Nothing But Scandal (3 page)

An assistant. His appointment hadn’t merited the owner. Harold cleared his throat, irritated. “Yes, the stallion, of course.”

“Of course. If you’ll follow me, we’ll have a look at him.”

They passed an empty stall, then several that housed beautiful geldings and mares, before Kemble paused. “The stallion, he’s quite a beast. Descended from Warrior Prince. Now, if it’s a gentleman’s horse you’re after, you may wish to have a look at Marty here.” He gestured inside a stall. “Fine gelding.”

Harold flicked the animal an impatient glance. The horse
was
fine, but he suspected Kemble had mentally deemed him, Harold, unworthy of the finest animal the stables currently had to offer.

“Anyone there?” A deep male voice sounded toward the entrance.

“One moment, Mr. Wetherby.” Kemble rushed off to greet the new visitor.

Harold ground his teeth.

“Your Grace! This is a surprise.” Kemble’s voice carried through the stable. “And an honor, may I add. If we’d known you were coming, I’m sure Mr. Derringworth would have arranged to greet you personally.”

Harold peered toward the entrance as Kemble returned at the side of a man Harold immediately recognized. The Duke of Beaufort. Powerful and respected, the man could have anything in the world just for the asking. Harold hated him. Or would have, if he hadn’t wanted so badly to
be
him.

“What can I do for you?” Kemble was asking.

“My brother-in-law tells me you may have a stallion worth looking at.”

Harold felt his chest swell. The duke was interested in the very same horse as he was. Yes, he, Harold Wetherby, former nobody, was a man on the rise.

“Indeed. Fine creature.” As they drew close to Harold, Kemble started, having seemingly forgotten his presence. “Right. In fact, Mr. Wellesley and I were just headed back that way. Mr. Wellesley, what did you think of Marty here?”

“Wetherby,” Harold corrected stiffly. “And I’d prefer to see the stallion.”

“Certainly. Only…Your Grace, do you mind?”

Harold bristled—
he’d
been here first, with an appointment. But the duke gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Then come with me, gentlemen.”

At the end of the hall was a stall twice the size of the others. The stallion inside was massive, its coat a gleaming chestnut tone.

In truth, Harold had never been comfortable around large animals, but when he saw the duke glance at the horse and give the manager an approving nod, he quelled the urge to cringe.

He nodded at the stallion as well, then stoutly declared, “Now that’s more like it. I want something that’ll impress my fiancée.”

“You’re to be married?” the assistant asked, finally looking away from the duke long enough to spare Harold a glance. “Congratulations.”

The stallion tossed his head and snorted. Harold took a nervous step backward before catching himself—he did
not
wish to lose face in front of Beaufort.

“Storm Runner, he’s called,” Kemble told them. “He needs a firm hand.”

The duke nodded. “A firm hand, perhaps, but the animal has clearly been kept in beautiful condition.”

Harold forced a loud laugh. “Needs a firm hand, eh? So will my fiancée. A beauty, but headstrong. I’ll train them both together.”

The assistant manager opened his mouth as though to say something, but promptly closed it.

“Yes, indeed.” Harold cracked his knuckles, already anticipating the moment he could relay this afternoon’s events to his friend Cutter at their club. Here he was, sharing horse talk and manly jokes with the Duke of Beaufort.

On a roll, Harold continued, “An animal just has to be shown who its master is before he—or she—will mind him. Then it’s a smooth ride. Heh. I do enjoy a good ride.” He winked and reached over the door of the stable to stroke the stallion, but the animal tossed its head and backed away.

He waived a hand toward the horse. “’Course, I’d be willing to bet Storm Runner here will come around before Elizabeth does.”

“Elizabeth?” the duke asked quickly.

“Oh, yes,” Wetherby went on, his chest swelling further, “Elizabeth Medford. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? A baron’s daughter. Fine old family. Pretty chit, too, though, as I said, a bit headstrong. Nothing, of course, a man like myself can’t handle.”

