Before the Scandal

by Suzanne Enoch

  Especially now that he’d returned her mother’s pearls, she wasn’t certain she wanted them to find The Frenchman. It would be a bit like being caught, herself.

  She passed Saunders outside the sitting room door, and he sent her a fond nod. “A note arrived from Miss Bromley,” he whispered before he descended the stairs.

  Aunt Ernesta was still reading it as she entered the room and took her seat again. “Where have you been?” her aunt demanded, looking up from the missive.

  “Lord Anthony wanted to borrow a book,” she improvised.

  “You do not want to be known as a bluestocking, Alyse.”

  “I’m not a bluestocking. I simply enjoy reading when I have the chance.”

  “Hm. Don’t argue with me, for heaven’s sake. And the Bromleys will not be joining us for dinner tonight. Lord Quence has a fever.” She refolded the note and set it aside. “I shouldn’t wonder if that unmanageable brother of his will be the death of him.”

  “What a terrible thing to say,” Alyse exclaimed before she could bite it back. “Phin only returned home,” she continued in a calmer voice, “to help his family.”

  “So you say. I think he’s returned home hoping to inherit the title. With Quence ill, it’s only a matter of time.”

  Alyse felt ill, herself. Her aunt spoke about losing William the same way she talked about…pudding. It was hurtful and it was wrong, and she didn’t dare say anything about it. Not yet. One day she planned on telling Aunt Ernesta precisely how she felt.

  If she knew one thing, it was that Phin wasn’t after an inheritance. He’d never been comfortable with the idea of being the family’s spare son. And aggravating as he could be, it was nice to have him back. More than nice, actually. Since he’d returned, she felt…cared for. And hopeful. Both were sensations she’d missed terribly. Almost as much as she’d missed Phin himself.

  “This isnae a good idea,” Gordon muttered, settling his hat low over his eyes.

  “We have to rob someone else, or they might figure out that it’s us,” Phineas returned, his gaze on the deep gloom of the valley below them.

  “Or we could rob no one, and they’ll forget aboot it.”

  “I need something more from Smythe. This will throw them off the trail. And I’m not ready to put all my blunt on one horse, anyway.”

  “If I might ask, Colonel, throw who off the trail?”

  That was a damned good question, and one he wasn’t particularly in the mood for. “Smythe and whoever else might be assisting him.”

  “To do what?”

  “I am not going to explain myself to you, Sergeant,” Phineas snapped. “Join me, or don’t.”

  “I’d never abandon ye. If we’re to hang, I’d just like to know what for.”

  “Because someone is attempting to destroy Quence Park and my family, and I intend to find out who, how, and why, and stop them. By whatever means necessary.”

  Gordon looked at him for a moment. “Well, then. Find us a coach to stop, Colonel.”

  It was a tricky process, he was beginning to realize, deciding who to rob. It couldn’t be anyone who couldn’t afford a modest loss of valuables—he was here to solve one problem, and he didn’t want to create another for someone else.

  Finally he spied the bouncing lanterns of a coach heading toward Roesglen. “There,” he said, pointing, and kneed Ajax.

  This time they each carried a pair of pistols, all loaded. He didn’t intend to shoot anyone, but he’d long ago learned the effectiveness of confidence and the appropriate application of aggression.

  They cut in front of the coach, selecting a narrow, tree-lined point in the road to stop it. Phineas pulled a pistol. He waited for the coach to round the curve, then fired into the air. “Stand and deliver!” he bellowed, lowering his tone and assuming a French inflection.

  The driver pulled the team up so quickly he nearly went forward over the animals’ heads. “Don’t shoot! For God’s sake!”

  Considering that only one out of six passengers had spoken French the last time, Phineas opted again for broken English. “Out of the coach! Slow!”

  From the whimpering inside, at least one female was present. Considering that Roesglen was both of advanced age and a widower, that was interesting. Could it be the mysterious mistress about whom Beth had been gossiping?

  “Ouvrez! Open,” he repeated. “Now!”

  Gordon shifted farther to the rear so he had a good look at both doors. The sergeant knew not to kill anyone, but neither of them was above delivering a flesh wound in self-defense.

