed herself to the fullest at the Beckhams’ party. “Quite true,” she sighed. “It broke my heart to leave my friends. And of course if I’d known you were to be here, I might have chosen differently.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’m guessing your uncle offered to settle your debts, since I’ve made it clear that I will not. So I believe you’d have come no matter who else was invited.”

The accusation stung. “I don’t have debts,” Isabel said crisply.

“You amaze me, ma’am.”

His gaze roved over her, sending a wave of righteous anger flooding from her core to every extremity. Her fingertips positively itched with the desire to smack the doubt from his face. How dare he sit there and simply look at her as though she were a piece of merchandise he was thinking of buying? Or—given the circumstances—he might be considering a sale instead!

That thought made her even angrier, but before she could draw breath Emily reappeared, saying something Isabel scarcely heard about evening dress, and Lucien came to bend over her hand. If the earl hadn’t been needling her, Isabel would have been too polite to tell her brother he needed a shave—true though it was. For that matter, he could do with a bath. What was he doing racketing across the country in satin knee breeches, anyway?

Then the earl spoke once more and she forgot all about Lucien. “What a comfort it is, my dear, to know that you still appreciate good grooming.”

She saw red and snapped back at him about how he might prefer it if she didn’t exist at all.

To her regret, the shot bounced off the earl. “Of course, now that I consider the evidence, I believe you do not owe a dressmaker. I should say you have not so much as consulted one in more than a year—since your trousseau was completed.”

Isabel’s face flooded with color.

“You were always so careful to look your best, Isabel. What a shame it is that you can no longer afford to do so. Your uncle Weybridge might assist…but if not, what will you do?”

“Why do you care, sir?”

His dark, aristocratic eyebrows arched. “But my dear, surely that is obvious. It refects badly on me when you go around to society parties looking like a ragamuffin.”

“Then let me have more than just pin money! I brought you riches, Maxwell—Kilburn must bring in five thousand a year at least. That estate was my dowry, and it should be my marriage portion.
Mine
, do you hear?”

For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. Then he said, very quietly, “You’ve changed your tune since our last discussion of the matter. Perhaps you’ve found your principles to be less comfortable than you expected, in the absence of adequate funds?”

Isabel bit her lip. “All I ask is my fair share.”

“Fair? I seem to remember telling you on the day after our wedding that you could have the benefits of marriage only if you were willing to honor your obligations. My stand has not changed, and under the circumstances, I find it ironic that you refer to a marriage portion. But I shall give the matter my attention, Isabel, and let you know what I decide.”

Fury beyond any she had ever felt before left a metallic taste in Isabel’s mouth.
Honor her obligations?
The sheer arrogance of the man, to put the blame on her!

“Lady Maxwell,” the butler said from the drawing room door. “The Marquess of Athstone has arrived.”

Emily wheeled away from the window at the butler’s announcement. The marquess…the colonial cousin who would someday step into the Duke of Weybridge’s shoes was
here
?

“What could Uncle Josiah have been thinking?” she said—louder than she’d intended.

The marquess’s gaze slid from Lucien—now dripping cake onto the priceless carpet—to her, and Emily felt like crawling under a corner of the Aubusson. What had happened to her manners? Of course, listening to Isabel and Maxwell sparring was enough to put anyone on edge. And though the atmosphere in the room was entirely different now that the marquess was taking part, the tension was no less threatening.

“And you would be Miss Emily Arden, I think?” the marquess asked.

“
Lady
Emily,” she said curtly, and wanted to bite her tongue. She’d never been a stickler about her title; why had she jumped to correct him?

“I beg your pardon. I am but an ignorant newcomer.”

He didn’t look it, she had to admit. His boots shone as brightly as just-cleaned silver, and the gold tassels dangling from the top edges still swung with jaunty ease. His broad shoulders must have been a tailor’s dream. His pantaloons were cut tight, showing off strong thighs; his linen was snowy white and perfectly creased, and his hair was brushed smooth so that a random ray of sunlight cast a golden gleam over his chestnut curls.

If he’d planned his entrance to be theatrical, he couldn’t have done better. From the corner of her eye, Emily saw Lucien rub at his stubbly jaw and then try to brush mashed cake off his face, and she had to fight down a hysterical desire to giggle.

“Lady Maxwell,” the marquess said, “I beg your pardon for bursting in on you like this.”

He didn’t even
sound
like an ignorant newcomer, Emily thought with irritation. His tone was neither harsh nor twangy, and his voice neither brashly loud nor self-effacingly soft. Even his accent—though not of English origin—set tled on her ears with a strange sort of ease.

This, she thought, was a man who desperately needed putting in his place.

The marquess frowned a little. “Was that correct? Or shall I call you Lady Isabel?”

“She’s either,” Emily said. “One title by birth, one by marriage. Take your choice.”

“I prefer to be called Lady Isabel,” Isabel said, with a sidelong glance at her husband. “Would you care for tea, my lord?”

The marquess’s face lit with humor, his eyes gleaming like sapphires. “And I prefer to be called by my name. Gavin Waring, at your service. If you can bear it, you must call me Gavin—for we are cousins, are we not?”

Well,
that
sounded like an American, Emily thought. She wondered what Uncle Josiah would make of his heir having such democratic tendencies. “Very distant ones, Cousin Gavin,” she said sweetly. “What a poetic rhythm that title has! Allow me to present Lord Maxwell, my sister’s husband. And Lord Hartford, my brother. Now, about that tea…?”