The duke’s expression was unreadable. Could he possibly be jealous? Unreasonable though she could be, there was no denying Elizabeth was attractive. In their recent argument, Elizabeth had all but admitted an interest in Beaufort. But no bloody way Harold would let her out of his clutches now. He resolved to press her uncle to make the announcement soon.

There was just one thing left to seal this as the perfect afternoon. Harold bobbed his head toward the stallion. “What do you want for him?”

The assistant manager fidgeted. “Mr. Wetherby, if it’s a good, er, ride, you’re looking for, perhaps a racehorse isn’t your ideal fit.”

The duke glanced between them, expression still blank. Harold recalled Beaufort had a reputation for ruthlessness, and complete lack of emotion, at the card table.

Harold folded his arms. “What do you want for the horse?”

Kemble squared his shoulders and gestured toward the stallion. “Well, Mr. Wetherby, a horse with a breeding record like Storm Runner…” his voice trailed off meaningfully.

Harold’s neck heated. Damn it, this
assistant
was not going to make him look bad in front of the duke. “What do you
want
for him?”

The young man glanced anxiously at the duke, then back to Harold. “Perhaps, if you are interested, you could make an appointment—”

“I’m prepared to talk now,” Harold said with clenched fists.

“The asking price,” Kemble told them, “is twelve hundred pounds.”

The duke, a man known for extravagance in all facets of life, didn’t flinch. Harold, on the other hand, had to swallow, hard. The nincompoop of an assistant was trying to
rob
him.

“That is a handsome amount. I say”—Harold forced himself to breathe normally—“perhaps if you were to put the animal through its paces, show me what it’s capable of…” He needed to buy some time.

Perhaps he could spot some flaw, force the assistant to lower the price. Because if a stallion from the Derringworth stables truly went for twelve hundred pounds, Harold was way out of his league.

“Of course, I am happy to take Storm Runner out,” Kemble replied. “I assure you, when you see him in action, you’ll see his price is fully justified. I’ll just get him ready.”

Before he could do so, the duke held up a hand.

“Sold.”

“Pardon?” Kemble asked.

“What?” The question exploded from Harold before he could consider the wisdom of asking it.

The duke spoke to the assistant, ignoring Harold completely now. “I’ve done business with Derringworth’s long enough to know you stand behind your animals. Storm Runner’s worth at least that much. I’ll send my solicitor with a bank draft for the full amount first thing tomorrow. Is that sufficient?”

“Now wait a minute—” Wetherby sputtered.

But neither man paid him any attention.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Kemble said. “Absolutely.”

Anger bloomed in Harold as he realized that all along, his presence at the stable, and in front of the duke, had been merely tolerated. Come to think of it, the duke hadn’t actually laughed at his jokes. And when it came time to transact business, apparently he was invisible—at best.

“Unbelievable,” Harold muttered, and stormed out.

The two remaining men watched him go.

“Your Grace,” the assistant manager said, “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am…”

“Not to worry,” Alex told him. “He was no one of significance.”

Kemble nodded. “Exactly. Please, let me assure you that Derringworth’s does
not
cater to such clientele. I only pity the woman to whom he’s betrothed.”

“Indeed.” Impossible to believe that
boob
was marrying the fiery redhead. The arrogant ass couldn’t even handle purchasing a horse. There was no way he’d get his hands on Elizabeth Medford.

“I’m in the most awful fix, Bea.”

“Whatever has happened?”

“I’ve run out of time,” Elizabeth answered. “You know the circumstances in which my father left us. It seems the rest of the ton knows as well. My prospects are…” she swallowed, “diminished.”

“I am sorry, E.,” Bea said, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand.

Elizabeth could tell she actually was sorry, unlike so many others that mouthed the words while secretly relishing the downfall of a peer. It was one more reason she counted Beatrice Pullington a true friend.

