The Birthday Scandal Read online

  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?”

  Chapter 3

  What 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.

  This luxury was hardly what he’d expected when he’d first heard that his cousin’s home was a castle. Where were the staircases twisting down to dungeons, and the huge, thickly embroidered tapestries to keep out the creeping cold in winter, and the fireplaces large enough to roast a full ox? The outside had been promising—stone walls stretching four stories tall, with towers where archers might have lurked and battlements high enough to conceal pots of faming oil ready to pour down on invaders. But inside…

  These fancies of his were getting out of hand. Surely he wasn’t disappointed to learn that he would not be sleeping in a pile of furs on a stone floor!

  Gavin backed out of the reception parlor and nodded genially to a footman who stood near the front door. The servant’s eyes widened in shock. Gavin suspected he was accustomed to receiving no more notice than the furniture; his job apparently was nothing more than to open the door whenever someone wanted to go in or out. It was true that the doors were huge, but Gavin had noticed when he arrived that they were perfectly balanced and seemed to move at a touch. Even Emily—Lady Emily, he corrected himself—slender as she was, could have managed them. But no—a servant in powdered wig, heavy brocaded coat, knee breeches, and white stockings was sentenced to stand there and wait, just in case. What a waste of strong, healthy manpower!

  Perhaps someday, Gavin could do something about that. But for now, the duke was still in charge—My word is law here—and as the heir in waiting, Gavin would do better to observe and think. And be very cautious about what he said. If, that was, he decided to stay at all.

  He wandered down a side hall and found a walnut-paneled room dominated by a table with eight places already set. He saw movement in an alcove at one end, and a moment later the butler came into view, wearing an apron and still holding a candlestick and a polishing
cloth. “My lord, is there anything you require?”

  “No, I was just startled to find such a small dining room in such a very large house.” Gavin waved a hand at the table.

  “This, sir, is the family dining room. His Grace prefers to use it when the group is to be a small one—that is, fewer than sixteen sitting down at table.”

  “Of course,” Gavin muttered. At Weybridge Castle, small was apparently a question of perspective.

  “The main dining room is just beyond that door.” The butler nodded toward a section of paneling.

  To Gavin, it looked exactly like the others that lined the room—some heavily carved, some displaying oil paintings of hunting scenes. There was no knob, and only on close inspection did he see hinges along one side.

  “The table there can be extended to seat forty-two,” the butler went on. “Larger parties are held in the great hall, in the old wing of the castle. I recall that when Lady Drusilla married the Earl of Chiswick, we seated nearly two hundred for the wedding breakfast. But there has been no celebration as large in all the years since. If there is nothing else, my lord?”

  No, that put me neatly in my place.

  He went back into the hall and found the other way into the main dining room easily enough. The slabs of mahogany that formed the polished tabletop could have built half a house in Baltimore. Around the next corner he discovered a billiard room and idled away a few minutes with a cue before going up to dress for dinner.

  As he stepped onto the gallery that ran in a square around the open staircase, he realized that he had no idea where he was going—and every door was closed. He contemplated the possibilities. He could go down to ask the butler, or he could start knocking at random. Either way, he’d look like a fool, but he’d rather brave the servants than take the chance of meeting the seriously ill duke for the first time by banging on his door to ask directions.

  He was starting down the stairs when a door opened nearby and Emily came out. She was hardly his first choice for assistance, Gavin thought, but any port in a storm. “Lady Emily—”

  “You’re going down already, sir? That is a very nice coat, but if you think it’s going to pass inspection with Uncle Josiah as formal evening wear, I’m afraid you’re in for a shock.” She sounded as if she were instructing a child.

  “I would be happy to change if only I knew where to find my room. And thank you for the compliment, by the way.”

  “Compliment?”

  “Yes—to my ‘very nice coat.’ ”

  “Oh, that. Well, I suppose it does well enough. Mrs. Meeker didn’t tell you which room she’d assigned?”

  “The housekeeper? I encountered only the butler when I arrived.”

  She nodded wisely. “Chalmers can be a bit stiff-necked. Let me take this headache powder to Isabel—she might know.” She tapped on a door and went in.

  Two possibilities had been eliminated, Gavin noted—her room and Isabel’s. That left only twenty or so to check.

  Emily returned a moment later, shaking her head. “She thinks it likely you’ve been assigned the gold suite, since that’s the one which has been set aside for the Marquess of Athstone ever since this wing was built.”

  Gavin said ruefully, “I’m not certain I like that idea. Nothing good ever seems to happen to the heirs around here.”

  “Superstitious, are you? There’s no cause to be afraid of the room, you know’it’s only an ordinary bedroom, with no spirits possessing it.” She led the way around the corner. “It’s all the way around the other side of the gallery, though—just about as far from the duke’s rooms as it’s possible to get.”

  Gavin’s spine still prickled at the slur. So she thought he was worried about ghosts?

  “Besides, the suite hasn’t been used in years. Uncle Josiah’s son died before he was old enough to leave the nursery, and since then, the heir of the moment has always been treated like any other visitor.”

  “I thought you said this was the marquess’s room.”

