Читать книгу Born to Scandal - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 9

Brent walked with his cousin up Bond Street, heading towards Somerset Street, where Baron Rolfe had taken rooms for the Season.

‘I do not know why I let you talk me into this, Peter.’

Peter’s grandfather had been the old marquess’s younger brother, making Peter and Brent second cousins. The two of them were all that was left of the Caine family.

Besides Brent’s children, that was.

‘All I am asking of you is to meet her,’ Peter responded.

They were to dine with Lord and Lady Rolfe, and, more importantly, Miss Susan Rolfe, their daughter.

Almost a month had gone by before Peter again broached the topic of Brent marrying again. Peter considered Miss Rolfe the perfect match for Brent.

The Rolfe estate bordered Peter’s property and Peter had known this family his whole life, had practically lived in their pockets since his own parents passed away. Brent was slightly acquainted with Baron Rolfe, but he could not recall if he had ever met the man’s wife or the daughter.

‘You could not find a finer woman,’ Peter insisted.

Yes. Yes. So Peter had said. Many times.

His cousin went on. ‘You need marriage to a respectable woman. It will counteract the unfortunate scandal that surrounds you.’

Brent averted his gaze. This was exactly what Brent had told himself before his first marriage. Eunice, he’d thought, had been the epitome of a good match.

In the end she’d only compounded the scandal.

Peter glanced around, as if a passer-by might overhear him. ‘There are those who still believe your blood is tainted because of your poor Irish mother. Some claim that is why Eunice was unfaithful.’

Brent’s gaze snapped back.

His grandfather had hammered it into him that his blood was tainted by his mother, the daughter of a poor Irish tenant farmer. Brent could still hear Eunice’s diatribe on the subject, which had indeed been her justification for blatant infidelity.

Brent remembered only a smiling face, warm arms encircling him and a sweet voice singing a lullaby. He felt the ache of a loss that was over a quarter-century old.

‘Take care, Peter,’ he shot back, his voice turning dark and dangerous.

His cousin merely returned a sympathetic look. ‘You know I do not credit such things, but your children are bound to hear this same gossip some day, as well as stories of their mother. These will be heavy burdens for them to bear. You need to do something to counter them or they will grow up suffering the same taunts and cuts that you have suffered.’

Peter rarely talked so plainly.

Brent held his cousin’s gaze. ‘My one marriage certainly did nothing to increase my respectability.’

He’d stayed away from Eunice as much as possible for the children’s sake. There was no reason the poor babes should hear them constantly shouting at each other.

He’d been completely besotted by Eunice from their first meeting. She’d been the Diamond of the Season, the daughter of a peer, the perfect match for a new marquess, and she’d accepted his suit.

After marriage, however, Brent learned it was his title and wealth that had value to her. The day he’d held their newborn son in his arms, thinking himself the most fortunate man in the world, Eunice had told him how happy she was that her duty was done. Now they were free to pursue other interests. After that her interests—her infidelities, that is—kept tongues wagging.

At least the war offered him ample opportunity to stay away from her.

Unfortunately, it had also kept him away from his son.

Brent consoled himself that most aristocrats had little to do with their children, instead hiring nurses, governesses and tutors, sending them away to schools and seeing them only at brief intervals until the children were old enough to be civilised, the way the old marquess had reared him. How he had spent his early years was considered strange—suckled by his own mother, cared for by his Irish grandfather in a one-room, windowless mud cabin.

Brent and Peter reached Oxford Street, a lifetime away from the land of Brent’s birth.

He turned his attention back to the present. ‘Peter, what makes you think another marriage would not make matters worse?’

In no way would Brent allow his heart to again become engaged as it had done with Eunice. It had cut to the core that she’d married the title and scorned the man.

Peter responded once they were on the other side of Oxford Street. ‘Marry a woman of high moral character this time. A woman whose own reputation is unblemished and who can be trusted to be a faithful wife and attentive mother.’ He glanced away and back. ‘Miss Rolfe is all these things.’

Brent kept his eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. ‘What makes you think Miss Rolfe will accept me?’

‘Because you are a good man,’ Peter said simply.

