An Invitation to Scandal (17 page)

“What does that matter?” Though the parties were anonymous, Nicholas had often been brazen enough to forgo the mask. He had not cared if anyone knew he attended or what he did there. He’d reveled in his newfound reputation as a depraved rake who made pleasure his calling card.

And he had paid the price for it.

“So long as you stay away, Society believes you blame me for what occurred. They look at me differently. The only way I could amass a group at my last party was to spread the rumor that you planned a return.”

“You did what?” How had he not heard about that? Surely someone in his circle—

But no. He no longer traveled in those circles. The only true friends he had were Spence and Bowen, neither of whom frequented Opal’s den of inequity. Spence was too busy hunting down his next adventure and avoiding the marriage noose and Bowen was simply not the type, preferring quiet, more scholarly pursuits to the debauchery of Opal’s parties.

“What else was I supposed to do? My coffers are all but empty. I need a new protector, but no one will touch me. They look at me and see Henry dead at my feet. It’s like I am still walking around with his blood on my body!” Opal pulled at the low bodice of her dress as if trying to remove stains long since gone.

The image disgusted Nicholas. It had haunted him nightly for months. It had been at a party much like the one Opal had hosted the other night. Glenmor had burst in, and in front of Opal, himself and everyone else present, pulled out a gun, held it under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Blood had spattered about. In the midst of screams and shouts, the other guests rushed for the exits. Glenmor dropped to the ground, dead at their feet.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, yet Nicholas knew it could not have taken more than a few seconds. Glenmor’s arm fell away and the gun clattered to the floor, the sound echoing off the marble. Nicholas stared in horror as Glenmor’s legs gave out, and he buckled to the ground in a heap, his head mangled and destroyed by the force of the shot.

In the span of a few seconds, Glenmor had become unrecognizable, while Nicholas and Opal wore the remnants of him on their clothing and their skin.

Nicholas had still been standing in the same spot when the magistrate arrived. They asked him questions which he believed he answered coherently, but he could not get himself to move, not even when the pool of blood seeping from Glenmor’s body flowed and oozed around his boots.

It still sickened him. The man’s desperation, the words of accusation he flung at both of them just before he pulled the trigger. The horrifying sight of his face dissolving and his body crumpling lifeless to the floor.

He saw the image every time he closed his eyes. If Opal thought reminding him of that fateful night, would bring him back to her, she was sadly mistaken.

He had chased after Opal because his pride had been wounded. Glenmor had prevented him from having something he wanted and so he’d retaliated by taking away something Glenmor prized. He’d won, but at what cost? Glenmor was dead at his feet and the woman he cared for the most, now despised his very existence.

He could never have foreseen the outcome, but he could control what he did now. That night had changed him. No longer could he behave the reprobate, foolishly thinking his actions held no true or lasting consequences. Once the initial shock of what had happened had worn off, he’d sworn an oath to change his life.

And he had.

He would not go back.

“I cannot help you.”

“Oh, but you will.” Loathing gleamed in her eyes. “Because if you do not, I will tell everyone your lovely neighbor, Miss Laytham, attended my party and spent a good amount of time in a bedroom alone with one of my gentlemen guests.”

She smiled then, and it reminded Nicholas all over again how mercenary she could be. He had once enjoyed her aggression, her take no prisoners’ attitude. Now it disgusted him.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “I knew it was you in the bedroom all along. I watched you all but drag her from the main room.”

“Miss Laytham is an innocent in all of this. Nothing happened in that room, save me convincing her to leave at once.”

Opal shrugged. “I was not in the room. You locked the door, remember? And when one locks a bedroom door it is safe to assume they wish not to be disturbed. If memory serves, Nicholas, no woman has ever entered a bedroom with you and come out of it untouched. One assumes that trend continued with Miss Laytham. After all, the poor girl is all but affianced to Lord Tarrington. She could use a little pleasure before being forced to bed such a decrepit piece of flesh for the rest of her life.”

“Leave Miss Laytham out of this. Her family has suffered enough at our hands.”

