A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (6 page)

“Your terrible influence on my poor innocent sister, of course,” he said, and grinned. That, at last, got a smile out of her, even if it was tinged with familiar annoyance.

“I'm afraid that if you refuse to apologize, I must do the same,” she said.

“As long as we're agreed.”

“You have an odd definition of agreement.” She took another look at him, seeming to note his change of clothing. “You're going out?” she asked.

“I am. I likely won't be back until quite late,” he said. Idling here meant that he was at serious risk of arriving after the appointed hour, but he found himself unconcerned. “I will be whiling away the hours in the company of that most degenerate of species, the gentleman.” He sounded almost as though he were trying to justify himself to her, which was ridiculous. It was practically required for a well-bred gentleman to have bouts of degeneracy.

That arched eyebrow had returned, though. “Ah. I expect there will be a great deal of drinking and card-playing, then.”

“But of course,” he said. “It is a universal law that where three or more gentlemen gather, cards appear.”

Elinor looked disappointed. Anger he could handle, but he did so hate to disappoint her. “Try to come home with your fortune intact?” she suggested, with a not-that-I-care tone that made his gut clench more than heated words ever could.

“Fortune, yes. Dignity, perhaps not.”

She chuckled, and then came the wince again, her hand flitting up to touch her brow.

“Are you sure you are all right?” he asked.

“I have one of my headaches, if you must know,” she said.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, alarmed. At their worst, her headaches could cripple her for days.

“It is not one of the terrible ones. I need only a few hours of darkness,” she said. “Silence. Cool cloths.”

“I'll send a maid.”

“It's been handled,” she told him. They stood in awkward
silence for several seconds. “I should rest. And you should be going,” she reminded him.

“Of course. I hope you recover swiftly, Lady Elinor.” He executed a neat bow, and she made a passing reference to a curtsy. Then, to his relief, she moved past him and down the hall. He looked back to watch her as she made her way to her room.

“Lady Elinor?” he called to her suddenly.

She paused, turned. “Yes, Lord Farleigh?”

“If you need anything, anything at all—you need only ask.”

“Of course, Lord Farleigh,” she said. “I know.”

You don't
, he wanted to tell her, but she had already gone, rounding the corner and disappearing from his sight.

Anything at all
, he said, forming the words on his lips without speaking them, and turned to go.

The crowd at Luke Gibson's table was growing distressingly thin. They had staked out their corner of the club as usual, men too rich for their own good dedicating themselves to an evening of redistributing their wealth amongst one another, but tonight there were only four men in evidence, including Colin. Martin had been a rare commodity since his marriage. Lord Grey, Colin's waste of a brother-in-law, was playing the degenerate on the continent, far from his wife and child. Nor did Colin see any sign of Lord Kushner, nor the wheat-haired man he never did catch the name of and had been calling “dear chap” for three years out of sheer embarrassment.

“No Kushner?” Colin asked as he settled into his seat beside Captain Harken, a powerfully built man with the distinctive swagger of a sailor.

“Another victim of Cupid's bow, I'm afraid,” Gibson said. He was a small, precise man, neither the wealthiest man at the table nor the best titled, being the son of a baron, but he had taken charge of their regular game all the way back at Eton, and held onto the dubious honor through a combination of morose looks and bared teeth. “Off courting.”

“He'll be married inside a month,” Harken forecast, a
touch of gloom in his voice. Harken wore gloom and seriousness like a favorite cravat these days. The man didn't know what to do with himself without a war on. “And we're down to three.”

“Four,” Weathersby piped up. They all glanced momentarily at him as if they had failed to notice him on their arrival, which Colin nearly had. He was a plump young man, soft-spoken, whom Colin didn't know terribly well. He'd simply appeared at the table some time last year. Colin had a vague recollection that he was some friend of Gibson's. Or maybe it was his father who knew Kushner from parliament. He'd probably be told at some point. In any case, it was possible that he was the nicest man Colin had ever met, and certainly one of the smartest, and he won or lost depending on how deeply one managed to engage him on one of his favorite subjects. Distraction was the only defense against his cheerfully methodical strategies.

“How are those bees doing?” Colin asked, with an eye toward winning back some of what he'd lost the week before.

“Splendidly,” Weathersby said, a smile splitting his face and making his cheeks go round as apples. No grown man should be that adorable, Colin thought; it left him feeling old and rough-edged.

“And you, Farleigh?” Gibson asked. “When will you be leaving us, hm?”

