Scandal's Daughter (37 page)

Last night she had been too overwhelmed to take in more than a general impression of grandeur—magnificence, rather. This morning she was all too conscious that she had nothing to put in the drawers or the wardrobe. The cheap comb and hairbrush purchased in Plymouth lay on the dressing table beside the silver backed dressing set provided by the house, like donkeys pastured with race-horses.

How could James have left it to the very last minute to reveal his identity? To say there had never been an appropriate moment was an utterly inadequate excuse! She would never forgive him.

He had been as relieved as she was, when they arrived in Arlington Street, to find Lord and Lady Wyvancourt out and expected home very late. Obviously, the longer he could put off presenting her to his aunt and uncle the happier he’d be. Why, oh why, had she not gone straight to Norfolk?

Her gaze fell on the clock on the mantelshelf, a pretty green-and-gold porcelain piece. Past eleven! She started to throw back the bedcovers, hesitated, reached for the bell-pull—and hesitated again. Last night the servants had greeted James with joy, even the supercilious butler cracking a smile. To Cordelia they had been politely hostile, though clearly bursting with curiosity. James’s tale of a shipwreck to explain both her presence and their mutual lack of baggage lessened the hostility somewhat, but a chilly suspicion remained.

So Cordelia was reluctant to ring for a maid. On the other hand, the girl who helped her last night had removed her only clothes to be cleaned. She had no choice.

Half an hour later, clad once more in Lady Emma’s carriage dress, she found her way downstairs. A blank-faced footman in olive-green livery directed her to the breakfast room, where, to her relief, she found only James.

He looked up from a large beefsteak, and rose to his feet, smiling. “Good morning. You look as if you have made up for lost sleep. What would you like to eat?” He gestured at a laden sideboard.

“Oh, tea and toast,” she said distractedly.

“You will starve. Are you still furious with me?”

“What? Oh, no.” Somehow it was impossible to go on being angry. He looked so handsome in a blue morning coat superbly tailored to fit his muscular shoulders without a wrinkle, his pristine white neckcloth contrasting with the sun-bronzed face she knew so well—and had come, much against her will, to love.

“Have some eggs,” he said prosaically, “or some of this beef. There’s nothing like English beef, though perhaps it’s not exactly a conventional breakfast dish for a lady.”

“I’m not hungry. I’m terrified. Are your uncle and aunt about?” Cordelia cast a nervous glance at the door.

“I expect they will be down any minute. Don’t be terrified, m’dear. They don’t bite, upon my oath, nor will they shoot at you, tie you up, blindfold you, arrest you, enslave you, or bury you in a snowdrift.”

She managed a weak smile. “I wish at least I had some decent clothes. James, how long will it take to find out if my father is in London?”

“Shouldn’t take long. I must report to the Foreign Office as soon as I’ve eaten and I’ll make enquiries while I’m out. Then I’ll come back to take you shopping.”

“Thank you, but I’ll take myself while you are out.” Anything rather than be left alone with the marquis and marchioness.

“London’s a big city,” he reminded her. “You will never find... Aunt Maria!” He sprang to his feet as the door opened and Lady Wyvancourt came in.

“My dear boy!” Tearfully, the marchioness held out both hands. James thrust back his chair and strode around the table to enfold her in his arms and kiss both cheeks.

She was a small, fine-boned woman with silver-grey hair under a cap frothing with lace and pink ribbons. Behind her stood a lean, balding gentleman of middling height, in a sober black coat. A great grin split his lined face.

“James, my boy, it’s good to have you home at last!”

James released his aunt and wrung his uncle’s hand. “By Jove, sir, it’s good to be home.”

“I trust you mean to settle down at last. We feared the worst when the
Badger
limped home with a mast missing and reported you lost on the coast of France.”

“She came home, did she?” He laughed. “That’s a tale, though by no means the worst of my travails. But let me present to you the indomitable companion of the latter part of my travels. Aunt Maria, Uncle, this is Miss Courtenay.”

They both stiffened and their expressions changed from rejoicing to resigned dismay. His lordship shot a glance of reproof at his nephew. Cordelia concentrated on performing her best curtsy with all the grace her mother had dinned into her.

