Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7) Read online

  Mairin dropped her gloves and unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled them up as the footman had done with his sleeves. She got to work starting the stove and building up enough coals to boil water. The cook had left the warm coals in place after supper and started them burning again was not difficult.

  Once she had the big copper pot Stamp brought her filled and sitting over the flames, Mairin turned back to the table. Aunt Annalies bent over Iefan’s side, her spectacles in place, frowning to herself as she inspected the wound.

  Iefan was naked from the waist up. The shirt, waistcoat and jacket he had been wearing laid in rags on the floor beneath the table, all of them liberally doused in blood. He had finished most of the bottle of brandy and his eyes were glazed.

  “Are your hands clean, Mairin?” Annalies asked.

  Mairin inspected them. “Yes.”

  “Scrub them with the carbolic soap at the sink, anyway, then come and help me.” Annalies looked at her over the top of her glasses, her blue eyes assessing Mairin. “You seem calm enough and Stamp faints when the needle comes out.”

  Stamp grimaced and nodded. He stood at the far side of the kitchen where he could not see the wound. “I regret my constitution is not built for the rigors of the surgeon’s table.”

  “Mairin is calm,” Iefan muttered, as the bottle thudded against the table. Only a dribble remained at the bottom. “Calm and collected. Good soldier.”

  Annalies rolled her eyes. “She is a woman. Of course she is calm. Go to sleep if you can, Iefan. Go on.”

  Iefan closed his eyes.

  Mairin scrubbed her hands as directed and helped Annalies stitch Iefan’s wound. He was not asleep although he was very drunk, which offset the pain of the cleaning and stitching. He rested with his eyes closed and flinched only a little as the work was completed.

  Once the water had boiled for twenty minutes, Annalies used it to wipe away the excess blood so she could see the wound properly. “Not as deep as it might have been,” she decided. “It was a swipe, not a thrust. Did you see it happen?”

  “It was dark,” Mairin admitted. “Iefan didn’t notice the cut at first.”

  Annalies nodded and reached for the first of the needles she had asked Mairin to load with lengths of the boiled thread. “He was careless,” she said, with a vexed tone. Then she added, “or hurried.”

  “There were three of them,” Mairin reminded her. She added, “and I was of no help at all.” Her tone emerged with a bitter note which surprised even her.

  Annalies glanced up at her, then returned to her stitching. “Of course you were not. No one would have expected you to be. It is rare for anyone to have experience to cope with everything which happens in Iefan’s life. Put your finger there, on the knot I just made.”

  Mairin put her finger where Annalies needed it, trying to pretend she was not pressing against a gaping wound in Iefan’s flesh. She breathed steadily and mechanically followed Annalies’ directions, determined to be of assistance now.

  Finally, it was done. Seventeen neat stitches closed the wound. Annalies laid a soft pad of cotton against the wound then wrapped bandages around Iefan’s torso to keep the pad in place.

  “Still awake, Iefan?” she asked as she tied the bandage securely.

  “More’less…” Iefan’s voice was soft, the words blurred.

  Annalies leaned over her son and pressed her lips to his forehead. “It is done now. You should not move for a while. We’ll find a pillow for your head and a blanket. Sleep.”

  The warmth and caring in his mother’s voice made Mairin blink.

  Stamp came into the kitchen, carrying a pillow and a quilt. “I anticipated the need, your Highness.”

  Annalies nodded. “Thank you, Stamp.” Her voice was low and rough and Mairin saw tears glittering in her eyes.

  “Would you be so kind as to lift the master’s head?” Stamp asked Mairin, pulling her attention away from Annalies, who turned her back on the table.

  Mairin helped Stamp settle the pillow and drape the quilt over Iefan. He did not move at all. He was asleep.

  Annalies gave a great sniff and picked up her skirt. “Mairin, I believe we have both earned a dram each at the very least. There is a decanter in the drawing room. Come along.”

  Mairin rolled down her sleeves and buttoned them once more, as she followed Annalies through the house to the drawing room. The drawing room was almost completely dark. Stamp had followed them like a silent shadow into the drawing room and turned two of the lamps up higher, spreading warm light across the sofa and the sideboard.

