Scandal

by Amanda Quick

  “And now,” Emily said cheerfully, “you will go straight home in the carriage, Lizzie. His lordship and I must be off. We have business to attend to tonight. Do not wait up for me.”

  “A moment, if you please, madam,” Simon drawled. “There seems to be some misunderstanding here. You will be going straight home with your maid.”

  “But, Simon, this was all my idea and I want to see it through to the end.”

  “You have involved me now and when I am involved in a plan, I prefer to be in charge. You are going home. I will walk you out of the gardens and put you into the carriage myself.”

  “But, Simon, you will need me with you.”

  “This is men’s business.”

  “This is my brother we are talking about,” she said desperately.

  “You have turned the problem over to me to resolve.”

  Emily ignored him and plunged into a detailed explanation of why she simply had to accompany him while he set about rescuing Charles but she might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Simon was implacable and unswervable.

  Several minutes later she found herself bundled into the carriage together with Lizzie. Simon closed the door and gave his coachman strict instructions to drive straight home. Then he swung around and walked off into the night without looking back.

  “Bloody hell.” Emily flounced on the seat, snapped her fan in annoyance, and then, with a small sigh, surrendered to the inevitable.

  After a moment she smiled in relief. Everything would be all right now. The dragon was in charge.

  Simon walked up the steps of the lodgings shared by the Faringdon twins with mixed emotions. He rapped on the door. It was opened almost at once by one of the twins, who stared at him in bemusement.

  “I believe you are Devlin. Is that correct?” Simon asked laconically.

  Devlin collected himself. “Yes, my lord. What the devil are you doing here, Blade?”

  “An excellent question. One I am still asking myself, in fact. May I come in?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.” Devlin moved reluctantly back from the doorway.

  “Thank you,” Simon said dryly. He stepped into the room and tossed his hat, coat, and gloves to the manservant.

  Charles Faringdon belatedly realized who had come calling and half rose from the chair near the fire.

  “Blade. Why in God’s name have you come at this hour?”

  “Emily tells me you are to fight a duel with Grayley.” Simon went to warm his hands in front of the fire.

  Charles shot a scathing look at his twin. “I told you that you should never have brought her here today. Now she’s gone and blathered the whole tale to him.”

  “I had to give her a chance to say farewell to you,” Devlin protested. “I had no choice.”

  “You should never have said a damn thing. This is a private matter.” Charles slumped back in the chair.

  “I agree that it would have been far more convenient all the way around if you had simply arranged to get yourself killed.” Simon told him. “But as you have involved Emily, I have no choice but to become involved.”

  “This is none of your affair,” Charles muttered, staring broodingly into the flames.

  “Ah, but it is. You have alarmed Emily and upset her greatly. I cannot allow that; therefore, I must do something about the situation.” Simon pinned Charles with a grim look. “Now, suppose you tell me the whole story so that I can decide what needs to be done.”

  “It’s a matter of honor,” Charles growled, slanting Simon a sidelong glance. “A woman’s honor.”

  “Since when have you become overly concerned about protecting a woman’s honor?”

  There was a deathly silence before Charles said slowly, “Devlin and I have done some thinking since that day you knocked us about in your library.”

  “Have you, indeed?” Simon gazed into the flames.

  “He is right, sir,” Devlin said quietly. “We have discussed the matter at length. You were correct. We should have called Ashbrook out after he ran off with our sister.”

  Simon considered that. “Strictly speaking, it was your father’s task.”

  “Yes, well, whatever. It did not feel right to do nothing about it at the time but father said—” Devlin broke off abruptly, shrugging.

  “Father said the damage was done and there was no sense getting killed over the matter,” Charles finished quietly. “And Emily agreed. She claimed it was all her fault in the first place.”

  “Which it probably was, knowing Emily,” Devlin said, picking up his brandy. “But Charles and I have decided that was neither here nor there. The least we could have done was to have thrashed Ashbrook.”

