Before the Scandal Page 3

  Phineas hid a flinch. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “Did Lord Quence ask you to see to me?”

  “No, sir. But as you have no valet, I thought to offer my assistance.”

  “My thanks again, Andrews, but I’ll manage.” He had his own man, Sergeant Thaddeus Gordon, but he’d left the fellow in Spain with the remainder of his kit. And he didn’t like other people meddling with items that were responsible for his safety. “Good evening.”

  Andrews nodded. “Good evening.” Moving past Phineas, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Of course William had sent the valet in, probably to determine what Phin had brought with him and hence how long he meant to stay. Blowing out his breath, Phineas sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots and then remove his scarlet and blue coat. He would have to wear the uniform again tomorrow, and at least until he could flatten the wrinkles out of some of the civilian clothes he’d thrown into his trunk.

  The thought of being out of uniform made him nervous. He’d been a soldier for ten years, and it was the one thing at which he excelled. He knew how to be an officer. He was hell on horseback, and a dead shot. With him at the head of the battalion, his men had accumulated an impressive roster of accomplishments, despite the disaster at Maguilla. But he’d joined the army because he’d been a failure as a civilian, and as a brother. Now that was something he could no longer afford to be, in or out of uniform.

  Phineas rose again. “Damnation,” he muttered, walking to the window and throwing the curtains open, then pushing open the glass. Cool air brushed by him, making the fire spit.

  He took a deep breath, then walked over to the writing desk in the corner. William might not be willing to talk to him, but he had other sources of information. He had two friends, two former comrades, who had been sending him tidbits about his family for the past two years. And they could damned well let him know what was going on now.

  Taking a seat, he pulled out paper and inked his pen, then began to write. Sullivan Waring and Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns had best be cooperative, because he didn’t plan on sitting still for an ambush, no matter who intended to fire on him.

  Chapter 3

  For a moment as Alyse awoke, everything seemed perfect. With eyes closed she could just make out the early morning light at the edges of the curtains in the window. In the distance, sheep baaed and a rooster or two crowed, and the covers pulled up to her chin left her in just the coziest state of warmth she could imagine. It was all like it had been before, as if nothing ill had ever happened.

  Then the bell began ringing. No, not ringing. Jangling. Every high-pitched, fast-paced clang stabbed into her ears and her comfort. For a few seconds she ignored it—or tried to, though she certainly wasn’t fooling herself. For those few seconds, though, if she pretended, concentrated, hard enough, she could be Alyse Donnelly, daughter of the Viscount and Viscountess Donnelly, the diamond of East Sussex and the most sought-after waltzer in two counties.

  “Alyse!”

  At the same time as the muffled female voice yelled her name, a thud came from the middle of her floor. She sighed as the sound repeated. For an invalid, Aunt Ernesta was fairly spry with her walking cane. And how she could reach the ceiling while lying in bed, Alyse had no idea.

  As she shoved down the covers and sat up, perfection faded away again. Now she was daughter to the deceased viscount and viscountess, and cousin to the present lord. And now she rarely waltzed. Waltzing was difficult when her aunt insisted on having a companion seated at her elbow for the entirety of each soiree—when they attended them.

  “Alyse! You lazy girl!”

  Alyse stomped on the floor. “I’m coming!” she shouted back.

  For heaven’s sake. Her aunt had set up residence in her old bedchamber, though whether that had been out of spite or because she liked the view from the windows, Alyse didn’t know. She did have her suspicions. Her new bedchamber, on the drafty third floor, had been her old governess’s room. If she’d had any idea how chilled Mrs. Garvey must have been in the winter, she would have insisted that the kindly woman be lodged downstairs.

  Throwing on a green morning dress, Alyse knotted her hair and pushed a few clips into it, then left the room and hurried down to the second floor. “I’m here, Aunt,” she panted, giving a perfunctory knock on the door with one knuckle and then pushing it open.

