A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (18 page)

“India holds too many painful memories,” he went on with a sigh. “You see, I lost my wife there.”

“Your poor thing,” said the giggler, smoothing her hand against his forearm. “That's terrible.”

“She died in my arms,” he said, voice growing distant. “I watched the light go out of her eyes. She breathed her last, and then . . . then she was still. I carry her with me in my heart, always. And so I cannot bear to return to the place that she loved.” He heaved a long, sorrowful sigh. The girls cooed and plastered themselves to his sides, stroking at him with comforting motions.

“Bastard,” Farleigh muttered. “He's using her to impress
whores
.”

“Mr. Egret, I would mind my language,” Elinor said. Whatever their profession, she did not like hearing these women referred to with such contempt. Not after more than one of them had been so very helpful to her. “Besides, you've missed the most important part of all of that.”

“I have?” he said. His teeth were set. Even sober, he wanted to kill the man. She couldn't blame him, not entirely. If it had been her sister, she might have tried to thrash him herself.

“He's bored,” she said. “He finds them dull. They are trying to please him, and he doesn't want to be pleased. He wants to win.”

“You can tell all of that from an overheard conversation?”

She shrugged. She was used to learning a great deal from very little. It was what had kept her useful to her old, shallow friends for so long, and kept her occupied through years of her illness. She used to get herself close to the dance floor and make a game of guessing the content of a conversation by the few words she could overhear as a couple spun by.

With Foyle, it was mostly his tone, and the way his eyes roved. It was also the set of his arms, where he had them around the women. His hands were idle about their waists, and when his thumb grazed the underside of one girl's
breast, and she leapt and laughed with delight, he recoiled. He was searching for more challenging conquests.

Perhaps if Elinor could make herself seem to be one, she could entice him to share more interesting tales of India than riding an elephant.

“Before we can hope to approach him, we shall have to deal with the bodyguard,” Colin said, tipping his head toward the watchful Mr. Tiger.

Elinor patted his arm. “That much is simple,” she said. “Leave it to me.”

Elinor parted ways with Lord Farleigh as the afternoon wore on, and began an exploration of her own. Her mask provided her with a certain degree of protection, but she almost didn't need it; men's eyes slid first to her throat and, spotting the egret charm, slid just as quickly away. She doubted they would have registered her face if she'd thrown the mask into the bushes and paraded across the lawn. That she belonged to another man was a stronger deterrent than any expression of disinterest, which rankled her even as she recognized its use. She had always had the unspoken protection of her male relatives, her wealth, her position in society; she had never had cause to fear that her refusal would be disregarded. Now she was not Lady Elinor Hargrove; she was only a harlot like all the others, and as carefully as Beauchene constructed his rules, most of the men here would assume that her answer was yes without bothering to ask.

Except that she was owned.

By the time she located Madame Beauchene, the realization had nursed itself into a low-simmering resentment against Lord Farleigh. It was hardly his fault—except that he had placed terms and conditions on her ability to pursue
her own ends, and that it
was
his fault that her plan had been interrupted the first night.

Madame Beauchene was entertaining a trio of men in a room of red brocade and endless mirrors, her mask dangling idly from one hand. Elinor supposed she could afford to ignore the rules. Gold accents gilded every frame and piece of furniture. The room had a kingly look the men could not match. Nor could Madame Beauchene, though her audience did not seem to care. She was a plain woman, no beauty to look upon, but she entranced the eye nonetheless. Elinor drew close, hesitating at the palpable edge of the woman's sphere of attention, and was rewarded only with the flick of Madame Beauchene's eyes to acknowledge her.

The older woman finished the anecdote she was sharing, something about a muddy horseback ride and a stray sheep, and then pardoned herself. She rose, smiling, and glided over to Elinor. Every one of her fingers sported at least one ring, and on them glittered gaudy gems. She was not a woman of subtlety; she couldn't afford to be, Elinor decided, with looks like that. She found another way to bowl men over.

“The girl with the torn buttons,” Madame Beauchene said. “I see you recovered your stride.”

“I had a lovely night,” Elinor said, not certain if that was the right way to describe it.

“I wondered,” Madame Beauchene said, “who you were. You haven't been here before, and I didn't remember interviewing you.”

“Interviewing?” Elinor said, mouth suddenly dry.

Madame Beauchene's tone was light, but with a chill edge. “Nor did my husband. We try to speak to every one of our girls before they arrive.”