  “Yes.” Simon studied the golden flames. He was beginning to see the problem. Apparently he had only himself to blame for this mess. “So an opportunity has come along to allow at least one of you to redeem yourself in your own eyes and you grabbed it. Who is the lady?”

  “I cannot tell you that, sir,” Charles said stiffly.

  “I understand your reluctance, but I am afraid I must insist. I never make a move until I have all the information it is possible to obtain. And I hardly see that telling me matters a great deal at this juncture. After all, Grayley apparently knows and that is the main problem.”

  “He’s right, Charles,” Devlin said morosely. “Tell him.”

  “Maryann Matthews,” Charles said.

  Simon nodded. “A pleasant enough chit. Family comes from Yorkshire, I believe.”

  “Exactly, sir. I intend to marry her,” Charles said somewhat defiantly.

  Simon shrugged. “That is your affair. How did the girl come to get herself insulted?”

  Charles glowered. “She did nothing whatsoever objectionable. She is an innocent with charming manners and a sweet temper. Grayley simply walked up to me in my club last night and made a totally uncalled-for slur on her character.”

  Devlin looked at Simon. “Grayley said she was just another countrified lightskirt who had probably been to bed with every farmer in Yorkshire.”

  Simon raised his brows at that. “A bit extreme.”

  “It was a damn deliberate provocation,” Charles announced, slamming his fist down on the arm of the chair.

  “Yes, it was. Grayley is looking for fresh blood, apparently.”

  “What do you mean?” Devlin asked.

  “Grayley is one of those rare individuals who actually enjoys the thrill of terrifying his opponent on the dueling field.” Simon’s mouth hardened. “He is a crack shot who derives a certain excitement from the whole process. He is always careful to choose victims he knows are not good marksmen. But his reputation has spread and he has difficulty these days finding anyone foolish enough to meet him. When he does manage to force a challenge, most men are wise enough to have their seconds convey abject apologies.”

  “I shall not send apologies,” Charles vowed. “I would sooner die on the field of honor than allow Maryann’s honor to be impugned.”

  Simon gave him a considering look. “I believe you actually mean that.”

  “Do not bother to try to talk me out of this meeting, sir. I have taken a vow.”

  “I see.” Simon drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the mantel. “Very well, then, Devlin and I will act as your seconds. Come along, Dev.”

  Devlin looked at him. “Where are we going?”

  “Why, to meet with Grayley, of course. There are all sorts of small details that must be worked out.”

  “But we already know when and where the meeting is to be held,” Devlin said.

  Simon shook his head, feeling a hundred years older than these young cubs. Broderick Faringdon had much to answer for, he reflected. “You have a great deal to learn and, unfortunately, it begins to look as though I shall have to be the one to instruct you.”

  Simon and Devlin sat in the darkened carriage and watched the front door of the club until it opened at last to reveal Grayley. His eyes on his quarry, Simon tapped the roof of th
e carriage with his walking stick. As instructed, the coachman drew the hired vehicle directly up in front of Grayley.

  Grayley, a pinched-faced, thin-lipped man with restless, predatory eyes, bounded inside. He flung himself into the seat before he noticed that the carriage was already occupied.

  “Good evening, Grayley.” Simon tapped the roof once more and the coachman set the vehicle in motion.

  “What the bloody hell is this all about?” Grayley demanded, scowling first at Devlin and then at Simon.

  “Faringdon and I will be acting as Charles Faringdon’s seconds,” Simon said. “We came to settle a few minor points.”

  “You should be talking to my seconds, Barton and Evingly.”

  “I think you will take a personal interest in these details.” Simon smiled without any humor. “And I do not believe you will want Barton and Evingly to know about them.”

  Grayley sneered. “You’ve come to offer apologies on Faringdon’s behalf?”

  “Of course not. I understand you grossly insulted the lady in question,” Simon said. “You are the one who must offer apologies.”

  Grayley narrowed his eyes. “Now, why would I do that, pray tell?”

