A Hint of Scandal

by Rhonda Woodward

  Bella caught Triss from the corner of her eye giving Margaret a quizzical look.

  “Lovely,” Bella agreed.

  “Oh, my, it must be getting very late,” Margaret continued, her eyes going wide with surprise. “You must forgive me for rushing off in this fashion. The dowager duchess is expecting Henry and me for tea. We must not be late. Come, Henry,” she called her son over, and grabbed his hand.

  Mother and son were already moving away when Mr. Fitzdowning also recalled a previous appointment. With another bow, he turned and walked away in the opposite direction from Margaret and Henry.

  Bella and Triss stood under the tree and looked at each other with perplexed expressions. After a moment they turned and headed back toward the carriage.

  “Margaret Westlake is an odd fish,” Triss stated.

  “Indeed,” Bella agreed with a frown. “I have the notion that I have seen that fellow before.”

  “Do you? Where?”

  Bella shook her head, for she could not yet place him.

  After a few more yards, Bella stopped in her tracks and grabbed Triss’s arm.

  “I remember now,” Bella said, looking down at Triss with excited eyes. “When the duke had taken me driving in Hyde Park, we came across Margaret speaking to Mr. Fitzdowning. He was on horseback and trotted off before Margaret could make the introductions,” she explained.

  “So? What is there in that to get you in such a pet?” Triss asked as they resumed walking.

  “Westlake specifically told me to inform him if I saw the man again,” she told her cousin.

  “Good heavens, why?” Triss asked as she hurried her steps to keep up with Bella.

  “I haven’t a clue,” she said as they moved swiftly to the carriage. “But I am going to find out.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Westlake walked into his club, handed his hat and cane to the majordomo, and looked around the richly appointed room.

  Though it was late in the evening, the club was crowded, and it took him some moments to find what he was looking for. At the far end, ensconced in a wide alcove, the Duke of Severly was lounging in a leather chair. At the table with Severly were a number of other peers. Westlake moved toward the table, nodding to a few gentlemen on the way.

  Severly looked up from the cards in his hand and was pleased to see his oldest and closest friend. But after taking in his friend’s very composed expression, Severly folded, though he had a good hand, and left the game. Those who knew Westlake well recognized this expression as an indication that trouble was brewing.

  The two men moved to a pair of club chairs strategically placed by the fireplace to afford some privacy.

  “What has got your jaw set so firmly, Alex?” Severly queried.

  “Actually, I would like you to help keep me from killing someone,” the duke said, turning his cool gray eyes to his oldest friend.

  “Again?” Severly asked, raising his brow.

  Severly was fondly recalling a particular incident from their days at Eton. Only the two of them knew the exact details of what had happened on a certain night they had sneaked away from their rooms. If the headmaster had been able to uncover the full facts, there was no doubt that they both would have been sent down for their youthful prank. To this day, that wild night was legend among the men who had attended Eton at that time.

  But a moment later Severly could tell by Westlake’s closed expression that he was a little more than half-serious.

  “What has occurred?”

  “A former, and unimportant, acquaintance of my wife has insulted her publicly,” Westlake explained. “I have directed a couple of my men to ascertain his whereabouts. He is, as we speak, at a hell on St. James Street. It is my intention to have him leave town. At once.”

  Severly leaned back in his chair and contemplated his friend with a frown. This was serious business. Being quite protective of his own wife, he fully appreciated Westlake’s feelings.

  “Let us take care of it,” Severly said, displaying a grim smile.

  With a nod Westlake rose from the chair. Severly followed suit, and the two men headed for the door to retrieve their gear.

  Once outside in the cool night air, Severly whistled for his coachman, who trotted up the gaslit sidewalk a moment later.

  “Stay here until I return, Stevens. Take the cattle around the block if they become too restless,” Severly instructed before entering the duke’s coach. When they were moving, Severly looked over to his friend, noting the pulse beating in Westlake’s jaw. “How is the search for the bastard who shot you coming?”

