A Summer of Scandal

Lady Evelyn Ashford had been a widow for two years, three months and eleven days when she discovered that freedom smelled remarkably like dust.

She stood in the middle of the drawing room at Rosemere Cottage, watching tiny particles drift through a shaft of afternoon sunlight, and decided that no one had ever mentioned this particular detail.

Freedom, according to poets, smelled of roses and summer rain.

According to Rosemere Cottage, it smelled of old curtains, extinguished fires and furniture that had spent the better part of six years beneath linen sheets.

Evelyn sneezed.

Behind her, Mrs Finch gave a small, disapproving sound.

"My lady."

"I beg your pardon."

"You ought not to stand in the dust."

Evelyn turned.

Her housekeeper was holding a vase containing three rather defeated-looking peonies and regarding her with the expression of a woman who had personally warned the dust to behave.

"I shall endeavour to avoid it."

"Your lungs, my lady."

"Yes, Mrs Finch."

"The sea air may be beneficial, but breathing six years of your aunt's drawing room certainly will not be."

"No, Mrs Finch."

"And you ought to change. You have been travelling since seven."

Evelyn glanced down at her dove-grey travelling dress.

"Is it particularly offensive?"

Mrs Finch considered this.

"It is creased."

"Then we must pray nobody important calls."

Mrs Finch's lips tightened.

Evelyn had known her long enough to recognise the suppressed smile.

That, too, was new.

There had not been many suppressed smiles at Ashford House.

Evelyn crossed to the tall windows and pushed one open.

The hinges protested, then surrendered.

Warm June air rushed into the room.

And with it came the sea.

Not the sea itself, of course. Rosemere stood perhaps half a mile inland, tucked behind a low rise covered with gorse and wild grass. But she could smell salt beneath the sweetness of the garden, and somewhere beyond the trees gulls were calling.

Evelyn closed her eyes.

For the first time since leaving London that morning, she allowed herself to believe she had actually done it.

She had left.

No mother waiting in the next room with a list of suitable gentlemen.

No sister reminding her that twenty-seven was not an age at which a woman could afford to become eccentric.

No solicitor patiently explaining which decisions ought to be entrusted to a man.

And no Charles.

That thought came quietly.

It always did.

Charles Ashford had been dead for more than two years, yet sometimes his absence occupied more space than he ever had while alive.

Evelyn opened her eyes.

"Mrs Finch?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"I think I shall walk down to the sea."

There was a pause.

"Now?"

"That was generally what I meant."

"You have only just arrived."

"Precisely. I have been sitting in a carriage for nine hours."

"Seven."

"It felt like nine."

Mrs Finch placed the peonies on a table.

"Dinner will be served at half past seven."

"Then I shall return before half past seven."

"My lady..."

Evelyn turned and smiled.

It was astonishing how often people began sentences that way when they were about to tell her what she should not do.

"I am going for a walk, Mrs Finch. Not to France."

"The cliffs can be dangerous."

"I shall make every effort not to fall off one."

This time the housekeeper failed entirely to conceal her smile.

"Take your bonnet."

Evelyn sighed.

Freedom, apparently, still required a bonnet.

By six o'clock she had abandoned it.

The bonnet hung from her fingers by its ribbons as Evelyn followed a narrow path through waist-high grass.

The evening was too beautiful for sensible clothing.

The sun remained warm, but its fierce afternoon brightness had softened to honey. Wildflowers crowded the hedgerows, and beyond the rolling fields the Channel flashed silver-blue beneath the enormous sky.

She had forgotten how much she loved this place.

As a girl, she had spent three summers at Rosemere with Aunt Beatrice.

Beatrice had been the scandal of the family long before Evelyn understood what scandal meant. She had never married, travelled alone to Italy at forty, smoked tiny cigars when she believed no one was looking and once informed Evelyn's mother that marriage was "a perfectly respectable occupation for women who enjoyed being managed."

Evelyn had been twelve.

Her mother had refused to visit Rosemere for three years afterwards.

Now the cottage belonged to Evelyn.

One of the few things that did.

Charles had left her adequately provided for. No one could claim otherwise. She possessed an income, jewels, several pieces of valuable furniture and the right to occupy the dower house on the Ashford estate until her death.

Everything carefully arranged.

Everything reasonable.

Everything decided before she had ever been asked what she wanted.

Rosemere was different.

Aunt Beatrice had left it directly to her.

For Evelyn, who may one day require a door of her own.

She had not understood those words when the will was read.

She understood them now.

Evelyn reached a fork in the path.

And stopped.

The left-hand track disappeared between two ancient oaks. The right curved downhill through a gap in a stone wall.

She frowned.

She remembered a path to the beach.

She did not remember which one.

"Excellent."

A blackbird answered from somewhere in the hedge.

