Once Upon a Tower (11 page)

“Who is Lady Chuttle?”

“A remote acquaintance. Ordinarily I would dismiss a ball of hers as a trifle vulgar, but that was before I received
this
.” She pulled a crumpled note from her reticule. “I sent a note to your father requesting that he accompany us to Almack’s. This is his reply.”

Edie flattened it out. Only two lines long, his note expressed regret at being unable to attend them at Almack’s, as he had accepted a prior invitation. “How did you know that he plans to attend Lady Chuttle’s ball instead?”

“I didn’t have to be told. I was quite aware that a man in his situation would visit that particular event, so I simply replied, informing him that we would meet him there.”

“What if he has an entirely different appointment?”

“Where else would he be going?” Layla demanded, with magnificent disregard for the presence of the butler and two footmen. “He’ll be escorting Winifred, no doubt. I might just mention rabbits to your father if I see him. Just drop the word into the conversation and see whether it gives him any ideas.”

Edie glanced at the butler’s impassive face. “Right. Inform the coachman we’re going to Lady Chuttle’s, if you please, Willikins.”

And so he did, and a minute later they were under way. Unfortunately, the lady’s house was but a fifteen-minute drive, which meant that Layla was only slightly less tipsy by the time they arrived. “I shall know instantly who she is,” she said chattily, as they descended from the carriage in front of a large town house.

“Are you implying that there will be courtesans in attendance?” Edie asked, feeling rather more interested in the Chuttle ball than she had been in visiting Almack’s.

“Undoubtedly,” Layla said. “That’s why your father will be here. As I was saying, I shall recognize Winifred. I know the sort Jonas favors. I’m sure she’s one of those women who rush up and tell you that no matter what they eat, they simply
cannot
gain weight. He told me once that I had a flat stomach, you know. That was back when I
had
a flat stomach.”

“Layla,” Edie said. “I am bored by Winifred, and I haven’t even met her. Follow the nice groom and let’s get out of the chill.”

“I am the daughter of a marquess!” Layla announced.

“That’s right,” Edie said encouragingly. “Winifred probably sprang from a cabbage patch. And I bet she has to stuff her corset in order to achieve any curve in the front.”

“I need not resort to such sorry tactics,” Layla said, tossing her cloak behind her shoulders, and thereby revealing her quite magnificent bosom.

“Winifred would have to put a cabbage down her corset in order to look anything like you,” Edie said. “Two cabbages, one for each side.”

Layla nodded sharply and swept into the house.

As far as Edie could see, there was nothing about the entryway that signaled the possible presence of courtesans. The butler bowed, precisely as butlers did, handed their cloaks to footmen lounging by the wall, then led them down a hallway to the ballroom, where he announced them.

“Oh, look,” Layla cried with delight, plunging down the stairs and knocking the butler to the side as she did so. “There’s Betsy!”

“Who is Betsy?” Edie asked, trotting down the steps, braced to catch Layla if she stumbled.

“A dear friend of my mother’s. Lady Runcible, she must be now. I believe she was widowed last summer, the poor woman. That would have been her third—no, her fourth husband.”

“Quite a tragedy. Or perhaps
triumph
is a better word.”

Layla dove into the crowd, towing Edie behind her. “It’s not her fault. They just drop off after a year or two. But she’s managed to keep her hair yellow through all of it, and you have to admit . . .
that
is a true triumph.”

A second later she plunged into conversation with a woman whose hair did, indeed, have a touch of the victorious about it: time had apparently stood still for Lady Runcible. Edie smiled politely and glanced about for her father. She was certain that he wouldn’t be able to resist following Layla to the ball.

She heard a deep voice, and someone touched her elbow. She turned to find Lord Beckwith standing beside her. “Lady Edith.” He glanced at her gown—pale pink but without any trim to disguise her bosom—and his face came alive with admiration. “What a pleasure to meet you here.”

Edie curtsied. “Lord Beckwith, I am very glad to see you.”

“
Au contraire,
” Layla was saying nearby. “I have been out of society far too long. I have decided to turn over a new leaf.
J’arrive, ma chère, j’arrive!
”

Lord Beckwith bowed, took Edie’s hand and kissed it, then didn’t release it when he ought. “I hope this is not inappropriate, but I know I express the feelings of many gentlemen when I say how much I regret your expeditious betrothal.”