“How do you do, Miss Courtenay,” Lady Wyvancourt said coolly. “I trust everything has been done for your comfort.”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” she responded in a colourless voice. “I must beg your pardon for intruding. I shall leave as soon as I can discover my relatives’ whereabouts. Mr. Preston assures me it will not take long.”

“That’s all right, then,” said the marquis with forced heartiness, ushering his wife towards the table. “Now don’t let us keep you from your meal, Miss Courtenay. James, we shall want a round tale of your adventures later, but I’m afraid I am due at the House shortly. The Prime Minister wants my advice before this afternoon’s debate on the American question.”

“And I am bound for St. James’s Palace,” the marchioness put in. “The poor Queen needs all the support and sympathy of her friends at this dreadful time.”

“Dreadful?” said James. “What is going on?”

Over their breakfast, they spoke in hushed voices of the King’s madness, leaving Cordelia to toy with her tea and toast in peace.

The Wyvancourts and James all left at the same time. James turned back at the door to say obscurely, “Oh, by the way, if you do go out, don’t upon any account walk down St. James’s Street. And don’t fret.” With an encouraging smile—which did not encourage Cordelia in the least—he departed.

Rather than sit and brood, Cordelia decided to go shopping by herself. She went up to her chamber for her purse, her diamonds, and Lady Emma’s smart cloak. When she came down, finding a footman on duty in the domed, marble-floored vestibule, she asked him the way to St. James’s Street.

His wooden face twitched. “St. James’s Street, miss? I don’t think... If you’ll excuse me a moment, miss, I’ll just fetch the butler.” Dignity forgotten, he scurried off.

“St. James’s Street, miss?” said the butler austerely, not twitching but looking as if he’d like to. “I fear it is not advisable for a young lady to walk down St. James’s Street.”

“Why?”

He lowered his voice. “The gentlemen’s clubs, miss. I fear not all the gentlemen are gentlemen, if you understand me. There are those who are apt to quiz passers-by from the windows.”

“Oh, I see.” Cordelia bit her lip to hold back a smile. A dreadful hazard! “Well, you need not fear that I shall go there. Mr. Preston warned me not to. But I cannot avoid it if I don’t know where it is.”

“Very true, miss.” Mollified, and struck by this wisdom, he unbent sufficiently to nod. “St. James’s Street is the next street parallel to Arlington Street to the east.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you can direct me to the nearest shops?”

“What do you wish to purchase, miss?” he asked cautiously.

“Gowns, shoes, hats, gloves, everything! But first, I need a jeweller.”

“A jeweller!” he exclaimed, shocked.

Cordelia reminded herself that he was a servant and she a guest. Her affairs were none of his business. “Yes,” she said firmly, “a jeweller.”

Recognizing her change of tone, the butler resumed his proper demeanour. “I believe, miss, you will find everything you require in Bond Street, just across Piccadilly.” He raised a finger and the footman materialized at his elbow. “George will accompany you, miss.”

Cordelia, in turn, recognized that a young lady residing however briefly at Wyvancourt House was not to be allowed out unaccompanied. Bowing to the inevitable, she graciously thanked the butler and went off with George a pace to the rear.

By the time she returned to Arlington Street, several hours later, she was extremely glad to have the footman with her. His arms were full of packages and she carried two he simply could not fit in anywhere. She had even managed to find a modiste with a gown of lemon-yellow muslin sprigged with white, made up for a customer who could not pay for it. Lemon was not really Cordelia’s colour, but the dress fitted quite well, and Lady Emma’s must be returned.

“Is Mr. Preston home yet?” she enquired of the footman who had taken George’s place in the hall.

“Yes, miss. He’s in the library. Down the hall there, second door on the right.”

Setting her two parcels on a side-table beside a bowl of columbines, she gave George a shilling and asked him to take the rest of her purchases up to her chamber. Then she turned towards the library.

She had to tell James that, reluctant to impose upon the Wyvancourts’ hospitality a moment longer than necessary, she had taken a seat on that very evening’s Mail coach to Norwich. She could always cancel it if he had discovered her father to be in London. Torn between hoping he had found out so that she could remove her unwanted presence, and wondering how she could bear to be parted from him, she walked slowly along the hall.

The door was an inch or two ajar. Her hand raised to push it open, she paused, hearing voices within. She did not want to see her host and hostess until she could bid them farewell.

