It Started with a Scandal (9 page)

Forever, probably.

She knew again the delicious little frisson of fear that came with walking the edge of something she knew better than to cross. She had forgotten what this was like. How a man could heighten every moment, remind you of the
point
of possessing sight and smell, let alone skin and nerve endings and a heart. That a man could so easily make your heart sing like a bloody lark or plummet like a stone.

This
man could probably seduce by crooking a finger.

He was a prince.

She was a housekeeper.

It meant nothing, of course.

That little lift became a plummet, just like that.

“How did you find the taste of the willow bark tea, Lord Lavay?”

“Vile. But then, I’ve eaten weevils baked into biscuits on board ship, so ‘vile’ is a matter of perspective.”

“I feel compelled to point out you’ve left no room in the budget for weevils.”

“A shame. They taste a bit like mustard.”

She laughed.

He blinked, as if she’d flicked something sparkly into his eyes, and again that faintly troubled expression flickered over his face. He turned away abruptly, took a restless step or two away.

“I’d hoped you would be willing to help me respond to some of these letters. Since my injury, writing is something of a painful exercise”—he held up his hand—“and some matters cannot go unaddressed forever. Some are, in fact, quite urgent.”

“I’d be happy to help, of course.”

“You may write in English, if that will go more swiftly. My correspondents will be able to read it perfectly well.”

He pulled out the familiar brown chair with his left hand and gestured to it with a tilt of his head and an arch of his eyebrows. She settled in with a sigh.

Ah, brown chair, my old friend, we meet again.

The foolscap, quill, ink, and sand were already waiting for her.

He turned toward the window again, apparently the source of all his inspiration and reverie.

Chapter 9

“D
EAR GRAND-
PÈRE
,” HE BEGAN.

He shot her a look over his shoulder to see that she was writing.

“Dear grand-père,”
she repeated dutifully.

“I hope this letter finds you still in robust health. I remain amazed at how quickly news can travel and through what channels. My deepest apologies for the delay in responding. I am so sorry to worry you, and thank you for your concern. I fear there is some truth in what you’ve heard—”

“Mrs. Fountain, are you keeping up?” he demanded.

“. . . truth
. . . in . . . what . . . you’ve . . . heard . . .”
she confirmed.

“—
but I am alive and well enough in a town called Pennyroyal Green, in Sussex, brought here by my dear friend the Earl of Ardmay, whom you have met. You called him “a genial ruffian,” as I recall. I will return to Paris as soon as I am able to travel comfortably. If you have noticed a difference in my handwriting, it is because I am dictating this letter to my assistant.”

She scribbled away diligently and availed herself of more ink.

One curl escaped its pin and hovered about her eyebrow.

He didn’t tell her.

He did pause to peer over her shoulder. Such beautiful copperplate handwriting made distinctive by impatient, bold, darker upward strokes, emphatic tall spikes on some letters and voluptuous loops on the others.

When he breathed in, he discovered Mrs. Fountain used a subtle floral soap, the scent of which was clearly set free by the heat from the stove in the kitchen and her dash up the stairs and perhaps that intriguing blush earlier.

He saw his own shadow cast over the foolscap.

She’d gone very still while he hovered.

“Everything is spelled correctly.” Her voice was a bit thready. “If that is your concern.”

How long had it been since he’d been this close to a woman? Too long, clearly, which would explain the almost violent surge of sensual pleasure and the impulse to touch his tongue to that pale spot between her collar and nape. He knew from experience that spot was an excellent place to start a seduction.

He took two steps back. His head swam a little, as if he’d momentarily stepped into and then out of an opium den.

“Please read what you’ve written back to me,” he said shortly.

She did, quickly, the way she did everything.

He raised an impressed eyebrow. “This might work after all. All right, then . . .”

He took a deep breath. His grandfather would want to know it all.

“It was the dark of the moon, and there were six of them, grand-père. They appeared out of the night near the Horsleydown Stairs on the Thames. I was in London at the behest of the king, who’
d assigned me the work. I suspect their motive was to stop me from doing what I had been paid to do, which was to stop them from doing what they wanted to do.
I know I drew blood more than once—I could feel my blade sink into one mongrel’s cursed gut, and God willing he crawled off somewhere to die while I
—” “Mrs. Fountain, why are you not writing?”

She was absolutely frozen. Her face was nearly as white as the feather on the quill, and she was staring at him with abject horror.

“Mrs. Fountain?” he said impatiently.

“S-six of them?”

