An Invitation to Scandal (4 page)

Abigail bent down and picked up the key. “It was sent in error.”

“In error?”

“It should have gone to Number Eighty-Seven.” She held up the tag dangling from the key for Caelie’s inspection.

Her cousin glanced up sharply. “Lord Roxton’s home?”

“Yes.”

A brief scratch sounded at the door. Abigail called an invitation to enter and Muri bustled into the room, carrying a tray of hot chocolate and biscuits. This type of situation called for tasty reinforcements. One could not plan properly on an empty stomach.

Muri set the tray down on the small table near the writing desk and turned around. “You said you needed my ’elp with somethin’, miss?”

“Yes, Muri, but first you must swear to keep what I am about to tell you strictly between us. No one else must know.” Abigail fixed the maid with a stern look. “Absolutely no one.”

“Of course, miss. Take it to the grave, I will.”

Abigail shifted the key in her hand, then held it out. The metal object unfurled and dangled from the velvet ribbon.

Muri’s eyes widened.

“Do you know what this is?” It was a ridiculous question. No doubt everyone below stairs knew far more details than anyone above as to exactly what the key stood for. The destruction it had caused.

“Oh yes, miss.” Her head bobbed up and down as she spoke. “It’s for them scandalous parties Madame St. Augustine throws for gentlemen that’s got a particular itch and ladies that likes ter scratch it for ’em. Beggin’ your pardon.”

Caelie blushed and turned away, walking toward the window that overlooked the rose bushes. It was not a pretty sight. Since Uncle Henry’s death they had gone mostly unattended. Their gardener had been one of the first casualties of their restricted finances and though her mother tried, she did not possess much of a green thumb.

“Exactly. I need you to help me prepare for such a party.”

Caelie swung back around. “Abby, no! Absolutely not. You will be ruined!”

Abigail shook her head. “On the contrary. No one will even know I am there. Tell her, Muri.”

“She’s right, Lady Caelie,” the maid said. “All the ladies wear masks and turbans and the men dress as highwaymen or pirates and such.”

“See? I can slip in and out with no one the wiser. Save for Lord Roxton.”

“Have you gone mad, Abby? What makes you so sure Lord Roxton will even be there if we have his invitation?”

Abigail dismissed Caelie’s concern with a wave of her hand. “Of course he’ll be there. The invitation is proof he still partakes in that lifestyle, despite outward appearances to the contrary. Even without receiving the invitation, I am certain he knows when these parties occur and only needs to show his face at the door to gain entrance.” He may have fooled the rest of London with his newly turned over leaf, but he didn’t fool her. She had experienced his mercurial nature firsthand. The only difference was now he would have to be more careful with his behavior, a wary attitude which only worked in her favor. “He will not dare whisper a word about my presence. If he did, the ton will know he has returned to his old ways. A fact he seems determined to cover up.”

“Regardless,” Caelie said. “What can you possibly hope to accomplish by confronting him? The damage is done, Abby. Lord Roxton cannot change that.”

Abigail went to her wardrobe and swung open the doors. She needed the perfect dress to catch Lord Roxton’s attention. “He can take responsibility,” she said. She sifted through the dresses. “In doing so, the ton will see how Lord Roxton’s callous actions tormented poor Uncle Henry. They can’t possibly continue to blame him once they know where the true blame lies.”

“Do you honestly believe that will happen?” The hint of bitterness in Caelie’s voice revealed her lack of conviction. Abigail didn’t blame her, but nor did she agree with her. Of course it would happen. It had to.

Abigail poked her head out of the wardrobe. “What should I wear? He once mentioned a penchant for red. Crimson, I believe he said. Or do you think it would matter? Perhaps he simply chases anything that moves?”

Caelie sat on the bed. The fire Abigail had seen earlier drained out of her. “Are you so certain Lord Roxton hasn’t mended his ways? He is courting Miss Caldwell. One would hardly consider that rakish behavior.”

Abigail stared at Caelie, momentarily rendered speechless. “It is all an act, I assure you. How could you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know anymore. Perhaps Father’s death has had an impact on him. Yesterday, there was something different about him. He reminded me of the man who courted you, only…more subdued, I think.” Caelie shrugged.

