A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (27 page)

He gritted his teeth. He was too old to be lectured by his mother. And much too old to need it. “Thank you for your advice, Mother,” he said. “I shall take it under consideration.”

“Do,” she said, and sighed. “I am terribly weary. I believe I will retire. Do try to cease wallowing in your sorrows long enough to see me off in the morning, will you?”

He scowled and nodded. She patted his cheek with another little sigh, and then wafted out the way she had come. Colin turned his glass in his hand, frowning at the amber liquid. At least when he was drunk, he had an excuse for the horrible things that came out of his mouth.

He set the glass down on the table beside him. Enough. His mother was right. He was wallowing, and it was beneath him. It was time to let go of what he could not have, and look toward the future. That future was one with Penelope Layton and no thoughts of vengeance. No thoughts, either, of Elinor Hargrove.

But he wouldn't end things like this. He needed to speak to her. He started for the door, and stopped. No. If he went to speak to her now, their wounds still fresh, he would only make things worse.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would speak to Elinor. And hope that it would bring him some imitation of peace.

Lady Farleigh had never had much patience for the late start of the typical society member's day. When she stated that she meant to leave first thing in the morning, she meant it; a maid was sent round to Elinor's door as the first rays of light filtered their way over the horizon. Elinor was already awake, having seemingly acquired her family's vulnerability to insomnia at last. She dressed swiftly in another ill-fitting gown, unbecoming but suited for travel, and made her way to the front hall. She had no bags to pack, and yet she felt as if she were carrying a great weight. The bundle of letters was tucked into her reticule, tugging at her attention however thoroughly she tried to put it out of her mind.

It was not proof. Not yet. But it might lead to proof, and by extension, Mr. Foyle's downfall. If she could bring it to the right person's attention, she could begin the process of bringing the man to his knees. And she could imagine walking up to Colin, telling him that she had news. That she had accomplished at last what they had set out to do. It could be a wedding present, she thought fiercely, and he would look at her as he realized what a poor choice of brides he had made. And she would walk away, triumphant, and even as he rejoiced he would regret letting her go.

Oh, it was a foolish fantasy, and beneath her. But she nursed it nonetheless, feeling a hot spike of pleasure and spite in her core.

Lady Farleigh was waiting. She had more than made up for Elinor's lack of luggage judging by the state of the carriage beyond the open double doors. She cast an eye over Elinor's garb and heaved a little sigh.

“You are so very tall,” she said with regret. “I suppose you will be reunited with your own clothes in a few days, but it's such a shame.”

Elinor murmured something vaguely resembling words. Mr. Bhandari was already outside, speaking with the driver, who was examining him with unconcealed interest. It must be a strange life, she thought, to be in turns invisible and an object of utmost curiosity.

“Mother. Lady Elinor.”

Elinor flinched at Colin's voice and turned slowly, doing her best to keep her expression cool. Years of practice made it achievable, if barely.

“Colin, darling. How good of you to see us off,” Lady Farleigh cooed. She swept up to her son and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I really must go check on the luggage now.” She did an abrupt about-face and hurried out and down the steps before either one of them could speak a word of protest. Colin smiled after her ruefully and turned to Elinor, raising a shoulder in a helpless shrug.

“I suppose she wishes us to make up,” Elinor said. She had no intention of doing so.

“It's more that she expects me to apologize, which I do,” he said. Elinor stilled. He had not often apologized to her in all the years they'd known each other, and here was the second such instance in recent days. It was beginning to resemble a habit. “What I said to you yesterday was designed to cut, and I fear it did its job. I insulted you.”

“I deceived you,” Elinor pointed out.

“Yes.” He paused. “I do not require an apology from you, Elinor. I understand why you did it, even if I do not agree that it was the right course of action. The truth is that I needed
you, these past few days. I needed to not be alone. And that was the mechanism by which our partnership was possible. So as much as I might hate that you employed it, I do not regret the result. I do not hate you, and I regret deeply my reaction to the news.”

