Scandalous (35 page)

"Tomorrow you must get yourself downstairs and accept Mr. Jamison," Aunt Augusta informed her severely, after having ascended to her chamber with the express purpose of providing her with a recipe for a
tisane
that she knew from her own experience cured headaches without fail. "There is still some talk about Wickham's extraordinary behavior toward you, I'm sorry to say, although I've managed to squelch most of it. Well. Maud Banning has a vicious tongue on her, and always has, and she doesn't like you and most particularly Claire. I've no doubt she's at the root of it, and very few people— certainly none of sense— pay her any heed. But still, it will be as well for you to get Mr. Jamison locked up. There's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip, you know, and suitable marriage prospects for a girl of your age aren't exactly thick on the trees."

Gabby agreed to that, and if her agreement was somewhat listless Aunt Augusta put it down to the effects of the headache, and went away.

By the next morning, when Nick still had not come home, Gabby was beside herself with fear. She had scarcely slept all night, so hard had she listened for him. And she had actually looked in his chamber twice, just to make certain that she had not missed him when he came in. But he didn't come, and thoughts of him being injured or killed by Trent began to take horrible possession of her mind.

What else would keep him from home at such a juncture? After the night they had spent, surely, surely, he would not just leave? Without a word?

Too worried to care about anything but Nick, she sent for Jem.

"You want me to go see if that swine of a duke is still in town?" Jem asked with disbelief. Like Stivers, he knew Trent of old, and held him in extreme dislike, although Gabby had never revealed Trent's part in the fall that had broken her leg. "If you don't mind my askin', why exactly?"

"Because— because Trent said something insulting to me. I told Wickham and he said he would kill Trent for me. And he left very early yesterday morning, and has not come home since."

"It seems to me, Miss Gabby, that you're tellin' that
imposter
entirely too much about yer personal affairs," Jem said severely.

"Jem, please, just do as I ask." Some of Gabby's wretchedness must have been apparent in her voice, because Jem's expression changed to one of concern.

"He's properly cozened you with his smooth talk, has he? You keep the line with him, Miss Gabby. He's trouble, pure and simple."

"Jem…"

"I'll go, if you're wantin' me to. But I'm telling you straight out, it's not likely that anything's happened to him. What's more likely is that he's simply come across a better scam, and taken himself off."

When Jem returned to report that Trent was still in London, still going about his business normally, and he had not, from inquiring judiciously in the stables and among the servants, picked up any scent of Wickham or Barnet coming anywhere near the duke, Gabby felt ill.

The possibilities associated with Wickham's disappearance were endless, and none of them, from her perspective, were good.

Pleading residual exhaustion from the previous day's headache, Gabby excused herself from expeditions proposed by both Claire and Beth, and went upstairs immediately after luncheon. It was ignoble of her to stoop so low, she knew, but perhaps, if she looked through Wickham's— Nick's— oh, whoever's— room, she would find some clue as to why he had left so precipitously.

Without a word.

That was the part, she thought, that truly bothered her. After the night they had spent, after what they had been to each other, surely, surely, he would not purposely have left her for this length of time
without a word.

She entered his chamber through the connecting door, feeling like a thief in the night. At this time of day, the servants were likely to be busy with chores elsewhere in the house, but still she would not like to be discovered going through Wickham's things. It would look most odd….

His apartment was, in a strange kind of way, comforting. In his dressing room, a few shining black hairs still clung to his brush. His highly polished Hessian boots, with their dangling tassles, had been placed side by side in a corner. Several fresh neckcloths hung over the back of a chair. She opened drawers, feeling increasingly guilty as she rummaged through their contents, but found nothing beyond cufflinks and the usual jewelry and gewgaws that a gentleman of fashion might reasonably be expected to possess. In his bedroom, there was even less that was personal: a collapsible spyglass placed on the mantle, a box of cigars and a bottle of brandy on the table near the fire, a book on military history on the table by the bed.

Nothing to tell who or what he really was; nothing to tell where he was.