  “Because if you do not,” Simon explained gently, “then Faringdon, here, and I will be forced to put it about that your business investments will soon be taking a very serious downturn and you will not be able to meet your considerable financial obligations, let alone your gaming vowels.”

  Grayley went still. “Damn you, Blade, are you threatening me?”

  “Yes, I believe I am. I understand you have invested rather heavily in a certain trading venture in which I am also involved.”

  “What of it? I stand to make a fortune.”

  “That will be highly unlikely if I decide the risk is not worth the candle and decide to sell off my shares tomorrow. Word will get around town by noon that the deal has gone bad. If I pull out, everyone else will want out at once. The market for the shares will disappear and you, along with the other investors, will lose everything you have put into the project.”

  Grayley stared at him. “Good God. You would ruin me and the others.”

  “Very likely.”

  “For the sake of a Faringdon?” Grayley asked in utter disbelief. “I heard you had no love for any of that clan.”

  “Which is why you felt it safe to challenge one of them, I understand. But there you have it. Fate takes odd twists now and again. Shall I convey your apologies to Charles Faringdon and explain that it was all a misunderstanding?”

  Grayley was silent for a long moment. “Those who call you a cold-blooded bastard are right to do so, Blade.”

  Simon shrugged, glancing idly out the carriage. The hour was late but the street was filled with carriages carrying the elegant members of the ton to and fro on their endless round of parties. “Well, Grayley? Surely you can look for easier meat elsewhere?”

  “Damn you, Blade.”

  “Come, man,” Simon said softly. “You do not need to prove your marksmanship on the Faringdon boy. Find some other victim.”

  “You will go too far one of these days, Blade.”

  “Possibly.”

  Grayley’s mouth thinned. He rapped on the roof to signal the coachman to halt. When the carriage stopped, he opened the door and climbed down. “Convey my apologies to your brother,” he said curtly to Devlin. “There will be no dawn meeting.”

  Grayley stepped back and slammed the door. The carriage clattered off down the street. Devlin looked at Blade with something approaching hero worship in his eyes.

  “I say, that was astounding. You actually got Grayley to cry off the entire affair. I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “I do not expect to find myself with a similar task at any time in the future,” Simon said bluntly. “Is that quite clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Very clear.” Devlin was exuberant now. “Dashed clever of you, though. The man withdrew from the duel simply because you implied his investments would suffer.”

  Simon shook his head over such naïveté. “Faringdon, it is time you and your brother learned that real power is based on money and information. Armed with those two things, a man can accomplish a great deal more than he can with a dueling pistol or a deck of cards.”

  “And if a man lacks the blunt?” Devlin asked shrewdly.

  “Then he must concentrate on obtaining the information. With a sufficient amount of that resource, he will soon find the other.”

  “I shall remember that,” Devlin said quietly. He was silent for a moment and then his mood lightened once more. “By the bye, Charles and I have been wondering if you would show us that fascinating fighting technique you used on us that day in your library. Would it be too much to ask?”

  “I suppose I could demonstrate it for you. The thing I do not entirely understand,” Simon said reflectively, “is how I came to be in this situation in the first place.”

  Devlin grinned the charming Faringdon grin. “You mean rescuing Charles and showing us a trick or two about how to be going on in the world? I expect it is all Emily’s fault.”

  “You are correct, of course. It is all her fault.”

  “She is the one person on the face of the earth who does not think you are a cold-blooded devil, you know,” Devlin said.

  “Emily’s tendency toward the romantical is occasionally awkward.”

  “I know,” Devlin said, not without sympathy. “One always hates to disillusion her.”

  Emily stopped pacing her bedchamber at the sound of carriage wheels on the street outside. She flew to the window when she realized the vehicle was coming to a halt in front of the townhouse. She pushed the heavy drapes aside just in time to see Simon alight. His caped greatcoat swung around his boots as he started up the steps. Hastily she shoved open the window and peered down.

