A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (30 page)

“More?” the footman asked, but Joan had already sighed and trundled forward. She pressed a coin into the boy's hand, extracting the note, and turned back as she unfolded it. Immediately her eyebrows creased in consternation.

“Martin,” she said urgently, and held it out to him. His expression darkened as he read.

“What is it?” Colin asked.

“A summons,” Martin said. He looked up. His eyes blazed with anger, and Colin felt cold dread spread through his core. “I expect there is one waiting for you at your home as well. It says that a Mr. Foyle is expecting my company, and yours, at a tea shop. It's written in Elinor's hand.”

“Oh, hell,” Colin said. He felt the blood drain from his face. A tea shop. That was good. It was a public place; he couldn't have hurt her, then. Unless she wasn't there. What if he had her held elsewhere? How had he even found her?

“I think you have some explaining to do,” Martin said.

“On the way,” Colin said. “If he has Elinor—”

“That is what's happening, then. This is someone dangerous.” Martin's voice had gone from fire to ice.

“Yes,” Colin said. “Very. We shouldn't delay.”

“Have the carriage brought around,” Joan ordered the footman.

“You're not coming,” Martin said immediately.

“I have explaining to do as well, and I don't mean to miss Lord Farleigh's part of it,” Joan said. “I'll stay in the carriage, don't worry.”

“You realize that is a physical impossibility,” Martin replied.

“Which? You not worrying, or me remaining where I promise to?”

“Both,” Martin said, but he didn't protest when Joan heaved herself after them down the steps.

“I've never been here before,” Elinor said. “It's quite nice.” She sipped her tea and peered around her. The tea shop made an unlikely location for blackmail, extortion, and kidnapping. Every surface was bedecked in extravagant lace; she had the feeling that someone's elderly female relative was being indulged. The other patrons were clean folk, well-dressed, and the woman who had served them tea had precisely the manner Elinor preferred from her waitstaff: polite, efficient, and not overcurious. It was the only aspect of the establishment that lent itself to the current situation.

Edward Foyle sat across from her, drumming his fingers on the table and scowling out the front window. He had not touched his tea; it was doubtless growing cold. A great pity, considering the quality.

“I'm certain they'll be here soon,” Elinor said. He turned his glare on her, and her gut clenched in instinctive fear. She sipped again to cover her fear. He had not harmed her. He had intimated that he had a weapon on his person, but by the time they had reached the tea shop she had begun to suspect it was a ruse. He had the advantage of information, though. Information that could be used to harm her and her family. And that was enough to keep her here, waiting for her
brother's arrival and trying desperately to keep her hands from trembling. She would not show him her fear. “It might save us a great deal of time if you simply explained to me what you wish to discuss,” she said.

“Your curiosity will be satisfied soon enough,” he growled. His harsh tone was enough to draw several curious looks, but they quickly dissipated. Elinor traced the brim of her teacup and counted her heartbeats. Too fast. She needed to remain calm. He wasn't going to hurt her in such a public place, even if he was in possession of a weapon. The harm he intended to cause was more insidious, and he would not be calling Colin and Martin here if there were not a way to circumvent it. He'd want something. Money, probably. A guarantee of their silence.

Well, she'd find out soon enough. There were Martin and Colin, striding around the corner with murder in their eyes while Joan struggled gamely to keep up. Elinor sat back, feeling satisfaction curl catlike within her. It was almost amusing, the way they burst into the tea shop as if into a den of thieves. She rather hoped
they
weren't armed; they all looked in the mood to enact some violence on her “host.” To forestall them, she stood, smiling blandly. Joan, a little out of breath, fetched up behind the boys.

“Lord Farleigh. Mrs. Hargrove. Dearest brother. Please sit down; the tea here is excellent. I hope you're well; I am in good health, I assure you.”

It was doubly amusing that the men's expressions were such perfect twins of each other. She could tell that both had the overwhelming need to throttle Mr. Foyle, and she watched reason war with instinct across their expressions in a give and take to match the most dramatic martial clash. Each settled into seething anger over outright violence within a few moments, and took his seat reluctantly. Joan plopped into hers with a grunt of relief and immediately reached for a biscuit.

