Simply Scandalous (13 page)

The green, rolling farm country of Hertfordshire
presented itself to the eye as they left Middlesex. It was
a blazingly glorious day in early March. "Good English
country," Swale remarked, looking around him approvingly. "Not too grand, not too pretty. Just what I
like! The breadbasket of England!"

"Yes, my lord," Bowditch said expansively.

A scant two hours later, they came upon the sleepy,
almost indolent village of Tanglewood Green. Of the
three inns on the High Street, Geoffrey chose the
Tudor Rose, a thatched box of the Elizabethan type,
with black beams holding up its white plaster walls.
A quiet, unassuming place, he thought, decked with
ivy as old as England itself, and its back door was not
twenty yards from the banks of a sparkling brook.

The landlord recognized the quality of his lordship's perfectly matched grays and set down the driver
of the curricle, a burly, red-haired giant, as a man of
wealth, though perhaps not a gentleman. Mr. Sprigge
was never more surprised in his life than when he
heard the manservant utter the words, "Very good, my
lord," but he was not so shocked that he could not act.
The best of food and drink was offered, and the private parlor was at his lordship's disposal, but nothing
would please Swale more than to sit down in the
common room and enjoy a tankard of Mr. Sprigge's
ale and a slice of Mrs. Sprigge's rabbit pie.

The arrival of such greatness cast a pall over the
usual good-natured liveliness of Mr. Sprigge's rustic customers. Who is this Lord Swale? they all asked themselves. What does he want with Tanglewood Green? Uneasy
looks were exchanged, but no one spoke. Even Mr.
Sprigge, whose lively tongue and easy manners made
him well-suited to his duties as a host, fell silent,
though he could not help but approve of his lordship's appetite. Swale himself seemed to desire more
food and drink and less conversation.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a grizzled man in
gaiters and breeches strode in. Over one arm was a
broken rifle, and as he took what anyone could see
was his customary seat near the fire, he dropped to
the floor a handsome collection of dead rabbits tied
with string. He took no notice of the illustrious Lord
Swale, and therefore, his tongue was not shy. "I seen
the Captain and Miss Julie riding together as far as the
Manor," he announced with the air of one describing
a particularly risky maneuver on a battlefield. "It
would have been better for us all if old Mrs. Cary had
left the estate to the Captain in the first place, as
much interest as he takes in the place."

This intelligence meant nothing to Swale, but he
welcomed the rabbits.

Mr. Sprigge, seeing that his lordship showed no
signs of disapproval, ventured to speak. "Will they
marry, do you suppose, Mr. Teal?"

The grizzled hunter drained his tankard. "Will
they marry?" he repeated. "And why wouldn't they?
His fortune he made fighting old Boney. Rich as you
can speak, Mr. Sprigge!"

"I heard," said another man, emboldened by the effusions of Mr. Teal and Mr. Sprigge, "that Captain Cary
went down to London to ask his cousin Mr. Wayborn
if he would sell him the place."

Swale glanced up at the mention of the Wayborn
name.

"Aye, and well he might," said Mr. Teal, "for he's
rich enough, begad, to buy Tanglewood Manor five
times over if he likes! Mr. Wayborn has let the place
fall to rack and ruin. I'd not pay a farthing above a
thousand pounds for it myself."

This last statement amused Mr. Sprigge. "You would
not pay more than a thousand pounds, Mr. Teal?
And where would you get a thousand pounds? You're
only the gamekeeper!"

Mr. Teal flushed a dark red, and Swale was afraid
he might storm out, taking his rabbits with him. This
must not be allowed, of course; Mrs. Sprigge would
need the rabbits for her pies. The situation called for
prompt action.

"Is the Manor for sale, Mr. Sprigge?" he inquired.

Mr. Sprigge and Mr. Teal forgot one another and
looked at him. Mr. Teal had not seen his lordship's
spectacular grays and had no reason to think he was
observing anything but an ordinary traveler with objectionable red hair.

"Is the place comfortable?" Swale asked, looking
back at them innocently. "I have no objection to a
comfortable place at this easy distance to London."
While Swale did not often concern himself with the
opinions of simple folk, he realized that his position
might become awkward if the inhabitants of Tanglewood Green formed the impression he was up to no
good vis-a-vis Miss Wayborn. Country bumpkins were
prone to insanity, he knew; they might take it into
their heads to form a mob and lynch him. House
hunting seemed as good an excuse as any for skulking in the neighborhood. "In fact," he added, "I am traveling through Hertfordshire in search of just
such a property."

