The Scoundrel and the Debutante (17 page)

“He's Lord
Stanhope
!” Prudence frantically interrupted. “He's an
earl
, Roan.”

“Royal?”

“What—
no
!” She grabbed Roan's arm. “I
know
him,” she whispered hotly.

“Calm yourself, Pru. He'll see your distress and suspect any number of things.”

She nodded, agreeing, and took a breath. “I know
of
him,” she amended, a bit calmer. “I have never been formally introduced, but Honor has, and he is familiar with my family and belongs to the same club as Augustine. He will know my name, he will know what I've done and he will tell all of London!”

Roan looked to where Stanhope was chatting with a porter and gesturing in their direction. “You have nothing to worry about,” Roan said. “You're my cousin, remember? Miss Cabot has—”

Prudence gasped and punched him on the arm.

“Ow,” he said, surprised by the strength of her swing.

“Don't utter that name!”

“I only meant to remark that...
she
has stayed behind at Blackwood Hall—”

Prudence gasped and punched him again.

“I didn't say it!” Roan protested.

“You said Blackwood Hall,” she hissed, her eyes darting to Stanhope. “All of London knows who resides at Blackwood Hall now.”

“All right, I understand. I won't—”

“All of London will know it,” she frantically said again. “
All
of London, and you may trust I will be made the laughingstock of the
haut ton.
Why,
why
did I ever think I could be like my sisters?” she pleaded skyward. “I never even wanted to
be
like them, but look at me. I'm the worst of us all! Merryton and Augustine will have my—”

“Pardon.” It was Stanhope again, having appeared at Roan's elbow, still smiling as if he and Roan and Prudence were enjoying a little secret.

Prudence pressed her lips tightly together and turned away from him, as if she were now trying to hide her face. “My boy will take your things. You need only point.” He chuckled, as if he found it all very amusing, and walked away again.

“It is beyond hope,” Prudence said weakly.

This woman standing beside him, looking so utterly dejected, had been the picture of calm and determination the past two days, happy to play the part of cousin or wife, happy to experience her adventure with him. She'd shot a man and kept her head, for God's sake. Roan didn't know what it was about this man that should change it, but he wanted to box his ears for having ruined it all. “Be still,” he said soothingly, and put his hand to the small of her back as he pointed to the trunks for the boy. “We'll be rid of him soon enough.”

“Oh, Roan,” she said in a tone that sounded as if she pitied him. She smiled sadly. “
You
will. Not me.”

Roan felt a roil of guilt and the weight of their folly slowly closing in on them.

As the trunks were loaded, Lord Stanhope gestured for them to board the carriage. He helped Prudence inside the coach. Roan followed and sat beside her and across from Stanhope, eyeing the man closely, debating what was to be done with him. Their lark had shifted from intensely pleasurable to troublesome. He'd been so happy to see Prudence, he hadn't thought through what was happening. He couldn't help agree with her—she should have stayed on the wagon. She should have gone on to her friend.

As the carriage rolled from town, Stanhope said to Prudence, “I beg your pardon, miss, but I've yet to have the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Matheson,” she said slowly, surprising Roan. “I am Miss Matheson.”

One of Stanhope's brows rose curiously over the other. “
Matheson.
It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Matheson. Now you must tell me from where you hail. You look quite familiar to me, and I think perhaps we've met before? Almack's perhaps?”

“I'm sure we haven't, my lord,” Prudence said quickly, shaking her head. “I am from the west country. How very kind of you to bring us along. This is a lovely carriage. The springs seem new. Are they new?” she asked, bouncing a bit on the seat.

The
springs
?
Roan looked at Prudence.

“I hardly know,” Stanhope said, his gaze steady on Prudence. “The carriage is hired.”

“Where is your home, my lord?” Roan asked, drawing the man's attention to him.

“London,” Stanhope said. “Near Grosvenor Square.”

“Have you just come down from London? What's the news?” Roan asked, and continued to pepper Stanhope with questions so that he couldn't question Prudence. For her part, Prudence ignored them, fanning herself as if she were overly warm.

