Nothing But Scandal

by Allegra Gray

  She stepped inside and collected a warmer shawl, a handmade piece she’d found in a trunk in what she’d come to think of as “her” room. To whom it had previously belonged, she couldn’t say, for Harold had told her nothing of the ownership or past occupants of the house.

  She warmed herself by the drawing room fire while Bormley readied the landau and horses. Would he come through for her? Or was he even now revealing her plot to Harold?

  “It’s time, Elizabeth.”

  Stiffly, she went to the vehicle, still trying to determine whether this change in events signaled opportunity for escape or only more danger. Bormley helped her up, but his blank expression gave nothing away.

  As Harold hefted his considerable girth onto the seat beside her, Elizabeth’s hopes diminished.

  The servant moved to take the driver’s perch, then suddenly veered off course. “One moment, sir,” he called, hurrying back into the house.

  Her heart thundered in her chest and she sent up a quick prayer. Harold gave an impatient grunt.

  Rushing from the house, Bormley handed up a flask and a small, cloth-covered basket. “For your journey, sir.”

  Hope flared and Elizabeth flashed him a look. Was it only her imagination, or did he nod this time? And what did it mean?

  Harold took the offering, and his servant bowed and climbed onto the driver’s perch. A slap of the reins, and they were off.

  For the first part of the journey, she sat stiffly by her captor’s side. He’d not told her anything more about their destination, nor had she asked, unwilling as she was to upset whatever good humor had prompted him to take her out in the first place. Curiosity ate at her, though, as she tried to fathom his intention.

  “Drink?” Harold offered her the flask, his manner unusually companionable.

  She shook her head, and watched as he took a swig, then rummaged in the bread basket.

  The landau rolled past small farms, their fields nearly ready to harvest. Bormley had left the cover down, and Elizabeth was glad she’d brought the shawl. They passed a few other travelers on the road. Would they think her mad if she called to them for help? No, she had to wait. She couldn’t afford another ill-fated escape.

  Finally, she saw the steeple of a village church off in the distance.

  A village, with real people, and a marketplace, and, and…tears rushed to her eyes at the longing for such normal, everyday life. She could stand Harold’s silence no longer.

  “Are we going to the village?” she asked, hating the pleading sound of her own voice. Between imprisonment by Harold and the isolation she’d endured in London, both at Bea’s and at her family’s house, she’d been too long starved—not just for food but for human contact.

  “Yes, to the church.”

  “For service?” What day of the week was it? Sunday? She’d lost track.

  “Of a sort.”

  Her hands twisted in her shawl as her unease grew.

  “Consider your actions carefully, Elizabeth,” Harold admonished her, “for it is not only your own fate that rests upon your decision.”

  Elizabeth frowned, questioning.

  “Think of your sister.”

  “Charity?” Her surprise was real. “What has she to do with this?”

  “The way things stand now, you’ve ruined her chances at a decent future.”

  Shame flooded her. It was true. Though Charity had told her she could take care of herself, Elizabeth knew her own actions had cost her sister dearly. The Medford family’s reputation had been shaky after her father’s death, but now it was in shreds. And none of it was Charity’s fault.

  “Of course, we may be able to fix that.”

  “I cannot see how.”

  “Society is unforgiving, but when they wish, they are quite capable of forgetting a person’s foibles, especially if that person sees the errors of their ways and settles into a respectable, legitimate marriage.” He took another swig from the flask.

  Elizabeth yanked her gaze from his, staring instead at the road as the vehicle rolled slowly along the road. The golden-brown fields and farms swam in her blurred vision as tears welled in her eyes. He’d said they were going to church. Now she knew why.

  Still, there was time. The banns had to be read on three Sundays before they could marry.

  “Marry me, and when the gossip settles, I will sponsor Charity for a Season of her own.”

  She shook her head in protest, her throat too thick for words.

  “Think carefully, Elizabeth, before you make a decision you will regret.”

