The Birthday Scandal Read online

  Also By Leigh Michaels

  Regency Historical Romance

  The Mistress’ House

  Just One Season in London

  The Wedding Affair

  Contemporary Romance

  Assignment: Twins!

  Baby, You’re Mine

  Backwards Honeymoon

  The Best-Made Plans

  The Billionaire Bid

  The Billionaire Date

  The Boss and the Baby

  The Boss’s Daughter

  The Bridal Swap

  The Bride Assignment

  Bride by Design

  Bride on Loan

  Brittany’s Castle

  Capture a Shadow

  Carlisle Pride

  Close Collaboration

  Come Next Summer

  A Convenient Affair

  The Corporate Marriage Campaign

  The Corporate Wife

  The Daddy Trap

  Dating Games

  Deadline For Love

  Dreams to Keep

  Exclusively Yours

  The Fake Fiancé

  Family Secrets

  Garrett’s Back In Town

  The Grand Hotel

  Her Husband-To-Be

  His Trophy Wife

  House of Dreams

  Husband on Demand

  The Husband Project

  The Husband Sweepstake

  An Imperfect Love

  Invitation To Love

  Just A Normal Marriage

  Kiss Yesterday Goodbye

  The Lake Effect

  Leaving Home

  Let Me Count The Ways

  The Marriage Market

  Marrying the Boss!

  A Matter of Principal

  Maybe Married

  A New Desire

  No Place Like Home

  O’Hara’s Legacy

  Old School Ties

  On September Hill

  Once and For Always

  The Only Man For Maggie

  The Only Solution

  Part Time Fiancé

  The Perfect Divorce

  The Playboy Assignment

  Promise Me Tomorrow

  Rebel With A Cause

  Safe In My Heart

  Sell Me A Dream

  Shades of Yesterday

  A Singular Honeymoon

  Some Kind of Hero (novella)

  Strictly Business

  The Takeover Bid

  Taming A Tycoon

  Temporary Measures

  Ties That Blind

  Touch Not My Heart

  Traveling Man

  The Tycoon’s Baby

  The Tycoon’s Proposal

  An Uncommon Affair

  The Unexpected Landlord

  The Unlikely Santa

  Wednesday’s Child

  Wife on Approval

  With No Reservations

  Non-Fiction

  On Writing Romance: How to Craft A Novel that Sells

  Creating Romantic Characters: Bringing Life to Your Romance

  Novel

  For the Love of Tea

  Focus on Photos

  Illustrated Review of Ottumwa, Iowa 1890

  Ottumwa (IA) (Postcard History Series)

  1904 St. Louis World’s Fair

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity

  to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Leigh Michaels

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612184760

  ISBN-10: 1612184766

  Dedication

  For Ashley and Karina

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Lady Emily Arden added up the column of household expenditures in her head once more, scarcely able to believe that the total could be so high. She had just dipped her quill in the inkstand to write the sum at the bottom of her list when Mrs. Dalrymple tapped at the door of her tiny sitting room and begged an audience.

  “I don’t mean to intrude, my lady.” Mrs. Dalrymple’s voice was even fainter and more breathy than usual. “But it is important, and you did say that I might have a few moments after breakfast.”

  “Indeed I did, Mrs. Dalrymple, and I must beg your pardon for the oversight.” Emily pushed aside her account books; the horrid truth would still be there, glaring at her, whether she took a moment to listen to her companion or not. “What did you wish to bring to my attention?”

  “I took the liberty of asking Sally to bring fresh tea,” Mrs. Dalrymple went on. She fanned herself as if stunned by her own daring.

  Emily was a bit startled, too. Mrs. Dalrymple was such a tentative sort—so eager to please, so terrified of offending—that Emily was often annoyed by her companion’s failure to show the slightest initiative. But of course Mrs. Dalrymple would start to request luxuries at the very moment her employer was making a concentrated effort to cut expenses…

  Emily shook her head a little at her own foolishness in thinking that a single extra pot of tea would make any difference in her financial situation. Letting her companion go, on the other hand, would eliminate one mouth to feed and one salary to pay, and it would make the situation significantly easier in the tiny cottage.

  But she dismissed the idea almost instantly. She had accepted responsibility when she hired Mrs. Dalrymple, and it wasn’t as if a middle-aged and completely ineffectual companion had a great many posts to choose from. If Emily were to let her go, even with an excellent reference, the woman would be fortunate to find any employment.

  Mrs. Dalrymple’s eyes grew huge. “I was so afraid I might be overstepping my place! Shall I run to the kitchen to cancel the order?”

  “No—why do you ask?”

  “You were shaking your head, my lady.”

  “About something else entirely. Of course you must order tea when you want it. Now, what is it you wished to speak to me about?”

