Love and Other Scandals (17 page)

“But who uttered them? Who is Constance, and who is Sir Gallant and Lord Everard?”

“I’m positive Sir Gallant is Sir Perry Cole,” Abigail said. “It must be! He was overheard expressing his exceeding fondness for opera, and he’s a handsome military man who lost his hand. It has to be Sir Perry.”

“But he declared to all that he was not at the opera house that night. If it truly happened—as Lady Willets heard—then he had to have been there.”

Her friend shook her head. “He might lie to conceal it. But I’ve no idea who Lord Everard is.” A frown knit her brow. “I’m sure half the men in London know. I expect Jamie knows.” She grabbed Joan’s arm. “And Lord Burke
must
know!”

For some reason a flush burned her face. “I doubt it,” she mumbled. “I don’t think he reads them.”

Abigail stopped dead. “Did you ask him? Oh mercy—
Joan
. He’s going to get the new issues for us, isn’t he?”

“Not if you tell all of Bond Street!” Joan hissed in a nearly silent whisper. “He might get them for me, if the infuriating man can be trusted to keep his word, but I am quite, quite sure he doesn’t know what it is.”

“Why not?” Abigail lurched forward when Mrs. Townsend looked back at them curiously. “How do you know he isn’t interested in them?”

“He would have teased me mercilessly if he did,” she said honestly. If Tristan Burke would threaten to kiss her just to get her to dance with him, what would he demand in return for procuring the most prurient pamphlet in London? The only reason Joan could find for his almost careless agreement to do so was that he had no idea what they were.

“Ah.” Her friend tilted her head. “So you’re on better terms with His Lordship, are you? No more Lord Boor?”

“He’s still a boor,” she said at once, “but perhaps . . . well, we might have made peace.”

“And he’s going to bring you wicked stories.” Abigail’s eyes gleamed with mirth. “After he wagered money over whether you would enjoy it if he kissed you again. Oh, that I could strike such a peace with a handsome viscount!”

“You sound like Penelope.”

The other girl laughed. “Poor Pen! She would love the story.” She sobered. “Do you think Lord Everard could be Lord Burke?”

“No!”

Olivia Townsend turned around at Joan’s exclamation. Both girls immediately assumed cheery expressions and waved at her, but Abigail said, through her bright smile, “That was emphatic.”

Joan did not want to think of Lord Burke’s hands on Lady Constance. Unfortunately, the rest of the description fit him; he was big and strong and definitely untamed. Would he spank a woman, and ask her to beat him in return? It certainly seemed he had enjoyed it when Joan punched him—at his command, no less. Would he arrange a rendezvous with a woman for one night of pleasure without any thought of further attachment? He’d firmly said he wasn’t consorting with Lady Elliot, but the fact remained that she took off her pantalets for him the night of the Malcolm ball. The mere thought of Tristan Burke being Lord Everard completely soured Joan’s enjoyment of the scene. If he hadn’t consorted with Lady Constance yet, it was probably only a matter of time before he did . . .

She scowled. “Lord Everard is much more likely to be Lord Hammond. He looks like a bear and I don’t know how any woman could be intimate with him if she weren’t allowed to whip him. Let’s go to Madame Carter’s to see if she has any new bonnets.” She walked away without waiting for Abigail to reply, telling Mrs. Townsend they wanted to look at bonnets.

In the shop, she wandered away from her companions, who were drawn to the most fashionable bonnets with high crowns and plumes. As Joan knew all too well, those bonnets made her look twenty feet tall. She studied the plainer bonnets on the shelves, wishing she dared suggest they visit Mr. Salvatore’s shop. She’d been so pleased with the day dress he made for her, she’d ordered several more, but they weren’t ready yet. Papa could withhold her pin money for the next two years if he disapproved; Joan had finally found a dressmaker who knew how to flatter her, and she wanted more. If the one green day dress could improve Lord Burke’s opinion of her looks so greatly, what might happen in a ball gown from Mr. Salvatore? She hoped she would have at least one more flattering dress by the time Lord Burke decided to take her driving.

