How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn Scott

from the state of things.

      ‘Mr Bedevere, welcome home.’ Gardener bowed, ‘I am sorry for the circumstances, sir.’

      For a moment, Ashe almost looked behind him to see who else had followed him home—the greeting had been so very formal.

      ‘This way, sir,’ Gardener said. ‘You are expected.’

      Ashe followed Gardener down the hall to the drawing room, making mental notes as they went: bare hall tables, faded rugs and curtains. There was a shabbiness to the house. But most striking was the emptiness. There were no maids polishing the staircase, no footmen awaiting errands. The usual bustle of the hall was silent. There was Gardener and the stable boy. Presumably there were more, including a cook, hopefully, but Ashe didn’t want to presume too much. It didn’t look promising.

      Ashe paused outside the drawing-room door and took a deep breath. Beyond those doors lay a responsibility he’d eschewed for years. He had his reasons. It was a mean act of fate that all his efforts to avoid it had come to naught. The Bedevere legacy, the one thing he’d tried so hard to escape, had landed quite squarely in his lap anyway. Perhaps it was true that all roads lead home in the end.

      ‘Are you ready, sir?’ Gardener enquired. With years of impeccable service behind him, Gardener knew how to read his betters and had given him a few seconds to prepare himself.

      ‘Yes, I’m ready.’ Or not. Ashe squared his shoulders.

      ‘Yes, sir, I believe you are. Ready at last.’ Gardener’s eyes held the twinkle of approval.

      ‘I certainly hope so,’ Ashe replied with a nod of his head. He could see Gardener’s rendition of the tale below stairs already, full of admiration about how the young lord had ridden in, taking no time to fuss over his appearance after a long ride. Instead, he’d gone straight to his aunts.

      Gardener had made a habit of seeing the best in him in his youth. Gardener would make him out to be an angel by evening. But if he was an angel, he was a very wicked one. Heaven forbid anyone at Bedevere ever learn what he’d been doing the moment the message of his father’s demise had arrived. In hindsight, ‘aggressively flirting’ with Lady Hargrove seemed akin to fiddling while Rome burned.

      Gardener opened the door and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, Mr Bedevere.’

      Ashe stepped into the room, noticing the difference immediately. The curtains were faded, but the best of what was left in the house had been brought here. There were vases filled with flowers on the side tables, pillows on the sofas, little knick-knacks set about the room for decoration. Ashe saw the room for what it was: an oasis, or perhaps bastion was a better word—a last bastion of gentility against the bare realities that lay outside the drawing-room doors.

      His eyes roved the room, taking in the surprising amount of occupants. His aunts were not alone; Leticia, Lavinia, Melisande and Marguerite were settled near the fireplace with a man he didn’t recognise, but it was the woman seated just beyond them, by the window overlooking the garden, who held his attention. She was of uncommon loveliness—dark-haired with wide grey eyes framed by equally dark lashes against the creamy backdrop of her skin. Even in a crowded London ballroom she would stand out. Ashe suspected she’d chosen her seat away from the others in an attempt to be discreet, a task her beauty no doubt made impossible under the best of circumstances. Today, in a room peopled by elderly ladies and a middle-aged man, there was no opportunity for obscurity.

      Ashe approached and gave his aunts his best bow. ‘Ladies, I am at your service’, but his gaze kept returning to the corner. Her comeliness was not all due to her good looks. It was in the way she held her slender neck, the straightness of her shoulders, both of which said, ‘Notice me, I dare you.’ For all her delicate beauty, she was no shy maiden. He could see it in the jut of her chin and the frank stare of her gaze in spite of her efforts at anonymity.

      Leticia swept forwards, white-haired, regal and perhaps more fragile than Ashe remembered. They were all more fragile than he remembered, except for the siren at the window. She’d been watching him since the moment he’d entered the room, no doubt wondering and assessing, just as he was now. She was no one he recognised, but apparently she was important enough to be invited to his homecoming. More importantly, she’d been invited into the household in the aftermath of a significant death.

      Ashe was cynical enough in his dealings with the world to be suspect of such an invitation. The aftermath of funerals were private matters for families, a chance for the bereaved to mop up the particulars of the deceased’s life, re-organise and carry on. The weeks after a funeral were intimate times. Strangers were not welcome, although strangers invariably came in the hopes of grabbing a scrap from the table. Lovely, dark-haired females aside, Ashe had a word for those importunistic people: carrion.

      Leticia took his hand. ‘Ashe, it’s so good of you to come. I am sorry we could not wait to bury him,’ she said softly.

      Ashe nodded. He knew that, counting the time it had taken for a message to reach him in London, at least six days had passed since his father’s death. Even with all haste, he’d known he’d miss the funeral. One more regret to heap on an already laden platter.

      ‘Come meet everyone. This is Mrs Ralston, our dear Genni.’ She gestured fondly to the lovely creature at the window. ‘She’s been our rock in our time of need.’

      Genni was far too girlish a name for the woman. She rose and extended her hand, not to be kissed, but to be shaken. ‘It is good to meet you at last.’

      Ashe did not miss the note of censure in her tone, so subtly hidden no one would notice it except the intended recipient—or was that his own guilt-plagued imagination imposing its own frameworks?

      ‘Mrs Ralston, a pleasure, I’m sure,’ Ashe returned drily. Whoever she was, she’d already inveigled her way into the aunts’ good graces. He doubted she was a companion, at least not a successful one. Her demeanour was far too confident to play that submissive role and her clothes too fine. Even the simple lines of her afternoon gown of forest-green merino were cut with the perfection of a high-class dressmaker; the lace trim at her collar and cuffs was demure, but expensive. From the looks of Bedevere, affording that calibre of companion made the point moot. But it raised others. If she was not a companion, what was she?

      ‘Genni has bought Seaton Hall for restoration.’

      ‘Is that so?’ Ashe said politely, but his speculations ratcheted up a notch. That probably wasn’t all she meant to take advantage of. A woman choosing to take on the responsibilities of an estate alone was quite unusual. Perhaps there was a husband at home? Leticia didn’t make it sound as if there were and there was no more information forthcoming. A young widow, then. Interesting. Young widows often had the most peculiar histories, some of which didn’t necessarily include husbands.

      Leticia moved on to complete introductions. ‘This gentleman is your father’s solicitor, Mr Marsbury. He’s generously stayed on until your arrival so the estate can be settled.’

      Ashe extended a hand, taking Mr Marsbury’s measure. He was an older gentleman, bluff and florid, reminding Ashe of a country squire. ‘Thank you for your timely note. I hope you haven’t been unduly inconvenienced.’

      Marsbury’s demeanour was as firm as his handshake. ‘It’s been no trouble. It made more sense to wait for you to arrive since everyone else involved is already here.’

      Ashe gave ‘Genni’ a cool glance. Did the unfamiliar beauty have a stake in his father’s estate? A kaleidoscope of unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind—if she was a widow, was she a late-life lover his father had taken? Did she hope to be provided for?

      With that pile of satiny black hair and the delicate sweep of her jaw, Ashe had no trouble believing she could entice even the most resolute of men into a proposal, a difference of thirty years in age notwithstanding. Ashe raised his eyebrows in query. ‘Everyone else?’

      Marsbury met his gaze evenly. ‘Your cousin, Henry Bennington.’