A Question of Impropriety

Brett paced the library of Ladywell Park, sidestepping the boxes of books that needed to be re-shelved and the portraits of Cuthbert Biddlestone’s ancestors that needed to be sent on their way. The Beauty of the road invaded his thoughts, preventing him from learning more about the estate and how mismanaged it was, from planning his new house overlooking the Tyne, one which would be free of damp and mismatched rooms. He had had plans drawn for one years ago, something he had promised himself when he finally succeeded in restoring the family’s fortune. And the outlook here was perfect. Biddlestone had been correct about that.

Who was she? Her eyes haunted him. Blue speckled with green, fringed with dark lashes. He had seen them before. He idly took down a book. ‘Finch, Finch. Should I know the name?’

‘You won’t find songbirds there, begging your pardon, sir,’ Hunt, the butler, put down the tray of port. ‘Birds and natural history have always been kept at the other end of library. Shall I fetch you a book on the subject?’

‘Songbirds?’ Brett snapped the book and turned to face his new butler. ‘Admirable insight, Hunt. You must tell me how you do it some time. Songbirds, indeed.’

‘I do try, my lord.’

Brett waved a hand, dismissing the butler. Then in the stillness of the room, he poured a glass of port from the decanter and swirled the ruby-red liquid.

Songbird. Finch. Algernon Finch. Son of Hubert Finch, Viscount Whittonstall. He’d died in the duel. That dreadfully pointless duel over a disputed Cyprian. How could he have forgotten the name of Bagshott’s opponent? The man who had unwittingly changed Brett’s best friend’s life and his own. A stupid boorish man who’d got everything he’d deserved.

It bothered Brett that the detail of Songbird’s name had slipped away. He had been so sure that he would remember everything. The mud, the mist and the absolute horror of a life ended in such a way. Bagshott had already been up to his neck in debt, but it had not stopped him from quarrelling with Songbird. Standing on the dock after he’d bundled Bagshott into a ship, Brett had vowed that he would make a new start, that he would succeed and would restore his family’s fortune. That he would not waste his talent, waste his life; but would use it wisely. But he had forgotten Finch’s first name. And that of the man’s fiancée.

How much else had he forgotten? Brett pressed his knuckles into his forehead.

Now all he had to do was remember her name, and why she was off limits to him.

* * *

‘A man approaches,’ Rose said the next morning as Diana sat re-trimming her straw bonnet in the dining room. ‘He is driving one of the smartest carriages I have ever seen.’

‘Since when were you interested in carriages, Rose?’

‘I have an eye for a well-turned carriage, same as the next woman. My uncle used to work at Tattersalls. You should have seen them come in their carriages.’ Diana’s maid gave a loud sniff. ‘Which admirer of yours drives such a thing?’

‘I have no admirers, as you well know.’ Diana bent her head and concentrated on the bonnet. A large silk rose now hid the mudstain and the ribbons were a deep chocolate brown instead of hunting green. More sombre. Less noticeable. By following her rules, her life was returning to its well-ordered pattern. ‘It will be someone coming to see Simon.’

‘The master is at the colliery. Where he always is these days. Why would a man not call there?’

Diana stood and went to stand by Rose. Her breath stopped. Lord Coltonby neatly jumped down from the high-perch phaeton and handed the ribbons to his servant. Diana drew back from the window as his intense gaze met hers. Her heart skipped a beat, but ruthlessly she suppressed it. She began to pace the drawing room. ‘Lord Coltonby, Rose. He has come to call. What has Simon gone and done now? I told him to wait.’

‘Shall I inform his lordship that both you and the master are not at home, Miss Diana?’ Jenkins asked, coming into the dining room.

