An Invitation to Scandal (5 page)

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was she doing this? Why now? After the debacle in the park with Miss Laytham, tongues were already wagging. He could ill afford another scene and give his father further proof he was beyond redemption. He let out a slow breath.”Have my carriage brought around. Tell her to get into it. I will be out shortly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Nicholas waited until Farnley left before answering the question in Spence and Bowen’s respective gazes.

“Opal.”

Spence shook his head. “The woman has no shame. Does she honestly think you would take her back as mistress after all that has happened?”

Nicholas shrugged. “I do not know what she wants, nor do I care. A fact I plan on making perfectly clear to her. Again.”

He had allowed Opal St. Augustine’s beauty and carnal expertise to rule his life once, to play on his need for revenge, resulting in tragedy and disaster. He would not make the same mistake again.

Chapter Three

Nicholas climbed into the carriage. Thankfully, Opal had possessed the good sense to pull the drapery on the windows closed, leaving only a crack to allow light to pass into the spacious cab. Though how much of that had to do with her allowing their meeting to take place shrouded in privacy, and how much of it had to do with the fact the dim light helped to hide the signs of aging that had begun to creep up, he couldn’t say.

The past year had not been kind to her. He had never thought much about the gap in their ages until the veneer began to crack. And while Opal remained a beautiful and seductive woman, her standing had slipped significantly since the late Earl of Glenmor’s death. Now, younger women of her chosen profession took advantage of her downfall and climbed upward, overtaking her. A reality Opal could not avoid, and yet she fought it tooth and nail with a stark desperation Nicholas found most telling.

Her days were numbered. Without a protector and with limited funds, she would be left destitute and alone. Perhaps he should feel sorry for her, but Opal had made her bed and for years she had been content to lie in it. Let her do so now when the sheets were stained with the blood of her actions. It served her right. Nicholas would reserve his compassion for those who truly deserved it. Like the Laythams.

“What do you want?” He didn’t bother with a polite preamble. They were well past that.

She smiled at him, a coquettish smile that had worked once, but now left him cold. Seeing it held no sway, she packed it away and her hazel eyes turned hard.

“I sent you an invitation. The key was to be delivered to Number eighty-seven yesterday.”

The key. He gritted his teeth. She could not seriously think— But no. Of course she would. Opal did not slink away in defeat. She had licked her wounds for a sufficient amount of time and had come out swinging. She was a survivor if nothing else and she needed to court the good favor of those amongst the ton who craved the services her key parties provided, no doubt hoping to find a new protector amongst them.

“I have no interest in your invitation, Opal. I believe I have made myself perfectly clear in that regard. Either way, I have received no key.”

Nor did he care to, but he did not say this aloud. The cold tone of his voice conveyed his thoughts well enough.

“I know you didn’t,” Opal said. Her tongue flicked out and touched her bottom lip before she dragged the plump flesh slowly between her teeth. “There was a slight mix up.”

He did not like the sound of that. Still, he failed to see what it had to do with him.

“Mix up?”

“Percy resigned his position. I’ve had to employ a new man.”

It didn’t surprise him. He’d heard through the grapevine her sudden lack of income had forced her to tighten her purse strings, a situation that must have had her seeing red. Opal loved her little luxuries. But with no gentleman to pay for them, the expensive retainers she’d once held in abundance had soon been let go, or left of their own accord, leaving her with a skeleton staff.

“I care little about your staffing issues, Opal. Or your parties. As far as I am concerned this conversation, and any further need we might once have had to see each other, has ended.”

Nicholas leaned forward to open the door and usher her out of his carriage, but before he could grip the handle, Opal’s thin fingers wound around his wrist.

“I think you will find this of interest.”

Nicholas froze. He recognized the mercenary gaze in Opal’s eyes. He had seen it directed at him enough times, although at least then it had been tempered by carnal pleasure. Now…now it was filled with something else. Something he couldn’t name.

Or didn’t want to.

It made his blood run cold.

“What is it?”

“My new man is not as learned as I would like. But this is what one is forced to employ when one does not have the means to do better.”

