The Scandalous Summerfields
His anger at Tinmore flared once more. ‘He refused you a visit with your sisters on Christmas Day. That was very poorly done of him.’
‘Still...’ Her voice trailed off.
What would happen to her now? Had Tinmore provided for her? Or did Tinmore neglect to do so, the way he neglected her in other ways?
Tinmore’s accusations would not help. No doubt she’d become the victim of more gossip because of the way Tinmore died. God knew she did not deserve that. Would anyone truly believe he and Lorene were lovers? Or, worse, that he’d caused Tinmore’s death?
They would not be entirely wrong. He’d certainly been the catalyst for it.
She rose from the sofa and began to pace. Dell stood, as well.
‘I wonder...should I have stayed with him?’ Her voice rose, but fell again. ‘I do not know what is expected of me.’
‘What do you wish to do?’ he asked. ‘If you wish to be with him, do not let my presence stop you.’
She glanced at him with pained eyes, but looked away and paced to the marble mantelpiece, intricately carved with leaves and flowers.
It was agony to see her so distressed. He ought to comfort her somehow, ease her pain, but how could he do so?
When he’d caused it.
‘I am sorry this happened, Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’
She glanced at him again with those eyes so filled with torment. ‘Sorry? You are sorry?’
He stepped closer to her and wanted to reach out to her, but did not dare.
Death arrived when least expected.
Tinmore’s death had been quick, but death had not been as kind to Dell’s family. His father, mother, brother and sister, as well as several servants, perished in a fire in their London town house in April of 1815. Think of the terror and pain of such a death.
He shook himself. If he thought of that, he would descend into depression and this time not come out. ‘I never anticipated this would happen,’ he forced himself to say.
She leaned her forehead against the white marble. ‘Nor did I,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed he would think—’
That they were lovers? Who could think such a thing? He had been nothing but polite to her.
With a cry of pain she flung herself on to the sofa again and buried her head in her hands.
He sat next to her, his arm around her. ‘I know what it is to grieve,’ he said. ‘Cry all you wish.’
She turned to him, her voice shrill. ‘Grieve? Grieve? How little you understand! I am the most wretched of creatures! I do not feel grief! I feel relief.’
She collapsed against his chest and he held her close, murmuring words of comfort.
The door opened and she pulled away from him, wiping her eyes with her fingers.
‘Your tea and brandy, ma’am,’ a footman announced in a tone of disapproval.
‘Put it on the table,’ she managed in a cracked voice. ‘And please tell Mrs Boon to make a room ready for Lord Penford.’
The footman put the tray on the table next to the sofa and bowed, leaving without another word.
‘Brandy?’ she offered, lifting the carafe with a shaking hand.
He took it from her. ‘I’ll pour. Perhaps you would like some brandy, as well. To steady yourself.’
She nodded and another tear rolled down her lovely cheek.
He handed her the glass and she downed the liquid quickly, handing it back to him for more. He poured another for her and one for himself, which he was tempted to gulp down as she had done.
He sipped it instead.
She blinked away more tears and took a deep breath. ‘You must think me a dreadful person.’
‘Not at all.’ The dreadful person had been her husband. ‘Perhaps you have endured more than you allow others to know.’
She shook her head and took another big sip. ‘He—he was not so awful a husband, really. He merely liked for people to do as he desired. All the time.’
Tinmore had been autocratic, neglectful and, at times, extremely cruel, from Dell’s observation, no more so than this day when he sought to deprive her of her family on Christmas Day. His accusation that they were lovers was unjust and unfair. Tinmore should have known his wife was much too honourable to be unfaithful.
She swallowed the rest of the brandy in her glass. ‘So it is terrible of me to feel relief, is it not?’ Her chin trembled and tears filled her eyes again.
Dell felt as helpless as when he’d watched Tinmore tumble down the steps. ‘You are merely numb. It is not unusual to feel numb after such a tragedy.’ Dell had felt numb when he’d been told the news about his family. It took time for the wrenching grief to consume him.
He finished his brandy and poured another for himself, offering her a third glass.
She refused. ‘Perhaps I should go to him. Perhaps that is what is expected of me.’