  “Thank you, Stamp,” Annalies told him. “It is late. You should go to bed. It will be a busy day tomorrow. You have cook to mollify in the morning, just to begin.”

  “Aye, and I’ll need to rise before she does, because Master Iefan should stay where he is for now.”

  “He should,” Annalies said in agreement. “Breakfast can be as late as it needs to be.”

  “That would help. Good night, your Highness.”

  Annalies moved over to the sideboard and picked up a decanter with a golden liquid in it. It was not brandy. She poured two glasses and handed one to Mairin.

  Mairin sniffed. The peaty smell was unknown to her.

  “It is Scotch,” Annalies said. “Madeira is for social occasions and this is not one.” She raised her glass toward Mairin. “Thank you for helping my son.”

  Mairin took a sip of the liquid. It burned her mouth and warmed her gullet, which made her realize how drained she felt.

  “You should stay the night,” Annalies said. “There are a dozen spare rooms for you to choose from. Almost no one uses the house anymore.” She looked around. “It does look rather small and old, now I am used to the airy rooms in Marblethorpe.” She drank again.

  “You arrived in London today?”

  “From Cambridge, yes. The woman’s college will be opening soon.” Annalies took a deep breath. “Now is not the time for politics,” she added firmly. “Sit, Mairin. Will you tell me what happened tonight? Then I will let you sleep. You look in dire need of it.”

  THE SUN WAS HIGH in the window when Mairin woke in her borrowed bed. She had rested on the covers, rather than climbing beneath them and had not thought she would sleep at all.

  She felt stiff and achy from the exertions of the night and dressed slowly. She raked her fingers through her hair and coiled it back on her head, then went downstairs. The drawing room was empty. The house felt empty.

  Mairin moved through the service door and heard the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. She slowed her steps when she heard Iefan speak. He sounded as he normally did—wary and cynical.

  “…could pretend I was protecting her money, yet it comes down to the simple fact that she called the match and the winnings were hers, fair and square. I should have handed them money which wasn’t theirs?”

  “Oh, I agree with you, Iefan,” Annalies said softly. “You scared Mairin, though. She is not used to thinking as we do.”

  Mairin crept closer to the kitchen door, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “I believe you may be surprised by Mairin, mother,” Iefan said. “She has a mind. She just hasn’t had a chance to use it. She has lived her entire life muffled inside society.”

  Warmth glowed in Mairin’s chest. She had a mind?

  “Oh, she is her father’s daughter—even more than Bridget and Lilly,” Annalies said. “Is there something between you, Iefan?”

  Mairin gripped the doorframe, her heart suddenly thudding.

  “God, no,” Iefan said, his voice low. “I’m letting her breathe before she cloisters herself in Gascony’s life. That is all.”

  Mairin closed her eyes and let out her breath. Relief touched her. Iefan had told his mother exactly what he had told Mairin. He was being truthful, as only Iefan could be.

  “Why Mairin?”

  “Why anyone, mother? She was kind once. And she makes me laugh.”

  “It is a rare woman who can make yo
u laugh, my wild one.” Annalies’ voice was warm and doting. “Are you finished with that cup? Would you like another?”

  “With less sugar this time, please.”

  The chink of china told Mairin the little moment was done. She moved into the kitchen.

  Iefan still laid on the table, although he was propped on one elbow. The quilt had dropped down around his waist, revealing the white bandages and the tanned flesh of his chest.

  A tray sat on the quilt beside his hip, with a teapot and cups. A flat kitchen chair stood next to the table and Annalies was in front of the chair, pouring fresh tea. They both look up as Mairin entered.

  “Just in time,” Annalies said, turning over a third cup and filling it.

  “How are you feeling?” Mairin asked Iefan.

  “Back to normal,” he said, his tone crisp. “A bottle of brandy, my mother’s embroidery and sleep have done the trick. It’s a new day. Are you not meeting Gascony at Lady Mary’s at-home this afternoon?”

