A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (15 page)

Elinor drifted, having deposited young Daisy with a similarly lost-looking young man who looked about as rakish as a bedraggled spaniel.

She wanted to see everything, and she thought it would take her a week just to do that much. It was intoxicating to be behind the mask. Men saw her; men
stared
at her in a way they never would have at home. But they couldn't see her the way she could see them. She even recognized many of them. Men with wives, men in politics, men who acted with utmost restraint and respectability.

I know your secrets
, she wanted to whisper.
And you will never know mine
.

She had studied a portrait of Edward Foyle. She knew what he looked like, and she knew the moment she spotted him. It was getting late in the evening, and she had begun to worry. But there he was, in the Grecian room, leaning against a statue of a satyr. He was speaking to a man, and their expressions invited no interruption, so she drew against the wall beside a painting of a dryad and examined him.

He was a rangy man. His face was full of hard angles, like iron beaten into form, and with all the warmth of iron, too. He spoke with short jerks of his hands to punctuate his words,
and his lips curled around each sentence as if he did not like the taste of them. His hair was shot through with gray, mingling with straight, thin strands the color of mud. He wore a ring on one finger, she saw; a diamond glinted from it.

Was that part of your price?
she wondered.

“Would you like a drink?” a voice asked her.

She managed not to start. She turned slowly, appraising the man who had approached. He had dark skin that liked the candlelight, picking up its glow, and rich black hair cropped short. His accent and features were unmistakably Indian, though he was not dressed in the style she expected from illustrations; he wore the same suit and cravat as any other man present (apart from the few in the western side of the house who had already dispensed with their clothing entirely).

“It is only that I seem to have two, and you seem to have none,” he said, indicated the two flutes of champagne he carried. “A pair of problems with one obvious solution.”

“Thank you,” she said, and took the drink he offered. She was not certain how she was meant to drink it, and glanced around the room. Some of the women had tilted up their masks just enough for the glass, while still keeping their faces in shadow. She followed suit, careful that the angle did not reveal her features. If she recognized some of the patrons, they would surely recognize her.

The champagne was light and sweet, and easy to drink.

“Not too quickly,” the man warned. “It is best to keep one's head in such places, yes?”

She lowered her mask, leaving the champagne flute half-full. “I would expect so,” she said.

“Then you have not been here before?”

She flushed, and was grateful he could not see. “I have not,” she said. She'd given away too much. She was bad at this already.

“Neither have I,” he confessed, though it seemed to her to be the opposite of a confession, given their environs. “To be honest, I would prefer not to be here. My employer, though, requested my attendance, and so here I am.”

“Your employer?” she asked.

“Mr. Lamb,” he said. Of course. No names. “The gentleman you were so carefully examining a few moments ago.”

She stiffened. “I was not—” she began, but he silenced her with a shake of his head.

“Everyone here is doing the same. Staring. Wondering. Telling themselves stories about who these people really are. I am not immune. For example, I find myself wondering who you might be, when you step out of the dream and back into the waking world. Do you entertain many lovers? Or is there one man who has your keeping? Did you fall to your position, or rise to it? A great many questions, all too impolite to ask.”

“Very impolite,” Elinor agreed.

“When I woo a woman, I prefer to be able to ask questions. And to answer them. Such as the simplest question of all: what is your name?”

Elinor was silent.

“Of course you will not answer. Neither will I, though all these men have me at a disadvantage. There are not nearly so many of us in England as there are of them, hm? It would not be so difficult to find me when they wake. And so I think I will keep to the walls.”

“I am not here to keep to the walls,” Elinor said.

“Of course not. But you should keep away from him,” he said, inclining his head toward Foyle. “Let some other woman make that mistake.”

“And why are you so certain it would be a mistake?” she asked. “Do you think so poorly of your employer?”

“He is not a kind man,” he said. “And not a gentle one. And not a clever one, or a strong one. He is remarkable largely by his failings.”

“Then why work for him?”

“I owe him,” he said, and did not elaborate. “It is your choice, of course. All things are your choice, in this place. But I would find a different man to dream with. And if you should find yourself in need of company along the walls, I
suspect I will be very lonely, these next few days.” He bent over her hand and kissed it.