  “I did—but since there was always the possibility that Uncle would have another son one day, the next in line for the title wasn’t officially known as the marquess.” She looked up at him appraisingly. “Come to think of it, you’re the first he’s ever referred to by the title, but I suppose that’s because he’s so ill. You do understand that the title you bear is only a courtesy? It’s not as if you have any official function or any power.”

  “Yes, the solicitors made that quite clear.”

  “Well, it gives you and Lucien a bit in common—that you both have honorary titles, I mean. Though Lucien’s definitely the heir to Chiswick, while you—”

  “There is no need to explain to me the possibility that should my cousin marry again and produce a son, I would be…poof! Plain old Gavin Waring once more.” At the moment, he couldn’t think of a more inviting idea.

  “Why Waring, by the way? The family name has always been Mainwaring.”

  “Things are simpler in the Americas. It seemed a natural choice.”

  “No wonder it took so long for the solicitors to find you. Here we are.”

  The door she had led him to looked no different from the others. “Numbers might be a good idea,” Gavin said under his breath.

  “Like a common boardinghouse? Then what excuse could a noble gentleman possibly give when he is discovered in the wrong bedroom at a house party, with a lady who is not his wife?” Her voice was crisp.

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Often enough. Well, try the door. Either your valet will be there, or we’ll ring for Chalmers.” Her brows drew together. “You did bring a valet, did you not?”

  Gavin opened the door, and she leaned around him to peer inside the room.

  This was what she called an ordinary bedroom?

  In the first place, there was no bed. At one end of the room was a fireplace, with a cheerful blaze crackling. At the other end was a massive piece of furniture that looked more like a dining room sideboard than anything belonging in a bedroom. On the far wall two immensely tall windows looked out across a valley where a small lake lay nestled among the hills, like a sapphire in a velvet-green setting. A pair of chairs had been drawn up so that someone sitting there could easily admire the view.

  He didn’t notice the door that was just beyond the big bureau until it swung open and Benson appeared. Behind the valet, Gavin saw the corner of a tall canopied bed with gold velvet hangings. The gold suite, Emily had called it. Now he knew what she had meant.

  The valet bowed respectfully, looked from Gavin to Emily, and said, “Good evening, sir. Your clothes are brushed and laid out, and I am ready to attend you. Unless you and your guest would prefer privacy?”

  Emily’s face famed. She muttered something about impertinence and hurried off down the gallery.

  Gavin grinned and closed the door behind her. This business of living in a castle might not be quite such a nuisance as he’d thought.

  I wonder if this gathering could be considered a house party, where a gentleman can wander into the bedroom of a lady who is not his wife…

  Isabel’s blue dinner gown hung on the wardrobe door, pressed and ready, when she reached her bedroom. She regarded the dress without enthusiasm, already hearing in her head what her father was likely to say about her appearing in yet another old garment. The Earl of Chiswick had long ago perfected the art of paying compliments that cut like the edge of a well-honed sword—the blade so sharp that sometimes seconds passed before the injury was even felt.

  His opinion shouldn’t matter to her any longer, of course. Once a woman married, not only her property but all responsibility for her well-being shifted from her father to her husband. What she wore was no business of her father’s. Most gentlemen probably wouldn’t even notice—or remember—what their daughters wore on widely scattered evenings over a period of months.

  But the Earl of Chiswick wasn’t most gentlemen. So the question was, when he noticed that his daughter was practically dr
essed in rags, why hadn’t he called her husband to task? If he truly cared for Isabel, surely he would question why her husband had not provided a new dress for her now and then. Her mother would have found a way—but then the countess had been gone since just before Isabel’s twelfth birthday.

  Instead, the earl had flicked her with his trademark sarcasm—as though the lack of variety in her wardrobe were Isabel’s deliberate choice. He had scolded Emily for her reluctance to consider marriage—as though the death of her betrothed had been no more important than a breakfast egg being overcooked and should be as easily forgotten. He had sent Lucien to his room as though he were a child.

  Some things and some people never changed. And they were all closed up here in the castle with him, for heaven knew how long.

  Isabel swallowed the headache powder that Emily brought for her, then rang for her maid and took her time in dressing for dinner. Before she left her room, she made certain that her hair was brushed to a blue-black gleam and every strand was perfectly in order, with every fold of her gown precisely aligned. At least there would be nothing about her grooming for her father to complain of. A few minutes before eight, she draped her mother’s Norwich silk shawl over her shoulders and stepped out into the gallery.

  A door stood open between her room and the stairs, and just as Isabel passed, the Earl of Maxwell came out. Despite her best intention to walk on without taking notice, Isabel’s toes seemed to take root in the gallery’s oak plank floor. Her gaze wandered over him. He was soberly dressed in pure black and white, with his only ornamentation being a bit of fanciful embroidery on his white waistcoat and a single flawless diamond in his neckcloth. Even the knee breeches and silk stockings, which often made shorter men look like characters in a pantomime, only made him look more handsome than ever.

  Belatedly, she realized that he had come out of the bedroom directly next to hers—the matching bedroom of the green suite. She told herself it didn’t matter. By habit and custom they still occupied adjoining bedrooms at the London house and at Maxton Abbey as well. For the lord and lady of the house to move to separate wings would cause comment; servants talked, and soon all of society would know. So on the rare occasions when they both found themselves in the same location, only the width of a dressing room separated them.