Lords of Scandal: The Beleaguered Lord Bourne / The Enterprising Lord Edward

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS A WET WEDDING. Goldie’s never-ending stream of tears, accompanied by sighs, gulps, hiccups, and several ear-shattering recourses to her oversized red handkerchief were depressing enough without nature echoing the maid’s sentiments by sending dull gray skies and a drenching downpour just as the bride was leaving for the church.

Nothing is quite so inelegant as a limp lace veil unless it is a wilted, water-spotted silk gown with a muddy hem, both of which Jennie wore as she trailed reluctantly down the short aisle with Sir Cedric hauling her toward the altar with unseemly haste.

The ceremony itself was mercifully brief, with Ernestine Bundy poker-faced as the maid of honor and Leon, Kit’s valet, preening pompously in his role of groomsman.

With clumps of baby rose petals clinging damply to their bodies, the bride and groom made short work of climbing into the traveling coach that stood ready to embark on the day-long trip to London, with two other smaller, less elegant coaches holding their belongings and personal servants set to follow along behind.

After handing his bride into the coach, Kit ordered his driver to head for Bourne Manor, deciding a change of clothes was necessary if their journey was to be accomplished in any degree of comfort.

Bride and groom allowed the short journey to pass in silence and parted from each other’s company without regret to enter separate bedrooms and await the arrival of the servants bearing dry clothing.

A scant half hour later—the earl noting the new Lady Bourne’s promptness with a pleasure he saw no need to convey to her—they were finally on their way, with Kit already bored with the confinement of the coach and wishing himself astride the spirited black stallion tied to the back of the coach and Jennie idly stroking a strange wooden carving she held lovingly in her gloved hands.

His own thoughts holding no real appeal, Kit reluctantly turned his attention to the girl perched so stiffly beside him, and his gaze alighted on the carving. “And do you plan to plummet me with that maltreated tree branch if my baser instincts surface and I attempt to ravish you here in this coach?”

Jennie gave the carving a considering look before turning her head to stare at her husband as if weighing her chances of success if she was forced to defend herself before slowly shaking her head and confessing, “I saw the carving as I passed by the main saloon and couldn’t resist taking it with me as a remembrance of home.”

“You consider Bourne Manor to be your home?” Kit questioned, raising his brows so that furrows formed on his smooth forehead.

Jennie shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, replying, “The late earl encouraged me to think of Bourne Manor that way, and I was accustomed to being welcomed almost as a member of the family. He had no children, you know, and he was frightfully lonely when his wife died five years ago.”

Noticing the way Jennie’s tightly controlled features relaxed as she spoke of his uncle, Kit pressed on with his questions, not overly interested but conceding that a pleasant conversation was as good a time-passer as anything else he could think of at the moment. “But why that truly homely carving? You could have had your pick of the manor rather than settling for one of the scores of carvings—all looking very much like misshapen turtles with udders, by the way—that litter the place.”

Jennie’s shoulders straightened as she took exception to Kit’s insulting remark. “I’ll have you know that this carving—indeed, all the carvings—are very creditable renditions of Amy Belinda, your uncle’s favorite model. He took great pride in his work, and I’ll not sit idly by and let you malign his efforts.”

“Amy Belinda?” Kit nudged.

“His pet cow,” Jennie informed him matter-of-factly.

“Of course,” her husband responded in a choked voice. “His pet cow.” His face mirroring his astonishment, Kit prized the carving from Jennie’s grasp and raised his quizzing glass to study Amy Belinda from various angles—none of which provided a clue as to which end depicted the cow’s front end. “M’uncle carved this?” he puzzled. “Good God—he must have been lonely!”

“He was not!” Jennie protested angrily. “At least he wasn’t once I introduced him to Will Plum. Poor man,” she mused reflectively. “Will lost his wife about the same time as the earl, and as he was too old to work as a carpenter anymore he felt he had nothing left to live for.

“Well,” she went on, heedless of her husband’s in credulous expression, “any fool could see the two men needed each other, and once I put Will in the earl’s way the two of them became the best of good friends. Will taught the earl woodcarving and your uncle thought it was just grand to capture his dearest Amy Belinda in all of her many moods.”