When Elizabeth had arrived on Bea’s doorstep the night before, fully packed valise in hand, she’d been welcomed without question. Bea had installed her in a comfortable guestroom and seen to her every need, and Elizabeth had succumbed to exhaustion after her turmoil-filled day.

Now it was midmorning, and the two women relaxed in the small salon of Bea’s town house while they batted about ideas for Elizabeth’s future.

“It isn’t just that. My mother’s brother, Uncle George, is head of the family now. He’s insisting he can’t support all of us, and he’s going to marry me off to my single remaining prospect—Harold Wetherby.”

“Wetherby.” Bea wrinkled her nose, cocked her head in thought. “I don’t know him.”

“Not personally. He’s some sort of remote cousin of my mother’s. He doesn’t move in the higher circles. But I’ve told you about him, Bea.”

Slowly, Bea’s eyes widened with understanding. “
That
Wetherby? The one from that picnic, the one who—”

“The same.”

“No,” Bea said weakly, reaching for her tea and taking a fortifying sip.

“I’m not going back. I’d sooner work for a living.”

“Doing what?”

“That’s the problem. I thought maybe I could be a seamstress.”

“A seamstress?” Bea looked doubtful.

“I’m good with a needle,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, but E., the best modistes will want references, and you’ll have none. You wouldn’t want to work for the sort that would hire you without a reference.” Bea poured a fresh cup of tea for each of them and offered Elizabeth a plate of biscuits.

The lack of references was a dilemma Elizabeth hadn’t anticipated. “What do you suggest? There are few ways a woman can earn a living and remain anonymous.”

“Sadly true. I know a woman who earns her living writing books…”

“I’ve no head for that, Bea. And, besides, it would take too long. I need something soon.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. It’s no hardship.”

“I know, and I do thank you for it. I don’t know where I’d have gone if not here. But I can’t stay in hiding forever, and I’d just as soon move on. Whatever work I find, it must be somewhere my uncle won’t think to look for me.”

Leaving the safe haven of Bea’s house would be difficult, especially knowing that whatever life held for her next, it was unlikely to even remotely resemble the life she’d known before her father died. What line of work was appropriate for the runaway daughter of a disgraced, deceased baron?

“I could be a governess,” Elizabeth suggested.

“Truly? A governess?” Bea made a face. Her own marriage had not been fruitful. “Caring for someone else’s children? What if they’re spoiled or unruly?”

“Oh, Bea. I love children.”

“But E., do you think you’ve the disposition for being a governess? It’s just, you’re a bit headstrong—though I love you for it—and I think that sort of thing is frowned upon in governesses.”

“I’m sure I can overcome that. I haven’t the luxury of getting into scrapes anymore,” Elizabeth replied. “But I would probably have the same problem in getting references.”

“Very likely. If a seamstress must have references, imagine what—wait! I know just the person who might take you on. She may recognize you, but she’s a kind soul, and I overheard someone at a tea the other day saying she was looking to hire a governess. She lives in the country, so you’re less likely to be seen.”

“Who?”

“The Viscountess Grumsby.”

“Grumsby, Grumsby…” Elizabeth thought aloud, trying to place the name. “The Duke of Beaufort’s sister.
Alex Bainbridge’s sister
. I couldn’t possibly!”

“E., I know you had a tendre for him, but now that nothing’s come of that, I fail to see the problem.”

“It isn’t just that.” Miserably, Elizabeth relayed the details of her most recent encounter with the duke.

“My.” Bea took another fortifying sip of tea, then grinned. “That was daring. Did I say before that you were a bit headstrong? I believe I misspoke. You’re not a bit headstrong, you are
entirely
so!”

Elizabeth’s cheeks heated, but she smiled back.

“Though, really, you’re in the same place now as you would have been if he’d agreed,” Bea continued. “A bit uncomfortable if he happens to visit, of course, but no reason you can’t stay mostly out of sight.”

True. Only, if he
had
agreed, Elizabeth thought, she’d have been able to live out her dreams before descending to the lower rungs of Society’s ladder.