He hated for her to leave. Not because he needed her company, but because he felt she needed him in this house with no allies. But, thanks to Tinmore, the false rumour of them being lovers had been heard by the servants and one footman had witnessed what must have seemed like an embrace between them. He must distance himself from her.
For her sake.
And his.
* * *
Lorene rose from the sofa and reached for Dell’s hand. She held it between her own. ‘I will go to him now. Thank you for sitting with me.’
He covered her hands with his. ‘You mustn’t thank me. But do not concern yourself with me. Take care of yourself.’
His hands were warm and strong and she relished the feel of them against her skin. And instantly felt guilty for even noticing.
She pulled away. ‘Someone should come to show you to your room. At least I hope they do...’ Tinmore’s servants were so loyal to him. But not to her. Never to her.
He looked at her with such an expression of sympathy it almost hurt. ‘I will see you in the morning. You must get some rest.’
The day would not be easy, would it? A magistrate. The coroner. Things she must do but, what? She could not think. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight then.’ She curtsied.
He bowed.
She turned and fled from the room.
Lorene forced herself to make her way to Lord Tinmore’s rooms on the same hallway as her own, but thankfully not too close. She knocked before opening his bedchamber door.
Wicky was seated in a chair next to the bed. The bed curtains blocked a view of the bed. She was glad. She had a sudden horror of seeing the body again.
‘How are you faring, Wicky?’ she asked from the doorway.
He turned his head slowly to face her. ‘I would like to stay here if I may, my lady.’
Her heart went out to the old man. Wicky had loved her husband. Wicky, Dixon and Mr Filkins were especially devoted to Tinmore. Goodness. They’d served him for decades.
‘Of course you may stay,’ she said, backing out of the room and shutting the door.
She walked down the hall to her own bedchamber where her lady’s maid, grim-faced, helped her prepare for bed, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary. Finally the woman left and Lorene burrowed under the bedcovers.
Her heart pounded rapidly as if she’d run a great distance and she realised she’d felt that way since seeing Tinmore at the bottom of the steps. How could she calm herself? She tried to sort through the emotions twisting inside her. Uncertainty about the following day. Would there be trouble with the magistrate or the coroner? Would they question what Dell told them? Would they believe she and Dell had been lovers?
Why had Tinmore thought such a thing? Her infatuation with Dell had always been her private delight. She’d never talked about Dell. She’d always schooled her features when around him. Tinmore could not have guessed. No one could.
Tinmore had never cared a fig when she was thrown into Dell’s company. At social events Tinmore always left her as soon as it was expedient. He’d never shown any interest in whose company she kept while he played cards or conversed with his cronies. He’d shown little interest in Dell, a mere earl, much preferring Dell’s friend, her sister Genna’s husband, the Marquess of Rossdale, a duke’s heir. Or the Duke himself. What had worked its way into Tinmore’s mind for him to make that outrageous accusation?
When Tinmore told her to go to her room, she’d known that would not be the end of it. At least now she didn’t have to listen to him rail at her.
She suddenly felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was free! She would wake in the morning with no one to answer to but herself. No worries about being accused of having a lover, or of saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way. No more pushing down her feelings. No more biting her tongue. She was free to dream again.
If she were ever able to get to sleep.
She tossed and turned in the bed and finally threw off the covers and walked barefoot to her window. She curled up on the window seat and gazed out at the snow-covered park. How bright it looked even at this late hour, so white and clean. It was a new landscape, changed from before the snow.
And now she would have a new life.
She thought over the almost two years she had been married to Tinmore.
He’d done what she wanted most. To provide for her sisters and brother. He’d also given her a home, beautiful clothes, jewels, a comfortable life in so many ways. She’d been grateful to him for that. She never complained about him for that reason. Except maybe that little bit in the carriage when she’d spoken to Dell. That had not been complaining, really. How awful it would be to complain about Tinmore when he’d been the rescue of her family.
After a fashion.
She could say with absolute sincerity that had she not married Tinmore, her sisters and half-brother would not have found their spouses.
What’s more, they’d found love.
Lorene asked very little for herself, only that Tinmore provide her with the means to live in simple comfort after he was gone. She had no idea if he had done so.
Even if not, the jewellery he’d given her would be worth something, she figured. Tomorrow she would make certain she had it safely in her possession. Filkins would help her. Who knew what the servants might do, with their loyalty to Tinmore and resentment of her.