“Cows have moods?” Kit interrupted, not that Jennie noticed.

“Their friendship lasted for five years, until old Will finally died, your uncle surviving him by only a month. Amy Belinda didn’t last much longer, poor dear,” she added thoughtfully, “but I imagine that was only to be expected.”

“Definitely,” the earl agreed, trying hard to contain his mirth. “I had no idea I had wed such a clever puss—matching such disparate persons as my uncle and the estimable Will Plum with such gratifying results. Is this a special talent of yours, or was old Will a fluke?”

Jennie knew Kit was teasing her, but she refused to allow it to rankle. She had always prided herself on her ability to settle people into niches she personally carved out for them, deriving satisfaction by aiding her fellow human beings.

Her maid, Goldie, was a prime example of the success of her humanitarian endeavors, and so she proceeded to inform the scoffing earl. “She was totally hopeless in the dairy, you understand, being mortally afraid of cows.”

“Sad,” Kit commented, clucking his tongue in commiseration.

“Poor Goldie. She felt herself to be an abject failure, and her mother, a widow and dependent on Goldie for her support, came to me and begged me to take her daughter in hand.”

“Naturally you agreed,” Kit interjected cheerfully.

“But of course—how could anyone so petitioned do anything else?” Jennie countered emphatically. “We tried Goldie in the laundry, but the soap made her sneeze, and even I could find little to praise in her needlework. She was so dejected we could scarcely catch a glimpse of her grandest possession, for she smiled so seldom. She has a truly magnificent gold tooth smack in the front of her mouth, you know, which is why we call her Goldie even though her name is Bertha.”

“This is a most affecting story. I can only wonder if I am strong enough to hear the rest,” lamented the grinning earl, earning himself a killing glance from his new bride.

“I’ll disregard your sarcastic attempt at humor, if only to prove my point,” she told him crushingly.

“Oh? There’s a point?” Kit exclaimed in disbelief. “How gratifying.”

“Of course there is. The point is that there is a place for everyone if one but takes the time to seek it out. In Goldie’s case the search was a bit longer than usual, as she soon proved incapable of serving at table without overturning the soup tureen or losing her grip on a stack of dirty plates. But I really had hopes for her as a kitchen assistant—you know, peeling vegetables and chopping things and such—until Papa’s silly French chef threatened to hand in his notice if Goldie wasn’t permanently removed from his sight.”

“Got on the bad side of the fellow, I assume?” Kit opined, and Jennie vigorously nodded her agreement.

“I still don’t see what all the fuss was about,” she ended, her expression one of sublime innocence. “After all, it wasn’t as if his mustache wouldn’t grow back eventually. He removed the rest of it after Goldie’s little accident with the knife, you see, which was just as well considering he looked rather lopsided with half of the droopy thing gone.”

That did it. Kit was unable to contain his mirth any longer, and his full, masculine laugh reverberated inside the closed coach as he gave voice to his amusement.

Within seconds Jennie’s delicious-sounding giggles blended with her husband’s throaty chuckles as the two leaned against each other for support as they enjoyed the joke—causing the coachman to remark later to the postilion that Lord and Lady Bourne seemed to be taking to each other right quick-like, which was a good thing considering they was bracketed like it or nay.

After a quick stop for luncheon Jennie allowed herself to be talked into resting her head on her husband’s broad shoulder, and the rest of the journey passed with Lord Bourne alternately gazing dolefully at the scenery passing by outside his window and doing his best to ignore the soft, warm bundle nestled so trustingly against his chest.

JENNIE FELT she had somehow been transported to another world. It wasn’t as if her father’s house had not been comfortable, and she had run tame at Bourne Manor for as long as she could remember, but nothing in her experience had prepared her for the opulence of the Bourne mansion—no stretch of the imagination could convince her that this massive structure was any ordinary townhouse.

Bourne Manor had been furnished with an eye for comfort rather than elegance, but the many-storied dwelling in Berkeley Square was crammed cellars to attics with furniture and accessories that intimidated her with their grandeur.

