Scandal at the Christmas Ball Read online

  ‘Perhaps you are the very man to coax her,’ Drummond said drily.

  Edward blushed, but he did not dismiss the notion. ‘And there we have it. Though the hour is advanced, we are lacking three of the guests from the list. I expect the worsening weather has detained them,’ he said, glancing out at the now heavily falling snow. ‘This is not one of the famous Brockmore Midsummer Matchmaking parties, but I wonder if our hosts have some other grand design? How many other guests have been invited, like me, for a purpose, do you think?’

  The speculative look which accompanied this remark left Drummond in no doubt that the young man was fishing. He smiled blandly. ‘We may find out as the party unfolds. Why don’t you go over and join Miss Creighton, for I see Miss Pletcher is abandoning her to re-join Lady Anne. There, as you can see our hosts have also spotted that Miss Creighton is in need of company. This is your chance to make your mark.’

  ‘You will join me, Mr MacIntosh? I would appreciate your support.’

  ‘Directly, but I’d better circulate a bit first.’

  Edward made his bow, and a beeline for Miss Creighton. Smiling to himself, Drummond contemplated joining the group at the fireplace, but a burst of laughter from the brassy Miss Canningvale stopped him. A moment’s respite was what he needed.

  Slipping as unobtrusively as he could out of the drawing room, he reached the expanse of the black and white tiled hallway, then hesitated. What he really wanted was to get outside and get some invigorating fresh air, but he had the absurd conviction that if he escaped the confines of the house, he’d find it difficult to make himself return.

  One of the Duke’s army of footmen, standing sentinel by the front door, looked at him enquiringly. Striding purposefully towards the room furthest from the drawing room, Drummond stepped inside, leaning back against the door. It was freezing in here, and the air smelled oddly fragrant, like a forest. The small room faced east, the fading light only visible through a single tall window. The source of the scent was obvious enough, for the table that took up most of the space was piled high with swathes of green spruce, stacks of pine cones, bundles of holly and mistletoe, obviously to be used as seasonal decorations. He picked up a wreath formed of pine. The distinctive resin-scented perfume of the needles caught him unawares, catapulting him back to the forests of his father’s Highland estate, the earth soft as a mattress beneath his feet, carpeted with fallen needles, the canopy formed by the branches sheltering him from the elements. He had not been back there for so long, hadn’t even allowed himself to miss it until now.

  A rustle and a sigh made him drop the wreath. He had thought himself quite alone but there, in the darkest corner of the room, was a silhouetted figure. ‘Who is that?’ Drummond demanded, thinking himself spied upon. ‘What are you doing, lurking there? Get up, man, and show yourself.’

  ‘I am not lurking, I am not a man and I do not take kindly to having orders barked at me. I have as much right to be here as you do. Captain Milborne, I presume.’

  ‘No, you may not presume,’ Drummond snapped. ‘Who the devil are you?’

  The figure rose from the chair where she had been concealed in the gloom. ‘I am Joanna Forsythe. I am at Brockmore as a guest of the Duke and Duchess, and I am in this room because I needed a moment of quiet contemplation before the ordeal of facing the assembled company.’

  She was not tall. Her hair was brown, as was her gown. Her countenance was pretty enough. Sweet, some would call it. Unremarkable is how those less charitable would describe her. Yet her cool voice was very much at odds with such an assessment, and her clear, assessing scrutiny of his own countenance even more so. She continued to study him through eyes which were also brown. Big eyes, thickly lashed, and not plain brown at all, but more golden, and somehow, he couldn’t explain how, giving the impression of acute intelligence.

  ‘At first I thought it was simply your stance,’ she said. ‘Those shoulders, the straight back, the set of your head, that’s what made me think you a military man, but it is not only that. It is in your eyes, now that I see you up close. You are a man accustomed to being obeyed. I confess, I am very much surprised that you are not Captain Milborne.’

  It should not be surprising that his career had marked him indelibly, but it had never occurred to him that it should be so. ‘Drummond MacIntosh,’ he said, making a stiff bow. ‘You are half-right, Miss Forsythe. I was an army major, but am no longer a soldier.’

  ‘Ah.’ Joanna Forsythe gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Since Waterloo delivered peace to Europe, there are many men in a similar position. That is, I presume...’

  ‘Aye,’ he interrupted curtly, ‘I left military service shortly after the battle.’ It was not a lie, but the manner of his leaving was none of her business.

  ‘We owe you and your comrades a huge debt of gratitude, Mr MacIntosh, but I can see the subject makes you uncomfortable. Tell me, what is a man who is brave enough to fight in battle doing lurking in here, to use your own phrase?’

  ‘Like you, I came in search of solitude. Though unlike you, I’ve already had a surfeit of the company, while you have yet to sample it.’

  She smiled crookedly. ‘I am not weak-willed, not usually, but when I peered into the drawing room and saw everyone taking tea and looking so relaxed and at home...’ Miss Forsythe straightened her shoulders, adjusted her paisley scarf, and forced another smile. ‘But there, I know I must step into the breach at some point. A military term you will be familiar with, Mr MacIntosh. I will leave you to your solitude, while I head into battle.’

