Saved by Scandal (9 page)

After the meal, and a stop at a coffee house for another, Galen had escorted Margot to the theater for her rehearsal. He’d left her with Ella, two footmen, and the dog, to Fenning’s relief. The actors were used to Ruff; they used him to discourage bill collectors. Galen thought she’d be safe from any insult, but he could not like Margot out of his sight.

He was already in a foul temper before he reached Hemmerdinger’s offices. He had hardly slept a wink last night, after that kiss. What the devil was he about, rousing passions he was promised to postpone? And how was he supposed to rest easily, knowing his beautiful wife was just on the other side of the connecting door? His mind joined his body in
protest that the blasted dog was keeping her company, not her besotted husband. It was hard not to batter the confounded door down, vows and vermin-infested mongrels notwithstanding. Hell, if it wasn’t hard, it would have been easy.

Then she’d looked so…so fresh at breakfast, all sunshine and rainbows in her yellow gown, delighted with the flowers Fenning—not he, dammit—had placed at her plate. She’d had a wonderful night’s sleep, she told him, followed by an early morning walk in the square with her dog, trailed by the footman reluctantly assigned to the creature’s comfort. The dog reluctantly permitted the poor chap to follow, since the servant’s pockets were stuffed with the ham that was supposed to grace the viscount’s breakfast table. Fenning had wrapped the slices in paper himself, telling his underling the meat was for emergencies only, if, for example, the dog tried to swallow a small child, or a medium-sized drayer’s cart.

Margot was laughing as she told Galen of her walk, confident the footman and her pet were now on good terms. She was so pleased with her new circumstances, in fact, she did not even notice the sparse breakfast fare. Of course it was not so meager, by her previous standards. “I think I could grow used to such a life of luxury, my lord,” she told him, her eyes twinkling at the understatement as her glance encompassed the waiting servants, the shining silverware, the huge Zepporini hunt scene on the morning room wall. She felt years younger, stones lighter, without the weight of an uncertain future on her shoulders.

She was so deuced grateful, Galen cursed just thinking about it. He did not want her gratitude, by Harry. She was the one who had pulled his chestnuts out of the fire. Hell, he’d be casting up his accounts right now on a ship bound for the tropics, if not for her. Or he’d be suffering the laughter of his friends and the pity of their wives. Worse, he’d be new prey on the marriage mart hunting grounds. Instead, he was the envy of London. And Margot thought she had something to be grateful about? Besides, thankfulness might be a stepping-stone toward affection, but he wanted much more than that.

Margot had wished to accompany him to the solicitor’s office, but Galen did not want to wait till she was done with the rehearsal. He’d rather spend their short hours of free time this afternoon doing something pleasurable, like showing off his prize in the park. That’s what he’d do, he planned, drive her in his curricle through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. Unless, of course, she needed to rest for the evening’s performance. Deuce take it, he wished she would give notice at the theater. She no longer needed the money or the acclamation, not with every male in Town falling at her feet. What she did need was to see that she was restored to her rightful place in the
haut monde
,
now that the wedding notices had been published and her lineage revealed.

Galen knew the
ton
.
No one was going to turn his or her back on the Duke of Woburton’s daughter-in-law if she was halfway acceptable. Oh, some might not acknowledge Margot; Zeus, some of the high-sticklers did not acknowledge Galen because his mother had been a governess. He could not care a whit about those. He did care about anyone treating Margot like an opera singer.

By all that was holy, he ought to be at the theater, Galen fumed, making sure no one accosted her. That acting troupe was a scurvy lot, and the swells who hung around the Green Room were not to be trusted to keep the line. The dog was some protection, but the long-toothed mutt’s loyalty was purchased with a lamb chop. Galen would rather trust in Ella to look after Margot, but the crusty costume-sewer would be busy about her own tasks in the wardrobe department. Were two footmen enough to fend off advances? Or were the nodcocks making sheep-eyes at her themselves? Dash it, Galen wished he were at the theater.

