Scandal of the Year (10 page)

She dipped her fingers into a green glass jar and slathered rose-scented lotion over her face, working it into her skin to prevent wrinkles. While performing the nightly ritual, she watched the stout woman in the pier glass. “Tell me, has Blythe ever mentioned Lancashire to you?”

Kasi turned around. In a sing-song voice, she said, “Lanca-sheer … that is where you and
sahib
live long ago.”

“Yes. Now, what does Blythe know of the place?”

The Hindu shrugged. “Missy say nothing to me.”

Edith relaxed marginally. Perhaps she’d overreacted at dinner. Blythe had been making conversation, that was all. Yet one could never be too careful. “Well, if she happens to do so in the future, tell me at once.”

The cream silk robe swished around her ankles as she stalked into the sumptuous bedchamber with its gilt and white decor. A coal fire hissed on the hearth, the dim light augmented by a branch of candles on the bedside table. The covers had been turned down, and the feather pillows were plumped and ready.

But Edith felt too restless to sleep.

She paced to the closed connecting door and debated whether or not to knock. What was keeping George? She needed to reaffirm his dedication to guarding their secret. Given his innate integrity, there was always the remote possibility that he could suffer from an attack of conscience. That fear had dogged her all these years.…

Kasi had followed Edith into the bedchamber. From across the room, those knowing black eyes stared at her.

“What is it?” Edith snapped.

“
Memsahib
be frightened.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Whatever would I be frightened of?”

“Lanca-sheer.”

The name breathed cold fingers down Edith’s spine. Folding her arms to contain a shiver, she paced the bedchamber. “I fear nothing of a place. Who are you to suggest such a thing, anyway?”

Kasi waddled forward and took hold of Edith’s hand, turning it over to peer at her palm and trace the lines there with a stubby forefinger. “When people in Lanca-sheer see you, they know who you are. They tell the truth.”

A knell of alarm struck Edith. Was that some sort of prophesy? The girls believed that Kasi could predict the future by reading palms, but Edith had always disdained such native nonsense.

She snatched her hand free. “Enough of your superstitions. Go to bed at once.”

Kasi made a deep salaam. “As
memsahib
wish.”

The old woman trudged out of the chamber, and Edith drew several deep breaths to calm herself. It was absurd to think that one’s fate could be divined from looking at a hand. She had always believed in taking firm charge of her own future. Kasi had made a calculated guess based on what she knew of the past.

There was nothing more to it.

Yet the fact that Kasi knew their secret weighed heavily on Edith. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring the woman to England after all. Keeping the woman under strict supervision was turning out to be more dangerous than leaving her in India, where any slip of the tongue might have been ignored as the ranting of a madwoman.

Edith consoled herself with the reminder that Kasi would never betray the girls. She was much too devoted to them to stir up a scandal. As for George, he also knew the danger of returning to Lancashire. He would never permit the family to travel halfway across England, anyway, merely to lay claim to an estate that held such dismal memories.

As long as they remained in London they would be safe.

*   *   *

Blythe walked barefoot across the rug and blew out the candle on the bedside table. A soft darkness descended over the chamber, and the glow from the dying fire cast flickering shadows over the walls. The setting usually made her sleepy, but for some reason, she felt wide awake tonight.

She perched on the edge of the bed, drew up her knees, and hugged a feather pillow to her bosom. What was the reason for her nagging discontent? Certainly, she had enjoyed having the family together again. The dinner party had been just like old times—almost.

It
was
a little sad to realize that nothing would ever be exactly the same ever again. Her sisters led separate lives now. They might come to visit every now and then, but they were busy with their husbands and young children.

Was that the source of her malaise? Did she feel a wistful yearning to settle her own future? To know that she would someday be as happy and content as they were?

Would
she be happy marrying the Duke of Savoy?

Of course she would! She mustn’t allow herself to think otherwise. Papa approved of the match, after all, and she trusted his opinion. If only she could spend some time alone with the duke, surely love would grow between them. Yet they’d scarcely had any opportunity at all to converse. The obstacle was Lady Davina.

