One Night Of Scandal (16 page)

After a search of the deserted courtyard and neglected gardens yielded nothing, she finally found Allegra perched high in the gnarled branches of an apple tree at the edge of a dying orchard. Lottie's doll lay abandoned at the foot of the tree, sprawled facedown in the dirt.

Shaking her head ruefully, Lottie brushed off the doll's chipped nose and gently propped her against the tree trunk in a sitting position. "Halloo there!" she shouted up at Allegra. "Won't you come down and talk to me?"

The child's sunny demeanor had vanished. "No, thank you," she called out, continuing to gaze toward the distant horizon. "I'm quite content where I am."

Lottie absorbed that information for a moment. "Very well, then. If you don't want to come down, then I'll come up." Having learned her lesson on the night of her debut, Lottie took the time to strip off her shawl and knot her skirts between her legs, fashioning a makeshift pair of pantaloons, before starting up the tree.

She arrived at Allegra's perch, stockings snagged and slightly out of breath, to find the girl eyeing her suspiciously. "I didn't think ladies were allowed to climb trees."

"Ladies are allowed to do whatever they like," Lottie informed her. She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "As long as there's no one else about to see them."

She settled herself between two branches, torn between the curving coastline on one side and the sweeping sea of marsh grass on the other. Even with the wind snatching away each breath before she could take it, she had to admit it was a magnificent view.

Allegra continued to scowl at her. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with my father?"

"Actually, your father was the one who sent me to find you. He thought that I might be able to help you with your lessons."

"I don't have lessons."

Taken aback by the child's brusqueness, Lottie said, "Well then, perhaps it's time you did. I brought some wonderful books from London — Raleigh's
The History of the World,
Linnaeus's
Philosophia Botanica,
Savigny's
History of Roman Law in the Middle Ages.
"

"I don't like books."

It was Lottie's turn to look suspicious. She didn't trust anyone who didn't like books. "If you don't like books, then you've never read
Castle of Wolfenbach
by Mrs. Parsons. It was so thrilling that after I finished it, I refused to sleep without a candle burning by my bedside for over a week."

Allegra sniffed disdainfully. "Martha says that books are a waste of both paper and time and I'd be better served learning how to plant potatoes."

Horrified, Lottie couldn't speak at all for a moment. "Well, if Martha had ever read
The Midnight Bell, The Mysterious Warning,
or
The Murderous Monk,
she might not be so quick to dismiss
all
books as a waste of time and paper!" Remembering that she was supposed to be providing a model of decorum for the child, Lottie struggled to rein in her temper. "Since I haven't had any experience with planting potatoes, why don't we meet this afternoon in the schoolroom before tea for our very first lesson?"

"Very well. It's not as if I have a choice, do I,
Mummy
?" This time the name was delivered with withering scorn.

"I'm not your mummy, Allegra," Lottie said quietly, "and you needn't pretend I am."

"Then you needn't pretend to like me." The girl hugged one knee to her chest, gazing in the direction of the sea. "Nobody else does."

"I wouldn't say that's entirely true. Your father seems to like you a great deal."

"Ha! He doesn't like me. He only buys me expensive gifts like that silly doll because he pities me."

Lottie frowned, disturbed by the absolute conviction in the child's voice. "You're his daughter. Why on earth would he pity you?"

Allegra turned to look at her, her dark hair blowing in the wind. "Can you keep a secret?"

"No," Lottie responded truthfully.

Allegra rolled her eyes and went back to studying the jagged cliffs scarring the coastline. "He pities me because my mother was mad and I'm going to be mad, too."

Although she was the one who was supposed tobe giving the lessons, Lottie suddenly realized there was much she could learn from this child. She wasn't entirely surprised to learn that Hayden's wife had suffered from insanity. Surely only a madwoman would cuckold a man who could kiss like that.

"Did your father tell you that you were going to be mad?"

"Of course not," Allegra said scornfully. "He won't talk about it at all. He won't talk about anything that matters. But I hear the servants talking about it all the time when they think I can't hear. 'Poor child. She's just like her mama,' they whisper, looking at me and shaking their heads as if I'm blind as well as mad."

