That Scandalous Summer Read online

  An oversized timetable was plastered over the front window of the post office. He found himself staring at the train schedules. The station was an hour’s drive north. He could be in London by midnight. Go directly to Halsted’s flat. Alastair need never know.

  Unless Alastair had somehow enlisted Halsted in this business.

  You would be surprised by what I can and cannot do. Alastair had already proved that, for despite the terms of their father’s will, Michael’s bank accounts sat empty. He could only imagine what Alastair had said to the bankers. In fact, he could imagine it all too well. What will he do—take me to court? With what funds? You know whose money your bank depends on for its success.

  If Alastair could intimidate such men into doing his bidding, why would Halsted, a mere clerk with three children and a fourth on the way, prove immune? Perhaps threats hadn’t even been needed. An extra hundred pounds would be a small fortune to Halsted, and barely noticeable to Alastair. Button money, really.

  He tried to calm his thoughts. The hospital remained open. This interim director probably didn’t exist. He was a ruse, a gambit designed by Alastair to force Michael from hiding.

  Well, it wouldn’t work. He’d be damned before he gave his brother the victory so easily.

  “—absolutely insist on it. You cannot be seen in such rags!”

  The familiar voice further frayed his composure. He turned to discover Mrs. Chudderley stepping directly into his path.

  She had not seen him until now; that was obvious from the way her expression abruptly smoothed into a mask of bland pleasantness. Her companion—the red-haired maid—did not bother with such efforts, giving him a scowl of undisguised dislike.

  Ladies talked to their maids, of course. His behavior at the bazaar had blackened his name at Havilland Hall. “Mrs. Chudderley,” he said. “Good morning.”

  “Mr. Grey.” She herself carried her parasol today, a confection of rose silk trimmed in yellow, again to match her gown. The twirl she gave it set the lemon-bright tassels shivering. “What a . . .” Her smile quirked into something sharper as she trailed off, pointedly refraining from pronouncing it a pleasure.

  “What an occasion,” he suggested—an attempt at humor that fell flat as silence opened between them.

  He sighed. He’d made a hash of the dinner invitation, but her damned houseguest’s insistence that they knew each other had taken him off guard. He did not recognize Mrs. Hull, but it was possible they had met somewhere—and if so, he’d had no interest in giving her the opportunity to interrogate him, or to wrack her memories as she studied him at leisure.

  He glanced past her. “Mrs. Hull does not accompany you?”

  Mrs. Chudderley’s eyes narrowed. “No, she does not. And I suppose our meeting might be termed an occasion, as you say. But if you prefer, we might instead consider it an incident, and move on without remark.”

  Well, that was blunt. And refreshing, strangely, after long minutes spent pondering his brother’s manipulations. “Perhaps if I apologize again for missing your dinner,” he said, “we may elevate the incident to an event.”

  “These are all different words with specific meanings,” said the redhead sourly. “To be precise, I would call this an encounter.”

  “Have you met Miss Mather?” asked Mrs. Chudderley. The idle roll of her shoulders put him in mind of a great cat stretching in preparation for the kill. “My secretary, and an all-around bon vivant.”

  That joke seemed aimed at Miss Mather herself, who arched her brows. “I am a firm believer in the specific import of various words,” she said primly. “It’s a very fine quality in a secretary, so I’ve heard. Ah, is that the morning paper? Ma’am, you were wondering—”

  “Yes, so I was.” Mrs. Chudderley lifted her brow and extended one gloved hand. Belatedly he realized he was meant to hand the thing over to her.

  He did, unhappily aware that he had not bothered to refold the thing. He’d gripped that specific page so tightly that his thumb had left telltale smudges in the ink.

  Alas for him, Mrs. Chudderley was catlike all around: her sharp eyes fixed on this evidence of his interest. “Medical gossip,” she said. “Goodness, I’d no idea that such a thing existed!”

  He took back the paper before she could read further. “Yes,” he said as he refolded it, “we doctors amuse ourselves where we may. I assume you were looking for the society columns?”

