A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (7 page)

“I know where my own bed is,” he said.

“Even if that is so, and I remain unconvinced, you are in no state to reach it unassisted. If you would move to the side, I can—”

“It's Gibson's fault,” Lord Farleigh said. “I didn't even want to drink.”

“You are known the world over for your blunt and honest tongue. Your dedication to truthfulness is an admirable quality.”

“In that case, I meant to get drunk,” Lord Farleigh said. She nodded, not sure whether she was amused, horrified, or annoyed. A little bit of all three. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been in Colin's presence without her brother around to temper his more impulsive side. And the last time they'd been this alone together without any escort, she'd been seven years old. “Didn't mean to get
this
drunk, though. Never do.”

“I think that's enough honesty for one evening,” she said. “If you would excuse me . . .”

She made to move past him. He grabbed her wrist and, in a startlingly balletic movement, spun her—and then stumbled, lurching toward the wall and bringing her with him. Her shoulder blades brushed the wall without striking it, and then he leaned into her alarmingly, pressing her against the wall. She caught her balance with a startled yelp. “Oops,” he said.

“I imagine that was meant to be a great deal more graceful than it proved,” Elinor said drily, maintaining her detached tone with difficulty.

“Considerably.” His face hovered in front of hers, mere inches away. The scent of brandy on his breath washed over her, and the scent of cigars coiled around them both. She'd braced one hand against his chest, whether in defense or merely for stability, she couldn't say. The other was still trapped, his hand on her wrist. She had never been this close to Lord Farleigh. She hadn't been this close to anyone in years. And she found to her creeping horror that her body, at least, was not entirely immune to Lord Farleigh's charms, judging by the flush of heat washing over her skin.

“Lord Farleigh. Perhaps you should let me go now,” she said. She did not sound terribly convincing.

“I'm not certain that would be wise,” he said. “I find you a very stabilizing presence, you see.”

“I fear I must insist,” she said. At least this time she sounded firm.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, truthfully. His grip was gentle on her wrist, and his body did not, in fact, touch hers. Not quite. And she could feel every inch of that
not touching
. This was ridiculous. This was
Lord Farleigh
. She needed to get herself under control. And she needed to get
him
into bed.

Oh Lord.
Send
him to bed. She needed to
send
him to bed.

“Lord Farleigh, as relieved as I am that you are neither a murderer nor a robber, I do require the use of my hand,” she prompted him, doing her level best to sound stern while her pulse made a game of skipping as fast as it possibly could.

“I might yet be a murderer,” he said, voice suddenly soft. “I think I might kill a man.”

She set her teeth against her lip. Could he be speaking of Foyle? Did he know that Foyle was back? “But you haven't yet.”

“No. Not yet. But I want to.” He laid his free hand against her shoulder, his thumb flush against her collarbone and his index finger brushing against the curve of her neck. She tensed, startled by the pleasure of that soft touch. He seemed at once intent and distracted. “I loved her,” he said. “My sister. Marie.”

“I know,” she said.
And so did I.
“Lord Farleigh, we must get you to bed.”

“She loved you,” he said. He leaned in close, the stubble of his jaw brushing against her cheek as he whispered in her ear. Goosebumps broke out over her arms. She tilted her head back, pressing against the wall to put a little more distance between them. She swallowed. “She loved you like a sister.”

“I know,” she said again. Fear and excitement scraped the words thin. It was a well-trained fear, one she'd been taught nearly from the cradle. Don't be alone with a man. It wasn't
right. It wasn't safe. Rules she had not broken in entirely too long, as that excitement was keen to remind her. Rules she most definitely should not break here, with her brother's best friend, who was clearly in the grips of grief and liquor in sufficient quantity to rob him of his good sense.

“I promised her I'd look after you,” Colin said. His hand wandered up, cupping the side of her neck. She could feel his heartbeat now. Nearly as fast as hers. “When she left. She made me promise. And I've tried. But you don't make it easy, Elinor. You don't like being looked after, do you?”