The unspoken accusation, as if somehow this was his fault, rested heavy in the air.

“You see, my man delivered the key not to Number eighty-seven, but to Number seventy-eight.”

The drink Nicholas had consumed only moments earlier soured in his gut.

Number seventy-eight.

The Laythams.

He willed his guilt back. This was not his problem. Besides, the new Lord Glenmor had never been to any of the parties Nicholas frequented. He didn’t seem the sort to revel in such debauchery. Then again, neither had the previous Lord Glenmor. Had he not fallen under Opal’s spell, the late earl likely would never have set foot inside one of Opal’s parties.

“How does this affect me?”

“How it affects you is this…” Opal smiled, but no such warmth lingered in the depths of her eyes. She was the Cheshire Cat, canary feathers poking out from a wide, sensual mouth. He pulled his arm away from her touch.

“Someone returned the RSVP.” When one accepted the invitation, they simply dropped the numbered tag into an envelope and returned it to the address where the party indicated. “At first I thought you had finally come to your senses and realized this life of propriety was not for you.”

She tossed out the word propriety as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. The illegitimate daughter of a baron and a French courtesan, Opal held the ton in contempt, yet at the same time she craved their acceptance. An acceptance that would never come.

“I have no intention of returning to my old life,” Nicholas said.

He couldn’t afford to. His conscience would no longer allow it.

“You may want to change your mind. You see, I don’t believe it was the young Lord Glenmor who returned the invitation. More’s the pity.” She pouted. “He’s a most handsome man. I would have welcomed him most warmly.”

Heat rose up Nicholas’s neck. He wanted to reach out and grab his former mistress by the throat. Had she not brought enough pain and suffering down upon the Laythams?

“Leave Lord Glenmor be.”

Her smile increased yet again. “Well that’s just the thing, isn’t it? It wasn’t Lord Glenmor who returned the invitation. It was a ladies’ maid. Miss Abigail Laytham’s maid to be exact. My man recognized her when she came to the door.”

Nicholas shook his head. “You lie.”

Opal laughed, a light, airy sound underscored by a throaty nuance. “Rumor has it Miss Laytham is expected to marry Lord Tarrington. Perhaps she wants to be bedded by a real man before submitting to some doddering old fool’s fumbling attempts to breed an heir. Whatever her reasons, she will be arriving at my soiree in just two nights hence.”

* * *

Preparation kept Abigail busy over the next two days while nerves kept her stomach twisted into a tight knot. A part of her could not believe she had decided to do something so daring, so crazy, so…so…scandalous! For her to even be caught walking past Madame St Augustine’s home would be enough to set tongues wagging. For the past eight months, her family’s every move had been watched and analyzed and whispered about until no one but Benedict dared even leave the house. The confinement had driven Abigail to the brink of madness. When she’d finally convinced Caelie to join her in the park, however, she’d only managed to make more of a spectacle.

Aunt Edythe continued to demand they retire to the country, though whether she meant for good or only for a little while was difficult to determine. Thankfully, Benedict had let the country estate out to a gaudy American family to help pay expenses, making the possibility of being exiled an impossibility. The news did not sit well with Aunt Edythe. Abigail almost wished they could have sent her aunt to the country. Her dour demeanor had grown even more sullen since Uncle Henry’s death. She possessed the ability to suck the joy out of a room simply by sitting in it.

Abigail could not help the uncharitable thought. As much as Uncle Henry had welcomed her family into his home with open arms, Aunt Edythe had never warmed to them. If anything, she seemed to resent their very existence. Worse still, she treated her own daughter with bitter indifference for not being born a son. What a humiliation it must be for her to now find herself at the mercy of Ben’s good favor, now that he was the new Earl of Glenmor. Not that he would ever turn her away. She was Caelie’s mother, after all.

Only recently had Abigail begun to venture out again with any regularity, hoping time had been kind and the ton had forgotten about them and moved on to other things.

They hadn’t. Or rather they had. The Duchess of Franklyn had been caught in a rather compromising position with Lord Huntsleigh by the aforementioned Duchess’s husband. And Miss Shelton had run off with her father’s coachman, reaching Gretna Green before anyone could stop them.

