Wrapped in Red (Colors of Scandal, #4) Page 2

  “Of course.” A confident grin snaked across the short man’s countenance. “I’m having the lads muck out the unused stalls this week. Not much cause to use them until the earl turns his attention to his estate. Not like your father’s time at all.”

  “I know.” Really, her cousin needed to attend the title better. She gave the stable master a rueful grin as she checked off the items on her mental list. “Do you think you might procure a few sleds? Oh, and look the sleigh over? Lord knows we haven’t used it in an age.”

  “Do you believe we’ll have deep snow this year?” Doubt colored his expression.

  “I’m hoping. Snow and matchmaking go hand in hand.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” But his doubt didn’t clear. “I’ll report back when the tasks are finished, my lady.” He left her then, loping over the acreage until she couldn’t see him any longer.

  Amelia continued on her walk. She welcomed the bite of the breeze; it left her invigorated. Though she was a widow—twice over—and had lost her most recent husband three and a half years ago at Waterloo, she was very much alone.

  Only in these quiet moments did she let herself acknowledge it.

  Her first husband had perished during the war in 1804, barely a year after he’d married her. Compounding that, her brother and only sibling had died in Spain in 1805, but she hadn’t been told until Christmastide of that same year. Then her parents had both succumbed in a carriage accident eight years later. That horror had taken her brother’s young wife too.

  After all this time, her stomach heaved from the trauma. God, but she’d grown weary of death and all it entailed. Aside from her cousin, there was no one left of her line, except her niece, her brother’s only child. Death had become a terrible cloud over her life, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, would eventually leave her.

  Yet, there was much living to do. It was what one did when one was left behind, but if she never wore mourning colors again it would be too soon.

  As she walked, she thought over the butler’s words. Silly man. Perhaps he harbored a hidden romantic streak. Could she marry again? Offer her heart up for breaking? Possibly go through the dreaded mourning period again? I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

  No, marriage wasn’t in her future. She couldn’t do it. Loving someone took too heavy a toll on her. For the remainder of her life, she would remain a widow. There were worse things. Now, she would live vicariously through Rebecca, see the girl well-matched, and then possibly do the same for her cousin.

  After that, she could leave the property in peace.

  The wind clawed at her cloak as she walked. On the east side of the property, a large pond rested. Not yet frozen, the ice would offer skating and other delights. The hill that sat in front of it meant sledding. In her head, laughter and the calls of jesting children and guests rang. The last time Trenton Park had seen a grand Christmas house party was the year she was told of her brother’s death.

  That was the same year she’d given her heart—and her body—away with glorious abandon to Charles’ best friend, Lieutenant Colonel Cornelius Edgerton, now the Marquess of Winchester. Oh, how she’d hated him that year. He, with his strong, broad body, the look of pain and guilt in his face when he’d revealed the horrid news, his comforting arms when she’d fallen to pieces... the warmth of his body when they’d given into the anger and unfairness of war and took refuge in each other as a rather unorthodox way of grieving.

  Heat sank into Amelia’s cheeks. That affair had been frantic, ill-advised, and short-lived, for he’d been a celebrated spy and off on his next adventure before she’d had time to sort out her jumbled feelings for him. But she wasn’t given the chance, for he’d snuck from her bed in the dead of night. She’d pleaded with him to stay. He’d refused with nary an excuse, and she never saw him again.

  Grief tightened her chest so hard that she stopped and gasped for breath. Her life had changed in every way after that affair and left her making choices she might not have made if she hadn’t been put into an impossible position any woman would dread.

  Even though some of those choices had led her to marrying her second husband—who she had learned to love dearly after a time—the heartache that came with that marriage never quite went away.

  Perhaps it never would, for with that loss the last remaining part of Cornelius had been wrenched from her, as well certain hopes for her future.

  I survived though. She wrapped her arms around her middle and continued her walk. And that was why she would never again engage her heart; there was nothing left of that organ. Not anymore. It’s better this way.

