Scandal (35 page)

Her ears buzzed with the effect of seeing Banallt here. As a girl, long before she met Tommy Evans, she'd dreamed of a moment like this. Her first stories had all contained scenes much like this one. She'd constantly imagined meeting the direct descendant of the viscount who had built the original castle. He would see her, a glimpse from afar, and then a nearer one, and they would, naturally, inevitably, fall tragically in love.

Banallt disappeared from the gallery and a minute later emerged from an arched doorway at the side of the hall. The introduction to the staff was over quickly. Banallt knew every name and the position each held, whether they had been at Darmead all these years or he'd brought them with him from London or hired them on when he came here from Town. He turned his attention back to her. “The place is drafty at times. I find it's most pleasant upstairs by the fire.” He bent close and kissed her cheek before she was prepared. He smelled of lemons and bergamot.

“Banallt.” She managed to hide her reaction from him. She hoped. Surely she wasn't standing here next to the Earl of Banallt, married to him. His countess. Banallt understood she did not love him. Her heart would not be broken when he returned to London and, inevitably, took a lover. He would fall out of love with her one day. So long as she remembered that, they would be fine.

“We'll have tea upstairs, King,” he said.

“Milord.”

“We'll dine privately, I think.”

“About eight, my lord?”

“Excellent.”

The stairs to the parlor were so narrow they had to proceed single file. Sophie went first, then Banallt. She glanced at him over her shoulder and tried for normalcy. “My first novel was a historical romance in which a pitched battle took place on these very stairs, with knights fighting for their lives, defending the upper reaches of the castle from the depredations of a neighboring lord.”

“Yes, I remember. A rousing scene. And it took place here?”

“As a girl,” she said, “I was far too small to see out the windows.” She stopped at one of the arrow slits in the spiral staircase. “Later I was able to see, but not easily.” Since she was in the lead, their stopping meant she was nearly at eye level with Banallt. “It's exactly as I recall.”

“I should be more than willing to lift you for a view,” Banallt said.

For once she could look him straight in the eye. “That would be quite undignified, I should think.”

He scooped her up in his arms and held her to the slit of a window. She laughed and slapped his chest. “Banallt!”

“Now is your chance, Sophie. Look.” He leaned them toward the opening. “What story would you write with that narrow view of the world?”

“It's lovely,” she said. Green fields sloped away from the high ground the first viscount had claimed when he built Darmead so many centuries ago. Clouds gathered on the horizon.

“Can you not see the attacking army?” he said. She put an arm around his neck to steady herself. The window opening was several feet deep and narrowed to a point less than four inches wide. “Ample space for an archer, wouldn't you say?”

“Do you think they ever admired the view as they took aim?”

Banallt held her easily. “I should hope not. That the castle still stands and remains in the possession of the Llewellyn family, I think not. The archer concentrated on his shooting.”

“Do you think he laid his arrows on the ledge? Or did he keep them in a quiver at his back?”

“On the ledge, perhaps? Hm. Do you think there's room here for him to reach behind him?”

“You can put me down now,” she said.

“I'd rather not.” Banallt dropped a kiss on her forehead and continued up the stairs with her in his arms, though he had to walk sideways to make the turns without cracking her head on the wall.

“You'll drop me.”

“I shan't.” They exited to the hallway that led to their rooms with Banallt still carrying her. She had both arms around his neck by now. “Did you know, Banallt, that Henry IV is said to have visited here?”

He glanced at her and winked. “My ancestor was nearly bankrupted by his call, I'll have you know. I've seen the ledgers.”

“You have?”

“My predecessor here was meticulous in his record keeping. My father set him as the example I should strive to emulate when the time came for me to manage the properties.” His eyelids lowered, and Sophie saw the sweep of his thick lashes. She wanted very much to kiss him. “I shall do the same for our son.”

They didn't go right to the bedchambers but rather left to the parlor. He put her down in order to open the wooden door. Someone had painted it green, which was new. When last she'd seen the door, it was brown. Sophie leaned against the wall. “I was accused of plotting to live here,” she said as Banallt opened the door to let her precede him inside. “By my father and the caretakers both.”

