The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella (3 page)

“Some men know horseflesh, others numbers, and Lochley knows his wine.”

Lochley scowled at Bertie. It had long annoyed him that his one talent was not only one he had done nothing to develop but one that led to the innumerable and inevitable jokes about drunkenness. In fact, Lochley was rarely, if ever, drunk. And when he did seek that particular oblivion, he chose a decent brandy or a godawful gin, never a wine. He’d not waste a good wine on debauchery, and he couldn’t stand to drink a bad one.

“How interesting!” Mrs. Clotworthy said. “You do know there are several vineyards in the region around Hemshawe? I am told Hemshawe is second only to Wrotham in wine production.”

“I have heard something of it,” he answered. Wine-making was not new to England. The Romans had introduced it when they’d conquered the island. It had declined in the intervening years, but the wealthy often maintained greenhouses and grew grapes under the heated glass. Lochley had tasted any number of gentleman’s amateur efforts at dinner parties and was of the opinion the English were quite right to smuggle French wines into the country, even during the Peninsular War.

Miss Gage jumped to her feet, quite startling her companion. Lochley took an involuntary step back. He didn’t like the fervent look in Miss Gage’s eyes.

“But this is wonderful, Mr. Lochley.”

He forced himself to stand his ground, although the fire in her hazel eyes concerned him. “Why is that?”

“Because of the Hemshawe Fair! Ever since Belinda Leonard married Adam Sturridge and went north to Scotland—”

“Adam doesn’t actually live in Scotland,” Bertie interrupted.

Miss Gage waved a hand. “—we’ve been at our wit’s end. The fair is rapidly approaching, and one of the most anticipated events of the fair is the wine-tasting.”

“Oh, dear me, yes,” Mrs. Clotworthy added. “Lady Sturridge remarked just last week that the tasting would not be possible this year without a suitable judge.”

“Why not use the judge from previous years?” Bertie asked.

“Because Mr. Greenleaf was the judge in previous years,” Miss Gage said, as though the name itself was explanation enough.

Lochley tossed Bertie a helpless look. “Who is Mr. Greenleaf?” he asked.

“He was quite the expert on pinot noirs—that is the wine made in Kent,” Miss Gage informed him. Fortunately, the fervent look in her eyes had waned. “But over the winter he contracted an ague that impaired his ability not only to smell but to taste.”

“I see. I assume now that June is all but at an end, he has recovered.”

“That is just it, Mr. Lochley.” Mrs. Clotworthy climbed to her feet, and Lochley felt as though he faced half the force of Napoleon. “The ague passed, but Mr. Greenleaf’s senses never recovered. To this day, if his eyes are closed, he cannot differentiate an apple from an onion or an orange from a carrot.”

“But surely the texture—”

She waved a hand, dismissing his objection. “Lady Sturridge saw the man bite into a lime and eat the fruit without even so much as a grimace. His palate is quite destroyed.”

“That is indeed a tragedy, but I fail to see—”

“Mr. Lochley, do not be obtuse,” Miss Gage said.

Lochley exerted a valiant effort not to point out that when it came to rumors of young ladies disappearing to mysterious distant cousins for extended periods of time, he was not the one who was obtuse.

“We will put your name forth as a judging candidate. Oh, I cannot wait to inform Lady Sturridge we have saved the Hemshawe Fair!” After this pronouncement, Miss Gage linked arms with Mrs. Clotworthy, and the two ladies glided from the room as though the question were quite decided.

Lochley fell back into a chair and glowered up at Gage. “They didn’t even ask me.”

“You were doomed from the first mention of
wine
.”

“Your mention of wine.”

Gage swallowed the last of his port. “The truth would have come out at any rate.”

“I don’t suppose I can refuse. English wine.” He shuddered visibly for Gage’s benefit.

“You’d hardly be a gentleman if you refused to save the Hemshawe Fair.”

“I’m hardly the most chivalrous of gentlemen on my best days.” Today was certainly not one of his best days. The recent weeks in Town had not been among his best either.

“I believe you came to the country to”—Gage cleared his throat—“turn over a new leaf—shall we say a grape leaf.”

Lochley groaned.

“Here is your chance, and you must admit, an afternoon tasting wine is no real hardship.”