But when Roan began to question Stanhope about London trade—to satisfy his own curiosity if nothing else—Stanhope waved a hand at him, his signet ring blinking in the waning light of the day. “I don't concern myself with trade, sir. So. You're cousins, are you?” he asked before Roan could begin to speak of the weather. “I would suppose, Mr. Matheson, that your father is your cousin's relation by...”

“Brothers,” said Roan, at the very moment Prudence said, “My mother.” The moment she did, she closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to the point just between her brows.

Stanhope laughed. “There seems to be some confusion.”

“Not at all,” Prudence said, recovering at once. “My mother is married to his father's brother.” She smiled, and Roan sensed she was rather pleased with herself for having thought quickly.

Stanhope was clearly entertained by this ridiculous banter. The three of them were all very aware that the lies were piling up in the interior of that carriage, but only one of them was diverted by it. The question Roan wanted answered was what, exactly, Stanhope would do with the lies. For the moment, he looked as if he would like to have carried on, poking and prodding Prudence, but the carriage turned and Howston Hall came into view.

Roan was momentarily distracted from the dance of words with Stanhope because the house was even grander as they neared it. He couldn't begin to imagine how Aurora had gained an invitation here. Through what acquaintance? For what purpose?

The road went through the forest, so only the front of the house was visible, but even that small glimpse was enough to startle one into silence. It stood three stories high, all stone. Rows of sparkling windows on each floor looked over the forest. Ivy covered one of the two anchoring towers, and a trellis of roses had been trained to create an arch over the doorway.

The carriage turned onto the drive, circling around an enormous green, in the middle of which was a stone fountain, fashioned to look as if three fish were leaping over one another, their three mouths open and spouting water. Two peacocks strutted about the fountain, pecking at the grass.

The house was a beautiful, idyllic vista. Roan had never seen anything quite as grand as this, except perhaps in books, or in paintings that hung over mantels in New York, and he couldn't help be impressed with the size of it. The house where Roan's family resided, considered to be one of the grandest homes in the valley, and situated in a setting very similar to this, was only half as large.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

The pair of double doors that marked the entrance suddenly opened, and a butler and two footmen—Roan supposed this, given their livery—ran out onto the drive and stood at attention as the coachman came down from the bench up top and opened the carriage door.

Stanhope was the first to alight, and paused just outside, offering his hand to Prudence.

“My lord, you are welcome,” the butler said. “Madam.”

Roan stepped out of the carriage behind Prudence just as a very short and round gentleman came hurrying out of the house. He had florid cheeks and a wide nose, and looked to be in the vicinity of his sixth decade. Close on his heels was a woman who was a head taller than him, and nearly as round. She had the sort of soft, doughy face Roan's grandmother had sported in her dotage.

“My lord Stanhope! We thought you'd not come!” the man said happily.

“You'll be very glad you have, you know,” the woman said, bubbling with enthusiasm. “You've missed all the excitement! Redmayne very nearly shot Lady Vanderbeck!”

“
Shot
her!” Stanhope exclaimed, and took the woman's hand, bowing over it.

“Silly woman means with the badminton cock, of course. We won't allow Redmayne to have a gun, not after last time, what?” the man said. “Oh! You've brought friends,” he said, seeing Roan and Prudence. He cast his arms wide. “You are most welcome!”

Stanhope, Roan noticed, did not dispel the idea that they were friends, but merely looked at Roan as if he expected Roan to deny it. Roan wasn't about to do any such thing, not before he at least knew who this man was to his sister.

“How do you do,” Roan began, but was interrupted by galloping horses and laughing riders who thundered onto the drive.

“Penfors, really!” cried one woman. She was dressed in a ruby riding habit with a matching hat placed jauntily to one side of her head. “You didn't tell us the road's been washed away!”

“Has it?” asked the short, portly gentleman, who was, apparently, Lord Penfors. “I wasn't aware. Were you aware, darling?” He turned toward the woman who'd come out with him.