  Finally the near door, propelled by a plump male hand, pushed creakily open. “We’re unarmed,” came the marquis’ quavering voice.

  “Out,” Phineas ordered. “Sorti.”

  The rotund Stephen Orville, Lord Roesglen, emerged, climbing awkwardly to the ground. Phineas frowned. The marquis looked distinctly…disheveled, his cravat pulled sideways and his trousers only partially buttoned.

  “H-have pity, for God’s sake,” Roesglen stammered, his hands raised as he looked back inside the coach.

  “Out, or I pull you out,” Phineas returned. “Vite.”

  A much more slender arm than Roesglen’s reached out of the coach and clasped the marquis’ hand. For a moment he thought she might be completely naked. She’d managed to wrap her cloak around her from head to toe, however—which he found disappointing. Whoever she was, she was tall, and slender, with a build similar to…

  A stab of black anger dug into his chest. “Show your face, mademoiselle,” he ordered, sending Ajax a step closer.

  She pushed back the blood-red hood of her cloak, revealing bright orange hair. The tight muscles across his gut relaxed a little. Lady Marment. Apparently her tastes ran from slightly younger to much, much older men.

  Why he’d thought it would be Alyse, he had no idea, except that he seemed to be thinking of her almost constantly. She had no reason to debase herself with a goat like Roesglen. But just the idea of it twisted him up inside. It was a damned unpleasant sensation, and he didn’t care to feel it again.

  “Open your pockets,” he said, and Gordon dismounted with a cloth bag.

  “You won’t get away with this,” the marquis returned, apparently bolder now that his purse was being threatened.

  “And you, mademoiselle, are you wearing anything of value?”

  “See for yourself, monsieur.” Slowly she undid the tie at the top of the gown and then pulled it open.

  Gordon whistled, a sound that somehow managed to sound French. Even Roesglen, who’d presumably already tasted the delights of her nude form, couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away.

  “Only the gifts God gave you, I see,” Phineas said in his heavy French accent. “You may keep them, then.”

  “Are you certain, monsieur? I am at your mercy.”

  Resisting the urge to clear his throat, Phineas dipped his hat lower. “Perhaps another time.”

  Rebecca remained a beauty, but he was no randy sixteen-year-old any longer. They had business to see to, and it wasn’t her that he wanted. He had Gordon relieve Roesglen of sixty or so quid, his pocket watch with its diamond fob, and a ruby necklace that was no doubt meant for Lady Marment.

  “You’ll hang for this, Frenchman,” the marquis growled. “They’ve already put a hundred pounds on your head.”

  That hadn’t taken long. “Merci.” He gestured at Gordon, who nodded and remounted Gallant. “Adieu, monsieur, mademoiselle.”

  Kneeing Ajax, he led the way back up the road and into the trees. After two or so miles they turned back south, in the general direction of Quence. In a suitably gloomy glade he pulled up to lower his greatcoat collar and pull off the half-mask.

  “God in heaven,” Gordon rasped. “Did ye see that? Not a stitch of cloth on that gel. Naked as mornin’.”

  Phineas grinned. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “By Christ, I want t’be you, sir.” Shaking his head, he hefted the bag. “Do ye want any o’ these treasure
s, Colonel?”

  “No. Do what you will with them. Just—”

  “Be cautious,” the sergeant finished. “Aye. I will.”

  “We’ll head back separately.”

  Gordon nodded. “Mind yerself. There’re those’d shoot’n stuff ye for a hundred quid.”

  “Keep your own head down.”

  “Always do.”

  The sergeant turned east toward Lewes, no doubt to hide or distribute their newfound wealth and probably to buy himself a drink while he was at it. Phineas, though, remained restless. No one could say now that The Frenchman was targeting any particular nobleman, but other than that tonight’s efforts had netted him precisely nothing.

  He set off at a canter through the back meadows of Roesglen and then Donnelly, staying close to the trees for cover and enjoying the crisp night air. Ajax was a damned fine animal, and it was a bloody shame that he would have to give him up within a few days.