  She would do anything for her sister. But Harold’s offer was empty, for though he might be able to afford sponsoring Charity, he did not have the necessary political and social wherewithal to launch her successfully—especially given the gossip surrounding her family.

  Harold was wrong. Gossip might die down, but people did not forget. Not unless they feared the social clout of the person asking them to forget.

  When Elizabeth remained silent, Harold gripped her upper arm, hard. “If you are still unconvinced, we could return to your home, where I will inform your uncle that, in spite of our interlude in the country, I find you unsuitable. And that I prefer to marry Charity instead.”

  Something inside her snapped.

  “Never!” She pummeled him with her fists. “You will not touch my sister.”

  He batted away her fists.

  Furious, Elizabeth grappled with him, desperate to regain control over the madness that had become her life. “Bormley, stop this vehicle now!” she shouted, but the servant did not so much as acknowledge her.

  Harold’s face twisted in anger. He outweighed her by at least five stone, and in the weakened state brought on by near-starvation, she was unable to compete with his bulk.

  Realizing her folly, Elizabeth retreated to the edge of the bench and prepared to leap from the carriage.

  A stunning blow knocked her back against the seat, then onto the floorboard in front of Harold’s knees. Her jaw hit the opposite seat with a crack, just before his meaty fist yanked the back of her hair, forcing her chin up to look at him. Her head rang with pain.

  “If you jump, I will marry Charity. And I will touch her any way I bloody well please. She’s pretty, and young. She will likely be far easier to train. How many missed meals, how many beatings will it take, do you think, before she welcomes me into her bed?”

  This did what all his other threats, beatings, and even starvation had not accomplished.

  She had no choice. Harold would not get his hands on her little sister. Elizabeth’s own folly had landed her in this position. Even if it hadn’t, she could never knowingly allow her sister to bear this fate.

  Her head throbbed and her body ached from the blow, but she pressed her lips together to stifle the pain.

  If only she could get to Alex, Charity, too, would be safe, provided for under the umbrella of his protection.

  The tears spilled over and her throat felt tight, but she managed a slight nod. Let him think what he would.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Elizabeth,” Harold told her, and she hated the smugness in his voice. “It took you a while, but I knew you’d see reason eventually. In fact, that’s the reason for our outing this morning.”

  Guarded, Elizabeth turned to look at him.

  “I’ve arranged a special license to be married.” He sounded proud of the fact.

  “Special license?” she croaked.

  “Yes. The vicar will be waiting for us at the church.”

  She struggled to breathe. “You mean to do this thing today?” A special license eliminated the requirement for banns.

  “No time like the present. A bit more speed, I think,” he called to the front, and the servant urged the horses into a trot. He gave her an arrogant grin. “You’ve given your assent.”

  Elizabeth flicked a glance at the flask. Was there any hope left? Harold showed no sign that the wine he’d consumed had any unusual effect.

&nb
sp; A new idea occurred to her.

  She couldn’t count on Harold passing out from the potion. But she could. She was already lightheaded with hunger. Surely she could feign a passable fainting spell.

  Bormley drew the vehicle into the little churchyard and stopped. Harold eased his frame from the carriage and…Elizabeth blinked. Had he swayed when his feet hit the ground?

  It didn’t matter. She had a plan—albeit a temporary one. She climbed down and followed him, in seeming obedience, into the dim church.

  The vicar couldn’t proceed with the wedding if the bride was unconscious, could he?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Investigating Elizabeth’s disappearance took far longer than Alex had hoped. He resisted the urge—barely—to ride madly about the countryside searching for her. To search without a plan was a fool’s errand. She could be hidden anywhere.

  Instead he hired the best investigators, paid them extra for speed, then hounded them incessantly.

  After two days of hearing nothing, Alex was desperate to tear his mind from worry and guilt. He met Lord Wilbourne at White’s for a night of cards and drinking, with considerable emphasis on the drinking.

