The Perfect Mistress. Victoria Alexander
“I know scandal when I see it.”
“Then you should certainly read a chapter.” Julia selected another section she had copied, anticipating Portia’s request, and handed the pages to her friend.
Portia frowned at the small number of pages. “Is that enough? To be able to ascertain the scandalous nature of the work, that is. Perhaps I should read more?”
“I’m certain when you finish reading, Julia would be happy to provide you with more,” Veronica said smoothly. “For purposes of assessing the level of scandal, of course. Nothing more than that.”
“My life is exceptionally dull,” Portia said under her breath, leafing through the pages. Her gaze jerked to her friends as if she were surprised by her own words. “Not that I am interested in this in any way other than to help my dear Julia.”
Veronica smiled. “We never thought otherwise.”
“Not for a moment,” Julia added, casting Portia a reassuring smile.
It was indeed odd that this disparate trio had become friends but friends they were and, Julia suspected, friends they would be for the rest of their days. She sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward for these women, adding an additional prayer that the memoirs were indeed scandalous enough to provide true financial salvation even if that might not be the type of request the Almighty would be amenable to granting. Still, she would be most grateful if he would consider it.
And perhaps, she cringed to herself at the absurd thought, she would have to thank her great-grandmother as well.
“This is unacceptable.” Harrison Landingham, the Earl of Mountdale, glared at the pages laid out on the desk in front of him. “Completely unacceptable.”
“If you think the first page is unacceptable …” Amusement gleamed in his sister-in-law’s eyes. “Wait until you read the rest.”
“Good Lord,” Harrison muttered. What he’d read thus far was bad enough. He didn’t dare consider what the rest of these memoirs might contain. “This family has avoided scandal in the past and scandal will not touch us on my watch.”
“More’s the pity,” Veronica murmured.
He glanced up. “I do appreciate your bringing this to my attention, however.”
She smiled pleasantly. “I thought you would find it interesting.”
He raised a brow. “‘Interesting’ is the very least of what I find it.”
Veronica shrugged. “I found it rather amusing as well.”
“That comes as no surprise,” he said coolly. His late half brother’s wife was exactly the type of woman who would find something of this scandalous nature amusing.
Seven years ago, when Charles had announced his intention to marry Veronica Wilton, Harrison had done his best to dissuade him. Not that she wasn’t lovely with her dark red hair and tall stature and, indeed, her family was more than acceptable, her father was a viscount after all. But there was something in the woman’s manner, as if she were far more intelligent than anyone else and found the rest of the world amusing in its stupidity, that he found most irritating. In his experience, intelligent women were prone to making their own decisions and never overly concerned with the propriety of those decisions. Still, he had to admit, in many ways he had been wrong about her. While he never did understand what his brother saw in her aside from her appearance, and certainly one required more in a wife than a pretty face, she had made Charles happy and they seemed to have truly cared for each other. Which somewhat redeemed her in Harrison’s eyes. In this world, could one ask for more?
Veronica laughed. “Goodness, Harrison, Charles would have found it amusing as well.”
“Charles found much amusing that I do not,” Harrison said in what struck even him as an overly stodgy manner. While they shared the same mother, the two brothers could not have been more dissimilar in temperament.
Charles was nearly seventeen years of age when his widowed mother had married Harrison’s father and had promptly borne another son. Harrison had adored his older brother in spite of the disparity in their ages. But it wasn’t until he was an adult that they had become close even though the characters of the two men were decidedly different. While Charles was brilliant in all matters of finance, he had lived his life with a devil-may-care attitude and a passion for wine and sport and women—especially women. He was well past his fortieth year when he had at last decided to marry. No one was more surprised than Harrison by his brother’s decision and his choice. He had rather expected his brother to fall head over heels for an actress or another unsuitable sort rather than a woman who, in spite of Harrison’s initial concerns, was still a fitting match for the Earl of Smithson.
In recent years Harrison had been searching for an appropriate wife of his own. He was well aware of his responsibilities and his duty to provide an heir, as his half brother had failed to do. Charles’s title had passed to a distant cousin upon his death. Harrison had no intention of allowing the same fate to befall his heritage. Indeed, he was currently considering several suitable candidates for the position of Countess of Mountdale, young ladies of good family and unblemished reputation. That he hadn’t selected a wife yet he attributed only to the fact that he had yet to find one he considered absolutely right and had nothing at all to do with the lack of particular affection he felt for any of them. Affection would come in time.
“Even Charles would not be amused to see the infidelities of his father available at a bookseller’s for all the world to read.”
Veronica raised a brow.
“Well, perhaps he would.” His brother had always been amused by scandal. “But his father is dead and mine is very much alive. However this …” He cast a disgusted look at the pages in front of him. “The scandal this will cause will kill him.”
Veronica laughed. “I very much doubt that.”
Harrison drew his brows together. “My father is seventy-six years of age and—”
“He is the youngest elderly gentleman I know.”
“His constitution is not what it once was,” Harrison said staunchly.
“How is your father’s health?”
“Acceptable.” Harrison ignored the fact that his father’s physicians pronounced him the picture of health, save for stiffness in his knees. “Regardless, it is a risk I do not intend to take. Now, you say this friend of yours—”
“You needn’t say friend as if it were an obscenity.” Veronica’s brows pulled together in disapproval. “She is a very nice woman and I am fortunate to count her among my friends.”
“Very nice women do not publish the scandalous memoirs of their ancestors.”
“Very nice women who have financial responsibilities do what they must to meet those responsibly. Goodness, Harrison, she’s not pandering in the streets.”
“This is not substantially better,” he said. “What did you say her name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Lady Julia Winterset.”
Harrison raised a brow. “The wife of Sir William Win-terset?”
“The widow of Sir William Winterset.”
“The barrister?”
“I believe so. Did you know him?”
“I knew of him. He had a fine legal mind and an excellent reputation. And he was of good family as well.” Harrison huffed. “No doubt this has him turning over in his grave.”
“If he had provided adequately for his widow, if his good family had not abandoned any responsibility toward his wife upon his death, there would be no need to