A Scandalous Past (Regency Romance, Book 4) (11 page)

“Yes, thank you.”

He directed her down a long corridor, before
making a turn. “I have missed you,” he said softly as they
continued.

She couldn’t say the same, not even to be
polite. Escaping life as his wife had been a lucky stroke. “Aren’t
naval captains supposed to be at sea?” she asked amiably. At one
time he’d promised to take her with him on his voyages. While that
fate would remove her from her current predicament, it would only
be trading one jailer for another. There was also the fact that
Clayworth’s kiss made her forget every single one the captain had
ever given her.

“I’ve come at the Admiralty’s request.
Commander Greywood has retired, but his advice is still in
demand.”

She nodded at the explanation, wishing he’d
come to visit the commander at another time.

“I’m certain you’ve now seen the error of
your loyalties.”

Cordie looked up at him. “I beg your
pardon.”

A disbelieving smile curled his lip. “I
mean, she’s now raising his bastard daughter. No gently bred woman
would agree to such a thing. Your loyalties are misplaced in her,
Cordelia.”

He was talking about Livvie? She hadn’t
known that fact. It was shocking. “Are we speaking about the
Duchess of Kelfield?” She hoped Livvie was all right. Did Kelfield
expect that of her?

“Who else?” he scoffed angrily. “You broke
our engagement due to my lack of support for her situation.”

Cordie drew herself up to her full height
and released her hold on his arm. “We were never technically
engaged. And I ended our
association
due to your lack of
support for me.”

He looked at her, hurt in his eyes. “I never
saw this side of you before.”

“Then aren’t you fortunate to have
escaped?”  She then stalked down the corridor, ignoring the
soreness in her back.

“Cordelia!” he called after her. “You don’t
know the way.”

“I’m certain I can find my own way.” 
The words meant much more than he would ever know.

Cordie followed the soft sounds of a
harpsichord until she stumbled across Phoebe in the music room. Her
friend’s eyes were closed as she focused on plucking the strings of
her instrument.  Cordie must have made a noise, because
Phoebe’s eyes flew open and she smiled brightly.  “Oh, you’re
up? Millie thought you might be out for a while.”

As her friend rose from her seat, Cordie
smiled nervously, the events of the night before embarrassing her
all over again.  She cleared her throat. “I ran into Captain
Seaton before breakfast.”

Phoebe winced. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I meant to
tell you last night…” Her voice trailed off.  Then she
frowned. “Are you all right?”

Cordie nodded her head firmly. “Nearly
perfect.” She didn’t want to talk about what Phoebe had witnessed.
No one knew about her mother’s punishments, not even Livvie, and
she hoped to keep it that way.

“So,” Phoebe said, as she carefully linked
her arm with Cordie’s, “you’ve decided on Haversham?”

She supposed she had. He was the logical
choice, after all. “Yes.” Even as she said the word, her heart
ached.

“Well,” Phoebe began, “I thought about that
quite a bit last night. How much do you know about the
marquess?”

Now Cordie felt foolish. What did she know
about the marquess? She knew about the scandals he’d been involved
in over the years.  She knew that he was wickedly handsome.
She knew he was a friend of Kelfield’s, which was quite important.
“Not much I suppose.”

Phoebe nearly bounced on her toes.
“Excellent. Follow me.”

Her friend excitedly towed her back
upstairs, to the family’s wing and into Phoebe’s set of rooms.
Books were scattered across the bed as well as foolscap with jotted
notes.  Cordie followed Phoebe’s lead and sat on the edge of
the bed. “What’s all this?”

“We’ll get to that.  But first, I do
have two unmarried uncles. Both are younger than Haversham. You
could be my Aunt Cordelia.”

Cordie couldn’t help but grin. That was the
second time someone referred to the marquess as old.  How old
was he? “Are either of them scoundrels?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Only Uncle Simon has
ever been referred to as such, and he’s already married.”

“I’m afraid I can’t consider either of them
then.”

Phoebe heaved a sigh. “Well, it was worth a
try.”

Then a thought occurred to Cordie. She
really should test her theory. “Your Aunt, the one who married the
scoundrel…”

“Aunt Liberty?”

Cordie nodded.  “Is she happy with
him?”