  “You’re playing abominably, Beaufort,” Wilbourne told him, only an hour into the play.

  Alex shrugged and tossed back another brandy. Where the hell had that bastard taken Elizabeth?

  Wilbourne dealt them a new hand, which he quickly won. Alex continued drinking.

  Three hands later, all won by Wilbourne, and Alex had finally reached a state where he couldn’t focus enough to worry.

  Wilbourne set down the cards. “It goes against my conscience to bet against a man who is clearly more focused on killing himself with drink than on playing the game.”

  “Right,” Alex managed.

  “I believe the proprietor is wringing his hands even now, worried he may not have stocked enough of your favorite brandy. Something on your mind, Beaufort?”

  Vaguely, Alex registered the note of concern in his friend’s voice. “Can’t find her,” he muttered.

  Robert Wilbourne studied his drunken friend. “Her?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  Now, that was interesting. Robert had never seen the duke drink himself into a stupor before—let alone over a woman. And not just any woman. He’d heard the rumors.

  Alex tiredly raked a hand through his hair, then let his head fall back against the chair.

  Robert glanced around. They were in a relatively quiet corner of the gentlemen’s club—a good thing, because whatever was bothering his friend, Alex wasn’t in any state to be overheard.

  “She’s the one, isn’t she? The one whose father sold her out?”

  Alex stared at him for a moment, as though trying to remember. “Yes,” he finally said. “But I didn’t—”

  “Of course not.”

  “But later…” Alex groaned and finished off another brandy.

  With the slightest hand gesture, Robert signaled the waiter not to bring anymore. It was going to be hard enough getting his friend home in his current state.

  “God, she’s something. She’s…different. I think I…I need her,” Alex said, his words clear but slow in coming. His head dropped into his hands. “Christ. This is all my fault.”

  “How is it your fault?”

  Slowly he shook his head, still in his hands, from side to side. “I did it. All of it. She doesn’t know. I ruined her. And now she’s gone.”

  The duke was rambling—Robert couldn’t follow his alcohol-soaked confessions. What he did understand, though, was that Elizabeth Medford was more than just another of Alex’s illicit, meaningless affairs. “Where’d she go?”

  “Don’t know.” Alex rubbed his temples. “Can’t think. Kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” Robert echoed.

  “Wetherby. Bastard.” Alex looked up, eyes red-rimmed, but his voice gaining strength. “I’ve got…least a dozen…Runners looking for her now. I’m going after her.” He put out an unsteady hand. “As soon as the bloody room stops spinning.”

  Unless Robert was much mistaken, Alex’s ramblings meant one thing: the Duke of Beaufort, London’s most dissolute rake, had fallen in love. Hard.

  “Beaufort,” Robert said gently, “I’m going to call your carriage. I’m going to help you into it. When you get home, sleep it off. Then go find your woman.”

  After nearly a week of empty reports from the men Alex had hired to look into Wetherby’s affairs, one man at last returned with a report of a textiles factory and a small residential property to the north, owned by one Harold Wetherby.

  Filled with renewed purpose, Alex secured specific directions and set off immediately. He could travel faster riding alone than in a carriage, so he did. It was a fair distance, but after riding through the afternoon and night, he was in the vicinity of the residence.

  It wasn’t much. A two-story home in rural England. He checked the investigator’s description one last time, then approached cautiously. His heart pounded. He wanted nothing more than to rush up and see for himself that Elizabeth was all right, but common sense told him such an approach might actually provoke Harold further.

  No one heralded his arrival in the small yard. There was a stable, but he heard no animal sounds, save for those coming from a few chickens pecking in the yard.

  His feeling of anticipation gave way to one of uncertainty. Something was amiss here. Did he have the wrong place? He doubted it, having always been astute with directions. Besides, there was nothing else around.

  The house was quiet. Too quiet. His knock went unanswered. No servants about.

