Simply Scandalous (29 page)

"Cor!" said Billy, looking at the Marquess in cool surprise. "You, milord?"

Swale tapped the side of his nose. "Remember the
dark horse, Billy."

Billy shook his head sadly. "I wouldn't give you
false hope, milord. If Miss Julie put you in Hastings,
she must have had her reasons."

"Oh? Has-has she put me in Hastings?"

"Aye, milord. So, you see, it seems hopeless."

"Thank you, Billy," said Swale, producing a handful of small gold coins. Selecting one, he gave it to the
boy. "You've been very helpful."

The boy's eyes widened with new respect. "Are you
rich, milord?"

"I have twenty thousand a year," Swale told him.

"Cor!" said Billy, shaking his head. "And not a farthing of it spent on clothes."

"Moreover, in case you don't know this, Master
Billy, I have expectations."

"I thought you was a Marquess," said Billy suspiciously.

"I am," said Swale. "But my father is a Duke and
unlike the unfortunate Mr. Calverstock, I am not a
younger son."

"A juke is it?" said Billy with a sniff. "When her
mother, Lady Wayborn, was on her deathbed, she
made Miss Julie promise her she'd marry for love, so
a juke is nothing to her."

"Indeed," Swale said. "Then it would appear to be
a hopeless case, Master Billy."

Billy nodded sympathetically. "Not but that we
wouldn't like to see our Miss Julie marry a Juke or
even a Marquess," he said kindly. "And I don't much
like Mr. Calverstock. As for the Captain-"

"Oh? Don't you like the great Captain Cary?" Swale
asked, grinning. "Hero of Trafalgar?"

"I don't, milord, and that's a _fact," said Billy. "I
don't hold with a man getting above himself, if you
like, and this Captain is only the son of a clergyman,
Trafalgar or no Trafalgar. Why should Miss Julie
throw herself away on a sailor?" He looked at the Marquess frankly. "I'd say it's a bloody shame, milord, that
you wasn't born with the Captain's looks."

"I am glad you don't hold with a man getting above
himself," Swale observed dryly.

"No, milord," said Billy. "That I do not. No good
ever comes of it." He looked at Swale shrewdly. "If Miss
Julie was to marry you, milord, would the ladies at Silvercombe be at home to her?"

Swale frowned. "What do you mean? What ladies?"

"Lady Serena Calverstock and Lady Maria Fitzwilliam," Billy answered in a hard voice. "Very fancy
ladies they are, from London. Damn them to hell."

Swale was taken aback. "Maria is at Silvercombe?
Maria Fitzwilliam?"

"Aye, milord. And a very proud, disagreeable, nasty
bit of goods she is too!" sniffed Billy. "Flouncing
around the village with her nose in the air, speaking
nothing but ill of poor Miss Julie, who never did a
wrong deed in all her life."

"Red hair, Billy? Pug nose and a rather tall, solemnlooking husband?"

Billy nodded. "The Colonel. Do you know the lady,
milord?"

"My sister, Master Billy."

"Gorblimey! " said Billy. "Is it any wonder Miss Julie
put you in Hastings?"

A tall figure dressed very correctly in black entered
the room and cleared its throat.

"You're Pickering?"

"Indeed, my lord," Sir Benedict's valet answered,
surveying with a cold eye the water dripping over the
carpet of his master's closet. "Miss Wayborn asked me
to offer my services in the absence of your man." His
exacting blue eyes raked over Lord Swale's person. "I
am a little acquainted with Mr. Bowditch, my lord."

"Are you indeed?"

"There was a time when Mademoiselle Huppert,
Miss Wayborn's femme de toilette, regarded Mr. Bowditch
as almost a gentleman. I was obliged to disillusion her."

"Ali! The fatal Fifi strikes again," said Swale, pulling
his shirt on over his head and raising his braces over
his shoulders.

"Indeed, sir. Mr. Bowditch will be quite comfortable
with the coachman in the coach house," said Pickering, picking up Swale's coat and tossing it to Billy. "Take it away, William, and give it a good brushing,"
he instructed.

"I could do with a good brushing as well," said
Swale ruefully, "if I am to be presentable to the ladies.
And I won't say no to a shave."