“Yes. My grandfather enjoys stories of
action
and
valor
.” He gave these words an ironic flair.

She brightened. “Oh! So there weren’t really six of them?”

“No. As I said, there were six of them,” he said slowly, as if she was a slow child. “Please pay attention, Mrs. Fountain.”

She opened her mouth a little. A tiny dry sound emerged.

And then she got the words out.

“But . . . you’re still alive.”

He smiled very faintly. “I’m beginning to think my gravestone should read, ‘This time there were seven of them.’ ”

She stared at him as if he’d just attacked
her
.

“That was meant to be amusing, Mrs. Fountain. You may laugh.”

Her mouth curved in an unconvincing and wholly dutiful way. “But . . . how did you know there were six? If it was the dark of the moon?
Was
it the dark of the moon?”

“You may assume everything I tell you to write is true.”

In truth, Philippe didn’t know how he’d been able to count. But he was certain there had been six. His vision became almost faceted, more precise, when he was in combat. He remembered all of it. A flash of every face, the wink of blades, the grunts of blows taken and given, the stench of unwashed men, the moment he’d realized he’d taken a blow that could very well prove mortal. That should have been mortal. If any of those men had been half as skilled as he with a sword, he would have been dead.

And if a certain Redmond hadn’t appeared out of the night like a hallucination surrounded by his own deadly men, Lavay would have died like a dog on the Horsleydown Stairs.

“When I’m in combat, sometimes my vision seems . . . more acute. I know there were six of them as surely as I know the sun will rise tomorrow, and that you will ask me another question when I prefer to remain unbothered, and as surely as I know that you will not produce midnight blue livery for the footmen before the month is out.”

He’d said it to get her spine straight and the color back into her cheeks, and it worked almost instantly.

“ ‘When you’re in combat,’ ” she repeated ironically. She was, in fact, still studying him, as if to ascertain he wasn’t a ghost. “You say that the way I might say, ‘when I do the weekly shopping.’ ”

But her eyes were troubled. It was strangely a relief to be looked at the way she was looking at him. As if for a blessed moment his entire spirit had stretched out on a feather mattress, and he hadn’t known until then just how weary he’d been. He supposed his existence had become rather tenuous and deadly, and yet somehow, for all of that, mundane.

“Will the subject matter prove too much of a challenge for your delicate sensibilities, Mrs. Fountain?” he said abruptly, shortly. “Mind you, this is for the entertainment of my grandfather, who is nearly seventy years old, and he’s always had a bit of a bloodthirsty streak.”

“Please do continue,” she said quickly. “My sensibilities are as cast iron.”

He doubted this greatly, but he blew out a breath and gathered his thoughts.

“But as you know, grand-père, when a Lavay is given a fighting chance against his enemies and not slaughtered like a pig in a cowardly and unjust way, a Lavay will always prevail.”

He could hear the steely clang in his own voice, as if he was telling it directly to his grandfather, who did indeed love tales of valor.

“Slaughtered . . .
like . . . a . . . pig . . .”
Mrs. Fountain repeated tautly, scribbling away.

“Thank you for news of Les Pierres d’Argent. I, too, think of it often. It was so much a part of my boyhood, and so much a part of who I became, that the loss of it is as another . . .”
He paused to clear his throat.
“. . . another
death. I often wake from dreaming of it with a smile on my face. But it is a death I, as you say, hope to resurrect.”

“. . . another . . . death. . . .”

“A fever took me as I recovered from my injuries, and I saw Father, as he was the day before he was taken away, so proud and defiant and bold. It gave me courage, and I knew I must live for his sake, and for the sake of maman and Marie-Helene, and for . . .”

“Mrs. Fountain,” he said sharply.

She had gone still again.

She cleared her throat, but she didn’t lift her face. “I’m sorry, Lord Lavay. Will you kindly repeat the last sentence?”

“. . . It gave me courage, and I knew I must live for his sake, and for the sake of maman and Marie-Helene, and for you, so that no one we have loved will have died in vain.”

“. . . died . . . in . . . vain . . .”
she repeated softly.

He paused. It was always difficult to write to his grandfather, because so much had transpired, and there was no way ever to say enough. He could only hope he knew his grandson well enough.

“I kiss you on both cheeks, grand-père, and send much love.
Please do not worry about your rent, for I will arrange for funds to be made available to you as soon as possible. One day our home will be restored to us. It has been too long, but we will be reunited in this lifetime soon.”

He stopped speaking.

She stopped writing.

