A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (24 page)

Colin's mouth went dry at the sight of the gun. He grabbed for Elinor.

“Madame Beauchene, I can explain,” Elinor said, stepping around the desk.

Madame Beauchene lifted the pistol. “I do not require an explanation,” she said. “It is quite clear to me what is happening here. I don't blame you, girl. You are not the first woman to be caught up in a man's schemes.” She lifted a shoulder in an uncaring shrug. “So I do not wish you to think this is personal. Now come here.”

Elinor stayed where she was. Colin circled to join her, placing himself slightly before her, so that he could interpose himself if he needed to. He gauged the distance to the other woman. Could he cross that space without her putting a bullet into one of them? “You can't shoot us here,” he said. “What would people say? You won't pull that trigger.”

“Won't I? They will say many things, Lord Farleigh. They will perhaps say that a marquess became obsessed with a courtesan, and when she was disloyal to him, he killed her and then himself. So tragic. Awful, it happening in our house, but what could we do? Or perhaps they will
say that the jealous courtesan killed her noble lover, hmm? And who is to say differently? Her? She is a whore.”

Colin raised a staying hand. “She's not a courtesan,” he said. “She's the sister of the Earl of Fenbrook.”

The woman laughed. “The Earl of Fenbrook's sister is a spinster,” she said. “A virginal monument to virtue, without a trace of sensuality. Besides, you are a man of honor. You would never allow such a woman to remain in place like this.”

Damn. Damn and double damn. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I want her to walk over here,” Madame Beauchene said. “Slowly. And then I want her to turn around.”

“No,” Colin said, but Elinor squeezed his arm.

“It will be all right,” she said, in a voice he had heard a hundred times. A thousand. She was the reassuring voice, the voice of calm, in every piece of chaos he and Martin had ever found themselves in. When they were young, he had found it irritating. Superior. Now he marveled at the strength it must take when he felt as though he would shatter from the force of the blood pounding through him.

“No,” he said.

“We don't have a choice,” she pointed out.
Unless you think you can get that gun from her
, her expression seemed to say, a sort of dim hope that vanished with a little shake of her head. He would only get them killed.

So she walked away from him as he curled his hands ineffectually into fists. She turned, head held high, and Madame Beauchene pressed the muzzle of the pistol against her ribs. “Hold this,” the Frenchwoman said, and handed Elinor the lantern. “Now,” she said. “We are going to exit the room, and step to the side. You are going to walk in front of us, Lord Farleigh, and if you take one step in the wrong direction, I will kill your little pet.”

The gun dug hard against Elinor's ribs, and she flinched. He flinched with her, and raised his hands, placating. He kept them up as Madame Beauchene and Elinor backed out of the room, and as he followed. He gave the woman a wide
berth in the hallway, calculating distances and velocities. Imagining the damage a bullet could do, fired at that range through Elinor's ribs.

Madame Beauchene directed him down the hallway to a new set of stairs. Her husband was waiting there, looking harried.

“Really?” he asked his wife in French. “Is this necessary?”

“It is,” she insisted.

Beauchene looked Colin up and down and gave a helpless shrug, as if to absolve himself of guilt. “Apologies,” he said. “But you understand, we must place the privacy of our guests above all other concerns.”

“Privacy from everyone but you,” Colin said, which only drew a laugh from the Frenchman.

“My father died in France,” he said. “Along with my sisters, my brother, my friends. I would have been killed. I fled here, and do you think I found sympathy? No. Suspicion and contempt were my gifts. It became obvious that I could not survive here unless I had friends, and no one was willing to befriend me. I have done what I must to protect myself and my wife, no more.”

“It seemed like a bit more,” Elinor said drily.

“It is good to have contingencies. And to punish wicked men,” Beauchene said. “And to live comfortably. I don't want to kill either of you.”

“Then let us go,” Colin said. “We'll leave. You'll never hear from us again.”

Beauchene looked as if he was considering it. Considering it seriously. Colin believed him—the man was slime, but he was not a murderer.

“We cannot risk it,” Madame Beauchene said with a hiss.

Beauchene looked regretful then, and Colin's heart sank. He opened his mouth to speak.