He met her eyes, peering into them as if to find the answer to his question there.

“Lord Farleigh,” she said, with every ounce of will she had. “Please let me go.”

He stiffened and drew back. Not much. Enough to let her straighten, standing under her own power with an inch between her and the wall, another several inches between her and the man before her. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, cheeks flushed and hot. He stared down at her as if she were an insect that had scuttled out from under his shoe.

“Elinor,” he said.

“Lady Elinor,” she corrected firmly.

“Dear God. I'm sorry—” A stricken look passed over his face.

Dear Lord. Was it really that terrible to discover her pressed against one's body? You'd think she had the pox, the way he gawped at her. “Colin Spenser, if you are going to take such liberties, the least you could do is kiss me,” she said crossly, and flushed more deeply.

“Kiss you?”

“I assume we are in agreement that this”—she gestured generally between them—“is scandalous and wholly inappropriate. Generally, scandalous and wholly inappropriate things are a great deal more entertaining than what I have just experienced.” She folded her arms. She'd grown used to people treating her like a clever piece of furniture. Oh, Elinor. She's ever so smart. Oh, Elinor, I didn't realize you were there. Oh, Elinor, I would never
dream
of suggesting
that
you
might do something so interesting. She was damn well tired of it.

“I should have kissed you?” he said, and now a sly grin made its way from one side of his slender mouth to the other.

“That isn't what I said,” Elinor snapped.

“Isn't it?”

“Not exactly,” she allowed.

He took a step toward her. “‘The least I could do,'” he echoed.

Her shoulders bumped up against the wall again. “A figure of speech,” she said. “Lord Farleigh, you're drunk.”

“Very,” he agreed, and bent his lips to hers.

She had been kissed a number of times before. Dryly, chastely, passionately, warmly, wetly. The first time with the halting, hesitant touch of a boy; the last time with the ardent passion of her fiancé. It had been years since she was kissed at all, but she had enough experience to say with absolute certainty that this was the worst kiss she had ever received.

Lord Farleigh's lips mashed against hers with great force, slightly off-center. The reek of his breath was, if possible, worse with his mouth against hers. He tilted his head to better capture her mouth, leaving a rapidly cooling patch of wet against her lip. His tongue thrust between her lips and swiped at the back of her teeth—a sensation she had always despised—and remained there a moment, swishing to one side and then the other before retracting.

He broke away, that self-assured expression fixed firmly in place. She rolled her lips inward, clearing them of some of the lingering damp. “Well,” she said. “I think I'll let you find your own way back to bed, Lord Farleigh.” She seized his arm—braced against the wall to cage her in—between two fingers and lifted it aside delicately. She hurried past him to the stairs, trying not to imagine just how red her fair cheeks had gotten.

She paused at the head of the stairs. He looked after her, with his grin giving way to a slightly confused expression. She shook her head and continued on.

Dear God. She'd actually asked him to kiss her. Or at
least, implied heavily that he should do so. What had she been thinking? He was her brother's best friend. She was—well, all right, she was a spinster who should take her kisses where she could get them, but it was still wildly inappropriate to be interlocking with her brother's best friend in the middle of the night.

She sat on the edge of her bed and frowned at the door.

She had definitely expected Lord Farleigh to be a more skillful kisser.

After an hour of staring at the ceiling, Elinor surrendered to wakefulness. She lit a candle and sat at her writing desk, trying to put her thoughts into order. Things always made so much more sense once she could see them spelled out, but tonight she was having trouble putting words to the thoughts tumbling about in her mind.

Problem:

she wrote at the top, and then paused. She added an
s
, linking the points of the colon.

Problems:

One: Colin Spenser, Marquess of Farleigh, kissed me.

Solution: Avoid him.

There. That was easy. An excellent start. She pursed her lips. If only her other problems would fall into line so simply.