She did not know where she would go or how she would live, but, even so, wretched woman that she was, she would be glad to leave this place.
She left the window seat, found a shawl to wrap over her shoulders and slippers for her feet. Carrying a candle, she made her way to the formal drawing room Tinmore called the Mount Olympus room, because of the murals of Greek gods and goddesses painted by Verrio and commissioned by some earlier Earl of Tinmore.
Placing the candle on the opulent gold gilt pianoforte Tinmore bought for her, she pulled out her favourite music, Mozart’s Quintets in G Minor, and began to play.
Someone had sent her the music after a musicale last Season. She did not know who. Not her husband, though. He’d fallen asleep during music so wonderful, Lorene felt its indelible stamp on her soul.
She played at a slow tempo, appropriately mournful, but the chords she thought of as sword thrusts, piercing what otherwise would have been a typical minuet, perfectly reflected the pangs of anger she felt towards Tinmore for accusing her of infidelity, for involving Dell in his death, for all the times Tinmore had been thoughtless and hurtful.
The music filled the room and it seemed as if the murals of Greek gods and goddesses were watching her and absorbing the music. If her playing could be heard outside the room, she did not care.
She needed the solace only music could bring her.
Chapter Three
Lorene played the pianoforte for at least two hours before returning to her bedchamber. She slept fitfully and awoke before dawn. By then it was no use trying to go back to sleep. She sat on the window seat and waited until it was a decent time to ring for her maid, who was even more grim than usual. Lorene could not tell if it was because the woman was grieving or because she’d been roused earlier than usual.
After Lorene finished dressing and was making her way down the stairs, she heard voices in the hall. Several voices.
If this was the magistrate, surely it was too early an hour for him to call! She rushed to the landing and leaned over the bannister for a view of the hall.
Her sisters had come! Tess and Genna were here with their husbands.
She quickened her step.
Her sister Genna saw her first and ran up the stairs to give her a hug. Tess soon caught up.
‘Oh, Lorene!’ Genna cried.
Tess put her arms around both of them. ‘How do you fare, Lorene? Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Lorene replied, her tears flowing again at the sight of them. ‘But you shouldn’t have come, Tess. Shouldn’t you be resting?’
‘I’m not ill,’ Tess countered. ‘I am merely going to have a baby.’
Tess’s Christmas present to all of them was this happy announcement, but now it seemed long ago that Tess told them this news, even though it had only been the previous day.
The sisters descended the rest of the staircase, arm in arm.
‘Lorene,’ Genna’s husband, the Marquess of Rossdale, strode over to her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘We are at your beck and call. Whatever you need, you must tell us.’
Just for them to be here was more than enough.
Tess’s husband, Marc Glenville, also approached her. ‘Our condolences, Lorene.’
Condolences was not the right word, though.
‘Where is Dell?’ Rossdale asked. He and Dell had been close friends since they were boys.
Lorene shook her head. ‘I do not know.’ She turned to Dixon. ‘Where is the Earl, Dixon?’
‘In the east wing.’ The butler’s words were clipped.
The lesser guest rooms.
‘Send for him, man,’ Rossdale ordered. ‘Tell him we are here.’
‘Where shall you await the Earl?’ Dixon asked haughtily.
Lorene answered him. ‘In the morning room.’ She turned to her sisters. ‘Did you eat?’
‘Eat?’ cried Genna. ‘As if we could eat after hearing what happened.’
Lorene turned back to Dixon. ‘Alert Cook, then, Dixon. We have guests for breakfast.’
Dixon bowed.
‘Tell us what happened,’ Tess said as they walked to the morning room.
‘I did not see,’ Lorene answered. ‘Tinmore fell down the stone steps there where you came in.’
‘On those steps?’ Genna broke in. ‘What was he doing outside?’
‘He was angry.’ Lorene’s head was pounding with the memory. ‘Dell tried to speak to him, but there was no reasoning with him.’
‘I’ll bet he was angry that you came to see us yesterday,’ Genna said. ‘I can just see him in high dudgeon over that. His wife defied him. Imagine that.’
‘He was angry over that,’ Lorene snapped. ‘My defiance possibly killed him, if you must know.’