  “Perhaps I was looking for a military editorial,” she said. “Perhaps our imperial stratagems keep me awake at night.”

  He laughed. Truly, she elevated sarcasm to an art. “For certain,” he said. “I believe the front section will suit you, then.”

  “In fact, the last section is what she wants,” said Miss Mather, only to close her mouth quite abruptly at her employer’s black look.

  “Then you must be seeking an announcement.” He flipped the paper to the relevant page. “Births, deaths—ah, and the next page: a public ball in honor of the Queen—”

  “I do not attend public balls,” said Mrs. Chudderley coldly.

  Snapping the paper down, he studied the flat line of her mouth. “News of a betrothal, then?”

  Silence. Mrs. Chudderley shot another fulminating look toward her secretary.

  Oh, but now he was enjoying himself. “Heavens. Never say one of your countless admirers has turned his attentions elsewhere. Now, that—and I believe even Miss Mather will agree—would be an event, indeed.”

  “You’re very rude,” Miss Mather said flatly.

  He looked at her in amazement—and so, too, did Mrs. Chudderley. The girl colored as only a redhead could, violently, all of her freckles darkening. “Well,” she muttered, and rubbed her square chin. “Perhaps I should be off—”

  “Yes, off you go,” Mrs. Chudderley said. “And do not come back until you’ve plotted something acceptable to wear with the milliner.”

  It occurred to Michael that the girl was dressed peculiarly. A grandmother of eighty might have made that bombazine look dowdy.

  “Something immodest,” said Miss Mather. “Yes, you’ve told me.”

  “Come now, I did not say immodest—”

  Off stalked the secretary, leaving them both frowning, first at her diminishing figure, and then at each other.

  Almost immediately, Mrs. Chudderley’s glance bounced away. Her color was high, the light through her silk parasol adding to the rosy glow of her cheeks. Not even the most stylish French hostess could have faulted her dress, a confection of bright lemon silk that slipped over her curves as closely as a loving hand.

  He shifted his weight. Rarely did he feel so discomposed around any woman, particularly one he’d much rather be kissing. For, yes—it took only a moment’s exposure now, after a week of trying not to think on her, to recall why he’d wanted to share dinner with her in the first place. He did love a woman with wit.

  “I will get my own paper,” she said, and turned on her heel.

  “No, wait.” The secretary was right; he was a boor. He slipped out the section about the hospital and passed the remainder to her. “I bought the last one, I’m afraid.”

  She halted, then turned back, the slowness of her movements lending them a grudging flavor. As she took the proffered newspaper, she did not quite look at him.

  That made his mood sink a little lower. He’d done many clumsy things in his time, but he’d never before made a lady reluctant to meet his eyes—save from delighted shock, and this certainly did not count as such.

  “About the bazaar,” he said. “I’m truly so very sorry to have broken the engagement.”

  “So you’ve said. Do you know the Duke of Marwick, then?”

  He choked on his next words. “Ah—why do you ask?”

  “The hospital in your medical gossip.” She made a show of flipping through the paper, the pages rattling. “He’s the benefactor of that hospital. It’s his brother’s pet project, you know.”

  Pet project? “What an interesting way to phrase it
,” he said. “From what I understand, they’ve made great leaps in the prevention of infections.” That he did not proceed to cite the statistics should have earned him an award for restraint.

  “Is that so?”

  Her incredulous tone ruffled his temper. “Yes. Why should it surprise you?”

  She gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “I admit, one does not imagine his grace’s brother as a medical visionary. But perhaps he hires a very good staff.”

  What on God’s green earth? She made him sound like a dilettante! “Do you know the duke’s brother?”

  She blinked. “I don’t recall if we’ve met. But I know of him.” Her faint smile, like her words, fairly dripped condescension. “London is a small place, Mr. Grey, for those in my circles.”

  “Oh, I can imagine,” he said. He’d certainly heard of her. “And Lord Michael’s reputation does not recommend him as a doctor? Is that what you mean?”