“Lady Edith won’t marry for months,” Layla said, nipping about suddenly and joining the conversation.

Beckwith bowed again. “Lady Gilchrist. It is a true pleasure to see you.”

“My dears, shall we find some refreshment?” Layla asked. “I must admit that after that tiring coach ride, I would welcome something restorative to drink.” Moments later, they were seated at a small table, champagne and small plates of
bonnes bouches
before them.

“Eat,” Edie said to Layla, pushing a plate of little cakes closer to her. “You’ll have a terrible head in the morning.”

“
Au contraire,
” Layla said in a silvery voice. “I’ve always been able to handle my champagne. I believe I was born with bubbles in my blood.”

Widow Runcible had towed two men along with her; candidates, Edie presumed, for the hazardous role of her fifth husband. Layla began flirting madly with one of them, Lord Grell. Edie sighed and turned back to Beckwith. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my father this evening?”

“Yes, he is here, Lady Edith. I gather you arrived separately?”

Layla must have heard; she stiffened and leaned even closer to her prey.

“Lady Edith, may I have the honor of this dance?” Beckwith asked.

She was about to say yes, when she saw her father stalking toward them. “Father!” she cried, popping up and curtsying. “There you are!”

Layla took a deep breath, picked up her glass so forcefully that Edie was surprised it didn’t shatter, and drained it.

“Daughter,” her father said, coming to a halt. “Lady Gilchrist. Lady Runcible. Lord Beckwith. Lord Grell.”

The second of Lady Runcible’s followers had melted away before he could be greeted; the arrival of an incandescently angry man could do that to a conversation. Her father looked like a barbarian dressed in evening wear: though his jacket was plum velvet and his neck cloth immaculately tied, there was more than a hint of madness about his eyes.

Edie followed his gaze and saw that Layla was leaning close to Lord Grell, who was such a fool that he didn’t have the sense to look alarmed.

Even after a lifetime of skirmishing with her father, Edie felt apprehension at the look on his face now. Lord Beckwith gave her an apologetic smile and sidled off into the crowd.

“Goodness me, there’s my husband,” Layla cried, pretending to see the earl for the first time. She bent sideways, as if she was about to fall off her chair, though Edie knew she was craning to see if Winifred stood anywhere nearby.

The earl was alight with fury; Edie truly doubted that there was a Winifred.

Lady Runcible now stood up as well and towed Lord Grell away with her, quite likely saving his life.

Edie expected her father to drag Layla to her feet and call for their carriage, but instead he dropped into the chair Beckwith had occupied until a minute earlier. Edie took her seat again as well, and for some moments the three of them sat in tense silence around the small table.

At last, Edie broke the silence. “Should I leave the two of you alone? I could stroll around the room or dance with Lord Beckwith.”

“Why should you?” Layla said. “It’s not as if we will have a meaningful conversation in your absence. His Lordship is likely going to accuse me of doing something unsavory with that poor man who was here a moment ago. As if I would have a chance, now that Betsy has decided to marry him.”

“I had no such—”

Layla interrupted her husband. “Where is Winifred?” She looked up and caught the eye of a footman.

“Who is Winifred?” the earl asked with a frown.

Layla was busy explaining to the footman that she’d like four glasses of champagne, of which two were for her, so Edie undertook to answer. “Your mistress, Father.”

“How dare you say such an impertinent thing to me? Who has been telling your stepmother lies? I don’t even know a Winifred!”

“Oh?” Layla said, snapping back into the conversation. “Thin, very thin, with a corset stuffed with vegetables, too lightweight to sink: you know the type. You could throw her in the Serpentine and she would just bob to the surface, muttering about how much she envies women who are able to put on weight.”

The earl was clearly lost.

“Don’t try,” Edie advised him. The footman arrived with the champagne, and she safeguarded hers before Layla could snatch it.

“Winifred,” Layla said, a bit sadly, “is the woman who stole you away from me, Jonas. I used to please you, you know. We weren’t exactly like rabbits, but
c’est la vie
.” She shrugged and, with one gulp, drank half a glass of champagne.

“How long has she been like this?” The look on Edie’s father’s face was edging from half to three-quarters barbarian.