“And who should I ask for?”

“Mr. Tiger,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Your men are not so imaginative, I think.”

“No,” she said. “Apparently not.” She might have picked another creature for him. The tiger was too obvious, too brutish. Some kind of cat, though, a slender, understated one with pricked ears and bright eyes.

“It seems you are not the only one interested in Mr. Lamb,” the man said, and inclined his head. Elinor turned—and nearly fell over. Lord Farleigh stood on the other side of the room, a glass clutched in his hand and murder in his eyes.

“Mr. Tiger,” she said. “We have not long been acquainted, but I must ask you for a favor.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What favor would that be?” he asked.

“Get your employer out of this room as quickly as possible,” she said, and hurried across the floor.

*   *   *

Colin had no idea which rooms best suited Foyle's proclivities, so he visited them all. Most seemed tame; the occupants of a few seemed to be trying very hard to be otherwise, to the point of creating an air of earnestness that quite spoiled the attempt. He had recognized many faces. They had undoubtedly recognized him. But the benefit of a party like M. Beauchene's was that no one could point a finger without implicating himself. Besides, there were plenty of circles in which his standing would rise if it was known that he had achieved such an exclusive invitation.

He guessed there were about thirty men in attendance, though the winding corridors and self-contained rooms made it seem like more as they moved to and fro. There were at least twice as many women, and a sizable staff. He hoped women and staff alike were being paid well. He had
been reminded on three occasions—without provocation—that any woman without a mask who wore a white band around her arm was staff, and not to be touched or spoken to for anything but the most mundane request.

For a man of notoriously depraved appetites, M. Beauchene was certainly concerned with the well-being of the women in his employ.

Next to women, the thing in the greatest abundance was alcohol. Colin imbibed generously. It gave him something to do with his hands, which increasingly felt necessary, lest those hands appear available for a less wholesome occupation. In the spirit of variety, he endeavored not to repeat himself. It was not a difficult task. Brandy, whiskey, wine (red and white), champagne, port, Madeira, a cloyingly sweet cordial, and something that was served in tiny sip-sized cups and scorched all the way down.

He was sampling the port when he entered a room adorned in Grecian excess and spotted Foyle. He had only ever seen a picture of the man, and Foyle had his back to him, but Colin recognized him instantly. The rest of the room vanished. There was only Foyle. He had the look of a rat, and the same twitching mannerisms. Colin could not imagine those long-fingered hands anywhere near Marie. Not by her consent. He could not imagine her looking at this man with anything but contempt.

Or fear.

Suddenly, answers did not matter. The law did not matter. All that mattered was getting his hands around that man's throat. His vision swam, but he shook his head to clear it. Dratted wine.

He started forward.

A hand caught his. He jerked around, lips peeled back from his teeth. A woman stood beside him, her masked face tilted up toward his. He stilled.

She looked like Elinor. Or perhaps it was only that he had hardly been able to think of anyone but Elinor, the past few days. This woman had the same auburn hair, pitched
nearly black in the dim light, hints of fire in every strand where the candlelight caught it. Pale skin, a long neck. His eye followed the swoop of her clavicle, dove to the low cut of her collar.

He wetted his lips, and realized that she had pressed something into his palm. He looked down. It was a token. A small cat, its tail tucked over its paws in an almost coquettish pose.

She was offering herself to him. This woman who, beneath a mask, was indistinguishable from the woman he had dreamed of for five years.

He tore his gaze away from her. Foyle. That was why he was here.

But the man was gone.

Two doorways led out of the room; he might have gone through either. Colin lurched toward the nearest. The woman's hand closed around his wrist, fetching him up short.

“I have to . . .” he said, but she put the tips of her fingers to his lips and shook her head. She tugged on his arm. When he didn't move, she stood up on the tips of her toes. Cool porcelain brushed his ear.

“He can wait until tomorrow,” she whispered, her voice oddly hoarse. “I will not.”

Oh, hell. He was drunk. Entirely too drunk to hold his own in a fight. And God, the woman was beautiful. Her hands were around his neck, now, her touch light, sending prickles down his spine. She ran her fingertips over his shoulder and down his chest, then spun. She cast an inviting look over her shoulder and crooked a finger.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be sober. He would be ready to face Foyle.