“Does everyone in London know my business? The engagement hasn't even been announced,” Colin said. He waved at a waiter, who was either ignoring him or blinded by the ever-present smoke. Colin gestured to Harken, who produced a pair of cigars so that they could make their contribution to the haze.

“Damn,” Gibson said. “I owe you a pound, Harken. You were right.”

“I can't believe I fell for that,” Colin said, scowling. Gibson had just been guessing.

Gibson grinned around his cigar and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Come on, then. Are we here to listen to Farleigh moon about his bride-to-be, or lose some money?”

“Who is she?” Weathersby asked. “She must be quite a woman, if she's convinced you to succumb to matrimony.”

Colin peered at Weathersby, wondering if he detected the hint of an insult in his words. But Weathersby had probably never insulted anyone in his life.

“It's merely time,” Colin said. “I must produce an heir, after all.” He scowled at Gibson, who was being overly leisurely in his movements as he extracted a deck of cards from his pocket.

“Oh, that's right, boys,” Harken said drily. “I'd nearly forgot Farleigh here was a marquess.”

“Oh, come on now. You didn't even know me back then,” Colin said, reddening. He'd been a bit too proud of his title, back in school. To the point of referring to it roughly every third time he opened his mouth. He needed a drink if they were going to traipse down the lane of those particular memories. Where the hell was . . . ?

Ah, there. Slow in arrival, but exactly what he needed. Brandy, spicy and sharp, downed quickly and just as quickly replaced. Evenings like this were best launched with determination, not tentative sipping.

“The girl, Farleigh,” Gibson said. “Her name?”

“I couldn't possibly tell you,” Colin rumbled.

“Doesn't know,” Harken said wisely, and Colin took a more moderate swallow.

“I think it's splendid,” Weathersby said. “I myself am going to be engaged quite soon. As soon as I make a few arrangements. Yes, things in place, all of that. Any day, though. Any day.” He nodded to himself.

“Don't wait too long,” Colin advised. “Women have a bad habit of marrying other men, you know.”

“Aye,” Harken said into his drink. “That they do.”

“And what about you, Harken?” Colin said. “Anyone catch your eye?”

“Harken dedicates himself to impossible love,” Gibson said. “When I met him, it was the girl outside the village with hair the color of gold, and then it was his captain's daughter, and then—”

“Have we really come to the one place in London guaranteed to repel all manner of womenfolk to discuss love?” Harken asked.

“Not love,” Colin said. “Not in my case. Merely a business arrangement.” Had he already finished his second drink? No matter; now that his presence had been properly noted, the staff were quick to replace it. He'd savor this one more slowly. Wouldn't do to finish three drinks in his first quarter hour; he meant to improve his fortunes tonight.

“How dull,” Gibson said. “I always figured you for the one of us to have some grand love story.”

“Hargrove's taken care of that,” Harken said.

“Yes, you really must tell me about this mysterious Mrs. Hargrove someday,” Gibson said, with a good-natured annoyance that indicated he was quite resigned to his ignorance. “No one even knows how they met.”

“It's not that interesting,” Colin said quickly. “The mysterious Mrs. Hargrove” was in fact a wanted fugitive named Joan Price, a secret known by very few—Colin and Harken among them. “I'm with Harken. Let's choose a new subject.”

“Like how Edward Foyle's back in England?” Gibson said.

Colin froze. He stared at Gibson, his lips parted to just bare his teeth. “What did you say?”

“Edward Foyle. He's back. Or so I heard,” Gibson said.

“Who?” Weathersby said.

“Damn.” Harken leaned back in his chair and regarded Colin with narrowed eyes. “You want me to help you find him?”

“Who?” Weathersby said again.

Colin deftly swapped drink for cigar and back again, letting the flavor of the smoke and brandy roil over his tongue in a dark dance. Foyle was back. And Phoebe had been asking about Marie. It could be a coincidence—but that strained the imagination.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Gibson grinned. “What is it they always said about the man? Find a pint and a pair of tits, and Foyle won't be far. Beauchene's taken him in, so he'll have plenty of both.”

“You're joking,” Colin said.

“Who's Beauchene?” Weathersby asked. They cast him brief looks of mingled admiration and pity.

“He is truly the most pure among us,” Gibson intoned, then clapped the man on the shoulder to show he didn't mean anything by it. “Beauchene's a Frenchman. Obviously. He throws these parties every summer, to mark the end of the Season. Like a Hellfire club, but less religion. Gentlemen, ladies of ill-repute, and a solid week without consequences.”

“Not that Gibson would know,” Colin said darkly.