  “Fortunately, very well. I wish to thank you again, Drake, for sending out the runners as soon as you had received my mother’s letter. They have uncovered some very pertinent information. We are closing in.”

  “Good,” Severly said with satisfaction. “Personally I’d like to see him hang.”

  Westlake looked over to his old friend as the coach rolled swiftly through the darkened streets. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, an affectation he had taken on, since his left shoulder still nagged him on occasion.

  “Deportation with his partner will suffice,” Westlake stated.

  “Partner? I thought you shot the other assailant?”

  “I did. But through my investigations I have discovered that the man who shot me has a collaborator.”

  Severly could tell by the thinly concealed anger in Westlake’s tone that the investigation into the shooting had revealed some unexpected facts. He did not question his friend further, knowing Westlake would reveal what he knew in his own time. The two men made the rest of the short journey in silence.

  After entering the narrow entryway to the Pigeon Hole, the two men strode through the room, which was crowded with tables and gamblers, in search of Robert Fortiscue. Westlake espied him playing near the back of the room.

  All the men seated at the table with Fortiscue looked up at the two dukes as they stopped in front of their table. Westlake noted a few titled though notorious gamblers in the group. One was Sir John Mayhew, a friend of Westlake and Severly’s from their school days. Westlake knew that Mayhew binged at gaming on occasion, and tended to be enormously lucky.

  “Westlake. Severly. Don’t often see the two of you slumming in these parts,” Sir John said cheerfully. “Care to join us?”

  “Thank you, no. I wonder if you gentlemen would not mind suspending your play for a moment, while I take care of a certain matter?” Westlake’s drawling tone was the epitome of politeness.

  Not one of the men seated around the table gainsaid him. Almost in unison the gentlemen laid their cards down and stood from the table, all looking at Westlake with expressions of curiosity.

  Severly leaned against a nearby wall, his face impassive, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Robert Fortiscue turned nervous eyes from one duke to the other. He pushed his chair a good way back before rising in a transparent attempt to put distance between himself and Westlake.

  Without taking his eyes from Fortiscue’s, Westlake tossed his ivory-tipped cane to a nearby chair. Fortiscue jumped as the cane clattered against the wooden chair back. He swallowed several times and looked back at Westlake uncertainly.

  Westlake’s icy gaze held Fortiscue where he stood.

  “Mr. Fortiscue, I find your neckcloth an eyesore.”

  Putting a delicate white hand to his throat, Robert gaped at the duke.

  “I… I beg your pardon, your grace?” He could not believe what he had heard.

  The other men standing around the table perked up considerably. Though most of them were inveterate gamers, they would gladly forgo a hand or two to watch this scene play out.

  “Your neckcloth offends me. I wish never to see it—or you—again,” Westlake reiterated slowly.

  The half of the room nearest Westlake grew dead silent. By his statement, everyone realized that this was no mere demand of satisfaction for some trivial slight.

  Looking around at all the
keenly interested faces, Fortiscue lost some of his color. Feeling cornered and confused, he drew himself up and waved his hand around defensively. “See here, your grace, I do not know what this is about, but I would have you know that I am a relative of Lord Castlereagh. As he is our foreign secretary, I do not believe that he would take kindly to your attitude toward me.”

  Westlake cocked an amused brow at the blond man. “Egad, I am not inciting a diplomatic incident. I just want you and your neckcloth to take yourselves off to the country,” he drawled, causing a wave of masculine laughter throughout the room.

  “You may laugh, your grace, but my relative is a powerful man in our government, and—”

  “Severly”—Westlake cut Fortiscue off midsentence and turned to his friend—“did I not see you at cards with Castlereagh not twenty minutes ago?”

  “Stewart?” Severly said from his place against the wall. “Yes, you did.”

  “Thought so.” He nodded with satisfaction.

  “Mayhew.” Westlake turned to his grinning childhood friend. “I would be indebted to you if you would be so kind as to take my coach, return to my club, and beg Lord Castlereagh to attend me here.”

