Before the Scandal

by Suzanne Enoch

  “It’s a lesson well learned, Phin. Which is why you make me nervous.”

  He tugged her still closer, aware both that the waltz would end any moment and that he didn’t want to release her back into the callous, judgmental crowd. “I make you nervous?” he murmured. “Why?”

  “Because I know you’re trouble, and I still want you to kiss me again.”

  Phineas nearly missed a step and took them both to the floor. So much for a career begun as a blackguard and followed by ten years of battle-tried soldiering. “I neglected to add forthright to your attributes,” he drawled quietly.

  “Did I frighten you just then?” she murmured.

  “A little.”

  “Good. Then you know how I feel.”

  The music crashed to a close, and they both joined in the applause. Still obviously amused at herself, Alyse wrapped her fingers around his arm as they made their way back to her aunt.

  Behind Mrs. Donnelly, her son shook hands with Lord Charles Smythe. A second later, Smythe slipped something into his coat pocket. In itself it was nothing, but Phineas had become very good at deciphering people—his life had frequently depended on it. From the swift glance Smythe sent around him, he was nervous. And Phineas abruptly wanted a look at what the fellow had in his pocket.

  Whether he’d burned his bridges or not, if his family needed protection, he would give his life to do it. And it seemed he had his quarry for the evening sighted.

  Ellerby, Smythe, and Donnelly were all approximately the same age, and while Richard had only become a viscount by luck, he was still of aristocratic stock. They might very well have attended school together, and Alyse had called them cronies. That wasn’t a surprise, but it did raise a question: If Ellerby or Smythe or both were maliciously vandalizing Quence, did Donnelly know about it?

  No, that made no sense. Donnelly had been spending a great deal of his time and energy helping repair the various mishaps that had befallen Quence. In fact, the other men’s friendship with Richard made their involvement in this mess less likely.

  If he could discover what it was that Lord Charles had put into his pocket, he would know why the fellow had been uneasy. He might even be able to rule him out as a suspect. Or in as one.

  “You look very serious, Phin,” Beth commented as she strolled up with Lord Donnelly.

  “Do I? I’m trying to remember the steps for the next quadrille,” he improvised.

  “I know for a fact that you attended a great many soirees on the Continent,” she returned, “because you wrote and told me so.”

  “There weren’t exactly a great many. You shouldn’t believe everything I write, Magpie.”

  “Of course I believe everything you write,” she retorted. “Though I could tell there were things you left out. The worst things, I think.” She wrapped both hands around his arm. “I’m going to be tired and need to leave now,” she whispered, “because William will never admit when he’s fatigued. You should return home with us.”

  Clenching his jaw, he nodded. He could at least see them home, no matter how badly he wanted to do more investigating. “Of course.”

  From the well-rehearsed way Beth claimed fatigue and William agreed to see her home, Phineas could see they’d done this countless times before, probably at countless events. Had Elizabeth ever been able to stay for the end of an opera or a soiree?

  “Stay if you wish, Phin,” William said as Andrews settled him on the curricle seat. “You seem to have partners aplenty.”

  Phineas swung up on Saffron. They didn’t all fit on the curricle, but he could at least look as though he were performing his brotherly duties. “Always leave them wanting more,” he drawled. “That’s my motto.”

  When they’d returned to Quence he handed Saffron off to the new stableboy and untied William’s chair from the rear of the carriage while Andrews lifted him down from his perch and up the front steps.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” Digby wheezed, pulling open the front door for them.

  “Thank you, Digby.”

  “I’m a bit fatigued, myself,” Phineas commented, heading through the foyer for the stairs. “Good night, all.”

  “Good night,” Beth called after him, her voice a touch wistful.

  He would have to forgo a game of cards or chess with her; as clearly as he wanted to see her happy, keeping her safe was more important. He found Gordon waiting for him in his bedchamber and swiftly shrugged into his old breeches, retied his cravat, and then pulled on his military greatcoat. The mask waited in his pocket. “Ready?”

  Gordon pulled an old tricorne low over his eyes and handed over the similar hat Phineas had uncovered in the attic. “Aye.”

