“But—”
She turned around on the point of leaving the room. “The doctor says she’s not to be moved today. But you’ll send your carriage for her first thing in the morning. If you do not, I shall send her home in one of mine, and never mind how it looks to the servants!”
Rafe blinked as she left the room in a breeze of French scent and waggling fox tails. “Brinkley,” he called.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
Brinkley looked as composed as ever. As if he knew nothing, thought nothing, and was far above gossip. But Rafe wasn’t stupid. “What the hell is Lady Clarice talking about?”
Brinkley pressed his lips together but Rafe could see the faintest glimmer of enjoyment there. “It appears that Miss Imogen has won Lord Maitland’s heart.”
“Won his heart?” Rafe repeated.
“According to my information, he has vowed to marry Miss Imogen,” Brinkley said. “He informed his mother over breakfast this morning.”
“Marry!” Rafe said, astounded. “He can’t marry Imogen. He’s promised to Miss Pythian-Adams. Was she at the breakfast table as well?”
“She was not, to the best of my knowledge,” Brinkley remarked. “Will there be anything further, Your Grace?”
“No,” Rafe said. He felt as if a headache was coming on already. And he’d made up his mind not to drink until the sun was over the yard-arm. Perhaps there would be an eclipse today.
Lucius strolled in the room. Typically, he showed no reaction other than a lifted eyebrow at Rafe’s news.
“What does a guardian do in this situation?” Rafe asked him. “I suppose I could ban their marriage. Or could I? I can’t quite remember whether Imogen is of age, but I do think that I have the right to approve all marriages no matter her age. Lord, but that girl is a pest.” There was a heartfelt ring to his voice. “Lady Clarice is in a rage. I suppose I’ll have to go over there.”
“A guardian’s role,” Lucius said, a mocking devil in his eye. “Do the pretty, make it all right, smooth things over. Perhaps you should offer yourself to Lady Clarice as a sacrifice.”
Rafe fixed him with a chilling glare. “I shall smooth things over. If possible.”
“When will Miss Essex and her sister return to the house?” Lucius asked. He had turned away and was rifling through a stack of books on the table.
“Tomorrow. I’ll go over there tomorrow morning and bring them all back,” Rafe said. “Then we’ll let things quiet.”
“Things meaning Lady Clarice?”
“Precisely.”
Lucius snorted. “Good luck.”
“I’ll rise early,” Rafe said, thinking that was sacrifice enough. “Get over there by noon.”
As it happened, noon was not early enough.
He walked into utter Bedlam. For a moment Rafe couldn’t even take it all in; his head was pounding from the glare of the sun. Who would have thought it was so bright at this hour? No wonder he made it a point never to rise before midday.
Lady Clarice was stretched out on a settee, looking utterly deranged, her ringlets tousled and pasted to her neck. She was alternately shrieking and sobbing; Rafe had even heard her from the corridor. She reared up her head when the butler opened the door, stared at him for a moment, and then cried, “You’re too late! Oh, my child, my child!”Rafe strolled into the room even though every cell in his body advised him to walk straight out the door. “Lady Clarice,” he said, “where—”
“That loathsome, wretched girl,” she said, sitting bolt upright now and staring at him for all the world like Medusa. “I knew from the moment I saw her that she was nothing more than a—a trollop!”
“Hush, madam,” came a soothing voice, and Rafe noticed for the first time that Miss Pythian-Adams was seated at the head of the settee.
“A trollop!” Lady Clarice hissed. “And now—and now—I shall never live down the disgrace of it, the utter disgrace of it! I am ruined, utterly ruined. My life is ruined!” Her voice rose to a whistling shriek.
Rafe turned around. Lady Clarice’s butler had an expression that suggested he had found a week-old fish in his bedclothes. “Bring me a brandy,” Rafe told him.
“That’s right!” Lady Clarice snapped, flopping back onto the settee. “Drink yourself into a stupor at this moment of all moments, when—” Her voice broke, and she started sobbing again. Rafe could only make out incoherent phrases here and there, about scandal and son. He looked to Miss Pythian-Adams, but she was dabbing Lady Clarice’s forehead with a scented cloth.
He backed out of the room and caught the butler as he was bringing the brandy. Rafe grabbed the glass and let a lovely river of fire tip down his throat. Behind him there was another howling wail. He moved away from the door in case the condition was contagious.
“May I escort you to the sitting room, where Miss Essex awaits you?” the butler intoned. He was obviously one of those servants who took his owners’ reputations as his own. He looked as wracked as Lady Clarice.
Even the brandy couldn’t soften Tess’s news.
“What do you mean, they’ve eloped?” Rafe thundered, sounding for all the world like a male version of Lady Clarice.
“They’re gone!” she said, one tear after another chasing itself down her face. “I went to call Imogen, to ready her for returning to Holbrook Court, and all I found was a note.” She held it out, crumpled and tear-stained. “She didn’t even tell me—” Her voice broke off on a sob.
Rafe smoothed out the note and read it.
Dear Tess, Annabel & Josie,My darling Draven has offered an elopement, and naturally I shall accept his offer. You know how very much he means—has always meant—to me. Please,do forgive me for the scandal; I am persuaded that it will pass quickly.
With all love, your sister, Imogen (Lady Maitland)
“She’s persuaded the scandal will pass quickly?” he said, stunned. “What kind of idiotic idea is that? Doesn’t she have any idea of the impact of a Scottish wedding?”“No,” Tess said, wiping away tears. “I’m afraid none of us did. Lady Clarice has told me, though…”
“Damnation. How much of a head start do they have?”
“Quite a lot,” Tess said. “Apparently they left just after the morning meal. Lord Draven had given his mother a shock yesterday by announcing that he planned to marry Imogen, but I believe Lady Clarice had hoped she would be able to persuade him otherwise. At least, she tried to dissuade him throughout most of our evening meal last night. Of course, Imogen wasn’t there but it was still quite—quite embarrassing.”
“That likely drove Maitland to the elopement,” Rafe said grimly.
“I would prefer to think that he is in love with my sister,” Tess said, trying desperately to erase the memory of Maitland’s disparaging comments in the music room.
Rafe handed her a handkerchief. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Tess sniffed and reversed herself. “I know he’s not desperately in love with Imogen. So does she, for that matter. But she is quite desperately in love with him. And perhaps that will be enough to make a happy marriage. Do you think so?”