"And a trim, my lord?" Pickering produced a pair
of shears from his pocket.

"I shouldn't think so," said Swale, gingerly touching the shaggy red hair covering his ears. "My crowning glory and all that sort of thing."

"What do you think, Mr. Pickering," exclaimed the
exuberant Billy. "His lordship wants to marry Miss
Julie. He's a Marquess, but there's an expectation of a
Jukedom, and he's got twenty thousand pounds a year."

"Indeed, my lord?" Pickering smiled. "Miss Wayborn
confided in me that she finds a cropped head enormously attractive."

Swale recoiled. "What? A crop? What, bald?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I'll look a fool," Swale protested, eyeing his image
in the mirror over the dressing table.

"Yes, my lord."

"I daresay a trim wouldn't hurt," he said, reluctantly taking the chair Pickering offered. "A little off
here and there."

"Yes, my lord," agreed Pickering, tying a cloth
around his lordship's neck and going to work with the
scissors.

Benedict stood at the window in his half-brother's
bedroom. For several moments, he stood there, but
he was not admiring the view of the lake. Cary had removed his sling, and he was now sprawled across the
bed, flexing his weak arm. "You must be mad to bring
him here," Benedict said at last. "He is most unwelcome, Cary. If you don't care what he's done to your
friend Mr. Calverstock, at least think of your sister."

Cary scowled. It always chafed his pride to be
scolded by his older brother. "Stacy Calverstock! I confess I am heartily disgusted with Stacy. He wouldn't
even challenge Swale to a duel-after having his
nose broke, if you please! I was never more sick in my
life. Old Auckland sent him a fat cheque for his nose,
and the nincompoop took it. Can you believe? I
know he's desperate for money, but a gentleman
does not accept a cheque for a broken nose." His
scowl deepened. "But what has Swale done to Julie?"

Benedict gave his brother a brief history of Lord
Swale's activities in Hertfordshire. "Now you can see
it's impossible for him to stay here. Juliet will be
embarrassed-horribly embarrassed!"

Cary was on his feet, striding from one end of the
room to the other, his face dark with fury. "So Horatio thought they ought to marry, did he? Swale!
Marry my sister? Not bloody likely! What does he
mean, pretending he wants to buy Tanglewood-as
though I should ever sell to the likes of him!"

"Are you thinking of selling Tanglewood?" Benedict
asked sharply. "Are you in debt?"

"No, my dear brother, I am not in debt," said Cary
bitterly. "That is, no more so than any other gentleman of my acquaintance. I wouldn't take a cheque
from Auckland if Lord Swine broke my nose, I can tell
you, however straitened I might be."

"If you have bills-" Benedict began.

"Naturally, I have bills," Cary haughtily interrupted.
"But if I were to sell Tanglewood, the last thing I
should do with the money is squander it by paying
tradesmen's bills. I honor them with my custom. Is
that not enough? If anyone asks for my tailor's name,
I give it freely."

"Then you are considering selling Tanglewood,"
exclaimed Benedict. "I can't believe it."

"Why shouldn't I sell it if I wish to?" Gary demanded. "My grandmother left it to me. I own it
outright. The house stands empty, and I have no
wife and brats to put in it. All I want from it is the
income."

"Your mother was born at Tanglewood," Benedict
chided him. "Your sister has some love for the place,
if you do not. How will Juliet like it if you sell?"

"She may like it very well," returned Cary, "if I sell
it to Horatio. As a matter of fact, I told him I would
sell it to him if he marries Julie. She'd be mistress of
the manor."

Benedict shook his head. "And how do you suppose your sister will feel when she discovers that Captain
Cary wishes to marry her merely as the means of obtaining Tanglewood?"

Cary was genuinely surprised. "What should it
matter why he marries her if she loves him? The
estate will be hers too, and as you pointed out, she
loves Tanglewood."