Instead, he was sitting on an uncushioned bench in the corner of a room full of curious clerks, waiting for Mr.
Hemmerdinger. The fact that he had not sent ahead for an appointment, nor even given notice that he was coming, did not make the hard wooden seat any more comfortable. If Hemmerdinger was closeted with anyone less than a cabinet minister, Galen would find another solicitor.

Perhaps he should anyway. When the lawyer finally deigned to have Galen shown into his private office, where the seats, incidentally, were all covered in plush and leather, Hemmerdinger was not helpful.

For one thing, the solicitor did not offer his felicitations on Galen’s nuptials. If the old fussbudget had not drawn up the marriage contracts, then the match was not proper, his throat-clearing seemed to say, even if the wedding were sanctioned by the archbishop of Canterbury and King George himself. The legal mind did not embrace spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment love matches, nor dowerless brides.

Hemmerdinger would not write up the settlements for Margot’s future, not without consulting Galen’s father. Granted, the viscount could not promise away parts of the estate he had not yet inherited, such as the Dower House, but surely his wife was entitled to a generous allowance and an annuity if Galen died. Except for some minor income, his own monies had never been separated from the dukedom’s, not since he was at university on quarterly allotments. To teach him to live within a budget, His Grace had said, as if Viscount Woodbridge were ever going to need to count pennies. He counted now, trying to recall his personal bank balance. All of his bills were met by the estate, his art collection joining the entailment, his horses included in operating expenses for the Three Woods stables. Perhaps it was a good thing that Margot had not stopped singing after all.

Hemmerdinger harrumphed a few times before agreeing to transfer to Margot and her possible future progeny the deed to the small Kentish estate Galen owned outright from his uncle, the previous viscount. At least she’d have a life
tenancy there if Galen should die or if the marriage should not work.

After snorting as if he had an out-of-season oyster lodged in his throat, Hemmerdinger next refused to go to the courts to change Margot’s brother’s guardianship, not without proof of any wrongdoing or an irregularity in the late baron’s will. Mr. Manfred Penrose was little Lord Penrose’s blood kin, next in line to the title and estate, and lawful trustee. A mere brother-in-law had no claims. Of course Hemmerdinger would be willing to consult with the Penrose family solicitor concerning a visit to the lad’s sister.

Like hell he would. If Galen wanted to consult another man of affairs, it would be to replace this one. And the boy was not coming to visit his sister on some solicitor’s sufferance; he was moving in with them, permanently. Furthermore, Galen Collin Spreewell Woodrow, Viscount Woodbridge, had never been a mere anything. Hemmerdinger could go hang.

Margot was disappointed, of course, when Galen picked her up at the theater in his curricle and told her about his unproductive day at the solicitor’s, on the way to the park. She refused to worry, though. Galen had said he would help get her brother away from Uncle Manfred, and so he would, with or without the cooperation of the legal system. Unfortunately, there was no way for her to go off to Sussex herself to see about Ansel’s condition. The management of the theater was in alt over the increase in ticket sales, far ahead of the previous week and excellent for these waning days of the social Season. Mr. Ryder would not hear of his latest star taking off for Sussex, not for an ailing brother, not for an impatient bridegroom. The mobs would tear down his walls, he swore. There would be a riot, an uprising, the government could topple, people could be injured. And he’d strangle her dog.

They could wait the fortnight of her engagement before leaving London, Margot reflected, but then there was the party Galen was still planning to hold, despite having neither chef nor housekeeper. How could she worry about a dinner when her brother was ill or simply ill-treated?

“Then I suppose I shall have to go without you,” Galen offered. “Perhaps it’s for the best anyway, as your uncle seems the type to cut up ugly when he is thwarted. And if I do have to sneak the lad away in the middle of the night, you cannot be accused.” The more Galen thought of the plan, the better he liked it. Not that he liked leaving Margot alone in London, of course, but she’d be well protected, even if he had to hire the entire roster of Bow Street Runners. But he could travel faster without her, and he could deal more harshly with the uncle if the need arose. Besides, if he was out of Town for two or three days, those were two or three nights he did not have to watch her on stage, where everyone else could watch her, too. And those were two or three nights where he might get some rest, not thinking of her one door away. Possessive jealousy and unbridled lust were uncomfortable companions, so he’d leave them behind and hope to be cured by his return.