Brent rolled his eyes. ‘You may be alone in believing that.’

‘And because you could be such a help to her family.’ The young man’s tone was earnest.

At least it was out in the open this time. Miss Rolfe needed to marry into wealth. Her father was only a hair’s breadth away from the River Tick, and the man had a huge family to support—two sons and two more daughters, all younger than Miss Rolfe. Brent’s money was needed to save Rolfe from complete ruin.

‘Ah, yes.’ Brent nodded. ‘My wealth is greatly desired.’

‘By a worthy man,’ Peter emphasised. ‘The most important thing is Miss Rolfe will make a good mother to your children.’

His children. The only reason he’d consider this idea of marriage. Brent might not see his children frequently. He might not keep them at his side like his Irish grandfather kept him, but he wanted the best for them.

‘Speaking of your children, how is the new governess working out?’ Peter asked.

Brent welcomed the change in subject, although it pricked at his guilt even more. She’d sent him one letter shortly after her arrival at Brentmore, but he’d not written back to enquire further.

‘Fairly well, last I heard.’ Was the passionate Miss Hill making the children happy? He certainly hoped so.

Perhaps he would write to her tomorrow to ask if the children needed anything that he could provide. He had no clue as to what his children might need or desire. He’d tried to keep their lives as quiet and comfortable and unchanged as he could, knowing firsthand how jarring too much change could be. That was why he’d left them at Brentmore Hall, to disrupt their peace as little as possible with his presence.

Who could have guessed their old governess would die? He’d not protected them at all from that trauma. How difficult for them that the woman’s death to come so soon after their mother’s accident.

If a second marriage could accomplish all Peter said, how could Brent refuse? If Miss Rolfe was indeed the paragon Peter vowed she was, perhaps she could give the children a better life.

He and Peter turned on to Somerset Street and knocked upon Lord Rolfe’s door. A footman opened the door and a few minutes later led them to the drawing room and announced them to the Rolfes.

Baron Rolfe immediately crossed the room to greet them. ‘Lord Brentmore, it is a delight to have your company.’ He shook Brent’s hand. ‘Peter, it is always good to see you.’ He turned to two ladies who stood behind him. ‘Allow me to present you to my wife and daughter.’

The wife was a pleasant-looking woman, the sort whose face just naturally smiled. She was soft spoken and gracious.

The daughter had a quiet sort of beauty. Her hair was a nondescript brown, her eyes a pale blue, her features even. There was nothing to object to in her. Brent gave her credit for being remarkably composed in the face of being looked over by a marquess as if she were a bauble in some shop.

‘I am pleased to meet you, my lord.’ She had a pleasant voice, not musical, perhaps, but not grating. ‘Peter has told me so much about you.’

He hoped Peter had told her everything. He’d learned the hard way it did not pay to assume she already knew. He’d assumed Eunice had known of his early life. After their marriage when she’d learned of it, she’d been shocked and appalled.

‘I am pleased to meet you as well, Miss Rolfe.’ He bowed.

He ought to say something witty or charming, but he was not trying to impress. If this idea of Peter’s was to work, Miss Rolfe must know him as he was. There should be no illusions.

They sipped sherry as they waited for dinner to be served. Conversation was pleasant and amiable. Brent liked that these people were very fond of his cousin and were as comfortable as they were in his presence. He was supposed to be the family’s salvation, after all, but they refrained from fawning over him and labouring to earn his regard.

The dinner proceeded in like manner. He was seated next to Miss Rolfe, which gave him an opportunity to share conversation with her alone. She, too, retained her poise, although she did shoot occasional glances to Peter, for his encouragement or approval, Brent supposed.

When dinner was done, Brent broke with the convention of the gentlemen remaining at the table for brandy and the ladies retiring to the drawing room.

‘May I speak with Miss Rolfe alone?’ he asked instead.

‘Of course,’ Lord Rolfe said.

Miss Rolfe glanced at Peter before saying, ‘I would be delighted.’

Brent and Miss Rolfe returned to the drawing room.

She went to a cabinet and took out a decanter. ‘My lord, would you like a glass of brandy as we speak?’

He was grateful. ‘I would indeed.’

