Scandal (2 page)

Thank you for sending along the copy of your latest poem, Thoughts in the Dark Hours Before Dawn. I read it with great interest and I must tell you that I was particularly struck by the lines in which you explore the remarkable similarities between a cracked urn and a broken heart. Very affecting. I trust that you will have had a positive response from a publisher by the time you receive this letter.

Yrs ever,

S. A. Traherne

Emily knew then she could not possibly rush off to visit a nonexistent relative. Come what may, she could not resist the opportunity of meeting the man who understood her poetry so well and who found her verses very affecting.

She carefully refolded S. A. Traherne's letter and slipped it into the bodice of her high-waisted, pale blue morning gown. A glance at the tall clock showed that it was time to get back to work. There was much to be done before she left to meet with the members of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society.

Emily did not find the latest rejection letter from the publisher until she was halfway through the stack of correspondence. She recognized it immediately because she had

received a great many others just like it. Mr. Pound, a man of obviously limited intellect and blunted sensitivity, apparently did not find her poetry very affecting.

But somehow the news that S. A. Traherne was soon to be in the vicinity softened the blow enormously.

"Damn, don't understand why you would want to attend a meeting of the local lit'ry society, Blade." Lord Gillingham's shaggy eyebrows rose as he regarded his house guest.

He and Simon were standing in the court in front of the Gillinghams' villa waiting for the horses to be brought around.

"I thought it might be amusing." Simon gently slapped his riding crop against his boot. He was getting impatient now that he was within minutes of meeting Miss Emily Faringdon.

"Amusing? You're an odd one, ain't you, Blade? Expect it's all those years you spent in the East. Don't do to spend too long living among foreigners, I say. Gives a man strange notions."

"It also provided me with my fortune," Simon reminded him dryly.

"Well, that's true enough." Gillingham cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Told the Misses Inglebright you'd be attending. You'll be more than welcome, I imagine, but I should warn you, the society's nothing but a pack of aging spinsters who get together once a week and rhapsodize over a bunch of damn poets. Women are very, very inclined toward that sort of romantic nonsense, y'know."

"So I've heard. Nevertheless, I find myself curious to see how country folk are entertaining themselves these days."

"Suit yourself. I'll ride over to Rose Cottage with you and introduce you, but after that, you're on your own. You won't mind if I don't hang around, will you?"

"Of course not," Simon murmured as a groom led the horses forward. "This is my odd notion and I am quite prepared to live with the consequences."

Simon vaulted lightly into Lap Seng's saddle and cantered down the drive alongside his host. The anticipation he was feeling was growing stronger, gnawing at his insides. He fought to control it. He prided himself on his ironclad self-control.

Simon had little doubt of his welcome from the Misses Inglebright and the group of poetry-reading spinsters. He might not be handsome in the style made popular by Lords Byron, Ashbrook, and others, but he was, after all, an earl.

That simple fact, Simon was well aware, combined with his enormous wealth and power, was fully capable of erasing a multitude of defects in a man's physical appearance as well as obliterating a wide variety of assorted sins, lapses in judgment, and various character failings.

The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society had no doubt been thrilled to learn the Earl of Blade wished to attend their humble salon.

Rose Cottage proved to be humble indeed. It was a tiny little house, situated off a short lane not far from the village, surrounded by a tiny little rose garden.

Two small, gray-haired women of indeterminate years stood at the gate greeting three other women who had just arrived on foot. They were all bundled up against the cold in worn, aging cloaks and pelisses that were uniformly drab in color. Their old-fashioned bonnets were tied tightly under their chins.

Simon surveyed the ladies standing at the gate as he rode up with Lord Gillingham. He got the immediate impression he was about to confront a flock of nervous gray pigeons. He swore softly to himself, wondering which of these dull birds was Emily Faringdon. He experienced an odd sense of dismay and realized he was also somewhat surprised.

Somehow, from her letters, he had not pictured her as one of these severe, middle-aged females. He had been expecting a young woman who bristled with brash energy and overindulged romanticism.

Five pairs of wary eyes peeped out from under the unfashionable bonnets. Not a one of those gazes appeared to belong to anyone under forty. Simon frowned. He had been positive Miss Faringdon would be far younger. And prettier. The Faringdons were known for their looks as well as their feckless ways.

"Good afternoon, ladies." Gillingham removed his hat with an air of gallantry and smiled jovially. "I have brought along your guest for the afternoon. Allow me to introduce the Earl of Blade. Just recently returned from the East Indies, y'know. Wants to see what's up in lit'ry circles back here in England."

Simon was in the process of removing his curly-brimmed beaver hat, steeling himself for the task ahead, when it suddenly struck him that there was no sign of welcome in any of the five pairs of eyes that confronted him.

His own eyes narrowed as Gillingham ran through the introductions. There was no doubt about it. The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society were not thrilled to see him. In fact, he could have sworn he saw annoyance and suspicion on their faces. One would almost think the good ladies of the society would prefer he not be there at all.

Gillingham
quickly finished the formalities. "The Misses Inglebright, Miss Bracegirdle, Miss Hornsby, and Miss Ostly."

The women all responded politely, if unenthusiastically, to the introductions. There was no Miss Faringdon, Simon realized. He could not deny he was relieved but it also complicated the matter. He hoped she was merely late in arriving.

"Kind of you to join us today, my lord," Miss Bracegirdle, a tall, bony woman with a long face said quite coldly.

"Yes, indeed," the older of the two Inglebright sisters declared primly. She sounded as if she would much rather he had gone hunting instead. "How nice of you to take an interest in our little country society. I fear you will find us quite uninteresting, however. Not at all like the brilliant salons in London."

"No, no, not at all like London gatherings," Miss Ostly, plump and dowdy, chimed in quickly. "We're quite behind the times here, my lord."