“I've heard no reports of it!” she protested as if she were being accused. “Cyril?” she shouted, twirling about, marching toward the house. “Cyril! What is this news of the road being washed away?”

“Stanhope!” the woman in ruby called out. “You bounder, you.” She leaped off her horse and ran for him. “I knew you'd come!”

Stanhope laughed. “I take great exception to being called a bounder, madam. I have not yet reached that lofty status,” he said, and greeted her enthusiastic hug with one of his own.

“Oh, Penfors!” the woman said as she linked her arm through Stanhope's, “you must welcome Mr. Fitzhugh into our party.” She gestured to a gentleman who was still seated on an enormous, fine, black stallion. “He has come from Scotland with a very big purse, as it seems he sold the castle after all.”

“Yes, of course, you must join us, Mr. Fitzhugh. You are most welcome,” Penfors said as the man hopped down and a groom ran out to fetch his horse. Fitzhugh bowed low and scraped his hat against the road, thanking Penfors before running to catch up with Stanhope and the woman in ruby, who were walking inside. The other riders moved on, laughing and chatting on their way to the stables.

That left Penfors, and Roan and Prudence standing awkwardly in the drive as servants bustled about them. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Penfors said, tilting his head back to look up at Roan. “Have we been introduced, my lord?”

“Regrettably, no,” Roan said. He saw Penfors's wife bustle out of the house and hurry toward them. “I offer my sincere apologies for arriving unannounced. I am Roan Matheson. And this is—”

But Penfors suddenly pivoted about before Roan could introduce his supposed cousin. “Cyril!” he shouted. “A room for Mr. and Mrs. Matheson! They are Stanhope's guests so it must be a
good
room, Cyril, not one in the west wing.”

“Oh no!” Prudence cried. “You mustn't—”

“Nonsense, madam. Stanhope is our very good friend, and therefore, so are
you.
” He looked at Roan. “I wouldn't think of putting you in the west wing. We save those rooms for the scoundrels who turn up uninvited.” He laughed heartily.

“My lord!” his wife said, having arrived in their midst once more. “That is not true.” She looked at Prudence. “We simply do not welcome scoundrels at Howston Hall.”

“You can't say that we don't,” Penfors said. “Did you look about the supper table last night?”

“I
can
say it and I just did. Now come with me, Mrs. Matheson,” she said, holding out her hand to Prudence. “Is your maid coming?”

“I haven't—”

“Oh, that's quite all right. We've plenty of girls. I daresay we employ all of Weslay here, do we not, Penfors?”

“Yes, quite a lot of them. All right, then, Matheson, are you a good hand in cards?” Penfors asked as Lady Penfors began to drag a stricken Prudence along with her.

“I, ah...I neither win too often nor lose too often,” Roan said.

Penfors roared with laughter at that, startling Roan. “What a strange way you speak! That must be Eton. It's Eton training isn't it? I was a Cambridge man myself.”

“My lord! Do stop talking and allow the poor man to his room!” his wife yelled. “They will quite obviously want to bathe before supper, and we haven't much time.”

“No, we haven't, have we?” Penfors asked, peering at his pocket watch.

“Mind you keep your bride close, Matheson,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Penfors is quite right, we've a house full of rakes and rogues!” She laughed gaily as she maneuvered Prudence in the door and disappeared into the house.

“If you will follow me, sir,” the butler said, and walked briskly behind the footman who carried the trunks.

“You seem alarmed,” Penfors said. “Do you shoot?”

Roan paused. “Scoundrels?”

Penfors laughed so hard, his eyes squeezed shut and tears leaked from the corners as he settled one hand on his belly to contain it. “What a delight, a delight! Did you hear him, Mother? He's very clever!” Penfors shouted, even though his wife had gone inside. He hastened toward the entrance, leaving Roan to bring up the rear.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
HE
GUEST
ROOM
they were rushed to was sumptuous, Prudence thought, with a high, feathered bed and tall, double windows with a magnificent view of the lake behind the house. The bed was surrounded by brocade hangings, the floor covered in thick carpets, and above the mantel, a masterfully rendered depiction of a fox hunt.