He’d certainly endured worse, and perhaps Miss Martin would attend the fair, though why he should care if Miss Martin, or any other country miss, attended the fair was beyond him. He didn’t care for the country or the young ladies who populated it. He need only endure until his exile from Town ended. Miss Martin would only be an unwelcome complication, and from the sound of it, her reputation would heap more scandal upon him. That was certainly an outcome to be avoided.

She was to be avoided.

After he hosted her at dinner. And, no, he was not counting down the hours.

***

C
aro did not want to go to dinner. Amazingly enough, the formal invitation from Mr. and Miss Gage had arrived yesterday morning, sending the entire house into an uproar. Gowns must be retrimmed with new lace or ribbon, gloves must be cleaned, slippers must be examined.

While Matthew and her father had looked on in bemusement, Caro’s mother had fluttered hither and thither, all aglow with excitement. Caro couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so pleased or looking so pretty.

She would have been thrilled to see her mother thus if not for the fact that it resulted from an invitation to dine. She tried suggesting she cry off because of the sudden onset of a megrim, but her mother would not hear of it. This was Caro’s chance to return to society. First the Gages, next the Greenleafs, and then Lord and Lady Sturridge. Caro rather doubted it, but she could not be so heartless as to disappoint her mother.

And so on the appointed day, with Fanny’s help, she’d donned her best dress and allowed her hair to be curled and pinned until it barely resembled its usual straight, wispy style. Caro sat at her dressing table and stared in her tarnished mirror. Her eyes were wide and so blue they looked like bruises in her pale, drawn face. She pinched her cheeks so she did not look quite so pale with anxiety. Caro sincerely hoped Miss Gage knew nothing of her reputation. As that was quite impossible, she hoped Miss Gage was not the sort to make veiled remarks all evening that would shame her and embarrass her mother and father and anger her brother. She had endured situations like that one too many times and had no desire to ever do so again.

Which was why she should not have agreed to this dinner! She should have pleaded a megrim no matter her mother’s objection.

“Caro!” her mother called from the bottom of the stairs.

The sound was like the clock striking the appointed hour on the day of her execution. That dashed Lochley and his dashed curricle. She jumped up and stomped out of her room, cursing the rainy weather, the roads, and even herself. Why had she agreed to walk into town that morning? She should have allowed her mother to send Fanny.

She tempered her step before descending the stairs rather than face a scolding from her mother for sounding like the Royal Ascot. At the bottom of the stairs, her family turned to gaze at her, which sent a hot flush into her cheeks. She didn’t know why as she’d been gawked at and inspected on many occasions. Perhaps it was because this time she cared about the verdict.

Her mother, who looked lovely in a russet gown that showed off hair a few shades darker auburn than Caro’s, smiled and nodded encouragement. Her father, dressed in breeches, coat, and cravat, gave her a stiff nod. His white hair had been slicked back from his high forehead, emphasizing his long thin nose and high cheekbones. Matthew had the same cheekbones and forehead, but his hair was a ruddy brown. He wore the same dress clothing as his father and looked even more uncomfortable. He was much more at home in his stained trousers and patched coat.

“That’s something I haven’t seen in a while,” Matthew said, nodding at her hair.

Caro touched a hand to it, hoping the curls hadn’t begun to go limp already.

“You have a ribbon in your hair.” He pointed to it, his hand coming near enough to her coiffure that she shied away, afraid he would muss it. He loved nothing better than to ruffle her hair on Sunday morning so she had to repin it. Inevitably, by the time she’d finished, it would be time to depart, and she’d have no breakfast.

“You look very pretty,” her mother said. “The blue of the ribbon perfectly matches the dress. Doesn’t she look pretty, Matthew?”

He grunted.

“The carriage waits,” her father said. “I don’t like to keep the horses standing.” He opened the door, and she and her mother walked arm in arm.

“Are you certain this ribbon doesn’t make me look too young?”

“You are young,” her mother said. “Miss Gage is undoubtedly younger.”

“But will she be festooned with ribbons?”

“Stop fretting,” her mother said, and climbed into the carriage. Caro climbed in after her, wishing she’d told Fanny to leave the ribbon. She wasn’t sixteen any longer. She was twenty and too old for ribbons.