“Madame Lavigne referred me,” Elinor said quickly. “She said nothing of an interview.”

“Ah, Madame Lavigne,” the woman said, as if that settled the matter. “That explains it. I was surprised when she asked to come, and more surprised when she did not arrive.”

Elinor saw a way toward an explanation, and smiled warmly. “She had a fall, and injured her leg, but she did not
want to miss out. She asked me to go in her place, and tell her all about it on my return.”

“As long as the telling omits certain details,” the woman reminded her. “The privacy of our guests must be sacrosanct.”

“Of course,” Elinor agreed with a dip of her head.

“But there is a reason you've sought me out. Don't let me chatter on! What do you need?” She was the warm woman from the night before again, a shift so sudden that Elinor had the lurching feeling that it was an orchestrated performance.

“There is a man,” Elinor said, refusing to lose her stride. “He became very interested in me last night, and today I find I am having a hard time avoiding him.”

The woman's eyes lit. “If you feel threatened, we can speak with him.”

“No,” Elinor said quickly. She wanted the man out of the way, not confronted directly. “I do not think he means ill, but I'm not interested in his sort.” The words curdled in her mouth as she said them. She sounded beastly.

“His sort?”

“His name is Mr. Tiger,” she allowed, and the older woman's mouth pressed into a thin line.

“I did not think Mr. Tiger was much interested in the young ladies here.”

Elinor gave a half shrug, as if helpless to explain it herself. “We spoke at some length last night,” she said. “He gave me a drink. I did not think that obligated me to anything.”

“It doesn't,” Madame Beauchene said with a sigh. “It may seem odd, the rules we have in place. But it saves everyone trouble in the long run. It keeps us elevated above common entertainment, and attracts a finer class of guest. It is not against the rules to converse, or to linger longingly. If he laid hands on you against your wishes . . .”

“He hasn't,” Elinor said.

“Then perhaps it would be better simply to distract him,” Madame Beauchene said with a speculative look in her eye. “I think I can manage that, at least.” She patted Elinor on the shoulder. “Now go enjoy yourself. You are too tightly
tensed! This is meant to be enjoyable for both of you. It is Mr. Egret you are attached to, yes?”

“For now,” Elinor said dismissively.

“Mm. Perhaps you should remain attached to him. I would very much like to hear how our newest guest is enjoying himself. And perhaps if you learn something interesting about how he has enjoyed his stay, we could have a conversation. And perhaps you could be invited back, next year. We have certain allowances for our regular girls, beyond the normal payment.” She smiled broadly, and Elinor felt a chill creep up her spine.

“Perhaps,” she echoed. Madame Beauchene was curious about Lord Farleigh, then. And of course she would be. It did not sound like it was the first time she had made such an offer, and Elinor wondered how many of the courtesans took up the Beauchenes on the offer of extra pay in exchange for a few overheard secrets.

Madame Beauchene was done with her. It was obvious, like a candle blown out; she turned away, returning to her attentive flock, and Elinor was left adrift in the middle of the room. She gathered herself and departed, still mulling over the meaning of the offer.

She found Lord Farleigh on a sofa in a sunlit room, alone. She stood a moment in the doorway. He had not seen her yet; his eyes were fixed on a far distant point, and his face turned half away from her. The sun made his skin glow, and inattention had settled his features into a more restful calm than his usual default frown. He was not so striking that way, she thought; it made it obvious that he was not a handsome man, by normal standards. Without the scowl, he seemed . . . normal.

He seemed like the sort of man you could simply sit beside. The sort whose silence would not needle, but would lay across your shoulders like a stole, half-forgotten yet still comforting.

Then she shifted; her foot made a sound upon the floor, and he turned. The downward tug of his lips was quickly followed by a hardening of every line in his face, and in the space of a blink he was stern again. Handsome again. She drew
forward. She supposed the sudden change in expression was her fault. She had not given him much reason to like her today.

“It's done,” she said.

“Good.”

She sat beside him, leaving a foot between them. They stared in the same direction, unspeaking. The silence was not comforting. They wounded each other when they spoke, and when they did not. They were ill-suited for one another, she thought, and wondered if she had ever thought differently.

“I have been thinking,” she said softly. “When this is over, I do not want to go back to the way we have been.”

“And what way have we been?” he asked.

