The Perfect Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

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.”

      She nodded and hurried out of sight.

      Tristan strode out of the parlor, tackled the sweeping length of stairs, taking two steps at a time, and upon reaching the landing, veered right. He passed door after closed door, until he paused at the second to the last, leading into her bedchamber.

      Drawing in a deep, calming breath, he knocked. “‘Tis me,” he called out. “Moreland.”

      Only silence pulsed. Grabbing the round brass handle, he turned it and edged the door open. The heavy scent of rose water clung to the stagnant air. His boots echoed as he made his way into the large bedchamber. He stepped over the upset silver tray, mashed food and shattered porcelain, his eyes drifting past the blue-gold pinstriped silk wallpaper and the oversized four-poster bed.

      He paused, noting the curvaceous, tall figure, dressed in an embroidered cobalt gown, lingering before the lattice window. His grandmother stared out, angling herself just enough for him to glimpse the regal profile of her powdered face and her mass of snowy-white pin curls.

      She didn’t turn or acknowledge him. No doubt because she was displeased with him for being late.

      He sighed and closed the remaining distance between them. “Is there a need to be so harsh with Miss Henderson? The poor woman was in tears.”

      “I was not harsh with her at all,” she quibbled in an overly dry tone. “I was merely pointing out that I do not appreciate my heirloom china being smashed into countless shards I cannot use.”

      He rolled his eyes. “If that is the worst she will ever do as a servant, be grateful. I once had all of my silver swiped.”

      “Oh, that will come next, I am sure. I may have to dismiss her. She is far too emotional for my liking. I cannot even rationally point anything out to the woman without her blubbering at every turn.”

      “If you dismiss Miss Henderson, there will be no one left to serve you, let alone answer the door. I suggest you offer her a bit more compassion. She is being sorely overworked and, knowing you, probably underpaid.”

      “I advise you not to be foolish enough to actually defend one of my own servants to me. I pay her very well. In fact, I pay her more than I should.”

      He sighed. “I suggest we make better use of our time. I have to leave earlier than usual today.”

      She hesitated but still didn’t turn. “Why? You always dedicate Tuesdays to me.”

      Yes, and even that was sometimes a bit too much dedication on his part. “The House of Lords will be swearing in the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Clifford and Lord Dormer today. I intend to show my support by making an appearance.”

      A brittle laugh escaped her lips. “Show your support to the Catholics, indeed. Low-hanging fruit is all they are. No good will ever come from giving such men seats.”

      “You sound like a damn bigot. Reducing religious discrimination reflects the moral progress of a nation.”

      “Ah, yes. You always were an idealist, Moreland. Much like your father.” She set her chin and continued to gaze out the window. “So, why are you late? You never are.”

      He cleared his throat, not wanting to think about why he had overslept. “Forgive me. I was behind schedule.”

      She glanced at him from over her shoulder, her arched silver brows rising. “You never stray from your schedule. It would be like a bird displacing its wings.” Her voice was patient, warm and steady, as it always was when addressing him. “Who is she?”

      He dragged in a breath, knowing if he admitted having any interest in a woman, it would only rile his grandmother into investigating his neighbor’s entire life, right down to the cosmetic creams she wore. “You are assuming far too much. I was merely slow to rise.”

      “You haven’t been slow to rise in thirteen years, Moreland.” She snickered suggestively. “I only hope whatever is responsible for your … unease will cease vexing you.”

      He