The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Will he be gone long?” Freddie asked, her throat tight as a new determination stole over her.

  Ross wanted her, she knew that much, and she rather thought he liked her too, albeit against his better judgement. Mrs Murray was right. Never had there been a man so in need of loving. She could see it so much clearer now.

  “I cannae tell ye that, lass.”

  Freddie nodded, understanding. She would have to wait.

  Perhaps Ross didn’t want her as a wife or even as a lover, but he needed her, and she would be waiting when he came back. She’d tread carefully this time, and she’d not force her company upon him, but she’d make sure he knew she was there, and that she was his friend, and always would be.

  Chapter 13

  “Wherein the Scandalous Brothers entertain some dear friends.”

  It took Ross the best part of a week to reach London, during which time his anger simmered beneath the surface. Everyone gave him a wide berth, sensing the dangerous quality that clung to him. His temper was too ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

  He spoke to no one, outside of what was necessary to arrange food and lodging, and no one dared speak a word to him. By the time he reached the capital he was aware how he looked, unshaven and crumpled and spoiling for a fight. Yet he did nothing to change that appearance, finding information came easier from those faced with a wild-eyed Scot who looked capable of just about anything.

  Two days later, after having tracked down Viscount Cheam’s London home, the footman he’d cornered in a dark alley had pissed his pants in terror, only too happy to give him whatever information he required about a master he obviously despised.

  Ross let the poor bastard go with a generous tip for his trouble and a muttered apology for scaring the wits from the man. He didn’t need to tell the fellow to keep his damn lip buttoned either. He would.

  According to the terrified footman, there was a grand dinner at the house tomorrow night, held by Viscount Cheam’s eldest son, Sampson. The realisation that this man was his half-brother was something Ross refused to dwell on.

  Unlike his sire, young Mr Sampson Pelham was well liked by all, the staff included, and despite the beginning of the season being some weeks off, the evening would be well attended.

  It seemed the viscount had been busy and had produced six legitimate children. Ross wondered sourly how many bastards like him had been left, too. Of Cheam’s legitimate progeny, there were four adult sons from his first marriage, all of whom would be present at the dinner, and twin girls of six from his second wife. These girls would be the children Freddie had been governess to, Ross realised.

  It gave him an odd, hollow sensation to remember Freddie. Would she still be there, tucked up in her cottage just down the road from the castle, or would she have seen sense and left?

  He wouldn’t think on it.

  Sampson Pelham had deliberately arranged the dinner for a night when his father was out of town, but the footman had it from the viscount’s valet, that his father had got wind of the arrangement and would make a late appearance. None of the brothers knew. They were all at odds with their father and avoided him wherever possible. The youngest refused to even acknowledge his existence and had been entirely cut off.

  Ross wondered if perhaps that son was someone he could like. Not that it mattered. Tonight, he would expose the viscount’s filthy past before the assembled lords and ladies, and it would spread through the ton like wildfire.

  Then, he would call him out.

  No matter his and Pelham’s joint animosity towards their sire, he doubted the man would thank him for putting a bullet in the viscount’s brain.

  That he’d hang for killing a peer of the realm seemed of little consequence. In Edinburgh, he’d stopped to speak to his solicitor and amend his will, giving equal shares of the castle and whatever else he owned to be left between Mrs Murray, Digby, and now Freddie too. Perhaps she’d not think so ill of him then.

  Not that he had a death wish. He’d go a long way not to find himself at Tyburn. If he could get away with it, he damn well would, but he knew the odds were against him.

  He took care with his appearance the night of the dinner. There was little he could do for his mother other than the course he’d set upon, but he’d not shame her by looking like some ignorant savage. So, it was a clean-shaven and pristine Captain Moncreiffe who set out in his regimental uniform, gleaming like a new pin and set on bringing justice to the man that was his father.

  ***

  Sampson Pelham grinned and shook hands with his siblings, feeling a rush of relief to see them about him. It was a rare event that they all managed to be in the same place at the same time.

