The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella (2 page)

“I can assure you my hosts will approve,” he said confidently. “Say, the day after tomorrow?”

She gave him a curtsey, a rather elegant one too, and continued on her way.

Lochley climbed into the curricle and lifted the reins. His horse snorted, stating her eagerness to return and claim those oats and the conjugal visit. Lochley was eager to return as well.

But he couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder at the retreating form of Miss Martin one last time.

***

“F
anny, is that you?” her mother called when the kitchen door opened. Fanny was their servant, and her mother’s assumption it was she entering through the kitchen was a logical one as Caroline would be expected to enter through the front door.

“No, it’s me, Mother,” Caro said. “I’m quite covered in mud and didn’t want to dirty the entryway.”

Mrs. Martin, who had been seated at the table peeling potatoes, turned sharply then jumped to her feet. “Caro! What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” She set the basket with the fabric her mother had asked her to fetch from Tunbridge Wells on the table. “Nothing happened.”

But her mother, always so overprotective these days, grasped her by the arms and looked her over carefully for signs of injury. “Did you fall?”

“No. I assure you. I am quite well.”

Her mother released her, seeming satisfied enough that her daughter was indeed whole and unharmed. She nodded toward the door to the house. “You had better go and change before your father sees this.”

“Sees what?” her father asked, opening the door from the house and entering the kitchen. Her father was a gentleman, although he did not look the part at the moment. He took an active interest in his farm and his livestock, and at the moment he was dressed in the garb of a working man. He’d probably been up with the sun and overseen countless tasks, but he still looked a good deal better than she.

As soon as he saw her, his tanned face twisted with anger. “What happened?”

“I am fine,” she said. “Truly.”

“The roads are not that muddy. How did you come to look as though you were tumbled in a copse?”

“Edward!” her mother said with a gasp.

Caro’s cheeks flamed hot. She deserved such assumptions, but that did not mean she was not hurt by them.

“The roads are muddy,” she said, knowing she had no choice but to explain now. She would have done so anyway because she had to mention the dinner invitation, but she would have waited until after dinner, when her father was relaxed by the fire with a book or his ledgers.

“Just past Mr. Jacobs’s fields I came across a gentleman whose curricle wheel was stuck in the mud. I offered to help him extricate it.”

Her father’s eyes closed as though he was in pain. “Not this again.”

Her temper flared at his words, but she reined it in. “That is the whole of the story. He is a guest of Mr. Gage’s at the Friar’s House, a ridiculous dandy from London who didn’t know any better than to go out driving when the mud is as deep as your knees. I helped him free the conveyance and went my own way as he went his.”

The last thing she needed was for her father to confine her to the house again. She’d barely earned his trust enough to be able to go into Tunbridge Wells on her own.

“There now.” Her mother gave them both a shaky smile. “That seems innocent enough.”

Her father made a noncommittal sound.

“Now, go and change and wash, Caroline.”

She nodded and started for the door.

“Is that the whole story?” her father asked.

She paused. If she omitted the dinner invitation now, it would be lying. With a sigh, she shook her head. “He invited us to dine with him and the Gages at the Friar’s House the day after tomorrow. I believe it was a gesture of thanks.”

“You declined, of course.”

“No, Papa. I neither declined nor accepted. It was a thoughtful gesture”—if such a vain, conceited man was capable of such—“but as I said, he just arrived. I will allow the Gages to enlighten him. Then, I am sure, we will receive a note telling us they are already engaged that evening and to forgive the impetuousness of their guest.”

They had received notes like that before—many, many notes like that when she first returned home three years ago. She’d thought she was immune to the pain of such rejections, but apparently she still had the ability to feel hurt and disappointment.

The rebuff would hurt all the more because even though Peregrine Lochley was a dandy and an idiot, he was a handsome idiot. He was tall and well proportioned with dark hair and an unshaven jaw that made him look slightly dangerous. His eyes were an unusual color of hazel, almost golden, and his features undeniably aristocratic. She might think Weston a ridiculously expensive tailor, but the coat, and his other clothing, had fit him perfectly.

