A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (29 page)

Her brother and sister-in-law shifted. She could read every tilt of an eyebrow, every angle of their limbs. They were going to continue this discussion without her, whatever she said. She supposed she ought to be irritated, but instead she found it comforting. She hadn't lost Martin when he'd married; she'd gained another ally, one she desperately needed right now.

She would survive this. She had to. Even if she had to travel to Italy and drink all the wine in the nation.

*   *   *

Colin arrived at the club in no better a mood than when he'd set out. The usual crowd was there—Harken, Weathersby, and Gibson. It should have been a pleasant diversion. It instead proved to be utter torture. Weathersby was in a foul mood for some reason none of them could determine, and Gibson could only do so much to keep the conversation flowing. And Colin suddenly found that without the application of liquor, Gibson wasn't particularly interesting. They were all grateful when an early night was declared and they parted ways.

By the time Colin returned home, the house was silent, but he could see a light in the drawing room. He poked his head in, more cautiously this time, and found Phoebe curled on the sofa with her feet under her and a book on her lap. She looked up at him as he entered. “Oh,” she said. “I was waiting for you.”

He took a seat on the opposite side of the sofa and slung an arm over the back. “I thought you might have been,” he said. “Mother didn't say anything dreadful, did she?”

“No,” Phoebe said. She bit her lip. “Colin, are you certain that you aren't angry with me?”

“I'm still not entirely sure what I should be angry about,” Colin said. He cleared his throat. “You were . . .”

“Kissing,” Phoebe supplied. “We're in love, Colin, and
we want to be together, and I know you'll say it's not right, but at least promise you won't do anything to hurt her.” Her eyes shone with unspent tears.

Colin leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “That I can promise,” he said. In love. That was the worst version of it. The version that did not allow for easy dissuasion. “She's a woman,” he said.

“Obviously. Or did you think I merely needed to put my spectacles on?”

“So are you,” he said, as if she hadn't noticed, and then shook his head. “How can you be in love with another woman?”

“I don't know,” Phoebe said. “I just am. Haven't you ever been in love?”

He laughed. She gave a startled jump and looked at him in suspicion. “Completely and miserably,” he confirmed. A piece seemed to click into place. It didn't need to be more complicated than that, did it? His sister was in love with someone she shouldn't be. Was feeling, perhaps, some version of what he was. And he would do anything to turn that pain into happiness. “You will have to be very, very careful,” he said.

“You don't disapprove?”

“I absolutely disapprove,” Colin said. “I also know that I have never been able to dissuade you of anything,
especially
through disapproval. I know you, and I know Maddy a bit. I know Joan and Martin trust her. I want you both safe and well, and the rest comes second. What did Mother say?”

“A lot of things,” Phoebe said. She looked down at her book and traced a finger idly along the edge of the pages. “She said that she had an aunt who . . . It's not important. She said that it would be easier if we were only friends. She asked if we could manage it.”

“And what did you say?”

“I couldn't,” Phoebe said. “Thinking about it makes me feel like I'm buried under a cartload of rocks, and my chest is caving in.”

Colin knew that feeling well. It was the one he felt now.

“We talked for a long time,” Phoebe said. “And I've agreed to marry.”

“What?” Colin said. “Phoebe, you just said—”

“Lord Philip Mayhew,” Phoebe said. Colin's objection cut off short. Lord Philip Mayhew was the third son of the Marquess of Galcombe. He and Phoebe had always gotten along grandly, but they had dismissed him as a prospect because—well, because he very obviously had no interest in the female sex. “Assuming he's amenable to the arrangement, that is, which I think he will be. We've always been good friends, and I think we would run a household together well, and we could both have our own lives as well. We'd only need to produce an heir or two, and I could manage that. If it meant I could have Maddy, too.” She swallowed.

“Trust Mother to be practical,” Colin said. “It's a good idea, Phoebe. You'll be protected as long as you're married. And he's a good bloke.”

“And I do want children,” Phoebe said earnestly. “It wouldn't be so bad, as long as we liked each other, would it?”

“We do what we must,” Colin said. He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “I will never be angry, as long as you are loved.”