“Ecstatic, especially since he’s retired
from the navy.”

That was good news.  “And is he ever
controlling or demanding with her?”

Phoebe fell back on the bed with peals of
laughter. “I’d like to see him try.”

Relief washed over Cordie. She was on the
right path. Her resolve strengthened, she picked up a piece of
foolscap with splotchy writing. “What’s this?”

Oh!” Phoebe shot back up and snatched the
foolscap from Cordie’s hands. “You’re going out of order.  Now
I did a lot of research on Haversham last night. I thought if
you’re dead set on him, that you should know as much as
possible.”

It was a fairly good idea, actually. 
Cordie positioned herself on the bed, ready to learn.

“He was born in ’77.  An only
child.  His family seat is in eastern Yorkshire outside
Driffield. He attended Eton, started at Oxford, but didn’t complete
his studies.”

“How do you know all this?” Cordie gaped at
Phoebe. She’d never considered her friend to be this organized. She
always seemed the silliest of the bunch.

“Oh, I just went through Debrett’s last
night, and I talked a little with Matthew. He’s been to some of
those clubs and gaming hells Haversham frequents. I couldn’t get
him to tell me a lot, but I did get some useful information from
him.”

Cordie gasped. Did Matthew Greywood know
what they were up to?  “You didn’t tell him—”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Please. He was with
Clayworth when you and Haversham snuck off. He’s worried about you
falling in with the wrong sort, by the way. So, that’s what I told
him I was doing—gathering information on the marquess to make you
see straight. Men deny it, but they gossip just as much as we
do.”

Relieved, Cordie took a steadying breath. It
appeared Phoebe’d thought of everything. “What did he say?”

Well, the marquess is most definitely a
rake, along the same order as Kelfield—but then we knew that. 
He was married for quite a while until his wife passed away three
years ago. It was apparently a loveless marriage as the marchioness
never left Yorkshire, and Haversham rarely left London.  They
have one child, a daughter – Lady Callista, who is, according to
Debrett’s, seven years old. So no male heir, at least not a
legitimate one, and that’s something you could use to your
advantage.”

No gently bred woman would agree to such
a thing.
The captain’s words echoed in her mind. “Phoebe, do
you know what’s happening to Livvie?”

At once her friend looked panicked. “No,
what?”

Cordie shook her head. “Someone mentioned
that Kelfield has a daughter and Livvie is acting as the child’s
mother.”

Phoebe took a breath, the smile returned to
her face. “Oh, that. Mother is scandalized over it, not that she
can say so out loud. My cousins Kurt and Kitty were born on the
wrong side of the blanket, and since they live here and my
grandparents dote on them, Mother has to bite her tongue.”

“So, it’s true?” Cordie couldn’t imagine
Livvie having to experience such an ordeal.

Phoebe shrugged. “Such are the perils of
marrying a scoundrel. If you want a saint, Clayworth’s your
man.”

Clayworth. His name made her heart beat
faster. Cordie shook her head. It was best not to think of him. It
would only make this harder. “What else?”

“Something terrible, but I’m not sure what
it was.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Phoebe frowned. “I’m not sure. Matthew said
that the marquess did something truly terrible years ago. He said
it was never spoken about, but that everyone knows it, or everyone
does who was around at the time. Since my brother’s your age, none
of his friends know what it is either.”

How terrible must it be to not even be
spoken of?  Cordie stared towards the window, trying to think
of the worst thing possible anyone could do. Had he killed someone?
What was worse than that? “Someone must know. I certainly can’t ask
my mother.”

“Nor mine,” Phoebe replied with a sigh.
“She’d think I’d set my cap for him.”

Cordie sat up straight. “What about one of
your uncles? The commander must know.”

Phoebe paled instantly. “
Uncle Simon
.
That would be worse than asking my mother.”

But someone must know. Someone she could
trust to tell her the truth, no matter how awful.

Lady Staveley.

The answer made her smile. Lady Staveley was
the most trustworthy person of her acquaintance. As soon as she
returned to London, she’d find some way to speak with the
viscountess and find out what awful thing the Marquess of Haversham
had done.

