A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (28 page)

“This is about whatever Phoebe dragged you into,” Martin said.

“Mm,” Elinor said noncommittally. She took hold of his hands and drew them downward, so she clasped them between hers in front of them. “I know you hate to be left out of the matter, but it truly is better for all of us if you avoid the details. Now, I must rest. I am extremely weary.”

He looked into her eyes. They were twins, he the elder by only a quarter hour; of all the people in the world, he was one of the few who could usually read her as easily as she did everyone else. “Elinor,” he said softly. “Are you certain you're all right?”

She opened her mouth to assure him. Instead, to her horror, she burst into tears.

“And then Mr. Bhandari set off the fireworks meant for the last night,” Colin said, flipping a letter opener around in his hand nervously. Across the desk from him, Mr. Hudson watched with an unreadable expression.

“Uh-huh,” he said, which was the most he had contributed to the narrative thus far.

“We fled,” Colin concluded awkwardly. “Ah, and the rest is rather boring.”

“And Lady Elinor's home safe,” Hudson said, with a tone that suggested an answer in anything but the affirmative would be suicidal.

“She is. God, I can't believe I told you she was there,” Colin said. “Only there's no one else I can tell, you see. Plenty who could keep a secret, but I couldn't stand to have anyone thinking about her that way.”

“Whereas you do not care what I think,” Hudson said.

Colin shut his mouth. “You know,” he said, “I have quite the reputation for blunt honesty. I think I shall now cultivate a reputation for contemplative silence. I have always let my mouth run ahead of my mind. I am not certain when I started to care.”

“I suspect the lady might have something to do with it,” Hudson said. “You're a blasted fool for letting her get away.”

“She wanted to leave.”

“Uh-huh,” was the answer, and then Hudson rose. “I'll look into the letters,” he said.

“Good,” Colin said. He was reluctant to see the man go. He was reluctant to be alone. Well, not alone. In the company of a great many people he could not speak with freely. Phoebe was at the house, along with Mr. Bhandari and Colin's mother. Also, inexplicably, that red-headed maid. Of all of them, only Mr. Bhandari could come close to knowing the full story of what had transpired at Beauchene's house, and Colin still did not feel entirely comfortable speaking with the man. He thought well of him; the worst that could be said of the man was that he had allowed himself to become a martyr to Marie's memory, and remain in proximity to evil for too long as a result. But it was that connection to Marie that Colin found so discomfiting. It made him uneasy to be in the presence of someone who had known Marie in India. Had known her, perhaps, better than Colin ever had.

What he really needed was distraction. Thorough distraction.

What evening was it? Saturday. Could it really only be Saturday? He frowned. The boys would be at the club. Cards, drink—well, water and inevitable teasing—and conversation would do him well.

He hopped up with sudden enthusiasm. Nothing would drive the last few days' inventive debauchery from his mind like a good dose of the old, staid debauchery. He was nearly skipping when he headed down the stairs, calling for a hack to be brought 'round. He'd left his walking stick in the drawing room, he recalled, and strode to the door. He pushed it open, a whistle verging on a tune on his lips, and froze.

Phoebe and Maddy sat on the sofa together. Phoebe's hands were tangled in Maddy's coppery locks, and Maddy was leaning into the kiss, her eyes shut in perfect bliss. It lasted half a second. Then both girls let out yelps—Phoebe's was, in truth,
more of a shriek—and leapt to their feet, springing apart with speed that a detached part of Colin's mind found downright comical. He cleared his throat and walked deliberately across the room to where his walking stick rested against the wall near the fireplace. He turned slowly, twirling it idly in one hand.

Well. This was interesting.

“Colin . . .” Phoebe began, but fell silent. Maddy was white with terror, edging toward the door.

“I suppose this is why you are so impossible when it comes to marriage,” Colin said. He felt like there were two versions of himself. One, stupefied, was muddling through a soup of thoughts and feelings that did not have the decency to solidify into any one impulse he could name. The other stood in a positively casual stance and spoke with remarkable calm.