Of course, a pretty dress would be covered by her pelisse, while her bonnet would be right in front of his face. Joan tilted her head and stared at a simple straw bonnet with a flatter brim and lower crown. Perhaps that one, with a silk ribbon and just a small flower . . .

She looked around, but the shopkeeper was assisting Abigail and Mrs. Townsend. Joan knew Abigail tried to buy small gifts for Mrs. Townsend whenever they went shopping, but it always took her some time to persuade the widow to accept them. Joan thought it might be easier this time, as Mrs. Townsend was trying on a very beautiful bonnet that suited her heart-shaped face perfectly. Abigail was effusing over it, and the shopkeeper, anticipating a sale, was nodding and smiling in agreement.

The shop assistants were all attending to an older lady with her two daughters, who seemed to be quite demanding customers. The two young ladies were as alike as Joan had ever seen two people be, slim and petite with shining blonde curls and sky-blue eyes. Their dresses, lavishly trimmed in the latest fashion, were marvels of striped pink silk and blond lace. The pair of them looked like an Ackermann’s illustration come to life, and in spite of herself Joan couldn’t keep back a tiny sigh of longing. As much as she loved her new green gown, and even felt somewhat attractive in it, why couldn’t she have been born looking like one of those dainty angels? Then any bonnet in the room would have looked lovely on her.

One of the girls looked up and saw her watching. Joan nodded politely and turned back to the straw bonnet, but to her surprise the girl walked right up to her. “Miss Bennet, I believe,” she said. “You’re angling for Viscount Burke, aren’t you?”

Joan blinked at the blunt accusation. “I—what? Er, no, of course not.”

“You’re a fool,” the girl replied. Her voice was surprisingly strident for someone so delicate. “You’re a fool to want him, and you’d be a far sorrier fool if you got him.”

Oh dear. Had this girl set her cap for him? Joan had never been the focus of another girl’s envy over a gentleman’s attentions. Although it was somewhat flattering that someone thought her capable of being a rival—and over Lord Burke, no less—she didn’t know what to say. She glanced around in discomfort, but Abigail was still occupied with persuading Mrs. Townsend to accept the bonnet. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t recall making your acquaintance . . .”

“I’m Alice Burke. Lord Burke is my cousin.” A wash of pink stained her cheeks, making her look quite fetching even though her eyes flashed ominously. “And I hate him.”

Ah yes, now she remembered. The Misses Burke were a few years younger than she was, and were considered two of the handsomest young ladies on the marriage mart this year. Rumor was that their mother had refused to allow them to marry anyone lower than an earl. They didn’t generally move in the same circles the Bennets preferred, and as they were beautiful, they never languished in the corners of ballrooms, like Joan and the Weston girls did. Joan knew who they were, but she hadn’t been formally introduced to them.

And nothing about this meeting was making her sorry she hadn’t become acquainted with either Miss Alice Burke or her sister, Kitty. “How do you do, Miss Burke?” she said brightly. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Surely Abigail would notice and come save her—then again, perhaps not. Abigail, unlike Penelope, was not one to thrust herself into an uncomfortable moment.

“I’m sure your mother would be horrified if she could see the way you’re throwing yourself at him,” went on Miss Burke, as though she hadn’t heard. “My mother can barely speak to him, even though she’s forced to.”

Joan wondered who on earth could possibly think she was throwing herself at Tristan Burke; if anything, she had tried to avoid him. Just her luck that people would form the exact opposite impression. “Oh? Who on earth would force her to speak to him?”

“Pray your father doesn’t die and leave you at the mercy of reprobates.” Miss Burke’s mouth trembled as if she would cry. “Mama’s had to face Lord Burke regularly for several years now, since my father died and that horrid man inherited everything.”

