A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (14 page)

“I'll do it,” she said. She curled her fingers into fists. She owed it to Marie. “But to find Foyle, not to get Lord Farleigh ‘out of my system.'” That would merely be a useful side effect.

“You are delightful,” Madame Lavigne said. “I find myself greatly pleased to have the opportunity to interfere with your life. Now. You're going to need lessons. No one will believe you are a courtesan.”

“You have only a week to transform me,” Elinor said. Her mouth was dry. In a week, surely she would have thought better of her decision.

“Oh, I don't need nearly that long,” Madame Lavigne said with a wicked grin.

“I'm only going for the information,” Elinor said. “I don't need the
other
sort of lessons.” She paused. “Though I find myself curious about the subject, in an academic sense.”

Lavigne smiled. “I like you. I was worried that Joanie was stuck with people who would look down on her, but you don't, do you? You don't even look down on me.”

Elinor laughed softly. “I think I was worried that
you
would look down on
me
,” Elinor said. “I'm always so in awe of Joan, and the life she led.”

“No one is ever half so interesting as they appear from a distance,” she said. “Your first task is always to convince them that they are.”

Elinor sat back down. The tea arrived, and Madame Lavigne went on, until light brushed against the horizon. Elinor departed in a hired hack, certain that as soon as she got some sleep, she would come to her senses. This was a ridiculous scheme, more ridiculous than anything Phoebe could have come up with.

And somehow she suspected that she was fool enough to see it through.

Elinor was missing. The staff could only tell Colin that she had returned briefly before setting out again, and no one seemed to know where she had gone. It was now morning, albeit not an hour of the morning the nobility generally familiarized themselves with, and there was still no sign of her. Colin paced in the drawing room. He had no idea where she would go. He had no idea what he should do. Send the Bow Street Runners out after her? Hire bloodhounds?

The front door opened, and footsteps sounded in the foyer. Elinor's footsteps.

Colin lunged for the door. He stuttered to a stop in the hallway as he clapped his eyes on her. She was whole and well, dressed in the same plain frock she had worn to the ball. She eyed him with distaste as she pulled off her gloves.

“You are up at an unprecedented hour, Lord Farleigh,” she noted. “Or is it that you failed to find your bed at all last night? I am given to understand that has been a problem for you in the past.”

“You're all right,” he said.

“Of course.”

“When you weren't at home—”

“I had business to attend to,” she said. “Forgive me if I
fail to specify. You did not specify about your own business last night, after all, and in that case it was highly relevant to the conversation.”

Ah. Yes. The “business” of his engagement, which he certainly should have disclosed to her before that kiss. But if he had, she would not have kissed him.

And she would not be looking at him with such wounded fury.

“I assign you no blame for the outcome of that conversation,” he said. “I am well aware that it would have been different if you had known the particulars.”

She lifted both eyebrows in weary skepticism. “Lord Farleigh, in all your years of fine schooling, did no one ever teach you how to apologize?”

She turned away from him. He lurched forward a step. He couldn't let things remain like this. He had to push past this muddle. Forward momentum. “Lady Elinor—”

She pivoted on her heel and speared him in place with a narrow-eyed glare. “Lord Farleigh. You have made it perfectly clear by your actions how highly you esteem me. There is no need for further exploration of the subject. I think it is best if we leave the matter be from now on. In fact, I think it best if we leave each other be entirely. I will be returning to Thornwald this afternoon, which should make the task easy even for you. I wish you great happiness in your life with Lady Penelope.”

“Lady Elinor—”

“Good day,” she finished, and marched up the stairs.

Oh, hell. He'd cocked this one up, hadn't he? She was never going to forgive him. He needed to make her listen. He needed her to understand that they could get past this, be something new to each other.

No. He needed to forget her, as she was determined to forget him. He'd done himself a favor, he decided. He didn't have the strength to keep his heart and his thoughts away from her. But she would enforce the separation for him. He could enter his marriage knowing that Elinor Hargrove no longer haunted him, however much he wished she would.

He owed Lady Penelope that much, at the very least. A husband who, if he did not love her, was not mooning after another woman.

He owed her, too, the clearing of his debts before they became hers. She was such a bright and joyous creature. He could not burden her with his darkness.

He needed to deal with Foyle. Immediately.

*   *   *

Elinor had made the decision to replace Madame Lavigne on Beauchene's guest list, but one evening of conversation was not adequate preparation for the task. She needed proper tutelage, and with the scant time they had, Madame Lavigne had insisted that Elinor come to stay with her for a few days.