“At any rate,” Bea said, “it’s worth a try. As I said, Lady Grumsby lives in the country most of the time, which will protect you from most prying eyes.”

“But what if Alex has told her about me?”

“Unlikely. If he wasn’t willing to have his name bandied about with yours in scandal, why would he say anything?” Bea airily waved a hand. “He’s probably forgotten it entirely.”

Elizabeth wasn’t so sure about that, but as she could think of no better option, and the thought of leaving town for a while held a certain appeal, she agreed to the plan.

Within hours, Beatrice sent a message to Lady Grumsby. In the letter Bea gave Elizabeth her full endorsement for the position, though, as she confided, “I may not be the best of references, having never hired a governess myself.”

Since it was possible Lady Grumsby would recognize her anyway, Elizabeth agreed with Bea’s recommendation that she
not
use a false name. She just prayed her mother wouldn’t find out. Lady Medford took her noble status quite seriously.

The next few days were spent anxiously awaiting a response. As she could hardly stroll about the streets of London without being seen, Elizabeth kept to the house. Bea had more freedom, and, with Charity’s help, managed to retrieve two of Elizabeth’s plainest frocks from the Medford home. They’d already been dyed gray for the half-mourning period following her father’s death.

“If you’re to work as a governess, you must look the part,” Bea said as she helped remove the white lace that gave the gowns their only fashionable touch. “Word of your disappearance hasn’t yet leaked to the ton. Your sister tells me the family’s keeping it a secret, hoping to find you first and make the whole matter go away. The scandal would be huge. I, of course, swore I knew nothing. But, E., are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

Elizabeth’s most recent encounter with Harold leapt to mind. Unconsciously she touched the now-fading bruises below her collarbone. “Definitely.”

Bea patted her arm. “As long as you’re sure.”

Finally the good news came that Lady Grumsby was indeed interested in interviewing Miss Medford. Bea helped her friend pack, and Elizabeth purchased a seat on a traveling coach departing the following morning. No more private carriages in her future.

The coach was slow and bumpy, and at one particularly steep hill, the driver asked the passengers to walk alongside the vehicle, easing the burden on the team of horses. Never before had Elizabeth traveled like this—no companion, no chaperone, and no conveyance of her own.

She was dusty and exhausted by late afternoon, when they stopped at a coaching inn. Thankfully, the Grumsbys had sent one of their servants with a wagon to convey her the remaining distance, for spending the night alone at the inn—even if she’d acquired a private room—was too daunting a prospect.

In spite of the early start, it was nearing dark by the time they drew near Garden Home, the estate belonging to the Duke of Beaufort’s sister and her husband. Given the innocuous name, Elizabeth had been expecting a pleasant but modest estate. Instead, the wagon rolled past vast manicured lawns, and finally drew near a sprawling mansion that seemed a conglomeration of every architectural style England had known in the past four hundred years. Oddly, the effect was intriguing, softened by the profusion of spring blooms that sprouted from numerous well-tended flowerbeds.

The servant Elizabeth rode with had a delivery of milk and butter for the kitchens, and he drew the cart around back. She thanked him for his trouble, then climbed down slowly.

If this didn’t work, she had no alternate plan.

The matter of the viscountess’s relationship to Alex Bainbridge was still discomforting, but Elizabeth had resolved—assuming she was offered the position—to simply stay away from any gatherings he was likely to attend.

With trepidation, Elizabeth knocked at the rear entrance to Viscount Grumsby’s manor.

A maid came to the door and looked Elizabeth up and down. “Yes?”

“I’m here to interview for the position of governess.”

The maid modified her facial expression to one of greater respect. “Yes, mum. Lady Grumsby expects you’ll be tired from the travel. I’m to show you to a room, and you’ll interview first thing in the morn. Just this way.”

Elizabeth bit her lip but followed the maid down a corridor, unused to being treated so casually by the help. She’d best get used to it, though, for a governess’s station, while above that of a maid’s, was far lower than that to which she was accustomed.

