House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HOUSE OF CADS

  First edition. April 26, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Elizabeth Kingston.

  Cover design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  For Caitie

  You deserve laughter and adventure and,

  above all,

  to be loved as well as you deserve.

  Chapter One

  Marie-Anne de Vauteuil was in the midst of navigating a mud-puddle that stretched inconveniently across her path when she admitted to herself that she had just been jilted for the first time in her life. So galling was this reality that her fingers lost their grip on her skirt. This caused her hem to skim the surface of the dirty water and, immediately snatching it up out of harm’s way, she discovered to her astonishment that she could not remember a single appropriate curse word. She would dearly like to use one, preferably a very grand one that would encompass the jilting, the muddy hem, and the fact that she did not have enough bread in her cupboard to suit her dismal mood. Sadly, all the curses seemed to have been wiped from her memory and replaced with the names of men she herself had politely abandoned over the years.

  “Oh, vex,” she said testily, deciding on the spot, as she often did, that this English word served her purpose well enough. She had learned that, stated with sufficient feeling, most words could easily become epithets. And that one had a pleasing v at its beginning, and an x at its end that was quite satisfactory to land on.

  She grasped a sturdy branch of the yew tree that hung in an advantageous spot, and hauled herself up and over the puddle. It did not spare her boots entirely, but at least the leather wasn’t soaked through. Heaven knew she would prefer to avoid a trip the shoemaker for a while, as he was the one who had jilted her.

  But really, she thought with a scowl as she walked toward the village, was jilted the right word? It seemed to be used most often in the context of a betrothal, not an illicit liaison such as she and Jeremy had shared. She did not know another word for it, though. Declined, perhaps –like a delicacy that no longer appealed to the palate, because one had already had one’s fill of it. Yes, that was a perfect word, whether it was used this way among the English or not.

  Certainly she herself had declined the continued affections of many men in her day. Perhaps this was her reward for those casual dismissals of her youth. For instance there had been Martin, the lover she had politely declined after Napoleon abdicated and just before she left France for England – an excellent moment to end things, she had thought. Poor Martin had not agreed.

  “Before that was Gurvan,” she confided to John Turner’s goat, who stuck his nose out from the gate to greet her as she passed. Marie-Anne pulled up some leaves from a withered cowslip and offered them to the grateful animal. “Gurvan could not believe when I declined to live in Nantes with him and raise goats. I hope you will not take offense, mon ami, it was not the goats but the man I did not want. And of course before that, there was Maurice, Antoine, Flavio… But they were very agreeable when I declined to continue with them.” The goat looked at her without blinking. “Do not judge, monsieur goat, they were just barely more than flirtations. And all of them were forgotten when I met my Richard.”

  She said goodbye to the goat and moved along the lane, hoping it would stay empty until she reached the bakery so that she would not be forced into genial conversation. She much preferred to be left alone to think of her Richard, who was the only man she had never considered declining in any sense, at any time.

  Her Richard would never have jilted her. He would never have even considered parting from her, had a fever not forced him into an early grave. How very unjust, that he was taken from her too soon. And how selfish of her to think it a further injustice that because of it, she had been reduced to seek the affections of an inferior man. A man who made shoes and who now preferred the arms of another woman. The arms, she must acknowledge, of a woman he would wed.

  She told herself it was perfectly acceptable that Jeremy preferred a wife to a lover. Not that he had used those words. He was terribly kind about it. He was so sheepishly happy that she had congratulated him and meant it most sincerely. And it was very sweet, how he had made it obvious he was grateful to her and would miss their little trysts, and would always think of her warmly.

  Oh the swine, to deprive her of even the pleasure of calling him a scoundrel.

  “Bread, Monsieur Higgins!” she called, allowing herself to be as French as she could manage while still being understood by the baker. Higgins was charmed by her Frenchness, and she used it ruthlessly to her advantage. He had closed up the bakeshop, but she applied her fist to the door anyway, knowing he was still within. “Je t’en prie, mon ami, you cannot imagine my need. It is enormous.”

  “Miss Marie-Anne,” came his faintly exasperated voice from behind the door, “You were in this morning and had my best loaf. How can you need more already?”

  “That was a loaf to fill my belly, monsieur, and now I have need of a loaf to bandage a wound to my soul.”

  She said it in the most dramatic, throbbing tones available to her. All bakers were, in her view, poets who expressed themselves in flour and fat: yearnings rendered in yeasty interiors, insights offered in golden brown crust. Mr. Higgins was no different, and that was why she knew that upon hearing her declaration, he now paused in sweeping the crumbs from his floor. He only hesitated because he was irritable from rising even earlier than usual, to meet the increased demands of the villagers during this festival week. The sounds of his muttering reached her barely, which she was certain he intended. Who grumbled so loudly if not to be heard?

  “Please, Mr. Higgins,” she said softly through the door. She was alarmed to discover a lump in her throat. “I will much prefer your bread to sop my tears than a flavorless handkerchief.”

