Scandal's Child Read online

  He wasn’t prepared for the thunderclap of emotional pain that struck him. He thought those feelings were all in the past. Holding tight to the doorframe, he turned to his brother. “Let’s remove ourselves. I can really use that ride.”

  “Don’t you want to rest or anything?”

  “Here? Never.” Jeremy strode out the door and back the way they came. Encountering his valet, who was emerging from the servants’ stairs, he stopped. “Lewis. Get all my stuff and move it back into my old room.”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “Don’t argue. I’m going out.” Looking back at his brother, he said, “Are you coming with me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Jeremy closed the ledger with a thud. So much to learn, and it was all very different from the sugar business.

  It had taken him two weeks to sort through the mess, but he’d finally reached a firm conclusion. They were nearly destitute. He had to get to town and marry an heiress. The sooner the better.

  On his second day home, he and John had ridden throughout the estate, checking on the needs of tenants. The land remained unchanged. Crops and animals were sparse but healthy. But tenant cottages were in poor repair. A small bridge looked about to collapse, and one of their main tracks through the estate had suffered flood damage.

  Back at the house, they had inspected the steward’s meticulous records. Until the last entry, finances had been in order. Now there was a stack of unpaid bills and there were no account entries for the past four months. Mother must have purchased everything on credit. He wondered when and how the household servants were being paid.

  Sitting back in his father’s chair, Jeremy studied the room he remembered as his father’s inner sanctum. Dark paneling covered the walls. On the far wall was a portrait of his mother as a young matron, wearing a blood-red dress and perched stiffly in a chair. The artist had captured a handsome woman with a narrow face and patrician nose, looking bored and uncomfortable. On another wall was a fireplace with a wide mantel. A crystal decanter and two glasses were set out on a small table between two dark-brown upholstered chairs, both facing the fireplace. Light blazed from a chandelier set with candles in the center of the room. It was a cozy hideaway, dominated by an elaborately carved French oak desk, his father’s particular extravagance. Jeremy thought back to the simple furnishings of his plantation office. He would probably never see it again.

  In Jamaica, the work was endless and posed unique problems. As a man who’d treated his slaves with dignity, he was sometimes scorned by his neighbors who feared uprisings. But Jeremy had decided early, slavery was wrong and should be banned. Once the estate no longer needed attention, he would turn his focus to the House of Lords and work with people like William Wilberforce in the Commons to draft bills aimed at abolishing the purchase and sale of human beings.

  A knock at the door pulled him back from his reverie. The countess flounced into the room, a moue of distaste on her face.

  “I was told you persist in remaining in your old room.” She seated herself across the desk in a high-backed wooden chair. Today she wore an elaborate dress with panniers and a powdered wig, fashionable more than a decade ago.

  “My old room is perfectly suited to my needs.” Jeremy sat forward, folding his arms across his chest, daring her to be critical.

  “As you wish, but you can see I went to considerable expense to get the earl’s suite ready for you and . . .” She hesitated, as if not knowing whether to finish. “and your future bride.”

  “You know, Mother, when I marry, I might just move into it then. For now, I suggest you lock the door and put away the key. I may not need it for some years.”

  Raising her chin a fraction, the countess examined her eldest son as though he were a pesky mosquito buzzing just out of reach.

  “It is time to begin your search. I know how . . . independent . . . you are. I’m sure you will be very particular and choose wisely, keeping your heritage in mind. You should go to London immediately. The Season is underway.”

  “I’m in mourning.”

  “Then wear your black armband. I am told there is a good crop of debutantes this year.”

  “Really? And how would you know? I thought you’d been here rusticating for the past six months, and before that you’d been locked away tending poor, sick Father in London.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me. I correspond with a number of my friends. I still know what’s best for you.”

  “Do you, Mother? I am relieved. Now, if you don’t mind, I still have some work to do. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  She shot up, grabbed the high back, and tossed the chair out of her way, glaring at her son. Astonished at her strength, as much as her fit of temper, Jeremy sat as if turned to stone. The only sound in the room was the pounding of his heart.

  The countess was the first to look away.

  “I am so sorry, my dear,” she said, her eyes sliding to the chair, as if it would right itself if she willed it. “I have no idea what came over me.”

  Smiling now, she examined the chair and lifted it to its proper place. Putting her hands on her hips, she tilted her head like a coquette. “You do forgive your dear mama, do you not? I am a little out of sorts today.”

  She laughed as she flounced from the room.

  Jeremy couldn’t move. They’d been having an ordinary conversation about debutantes and London—nothing to warrant such an outburst.

  Bloody hell. What is going on?

  He went back to his pile of ledgers, but he put down his pen and reflected on what he’d just witnessed. This was not normal behavior. He’d never known her to have such a temper. Mother had always been proper to the point of absurdity. She never lost control.

