My Lady Scandal (4 page)

Nell’s lips twitched. The problem with servants that had been with you practically from birth was that they had none of the due deference that one expected from the average underling. ‘How unfortunate,’ she said sweetly, ‘but I’m sure Mr. Carlisle will not mind tea. Especially at this time of day.’

‘I adore tea,’ he agreed with such sincerity that Nell immediately assumed he loathed the stuff.

‘There’s always sherry,’ Perry protested.

‘The cook drank it,’ Nell returned. She lifted the teapot with an effort that did not show on her face, surely a social grace within itself. It felt as if it were a hundredweight!

Perry remained silent, although – apart from Emma, who believed spirits of any kind were the work of the devil – they did not actually have a cook. He reluctantly accepted a cup and they sat together in silence for a few moments.

‘Well,’ Nell looked at their guest. Despite the fact that he had not seemed to show the slightest interest, she was well aware that he had absorbed his surroundings most thoroughly; a subtle man. ‘Are you staying far from here, My Lord?’

‘Not two miles away. Farthingale; do you know it?’

‘Nice house, that,’ Perry said, helping himself to a scone. Emma might browbeat him mercilessly, but she made the best scones in England. ‘It belongs to the Audleys, does it not? They very kindly called when we returned from abroad.’

‘I’m staying with them for a few days.’ Carlisle smiled at Nell and she returned it, wondering what his intentions were.

It must be admitted that he had a wickedly attractive smile; quite sinfully attractive, really. That, along with an aquiline nose, a full, strong mouth and that fine pair of eyes, made him quite delicious and she could not recall the last time she had seen such a handsome man. He must have heard all manner of things about the eccentric Marriotts. Had his horse really thrown a shoe, or had that just been an excuse?

‘Tell me, if I am not impertinent; will you be in mourning for many more weeks?’ His eyes rested on Nell’s simple mauve cambric gown. She was glad she had put it on that morning. At least she looked as if she were still observing a period of half-mourning. ‘The neighbors are most anxious to make your acquaintance.’

‘Actually, my sister and I were discussing that very thing when you arrived. We are planning to start attending local events,’ Perry replied cheerfully. ‘In fact, we are most eager to meet people. It has been a solitary time for us. I was worried my poor Nell would fall into a decline.’

Nell blinked; a decline? She lowered her eyes to the floor – hopefully, much as a frail female bordering on a decline might do – and wondered if Perry might like his ears boxed. ‘It has been a difficult time for us,’ she agreed softly.

‘I understand.’ Carlisle’s own tone was suitably grave. ‘Where were you staying on the continent when the – was it an accident?’

‘A carriage accident in Italy,’ Perry supplied. No need to fill in the sordid details of their father’s gambling career or the fact that, at the time of the accident, he and their mother were being pursued by a discontented card-player and his cadre of friends, who had been out foxed by the wiliest fox of all, Thomas Marriott. They had been traveling too fast and the road had too many bends. In the space of five minutes, Perry and Nell had become orphans.

‘How tragic. But life goes on, yes? I think it would be a dreadful pity for somebody as lovely as your sister to languish here without admirers,’ Carlisle said lightly. ‘Can I not persuade you both to come to a gathering at my house in Mount Street on Friday night? I would be honored to introduce you back into Society.’

Nell wanted to protest; it was too soon, she wished to plan the occasion in greater detail, it was too
risky
! But Perry was already accepting the invitation, assuring him that they would look forward to the event. And truly, it was the perfect entrée, a ball to launch them into London life. Never mind
back
into it; they had never entered in the first place.

Carlisle returned his cup to the table and rose to his feet. ‘Well, I fear I have trespassed on your time long enough.’

Perry stood as well. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Carlisle.’

‘I look forward to Friday.’ Carlisle looked down at Nell, dark eyes glinting. ‘I must count the trip worthwhile if I have persuaded you both to reenter the tedium of Society. I only hope that you will both forgive me when it begins to pall.’

Nell also rose to her feet. ‘You do not seem to hold it in very high regard, Sir. I wonder that you would hasten our entry into it.’

His smile was entirely
too
charming. ‘Oh, well… a pleasure shared, Miss. Marriott. I cannot have
all
the fun now, can I?’

Perry walked him out while Nell sank back into her chair thoughtfully. That had been… interesting. After a few minutes, her brother returned, holding up a hand as if to ward off an imaginary blow. He quirked a smile at her. ‘
You
were the one that suggested it!’

Still, she was not entirely satisfied. For all his languor there had been something peculiarly
alert
about the man. She shook her reservations off because Perry was right; this was exactly what they needed. They would appear as Carlisle’s guests – the son of an earl and so imminently respectable – and they would mingle with the
beau
monde
.

‘We will be sure not to take
too
much,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘and only from the very, very rich.’

‘I appreciate your sensibilities,’ Perry returned gravely. ‘God bless the very rich!’

It was, undoubtedly, his midnight assailants. Not that it had been midnight when they had struck, but his lordship thought ‘midnight assailants’ had a nice ring to it.

Grif rode away from Holly Oak Hall with a sense of achievement. He had worked hard for this. True, it had only been the second house he had visited, thanks to the questions he had asked at the first, but in the course of his enquiries, he had been forced to sit with three girls of marriageable age and their mother, an event he was sure he would live to regret. He hated to get peoples hopes up unnecessarily and the girls – all three of them – were plate faced and buck-toothed. One had even boasted spots.