She poured his glass and settled herself on the sofa.

He chose a chair facing her. ‘It is clear that Peter discussed this matter with you and your parents, as he did with me.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘He did.’

‘I need to know your thoughts on this.’ She had to be fully on board with the scheme or he would not proceed.

She raised her head and gave him a direct look. ‘It is a reality that I must marry well …’ She paused. ‘It is also a reality that my prospects to marry well are very slim. My dowry is very modest—’

He put up a hand. ‘Money means nothing to me.’

She smiled. ‘Actually, money means nothing to me, either. It is far more important to me to marry a good man.’ Her gaze faltered. ‘Peter—Peter assures me you are such a man.’

He glanced away. ‘It is important to me that you realise precisely what you are agreeing to.’

‘Peter was quite forthright.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘I know about your Irish parentage and your wife’s infidelities. I also know that you keep your word and pay your creditors and fulfil your responsibilities to your tenants, your servants, and your country.’

He felt his cheeks warming. ‘That is high praise.’

She lowered her lashes. ‘It is what Peter told me.’

All Brent truly did was what any decent man should do. It seemed no great thing to him.

He changed the subject. ‘What of children?’

Her cheeks turned pink. ‘Our children?’

Lawd. He had not thought that far.

‘You shall, of course, have children, if you wish it.’ He could not contemplate bedding her, not at the moment. There was nothing about her to repulse, however. He could imagine becoming fond of her in time. ‘What I meant was your feelings about my children. Are you willing to take charge of them and rear them as your own?’

Her hands fidgeted, twisting the fabric of her skirts. ‘If you think they would accept me in that role.’

He had no idea. Sadly, his children were strangers to him.

She spoke more confidently. ‘I am the eldest of five. I am certainly well used to the company of children. I would try my best for yours.’

The words of his new governess came back to him—I would please you, my lord. I am certain I would—spoken with a passion Miss Rolfe lacked.

Perhaps that was fortunate. Passion must not be a part of this decision.

‘Do you have any questions for me?’ he asked her.

She tilted her head in thought. ‘I need your assurance that you will help my family, that you will help launch my brothers and sisters if my father is unable to do so. My father will repay you if he can—’

He waved a hand. ‘I do not require repayment.’

‘He will desire to, none the less.’

Brent had made enquiries about Lord Rolfe. His debts appeared to be honest ones—crop failures and such. His needs were a far cry from Eunice’s father’s incessant demands that Brent pay his gambling debts.

Brent shrugged. ‘I am well able to assist your family in whatever way they require.’

‘That is all I need,’ she said, her voice low.

He stood. ‘What I suggest, then, is that we see more of each other. To be certain this will suit us both. If you are free tomorrow, I will take you for a turn in Hyde Park.’

She rose as well. ‘That would give me pleasure.’

Brent ignored the sick feeling inside him and tried to sound cheerful. ‘Shall we seek out your parents? And let Peter know his scheme might very well bear fruit?’

She blinked rapidly and he wondered if she was as comfortable with this idea as she let on.

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Let us tell my parents … and Peter.’

‘We do not need a physician!’ Anna was beyond furious.

Three weeks in her new position had also meant three weeks of battling Mrs Tippen, who seemed intent on keeping things exactly as her late marchioness had wanted them.

‘I have sent for him and that is that.’ Mrs Tippen gave her a triumphant glare. ‘We cannot have you endangering the children like this.’

‘Endangering!’ Anna glared back. ‘The boy was running. He fell and cut his chin on a rock. He has a cut, that is all!’

‘That is all you think,’ the housekeeper retorted. ‘You are not a physician.’

‘And you are not in charge of the children!’ Anna retorted.

From all she’d heard this woman had never expressed concern when the children were kept virtual prisoners in the nursery, rarely going out of doors.

Anna glared at her. ‘If you have something to say about them, you will say it to me. Is that clear?’

Mrs Tippen remained unrepentant. ‘You may bet Lord Brentmore will hear about this.’

Anna leaned into the woman’s face. ‘You may be assured Lord Brentmore will hear about this! He gave me the charge of the children, not you.’

Mrs Tippen smirked and made a mocking curtsy before striding away.