  Just before they would have crossed the bridge onto Quence land he pulled the black up again. In the relative quiet of the night he heard it again—the rhythmic jangle of bridles and tack. A coach was approaching. Through the hedgerows he spotted it—Beaumont’s coach again, apparently leaving Donnelly House.

  “What do you think, boy?” he murmured, patting Ajax on the neck. Swiftly he reloaded his spent pistol and turned up his collar again.

  Without Gordon there to watch his back he was taking a considerably larger risk, but with the occupants of this coach he at least had a chance of discovering something usable. And with William’s fever and worry over the slaughter of the sheep, he had the sobering realization that he could very well be running out of time.

  “Let’s go, Ajax.” With a gathering of the black’s muscles they charged onto the road. Phineas fired into the air. “Stand and deliver!”

  The coach didn’t slow. With his knees Phineas urged Ajax forward, directly into the middle of the road. At the same time he drew the second pistol and aimed it straight at the driver’s head.

  “Stand and deliver,” he repeated clearly.

  The driver yanked back on the reins so hard that the left-hand horse skidded nearly onto its haunches. At the same time the lantern inside the coach went out, leaving the interior completely dark.

  Damnation. Phineas stayed toward the front of the coach. He dumped the spent pistol back into his pocket to free one hand. “Out of the coach!” he called.

  The long muzzle of a musket pushed out the window, aimed straight at him. With a curse Phineas fired into the door, sending splinters flying. The barrel swiveled sideways wildly. Not knowing how many occupants were inside or how many might be armed, he kicked Ajax hard in the ribs. With a grunt of exhaled air the black leapt forward, through the hedgerow and into the trees.

  A musket fired. A half smile touched Phineas’s face as he ducked lower along the horse’s neck. As far as battles and fighting went, this barely qualified, but he couldn’t deny that it was…fun.

  And it was more than that. Whoever rode in Beaumont’s coach had anticipated that The Frenchman would return. The odds of that were fairly minuscule—except to someone who felt they had something to protect and to hide. For that person, threats existed everywhere.

  The question became, then, which of the previous passengers had been inside Beaumont’s coach? As much as he wanted to circle back around and drag whoever it was out onto the road, he was outnumbered at least two to one, ineffective a defense as the driver seemed to be. No, he would have to be a little patient, and with luck the gossip—or better yet, Alyse—would tell him tomorrow.

  Chapter 13

  “But if he’s not feeling well, he would probably appreciate not having guests,” Alyse said, carefully balancing the pot of hot soup on her lap.

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Ernesta protested from the opposite seat of the barouche. “Everyone looks forward to visitors. And at the least we might raise the spirits of his sister. Isn’t that true, Richard?”

  Her cousin turned from gazing at the countryside they passed. “Hm? Yes. I imagine Beth, at least, could use something to distract her from William’s illness.”

  It was more likely that Richard didn’t want Beth too distracted by William’s illness. Alyse kept her gaze on the jostling soup. It had been just a few days since she’d last seen Phin, but she didn’t know how to describe the tightness in her chest as anything other than anticipation.

  And considering the rumors traveling across the valley this morning, she couldn’t wait to hear his reaction. Generally she abhorred gossip, but Roesglen had reported it all to the constabulary. How long had Lady Marment been…redesigning the interior of Roesglen Abbey—and why was she apparently doing so in the middle of the night? She knew Phin and Rebecca Marment had once been lovers. In her opinion, Lady Marment had lowered her standards rather significantly since then.

  Digby pulled open the front door of Quence as they left the coach. “Good morning, my lord,” he intoned in his reed-thin voice. “Mrs. Donnelly, Miss Donnelly.”

  “Digby.” Richard brushed past the butler. “How is Miss Bromley this morning?”

  “Quite well, my lord. You will find her in the morning room.”

  “Very good.”

  No one asked where Phineas might be, and Alyse couldn’t help a glance toward the stairs before she was swept into the morning room. Did he rise early or late? She had no idea, but she supposed the question made her as selfish as the rest of her family. None of them had asked after William.

  Beth set aside a book and stood as they entered the bright room. “Richard, Alyse, Mrs. Donnelly!” she exclaimed with her usual warm smile. “What a lovely surprise!”

