Scandal's Child Read online

  “Have you called Comstock in to look at her?” Jeremy found it difficult to get the words out. Comstock was the village doctor. He would be the natural choice. He gazed into his tankard and swirled the liquid, waiting for John’s answer.

  “Comstock died.”

  Jeremy stilled. He raised his tankard to his lips. Miranda was alone.

  And free.

  Irritated with himself, he shook off the thought and smiled at his brother. “Let’s be off to Longley then. I’m sure there’s a pile of work waiting for me by now. It will seem strange occupying father’s office.”

  “The estate is a mess. Charles Longstreet was an admirable steward. Father liked him immensely, but for some reason, Mama dismissed him the minute Father fell ill. Claimed he was disrespectful. I think you’ll want to find him and bring him back.”

  Another blow. What other surprises might he find?

  They finished their ale and made their way to the street. The day was still gray, but the activity on the dock was brisk. Jeremy’s trunk was now loaded on the back of their coach, so he climbed in, his brother following, and the coachman closed the door firmly.

  Jeremy sat back on the leather squabs and stretched his booted legs. The trip to Longley would take the rest of the day unless they stopped for the night. He could use the time to quiz his brother further and get caught up on estate news. Having no other siblings, he and John had always been close. It was good to be back and to have him here.

  Thoughts of Mary Anne drifted into his head. A fire. Dreadful, but so common in London. He’d paid for insurance and marked the house with the company’s logo. A fire company would have been dispatched. But few buildings in London survived a conflagration. Had the fire started in the kitchen? Most did. In his plantation house in the Indies, the kitchen was in a separate building, apart from the main structure. Food was brought into the main house at mealtime. It was a much-safer arrangement. It was not possible to do that in a crowded city.

  “Tell me more about the estate. Has it been a good year for crops?” Jeremy asked.

  “Barely eked out enough for the tenants.”

  “And what about you? Are you courting some doting heiress, or have you not found anyone to your taste?”

  “No heiresses. No courting. That’s your job.” John stared at his boots.

  “Not still looking at buying a commission, are you?” Jeremy asked. He knew his brother chafed at being forced to stay behind when he longed to be fighting Napoleon. But with Jeremy in Jamaica, Father had insisted he remain at Longley, and John had reluctantly obeyed.

  Funny how we both jumped to do Father’s bidding, hoping for a crumb of affection from a man we both loved, but who never seemed to have time for us.

  “It’s up to you, brother,” John said. “Do your duty and get an heir. Then I can make my own choices.”

  Guilt gnawing his insides, Jeremy loosened his cravat and twisted his neck. Had his absence kept his brother from following his own dreams? Father had asked him to stay in Jamaica until the plantation was profitable. Because of the war and various blockades, it hadn’t happened yet, but it had potential.

  John gazed out the window at the passing scenery, a wistful expression on his face. Was he thinking of the battles he had missed?

  “What of the neighbors?” Jeremy asked, figuring the topic safe. “Are they well? Does Squire Markham still have the prime filly he swore he was going to train to race?”

  “Good heavens, no. He sold the horse years ago and made a pretty penny on it, too. Our stable is the same. Your horse, Gladiator, is still our primary sire. I’m sure he’ll be glad to have you back. The grooms exercise him, but he hasn’t been ridden much since you left.”

  “And I’ll be glad to have him under me.” Jeremy folded his arms and leaned back. The smell of leather and tobacco drifted through the interior.

  Progress proved slow. Traffic was heavy on the road north.

  The swaying carriage, buffed to a glow and complete with his coat of arms emblazoned on the side, crawled through the busy streets. Vendors shouted out their wares, some lifting meat pasties in their hands, waving them in front of his window. Stalls with summer roses, ripe fruit, and muffins were patronized by men in top hats and frock coats. A street urchin begged for pennies in a nearby alley.

  In the parks they passed, trees were in full leaf. When they left Bristol behind, the vistas changed to open fields, many with grazing sheep. He’d missed all this, more than he wanted to admit. He was the Earl of Longley, he had an estate to put to rights, and he was on his way to his village and his ancestral home.

  And yet, as the miles drifted past, a growing tightness stiffened his shoulders. What would he do when he saw Miranda again? Five years had passed, but the thought of her still rubbed him raw. She had played him for a fool.

  He remembered his disappointment when she had not come to the ship. He’d sent the note with a reliable lad, and he had been sure Father would find a way to get his letter to Miranda, along with the coin she’d need to join him. Papa had favored the match, perhaps because it enraged Mother who was rather high in the instep and thought Miranda unsuitable.

  Not only had she ignored his summons, but he’d never heard from her again. Months later he’d been told she married Comstock.

  He’d been so sure of her. How naïve he’d been.

  If she’d come to me, she’d be Countess of Longley now.

  Chapter 4

  Longley Manor, one day later

  Sitting tall in the saddle of his brother’s horse, Jeremy rode through the iron gates of his estate. He took off his hat and let the breeze ruffle his hair, enjoying the smell of pine and wet earth from the woods around him. It seemed odd not to see open fields of sugar cane and hear dark-skinned workers singing in the distance. The woods were dark, damp, and eerily quiet. But they spoke to him, and the words whispered “home.”