“What the devil do you think you're doing, Foyle?” Colin asked.

“Having a civilized conversation,” Foyle said. He leaned
his forearms on the table. “How much do you know about what your sister has been up to, Mr. Hargrove?”

The set of Martin's jaw suggested he knew too much. Elinor felt as if the floor had given out under her. How much had Colin told him? Dear God, he couldn't have told him
everything
, could he?

“I know enough,” Martin said.

“Then you know it would be very unfortunate for all of you if her activities were widely known,” Foyle said.

“What do you want, Foyle?” Colin asked. “Just spit it out already.”

“You took something from Beauchene. I want it destroyed,” Foyle said.

“What we have is proof that you are a spy,” Elinor said. “That hardly balances against anything you might say of me.”

“Perhaps,” Foyle said. “But I can also offer you something that no hidden record or forgotten letter will reveal. I can tell you how Marie died.” At their stony silence, he looked between the four of them. “It's simple enough. Your family's reputation, Mr. Hargrove, will be preserved. And you, Lord Farleigh, will have your answers. All I ask in return is those letters. And a modest sum.”

“Money?” Joan said. “Really, how dull.”

He shrugged. “Funds will make my exit from your proximity all the faster. I will return here in one hour. You will bring five hundred pounds and the letters here.”

“I will discover what happened to my sister,” Colin said. “And I will do it without supplying you with the means to so much as buy a drink.”

“Farleigh. You have to consider Elinor,” Martin said levelly.

“I'll be fine. This is Colin's decision,” Elinor said.

“Yes, it is. And so I know he will do the right thing,” Martin said, and Colin glared at him. Elinor found that she had no doubt as to his answer. Of course he would accept Foyle's agreement. It was the only way to be certain of protecting her.

The realization was a curious thing. Her infatuation,
alternately heady and heartbreaking, solidified suddenly into an absolute calm. A certainty. Whatever they were or weren't to each other, they had that. They would protect each other to the last.

If she could not have him, she had that.

“I agree to your terms,” Colin said rigidly.

Foyle looked at Martin. “Mr. Hargrove, you understand that if Lord Farleigh reneges on this agreement—”

“My family's privacy is forfeit,” Martin snapped. “I understand. I will hold Lord Farleigh to whatever deal is struck here. Take your money, tell your tale, and let us be done with this.”

Elinor touched his wrist. He looked at her, and for a horrified moment she saw nothing but contempt in his eyes. But his expression soothed. Contempt for Foyle, she realized, not her. Never her. He covered her hand briefly, and gave her a nod that meant
we will speak later
, and she knew that things would be all right between them, whatever came. She chanced a look at Colin, too, and was surprised to see guilt and fear contorting his features. He looked away from her the moment her eyes met his, and fixed his gaze on Foyle.

“One hour,” he said. “And we will return.”

*   *   *

The sum Foyle named would not be difficult to put together; all things considered, it was quite conservative. That did nothing to ease Colin's anger as the four of them trooped out of the tea shop and back to the waiting carriage.

“To the bank?” Martin asked. “Or your home, first?”

“I have the damn letters with me,” Colin said. They were folded in his coat pocket; he'd given Hudson copies for his investigation.

Martin declined to comment on the invective as they took their seats in the carriage. Elinor sat across from Colin, her eyes half-lidded. He wondered at her calm. He supposed it had not been a proper kidnapping, but he expected more relief from her.

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” Colin asked.

“I told you I was well,” Elinor said. “I meant it. He wasn't even particularly menacing, once I realized he did not have a weapon.”

“Not the kind to leave a physical wound, at least,” Martin muttered. “We'll go to the town house first, to drop off you ladies. I'll come back with you to make the exchange, Farleigh.”

“Nonsense,” Elinor said. “You can come if you like, but I insist on being there.”

Colin nodded. Of course she would be there. She'd been with him the whole way; he could not imagine hearing what Foyle had to say without Elinor beside him. He could not imagine anything about his life from this moment forward without her beside him.

He still hadn't told her. He'd been so worried about her that he'd nearly forgotten, and now here they were with their knees nearly knocking, but he still couldn't say the words he longed to. It wasn't the right time. But it would be soon.