  Annalies rolled her eyes. “You’ll be stiff for a few days,” she warned. “You won’t be able to raise your arm properly until the stitches are removed. I would advise you to avoid any more knife fights for a while.”

  She held out the filled teacup to Mairin. “You must tell me about the Duke of Gascony, Mairin. His family are an off-shoot of the Bourbons, which makes him one of the few European royals not related to me in some way.”

  Mairin shook her head. “Iefan, the money…the winnings…you will keep them, won’t you? I don’t want them.”

  Annalies and her son exchanged glances. Iefan’s gaze shifted back to Mairin. “Why not? They’re yours. Oh, I’ll take the original ten pounds back, if you insist. Only it was your keen observation and your courage to stick to your convictions which earned the money for you.”

  “It’s blood money now,” Mairin said, glancing at the white bandages about his torso. “I would feel ill using it.” She pushed the teacup onto the bench against the wall. She didn’t want it.

  “Because I stupidly got myself sliced open?” Iefan demanded, with a hard note in his voice.

  “Yes!” Mairin cried.

  Annalies remained silent.

  Iefan frowned, his dark brows coming together. “You would not have been at the match but for me taking you there. When one plays in the gutters, one can’t cry about getting dirty. If I wanted to avoid knives, if I wanted to stay safe and comfortable and…God, dead in thought and body, then I would live…I would live like Gascony, who wouldn’t know how to open a brandy bottle if a butler wasn’t present!”

  “Iefan,” Annalies said, her tone chiding. “That isn’t fair.”

  Iefan drew in a breath and let it out. “No, it isn’t. I apologize,” he told Mairin, his voice rough. “You can’t help thinking that way. You don’t know anything different.”

  Mairin trembled. “I am beginning to, thanks to you.”

  “Take the money,” he told her. “Use it to help orphans if it will ease your conscience. You would honor the source better if you bought something for yourself.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Mairin protested.

  “It will,” Annalies said softly. “Give it time.”

  Defeated, Mairin sighed. “Very well.”

  “What is the time, anyway?” Iefan said, sounding irritated. “Shouldn’t you be hurrying to make your appointment with the Duke?”

  Chapter Eight

  Mairin sat on the striped straight-backed chair, her feet together and covered with the pleated ruffle of her green muslin dress. A plate holding a tiny cucumber sandwich balanced on her lace glove covered hand.

  Gascony stood barely a yard away, with his forearm against the small of his back, a brandy glass in his hand, talking to Lord Denholm about the upcoming hunting season.

  Mairin had taken a single bite from the crustless sandwich. It had been tasteless and watery.

  The conversation in the drawing room was equally bland. There were twenty-three people in the room, all of them known to her. She could guess exactly what all twenty-three people would be discussing in their soft voices.

  Silver chinked against china. The thick lace at the windows filtered the strong June sunlight, rendering it mild and inoffensive.

  Mairin sighed and turned her head a little so she could hear what Gascony was discussing.

  “…best breeding bitch he had ever come across. He promised the next from the litter, so I may yet grace myself when shooting. The line is excellent.”

  Hunting dogs and grouse shooting.

  Mairin glanced around the room and her gaze fell on Lady Esther, Viscountess Bramleigh. Mairin was almost certain that Denholm, whom Gascony was speaking with about hunting dogs, was Lady Esther’s lover. They had positioned themselves on the far opposite side of the room from each other and Denholm had his back to her. Esther had smiled at and acknowledged everyone but Denholm.

  Sorting out illicit associations no longer interested Mairin. There were too many of them to care, anymore. She sighed again. She was bored to the point of sleepiness.

  Unbidden, Iefan’s voice whispered in her mind. You would honor the source better if you bought something for yourself. She had recalled his declaration dozens of times since leaving the cream house in Grosvenor Square and hurrying home to prepare for this afternoon tea party. She still did not know what he had meant.

  How could she honor the source? The source had been a moment of utter madness. She had recognized a restless, unhappy look in a man’s eye. Thanks to Iefan’s education into the broader, hidden depths of human nature, she would likely recognize what truly drove people in the future, too.