  The door opened on the squat little man. He held the broom in his hand, and his full-faced frown did not conceal the soft concern in his eyes. How eloquent he was, this silent poet.

  “There’s naught but three buns left, and them gone half-stale,” he grunted.

  Gratitude and affection must have made her smile quite dazzling, for he seemed to soften for a moment before scowling even more ferociously. He thrust the broom into her hands and turned to take the bread from a basket on the counter. When he took the buns to the oven, she protested faintly. “No, no, my friend, you do not need to heat them for me.”

  “Oven’s still warm,” he muttered.

  “But that means you baked a second batch later in the morning. How busy you have been! You must be very fatigued, Monsieur Higgins, you must not trouble yourself.”

  Another grunt was his only answer, a clear opinion on the notion of handing her cold, hard bread. This was his way with her, for all the six years she had lived in Bartle. He was gruff and frowning and never said a sweet word to her or anyone, as far as she could tell. But
he always kept the fattest loaf aside for her, and never turned her away if she came late to his door, and frowned reproachfully at her if she skipped her regular visits to his shop. This past winter he had even sent the blacksmith’s boy to her house with a basket of bread and a jar of delicious hot soup when she was so ill, and would not let her pay him for it.

  For all these things, Marie-Anne called him friend. But there was a limit to this friendship. Many limits, in fact.

  She pulled off her muddy boots and stepped inside. She was careful to leave the door open, so that no one could accuse them of impropriety. There was no escaping her reputation. Even if the villagers did generally like and approve of her, she still carried a whiff of the scandalous. It left no room for error and rather hampered friendship with entirely respectable people.

  While he added the bread to the oven, she applied the broom to his floor and imagined what the conversation might be, without the limitations placed upon them. I am so very lonely, she might confess to the baker if she were allowed such intimacy, and so unbearably bored. She supposed that even in a better world, she probably would not tell him of Jeremy and the jilting. Jilting Jeremy! What a perfect sobriquet. That is what she and Helen would have named him immediately, if Helen were still here to laugh with.

  Mr. Higgins crossed the floor and took the broom from her with an irritated clucking of his tongue. Like so many of the villagers, he considered her too fine a lady for such work. He recommenced the sweeping and looked down at the floor as he asked, “What word from Maggie, then?”

  Marie-Anne sighed a little. No Helen and no Maggie. No wonder she was so sad to lose her perfectly adequate shoemaker lover.

  “I have had no letter from her since last I told you. But it was happy news that she sent, you remember. She will marry her Irish lad.”

  “Happy news,” Mr. Higgins nodded. “What’s his name, then?”

  “Niall,” she said and heard the mournful note in her own voice, which made her nearly stamp her foot in irritation at herself. It was happy news, and she had grown so pitiful that her feelings were not joy for her friend but sadness that it meant Maggie would never return to England now.

  “And the little girl who was her cousin, the one who went to America, what word from her?”

  “I have not heard from Katie since Christmas time.” Oh how childish, that wistful note in her voice.

  “No word of her through Miss Helen?” he asked. “Lady Summerdale, I mean to say.”

  Now she did stamp her foot a little, only to gasp a faint ow when she felt the rough boards beneath her stocking feet. She’d forgotten she had removed her boots. Higgins heard it and looked over his shoulder at her. She lowered her brows at him, annoyed that he did not politely ignore her ridiculousness.

  “You are intent on reminding me of all my friends who are not here to comfort me.” She crossed her arms with a delicate huff of indignation. “It makes me quite unhappy to think of it. They have all moved on and moved out and changed entirely. It’s only me who remains here. And I am the same as ever.”

  It was as close as she could come to saying she was bored silly by her life here without her friends to entertain her. She held the tasseled ends of her shawl tight between her fingers and gradually came to realize that her face was arranged in a pout. She hoped it did not seem a coquettish expression to Higgins. She certainly didn’t intend it as such. Try as she might, she could not wipe it from her face. She wanted to pout. She might even like to stamp her foot again. Perhaps she would throw herself on the floor and howl and hope that some kindly passerby would bring her a sweet to soothe her.

  All the while, Higgins just looked at her. Finally he said, “Bread.”

  He went to retrieve the buns from the oven, and put them in a little sack. She sighed, and stepped to the door to put her boots on again. They were very nice, these boots. Jeremy had made them so they could be laced quickly and easily. He’d insisted to her that sometimes, no matter how much she might disagree, practicality was preferable to being fashionable. She must admit that in this particular matter he’d been correct. It took only a moment to get them on and when she rose, Mr. Higgins held out the bread to her. They stood for a little moment on the threshold with her hand on the sack. She did not want to say goodbye.

  “What is the word when a lover leaves you, Mr. Higgins?” she asked, very softly. “I can only think of jilting, but that is used for a serious beau, when there are clear intentions, is it not?”