“Oh, about two years,” Edie said, considering. “In the stages of marital harmony, I’d say the two of you are at about stage eight of ten—ten being the slough of utter despond.”

“You have no right to speak to me this way, daughter!” he snapped.

Edie looked away from the mix of anger and anguish in her father’s eyes . . . to see Gowan standing behind the earl.

Fifteen

T
he Duke of Kinross was magnificently dressed in a coat of darkest blue velvet with silver buttons. He fell back a step, moving into a bow that would have graced a prince. “Lady Edith.” He straightened. “Lady and Lord Gilchrist.” He bowed again.

Edie rose, well aware that she was smiling like a loon. “Your Grace, I gather you concluded your business in Brighton sooner than you thought possible.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I whipped the bankers into a lather. They were glad to see the back of me.”

“
I
am glad to see the front of you.”

His smile was response enough.

“Good evening,” Layla cried, her voice sounding more musical now that it had a faint slur. “You’ve returned just in time, Your Grace. I do believe that Lord Gilchrist is thinking of nullifying your betrothal. He’s rather fickle these days.”

It was astonishing to see how Gowan suddenly radiated pure menace, without even shifting a muscle. “I trust Lady Gilchrist is mistaken,” he said, turning to the earl.

Edie’s father had risen. “My wife exaggerates. As I explained to you, Your Grace, I have doubts about your marital happiness, but such worries are no grounds for breaking a contract.”

“Taking a more optimistic view of our future, I have brought with me a special license,” Gowan said, taking Edie’s hand and drawing it into his arm. “My lord the Archbishop of Canterbury was very amiable about the matter.”

“Marry in haste?” the earl said, scowling. “Cast a shadow on my daughter’s reputation?”

Gowan looked down at Edie. “Being a Scot, I don’t understand the intricacies of English polite society. Would it be so terrible?”

“Yes, it would,” Edie replied. “We’d be pariahs for a time, though not as much as if we fled to Scotland and married in Gretna Green.”

The smile in his eyes told her all she needed to know.

So she answered his unspoken question: “I am not afraid of scandal.”

Layla came to her feet with a slight wobble. “It will be no more than a seven-day wonder. Dukes will be dukes. What a charming notion!” She swiveled. “Betsy,
ma chère
, where have you gone? My darling stepdaughter is to be married tomorrow morning. The tide of true love is sweeping her into the arms of a duke!”

Lady Runcible jumped up from a nearby table, looking as curious as is possible for a woman whose face paint would crack under the influence of a truly powerful emotion. “How charming,” she cried. “I saw the announcement in the
Morning Post
, but I had no idea that the event itself would be so speedily effected.”

“True love cannot be denied,” Layla said. “You know that yourself, Betsy, given your sad experiences. Life is fleeting and one should gather rosebuds—or is it rainbows? At any rate, one should get on the stick before it’s too late.”

“His Grace has many important affairs to attend to in Scotland,” the earl said with chilly precision. “Therefore, he has requested an immediate wedding date.”

“Exactly,” Gowan said, smiling at Lady Runcible. “I cannot wait to bring my beautiful bride to my castle at Craigievar.” He drew Edie a little closer to him.

“I am sure that I speak for all when I wish the two of you a most happy life together,” Lady Runcible pronounced.

“Love sweeps away all barriers,” Layla put in, sounding a bit ragged. She sat down again.

Lady Runcible gave them a toothy smile and trotted off, undoubtedly to inform everyone of the scandalous haste with which the Duke of Kinross was to marry the daughter of the Earl of Gilchrist.

“If I am to marry on the morrow,” Edie said, astonished at how calmly she said the words, “I believe I would like to go home now.”

“You are not marrying on the morrow,” her father said grimly. “Even if I acquiesce to this notion of a special license, the ceremony will take place in a measured and prudent fashion.”

Gowan bowed, looking quite pleased with himself. “I will be delighted to pay you a visit tomorrow afternoon to discuss these arrangements, my lord.”

“In that case, I would prefer to stay here,” Layla said, adjusting the pearl-embroidered band in her hair. “I haven’t even danced, and
naturellement
. . .” The intended point of that thought seemed to elude her, so she merely added, “I refuse to return home at such an unfashionably early hour.”