Genna touched her arm. ‘Forgive me, Lorene. My tongue ran away with me again.’
They entered the morning room, brightly lit with the morning sun. The many windows of the room revealed clear blue skies dotted with puffy white clouds. The bright sun glistened on the snow-covered ground.
Lorene spoke to the footman attending the room. ‘We have more guests for breakfast, Travers. Would you please bring us tea and coffee?’
The footman bowed and left the room. Rossdale and Glenville pulled up additional chairs and helped the ladies to sit.
When they were settled, Rossdale asked, ‘Dell’s coachman told us the magistrate would be sent for. For what reason?’
‘Dixon—the butler who was in the hall—believes Dell pushed Tinmore, but Dell didn’t.’ Dell was too honourable to do such a thing, Lorene was certain.
Rossdale frowned and exchanged a look with Glenville. ‘It is good we came.’
What could they do, though, if the magistrate believed Dixon and not Dell?
‘What’s more, we are not leaving you alone here,’ Genna added.
During Lorene’s marriage, Genna had been with her the longest and knew best what it was like to live at Tinmore Hall, where they were always treated as intruders.
Lorene’s gaze travelled from one to the other and her eyes stung with tears. She’d not realised how alone she felt here. ‘I—I know I must do something, but I do not know what to do.’
Tess leaned over and touched her hand. ‘We will help you figure it out.’
Rossdale spoke. ‘Tinmore’s solicitors must be informed and the will read. And, of course, someone must notify Tinmore’s heir. Do you know who that is?’
Lorene shook her head. ‘Some grand-nephew, I believe. Mr Filkins probably knows.’
‘Mr Filkins?’ Glenville asked.
‘Lord Tinmore’s secretary,’ Genna answered. ‘He sometimes comes for breakfast.’
The footman returned with coffee and tea and enough cups to serve them all. Lorene hoped they knew to guard their tongues around the servants.
‘Where is Dell?’ Rossdale asked. ‘How long should it take to inform him we are here?’
‘You would be surprised,’ Genna responded sarcastically.
Lorene turned to the footman again. ‘Travers, please ask Dixon if he sent for Lord Penford. If not, make certain someone finds Lord Penford and shows him to the morning room.’
The footman bowed and started to leave.
Lorene stopped him. ‘Tell me first if Mr Filkins will breakfast here today.’
‘He has already done so,’ the footman responded and exited the room.
* * *
Dell finally found his way to the hall. He’d been wandering up and down corridors and stairs for a good quarter of an hour before reaching the hall and glimpsing his first servant.
Unfortunate that it was the butler, Dixon, who glared at him with undisguised displeasure.
He’d faced more fearsome men on the battlefield. One grieving butler would not daunt him. He actually felt sorry for the elderly man.
‘Good morning, Dixon,’ he said in a mild voice. ‘Will you direct me to the breakfast room?’
Dixon worked his mouth, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer.
At that same moment a footman reached the hall. ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed as if surprised to find Dell there. The footman spoke to Dixon, though, not to Dell. ‘Lady Tinmore requests Lord Penford’s presence in the morning room.’
Dell didn’t give Dixon a chance to respond. ‘Show me where it is,’ He nodded politely to the butler, though, before following the footman.
When he entered the room, it was his turn to be surprised. Her sisters and their husbands had come from Summerfield House as he’d known they would. He’d merely not expected them so early.
‘Dell!’ Ross rose from his chair and crossed the room to shake his hand. ‘How are you faring?’
Dell shrugged. ‘Well enough.’ He directed his gaze to Lorene. ‘The room was comfortable. I thank you.’
She looked pale, but lovely in a plain black dress. The lack of colour did not favour her. ‘I fear the housekeeper chose one in the far recesses of the house. I apologise for that.’
He managed a half-smile. ‘It only took me a quarter of an hour to find my way to the hall. No harm done.’
‘I had your valet pack a clean shirt and neckcloth. And your razor.’ Ross gestured to his face.
Dell rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Forgive my appearance, ladies. I will retire and make myself more presentable.’ He turned to Ross. ‘Where are my things?’
‘We left them with the butler,’ Glenville said. ‘Did you not see him in the hall?’
‘I did, but he was not inclined to be helpful.’