I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.

Those hateful words still burned in Blythe’s memory. After the incident the other night when Davina had finagled the situation with Viscount Kitchener, Blythe had been wracking her brain to think of a way to outfox the duke’s daughter.

She had a half-formed idea, but it would require an accomplice. Mama was too awed by Lady Davina’s rank to participate in a scheme that could result in humiliation for the girl. To recruit Portia or Lindsey was out of the question, too, considering their animosity toward the duke.

Perhaps James would help her.

Blythe clutched the pillow tighter. The mere thought of him caused a disturbance deep inside her. She had no right to ask him to risk his position here for the sake of her own ambitions. Yet the more she pondered the notion, the more she believed he was the perfect man for the task.

But would he do it?

Tossing the pillow aside, she sprang up from the bed and paced the darkened bedchamber. She’d been hard-pressed to concentrate on the conversation with her family while he’d helped to serve dinner. His face had been sober and impassive—at least until she’d asked about the family estate in Lancashire. Her impulse to do so remained a mystery to her. Had she wished to spark a reaction from him?

That must be it. He’d been extremely adamant that she not mention his place of birth to her parents. Why? Was it just that he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, as he’d claimed? She sensed a mystery about him, something intriguing that she longed to uncover.

Deep in thought, Blythe stopped at the window overlooking the rear garden. Night veiled the trees and shrubbery. By day, the garden contained neatly manicured beds of roses. Now, moon-silvered shadows draped the concentric pathways, and the stables loomed like a black monolith at the rear of the yard.

The sight enhanced her vague sense of melancholy. The utter stillness made it seem as if she was all alone in the world.…

Something shifted in the gloom.

Startled, Blythe wondered if she’d imagined the movement. Then a moment later, she saw it again: the tall shape of a man slipping through the trees. His gait was furtive, as if he was making an effort to keep out of sight.

She was struck by something curiously familiar about him.

The figure paused at the stone fence along the rear of the property. As he glanced back at the house, the faint starlight illuminated his features. Even though he wasn’t wearing his footman’s white wig, she knew him at once.

James
.

Instinctively, Blythe shrank back behind the draperies. She didn’t know why, but it seemed important for him not to catch a glimpse of her at the window.

What was he doing outside? All the servants should be fast asleep at this late hour, since they had to arise before dawn.

She cautiously peered around the edge of the curtains in time to see him slip out the back gate. He vanished into the pitch-dark mews. Pressing her nose to the glass, she watched for a few minutes, but he didn’t reappear.

All lay still again.

Blythe put her hand over her thudding heart as she tried to fathom his purpose. The household rules forbade the servants from venturing out in the middle of the night. Yet James had disobeyed. Why?

More important, where was he going at this late hour?

A distasteful possibility wormed into her thoughts. Perhaps he had a tryst arranged. The more she pondered the notion, the more logical it seemed. James had led her to believe he had no family or friends in London. And she would stake her reputation that he wasn’t a thief or a footpad.

Therefore, he must be meeting a woman.

Blythe scowled into the darkness. She told herself to forget his indiscretion. It was irrational to feel affronted. What a servant did while off duty was of little concern to her. Nevertheless, she stood gazing out the window for a time, hoping to see him return.

But he was still gone half an hour later when she finally gave up and went to bed.

*   *   *

James rapped hard on the plain wooden door. Glancing up and down the pitch-dark lane, he kept a close watch on his surroundings. Thankfully, only a stray cat slunk through the shadows. This rundown neighborhood off the Strand boasted no watchmen patrolling the streets as in the posh area of Mayfair.

James didn’t want any trouble tonight.

The chilly breeze carried a fishy odor from the Thames. Two o’clock in the morning was far too late to be paying calls, but he’d had little choice in the matter. His days were filled with endless duties. With the way Godwin watched the footmen, it was a miracle James had been able to sneak out of the house at all.