She gave a choked cry and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace, holding her thin body against his and remembering when she would throw herself at him as a child, when he came home from school. He'd sweep her up and spin her around, and she wouldn't stop asking questions long enough for him to answer a single one. He could not claim that the disgust and the discomfort had bled out of him entirely, but one thing was obvious. He could not lose another sister, and if he fought this, he would lose her.

“You'll see,” she was saying. “You'll love her, too, you'll see.”

He broke away from her. “Be especially careful the next few months,” he said. “It's probably best for the two of you to return to the country. Once you and I are both married, there will be a great deal less risk.”

“Oh! Your engagement,” Phoebe said. “I hadn't even thought— Colin, I'm so sorry. I promise we didn't let anyone catch on. Oh Lord. Can you imagine what would happen if Lord Levenbane found out?”

“I would really rather not,” Colin said. “And I really should speak to him soon,” he added belatedly.

“And Penelope,” Phoebe reminded him. “She
is
going to be your wife. You should probably have more than a single conversation with her.”

He sighed. “I truly wish Spenser women weren't so smart,” he said, and was gratified when she punched him in the arm. Some things should never change.

Colin arranged to take Penelope Layton on a walk through Hyde Park the next day. The day dawned bright and beautiful, if a bit overly warm, and despite the thinning London crowd the park was well-supplied with overdressed men and women. Lady Penelope's escort trailed a respectable distance behind, just out of earshot. She would have been all but unnoticeable except for the impressive feat she was performing: neatly avoiding every obstacle in her path while her nose was planted firmly in a book. Colin found her sidestepping and page-turning somewhat entrancing. Much more interesting than the subject of his and Penelope's conversation, which had turned to bees.

“Yes, bees,” he said dutifully. “Very useful creatures, what with the honey.”

“Have you ever tried your hand at beekeeping?” Penelope asked.

“Can't say I have,” he said. She seemed crestfallen. “Perhaps when you live with me, we could arrange for you to look after a hive,” he said quickly, and she brightened. “If you would enjoy that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I would,” she said.

“You're not afraid of being stung?”

“Not in the least,” she said. “It's only a bit of pain. And besides, it's quite easy to avoid, if you're kind and cautious. Bees don't mind company, as long as it's polite.” She smiled, her cheeks dimpling.

“I will try to make you happy,” he said.

Her smile faltered. “Lord Farleigh?”

“I know I haven't done this properly. But I want to assure you, I'll provide you with whatever you desire. I won't be an onerous husband.”

“I'm certain,” she said, still bright, but with a hint of doubt in her voice. He shook his head. He was making a hash of things. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “No, nothing's wrong.” Everything was wrong. He glanced back at the escort. And frowned. A figure was approaching at a rapid gait—a figure he recognized. Weathersby. He had never seen the man move with such speed or purpose, nor seen such a scowl on his face. “What on earth . . . ?”

Lady Penelope turned to follow his gaze and gave a startled gasp. “Cecil!” she declared as Weathersby approached. “What's wrong? You look in a state!”

Weathersby drew up, momentarily knocking the escort from her path. She frowned at his back and snapped her book shut, clearly ready to intervene at the first sign of misconduct. Weathersby was sweating, his blond locks plastered to his scalp, and his breath came in little heaving gasps. How far had he hustled to reach them?

“Sit down before you fall over, Weathersby,” Colin advised.

“I will not,” Weathersby declared. “I've let this go on long enough, and I'll never live with myself if I don't do something.”

“Let what go on?” Colin asked. “What the hell are you talking about?” Penelope gasped at the invective.

“You can't marry him,” he said to Penelope, and then wrenched his attention back around to Colin. “You can't marry her. I can't believe you would do this.”

“Do what? Get engaged? I can still play cards once I'm
married, Weathersby,” Colin pointed out. He was growing more confused by the second.

“When you knew how I felt,” Weathersby all but squeaked.

Colin stifled a string of further curses. The universe was laughing at him. “I had no idea you even knew each other,” he said. Lady Penelope had both hands clasped over her mouth. The escort had let her book dangle from one hand and was watching the events unfold with a blatantly curious expression, mouth opened in a little O.

“I talk about her all the time!” Weathersby said.