  “Don’t you dare stomp at me,” Aunt Ernesta said, her dour face even less friendly than usual. “It’s bad enough that you go clomping about up there at all hours, without you intentionally making noise.”

  “Apologies,” Alyse returned tightly, joining her aunt’s maid, Harriet, beside the bed. They each took an elbow and hauled.

  “Be careful! I am not a sack of flour.”

  No, sacks of flour didn’t complain nearly as much as her aunt did. Alyse kept that thought to herself, however. There were worse things than being an unpleasant woman’s companion. There were even degrees of unpleasantness. And she knew that firsthand, because she’d personally experienced half a dozen aspects of it.

  “I’m going into Lewes today to look for gown material,” Aunt Ernesta announced as her maid dressed her. “We have several soirees just in the next fortnight, and I’m beginning to think I haven’t brought enough evening gowns with me.”

  That meant that Alyse would be going into town, as well. It was better than sitting in the drawing room and embroidering, and it meant a good chance to increase the amount of her hidden-away funds. Her escape money, as she’d come to think of it. “What time shall I have Winston bring the coach around?”

  “Don’t be so eager,” Mrs. Donnelly snapped. “I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

  “Neither have I, Aunt. I merely inquired so you wouldn’t be kept waiting when you were ready to leave.”

  With a sniff, Aunt Ernesta nodded. “Ten o’clock. And I want to take the barouche. The fresh air may do me some good.”

  “Very well. I’ll see to it.”

  Before anyone could change their minds or put her to brushing out her aunt’s hair, Alyse left the bedchamber and hurried down to the foyer. “Saunders,” she said to the tall, spindly butler, “Mrs. Donnelly would like to take the barouche into town at ten o’clock.”

  The butler nodded. “I shall inform Winston.” He pursed his lips. “I believe there to be a very limited quantity of early summer strawberries available in the breakfast room.”

  Strawberries. She adored strawberries. “Thank you, Saunders,” she murmured, “but for heaven’s sake don’t risk Richard overhearing you.”

  “I’m surprised to still be here as it is, Miss Alyse. And I haven’t forgotten how you always liked strawberries.”

  With a quick, fond smile Alyse put a hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered again. “I—”

  “Alyse!” Aunt Ernesta’s strident bellow could peel paint from the walls.

  Unwilling to risk Saunders being blamed for her absence, Alyse rushed into the breakfast room to hide three strawberries beneath the toast and then returned upstairs. “Yes, Aunt?” she asked, skidding back to the doorway of Mrs. Donnelly’s bedchamber.

  “You’re dawdling again. Find my gold earbobs.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  As she finished dressing, Aunt Ernesta turned from the dressing mirror. “I have decided that I shall ask Mrs. Potter and Lady Dysher over for luncheon tomorrow,” she said. “Send out the invitations, and select a half dozen passages from Milton. You shall read them to us for discussion.”

  “Milton?” Alyse repeated, inwardly cringing. “That seems a bit…heavy for luncheon. Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer Shakespeare or Chaucer?”

  “Shakespeare is far too risqué, and I wouldn’t be caught dead reading Chaucer, you silly girl. It’s to be Milton.” Mrs. Donnelly waved her back out the door. “And formulate some questions to guide the discussion.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Scowling now that no one could see her, Alyse went into the library for Paradise Lo
st and then headed for the stairs and the breakfast room.

  “Ah, good morning, Alyse,” her cousin said from his seat at the head of the breakfast table. The carcasses of what looked like the remainders of all the strawberries save her hidden three lay piled to one side of his plate.

  She sent out a silent thanks to Saunders. “Good morning,” she returned, accepting a plate from Donald the footman and heading for the toast.

  “How is my mother this morning?”

  “Well, I believe. She wishes to drive into town.” Her strawberries were still where she’d hidden them. Swiftly she bit into the plumpest of them and placed the other two on her plate. Strawberries tasted like summer. More significantly, they tasted like the summers of her youth, warm and moist and overflowing with sweet flavor.