Unfortunately none of these scandals were enough to refocus the attention of the ton away from her family for more than a week. Regardless, Abigail refused to hide, to scurry away like a cockroach from the light. She had done nothing wrong. Her family had done nothing wrong.

Even Uncle Henry, who had taken up with a mistress of infamous ill repute, had done nothing out of the ordinary. Plenty of gentlemen of the ton had mistresses. Her uncle’s only mistake was falling in love. Was Abigail to fault him for that?

“Can I do nothing to talk you out of this?” Caelie asked, sitting on Abigail’s bed. She had tried to be the voice of reason for the past two days to no avail. Abigail had made her decision.

“Nothing will go wrong, Caelie. Please do not fret.”

In truth, any number of things could go wrong. She must travel to an end of town most ladies of quality would not be caught dead in. And she traveled alone, unless one counted the driver of the hired hansom cab. It was a dangerous adventure.

But it was the only chance Abigail had to confront Lord Roxton and try to find some small bit of humanity tucked inside his black heart. Then she would use it to guilt him into doing what he should have done eight months ago. She could not stand idly by and watch the opportunity drift past. She had to grab it. Surely providence had shined down upon them when the key had been inadvertently delivered to their door.

“What if one of the men propositions you?”

Abigail leaned forward and peered into the mirror over her vanity. She adjusted the pearl feathered mask that hid her face from the nose up. A tight chignon kept her hair in place and Muri had covered it with more feathers, these ones red, until barely any of her blonde hair showed through.

“I will simply tell him I am not interested.”

“You are at a party where being interested is your sole reason for being there. You don’t think it will look suspicious if you behave otherwise?”

The idea of being propositioned by a handsome gentleman did hold a certain amount of thrill to it. She stood on the precipice of a future with Lord Tarrington, who cared little for her beyond her ability to produce heirs. The thought of him touching her made her skin crawl. Their marriage would never be a love match, or even hold anything in the way of affection. Much like Uncle Henry and Aunt Edythe’s marriage and look what misery that produced. Would it be so wrong for her to indulge a little bit? Perhaps with just a kiss?

“Abby? Abby, are you even listening to me?”

Abigail shook her head and blinked at the masked reflection in the mirror. A flush had spread across her chest—a chest that revealed enough cleavage to send her mother into a deep, wailing swoon. Which was saying something given her mother had never swooned a day in her life. Nor wailed for that matter. Not even during the worst of it, when Papa and Roddy were taken by the fever, and they’d lost their home and had nothing left to fall back on.

“Of course I’m listening.” Abigail pushed the dark thoughts away. She rarely let them out. The pain and guilt of being the one who’d brought the sickness into their home was too great. “You do not have to worry, Caelie. If a gentleman propositions me, I shall simply tell him he is not to my liking. Or that I am waiting on someone else.” Not a complete untruth, since Lord Roxton was the only one she wished to see.

And kissing him was the furthest thing from her mind.

Abigail stepped away from the vanity and picked up the plain black cape draped across her bed, settling it about her shoulders. Only a hint of red silk peeked out from the bottom. It was a bold choice, with the deep claret setting off the paleness of her skin. The dress had been one of Caelie’s, purchased shortly after her engagement to Lord Billingsworth. When he broke it off, the dress had gone into her wardrobe and had not come back out.

Until now.

Muri had made a few modifications to the dress to remove the lacing around the neckline, leaving it to plunge dangerously low until Abigail worried she would spill out of it. She had to force herself to not check repeatedly to affirm everything remained in place.

“How do I look?”

“You look beautiful.” Defeat slumped Caelie’s shoulders. “I still wish you would reconsider this folly.”

“It is not folly. Can you ring for Muri? She should have the cab waiting by now.” Arrangements had been made for the driver to wait two houses away. Abigail would slip out the servants’ entrance and keep to the shadows as best she could. At this time of night, the streets were quiet and chances of running into anyone she knew were slim to none. But she had to be careful no one spied her from their windows, and if they did, that they thought her a servant, and not a member of the family.