Wickeds Scandal by Kathleen Ayers
15
Jeanette Runyon Reynolds, the current and forever Marchioness of Cambourne, if she had her way, surveyed the ballroom of Gray Covington with a militant eye. She adored Gray Covington, the Cambourne estate just outside London. Not because she liked the country, of course. Country life was dull and drab. No, it was because the building and grounds bore a vague resemblance to the gardens of Versailles, the grand palace built for the French kings. There was simply no finer setting for Jeanette’s beauty nor a better place to remind the ton of the wealth and affluence of the Cambournes. Particularly Jeanette.
Mentally she checked off the myriad of decorations ordered earlier, making sure all was just so. The staff of Gray Covington complained that what Lady Cambourne wished was impossible. They could not complete the Herculean tasks given them to her satisfaction. Jeanette replied that it had better be done to her exact specifications or she would find a staff capable of handling her instructions. Did they all wish to sleep on the streets of London tonight? The entire staff ran around her skirts like rats after her casual question, anxious to serve her. She shrugged her silk-clad shoulders. Threats were necessary when dealing with underlings.
Jeanette’s gaze lingered over the beauty of the ballroom. The walls and ceiling of her ballroom were hung with yards upon yards of gleaming blue silk, dyed so dark it gave the appearance of a midnight sky. Brilliants sewn into the silk represented the stars and the constellations. The designs took a staff of six seamstresses nearly two months to complete. Orion hung just above her head and to her right, Andromeda. She didn’t remember the names of the rest. She found astronomy to be a dull subject that was best suited to unattractive old men.
The candlelight flickering in the crystal chandeliers shone against the brilliants, making them wink and sparkle. She adored brilliants. The dazzling stones set off her hair and complexion perfectly. Even a giant silver moon hung in the corner. She had been born at midnight. She wished all of her guests to experience the magnificence of the sky at the time of her birth.
She sniffed the air, enjoying the perfume of her special roses. Midnight Rose was a rare and difficult variety of rose to cultivate. How many gardeners had she fired before finding the one man who could breed the rose? Her cousin Archie loved them as well.
Pale white roses glowed against the dark wall hangings of the ballroom. Large vases filled with the roses were placed in every corner of Gray Covington. Unfortunately, the gardens of Gray Covington had produced only enough blooms for the ballroom. More were needed for her celebration and she was forced to use her florist in London. The ungrateful vendor balked at the large order. She demanded to know why. After all, the florist only grew the roses for Jeanette when she was in London, didn’the? Was he selling Midnight Roses, her signature flower to another patron? The florist assured her, bowing and scraping as he did so, that never would he sell the Midnight Rose to anyone else.
The roses had arrived by the cart-load just this morning.
She smiled and allowed the delicate scent to invade her nostrils again. Her birthday ball was the event of the Season. The ton would talk of nothing else for months. Possibly, even years. Everyone clamored for an invitation. The cost of her birthday celebration was staggering.
Jeanette didn’t care a bit about the extravagance. Her dear stepson, Sutton, was paying for it.
Just the thought of Sutton caused a surge of hatred so clear and precise one could cut veal with it. But her face did not betray her thoughts. She’d spent years perfecting a smooth, cultured look that never gave anything away. A frown or a wrinkled brow never crossed her countenance. The ivory porcelain of her skin remained unmarred by the passage of time. Thoughts of that bastard, that usurper to the Cambourne title, could not be permitted to damage her looks. The women of the ton routinely commented on her youthful appearance, in spite of the fact she was mother to a son of Sutton’s age. Jeanette gritted her teeth. Stepson, she would remind the mindless twits who said such things to her. How could anyone possibly assume she gave birth to him? The thought made her feel soiled.
She had been so hopeful he would do the correct thing and die while he was traipsing around the Far East. How that man survived pirates, filthy disease, Chinese warlords, a slight opium addiction, and the assassins Jeanette had dispatched, was anyone’s guess.
“You there!” Jeanette’s scalding voice touched on a manservant carrying a tray of wine filled goblets.
