Scandal's Child Read online

  “You are Longley now.” She didn’t smile, but her lips were still perfectly formed, the lower fuller than the upper. They were lips he once loved to taste and run his tongue over and around before parting, causing Miranda to moan.

  “Yes.” Was that croak really his voice?

  “My condolences on the loss of your father.”

  “Thank you.”

  They stood facing one another, not knowing what to do next. He should say something, but his mind had blanked as though he were in a trance, like the spirits of the dead his Jamaican servants believed in. He should acknowledge her loss, but the words wouldn’t come. When did John say Comstock died? He couldn’t remember, but she still wore black. The color did not become her.

  John moved between them and took Miranda’s hands in his own, raising one to his lips.

  “You are looking well. Would you fetch Phoebe? We’d like to see her if it is convenient. Then you are welcome to rejoin us to give us an update on her progress.”

  “Certainly.” She fled the room.

  Jeremy watched her go, her skirt swishing as she disappeared through the door. He turned to John and grabbed him.

  “What in blazes is going on?” Jeremy didn’t bother to keep his voice low. He held on to his brother’s shoulders, as if to shake him. “Why didn’t you tell me the nurse you hired was Miranda Comstock? Are you daft? Is she a proper companion for a child? Look at her past. Her mother ran off with an actor.”

  “Let go of me.”

  Jeremy dropped his hands.

  John stumbled back, falling into a nearby chair. “Since when is it appropriate to judge people by their parents? Do you really believe what you just said? You want people to think you’re as high in the instep as Mother? Or a skirt-chaser like Father?”

  Jeremy put his hands on the mantle. Inhaling deeply, he willed the tightness in his neck to relax. He turned to face his brother. In a quieter tone, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me the day we discussed Mary Anne’s death and the arrangements you made for Phoebe?”

  “Because I was afraid. I didn’t know how you’d act. There was speculation, you know.”

  “What kind of speculation?”

  “That you and Miranda were more than friends. And if you were, and she had married someone else, well . . .” He let the words drift off.

  More than friends? Oh, yes. They had been more than friends, but Jeremy couldn’t believe anyone had found out about those trysts in the summerhouse. They had both been so careful. He could admit it to John. What did it matter now? But something made him hold back. Was it his shame at her betrayal, for believing she really loved him and finding out in the cruelest way she did not? Or was it an ingrained sense of propriety? A gentleman did not go out of his way to tarnish a woman’s reputation, even when she deserved it.

  Abruptly he sat next to his brother, pondering his answer. Before he spoke, the door reopened, and this time a portly woman with gray hair and deep wrinkles came bustling in, followed by a maid with a tea tray laden with sweets. Next to the pot was a decanter of brandy and two glasses.

  “You should have told me you was comin’ today, sir.”

  “Mrs. Jarvis, may I present my brother, the Earl of Longley.”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered, but she managed a curtsy without falling over. “It’s an honor, your lordship, to serve you.”

  “Leave the tray,” said John, “but I believe the earl and I will partake of the brandy. Thank you for bringing it.”

  “Shall I fetch Mrs. Comstock and the child, sir?” She looked to John for guidance.

  “She’s already been here and is bringing Phoebe as we speak. I’ll want to see you before we leave. Will you be in the back parlor or the kitchen?”

  “The kitchen, sir.”

  “Then I’ll find you there.”

  She bustled out, leaving the tray.

  “I’m famished. How about you?” John sauntered over and popped a biscuit into his mouth. “The cook here is above average. Try these.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Jeremy poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass and downed the contents in one gulp. He was still reeling from the shock. Miranda . . . here? Good God.

  “What is wrong with you? You act like Miranda is someone from a street corner, not our childhood friend. Why are you upset? Was there something between you?”

  Jeremy ignored the question. “What does she know about taking care of a child?” Before the thought tumbled out of his mouth, he remembered. There had been a rumor she married Comstock and quickly became enceinte. If so, where was her child?

  “She was married to a doctor, brother dear. She helped him care for the sick even before she married him. For some reason, it was the only thing that old prude Reverend Carlyle allowed her to do. She learned a lot about nursing people and was particularly good with children. She even came a few times with Comstock when he looked in on Father. Sometimes I think Father might have survived if Mother hadn’t brought him to London to be treated by some quack on Harley Street.”

  “She never had children of her own?”

  “No.”

  Jeremy poured himself another brandy and handed a glass and the decanter to John. He didn’t know what he was feeling right now. He still didn’t think Miranda was a suitable companion for Phoebe, but he wouldn’t replace her until he had hired another nurse.

  She had to go.

  Why? Are her skills inadequate, or do you not want to be tempted by her presence?

  All questions he couldn’t . . . no, wouldn’t . . . answer. Instead, he turned to his brother. “There was nothing between us.”

  John sank into the chair, a crooked smile on his face. He raised his glass to Jeremy.