One hour.

“Oh, hell. There's no way I'm going to win this argument, is there?” Martin said.

“Were we having an argument?” Elinor asked sweetly.

“No, but I was doing a good job of scripting it out in my mind,” Martin said. He scowled at them each in turn—friend, sister, wife. “I need to find some more respectable acquaintances.”

“It's so sweet that you think you're still respectable,” Joan said.

“I suppose you'll insist on going, too,” Martin said.

“No, I don't think that would be wise,” Joan said. “I appear to be otherwise engaged.” She winced and pressed a hand over her belly. Colin blanched. Martin went white as a sheet, and Elinor let out a little
oh, my
that Colin thought rather understated the situation.

“We have to get you to a doctor,” Martin said. “Driver!”

“Home,” Joan insisted. “You can make the doctor come to us, remember? And I think there's still plenty of time.” She prodded a finger into her belly thoughtfully.

“Could you not . . .
poke
our child?” Martin said. “You might damage something.”

“You were supposed to wait until we were back at Thornwald,” Joan told her belly, and prodded it again. “I don't want to be stuck in London for weeks. Do you know how hard it is lugging you around in this heat?”

“It will be all right,” Martin said, taking her hand, and something in the tone of his voice made Colin realize that he was afraid.

“We'll be quick,” Elinor promised. “And then I'll be with you, the whole time. Or I could stay . . .”

“No,” Joan said. “No, go, both of you. See this through. And Lord Farleigh? If she is not back in one piece in a reasonable time frame, they will never find your body.”

Foyle was already waiting inside when Elinor and Colin met again outside the tea shop. Colin inspected the man through the window. He was too plain to be a villain. He ought to have had a brutish brow or greasy locks; instead, he looked so ordinary as to be nearly invisible.

“Are you ready for this?” Elinor asked.

“No,” he confessed. “But I don't think I would be, had I all the time in the world.”

“Nor I.” She folded her hands in front of her and took in a long breath. “I have discovered so much about Marie these past weeks. I feel as if I have discovered that she was a stranger to me all along. No. That isn't quite right. I feel as if . . .”

“As if by asking the questions, you have made her into a stranger yourself,” Colin said. “That you have created this reality by wondering.”

“Let's be done with this,” Elinor said. Her hand touched his briefly, and then she moved past him, leading the way into the shop. Foyle watched them approach, his jaw tense and eyes narrowed.

“Almost thought you'd back out,” he said.

“Your money,” Colin replied, setting the case in which the funds were hidden on the ground between them and
taking his seat. “And your crimes.” He withdrew the bundle of letters from his jacket and slid it across the table. They still had the copy, he told himself.

Foyle took the bundle and considered it. “French bastard,” he said at last. “He's guilty of worse than I ever was, you know. He played every side he could during the war. How do you think he got these?” He grunted. “But it wasn't enough. No, he kept on digging. Traced me back all the way to India. I think he was hoping for something on Copeland, but of course
he's
too polished for mud to stick to him.”

Foyle slipped the bundle into his pocket. Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I can't believe it came to this,” he said. “It was supposed to fix everything, marrying your sister. It was supposed to make us happy.”

Colin contemplated the exact distance between them, calculating the effect of the intervening table on his ability to launch himself at the other man. Elinor's foot bumped up against his, and she gave him a pleading look.
Keep yourself together another few minutes, Farleigh
, he admonished himself.

“I was in love with her. Pitifully so,” Foyle said. “She didn't want anything to do with me. Then Hayes died. Lord Copeland wanted those mines. He threatened her. I protected her from him. Gave her a way out, but she never once showed a bit of gratitude.”

“And what did she have to be grateful for?” Colin asked, voice flat.

“They used me. Lord Copeland. Marie. Everyone. She knew that I had the kind of connections to—to cover up what she'd done. She came to me while she was still pregnant. She wasn't sure if Lord Hayes was the father. Though it would be damn obvious once the whelp was born. She wanted help getting rid of it, if it came out wrong.”

Colin listened with gritted teeth.
Get rid of it
. The Marie he'd known would not have spoken that way. Would not have thought that way. She would have been afraid, yes. But she would not have been so callous.