The manservant quivered like a frightened rabbit as he met Jeanette’s gaze.
“Bring the tray.”
The manservant lowered his eyes and carefully approached.
Jeanette surveyed the frightened man before her. He displayed the appropriate amount of servitude. She waved him away without taking any wine. She could ill afford to dull her wits for the evening ahead.
The return of Sutton.
She blamed Archie. If only her cousin hadn’t been so greedy. The business with Elizabeth had caused Jeanette to lash out at her cousin in anger. Oh, not for Elizabeth’s sake, another dull daughter when what Jeanette needed was a son. No, her anger at Archie was for his sheer stupidity in putting Jeanette in a most delicate position. Robert, her deceased husband disliked her, but after Elizabeth he actively despised and distrusted her. Robert had beaten her beloved Archie so severely, Jeanette had to spirit Archie away to the Continent. Archie’s father soon learned of his son’s behavior, courtesy of Robert, and disowned his son. Jeanette cajoled Archie’s father as sweetly as she could, but the pair remained estranged. Although it was some comfort that the entire incident caused Robert to collapse in a fit of apoplexy.
Her daughters whined endlessly for their father and prayed daily for his recovery. Jeanette sat dutifully by his bedside, hoping each time he wheezed it would be his last. He clutched that ridiculous miniature of Madeline in his hand, speaking to the dead woman as if she sat holding his hand and not Jeanette. Not that she cared a whit. As soon as Robert died, Jeanette meant to cajole Herbert Reynolds, Robert’s cousin, to marry her. Herbert, the poor simple-minded dear was the only other heir to Cambourne besides Sutton. She planned to be the merriest of widows. Then Donata, that meddling battle-ax, intervened.
“Lady Cambourne, felicitations on your birthday.” Lady Thomlinson, her round face wearing a beggar’s smile, curtsied low to Jeanette.
Lady Thomlinson’s voice forced Jeanette back into the present, away from Robert’s sickroom and the mother-in-law she detested. She focused on how much her dear, unlamented husband would detest the fortune spent on her birthday. Jeanette looked down her nose at Lady Thomlinson and nodded, accepting the woman’s fealty.
A couple stood to Jeanette’s left, politely awaiting notice.
Jeanette turned, flashing a regal smile to hide her dislike. Lord Witherstone and his featherbrained wife. Jeanette found Lady Witherstone particularly tiresome. The woman bore a striking resemblance to a horse. And her voice. High-pitched with a slight lisp like a child, Lady Witherstone’s speaking annoyed everyone within hearing. Jeanette wondered how her husband could tolerate the sound. She’d heard rumors he was a bit of a drunkard. That may explain things.
“How lovely the ballroom is Lady Cambourne. I don’t believe I have ever beheld such a glorious display!”
Jeanette tried not to cringe outwardly at the sound of that lisp. The woman would be better off not speaking at all.
“Your taste rivals Lady Halston’s.” Lady Witherstone continued, trying desperately to curry Jeanette’s favor. The patronage of the Marchioness of Cambourne was necessary for Lady Witherstone’s charity. Something about war orphans. As if I care. Children are tedious, especially orphans.
“The roses are simply divine!” Lady Witherstone fawned.
Lord Witherstone bowed deeply. His polite gaze rested a bit longer than necessary on the swell of Jeanette’s bosom. The aroma of gin clung to him.
Jeanette sent them both an icy grin. She noted with distaste that she could see down Lady Witherstone’s bodice. Lady Witherstone, it appeared, padded herself quite aptly. No wonder her husband searched out greener pastures.
Lady Witherstone raised her head, struggling to stand after the mewling curtsy she bestowed upon Jeanette. Suddenly her nostrils flared like the startled mare she resembled, and her eyes bulged in a most unbecoming fashion. A quiver went through her frame part fear and part anticipation. The way patrons at the zoo looked at tigers. Lady Witherstone’s gaze was fixed on something just beyond Jeanette’s shoulder.