“Happy as we are to see you, dear boy,”—that was the marquis—”I really must protest. I daresay your travels were bound to induce a certain disregard for convention, but to introduce that female into your aunt’s house is the outside of enough.”

“‘That female’ is an innocent young lady, sir, not to mention generous, resolute, intrepid, intelligent, and a host of qualities less easy to classify.” The familiar laugh entered James’s voice. “Independent and argumentative spring to mind.”

“That is as may be, James,” said the marchioness. “The fact is, Miss Courtenay has travelled with you unchaperoned for upwards of six months!”

“And without her I’d have come to grief a dozen times. Wait until you hear the full tale! Without her bravery, quick wit, knowledge of languages, and nursing skills, I doubt I’d have survived, not to mention that she franked my journey. I was practically penniless when I reached Istanbul. I owe her a great deal.”

No more than she owed him, Cordelia thought. When it came to saving each other’s lives and liberty, they were quits. She ought to leave before she heard any more, but she simply could not tear herself away.

Lord Wyvancourt was speaking. “Naturally you will repay every penny Miss Courtenay expended on your behalf.”

“That’s not the point, sir. And if it was, with the best will in the world I doubt we could ever separate my expenses from hers. From Istanbul to London is a long and complicated way.”

“Istanbul is a very odd place to find a young Englishwoman,” said his aunt. “Who is Miss Courtenay, James?”

“Her father is Sir Hamilton Courtenay, ma’am, of Norfolk. A baronet’s daughter is, in the world’s eyes, not a brilliant match for the heir to a marquisate, but by no means ineligible, you must agree.”

“A match!” exclaimed the Wyvancourts in chorus. His lordship went on, “James, you surely cannot propose to wed the chit!”

“As my aunt has pointed out, sir,” James said quietly, “she spent several months with me unchaperoned. Purely as a matter of honour, how can I not marry her?”

“Sir Hamilton Courtenay?” Lady Wyvancourt now sounded not merely shocked but horrified. “I knew the name was familiar. James, she is the daughter of a divorced woman. You cannot possibly marry her!”

“Are we all to be damned for the sins of our fathers, Aunt Maria?”

“I hope I am not so uncharitable, but you must admit there is bad blood there. Though Lady Courtenay went abroad with her lover, over the years the most scandalous stories trickled back to London...”

“Stories about her daughter?”

“No, to be fair, only about the mother, flitting from lover to lover. Courtesan is the polite word for what Drusilla Courtenay became! But the daughter lived with her and that is enough to damn her forever in the eyes of the Polite World. Miss Courtenay is no fit wife for you, or any gentleman. There can be no debt of honour, no duty to protect her reputation, for she has none.”

Numb to the heart, Cordelia crept away.

In the library, James was silent for a long moment. It went against the grain, against both upbringing and instinct, to talk of his emotions, even to these two who had been like mother and father to him.

He held them in deep affection, and had never doubted their affection for him. He knew them to be sincerely fond of each other. But love? What a feeble little word to be thrown into the balance against the weight of propriety and convention, Society and good breeding!

A feeble little word, yet more important to him than life. Without Cordelia, his life would be empty, aimless. What did he care for estates and titles if she was not beside him to share them?

He stood up and went to the window. In the walled garden, the earliest roses were only just in bud. He remembered her at Arventino, surrounded by roses and children, smiling at him, making his heart turn over in his chest—the moment he knew he must have her for his wife.

“I love her,” he said softly, half to himself. He turned and spoke aloud, in a tone of quiet reason. “I have explained badly. You see, it’s not a question of a debt of honour, nor a debt of money or even of my life. I love her.”

“Love!” The marquis seemed more bewildered than contemptuous or disapproving. “But Miss Courtenay is not even beautiful. If she were a diamond of the first water, the Haut Monde might be persuaded to make allowances.”

“You will never be happy with a wife who is ostracized,” his aunt pointed out gently, “and nor will she.”

“Come now, Aunt Maria, do you really believe that a future Marchioness of Wyvancourt, presented to the Ton by the present Lord and Lady Wyvancourt, is in the least likely to be ostracized?”

“James, you cannot expect me to lend countenance to the daughter of Courtesan Courtenay!”