  All four of the Scandalous Brothers together at once was more than any sensible hostess would risk, and rightly so. They’d well earned their reputations, the twins most of all to be fair, though Sampson knew it was time to put such behaviour behind him.

  At thirty, he was the oldest of the brothers with the twins, Solomon and Sherbourne, at eight and twenty, and their youngest brother, Samuel, at six and twenty. They had two little half-sisters now, also twins, Selina and Susan, who were just six.

  Why their father had been content to stick to one letter of the alphabet none of them rightly knew, but he had and so some wit had dubbed them the Scandalous Brothers when their mischief had been at its height, and it had stuck. It had stuck with such force that Sampson worried for his sisters. Though they were little more than babies now, they’d be young women soon enough and in need of husbands.

  The Scandalous Sisters was not a title they needed hanging about their necks.

  So, he’d decided it was high time they showed the ton they were not made in the image of their father. Sampson would begin his campaign with a polite and well-mannered dinner, with him and all his brothers on their best behaviour. Not that any of their misdeeds could hold a candle to their father’s wickedness. They might drink, fight, gamble, and carouse, but it was nothing more than high spirits and a disregard for the rules that drove them to behave badly.

  Thank God they’d none of them inherited the cruel streak their father had.

  Sampson regarded himself in the glass, making sure he’d pass muster in his appearance, at least. His bright red hair gleamed. His eyes were shrewd and gave little away. Another thing to thank the Lord for was their mother’s fiery colouring and blue-eyed looks. Only poor Samuel had their father’s green eyes, a fact he hated but could do little about, though his hair was every bit as red as the rest of them.

  Hurrying down the stairs, Sampson stopped to enquire if everything was in hand.

  “It is, Mr Pelham. In fact, if I might be so bold, I believe the dining room has not looked so splendid since your own dear mother oversaw the arrangements.”

  Sampson patted the butler’s shoulder, touched by the remark. “I know well who to look to if it has come anywhere close to such heights, Brent. I cannot thank you and Mrs Sydney enough for everything you’ve done.”

  “It’s been our pleasure, sir,” Brent replied, such warmth in his eyes that some of the tension Sampson was carrying dissipated a little.

  It would be all right. He was worrying over nothing. His father was out of town for the week and, by the time he heard about the dinner, it would be too late.

  “There you are Sunny,” his youngest brother Samuel said, using the nickname he knew would get a rise out of Sampson because he hated it so. He’d emerged from the library, glass in hand.

  “Samuel,” he said, smiling and glowering at once. “How’s things?”

  “Oh, keeping body and soul together, brother dear. Where are the twins?”

  “No idea, but if they’re late I’ll skin them alive,” Sampson said, checking his fob watch and giving Samuel a narrow-eyed look at the same time. Had he lost weight? “Sam,” he began, knowing offering his brother money was a dangerous undertaking at the best of times.

  “Don’t bother,” Samuel said, rolling his eyes. “I’m i
n clover right now, I’ll have you know. Just did a job for the Duke of Ranleigh which paid very nicely, plus he’s given me his endorsement, so I’m in fine fettle and you can stop with the mother hen act.”

  Samuel Pelham, who had always had a nose for trouble and a curious streak wide enough to kill a cat several times over, earned his keep as some kind of investigator. It was all very distasteful, and Sampson didn’t want to know the details. All he knew was that Sam had done it with the express intention of causing his father as much embarrassment as possible.

  It had worked.

  Now, if only Sampson could only persuade him to give it up for their sisters’ sakes, he’d be doing well.

  “So, who’s coming tonight?” Sam demanded, downing his drink and sighing as Sampson glowered at him. “It’s my first,” he said with a huff. “I’m not about to get foxed, my word on it.”

  “Falmouth and his wife, Tommy Tindall and Owen Tatum, Winterbourne and his wife and a handful of young women and their parents that Countess Falmouth advised me to invite to make up the numbers.”