Jeanette’s lips tightened. She had seen the look many times. Bracing herself for the inevitable, she turned.
“Mother, dear, there you are.” Sutton’s deep baritone resounded like a thunderclap.
The absolute hatred she felt for her stepson bubbled up inside her. How dare he call her mother! She despised the words from her own children’s mouths. Jeanette wondered if it would be bad form to poison Sutton during her birthday celebration.
Sutton Reynolds, Marquess of Cambourne, bore down on her. More handsome than any bastard should be, he bowed low, kissing her hand.
Jeanette felt her lip curl at his false show of solicitude towards her and it took all her strength not to pull her hand back in revulsion. The resemblance to his father, Robert, was so striking it momentarily startled her. Robert, the handsome, rich Marquess who courted her during her first Season. Jeanette had been envied by every unmarried woman in London. He was perfect in every way. At parties she would stare entranced, her arm in his, as they walked by mirrors. She looked simply divine on Robert’s arm. He had been the perfect setting for the jewel of her beauty. Pity he had turned into such a bore.
“Sutton, there you are.” The words spilled from her lips smoothly, without a hint of the dislike. She turned to Lord and Lady Witherstone. “May I present the Marquess of Cambourne.”
Lady Witherstone gave a girlish giggle but shied from Sutton, as if he would fall on her like a mad dog. Lord Witherstone clutched her arm in a possessive manner, obviously afraid the depraved Satan Reynolds might abscond with his wife. The couple nodded politely and hastily walked away. Lady Witherstone peered discreetly over her shoulder at Sutton as her husband led her off.
Jeanette stifled a laugh. She hated Sutton but the thought of him pouncing on the horse-faced Lady Witherstone was truly laughable.
“I see you are as charming as ever, aren’t you darling?” She threw him an icy glance. “Why, poor Lady Witherstone nearly burst a Bible from her reticule to ward off the evil Satan Reynolds.”
The large body of her stepson tensed.
Jeanette smoothed her gown and pretended innocence. The nickname started as a tool to humiliate Sutton. Archie thought that cultivating a distasteful reputation for her stepson could prove wise. It was a dreadful miscalculation. The nickname gave Sutton’s persona a dark patina but did not destroy him but seemed to make him more attractive.
Sutton lifted one black brow, the green eyes, so like Robert’s, filled with dislike. “How you love calling me that, Jeanette. One would think you coined the nickname yourself.”
Jeanette smoothed her hair. Her beloved Archie spewed out a continuous stream of venom against Sutton while her stepson had resided at Eton. Jeanette whispered about Sutton’s scandalous birth in London, stirring up doubt about his legitimacy. Her plan, naïve in retrospect, was to use the scandal surrounding Sutton’s birth as leverage with Robert when Jeanette bore a son. The entire plan had worked to perfection. Sutton unknowingly assisted Jeanette when he seduced the wife of the headmaster at Eton. Unfortunately, Sutton returned unexpectedly to London, to face his father’s wrath and witnessed she and Archie ‘playing’.
Jeanette had fallen on her knees to plead with her stepson, convincing Sutton that she was pregnant, this time with a son. If anything happened to the child she carried, Robert would be devastated. Between Sutton’s behavior at Eton and the questions of his legitimacy, shouldn’t he do his father a favor and leave London? Do this one honorable thing for Robert after the disgrace Sutton caused?
Convincing Sutton to leave had been almost too easy. He’d been so malleable as a youth and so uncertain of his legitimacy.
“Ah, what a delight to see the mind of the black widow working through her next scheme. And on her birthday! Well, it goes to show,” Sutton whispered low, “that wickedness does not take a holiday.”
Jeanette grimaced. Her plan worked, for a time. Sutton disappeared into the jungles of Macao. Unfortunately, he used that ridiculous nickname to his advantage. It became her stepson’s calling card. Now men feared and respected Satan Reynolds. Women threw themselves at him in a more appalling manner than before. The whole of it sometimes made her weep in frustration. The worst, however, was his return to London.