Anna bit her lip as she watched the woman. Would Lord Brentmore believe the housekeeper over her? What would he think if Mrs Tippen reported that the new governess behaved in a careless fashion and allowed his son to fall and injure himself?

She and the children had been playing a game of tag on the lawn when Lord Cal tripped and fell. It had frightened him more than anything. A small cut right on his chin produced enough blood to thoroughly alarm his sister. Dory wailed loudly enough to be heard in the next county.

Anna had to admit she’d been alarmed herself. She’d scooped him up and carried him back to the house, but a closer examination showed the injury to be quite minor. She wrapped him in bandages and told the children about men in India who wore turbans for hats. Soon he and Dory were looking in a book with engravings of India and calm had been restored.

Until two hours later when Mrs Tippen informed her that the physician had arrived.

Trying to damp down her anger, Anna strode to the drawing room where the doctor waited.

She entered the room. ‘Doctor Stoke, I am Miss Hill. The children’s new governess.’

He stood and nodded curtly. ‘Miss Hill.’ The man was shorter than Anna, stick-thin, with pinched features and a haughty air. ‘Inform me of the injury, please.’

‘I fear you’ve made an unnecessary trip.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Lord Calmount fell outside and suffered a tiny cut to his chin.’

‘A head injury?’ The doctor’s brows rose. ‘Did the boy become insensible?’

‘No, not at all,’ she assured him. ‘It was not a head injury. Just a minor mishap, needing no more than a bandage—’

He broke in. ‘Are you certain he did not pass out? Were you watching? A blow to the head can have dire consequences. Dire consequences.’

What had Tippen told him?

She gave the doctor a direct look. ‘He did not pass out and he did not suffer a blow to his head. I was right there beside him. He fell and cut his chin on a rock.’

He responded with a sceptical expression. ‘I must examine the boy immediately.’

‘Certainly.’

She led Dr. Stoke up the stairs to the nursery wing.

‘How old is the boy?’ he asked as they walked.

He’d not asked the child’s name, she noticed. ‘Lord Calmount is seven years old.’

She led him to the schoolroom where she’d left the children with Eppy to draw pictures of Indian men in turbans in their sketch books.

Anna made certain she entered the room first. She approached Cal and spoke in a soft, calm voice. ‘Lord Cal, here is Doctor Stoke. Mrs Tippen sent for him to examine your head so we may be certain it is only a very little cut.’

Cal gripped his pencil and glanced warily at the doctor.

‘Hello, young man!’ Doctor Stoke spoke with false cheer. ‘Let me see that head of yours.’

The doctor reached for his head and Cal shrank back.

‘None of that now,’ the doctor said sharply, pulling off the bandages.

Cal panicked and pushed the man and soon was flailing with both fists and feet.

‘No!’ Dory caught her brother’s fear and pulled on the doctor’s coat to get him off. ‘Don’t take his turban! He wants to keep it!’

‘Lord Cal! Dory! Stop it this instant!’ She’d never seen them this way. She turned to Eppy. ‘Take Dory out of here!’

Eppy carried a screaming Dory from the room.

Anna pulled the physician away and placed herself between him and Lord Cal. ‘Cal, it is all right. The doctor will not hurt you. He wants to look at your cut and then we will make a new turban.’

Cal shook his head.

‘Are you in pain?’ Doctor Stoke demanded of the boy.

Cal, of course, did not answer. He pressed his hands against his chin.

It took a great deal of coaxing on Anna’s part, but finally Cal allowed her to coax his fingers away and show the physician the cut. It had stopped bleeding and looked all right to Anna. She doubted it would even leave a scar.

The doctor then tried other examinations, like having the boy follow his finger as it moved side to side and up and down. Lord Cal refused. Cal also refused to answer any questions put to him, even those that could be answered with a nod of his head.

Doctor Stoke made no secret of his impatience with the boy. He finally gestured for Anna to leave the room with him.

‘Come to the drawing room,’ Anna said. ‘We can speak more comfortably there.’

He was grim-faced as they walked to the drawing room, a room nearly as gloomy as the man himself.

Doctor Stoke stood stiffly as he faced Anna. ‘How long has the boy been this way?’