  They slipped down the back stairs and around the house to the stable. Once the horses were saddled, he swung up on Ajax. “Good lad,” he murmured, patting the stallion on the neck. “Let’s see how you run.” He jammed the ancient tricorne hat onto his head. Then, ducking as he passed through the stable doors, Gordon and Gallant on his heels, he kneed the big black.

  They were off like the wind. This was more like it. With barely a tug on the reins they went pounding down the main road at a full gallop. Phineas leaned down along the black’s neck, barely catching his hat before it blew backward off his head.

  He laughed, and Ajax’s ears flicked back at him. For a long moment he was tempted just to keep riding, to run until he’d put anything resembling trouble and a past far behind him.

  “Bloody ’ell, Colonel, slow up a bit!” drifted up from well behind him.

  He might be able to outrun trouble, but he had little doubt that Sergeant Thaddeus Gordon would sooner or later track him down. With a sigh he slowed to a trot.

  “I always said you was hell on horseback, Colonel,” Gordon panted as he drew even. “And if that’s so, and I say it is, that horse there must be fire’n brimstone.”

  Several vehicles passed by them as they waited in the shadows. Then another coach rounded the turn toward them, the yellow crest on its side showing faintly in the moonlight. Beaumont’s. “There it is,” he hissed, turning up the collar of his greatcoat and tying the mask across his eyes. “Remember, speak only French.”

  “I never thought I’d die banded a Frog,” the sergeant muttered.

  Phineas pulled his pistol from his pocket. Stories about The Gentleman were rampant locally, and had clearly been on Lord Anthony’s mind this morning. And a highwayman wouldn’t have to show restraint toward Quence’s neighbors. Let the games begin.

  Chapter 10

  Lord Anthony shifted his hip closer against Alyse’s, and she just as carefully moved away, or as far as she could do so, on the crowded coach seat.

  “Stop smothering me, Alyse,” Aunt Ernesta complained.

  “I apologize for the confined conditions,” Lord Anthony said easily, not giving back an inch of the space he’d taken over.

  “Nonsense,” her aunt returned. “It was very generous of you to offer us a ride home.”

  “And it was equally generous of you to offer your coach to Lord and Lady Bagston,” Lady Claudia, seated between Lord Donnelly and Lord Charles, said as she placed a hand on Richard’s knee. “I can’t imagine what might have befallen them if they’d allowed their coachman to drive them home.”

  “The man was nearly too drunk to find the ground,” Lord Charles commented. “I imagine when he sobers up he’ll be quite annoyed to discover that he’s lost his employm—”

  A shot rang out, thunderously loud in the quiet evening.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Claudia shrieked. Richard might also have screamed, but with the crowded coach lurching and sliding to a halt and everyone bumping into one another, Alyse couldn’t be certain, because her own heart had stopped beating altogether. It couldn’t be the masked Frenchman, though. It couldn’t be.

  “Sortez de la voiture!” a deep voice shouted. “Ouvrez la porte!”

  “Good God, it’s The Gentleman,” Lord Anthony gasped, paling. “I shoul
d never have mentioned his name.”

  “Nonsense,” Lord Charles snapped. “Ghosts don’t have pistols.”

  “What’s he yelling about?” Richard muttered, peering through the curtained window. “There are two of them.”

  “Sortez vite!”

  “Oh, dear, does anyone know what he wants?” Aunt Ernesta quavered.

  “It’s French. I only speak Greek,” Anthony supplied.

  It was the Frenchman. Despite being both mortified and frightened half out of her wits, Alyse had the abrupt urge to laugh. As high and mighty as her companions considered themselves, they couldn’t communicate with a French highwayman. “I think he wants us to get out,” she offered aloud.

  “I am not about to step out there and get shot,” Richard hissed. “You do what you like, Alyse.”

  The door wrenched open. “Sortez!”

  This must have been the second fellow—his voice wasn’t as commanding as the first. As he motioned with his pistol, not even her French-impaired fellows could mistake his meaning.