“I didn't have to marry her. Copeland knew about the child, about the affair. I could have let him ruin her, but I told her I'd
look after her. That I'd sort things out with him, if she'd marry me, and she did. And then you know what she told me, while we were walking away from the altar? She leaned over and said, ‘I'll never love you.'” He gave a hollow laugh. “After everything I did for her.”

“And your debts had nothing to do with it, then,” Elinor said flatly.

Foyle shrugged. “And what if they did? It still saved her. The least she could do was show some hint of gratitude.”

Colin could hear his blood in his veins, the oppressive cadence of his own pulse. “What happened to her?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“She killed herself,” Foyle said. Colin's skin went cold. Elinor gave a jolt. “She wasn't the same after the child. I was there. I hired a local woman, paid her to be quiet, so no one else would know. And after it came—well. She wouldn't let go, would she? Kept singing to it. Saying it would be all right, everything would be all right, when anyone could see that it wouldn't.

“Anyway, after that she was strange. Those words at the wedding were the only ones she spoke to me, almost. She hardly ate. Slept most of the day. Then one night, she left. Hadn't left the house in weeks, but she walked out into the street without so much as pair of slippers. Just in her nightgown. I went looking for her, but she was gone. Didn't realize what she'd done until they pulled her out of the river.”

Colin turned his face away. He could not listen to this. “My sister did not kill herself,” he said. He tasted bile. “She wouldn't,” he said.

“No, she wouldn't,” Foyle said. “Except it wasn't her. She was broken somehow. Sick and broken. If I was a superstitious man I'd say she was possessed.” He gave a hollow laugh.

“You didn't actually see—”

“She left a note. Said it'd be easier for everyone this way. I think she believed it, too. She had no idea the trouble she'd cause Bhandari. Or me.”

“How selfish of her,” Colin said, and perhaps Foyle had some sense of how close to death he was treading, for he shut up at last.

The bell over the door jangled. Foyle straightened up. “I suppose that's everything then,” he said. He started to stand. Colin began to rise, but Elinor's hand found his thigh, and her nails dug in. “I should be going.”

“I'm afraid you won't be,” Elinor said. She looked behind her, and Colin turned to see what she was looking at. Three men had entered the tea shop, and seemed to be waiting for some signal. “This is him,” Elinor said, raising her voice slightly, and they started forward.

Foyle bared his teeth. “What's the meaning of this?” he said. “We had a deal.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, I rather broke it,” Elinor said, wide-eyed. “
This
is a magistrate and two very muscular constables.
This
is you being in possession of letters that clearly indicate your treasonous activities in wartime.
This
is me not being afraid of whatever lunatic lies you try to spin about me. Honestly, gentlemen. Can you believe this man thought that he could blackmail me by claiming that I was some sort of covert courtesan?”

“Preposterous, Lady Elinor,” the magistrate said. “Terrible business, this. Lord Farleigh. May we take the villain off your hands? You're welcome to retrieve your money, of course. Blackmail and espionage. Not a good day for you, Foyle.”

Foyle had gone extremely pale. He looked nervously between the two burly constables, who were closing in on him from each side.

He bolted, lunging past the bigger one. The man grabbed for the back of his coat, but Foyle was past him in an instant, worming between the tables and toward the door. He struck the magistrate in the side, sending the man toppling.

Colin leapt out of his chair. Foyle was three steps away from the door. Colin grabbed at him. His hand closed around the back of Foyle's arm. He swung the man around with all the force he could muster, anger and grief raking through him like the teeth of a wild creature.

Foyle flew out of Colin's grasp, shoulder-first into the window at the front of the shop. Glass shattered. Foyle rebounded and slumped to the floor, a thin shard of glass impaled in his shoulder. He clutched at it with a howl. Colin advanced.

Elinor caught his hand. He wheeled on her, his heart pounding in his ears, but she only shook her head.

“Enough,” she whispered. “It has to be enough.”

Slowly, he nodded. His heartbeat slowed. The constables moved past him with muttered thanks and collected Foyle. Colin didn't look. He stared at Elinor instead, watched her watching them, traced the lines of her face with his gaze.