  With a shake of her head, Amelia pushed those thoughts once more to the back of her mind where they needed to stay. Mourning the past was a waste of time. There was life to live and she meant to enjoy it.

  Before she fell to pieces.

  Chapter Two

  December 8, 1818

  Cornelius Matthew Edgerton, Marquess of Winchester, reclined in the study of his London townhouse, his booted feet propped on a cushioned stool, a snifter of brandy in one hand and a letter in his other. His close friend, Charles Irvine, Earl of Trenton, sat across from him. A cheerful fire danced merrily in the hearth at his back.

  At any other time, it would have been a cozy, wintertime scene.

  Tonight wasn’t one of those times.

  “What the devil do you make of this?” He hadn’t heard or seen the name Lady Amelia Coventry for years, so it was rather odd to have a letter from her without anything to prompt it. Also, it seemed her last marriage was to a regular fellow without a title, so she’d added his surname to hers. She was now known as Lady Amelia Coventry-Smythe. Smart, and easier to follow the Trenton’s bloodlines.

  Charles shrugged. He and Cornelius had been fast friends for years, and along with Lady Amelia’s brother, they’d all had plans to ride through the ton on family money while following the whims of their own destinies as they sowed wild oats. Unfortunately, fate had different plans for all three of them. “I don’t find it odd, per say. My cousin has wanted to throw a grand Christmastide house party and ball for some time now, and this year she has. Why does this matter perplex you?”

  “Does she not do this every year?”

  “No. The last time was years back. I think it was the same year you came home to England and told her that Peter had died.” Nothing in Charles’ tone indicated either event had been life altering. “She had been expecting him on leave around them.”

  Of course, she had. She’d doted on her older brother.

  “Damn, it seems so long ago,” he said in a soft voice. Cornelius shook his head. “I haven’t seen Amelia since that time. What’s it been, thirteen years?” He stared into the honey-hued depths of his glass. Which was odd, for he didn’t often imbibe in spirits, and only while in Charles’ company. “That Christmas was hardly worth celebrating.” Not that they’d done much of it. Their interaction had been a more... personal endeavor, and he’d left the house party early besides.

  “This is true.” Charles shot him a look. A trace of sadness lingered in his hazel eyes. “I miss Peter. His damned fault I’m in it up to my neck with duties.”

  “You’ve had ample time to come to grips with the title, yet you’ve done nothing for it.” Cornelius showed his friend no mercy. Why should he when there had been none given for his own situation? “In any event, it makes no sense that your cousin should write to me with an invitation. I should think she wouldn’t want to see my face and remember the last time...”

  Or perhaps she did. The idea that she might wish him summoned to the country estate for another purpose besides a Christmastide party sent awareness rushing over his skin.

  Stuff it, Winchester. After all these years, the woman has moved on. You should too.

  “Who knows what goes on in the minds of women?” Charles sipped his brandy. “Never say you haven’t kept abreast of the news in her life.”

  “Every once in a while, but
in my defense, I have been busy with missions for the Crown and then my own mess of a life.”

  Charles snorted. “Men who once confessed to harboring a possible tendre for the lady shouldn’t invent excuses.”

  “Would that any of it had been an excuse.” He fought off the heat climbing into his face. At one time, had he and Lady Amelia been different people and met under different circumstances, perhaps he would have tried for something more between them. As it was, everything had been... complicated. “Suffice it to say, life changes us all. Some for the better, some for the worse. I have moved beyond such silly fancies.”

  “You’ve turned to philosophy in your old age?” A trace of bitterness lingered in Charles’ voice, but he stared at the darkened windows. Perhaps he had fallen into personal reflection too.

  “There’s really no avoiding it.” Hell, long before he’d last seen Lady Amelia, his first wife had died from complications of a fever. She’d been a delicate thing and he’d been left with a six-year-old son. But his life was that of a military man. He couldn’t remain home no matter the situation. “Fate careens into the best of us. It twists us and changes us, sometimes into gruesome shadows of ourselves.”