The maid directed Elizabeth to a small but comfortable room, and after leaving briefly, returned with warm water for washing, followed by a dinner tray. Elizabeth ate, grateful her hosts seemed to have thought of everything. Still, she spent a restless night, wondering what she would do if this latest plan failed.

Elizabeth woke early and was fully dressed—not to mention anxious—by the time the maid reappeared at her door. After a quick breakfast, she was led back to the main hall.

The maid indicated a small, padded bench against one of the walls near a door that led, presumably, to a salon. “Wait just here.”

Elizabeth sat, imagining how best to present her limited qualifications when she was called in.

The maid disappeared through the doorway and reappeared moments later. “Lady Grumsby will see you now.”

Elizabeth slowly let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and entered the salon, a pleasant room decorated in shades of ivory and pale blue. A lovely brunette, a few years her senior, sat on the edge of a delicate chair near a writing desk. Her physical appearance made her relationship to her ducal brother immediately clear.

Mindful of her new social status, Elizabeth sank into a curtsy. “My lady. I had not realized I would be interviewing with the lady of the house.”

“My children are important to me. Finding a governess for them is not a task I deem appropriate to entrust to just anyone.”

Elizabeth smiled, approving of the woman’s sentiment.

“And you are Miss Medford?”

Elizabeth hesitated. She prayed the name Medford was common enough that the viscountess would not think to associate her, a girl applying for the position of governess, with the baron’s daughter of the same name. “Yes, my lady.”

“Right. Well, Miss Medford, I would not normally interview someone without references, but Lady Pullington did suggest I speak with you, so I suppose that’s a reference of sorts. And it is the Season, when most governesses have already hired on to other families, so I am considering all applicants. My last governess left rather suddenly, to care for an ailing relative. You may sit.” She gestured to a small chair, cushioned in pale yellow. “Please tell me of your qualifications.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, determined to bluff her way through this, when a sudden frown creased the viscountess’s forehead.

“Wait a moment. You said your name was Medford? You’re no relation to—no, you couldn’t be. My neighbor was filling me in on all that’s happened so far in the Season and the name Medford came up, and I just thought…and your red hair…”

Elizabeth was caught. She shifted uncomfortably on the small chair. However daring she’d learned to be, she wasn’t an outright liar. “Yes, my lady. I am Lord Medford’s daughter.”

“No! But what are you doing applying as a governess?” Lady Grumsby’s eyes reflected embarrassment for them both.

“It’s rather a long story. Please, my lady, I assure you I am sincere in this application. My circumstances are no longer what they were. I need this position, and I love children. I am willing to work hard, to care for them and teach them as much as I know.” Passion filled her voice as she pled with the woman not to turn her out. This was her last, best hope.

Viscountess Grumsby folded her hands and gave Elizabeth a long look. “Have you been compromised?”

“No, my lady. But my family can no longer support two unwed daughters, and I’ve no wish to be a burden, nor do I have any suitable opportunity to wed.” Elizabeth hoped the viscountess would not pry further, for to explain that she’d refused her family’s choice of suitor and left home would not reflect well on her character, no matter how abusive that suitor might be. Better to let Lady Grumsby think she’d been an utter failure in the marriage mart.

“I see. I am sorry to hear of your family’s misfortune.” Lady Grumsby’s expression gentled, and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “You understand the responsibilities of a governess? ’Tis hardly the life you are used to.”

“Yes, my lady. I understand.”

“Well, if you were raised in Society, then I cannot fault your education. My children are young yet, but I do wish them exposed to good morals and learning.”

“Mine was most adequate, my lady.”

“I will grant you the position on a trial basis. If, after a period of three months, I, and the children, find you suitable, you may stay on.”

Elizabeth smiled genuinely. “Thank you, my lady. This means a lot to me. I shall not disappoint you.”

“Lovely. I shall be most glad of your assistance with the children, for I am expecting guests in a fortnight. A small house party during my brother’s visit.”