Even the walls and ceilings, festooned as they were with intricate stucco designs and painted Cipriani nymphs, seemed to mock her as she roamed aimlessly from room to room, feeling smaller, less significant, and increasingly more insecure as she encountered Sheraton sideboards, Darly ceilings, Shearer harlequin tables, Zucchi pilasters, arches, and panels, Thomas Johnson clocks, Chippendale parlor chairs, and even an Inigo Jones chimneypiece that had been carted there from heaven only knew where.

“Love a duck, miss, ain’t it grand?” Goldie gushed for the hundredth time, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she followed in her mistress’s wake, nearly cannoning into Jennie before she realized the girl had stopped dead at the entrance to the master bedchamber.

“Th-there’s no need to go poking about in here,” the new Countess of Bourne stammered nervously before beating a hasty retreat back down the wide hallway to her own chamber, closing the door behind her, and leaning against it as if to block out the rest of the world.

“Is that any way for a countess to enter a room, racing and romping and slamming doors behind her?” Miss Bundy, never raising her eyes from the trunk she was in the midst of unpacking, asked in her best stern-governess voice. “And what is that infernal banging?”

Jennie opened the door an inch, saw Goldie’s hand raised for yet another assault on the heavy door, grabbed the maid’s arm, and hastily pulled the plump form inside. “Land sakes, missy, what didya see in there ta set ya off like a cat in a fit?” the maid asked, darting a quick glance out the crack in the door as if to catch a glimpse of some horrifying creature barging down the hallway.

“I didn’t see anything, Goldie,” Jennie responded a lot more coolly than she thought possible. “I just suddenly remembered that we left poor Bundy alone all morning to unpack while we gadded about the place gawking like country bumpkins, that’s all.”

As Goldie had been more than aware that Miss Bundy had spent the morning toiling while she, in a very un-maid-like way, had done nothing more strenuous than inspect her mistress’s new digs, and as Goldie had secretly delighted in this unaccustomed freedom, her only answer to this damning statement was to flash her gold tooth at Jennie and wink broadly before picking up a paisley shawl and making a great business out of folding it over her arm.

Thank goodness, thought Jennie, releasing her pent-up breath in a long sigh. They’re both too busy either working or avoiding work to tax me further. I’ll just have to learn to control myself better and not do anything else to arouse their suspicions. Why, if Goldie knew I’d been frightened by a mere bed she’d tease me to death, while Bundy would see it as ample reason for yet another blistering lecture on the punishment of “Evil”—the evil in this case having more than a little bit to do with “giving false witness” only to “reap what you have sown.” Hummph! Jennie thought with a toss of her blond curls. I need another lecture like that like I need another freckle on the tip of my nose!

Snatching up a book from a nearby table, Jennie made her way past opened trunks and pieces of her personal belongings Bundy had divided into various towering piles, the purpose of which only she knew or cared to know, and took up residence in the deep, robin’s-egg-blue velvet-padded windowseat that overlooked the square and the statue that depicted a much younger, trimmer Prinny on horseback—the royal frame all rigged out like some long-dead Roman emperor for reasons only Princess Amelia, who had commissioned the piece, knew.

The book spread open on her lap (she never did take notice of its title), Jennie let her thoughts drift to the preceding evening and what she knew had been the markedly less than regal London debut of the new Countess of Bourne—considering she had slept through the entire business.

The strain of the wedding had somehow temporarily overcome her wariness of the man she was henceforth to love and cherish and—she gritted her teeth as she had done when the minister bade her repeat the word—obey, and against her better judgment she had allowed herself to fall asleep against his shoulder, thereby missing her very first sight of London by night.

It was only when the sound of hushed but obviously angry voices intruded on her slumber that she had roused sufficiently to realize that she was no longer in the coach, but reclining, cloak and all, upon an extremely comfortable bed.

“It’s indecent, that’s what it is,” hissed the first voice, which Jennie had readily recognized as Bundy’s.

“God’s teeth, woman, I was merely loosening the ties of her cloak, not taking the first step in any serious pursuit of debauchery,” a second masculine voice had hissed back angrily.