  “Not at all, Westlake. My pleasure,” Sir John stated congenially as he maneuvered his way from behind the table. As he was leaving, he paused a moment to make a bet with Lord Hillcrest that Mr. Fortiscue would be leaving London at first light.

  “See here.” Fortiscue sputtered his words as panic began to seize him. “There is no need to bother his lordship regarding some inconsequential matter that can be taken care of between the two of us.”

  “Inconsequential?” The duke turned his cold eyes to the flustered man. “You mistake the situation, Fortiscue. The offense your neckcloth gives is not inconsequential. But we shall leave the matter until Lord Castlereagh arrives,” he stated in an offhand manner.

  “Lord Kennymere, I believe I heard that you recently purchased a prime bit of blood at Tattersall’s last week,” Westlake stated to the man nearest him.

  “Indeed, your grace. A real goer,” Lord Kennymere replied affably.

  Perfectly polite conversation ensued while the gentlemen waited for Sir John to return with Lord Castlereagh. Mr. Fortiscue said nothing and only grew paler with each passing moment. Somehow the fact that the duke was being so genial at this moment was just as alarming to Robert as having the duke’s ice-cold eyes leveled at him.

  In a remarkably short period of time Sir John returned. Following a short distance behind him was Lord Castlereagh. As usual, his expression was sour, and he eyed the group of men with great distaste.

  “So, Westlake, to what purpose have you beseeched me to attend you in this illustrious place?” he asked sarcastically of the younger man.

  Mayhew had told the lord what he knew during the drive back to the Pigeon Hole. Obviously this was pertaining to a matter of honor, Lord Castlereagh had easily surmised. Though he was a good twenty years older than Westlake, the lord had a fondness and respect for the younger man.

  Though he would never admit to it, Lord Castlereagh was a bit flattered that such a blade of the first consequence would call upon him under such circumstances. Lord Castlereagh was also of the opinion that it was vital that the upper ten thousand, as it were, police themselves. It would not do to have upstarts causing gossip and trouble. Though he would not go so far as to condone a duel, sometimes it was best to call a chap out on his offensive behavior and see what he was made of. If he was less than a gentleman, then it was best to send him off with his tail between his legs.

  Westlake gave the statesman an appreciative smile. “I am in your debt, my lord. We have here Mr. Fortiscue, who ties a very rude neckcloth. I have stated my desire that he take himself from London. Out of my great respect for you, and as you are claimed as a relative by Mr. Fortiscue, I would not want you to be offended by my request,” Westlake explained to the older man.

  Lord Castlereagh raised both brows at this before turning to examine Mr. Fortiscue with a critical eye.

  Despite his very pale features, Robert still managed a defiant expression.

  Lord Castlereagh knew well the language of the challenge. By insulting some aspect of another gentleman’s person, the challenger was making it clear that the offense was of a serious and personal nature. Lord Castlereagh admired the duke’s adroitness.

  “What is the nature of our connection, Mr. Fortiscue?” he asked.

  Robert cleared his throat. “My great-aunt, Gertrude Fortiscue, was married to the brother of your—”

  “Bah!” Lord Castlereagh cut in with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I pay no heed to such distant relations. From my knowledge of Westlake, I do not believe I would take offense even if we were closely related.”

  Robert swallowed several times at the lord’s pronouncement. But such was his opinion of himself that he still thought he could brazen the situation out.

  “Do not think that I am incapable of defending myself, my lord duke,” Fortiscue said, turning toward Westlake, his tone taking on a nasty edge. “I will not turn tail and leave just because you are annoyed at what I said to Arabella.”

  Severly pushed away from the wall to stand close to Westlake, casting a quick glance at his friend to see if he really did need to stop a murder.

  The generally affable and sporting atmosphere in the room disappeared. Many of the eyes that a moment ago were only showing interest at a scene so rich in gossip, now turned cold at a lady’s name being mentioned in a gaming house.

  “Who?” Westlake said with deceptive calm.