"And who might you be?" demanded Mr. Teal,
eyeing him with dislike.

"Be quiet, you old fool," Mr. Sprigge said roughly.
"That is my Lord Swale from London. Don't you mind
him, milord. He's only Squire Mickleby's gamekeeper."

"I collect it must be Mr. Cary Wayborn who owns
the place-the Manor?"

Mr. Teal seemed embarrassed.

"Oh, is your lordship acquainted with Mr. Wayborn?" Mr. Sprigge asked nervously. "I daresay Mr.
Teal did not mean to imply any disrespect for Mr.
Wayborn-"

"Yes, I'm a little acquainted with the family," Swale
replied with an ironic smile. "You say ... did I hear
you say that Miss Wayborn is in the neighborhood?
How odd. I thought she was in London. Visiting her
cousins, I suppose? The Reverend Dr. Cary?"

"Yes, milord," said Mr. Sprigge, impressed by the
stranger's knowledge.

"And this Captain of hers with whom she rides
and whom she may or may not marry, that would be
Captain ...

"Her cousin Captain Horatio Cary, milord. The
Vicar's son and a fine young gentleman. He's to be
knighted, they say."

Swale frowned. He had not expected to find a
rival on the scene, much less a Naval officer with a
sizable fortune. But what, he reasoned, would a man
like that want with the Wayborn? He suspected that
the villagers were merely exaggerating for their own
amusement the relationship between the cousins. "I
expect I must pay my respects to this young lady," he told Mr. Sprigge. "Would you be good enough to
direct me to the Vicarage?"

Mrs. Cary, who was meeting with her housekeeper,
turned white as a sheet when the Marquess's card was
brought to her. Men of rank did not often come to
visit her husband, and she knew she was not equal to
the encounter. Indeed, Dr. Cary had often blamed her
timidity for the fact that despite his own merits, no
bishopric had been thrown his way. In a state almost
of terror, she attended his lordship in the small drawing room where her husband displayed the better part
of his porcelain collection in several cabinets that were
much too large for the cramped space.

When she had left her little drawing room the night
before, she had not noticed the superfluity of ribbons, feathers, paper flowers, and balls of yarn scattered about, but as the nobleman stood looking about
him like a Viking invader, she could see nothing else.

How could Cynthia and Juliet leave the place so
untidy? she fretted silently.

To her dismay, the information that Dr. Gary was not
home failed to repel the large, angry-looking man with
bristling red hair. "I have come to see Miss Wayborn,"
he announced, declining the seat she offered.

`Juliet?" she repeated blankly. "Your lordship has
come to see Juliet?"

"I have something very particular I wish to say to
her," he explained.

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Cary, coloring up like a schoolgirl.
It had been more than thirty years since Dr. Cary had
had something particular to say to her, but she had not
forgotten the fateful words that had changed her life
forever. It seemed to her she had been mistaken in thinking his lordship an angry man. Rather, he was a
man in the grips of the divine passion. Her fear of him
gave way almost to pity. It must be difficult for such a
proud, disagreeable man to admit that his heart was
no longer his own, she thought sympathetically.

"I'm very sorry, my lord. Miss Wayborn is not at
home. She has walked to the church with her cousin."

"Captain Cary, I collect? She walks alone with him,
does she?"

Mrs. Cary detected definite signs of a passionate jealousy and hastened to correct his lordship. "No, my
lord. She is with my daughter. As for my son, they are
second cousins, nothing more. They have known one
another their whole lives. Why, they are like brother
and sister, so your lordship must not be discouraged."

Swale grunted, pleased.

"They will be returning very soon," said Mrs. Cary.
"Or .... shall I send Mary to fetch them back, my
lord? I know Miss Wayborn would not wish to inconvenience your lordship."

Heaven knows, she thought, if he does not propose
now, he might lose his courage, go away, and never
come again!

"Mary!" she cried. "Go and fetch Miss Juliet at
once. She has an important visitor!"

Twenty minutes later, a nymph-like young lady
with soft blue eyes and golden ringlets was performing a curtsey in the little drawing room. Swale stared
at her in amazement.