"Thank you. Most helpful."

She chose the right.

For several minutes the decision appeared inspired.

The path descended towards the water, and the scent of salt grew stronger. Through gaps in the trees she caught glimpses of white cliffs and blue sea.

Then the wild path became gravel.

Evelyn slowed.

That was odd.

A little farther on, the hedges became clipped.

That was considerably more odd.

And when she passed between two stone pillars topped by carved lions, she stopped entirely.

Beyond them lay a garden.

Not a cottage garden.

A garden.

Terraces stepped down the hillside towards the sea. Roses climbed pale stone walls. A fountain glittered between cypress trees, and farther up the slope, partially concealed behind enormous cedars, stood the dark grey outline of a house.

A very large house.

Evelyn looked back.

There had been no gate.

At least, not one she had noticed.

She considered returning.

Then she saw the sea.

At the bottom of the terraces a path curved towards the cliffs, and beyond them lay a small crescent of beach.

That must surely connect with the public path.

She would simply cross the garden.

No one need ever know.

Evelyn took perhaps twelve steps before a man's voice said,

"Are you lost?"

She stopped.

There were certain moments in life when dignity required preparation.

Unfortunately, she had been given none.

Evelyn turned.

A man stood beneath the stone archway behind her.

He was tall.

That was her first thought.

Her second was considerably less useful.

He was also quite possibly the most striking man she had seen in years.

His coat was black, perfectly cut but worn open over a dark waistcoat. No hat. His hair, almost black in the evening light, was longer than fashion strictly recommended and had clearly been disturbed by the wind.

He might have been thirty-five. Perhaps a little older.

His face was not handsome in the polished manner her mother admired. There was too much severity in it. A strong nose, hard line of jaw, dark brows and a mouth that seemed constructed primarily for expressing disapproval.

At present, it was performing that function admirably.

Evelyn straightened.

"I don't believe so."

His gaze moved deliberately from her to the garden around them.

"Then this is rather more interesting."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are trespassing."

The embarrassment lasted approximately two seconds.

Then annoyance replaced it.

"I am walking."

"On my land."

That complicated matters.

Evelyn looked again at the house.

"Ah."

One dark eyebrow lifted.

She disliked that eyebrow immediately.

"I was attempting to reach the beach."

"And your method involved crossing a private garden?"

"I didn't realise it was private."

"The wall generally provides a clue."

"I came through an opening."

"A gate."

"There was no gate."

"There is."

"Then it was open."

"It was not."

Evelyn stared at him.

"Are you suggesting I climbed over your wall?"

His gaze dropped briefly to her pale walking dress.

"I confess the image is difficult to reconcile with the evidence."

She almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead she lifted her chin.

"I assure you I entered by a perfectly ordinary path."

"Which becomes private approximately half a mile from here."

"Perhaps someone should put up a sign."

"There is a sign."

Evelyn felt heat rise into her cheeks.

He saw it.

Worse, the corner of his mouth moved.

Not quite a smile.

That was intolerable.

"I may have missed it."

"Clearly."

She drew herself up.

"If you would be kind enough to tell me how to reach the public path, I shall remove the threat my presence evidently poses to your roses."

For the first time, he actually smiled.

It changed his face.

Only slightly, but enough to make Evelyn wish he had not done it.

Severity suited him better.

It was safer.

"The roses will recover," he said.

"I am relieved."

"Though Mrs Harcourt may not."

"Who is Mrs Harcourt?"

"My gardener."

Evelyn glanced at the immaculate borders.

"Then I suspect Mrs Harcourt is made of sterner material than her employer."

His smile disappeared.

There.

Much better.

He stepped away from the arch.

"The public path is in the opposite direction."

"Of course it is."

"I can show you."

"That will not be necessary."

"It will if you intend to reach Rosemere before dark."

Evelyn froze.

"How do you know where I am staying?"

The man's expression altered.

Not dramatically.

But the amusement vanished.

"You are Lady Ashford."

It was not a question.

Evelyn tightened her fingers around the ribbons of her bonnet.

"We have not been introduced."

"No."

"Yet you know who I am."

"Rosemere has been empty for six years. Three servants arrived yesterday. A carriage from London arrived this afternoon. There are not many widowed ladies expected in the neighbourhood."

"You appear remarkably well informed."

"It is a small neighbourhood."

"And you are?"

He hesitated.

It was brief enough that another person might not have noticed.

Evelyn did.

"Nathaniel Bellamy."

Something about the name tugged faintly at her memory.

Bellamy.

She had heard it before.

But before she could place it, he turned towards a path leading through the roses.

"This way."

"I really can manage."

"I am certain you can."

He continued walking.

Evelyn remained where she was.

He looked back.

There was that eyebrow again.