A hush of a sort fell, as though he’d uttered an incantation that had turned them into statues. Philippe stared out the Sussex window and saw a weathered and leaning wooden pasture fence in the distance. If he squinted, he could imagine it was the long, low wall surrounding the garden of his childhood home, Les Pierres d’Argent. The silver stones.

It had been seized by the rabble during the revolution, part of the momentum of bloodlust against the Bourbons and anyone related to them. They might as well have ripped off his arm. His family members, the ones not captured and executed for the grave crime of simply being of an old and wealthy family who had perhaps enjoyed too much power in France, had been forced to scatter like insects with the few possessions they could carry or smuggle out of France. And only now were they trickling back home. Some would never return.

“I will sign it,” he said crisply.

He swiveled toward Mrs. Fountain abruptly, just in time to watch a fascinating expression flee from her face.

She gave a start and imitated his briskness.

“Very well. Would you like me to post it, or to send a footman into town to post it?”

“Perhaps I should read it again to see if there is something else I wish to have said. I can manage the word ‘Philippe’ without disgracing myself, no doubt. Shall we continue?”

“As you wish.”

She smoothed another sheet of foolscap before her.

Another curl had gotten away. She noticed this one and swiped at it, tucking it behind an ear.

“Les Pierres d’Argent was your home?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Please listen, Mrs. Fountain.”

“Dear Monsieur LeGrande,

I apologize for the delay in responding to you regarding the sale of Les Pierres d’Argent. While the irony of needing to purchase the home taken from my family does not escape me, and doubtless you recognize it as well, I understand why you are compelled to offer it for sale. It is kind of you to inform me that you have received a very attractive offer for it, and I thank you. I . . .”

He stopped abruptly here, as if the next word was about to hurt
.
He cleared his throat.

“. . . humbly . . .”

He said nothing for quite some time.

“. . . humbly,”
she prompted very delicately.

“Yes, yes,” he said testily.

“. . . humbly request your patience, as I anticipate being able to offer handsomely for it as soon as . . . as soon as . . . my nuptials are official.”

She went still.

The quill might as well have been a feather-topped brick. She couldn’t quite seem to make it move to form the word
“nuptials.”

“No,” he said swiftly, and turned toward her. “End it with ‘
handsomely for it
.’ ”

She dropped her head abruptly.

“. . . for it,”
she repeated dutifully. Her cheeks felt warm again.

He stopped speaking.

“Will that be all?”

“Perhaps one more, Mrs. Fountain, if you would be so kind.”

“As you wish,” she said quietly.

The only sound was the crackle of the sheet of foolscap as she smoothed it out.

“Dearest Marie-Helene,

Thank you for your letter. It is indeed heartbreaking to learn that your
ball gowns are of last season’s vintage, and that you feel ashamed to show your face in polite society . . .”

“. . . polite society . . .”
Elise repeated.

“. . . particularly since Lady Montrose has four new gowns and also a riding habit. I would hope that you would recall your heritage, which means that YOU—”
“Please do underline that word, Mrs. Fountain.”
“. . . are polite society, and should behave as such, which means holding your head high in the face of a new riding habit. And
 . . . 

He peered over her shoulder at the original letter and nudged it closer to Elise with his forefinger.

“What is that word, Mrs. Fountain? It appears to have been blurred by bitter tears.”

“‘Coldhearted,’ I believe,” she said.

“And that one?”

“‘Indifference.’”

“Ah, so I thought. And so we go on.”

“If you would be so kind as to tell me whether the roof is leaking, whether the livestock lives, whether your horse is starving, whether there is enough food on the table, and whether the servants have defected or remain, my cold, indifferent heart should be gladdened. With love, your brother,”

Elise stopped writing and tilted her head, imagining the beautiful Marie-Helene, beautiful and spoiled and frantic, who would read this letter and stomp her foot and perhaps completely miss the fact that the entire letter was a sardonic masterpiece.

“ . . . and I shall read it and then sign it, Mrs. Fountain. I will ring when I should like them posted.”

“Very well.”

She sprinkled sand over the text of it with the gravity of someone trickling new earth into a grave. He was silent. She could feel him watching her intently. Or perhaps it was just that her skin, her entire being, for that matter, felt acutely sensitized every time his eyes landed on her.

“That will be all for now, I think, Mrs. Fountain. You may go.”

She stood almost unsteadily and curtsied absentmindedly, her gaze colliding with his.

Then holding for a moment.

His face was steely and impassive.

She wondered if what she was thinking showed on her face, because she didn’t think she could hide it. She hadn’t been a servant long enough.