“Kit!” Jennie remembered she had screamed—fortunately only in her sleep-befuddled mind and not aloud. Squeezing her eyes shut, she had tried to feign sleep once more, hoping they would all just go away and leave her alone, but the earl was too sharp not to notice the sudden tenseness in the lower limb he had just then been in the process of divesting of its footgear.

“Ah ha!” he had crowed, more than a hint of triumph in his voice. “Methinks yon beauty awakes! Dash it all, foiled again. Just when I was about to have my evil way with the innocent, not to mention unconscious, damsel.” This last was said with heavy sarcasm, which, as Jennie could have told him, sailed completely over the head of the hovering Ernestine Bundy.

That overwrought female, torn between her duty to her charge and a strong inclination to indulge herself in a bout of strong hysterics, had then somehow steeled herself to throw her body between Jennie’s and that of her would-be ravisher and declared in a quavering voice, “Over my lifeless, bleeding body, sirrah!”

Even now Jennie’s shoulders shook slightly as she remembered Kit’s immediate descent into the ridiculous—clasping his hands to his chest and fervently denying any intention to harm so much as a single hair of the lady’s gray head while backing toward the door mouthing absurd apologies that had Jennie stuffing her knuckles into her mouth so that she would not laugh out loud.

“I saved you for now, young lady,” Bundy had told her charge as she helped her undress before throwing a nightgown in her general direction and stomping heatedly out of the room. “But I shan’t always be here to protect you. Remember,” was her parting shot, “you have made your bed, my dear—and now you must lie upon it!”

And lie upon it Jennie had done; long into the dark of the early-morning hours, tossing and turning but never finding her rest until a thin, watery sun rose above the horizon.

By the time Goldie had roused her with her morning chocolate, Jennie felt like the proverbial last bloom of summer—faded, more than a tad wilted, and increasingly unable to put on a brave face for yet another chilly day.

But being young, and therefore fairly resilient, by noon Jennie had been sufficiently restored in spirits for her to drag the willing Goldie on the tour that had ended abruptly at the sight of the massive bed in what she knew was the chamber she would soon be expected to occupy with her husband.

I can’t do it! she shrieked silently, her small hands clenching into fists and thoroughly wrinkling the green sprigged muslin skirts now clutched between her fingers. Kit said I had to marry him. Papa said it was my duty. But I and I alone will say whether or not I have to share his bed. And I say no!

“Jane. Jane!” Miss Bundy repeated more loudly. “Woolgathering again, I suppose. Some habits never change. Why, I remember when you were seven and I found you daydreaming in that tree in the garden. I had to call you a dozen times before—”

“Before you startled me out of a very pleasant daydream, as I recall, and I toppled to the ground and broke my arm,” Jennie ended for the lady. “Papa wasn’t best pleased, you’ll remember.”

Miss Bundy merely sniffed, obviously still feeling she had been more victim than sinner in that particular incident.

“Well?” Jennie asked after some moments when Miss Bundy seemed to be lost in replaying old hurts.

“Well, what?”

“You called my name, Bundy, remember?” Jennie sighed, a small smile lighting her face as the familiarity of this little scene made her feel less an alien in an unfriendly land.

Miss Bundy puzzled a moment, tapping one long finger against her pointed chin, before declaring brightly, “I remember now. How very remiss of me. Renfrew gave me a note earlier for you—which I opened, of course—”

“Of course,” Jennie sighed fatalistically.

“Don’t interrupt, Jane. All my many hours of instruction on deportment and still you—but never mind. The note says that the earl desires the pleasure of your company in the main saloon—that’s the huge room just off the foyer, the one that houses the Jones chimneypiece, my dear—at half past three of the clock today. My goodness, it’s that now! You’d best hurry, dear, but do let Goldie straighten your hair first.”

“There’s no time for that, Bundy. I’m late as it is,” Jennie said in reply, already moving toward the door. Now that she had made up her mind about the direction she wished this marriage to take, she was all at once bursting with the necessity to share her decision with Lord Bourne—whom she graciously acknowledged to possibly have some slight interest in the business.