  After a few minutes’ fruitless effort to concentrate, he pushed back the chair and strode to the French doors on the far side of the room. What he needed was a good walk to clear his head. A short hike to the village might help.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jeremy couldn’t believe how good it felt to be home again. He took the path through the woods, breathing in the fragrances of wood and pine. Stopping on a stone bridge spanning a creek swollen from a recent rain, he wondered if he’d always associate these woods with Miranda. The summerhouse wasn’t far, but he wouldn’t go there today. After five years, he still thought about the day he waited at the docks, coaxing the captain to delay departure just a few minutes longer. He’d been sure he would see her hurrying down the quay with a portmanteau in hand and wearing her special smile that reminded him of sunlight warming the earth on a chilly day. What a fool he’d been.

  He picked up a stone and threw it as hard as he could against a tree. It just didn’t make sense. She had loved him, hadn’t she? Where was she?

  Father had been his secret ally. He had approved of the liaison. Perhaps, after all, he had not approved of the match. Sadly, he was no longer here to ask. Surely he would have let him know if such had been the case. In a letter commenting on Miranda’s marriage, he never wrote another word except, “Buck up, there are more fish in the sea.”

  Maybe the answer was simple. Maybe she was just like her errant mother. Miranda had certainly enjoyed his lovemaking. In the months just prior to his departure, their need for each other seemed endless. He could still picture her in the lantern light, her alabaster skin warm to his touch, her full breasts straining toward his lips, her back arching in anticipation. She’d been as eager as he’d been for their assignations.

  His cock stirred beneath his smallclothes. God help me. I still want her.

  He exhaled and hurried along. Reaching the road, he walked at a brisker pace. The church steeple loomed in the distance. When he reached the church, he stopped to pay his respects to his father, who was buried in the family mausoleum in the adjoining cemetery. The crypt resem
bled a small stone house, and several of his ancestors dwelled there. One day he would join them.

  Jeremy rested for a moment on the bench outside the mausoleum door, thinking about his relationship with his father. How could two people be so close and never know the other? Conversations had been impossible. The earl spent a great deal of his time in London, and he was always pursuing a horse or a card game. Or a woman. Both he and his brother knew their father despised their mother. They were equally sure he loved them, although he did little to show it.

  A sound startled him out of his reverie. A short man, his head bent, plodded toward him. Jeremy recognized him at once.

  The Reverend Carlyle looked older than his years. He’d grown paunchy, and gray strands covered his balding pate. Shoulders hunched, he made his way forward as though carrying an unseen burden that slowed his progress. Jeremy wondered what his reception would be when the vicar finally looked up and saw him. It might tell him if he’d known about his request to Miranda to join him all those years ago and if he’d been the one who stopped her.

  Jeremy kicked at a toadstool. What a lovesick dolt he’d been, waiting for letters from her that never came. Not one.

  “My lord, is that you?” The vicar raised his hand to shade his eyes, looking in Jeremy’s direction.

  “I’m afraid it is. How are you?” Jeremy rose and took a few steps until he stood in front of the older man.

  “Fine. Fine. Will you be staying, or is this just a visit?”

  “Longley is my home now. The plantation has been left with a competent manager. I’m off to London in a day or two to meet with my solicitor.”

  The old vicar looked perplexed and nodded, his black coat flapping behind him. “Of course. You are the earl now. Let me offer you my belated condolences, sir. Your father was a good man and patron.”

  “Thank you.” It was obvious he harbored no ill feelings, nor did he treat him with anything but respect. Of course, the Longley vicar’s post could be continued or replaced with another clergyman at the whim of the earl, who had authority over the appointment. Perhaps that was why Carlyle was willing to forgive and forget. But Jeremy was beginning to think he had not known of his relationship with Miranda.

  “While I have your ear, my lord, I would like to take this opportunity to ask you for new prayer books for the parish church. And perhaps refurbishment of a few of the pews? I would ask your mother, the countess, but since you are here . . . and I see little of her these days. She is not a regular at church.”

  “Make your petition in writing. I shall take care of it.” Jeremy waved his hand in dismissal.

  “Oh, thank you, sir. You always were a good-hearted lad, and smart, too.” The vicar bowed deeply to Jeremy and stood a little straighter; his thin lips were in a tight smile.

  “I must go now. It was good seeing you.” Jeremy made his escape, but he stopped and looked back for a moment. The vicar was still watching him. “I say, is your daughter living with you now? I understand she, too, suffered a loss.”

  The vicar scowled and folded his arms in front of him. “I have no daughter.” He turned and continued to plod down the path.

  What a strange answer, Jeremy thought. Had he not approved her marriage to Comstock? It wasn’t a brilliant match, but it was respectable. What else would make him renounce his only child?

  And why do I care?

  Being home was bringing back too many memories. He must put Miranda from his mind, once and for all. Maybe he would look over the current crop of debutantes when he got to town. The sooner the better. Almack’s was such a bore, but they would all be there. Better yet, he’d accept all the invitations sure to come his way once it was known he was back.