***           

Marc left Mrs. Palmer’s establishment with a
frown. The girl who’d entertained him wore the cheapest of perfume,
and now he smelled of the awful stuff. He might not have cared if
she’d satisfied him, but she hadn’t. She was more concerned with
his coin that his cock. Perhaps he was just losing his interest in
this sort of thing. No one would ever have believed that.

His coachman pulled open his door, and Marc
barely met the man’s eyes. “Mrs. Lassiter’s.”

“Of course, my lord.”

As he settled against the leather squabs, he
realized what he’d known for some time. This predicament he was in
was all Cordelia Avery’s fault. She looked at him with her
passion-filled, green eyes, making him nearly lose all control. She
was full of life, spirited, stunning, but best of all—ready to be
seduced. A lethal combination. Ever since he’d met her, he’d been
obsessed with having her. No one since had satisfied his
cravings.

She was the perfect solution to his ennui,
or she would be if she was in London. How much longer would she be
in godforsaken Norfolk?

When his coach finally rumbled to a stop at
his favorite hell, Marc threw open the door and bounded up the
steps. At least he could while away the time here. The double front
doors opened and Marc’s eyes widened in surprise when two burly men
actually tossed Lord Brookfield out on his arse.  He’d heard
of such things happening before, but he’d never actually witnessed
it.

With a raised brow, he stepped over the
fallen viscount into the hell. Raucous laughter and billows of
smoke assailed him as he entered. “Lord Haversham, welcome back,”
Peters, Mrs. Lassiter’s brawny butler, greeted him.

Marc tipped his head in acknowledgement.
“Peters.” He brushed past the man into the closest drawing room on
the right. Thankfully there was a spot open at a table of
vingt-et-un
on the far side of the room. It was the perfect
thing to lift his spirits.

He took a spot beside Lord Ericht, a young,
Scottish earl, and nodded to the dealer.

“It’s no’ a verra lucky spot.”

Marc raised his brow at Ericht. “I beg your
pardon?”

“They just tossed out the last chap in that
seat.”

Marc waited for his hand to be dealt, then
looked back at the loquacious Scot. “Brookfield?” he asked the
man.

“Aye.”

After glancing at his upturned seven of
clubs, Marc hoped the unlucky streak ended with Brookfield’s
departure.  “What happened?”

Ericht gaped at him as if he’d just escaped
Bedlam. “He’s insolvent. No’ a farthing to his name. Surely ya
heard.”

Was that all? Marc shrugged. Brookfield
wouldn’t be the first peer to lose everything. He glanced down at
his down turned card. The Ace of Diamonds. That was more like
it.

Now that the Scot was talking, he seemed
incapable of shutting up. “Kept going on about the lass he’s going
to marry. Says her dowry will more than pay his debts. But those
oversized footmen wouldna listen.”

Really, Marc couldn’t care less. He’d like
to focus on the game. “Lucky girl,” he replied, hoping to end the
conversation.

Ericht chuckled. “No’ that anyone believed
Miss Avery will have the dolt. He’s delusional, if you ask me.”

Marc’s head snapped to the Scot. “Miss
Avery? Miss
Cordelia
Avery?” His Freya wouldn’t look twice
at that nasty, unkempt Brookfield.

“Do ye ken the lass?”

Not as well as he’d like, but Marc nodded
anyway.

“She is a bonny little thing. I might’ve
been interested in her myself if… Well ye ken. ‘Tis a shame.”

Marc simply stared at the man. What did he
know?

The Scot gulped, suddenly uncomfortable with
the intensity of Marc’s glare. “I mean, there’s only one reason why
a girl’s family increases her dowry to such a level.”

Marc’s eyes opened wide as realization
struck him. In truth there were only two reasons for a girl’s
increased dowry—her lack of success on the marriage mart, or her
lack of a maidenhead. It wasn’t even possible that Cordelia Avery
hadn’t entertained offers of marriage.

Everything else suddenly made sense. No
innocent miss would waltz with him in the middle of Caroline
Staveley’s ballroom. No innocent miss would engage him in
conversations about seduction. No innocent miss would take off with
him in Hyde Park. Cordelia Avery was no innocent miss.

Thank God!

It was the best news he’d had in a very long
while.

He wouldn’t have to play coquettish games.
He wouldn’t have to take it slowly with her. He wouldn’t have to
wait to bed her at all. What an incredible stroke of luck.