He had not, of course, expected to find a dustcaked Miss Wayborn still dressed in a man's purple
greatcoat and a man's purple tricorn hat, but a gauzy
concoction of sprig muslin seemed rather outside the
range of possible alternatives. As for the adorable
heart-shaped face, the milk-and-roses skin, and the golden ringlets-he could only stare at the vision in
disbelief. He had supposed Miss Juliet Wayborn to be
something drawn along the lines of Michelangelo's
Sistine Sibyls, brawny and mannish, perhaps with a
budding mustache and the sinews of a prizefighterin short, the type of female likely to be surprised by
and grateful for any sort of masculine attention. Instead, she was the belle of the county!

"My daughter, Miss Cynthia Cary," said Mrs. Cary,
and Swale nearly laughed. Of course this angelic
creature with the speaking blue eyes was not the
loathsome Wayborn!

"Miss Gary," he said, giving her a sketch of a bow.

A second young female entered the room, and
again in defiance of his preconceived notions, she was
no musclebound amazon. This must be Miss Wayborn, he decided glumly. While it was true she lacked
her cousin's soft, vulnerable beauty, her clear-cut patrician features and flawless complexion were undeniable. The feminine version of the Wayborn nose was
straight; thin; and, without calling too much attention
to itself, wonderfully precise. He could readily understand his father's desire to add it to the Ambler profile. Unfortunately her wide-set eyes were as gray,
cold, and inhospitable as the frozen steppes of Russia.
She seemed to have few pretensions to fashion, but her
dark brown hair was curled over her ears and knotted
at the nape of her neck in the Grecian style. Dressed
quietly and simply in a dark blue dress trimmed in
black ribbons, she appeared anything but grateful to
find herself the object of his attentions. At the sight
of this imposing female, all thoughts of making her
fall in love with him vanished in a puff of smoke.

He recognized the type: a Parthenon goddess of the cruel variety. He'd have better luck with the exquisite
Miss Cary-she at least could be made to pity him.

"Come, Cynthia," Mrs. Cary said, bubbling with
girlish excitement. "His lordship has something particular to say to your cousin!"

Cynthia protested against leaving her cousin alone
with the infamous Swale, but Mrs. Gary prevailed, closing the door behind them.

Juliet regarded her visitor with the coldness he deserved. He was larger than she had realized; at least,
he seemed larger in the small drawing room, with
shoulders fully as wide as the bow window. She had
only gotten a fleeting look at him on the day of the
race, but a closer scrutiny did nothing to improve
his looks. His nose was too short, his mouth too wide,
his chin too square. And that hair! A shade of red more
often seen in nightmares than in nature, and he would
wear it long, hanging in his eyes, tangled in his collar,
and polluting the sides of his face with the most revolting sideburns she had ever seen. His eyes, however,
were an interesting grayish green, and they were fixed
on her with an intensity that a less spirited girl might
have found disconcerting.

'Well, Swale? Have you come to break my arm?" she
asked rudely.

The nettlerash sprang instantly to his cheeks, and
he was heartily sorry she was not a man. "Cheat! " he
growled at her, his teeth gritted.

This unseemly display of emotion seemed to amuse
her. She sat down calmly upon the settee and rather
languidly began winding some loose yarn into a ball.
"I beg your pardon, Swale? I did not quite catch your
remarks?"

"You know damn well you won that bloody race by cheating! That was a mean trick you served me, and
you are a damned, unnatural female freak besides! "

She smiled, observing his massive fists opening
and closing. How difficult it must be for him to use words
instead of those enormous fists of his! she thought contemptuously. "In what way have I cheated?" she inquired pleasantly. "Besides by taking my brother's
place, I mean."

"Well, what the devil do you call coming to a full
stop just as I was about to pass you?"

"You, Swale?" she said mockingly. "About to pass me?
I'm afraid I don't recall that. In any case, is it against
the rules to come to a full stop?"

He glared at her, seething with anger, but no cutting rejoinder occurred to him immediately. It was
not, strictly speaking, illegal to come to a full stop
during a race, but it was damned irregular. "Damned
irregular, that's what it was! "

With perfect composure, she completed one ball of
yarn, placed it into a basket, and reached for another
that had come unraveled. "Well, Swale?" she said
presently. "You told Mrs. Cary you had something to
say to me. If you have finished saying it, I wish you would
go. I am excessively busy at the moment, as you see. It
is of the utmost importance that I wind this yarn."