The Book of Scandal

Eastchurch Abbey Gloucestershire, England 1806
The remains of the abbey at Eastchurch sat upon one of the rolling green hills of the Cotswolds in Gloucestershire, England. Judging from the breadth of the foundation it had been quite a large abbey, but all that remained was a few walls, a stairwell that led to nothing, and heaps of rubble. Only sheep and cattle inhabited the abbey now, but one could imagine what it looked like when the hills had been dotted by white-robed monks working in the fields.

The abbey was emptied along with dozens of others in the sixteenth century, when Henry VIII broke from the Catholic Church, and its lands were leased to the king's friend, Lord Lindsey, for only a few shillings per annum for as long as the Lindsey heirs survived. The abbey itself fell into ruin.

Yet it was not the ruins that were noted by denizens and visitors to the shire, but the house down the hill, a large, sprawling mansion situated in a dell, with a river and hills at its back, and fields and forests flanking it. It had been built sixty years ago with the grand confidence of a new earl.

Nor was it the mansion's neoclassical architecture, the style favored by the venerable John Soane, or the mansion's grounds, which were designed by the equally venerable Capability Brown, that captured the attention of people in the shire.

It was what went on inside.

Grayson Christopher had heard rumors in the last few years, and he heard them again at the public house where he'd stopped for a pint, having ridden all night from London to reach the abbey.

"You'll not find your sort there," the innkeeper told him as he placed the ale before him. "Not a fine lord like yourself, sir. There's naught but women and drink at the abbey."

Grayson smiled a little. "I have been known to enjoy women and drink, sir."

"Aye, milord, but I'd wager not that sort of woman. Or that sort of drink, really. The Libertine of Lindsey is a congenial man, I'll give you that, but what he allows to go on at the abbey?" He shook his head. "It's not proper behavior for an earl, if you don't mind me saying."

Grayson knew that things had gone a bit awry for his old friend, Nathan Grey, the Earl of Lindsey. He assured the innkeeper he did not mind his remarks, paid his bill, and continued on to the abbey.

The road was remarkably clear, given the rain. He rode past fields where cattle grazed and beneath towering pines and beech trees. He rode past the abbey ruins and the small lake Nathan kept stocked with carp. He rode past the small church where the tenants of Eastchurch Abbey attended services, and its small graveyard.

He rode through a massive gate, down the lane, and into the drive. A groomsman was quick to greet him and take his horse. Grayson's knock on the door was answered only moments later. Benton, Lindsey's long-time butler, stood just inside. He was a thin, nervous man, with a wide, round countenance and hair that was combed to frame his face, as was the style.

"My lord Darlington," he said, bowing low. "Please do come in."

Grayson swept inside, quickly shrugging out of his soaking cloak. The foyer smelled of tobacco smoke, he noted as he handed off his cloak and hat. "I regret calling without sending notice, Benton, but I must speak with Lindsey."

"Of course, my lord. This way."

As Grayson followed the butler along a corridor, he noticed the consoles that had once graced the halls and held vases of hothouse flowers were missing. The corridor looked a little barren.

Benton reached a door and opened it slightly; Grayson's nose was instantly assailed by the stench of smoke. He walked in behind Benton; the smoke was hanging like a cloud over the room. Furniture was scattered haphazardly about, save a card table in the middle of the room, where one chair had tipped over.

Lindsey sat at the card table with his back partially to the door. Lord Donnelly, whom Grayson knew as well, was seated at the card table across from Lindsey. In addition, there were three women, clearly harlots, judging by the immodest way they were dressed and the way one smiled brazenly at him.

One of the women sat on Lindsey's lap, idly watching the card game. Another sat on Donnelly's lap and smiled saucily at Grayson. The third was lying on a settee, her feet dangling over the arm. She was sleeping.

"My lord?" Benton said.

Lindsey did not acknowledge his butler but continued to study his hand, chewing on the end of a cigar.

"My lord."

This time, Lindsey responded with a grunt of warning and a flick of his wrist -- a signal that he was to be left alone. Donnelly seemed not to notice the butler either; he was as engrossed in his hand and the considerable pile of coins in the middle of the table as Lindsey.

Benton, a steadfast and loyal butler, was not to be deterred. "My lord," he said, a little more forcefully. "There is a gentleman here to see you."

"Benton, on my word I shall put you out on your arse today!" Lindsey groused. "There is always one gentleman or another here to see me. Show whoever it is to the salon or a bedroom, but leave me be -- I am on the verge of divesting County Cork's Donnelly of a considerable amount of money and I cannot be interrupted." He looked up and grinned at Donnelly as he laid down his cards. He had three of a kind, and a cry of disbelief went up from his opponent.

"My lord!"

"What?" Lindsey snapped as he raked the coins toward him. He glanced at Benton, then started upon seeing Grayson.

"Good morning, Lindsey."

Lindsey pushed the girl from his lap and came to his feet. "Christy, I cannot believe you've come!" he exclaimed.

Donnelly looked up with surprise. "Darlington!" he said jovially. "Come, come, and have a tot of good Irish whiskey -- "

"Lord no!" Nathan laughed. "That is widow-maker poison, Declan, guaranteed to fox a man at first sip, and the Duke of Darlington will not be foxed." He grinned at Grayson, swaying a bit unsteadily. He looked like hell -- his shirt was rumpled, his neckcloth nowhere to be seen, and his dark brown hair mussed from the fingers of a harlot.

"What time is it, Benton?" Lindsey demanded.