Feeling guiltier than ever, she pulled open the single drawer in the table beside the bed.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. A heady smell, sweet and cloying, like roses past their prime. Wrinkling her nose at it, she almost smiled. Such a scent was unlikely to appeal to Nick, although, she thought with a gathering frown, it did seem faintly familiar. Then her eyes fell on the collection of unsealed, neatly folded notes that graced the drawer, and she knew.

The scent came from Lady Ware's
billet doux.

38

Reading another person's mail was reprehensible. Gabby knew it, knew she should close the drawer and walk out of the room. To do so was utterly beyond her. She picked up one of those perfumed notes, and began to read.

Besides fulsome words of love, they contained erotic descriptions of the things
mon cher Wickham
had done to Lady Ware, or things she wanted him to do.

By the time Gabby had finished— there were perhaps six notes in all— Gabby felt as if she had sustained a mortal blow. She could feel the blood leaching from her face; her stomach churned, and she feared she would be sick.

Some of the acts described in the notes she had experienced first hand.
Mon cher Wickham
had introduced them to her, too.

"My lady!"

Mary's voice from the other room brought her head up. Putting down the note she had just finished, she closed the drawer, and walked with deliberate steps toward her own apartment. She no longer worried about being caught in Wickham's chambers. She no longer worried about anything to do with Wickham at all. She could almost hear the cautionary tone in which he had uttered, on that never-to-be-forgotten night when she had allowed herself to be seduced by one who was, in Jem's words, a right blackguard, the word
tomorrow.
She couldn't say that he hadn't warned her, in his fashion, that tomorrow would come.

And it had.

Her fear for him now seemed foolish. Worse, it seemed pathetic, like the unwanted clinging of a love-smitten old maid. Of course he had not thought to leave word for her when he had taken off with Barnet for whatever reason. What they had done together might have meant the sun, the moon, and the stars to her. To him, it was no more than a little pleasant exercise undertaken in female company, the type of thing he clearly indulged in with different and various women almost every night. Nothing special at all: the knowledge tore at her heart.

"Oh, mum, there you are!"

Gabby had walked right through to her bedchamber without even realizing it. Mary was there, first smiling at her, then frowning.

"Is your headache back, my lady?" she asked sympathetically. "You're that pale."

"Did you want me for something, Mary?" Gabby asked, surprised at how cool and composed her voice sounded. Inside, she felt wounded, no, shattered. But the best thing about having lived with the kind of father she had endured for most of her life was, she had learned how never to let an injury show.

"Mr. Jamison is here, my lady, and Lady Salcombe— she's here too— bade me come up and tell you so. Shall I tell them you're unwell, my lady?"

Gabby took a deep breath. If Mr. Jamison was here, it could only mean one thing: he wished to make her a formal offer.

She would be a fool to turn him down. She could only thank God that she had come to her senses in time.

"No, Mary, I'll come. Just let me wash my hands, and tidy my hair."

Gabby washed her hands, and Mary repinned her hair. Then Gabby went downstairs. With every step she took, she could not escape the sickening scent of past-their-prime roses. No matter how she scrubbed, Lady Ware's perfume would not come off her skin.

*  *  *

The following night was Claire's come-out ball. Despite the frenzied preparations that had, under Aunt Augusta's direction, taken place around her, Gabby had almost forgotten about it. If it had not been for Claire to bully her into her dressing room and Mary to bundle her mistress into the bath and dress her and fix her hair, she might have pleaded illness and stayed abovestairs. In this case, claiming that she was unwell would not have been far from the truth. She had not been able to eat more than a bite or two for the last three days, and she could not sleep at all.

Wickham had still not come home. He had been gone without a word for nearly three full days.

"I am going to
kill
that boy," Aunt Augusta hissed in Gabby's ear as she took the latecomer by the arm and hustled her into place in the receiving line. The older woman was resplendent in purple satin, with a magnificent diamond necklace and a trio of ostrich plumes adorning her silver hair. Clad in a ballgown of dull gold lace over an underdress of gold satin, Gabby knew that, between her magnificent aunt and her beautiful sister, she was overshadowed, and was content to have it so. "He is the
host.
What will everyone think if he is not here?"