For a moment in the garden, he’d feared he’d been spotted. There had been a flash of movement in one of the upper windows. But upon closer inspection, he had concluded he’d been mistaken. The family had retired early, as had all the servants, so he had nothing to fear.

The occupants of this small house must be dead asleep as well.

James pounded his fist on the door. He hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to shouting, which would awaken the neighbors and draw undue attention. Then, much to his relief, the muffled sound of footsteps came from within. A key rattled in the lock and the door squeaked open a few inches.

An elderly man in a nightcap and long shirt peered through the crack. He held up a lighted candle. “What the devil’s all the commotion about? Oh! Mr. Ryding!”

Percy Thornton opened the door all the way, allowing James to enter the tiny hall. There were very few furnishings, only a chair and a side table. By the window, the sleepy chirp of a finch came from a covered cage.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” James told the old man. “It was the only time I could escape my duties.”

“Never mind, I’m eager to hear your news,” Thornton said. “Come to the kitchen and Roland will make a cup of tea for you.”

James followed the retired estate agent along a narrow corridor leading to the rear of the house. The light of the single candle cast elongated shadows on the peeling wallpaper, and the odor of boiled cabbage tinged the musty air.

They headed down a steep flight of stairs to the cellar kitchen, where James had to duck his head to avoid hitting the lintel. Banked coals glowed in the hearth, casting a faint illumination over a lumpy pallet on the dirt floor in front of the fireplace.

The blankets shifted and moved as if a mole burrowed deep inside the blankets. Then out popped a gangly bald man with ebony skin and a flash of white teeth.

He rubbed his eyes. “Mister James, suh! Praise the Lord, you come back.”

“I trust you’ve been behaving yourself, Roland. No sacrificing of chickens on the back stoop or anything of the sort?”

Roland shook his head. “No live chickens a’tall in this devil’s town. Where dey get dere eggs from, I dunno.”

“He’s been a big help with the chores,” Thornton said. “Please don’t think it’s been any trouble at all for him to stay here.”

For many years, Roland had been valet, manservant, and all-around helper to James. He’d trusted no one else to accompany him on the long voyage from the West Indies. It had been a godsend when Thornton had agreed to house Roland for the duration of James’s employment at Crompton House.

“A pity he can’t come and help with
my
daily chores,” James said with a grimace. “I’ve developed a new appreciation for the hard work of servants.”

A deep chuckle came from Roland as he stirred up the coals into flame and then put the kettle on for tea. “Dat be somethin’ I like to see, mon. You, bowin’ to dem fancy gents and ladies.”

Thornton nodded sagely. “The house must be busy, what with Miss Blythe Crompton making her debut. Such a pretty girl surely attracts many suitors.”

James frowned, unwilling to discuss her. “Yes, but most of the time I’ve been stuck in a basement room, cleaning lamps or silver spoons.”

Except when he’d taken the tray up to Blythe’s bedchamber. They’d shared a long conversation about India, and at the end of it, she had given him the peacock feather along with a flirtatious smile. The memory burned in him, as did the fervent look she’d aimed at him at dinner only a few hours ago. Her attraction to him was unmistakable, as was his own lusty reaction to her. He didn’t know what the devil to do about it except to avoid her.

And
that
wouldn’t help his investigation. He needed to encourage her interest in the hopes of gleaning information to prove his case.

“What is your news?” Thornton asked, setting the candle down on a rough-hewn table. “Have you been able to verify that the Cromptons are imposters?”

“Unfortunately not,” James said. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me with something.”

Thornton waved at the table. “Pray sit down, sir, and tell me how I may be of assistance. Or would you be more comfortable upstairs in the parlor?”

“This is perfectly fine. I dare not linger more than a few minutes, anyway.”

They settled into hard wooden chairs across from each other while Roland scattered tea leaves in the simmering water in the pot. Thornton looked old and drawn, and James had a sudden concern that he was asking too much of the man. But as the former manager of the Cromptons’ estate in Lancashire, Thornton was the ideal person for the task at hand.