“You are the authority on wickedness. I’m afraid I don’t have time for your silly accusations,” she hissed. “Guests are arriving, and I am the belle of the ball.”
“So the bills I continue to receive from your dressmaker, the florist, and a variety of tradesmen I can’t even name tell me. I wonder how you shall afford such extravagance in the future.”
Jeanette ignored his blatant threat. Eventually, she would hire an assassin that could actually kill her troublesome stepson. Sutton’s survival skills, honed during his time away from London, were greater than she’d originally suspected. Thank goodness Archie was back to assist her. “Where is that half-wit sister of yours? I finally resorted to having her maid take her books away, so Miranda would ready herself for this evening. It’s bad enough Elizabeth is missing my birthday celebration.”
“If I have my way, you will never see Elizabeth again.” Sutton smiled, conscious that the room was filled with guests who watched their conversation. His eyes, like green shards of glass, sliced into her flickering with rage.
Jeanette’s face froze. Her mind whispered that the man before her was no longer the motherless child she had once abused. Ignoring the trickle of alarm that ran down her spine, she lifted her chin.
“It will be no great disservice to me if I don’t see the little twit again, you can be sure. Elizabeth is even duller than Miranda, which is difficult to fathom. Your father made such a fuss. It was only a misunderstanding.”
Sutton sucked in his breath.
Her stepson could be so predictable. He wished to strangle her. She simply adored ripping out his emotions and waving them in front of his face like a matador’s cape with an angry bull. If Sutton had proof of Archie’s abuse of Elizabeth, her cousin would be dead. Nor could he possibly suspect she was behind the attempts to have him killed. However angry he was. Sutton likely still worshipped her as he had when he was a small boy. How could he not?
She smoothed down his cravat pretending motherly concern “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you for refusing Percy Dobson’s suit for Miranda. Your sister is a bluestocking and only passably attractive. She chatters incessantly. I once had great hopes for her but now?” Jeanette gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders. “What other man will offer for her? She’s practically on the shelf.”
Sutton relaxed. He didn’t pull away from her touch. Instead, his mouth curved into a smile that did not reach the green glass of his eyes.
Jeanette much preferred his anger. This simply would not do. “She is a—”
“Shut up.” He said it quietly. His face shone with manufactured affection.
Jeanette frowned before she could stop herself, then she smiled indulgently. Her guests would remark on what a loving relationship she and Sutton shared.
Intolerable.
“Mother, dear. Don’t frown so. You don’t want to wrinkle the perfection of your skin do you? Besides, at your age, Mother, you can ill afford wrinkles.” His lips still held an affectionate bent, but his words bit through her. “You ceded all responsibility for your daughters. All. You are dependent on my charity. You will learn to behave, Mother, or I will have you banished to the Continent. Never to return. Perhaps I shall do so anyway.”
Sutton lied. The boy who longed for her love was still in the man before her. She knew it. She could still manipulate him. Smiling warmly, she murmured, “Tsk, Sutton, you would never send me away. I am the only mother you have ever known.” She placed her hand on his sleeve in a show of affection.
“Then you had better find a more skilled assassin.”
Jeanette blinked, and her hand froze.
Bastard. He knew.
She changed tactics to something more proven. “Did I ever tell you that I saw your mother once? The exalted Madeline?” It wasn’t true of course but Sutton didn’t know that.
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
“Sweet, sweet Madeline. We all know how…pious she was. Not her fault she became a rich man’s mistress. A vicar’s daughter spends all her time on her knees…praying. Right?” She leaned into Sutton’s tall form, smelling the musky exotic cinnamon scent that clung to him, wishing for a knife to plunge into his chest.
His nostrils flared, but he said nothing. He merely raised a brow and walked away into the crowd.
Jeanette turned, her lips twisted into a half-smile, to greet Lady Worth. Sutton wouldn’t be able to keep his temper in check for long. Archie had imparted the most delicious secret to Jeanette.