Elinor listened to it all with her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder. “I don't have any right to be angry with you,” she said. “And the deception was not entirely for your benefit,” she reminded him. “I might have wanted to prevent you from making a grave error, in attacking Foyle, but I also wanted . . . Oh, I don't know.”

“The dream of being someone else,” he said. “Of living a different life than the one so clearly laid out before you. It was a dream I enjoyed as well, Elinor. You should not feel ashamed of dreams, nor bear any lingering obligation after waking. Can this be a dream, then? Can we go on as if we were only sleeping?”

“Go back to the way things were?” Elinor asked. She shook her head. “I don't know. I don't believe so. Too much has happened.”

“Better not to think of each other,” Colin said. “Not to see each other.”

“Yes,” Elinor agreed. She did not think she could stand to see him with Penelope Layton. She had turned into one of the swooning girls she always scorned, unable to control her own emotions and infatuations. It was not his fault he didn't love her. And yet she was punishing him for it. “There is something you should see,” she said. She reached into her reticule and withdrew the letters, a faint tremor in her hand fluttering the paper. She held it out.

“I've seen these,” he said.

“Examine them more closely. I went over them with Mr. Bhandari. We believe that they contain a code, meant to communicate British troop movements during the war. According to Mr. Bhandari, Foyle made a habit of socializing with English officers. It is not conclusive, but someone may be able to find evidence to confirm it.”

He took the letters and swept his gaze down the top one,
frowning. “My God,” he said. “This would be the end of him.”

“And such a stain might even inconvenience Lord Copeland, if only temporarily,” Elinor said. “At the least, it may give you leverage to learn what truly happened to your sister.”

“Why didn't you show me this last night?” Colin asked. She tensed, but he sounded more curious than angry.

“I thought to chase it down myself,” she said, with a little laugh. “I suppose I was not quite done playing the adventuress.”

“Better to give it to Hudson, I think,” Colin said. “I think we've both had enough of skulking through dark corridors and dealing with dangerous men.”

Elinor smiled faintly. “I want to know the end of the tale,” she said. “But I don't think I care to have any more pistols pointed at me, to be sure.”

“If I learn anything, you'll know,” Colin pledged. “Thank you for giving this to me.” He shuffled the letters and paused, frowning. “Hm,” he said.

“Oh, Yes. Mrs. Fincher. I left that one in,” Elinor said. “Something about it bothers me. Why the regular payment?”

“A favorite whore?” Colin mused aloud, and cast a chagrined look in his mother's direction.

“One generally pays them per appointment,” Elinor said. “An informant, perhaps? But even then . . . And the name feels familiar somehow. I feel certain that I've heard it before.” She shook her head. “I have no idea where. But it's worth investigating.”

“Another task for Hudson,” Colin said. He cleared his throat and tucked the page into an inner pocket of his jacket. “You should go, Elinor. Lady Elinor. I've kept you here long enough.”

She hesitated. He wasn't angry any longer. Perhaps—perhaps if she only admitted to him what she felt, they might . . .

Might what? He was engaged. If nothing else, she could not do that to another woman. Certainly not one as sweet as Penelope Layton, who had never wronged another living soul. Elinor gave Colin a smooth, formal curtsy. “Lord
Farleigh,” she said. “It has been a pleasure, as always. I expect I will see you at your wedding this fall.”

“I expect so,” he said, and matched her formality in a shallow bow. “Safe travels, Lady Elinor.”

“Good-bye,” Elinor said, startled by the finality of the word. How could such intensity come to such a leaden close? But she turned away. It was better this way. She would survive this, and when she was old and gray, she would remember the few days she spent dreaming of a different life.

*   *   *

Elinor had quite forgotten how much she enjoyed Lady Farleigh's company under normal circumstances. Which was not to say that these circumstances were normal—but they had nothing to do with the ongoing quest to pair Phoebe with a suitable husband, which had consumed Lady Farleigh's attention for nearly half a decade. It seemed that a Season away from the task had reminded Lady Farleigh that she had more interesting topics to apply her considerable mind to, and Elinor was entertained to learn that she had taken up reading a rather overwrought series of novels about a perpetually virginal and winsome heroine, whose sterling qualities were matched for improbability only by the nefariousness of the villains she encountered. Lady Farleigh was dissecting the plot of the latest of the installments when they at last reached the Hargrove town house.