  “Falmouth and Winterbourne in the same room together?” Sam raised both eyebrows. “That should be interesting.”

  “I heard they get on nowadays.” Sampson said, quelling a stab of anxiety. He needed this dinner to off without a hitch.

  “Oh, I think so, well enough,” Sam said with a shrug, which was not reassuring. “But they’ve both got devilish tempers. Still, their wives will keep them in line.”

  Sam gave him a wink and sauntered off, leaving Sampson cursing.

  The twins arrived next, however, and Sampson went to meet them. Identical grins greeted him, their blue eyes twinkling with as much mischief as it had when they were gap-toothed boys. It had relieved everyone when they’d lost their teeth at different times, as it gave them some temporary way of telling the two apart. There were few others. Sampson could tell, mostly, but only because he knew them so well.

  “Sampson,” they both said at once, holding out their hands.

  Sampson laughed despite himself. “Thank you for being on time. Now, is there any chance of the pair of you acting like grown-ups for the next few hours?”

  “No guarantees given,” Sherbourne said with a mournful sigh.

  “You’d only be disappointed,” Solomon added with a wink.

  Sampson opened his mouth to protest but they both laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, one a rather eerie echo of the other as they moved in concert. “Only joking, Sunny, old fellow. We’ll be good.”

  “Only for our sisters, though….”

  They took themselves off and Sampson sighed. Well, so far, so good. All three of his brothers present and promised to behave, and only the rest of the evening to get through.

  What could go wrong?

  ***

  “Alex, you are certain the viscount will not be there?” Céleste asked for the second time that evening.

  Alexander Sinclair, Earl of Falmouth, slid a reassuring arm about his wife’s slender shoulders and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He was still as charmed by her pretty French accent as he had been at the beginning of their relationship, and every bit as besotted with her as when they’d first met, five and a half years earlier.

  “We would not be attending this evening if he were, mignonne, you know that. I can’t stand him anymore than you can. He’s a detestable excuse for a human being but, somehow, he’s got four very fine sons and I’ll support them if I can. God knows someone should. Growing up in that man’s shadow, it’s a wonder they’ve turned out how they have.”

  Céleste sighed and snuggled into his embrace, staring up at him with a look of adoration that never failed to make him feel like a king.

  “You are a good man, mon contrabandier,” she said, her tone making him wish he could turn the carriage around and take her straight back home again.

  “Not as good as all that,” he murmured, and spent the rest of the drive proving exactly why that was.

  If anyone thought his countess a little flushed and her lips were a little redder than they ought to have been on arrival at the Pelhams’, no one was the least bit surprised.

  They chatted with the other guests, making polite conversation until it was time to go in for dinner. Alex even managed a conversation with Edward Greyston, the Marquess of Winterbourne, without one of them insulting the other. They liked each other well enough now, in a prickly and rather competitive manner, but Alex could never quite forgive Edward for getting his young cousin Aubrey shot and almost killed, though in truth it had not been the man’s fault.

  His wife, Belle, was a good sort, though: a no-nonsense, motherly woman who kept Edward in line with little more than a soft look of disapproval. In fact, it was rare to see the marquess at these events but, like Alex, Edward had become friendly with Sampson and felt his attempt to drag the family name out of the gutter for his sisters’ sakes an honourable one. Alex suspected it was for this reason alone that the man had agreed to attend. After a bad war, he did not enjoy crowds and gatherings of too many people.

  “Falmouth, good to see you.”

  Alex looked around to find the smiling and rather cherubic countenance of Tommy Tindall, the Earl of Stanthorpe. Tommy was a good-hearted fellow who, Alex suspected, was not the fool everyone made him out to be.

  “Stanthorpe,” Alex said, greeting him warmly. “How’s things?”

  “Oh, mustn’t grumble,” Tommy said with an affable shrug. “Mother’s champing at the bit for me to marry and start filling the nursery, but I’ve resisted so far.”