“You laid a clever scheme, Lady Banallt.”

“Papa always said he expected one day he'd have to explain to the Earl of Banallt how a ten-year-old girl had come to live in his house without his permission.” She smiled at the memory as she went inside. “He encouraged me, you know. He claimed it was his fondest wish that the Mercers should one day find themselves in adverse possession of a castle.”

While Sophie walked the perimeter of the parlor, servants brought in tea. Banallt leaned an elbow on the mantel. The floor was covered with the same Aubusson carpet she recalled from her youth. This room, with its paintings from the days of Banallt's great-great-grandfather on the walls, had been used to entertain guests who'd come to tour the castle and grounds and who then wished for tea before leaving. The paintings had been among her favorites: hunting scenes, portraits of men and women in stiff collars and wigs, and, her favorite, St. George slaying the dragon.

Banallt grabbed her in his arms when the servants bowed themselves out. “A quick tea, Sophie, a bite to eat so as not to hurt King's feelings, and then we'll retire, yes?”

She elbowed him, but she didn't stop him when he came in close for a quick kiss.

The tea was laid out with a table of sweets and cold cuts that reminded her she was hungry. She knew how Banallt liked his tea. He preferred gunpowder black and that she found in the tin. As a girl she'd preferred gunpowder herself. Once she'd married, gunpowder black tea became an extravagance.

King knocked on the door and came just inside. In this lovely gold and red parlor, King looked more than ever like a brawler from the London stews. His black wool suit highlighted the contrast between the exquisite tailoring and his broken face. He bowed. “Milord. The Llewellyns. Are you at home, milord? Milady?”

Milk sloshed onto the skirt of her Sunday gown, once cream satin, now dyed black and already showing the effects of more frequent wear. “Drat,” she muttered, snatching up a napkin to dab at her lap. She felt her cheeks growing hot.

“What the devil are they doing here?” He reached across the table and clasped Sophie's hand. “Shall I send them away?” He looked up at King, ready to do just that.

“You can't,” she said. “They've come all this way.”

He scowled. “Please show them in. Thank you, King.” He leaned back on his chair. Sophie's stomach sank. She gave Banallt his tea and managed to pour her own without mishap. But after one sip, she put down her cup lest her trembling hand give her away.

Banallt rose, holding his saucer in one hand and his cup in another, both incongruous in his hands. He sipped from his tea, then set cup and saucer on the mantel as King returned with Mrs. Llewellyn, Fidelia, and a tall, slender gentleman she didn't recognize but who couldn't be anyone but Banallt's cousin Harry Llewellyn. Banallt whispered, “I'll have his hide, by God.”

Llewellyn was in his forties with dark hair and light blue eyes. He had Banallt's pale complexion and something of his height and build, but there the family resemblance ended. He strode in, arms swinging at his side.

“What brings you to Darmead, Banallt?” said Harry Llewellyn. “Did you have a sudden longing to polish the family armor?” Llewellyn's gaze shot to Sophie then fixed on Banallt. Fidelia and her mother curtseyed to Banallt and nodded to Sophie, but neither spoke. Llewellyn held up a hand. “Margaret, take Fidelia outside. I'll want a word with Banallt.”

“No,” Banallt said. “They'll stay to hear what you have to say, and my answers to you.”

“My lord—”

“I insist.”

Mrs. Llewellyn stood well away from her husband. Fidelia was much altered from when Sophie had last seen her. She was thin and much paler, and there was no hint of a smile from her. Sophie recognized the grief that shadowed Fidelia's eyes. She'd seen it in the mirror every day since John was killed.

“A better question, Harry, is why you are here at Darmead,” Banallt said in a chilling voice.

“I came all the way from Epping's Field to London only to find you not at home.”

“None of which is any of your affair.” He leaned an elbow on the mantel. “Not that it isn't splendid to see you.”

