Scandal's Reward Read Free Page B

Amelia had been caught trespassing as children. Within half a mile upstream of the curved ornamental bridge and the water lilies, however, the stream coursed wild through its craggy little gorge, full of mosses and light-shading ferns, from the boggy heights of Eagle Beacon. And at one place, below the stables and barns, past the birch spinney, Rye Water emptied into the pleasant leaf-shaded lake where poor Millicent Trumble had been found drowned seven years before.
    Lady Montagu was not elderly, perhaps only fifty-six or seven, but she was bored and faint-hearted. Catherine read to her in the evenings, or played hour upon hour at the piano and sang. In the day she would accompany her mistress in little drives in a dog cart, or on sketching expeditions around the estate, or perhaps just fetch and carry, while Lady Montagu worked listlessly at embroidery or drawn-thread work.
    The house and grounds entranced her. It was an old-fashioned house, full of interesting nooks and crannies. Over the centuries, various owners had carried out their improvement schemes, so that the withdrawing and dining rooms boasted beautiful Jacobean plaster ceilings, while the great hall downstairs still displayed its massive Tudor beams, curving away into the roof space. There was an eclectic collection of furnishings, representing much of the past two hundred years, but each piece settled in next to its neighbor in complete harmony. It seemed to Catherine that the house had always been loved by its occupants, except perhaps by Sir Henry Montagu. No one could claim that the atmosphere had been happy after he had moved in with his family—what?—seventeen years ago. Even now that he was gone the lovely rooms still seemed forlorn and sad. The house must once have resounded to the laughter of large families and good fellowship. Even though Sir Henry had been dead for over a year, it was as if the Queen Anne dressers and Persian carpets still couldn’t quite shake off his baleful influence.
    * * * *
    Catherine had been at Lion Court for less than a week, when one afternoon she heard the rattle of a large carriage as it pulled into the courtyard, accompanied by outriders and followed by a baggage cart. She and Lady Montagu had just come in from a walk on the terrace, past the glorious display of flowers in the gardens, and Catherine had walked upstairs to remove her bonnet. From the head of the stairs, she heard loud voices and squeals of feminine delight, followed by the gruff tones of a man.
    “By the Devil, don’t take on so, Mama! You’ll bring on palpitations. Anyone would think you hadn’t seen me in years. Deuced miserable journey, rained all the way from London to Bath. Dashed if I wasn’t ready to turn around more than once, but Charlotte wouldn’t hear of it.”
    A tall, thin lady who could only be the widowed Mrs. Clay pecked Lady Montagu on the cheek.
    “George is the most impossible traveling companion, Mama. I declare he takes a delight in discomfort and complaint. Dear Mr. Clay was always so proficient in arranging everything to one’s satisfaction when traveling.”
    “Good God, Charlotte! If I hear one more word about your sainted husband, I shall go mad. Dear Mr. Clay this, beloved Mr. Clay that! It’s enough to send a fellow to perdition, and damme if the chap hasn’t been dead these seven years and was a dreadful dull stick when he was alive.”
    An attack of the vapors was the only possible response to that, so Catherine decided that it was an opportune moment to make herself known. She moved down the stairs and approached the little group. Charlotte Clay had begun to gasp and clutch at her throat, but at the interruption, she immediately swung around and peered at Catherine through her quizzing glass.
    “So this is your companion from the vicarage, Mama? How quaint! Of course I should see hiring a female companion as an affront to the memory of dear Mr. Clay, the only true soulmate I shall have in this life. How do