  One by one they squeezed out of the coach. Alyse looked up—and up—to see the first highwayman. He sat on that monstrous black horse, his greatcoat collar turned up again, the dashing, old-fashioned tricorne hat pulled down and a mask across his eyes so that she could only make out shadowy, glittering slits. There was no mistaking the straight, steady arm with the cocked pistol pointed at the coachman, though. It was the same fellow. And he knew what he was doing.

  For a bare moment the shadowed eyes seemed to bore straight through her. Alyse shivered.

  “Videz votres poches.”

  “Alyse, what’s he saying?” Lady Claudia whispered.

  “Apologies, my good man,” Richard said in an overly loud voice, “but we don’t speak your language.”

  She thought she heard a very quiet, very bad French curse. “Open your pockets,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Vite. Now. Quickly.”

  “You’ll never get away with this, you brigand.” Lord Charles began pulling his snuffbox and pocket watch and handkerchief and an ivory-toothed comb from his pockets.

  “Mon ami, the saddlebag,” the Frenchman said.

  The other fellow hurried up to him, and he handed down a worn leather pouch with his free hand. The beast stood motionless beneath him, apparently guided only by his rider’s heels. With the faint moonlight behind him, he looked…stunning. Legendary, even.

  “Vite,” the other fellow said, stopping in front of Lord Anthony and shaking the bag at him.

  “You damned Frogs,” Richard snarled, dumping his pocket watch and a handful of coins into the bag when it stopped in front of him. “We’ll have the army down on you for this. I hope you fancy getting your necks stretched.”

  The rider dismounted in one fluid motion, the pistol swiveling until it pointed squarely at Richard. Alyse held her breath as with long, booted strides, his coattails flapping out behind him, the highwayman closed the distance to her cousin. “How to protect the ladies when you are dead, monsieur?”

  “Oh, heavens,” Aunt Ernesta gasped. “They mean to ravage us!”

  The highwayman made a dismissive sound. “You are safe, madame.” He angled his face toward Lady Claudia. “Your necklace, mademoiselle. And the…boucles d’oreille.”

  “The what?” Claudia asked shakily, unfastening her necklace and half-tossing it into the bag.

  “Your earbobs,” Alyse translated.

  The shadowed face turned to her again. “Parlez vous français?”

  He didn’t intend to give away the fact that they’d already met. Thank goodness. “Oui.”

  “Then I take your baubles, myself.” Pocketing the pistol, he took her hand in his gloved fingers, drawing her closer and then turning her to face away from him. His fingers at the nape of her neck made her shiver again.

  “S’il vous plaît, monsieur,” she said quietly, “c’est de ma mère. C’est precieux à moi.” The pearl necklace was one of the few things of her mother’s she’d managed to keep.

  “Then I shall keep it close to my heart, ma chère.” He turned her around again. Gently brushing her hair aside, he removed her matching earbobs one by one and pocketed them. “Merci, mademoiselle.” He took her hand, bowing to gently kiss her knuckles. Alyse swallowed hard.

  “That is enough, sir.”

  The pistol reappeared, this time aimed at Lord Anthony. “Turn your pockets. All of you.”

  That produced various notes and coins and another two pounds from Richard, everything going into the bag. Finally the highwayman motioned, and his companion shouldered the bag and climbed up onto a sturdy bay. The Frenchman backed away until he reached his mount. In another graceful move he swung into the saddle, the pistol never wavering from its target.

  He touched the brim of his hat in a mock salute. “Merci, ladies and gentlemen. Bon soir.” With that he nudged the black in the ribs and they vanished into the night, the bay pounding behind him.

  “Oh, my,” Aunt Ernesta breathed, and fainted dead away.

  “So th’ high’n mighty hereabouts don’t speak French, eh? That was a bit of a surprise.”

  “They’re too busy hunting and dancing, evidently.”

  “Th’ next time we rob a coach, could ye let me know in enough time so I can at least have a loaded pistol?” Gordon handed the spent one back over.