Prudence hardly noticed any of it—she frowned at Roan every time she passed him as she paced before the hearth, pausing only once at the window, her arms folded tightly, to watch two swans glide westward. It appeared as if they would glide right into the setting sun. That's what Prudence felt she'd done—she'd been so blinded by the bright light that was Roan, so enthralled, she'd glided right into a ball of fire.

She whirled away from the window and passed Roan again, this time halting before him, her hands on her hips.

He was seated, his boots propped on a footstool, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers. He arched a brow.

“How can you sit there as we swim into the sun?” she demanded of him, gesturing to the window.

“Pardon?”

Prudence waved her hand at him—there was no time to explain the volatile mix of emotions now, how the joy and hope and been swallowed whole by Stanhope. “Stanhope knows me, I'm certain of it. Do you realize what that means?”

“No,” Roan said, and shook his head. “Pru, he doesn't
know
you. He has an idea of you, that's all.”

“An idea of me! What do you mean?”

Roan sighed. He put his brandy aside and his feet on the floor, then leaned forward, bracing his arms against his knees. “How shall I say it? He has an idea of the sort of woman you are—”

Prudence gasped and whirled away from Roan.

“No, I didn't—” Roan's hands were suddenly on her waist, and he pulled her back against his chest. “I didn't say it to distress you. But what he knows is that something is amiss, and a man's thoughts naturally wander in that direction—”

“Naturally?”

“What I mean is,” he said, squeezing her to him, nuzzling her neck, “that this is the most plausible explanation, given that he knows nothing of our circumstances. You said you've never met him. He doesn't know who you are. You must keep in mind that we'll be gone as soon as I find Aurora, and you won't see him again.”

“How do you know that I won't?” Prudence shrugged Roan's hands from her and stepped away, turning around to face him. “Roan...” She paused, uncertain how to express herself. “This has been the most astonishing and wonderful thing to ever happen to me. I thought I could carry it with me. But when I saw him, I...” She groaned. “I've been such a bloody fool!”

“No, I won't abide that,” Roan said, pointing at her. He slipped his fingers under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You've been a vibrant, beautiful woman who has quenched her thirst for life. If you denounce our adventure for
that
popinjay, you will slay my poor heart.” He cupped her face. “You won't slay me, will you, Prudence?”

Prudence couldn't resist a small smile. “No.”

“Good girl,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I'd hate to strangle a man before supper.”

Prudence sighed and rested her head against his chest. “What do we do now?”

“What can we do? We're here. I must inquire after Aurora. So I suggest we take the bath Lady Penfors has graciously offered. We'll attend this insufferable supper and hopefully find Aurora there or at least hear some word of her, some idea of where she might have gone. And then, we take our leave of Howston Hall. As you said, in the end, no one will be the wiser.”

“You don't understand, Roan! He is an
earl
, he moves in the same society as my family.”

“Listen to me,” Roan said sternly. “If you see Stanhope at some future date and he is rotten enough to question you, or suggest that you were here, you merely deny it. Prudence Cabot wasn't here tonight. Prudence
Matheson
was. It is the word of a chaste young debutante against a man, and from what you've told me, no one will believe that you, tucked away at Blackwood Hall as you are, will have somehow appeared here without escort or invitation. I can't believe it when I say it out loud.”

“It does seem very simple when you say it,” she said uncertainly.

“I think it is still as simple as it seemed to you in Ashton Down when you put yourself on that stagecoach, Pru. We've come upon a bump in the road, but it's nothing we can't overcome. It's one night. Look at what we've done! And you think a man as namby-pamby as Stanhope will ruin us?
Impossible
. We are a formidable team, Miss Matheson.”

She smiled ruefully. She wanted desperately to agree, and to believe Roan, and when she looked up into his topaz eyes, she could see that he desperately wanted to believe it, too. How she wished she would never return to her life. How she wished that she and Roan could keep looking for his sister, across England, across Europe, across the world, just the two of them surviving by their wits.