  A brief search of the house confirmed it empty, though its occupants had not been gone long. The remains of one person’s breakfast still sat on a table, and the scent of a woman—Elizabeth, he was certain—lingered upstairs.

  A sense of impending doom struck him as he went back outside and confirmed the stables were also empty.

  Alex retraced his route. A little investigative work of his own revealed new tracks, a conveyance of some sort, leading down the road in the opposite direction from whence he’d come.

  He nudged his mount back onto the road, kicking him into a gallop. The stallion tossed his head in protest. He nudged the animal again. “I know you’re tired, but we’ve no time.”

  The horse gave one more flick of his head but picked up his pace. Alex patted him as a knot grew in his gut.

  Had he taken too long to find her? Where was Elizabeth? God help Wetherby if she’d been harmed in any way.

  It had been many moons since Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort, had darkened the doors of a church, but as he kept his eyes on the tracks he followed, his mind turned to prayer. More than anything, he prayed Elizabeth had not suffered for his foolishness. His conscience was already sorely tried by its burden of guilt. He could bear no more.

  The tracks led him to a village, and then to a chapel.

  His unease turned to near-panic as he saw where the tracks ended. He flung himself from his mount and ran to the chapel without even thinking to secure the weary beast.

  His push sent the lightweight wooden door banging into the adjacent wall. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sun, Alex made out three figures standing near the altar. One wore black, and the other two stood before him in the time-honored formation of a wedding ceremony. The bride’s blaze of auburn hair was unmistakable. Rage filled him.

  “You cannot proceed!” His voice echoed, bouncing off the stone walls. He quickly closed the remaining distance between himself and the three at the altar.

  Elizabeth, the vicar, and a portly man with receding brown hair turned to gape at him. Wetherby. Alex recognized him from their encounter at the Derringworth stables months ago.

  “I believe this is my church, and I will proceed as I see fit,” the vicar replied. His furrowed brows belied his mild tone.

  “If you value your position in the least, you will desist,” Alex told him in the most authoritative tone he kn
ew.

  “I think,” Wetherby slurred, “I need to sit down.” As he spoke the words, his hand landed clumsily on the altar in an attempt to steady himself.

  Alex turned to the woman he’d just rushed pell-mell across the countryside to find. “Elizabeth, what is going on here?”

  But her attention was turned to Wetherby, whose face had gone slack. His hand slipped from the altar, and he crumpled heavily to the floor.

  Something was odd here. Alex longed to simply gather her in his arms, but first he needed an answer.

  “Elizabeth,” he urged, “tell me you never meant to marry that cur.”

  For a moment her eyes stayed fixed on Wetherby’s crumpled form.

  Then, lifting her chin, she met his gaze with something of triumph in her own. “Never.”

  She was paler, thinner than he remembered, but his fiery temptress remained unbroken.

  Alex smiled for the first time in days. “Let us go, then, before he recovers.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that will be for a while.”

  The vicar cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir, but who are you? And what precisely is going on here?”

  Elizabeth answered for him. “He’s Alex Bainbridge, Duke of Beaufort. And as for Mr. Wetherby, I believe he’s had a taste of his own medicine and found it…overwhelming.”

  “Duke?” the vicar squeaked. His glance darted between Elizabeth and her overweight, would-be husband. Her captor. Who showed no sign of awakening from his fainting spell.

  The vicar’s brows knit together as he nudged Harold with his toe. “Young lady, has this man been poisoned?”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “Only a sleeping draught.”

  Alex felt his chest swell. He was so damn proud of that woman. Still. “You cut the timing a bit close, don’t you think?” he whispered to her.

  A shiver passed through her.

  “This situation is highly unusual,” the vicar declared as though taking an official position on the matter.

  “Indeed,” Alex said dryly.

  Harold groaned, drawing the attention of the other three. He passed a hand over his forehead, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. His gaze landed on Elizabeth and he scowled. “The wine,” he muttered. “You little bi—” he bit off the last part of the slur.