“Thank you, Cousin Lady Emily,” he murmured.

Emily’s jaw dropped.

Before she could correct him, he had continued. “I stopped in the village to remove the evidence of my travel before coming on to the castle, and the landlord of the local coaching inn provided me with excellent refreshment.”

“And it wasn’t tea, either, I’ll wager,” Lucien muttered.

“An outstanding ale,” the marquess said. “At least, it seemed so to me. But you might accompany me someday, Cousin Hartford, and give me the benefit of your experience.”

Emily’s back was to the door and all her attention was focused on the marquess and her brother. She considered it an even bet as to whether Lucien would get starchy or invite the American to call him by his first name.

He plumped for friendliness—no doubt, Emily thought, because he was hoping to get a chance to drive that spanking curricle.

She was trying so hard not to laugh that the first clue she had of yet another newcomer was a deep, lazy, drawling voice from behind her. “I wouldn’t recommend Hartford’s palate, Athstone, because his tastes are unpredictable at best.”

Every head in the room abruptly turned in his direction as the Earl of Chiswick added, “How unflattering to find that my offspring are all startled to see me here. Or have you conveniently forgotten that as your father, I am a member of this family?”

W
hat a strange family he had been cast into, to be sure. Gavin couldn’t help but enjoy the expressions on the faces of his new cousins as they regarded their father. He spotted wariness from Isabel, a strange mixture of trepidation and annoyance from Lucien, and…could that possibly be revulsion on Emily’s face? Her expression was gone so quickly that he couldn’t be certain what he’d seen, but his amusement fled nonetheless.

The Earl of Chiswick advanced languidly to the center of the room as if he were the major player on a London stage. “A pleasure to meet you, Athstone,” he said with a tiny bow. “If it’s wine you’re tasting, you might allow me to educate your palate. For ale, you can’t go wrong with your cousin the duke, who despite his high title is something of a connoisseur of the brewing art. But you must not trust Hartford. No, never Hartford.”

The young lord’s jaw clenched tight.

“How reassuring it is, my son,” the earl went on, “to see that you know how a gentleman dresses for the evening.” He raised his quizzing glass. “Even though, judging by the crumpled nature of your garments, it was apparently
last
evening you were dressing for. Whatever salary you pay your valet, it would seem to be too much. Isabel, my love, I do admire that dress, as I believe I have told you each and every time in the last two years that I have seen you wearing it. And Emily—I am touched that you do not seem to have fallen into a paralyzing decline as your letters have implied. But Mrs. Meeker tells me you arrived without your companion. My dear, at one-and-twenty you are hardly on the shelf, and you must not behave as though you are an ape leader with no reputation to lose. But I beg your pardon, Athstone.” He bowed his head a fraction. “We must not air family business in front of our new cousin.”

He’d been doing a good job of it up till then, Gavin thought. In fact, right up until the moment when it appeared Lady Emily was going to burst out with a reply—and then her father had spiked her guns by reminding her of manners he himself did not employ. That might be why she had worn such a strange expression when she saw her father—because the rules didn’t seem to apply equally across the generations.

“Your uncle Josiah has ordered dinner served at eight,” Chiswick went on. “He has requested formal dress for the occasion, Hartford, so I suspect your valet will need every moment of the time if he is to present you adequately.”

Lucien gritted his teeth, made a perfunctory bow, and went out without a word.

“You seem to know a great deal about the household, sir,” Isabel observed. “Have you and Mrs. Meeker been gossiping in the housekeeper’s parlor?”

“Josiah told me his plans over dinner last night and requested that no one fuss over him or ask questions about his health…I’m sorry; did I fail to mention that I arrived yesterday? My lamentable memory.”

“You should consult a doctor about this forgetfulness of yours, Father,” Emily said. “I’m going up to rest, Isabel. Are you coming?”

Isabel leaped up. “I do have a bit of a headache.”

Chiswick said, “Maxwell, there’s a matter you and I need to discuss. You will excuse us, Athstone?”

“Of course.” Gavin noticed that Isabel had paused in midstep to listen, almost pulling her sister off her feet. Emily’s skirt swayed, giving him just a glimpse of a slender ankle.

“It’s about that stallion you have at Kilburn,” Chiswick said. “A friend of mine asked whether you would ever consider selling him.”

Gavin followed the ladies out of the drawing room, trying to maintain a discreet distance. But he couldn’t help but see Isabel’s slumped shoulders and tightly compressed lips as she turned to her sister, and he heard the soothing murmur of Emily’s voice as they climbed the curving stairway together. He wondered what Isabel had been hoping her father would say—and why she had felt such pain when he talked of a horse instead. Or was it only her headache that made her appear so miserable?

Left to himself, he wandered, looking around the castle. He poked his head past half-open doors and found a long, narrow room lined with bookshelves, and a small, square room full of plush but uncomfortable-looking chairs. Everything he saw was luxurious, grand, elegant—sat in and brocade draperies, rich dark wood paneling, velvet-covered furniture, coffered ceilings, carved plaster friezes, life-sized paintings. The carpets were so thick his feet sank into them, while the black-and-white marble floor of the entrance hall was polished till it refected sunlight like a mirror.