  By this time, Robert was beginning to sense the undercurrent of danger emanating from the duke. “Ah… the Duchess of Westlake?” he said, in the hopes that part of the duke’s anger was at his familiar use of the duchess’s given name.

  “Good God, man!” Lord Castlereagh fairly shouted at Robert. “What maggot has possessed you to mention the duchess’s name? I have a mind to call you out myself.”

  “Obliged, my lord,” Westlake said to the older man. He turned his cold eyes to Fortiscue and took a menacing step closer.

  “Name your second.”

  Robert Fortiscue stared at the duke, his eyes wide with horror. He truly thought he was going to be sick. “Your grace! Please allow me to… to apologize for the offense I have given you. Truly! I see now that my jealousy has caused my tongue to run away with me. I… I beg your forgiveness!” he pleaded, putting his hands out in a supplicating manner.

  “I said name your second.” The duke’s tone was even harder.

  Robert Fortiscue bit his trembling lip and said nothing. He knew, without a doubt, that he was ruined. The tenuous hold he had on the fringes of Society was gone. All the years he had spent using his distant connection with Lord and Lady Castlereagh were gone. The only reason he had ever received a voucher to Almack’s was because Lady Castlereagh was one of the patronesses.

  From this night forward he knew he must rusticate in the country, for to accept the duke’s challenge would cause him grave personal injury at the very least. To decline the challenge would show himself in the wrong and a coward to boot.

  He also knew the ton never forgot. If he ever showed his face in London again, the entire beau monde would give him the cut direct. Fighting back tears, he blanched at Westlake’s annihilating look of contempt.

  “Make no mistake, Fortiscue, I shall be in Green Park at dawn. If I do not see you, I am sure the reason will be that you have decided the country air suits you better.”

  Westlake turned on his heel and gave a brief salute to the gentlemen surrounding the table. “Good evening and good luck, gentlemen,” he said, his face impassive once again.

  The men, except Robert Fortiscue, resumed their seats and picked up their cards. None of them looked at Mr. Fortiscue again.

  “So, my lord, how do you find the situation on the continent?” the duke of Westlake was heard to say as he, Lord Castlereagh, and the Duke of Severly leisurely took their leave.
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br />   Chapter Twenty-three

  The wedding day of Lady Louisa Westlake to the Duke of Malverton started off with a few black clouds, but the sky showed a promise of clearing before the appointed hour.

  Bella was making her way down the sweeping marble staircase to meet her family in the grand, oval-shaped foyer. In her excitement, she skipped down the last few steps. With a smile she greeted her father and brother, who were already waiting for her.

  It had been delightful and totally unexpected to have returned from an afternoon of shopping two days earlier to find Papa and Tommy having their tea in the sitting room. She had rushed across the room, dropping her bonnet, and thrown herself in her father’s arms with a cry of joy.

  “How come you to be here?” she had asked, looking at them both with a joy she had not felt in a long while.

  “For the wedding,” her father explained. “Tommy and I received an invitation from the Dowager Duchess of Westlake. The duke sent his carriage to Mabry Green and here we are.” He spread his hands to encompass the room.

  “Uncle David has come with us,” Tommy put in.

  “How kind of Westlake,” Bella said, unaccountably pleased that the duke had made it possible for her family to come to London.

  Now, as they waited for Triss and Lord and Lady Penninghurst to join them, she noted how well her father looked in his morning coat.

  “Aren’t we a merry group!” Triss called from the first-floor landing.

  Bella looked up to see her aunt and uncle following behind Triss in a more sedate manner than their daughter exhibited. She allowed her gaze to wander around the foyer as they waited for Triss and Lord and Lady Penninghurst to descend the staircase.

  In preparation for the wedding breakfast taking place at Westlake House, the duke had directed the servants to decorate the house with a breathtaking profusion of flowers. The entire length of the balustrade was roped with garlands of ivy and sweet-smelling spring flowers. The footmen had been kept busy carrying in numerous, large Grecian-style urns that the maids filled with enormous bunches of beautiful blooms.