  That year, he’d had to return to England to tell Lady Amelia her only brother had died in Spain, within a week of his older brother in the same theater of war, leaving Cornelius with the damned title of marquess. No one had come away unscarred; war took its pound of flesh from everyone. “No doubt Amelia blames me for Peter’s death.”

  Lives were shattered and forever changed, and often, he’d felt as if he’d been caught in the middle of a wave he couldn’t break free from.

  “If she does, she hasn’t said.” Charles shifted in his seat. The small action recalled Cornelius from his musings. “Fate is rather a bitch,” he murmured, but at least there was a grin on his face.

  “Indeed.” Cornelius sipped his brandy and welcomed the familiar burn of it in his throat. “Your cousin married again, hasn’t she? Thus, the reason for the altered surname?”

  “She did, but the man died at Waterloo, as you well know. No doubt you’ve foraged through records in the Home Office.”

  “Perhaps.” He didn’t confirm the information. “Being out of pocket for long years and finding ways to survive our enemies took the whole of my attention.” He shot a glance at his friend. “If she is once more a widow, why is she acting as lady in charge of Trenton Park? I assumed she had her husband’s pension and at least a home where they’d lived in the corresponding years of her marriage.”

  Unless, of course, he’d left her destitute, but even if Mr. Smythe had, she was an earl’s daughter. The Trenton townhouse in London would have been made available for her, regardless that Charles resided there now.

  The innocent line of inquiry apparently stuck in his friend’s craw. “God, are you truly that thick?”

  “What?”

  “Amelia hopes to lure me back to the country so I can properly tend to the title.”

  “Does she live there permanently?”

  A negligent shrug lifted Charles’ shoulders. “More or less. It’s where she went to ground following Peter’s death. Then, after the abrupt announcement of her marriage to Smythe, she briefly went to London on a honeymoon of sorts.” He waved a hand as if dismissing the whole collection of years. “Smythe returned to the war, of course, as a good man does. Amelia came back to Trenton Park with a power of attorney signed by me so that she could take over matters in my stead.”

  “Aren’t those usually for a man either dying or going to war who might meet with death? You are none of those things.”

  “Does it matter the reason I did it? I don’t want the responsibility. She does and is good at it.” A sigh escaped him, and he ran his free hand over his face. “Though she’s nagged me often enough of late about the damned title, and granted, I have been rather lax. No doubt she’s done.” He looked at Cornelius. “I never wanted that life, and it still grates, but I don’t mind telling you it opens more doors for me. None of which exist in the damned country.”

  “Neither did I, but this is what we are, and we’d best start acting the part.”

  “Ha! Don’t try and throw in your lot with my tarnished brass.” Charles rolled his eyes. “You’ve been home for a few years and have even attended the House of Lords. I have deliberately ignored everything except spending the coin.”

  “Each man falls to responsibility sooner or later, whether by need or necessity or guilt.” Cornelius drained his brandy. “I have mixed feeling about Christmastide. I had hoped to see it go quietly.”

  “Who doesn’t? The older a man grows, the more that presses in upon him. The season of miracles is made upon the full coffers and backs of men like us.”

  “Perhaps partially, but not fully.” He stared at the two amber drops of the remaining liquid clinging to the side of his glass. “I should repair to Winchester Hall. Lord knows I haven’t been there in years. All of my attention has been spent in London while my estate foreman attends to the Hall.” His country seat in Leicestershire near Loughborough seemed a million miles away from London.

  And didn’t appeal.

  “But you won’t because what is there for you but an empty, drafty manor house?”

  Cornelius snorted. “It’s more like a medieval castle, but I understand.” The place needed a few spot repairs here and there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d inspected the vast holdings or even those of his subsidiary title of viscount his son current held.

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’m a deuced failure, really, and feel as though I’m floundering without direction.”