"Do you feel mad?" Lottie asked, studying the little girl's sullen face.

Allegra looked taken aback by the question, as if she'd never really considered it before. "No," she finally replied, blinking as if surprised by her own answer. "But I feel angry a great deal of the time."

Lottie laughed as she swung down to the next branch and began to make her way to the ground. "So did I when I was your age. Don't worry. It will pass."

Reaching the ground, Lottie shook out her skirts. She briefly considered rescuing her doll, but after a moment's thought decided to leave her to Allegra's dubious care. Draping her shawl around her shoulders, she started for the house.

"He'll never love you, you know." The wind carried Allegra's voice to her ears. "He'll never love anyone but her."

Lottie tripped over a hillock of grass. Hoping the girl hadn't witnessed her stumble, she resumed her brisk pace, muttering, "We'll just see about that, won't we?"

Chapter 11

I soon learned that there are more frightful horrors in this world than wailing white ladies…

May 25, 1825

Dear Miss Terwilliger,

I am writing to express my profound sorrow for any embarrassment or distress I might have caused you during our years together at Mrs. Lyttelton's. After much earnest soul-searching and painful reflection, I have come to realize that I was not nearly half as clever as I believed myself to be.

While there is a certain amount of vulgar amusement and social cachet among one's peers to be derived from leaving livestock in a bedchamber for an indeterminate amount of time, the cost in both personal belongings and dignity is far too high to be borne. (You really ought to be thankful I only left a pony! I can assure you that a goat has a much heftier appetite, especially for silk undergarments and any blossom or ribbon that might adorn one's favorite hat.)

I can also promise you that having the fingers of your gloves stitched together is not nearly so unpleasant as having the seams of your pantalettes tightened so that your first attempt to sit results in a noise so odious and mortifying it cannot be referred to in polite (or impolite) company.

As I struggle to emulate your unfailing composure, I am beginning to develop a new appreciation for the depths of your restraint. When I feel a scream of outrage bubbling up in my throat or when I find my fingers curling into the precise shape of a dainty little female throat, I think of you and grit my teeth into an indulgent smile. When I find myself testing the blade of my butter knife against my thumb with more attention than is duly necessary, I remember your forbearance and find the strength to carry on without slapping a single soul.

I like to think that you would be proud of the model of virtue and maturity that I have become. Please know that I will always be…

Ever your humble servant,

Carlotta Oakleigh

P.S. Can you recommend something that will take raspberry currant stains out of boot leather?

May 30, 1825

Dear Aunt Diana,

Although we are parted, I know you haven't forgotten that I've a birthday coming up this summer. I was rather hoping you might send me a new bonnet and some lovely unmentionables? (Oh, and a charming little pair of nankeen half-boots would not be looked upon with disdain.)

Your doting niece,

Lottie

P.S. Give Uncle Thane and the twins my love, but please don't mention the unmentionables.

June 4, 1825

Dear George,

How you must have laughed when you learned that your baby sister had become — oh, I can hardly bear to contemplate it! — a mother! You, who always said that I never cared for any child except myself. (Although we both know that's not entirely true, for I've always been very fond of the twins and my own dear niece and nephew, Nicholas and Ellie. And contrary to what you've always said, I don't just adore Ellie because she is the mirror image of myself at that age. She has many other winning qualities, not the least of which is her unshakable belief in her own wit and beauty.)

I'm sure you'll also be surprised to learn that I am conducting myself with the mature refinement and decorum expected from a woman of my station. I strive to set a positive example for my impressionable young stepdaughter, guiding her actions with a firm, but loving hand.

So hold that image of the carefree girl you once called "Sister" (among other things) in your heart, for the tender joys "of motherhood have finally made a woman of her!

Maturely,

Carlotta

P.S. You were wrong about brown spiders. Their bite is not fatal. Not even if one inadvertently finds its way into your shoe.

June 8, 1825

Dear Laura and Sterling,

Please forgive me for not writing sooner, but I've been too busy basking in the tender affections of my husband and stepdaughter. They are such a joy to me that I find it difficult to tear myself away from their company to perform even the simplest task!