A bang sounded in the hall. Colin let out a cry, reaching for Elinor—but she was fine. Madame Beauchene turned toward the window with a gasp, the unspent pistol in her hand.
“The fireworks!” she cried, as red light glittered through the windows. “Someone has set off the fireworks!”

As she turned, the pistol went with her. Colin lunged—a second behind the swing of Elinor's arm as she flung the lantern against Mme. Beauchene's arm. The glass shattered. Oil spilled over Madame Beauchene's sleeve; she screamed, beating at the flames that followed. Beauchene dove for her, whipping his jacket off, and Colin grabbed Elinor's arm.

They ran. Down the stairs, as pops and crackles and the flare of multicolored lights marked the explosions in the sky outside. As they reached the lower floor, half-clothed bodies emerged from their rooms, cooing and gasping in confused excitement. Colin pushed through them, Elinor's hand in his. He spotted a man he knew, careened past him—the man halted, staring at Elinor, but Colin could only pray that he would put down the sight of her to lack of sleep and a trick of the shadows.

Then they had reached the next flight of stairs. A figure loomed, halfway up, and Colin prepared to shove him aside.

“Come with me,” the man said. Mr. Bhandari. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and smoke.

“That was you?” Colin asked.

Mr. Bhandari's teeth gleamed in the darkness. “I thought you might appreciate a distraction. I have horses ready.”

Colin looked back at Elinor. Could they trust the man? She nodded once, expression tight. “He didn't do it,” she said. Marie, she meant. He didn't kill Marie. Colin didn't know if he believed that. But between Bhandari and Beauchene, he would take Bhandari. “Let's go,” he said.

Bhandari let them around to the servant's entrance at a near run. A scullery maid stood outside, holding the reins of three horses. Bhandari tossed her a coin, and she vanished inside.

“Can you ride astride?” Bhandari asked Elinor.

“Of course,” she said. “Though not with dignity.” She had already begun hiking her skirts up. Colin and Bhandari helped her into the saddle of a bay mare, then took to their
own horses. The animals sidled and champed, disquieted by the fireworks still crackling overhead. Bhandari spurred his mount with a cluck, and the others followed with little prompting, nerves giving them speed. Colin glanced back. There was no sign of Beauchene, only the guests spilling out onto the lawn to watch the final explosions as the fuses burnt to their ends.

*   *   *

They rode at a canter, not wanting to tire the horses too quickly—or go so fast one of the mounts lost its footing in the dark. Bhandari seemed to know where he was going. Elinor was glad. It was all she could do to keep a grip on the horse's mane and stay seated. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as she struggled against a tightening chest, like a corset cinched too tight.
Not again
, she thought, and tried to draw in a single, long breath. To resist, more than anything, the urge to panic. These spells always got worse once she panicked, once she started to fight for as much air as quickly as she could. And the headache was beginning—a throb behind her eyes that she knew would spread until she could not bear even the pale flicker of a candle's light against her lids.

It had not been this bad for years. Not since she was a teenager, whirling around on the dance floor when suddenly all the air was stolen from her lungs. Not since that last, humiliating collapse, her dance partner reaching out for her too late. After that, she'd been an object of pity. She hadn't cared; she'd been too frightened to care. It had felt as if she was dying. It felt that way now.

Only hold on
, she told herself.
Let the horse do the work. Only breathe.

But it was an impossible dictate. Her throat was closing up. Pain arced around her ribs, and spots began to dance in front of her vision. She coughed, hunching over the saddle.

“Elinor?” Colin said, drawing up short as her horse sidled to a stop. She coughed again, pressing a hand to her throat.

“Was she hurt?” Bhandari asked. She shook her head. She only needed one good breath. Just one, but she could
barely draw a small swallow of air, and it felt as if there was nothing under her at all—no solid horse, no ground, only a plummeting fall. She tilted in the saddle.

“Elinor!” Colin said, but his voice came as though from a great distance. She pulled herself forward with effort, falling across the horse's neck, not wanting to know what would happen if she struck her head against the ground. She heard the shift and clatter of hooves, the low murmur of anxious voices, and then strong hands were hauling her from her seat, settling her sideways in front of Colin. His arms bracketed her in, holding her stable while she labored with breath after breath. He was saying something. She really should pay attention. “What do I do?” he was asking. “Elinor, tell me how to help.”