“Come here,” he said soothingly, and drew her closer, kissing her softly. When he kissed her like this—so tenderly, so caring—Prudence could believe him. She could believe that this would be all right in the end.

A knock at the door separated them; Roan slipped away from her and allowed the footmen in with the bath, and the maids behind him with the water. “I shall leave you to your bath, Mrs. Matheson,” he said, and picked up his brandy and wandered into the adjoining sitting room.

After a bath, and a bit of brandy herself, and a girl to help her put up her hair, Prudence did feel somewhat better. She was prepared for Stanhope's questions and was determined to make a game of it, staying a step or two ahead of him.

She dressed in a gold silk with delicate embroidery, and a pale green train embroidered with the gold of her gown. The girl who had come to help her dress threaded a green ribbon through Prudence's hair and put it up. After the past two days, Prudence felt a bit like a princess. She donned an emerald necklace and matching earrings and her favorite satin shoes.

Roan was in the sitting room, standing at the window, his hands clasped at his back. He'd dressed in a formal coat with tails and dark trousers. “Roan?”

He turned around at the sound of her voice. A snowy- white neckcloth was tied just below his chin and stood out starkly from the black-and-gold-striped waistcoat he wore. He looked magnificent, as robust and handsome as a man had ever looked to Prudence.
A prince. An American prince
. Her heart swelled with adoration. Or was it love? Whatever she was feeling was deep and flowing.

Roan's gaze slowly moved over her, taking her in. “Dear God, how beautiful you are.”

She blushed with pleasure and glanced down. “That is kind of you to say.”

“You are as lovely a woman as I have ever seen in my life.” He shook his head. “But you must hear that from many admirers. They must all tell you what a unique beauty you are.”

Prudence laughed self-consciously. “No.”

“I mean it,” he said, and touched the back of his hand to her cheek, then brushed his knuckles against her décolletage. “You have astounded me every day, but tonight, you've taken my breath away.” He leaned down, kissed her tenderly on the lips.

She smiled and stroked his jaw. “I adore you, do you know it?” She twined her hands around his neck and pulled his head down. “You're very handsome yourself. I suppose
you
hear that from all the little birds flitting about you in America, don't you?”

“Birds don't flit around me,” he said, and kissed her as his hands slid down her ribs, to her hips. But he didn't linger, lifting his head with a sigh. “You're a temptress. I would like nothing better than to tear that gown from you now, seam by seam.” He ran his thumb lightly across her lip. “How did it happen? How were you standing on that green in Ashton Down on the day, the hour, the moment, I should arrive?”

“I would ask the same of you.”

“For the rest of my life, I will ask myself that question.” He shook his head and kissed the top of her head. “All right, then, Prudence, chin up. Smile at them as you've smiled at me, and they will be charmed to their toes and eating out of our hands by midnight.”

She slipped her hand into his. “I confess I prefer the little fire on the brook with only you and me and the nag.”

Roan laughed. “Never let it be said that Roan Matheson doesn't know how to woo a lady.”

* * *

I
T
WAS
ONLY
half-past seven, too early for supper, and yet there were at least two dozen souls in the salon if there was one, and all of them appeared to have been in the wine for hours.

Penfors greeted them at the door and insisted on taking them around, introducing them around as “Stanhope's guests.” Stanhope, Prudence noticed, did not attempt to correct Penfors, but merely smiled at Prudence as if they'd conspired together in this.

She refused to acknowledge him, her skin tingling with the agony of her dread.

Roan's gaze scanned the crowd, searching for his sister. All the while, Lord Vanderbeck, a thin man lacking a firm chin, was quite taken with the idea that Roan would hail from New York, and caught him up in a torrent of questions. What was the commerce, how did the navy fare, had he ever been to Philadelphia. Roan answered politely and seemed at ease with the gentleman.

Vanderbeck was tedious, and Prudence found herself looking around, too, for a woman who might resemble Roan. She was so intent on her search that she was startled when Lady Penfors appeared at her elbow.