THE EARL OF BOURNE was pacing the main saloon, glass in hand, looking about him with what he hoped was bored disinterest. This place is a far cry from your bachelor digs in the Albany off Piccadilly, even if Byron, Macaulay, and Gladstone shared the same address, Kit, my lad, he mused, positioning himself with one arm propped negligently (he hoped) upon the mantelpiece.

If only he could get over the disquieting feeling that at any moment some long-lost Wilde with a better claim to the title would come bursting through the door and roust him outside and back into the real world.

Kit had never dreamed he would one day inherit his uncle’s title, lands, and great wealth. In fact, the most he had hoped for—when he dared to hope at all—was for the old boy to leave him a broken pocket watch or some such useless trinket.

But fate works in strange ways; in this case by eliminating all close heirs by way of accident or unfortunate illness. And while Kit had been striving to make a name for himself as a soldier, his male relatives had all been conveniently dropping like flies in order to pave his way to the earldom.

And fate hadn’t stopped at the earldom either. Dame Fate, not one to indulge any mere mortal to the point where he might tend to get cocky, had then leavened Kit’s triumph a bit by saddling him with a totally unnecessary gift—a wife.

He abandoned his studied pose—his lordship reclining at his ease—to check the watch at his waist. His late wife, he pointed out to himself, just as there came a noise at the doorway and Jennie entered with more haste than decorum, skidding to an ignominious halt about three feet inside the double doors.

“I…um…I mean, Bundy…er…that is…you wanted to see…um, talk to me?” Now that’s an auspicious beginning, Jennie berated herself mentally, her outward grimace bringing a pained smile to the earl’s face.

Yes, infant, Kit replied silently, I do want to see you—waving goodbye as you ride out of my life. But he did not say the words. Jennie was his wife now, for good or ill, and they were just going to have to make the best of the cards Dame Fortune had so capriciously dealt them.

“Sit down, Jennie,” Kit said gently, then waited impatiently as she took up her seat on a straight-backed chair positioned at the far side of the room. “Would you like me to ring Renfrew for some tea? No? Then I suggest we get right down to it.”

Jennie jumped slightly—just as if he had suggested they lie down on the Aubusson carpet and proceed to make mad, passionate love—and Kit hastened to explain the reason for his summons. “We must organize this household, Jennie, as Renfrew and the skeleton staff my late uncle kept here are not sufficient to our needs if we mean to entertain during the Season.”

“We mean to entertain?” Jennie asked, trying to imagine herself in the role of hostess of this great mansion and failing dismally.

“We do. Unless that presents a problem?” Bourne inquired, deliberately needling her.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Jennie assured him through clenched teeth, wanting nothing more than to box his lordship’s ears. “I’ll set about hiring extra staff as soon as possible.”

“Renfrew will arrange things with a reputable agency, and you will only have to select from a group of eligible applicants.” Kit saw no possible way Jennie could land in the briers with the resourceful Renfrew to guide her.

“Oh,” Jennie murmured confusedly. “I had thought to place an advertisement about, as we do at home sometimes if the need arises.”

Kit quickly explained the folly of ever advertising for domestic help—heaven only knowing what sort of riffraff might then show up in Berkeley Square looking for a handout. At Jennie’s nod he promptly considered the matter to have been satisfactorily settled and went on to discuss a more delicate topic—one he had been secretly dreading to broach.

“Jennie,” he said gently, dropping to one knee beside her chair, “after giving the matter a good deal of thought, and with due consideration of your sensibilities and the uniqueness of our situation, I have decided not to ask for my husbandly rights just yet. I believe we should first become more comfortable with each other.”

“Oh, good!” Jennie exclaimed happily, before she could temper her response. “That is, I mean, why?…No! Don’t answer that. I don’t mean why, exactly. Disregard that if you will, please. What I mean to say is—thank you.” As Kit’s eyebrows shot up, she stumbled on hastily, “No! I didn’t mean that either, did I? I’m sorry I interrupted you, my lord,” she said, belatedly striving to behave like something more than completely brainless. “Please, continue. You were saying—”