  Until then, perhaps he could find a willing woman to satisfy his needs . . . a bored wife or a wealthy widow looking for sport. He was not one to visit brothels, nor could he afford to keep a mistress, as was the fashion. But he knew from experience, obliging women were plentiful, and he desperately needed to keep his thoughts from dwelling on Miranda.

  He took another path out of the churchyard and doubled back toward the Manor. It was time to visit the summerhouse and lay the ghost to rest once and for all. It could be done now, he thought, as he filled his lungs with clean air and felt sun warming the top of his head. As he turned toward the forest, he made a promise to himself. He was the Earl of Longley. His estate was once prosperous and could be again. The future was his to determine. And by God, he was going to make the most of it.

  He would start with a visit to the child.

  Chapter 5

  Jeremy jumped down from his brother’s phaeton and looked up at the windows of the narrow house. Flanked on both sides by identical buildings, it had four curved steps leading to the front door.

  An adequate house in a respectable neighborhood.

  John had chosen well.

  He waited for John to join him before knocking. No movement stirred the curtains, and no smoke spiraled from its chimneys. It was the only house on the street without a fire on this bright, but chilly, afternoon. It must be cold inside.

  “Don’t I provide enough money to the household staff to afford peat or wood for a fire?”

  “It’s the child,” John said. “A fire would frighten her. They never light one in her room, and they forego fires in the rest of the house until they know she is tucked away.”

  “How does she stay warm?” Jeremy pictured layers of clothing or a cocoon of blankets with a small head peeping over the top.

  “Warming pans keep her bed comfortable, and she wears shawls over her clothing. Remember, she’s blind, so she doesn’t go out.”

  Though he knew little about the care of invalids, Jeremy thought keeping them confined seemed reasonable.

  The door opened and a housemaid bobbed a curtsy.

  “Please inform the housekeeper that Mr. Montague and the Earl of Longley are here. We shall wait in the front parlor.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  They climbed the stairs to a shabby but clean space with heavy green curtains at the windows and mismatched furniture scattered around the room. Jeremy stood in the center and squinted at a picture hanging on one wall. Turning, he strode to the front windows and pulled back the draperies to allow light in.

  “I never realized how gloomy London could be until I went to the Indies,” Jeremy said. “The sun shines all the time there. There is rain, almost daily, but it feels warm against your face, and in two or three minutes the shower stops and your clothes dry in the constant winds.”

  “It is a bit dark in here.” John plumped the cushions of a gold-upholstered settee before he sat down.

  Jeremy marveled at how large his brother looked on delicate furnishings; his long, booted legs stretched out in front of him.

  John grinned up at him. “Come, sit down. You look like a nervous tabby. It’s just a child we’re visiting. She won’t pull your tail.”

  “You accuse me of being nervous? You’re the one who was twitching in that ostentatious phaeton of yours.”

  A flash of guilt crossed John’s face. Jeremy could have sworn he was hiding something.

  “Quit changing the subject. Have you decided what to do about Phoebe?”

  “No. But I don’t like leaving her here. This place is depressing.”

  And it’s one more expense I don’t need.

  “I don’t disagree, but it was the best I could do on short notice.”

  Jeremy stared back out toward the street. “I think we should take her to the country.”

  John sputtered. “To Longley? Are you out of your mind? Mother would love having Father’s by-blow underfoot.”

  “It’s not her decision.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s yours. But don’t you think it would be a bit unconventional?”

&nb
sp; Jeremy sighed. Phoebe was impaired. Invalids were kept indoors where they could be watched and kept safe. Longley was a much better place for the child. Rooms were larger and there was more staff. But John had a point. Mother was still in the country.

  Someone flung open the door and rushed into the room, skirts rustling.

  “John! I am so glad you are here. I have many questions for you, and you have been annoyingly absent.”

  Jeremy’s spine solidified into a rigid post. His breath caught in his throat, threatening to choke him. He closed his eyes, leaning on the windowsill, hard under his clenched fingers. Except for the clock, the room was silent behind him. No chair scraped the floor. No one coughed. Shouldn’t there be noise? And then the low pitch of her voice caressed his ears, so soft he wondered if she really addressed him.

  “Jeremy.”

  He turned slowly around and glared at John, who seemed to shrink into his seat, his gaze cast downward. Jeremy tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and he was afraid his voice would squeak when he finally spoke. Holding his breath, he raised his eyes to the face in front of him, the face he saw in his dreams all too often, the face he desperately wanted to forget.

  “Mrs. Comstock. What a surprise.” He tried to force a polite smile, but he couldn’t. His lips were too tight, his fists rigid at his side.

  She made a deep curtsy and stepped back, but she didn’t look away. Her eyes were as blue as he remembered, and her golden hair was caught up in a neat chignon at the back of her neck. A lacy cap, larger than a kerchief, perched on her head. She wore a faded dress of black muslin, which outlined her slight frame. And her scent—the one he always associated with her—wafted across the space to tease his nose.