“I cannot ask you to go alone. You don’t even know my brother.”

“You are not asking. I am offering. Are you afraid I’ll fetch home the wrong boy? You’ll give me a note for that housekeeper you said was looking out for Ansel, and I’ll bring him back to you. Easy as porridge.”

She was still uncertain. “Do you know anything whatsoever of little boys?”

“I daresay I was one, once. Besides, I’ll take my valet along. Handy chap, knows all kinds of potions and powders, does old Clegg. He’ll have the boy right as a trivet in jig time.”

Especially if the little baron were suffering from an overindulgence of drink.

Margot decided she would visit the apothecary’s shop herself before she let Galen leave. She’d make sure he had fever reducers and restoratives, blankets, beef broth, books to read if Ansel grew bored in the carriage, books to read if
Galen grew bored in the carriage. She’d make a list later. Right now her more immediate concern was neither Ansel nor the dinner party, not even the pressure of Galen’s thigh alongside hers on the narrow driving bench. She was not even anxious about her upcoming performance, for once. No, they were entering the park, and Margot had to worry about entering Galen’s world.

He did not stop the curricle or rein in his matched chestnuts, not when some mounted officers tried to start a conversation, not when an old lady in a lozenged landau, with a lorgnette and a lapdog, beckoned them over. He drove past a gaggle of giggling girls, surrounded by a parcel of pimply youths, and he barely slowed their pace for a cavalcade of crested carriages. The viscount did nod his head, tip his hat, and smile at the other park visitors, but he did not stop.

“But I thought you wanted me to meet these people?” Margot asked.

“No, I wanted you to see that they wanted to meet you, my dear. Did any one of the dowagers turn her back?”

“No.”

“Did any of the chaperones pull their charges in another direction?”

“No.”

“Did every man bow and wave and try to catch your eye?”

“Yes.”

“That, my dear, is why we did not stop. If I have to leave you shortly, and won’t even have your company this evening, I did not choose to share you this afternoon.”

He did make one unavoidable introduction, however, as they were completing their circuit of the park. An immensely obese, overdressed man was gesturing to them from an open carriage. Galen groaned. “The worst rake in town.” But he did head his curricle in that direction, off the path, to present his bride. “Too bad he’s our future king.”

* * *

The new émigré French chef Fenning had found was
au anges
to be interviewed by Lady Woodbridge in his native tongue. Only the French, Pierre swore, had the proper reverence for a well-cooked meal. Only another
artiste
could appreciate his genius. Only the most beautiful woman deserved his highest efforts.

Margot had only one question for him before she left for the theater: “What about the dog?”

“
Le chien? Oui
.
Pierre can cook dog, but not even I thought the English such barbarians.”

They still had no chef.

*

That night Margot sang an unrehearsed patriotic ballad in honor of Prinny, who had come to the theater especially to hear her, he told everyone. She curtseyed to his box as the Prince stood and applauded. Next Margot performed the new Italian opera piece that she had practiced—another dying heroine—followed by a French lullaby. Then, as the night before, she stepped toward Galen’s box and reached up, as if to touch his fingertips as they lowered another red rose to her. She sang “My Love is Like a Ne’er Ending Joy,” and no one watching her doubted the words.

She
was
happy, Margot realized. Galen was in the audience, and she no longer dreaded the hoardes of gawkers or feared that she’d forget the words. She sang for the viscount, and the words were always there. She was not thinking about the Prince himself in the audience, or being accepted by the
ton
,
or performing while her husband was away, or finding a new chef. She was not even thinking about Ansel, for once. No, Margot Montclaire Penrose Woodrow was thinking, as every patron in the pit tossed a single red rose at her feet, that she hoped Galen would kiss her good night again.