  Which was exactly what she looked like she was about to do, Drummond thought, adding brave to her list of attributes. He extended his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you. We will face the enemy together. A pincer move, if you will. Shall we?’

  * * *

  Could her fellow guests really be regarded as the enemy? Joanna Forsythe wondered as she sipped on her tea and made polite conversation. How would they react if they discovered they were mingling with a social pariah? She didn’t recognise a single one of them, which was a considerable relief, since it made it highly unlikely that any were privy to her shameful reputation. Save her host and hostess.

  Glancing over at the Duchess, Joanna felt that mix of excitement and nerves which made her feel sick and giddy at the same time.

  The Duchess had written a letter in her elegant script, accompanying the invitation to Brockmore Manor.

  Now that she is aware of the painful truth, Lady Christina wishes to make amends and has desired me, as one of her oldest and—forgive my lack of modesty—most influential friends, to act as her intermediary.

  There will be opportunity to discuss this further during the course of the party, but it is my sincere hope that you will be able to partake in and enjoy the festivities without allowing this most regrettable matter to prey on your mind.

  All very well for Her Grace to say, but despite the opulence of her surroundings, the fine food, the luxury of silk sheets and a roaring fire in her bedchamber, and the promise of a fun-filled holiday, Joanna’s thoughts turned again and again to the question of how, precisely, her former employer proposed to make reparation for the damage she had inflicted. Clearly, the all-important discussion with the Duchess was not to be tonight. Then tomorrow was Christmas Day. Boxing Day? There were activities planned from dawn to dusk. How was she to contain herself in waiting?

  A burst of laughter from the other side of the room drew her attention. Looking over, she settled her gaze on Drummond MacIntosh who, having handed her into the care of their hosts, had been conversing for the last half-hour with the group of men by the fire, but now he excused himself to make his way over to join her.

  He unsettled her, but there was no doubting that he was by far the most attractive man in the room. Not the most handsome, that accolade must go to Aubrey Kenelm, but Mr Kenelm’s golden-haired perfection held no a
ppeal for Joanna. Drummond MacIntosh’s features were more forceful: a strong nose, a most determined jaw, and an even more decided mouth. His skin was deeply tanned, despite the season, the colouring of a man who spent much of his life outdoors, and there were lines fanning out from his eyes. Etched by the elements, or by carousing, or by pain? He was a soldier, so most likely all three. His hair was the kind of glossy black that she would have attributed to artifice, were it not for the streaks of auburn in his curls.

  ‘Now that you have entered the battlefield, Miss Forsythe, are you feeling more at ease?’

  ‘The company seems most convivial,’ Joanna replied. ‘I am sure I will feel much more relaxed when we are better acquainted.’

  ‘You must know our hosts in some capacity, surely, to have been invited?’

  ‘I’ve never met them. In fact, I know you better than any other person in this room.’

  He smiled at that. ‘Then we are in the exact same situation, for I know not a soul here either.’

  ‘Which begs the question, why are you here? Oh, heavens, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so inquisitive. You will have your reasons, as I have. I’m a teacher,’ she clarified, ‘at a school for girls. A provincial institution, you will not have heard of it. The school is closed for the holidays, but unlike my pupils, I have no family to celebrate with. So you see...’

  ‘...the Brockmores’ generous offer was most timely. A very good reason, Miss Forsythe, but now I’m intrigued as to why they would do such a thing for a complete stranger.’

  She would not lie, but the truth—no, she could not be telling someone she barely knew the whole truth, no matter how oddly tempting it was. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed,’ Joanna said lightly, ‘the reason is very mundane. My former employer is a great friend of Her Grace. It was she who facilitated this invitation, having learned of my currently straitened circumstances.’

  Mr MacIntosh frowned at this but said nothing. He had a way with silence, Joanna was discovering, of making her want to fill it. She used it herself, to good effect, on her pupils. Usually they squirmed, then they confessed. Joanna bit her lip. Finally, he surrendered with a gruff little laugh. ‘It would be unfair of me to press you further, especially since my case is remarkably similar.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My invitation also came via a—a well-wisher who regrets my current circumstances, and wishes to change them for the better. For me, this party is something of an initiation test.’

  ‘Then our cases are not so similar after all! I assure you, Mr MacIntosh, that I do not require to pass any sort of test. Whatever it is that the Duchess proposes—’ She snapped her mouth closed, staring at him in dismay. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr MacIntosh, I would not wish to monopolise your time.’

  But he shook his head, detaining her by the lightest of touches on her arm. ‘I would be delighted if you’d call me Drummond.’

  ‘Drummond,’ she repeated, ‘a very Scottish name, though your accent is almost imperceptible.’

  ‘I have been a long time away from the Highlands, Miss Forsythe,’ he replied, his accent softening at the same time as his smile hardened.

  ‘Joanna.’

  ‘From the Greek?’

  ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘You look surprised, but not all Highlanders are heathens, Miss—Joanna. I was packed off to school in Edinburgh, and had Greek and Latin beaten into me along with any number of other useless subjects.’

  ‘Education is never useless, Mr—Drummond—though it should never be beaten into anyone.’