“You don't want to listen to
that
blowing wind,” Lady Penfors said loudly, apparently uncaring if Vanderbeck heard her or not. “Come, there are others for you to meet.”

Prudence was introduced to the young, ginger-haired Mr. Fitzhugh, who very openly admired her décolletage. Mr. and Mrs. Gastineau barely spared her a look. Mr. Redmayne and his companion, Mr. True, politely greeted her, and Mr. True pointed out his sister, the widow Barton. Prudence recognized the widow Barton as the woman in ruby who had so exuberantly leaped off her horse to greet Stanhope.

And then she saw Lord Stanhope a few feet away, his gaze locked on her. It seemed she would have his undivided attention once again. He started in her direction, but Lady Penfors barreled in between them.

“Stanhope, I wonder why you've not introduced Mrs. Barton to your friend.”

Prudence avoided Stanhope's gaze. “How do you do?” she asked politely of the woman.

Mrs. Barton had lively brown eyes and a charmingly dimpled smile. “Oh my,
you're
quite a beauty, aren't you?” she said as she surveyed Prudence from the ribbon in her hair to the tips of her satin slippers.

“This is Mrs. Matheson,” Lady Penfors practically bellowed.

“Ah...” Prudence could feel the rush of heat to her face. She frantically thought of how to correct Lady Penfors, but Mrs. Barton spoke first.

“What a
stunning
gown,” she said approvingly. “It looks to be the work of Mrs. Dracott,” she added, referring to the most sought-after modiste in London.

Prudence had never dreamed anyone would make note of her gown. As it happened, it
was
the work of Mrs. Dracott and Prudence was momentarily stunned into silence. Mrs. Dracott's clientele was very elite. To admit she wore a Dracott gown was tantamount to admitting she was more than what she'd let on.

Mrs. Barton laughed roundly at Prudence's momentary fluster. “I've stepped in it, haven't I? I've forgotten that Mrs. Dracott's gowns are above the reach of most. I've been
very
fortunate in that regard.” She turned a little to her right and to her left to draw attention to her pale rose silk gown.

“It's beautiful,” Prudence said, realizing she was meant to comment.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Barton said with a wink. “I should like to paint
your
gown!” she said with a swirl of her fan above her head, and Prudence wasn't entirely certain if she meant to paint on her gown, or copy it onto a canvas. “Who has made it?”

“Who?” Prudence repeated, then cleared her throat as she desperately searched for an answer. “My, ah...my mother.”

Stanhope chuckled, drawing Prudence's attention.

“Silly man!” Mrs. Barton said, and leaned against Stanhope. “What, do you think that only a modiste might put thread to fabric? Of
course
her mother fashioned her gown!”

“If you say so,” Stanhope said, smiling at Prudence.

Prudence's heart began to sink to her toes. She had the very nauseating feeling that Stanhope was referring to
her
mother in particular, that he somehow knew it was impossible for her mother to sew anything—much less a gown as intricate as this.

“I can very well imagine that lovely train swimming about behind you as you dance,” Mrs. Barton said. She suddenly gasped. “That's it! We must have a dance. Lady Penfors!” she shouted, forcing Prudence to lean back as she waved her fan across Prudence in the direction of Lady Penfors.

That was the worst idea—Prudence was certain she'd be made to stand up with Stanhope.

“A grand idea,” Lady Penfors called back. “Yes, yes, we must, straightaway, after we dine. Cyril! Where are you, Cyril? Send down to the village for musicians at once!”

“Is it possible to find musicians at this late hour?” Prudence asked, trying to derail the plans for dancing.

“You can't object. It's been decided,” Mrs. Barton trilled as the harried butler reached his mistress's side.

There was a lively conversation between Lady Penfors and Cyril after which Cyril scurried away, gesturing for a footman, and Lady Penfors began to clap her hands as if she were trying to gain the attention of a group of children. “Attention! Attention everyone! Supper is served. Find your partners, please, and prepare to promenade!”