A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (21 page)

“I doubt it.”

“I think that you would be surprised,” Madame Beauchene said. “Or perhaps you wouldn't. You were the last name added to our list, did you know that? A regular guest dropped out quite at the last moment, and insisted that we forward his invitation to you. It seems that he developed gout. I suspect it has more to do with the sudden divestment of his mistresses, and the precarious nature of his wife's good graces.”

“Are you suggesting that I blackmailed him?” Colin asked. For all he knew, Hudson had. That put a sour taste in his mouth. Blackmail was what had drawn him into this mess in the first place.

“You wouldn't, would you? Interesting,” she said, delighted on some level Colin couldn't begin to fathom. “Don't imagine that you are any less welcome, of course. We thrive on new blood. However, it is also essential to maintain a level of congeniality among our guests. You understand. There are reputations that might grow tarnished, should another guest speak out of turn. And disagreement leads to temptation.”

“You don't have to worry about that from me,” Colin said. “I'd have to admit that I was here in the first place, wouldn't I?”

“So you would,” Madame Beauchene acknowledged.

“I'm impressed,” Colin said. “I've been here not even two full days and you already know my particulars.”

“Information is essential,” Madame Beauchene said. She patted his arm. “Do let us know if there is anything you require, Mr. Egret. A change of rooms. A change of companionship.”

“My companionship is entirely satisfactory,” he assured her.

“Everyone needs some variety,” she countered, but she
rose without pressing the point. What was her angle, he wondered? Perhaps to pair him with someone to root out his secrets, as he sought to root out Foyle's. “Good evening, then,” she said, and left him once more alone.

He remained a few more minutes, thinking through the conversation word by word. What did this change? Nothing, and everything. He still needed to find the material Foyle had used to blackmail Marie. But he could hardly pretend at ignorance of the man's identity now. Someone would expose him.

He needed to tell Elinor.

He hurried back to the room. He was not looking forward to seeing her after stalking out like that. He ought to have stayed. Talked things through with her. Explained.

Not that she would listen.

An argument was already rising on his tongue when he opened the door to the room. And found her gone.

She must have gone to get something to eat.

But, no. There was her dress, still on the ground. And on the bed, amid the rumpled covers, her mask.

His mouth went dry. She was out there alone. And she was exposed.

*   *   *

Beauchene drew Elinor in next to him, his arm around her waist, as they walked. “You are a very interesting woman,” he said. A man passed them in the hall. His eyes caught on her, curiosity and idle lust in them, and then he slid away. She wouldn't find help here, not unless Lord Farleigh was near. And she suspected Beauchene knew exactly where he was.

“Not particularly,” she said. “I'm sure you know plenty of women like me.”

“What is your name?” he asked. “I meant to ask about you, with Madame Lavigne, but I realized I do not know your name.”

“I thought there weren't any names here,” she said. He'd turned her toward a staircase, leading upward to the third
level. The third level was out-of-bounds to guests. Any hope of bumping into Lord Farleigh evaporated.

“Not for the guests, no. But for me, the rules are different.”

“I am beginning to understand that,” she said drily, and he laughed.

“Your name, my dear?” he prompted.

“Theodosia,” she said, remembering her earlier lie. She wished she'd pretended to be someone a bit more useful. Theodosia would probably have resorted to having the vapors by now. A useful technique for avoiding unwanted conflict in civilized company, but Elinor doubted that courtesans ever had the vapors.

“Such an ungainly name for such a lovely woman,” he said. They'd reached the top of the stairs. The hallway above was dark. Curtains shrouded the window panes, letting only slender blades of light through. They turned to the right. The carpet
shush
ed beneath their feet. “Here we are.” He pulled her around sharply and released her arm long enough to push open a door.

Beyond was an oak-paneled study. The furniture was thick-legged and dour, the bookshelves stuffed with ponderous tomes. A low, red-cushioned chaise longue was set in the middle of the room, as if awaiting her; the curtains had been drawn from a single window, casting a brutish beam of sunlight onto it.