  “Cheers to that.” Charles lifted his glass in a salute then sipped his drink with a knowing grin turned grimace. “Yet London is dull at Christmastide. All the best people have fled to the country. Neither are good choices. Why isn’t there another?”

  “I welcome dull.” For too many years, he’d been away from England, giving his all for King and Crown in service as a spy. Those years had taken a toll on his mind, his physical health, and finally his domestic life.

  When he’d come back to London at Christmastide in 1814, he’d had to tend to wounds received on his last mission, as well as spend time with his second wife, whom he’d neglected due to military obligations. She’d died a year later from a wasting disease, which brought home how much he detested the holiday.

  A man was never more alone than at Christmas. And a man alone with only his memories for company began to think over his life and find fault with every damned step along the way.

  “Dithering doesn’t look good on you, old chap,” Charles complained with a roll of his eyes. “Neither does thinking.”

  “I can’t help it. There is much to fill my head right now.” Too many memories attached to this time of year.

  “Then don’t accept Amelia’s invitation if you’ll spend all your time moping.” He left his chair, went to the sideboard, and refilled his glass. The delicate tinkle of crystal against crystal echoed in the silence. When he held up the bottle, Cornelius shook his head.

  “You know I can’t handle liquor.”

  “I do, more’s the pity.” He set down the bottle. “However, if I must go and smile through her attempts to bring me to my senses, I’d rather you suffer too. For Peter’s sake. He’d have a great laugh about it, tell us we both deserved it. Of course, if Peter were here, I wouldn’t need the lecture...”

  “You really know where to hit a man, don’t you?” Poor Peter. He didn’t deserve what happened to him; none of the boys who’d died did. Most of the soldiers fighting in the long-suffering war did so even though they didn’t believe in the ideals that had started it. After all, who in their right mind would want war? It didn’t matter how many years had passed since his friend’s death, it felt like a punch to the gut. Beyond that, guilt welled into his chest in an overwhelming tide. “It was my fault he was there in the first place.”

  “Not directly. You didn’t
order him into Spain. You weren’t his commanding officer.” Charles eyed him askance. “Neither were you there, shoving him out onto the battlefield.”

  “No, I wasn’t, but I gave him the coin for his commission. His father refused, and rightly so. Peter was the only son and heir apparent.” The wad of guilt widened, tightened, almost made him sick. “I should have respected that, yet Peter wanted nothing more in his life than to fight for his country, make something of himself, have a career before being trained for the earl. I thought that meant more than following his father’s wishes.”

  “You did the right thing. I remember his dreams.” Charles grinned. “Wanted to come into the title on his own merit.”

  “He had so many plans for the future—innovative plans.” The guilt Cornelius had never managed to overcome grew as the knot in his belly tightened. “Regarding his commission, you need to keep that knowledge to yourself. If Amelia finds out—”

  “—she’ll string you up by your ballocks,” Charles finished for him with an ever-widening grin. “And then proceed to poke your sorry arse with a hay fork.”

  “Among other things,” he responded without enthusiasm. “She’ll rage, of course, and I’d rather not call her attention to myself if it’ll only keep me in her bad graces.” Above all, he wished to spare her from further hurt. He’d done enough of that already. Hadn’t he seen that emotion flash in her eyes when he left her that last night they’d been together?

  Not that I’d had a choice in the matter.

  Which brought him back to the puzzle of the invitation clasped in his hand. He glanced at it through the lenses of his reading spectacles, followed the swoops and swirls of the delicate handwriting, focused on her signature, and then sighed. After what had happened, why the devil would she want him at another house party at Christmastide as a reminder that he’d caused her such grief all those years ago?

  Charles didn’t know about that clandestine relationship, at least not from Cornelius, and he rather doubted Amelia would have betrayed the secret, for it wouldn’t have reflected well on her. Beyond that, if she had revealed the affair to her cousin, Charles would have come after him in a fit of familial protection. Plus, he and Charles had remained best friends after Peter’s death. If the man knew about Cornelius’ old affair with Amelia, he would have inquired.