“Rest,” she said. She had to stop, take another breath. “Steam.”

“There's a house up ahead,” Bhandari said. “We can find help there.”

Elinor sagged against Colin, gripping the front of his shirt. The movement of the horse jarred her, interrupting what little rhythm she could inflict on her ragged breathing. She tried to focus on something, anything else.

When she was young and these episodes came upon her, Martin or Marie would sit by her side. They would read to her, or simply talk, for hours or for days. And Colin—Colin had sent books, she remembered, with jokes written inside the covers for her. He'd always treated her like such a nuisance, but never when she was ill. Never when she couldn't match him, barb for barb. Now each breath brought his scent, his taste to her. All mixed up with leather and horse and the summer night, but unmistakably
him
. She'd been memorizing him, these past few days. Memorizing the parts of him that could never belong to her.

It didn't ease her breathing, but it made the ride bearable. And then they were halting, Colin shouting to rouse the occupants of whatever house they had arrived at. She shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his shoulder. One breath, two, three. All
she had to think about was the next bit of air, because he was there; he would keep the rest of the world at bay.

She was hardly aware of being handed down, then lifted again into Colin's arms. It was only a long while later, seated in a rough wooden chair, when hot, steaming tea was pressed into her hands, that she roused herself enough to open her eyes. She took a scalding sip and held the mug beneath her lips, breathing in the steam as the hot water slid down her throat. Colin was rubbing her back, murmuring to her. A man she didn't recognize—the occupant of the house, no doubt—hovered anxiously across the small kitchen. There was no sign of Bhandari.

She sipped again. The episodes didn't fade quickly, but as long as she was still, as long as she had the steam coiling around her face, she could begin to relax. To believe that it would pass.

And pray that her delay had not cost them.

Elinor woke in a strange bed, fully clothed. She had been awake most of the night, her breath slowly easing back to a normal rhythm. It was the worst attack she'd had in a decade. They had always been the most difficult of her maladies, these spells of breathlessness. The headaches she could handle, though they were agonizing. The various illnesses, weaknesses, dizzy spells—well, half of those she was certain were more the products of the cures she was offered than any innate flaw in her own biology.

The spells of breathlessness were the only ill she feared might kill her. And it very nearly had, last night. If they had not chanced upon the house, if they had not been able to stop, to rest—she shuddered.

Today, her chest was sore, but her breathing even. The lingering pangs of a headache ghosted at the back of her skull, but they were fading as well. Beyond that, the worst discomfort she suffered was that of sleeping in a corset—one stuffed with a roll of paper, at that.

She extracted the documents with a slight frown. She'd forgotten she had stowed them there. They were crumpled and creased now, but largely undamaged.

Perhaps this had not been an entirely wasted venture.

She rose and oriented herself. The room she was in had not a door but a curtain drawn around the bed for privacy. Once she drew it aside, she saw a narrow staircase leading down, and caught the low mutter of men's voices. Bhandari and Colin, she thought. She made her way down the stairs, sighing when the voices abruptly cut off. She knew the expressions that would greet her. This was always the moment she turned from a blood-and-flesh woman to a fragile porcelain doll. And sure enough, both men wore looks of stricken worry when she entered the main room. They were seated around a rickety table, the occupant of the house nowhere in evidence. Colin rose and strode toward her.

“Are you all right to be up?” he asked, voice nearly slurring under the weight of his worry.

Elinor waved a hand. “I'll survive,” she said, trying not to sound as if she'd ever doubted it. “You know this sort of thing happens to me now and again.”

“I thought it had stopped,” he said.

“Very nearly.” The worst of it had ended with the treatments; a restful, idle life had kept the remaining episodes from becoming too difficult to endure. Or conceal. Even Martin wasn't aware of the extent to which they lingered. “Are we safe here?”

Bhandari shifted. “For now,” he said. “But we should not stay. I have arranged for a carriage to collect the two of you.”

“How did you know to help us?” Elinor asked. “And—why? Forgive me for asking, but you do work for Foyle.”