She'd done him a favor, he decided, thoughts muzzy. He couldn't kill the man in front of—what were they called?
Witnesses
.

He dashed back the rest of the port and handed the glass to the nearest satyr, resting it on the creature's upturned palm, and followed the woman. She led him through the rooms with practiced ease, and around to a staircase.

“Which room?” she asked, still in that hoarse whisper.

“Erm.” He patted his pockets, looking for his token. “Bird. White one. Hats.”

She let out a short huff and seized hold of his hand. She all but dragged him up the stairs.

“Egret!” he remembered as they crested the top, but she was already moving for the marked door. She held out her hand. Lovely hand, it was. Elinor had lovely hands, too. Graceful.

“Key,” she said.

She didn't sound quite so inviting as she had downstairs. He frowned, but fumbled around until he found the key and handed it over. She had the door open in a moment and herded him in. Herded him. It lacked the elegance of a proper seduction, but he was suddenly beyond caring. There was the bed, the linens crisp and overlaid with burgundy and silver silk coverings, and there was the girl, standing with her back to it.

He moved to her. Some part of him insisted that he stop, that he was being foolish, but it was easy to ignore. He put his mouth to her neck, his hands pulling at her collar, trying to slip her dress down over her shoulders.

She pushed him away with one hand and reached for her mask. He caught its edge, held it in place. “No,” he said. “Please, leave it.”

The moment she removed it, the illusion would shatter. He would be looking at some other woman.

He knew he would regret this. He knew it wasn't her.

It didn't matter. He wanted her. And for tonight, he could pretend she wanted him.

Elinor had only seconds to react. She'd had to hope that Mr. Tiger would follow her directive; she didn't have time to convince him. She all but sprinted across the room. The cat was in her hand before she had quite realized what she was doing, and then she was pressing it into Lord Farleigh's palm. She was twining her hands around his neck, she was whispering to him.

She wasn't altogether certain where it had all come from. She had never attempted to seduce someone, much less in such a compact timeframe. The most shocking thing was that it
worked
. The Indian gentleman whisked Foyle away, and Lord Farleigh fixed his attention on her.

It helped, she reflected, that he appeared to have drunk half his weight in spirits. He could barely stay upright; she doubted he would remember Foyle had been there once the man was out of sight. And once his attention was fixed on her, it was simple to guide him up to his room.

There, her plan faltered. He fell on her like—well, like a man who had just been led up to his room by a courtesan. His lips were on her neck and his hands on her shoulders, making their way to her breasts with determination. She shoved him away. She hadn't wanted to reveal herself, only
to get him away from Foyle, but she needed some kind of shock to shake him out of his single-minded fixation. She reached to untie the ribbons that secured the mask.

“No,” he said. He held the mask in place. “Please, leave it.”

She froze. The raw desire in his voice sparked an answering heat in her core.

Then, “Elinor,” he whispered, as if to himself. Her hands shook, and she bit back a sharp gasp. He knew. “You look like her,” he said, and then she understood.

He'd kissed her twice. He'd wanted her. Her body, if nothing else. He wanted her now. And God help her, she wanted him. One night. Behind the mask. It would mean nothing in the morning. She wouldn't remain; she would vanish. He need never know the truth, but she would have this for herself.

And so she drew him toward her. He pushed her back, onto the bed, and she pulled him with her. His fingers were more sure now, finding the buttons that secured her dress. He fumbled with them a moment, his hands under her, then yanked her up and tore. The buttons flew off, scattering over the bedspread. Together they worked her arms and torso free of the dress, leaving the fabric bunched at her waist. She wore a thin corset beneath, and he made a sound of frustration halfway to a growl. She almost laughed.

“A moment,” she said, remembering to roughen her voice so he would not recognize it. She sat up, reaching back to loosen the laces. He rolled to the side to give her room, one hand on her hip, playing at the lower edge of the corset.

The laces snagged. She muttered a curse and bent her neck, trying to get a look. Finally they came loose, and she tugged at the corset to get it loose enough to slip over her head. “Sorry,” she muttered. Lord Farleigh did not reply.