Two: Marie

She stopped. There were too many facets of that problem to distill into a simple sentence. She'd learned so much today. It had been one thing to grieve her friend's death. You could not get vengeance against a disease. But now she knew that Lord Copeland and Edward Foyle had swindled Marie out of her shares of the mine. Foyle had blackmailed her into marrying him, a notion that filled Elinor with horror. That kind of crime could not go unanswered. And anything damaging enough to blackmail Marie with could still be a threat to Marie's family. Elinor had to do something. She owed Marie that much.

A light rap on the door startled her into a jump. She flipped the page she had been writing on over, concealing the damning words there, and rose. Could it be Colin? No. Even drunk, he wouldn't do something so foolish as come to her door in the middle of the night. Besides, he'd made it perfectly clear that he wasn't truly interested in her.

“Elinor? It's me.” Phoebe. Elinor crossed to the door and opened it swiftly. Phoebe stood in the doorway, her eyes deeply shadowed and her hands clasped before her. “You're awake,” Phoebe said, unnecessarily.

“Is no one in their beds tonight?” Elinor asked. Phoebe's brow furrowed. “Never mind. Come in.”

She shut the door behind Phoebe, who crossed to the bed and sat upon it, tucking one foot up under herself. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” she said.

“It's all right,” Elinor assured her. “I can't sleep a wink. I keep thinking about what you told me.”

“Me, too.” Phoebe kneaded the palm of one hand with her thumb. “It's so strange to talk about it out loud. It's been so long, and we don't speak of it at all. Saying it out loud makes it feel different, somehow. It was this story that we never told, and now it's—well, real.”

“I can imagine,” Elinor said.
And how do you imagine I must feel?
she wanted to ask, but instead she took Phoebe's hands in hers. “I am here for you, Phoebe. You know that.”

“Of course I do.” Phoebe looked down. Her shoulders shook a little, a shudder half-repressed. “I used to think that
I must have been some kind of changeling. Marie and Kitty were always so elegant, and I was always running into things and getting bruises and catching frogs. And it was all well and good for a while, but now . . . Now Kitty hardly speaks to anyone, Mother's given up on me entirely, and Colin . . .”

“What's wrong with Lord Farleigh?” Elinor asked, feigning a mild interest in the subject. What
was
wrong with Lord Farleigh, indeed.

“He's
angry
. He pretends not to be. I think he feels he failed us. He failed Marie, and he failed Kitty, and Foyle has something that could hurt the rest of us and there's nothing he can do.”

“He didn't fail Kitty. She's safe,” Elinor said.

“And stuck married to a complete
bastard
,” Phoebe said, selecting the word with deliberate venom. “I didn't like him, you know. But I thought it was only because he was taking my sister away, and so I was so very, very nice to him to make up for it, and then he turned out to be—to be—”

“Kitty is a strong woman. She will be happy again,” Elinor said firmly. “And whatever guilt is to be parceled out, you deserve none of it.” She, however, did. She
had
known something was wrong. She hadn't been able to articulate how uneasy Lord Grey made her, not when he charmed everyone, but she'd known to be wary around him. And she'd kept quiet about it.

She splayed a hand against her stomach, taking a bracing breath. Her mind kept returning to two images. Kitty's expressionless face, when they told her that her husband would be leaving for good. And Marie, waving from her carriage the day she left for India, her smile radiant.

She had died alone and afraid, and that could never be forgiven. Nor would Marie ever forgive Elinor, if she knew of a threat against Marie's family and did nothing.

She was not going to stand by again. If Foyle was in possession of something that could harm Marie's family, she had to do something. She had to protect them, as she'd failed to protect Marie and Kitty.

“You say that you cannot touch Foyle because of the
evidence that he has, or had,” Elinor said. “If he does still possess it, then we simply need to get it back. Find it and destroy it, if we must, or bring the whole thing to light. And then we can destroy
him.
”

“How?”