‘I think he was frightened,’ she explained. ‘It was a surprise to him that you came and he is not used to strangers.’

The physician pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘It was a mania.’

‘A mania?’ How ridiculous. ‘It was a temper tantrum.’

He held up a halting hand. ‘No. No. Definitely a disorder of the mind.’

‘Nonsense!’

He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his mouth. ‘I feel it my obligation to inform Lord Brentmore that his son is lapsing into lunacy. I’ve seen this happen before—’

‘Lord Cal is not a lunatic!’ she cried.

He tilted his head condescendingly. ‘Ah, but you cannot deny the boy is prone to fits and is mute—’

‘He is not mute!’ she responded. ‘He merely doesn’t talk.’

The doctor smirked again. ‘The very definition of mutism. I will write to the marquess this very day and inform him of this unfortunate circumstance. I will, of course, recommend the very best asylums. I know just the place. The child needs expert care.’

Anna’s anxiety shot up. ‘You will not write to Lord Brentmore!’

The doctor’s mouth twisted in defiance.

She had to stop this! Who knew what Lord Brentmore would think if such a letter came his way?

She changed tactics. ‘I mean, this is not something for a father to read in a letter. Lord Brentmore … Lord Brentmore is … is due to arrive here very soon. You should speak to him in person. Surely there is no harm for the boy to remain a few more days at home. We … we will watch him carefully.’

Doctor Stoke averted his gaze as if thinking.

‘I—I am certain it would be a good thing to meet the marquess in person. He is bound to have questions only you can answer.’

The doctor turned back to her. ‘Very well. I will wait. Two weeks, no more. After two weeks I will summon the marquess myself.’

No sooner had the doctor left than Anna hurried to the library for pen and paper. She must write to Lord Brentmore immediately and convince him to come to Brentmore Hall.

Lord Cal was no lunatic! He was merely a frightened and timid boy who needed time to emerge from his shell. He was like Charlotte had been, although Lord Cal had no doting parents to support him. Lord Cal’s parents had been anything but doting.

This time Lord Brentmore must not neglect his parental duty. He must come! Anna would show him his son was a normal little boy, albeit an unhappy one. He would see for himself his son was no lunatic.

She laboured to word her letter carefully.

After three tries, she composed the letter as well as she could. She ended it with: You must come, Lord Brentmore. You must. Your son needs you.

Four days passed, too soon to hear back from Lord Brentmore. If he answered her right away, his letter could arrive tomorrow. Meanwhile she would do what she’d been doing since the doctor’s ridiculous call. Keep the children busy.

Today they were outside again, taking advantage of glorious blue skies and bright sunshine. The weather had been cool for early June, but today the sun felt deliciously warm.

Anna dressed the children in old clothes, old gloves and perched wide-brimmed straw hats on them. She marched them outside to a small square near the kitchen garden that the gardener had prepared for planting at her request.

She and Charlotte had loved planting seeds and watching them grow into beautiful flowers, so why would Lord Cal and Dory not like such an activity as well? Besides, they had been so confined, it would be lovely for them to get a little dirty.

She made the whole enterprise a school lesson. In the school room they had read books about how plants grew from seeds. She’d discussed with the gardener what they might plant. He had suggested vegetables instead of flowers. Boys, he said, would value vegetables over flowers.

An excellent idea! Much more appealing to the practical Lord Cal, she was sure. Plus, eventually they could eat what they planted.

‘We’re going to plant peas and radishes and we are going to care for the plants until they are ready for eating,’ Anna told the children as they walked towards the small plot of tilled earth.

As they reached the garden plot, a man stepped forwards. ‘Good morning, miss.’

Anna smiled at him. ‘This is your gardener, Mr Willis.’ Mr Willis, a kindly man with children of his own, had proved a willing participant. ‘Mr Willis, Lord Calmount and Lady Dory.’

Mr Willis had told her that he’d rarely even glimpsed the children up to now, even though he’d worked on the estate their whole lives.

Anna’s anger burned at the thought of these children living as recluses. They’d been sheltered, clothed and fed, but not much more from what she could tell.

