A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (17 page)

“I will not risk getting with child,” Elinor said, practicality leaping to the fore. She blinked. She was not genuinely considering this, was she?

“Any more than you already have, you mean?” Lord Farleigh asked. “Don't worry. There is plenty of pleasure to be found without risking that. Especially in this house.”

A blush was creeping up her neck. She had seen enough last night to considerably expand her imagination on that front. It should have sent her running.

But no one knew that she was here. Lord Farleigh could never tell anyone. Would never tell, even if he could. And God help her, she wanted him. Wanted this, however fleeting an illusion it was, for the space of an hour or a day or a week. She could see the long path of her life laid out before her, growing old in her brother's household, and she wasn't ready for it.

He was waiting for her to flinch. He was waiting for her to break that stare, to agree to go home to that life of loneliness. And that, more than anything, made her decision for her.

She closed the last of the distance to him, and tilted her chin so that their lips nearly met.

“I accept.”

*   *   *

They were the two most exquisitely painful words that had ever graced a woman's lips, Colin decided. And he could not quite believe she had spoken them.

“You accept,” he repeated.

She rocked back on her heels, drawing away from him. “It is what you wanted, isn't it?” she asked. Now she was waiting for
him
to flinch, was she? Then she'd be disappointed. The Marquess of Farleigh did not back down. “The worst is already done, isn't it?”

“The worst.” Not how he liked his lovers to describe their private interludes.

“I wouldn't worry,” she said, hinting at a smile. “Your second attempts do seem to go much smoother than the first.”

He wanted more than anything to have her, in that moment. To crush her to him, and feel her body against his. To prove to her that he was indeed more than capable of making a lasting second impression.

If he had possessed a shred of honor, he would have quashed that instinct. He would have backed away from her. He would have made arrangements for them both to leave, and accepted whatever consequences he must.

Instead, he set the ribbon around her neck, tying it loosely into place, and then traced the edge of it, letting his fingertips come to rest at her clavicle just below the silver bird.

“We have a deal, then,” he said.

She nodded tightly. “Right. A deal.”

He wanted to kiss her then, but she looked as if she expected him to pounce on her that moment—and it was not desire in her eyes so much as trepidation. He was a brute. She didn't know what she was promising him. One night—which he dearly hoped had not been so terrible as she intimated—would not rob her of her innocence completely.

He dropped his hand and cleared his throat, batting back the desire still thudding away at him, body and mind. “To begin with, we will need a plan,” he said.

She relaxed a fraction, and stepped back briskly. “That does seem necessary,” she said. “Though I suspect you need some food and a great quantity of water before any serious thinking occurs.” She spoke rapidly, covering her nervousness badly.

He couldn't have her, he realized. He must retain some shred of honor, because he couldn't bring himself to bed a woman who didn't truly want him, however willing she insisted that she was. He half-smiled, rueful. He had never more wished to be a man without morals than in this moment.

“What?” she said. “Why are you smiling?”

“Food sounds excellent,” he said. “And water, yes. A great deal of it. Someone appears to have siphoned all of mine out of me in the night.”

“I should go find some, then,” Elinor said uncertainly.

“Definitely,” Colin said, and he watched the last of the
nervousness bleed out of her. He crossed to the bedside table and held out her mask to her. “Don't forget this,” he said.

She took it from him, her movements hesitant. She held it in front of her for a long moment. He thought that she might say something, but finally she turned from him. She secured the mask and slipped into her gown, and was gone without speaking another word.

Colin sank onto the bed.

Maybe by the time they had eaten, one of them would have found out where they'd misplaced their sanity.

Elinor did better than simply bring food. She brought a mountain of it, along with a veritable ocean of strong tea. She set it all out on the bed and they sat across from one another, silent while they ate their fill. Colin watched her as they ate. She had borrowed another dress, this one suitable for daytime wear. It was white with petite bundles of red flowers, and sat a bit tight around her bosom. He did not mind the effect, though she kept tugging at it. He didn't really mind that, either.

“We should make sure that we are operating from the same set of information,” Elinor said after she had finished off her tea. “What Phoebe was able to glean is incomplete at best.”

“I thought I had put her off this particular line of inquiry years ago.”

“Apparently not thoroughly enough.”

“I cannot abide dull-witted women, but I admit they would be easier to manage,” he said.

“Do you prefer dull-witted men, then?” she asked sweetly. “I believe that is a different party entirely.”

He choked. “You shouldn't know about that sort of thing.”

“I am not an innocent,” Elinor said. Not in mind nor in
body, and he was reminded that the latter was his fault. “In any case, Marie. You believe that she was tricked into marrying Foyle, and swindled of her rights to the mines. Do you know what he used to blackmail her?”

He considered whether he should tell her about the sketch. He'd brought it with him, thinking perhaps to confront Foyle with it. But he wasn't ready to tarnish her memory in Elinor's eyes. Not yet. “I'm not certain,” he said.