The last thing Edie wanted to do was remain in her father and stepmother’s company. She threw Gowan a pleading look.

“I would be happy to escort my fiancée to your house,” Gowan told the earl. “You can be assured that I have only the most honorable of intentions.”

Edie’s father’s jaw was clenched, but he managed to speak. “I would be most grateful if you would escort my daughter, Your Grace. My wife and I shall return in due course.”

“Not if Winifred is in the carriage as well,” Layla said with great dignity. “I have standards.”

Edie’s father sat down at the table, an expression of confounded rage on his face. “Will you please do me the courtesy of enlightening me as to the identity of this Winifred?”

“Not until we discuss rabbits,” Layla said, her jaw set as firmly as her husband’s. She pushed away the empty glass and delicately took hold of the stem of her second.

“
Rabbits?
”

“Good evening, Layla, Father,” Edie called, dragging Gowan away without waiting for a response. “I apologize for that scene,” she said, when they were a safe distance away. “I believe their marriage has reached a boiling point.”

“I trust that we can avoid that sort of overwrought emotion,” Gowan said.

Edie laughed. “You’re quoting from my first letter to you!”

“Paraphrasing,” Gowan said. “I’m afraid that I do not remember your exact words.”

“I cannot imagine the two of us in that sort of tangle.”

Gowan began guiding Edie toward the door, the crowd parting before a duke like minnows before a shark. “Do you have a temper?” he asked her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your father looked a trifle irritable.”

“I’ve spent a good part of my life playing peacemaker,” Edie said. “The household couldn’t have survived if I’d begun indulging in fits of temper, too. What about you?”

“Regrettably, I do have a temper.” They reached the entryway and he sent a footman for his carriage. “In fact, your father and I might have more in common than I thought.” He didn’t look entirely pleased at that idea.

“But you appear so composed!” Edie exclaimed. “In fact, I was slightly worried at first that you might never put aside your ducal calm.”

“I think it’s more worrisome that you have never been given free rein to lose your temper.”

Edie laughed. “I did tell Layla that I would knock you over the head with my cello if you took a mistress.”

Gowan gave her a wry grin. “I lose my head and say things that I don’t actually mean. It has taken me twenty-two years to admit it, but I can be a hotheaded dunce.”

“I would rather like to see you in a passion, I think.”

“You will.” His voice stroked her skin like a velvet kiss.

“I didn’t mean that!”

“When I lose my temper, I shout like a madman.”

Edie felt a prickle of unease. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

“It’s not. I’ve had to train my household to bear with me. They never obey me when I speak in a complete rage.”

“What exactly does such a lack of obedience entail?”

Gowan grimaced. “Very occasionally, I throw people out of my household. And then regret it. But I can assure you that this has happened only three or four times since I inherited my title.”

“Should I anticipate being tossed on the doorstep?” Edie didn’t know what to think about that. Her father certainly had a temper, but he’d never threatened to disown or dismiss anyone. He just shot out some angry sentences and disappeared from the house.

The butler appeared, holding her cloak. Gowan took it from him and put it around her shoulders himself. “
Never.
Though I can’t promise not to banish a man who ogles my bride.”

Edie looked up at him, feeling a distinctly female thrill as she met his eyes. Still . . . much though his deep male possessiveness felt delightful, it wouldn’t be so in reality. “Please don’t turn into my father . . . you’ve seen how jealous he is. Though I should add that you’ve just seen my family at its worst. Most of the time we are both sober and sane.”

“Unlike my family, then,” Gowan stated.

Edie waited until they were seated opposite each other in the quiet luxury of his carriage before asking, “You have told me of inebriation, but what of madness?”

There was that glimmer of a smile again. “It takes a mild form. I have three aunts, each of whom is obsessed by her dog. The dogs have birthdays, jeweled leashes, and more coats than I.”

“More
coats
?”

“Velvet for winter; oiled linen for summer. Their own fur is apparently inadequate for weathering Scottish winds. Various other animals periodically join their household. My aunts—the ladies Sarah, Letty, and Doris—are convinced that any animal can be trained like a dog, if only one applies oneself to the task.”

“Any animal? What are they expected to learn? Can a rabbit be trained to bark?”