She had a theory about why Lord Cal had ceased speaking. It was not out of lunacy—he’d stopped speaking because no one but his sister had been there to listen to him.

‘Are you ready for planting, then?’ Mr Willis said.

‘We are, sir,’ Dory replied.

The gardener handed each of the children a small shovel. He showed them two wooden bowls.

Pointing to one, he said, ‘These are the radish seeds.’ He put one seed in each of their hands. ‘See? It is brown and it looks a little like a pebble, does it not?’

‘It does look like a tiny pebble!’ Dory cried.

Cal placed his seed between his fingers and examined it up close.

Mr Willis put his hand out to collect the seeds, replacing them with two other ones. ‘Now these seeds look a little different. Can you tell what they are?’

Cal looked at his seed and quickly put a smug expression on his face.

‘They look like old peas!’ Dory said.

The gardener stooped down to her level. ‘That is because that is what they are. The peas you eat are really seeds.’

Soon Mr Willis had them digging troughs in the dirt with their shovels. Next he showed them how to plant the seeds, starting with one row of peas, alternating with one row of radishes.

Soon they were happily placing the seeds in the trough and carefully covering them with soil. Anna was pleased that Cal participated in the activity with enthusiasm. She gazed at him, so absorbed in his planting and looking for all the world like a normal boy.

He needed time, she was convinced. Would his father give him time or would he lock him away in an asylum? Who was she to know better what a boy needed than a trained physician?

But she did know.

Would Lord Brentmore see his son as she did? Would he trust her to bring the boy out of his bashfulness? She could do it, she knew. She’d done it for Charlotte.

Charlotte.

Sometimes she missed Charlotte so much it hurt. She missed talking to her, confiding in her, laughing with her. There was no one here at Brentmore to talk to. Sometimes at night she wanted to weep out of loneliness.

And yet worse than the loneliness was the worry that Lord Brentmore would discharge her for being so brazen as to tell him and a physician what they should do. What would she do if she lost this lonely job?

Suddenly a shadow fell over her and a man’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Why are my children digging in the dirt?’

Mr Willis snapped to attention and the children froze.

Anna turned and faced an enraged Lord Brentmore.

‘My lord.’ She made her voice calm, though her legs trembled. ‘We are engaged in a botany lesson. We are planting peas and radishes.’

The children dropped their seeds and scampered behind her skirts.

‘My children will not dig in dirt.’ His voice shook with an anger that mystified her. What was wrong with planting a garden?

‘Let me explain,’ she began in a mollifying tone. ‘We would not wish to frighten the children, would we?’

His eyes flashed.

She must take care. ‘This is a botany lesson. Your children are learning how plants grow. We’ve read about it in books and now we are going to see how seeds grow into food we can eat.’

He looked no less displeased.

Her own temper rose. ‘Your children are engaged in a useful occupation out of doors, in the fresh air, and are wearing old clothes which can be laundered. How is it you object to this, my lord?’

From behind her she heard Dory gasp. She felt Cal’s grip on her skirt.

Lord Brentmore’s eyes held hers for a long moment and she half-feared he was going to strike her.

Still, she refused to look away. It was imperative that the children not feel that enjoying themselves in useful activity was wrong.

His eyes still glittered, but he took a step back. ‘Carry on your lesson, then.’ He continued to hold her gaze. ‘Attend me when you are done, Miss Hill.’

Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and strode back into the house.

None of them moved until he was out of sight.

‘Why is Papa angry?’ Dory cried.

Anna crouched down and gave the little girl a hug. ‘Oh, I think we surprised him, didn’t we? He probably thought Mr Willis and I were making you and Cal work like field labourers!’ She said this as if it were the funniest joke in the world. ‘Come on, let us finish. Mr Willis has the rest of the gardens to tend to.’

Luckily they had almost completed the task. Only two lines required seeding. The joy that had been palpable a few minutes ago had fled, however. Their father had made it vanish.

Anna put her hand to her stomach, trying to calm herself. Here she wanted Lord Brentmore to be her ally in helping Cal, and now she had offended him for planting a garden.

Would she lose her position over a botany lesson, over finding an excuse to take the poor reclusive children out in the fine June air?