  He didn’t answer her, so she sighed a little again and held the warmed bread against her chest. It was a very unseemly thing to have asked, she knew, but she was not known for her adherence to convention. Nevertheless, she should not torment Higgins with impudent questions, even if they were sincere. She blinked, composed her expression, and lifted her chin to look at him with a polite and inquiring smile.

  “Or perhaps there is a word for the person who does the leaving?” she asked.

  He jerked his head, a firm nod. “A rare oaf is what I’d call him, Miss Marie-Anne.”

  Oh. Oh, the dear man. In the midst of her brilliant smile, he turned away and closed the door. The sun was beginning to set now, and he must get to his bed so he could bake a pile of loaves tomorrow before it rose again. She had no doubt that all the while, the scowl would remain on his dear, grumpy face.

  “Merci, Monsieur Higgins, my friend,” she said to the door between them, before taking a warm bun from the bag and stuffing it unceremoniously into her face.

  Bread was for lonely and despairing times, and pastries or cakes were for happy times. This was Marie-Anne’s philosophy, and she was fully aware that she called it a philosophy even though it was only the well-known preference of her mouth and belly. If her friends could see her now, walking through the village street at twilight with a mouth full of bread, they would ask what had happened. Alas, her friends were not here, and so she took another bite of the bun.

  She was quite fortunate that she had always had mostly happy times in her life, and that until recently she had never had the means to indulge herself in as many cakes as she had felt herself entitled to. “Of course,” she said to the second bun as she pulled it out of the bag and opened her front door, “if I do not cheer up soon, I shall grow bigger than Mr. Worster’s sow.” Her financial situation had improved lately, and her nearest friend was the village baker. A bout of melancholy could too easily spell disaster for her figure.

  The thought that immediately followed – that she may as well let her figure go since she was likely never to have a lover again – was so uncharacteristically dismal that it had the same effect as a friendly slap across the face. Really. A little self-respect, Marie-Anne, she told herself. Even immediately after Richard had died, even after she had miscarried their child, she had never fallen into sadness for too long. It had been horrid, never a worse time in her life – but though she had wallowed in her grief for some months she had not lingered overlong in that dejected state. It was simply not in her nature. “Endeavour to live a life where you laugh at least twice as hard as you cry,” Aurélie had said to her once when she was very young, and Marie-Anne had taken it to heart.

  Standing over the table in her kitchen, she shook the last bun out of the bag. With it came a ball of fabric, a torn bit of an old, thin towel wrapped around something. She unfurled it to find a little cake, iced and smelling deliciously of lemon. Oh the dear man. It made her a bit teary even as it made her smile.

  In her philosophy, as Higgins well knew, sweets were for happy times but also for the absolute worst of the worst times. If she reached for a sweet in her sadness, then things were truly dire. Oh, she must have looked horribly sad for him to have given her a cake, for him to think she should have a sweet in reserve. It was terribly tempting, sitting there on her table. She was sure it had bits of candied lemon peel in it, though she had learned not to hope he’d be so adventurous as to include a layer of cream or liqueur. He was a simple man, for all that he had the heart of a romantic.
It seemed to her to be meant as both comfort and hope at once: comfort in case she grew despondent in the night, but also hope that she would return to a happier state before the cake grew stale.

  Well. She sniffed and banished the tears – she would take it as hope. How very maudlin she had become. And over Jeremy! He was merely a dear friend, not some grand love. Once her grief for her darling Richard had faded to a tolerable level, she had made a point of finding a lover, and found Jeremy. It had been for purely practical reasons. One could not neglect the necessary bodily functions, including the more erotic ones. It simply was not healthy, like failing to bathe or clean one’s teeth. So – to lose a utilitarian lover was no great tragedy, it was merely an inconvenience. Eventually she would find another. No need to give up.

  In the meantime, she must really try to cheer herself or that cake would go to waste. She suddenly remembered the letter that had come this afternoon just as she was leaving to meet Jeremy. She hadn’t even stopped to see who it was from, assuming that since it had come from London it must be Helen. A letter from her friend would be the perfect antidote to this absurd mood.

  But to her amazement, it was not from her friend. It was from Hyacinth Shipley – Lady Shipley, as she was ever quick to remind anyone who forgot it – the woman who had come within days of being her mother-in-law. It was without a doubt the most cordial communication she’d ever received from her.

  With the season in high swing, Lady Shipley wondered if Marie-Anne would have occasion to find herself in London at all and, if so, Lady Shipley hoped most earnestly that she would come to call on them. Indeed, she wrote, they would love nothing more than that Marie-Anne would see fit to stay with them for the duration of the season, and there was a room waiting for her should she be so kind as to take full advantage of their hospitality.

  “Mon dieu,” breathed Marie-Anne as she read, and nearly crossed herself. Had the poor woman had some sort of apoplexy? Perhaps one that had caused her to lose her memory, if not her entire dreadful personality? She had not thought Lady Shipley was terribly old, but it was possible that the many and varied beauty treatments she employed had actually worked to disguise her true age. It could be that the woman was positively elderly and had begun to lose her mind. That would explain it.