  Richard pushed forward to take her hand and bring it to his lips. “How is your dear brother this morning? We’ve brought a broth that my cook especially recommends for feverishness.”

  “He’s much improved,” Beth returned. “Thank you for your concern, and for the broth.” She gestured at her maid, who had risen at the same time as her mistress. “Meg, will you take the broth to the kitchen, please?”

  “Allow me,” Alyse broke in before the maid could respond. “I daresay I know the way to the kitchen by now.”

  When no one protested, she left the room. They wouldn’t miss her until Aunt Ernesta needed a pillow fluffed. And it gave her a moment to breathe, and a better chance of encountering Phin. She managed to surreptitiously peek through every doorway between the morning room and the kitchen, but all of the rooms were empty of Bromley family members.

  “Miss Donnelly,” Cook exclaimed as she entered the wide room, “I recognized you straight off. Haven’t set eyes on you since you and young Master Phin used to sneak biscuits straight from the oven.”

  Alyse smiled. “I burned my tongue on several occasions, as I recall.” She handed over the pot of soup and repeated the instructions given her by the Donnelly House cook. Then she took a breath. “You don’t by any chance know if Colonel Bromley might be about somewhere, do you?”

  “I saw him heading for the stables not ten minutes ago, miss,” one of the cook’s helpers said.

  “Thank you.” After a brief hesitation she headed outside through the servants’ entrance at the far end of the kitchen.

  The stables were attached to the manor house only by an old overhang where coaches could stop to let out passengers during foul weather. She passed beneath it as she had a hundred times before, and what seemed like a hundred years ago, to emerge into the cobbled stable yard at the side of the house.

  The yard was much quieter than the one at Donnelly, but the stables’ wooden double doors stood wide open to allow in the fresh morning breeze. She put a hand on the nearest door and leaned in. “Hello?”

  Boots echoed beneath the wide overhang and skidded into the stable yard behind her. “Alyse!”

  She turned around as Phin strode up to her. “There you are. I was told you were at the stables.”

  “I was,” he replied. Hazel eyes, rich and earthy green in the sunli
ght, gazed at her. “What brings you here?”

  “We came to inquire after William. How is he?”

  “Much better. His fever broke last night. I imagine he’ll be out of bed by noon.”

  “That is good news.”

  “Yes, it is.” He held out not his arm, but his hand to her. “Take a stroll with me.”

  She had already risked her aunt’s anger by leaving the morning room. Being away for another few minutes would hardly make things worse. Not by much. She took his proffered hand, wrapping her fingers around his warm ones.

  The silence, their hands entwined, made her not nervous, but…unsettled. “Did you hear that The Frenchman has struck again?” she blurted. “Twice.”

  He frowned. “Not you, I hope.”

  “Oh, no. Lord Roesglen and Lady Marment, and Lord Charles and Lord Anthony again.”

  “But you said he struck twice.”

  “Lord Roesglen and Lady Marment were together. According to the report he gave the constabulary, she is helping the marquis redecorate his manor house.”

  Phin looked sideways at her. “You did that very well. Not a hint of salacious enjoyment, or even any indication that you don’t believe their tale.”

  Alyse shrugged. “Gossip doesn’t amuse me the way it used to.”

  They reached the overhang. “Tell me something, Alyse,” he whispered, stopping. “Did you come out here just to tell me about a highwayman?”

  Oh, my. “What if I didn’t?”

  Tugging her closer, Phineas closed his mouth over hers. Alyse shut her eyes, sensation shooting all the way to her toes. He backed her until she was pressed against the wall, all the while molding his mouth, his lips, against hers.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders, grateful for the solid strength of the wall behind her. His own hands breathlessly brushed the sides of her breasts, then settled at her hips. “Alyse,” he murmured, shifting his attention to her throat and the line of her jaw, “dark-eyed Alyse.”

  Good heavens. She’d been engaged once, and Phillip had never kissed her like this. The highwayman had come close, but exciting as that had been, no one had ever kissed her like this, so that the whole of her felt ready to burst into flames. And for it to be Phineas—she didn’t want him to stop touching her, ever.