  The edge in his voice appeared to amuse her. Her smile broadened. “Well. I suppose, if one is a lady in need of . . . particular attentions, he’d be just the man to call.”

  God’s blood! Was anyone ever going to let him forget that single error of judgment? Just go out the front door, Lady Heverley had said. It’s barely light yet. Who’s around to see?

  “I was unaware of that.” He sounded like a stiff stickler of eighty, but it was not every day a man heard himself maligned as a lecher.

  “How pleasant that I could educate you.” She looked back to her newspaper. “I will say this for him: the hospital is quite pleasant. Full of light. Perhaps that helps with the—infections and whatnot.”

  Now he felt faintly lightheaded. “You’ve visited?”

  “I went to the opening five years ago. His grace hosted a soiree in the rotunda.”

  “I . . . that must have been quite marvelous.” It had been a nightmare. To have the entire place assembled and ready to open, only to have to wait for weeks for the start of the social season, all so Margaret could have her party first—

  “It was passable,” said Mrs. Chudderley as she flipped to the next page. She was making a great show of studying the paper now. “I did not stay above a quarter hour. The decorations were poor, the champagne was flat, and the crowd, I fear, was not select enough to hold my interest. But, yes, I suppose you would have found it marvelous.”

  He swallowed his startled laugh, for she could not know how closely her opinion matched his own—and, after all, she was attempting to insult him. He supposed, after the bazaar, he owed her the satisfaction of thinking she’d succeeded.

  “Indeed,” he said. “You’re no doubt right.” Would that he had known her back then. They could have spent the time merrily complaining to each other. Afterward, he could also have shown her how well he treated ladies in need of . . . particular attentions.

  His reply had not satisfied her. She glanced up to frown at him. He supposed he should have seemed a bit more put out. “That is, I’m sure I’d have been quite overset by it,” he said. This masquerade was rather wearing on his dignity.

  She looked back to the newspaper. “Yes, well. You would not have felt comfortable in such a crowd, I expect.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t select.”

  Her glance flashed up again. “By select, I do not mean breeding, sir; I mean wit and good taste.” She smiled.

  Whatever complex recipe had produced that smile, it did a marvelous job of reminding him that he was playing a man too far beneath her to properly merit her notice. And for the first time, he found himself irked by it.

  He wanted his apology to be taken seriously. He wanted, he realized, another chance at dinner with her. Country life was tedious. And really, what matter if Jane Hull recognized him? He would not encourage it—but if she did manage to identify him, he would relish the look on Mrs. Chudderley’s face afterward. I believe you’ve heard of me, he would add.

  “Are you ruminating?” she asked sweetly. “I can repeat my remark.”

  “No need,” he said. “I believe you’ve just insulted my breeding. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, precisely.” She snapped to the next page. Whatever she saw there made her go quite still.

  “Did you find your announcement?” he asked.

  Her eyes rose to his, then wandered over his shoulder before returning to the page. “Yes,” she said. Where she gripped the paper, her knuckles were whitening.

  Perhaps his speculation about a former lover had not been so far off the mark. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Oh, quite.” She folded the newspaper and stuck it beneath her arm. “Indeed, the announcement was not for an engagement, but a death: the death of a pleasant stroll, the assassin being a northerner.”

  By God, but she was magnificent when she was cross. Put a sword in her hand and he’d be bleeding right about now. “And now it seems our encounter has turned into a rout. I cede you the victory, madam.”

  Briefly, her mouth seemed to tremble—but then it curved into a fierce, bright smile. “I do not believe one cedes what one has already lost,” she said. “But take heart; you can complain of my rudeness in the tavern tonight. Be sure to tell them I did not say good day to you, sir.”

  She lifted her chin and walked past him. He turned to watch her go. It was not his imagination; her shoulders had assumed a decidedly dejected slope. What had she seen to dispirit her?

  Curses. He was going to have to find another copy of that newspaper.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The pounding came in the middle of the night. Liza opened her eyes, then groaned at the bolt of pain that lanced through her head. Too much wine at dinner.