“Sit,” Beauchene ordered, and gave her a light push. She walked with as much dignity as she could muster to the chaise longue and settled near the arm. Her chemise was a mess. The shoulder was torn slightly, the hem damp, spots of dirt apparent where she'd brushed against the tables in the greenhouse. She propped her elbow on the arm of the chaise longue and arched an eyebrow at Beauchene.

“So where is this artist?” she asked.

Beauchene's eyes went to the corner of the room. She twisted. Mr. Tiger stood in the shadowed corner, stiff and scowling. She froze.

“Mr. Bhandari, your subject. I look forward to the finished product.” With that, Beauchene turned and left, closing the
door behind him. Elinor's lips parted, not sure where to look—at the closed door, or at the man glowering from the other side of the room. Now she did cross her arms and cross her ankles, drawing herself together and near the back of the chaise longue, using it to conceal her from Mr. Bhandari's gaze. But he was not looking at her; rather, his eyes were fixed on a point above her head.

“Bhandari,” she said. “That's your real name, is it?”

“It is,” he said.

“It suits you better than Mr. Tiger,” she said.

“If you say so.” His accent was more pronounced now than it had been when last they spoke, anger clipping the words. Anger at her? Or at Beauchene?

“I thought he'd stay,” she said. “I assumed that was the point. To watch.”

“It is a better display of power if he leaves and may simply assume that we will do as he has instructed,” Mr. Bhandari said. He still hadn't looked at her. His mouth was downturned, his hands clasped stiffly behind his back.

“We could leave,” she said.

“That would be unwise. M. Beauchene is an expert in punishing those who disobey him,” Mr. Bhandari said.

“He doesn't even know who I am,” Elinor replied. She drew her knees up to her chest. “But you would get in trouble, wouldn't you?” She shook her head. “I don't understand why you work for them. Beauchene and Foyle. You don't seem like them.”

“I'm not like them,” Mr. Bhandari said. “You did not tell me you knew him.”

“Who?”

“My employer.”

She winced. She'd used his name. “I know who he is, that's all,” she said. “Are you going to tell him?”

“No,” he said, after a moment's consideration. “I don't believe I will. I have no idea why you are so interested in him. If you have any sense, you will avoid him. But I won't get you in any more trouble than you already are.”

“Am I? In trouble?”

“It's hard to tell with Beauchene. You've caught his attention. That is trouble enough.” He sighed. “We should begin.” He strode forward, making for the side of the chaise longue. Elinor stiffened.

“Don't,” she said. She drew herself into the corner. “Please.”

He paused. “You weren't modest with him,” he said. “Do I frighten you that much?” There was a note of old pain in that, a weary pain. It was true that she had found his dark skin startling for a moment, in that first encounter, and intriguing since. But his race was not the source of her discomfort, and she shook her head.

“It's not that,” she assured him. “It's . . . I don't care if he sees me. I think he would have enjoyed it if I tried to hide myself, and . . . I don't care what he thinks of me.”

“And you care what I think?” He sounded surprised.

“I might,” she said. “I haven't decided yet.”

“And you think I would think less of you, if I saw you undressed.”

“I think that modesty is respect, for those who value modesty,” Elinor said.

“Circular logic.”

“All humanity is circles,” Elinor said. “We're turned around in confusion everywhere we go. This place makes you uncomfortable, I can tell. You value modesty, don't you?” He inclined his head. “Then in your presence, I do as well.”

“And what about in your own habitat?” Mr. Bhandari asked. “Left alone, with no one else to turn in circles with you, do you value it?”

“I do,” Elinor said. “But I refuse to be shamed by that man's gaze.”

Mr. Bhandari chuckled. “You would walk naked down city streets to spite a man like that, I think. I admire you. I am glad that you are not my wife or my sister, I admit, but I admire you. Here.” He slipped out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the chaise longue. “Put that on,” he instructed her. “And sit like so.” He gestured with his hands.