  “Oh, my lady, you are so good to me. I can hardly bring myself to ask…but I did swear that I would, and…”

  Emily’s head was starting to throb. If past experience was any guide, Mrs. Dalrymple might take half an hour to come to the point, and even then she was apt to leave her listener not quite certain of what she was trying to say. Tea was sounding better by the moment. At least Emily would have something to do while she waited.

  “It’s the squire, you see. Sir Cedric. It happened as we were making the last arrangements for the village flower show. Quite a surprise it was—a shock, in fact.” Mrs. Dalrymple blushed and stammered a little. “And…and he…he wished to know if it could be announced at the show next Saturday.”

  Emily settled back in her chair to wait out Mrs. Dalrymple. Despite her best efforts, her mind wandered back to the list of expenditures—she was already doing without new cloth
es, and it wasn’t as if she kept a carriage or a full staff of maids. She’d chosen this path herself, and she’d known from the outset that her limited resources couldn’t be stretched to luxuries. But if she even had to give up things like tea and sugar…

  Sally appeared, laden down. “There’s a couple of letters as has just come, my lady. I put them on the tea tray.”

  Emily’s gaze wandered to the folded pages lying next to the hot water jug. The handwriting on the top one was a dark and spiky slash—her father had obviously been feeling particularly unsympathetic toward his wayward daughter when he’d dashed off that missive. She didn’t have to read it to know that much; if it was ordinary business, the Earl of Chiswick turned the matter over to his private secretary. He only wrote to her himself when he was angry or in a mood to issue orders. And since she hadn’t done anything for at least a month to make him angry…

  I wonder which family he has in mind this time to marry me into.

  She set the earl’s letter aside and glanced at the other one. Mrs. Dalrymple set the teapot back on the tray. “That’s the duke’s handwriting, is it not? It looks strange somehow.”

  Emily put out her hand for her cup. Her companion was right; the Duke of Weybridge’s fist was not the confident sprawl she remembered. The address looked cramped, almost painful, and even the scrawled Weybridge that franked the corner of the letter wasn’t quite as strong as she remembered it. “I wonder if Uncle Josiah is ill.”

  “You must not wait to find out, my lady.”

  “If you don’t mind…” Emily broke the wafer and spread the sheet on her knee, trying not to listen to Mrs. Dalrymple’s fluttery and repetitive exclamations that of course she understood, yes indeed she did.

  My dearest Emily,

  Time marches on, and I will soon celebrate my seventieth, and I suspect my last, birthday. My various complaints are too numerous for me to list and too tiresome for you to read, so my energy (and this paper) are better spent in other ways. It is sufficient to say that at his every visit—and they are growing more numerous—my doctor shakes his head in despair.

  I hope you will find it possible to visit me for my birthday. I suspect you may be in shallow water by now, with only your mother’s legacy to draw upon and your father no doubt still determined to bring you to heel. Therefore, I have given orders for a post-chaise to arrive the day after this letter, so you may make the journey in comfort.

  Since I will not long need my worldly goods, I have no wish to collect more birthday trinkets. Perhaps this year we shall play turn-around instead. I have it in mind to make a gift to you and spend my remaining days watching and enjoying your happiness.

  Your loving great-uncle, Josiah Weybridge

  P.S. I do hope you believe me, dear Emily, when I say that you have always been my favorite of my niece’s children.

  Emily put the letter down, biting her lip. “He sounds so very low. It’s quite unlike him.” Her gaze sought the calendar on her desk. “His birthday is just a week away—no wonder he’s sending for me tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Mrs. Dalrymple’s hands fluttered to her face. “But how shall we get all your packing done in so short a time?”

  “I’m certain we’ll manage. But you were telling me about the village flower show and the squire.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter now, my lady! Shall I go and tell Sally to start packing your things? Or shall you want to check every garment beforehand? Oh, dear—I never know what to do. But in any case, you need me now more than ever, and Sir Cedric will simply have to wait.”

  Mrs. Dalrymple flitted out of the room, leaving Emily shaking her head and wondering if she should call the woman back and set her to some other task. Mrs. Dalrymple was a great deal more likely to get in Sally’s way than to assist—assuming, of course, that she didn’t mangle the message altogether.

  But what was all this about Sir Cedric having to wait? Some detail about the village flower show, no doubt. Which reminded Emily that she must arrange for someone to step into her shoes to do the judging next Saturday.

  She picked up her second letter and cracked the wafer. Even if her father had issued his usual blast of orders, she found herself feeling a bit more sanguine about the situation.

  I have it in mind to make a gift to you…

  Of course, Uncle Josiah could simply mean he planned to present her with his late wife’s pearl earbobs, since he had no daughter to inherit them. Still, Emily couldn’t help but feel better. Even distracted by his own illness, Uncle Josiah—wise man that he was—understood that her inheritance from her mother would stretch only so far. The Duke of Weybridge was well known to be plump in the pockets, and not just in landed estates; she had heard him expound many times on the benefits of investing in the Funds.