  En route to Longley they had stopped for the night, giving them plenty of time to get reacquainted. He was glad they’d chosen an unhurried journey. Today he was rested and refreshed and opted to ride the rest of the way. John remained inside the carriage, preferring to doze.

  As they passed through the village, Jeremy drank in the scene around him. The blacksmith hammered an iron shoe outside his barn. The tailor and the milliner shops had new signs, and from the bakery wafted tantalizing smells of freshly baked bread. The coach drew a few curious eyes, but people went about their daily tasks as they had for decades.

  Jeremy slanted a glance at the vicar’s cottage as they passed the church, but only long enough to notice untended roses and a weed-infested garden. If Miranda had returned to her father’s house, the garden would be neat. She must not be there. Where had she gone?

  Looking off into the trees, he thought he saw the roof of the summerhouse, where he and Miranda had pledged their love.

  Before she betrayed me and married the village doctor.

  Comstock had been a competent physician who treated him when he fell out of a tree and broke his arm. He probably attended his birth. Mother, who often imagined herself ill, insisted on a resident doctor, even providing a modest house for him to use. John said it was vacant now except for the housekeeper.

  Longley Manor’s stone façade loomed in the distance, and pride quickened in Jeremy’s chest. This was his now . . . his estate, his responsibility.

  His debts.

  He halted while the carriage pulled up next to him. John hailed him from the open window.

  “Are you going to ride to the front door?” he asked.

  “I thought I might.”

  “Grand entrance, huh?”

  “Not so grand.”

  “Mother will have the staff lined up to greet you outside. Mark my words.”

  “Are you serious?”

 
“She’s a pretentious old dame, in case you’ve forgotten, and she knows you’re coming. Remember the outrider rode ahead to inform her.”

  Jeremy waved the carriage on and brought up the rear. As they drew closer, he saw his brother was right. Lined up on both sides of the front steps must be every employee of Longley, from the butler to the scullery maids, although the number seemed far fewer than he recalled. In the center was his mother, the dowager countess, resplendent even in her black mourning gown.

  As Jeremy dismounted, Mother came forward and raised her powdered cheek for a kiss. “Welcome home, my dear.” She took his arm and led the way up the circular steps at the front entrance. As they passed, staff members bowed or curtsied, and he greeted them, although there were very few he knew. John stood by the carriage, grinning.

  “Jonathan, please join us.” The countess’s request, made from the top of the broad steps, was a command, and his brother doffed his hat, made her a slight bow, and directed the footmen to unload the luggage.

  Jeremy followed his mother into the house.

  The entry hall, bracketed by two curving staircases and a chandelier with multiple candles hanging in the center, was still grand. The marble floor gleamed, and the bust of a long-dead poet still guarded the entrance to the hallway. Ascending to the drawing room, Jeremy scanned the room and focused on the windows.

  “I see you have new draperies,” he said. Dark gold silk flanked each window. A fire burned in the hearth, warming the room, and dainty green chairs were strategically placed near the tea table.

  “I detested the old ones.” Seating herself, Mother called for tea. It arrived with scones, bread and butter, and lemon biscuits. Jeremy took a plain scone from the tray, topped it with lemon curd, and bit into it . . . heaven indeed.

  “Ah, I forgot how good these scones are.” Jeremy stood with cup in hand, looking around. “New pictures?”

  “A few. You know how dark the others were. Impossible to clean.”

  “And where are the dogs?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “I’m afraid they now reside in the kennel. It was your father’s idea to allow them free run of the house.”

  “I see.” Jeremy did see. His mother had taken over. As there was nobody to challenge her, she had been free to do as she pleased and spend what she wanted. She couldn’t afford it. His father had not been a gambler. His vices were more visceral. But a neglected estate was not a prosperous one, and, like many of his peers, he had left scores of debts when he died.

  Jeremy did not begrudge his mother simple pleasures. If making small changes in the house made her happy, then so be it. It was her home, too. He had no wife to run his household. The task was still his mother’s. But he couldn’t understand why she felt the need to make so many changes and was surprised she hadn’t consulted him first. To be fair, a letter took months to reach Jamaica. Perhaps she’d talked to John.

  The spending has to stop.

  “Do you still dine late?” he asked.

  “We do. But I don’t expect you and Jonathan to dine with me tonight. You must be tired from your journey.”

  “Nonsense. We shall be there. I confess, I’ve missed English cooking.”

  “Nice of you to join us, Jonathan,” the countess said, glaring at her younger son as he strode into the room and headed straight to the brandy decanter.

  “Don’t you want something stronger than tea?” John asked, nodding toward his brother.

  “Tea is fine. But I’m thinking a good bottle of claret from the cellar won’t be amiss for dinner tonight.”

  “What’s this, scones?” John picked up the plate, eyeing its contents. “Cook hasn’t made them in an age.” He chose two, put them on a small plate, and wolfed one down before he found his chair.