Elinor let out a choked laugh. “That is an excellent question. A pity that our education has been limited to comportment and sketching, and not the pursuit of retribution.”

Phoebe's mouth quirked. “I suppose that murder is out of the question.”

“Of course it is,” Elinor said sharply.

“Oh, come now. I was joking. I'm not nearly as bloodthirsty as you make me out to be.” Phoebe tilted her head, considering. “We might confront him. Force a confession.”

“We have nothing to confront him with. You said yourself that Marie was said to be delirious; her letter will carry no weight.”

“Maim him, then? Ruin him?”

“Neither of us is in any position to maim the man,” Elinor said, considering. “Nor, I hope, would either of us truly act on such an impulse. No. We must focus on the question of the evidence he possesses. Perhaps in retrieving it we will uncover something that incriminates him, without exposing your family to further harm.” This was not her area of expertise, and she felt rather like she was building a boat beneath her as she attempted to sail. “If he is the sort of man you claim, surely his actions have not been pure in the intervening years.”

It was a thin hope, but thin hope was all she could see. She regarded Phoebe, who had the corner of her lip held between her teeth.

Finally, Phoebe nodded. “Answers,” she said. “And the destruction of whatever damaging evidence he has. That's all. No maiming.” She paused. “Unless the opportunity presents itself.”

“Then the question remains: how do we get to him? And how do we extract information from him once we do?”

“We could use that fellow,” Phoebe said. “The burly one. Your brother's pet detective.”

“Mr. Hudson? No, I don't think so,” Elinor said. “He's too familiar with your brother, not to mention mine.”

“You're right. The boys use him for everything these days. He's bound to tell one of them, or they'll spot him and put it together.”

Elinor shook her head in amusement at her use of the term
boys
. Colin now had three decades to his name, and Martin had a child of his own on the way. They could hardly be called boys. Which reminded her more forcefully than she preferred that she, too, was well beyond the years of youth. She would be thirty years old in a few scant weeks. She was going to be a spinster all her life.

“
How banaaal
,” Marie would have said, mimicking her mother's favorite insult. And then she would have had some joke to make it all seem insignificant.

“Elinor?” Phoebe said.

“Forgive me. I find myself caught up in memories.” Elinor sighed. “There is one resource we are forgetting. Joan.”

“Of course,” Phoebe said, popping upright to attention. “We are ill-used to subterfuge and intrigue, but she was practically born to it, wasn't she? But in her condition—”

“We can't involve her directly,” Elinor said. “As much as she'd be eager for the adventure. But she will have the contacts that we need, and the experience to formulate a plan where we have only the vaguest of notions.”

“Will you write to her, then?” Phoebe asked.

“Better none of this is in writing,” Elinor said. “It's only a day's journey to the new house. We can go in person.”

“Excellent. I haven't seen her since Christmas,” Phoebe said with a grin. “She never did finish teaching me to pick locks.”

“Don't tell your brother about that,” Elinor said. “But if you're desperate, I can show you. I was her first pupil, you know.”

Phoebe laughed. “I'd forgotten that. It's so unexpected, you two being friends.”

“I can occasionally be interesting,” Elinor said with a wry smile.

“Definitely,” Phoebe said. She leapt to her feet and seized Elinor's hands. “Thank you so much for doing this, Elinor. I couldn't stand the thought of that awful man being out there and nothing happening to him.”

She left then, padding down the hallway on bare feet, a slight skip in her step. Elinor sat staring at the door for a long while after she had gone. For Phoebe, this was already victory. Already an adventure. For Elinor, it was like looking up the slope of a mountain, and preparing to climb.

It was strange, how quickly one's understanding of the world could change. Now she knew that her friend had been suffering, and there was a man who had created that suffering. She might be a spinster—might be fit only to play escort for younger acquaintances and wither away in her brother's drawing room—but she had some use in her left. She could make Edward Foyle answer for whatever he had done to her friend.

And she would.