  “Come sit beside me,” Richard prompted, before she could take her usual seat halfway down the length of the breakfast table.

  Suspicious, she did as he asked. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Tell me, Cousin, why do you think it is that Elizabeth Bromley never mentioned her other brother to me?”

  Alyse shrugged. “He’s been away for quite some time. I don’t suppose she thought to discuss him any more than you thought to ask whether there might be another sibling about.”

  Richard nodded.” Well, he’s about now, isn’t he? Why do you think that is?”

  Alyse edged her plate away from him. “You know as much as I do, Richard.”

  “Yes, well, give me your opinion, anyway. He seemed to know you quite well.” Her cousin finished off his sliced ham, then reached over and plucked one of the strawberries from her plate.

  She didn’t say anything about the theft. He would only remind her how lucky she was to have relatives who were willing to provide for her, and then he would take the other berry. He would probably do so anyway. Before he could, she plopped it into her own mouth. So there. “In my opinion,” she said after she’d chewed and swallowed, “he may have come home because of Lord Quence’s health. You know the viscount has scarcely left the house since they arrived at the end of the Season.”

  “I agree. It didn’t seem that William had any inkling he might be returning, however. I would wager that Beth sent for him.”

  That made sense. Richard was nodding to himself, though, so apparently her further opinion wasn’t required. As far as she was concerned, the fact that Phineas Bromley was back in East Sussex held far more interest than wondering why he’d journeyed there.

  “How close are you and Colonel Bromley?” Richard asked abruptly.

  Alyse shook herself. “We used to be great friends. As I said, though, I haven’t seen him for a good ten years. I know nothing about him, these days.” She drew a breath, weighing whether having her curiosity satisfied would be worth the verbal lashing she was likely to receive in return. Curiosity won out. “Why so interested in Colonel Bromley, Cousin?”

  He pinned her with his pale blue gaze. “I’m pursuing his sister,” he said flatly. “I would be foolish to ignore the presence of a man who might have a different agenda. Is there anything else about which you’d like to question me?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I thought not.” Her cousin gestured for Donald to fetch him a cup of coffee. American coffee. She detested it. “I imagine,” he continued after taking a swallow, “that when he spoke with you last night, the colonel thought you were still a diamond. I wonder if they’ve told him yet that you’re made of cheap paste.”

  Aunt Ernesta cackled from the doorway. “We’ll know the next time we encounter him.”

  Alyse’s cheeks heated. “There’s no need to be cruel,” she said quietly, pushing away from the table.

  “We aren’t cruel,” Ernesta countered. “If it weren’t true, it wouldn’t hurt. They do say that pride goes before the fall.”

  True or not, Alyse didn’t want to hear it. For God’s sake, she detested these people. Even at her most self-absorbed, she didn’t think she’d ever been cruel. “Excuse me.”

  “Yes, dear. Go read the Milton until time for us to leave for town.”

  Not bothering to reply, Alyse retreated to her bedchamber. She’d been looking forward to going into Lewes, but now she wasn’t as certain. What if Phineas was there, as well? Would he look at her with the same gloating pity as her so-called friends had after the scandal?

  Last night all she’d seen in his eyes had been surprise and relief at seeing her. To him she’d been a friendly face from a kinder past. She recognized that look because she’d felt the same way herself. Once he learned what had happened, how her fortunes had fallen, he wouldn’t smile when next they met. Or worse, he would smile behind her back.

  Frustration, anger, loathing at her so-called relations all mingled thickly in her bones and her blood. For five years she’d attempted to make the best of things, learned to be grateful for small kindnesses that scarcely would have reached her notice previously. And finally began making plans to escape them altogether. Still every day ended a little worse than it had begun. Until last night. But feeling hope or anticipation only meant that she would hurt more when they passed her by, pausing only to laugh at her.

  She closed her eyes for a moment before she opened Paradise Lost. Just to herself she breathed a silent prayer. Please don’t let Phineas Bromley laugh at me.