  “Simon,” she called softly. “Are you all right? Is everything settled?”

  Simon glanced up and said in a distinctly irritable voice, “For God’s sake, woman, get back inside and close the window. Whatever will the neighbors think?” He went on up the steps.

  Everything must have been settled in a reasonable fashion, Emily decided cheerfully as she yanked the window closed. Things could not be all that bad if Simon was worrying about the neighbors.

  She was getting to understand his moods quite well, Emily told herself happily. She tapped her slippered foot on the carpet and waited for the sound of bootsteps in the upstairs hall. Her communication with her husband in the metaphysical realm was definitely growing stronger every day. A direct result, no doubt, of their improved communication on the physical plane.

  She heard his step in the hall and hurried over to the connecting door. But just as she started to open it she heard Higson’s voice and realized the loyal bulldog of a valet had waited up for his master.

  Dismayed at the delay, Emily silently eased the door shut and resumed her pacing until she heard Higson being dismissed for the night.

  She rushed straight back to the connecting door and threw it open.

  Simon was sitting in the shadows near the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. He was wearing his black satin dressing gown. There was a single candle burning on the table near the bed. His dark hair was tousled and in the faint glow of the flame his face looked as if it had been carved from the side of a mountain. He glanced up as Emily came into the room, his golden eyes glinting strangely.

  “Ah, my reckless, impulsive, troublesome little wife. I imagine you are bursting with curiosity.”

  “Oh, yes, Simon. I have been waiting in agony for the past few hours.” Emily dropped into the chair across from his and studied him carefully. “Is all well?”

  “The matter is settled, if that is what you mean,” Simon said coolly. “There will be no duel.” He took another swallow of brandy and contemplated the glass. “But I am not certain if all is well.”

  A fresh uneasiness gripped Emily as she sensed that his mood was growing odder by the
moment. “What is wrong, my lord?”

  “Wrong?” He turned the brandy glass between his palms and rested his head against the back of the chair. “That is difficult to explain, my dear.”

  She peered at him more closely through her spectacles. “Simon, you are not hurt, are you?” she demanded in some alarm.

  “Not a drop of blood was shed.”

  “Thank God.” Emily grinned suddenly. “No, it is you I have to thank for fixing the matter, not God, and I am well aware of it. I am very grateful to you for resolving the situation, Simon.”

  “Are you?” He took another sip of brandy.

  Emily bit her lip. “You are in a rather strange mood, my lord.”

  “Now, I wonder why that should be,” he mused. “It has been a perfectly normal evening, has it not? Nothing untoward or unusual has occurred. Just the routine sort of thing. I find my wife promenading the Dark Walk at Vauxhall at midnight seeking an appointment with a member of the criminal class. I let myself get talked into rescuing a damn Faringdon from his own foolishness. I am obliged to put a potentially profitable investment at risk in order to scare off one of the most vicious young bloods of the ton. And I come home to discover my lady wife hanging out the window, calling down to me like a hoyden.”

  Emily sighed. “Somehow my life’s little adventures always sound much worse when you describe them.”

  “I have noticed that.”

  Emily brightened. “Still, I must tell you I thought your plot to lure me to Vauxhall was a wonderful notion. That was very clever of you, Simon. Do you know, it never even occurred to me to be suspicious when I got your note. Now I realize that a member of the criminal class would be highly unlikely to read and write.”

  “Your praise is heartwarming, I assure you. But looking back on the matter, I conclude that I must have been temporarily mad to concoct such a scheme.”

  “No, no, you wanted to teach me a lesson, did you not?”

  “I had some vague notion of doing so, yes.” Simon took another sip of brandy.

  “And you came up with a truly brilliant scheme.”

  “Really? I did not notice you looking appropriately chastened. You stood there and bargained like a shopkeeper with a man you thought to be a cutthroat and when he attempted to frighten you by demanding your favors in exchange for his services, you promptly threatened him with your husband’s wrath.”