Slowly, Frederick inclined his head. “Mama. Emily.” Despite his mother’s even tone, he could only view her appearance with deep suspicion; she and Emily usually breakfasted in his mother’s apartments.
When his mother turned from the sideboard, a plate bearing a single slice of ham and a piece of cheese in her hand, Fortingale leapt to draw out a chair at the round table. Emily followed and accepted the seat alongside.
The instant Fortingale stepped back, both ladies fixed their gazes inquiringly on Frederick’s face.
He studied them, then lowered his coffee cup. “Yes?” They’d been at the house when the news of his engagement to Stacie had broken, so it wasn’t merely that fact that was exercising his mother.
She heaved a put-upon sigh. “Would it have been too much to ask to have been informed of your intention to ask Stacie to marry you? Not that I’m against the move at all—indeed, I applaud it—but a little warning would have been nice. As it was, I was as stunned as everyone else.” She threw her hands in the air, then reached for the toast rack.
He weighed his options and replied, “As I hadn’t made up my mind to it before the moment, issuing a warning wasn’t possible. I am, however, pleased that you approve of my choice.”
“Of course, I approve of her—how could I not? She’s a marquess’s daughter, extremely well-connected among the ton, of a sensible age and of pleasant disposition, is attractive enough to have captured your eye”—his mother wagged her butter knife at him—“enough to hold her own against music and your books!—and she even shares something of your passion for music. At least, she understands your passion for music, which is more than most young ladies would.”
Frederick idly listened as his mother rattled on, enumerating Stacie’s many qualifications to be his wife, most of which he already knew.
When the marchioness paused to take a bite of her toast, now slathered with butter and jam, in a pensive tone, Emily said, “Of course, there is the shadow of her mother, which the poor girl has had to contend with all these many years.”
Frederick focused on Emily. “What about her mother?” When, instead of immediately answering, Emily exchanged a glance with his mother, Frederick said, “I’ve heard several older ladies mention that Stacie is the image of her mother, and last night, speaking of the evening’s entertainment, some lady said that had Stacie’s mother been alive, she would have been proud of Stacie’s success.”
His words had brought both his mother’s and Emily’s gazes back to him. He met his mother’s eyes and arched an interrogatory eyebrow. “So what don’t I know about her mother?”
His mother sighed. “Her mother, Lavinia, was her father’s second wife. She was as well-born as you or I, entirely haut ton, and was, as you can guess via the references to Stacie, very beautiful. Stacie is, indeed, almost identical in looks. Thankfully, she has shown no sign whatsoever of being identical in character—in that, I strongly suspect she takes after her father, and he was a delightful man.”
“What was it about her mother’s character that was…less than perfect?”
His mother looked at Emily. “You mentioned her—you can explain. I’m not sure I can—not without giving him the wrong impression.” She tipped her head. “And failing to give him the right one as well.”
Emily frowned, then looked across the table. “Lavinia wasn’t the sort of lady one admired. Or trusted. Not with anything. Not that she was a thief. Rather, she used people’s secrets and their weaknesses against them—she was like that from a young girl. Manipulative—extremely so.”
“You knew her.” It wasn’t a question.
Emily was the gentlest person he knew, yet her features set stonily. “Unfortunately, yes. She was a few years older, but as young ladies, we moved in the same circles. She was a viscount’s daughter and intent on moving up the social ladder. She set her sights on Raventhorne. He’d been recently widowed, and as Philippa said, he was a kind man—truly one of the old school who prided himself on his manners and his care of others. Lavinia snared him in her net—she was one of those ladies who used their physical assets shamelessly—and so she became his second marchioness.”
His mother waved her crust to get his attention. “That, in itself, was not particularly remarkable or reprehensible. It was what came later that ensured that, while courtesy of her birth and station Lavinia continued to have the entree to our circles, she could count no friends among us.”
Not knowing what questions to ask, he waited, with his gaze on the two women on the opposite side of the table, and hoped one of them would explain.
Eventually, Emily obliged. “At first, Lavinia played the dutiful wife—she bore Raventhorne four children, but soon after the last was born, she and he went their separate ways, although it was patently obvious to all who knew them that he remained besotted with her. Lavinia, however, proceeded to take a succession of lovers.”
“None of which,” his mother interjected, “made the ton blink. Not at first and not really by the fact of it, either.”
“It was the number of lovers she took and the…tone, I suppose one might say,” Emily explained. “Over the years, Lavinia became more and more brazen—and what lovers she was known to take, more and more questionable. Ultimately, it seemed as if the stench of scandal permanently engulfed her, although nothing ever got to the point of being something one couldn’t ignore.”
“For Raventhorne’s sake and that of his children,” his mother said, “the ton largely turned a blind eye—he was besotted with her until he died, but she was a viper of the first degree, and her questionable exploits and her excesses stung him repeatedly and took their toll.”
Emily nodded. “Then Raventhorne died, and Ryder—who was his son by his first marriage and who Lavinia always hated—acceded to the title, and after that, the ton had little time for Lavinia.”
“Not that she didn’t still receive invitations and attend the major functions,” his mother put in. “She was still the Marchioness of Raventhorne, after all, but we increasingly viewed her as beneath our notice, so to speak.”
“And then,” Emily said, “some months after Ryder married Mary Cynster, Lavinia died in some accident at Raventhorne Abbey.”
“Few have ever heard the details of what happened,” his mother informed him, “but of course, the ton as a whole heaved a collective sigh of relief—Lavinia’s behavior had become increasingly difficult to overlook.”
When both Emily and his mother fell silent, their expressions suggesting they were reliving the past, Frederick reviewed what they’d revealed, then asked, “How does—how did—her mother’s behavior affect Stacie?”
His mother cast a tight-lipped look at Emily, who, after a moment, volunteered, “Stacie was still in the schoolroom when her father died and Ryder inherited. Lavinia refused to remain at Raventhorne House—I suspect Ryder would have been able to exercise more control over her if she had, and there was never any love lost there—and insisted, instead, that the estate buy her a town house, and she moved there, taking Stacie and her younger brother, Godfrey, with her. For the next six or so years, Stacie lived in her mother’s house, and Lavinia kept her close, very firmly under her wing.”
“Indeed.” The marchioness nodded. “That is arguably the only good thing one can say of Lavinia—regardless of what scandals she herself courted, she was absolutely rigid in ensuring that no hint of untoward behavior, much less scandal, ever touched Stacie.”