“We need to know.”

“We don't,” he said. “What we need is to see Foyle punished.”

“And how do you intend to do that, exactly, unless we know what we are punishing him for?” she asked.

He let out a snarl and stood. “This was meant to be simple. It was meant to be clean.”

“There is nothing clean in murder,” Elinor said. “And it is worth a little effort to refrain from the deed. Now sit down.”

He spun and pounced on her, pinning her wrists to the bed beside her legs. She leaned back, away from him, but kept her torso stiff, refusing to fall back. “May I remind you,” he said, “that while we are inside this room, I make the rules?”

“Then do you wish to change the topic?” she asked. She arched her back, lifting her breasts. His gaze darted down without prompting, but he wrenched it back up again. She met his eyes with a look of challenge. “You need only tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

Oh, how he wanted to oblige. But he released her wrists, straightening up. He bit the inside of his cheek to break that particular train of thought. “No,” he said. He turned away and began to pace. She let out a breath. She almost sounded disappointed.

“Which is more important to you, Lord Farleigh?” Elinor asked after a moment. “To see Foyle punished, or see that your family is safe?”

He paused in his pacing. “I want both,” he said.

“You may have to choose,” Elinor said. “Certainly if you had killed him last night, your family would be anything but safe. You must realize that.”

Damn her. Of course he did. A thing like this ought to have been simple. “Then I won't kill him outright. I'll challenge him to a duel. They never convict for that.”

“Oh, yes. Your sisters' reputations will be ever so improved. I'm sure Lady Penelope will be thrilled to wed a not-actually-convicted murderer,” Elinor said. “The moment you challenge that man, he'll use whatever leverage he has to get out of it. Unless you think he has some well of courage I am not aware of.”

“I will not let him escape without punishment.”

She sighed. “Then at least let us deal with the matter of the blackmail before it's down to pistols,” she said.

“That much I see the wisdom of,” Colin said. “That was my intention in the first place, you know. But then he was there, and—”

“I understand,” she said. “I cannot say I have never contemplated strangling the man myself.”

He sat beside her on the bed heavily. “Which returns us to where to begin,” he said.

“We get him to speak to us.” She paused. “Foyle has an employee with him. Mr. Tiger, or so he is to be called here. He has a poor opinion of Foyle. He said that he owes him, but then he warned me away from him. He knows more than he has said, but I don't think he'll tell us anything. And he knows we're both interested.”

“Then we will have to get Foyle alone, away from him,” Colin said, considering. “I think I saw him last night. Mr. Tiger, I mean.”

“Are you sure you didn't see two or three of him?” Elinor asked, teasing.

“It probably
is
best that I don't drink.” He'd resented her for that one, but she was right. And God knew he wasn't going to keep sober on his own.

“I have an idea to keep Mr. Tiger”—here she paused and made a face—“away from us for the evening. Then you and I should approach Foyle together. He doesn't know you, does he?”

Colin shook his head. “We've never met.”

“Good. Then we can simply be friendly and interested. Get him drunk, and get him talking about India. We'll see what comes up. We don't have enough to push in any particular direction, so we'll have to hope he feels like talking.”

“Scoundrels like that always do, sooner or later,” Colin said.

“And you have so much experience with scoundrels.”

“More than you,” he said. She gave him a look that suggested she could argue the point.

“You should meet some of the guests at Thornwald,” she said. “Joan keeps interesting company.”

“Apparently, she's quite fond of courtesans and blackmailers,” he said.

The corner of her mouth quirked. “You're looking for the singular on the second count, unless there are other blackmailers I haven't met,” she said.

“But multiple courtesans?”

“One that might claim the title. The others are, I think, less lofty in their practice of the occupation. Have you heard of Madame Lavigne?”

“Heard of her? I know men who would give a significant portion of their teeth for a glance from the woman,” he said. “They say she's the illegitimate daughter of a French courtier, and that a hundred men wrote letters begging her not to leave the continent. You've
met
her?”

“Mm,” Elinor said, clearly enjoying his shock. “She taught me a great many things.”

He had stopped pacing. She watched him with half-lidded eyes.
No, don't follow that thread
, he told himself.
Whatever you do, don't go there, or we will not get anything done.
He cleared his throat emphatically. “Fascinating,” he managed, and Elinor looked away to hide a smile.

“What is our first step, then?” she asked.

“We should begin by observing from afar,” he decided. “Then we will be able to determine the most appropriate method of attack. I wish you'd seen who caught his eye last night.”

“I know it wasn't the acrobat, but that's it,” Elinor said
with an apologetic shrug. “We shall have to hope he isn't particular.”

Colin frowned. “Just to be clear,” he said, “we're only to talk to him.”

“That is the plan.”