“Cruel,” she said. “Argumentative.”

“You are an argumentative person,” he said. “I cannot be faulted for responding in kind.”

“I am not,” she said, and looked at him crossly when he snorted. “It's only that you say such ridiculous things. Things that I would despise any other man for saying.”

“Ah, then I am glad you don't despise me,” he said.

“I didn't say that.” She folded her hands in her lap. She was not going to allow him to draw her into an argument.

“There is a reason I say the things I do,” he said.

“An excellent one, I'm sure,” she said primly.

“You make it difficult for me to think clearly,” he said. “I am always so caught up in wondering how you will analyze each little thing that my words quite get away from me.”

“So it's my fault that you insult me.”

“Yes. You're so in control,” he said, a hint of frustration in his tone.

It was her turn to let out an unladylike snort. “Not around you,” she said. “Around you, I feel anything but.”

He looked at her, a long and steady look that made the back of her neck prickle.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “It's only that I am sometimes surprised that I've known you so long, and so little.” He rose, hand extended. “We have Foyle to find,” he reminded her.

She took his hand, and stood. He'd meant to say something else; she was sure of it. But Farleigh of all men she could not understand. It should have been easy. He spoke his mind; he was honest and blunt. Everyone knew what he thought, what he felt. And yet she did not trust it.

And she had not quite decided whether she could trust
hi
m
.

*   *   *

Too much depended on things they couldn't control. They did not know if Foyle had recognized Lord Farleigh, or if Foyle had seen him and Elinor together the night before; they did not know if the enigmatic Mr. Tiger had said anything to warn him off of them. They wouldn't know how to play the scene until they actually spoke to the man. Elinor did not understand how Lord Farleigh suddenly appeared so unconcerned.

Elinor fussed. She was a woman who liked knowing the angles, and she was not, by her nature, a performer. It made it all the more impressive that she had managed this long, she thought, but surely that was at an end. By the time they located Foyle she was tense as a rabbit scenting a fox.

They had come around to the red-and-gold room, no longer host to Madame Beauchene. Foyle was still with one of his companions from earlier, the fair-haired girl. She was chattering on about something, and he nodded and murmured every so often. He was indeed a discontented man.

Colin caught Elinor's arm as she passed into the room and leaned in close. “Relax,” he whispered into her ear, which had the opposite of the intended effect. She stiffened and pulled away from him, but he held her close. “This will be easy,” he said. “Only be yourself, and he will be intrigued.”

“I am not so intriguing,” she said. “Or I would not spend so many dances alone.”

“It is because you are alone at so many dances that men find you intriguing,” he said. He brushed his fingers across her neck. To maintain their illusion, she told herself. “They wonder what secrets you're keeping.”

“I don't keep secrets,” she said. “Not my own, at least.”

“All women keep secrets,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow at him before realizing that the gesture was concealed behind the mask. She settled for jutting out her chin instead. “I have found that when a man makes a claim about the whole of the female species, he is more often describing some corresponding feature in his own character,” she said.

His jaw tensed. “You're right. I should strive for specificity. You keep secrets, Elinor; it's only that you do a fine job of keeping yourself ignorant of them as well.”

If he could see her scowl, it would have withered him. It was a clever thing to say, more full of wit than meaning, and it was exactly the sort of thing he seemed to reserve only for her. “I presume, then, that you can tell me these secrets? That you can better elucidate the contents of my mind and heart than I can myself?”

He kept his mouth shut, blessedly. He'd lasted mere minutes since the promise to treat each other more kindly. Perhaps that was proof that they were never meant to be in proximity to each other.

“Don't hover over there,” Foyle called, and they both jerked around. Elinor had momentarily forgotten the man was there. “If you mean to come in, come in. Or go out; it's all the same to me, only that indecisive lingering gives me a headache.”

He clutched a cup of wine in one hand, and Elinor suspected that it was not their presence that was giving the man a headache. Better him than Lord Farleigh.

“Apologies,” Lord Farleigh called cheerfully, and steered Elinor toward the trio. There was a cushioned bench perpendicular to the sofa where the three lounged, making an L-shape suited for conversation. Foyle sat up a little when the two of them took seats upon it, Elinor taking the nearer position. “Mr. Lamb, isn't it?” Lord Farleigh asked. Elinor tried to remember her lessons, arranging her spine in a curve Madame Lavigne would be proud of.