‘No, no, Jenkins. I will see him. I want to know why he is here. I can only hope that Simon has not done anything rash.’ Diana’s hands smoothed her gown and adjusted her cap so it sat squarely on her head. Although some might have argued that at twenty-two she was far too young for a cap, Diana had worn it ever since that dreadful day in London when she had received news of Algernon’s death. There was a safety of sorts in caps. ‘You may show him into the drawing room if he asks to see either one of us. Else you can take his card if he asks to see Simon.’

‘Should I stay with you, Miss Diana?’

‘That won’t be necessary, Rose. I believe I have the measure of the man,’ Diana dismissed the maid. The last thing she wanted was some subtle interference from Rose.

Diana forced herself to wait calmly and to rearrange the various vases on the mantelpiece as she strained to hear the conversation between Jenkins and Lord Coltonby. Why had he appeared today and what would he say when he realised who she was? Diana gave a wry smile. She doubted that he would call her Beauty any more. She would be proper and hold her temper—the very picture of a spinster, an ape-leader.

Brett followed the butler into the Clares’ drawing room. The house exuded new money, rather than old. The drawing room, with its multitude of alabaster lamps, Egyptian-style chairs and green-and-gold striped walls, was the height of fashionable elegance, even though the colours were enough to make a grown man wince in pain. He could well remember Clare revelling in his wealth at university, always going on about his latest acquisition or his father’s newest business. A man who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. A man without bottom. He had not changed.

‘I wish to speak with…’ Brett arched an eyebrow as his gaze took in Diana Clare. Even her badly fitting dress in a green that rivalled the chocolate brown she had worn the other day for sheer horror and the oversized cap with ribbons did little to diminish her memorable eyes. Their almond shape and the curve of her mouth had plagued his dreams last night. Clare’s sister. And a woman with a delectable bottom. ‘How pleasant to renew your acquaintance, Miss Clare. I believe we once had correspondence on a less happy occasion.’

‘I thought you had no recollection…’ Miss Clare’s pale cheeks flushed.

Brett inclined his head. ‘I regret that it took me a while to connect you with Songbird’s demise. I had quite forgotten that his fiancée was from Northumberland. Forgive me.’

He watched her intently. The aftermath of that day lived with him still. His determination to do more than simply chase skirts and play at gaming tables stemmed from the moment he’d seen Finch breathe his last. He had seen how quickly the dead and the departed were forgotten, not even a ripple on time.

‘Songbird?’ A puzzled frown appeared between her brows, marring her perfect skin. ‘I am afraid that you are now the one who holds the advantage, Lord Coltonby.’

‘Algernon Finch, as was. I only recalled him by his nickname, more’s the pity. I had thought every detail to be emblazoned on my mind and now find that certain details had slipped from my grasp. A thousand pardons.’ Brett tightened his grip on his cane and prevented any words from slipping out. The irony of the situation did not escape him. The whore had taken a new man within hours of the duel, despite her protestations of undying devotion to Bagshott. And yet, Miss Clare, the innocent fiancée, who had had no party in the action was here, alone, apparently living a retired life. ‘A sorry business that day. Totally unnecessary. Both men were insensible to reason. They paid a high price.’

‘You do remember.’ Her blue-green eyes widened slightly.

‘It took me until the early hours of this morning to recall the precise identity of the fiancée,’ Brett explained smoothly. ‘It was a nag at the back of my mind that prevented me from sleeping. I then felt compelled to apologise for my behaviour. It was unforgivably rude of me to question your source of information. Although I would contend that Songbird was not the most reliable of men when alive. And people change over the years. You should not judge me on his tittle-tattle.’

‘I am surprised that you troubled yourself with the recollection.’ Miss Clare gave a bright smile, but her hand played with the ribbons of her hideous cap. ‘It was most impertinent of me to bring the connection up. I was out of sorts from my difficulty with the gig. Please accept my apology for referring to the matter.’

Brett stared at her. Today all the life seemed to have gone out of her. The vibrant woman of yesterday had vanished and in her place was this shadow. How long had she been like that? And which was the true Miss Clare? He knew which one he preferred.

