The Birthday Scandal (7 page)

“You waited here to waylay me?”

“Waylay? No. It merely seemed the polite thing to do.”

“You aren’t known for politeness, sir. Not to me, at least.” But there was little point in quarreling over so trivial a matter, so she laid her hand on his arm and let him guide her to the top of the staircase. “What did my father tell you?”

“That he has a friend who would like to buy my stallion—which is not for sale.”

“Is that all he said? He did not scold you?”

“About what, ma’am?”

He sounded quite serious—and entirely oblivious. “Nothing of importance.” She hated that there was a catch in her voice.

“If you hope he might have been instructing me in how to be a better husband—”

“That would have been amusing to hear,” she said bitterly. “The Earl of Chiswick’s rules for a happy marriage.”

“I would not have paid attention to advice coming from such a source. In any case, I have now considered your request from this afternoon, Isabel.”

She had to think for a moment, because so much had happened. Was it possible he was talking about her outburst over the estate that had been her dowry?

Don’t get your hopes up,
she told herself.
He’s probably going to say no—and then congratulate himself about being a modern, progressive gentleman because he gave his wife’s opinion a single instant’s thought before refusing.

“And I believe we might come to an agreement,” he went on.

Isabel’s foot skidded on the marble floor at the base of the stairs. “You…you do?” She felt almost hoarse.

Was it to be so easy? If all she’d had to do was ask…how foolish that she had not done so long before!

“You requested a fair share of the income from Kilburn. I agree—but only as part of a bargain.”

Her momentary elation vanished. “What do you want in return?” she asked warily.

“A simple thing.”

Something warned her that despite his deceptively calm tone, there would be nothing simple about his request. Isabel wanted to run, but she seemed to have lost control of her body and was inexorably floating across to the drawing room. The voices of the family members who had already gathered for dinner seemed distant, almost blurry to her ears.

“A very simple thing,” the Earl of Maxwell repeated, “and no more than you promised me when we wed. I have been patient for more than a year, waiting for you to tire of your principles and live up to your obligations. I want an heir. All you need to do to find me generous, Isabel, is to give me a healthy son.”

The drawing room seemed to be empty when Lucien came downstairs a few minutes before the time set for dinner. A tray full of decanters and glasses had been set up on a side table, but it had obviously not been disturbed. Apparently he was the very first to arrive.

“A snap of the fingers for my father’s opinions about how long it takes me to turn myself out,” he muttered, and was startled when Gavin poked his head around the corner of a wingbacked chair. “Oh—you’re already here.”

“I didn’t want to chance offending the duke by losing my way in the corridors.”

Lucien poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Gavin. “You’ll get the hang of it. First learn how to get around the new wing—well, it’s probably a hundred years old now, but that’s much newer than the original section, and more important. You can pick up the rest gradually. There’s a sort of map somewhere in the library.”

“Thank you. I shall look for it.”

“Or if you’re anxious for a full tour, ask my father. It’s not that I recommend spending a morning with him, you understand, but he does know this castle better than anyone save Uncle Josiah. And it would keep him from annoying the rest of us for a while.”

Gavin looked thoughtful. “It’s not my place to give advice, of course, but it seems to me that the more reaction you show your father, the more he’s likely to jab at you.”

“Well, not reacting is easier said than done when he holds the purse strings. You’ll find that out with Uncle Josiah when he starts pressuring you about making a good marriage.”

“Perhaps it would help, when your father is talking to you, if you were to think instead about our trip to the village to test the ale.”

Lucien was pleased beyond all reason. “You still want me to go?”

“I can’t quite see tucking my cousin Weybridge up in rugs in my curricle to make the trip, no matter how good his judgment where ales are concerned.”

Lucien laughed, feeling carefree for the first time in days. “If I allowed myself to think about it, I would envy you that curricle, you know. It’s just the sort I’d like to have. May I drive it one day?”

“Of course. But wait till my own team arrives.”

“Oh, Uncle Josiah has a famous stable.” Lucien heard a rhythmic creak from the hall. A moment later, a footman pushed a wheeled chair into the drawing room. A couple of big dogs followed, fopping down next to the duke’s chair with heavy sighs.

Uncle Josiah seemed to have shrunk, Lucien thought— though the fact that the duke was not on his feet no doubt contributed to the impression.

“Uncle Josiah.” Lucien gave a deep, formal bow.

“Hartford,” the duke growled, but he looked on past Lucien to Gavin. “And you must be Athstone.”

“Technically,” Gavin said, “I’m not, sir. At least, if I understand the rules from your solicitors’ explanations—”

“That’s
Your Grace
, to you. Fussy old women, those law readers. I expect they told you all about how you’re only the heir presumptive, so if I have a son you’ll be out in the cold. Exactly how likely do you think that is?”

“I have no idea, Your Grace,” Gavin said. “But it does me no harm to hope for that eventuality.”

The duke glowered and then gave a rusty laugh. “You expect me to believe you don’t want this? All of this?”

Gavin looked into the distance, almost as if he’d seen a mirage, and for a moment Lucien thought he was going to admit that he’d been lying his head off. But he didn’t need to say it; the thing was obvious. Who
wouldn’t
want Weybridge, with its thousands of acres of lush, productive land, its woods and fields filled with game, its lakes teeming with fish?