Abigail snorted in a rather unladylike fashion. “The man who courted me was nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The man who made it his goal to ruin Uncle Henry for no good reason—that is the real Lord Roxton. One cannot deny he threw himself into the role with relish.”

Caelie gave a sad smile that broke Abigail’s heart. Whatever she had suffered, Caelie had lost much more: her father, her fiancé, her ability to show her face in public without being scalded by shame and humiliation. For those reasons, Abigail risked everything to put things back to rights.

“I am convinced if Lord Roxton publicly accepts his responsibility for the scandal, people will see it was his fault and not Uncle Henry’s,” she said.

“Do you think my father holds no culpability for his actions, Abby? He is the one—”

“No! Uncle Henry was a fine man. He took us in when no one else would. He had a generous heart. Lord Roxton waited until he was in a vulnerable state and then pounced. His actions were deplorable. But this—,” she held up the key she had looped around her wrist, “this is our invitation to salvation.”

Caelie shook her head. “No, Abby. That key is nothing more than an invitation to scandal.”

Abigail turned to her maid. “Thank you, Muri. That will be all.”

“Yes, miss.” Muri curtsied and gave Abigail a cheeky grin. Abigail experienced a second’s hesitation—would her maid keep their secret? She hoped her trust was not misplaced. She did not need the entire below stairs gossiping about her plan, especially if the gossiping reached the ears of Titus, their rather old, stuffy butler. He would not hesitate to take the information directly to her brother and who knew what that would result in. Nothing good, that was for certain.

She waited for the door to her bedchamber to close behind Muri before turning back to Caelie.

“You know I am expected to marry Lord Tarrington?”

Her cousin nodded.

“And you know the man is sixty if he is a day.”

“Yes, but Ben says—”

“And being that he is old and…and…”

“Disgusting?”

Abigail sighed; Caelie had never bothered to hide her distaste for the aging lord. “Yes, disgusting. And once I marry him my fate is sealed. There will be no chance of me confronting Lord Roxton and demanding he take responsibility for what he has done. Lord Tarrington rarely comes to London, and Lord Roxton rarely leaves it.”

“Abby—”

Abigail held up her hand to stay Caelie’s protests. She did not want to hear it. She had made up her mind.

“Opal St. Augustine and Lord Roxton have brought this family to social ruin and they used your poor father to do it. Benedict struggles each day just to keep us from falling into bankruptcy, you lost your fiancé, and I have no choice but to marry a man nearly thrice my age!”

“But, Abby!”

Abigail sat on the bed next to Caelie, the key clutched tightly in her hand until its ridges dug into the soft flesh of her palm. “I will attend the party, confront Lord Roxton with my demands, then leave.”

“What possible reason would Lord Roxton have to agree to such demands?”

Abigail took a deep breath. In truth, she had nothing. Nothing she could threaten him with or hold over his head. Nothing except the belief that somewhere deep inside of him a hint of the man she once believed him to be truly did exist. It was to that aspect she would appeal, and pray with all her might she could breathe life into it once again. Because if she couldn’t…

“I will apply sound reasoning for him to do so. I will remind him that a man of honor, as he seems determined to show himself as now, would do the right thing.”

Caelie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What if someone recognizes you?”

“You heard Muri. My identity will be carefully concealed. But I will need your help in keeping Mother from discovering my absence.”

“What if someone approaches you and expects you to…to…”

Abigail smiled. She had considered the possibility, and if she were honest she would admit to a small thrill at the notion of indulging in a little bit of passion before marriage to Lord Tarrington destroyed any hope of ever experiencing such a luxury. But she was not so foolish as to believe the kind of passion she sought could be found at such a party. And even if it could, she did not dare. She had but one objective—to find Lord Roxton and convince him to repent. Publicly.

Abigail pushed off the bed and strode to the middle of the room. “I will be safe, Caelie. No one would force me to do anything against my will. And besides, I will be in and out before anyone gets the chance.”

“But how will you even know which gentleman is Lord Roxton if everyone is in costume?”

Abigail scowled. The only wrinkle in an otherwise well thought out plan. But surely she would know him when she saw him. Had she not spent the better part of two years watching him, studying him? At first as a smitten young girl, then later as a rejected fool. Surely she could pick him out of a crowd.

“I will just know.” Failure was not an option.