“They're gone,” she said after a time. “You're shaking.”

So he was. Foyle was gone. He'd hang, no doubt. But not for what he'd done to Marie. Even through all his rage, Colin wasn't certain he deserved to hang—and yet it seemed not enough. He was being punished for the wrong crime.

The patrons and workers were all staring at him. At them. He stepped neatly around the table and picked up the case in which rested his five hundred pounds. He weighed it in his hand. That was the price he'd been willing to pay to know the truth. And now the money was his again.

He walked to the counter, where the owner stood, glowering.

“My apologies for your trouble,” Colin said. He set the case on the counter between them. “This should cover the damage to the window. Good day.”

With that he turned, and walked out onto the street.

*   *   *

Elinor did not care about propriety. When Colin hailed a cab, she climbed in after him, and sat on the bench across from him. He hardly seemed to notice her. She could not blame him. She could read the grief in every line of his face, and it echoed her own.

Marie had killed herself.

There remained the possibility that Foyle was lying, but she didn't believe so. Those final letters, the letters that spoke of being afraid, had a quality to them akin to madness. She'd been afraid and alone and desperate. She'd had a child who could destroy her, and she'd been surrounded by enemies who claimed to love her.

Elinor knew her friend, and knew that it would have
destroyed her. There was no villain to blame. No hand but her own. Other men may have owned her misery, but she had taken the final step. Lord Copeland surely shared some blame, but however much Foyle tried to shunt responsibility onto him, it did not sound as if he had taken any direct action against Marie. Foyle himself would face punishment for the role he'd played, though she suspected that in his own mind, he was telling the truth when he said he'd loved her. That he'd meant to protect her. And Bhandari—Bhandari was to be blamed least of all, for of all of them he had loved her the most, and would have saved her if he could.

They stopped in front of Colin's town house. He got out without a word, and strode for the door. Elinor hesitated. He was in worse pain than she had ever seen him, and she was absolutely certain that he was heading inside for the nearest bottle of liquor. And she was not certain he would stop drinking once he had started. There was too much surcease of pain to be found in oblivion, too much torture in cogent thought. Drink had not been the vice of her grief, but she knew the temptation of self-destruction.

“Miss? Where can I take you?” the driver asked.

She stood. “Nowhere. I'm staying here,” she said.

She exited the carriage with her shoulders squared and her hands nervously smoothing her skirts. It took her thirteen steps to reach the front stoop. Seventeen seconds to work up the nerve to ring the bell. Thirty-two words in all to learn that Colin had headed for the library and to express that she was quite all right, thank you, she would show herself in. She hoped the halls would be clear, but Phoebe was in the hallway, looking puzzled.

“Elinor?” she said. “What on earth is going on? Colin just barreled past me, and now he's in the library with mother and that Indian fellow, and they locked the door.”

Of course. They needed to be told. “It's to do with Marie,” she said.

Phoebe's eyes widened. “What about her?”

“They should tell you,” Elinor said. “It's not my place. But I'll wait with you, if you like.”

She nodded, apprehensive, and the two of them stood together in silence for several minutes. When the door opened, Mr. Bhandari came out first. He strode away without so much as a word of greeting, and then Lady Farleigh emerged, looking older than her years.

“Mother, what's going on?” Phoebe asked immediately.

Lady Farleigh sighed. “I suppose it can't be put off, then. Come with me.” She looked at Elinor. “I assume you're going in there to see him.”

Elinor steeled herself before that withering gaze. “Yes,” she said.

Lady Farleigh waved a hand. “Well, have at it, then. It will be the least improper thing that has happened in this house all day.” She took Phoebe's hand in the crook of her arm and headed down the hallway.

Elinor didn't knock. Colin had been Lord Farleigh long enough to forget that there were people who did not respect the sovereignty of a closed door; he hadn't locked it behind him. She darted in quickly and shut it behind her, and she
did
throw the lock. She had no wish to be interrupted.

Colin had already poured himself a glass of brandy. Filled it nearly to the brim. He looked up at her with a bleak, empty expression. “What are you doing here, Elinor?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“I'm worried about you,” she said.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'm not going to kill myself. I should think one suicide is enough in the family, don't you?”