And this was not to mention that Caro would have liked to meet Miss Gage. The young lady seemed very sweet and friendly, but thus far her companion had kept Caro at a distance. She supposed it didn’t matter, as in a few months the Gages’ lease would be up, and they would be returning to London. Caro’s life would go on as it had been, and she’d feel lonely when the Gages returned only if she managed to make a friend of Miss Gage.

“Excuse me,” she said, and left her parents in the kitchen. She intended to go to her room, change clothing, and wash the mud off her hands and arms. Her mother’s voice stopped her.

“It’s too bad. I would have liked to dine at the Friar’s House.”

“Another time,” her father said, his voice softer and kinder when he spoke to his wife. He used to speak to Caro like that.

“When?” Mrs. Martin asked. “Shall we never recover? We aren’t invited anywhere and go nowhere, save the public assemblies. I fear Matthew will never marry. How can he find a proper wife when we aren’t received anywhere?”

“Matthew is fine. No one holds him responsible. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

“You mustn’t hold yourself accountable,” her mother chided. “We have been through this before.”

And because Caro had heard it all before, she walked away. How she wished she could undo the past, but she’d made a mistake, and now she must live with it. Her entire family must live with it. Thankfully, her older sister, Elizabeth, had already married before the shame befell their family, or her parents would have to worry over both Lizzy and Matthew. As it was, no one worried about her chances for marriage.

No one would ever want her.

“I
hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited guests to dinner the night after tomorrow,” Lochley said to Bertie as they sipped port after dinner in Bertie’s study. It was a dark room, situated as it was in one of the older sections of the house. Bertie had told him the Friar’s House had once been a monastery built in the thirteenth century. Over the years, the owners had added to the basic structure, and now the old worn stone married the newer.

“That was quick. You were gone no more than two hours this morning.”

“I make friends easily.” Whether or not he kept them was another matter.

“True enough. I’ll ask Georgie, but I don’t think we’re engaged that evening. Who is it?”

“The Martin family. They’re neighbors of yours. I met Miss Martin returning from Tunbridge Wells, or so I assume.”

“Martin?” Bertie swirled his port. “I don’t know them, although I do believe I’ve seen Mr. Martin and his son a time or two. They’re neighbors, you say?”

“Miss Martin said her father lives about a mile from where... we made our acquaintance. I would estimate two or three miles from the Friar’s House. We should ask Georgie what she knows. Shall we return to the drawing room?”

Lochley rose and followed Bertie to where Miss Gage and her companion, a Mrs. Clotworthy, were taking tea and chatting.

The drawing room was small but warm in feeling. The gold paper-hangings and rose accents enticed one to linger and study the variety of gewgaws displayed on cabinets and the mantel. It was a testament to the tedium of the country that Lochley had spent several hours staring at the portrait of the man above the mantel and sketching a life story for him in his mind. Lochley followed Gage into the room, and there was his old friend Felton—as he’d named the man in the portrait—and Miss Gage and her companion seated together on the chintz couch.

“There you are,” Mrs. Clotworthy said with a yawn. “The hour grows late, and I would like Georgie to retire.” She reached over and patted Miss Gage’s hand. “You do need your rest, my dear.”

Miss Gage looked quite well to Lochley—a little thinner and paler than before her illness, but well nonetheless. Certainly she didn’t need to retire at—he glanced at the bracket clock on the mantel—half past seven in the evening.

Gad, but these country hours would be the end of him. Up at dawn and in bed before the sun had even set.

“Before you retire, Georgie, Lochley informs me he has already made the acquaintance of our neighbor Miss Martin and has invited the Martin family to dine two nights hence.”

Miss Gage’s brows shot up. “Really? How exciting.”

Lochley could not think why another early dinner where the guests spent the majority of the evening discussing sheep would be exciting. He did want to see Miss Martin again. He’d been wondering what shade of red her hair was under that straw bonnet.

“Martin?” Mrs. Clotworthy asked, perking up. “Oh dear, no. We can’t have them to dinner. Think of the scandal.”

Lochley had been about to sit on the lounge to be lulled into a mindless stupor by chatter about livestock, but he straightened at the word
scandal
. That was a word with which he was familiar. His father said
too
familiar.

Across from him, one arm resting negligently on the mantel, Bertie ceased swirling his port. “Only Lochley could root out scandal in Hemshawe.”