“Oh, Abigail,” Caelie rose from the bed and crossed the room. Her hand pressed against Abigail’s cheek, cool and firm. “Can you not leave well enough alone? The scandal will pass in time. People will forget—”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do. The ton’s memory is long and unforgiving. If we do not prove their scorn is undeserved, we will forever wear its stain.” She covered Caelie’s hand with her own. “Please say you will help me, Caelie. I cannot bear to stand by and do nothing while my family suffers.”

“You are determined to do this?”

“I am.”

Caelie sighed and her eyes dimmed with resignation, a far cry from the conspiratorial spark Abigail had hoped for. “Fine. What do you need from me?”

* * *

Spencer, Lord Huntsleigh, smiled as he raised his glass. His tanned face stood out amongst the paler complexions surrounding the tables at White’s.

“I am telling you, Nick, you should have come to the Caribbean with us. It was a beauty to behold. Native women running about barely clothed, no one insisting on some ridiculous state of propriety—except of course our friend, Bowen, here.”

Nicholas turned his gaze to Marcus Bowen who sat quietly reading the morning paper.

Bowen folded down the edge of his newspaper and peered over it. “I merely suggested running amuck on the beach in nothing but your shorts was a less than ideal way to spend your time.”

Spence raised one eyebrow, bleached golden by the sun. “Did you have a better way to spend it?”

“Your grandfather sent us there to determine the viability of the coffee plant. Not to play native. Or with the natives, in your case.”

Spence shook his head. “All work and no play makes for a very dull life, Bowen. You should break out of your shell and give it a go, old chum.”

Bowen smiled. “I like my shell just fine thank you. And your grandfather doesn’t pay me to play. He pays me to work.”

The reminder of Bowen’s status as employee was enough to dampen Spence’s teasing. Though their friend had been raised by the Marquess of Ellesmere, he was not family. Spence turned his attention back to Nicholas. “How have things been in our absence? Is it true you are courting Miss Eugenie Caldwell?”

“Indeed.” He didn’t bother including any enthusiasm in his answer. He had known Spence and Bowen since they were boys. They would detect the lie for what it was.

“And how does that fair?”

Nicholas took a slow draw on his bourbon; the aged vintage slid smoothly down his throat.

“I believe she is expecting an offer shortly.”

Bowen’s dark eyebrows lifted above the edge of the newspaper, a quiet telling of what he thought of the situation. “Will she receive one?”

Nicholas shrugged. “Of course.”

“Bloody hell, Nick!” Spence threw an arm up in disgust, nearly spilling his drink. Several heads turned in their direction. “How can you do this? We are too young to be thinking of marriage.”

“We are eight and twenty, Spence. And your grandfather has been crowing about you picking a wife for the past three seasons.”

“A crowing I have pointedly ignored. I have no interest in marriage. It ties a man down. I much prefer a life of freedom and adventure and you well know it. Marriage would be akin to death for me.” He placed a hand over his heart and leaned back in his chair. “I should have been born a pirate.”

Bowen folded his newspaper and set it on the table. “I don’t believe one is born a pirate, Spence. I believe one becomes a pirate.”

Spence made a face. “Such a stickler for details, Bowen. Perhaps you should marry. I think the institution would suit you admirably.”

“No, thank you,” Bowen said, coloring slightly. “The women I am exposed to do not find me suitable and the others do not suit me. I’m afraid I am destined to bachelorhood.”

He seemed the only one of them remotely put off by this outcome.

“Pardon the intrusion, Lord Roxton.”

The three men glanced up. White’s major domo stood at Nicholas’s shoulder.

“Yes, Farnley, what is it?”

“There is a…” he hesitated, “lady here to see you, my lord.” He extended a hand, gnarled by arthritis, a card caught between two bent fingers. Nicholas recognized it instantly.

“Please tell the lady in question I am otherwise engaged,” he said, without taking the card.

Farnley swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his narrow throat. “She was quite insistent, my lord. She indicated that should you decline to see her, she would haunt the entrance until she was received, creating quite a ruckus if need be.”

A fire crackled in the hearth while the din created by conversation from the club’s members droned on in the background. The heads that had turned to them after Spence’s outburst had gone back to their own business, but Nicholas knew it would take little to recapture their attention. Not so long ago he would have reveled in such theatrics. Now he avoided them at all costs.