  “I just hired a new cook.”

  “I see. A good one, it seems.” John took another and an odd look crossed his face.

  The dowager countess sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, her regal posture erect and her teacup held at just the correct height. Jeremy wondered if she ever engaged in merriment. He always remembered his mother with pursed lips and a disapproving air, as though she found fault with the very air she breathed.

  He didn’t find it surprising his father had strayed. Sometimes he wondered how he and his brother were conceived. He stole another glance at Mother. Aside from a bit of weight loss, she seemed healthy enough. John must have imagined her illness. She was gay and chatty, as though she had no cares in the world.

  “Well, Mother,” Jeremy said, “I see you are just as ebullient and full of life as usual, so I will get out of your way and rid myself of travel dirt.”

  “But I want to hear about the plantation. And your plans, now you are home.”

  “Tonight at dinner, I shall give you and John an account of my activities these past few years.”

  “Very well.” She focused her stare on John. “I suppose you are leaving, too?”

  “I am. But after changing, I am going to the stables. Care to join me, Jer?”

  “I am anxious to see my stallion.”

  They left the drawing room and took the stairs two at a time, just as they had when they were boys. John made it to the top first, laughing as his brother pushed his way past and bumped to a stop against a door at the end of the hall.

  “Hey, Jer. That’s not your room anymore. You’re in Father’s suite in the other wing.”

  Jeremy stopped and put both hands on the door, feeling its rough texture under his fingertips, as though absorbing the remnants of his boyhood through the wood. Of course, his mother would have ordered his belongings moved to the earl’s suite. The dowager was a strict observer of propriety. He took a deep breath and fingered the handle. John came up behind him and rested his hands on his shoulders.

  “Go ahead. Open the door. Let’s see what our dear mother has done to your room.”

  Jeremy pushed it wide. His bed was still in its place, but the top of the Hepplewhite chest of drawers was bare, and shelves on walls around the room were empty. A terrible sense of loss engulfed him. Perhaps the emptiness was a tangible reminder his father was truly gone.

  “There’s nothing here for you now,” John said. “Your life is in the suite in the south wing. This room is where you left your youthful dreams. Now you live in a room full of realities and responsibilities.”

  “Youthful dreams? God, you sound like a poet. Or a philosopher.” Jeremy shook off John’s hands and strode into his old room. The window looked out over the kitchen garden and out toward the hills beyond. He could see the summerhouse through the trees.

  “Memories?” John folded his arms and nodded toward the window.

  “Indeed. The main one is I beat you at chess in this room, over and over and over.”

  “Hey, I’m the restless one, remember? You’re the guy who can focus with a full regiment marching in the background.”

  Jeremy swept the chest of drawers with his hand, enjoying the smooth texture of the highly polished wood. “Let’s go see what our dear mama has done with my belongings.”

  Winding through endless hallways, they finally arrived at stately doors of hammered copper. Jeremy lifted his hand to knock, caught himself, and strode into the room. A high, wide bed dominated. Heavy dark-blue bed hangings had been pulled back to reveal a carved headboard with matching newel posts.

  “Have you ever wondered, John, why there are snakes in our coat of arms?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the ancestor who was hanged a century ago?”

  “You mean the earl who robbed coaches for fun? Or the one who stole the king’s mistress?”

  “We do have a few serpents in our past.”

  They both hissed at the same time. John guffawed and slapp
ed his brother’s shoulder.

  “Ow.”

  “Oh, sorry. I forgot about your arm.”

  “I don’t know if I can sleep here, John. Those damn snakes are carved into the headboard and wind up the bedposts.”

  “You could solve the problem. Never sleep alone.”

  “I’m not the type to seduce housemaids.”

  “Ah, but I’m not talking about a servant. I’m talking about a wife. Now that you’re home, it’s time you secured the succession.”

  “We had this conversation yesterday.”

  John smirked. “Let’s see . . . it’s been twenty, maybe twenty-four hours? No time to waste.”

  “What’s the matter, John? Not anxious to be the next Earl?”

  “Good God, no. I prefer living off your bounty, what’s left of it. Besides, if the war ends before I can get into it, I’m thinking of taking up residence in the small estate our dear grandmother left me in Yorkshire.”

  “Too far away, brother. I need you here, if for no other reason than to deal with our mother. It appears she’s been spending a bit freely since Father died.”

  “You noticed.” John walked around the room. He stopped in front of a door and yanked it open for them both to see. All of Jeremy’s old clothes hung in neat rows inside the changing room. Walking through to the other side, he called out, “Jer, come see this. Our dear mama’s been busy. This room was empty last time I looked. Mother hasn’t used it in decades. I think she’s going to hound you more than I am to get yourself to town to find a wife this season.”

  Jeremy moved to the door and tamped down the anger threatening to choke him. Instead of the tasteful room he remembered, everything was decorated in hues of pink and gold. How dare she assume he would rush off to the marriage mart and find some biddable chit to bring home to this room? He was well aware of his duty and the necessity, but he had to choose with care. He’d only committed to one woman—ever—and look how that debacle had ended.