Not precisely something she could explain to Phoebe, much less Lord Farleigh. Both seemed mollified by her claim that she was returning to Thornwald. She only had to hope they didn't think to check on her story.

She bade Phoebe farewell, took the carriage to the city limits, and paid the driver well for his silence when she disembarked. Martin and Joan expected her to remain with the Spensers for two weeks more, the Spensers expected her to return home, and she was free to make her way back to Madame Lavigne.

The woman greeted her with a grin. “I wasn't sure you'd be back,” she said.

“Neither was I,” Elinor admitted. “But I owe it to a friend.”

“You owe it to yourself,” Madame Lavigne corrected. “Every woman ought to have an adventure of her own, however brief, so that she might always be reminded that she is capable of it.”

“I am not the adventurous sort,” Elinor said.

“That's why you need only have the one,” Madame Lavigne said. “I myself adore adventures. I have them whenever I can. But you would be miserable with endless adventure.”

“Most people don't understand that,” Elinor said. “You don't know how often I've been told I don't know what I'm missing. That I don't know how to live until I—oh, go
galloping across the fields, or get groped in a disused study.”
Or a library
.

“Most people are imbeciles. Never forget that,” Madame Lavigne said. “Now. We need to make you considerably less respectable if you have any hope of getting through this. Ann!”

A middle-aged woman trotted in with lengths of fabric draped over her arms. She looked Elinor up and down and harrumphed. “This won't do at all,” she declared, and brandished a measuring tape like a whip.

For three days, Elinor submitted to instruction. Nothing about her was suitable. Not her hair or her dress, her voice or her walk. Madame Lavigne instructed her on elocution, bribed and badgered her into swearing, drilled her on how to hold her head and tilt her hips. Elinor danced with Ann across the room—too stiff! Too proper!—and stood and sat a hundred times before she could curve her body at the correct angle. Her smile was wrong, too disinterested.

“Everything must be an invitation,” Madame Lavigne said. “But he must never doubt you are willing to rescind it at the slightest provocation.”

“She will be the provocation,” Ann declared, holding fabric to Elinor's cheek and tutting, and then it was back to walking endlessly across the floor.

By the third day she ached. Her cheeks ached from smiling; her feet ached from dancing; her back ached from draping herself just so. Then Ann appeared, gown draped over her arms, and declared it ready for inspection.

It took a great deal of time to get into it. She suspected it would take far less time to get out of it. She glanced down.

“Oh,” she said, peering at her bosom. “I didn't know they did that.”

“She'll do,” Ann said.

“She'll do,” Madame Lavigne agreed. “But as ever, only if she wants to.”

Elinor examined herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were rouged, her eyes lined with black, her lips stained a berry red. Her mother would die to see her like this. Her brother would fling himself off a bridge. And Lord Farleigh . . .

Well. She rather enjoyed thinking about what Lord Farleigh's reaction would be. She'd fix him with her gaze. That
invitation
. And then she would turn her back on him, and walk away.

The woman in the mirror was no sickly spinster. She was not Elinor Hargrove at all. But she was exactly the sort of woman who could whisper into a man's ear and learn all his secrets. She was the sort of woman who could do what needed to be done.

“I'm ready,” she said. “I'll do it. For Marie.”

And for me.

They'll spot you out in a moment
, Colin thought as his carriage made its ponderous trek up to the chateau. He was grateful he had thought to bring a flask. He tipped it, and found only drops. Drat.

He lurched out of the carriage before it had fully stopped. A woman swept up the steps in front of him, clad in a green dress that bared her bosom to the very limits of decency. She cast him a look over her shoulder. She already wore a mask, a white porcelain thing with painted lips and eyebrows fixed in a skeptical expression. He heard her giggle behind the mask and then she was gone, pausing only to show the doorman something she had in her reticule.

He fumbled in his coat pocket and came up with the folded invitation Hudson had supplied. The doorman inspected it and nodded, then handed over a black cloth pouch. “We will bring your belongings to your room, sir. It will be the egret, sir, as will you.”

“What's that?” he asked, upending the pouch and spilling its contents onto his palm. It contained a key and a black ribbon, at the center of which hung a silver charm shaped like a wading bird.

“Your name, while you are here, is Mr. Egret,” the
doorman patiently explained. “In addition to appearing on your token, the animal is engraved on the door of your private rooms.”

“I couldn't have gotten something a little fiercer?” Colin asked. “Lion was taken, I suppose?”

“The egret is a thoroughly fashionable creature,” the doorman pointed out. “Much prized for its feathers, to decorate hats.”