  “Cheers.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Miranda sagged against the wall at the top of the stairs, covering her eyes. The rhythm of her breathing matched her pounding heart. She expected to see John, to flood him with questions, to finally get answers. She had not expected to see Jeremy—his straight back in a perfectly fitted blue coat, his pantaloons hugging his thighs. His hair was longer than she remembered, flowing over the back of his cravat to below the collar of his coat. But his eyes, with their long lashes, still showed fire in their depths as he turned to look at her.

  Pull yourself together. You are not a lovesick girl any longer. Besides, you hate him.

  Why hadn’t John told her his brother was Phoebe’s guardian? Her hands fisted in her skirts. She wanted to throw something.

  Will had always told her to count to ten slowly when she was agitated. She followed his advice now, tempering her breaths to the numbers. She straightened at ten and calmly climbed the remaining stairs to the nursery. Phoebe should have awakened from her afternoon nap. Even at nine years old, she still slept more than she should, probably out of boredom more than anything else.

  I must find things to occupy her time.

  Gaining the child’s trust was a slow process. In the short time she’d been there, Phoebe had accepted her as her nanny, but she was still wary.

  Miranda opened her bedroom door and peeked inside. Phoebe sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, her hands tangled in her long hair.

  “You’re awake, I see. What are you trying to do?”

  “I’m braiding my hair. I think I can do it on my own. How does it look?”

  “Hmm. I would say you need a bit more practice, but you certainly made a good start.” She covered her mouth with her fingers to stifle a snort, but Phoebe heard her anyway.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  The distraction was just what she needed to shake off the shock of seeing Jeremy again. And she had to remain calm in front of Phoebe. The child was good at sensing moods. “Indeed. If you could see it, you would laugh, too. You have spikes
sticking out and a lump near your crown.”

  “Oh, dear.” Phoebe patted her head, feeling the errant strands and trying to smooth the lump.

  “Here, I will do it.” Miranda sat on the bed, unbraided one side, and smoothed it with a brush. Working on the child’s hair soothed her. “You have visitors downstairs. We have to make you presentable.”

  “Who? I don’t know anyone.”

  “Of course, you do. It’s Mr. Montague.”

  “I remember him. He brings me sweets. Did he bring any today?” Phoebe smiled and ran her tongue over her lips. Her eyes looked straight ahead. Miranda turned the child’s head and redid the braid on the other side.

  “I did not see a parcel, but I was not in the room very long.”

  “You said I had visitors. Who else came?”

  “Someone you don’t know. He’s been away for the past five years. He is the Earl of Longley, Mr. Montague’s older brother.”

  “Where has he been?”

  “Jamaica, I believe. It is an island far, far away across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Phoebe bit her lower lip.

  “There.” Miranda twisted the braids on top of Phoebe’s head and fastened them with a pearl clip. “You look lovely now. I will be right back with your best frock.”

  A half an hour passed before Phoebe was ready to descend. Miranda held tight to her arm and placed Phoebe’s other hand on the banister. Slowly they came down the stairs. At the landing, they turned away from the hall and stood in front of the doors to the front parlor. Phoebe’s color was high, whether from excitement or exertion, Miranda could not tell. Steeling herself, Miranda knocked on the door, opened it, and led Phoebe into the room.

  John got up from the chair and squatted in front of the child.

  “Hello, Phoebe. It’s John Montague. I think having Mrs. Comstock here to care for you has been a capital idea. You are looking wonderful.”

  “Remember your curtsy, dear,” Miranda said, bending down to whisper in her ear.

  Phoebe bobbed as she’d been taught, then straightened, reaching out to touch John’s face.

  “You feel scratchy,” she said, giggling.

  “I must fire my valet for not getting a close enough shave to suit a lady,” he said.

  “Did you bring me sweets?”

  “I did, indeed. I will take them to the kitchen before I depart. You can have one after your dinner.”

  “What do you say?” Miranda prompted, trying not to notice Jeremy scowling in the corner.

  “Thank you.”

  John beckoned to Jeremy, who reluctantly came forward.

  “And this is my brother, the Earl of Longley.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir.” She looked straight ahead, not knowing exactly where Jeremy stood. He extended his hand and took hold of hers.

  “You’re all grown up. You were four years old when I saw you last.”

  Phoebe cocked her head, as though listening intently, a frown on her face. Then she smiled broadly.

  “Papa!”

  Chapter 6

  A hush fell over the room.

  Jeremy released the small hand. “I am not your papa, Phoebe.” His voice was gentle, but firm.

  “But . . .”

  “I am not.” He took a step back, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

  Phoebe squeezed Miranda’s hand and burst into tears. She turned and buried her face in Miranda’s skirts. “He is. I remember his voice from when I was little.”

  “I am so sorry. Let me take her back upstairs,” Miranda said, looking only at John. Her back was rigid as she turned and opened the door.

  Phoebe wailed as she was led to the staircase.

  “Stop crying. Concentrate. Hold the banister. Put your right foot up first. There. Now the left. The stairs are the same width and height. You’ve done this many times. Again. Right, then left. You’re almost at the top. Good.”

  She assisted the child the rest of the way and propelled her into the nursery, seating her in a chair, choosing the one opposite.