Not his type at all. He preferred the frivolously attractive to the solemnly frowsy. It was possibly his greatest flaw.

Fortunately, Mama Plate Face had managed to move past her astonished delight at his presence and had settled to gossip about the local families, the most scintillating being that the Marriotts had finally returned to Holly Oak Hall six months before. Not the
elder
Marriotts, oh, no. But Lord Peregrine Marriott and his sister, Eleanor. They were yet to go out into Society, having suffered the loss of their parents on the Continent, but, surely, that period would soon be over.

Carlisle smiled his satisfaction; it would be over sooner than the good matron knew, thanks to his machinations.

He thought of the pair as they had stood beneath the oak tree, two peas in a pod, lit with the golden light of a delicious Autumn day, and allowed himself to admit that he was intrigued. They were undoubtedly of good birth and good family, even if the house
was
falling down about them. What had possessed Thomas Marriott to abandon his ancestral house for so long, leaving it to such a dreadful state of decay? He had left his son a Herculean task if it were to be restored to its former glory.

Which raised an interesting question; why were the two Marriotts holding up coaches in the middle of the night, an occupation that was both perilous and – he would have thought – an unusual pastime for somebody of their class.

He headed back to Farthingale on his re-shod horse – it had taken a bit of skill to get the shoe off his black hunter but a bewildered groom had assisted – and found his friend Charles Audley just sitting down to his luncheon.

‘Carlisle,’ his host greeted him, waving a hand towards a chair, ‘just in time. Pull up a chair.’

Charles was home alone at the moment, his brood having gone to spend several weeks at their countryseat. He was the proud Papa of two children and his wife was expecting their third in the spring. She had wanted a few weeks away from the Social whirl and had retreated for some solitary time in Sussex. Charles would have gone as well, but he was secretary to a member of Parliament and had commitments that would keep him in town.

Grif sat and smiled at his friend. ‘What a pleasant day!’

‘You sound cheerful. What have you been up to?’

‘Why do people always assume I am ‘up’ to something?’ his lordship said plaintively, ‘can I not have merely been uplifted by nature?’

Charles looked him over for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, his tone dry, ‘a good mood generally means you are up to something.’

‘People can be very cruel.’ Grif helped himself to a dish of braised chicken and mushroom. ‘I actually paid several social calls, thereby enhancing your social status. The… now, what was their name? Oh, yes! The Plenderlieths. Three daughters, faces only a mother could care fore; quite tragic, really.’

Charles boggled at him. ‘You went and visited with the Plenderlieths? Good God, man, what on earth inspired that piece of madness? Lizbet avoids them at all costs. Lady Plenderleith is a dreadful gossip.’ Lizbet was Elizabeth Audley, Charles’ wife. They had an unusually affectionate marriage, or so Grif thought. Extraordinarily, after seven years together, the two seemed to be as besotted with each other as they had been on the day of their marriage.

Charles frowned. ‘Not particularly. Thomas Marriott was a loose cannon. Gambler, always in Queer Street with the bailiffs. He married a Frenchwoman. They left – very abruptly – but everybody thought they would be back after a few months. They never returned.’

‘Indeed?’ Grif mused. He wondered if Perry was a gambler, following in his father’s footsteps, as was so often the case.

‘Society being what it is I am sure their debut will be of great interest.’ Charles pulled a dish of sweetmeats towards him and inspected it for a moment before making his selection.

‘Oh, aye?’ Audley was watching the Viscount with considerable curiosity. ‘I will be there, of course. But you rarely entertain. What is the occasion?’

‘The reintroduction of the Marriotts into Society.’ He gave his friend a wicked smile. ‘I think it should prove to be amusing.’

Chapter Three

Nell surveyed herself critically in the long, oval mirror. The empire waist gown in charmeuse silk fell in soft, elegant folds, the Pomona green suiting her fair coloring very well. Unlike many of the pastels that were considered proper for young ladies, darker, solid hues suited her better, something her mother had always been aware of when purchasing her daughter’s gowns.

At the thought of her mother, Nell bit her lip, willing the sadness away. Geneviève Marriott might have been a very casual parent but she had been affectionate and funny and Nell still missed her deeply. As a Frenchwoman, she had possessed an unerring eye for what would flatter her daughter and had never stinted on outfitting her (even if the dressmaker’s bills were rarely paid).

Picking up a light Kashmir shawl of deep emerald edged with gold, she draped it around her shoulders. She had caught her thick, pale hair up in a loose arrangement at the top of her head, allowing longer curls to fall over her neck and left shoulder. With no maid to attend her, Nell had grown used to managing without a maid and had become quite artful. A single emerald pin – paste, of course, but of good quality; neither of her parents could ever hold on to anything of any value for long – fixed the gentle knot of curls just above her ear.

She would do, she decided.

A flutter of nerves had been making itself known in the pit of her stomach all day, but she refused to acknowledge it, just as she had for the past three days. This night was no different from countless others she and her brother had lived though. Admittedly, this would be the first time they were attending such an affair under their
own
name, but surely, that would make things easier?

Nell thought about it for a moment and then decided that no, it would not. Pretending to be somebody else allowed for a certain amount of freedom. As Therèse Bertrand or Nathalie Dupont or Fiorella Santorini, she could be whatever character she created but as plain and simple Nell Marriott… well, as herself, there was nothing to hide behind. Miss. Eleanor Marriott was very much unchartered territory in such a setting.