She followed him.

Not because he expected her to.

Certainly not.

Because the alternative involved admitting she had absolutely no idea where she was.

They walked in silence for several minutes.

It should not have been uncomfortable.

It was.

Evelyn became increasingly aware of ridiculous things.

The crunch of gravel beneath his boots.

The scent of the roses.

The fact that Mr Bellamy did not walk with the slightly affected elegance fashionable among gentlemen in London. His movements were easy and purposeful, and he had the irritating habit of looking directly at her when she spoke.

Most men looked at a woman's face.

Mr Bellamy appeared to listen to it.

"You arrived today," he said.

"So your intelligence network has informed you."

His mouth twitched.

"I saw the carriage."

"How disappointingly ordinary."

"Would you prefer spies?"

"I had begun to imagine them in the hedges."

"I dismissed them last Tuesday."

She looked at him before she could stop herself.

He was smiling again.

And, damn him, she smiled too.

Only for an instant.

Nathaniel saw it.

Something changed in his eyes.

The moment stretched.

Then Evelyn looked away.

They had reached the edge of the gardens. Ahead stood an old iron gate set into the wall.

It was open.

Evelyn stared at it.

Nathaniel said nothing.

She walked through.

On the other side, almost hidden beneath ivy, was a wooden board.

PRIVATE PROPERTY BLACKTHORN HALL

Evelyn closed her eyes.

"Not one word."

"I said nothing."

"You were about to."

"I assure you, Lady Ashford, silence is sometimes considerably more satisfying."

She turned to him.

He was leaning one shoulder against the gatepost, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"I dislike you."

The words escaped before propriety could catch them.

Nathaniel's eyebrows rose.

Then he laughed.

Not politely.

Not the carefully measured chuckle of a gentleman indulging a lady.

He actually laughed.

The sound startled her.

And, annoyingly, made him even more attractive.

"I beg your pardon," Evelyn said stiffly.

"No, you don't."

"I most certainly do."

"You meant every word."

"Perhaps."

"Then at least we have begun honestly."

"Begun what?"

His gaze held hers.

For one strange second, neither of them moved.

"An acquaintance," he said.

Evelyn's pulse gave an entirely unnecessary little beat.

"I don't recall agreeing to one."

"No."

His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.

Or perhaps she imagined it.

"But I suspect we shall encounter one another again."

Before Evelyn could answer, a distant rumble rolled across the sea.

She looked towards the horizon.

Dark clouds were gathering.

"I should go."

Nathaniel straightened.

"I'll walk you back."

"That is unnecessary."

"Probably."

"Then why offer?"

His expression became unreadable.

"Because it will be dark within the hour."

"I have walked in darkness before."

"I don't doubt it."

There was something in the way he said it that made her look at him again.

The humour had gone.

For a moment he seemed older.

Tired, perhaps.

Then the expression vanished.

"Come," he said. "Rosemere is twenty minutes from here if one uses the correct path."

Evelyn considered refusing.

She should refuse.

There was no reason for a widowed woman of twenty-seven to require an escort for a country walk.

There was also no reason to spend another hour wandering through Sussex because of pride.

"Very well."

They set off.

The first drops of rain began ten minutes later.

Nathaniel removed his coat.

"No."

He looked at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't need your coat."

"It is raining."

"I had noticed."

"And you are wearing muslin."

Evelyn glanced down.

That was unfortunately true.

"I shall survive."

"I don't doubt that either."

He placed the coat around her shoulders before she could protest.

The warmth of it startled her.

So did the scent.

Cedar. Rain. Something faintly smoky.

Something entirely his.

Nathaniel's hands remained on her shoulders for perhaps half a second.

No longer.

It was nothing.

Evelyn felt it everywhere.

She stepped away.

"Thank you."

His eyes met hers.

"My pleasure."

Neither spoke for the remainder of the walk.

By the time Rosemere appeared through the trees, rain was falling steadily.

A carriage stood on the lane outside the cottage.

Evelyn frowned.

"Are you expecting someone?" Nathaniel asked.

"No."

The carriage door opened.

A woman emerged beneath an enormous umbrella, assisted by a footman.

Evelyn recognised her immediately.

Mrs Amelia Pembroke.

Her mother's oldest friend.

And quite possibly the fastest-moving source of gossip in southern England.

Wonderful.

Mrs Pembroke looked first at Evelyn.

Then at Nathaniel.

Then at the man's black coat wrapped around Evelyn's shoulders.

Her eyes widened.

Nathaniel went very still beside her.

"Lady Ashford," Mrs Pembroke called.

Her gaze moved once more between them.

"My goodness."

Evelyn closed her eyes for the briefest possible moment.

She had been in Sussex for less than four hours.

Apparently, that was all the time required to begin a scandal.