  ‘I did not mean to imply—I am sure that you do not subscribe to the view that to spare the rod is to spoil the child, and are an excellent teacher.’

  ‘I love my profession. Even in my current situation, I cannot imagine another way of earning my living.’

  ‘Then for your sake, I sincerely hope that this party is the route to securing a better living—if that is what you hope the Duchess will propose.’

  Joanna laughed shortly. ‘I’m not a charity case. I didn’t come here in search of patronage, but justice. Now you have somehow managed to extract a great deal more from me than I intended.’

  ‘Justice,’ Drummond said, his mouth twisted. ‘It is a noble aim. My motivations are a wee bit more prosaic. All I’m looking for is a fresh start and I’m afraid, unlike you, that the patronage of our hosts is a prerequisite for that. There, now you have also managed to extract a deal more from me than I intended.’

  She shook her head, quite at a loss, for his tone had been so bitter. ‘I did not mean to imply that there was anything wrong with patronage, Drummond.’

  ‘Were it for anyone but myself I’d agree with you, but I’m like you, you see, I prefer my independence. However...’ He forced a smile. ‘There now, as I said, I’ve told you more than enough.’

  And it had cost him, Joanna thought. Whatever he wanted or needed from the Duke of Brockmore, it hurt his pride to have to ask. She, who had been forced to beg and to plead, could understand that, though she suspected her sympathy would be very unwelcome. ‘I don’t know about you, but I truly am in dire need of some solitude,’ she said, touching his arm lightly. ‘I think I will retire to my chamber to rest before we green the house.’

  Drummond nodded, but as she turned to go, he caught her hand. ‘You will return though, won’t you? You won’t spend the whole evening hiding in your room?’

  ‘Or even lurking in a dark corner,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘Do not fear, whatever the outcome of my—my other business, I intend to forget all about the harsh realities of life, and enjoy these festivities to the full, while I can.’

  His grim expression softened. ‘A most commendable strategy,’ Drummond said, with a lop-sided smile. ‘With your permission, it’s an approach I’d like to share with you.’

  Chapter Two

  Friday, 25th December 1818, Christmas Day

  Christmas morning began, as tradition dictated, with a church service, then an elaborate champagne breakfast followed by a stroll to the village green, now carpeted with a thick blanket of snow. The local children had gathered, and were crowding excitedly around the huge horse-drawn sleigh which accompanied the Brockmore party. On Boxing Day, food baskets would be delivered to tenants and those in need, but today was all about distributing treats to the children of the estate. The Duke and Duchess, aided by some of their guests, handed out wooden dolls and horses, lead soldiers, tin drums, skittles, balls, skipping ropes, hoops, spinning tops and penny whistles, and soon the air was filled with whoops of glee. The frenzied beating of tin drums was soon interspersed with the shrill sound of penny whistles being blown, as if some miniature marching band were tuning up.

  Percival Martindale was making a terrible hash of the gift-giving, Drummond noticed as he watched from the sidelines. The poor man got it wrong every time, handing dolls to small boys, skipping ropes to toddlers, and a tin drum to the perplexed mother of a swaddled baby. Heaven knew how he would cope with his new wards. Perhaps he would find a wife to help him bring them up. Or hand them over to a governess. Martindale was smiling gratefully now at Joanna, who had tactfully intervened, swapping Martindale’s choices for something more appropriate, earning herself a grateful smile and a pat on the arm.

  For some reason, Drummond did not appreciate this over-familiarity. On impulse, he headed across the snow, waiting patiently until the last gift had been dispensed, then stepping quickly between Martindale and Joanna, offering his arm, and sweeping her away before the other man could protest.

  ‘I was not in need of rescue, you know,’ she said, as Drummond steered the pair of them away from the revelry. ‘Mr Martindale seems a pleasant but rather melancholy gentleman.’

  ‘I take it, then, that you are not aware that he has recently been obliged to take in his sister’s two ch
ildren? Both their parents were killed in a carriage accident, apparently.’

  Joanna’s smile faded. ‘I had no idea. How very tragic. But what then, is Mr Martindale doing here at Brockmore? Surely his place is with his new charges, especially at this time of year?’

  ‘According to Edward Throckton, who is a positive mine of information, the Brockmores were close friends of the deceased couple. They felt the chap desperately needed a break after all he has been through. Apparently, the children have been packed off to mutual friends who have a large brood of their own. They will be well cared for, I am sure, and most likely better able to cope with the loss than poor Martindale, for children, as you must know, are actually very resilient.’

  Joanna’s mouth tightened. ‘I never knew my mama, she died giving birth to me, but I have known several children lose a parent, Drummond, and whether they are five years old or fifteen, what they need more than anything is security.’

  ‘Martindale strikes me as someone who knows his duty. I am certain he will do his best by them—better, perhaps, when he’s had this break to distance himself from his grief.’

  ‘I hope so, for the poor mites deserve nothing less.’

  ‘I’ve some experience in this field, you know. I’ve had lads—and I mean lads, Joanna, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—lose a parent. Sometimes, when we were on campaign, word came months after the death, and often it would fall to me to break the news. I happen to agree with you, security is what they need the most. In such cases, it is the army routine which provides that.’