  “Phoebe, why did you call Lord Longley Papa? And please stop crying.” Anger vibrated in her tone, but Miranda was not upset with the child. Swallowing, she picked up Phoebe’s trembling hands.

  “His voice. I remember his voice.” Phoebe sniffed, and Miranda handed her a handkerchief. Recognizing people by their voices, smells, and even their gaits was one of the child’s special talents. But Jeremy had been gone for years.

  “You couldn’t have been more than four years old when Longley was last in town. How can you remember anything when you were so young?”

  “I don’t know. I just do. You have to believe me.”

  Tears trickled down her cheeks. Miranda wanted to reach over and pull the child out of her chair and into her lap. But she wasn’t ready for affection yet.

  Will had once said children, even those who were very young, sometimes remembered things that happened to them when they were little more than babes.

  “I will not say I do not believe you. It just seems unlikely to me.”

  “Thank you.” She blew her nose.

  Was that the explanation, then? The one she’d been seeking for the past five years? Had Jeremy kept a mistress and child in town at the same time he was claiming to love her, taking her innocence? But he would have been nineteen or twenty if he fathered Phoebe.

  Old enough.

  Anger bubbled into her throat, threatening to close it. She thought the humiliation of Jeremy’s abandonment had died long ago. Apparently, it had not. How could he make love to her so sweetly, so gently, and not mean a word of it? But was it not exactly what he had done? He had made her believe she was his one true love, and then he had sailed off to Jamaica on a night she needed him more than ever, the night she was to tell him she was with child. She ground her teeth.

  “Miranda. Miranda.” Phoebe’s voice was insistent.

  Instead of throwing a book across the room, which would make her instantly feel better, Miranda leaned over and brushed stray hairs off Phoebe’s face. “I am so sorry. I was lost in thoughts that carried me elsewhere. You know I would never ignore you.”

  “I know.” She hesitated. “Were you thinking about Papa?”

  “Actually, I was. But no longer. Nor should you. I think we have had enough drama for the day. Let’s remove this dress. I’ll call the maid to sit with you. I believe I am due back downstairs.”

  Both stood, and Miranda led the child to her room. She unfastened Phoebe’s best frock and slipped it over her head, replacing it with a worn day dress of soft muslin. Leading the child back to the schoolroom, Miranda seated her at the table and smoothed a rug around her legs.

  “I’ll summon Maggie and have her bring a lump of clay for you to shape. Imagine some object, then try to make its shape from the clay.”

  “Like a doll?”

  “Yes, or a cup or plate. You are a clever child. You’ll think of something.” Miranda adjusted a braid on Phoebe’s head. “When I return I shall bring up tea with a sweet from Mr. Montague. No need to wait for dinner.”

  “Promise?”

  “I do.”

  “Then perhaps I should sleep to make the time pass.” Phoebe closed her eyes and pretended to snore. Under normal circumstances, Miranda would have laughed at the child’s quixotic change of mood. She didn’t feel like laughing now. Picking up the soiled handkerchief, she placed it and the wrinkled gown with other garments to be laundered.

  She was still seething when she opened the door to her bedchamber and closed it firmly behind her. Pretending to be calm in front of Phoebe had been difficult. Now she could vent, even if it were only to the wall.

  What a fool I was.

  She thought back five years to the chilly night s
he waited in the summerhouse. She had been so young, so full of love and trust. Jeremy would marry her as soon as he learned her news. Then the countess had arrived, taunting her, insulting her with words that still made her cheeks burn. Maybe the countess knew of the trysts; maybe Jeremy had regaled his entire family with tales of how he seduced the poor country girl, the vicar’s daughter, by persuading her he would marry her. Maybe the entire countryside knew. Silly, gullible goose.

  Oh! Miranda wanted to pick up her letter opener and march downstairs and plunge it into the blackguard’s heart. Her eyes filled with tears, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip.

  Why am I crying? He’s not worth it.

  Hearing the words form in her head made her realize for the past five years—yes, even when she was married to Will—a small part of her heart refused to believe Jeremy had willingly abandoned her. And if he had returned sooner with a credible story, would she have been disloyal to Will, the man who restored her to decency in the eyes of country society, even if her own father would have nothing to do with her?

  No.

  The imprudent girl she’d been had grown up that night, and when Will agreed to protect her from scandal by marrying her, even knowing her condition, and knowing she had a broken heart, she became a woman, loyal to a fault to the man who had saved her.

  But Jeremy had not returned sooner. He had not even written. She hadn’t even known if he was still alive until the old earl died and news in the village was Jeremy had been recalled from the Indies to take his rightful place as the new earl. She thought she would never see him again.

  Now she would probably see him on a regular basis. Dear Lord.

  She shuddered and draped her black woolen shawl over her shoulders, tying it in front in a loose knot. The room was cold and she knelt before the empty grate to start a fire. She generally kept it clean so Phoebe would not smell ashes. But the child would be busy for an hour or two, plenty of time to take the chill off the room and clean up afterward.