“—who of course proves to be her uncle, disguised with a false mustache. I must say, I would think I would recognize my own uncle, however bushy his facial hair,” Lady Farleigh said as the carriage rolled to a stop.

“You'd be surprised the mistakes one can make in poor lighting and unfamiliar circumstances,” Elinor said.

“Oh?” Lady Farleigh asked, perhaps sensing a personal anecdote. Which there was, but Elinor was not about to regale the dowager marchioness with that debacle of an encounter. “Oh, we're here. You have been excellent company, dear.”

“And you are too kind to have accompanied me,” Elinor told her. She could feel the faint pressure around her temples
that presaged a headache, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her own bed was near at hand. She felt as if she could sleep for a week. “I would invite you inside, but . . .”

“It is probably best if we part without comment,” Lady Farleigh said.

They said their quick good-byes. Mr. Bhandari gave her a wave and a nod when she exited the carriage, and then it was trundling off again. Elinor stood outside the town house a moment, her hands clasped before her. Home. She supposed she ought to be disappointed, but in truth she was relieved. Martin always accused her of being more fond of excitement after the fact, when she could turn it into a story and not have to suffer the disruption of routine. She was willing to admit he was at least partially right. She was glad she had gone on this adventure—or misadventure—but she was quite finished with the experience.

She walked up the steps and rang the bell, hoping that the house was not entirely abandoned; with Joan conducting so much business in London, they usually left at least a servant or two to keep the place open, but she would not be shocked to find it shuttered. In that case, she'd have to find someplace to spend the night, and then head to Thornwald in the morning, for she certainly was not ready for any further travel today.

To her relief, the door opened. To her surprise, it was Croft who stood in the doorway. When he saw her, his expression shifted swiftly between one of shock to one of relief, before settling into his professional blank-faced gaze. “Lady Elinor,” he said. “Please, come inside. We have been quite concerned for you.”

“Concerned for me?” Elinor asked, stepping through. Now she could make out voices, raised and angry—Joan and Martin. Since when did Joan and Martin argue like that? She hurried toward the sound. They were in the drawing room, and Martin was pacing swiftly back and forth.

“—irresponsible to the most extreme degree!” he was shouting. “If I had suspected even a fraction of the trouble you were seducing her into—”

“Seducing?” Joan asked, voice strained but a great deal more level. She had her hands folded over her bulging belly, and she, unlike Martin, had already spotted Elinor's arrival. Which largely meant that her glare was fixed on her, and not on Martin. “I did not seduce her into anything, and I certainly did not advise her to vanish off the face of God's earth without a word of warning.”

“I'm sorry,” Elinor said. Martin spun. He stared at her for a long, tense moment, fury burning in his eyes. And then he strode across the room in three quick steps and wrapped her up in a bone-crunching hug.

Elinor yelped. “Martin! Put me down.”

He obliged, but grabbed hold of her shoulders. “Where have you
been
?” he asked.

“I . . .” Elinor glanced at Joan. “I left word with . . . our mutual friend,” she said.

“Yes, well. I told him that I knew where you were, I just rather thought he'd be better off not knowing the particulars,” Joan said. “By the time we learned that you weren't with Phoebe, it was too late to send anyone after you. So.”

“Where were you?” Martin demanded again. “Did something happen to you?”

“No,” Elinor said. She paused. “Well, a great deal, but nothing you need to be concerned about now. I'm home and well, and that's all you need know. Joan is quite correct. You do not want to hear the particulars.”

He looked at her for a long moment, jaw tense. “Whatever I can imagine is worse than what you could tell me,” he said.

“It's really not,” Elinor assured him, which had the opposite of its intended effect. Which she might have predicted, if her brain did not feel a bit like warm pudding. She sighed. “I was at an exclusive party,” she said. “I suffered no harm to myself or my reputation, and none of this is Joan's fault. She had a perfectly sensible plan in place that did not involve my attendance, but it ran into a snag and I was forced to improvise.”