Gavin said, “You will believe as you like, Your Grace. What power do I have to change the mind of the Duke of Weybridge?”

“Trying to smooth me down now, are you?” The duke looked him over closely.

Lucien was impressed despite himself, for Gavin stood perfectly still, without coloring or turning a hair, under the inspection.

“Think you can get round me with fast words, eh?” the duke went on. “What’s this I hear about you arriving in a bang-up, brand-new curricle? Do not think to send the bill to me for your affectation. Or for that fine wardrobe—which I’m certain did not accompany you from the farm fueld where my solicitors found you. I’ll give you an allowance—I can do nothing else—but I won’t be held up for your extravagance.”

Gavin’s forehead wrinkled. “Then I suppose you will also refuse to pay for the high-steppers I bought to pull the curricle. What a shame that I asked my other groom to bring them along by easy stages so I’d have them to start the drive back. Well, I might return them to the seller, if I explain the circumstances.”

“The circumstances?” The duke sounded wary.

“No doubt someone would like to own the very horses that the cheeseparing Duke of Weybridge can’t afford.”

Lucien wanted to cheer.

The duke sputtered. “Damned cheek!”

“As for my grooms, I’ve already suggested they stay in the village rather than come here, in case it was too much trouble for the household to accommodate them.”

“You must be in your cups, you chawbacon—suggesting I haven’t room for your servants.”

Lucien saw the flutter of a skirt outside the drawing room door. That must be Emily, no doubt pausing to listen in the hope that the fireworks—and the volume of the duke’s ire—would die down before she had to come in.

“Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I left them at the inn,” Gavin went on. “They have instructions to watch over my mistress there and keep her out of trouble.”

The duke stared, his brows lowered—momentarily speechless.

Lucien gave a low, soundless whistle. “Gavin, ladies present. Well, one lady at least, and she doesn’t care for talk of mistresses.” He heard the unmistakable timber of his father’s voice as the Earl of Chiswick greeted Emily in the hall, and he was not surprised when an instant later Emily stalked into the room and made her curtsey to the duke.

“Miss Emily,” Gavin said. “I beg your pardon; I forgot. Lady Emily—”

Her gaze swept across Gavin as if he were empty air. “Since Father tells us we are not to make a fuss over you, Uncle Josiah, I shall only say that I hope your doctor is wrong to think your condition is serious. There—now we shall move on to other things. If we’re to remain at the castle for a while, Isabel and I should make calls upon your neighbors. Do you happen to know whether Sir George and Lady Fletcher are in residence at Mallowan?”

“Haven’t heard any different,” the duke said.

The Earl of Chiswick had quietly followed his daughter into the drawing room. He filled glasses for himself, Emily, and the duke. “They are indeed at home. I encountered Sir George this afternoon on my ride.”

“That would be the best place to start, I suppose,” Emily said. “I am certain Lady Fletcher will know exactly who else is at home in the neighborhood.”

Isabel and Lord Maxwell came in. Isabel looked pale, Lucien thought, and she quickly took her hand off her husband’s arm and went to join Emily.

Lucien blinked in surprise. She had been touching Maxwell? No; he must have been seeing things.

Emily plowed on, sounding determined. “Their daughter is just a few years younger than I—surely she has made her come-out by now. Isabel, have you encountered her in London? Isabel, are you listening? Do you recall Miss Fletcher?”

Isabel seemed to shake herself. “She’s called Chloe, I believe. I’m certain I heard her name associated with…I don’t quite recall who. Mr. Lancaster, I think.”

“What a coincidence.” Emily looked at the Earl of Chiswick over the rim of her glass. “Didn’t you refer to him in your last letter to me, Father? Or was that a different Mr. Lancaster?”

“No, it was the same one,” Chiswick admitted smoothly. “Though I have reason to know Sir George is not seriously considering him for Miss Fletcher’s hand.”

Lucien couldn’t help himself. “And how would you know that, Father?”

“Because Father is considering Mr. Lancaster for me,” Emily said, “despite the fact that I’m not interested in marrying.”

Lucien had to sympathize. He wasn’t interested in being married any more than Emily was, but that hadn’t stopped the earl from suggesting matches for him, either, so he understood how annoyed she was. Their situations were different, however—Emily was getting perilously close to being on the shelf, but for Lucien there was plenty of time. He didn’t plan to set up his nursery before he was thirty, at least—no matter how set his father was on there being a spare, as well as an heir, for his title.

“No, Emily,” the Earl of Chiswick said, “that is not the reason. You see, I know who Sir George
is
seriously considering as a match for his daughter.”

Lucien felt a sudden urge to look up at the ceiling, fairly sure he’d see a sword there, dangling by a thread and about to fall on him.

The earl let the silence draw out as he moved across the room to refill his glass. “In a word—me.”

T
he silence in the drawing room was so profound that Emily’s ears ached. She waited for someone—the Earl of Chiswick himself, perhaps—to burst out laughing at his jest, for surely he must be joking. At his age, to think of taking a new wife—

“My goodness,” Chiswick said gently. “One would think you are all startled by my announcement.”

“Startled?” Lucien said. “Smacked in the gob, more like.”

“But my son, surely you of all people should have anticipated this. When you refused to consider the
sixth
young lady I suggested as a potential bride, I was forced to conclude that you are not…inclined toward females. It thus falls back on me to make certain our noble house does not end with you.”