It was of course at that moment that his mother made her arrival. “What on earth is happening in here?” she demanded. “Has someone been murdered? For I cannot imagine another reason for such a shriek, Phoebe.”

Phoebe turned to her, wide-eyed. “I saw a mouse,” she said.

Colin suppressed a groan. Phoebe had never in her life been afraid of mice. She was chasing after them like a kitten when she was two, and found special delight in planting them on his person while he was distracted. His mother was unlikely to be fooled. And sure enough, her eyes narrowed. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and advanced a step, scrutinizing her daughter—and then Maddy. Maddy's hair was disarranged, strands of it jetting out in wild tendrils where they had escaped the pins. Maddy's lips were pressed so tightly together they had nearly vanished, and she drew backward one flinching step after another.

“I see,” Lady Farleigh said. “Colin, you should go.”

“I will not,” Colin said. “Not before I have an explanation from you, Phoebe.”

“Does it really need explaining?” Phoebe snapped.

He glared at her. She glared at him. His sister. Engaged in what anyone would tell you was a perversion.

As opposed to your conduct and environs, of late,
the calm half of him remarked.

This was different. This was his sister, and she had been entwined with—

He looked over at Maddy, and his thoughts drew up sharply to a halt. She was shaking, her eyes wide and her shoulders pinched together as if to defend herself against a blow. She was terrified. Of him. Of his mother. Whatever her sin, he could not bear to be the source of such naked fear. He forced his grip to ease on his walking stick, forced his face into a gentle expression, even as confusion and anger welled inside of him. “It will be all right,” he said. He couldn't imagine how just this moment, but he could not bear knowing that the girl expected him to harm her.

She did not look less frightened, but when he held her gaze she nodded once, hardly a dip of her chin.

“We must discuss this,” Lady Farleigh said. “Colin, you should go.”

He took a protective step forward. In all the swamp of uncertainty inside of him, one thing was clear and unassailable. Phoebe was his sister, and he would protect her. Even from his mother. “I think I should remain,” he said. He couldn't think too hard about what he'd witnessed. It made his stomach clench and lurch, gave rise to a revulsion that was unacceptable paired with his sister. And so he caged it. What mattered, he decided, was her protection—and nothing else.

“You most certainly should not,” Lady Farleigh said. “Dear Lord, Colin. I am not about to sprout extra heads and devour them. We are merely going to discuss the future in a calm and rational fashion. We take care of one another in this family, and it has just become more challenging to do so. It requires a frank conversation on a number of topics you are unlikely to be able to listen to without an excess of emotion.”

“What sort of discussion?” Colin asked.

“A detailed one,” Lady Farleigh said. “Now. Go. No male presence is required.”

Phoebe snorted. Colin shot her a quelling look. Now was not the time for humor. “Do you want me to go?” Colin asked her seriously.

She glanced at Maddy, then at her mother. “It's probably best,” she said. She paused. “Are you angry?”

He sighed. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't understand this.”

“Don't be angry,” she said. “Please, don't be angry with me, I couldn't stand it.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and bent, kissing her brow. “It will be all right,” he said again, and then he had to leave. His mother was right. He was holding onto his calm demeanor by the narrowest thread, and standing still was making it fray all the faster.

He left, closing the door behind him, and prayed that his mother could put the whole situation into some order that made the world make sense again.

*   *   *

Martin and Joan sat to either side of Elinor as she wept, neither demanding answers. Joan held her hand; Martin's arm encircled her shoulders protectively. When at last she thought she could speak again, she gave a weak laugh. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “I am quite the mess, aren't I?”

“Don't apologize,” Joan said. “You should see me these days. I cry if I drop a spoon.”