“Please! No one has suffered more from Henry’s actions than me. No one will touch me! I am on the brink of losing everything, but does anyone care? No! I am just some whore to be disposed of when I am no longer useful. No one will dispose of the lovely Miss Laytham. Her reputation is tainted for now but that will fade. No one will hold her responsible for her uncle’s actions and eventually she’ll marry the old man and live a life of luxury, as will the rest of her family. But what about me? What do I have? Nothing! And if I do not find a new protector soon I will be forced—”

She stopped and her jaw clenched, the words too awful to say, but Nicholas knew them anyway. It was the way of life for women like Opal. They played the game until their beauty faded and they could no longer attract a protector. If they were smart, they saved enough to retire and lead a quiet life. Some became patrons of the arts, others even worked with charities for girls like themselves. But Opal had never been one to save a shilling. She liked pretty things and possessed the arrogance of a true beauty who believed their looks would never diminish.

Only they had. Her time as London’s most infamous courtesan drew to a rapid close, and with no means of support, her prospects were dire indeed.

Still, that didn’t make it Nicholas’s problem. “You’ve made your bed, Opal. I can do nothing for you. But mark my words; if you dare try to draw Miss Laytham into your machinations to save yourself, you will have a world of pain coming your way. I will not stand for it, and I will retaliate.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “What is that chit to you?”

“An innocent bystander who has been hurt enough. I will not cause her or her family any more pain. And I will do everything in my power to stop you if you should try.”

“So you’re not so redeemed after all, are you Lord Roxton?”

He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t care less what she thought of him, only that she left Abigail alone.

“I will settle you with some money, to tide you over, and then I am done with you. Provided you give me your word you will let Miss Laytham alone.”

Opal licked her lips and her eyes lit with hunger. Nicholas knew it had nothing to do with her want of him, and everything to do with the financial carrot he dangled in front of her.

“How large a sum?”

* * *

Their arrival at Sheridan Park went without incident. Abigail held no animosity toward Lord Roxton’s family. If anything, Lady Blackbourne afforded them the opportunity to overcome the scandal and be accepted by an upstanding and well-respected member of society. Yet despite her gratitude toward the countess, she could not erase the sensation she entered the devil’s lair.

How strange to think only two years ago she’d enjoyed her second season and Lord Roxton’s attentions. How charming he had been. How utterly fooled she had been. If she had only known then what she did now, she would have given Lord Roxton a wide berth. Bringing him into their lives had been like bringing the sickness that killed Papa and Roddy into their home all over again.

The stately country estate, while vast, maintained a sense of warmth to it that surprised Abigail. Thick ivy climbed its way up the brick walls and flowers bloomed in the numerous lush gardens. Hints of the garden traveled inside the marbled main hall, with amaryllis and Calla lilies set in vases and paintings of glorious landscapes lining the walls in gilded frames. It was ornate without being ostentatious, homey without feeling worn. The countess’s enthusiastic greeting only added to the welcome.

Despite what had happened between their families, the countess’s inviting nature seemed genuine and she obviously held Abigail’s mother in high regard. A clear indication of good taste in Abigail’s estimation.

Lady Blackbourne’s daughter, Rebecca, emulated her mother with her welcome, though disconcerted Abigail somewhat to see those familiar silvery eyes reflected in a different face. The resemblance to her brother ended there, thankfully. Did the rumors have merit? Was Lord Roxton the product of an affair? The whispers had existed for as long as Abigail had been in London, but most people shrugged them off. Lord Blackbourne had accepted him as his son, putting the matter, if not the rumors, to rest. Still, most suggested the acceptance forced, as Lord Blackbourne had produced no other male heir.

Indeed, as they climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked the wide hallway to their rooms, Abigail did not see even the smallest hint of resemblance in any of the ancestral paintings to match Nicholas’s darker complexion and coloring.

What must it have been like to be raised by a man who, every time he looked at you, was reminded of his wife’s infidelity? Lord Roxton had rarely ever spoken of his father when they courted, but on the few occasions when he had, his manner and words showed no love lost between them.

Abigail shook the memory off. She cared not one whit about the rumors or Lord Roxton.