‘I am so sorry!’ Lorene exclaimed. ‘Dixon is behaving very badly.’
‘He blames me.’ Dell turned back to the door. ‘I’ll be back directly.’
Lorene rose from her chair and hurried across the room to him. ‘Please stay, Dell. Your appearance is of no consequence. Have something to eat.’
Two other servants were placing dishes of food on the side board.
He shook his head. ‘I’d best clean myself up. We do not know when the magistrate will arrive and I would prefer to look presentable.’
He returned to the hall and confronted Dixon. ‘Where is the change of clothing the Marquess brought me?’ His tone was no longer mild.
Dixon disappeared behind a door for a moment and emerged with a valise, handing it to Dell without a word.
Dell found his way back to the room where he’d slept. Thank goodness the maids who made up the room had provided soap and towels. He shed his coat, waistcoat and shirt, and lathered his face. Shaving was a task his valet usually performed, but he’d had plenty of practice on the Peninsula during the war where he’d preferred to dress and groom himself.
After shaving, he changed his shirt and tied his own neckcloth. When he donned his waistcoat and coat, he felt he at least looked the part of a gentleman. Nothing with which a magistrate could find offence.
* * *
Dell had been correct about the magistrate’s arrival. He had barely finished breakfast when it was announced that the magistrate had arrived and wished to see both Lorene and him.
‘Do you wish us to come with you?’ Ross asked, ever the steadfast friend.
‘I think it best I see the magistrate alone.’
Ross’s brows rose. ‘And not show him what support you possess?’
‘I have done nothing deserving reproach.’ Except perhaps thinking he could dissuade Tinmore of his erroneous beliefs. ‘I refuse to give the appearance of needing the support of the future Duke of Kessington.’
Ross turned to Lorene. ‘And you, ma’am. Do you wish one or all of us to come with you?’
‘I want to be with you,’ Genna piped up.
Lorene darted a glance towards Dell. ‘I will see him alone, as well. We will join you afterwards.’
Genna looked about to protest, but her husband put a calming hand on her arm. ‘I will see the man before he leaves, Dell.’
Dell knew better than to resist when Ross used such a tone. ‘As you wish.’
With luck it would all be settled before then.
After Dell and Lorene left the morning room, he said, ‘I would offer my arm, but I fear the politeness would be misconstrued if seen by one of the servants.’
She nodded.
It was his first opportunity to see her alone. ‘How do you fare, Lorene?’
‘I am well.’ She averted her gaze. ‘I do not know if I am well. I suppose I am numb. I really feel very little of anything.’
That was better than suffering, he knew.
‘I am dreading this interview, though,’ she murmured.
Of course she was. Telling of it would bring it all back.
‘Speak with complete candour,’ he said. ‘That is the only way.’
Dixon attended the door. He gave them a smug look that set Dell’s teeth on edge, but acted the proper butler, opening the door and stepping ahead to announce them.
The room Dixon had chosen was not the opulent drawing room with murals of gods and goddesses where he and Ross had once been received in this house. This was another lesser drawing room tucked away in one of the corridors on the first floor. Once they entered the room, Dell knew exactly why the butler had chosen this place. Every available space on the wainscoting walls was filled with family portraits, reminding those entering that generations of Tinmores would be watching.
Lorene’s step faltered.
Two men were present in the room. One, a pleasant-looking, somewhat corpulent man in his fifties, sat behind a desk, paper, pen and ink in front of him. The other man, taller, thinner with dark assessing eyes, stood at his side.
‘Lady Tinmore and Lord Penford,’ Dixon announced in a voice tinged with disdain.
The gentleman behind the desk stood and walked around to greet them. ‘Come in. Come in.’ He spoke as if inviting them for tea.
Lorene walked up to him. ‘Squire Hedges. Do you remember me? I was Miss Lorene Summerfield, now Lady Tinmore. You were frequently a guest in my father’s house.’
‘Ah, yes, indeed I remember you,’ he replied with an engaging smile. ‘But you were in a pinafore last I saw you. Your father and I were indeed fast friends...for many years until he...but never mind that. I was sorry to lose him.’ The Squire seemed to collect himself and his expression sobered. ‘May I express my condolences? For the loss of your husband, I mean. Not your father.’