Page 8 of A Winter Scandal

“Not if you look at Ian’s marriage.”

Gabriel glanced over at his friend. “Do you think Ian is terribly unhappy? He doesn’t say anything, but …”

“But it’s almost Christmas, and he is here with us instead of at the Park with his wife,” Myles finished. “That must mean something. I’ve never asked him. I don’t suppose he seems particularly unhappy.”

“But neither does he seem particularly happy.”

“Everyone knows they weren’t a love match.”

“I’m not sure that makes any difference.” Gabriel’s voice had a bitter tone, and his friend shot him a quick sideways glance. But before Myles could speak, Gabriel went on, “I doubt Ian ever expected a love match … or cared to have one, really.”

“He’s not a romantic.”

“But there could have been a better match, someone more suited to him, if his father had not been so intent on gambling away Ian’s future.”

“Fenstone thinks of no one but himself.” Myles sighed and drained his drink. “Always has. But it’s done now. At least marrying Emily took care of his father’s debt.”

Gabriel snorted. “For the time being. Naturally the Earl’s gone back to trying to run the estate into the ground.”

“Do you mean Fenstone’s run off his legs ag—” Myles stopped and sat up straight, staring at Gabriel. “Is that why you bought this place? So Ian’s father would have enough cash to pay off his latest debts?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I wanted a house in the country besides the family seat.”

“Of course you did.” Myles gave him a knowing look. “Well, I hope you’ve managed to hold off the Earl’s creditors for a while. Bad for Ian if his father landed in the River Tick.”

They broke off at the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside. A moment later, Ian appeared in the doorway, a bottle cradled in each arm.

“What did you find?” Gabriel asked.

“A lot of spiderwebs and dust,” Alan responded, brushing at the sleeves of his jacket as he came up behind Ian.

“And a cask of excellent Armagnac,” Ian added. “Too big to bring up; you’ll have to get the footmen to haul it up tomorrow. I did, however, find some bottles of passable cognac to tide us over.”

“Very good.” Gabriel stood and shrugged out of his jacket as Ian and Alan went to the table on the other side of the room. “Get out the cards, Myles. Cigars?” Gabriel picked up a box from the sideboard and passed it around as Ian opened the first of the bottles.

The men settled down around the table, and Myles began to shuffle the cards. Gabriel raised his glass. “Gentlemen! Here’s to a short memory and a far merrier evening ahead.”

Three

In the days after the Squire’s party, Thea was caught up in the whirl of activities that always preceded Christmas. Not only did she pitch in to help their housekeeper clean and cook for the upcoming festivities, but she also had the usual parish business to attend to. For years before her father’s death, Thea had acted as his secretary, not only copying out his sermons in neat, legible ink, but also totting up his books and acting as a sounding board for his views on various parish matters. The parishioners had become accustomed to taking their problems to Thea first, to be relayed by her to the vicar, and when the living had been given to Daniel after Latimer’s death, the church members had continued to go to Thea. Unlike Latimer, Daniel had little interest in hearing the matters Thea brought to him, so that she had grown used to simply handling them herself.

She did her best not to think about Lord Morecombe, but her mind stubbornly continued to return to that moment when he had looked at her with such a bored lack of recognition. It did not help that almost everyone who came to call on her for the next few days wanted to talk about little except the Christmas ball and their exotic new neighbor.

Mrs. Cliffe dropped by two days later, ostensibly to discuss the Ladies Auxiliary, but in reality to relive her social triumph. Thea, who had been working on Daniel’s sermon for Christmas Day, did her best to hold her tongue as the Squire’s wife and her sister, Mrs. Dinmont, extolled the many virtues of Lord Morecombe.

“Such a fine gentleman, don’t you agree, Althea dear?” Mrs. Cliffe rarely needed an answer, so she did not notice Thea’s lack of assent. “Even the Squire’s mother admitted that he is a fine figure of a man.”

“So handsome,” Mrs. Dinmont added, playing her usual role in the conversation.

“Such an air of address! And a more finely turned leg I have never seen. Not, of course, that a high-minded young lady such as yourself would have noticed.”

“Oh my, Maribel!” Mrs. Dinmont tittered into her hand. “The things you do say! Not, of course,” she added after a look from Mrs. Cliffe, “but what you are absolutely correct. I am sure none of the gentlemen looked nearly so elegant on the dance floor.”

“His friends were all very well, too, of course,” the Squire’s wife went on magnanimously. “Sir Myles is most charming. But he cannot compare to Lord Morecombe.”

“No, indeed.” Mrs. Dinmont bobbed her head. “No comparison at all.”

“I vow, I was so pleased when he stood up with my own Daisy.”