"I have encountered no particularly brilliant literary salons in London," Simon said smoothly, curious at the reception he was receiving. Something was not as it should be here. "Merely a few groups of chattering ladies and dandies who prefer to discuss the latest scandals rather than the latest works of literature."

The five women glanced uneasily at each other. The younger Miss Inglebright cleared her throat. "As it happens, we occasionally slip into such silly talk ourselves, my lord. You know how it is in the country. We look to city folk for the best gossip."

"Then perhaps I will be able to provide you with some of the latest on dits," Simon retorted, half amused. They were not going to get rid of him that easily. He would leave when he chose.

The women glanced at each other, appearing more uncertain and annoyed than ever. At that moment the sound of a horse's hooves clattering down the lane caught everyone's attention.

"Oh, here comes Miss Faringdon now," Miss Hornsby said, showing signs of genuine excitement for the first time.

The elusive Miss Faringdon, at last Simon glanced over his shoulder to see a dappled gray mare cantering toward the small group. Something went taut in his gut.

The first thing he noticed was that the woman on the mare's back was riding astride rather than sidesaddle. The second thing he realized was that this was certainly no gilt-headed Faringdon. Bright red curls were flying about wildly beneath a jaunty straw bonnet.

Something sparkled on the lady's face. Simon was deeply intrigued. Emily Faringdon was wearing a pair of silver-framed spectacles. The sight of them held him riveted for a few seconds. No other woman of his acquaintance would have been caught dead wearing spectacles in public.

"Miss Emily Faringdon," Lord Gillingham confided in a low whisper. "Family's pleasant enough, I suppose, but they're all gamesters, the lot of 'em. Everyone calls 'em the Flighty, Feckless Faringdons, y'know. With the exception of Miss Emily, that is. Nice girl. Too bad about the Unfortunate Incident in her past."

"Ah, yes. The Incident." Simon recalled the gossip he had gently pried out of his hostess. It had been extremely useful information. Although he did not yet have all the details, he knew enough about Emily's past to know he had a powerful tactical advantage in the campaign he was about to launch.

He could not take his eyes off Emily Faringdon. He saw with amazement that there were a handful of freckles sprinkled across her small nose. And the eyes behind the sparkling lenses were quite green. Incredibly green.

Lord Gillingham coughed discreetly behind his hand. "Shouldn't have said anything," he muttered. "Happened when she was barely nineteen, poor chit. All in the past. No one mentions it, naturally. Trust you won't, either, sir."

"Of course not," Simon murmured.

Lord Gillingham straightened slightly in the saddle and smiled kindly at Emily. "Good afternoon, Miss Emily."

"Good afternoon, my lord. Lovely day, is it not?" Emily brought her mare to a halt and smiled warmly at Gillingham. "Are you joining us this afternoon?" She started to dismount without assistance.

"Allow me, Miss Faringdon." Simon was already out of the saddle, tossing the reins to Gillingham. His eyes skimmed quickly, assessingly over Emily as he strode forward. He was still having trouble believing he had run his quarry to earth at last. Every Faringdon he had ever seen had been tall, fair-haired, and inordinately handsome.

Looking at Emily now, Simon could only assume that some mischievous fairy had slipped a changeling into the Faringdon nursery twenty-four years ago. Emily even looked a bit like an elf. For starters, this particular Faringdon was no statuesque goddess. She was much too short, very slender, and had no bosom to speak of. Indeed, everything about her appeared to be slight and delicate, from her little tip-tilted nose to the gentle curve of her hip, which was nearly indiscernible beneath the heavy fabric of her old-fashioned, faded riding habit.

Sunlight glinted again on the lenses of Emily's spectacles as she turned her head to look down at Simon. He found himself pinned beneath that inquisitive green gaze. It was a gaze that fairly glittered with a curiously refreshing blend of lively intelligence and good-natured innocence.

Simon decided in that moment that Miss Emily Faringdon was going to prove anything but dull. A bit unfashionable, obviously, but definitely not dull. She was just like her letters, after all, he thought. The lady was an original.

Simon reached up, his hands closing about Emily's small waist. She felt lithe and supple under his fingers. Strong for her size, too. And full of feminine vitality.

Damnation. He was growing aroused just touching her. Simon frowned and instantly regained control of himself.

Gillingham
started hasty introductions but Emily was not listening closely.

"Thank you, sir," she said a bit breathlessly as she started to slide down off the mare. Her attention was on her bulging reticule, which she had attached to the saddle. "Blade, did he say? Gracious, we are certainly not in the habit of entertaining earls on Thursday afternoon."

"My given name is Simon. Simon Augustus Traherne," Simon said deliberately. "I believe you know me as S. A. Traherne, Miss Faringdon."

Emily Faringdon's mouth dropped open in shock and her large eyes widened in obvious horror behind the lenses of her spectacles.

"S. A. Traherne? No, you cannot possibly be Mr. Traherne." She jerked backward out of his grasp as if burned.

"Have a care, Miss Faringdon," Simon snapped as he saw the mare's head come up in sudden alarm.

But his warning came too late. Emily's booted foot accidentally struck the rounded belly of the mare. The poor animal took offense at such ill treatment and danced sideways with a nervous movement. The reticule banged against the mare's flanks.

Emily's spectacles started to slide off her nose. She tried to push them back in place and struggled to control her mount at the same time. But she was already halfway off the horse and when the mare snorted again and made another abrupt, sidling movement, Emily began to slide inevitably downward.

"Good heavens," shrieked Miss Bracegirdle, "she's falling off the horse."

"I say," Lord Gillingham began in obvious concern.

One of the Misses Inglebright rushed forward to make a wild grab for the mare's bridle.

It was the last straw as far as the mare was concerned. The animal heaved its front half upward, pawing at the air with her hooves.