“Do you?” Colin squinted. He seemed to remember Weathersby was interested in some young lady, but he was always so very drunk at those card games. “I honestly didn't realize, chap.” He turned to Lady Penelope. “Lady Penelope, I hope you will forgive me. I did not realize that I was interfering with any prior attachments.”

She said something completely muffled by her hands. At his blank stare, she dropped them and tried again. “There are no prior attachments,” she said. “Cecil, I had no idea.”

“All those hours we spent together,” Weathersby said. “All those long conversations. You didn't realize?”

“You didn't
tell
me,” she said in a tortured wail. They were drawing quite the crowd. Colin's ears were ringing—though whether from the pitch of Penelope's distressed voice or from his sudden sense of vertigo, he wasn't certain. “Why didn't you
tell
me?” she demanded.

“I thought it was obvious,” Weathersby said.

“And I thought that when you said I was
such
a
good pal
, it meant you weren't interested!” She threw up her hands. “Cecil, do you have any
idea
how much time I've spent mooning after you! And you didn't! Say! Anything!”

“Neither did you!” he countered.

“That's not fair,” Lady Penelope snapped. “When a
man
is in love with someone who doesn't want him, it's poetic and tragic and wonderful. When a women does the same thing, it's pathetic.”

“It's really quite pathetic when we do it as well,” Colin said. “Trust me.” He took his fiancée's hand. “Lady Penelope.
I must at this juncture beg you to release me from our engagement. I fear I am most horrifically in love with someone, and it has just occurred to me that I've never actually said as much. If there is any hope of forgiveness for such pathetic men as Weathersby and I, perhaps you would be kind enough to grant my request, and consider his?”

Lady Penelope stared at him, wide-eyed. “Are you sure?” she asked. “What if she says no?”

He winced. “Then I suppose I'll have no choice but to turn to poetry. Do you want to marry Weathersby?”

She bit her lip and cast a look over his shoulder to where Weathersby waited, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Rather desperately,” she confided in a low voice.

“Would your father approve the match?” he asked. He couldn't abandon her if it would only lead to tears.

“An earl's not quite as good as a marquess, but I can convince him,” she said. “Especially if I cry a bit. He does so hate it when I cry at him.”

He peered back at Weathersby. “Weathersby. You're an earl?”

“Earl's first son,” Weathersby said glumly. “Father's quite old. I have told you. A few times.”

“Huh,” Colin managed. He really did have to stop drinking. “Well, then. May I suggest you two go see the man? Feel free to tell him that I'm a terrible cad who's broken your heart. The only possible remedy is a swift marriage to show you aren't affected in the slightest.”

She was smiling now, and somehow it was brighter and more lovely than any she offered him before. It was not merely a smile of polite agreeableness. She was radiantly happy.

Colin bent and kissed her hand. Then he turned and grabbed Weathersby's hand, shaking it firmly. “Thank you,” he said, “for showing me how much of an idiot I am.”

“By being one myself,” Weathersby said, but the same radiance beamed from his face. “Good luck,” he added, as Colin strode away. He caught one last glimpse of them, resuming the walk as if they had always been together.

“Damn it, man. You never
told
her,” he muttered to himself, and picked up his pace.

*   *   *

Elinor's headache had receded by the time she rose from her rest, and she was relieved to find that Joan's recently acquired habit of a midafternoon nap continued unabated, sparing her a full debriefing. Hearing Martin's distant tread, she swiftly decided to take a walk. She needed open skies and clear air, and no more interrogations, however well-meaning.

The ride to the park was stifling, but once she exited the hack she was glad of her decision. The day was beautiful, and the mere sight of so many people who had no idea where she'd been or what she'd been up to raised her spirits considerably. She strolled idly, waving and nodding in greeting to those she recognized, but never pausing for more than a moment. Yet something remained like a gray wash over her vision, tarnishing the beauty of the day. She enjoyed her walks in isolation, with the quiet of her mind and the company of her thoughts, and today she wished very much to be alone. The trouble was she found herself wishing she had some company in her solitude.

