Trapped by Scandal Read Free

morning, but her brother’s house was still brilliantly lit in every window. She would have expected some illumination—even if the majordomo had already retired, the doorman would be waiting to let her in—but the house looked as if a ball were in full swing, which, considering that the Marquis and his lady had been intending to dine quietly, seemed somewhat unlikely.
    The front doors opened as she set her foot on the first of the shallow steps leading up from the street, and the Marquis’s majordomo stood bowing in the doorway, the lamplit hall behind him. “Lady Hermione . . . I trust you passed a pleasant evening, my lady.”
    â€œPleasant enough, thank you, Jackson.” She moved past him with a smile, then paused in the marble-floored hall,conscious of a strange feeling in the house, a certain expectant tension in the air. “Is his lordship still up?”
    â€œIn the upstairs parlor, my lady. I believe he’s waiting for you.” Nothing in the man’s expression gave a hint of anything unusual, but then, Jackson was renowned for his inscrutability.
    Hero drew off her gloves; she had untied her mask in the carriage. “I will go up to him, then. Good night, Jackson.” She ascended the curving horseshoe staircase, twirling her mask on one finger, the silken folds of her domino swishing around her sandaled feet.
    The upstairs parlor was a small, intimate family sitting room overlooking the garden at the rear, behind the grand formal salon, which ran the length of the front of the house, looking down into the square. The equally intimate morning room, where the family dined when they were alone, was opposite the parlor. The parlor door was slightly ajar, and Hero pushed it open.
    There was a chill in the October night air, and a fire burned in the grate, the candelabra all illuminated so that the room seemed a blaze of light. The Marquis of Bruton was sitting in a chair beside the fire, nursing a brandy goblet. He did not look in the least restful and jumped to his feet the instant his twin sister stepped through the doorway.
    â€œOh, Hero, thank goodness you’re back. I’ve been waiting for you.”
    â€œIs something amiss, Alec?” She looked in some alarm at her brother. He was usually very careful of his appearance, but tonight his reddish fair hair was tousled and his collar unbuttoned.
    â€œYes . . . no, no, I don’t think so, at least I hope not.” He pushed a hand through his tumbled hair. “Marie Claire’s pains have begun, and I don’t know what to do.”
    Hero unbuttoned her domino and tossed it over the back of a sofa. “Dearest, have you called Dr. Barrett yet?”
    â€œOh, yes, of course. He’s with her now. And Nan’s there, of course. But she’s hurting, and I don’t know how to help.”
    Hero offered a reassuring smile. “I don’t know a great deal about these matters myself, Alec, but I think hurting is inevitable. And if she has Barrett and Nan in attendance, she could not be in better hands.” She moved to the sideboard to pour herself a glass of brandy and took it to the fire. Her apple-green gown was of the most diaphanous silk, as was de rigueur, the décolletage pronounced and the little puff sleeves offering no protection from drafts or the evening chill. “When did it start?”
    â€œJust after dinner. We dined quietly—you know how Marie Claire tires so easily these days—and we were sitting to a game of piquet when the first pain came.” He looked distraught. “Oh, Hero, I wish I could suffer it for her.”
    â€œI know you do, love.” She kissed his cheek. “But nature didn’t plan it that way. Where’s Aunt Emily?”
    â€œFast asleep. You know the last trump wouldn’t wake her once she’s taken her nightcap. She decided to have dinner in her own quarters, a quinsy developing,