  The knocking came again at the outer door.

  The carpet felt chill against the bare soles of her feet. Her hand fumbled on the door latch. Behind her, from the boudoir, came the sound of rustling as her maid, Hanson, awoke. She yanked open the door herself.

  Mather stood on the other side, her face pale in the light of the hand-candle she carried. “Ma’am, forgive me for waking you.”

  The clock in the hall was chiming half past three, and Mather was fully dressed. Dread spilled over Liza like an ice bath. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “A boy has come—John Broward. He said you would wish to know that his aunt is still in labor.”

  Her breath caught. “What?” Mary had felt the first pangs almost two days ago!

  Mather’s face was somber. “It seems that she asked for you.”

  Liza’s heart clutched at the implication. Her friendship with the Browards did not extend to such intimacy; properly, she had no place in their home at such a time. But if Mary Broward feared the worst, then of course she would wish to speak to the family benefactor. Mary was ever plotting the best for her brood . . .

  Liza wheeled around. Her maid was gaping like a mooncalf. “Hanson, dress me quickly.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Have a horse saddled. That will be faster.”

  “I’ve already given the order,” Mather said.

  • • •

  Not again. This all felt too familiar. The journey through the dark of night. Her heart pounding with fear. She remembered boarding the train at St. Pancras, blindly fumbling for her ticket, the conductor’s look of sympathy. She had arrived too late then. Her mother had already passed. And now . . .

  She stepped inside the Browards’ small bedroom. The air smelled thick with sweat and blood. Mary lay amid a pile of twisted sheets. The sheet draped over her waist and legs veiled the doctor who examined her.

  This piece of typical prudery fixated Liza’s attention. A startling wave of anger shot through her. She did not understand it, but it felt better, so much better, than fear. “Why was I not informed before this?” she asked. Too sharply, too loudly. Heads turned.

  She realized then that the little room was crowded. Mary’s husband knelt by her head, eyes closed, hands clasped, murmuring a prayer. And Mr. Morris . . . why, the old doctor stood at the window, breathing deeply of wh
at air entered through the open pane.

  “Mrs. Chudderley,” he said, clearly flustered. The man beneath the sheet, the man tending to Mary, straightened and revealed himself to be Mr. Grey.

  She had not seen him in a week. His insult now seemed irrelevant. Only his skill mattered. “How is she?” she asked. “Can you help her?”

  He had dark circles beneath his eyes, and glanced at her only briefly before Mary’s moan turned his attention away. “You should go,” he said.

  “You should take that ridiculous sheet off her,” Liza said. “See what you’re doing!”

  “Mrs. Chudderley,” Mr. Morris began sternly, but Grey cut him off.

  “Yes,” he said coldly. “So I should. Once you step outside, madam, I believe I will.”

  “Mrs. Broward was very specific in her instructions,” Mr. Morris snapped. “She wanted her modesty preserved.”

  She did not understand the black look that Grey gave to Morris, but it settled something in her. He would remove the sheet. “I will wait outside,” she said, and stepped into the little hallway where most of the Broward family waited.

  Her knees were trembling. Gratefully she took the chair that one of the sons made available to her. Paul Broward, home from school. He made a slight bow to her, to which she replied with a nod. Absently she thought, They are teaching him manners at Harrington. Her accountants had tried to talk her out of such expenditures. Boors.

  No noise came from the bedroom. The silence in the hallway felt like a heavy weight pressing her down. Daniel Broward, nine years old, eternally grubby, clutched her wrist with a small, sweaty hand. “Is Mama all right? Did you see her?”

  Liza peered at him through the dimness. The floorboards creaked as someone went down the stairs. She had never been in this part of the house. She was kin, but not a true friend. Only the parlor for her, and the finest dishes, and the best of the Browards’ tea. Family, but not real family.

  “Yes,” she said, “she’ll be all right,” but her voice was choked and the boy heard her uncertainty. His hand slipped away, making a fist, which he put into his mouth. Miss Broward, with a small noise of grief, picked him up and pulled him into her lap.