“Ah. That does require some explanation,” Bhandari said. “Mr. Foyle told me who you were, Lord Farleigh. Lady Marie's brother. He feared that you would kill him. He began to speak of killing you first, before you could act. It was then that I had the horses prepared, and went to find you. As for the why—I owe Marie that much, at least. Far more, in fact.”

“You prepared three horses,” Elinor said. “You intended to come with us, then.”

“It was clear to me that I would be unable to remain,” Bhandari said. “And I wished the chance to speak with Lord Farleigh, in any case. To tell him things that ought to have
been spoken of many years ago.” He could not meet Colin's eyes, or speak to him directly, Elinor realized. “I found that you were not in your room, and I sighted Madame Beauchene traversing the halls with pistol in hand. I took the chance that a distraction would be in order.”

“It very much was,” Elinor said. “Thank you for your help. It was . . . unexpected.”

Bhandari inclined his head. “You are welcome.”

“Do you think Beauchene will come after us?”

“He will not expect us to have stopped so soon,” Bhandari said. He gave a half smile that contained little amusement. “It's almost clever, ending our flight so quickly.”

Elinor walked to the chair opposite him and sat, not yet steady on her feet. She set the rolled papers on the tabletop. “Did you know about these?”

He reached across the table and spread the pages, frowning. “Ah,” he said. “No, though I suspected Beauchene possessed something like them. There was little other reason for my employer to be so interested in friendship with the man.”

“That's why you work for him, isn't it?” Elinor asked. “You were suspected of Marie's death.”

He looked sharply at her, then away.

“Did you kill her?” Colin asked. He sounded too calm. Elinor didn't trust it.

“No,” Bhandari said, though there was an odd note in it—doubt? “I loved her.”

“She was married.”

Bhandari gave a choked laugh. “I knew that. I tried . . . Do you think I wanted to fall in love with an Englishwoman? I had a marriage arranged, a girl I knew in childhood. We would have had a happy life together. But Marie . . .” He shook his head. “I did not kill her. But I might have been able to save her, and I did not.”

“What do you mean?” Elinor asked. “It seems like there was a great deal of chaos after Lord Hayes died.”

“Chaos is one word for it,” Bhandari said.

“Was he murdered?” Colin asked. “It said his heart failed, but obviously records are not trustworthy.”

“No, no,” Bhandari said, with a quick shake of his head. “He and Lord Copeland had reached an arrangement about the mines. Neither of them was happy, precisely, but it would have saved both a great deal of hassle in the courts. Mr. Foyle, though, offended Lord Hayes, before the papers could be signed.”

“Offended him how?”

Bhandari spread his hands. “I am not certain. It likely had something to do with Marie. Mr. Foyle was . . . entranced. I cannot blame him for that, but he would not allow her refusal to dissuade him from his affections. It became very awkward for all of us. I suspect that Lord Hayes believed Marie was unfaithful to him, and this is what angered him.”

“He was right,” Colin said darkly.

Bhandari rested his hand flat on the table. “You must not think of your sister in that way,” he said. His accent made the precision of his tone all the more cutting, like each word was carved carefully from stone. “She was a good woman, whatever her transgressions. A moral woman, whatever her failures. She is not alive to atone for them. She can only be forgiven.”

Elinor looked to Colin. He was holding himself very still, but whatever anger was in those eyes was not for Mr. Bhandari. She rose and walked to him, tucking her body against his and taking his hand. She met his eyes for a long beat. He had to know the truth. He might not enjoy hearing about his older sister as a flawed being. He had spent so much time worshiping her. But he had to listen.

He did not have to listen alone. His hand tightened around hers.

“What happened then?” he asked. “After the deal fell apart.”

Bhandari waited a long time before replying. “Marie had stopped speaking to me, perhaps because of the falling-out. She would not see me—or anyone. She remained in her rooms, in her home, for months. And then Lord Hayes died. Lord Copeland went to Marie, asking her to honor the agreement in her husband's place. Marie despised Copeland; she
would not sign the proper paperwork. And then . . . then she married Foyle. He owed debts—a great many of them. Copeland made them vanish in exchange for the mines, and Foyle was all too happy to comply. But I never understood how he convinced Marie to marry him. She despised him, but then . . .”