  Chapter 4

  Phineas awoke before dawn. He was still accustomed to the early hours he kept in Spain, and given how his greeting at Quence Park had gone thus far, he didn’t see much use in adjusting his regimen for East Sussex. With a yawn he lit the lamp at his dressing table and sat down to shave.

  They truly had left his room as it was when he’d last been there, though if he had to guess whether it had been out of deference or because they wanted as little to do with him as possible, he would choose the latter. At any rate, he hadn’t yet begun shaving when last he’d slept there. Thankfully he’d thrown all of his necessities into his trunk before he’d left his regiment.

  He sat back to look at himself in the mirror, shirtless, barefoot, and wearing an old pair of trousers to sleep in as he’d taken to doing in case the French attacked in the middle of the night. He bore a nice selection of scars from being shot and stabbed and having a horse or two fall on him, but nothing that could compare with what he’d done to William. He had the use of all his limbs, after all.

  Dark brown hair that was past due for a trim, his face leaner than it had once been and well tanned from long days in the Spanish sun. Even his eyes seemed different than the last time he’d sat there—still hazel, but…older.

  His door rattled with the force of a knock. Phineas jumped. “Come in,” he called, deliberately setting aside the razor. The only war here was the one of his own making.

  The door opened. “Good mornin’ to you, Colonel.”

  For a moment Phineas simply stared. “Gordon?” he finally managed. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “That’s a bit of a tale, it is,” the stout Scotsman drawled. “That bloke downstairs took me bags. Hope he’s employed here.”

  Phineas sank back in the dressing chair. “Tall fellow, old as Methuselah?”

  Thaddeus Gordon snapped his fingers. “Aye, that’s him. Bit of a temper, too.”

  “Did you call at the front door?”

  “Aye. I couldnae climb in through one o’ yer windows. Wouldnae be polite, that.”

  “That’s what annoyed him.”

  The Scotsman lifted a craggy eyebrow. “That I didnae climb in through a window?”

  “That you called at the front door. You, Sergeant, are uninvited. Even worse, you’re my man.” When Gordon continued to eye him, Phineas grinned. Thank God for stubborn Scotsmen and their unflagging loyalty. “You use the back door.”

  “Oh. Right, then. Grand houses, back door. Ye might’ve said something before.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be here.” Phineas stood. “Which brings me back to my original question—why are you here?”<
br />
  “Ye answered that yerself, sir. I’m yer man. Couldnae stay behind and leave ye to fend for yerself.”

  “You’re in the service of His Majesty, Sergeant. You can’t simply leave when the mood strikes you.”

  “I didnae. I told Captain Brent that ye’d sent for me. And I stowed yer kit with the captain, in case ye was wonderin’. It’s nice’n safe.”

  Phineas blew out his breath. Under other circumstances, Gordon’s disobedience would have annoyed him greatly. After last night, though, he was happy to see an ally. “As long as you’re here, then, help me dress.”

  “In yer uniform, or are ye a civilian now?” the sergeant asked dryly.

  “Considering the current state of my civilian clothes, I’m still a soldier.” He cocked an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I believe I have some ironing for you, as well.”

  “Oh, grand.”

  He might have dug through his old wardrobe, but at four inches taller and two stone heavier he wouldn’t be able to wear anything in there, anyway. Thanks to some vigorous shaking and the strategic application of a hot iron Gordon procured from somewhere, his uniform managed to remain parade-worthy even after a week of hard use.

  “Very fine, Colonel,” his man commented, stepping back as if to admire a painting he’d just completed. “Though yer boots could use a polish.”

  “They’ll do.” Phineas checked his pocket watch. Time to go down to breakfast and be civil, as Elizabeth—Beth—had requested. And time to see whether he could decipher what the devil beyond the general disrepair had happened to cause his sister to lie to get him to return to the estate he’d once called home.

  Sergeant Gordon pulled open the bedchamber door for him and then followed him out of the room. “I do believe I smell roasted chicken,” he crooned, rubbing his hands together.