It was a ridiculous thought. She could not be alone if someone else were about, but there was an emptiness more solid than mere absence today. She found herself wishing that someone was waiting for her to return. Relaxing on a bench, perhaps, while she made her turn about the park. Or even at home, absorbed in his own work. And she knew exactly who she wished that person to be.

And he was standing not fifty yards away. She froze. It took her a painful moment to take in the scene before her—Colin, Lady Penelope, some round-faced man she didn't recognize—and a second more to stir herself from horrified stupor into action. She turned at once, wrenching her eyes from the tableau—were they arguing?—and strode back the way she had come. She hissed between her teeth. Could she not even have a moment without the man creeping into her mind and her presence?

And he'd been with Penelope. Somehow she'd managed to relegate the girl to an abstract, so long as she didn't have to see them together. Now she couldn't think of anything else. He would kiss that woman. Touch her. Make love to her the way the two of them never could.

Footsteps grew close behind her, keeping a quicker pace than hers to close the distance between them. She stiffened. He'd seen her. Followed her. For what purpose? Didn't he see that anything he said would only deepen her humiliation?

She spun. And Edward Foyle closed the gap between them.

“Lady Elinor Hargrove,” he said, voice warm with vicious pleasure. “I believe that you and I should have a word.”

*   *   *

Colin covered the distance between Hyde Park and the Hargrove town house in an interval of time that he was certain would set records, if anyone bothered to write such things down. It was such a brief interval that he had managed to stay at least a few paces ahead of his good sense, which was a damn good thing, considering what he was about to do. He bounded up the steps, chancing a glimpse behind him in case said good senses or Lord Levenbane were on his heels, and then rang the bell. He endured a few seconds of anxious weight-shifting before it was answered, and then he bulled his way inside, nearly upending the footman who'd answered.

“What the—” Joan began, emerging from the drawing room, and stopped herself short of what Colin was certain would be a most entertaining blasphemy. She was very good at her ruse in public, but tended to let it slip behind closed doors. “Lord Farleigh. What an unexpected surprise.” The sour set of her mouth suggested it was not a pleasant one.

“Mrs. Hargrove,” Colin said with what he hoped was a winning grin. “You are looking absolutely fetching and delightfully round. Is Lady Elinor at home?”

“No,” Joan said, lips pursing further, as if she'd bitten a lemon. “And she wouldn't want to see you if she was, I expect.”

He flinched. She was still upset, then. But he could not
allow himself to be dissuaded. “I need to speak to her, urgently,” he said.

“Does this regard her recent excursion?” Joan asked. “If so, I can handle the matter.” She folded her hands over her protruding belly and gave him the most staunchly unamused look he had ever seen on someone who wasn't guarding the royal family.

“It's not,” he said. “Not directly. It is a related matter.”

“Oh?”

She was not going to be moved. Martin appeared, descending the stairs with an expression of deep suspicion. Damn. What had Elinor told them, exactly? “Martin,” Colin said brightly. “You look well.”

“Farleigh. Something I can help you with?”

“He's looking for Elinor,” Joan said.

“Is he.” Martin's suspicion only deepened. “I think it's best if you don't, Farleigh.”

“I only need to speak to her for a moment.” He only needed a yes or a no. Though, he might need some time to lay out his case. His apology, rather. His explanation. His baring of his soul. No, don't get maudlin. He would simply detail the explanation, and await her judgment.

“Well, you can't,” Martin said. “She has expressed in no uncertain terms that she does not wish to see you, and I agree that it's for the best. I don't know exactly what went on between the two of you. I would like to assume the best of you. You are my oldest friend, save one. Unfortunately for you, Elinor is my oldest friend save
none
and it is with her that my loyalty must lie. So. I wish you a good day, Lord Farleigh, but I must ask you to leave.”

Colin scowled. “For God's sake, Martin. One conversation won't kill her.”

Colin was spared the consequences of his outburst by another ring of the doorbell. The footman obligingly opened the door to reveal a grubby child, blinking at them with a narrow-eyed look older than his years. “I've got a message,” he said before the footman could shoo him away. He held out his hand, brandishing a crumpled note. The footman looked a
question at Martin, who nodded. He reached for the note. The child held fast. “I was supposed to get some more,” he said.