“To be fair, it's largely since it is an impossible operation to pick it back up,” Martin said, and his wife shot him a playful glare. Elinor laughed more genuinely this time, though it hiccuped into a little sob.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. She'd thought she had better control of her emotions than this.

“What's wrong?” Martin asked. “I promise, I'll do whatever it takes to put it right.”

Elinor shook her head. “There's nothing you can do,” she said. “I'm afraid I'm in
love.
”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Joan edged away enough to get a good look at her, tilting her head to the side. “In love? And this is a problem?”

“A gigantic problem,” Elinor assured her. She had somehow ended up with Martin's handkerchief in her hand, and was wringing it between her fingers so firmly it had begun to cut off her circulation. She forced her hands to relax.

“Is he married?” Joan asked.

“No,” Elinor said.

“A servant?” she guessed. “A groom? A farmer? A criminal? French?”

A series of quick shakes of the head.

“Then what is the problem?” Martin asked.

“He's
Colin
,” Elinor said, and buried her face in her hands. She could not believe she had told them that. They would think her such an idiot. Martin's arm slid away from her shoulders.

“I always thought you two only pretended to get along, to keep things peaceful for the rest of us,” Joan said thoughtfully. “Hang on, isn't he engaged?”

“To Penelope Layton,” Elinor said. “She's
sweet
. They'll hate each other within a year.”

“Oh, dear. No, Lord Farleigh can't marry anyone sweet,” Joan agreed. Martin still hadn't said anything. Elinor was too afraid to look at him. “Farleigh's been missing as well,” Joan said slowly. “You were together, weren't you?”

Elinor felt Martin stiffen. She put a hand on his arm to still him. “We were coincidentally at the same party,” she said. “And socialized. There is no need to become overprotective.” Her voice sounded ridiculous to her own ears, with her nose stuffed and snotty from the crying.

“He has somehow reduced you to sobbing,” Martin said. “Usually this is the point where some violence is called for.”

“He's your best friend,” Elinor reminded him.

“All the more reason,” Martin said. He needed to unclench his jaw before he cracked a tooth.

“Don't. It's not his fault. He doesn't love me,” Elinor said. “That's all. I'm foolishly infatuated when I swore I never would be. I've only myself to blame.”

“I will kill him for you, if you want,” Martin said. “Or
perhaps just disfigure him. I could dump a bucket of water over his head, at least.”

Elinor felt the hint of a smile steal across her lips. “I will take that under consideration,” she said. “But I think the best course of action is to avoid him. Eventually I'll stop feeling this way, won't I?”

They exchanged a glance. “Well,” Joan said slowly, “we did manage a year apart.”

“And you were both absolutely miserable the whole time,” Elinor said. “And got married at the end of it. But that's different. You were in love with each other. Colin is perfectly indifferent to me.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asked. “Are you absolutely certain?”

Elinor snorted. “You don't think I could tell if someone was in love with me?”

“As I recall, you had no idea with Matthew until he proposed,” Martin pointed out. “An hour before, you were telling me that he was perfectly insufferable, and that his only redeeming quality was the symmetry of his features.”

“I did say that, didn't I?” Elinor said. “But this is different. Colin told me he didn't wish to marry me.”

“That seems definitive,” Martin agreed. “And he is engaged. I don't suppose you're willing to tell me the context of this conversation.”

“No,” Elinor said firmly. “It is a private matter.”

“What do you want to do?” Joan asked. “How can we help you?”

Elinor let out a strangled breath. “I don't want to feel this way anymore,” she said. “How on earth did you two survive this?”

They exchanged another look. “Italy,” Joan said.

“Drinking,” Martin said.

“Perhaps you could try drinking in Italy, but as neither of the attempts succeeded particularly well, we may want to try a different approach,” Joan said.

“I think I'll start with a nap,” Elinor said. She wanted her
mind to cease its spinning. She wanted darkness and silence and the solace of dreams. “Thank you,” she said. “Both of you. And don't blame Colin. This isn't his fault.”