  If only he were to settle some money on her, Emily could safely continue to ignore her father—and everything would be all right.

  The company was lighthearted and gay, the accommodations sinfully comfortable, the entertainments truly amusing, and the hunting reasonably enjoyable. Despite all of that, Lady Isabel Maxwell was miserable. Simply keeping a smile fixed on her face was the most difficult thing she had done in months, because it was all too clear that the rest of the company would have preferred it if her husband had been the guest at the Beckhams’ hunting lodge instead.

  “Too bad Maxwell couldn’t join us,” one of the gentlemen had said just that morning as they’d finished the hunt and called the hounds to heel for the ride back to the lodge. “He’s a bruising rider—we wouldn’t have seen him going around by the fields.”

  “I do wonder, Lady Isabel,” one of the ladies had said slyly yesterday, “that you can bear to be away from your husband for so long. He’s such a masculine man. But perhaps that’s why you need a little time away from his…demands?” And then she had held her breath as if seriously expecting Isabel to answer.

  And last night as Isabel passed a half-open bedroom door, she had overheard a fellow guest speaking to her maid. “I do so admire Lady Isabel for not feeling the need to bow to the demands of fashion,” the woman had said. “She dresses instead in what is comfortable even if it is not in the first stare. Though I find it no wonder her husband has strayed.”

  Isabel had gritted her teeth and gone on down to dinner, where she smiled and flirted and silently dared anyone to comment to her face that her dress was at least two years old.

  If only her early departure wouldn’t cause so much comment, she would call for her carriage and go home right now. But that was impossible. For one thing, she didn’t have a carriage, for she had come up from London with a fellow guest. Too short of funds to afford a post-chaise, she was equally dependent on her friend for transport back to the city when the hunting party broke up.

  And secondly, of course, there were only two places she could go—Maxton Abbey, or the London house—and her husband might be at either one. Unless, with her safely stashed at the Beckhams’, he had accepted yet another of the many invitations he received.

  But she couldn’t take the chance. After little more than a year of marriage, the pattern was ingrained—wherever one of the Maxwells went, the other took pains not to go. She could not burst in on her husband; what if he were entertaining his mistress?

  Better not to know.

  She might go to the village of Barton Bristow, descending on her sister. But Emily’s tiny cottage was scarcely large enough for her and her companion, with no room for a guest—and Mrs. Dalrymple’s constant chatter and menial deference was enough to set Isabel’s teeth on edge. In fact, the only nice thing Isabel could say about being married was that at least she wasn’t required to drag a spinster companion around the countryside with her to preserve her reputation, as Emily had to do.

  Isabel turned her borrowed mount over to the stable boys and strode across to the house, where the butler intercepted her in the front hall. “A letter has just been delivered for you, Lady Isabel, by a special messenger. He said a post-chaise will
call for you tomorrow.”

  She took the folded sheet with trepidation. Who could be summoning her? Not her husband, that was certain. Her father, possibly, for yet another lecture on the duties of a young wife?

  She broke the seal and unfolded the page.

  My dearest Isabel,

  You will remember from happier days that I will soon celebrate my seventieth birthday…

  Uncle Josiah. But her moment of relief soon passed as she read on. The Duke of Weybridge dying?—Impossible. True, he had looked old to her from the day she first remembered him—but through all the years since, he had seemed to stay exactly the same.

  Her eyes skipped down the page.

  …I suspect you may be in difficult straits, with only pin money to draw upon and, I imagine, no sympathy from your father regarding your marital arrangements. Therefore, I have given orders for a post-chaise…

  She couldn’t help but feel relieved at such a marvelous excuse to leave the house party early—even while she scolded herself for thinking such a thing. It wasn’t as though she wanted Uncle Josiah to be ill.

  …I shall not long need my worldly goods, and I do not wish you to devote even a pittance to a birthday gift for me. This year I shall enjoy making life more pleasant for you instead.

  Your loving great-uncle, Josiah Weybridge

  P.S. My dearest hope, Isabel, is that you believe me when I say that you are my favorite of Drusilla’s children.

  Well, that was clear enough—and very welcome, too. If Uncle Josiah were to offer her a bit of cash, Isabel would swallow what pride she still possessed and accept. Some extra pocket money would come in handy indeed—since it seemed she had no option but to continue to play her role as the Earl of Maxwell’s inconvenient wife.

  Lucien Arden had started the evening at one of the few theaters that remained open despite the fact that London was thin of company in early autumn. He went not as a fan of the art but because there was a new face in the chorus, and rumor—in the person of his friend Aubrey—said she was a promising possibility as a mistress. And indeed she was, Lucien had to admit—atleast, she would be for Aubrey, who had come into his title and had full control of his fortune. But not for someone like Lucien—a young man on a strict allowance and whose title of Viscount Hartford was only a courtesy one, borrowed from his father. Being my lord was, he had found, one of the few benefits of being the only son of the Earl of Chiswick.