She obeyed, tugging on the jacket—it barely closed over her bosom, but it fell past her buttocks, and when she sat
sideways as he had instructed, with one foot tucked beneath her and the other stretched in front of her, it gave her some semblance of modesty. Only her legs, long and pale, showed.

“Will that do?” he asked. She nodded. “We will do this quickly,” he said. “And you can go back to your Mr. Egret before he can become concerned.”

“I hope you're right,” she said.

*   *   *

Colin strode through every room of the ground floor. Twice he thought he caught the lilt of Elinor's voice, or spied a flash of auburn hair—but they belonged to other women. He could taste something bitter in the back of his mouth.

He should have taken her home as soon as he'd realized who she was. He should have had the courage to face the consequences. Never mind that those consequences would fall on her as well—he could have found a way.

He threw himself around a corner and bowled right into a petite girl and her companion, nearly knocking both of them off their feet. He muttered quick apologies, hauling them upright by the elbows and startling a laugh from the girl. Her mask had come askew, revealing a cherubic face and bright pink cheeks.

“Are you looking for Theodosia?” she asked. He looked at her blankly. “Your companion?” she prompted. “I saw her with the sour-faced gentleman. Mr. Lamb? They were out in the greenhouse.” She gave him a winning smile as dread pooled in his belly like ice water. “She didn't seem too pleased with him, but I'd hurry just the same.”

Her companion was tugging at her arm, clearly intent on maneuvering her upstairs. She swatted at his hand impatiently.

“Thank you,” Colin managed, and pushed between them.

“How rude,” said the young man, but Colin was past caring. He hit the lawn at a run and thundered down the hill to the greenhouse. The door hung open. He fetched up at the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. Foyle stood at the back, leaned against a table and smoking. Colin
crossed to him in a few long strides and seized hold of his shirt, hauling him upright.

“Where is she?” Colin demanded.

Foyle let out a low, hollow laugh. “Lost track of her, have you? And what would I know about it? Why come running to me?”

“I know who you are,” Colin said.

Foyle twitched. Tension quivered at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “And who am I?”

“Edward Foyle.”

“Beauchene has strict rules about the use of names,” Foyle said, but gave a little shrug. “It doesn't change the fact that I don't know where your woman is, so get your hands off of me.”

Colin released him. For now. He stepped back, barely restraining his hands from closing into fists, as Foyle straightened out his jacket and dumped his pipe ash on the ground with an overly casual gesture. “So who are you, then? Do I owe you money? Did I insult your wife?”

“You married my sister.”

Finally Foyle stiffened. He straightened up slowly. “You're Lord Farleigh.”

“Names,” Colin reminded him coldly. “We wouldn't want your dear friend upset with you.”

Foyle spat. “Beauchene is not the sort of friend you want, believe me. Then this is about Marie. I wondered when I'd hear from you lot.”

“You went to a great deal of trouble to avoid us.”

“I went to a great deal of trouble to avoid everyone,” Foyle said. “I loved her. She died.”

“You loved her,” Colin said. Disdain and doubt dripped from every word. Foyle looked away. “Why the hell did she marry you? Her husband not two months in the ground? And the mines—”

“The mines. The damned mines. That's what all of this is about, isn't it? It's always the diamonds.”

“This isn't about the diamonds. It's about where my—
companion
is. It's about what
exactly
you think I won't do
to the man who took my sister from me, if he doesn't tell me where my
companion
has gone.”

Foyle laughed. It was a harsh, hollow sound, like the last giving-way of a dead tree. “Your sister was a whore,” he said.

Colin moved before he could think. His fist flew out, met Foyle's jaw with a crack. The man fell back, struck the table, and landed in a heap at Colin's feet. He looked up at Colin with a bloodied smile, red in the gutters between his teeth.

“She spread her legs for whoever came her way, and her husband was a blind idiot.”

“Do not speak of her that way.”
Get up
, Colin willed the man.
Stand up so I can beat you down again.
But Foyle only propped himself on one elbow, wiping blood from his lip with the side of his thumb.