“How dreadful,” said Joan sympathetically. “I do pray for my father’s continued good health every night, thank you.” Though if Papa died, leaving Douglas as head of the family, Mother would keep Douglas even more firmly under her thumb. She wondered if Miss Burke spared any compassion for her cousin, who had lost both his parents at a far younger age. “It must be so dreadfully difficult for you, unable to go out in society for fear of meeting him.”

Her brow creased in revulsion. “As if we would be cowed by him. He’s the one who ought to avoid us! I’m sure no one wants him about anyway!”

“That would explain why he’s invited everywhere,” Joan murmured.

“He’s a horrible person,” Alice Burke repeated. “I only wanted to warn you.”

She blinked. “Horrible?” It was one thing to dislike a man’s manner, but to think him truly horrible? “How so, Miss Burke?”

“He forced us out of our home, and he won’t let us return. Mama begged him—pleaded with him—and he only laughed and said no. What sort of man does that, Miss Bennet?”

“I thought the roof collapsed on that house.” She frowned a little, racking her brain. She had twitted him about living in Douglas’s house, and he’d said he had no choice, that his house was a ruin. “He can’t even live there himself.”

The other girl sniffed in scorn. “It’s nearly repaired. My sister and I grew up there—all our memories of our dear papa are there—but he won’t let us return. I had always dreamed of having my wedding breakfast in the dining room there, but now it shall be utterly impossible. That’s the sort of man you’ve been dancing with, Miss Bennet.”

Joan pursed her lips. It was hard to argue that Tristan Burke was a model gentleman. She could picture him laughing and refusing a request, if it annoyed him. And she dimly remembered, once upon a time, his declaration that his aunt and cousins hated him, and he hated them. But this sounded spiteful, and somehow she couldn’t see him stooping to that level. Why would he? “Thank you for the warning, Miss Burke. You must excuse me, I see my friends beckoning me.” She bobbed slightly and went to join Abigail and Mrs. Townsend.

To conceal the disquieting encounter, she bought the straw bonnet, but fell quiet as they left the shop. Abigail and Mrs. Townsend chattered happily about the bonnet Abigail had indeed impressed upon her friend, leaving Joan to her thoughts. Could Tristan Burke have treated his aunt and cousins as cruelly as Miss Burke described? Joan’s main experience of gentlemen was her brother. She thought over all the times they had quarreled and snapped at each other, and knew there was a wide gulf between what she thought cruel and what Douglas thought cruel. Men simply thought differently from ladies. Miss Burke, with her blonde curls and big blue eyes, was probably utterly unaccustomed to being denied anything by a member of the male sex, let alone something she desperately desired. And Lord Burke seemed to be less susceptible than most men to female sensibilities.

Still, it would be very rude to laugh in the face of a mother pleading to restore her children to their home, even for him. Not that he hadn’t laughed in Joan’s face, more than once, and she’d thought him very rude then, even over trifling matters like the note she made Douglas sign. It only made a sharper contrast to his actions when he came to tea, when he’d been . . . admiring. Intriguing. Attentive. And the way he’d looked at her, with that heavy-lidded gaze and wicked hint of smile . . .

She said a bad word under her breath. Not even shopping for a new bonnet had succeeded in driving him from her mind. Was it always this way, dealing with gentlemen? In all her dreams of suitors, she’d never guessed that having one could be so frustrating.

It took her several minutes to realize that she had begun to think of him as a suitor.

Chapter 17

B
efore she reached the breakfast room the next morning, Joan could tell her aunt had a visitor. She could hear a soft rumble of conversation, a man’s voice as well as her aunt’s lighter tone, and then, just as she turned the knob to enter, a sharp bark.

Evangeline and a very handsome gentleman glanced up like two guilty lovers at her entrance. Her aunt looked happy, flushed pink with laughter and one hand stroking a small dog curled up on her lap. She had been leaning forward, her whole body tilted toward her guest, but now sat back in her chair. “Good morning, Joan!” She gave her companion a rueful look. “I didn’t expect to see you so early. This is Sir Richard Campion. Sir Richard, my niece, Miss Joan Bennet.”