“Not the highest honor one could claim,” Colin said. “Very well, Egret it is. And the rest of the gentlemen have such appellations, I suppose?”

“Indeed they do, sir. And should you recognize someone, you may not speak their name under any circumstances, nor allude to the encounter once you have left.” He paused. “The rules ought to have been explained to you before you came, but if you need to be reminded, I can arrange for someone to—”

“No, no, it's all coming back to me,” Colin said. Hudson had supplied him with a written list. He just hadn't gotten around to reading it. He was only going to be here long enough to get Foyle alone, call him out, and settle this matter.

He stepped past the doorman, tucking both key and token into his waistcoat pocket. He had expected dim, dank chambers, but he found himself in a hall spangled with light. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, dripping wax on the floor and decking every surface with glimmering specks of light. Twin staircases swept upward at the back of the entryway, flanking a wide hallway. More open doors led off to the left and the right, and each doorway was wreathed with a different sort of garland—poppy, lily, bluebells. He wondered if they had some meaning. It occurred to him that they might be some kind of
menu
.

The woman in green was retreating down the main hallway. Loath to be alone in this place, he decided to follow.

He had gone a dozen steps when the woman vanished. For a moment he thought his eyes were deceiving him; then he made out the stark black curtain. He parted it. Darkness lay beyond.

Darkness, and a woman in green. She held her hand out to him. “This way,” she said, voice low and smoky.

“Are you to be my psychopomp, then? To guide me into hell?”

She laughed. “Not into hell,” she said. “Only to the buffet.”

He took her hand. She tugged him along, picking up speed. They passed through three more curtains before they burst out into a wide open room. Candles flickered on every surface, leaving shadows dancing on the wood-paneled walls. The crowd was thin, but there were already three men gathered around the buffet, helping themselves to wine and food and eying the knot of women that was forming at the far end of the room, where a cluster of sofas and chairs made a lopsided circle.

Colin started to turn toward his guide, then stopped.

The buffet was a woman.

She was pale-skinned, nude, and strategically covered with fruits, cheeses, and petite pastries. A bunch of grapes concealed the v between her thighs. Slices of melon and wedges of apple formed a sort of bodice, and a line of berry-filled pastries trailed down her already sparsely covered torso. Every tidbit claimed would reveal a little more of her. She took slow, steady breaths, and did not move an inch.

His guide stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “She's supposed to be some countess,” she said. “They come sometimes, to feel scandalous. If you ask me, it's half the reason we're made to wear the masks.”

“Surely not,” he said.

She shrugged, as if she didn't care that he believed her. “You're new,” she said. “Do you want a tour?” She paused. “Or a bite to eat?” she suggested, mischievous.

“Is there a woman at the bottom of the wine as well, or is that safe to drain?” he asked.

“Perfectly safe,” she assured him.

“Then wine, and a tour,” he said. “Though—I'm sorry, I don't mean to make any claims, if this is . . .”

She waved away his concern. “This early in the evening,
no one is making promises. Least of all me. But I wouldn't mind the excuse to look around.”

“I would appreciate it,” he said. He'd thought he could muddle along on his own. He could see now that he'd been wrong. He was in a labyrinth—and while he would much rather turn a corner to find a beautiful, naked woman than a minotaur, he was no less lost for it.

She got them each a glass of wine, and led him through the adjoining rooms. Some seemed to have themes—one boasted sculptures of satyrs and a woman in Grecian robes, while another was styled with Oriental rugs and smelled thickly of incense—but most could have belonged at any house party, if that house party required its women to go masked.

“The gentlemen all have their own rooms,” she said. “But if you don't feel like going that far, there's always a few empty rooms. Or just a dark corner to duck into. Definitely be cautious about stumbling into dark corners if you don't feel like interrupting someone.”

“That much isn't so different than a standard summer party,” Colin said, which drew a fresh giggle from her. “I had a friend who forgot to label the rooms with the guests' names one year. People kept popping into the wrong room in the middle of the night. One man accidentally slept with his own wife.”

“How terrible,” she said gravely.

“He was entirely traumatized,” Colin said. Gibson had been the host of that particular summer's festivities. There was a reason he had never allowed his sisters to attend.

Unlike at Gibson's, there were dozens more rules here, he learned. Some of the staff could be approached to arrange various types of encounters; there was a rather alarming amount of equipment squirreled away in wardrobes and closets; and various sections of the house had much different standards of dress.

“But honestly, most people just like to know that it all
could
happen,” his guide said, as they finished their rounds. “Nine out of ten of 'em just grab a pretty girl and stick to
the usual.” She planted a hand on her hip. “How about you? Anything in particular bring you?”