“What scandal?” Lochley asked, somewhat offended. And perhaps secretly pleased. “Miss Martin seemed perfectly respectable to me.” Perhaps even a bit too respectable considering she’d had no qualms about covering herself in mud in order to free his curricle.

“Oh, but she’s not respectable,” Mrs. Clotworthy said, her hand over her heaving bosom. “She’s not received.”

“Why?” Lochley asked.

Miss Gage leaned closer to her companion, her face the picture of anticipation. Whatever the sin Miss Martin had committed, Miss Gage had not been informed of its nature. Of course, there was really only one sin a woman committed that mattered, and Hemshawe hardly seemed a den of iniquity.

“Well...” Seeming to know she’d captured her audience’s attention, Mrs. Clotworthy drew the word out. Miss Gage leaned even closer, until she was practically sitting on Mrs. Clotworthy’s lap. “I don’t know precisely, but I have heard rumors.”

“Rumors.” Bertie scoffed as any reasonable man would. Gage was a reasonable man, Lochley thought, except when it came to his sister. “What could she have possibly done? Danced with the wrong man? Drank too much wine at an assembly?”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Clotworthy’s voice had turned somewhat breathy. “It’s far worse than that. She left suddenly and without explanation, and she did not return for
six months
. When she came home, her mother said she had been visiting a distant cousin in the Portsmouth. ”

Miss Gage’s face scrunched in bewilderment, and it took Lochley a beat before he understood what was implied. There were only two reasons a woman left suddenly—elopement or to birth a bastard. As Miss Martin had not returned with a husband, presumably she had birthed a child out of wedlock. She’d gone away for her confinement to keep her condition a secret and then presumably given the babe up for adoption.

Lochley met his friend’s gaze. He could read Bertie’s expression without trying very hard. The two had been friends for a long time.

Is this plausible?
Bertie’s look asked.

“Doubtful,” Lochley said aloud.

Mrs. Clotworthy drew in a breath. “She was
not
visiting a distant cousin?” Her gaze flew to Miss Gage with concern. Poor Miss Gage still looked utterly mystified.

“Doubtful that there is anything more to the story,” Lochley clarified. “As I said, the young lady seemed quite respectable to me.”

Except, of course, now that he recalled their encounter, details stood out that hadn’t before. She hadn’t spoken as an innocent young country miss might. She’d understood he offered the mare a conjugal visit with Gage’s stallion, and she hadn’t shied away from calling it
sexual favors
. No innocent miss would use such a phrase lightly. And when he’d invited her to dinner, she’d asked if his hosts would approve, meaning she was well aware of her reputation and perhaps even accepting of it. Had she tried to defend herself in the face of such rumors? Or had she said nothing because, perhaps, the rumors were true?

He would not venture down that avenue of thought because he knew all too well how often rumors were false. Why, he’d been rumored to have perpetrated dozens of acts he had never even considered, much less accomplished. More was the pity.

“Then we shall be happy to have them to dinner,” Miss Gage said, rising. “Bertram certainly trusts Mr. Lochley’s judgment, and so do I.”

Lochley cut his eyes to Bertie. If his old friend did trust his judgment, he wasn’t as intelligent as he used to be.

“Right.” Bertie pushed away from the mantel. “I’ll send a note formally inviting the Martins in the morning. I don’t suppose you brought any suitable wine for the evening?”

Bertie gave Lochley a sly look. The rogue. Lochley knew very well his friend had witnessed Victors overseeing the unloading of the crates with his favorite bottles of wine upon his arrival.

“I’ll find something suitable,” Lochley promised.

“Mr. Lochley is quite the wine expert,” Bertie told his sister and Mrs. Clotworthy. “When we were in France, he had the uncanny ability to taste a wine once and thereafter never forget the region from whence it hailed, the year it was bottled, and the vintner.”

“How extraordinary!” Miss Gage exclaimed. “How ever did you develop such a talent?”

Lochley gave her a polite smile. “You know they say Mozart composed his first concerto when he was but four or five? He was born with a propensity to play instruments and to compose music. I was born with a similar ability, only I have a very sensitive palate.”