And even if she hadn’t been twenty, she was no longer the sweet, innocent girl who wore ribbons and curls in her hair. She clenched her hands in her lap and stared out the window as her family made stilted conversation on the road to the Friar’s House. All too soon they’d arrived at the strangely beautiful building. She’d always admired the Friar’s House. She loved how the owners had retained the ancient architecture and incorporated the new. The old stone made her think of knights and fair ladies, valiant kings and princes battling dragons. A footman with a French accent helped her down from the coach, and a butler—also with a French accent—showed them into the drawing room. Strange. She had not known Hemshawe had such a large population of French émigrés.

She knew she ought to pay attention to the furnishings, for her mother would surely wish to discuss it all later, but it took all Caro’s concentration to put one foot in front of the other.

Finally, the drawing room doors opened. She had the impression of gold and porcelain before they were greeted by a dark-haired man with brown eyes. She judged him to be about five and thirty. “Welcome to the Friar’s House. Mr. and Mrs. Martin, how good of you to come. And Mr. Matthew Martin, I do believe we have met before.”

“We have, Mr. Gage. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Mr. Gage,” her father said, stepping forward. “Might I present my daughter, Miss Caroline Martin.”

He bowed quite formally, and she almost forgot to curtsey. Her eyes swept the room, noting the other people. A thin young lady with light brown hair and pretty eyes smiled at her. A plump woman of perhaps fifty with knitting needles in her hand eyed her suspiciously. Mr. Lochley, the source of all this to-do, was nowhere to be seen.

“How good to meet you, Miss Martin,” he said without any trace of innuendo. He smiled genuinely, and she almost believed he was glad to meet her.

He turned to the two women standing beside a pretty chintz couch. “May I have the pleasure of introducing my sister, Miss Georgette Gage. And this is her companion, Mrs. Clotworthy.”

Both ladies bowed, and Miss Gage smiled broadly. She had a very pleasant smile, and Caro liked her immediately.

“Please sit, Mrs. Martin. Miss Martin,” Miss Gage said, indicating the rose arm chair beside the couch. “May I offer you refreshment?”

Caro and her mother accepted the chairs and the refreshment, and then they sat and looked at Miss Gage, who looked back at them. More than anything, Caro wanted to ask after Mr. Lochley, but she dared not appear too interested in the man. In any man.

“You are from London?” her mother asked easily.

“We are, but Bertie has lent the house for the year.”

“And how are you liking Hemshawe?” her mother inquired.

“Oh, I simply adore it,” Miss Gage said. “Everyone is so welcoming and kind.”

Caro stifled a snort.

“And the country air is so very refreshing. I wake every morning feeling more hale and hearty than the morning before.”

Her companion cleared her throat. “Miss Gage was quite ill recently. Her brother and I thought the country air and the spa might restore her.”

“And I am quite restored,” she said, her lips in a tight smile. Obviously, she didn’t enjoy being coddled.

“And what about you, Mrs. Martin?” Miss Gage asked. “Are you from Hemshawe?”

Her mother went on to explain she was from a nearby village, which led to a discussion of how she met Caroline’s father. Caro allowed her gaze to roam about the room. Her father and brother were nodding and gesturing, obviously in deep discussion with Mr. Gage. But where was Mr. Lochley? Had he left Kent already, or had he declined to dine with her? What sort of man issued an invitation to dine and then did not attend?

“And how do you find Hemshawe, Miss Martin?” Miss Gage asked. Caro’s head jerked up at the question.

“Do you enjoy the country, or do you long to run away to Town?”

“No!” Caro said far too abruptly.

Her mother gave her a stern glance.

“What I mean to say is, I have no interest in London or any of the cities. I prefer the country.”

“But what about—” Miss Gage began.

“Mister Monsieur Peregrine Lochley,” the butler with the French accent said from the doors.

Like everyone else in the room, Caro stared at the man in the doorway. She wondered if the sight of Lochley took anyone else’s breath away. He was even more handsome than she remembered. He still had the tousled hair and the scruff of shadow upon his jaw, but he wore tailored evening clothes. In contrast to the other men’s colorful coats and waistcoats, his coat was black as onyx, and the remainder of his attire was as white as winter’s first snow.

His gaze traveled directly to her, and he flashed her a smile. Caro almost smiled back, but she could feel her father’s gaze upon her, so she lowered her eyes to her lap instead.