She looked over at him. He lay on his back, one finger still propped on her hip. His eyes were closed, his mouth half-opened. And as she watched, he began to snore.

“You must be joking,” she said to herself. She touched his shoulder. “Mr. Egret.” No response. She gave him a little shake. “Lord Farleigh.
Colin
.” But there was no reply. She let out a groan. “You are
insufferable.
”

He did not reply. The drink had caught up with him, apparently, and dragged him well and thoroughly under. Elinor scowled at him. She smacked his shoulder, then gave him a hard shake. He shifted a little, and the snoring stopped. He didn't wake.

“Drat,” she said. There was no waking him up from that. She rose. Her skin was still hot, the core of her filled with a warm pressure that demanded what had been promised.

A ewer of water and a basin rested in the corner of the room. She poured cool water over her hands and splashed it on her neck and chest. Cold droplets ran between her breasts, only serving to elicit a little shiver from her. She shut her eyes.

“That's quite enough of that, Elinor,” she told herself, and braced her hands against her sides. She inspected herself in the mirror on the wall. Her hair stood around her mask in frayed wisps. The top of her dress hung about her waist, shapeless and smushed. Her skin was flushed, and her pulse was coming entirely too fast.

She removed the mask. It was her, then, in that mirror. Not a fearless courtesan.

But it was not fear or shame she felt, staring at that reflection. She suspected it was simple disappointment. She had to admit she had not been
entirely
put out at the sudden redirection of her evening's efforts. She had to admit that she had wondered rather extensively just how deserved Lord Farleigh's reputation was, where women were concerned.

“Not very, judging by this evidence,” she muttered peevishly, and straightened her shoulders. She'd handled the problem. Not the way she wished to, granted, but Lord Farleigh was not currently engaged in murdering Edward Foyle, so she could only count this as a success.

Now it was time to get back to the business at hand.

She got her arms back into her sleeves. The buttons were done for, and it gaped open at the back, but she was at least covered. She left the mask cocked up, letting her see and breathe freely, and went back to Lord Farleigh.

His legs hung over the side of the bed. He was going to
have a hell of a headache in the morning, she thought with some satisfaction.

She bent and unlaced his boots, then pried them from his feet. He hardly twitched.

He'd managed to get the buttons of his breeches undone, and after a moment's consideration she tugged those off, too, leaving his drawers in place. With more effort, she divested him of jacket, waistcoat, and peripheral items, and folded everything on a chair near the bed. At least he would have something to wear in the morning; she couldn't abide the thought of such lovely clothes being slept on.

She stood with arms akimbo and watched him sleep. There was nothing more to be done for him. He certainly posed no danger to Foyle in his condition.

And it was not even eleven o'clock. She had time yet.

She slipped back out of the room, remembering to secure her mask, just as another masked woman trotted down the hallway, adjusting her bodice.

“That was quick,
cherie
,” she said, pausing. “Did I not just see you go in there?”

“He passed out,” Elinor said.

The woman chuckled. “He is not the first tonight, and he won't be the last. Oh no, your dress! Quick, let's get you a new one.” She waved at Elinor to follow. Elinor fell gratefully into her wake. There were other women about, some masked and some now with bare faces and flushed cheeks. They called greetings to one another, but all seemed to have somewhere to be. Elinor's savior brought them through to a room where rack upon rack of dresses hung. None terribly well-made, but they'd pass for beautiful in candlelight, Elinor supposed.

“Here, try this one,” the woman said. “It'll look lovely with your hair.” She'd selected a deep red gown with a low waist and a collar that would cut just above the crest of Elinor's bosom. “Need help?”

Elinor accepted the assistance gratefully, and the woman helped her step out of the ruined dress. Then she was tutting
over Elinor's hair, buttoning up the new gown, and patting her on the cheek—or rather, the mask's cheek.

“There you are. Pretty as can be. Are you holding up? No problems?”

It took Elinor a moment to catch up with herself. The woman seemed to be running at twice the speed of a normal human being. “Fine,” she said.

“Well, if you have any trouble, we want to know about it.”

“We?”