“He won't touch you,” he continued.

“I think jealousy is frowned upon here,” Elinor said.

“It isn't jealousy. It's that it's
him
. After what he has done to my family . . . If he lays a hand on you, I am not certain I will be able to let him keep it.”

*   *   *

As with any social occasion worth its salt, the day's activities did not properly begin until the midafternoon. Elinor spent the intervening time securing herself a wardrobe that would function for the remaining days. The house had the dense quiet of a rest after overexertion, and she made a circuit of the rooms in daylight. The curtains had been drawn back, the glasses cleared away, the spills sopped up. The decorations remained eccentric, but the mystery was gone out of the place. With different props, it might be a cheerful summer home. She supposed it very well might be, for all but this one week.

One by one, the partygoers emerged, flocking out to the lawns with picnic baskets and outdoor diversions. The ladies dressed in fresh frocks, light and simple compared to the fare of the evening before. If it were not for the masks, it might have passed as any other summer party.

Elinor took Lord Farleigh's arm as they exited the house, forcing herself to remain relaxed. She could not reconcile her nervousness at his touch with her eagerness, her fear with her longing. It was not as easy as she'd hoped to shed her real life, and embrace this fantasy.

“It seems so normal,” she commented.

“You know, I've met most of these men,” Farleigh said. “I knew we were a debauched bunch as a rule, but honestly. You know that man over there is a magistrate? Lewis, as I recall. Very fair-minded. Sterling reputation.”

The man in question was currently being fed grapes by a buxom redhead.

“You're not going to face censure for being here, are you?” Elinor asked.

“God, no. It can only improve my reputation,” Lord Farleigh said.

“Being a man must be very strange,” Elinor replied, then nodded down the lawn. She'd spotted Foyle, reclining on a blanket with two women in attendance. The Indian gentleman leaned against the lip of a fountain some distance away, watching but not joining in. He noted her presence and gave her a nod. As much a warning as a greeting, she thought, and steered Farleigh to a point she hoped would not seem too close for the Tiger's comfort. The wind lifted Foyle's voice, carrying it clearly to her, and she stopped. There was a bench only a few feet away; by silent agreement, she and Farleigh took their seats.

One of the girls was giggling. Neither, Elinor noted, wore a token—lamb or otherwise. “And have you ridden an elephant?” the laughing girl asked.

“I've ridden a dozen elephants,” Foyle said, with the air of a boastful man trying to sound casual.

“I should be ever so frightened,” the girl said. She played with his sleeve, gazing up at him adoringly. “It would be such a long way to fall. And those things they have—the trunks. They're frightful!”

“Oh, I don't think you'd be afraid of a thick trunk,” Foyle said, and the three of them laughed.

“So far,” Farleigh said, bending his head to her ear, “he seems more crass than evil.”

“Did you expect him to start every conversation with a good cackle?” Elinor asked. Foyle glanced briefly in their direction. “We should probably come up with some way to appear occupied.”

“I could lay my head in your lap and let you stroke my hair,” Farleigh suggested wryly.

“You most certainly could not.”

“You will have to relax, if you wish to play your role,” he said.

“I am relaxed.” A blatant lie. She was coiled tight as a cobra. He placed a hand lightly on her back.

“No one will hurt you when I'm here. Least of all me.”

She looked at him sharply, and found only sincerity in his expression. She willed her limbs to relax. His thumb made a soft circle against her shoulder blade.

“Better,” he said. He gave her a teasing smile. “Now are you sure you don't want me to put my head in your lap? I thought that you might enjoy it. I do have excellent hair.”

“I'm sure the opera singers rhapsodize about your golden locks,” Elinor said with a roll of her eyes. He was trying to goad her out of her nervousness, and it was working, damn him.

Farleigh cleared his throat. “You know about them? It's been two years since I had a mistress, you know.”

“It doesn't matter to me.”

“And they were all short-term arrangements. Purely for mutual entertainment, you understand. I like to think we both got what we were looking for.”

“Then you were looking for dramatic fights in the middle of the street? Because those are the stories I've heard,” Elinor said. Truthfully, she was envious of her male peers' ability to casually take lovers, to taste the fruits of womanhood before they bought the whole tree. But she did enjoy watching him squirm.

“They were not that dramatic,” he protested.

“I believe one woman threw a shoe at your head.” Elinor said.

“Oh. She was
not
my mistress,” Farleigh said with a theatrical wince. “And rather upset about the fact.”

“The lovely thing about that story is that it
seems
like you are being self-deprecating, but the moral is that you drive women mad with desire,” Elinor said.

“Huh. Must be why I like it so much,” Farleigh said. “Hush.”

She started to berate him, but he put a finger to her lips and nodded toward Foyle. She quieted, listening.

“I could never go back,” Foyle was saying.

“Why not? It sounds exciting,” said the bolder of the women.