Sir Richard was already on his feet, and swept a gallant bow. “A very great pleasure, Miss Bennet.”

“And mine,” she replied, eyeing him with interest. So this was the fearless explorer who had climbed mountains in Switzerland and traveled into the dark recesses of Africa—and who was also her aunt’s reputed lover. According to rumor, he was far younger than Evangeline, but Joan wouldn’t have guessed it to look at him. He was about Papa’s height, and very fit, almost lean. His light brown hair was streaked with silver threads, and his face was tanned and lined, especially around his eyes. But those eyes, a startling blue, were keen and alert, and his whole manner crackled with energy. He was dressed like a country squire but moved with the grace of a London gentleman.

The ginger dog in Evangeline’s lap barked again, a sharp little yip. Evangeline smiled fondly as she scratched the dog’s ears. “And this is Louis. Sir Richard has been caring for him while I’m here. He brought my Louis for a visit.”

“He missed you so, my dear,” said Sir Richard, smiling at her. He spoke with a trace of accent, clipped but soft.

“You must meet him properly, Joan. Here; take a bit of bacon and call him.” The little dog, his fur bristling, jumped to the floor as Joan got a piece of bacon from the sideboard. He trotted over to her feet and sat, his tiny tail wagging furiously and his dark eyes fixed on the bacon. “Good boy, Louis,” said Evangeline. “Be polite!”

Louis sat back and raised one front paw, holding it in front of him like a cavalier begging for a lady’s hand for a dance. “Oh, how darling you are, Louis,” cried Joan. She stooped and held out the bacon. He delicately nipped it from her fingers and settled down to chew it. Joan looked up. “Why didn’t you bring him with you, Evangeline?”

Her aunt waved one hand. “He’s a demanding little fellow. I knew he wouldn’t have enough exercise here in town. He’s much happier in Chelsea.”

“Oh.” Louis had finished the bacon and was regarding her hopefully, tail wagging once more. Joan let him sniff her hand and lick her fingers, then stroked his fur. He stretched his neck and his eyes drooped closed as she scratched under his chin with its ruff of soft fur. “I wouldn’t mind if he stayed.”

She looked up in time to catch the wary glance exchanged between her aunt and their visitor. “You promised me I might have him for a month at least,” said Sir Richard lightly. “Who else will keep Hercule in line?”

Evangeline smiled—gratefully, Joan thought. “Poor Hercule! I imagine he cannot wait for Louis to be gone.”

“Who is Hercule?” Joan came and took a seat, held out for her by Sir Richard.

“Hercule,” said Sir Richard as he returned to his own seat, and there was a scratching from the far side of the room. To Joan’s shock, the biggest dog she had ever seen came padding around the table. Mostly black with brown and white markings on his head and legs, he sat obediently next to Sir Richard’s chair, where his head was almost level with his master’s shoulder.

“He’s enormous,” she said faintly.

“But very amiable in temperament.” Sir Richard took a sausage from his plate and offered it to the dog. Hercule sniffed it and ate the entire sausage in one bite. “I brought him back from Switzerland,” Sir Richard added, leaning over to scratch the dog’s throat. Hercule put his head back and gave a gusty sigh of pleasure. “He was born to climb mountains and herd goats, and all I give him is London streets.”

“And a pestilential little dog to plague his every waking moment,” Evangeline said wryly as Louis wormed his way between Hercule’s massive paws and began sniffing for a stray bit of sausage, walking all over the bigger dog as he did so. “Louis! Come here,” she scolded her pet.

Louis gave a sharp yip, but returned to her. Evangeline scooped him up and rested her cheek in his fur, only smiling as the little dog licked her chin.