  Alex chuckled, knowing full well that Tommy’s mother was a force to be reckoned with. “It’s not such a dreadful fate with the right woman, you know,” he said, before laughing as his countess pinched him and stuck out her tongue before returning to her conversation with Belle.

  “Oh, I know it,” Tommy agreed, looking a little wistful. “Only you need to find that woman, and so far, I’ve come up empty.”

  “Not to worry, young man,” Alex said, grinning at him. “She’s out there, just keep your eyes open. No doubt she’ll fall into your lap when you least expect it.”

  They had all been shown into dinner and about to sit down to their first course, when a murmur of apprehension drifted from the far end of the room.

  “What is it, Alex?” Céleste asked, relying on her husband’s superior height to look over the heads of the other guests.

  Alex stiffened, realising at once why everyone was so on edge, and why Sampson looked white-faced and resigned to something deeply unpleasant.

  “Cheam,” Alex said, drawing Céleste closer to him and deciding she’d sit beside him tonight, no matter the seating arrangements. He’d not let that bastard anywhere near her. Just seeing the way the man looked at her was enough for him to want to do murder.

  “Oh, no,” Céleste murmured. “Poor Sampson.”

  “Well, well, I’m entertaining tonight, I see,” Viscount Cheam said, his rather jovial tone threaded with something a deal less pleasant. “I’d no idea. Still, merely an oversight, eh, Sampson? I know you’d not do something so tedious and underhanded on purpose. That would be petty, eh, boy?”

  Alex gritted his teeth, wishing he could just give Sampson the nod and agree that they’d throw the man back out on the street. Seeing as it was the viscount’s house, however….

  “For God’s sake, Brent,” the viscount shouted at the dignified butler, who didn’t so much as flinch. “Stop dithering like an old woman and set another place for Sampson.”

  Alex cursed under his breath as Sampson had little choice but to move away from the head of the table and give the place over to his father. There wasn’t anyone in the room who believed the viscount deserved that place of honour, but no one could say it. Not just yet, at least. If he pushed too far, Alex would not hold his tongue for long.

  “Well, this will be some evening,” Alex said to his wife with a sigh, as the assembled guests took their places.

 
; All they could do now was endure.

  ***

  Ross watched with a sickening feeling in his chest as he laid eyes on his father for the first time.

  They looked alike.

  Any small doubts he might have harboured as to the veracity of Mrs Murray’s story evaporated at once. Viscount Cheam was a big man, and even though he must be in his fifties his hair still glinted gold, and he was broad and strong. For a moment, Ross imagined that strength being used to hold his mother down while he used her. He forced the image from his mind. He was angry enough already, but he had to keep his wits about him if this was not to go wrong.

  Ross knew he could not afford to indulge that fury, to allow it to take him over as it had in his youth. If he went in there raging like a madman, he’d not get his point across. He had to remain calm, as far as he was able. If nothing else, he would destroy the man’s reputation.

  He gave it another ten minutes after the viscount had entered the grand mansion house before following him up the steps and knocking.

  The footman whom he’d scared to within an inch of his life opened the door and gasped in horror. He looked like he wanted to be sick.

  “Aye, that’s right. I’ve business with yer master and I’ll see him now.” The poor fellow opened his mouth, to say what Ross didn’t know or care, so he saved him the bother. “D’ye reckon ye can stop me?” he asked the fellow, almost sympathetically as the footman stared up at him. “Even if ye call for the rest o’ the servants, I’ll likely kill ye afore they get here.”

  The footman stepped back and held the door open for him.

  “A wise man,” Ross said, winking at him and stepping over the threshold with no resistance. “Where’s the party?”

  “Down there, sir. Second door on the left.”

  “I’m much obliged to ye.” Ross strode down the hallway, his blood surging in his veins as he reached the door in question. The desire to kick it down was almost irresistible but resist it he did.