“Oh, how lovely.” Caelie did a slow spin as they stepped inside the beautifully appointed bedroom. Large cabbage roses papered the upper half of the wall, while a soft spring green colored the bottom. Accents of both were placed throughout the rest of the room and the two large windows filled it with light and overlooked the sumptuous gardens below that already showed hints of the beauty that awaited full bloom.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Lady Rebecca said, her hands clasped at her waist. Despite her pleasing manner, Abigail noted the young woman seemed ill at ease in their presence. Hardly surprising, she thought. If Abigail had to act the hostess to people whose lives had been ruined by her brother, she undoubtedly would be nervous as well.

A shame, really. They had been friendly acquaintances once, though not close. Rebecca, though a couple of years younger than she, had attended many of the same parties and events, at least until the invitations stopped being sent their way. Had things been different, Abigail had no doubt she and Lady Rebecca could have grown to become fast friends.

“It is absolutely lovely. Thank you, Lady Rebecca.”

“You must call me Rebecca. Please. We are to be friends, I think…I hope, and I would so much prefer it.”

Caelie crossed the room, her hands outstretched to Rebecca who quickly took them. “I would like that very much. We both would.”

Rebecca blushed and looked down at their clasped hands. “You are very gracious. Both of you.” She glanced over at Abigail and smiled. “It is no wonder my brother was so smitten with you. I will leave you for now. You may want to rest, but if not, the gardens are lovely this time of day and the meadow beyond even more so. If you’re anything like me, you’ll prefer to stretch your legs after such a long journey, instead of resting.”

Abigail gave a perfunctory smile, shocked speechless by Rebecca’s suggestion that Lord Roxton had been smitten with her. It was pure insanity of course. Lord Roxton had dropped his suit as if she had contracted the plague, hardly the action of a man struck by Cupid’s wayward arrow.

Why would Rebecca suggest such a thing?

“Shall we take that walk?” Caelie asked once they were alone.

Abigail nodded, thankful for any activity that rid her mind of Lord Roxton and Rebecca’s suggestion he may have held strong feelings for her at one time.

Chapter Eleven

Abigail’s breath froze until she could not remember if she had been in the process of breathing in or breathing out. As their hostess indicated, the meadow and gardens were indeed lovely, but it wasn’t their beauty that swept the air from her lungs.

Lord Roxton pulled on the reins of the beast he rode and brought the animal to a stop well out of reach of Abigail and Caelie. He hesitated a moment as if he might continue on, but the brief hesitation passed and he expertly dismounted and approached them, much to her chagrin.

“Lady Caelie, Miss Laytham. I am pleased to see you have both arrived safe and sound. I trust your journey was not an arduous one.”

Only in the sense that it brought us to you, Abigail thought, but she held her tongue. She had promised to be civil, and in truth, Rebecca’s words pounded endlessly around her head until they trod a well-worn path between what she believed and the unpleasant possibility she had been wrong.

Caelie smiled at Lord Roxton. Her cousin’s reaction, her ability to forgive, astounded Abigail. She didn’t think she would ever find it in her heart to fully do so. How could she? Even if what Lady Rebecca said was true, and he had indeed been smitten with her, it did not absolve him of his actions. She gathered up her scattered anger and held it tight. He had still ruined their family, and what he had done to her at the masquerade…her mouth tightened.

No, perhaps Caelie could find within her a civility that allowed her to treat Lord Roxton as if he deserved her attention or warm regard, but Abigail could not. She would not.

Her cousin took a step forward. “Our journey was most pleasant, thank you. The weather proved excellent for traveling and the scenery in this area is always most pleasing.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed. Caelie had that effect on people.

“It is indeed. I much prefer it to London,” he said, returning her smile.

Abigail’s breath caught again. He really did have the most engaging smile. Then again, the devil was reputed to be most charming when he saw fit. She must not forget that, or allow herself to be swayed. Yes, she had promised to be civil, and she may even entertain the possibility, however slight, that he did not bear one hundred percent responsibility for her family’s current situation. But that did not mean she had to trust him in the process. He had, after all, duped her into believing he was someone else.