Gibson laughed. “I prefer my debauchery in private. Can't say I've never been invited, but it's all a bit theatrical for me.”

“So then. Should we pay Foyle a visit?” Harken asked, casual as could be. “A social call.”

“We could welcome him back to England with a friendly thrashing,” Gibson suggested.

“I'm confused,” Weathersby said. “Who is this man?”

“Foyle seduced Farleigh's sister, right,” Gibson said, emphasizing his words with precise jabs of his fingers. He'd finally got round to dealing, Colin noted, and retrieved his cards from the table. He could barely focus on the present long enough to read them. Nothing but rubbish. “And got control of her late husband's shares of the diamond mines. Then he signs them over to Copeland.”

How the hell did Gibson know so much about the business? Oh, right, he'd told him. Colin glared at his cards before collapsing them into a stack and tossing it back on the table. He really shouldn't drink so much at cards. Not that Gibson wasn't trustworthy, of course, but each drink made it a little harder to keep track of whose ears might be nearby. He'd only told them what his sisters already knew, though. No one knew about the contents of the box.

“Another drink sir?”

The damned waiter. Colin jerked his head in an affirmative.

“. . . Should get Foyle to confess,” Weathersby was saying. “If he mistreated your sister like you say, it should be known.”

“He won't be punished,” Colin said. “There's no proof he did anything illegal.”

“But people would
know
,” Weathersby pressed. “Wouldn't that be worth something? To honor your sister's memory?”

Colin glared at him. “My sister's dead,” he said. “And memory has less substance than the hallucinations of an opium fiend. If I find Edward Foyle, I'm not going to make him confess. I'm going to make him pay.”

“I'll drink to that,” Harken said. Weathersby sat back in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. Gibson just shrugged.

“Bets, gentlemen,” he said, and the subject was closed. They moved on to other topics, but Colin didn't respond except for the occasional grunt or bet. Tomorrow, he was going to find a way to reach Edward Foyle.

And when he found him, he was going to kill him.

*   *   *

Elinor had never once suffered from insomnia, a pleasant contrast to the men in her family. She was, however, a light sleeper, and used to waking at the tread of her brother's feet in the halls, or the desultory thump of a book cast aside for failing to lull him to sleep. When she woke that night, she thought at first that she was at Birch Hall, and Martin was having another of his restless nights. But, no. She was not at Birch Hall; for that matter, neither was Martin.

She lay still a moment, listening. The thump came again. Her room was at the back of the town house, and she had learned on her first day that when the vent at the floor was left open, she could hear the servants coming and going at the back. But what servant would be up at this hour?

She rose, taking a moment to light a candle and throw a shawl around her shoulders. She supposed she ought to wake a servant, but she had grown increasingly tired of relying on others for her every need and whim. She had spent enough of her life as an invalid; she did not enjoy the fact that wealth demanded a continuation of the same habits.

She made her way lightly to the stairs and crept halfway
down, lifting the candle high to peer into the dark hallway at the bottom.

“Colin?”

The familiar name slipped out unbidden in her surprise. The man in question slumped against the wall, one foot awkwardly uplifted and his body hunched over in an attempt to extract his foot from his boot. He straightened up with a snap and a new thump when he saw her.

“Lady Elinor,” he declared in a whisper as loud as a normal voice. “I was trying not to wake anyone.”

“I apologize for frustrating your attempts,” she said.

“What're you doing here?” he asked, squinting. He was distressingly drunk, she realized. She should fetch a footman to help him to his bed—but the servants were quartered in the basement, and she did not feel she should leave Lord Farleigh alone in this state.

“I heard a noise,” Elinor said in answer to his question. “I came to investigate.”

“I might've been a burglar. Or a murderer.”

“What good fortune that you are neither,” Elinor said. “Good night, Lord Farleigh.”

“Hrm,” he said, apparently an attempt at agreement. He straightened up with limited success, bracing himself against the wall. His clothes were disheveled, and though he kept his wheat-colored hair unfashionably short, it stuck up at odd angles around the crown of his head. Something dark was smeared below his left ear. There was something delightful about seeing the precisely manicured Marquess of Farleigh in such a rumpled state, but her brief delight was replaced with the worrying realization that he was not going to get to his room on his own.

She'd have to fetch a footman after all.

She swept down the stairs, and he startled, nearly pitching over. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

She stepped toward him. The way downstairs to the servants' quarters was past him, and his loose-limbed pose managed to take up an impressive proportion of the hallway. “I am going to fetch someone who can see you to bed.”