"It will be worse for her if she does love Horatio,"
said Benedict, raising his voice. "It will be agony for
her when she discovers that he does not love her. "

Cary scoffed. "You seem to think it impossible that
anyone could love our sister. I tell you, she had half
a dozen young pups falling at her feet in London, and
since the race, it has only gotten better. Bosher has
composed a sonnet in her honor called `The Chariotrix,' I'm sorry to say, and Lord Meadowsweet sent
one of his American Indians to the house in Park
Lane to be her servant. Don't fret-I sent him away,"
he added quickly.

"Mr. Bosher and Lord Meadowsweet are of no consequence," said Benedict. "But Juliet may actually
care for her cousin Horatio. Did you actually tell
Captain Cary you'd sell him the estate if he marries
Juliet?"

"I don't see the harm," Cary said sullenly, breaking
off abruptly as Juliet backed into the room with the
tea tray. Juliet stood looking nervously from one
brother to the other. Being so different in character,
they were often at loggerheads, and she was a poor
peacekeeper.

"What harm?" she inquired, setting down the tray.

"Prepare yourself, my dear," Benedict said gravely.
"Your brother's guest is not Mr. Calverstock after all,
but Lord Swale."

"Yes, I know," said Juliet. "I've seen him. Swale has to stay with Cary until the race takes place. He's on
probation with his club. But, Cary, does he have to stay
in the same house with you? Couldn't he stay at Silvercombe? What am I supposed to do with him?"

"What race?" Benedict demanded. "Good God,
Cary! Haven't you had enough racing?"

"I could never make you understand," Gary said
airily. "But as soon as my arm is healed, the race will
take place as originally conceived. Too right it will. My
chestnuts against his lordship's grays from London to
Southend. Until that time, Swale and I are chained
together. Whither I goest, he goest too. And yes,
Julie, he has to stay in this house with me."

"Why on earth did you bring him here?" Benedict
said sharply. "You couldn't stay in London?"

"I don't care to practice my driving before a London
audience," Cary replied. "My bloody arm shakes! Do
you think I want all of London gawping at me when
I drop my own bleeding ribbons?"

"Mind your language," Benedict snapped. "Why
didn't you take Swale to Tanglewood?"

"Tanglewood!" Cary scoffed. "The house is in disrepair. I wouldn't trust the roof as far as I can throw it."

"Whose fault is that?" said Juliet angrily. "I wish
Grandmamma had left it to me-I'd make something of it!"

"And there's no housekeeper," Cary continued
breezily. "Swale might enjoy camping out in a ruin,
but I'm a civilized fellow. I like my meals on time. In
any case, he'll have a devil of a time hiring ruffians
to disable me in my own neighborhood."

Juliet bit her lip. "But, Cary," she said, "Swale didn't
do that. We think it was Lord Redfylde, and he is at Silvercombe. All the bets are to be honored in the new
race," she told Benedict. "Lord Redfylde still stands to lose ten thousand pounds if Cary beats Swale. Which
he is certain to do," she added for her brother's encouragement, "as soon as his arm is completely healed."

Gary sniffed. "I've heard this crackbrained theory
that Lord Redfylde is behind the attack on me. It's
rubbish. "

"What?" cried Juliet. "Indeed, it is not rubbish.
Lord Redfylde bet ten thousand pounds on Swale to
win. He must have known something was going to
happen to you, Gary. How else do you explain it?"

"Simple, my dear infant," her brother replied. "I
had the whole story from Stacy. Lord Dulwich goaded
Redfylde into taking that absurd bet, saying he was too
chickenhearted or too straitened to hazard a mere ten
thousand on the outcome. Redfylde was provoked
into taking it, and of course, ten thousand is nothing
to him."

A plausible enough explanation, she supposed,
given male vanity, and yet every feeling rebelled
against it. Swale must be innocent. "Benedict," she
pleaded, "tell him he's wrong."

Cary's lip curled. "So Swale has deceived you as well.
Poor Julie! Just you look at this note he sent mealong with Bernard's money-then tell me I'm
wrong." Reaching into his wallet, he almost flung
the scrap of paper at her.

It was a pompous and condescending communication;
she could scarcely believe that Ginger had written it.

His lordship, the Marquess of Swale, sent his compliments to Mr. Cary Wayborn and trusted that the
latter's touch of influenza made him not too uncomfortable.