“Monsieur Beauchene and I,” she said kindly, and for the first time Elinor detected the hint of a Parisian accent. “This is not some Hellfire club. We have
standards
,” she said. Elinor realized with a start who this woman must be.

“Madame Beauchene?” she said, voice fluttering with the hint of nerves.

“Not tonight,” the woman said, and winked. “Now. Go back out there, and do try to enjoy yourself.”

She patted Elinor's cheek again, clasped her hands, and then turned her around by her shoulders. Elinor stumbled away, reeling. She'd assumed Monsieur Beauchene was a bachelor. Or at the very least, that his wife would be very far away and very ignorant.

She took the woman's advice, though, and hurried back down the stairs. There might still be time to find Foyle. She went to the satyr room first, but found no sign of either Foyle or his employee. She wandered, then, passing through each room slowly. Twice a man caught her arm and whispered a suggestion in her ear. Each time she shook her head and slipped by.

She found Mr. Tiger in a room made to look something like the inside of a circus tent. A woman in an acrobat's outfit sat suspended from a hoop, hanging a few feet off the ground, her mask painted in an expression of eternal laughter.

“Looking for Mr. Lamb again?” the Tiger asked her when she approached. “What happened to your other friend?”

“He is asleep,” she said delicately. “Thank you for helping me.”

“A blind man could have seen he had violence on his mind,” he said. “Lucky for my employer that you provided a more engaging subject for his thoughts. Why are you interested in Mr. Lamb?”

She swallowed. “I have questions for him,” she admitted. She did not know that trusting this man was wise, but she was not trained in subterfuge.

“Did he do something to you?” he asked. “Have you one of his little children hidden away, and you are looking for a few coins for the child's education? If so, I am happy to handle the matter. I have done so before.”

She tasted something sour in her throat. “No,” she said. “I have no children.”

“Hmm.” He looked out over the room and took a sip of his wine.

“How did you come to work for him?” she asked. “You said you owed him, and that is why you don't leave. But did he hire you in India? That's where you're from, isn't it?”

“It is,” he said. “And yes, that is where I was hired. I worked for a cousin of his.”

Lady Copeland. It had to be. Perhaps she would not need to speak with Foyle at all.

“I believe I know which cousin you mean,” she said. “Tell me. Did you know a woman named Marie Hayes?”

He stilled then. He did not look at her, but tension stole across him like the slow closing of a fist. “Do not ask these questions,” he said. “Do not speak to Mr. Lamb. And keep your friend away from him. No good will come of it.”

“I need—”

“Mr. Lamb has already retired for the evening, and you should be grateful it is with someone else,” he snapped. Anger entered his voice for the first time. “Go back to your friend. And if you have any sense, leave tomorrow.”

“Mr. Tiger—”

But the false name only made him flinch. “Good night, memsahib,” he said with exaggerated courtesy, and was gone before she could speak another word.

The woman on the hoop gave a nervous giggle. Elinor glared at her.

“Sorry,” the woman said. They were the only two in the room now. “You might try the atrium. The poets like to drape themselves among the foliage. At least you'd get to hear every possible word for the color of your hair.”

“And the shape of my bosom, I suppose,” Elinor said. “Thank you for the advice. Do you get to get down at any point?”

“Not for another hour,” she said. “But there's always at least one chap waiting when I do.” She winked. Or at least, Elinor thought she did; it was hard to tell through the blasted mask.

“Good luck, then,” she said.

She trudged back up the stairs. She hadn't ever located her room; she hadn't thought she'd need it. She hadn't thought she'd need more than one dress, either.

After a moment's hesitation, she slipped back into the Egret room. Lord Farleigh had dragged himself further up on the bed, and sprawled out across most of it. She eyed the chair in the corner. It looked terribly uncomfortable, and she was suddenly exhausted.

She stripped down to her chemise and considered the bed. She'd very nearly let Lord Farleigh ravish her. She was dressed as a courtesan in a house full of courtesans. It was not the time to fret about propriety.

She wriggled beneath the covers, shoving Lord Farleigh off to the side enough for her to slot herself against the edge of the bed. She set her mask on the table beside her and, after one last glance at the sleeping man, blew out the candle.