“We must be on our way,” said Sir Richard, taking one last sip from his coffee cup before rising from the table. “The streets should be safe from geese now, and we can make it home without peril.”

“Very well.” With a sigh Evangeline put her dog on the floor, and Sir Richard slipped a lead over his head.

“Good day, Lady Courtenay.” Sir Richard raised Evangeline’s hand to his lips. From her chair, Joan caught a glimpse of her aunt’s glowing face. Whatever rumor had got wrong about them, it was very clear that Evangeline adored Sir Richard. He bowed to her as well. “Miss Bennet.” He went to the door, Hercule following close behind. Louis went willingly as well, but doubled back around Hercule to plant himself in the doorway and bark sharply at Evangeline. Joan could almost hear the demand in that bark: come along!

“Louis,” said Sir Richard firmly, nudging the little dog with his foot. Louis ignored him, dancing out of the way of his boot to bark again at his mistress. Sir Richard gave Evangeline an exasperated look.

“Louis,” she said in reproach, and her pet’s tail drooped. He gave one more bark, dispirited, and then went with Sir Richard and Hercule, his tiny feet tapping on the polished floors.

It was very quiet in the room after they left. Joan filled a plate at the sideboard, noticing how the maid came at once to clear away the complete setting from Sir Richard’s place. His visit had not been a short one. It was early now; he must have arrived at least an hour ago. And Evangeline must have expected him, for her to be up so early and already dressed—and very becomingly, for a morning.

“Why didn’t you bring Louis with you?” she asked as she took her seat again. “I’m sure Papa wouldn’t mind.”

Evangeline, still gazing at the door, started at Joan’s question. “Why, my dear, it would be the height of rudeness to bring a dog when one is a guest! Louis is well settled with Sir Richard at his house in Chelsea; he can run in the garden and not be chased by geese, who frighten him to no end. Sir Richard nearly had to carry Louis in his coat pocket when they met a pack of geese on the way to market this morning.” She smiled and reached for the teapot. “Can you just picture it? Louis’s head peeping from Sir Richard’s greatcoat pocket, yapping frantically at a marauding goose?”

Joan buttered her toast with great care. She had told enough evasive truths in her life to recognize one when she heard it. Evangeline had given up her dog and her companion to come play at chaperone, and there was no mystery why. It was surely no accident that both had come very early, before Joan was expected to rise, before the neighbors would remark a man or dogs visiting. Joan couldn’t see her father protesting the dogs, but now that she thought about it, her mother disliked animals in the house. And she could only imagine what Mother would say about the gentleman.

She waited until the maid had left the room with the tray of dishes. “Are you going to marry Sir Richard?”

Evangeline’s eyes flew to meet hers, wary and unreadable.

Joan bit her lip and forged on. “I know it’s rude to ask, but . . . well, I could see you care for him, very much, and he must care for you to bring your dog to visit so early in the morning. My mother keeps assuring me that I’ll find a man who cares for me and then marry him, so I only wondered why, when you’ve found a man who cares for you, you haven’t married him.”

Evangeline slowly set down the teapot. She added sugar to her tea and stirred it, then added more sugar, all without looking at Joan. “It’s not as simple as that. Sir Richard . . . I . . .” She took a deep breath and seemed to give herself a tiny shake. “The truth is I don’t want to marry again. I’ve buried two husbands already.” She smiled ruefully. “It’s bad luck to marry me! Everyone who’s done so has died within ten years of the wedding. The poor man is better off as he is.”

“Did you care for your husbands?” Joan asked softly.

Her aunt took a long sip of tea. “No. The truth is, Joan, you are very fortunate your parents want you to find someone you care for, who cares for you in turn. Not everyone views marriage so tenderly.”

“It sounds so simple when you say it that way—find someone you care for who returns your regard—but it really isn’t,” she said with a sigh. “My mother wants me to find a man who cares for me . . . who also has the right breeding and manners, good connections, and with some fortune of his own. While I—“

“Yes?” prodded Evangeline gently when she stopped speaking. “What do you want?”