He didn't know. Elinor shut her eyes briefly. “She had a child,” Elinor said. Bhandari's eyes widened. “Those months she hid away, she was with child. It was stillborn,” she said. “Foyle told me as much.”

“He has never spoken of it to me,” Bhandari said, confusion and sorrow written in his features.

“Because it was yours,” Colin said in a rumble. Bhandari stared at him. “Your bastard child. That's what Foyle used to make Marie marry him. Threat of exposure, because she'd borne
your
child.”

Bhandari turned his face away, as if to hide any emotions there. Elinor did him the courtesy of looking away as well, but Colin fixed his gaze on him, as if to discover the quality of the man's character by witnessing his pain. Perhaps it worked. In any case, Bhandari looked back at last, and spoke in a steady tone.

“I never meant to hurt her,” he said. “I loved her.”

“That, I believe,” Colin said. “And in a better world, perhaps that would have been enough to protect her.”

“After all of that, how could you work for Foyle?” Elinor asked.

He gave a hollow laugh. “Because I had no choice. It was the price he demanded, for saving my life. He protected me, when they came to arrest me. He told them that I could not have killed Marie, that he knew where I had been. It was a lie, of course, and I do not understand why he did it. Or why his price was my service.” Elinor could guess. Foyle was a jealous man. What better way to nurse that jealousy than to lord power over the man Marie had truly loved? “I agreed. I was eager for a way to leave the country. I thought he was a devil I understood.” He shrugged. “And he was, for the most part. As long as I did not complain at his endless parade
of minor sins, there was little that was onerous about serving him. And it felt like a penance.”

“Do you believe that Foyle killed her?” Colin asked.

“No,” Bhandari said. “I do not. I have come to know him very well. He is a coward. He is not a murderer.”

“You said that you could have saved her,” Colin said. “I don't see how.”

“If I had insisted on seeing her. If I had somehow stopped her from marrying that man—”

Colin shook his head with a violent jerk. “Do not lift the burden of blame from others' shoulders by putting it on your own. It diminishes her. It diminishes their guilt. Don't.”

Bhandari stared at Colin for a long moment, then bowed his head. “I understand,” he said. “I wish that I could give you more answers. I wish that I could have spared you the last few days.”

Elinor bit her lip lightly. For all that had happened, she was glad that she knew even what little Mr. Bhandari was able to provide. And she could not say she regretted this adventure. She would be glad when the danger was over, when she was home and safe—but she did not want to think about what else that entailed. The end of her arrangement with Colin. The end of a simple touch like they shared now.

As if echoing her thought, he pulled away from her. “We will go to my estate,” he said. “Will you come with us?”

Bhandari shook his head. “I must return.”

“You don't know what sort of welcome you will receive,” Elinor pointed out, not letting her alarm show in her face.

“Nor what retaliation my employer will take if I do not return,” Bhandari said.

Colin snorted. “Let him try. You've given me more of the truth than anyone else in this mess, and you likely saved our lives last night. You'll have my help, if you need it. God knows any debt to Foyle is long since discharged, simply by having put up with him this long.”

Bhandari looked stubborn. Elinor sighed. “You will not bring her back by suffering without cause,” she said. “You'll
come with us. And then you will go wherever you like. Do you have a profession?”

Bhandari seemed taken aback. “I was a teacher,” he said. “A tutor. That was a very long time ago.”

“And I imagine a great deal more enjoyable than following Foyle around,” she said. “Promise me you will come with us. After all you've done.”

“How can I refuse?” he said. He rose. “I will see that things are prepared. And I must ask . . . who are you, memsahib?”

Elinor gave a startled laugh. She had never introduced herself properly.

Colin spared her. He stepped forward, face schooled into perfect formality. “May I present Lady Elinor Hargrove, sister to the Earl of Fenbrook,” he said. “Who has most certainly not been in our company, nor anywhere near the residence of one Mr. Beauchene.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Bhandari said, sounding a bit strangled. “My Lady.”

“I promise I'm not normally this scandalous,” Elinor said. She didn't feel scandalous. She felt assaulted, and in need of comfort. If she had been a braver woman, perhaps she would have asked Colin for such comfort. Braver, or more foolish. It could only make things worse to rely on him, when she would not be able to again.