  Would understanding people better always drop her into troubled waters as it had last night?

  Even if it did, it wasn’t possible to turn back time and reclaim her ignorance. She did not wish to. Just recalling how silly and superficial she had been and how blind to human nature she had remained even after five seasons as an adult made her want to squirm on her chair with humiliation.

  If one plays in the gutters, one cannot cry about getting dirty.

  Abruptly, an image of the heavy pinafore Mairin had designed for Lisa Grace to protect her dresses from paint drips leapt to the forefront of her mind.

  A shield.

  Mairin gasped. She leaned and dropped her plate upon the delicate side table, with a clatter which made heads turn. Gascony came over to her. “Is something the matter?” he asked, keeping his voice at the same soft murmur as everyone else in the room was using.

  “Yes. I mean no.” Mairin got to her feet. “I must go, your Grace. I just thought…I have remembered…” Only, she couldn’t speak the easy lie about another appointment. “There is something I must do,” she said, instead. “I have only now recalled it and I must deal with it straight away. I am sorry, your Grace. I did want to enjoy the afternoon in your company, only this is…it is important to me.”

  Gascony looked intrigued, rather than annoyed. “May I assist you with your important quest?”

  She considered Gascony’s history and recalled Iefan’s harsh criticism about bottles and butlers. “I am afraid that for this matter, you cannot help me, your Grace. You are most kind to offer, though.”

  His smile was warm. “Can you tell me what it is you are up to?”

  Mairin paused from gathering her shawl about her shoulders, startled. He was genuinely curious! How odd! Usually, talk of feminine concerns made a man’s attention wander. Only, she had not spoken of a personal matter. She had said, instead, that she must tend to something important to her.

  Mairin settled the shawl. “If the matter concludes as I hope it will, then I will share the details with you.”

  “Then you must be on your way. Here, let me walk you to the door,” Gascony said. He held his brandy glass out toward the butler, without looking at him.

  IEFAN SPRAWLED UPON THE chaise lounge in the Davies family drawing room, sitting tilted to one side to favor the wound. He had one bo
ok in his hand. Another laid open over his knee, and a dozen more sat upon the floor in front of him. He looked up as Mairin hurried in and his eyes narrowed. “That mint green color makes your eyes glow.”

  She pulled the hassock up beside the pile of books and sat on it, letting her gown trail across the floor behind her. There was no one here to care, anyway. “I thought of what to do with the money. Some of the money, at least.”

  Iefan closed the book he was holding. “Oh?”

  Mairin nodded. “I want to purchase a pistol, Iefan. And I want you to teach me how to use it.”

  Iefan considered her for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Very well. I will.”

  EVERY SECOND MORNING, INSTEAD of walking in the park, Mairin would go with Iefan to Clapham Common. There, he taught her how to care for the small pistol he acquired for her, how to load it, and how to fire it. The pistol was small enough to fit in her largest reticule and she carried it everywhere.

  “You know you will never have need of it in London’s drawing rooms, do you not?” Iefan asked her after watching her fit it into the purse.

  “You don’t know that for certain,” Mairin told him. “I never expected I’d be witness to a knife fight or a boxing match, either, yet I have seen both.”

  Iefan didn’t respond. A few days later, he brought with him an old army rifle, and showed her the basics of loading and firing it. She didn’t ask where he had got the rifle. Nor had she asked where he had acquired her pistol. She was merely grateful to have it.

  Gradually, as the summer lengthened, her aim improved.

  Even though she had only asked Iefan to teach her how to shoot the pistol, he seemed to understand without being told her reasons for asking. The thrice-weekly lessons expanded to include the new style revolver, with the rotating chamber. It could carry six bullets, while her pistol must be reloaded every time it was fired.

  In between the lessons, Mairin was kept busy with society invitations and engagements. Gascony had pressed her for her promised explanation. “I recently saw someone attacked by ruffians,” she told him. “It upset me and made me wonder what I would do if the ruffians had turned to me, afterwards and…well, you know.”