Her eyes swept over Gabby and Claire, who stood beside her sister looking like a fairy princess in purest white, with spangles, and a simple strand of pearls. "You both look just as you ought. Gabriella, pinch your cheeks. You are by far too pale."

Then the first guests began to come up the stairs.

The ball was a smashing success. As the evening progressed, a palpable sense of excitement hung in the air. All of fashionable London was in attendance, the ladies in their most extravagant ballgowns and their finest jewelry, the gentlemen elegant in their best evening attire. Aunt Augusta overheard several guests describe it as a
dreadful crush
and, knowing that for the highest of accolades, was almost giddy with triumph. Wickham's absence, while still galling, as she confided to Gabby in an occasional muttered aside, was not being overly remarked on, as she had had the good sense to ascribe it to a death in a distant branch of his mother's family. And Gabby's own less-than-decorous behavior with her brother seemed to have been forgotten.

"Though how Wickham can have gone off without a
word,"
Aunt Augusta said with disgust as Mr. Jamison went off at her instigation to fetch her a glass of punch, "you must some time explain to me. Well. It would be wonderful if we could announce your engagement at our own ball, but without Wickham here we cannot do it, I suppose. It will have to wait until he returns."

If
he returns, Gabby thought, feeling the hard cold knot of pain that had not left her since she had read Lady Ware's missives tighten in her stomach. Though she had always known him for a womanizing cad— among many other, probably worse, things— she had idiotically allowed herself to imagine that their relationship had evolved ino something unique. Having been so foolish as to permit herself to fall in love with him, she could not just pluck the feelings she had for him from her heart like a troublesome splinter. They were lodged in place for, she feared, quite a while. The difference was that she was no longer blind to what he was: a charming rogue, no more, no less.

And she had a life to live, and sisters to provide for.

Mr. Jamison would make her a good, steady husband. Better than she deserved.

She had accepted him yesterday, knowing full well that she was coming to him defiled. But she meant to do her best to make herself into just the wife he wanted.

It was the least she could do, when, in accepting him without revealing her altered state, she had made herself into a liar, and a cheat.

"I suppose that's the last of them. After we've greeted these, we may as well join our guests," Aunt Augusta said, observing that the line on the stairs had slowed to a trickle. In the hall below, the servants in their livery were scurrying away with the last of the cloaks and topcoats. The closing front door blocked the sound of departing carriage wheels.

Gabby greeted the latest arrivals, and then, taking Mr. Jamison's proffered arm, turned to enter the ballroom. Claire, who had been dismissed from duty earlier, skipped down the room with other couples to the strains of a merry quadrille. Her partner, Gabby saw, was the Marquis of Tyndale, who was looking quite smitten as he gazed at Claire. More guests milled around the edges of the floor. A few unfortunate debutantes who had not yet been asked to dance sat in chairs along one wall, their white dresses easy to spot among the more colorfully clad chaperones. Desdemona was among them, and beside her Lady Maud sat with a smile on her face that could have been carved from granite as she exchanged conversation with the lady on her other side. Taking pity on her cousin, Gabby vowed to dispatch an eligible gentleman her way as soon as she could, then turned her attention elsewhere.

The room was long, and narrow, and already growing over warm, though it was still fairly early in the evening. The long windows that looked out on to the garden were flung open, and filmy curtains fluttered in the breeze. Dozens of candles burned in gilded sconces. More candles shed their light from sparkling crystal chandeliers overhead. Flowers and greenery were banked in the corners, and the mirrors set into the wall reflected it all. The orchestra, hired for the evening, played beautifully, and the air was filled with infectious music and the sound of laughing, chattering voices.

Gabby circulated on Mr. Jamison's arm, and was introduced to his sister, and several of his particular friends. She chatted with her own friends, and, without seeming to be so, was aware of a rising stream of comments linking her to Mr. Jamison that was just one of many tributaries to the river of gossip that was the
ton
's lifeblood. The only bad moment in what was otherwise a tolerably enjoyable evening came when the orchestra struck up the first waltz.