Joan shrugged. “What every girl wants, I suppose. A man who is kind and considerate, handsome and graceful, tall and strong. There seems to be a terrible shortage of such men in London at the moment, sadly.”

“And Lord Burke is none of those things . . . ?”

She nibbled at her toast, trying to pretend she had never thought of him. “Lord Burke? Well, he’s tall, I’ll grant him that.”

“And very handsome,” added her aunt. “He moves like a pugilist; so light on his feet. I daresay he’s an accomplished dancer. And a man who boxes is often quite strong.”

Joan threw down her toast. “He’s not considerate, and he’s been downright rude to me. He told me I looked like a half-opened umbrella.”

Evangeline’s eyebrows went up. “Indeed! When he was here for tea?”

“No,” she said, aware that her face was flushing. “At a ball a fortnight ago. He asked if I had something against flattering fashion.”

“I expect his opinion changed,” murmured her aunt. “He seemed very struck by your appearance in that lovely green frock, my dear.”

Yes, he had. The memory brought a small smile to Joan’s face in spite of herself. “Perhaps a little,” she allowed. “But I heard something of him the other day . . . Were you ever acquainted with his aunt, Lady Burke?”

“Oh, Lord. Her.” Evangeline took a deep breath. “Very slightly. What did she tell you about him?”

“I’ve never met her,” Joan hastened to say. “But I heard he’s been rather callous to her, and I wondered if it could be true. A man who is cruel to his aunt and cousins cannot be considered kind, can he?”

“Callous!” Evangeline gave a cynical snort. “Mary Burke is a prickly woman, and always has been. She was a beauty in her day, but her manner turned off the most eligible men. She married Edward Burke, who was a handsome fellow even if the dullest man in Christendom, which was a step up for her family. You may recall what I said about the current Lord Burke’s father?” Joan nodded. “He was as charming and gregarious as his older brother was reserved and staid, and Mary disapproved mightily of him. She made no secret of the fact that she thought he would come to no very good end . . .” Evangeline’s eyes grew shadowed. “And I suppose she was right. But the worst thing Colin Burke did, in Mary’s eyes, was wed an heiress. Most of young Burke’s fortune comes from his maternal grandfather, not from his father.”

“Which means he was wealthier than his uncle even when he was a small boy,” said Joan slowly. “And his aunt . . .”

“Lord Burke is very like his father, so she was bound to dislike him anyway. But yes, I’m sure the money stung her pride as well.”

“So you would discount her words about him?”

Evangeline made a face. “If anything, I’d credit the exact opposite of her words about him, or anyone else.”

That cast a completely different light on things. Not only had Lord Burke lost his parents when he was practically an infant, it appeared he’d been right when he said his aunt and cousins hated him. Joan fiddled with her spoon. Surely if they had treated him so coldly, a little callousness on his part could be forgiven. If Miss Burke’s manner in the millinery shop was any indicator of the way they treated him, he was probably justified in hating them. Still—to turn them out of their house?

“Is Lady Burke in dire straits?” Miss Burke’s costume had been exquisite, but it could have been bought on credit. If they had been left without a place to live, that would seem very hard.

“I doubt it,” said Evangeline in surprise. “The Burkes have always had money, and I never saw a less likely spendthrift than the late Lord Burke.”

Joan nodded. That didn’t eliminate the sentimental attachment Miss Burke had claimed, but it hardly stooped to cruelty.

There was a tap on the door, and Smythe entered with two florist’s boxes. He placed one box before each of them.

“My,” said Evangeline in surprise as she untied the string. “I wonder who would have sent these?”

Joan ignored her aunt’s rhetorical question and busied herself with opening her own box. She had received bouquets before, but none since her second Season, years ago. And these flowers were unlike those long-ago daisies in every way. Inside the box lay a sheaf of long-stemmed lilies, of such stark simplicity she could only stare.