The Perfect Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

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      God save him, she needed to learn that respectable women did not wave men over. He shook his head, signaling that he wasn’t quite ready to entertain the idea of calling on her. He needed more time.

      Her smile faded. She shrugged, cast her eyes downward and occupied herself once again with her needlework.

      As his carriage rounded the corner and headed out of the square, Tristan edged back against the seat and sighed. Sometimes he really wished he was capable of being more spontaneous. Sometimes.

       On the outskirts of London

      TRISTAN JOGGED UP the set of stairs leading to his grandmother’s vast terrace home, reached out and twisted the iron bell on the side of the entrance. Moments passed, and with them the occasional clattering of coach wheels and clumping of horses’ hooves from the cobblestone street behind. He waited and waited, yet for some reason, no one answered.

      Leaning back, he eyed the vast windows, noting all of the curtains were open. His gut tightened as he twisted the iron bell again, praying that nothing was amiss. Eventually, eight solid clicks vibrated the large door and at long last, it swung open.

      “Oh, thank the heavens!” Miss Henderson bustled out, grabbed him by the crook of his arm and yanked him inside.

      Tristan stumbled to a halt, his top hat tipping forward as the chambermaid released him. Stunned, he blinked past the lowered brim of his hat at the hall decorated with potted ferns. “Miss Henderson.” He pushed his top hat back into place. “Was that necessary? I could have easily walked in.”

      “Beggin’ your pardon, milord.” She scurried around him to shut the door. “Seein’ how you always insist on knowin’ the particulars, here it be plain—Lady Moreland’s been in a foul mood all week. More foul than I’ve ever been privy to, to be sure. And with you bein’ late, it appears to have agitated her into a state of panic.”

      “I see.” Tristan eyed the silver tray laden with food that sat unattended on the bottom landing of the sweeping staircase. He pivoted toward Miss Henderson. “Is there a reason you’ve been tasked to answer doors? Assure me Lady Moreland hasn’t dismissed yet another butler.”

      She sighed. “That she did. Turned the poor man out not even two days ago when he complimented her on her appearance. She doesn’t give a rottin’ fig for men, does she?”

      That was an understatement. “No. I am afraid she has endured far too much hardship to warrant that.”

      In her debutante years, his grandmother had been hailed as an extraordinary beauty by all, including her own esteemed cousin, His Royal Majesty. Her beauty had seen her married to an extremely wealthy Marquis, which had pleased her father far more than herself. Sadly for her, the match had resulted in many years of vicious beatings at the hands of a libertine husband who flew into irrational, jealous rages brought on by cruel whispers that she and her cousin, His Majesty, whom she had always intimately associated with, were lovers. Which they were not. As a result, now it was Tristan’s poor grandmother who was irrational.

      Miss Henderson finished bolting each of the eight locks on the main entrance door. “The butler wasn’t the only one to receive the shoe. Up and dismissed four others, she did.” She clasped her hands together and grinned, her round cheeks dimpling. “Always lovely havin’ you call, milord. Makes all the difference. Softens her quite a bit, I think.”

      “Does it?” He never knew his grandmother to be remotely soft. Or pliable, for that matter.

      He blinked, noting Miss Henderson’s white serving cap was tipped atop her blond, pinned hair, and that her embroidered white apron was propped almost entirely on the left side of her hip. It was obvious she was overworked.

      He dug into his pocket and withdrew a ten-pound banknote from a small roll he always carried with him. He held it out for her. “Here. This will assist in keeping that lovely spirit of yours afloat. I appreciate everything you do for her.”

      Her eyes widened as she eyed the banknote. “Truly?”

      He leaned toward her and waved it. “I never offer something I don’t intend to part with, Miss Henderson. ‘Tis a rule of mine.”

      She hesitated, then slipped the banknote from his gloved fingers and bobbed an awkward curtsy, stuffing the bill into her apron pocket. “You are too kind, milord.”

      He gave her a curt nod. “At least someone thinks so. Inform Lady Moreland of my arrival.”

      “That I will.” Miss Henderson adjusted her apron into place. Smoothing it against her gray serving attire, she bobbed another curtsy. “Pardon my frayed appearance, but with the butler and the housekeeper and two others gone, I am well without a wit. Surely you understand.”

      “More than you realize,” he drawled. There was a reason he’d moved into separate quarters at twenty, after only five years under his grandmother’s care. The woman meant well, but she had been territorial, obsessive and overly demanding. Still was.

      Miss Henderson gestured toward the grand parlor off to the side, patted her cap back into place and hurried past. She heaved up the large silver tray from the bottom step, then clumped up the staircase. At the top, she glanced down at him, smiled and disappeared around the corner.

      The ticking of the French hall clock pierced the deafening silence. He turned and eyed the bolted door behind him, which consisted of more iron latches than the Bank of England would ever require.

      God help him, why did he always put himself through this? Guilt, he supposed, and a deep affection he was forever cursed to feel. For despite all of his grandmother’s faults and the fact that she was a recluse of the worst sort, she and she alone had compassionately seen him through the darkest hours of his youth.

      Knowing no designated servant was going to fetch his hat, he stripped it from his head and tossed it toward the entrance door before heading into the parlor. He paused upon reaching the middle of the room and eyed the empty expanse of the gilded cream-and-yellow drawing room. His brows came together as he slowly turned left, then right. Where the devil had all the portraits and furniture gone to?

      He turned, rounding the room. Except for a side table that had been set on the edge of a Persian rug, the rest of the furniture he’d only seen last week had been stripped and removed. The lone lacquered table that remained was stacked high with untouched correspondences. A quill and an ornate silver-and-onyx inkwell sat upon the marble mantel of the vast hearth just across from the table.

      He shook his head. He never knew what to expect when he visited.

      A loud crash from upstairs sent a tremor through the corridors and the walls. He jerked toward the doorway.

      After a prolonged moment of silence, there was a rustling of skirts and the rushing of booted feet down the main stairs. Miss Henderson jerked to a halt in the entry way of the parlor and curtsied, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. “Her Ladyship insists you visit her private chamber, milord.”

      Tristan eyed her. “Are you unwell, Miss Henderson?”

      She pressed her thin lips together but said nothing.

      Poor thing. At least she was getting paid to deal with his grandmother. He most certainly wasn’t. “I will do my best to rein her in.”

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