Llewellyn stood with his head cocked, studying Sophie in her mourning black. She had put on her gloves before she went down to meet the staff, so he could not see the wedding band, and yet she itched to cover up her left hand. She felt the ring thick and cool against her skin, an unaccustomed pressure around her finger.

“Delightful as it is to see your wife and daughter,” Banallt said from his place by the mantel, “I was under the impression they were happy at Hightower House. There's a great deal to do in London after all, and very little by comparison here in Duke's Head. So do tell, Harry, what's brought you here ... without an invitation, when you might be escorting them to some fete or another?”

“Scandal, what else?”

Banallt picked up his tea. “Scandal. How tedious.”

His cousin straightened his shoulders. “Connected with you.”

“More tedious still.” He waved a hand. “I should think you'd know better by now than to upset yourself over some rumor that involves me. They are often inaccurate, I warn you.”

Llewellyn stood behind his daughter and rested a hand on her shoulders. He seemed a proud man to Sophie, but then his father had been the son of an earl, and, with Banallt having no son, Harry Llewellyn was first in line of inheritance. “I should think that with Fidelia in London, you would be more careful of your reputation. And with hers.”

“Papa,” Fidelia said softly.

“What on earth could you have heard?” Banallt spoke in a low voice that sent shivers down Sophie's spine. “Nothing true, I assure you.”

Sophie was horrified to feel tears welling up. Fidelia had loved John. John had been deeply loved. The sharpness of her grief, no more the freshness of it, took her unawares. By the time she found her handkerchief, Banallt was putting his into her hand and tears burned her eyes.

“Forgive me.” She took a breath and stood up to excuse herself. “I miss my brother terribly. And I—I didn't realize how—I'm so sorry.”

“There, there,” said Mrs. Llewellyn.

Banallt reached for her hand, and Sophie, unthinking, let him pull her to her feet and into his arms because he understood her grief. He understood how completely alone she was without her brother. They stood there, she and Banallt, hands still clasped, him with his other arm around her shoulders. Comforting her.

“I take it,” Llewellyn said with a gesture at Sophie, “that this woman is the infamous Mrs. Peters?”

“Infamous?” Banallt said. “Have a care what more you say, Harry.”

“Yes, infamous, by God! I come to London and what do I hear? That you have left Town, with a married woman. Whose husband is even now demanding satisfaction of you. And against all bounds of decency, I find it's true. She is here with you.”

“Harry!” said Mrs. Llewellyn.

Banallt lifted a hand and Mrs. Llewellyn fell silent. “Allow me to make the introductions.” He took Sophie's hand and brought it to his lips. “Sophie,” Banallt said, turning to face Harry, “may I present my cousin, Mr. Harry Llewellyn.”

Mrs. Llewellyn's focus moved from Sophie to Banallt.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Llewellyn,” Sophie said.

“Harry, no,” said Mrs. Llewellyn when her husband took a deep breath to retort.

Banallt bent his head over Sophie and whispered, “Come, it's time.” She curled her fingers against his chest and in response, he stroked her back. “Margaret. Fidelia,” Banallt said when Sophie lifted her head. “Even you two must be introduced anew. All of you, this is my countess, Lady Banallt.”

“Banallt,” said Mrs. Llewellyn. She darted a glance at her husband and then squared her shoulders. She clasped her hands, raising them to her chin. “This is extraordinary news.”

Fidelia smiled for the first time since she'd come in. She pushed away her father's hand and leaned forward. “Is it true?” Sophie nodded. “How wonderfully romantic. Banallt, I am so glad for you! And you, Mrs. Evans—or, I should say, Lady Banallt.” She smiled. “I'm so very happy to have you for a relation.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said.

“Your countess?” Llewellyn frowned. “But—”

“I know what you thought, Harry,” Banallt said. “But she is the former Mrs. Evans. Sister to the late John Mercer, whom I believe you once met. So you see, what you heard was false. I did not leave Town with a married woman, but by God, I'll return with one.”

“Yes. But...married?”

“This afternoon, in fact.” He faced his cousin. “I'm happy to show you the marriage lines if you are thinking to dispute the legality.”