I'm well aware that you had reservations about this marriage, but I want to assure that I have gained not only an adoring husband, but a loving daughter as well. Please don't suffer a single moment's remorse or regret on my account. I could not bear it if you did!

I promise to write more soon. Until then, picture me surrounded by the convivial bliss that only a joyous union between man, woman, and child can bring.

Ever your adoring,

Lottie

P.S. Could you please send me another yellow parasol? I seem to have sat on mine and broken all of its spokes.

June 10, 1825

Oh, my dearest Harriet,

Forgive my cramped and crooked handwriting, but I am penning this missive in the relative privacy of a broom cupboard. (Picture your once fashionable and elegant friend reduced to sitting in the gloom on an overturned bucket, paper balanced on one knee while a mop handle pokes her in regions best left unnamed.) Why am I in the broom cupboard, you ask? Be patient, my dear friend, for in time all will be revealed!

I was quite dismayed when George wrote to tell me you had chosen to return to the bosom of your own family immediately after I departed for Cornwall. Sterling and Laura would have been delighted to have you finish out the Season as their guest. It gave me great solace to picture you making the rounds of the afternoon teas, taking phaeton rides in Hyde Park, flirting and dancing the night away at all of the balls and soirees I might have attended had I not squandered my own Season for the price of a kiss. (Although it was admittedly a very fine kiss.)

Lest you picture me cowering in this cupboard to escape some hulking brute of a husband, let me assure you that the marquess has been the very model of solicitousness. Sometimes I wish he would shout and rail at me if only to prove he is aware of my existence. Although he plays the gentleman with unfailing courtesy, he tends to look through me rather than at me. (And as you well know, I've never excelled at being ignored.)

No, it is his daughter I seek to escape — the ten-year-old step-bratling who plagues every waking moment of my existence. I know I can't hide in here forever, as our afternoon "lessons" are due to begin in an hour. On most days, those lessons consist of me patiently conjugating French verbs while the cunning little imp yawns and taps her foot and gazes out the window, plotting her next nefarious deed. Only yesterday, I returned to my chamber to discover that all the precious ink in my bottles had been replaced with boot polish. While my first inclination was to hunt her down and dump them over her smug little head, I refused to give her the satisfaction.

What does the marquess make of his daughter's mischief, you ask? Although I suspect our little clash of wills is a secret source of amusement to him, he acknowledges it with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or the most imperceptible twitch of his lips as he ducks behind the most recent edition of The Times
. He seems perfectly content to let the two of us battle it out, with all the spoils going to the victor.

My only solace lies in settling myself before my writing table each evening and penning some more glimmering shards of prose for my novel. (I did mention my novel, didn't I?) Fortunately, the nights have been peaceful, as the ghost has yet to make another appearance. (I did mention the ghost, didn't I?)

Wait! What's that I hear? Is it a stealthy footstep on the stairs? A shudder of dread courses down my spine as I crack open the cupboard door and steal a peek into the corridor. Ah, sweet relief! It's not the step-demon, but only the new maid, fleeing Martha's wrath. I've yet to catch a good look at the poor clumsy creature. She spends all of her time scuttling like a nearsighted crab from one domestic disaster to another. You can follow her progress through the house simply by listening for the sound of breaking crockery and Martha's bellowing.

There is so much more I want to tell you, but it's only a matter of time before I am discovered. Oh, dear, sweet Harriet, my friend and confidante, how I wish you were here!!!

Eternally yours,

Lottie

P.S. If I find one more bug in my shoe, I fear my husband won't be the only one in this house guilty of murder.

* * *

Two days after Lottie posted her letter to Harriet, the late afternoon sun came peeking out from behind the clouds in a rare appearance. Craving a taste of spring, Lottie decided to escape both the house and Allegra for a little while. She was strolling past the stables when she felt a now familiar prickling at the nape of her neck. Weary of being toyed with, she swung around, fully intending to blast Hayden's sullen little snoop of a daughter into next week.