“A dog is not trained to bark,” Gowan pointed out. “Training, with respect to animals, might be summed up as an ability to answer to a given name, control the bladder, confine any droppings to a chosen arena (
not
the drawing room carpet), and in general respond to commands.”

“I suppose you might train a cat,” Edie said, though she was doubtful. She had never had close contact with animals of any sort. “Though from what I understand, they do not respond readily.”

Gowan shook his head. “Cats lie in the distant past. My aunts have proceeded through several species of bird, a vole, a hedgehog, three squirrels, and a whole family of rabbits. At the moment they are working with pigs. Piglets, actually.”

“They’re training piglets?”

“They prefer to have it be known that they are ‘domesticating’ them.” His tone was so dry that Edie broke into giggles. “When I last paid them a visit, the piglets had learned their names—which are, by the way, Petal, Cherry, and Marigold. By now, I have to assume that the triplets have probably become mothers. Or bacon.” He stretched out his long legs and his boot brushed Edie’s slipper. Even that fleeting touch made her shiver, which was absurd.
Absurd.

“For my part,” she said, collecting herself, “I would think personal hygiene considerably more pressing than names.”

“All three piglets were making excellent progress,” Gowan said gravely. “They were paraded in front of me at dinner, looking quite pink and scrubbed and adorned with matching ribbons. Reportedly, there had been a few regrettable incidents, but far fewer than you might suppose.”

“I shall be quite delighted to meet them,” Edie said, with equal solemnity. And then she laughed again. “Do you know, I’ve never been close to any sort of animal except a horse. I do know how to ride.”

Gowan waved his hand dismissively. “Horses are in the dark ages of the history of domestication.”

“Where did your aunts come up with the idea?”

“Letty posited the notion as a girl, and all three picked up the challenge.” His foot touched Edie’s again. But his face didn’t change. Perhaps his move was inadvertent? It made her toes curl.

“But what makes them think that they will succeed?”

He looked surprised at that. “Why shouldn’t they? If anyone can domesticate a pig, I would put my money on Aunt Sarah, in particular. She had a squirrel eating from her hand last year.”

His certainty made Edie smile. She had grown up knowing that she was a member of the peerage, and as such, had a claim to blue blood and the rest of it. But the truth was that her father only truly cared about music, and so did she. That fact had diluted the effect of upper-class breeding. In Gowan, and presumably his aunts, there had been no dilution. Hundreds of years of self-assurance had been drilled into him with the same rigor as had her musical scales.

His raised eyebrow let it be known that his aunts could certainly train a pig, if a pig was to be trained, and probably even if it wasn’t. “It’s something of a scientific experiment, you understand. Curiosity runs in my family. In the last few generations most of us have been obsessed with one investigation or another. Even my father’s death could be put down to an unfortunate attempt to prove a point.”

“And you?” Edie asked.

Gowan shrugged. “I take some interest in wheat. I am cultivating a new variety at the moment.”

Cultivating wheat was certainly more useful than training piglets, so Eddie made an encouraging sound, and was about to inquire whether the aunts had had any luck with geese—having met a cheerless and aggressive goose in her girlhood—but the carriage had come to a stop. They had arrived at her family’s house in Curzon Street. She was feeling about for her reticule when a rattle of wheels passed them and drew up sharply.

Edie slid over to the window on her side of the carriage and pulled open the curtain. Her father’s carriage had also just drawn up. A liveried groom popped down and opened the door. “My parents have arrived.”

Gowan moved to his window and peered out with as much interest as she. “Presumably your father managed to convince your stepmother that dancing while inebriated is not a good idea.”

“Why aren’t they coming out?” Edie said, after a moment.

“I cannot say with certainty, but I would guess your father is endeavoring to rouse the countess. I expect that drink has rendered her sleepy, if not insensible.” There was a biting undertone to his voice that Edie didn’t like.

She opened her mouth to defend Layla, but at that moment her father emerged from the carriage carrying his wife in his arms. Sky-blue silk rippled behind him as he walked up the front walk toward the open door, Layla’s head lying on his shoulder.

“You’re right; she must have fallen asleep,” Edie said, instead. “I would have thought one had to imbibe something stronger than champagne.”

“It’s not only the quality of the drink, but the quantity. How much did she take?”