‘It is I who must apologise,’ he said at last. ‘That particular duel has long played on my mind. It should never have happened and I most sincerely regret that it did. Hopefully, it does not impinge upon your present circumstances. And although I once presented them in a letter, again let me offer my sincere condolences on your most grievous loss.’

‘Five years is a long time. I have quite recovered from the shock of it all, Lord Coltonby. You do not need to allude to the matter in oblique terms. I know my fiancé fought the duel over a courtesan. I had friends in London who took great pleasure in explaining it all. And I see no point in pretending that the duel did not take place.’

‘I regret your choice of confidants, then. It was supposed to be a private matter.’ Brett cleared his throat. It was all too easy to imagine. And even though this woman was innocent of any connection with the duel, people would have drawn their skirts back and whispered behind their hands. ‘Those concerned with Songbird’s death did everything in their power to keep the affair hushed. You must believe that. I know I never breathed a word.’

‘A death such as Algernon’s was never going to be private, Lord Coltonby.’ Diana kept her head erect, but her insides trembled. She had never spoken of the hours that had preceded Algernon’s death and she did not intend to start now, particularly not to a man such as Lord Coltonby. ‘Whatever was said about me years ago is long forgotten. The wags and the wits found fresh victims to flay.’

‘I can only recall pleasant things. You were quite right in thinking that we had been introduced before. I particularly remember Vauxhall Gardens. You commented on the brilliance of the fireworks.’

‘I did?’ Diana’s feet felt rooted to the ground. Ice crept down her spine. Had he been there as well? That fateful night before the duel? How close had he been? Had he heard her cries and mistaken them for pleasure? And what would he say if he knew the full truth behind that night? She pressed her fingers to her temple. She would have to hope that he meant some other night. ‘I have no recollection…’

Brett’s eyes became a soft grey as he shook his head. ‘Songbird was a scandal waiting to happen. He would never have done for a husband.’

‘I didn’t ask for anyone’s pity.’ Diana pressed her hands together. Privately she agreed with Lord Coltonby. But she could not make any excuses for Mrs Tanner, employed to keep fortune hunters away from her. The chaperon had failed miserably. ‘My only excuse was that I was naïve and unused to the ways of the world. No doubt most young women saw him for what he was. I only regret that my chaperon did not.’

Lord Coltonby’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘What a pity your friends did not speak up. His situation was no dark secret.’

‘The ton is not so forgiving when one is only clinging to the edge.’ She kept her head high and refused to allow the old feelings to swamp her. Calm. Tranquil. Her rules had protected her ever since that night at Vauxhall. She forced her mind to clear and then continued. ‘I much prefer the peace of Northumberland. Society here may be an altogether duller affair, but the quality and quantity are at least known.’

‘Why go to London in the first place?’

‘My father had his heart set on brilliant matches for his children. My late sister-in-law’s mother advised him to send me down there. I was to share the Season with her niece. Unfortunately the girl became ill and was forced to abandon the project. My father determinedly pressed ahead.’

‘Did your father take the disgrace well?’

‘My father died of lung fever, in the same epidemic that took Jayne. He never knew. When my brother’s letter arrived, my duty to return to Northumberland was clear.’ Even as she said the words, she knew they were a half-truth at best. Simon’s letter demanding her return had been a godsend, a chance to lick her wounds and to dedicate her life to being sensible and calm. It was wrong of her to think that their deaths had been providence, however much it felt that way. ‘I learnt my lesson the hard way, and have no regrets.’

‘No regrets.’ His eyes swept down her body, lingered on the neckline. ‘That is good. I had worried. Songbird would not have wanted it.’

She paused and smoothed out the lines of her green round grown. ‘Is there some other reason you called, Lord Coltonby? Surely it is not to reminisce over departed friends. I have turned my face towards the future. Life has been good to me.’

‘Your book, Miss Clare, as you did not call for it. I felt certain you had need of it now that you were safely home.’