  Phineas pocketed it, his fingers curling around Alyse’s pearl necklace as he did so. “You should have brought one,” he returned, pulling his gloves off with his teeth and then holding out his hand again for the saddlebag. With Ajax at a walk beneath him, he dug through the contents. They’d recovered three notes. One of them had to be the missive Lord Charles had stuffed into his coat.

  “So are we rich beyond imaginin’, now?”

  “What? Oh.” Pocketing the notes and tying down the flap, he tossed the bag back to the sergeant. “Spread the blunt about, and do what you want with the rest. Just be cautious about it,” he said.

  “So this was all about those letters?”

  “One of them. Hopefully.”

  “Well, this’s been a fine evenin’, anyway. What of the pearls?”

  “I’ll take care of those. Gordon, make certain Warner and the new boy Tom understand that we’re helping my family, and that Ajax is not to leave the stable during the day for any reason. He’s difficult to mistake.”

  “Oh, aye.”

  They rode in silence for a long moment, crossing the bridge back onto Quence property. Taking the long way around made sense, and Phineas hoped it was precaution enough.

  “Colonel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ye know I’d follow ye straight through th’ gates o’ hell itself, but what exactly did we accomplish?”

  “I’m trying to find a vandal. As soon as I know more, I’ll tell you.” He paused, looking over at Gordon. “And thank you, Sergeant. You’re a good man.”

  “Fer a French highwayman.”

  “For anything.”

  The Scotsman blushed. “Thank ye, sir.”

  Once they’d returned to Quence he led Ajax into the stable himself, and gave the fellow an apple. When this was finished he’d have to send the black back to Sullivan or risk being discovered as a highwayman, but he hoped the escapade would be worth the loss of a very fine animal.

  Digby seemed to have retired for the evening, so Phineas let himself into the house. He quietly climbed the stairs and closed himself into his bedchamber. Once he was assured of some privacy, he dumped the pair of pistols onto the bed, then pulled Alyse’s pearls from his pocket.

  “Damnation,” he said quietly, studying them in the candlelight as they lay across his palm.

  He’d wanted Smythe’s paper. If he’d had any idea before he stopped the coach that Alyse and the other Donnellys would be inside…He probably would have robbed it, anyway. It didn’t make sense to delude himself on that count, whether he wanted to be a kinder man than he was or not.

  Once this was resolved he w
ould see that her mother’s jewelry was returned to her. Until then, he would do as he’d promised and keep her things safe. Going to his trunk, he opened it and pressed the knot on the inside of the lid. A loosened panel slid aside, and he carefully slipped the pearls inside to rest beside his three medals for bravery and the letter of commendation he’d received from Wellington himself.

  He closed it up again, and only then pulled from his pocket the three pieces of paper he’d liberated. Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he flung it over a chair and sank down in the opposite seat before the fire dying in the hearth. Settling in, he opened the first missive.

  It was an invoice from the same tailor he’d used. Apparently Lord Anthony had expensive taste. With a frown he leaned forward and tossed it into the fireplace. He had no intention of hanging over a clothing bill.

  The second missive was larger, and made of very thin rice paper. As he unfolded it, turning it this way and that, Phineas abruptly realized that the haphazard lines and dots on the paper were a map. Or rather, they were meant to be overlaid on a map. The question was, what map? And what would he see if and when he matched them together?

  Setting it aside for the moment, he opened the third folded paper and snorted. Lord Donnelly fancied himself a poet. And apparently “Elizabeth” was meant to rhyme with “fine, turned earth,” for her eyes. Well, the viscount was going to have to begin this effort over again. It followed the invoice into the fire.

  He examined the marked paper again. No words had been written on it, so he couldn’t tell whether he was looking at a single garden or an entire county. It was rural, but even that was more of a feeling than a logical conclusion. Several circles seemed to mark areas of importance, while one small X looked very piratical.

  Well, he’d wanted a clue, and this certainly felt like one. A clue to what, though, he had no idea. Asking, especially after the way he’d acquired it, was out of the question. Ajax would have to stay on at Quence for a while longer.

  He sat back, staring into the fire. He’d managed to abuse his friendship with Alyse and caused her to mistrust him, but he could still do something kind for her. Or rather, The Gentleman could.