“I'm looking for a man,” he said idly.

“Oh, we don't do that,” she said apologetically.

He choked out a laugh. “No! I mean, I hoped to meet up with an old friend. I'd heard he was here. His name—”

She tsked, and he stopped.

“Right. I suppose I'll have to look myself,” he said.

“Sorry,” she replied.

“I don't suppose I could have your name, at least?” he asked.

She put a finger to her porcelain lips. “Where's the fun in that?” she asked, and danced away.

Colin watched her go. He had always considered himself something of a libertine. He had a reputation as a rake. But this was all too much for him.

He drained his wine. Just as well he wasn't here for the women.

*   *   *

There is only one thing you must remember
, Madame Lavigne's voice said in Elinor's mind.
You belong there. If you act without doubt, there will be no doubt.

It was easier said than done. Elinor sat in a hired carriage, watching the chateau draw closer. It sat at the top of a hill, and though the evening had barely begun to dim, it was already festooned with lanterns. Every window blazed. Carriages trundled along the lane before and behind Elinor's own, joining a ragged line making their way up to the open double doors. She spotted small figures, women in rich silks and men in gaudier colors still, ascending the steps.

Soon they would be close enough to see her.

She retreated into the shadows of the carriage and tried to steady her nerves. No one knew that she was here. And once she donned the mask, no one need find out.

As long as she retained her mask, which covered her entire face, she would be safe from recognition. Madame Lavigne had been clear: Beauchene's rules were sacrosanct. The men must charm their way into women's favor, not force
it. Such charm was not difficult to come by, when the women were paid to be there and often given additional gifts by their paramours, but should a woman refuse a suitor, he must accept her judgment. Elinor need not surrender her virtue for this bit of madness.

Unless she wanted to.

She had to admit she was halfway tempted to do it. One night with a stranger might finally banish the memory of Lord Farleigh's kiss. And all that came after. And if she was to go to her grave a spinster, why not have an evening or two of entertainment?

She sighed. Except that she most certainly would not go to bed with Foyle, and if tonight went as planned she would be spending the entire evening with him. God willing, she could accomplish her task in that much time and slip out before dawn. No time, then, to tug an anonymous young man into a back room.

You're becoming scandalous in your old age
, she chided herself, and could not deny it as she slipped on her mask and secured the ribbons behind her head.

The world instantly contracted. She would have to turn her head to see side to side, and the mask made her breath loud. But the sure knowledge that no one could see her face lifted the tension from her shoulders.

You belong here
, she told herself, and by the time she stepped down from the carriage she believed it.

She was ushered with restrained deference through the front doors after only a cursory glance at the little token she still carried. She had expected a separate entrance for the women, but there were several men—she would not presume to call them gentlemen—coming up the steps behind her as she entered. She moved quickly to get out of their way, ducking down a side hallway through a garland of forget-me-nots before she had a chance to do more than glance at the opulent foyer.

She found herself in a long drawing room, done in a surprisingly spare style. The only other occupant was a nervous-looking woman with her hands fitted tightly to her
waist, pacing and muttering to herself. She halted abruptly when she saw Elinor.

“Am I not supposed to be here?” she asked.

“I was going to ask the same thing,” Elinor confided. “I only just arrived, and I'm really not certain how I'm meant to go on.”

“There's rooms upstairs,” the girl said. “For us, I mean. That's where your things will be taken, and you can sleep there if you're not sleeping somewhere else.” She made an odd quarter turn toward the window and then bobbed back. “Do I look all right?”

“You look lovely,” Elinor assured her. The girl looked wrung out, and her neck was a furious red. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Just nervous,” she said with a tittering laugh, then clapped her hands over the mouth of her mask. “I'm not supposed to do that. Oh, hell. I can't believe I'm here. I'm not good enough for this, and they'll throw me out when they realize it. I do hope they don't. I've heard there are fireworks on the last night. I'd love to see fireworks. But I'll never last that long.”

Elinor caught the girl's frantically gesturing hands. “You belong here,” she told her firmly. “If you believe it, they'll believe it.” She'd managed to convince herself that the whole house would be full of Madame Lavignes, women who owned themselves and their circumstances proudly. She couldn't decide if it was comforting or horrifying to find that it wasn't true.

“Can I stay with you for a little while?” the girl asked.

“How about we explore?” Elinor suggested. “You'll be more at ease if you know how to make your way around.”

“I've already explored a bit,” the girl answered. “I can show you. I'm Daisy, by the way.”

“You can call me . . . Theodosia,” Elinor said, and clasped the younger woman's arm.