Lord Scandal

by Kalen Hughes

  When they’d finished their meal and the countess was still avidly discussing horseflesh with Bennett, Imogen wandered about, shyly greeting her fellow guests, until she found herself being solicited to take a stroll by the Duke of Alençon.

  “Come along, my dear,” he urged, holding out one hand, “you shall accompany me to meet Carr at the stables to see how our little filly Aérolithe is fairing.”

  She glanced at George and the countess waived her off. “Make sure you take her to Gregson’s for tea,” George called after them as they made a push for the door.

  Once outside the crush was only marginally easier to maneuver through than it had been in the tap room. The streets were choked with Corinthians, military officers, navel men, country squires, cits and tradesmen, and bloods and blades of every description.

  Here and there, there was a bonnet to be spied amongst the men, and every now and again Imogen got a clearer view of one or another of the women who’d also chosen to attend the races.

  The sight was not wholly reassuring.

  The majority of the women she saw were clearly not ladies, or even members of the upper echelons of the demimonde. Most of them were shockingly vulgar, in both their persons and their voices, which could occasionally be heard bantering with the men thronging the streets.

  Averting her gaze from a particularly bold piece, who was sashaying down the main thoroughfare her nipples clearly visible through her fichu, Imogen found herself suddenly gazing across the street and meeting Gabriel’s surprised eyes. He smiled and then a coach trundled past them, blocking him from her view. Alençon craned his neck for a better view and paused on the sidewalk, clearly waiting for Gabriel to join them.

  More than a little pleased to have spotted his nymph almost immediately upon his arrival, Gabriel waited impatiently for his chance to dash across the busy street. Dodging a rather rickety gig and weaving his way skillfully between a mail coach and a closed carriage, he hurried across the choked thoroughfare. The duke greeted him with a little lighthearted raillery, chuckling in his usual provoking style. Imogen bit one side of her lip and blushed slightly.

  “We were just on our way to look in on my Aérolithe, my boy,” the duke said, his eyes full of mischief. “Care to join us?”

  “Delighted.” Gabriel fell in behind them as the duke set off again.

  Imogen had her hands firmly locked about the duke’s velvet-clad arm. A few spiraling curls danced about the standing collar of her redingote. Dark against the milky skin of her neck. Gabriel held his breath for a moment, wanting nothing so much as to lean forward and place an openmouthed kiss to the exposed nape of her neck.

  Closer to the stables the crowd thinned and he was able to come abreast with Imogen. He gazed down at her, smiling to himself. He could see the hand of George at work again.

  “Is that a new hat?”

  “Yes,” Imogen responded, her color still unusually high. “The countess brought it back from London.”

  “Amazing,” Alençon said, gazing at her with open admiration. “Simply amazing. George picked that out you say? She has always had the most regrettable taste in headgear. It’s hard to credit it.”

  Imogen frowned at the duke, while Gabriel laughed. “That’s not true, and you know it, Your Grace,” he insisted. “You’re thinking of that horrible thing Lyon bought her in Paris, which I’ll admit, was a monstrosity. George rarely bothers to wear a hat, but when she does, they’re always tasteful.”

  “Except for the monstrosity from Paris, which, must I remind you, she wore constantly, the whole summer through, not to mention her penchant for stealing her brother’s hats, and now her poor husband’s.”

  “Your Grace,” Gabriel protested. “George was a new bride when Lyon bought her that hat. You can hardly blame her for wearing it.”

  “There is no excuse for that hat. None,” the duke insisted with a shudder. “Ask any of the Macaronis, they’ll second me on this.”

  “I’m sure they will. Just as I’m sure they’d approve Miss Mowbray’s Chapeau Jockei.”

  Before they could continue their quarrel, Carr appeared from the end of one of the long barns, and threw up an arm, calling them over to join him.

  As they approached the Duke of Bedford, Alençon dropped her arm to run his hands knowingly over Bedford’s filly. Gabriel promptly stepped into the breech, hands sliding knowingly along her arm, drawing her to him.

  She shut her eyes for a moment, dizzy. Let the soothing scent of the barn wash over her. Hay, horse, dung, sweat, leather…she caught a whiff of sandalwood. Angelstone. She swallowed hard and followed him down the barn.

  They finally found Aérolithe, Carr and Alençon’s blood bay filly, and after billing and cooing over her, and hand feeding her slices of dried apples, the duke suggested Gabriel and Imogen take themselves off to Gregson’s. “We’re going to be here for hours. And I’m sure we’re boring Miss Mowbray to tears. Be a good lad and take her off for some tea,” he said with a sly twinkle.

  Imogen blinked at them all, stunned to have been so easily pawned off, but Gabriel smiled wolfishly, and agreed that tea would be just the thing. With her hand tucked firmly between his arm and his chest he led her out of the barn and turned them both back towards the heart of Newmarket.

  It seemed to Imogen that the crowd melted away as they passed through it; parting much like the red sea had for Moses. She was hardly aware of walking at all. Her stomach was in a knot, her heart was racing, and her mouth had gone suddenly dry. Her ears were ringing, and while she knew Gabriel was speaking to her, she couldn’t hear a word. She was dazed. Dazed, and excited…and floating.

  His nymph’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  He’d paid her several rather warm compliments, specifically designed to throw her into a flutter and put her to the blush, but she’d only nodded absently, and smiled a bit vacantly in response. He gave up teasing her, concentrating instead on steering them safely though the mob which choked the streets.

  They, themselves, were creating quite a stir as they moved through the crowd. He nodded to a London acquaintance and smiled at the look of shock he saw on many of the gentlemen’s faces.

  The sight of a lady on his arm other than the Countess of Somercote or his cousin was one which was virtually unknown. Imogen was clearly neither of those ladies.

  Gabriel saw several gentlemen stiffen as they passed. It didn’t surprise him that they recognized the former Mrs. Perrin. Though she’d been absent from polite circles these past five years, she’d been a toast, a well known hostess, and had ended her career as a famous adulteress. Nonetheless, their shocked faces told him they were surprised to see her squired about by himself.

  Undoubtedly word was already flitting around Newmarket that the beautiful Portrait Divorcée had resurfaced, and she was now in the keeping of none other than the infamous Brimstone. Gabriel glared at the stiff-rumped Lord Talgert, who quickly looked away and scurried off. At least Imogen seemed blithely unaware of the whispering notice swirling around them.

  Gregson’s was oddly quiet, an island of calm in a town besieged. “Did you know Mrs. Staunton presented the colonel with twins?” Imogen asked, obviously searching for a safe topic.

  He chuckled. “My cousin informed me of the Stauntons’ new additions. Both boys if Torrie is to be believed.”

  “Yes.” Imogen blew on her tea before taking a sip. She set the delicate cup aside to cool, hands flitting around the saucer, adjusting the cup’s placement.

  Nervous.

  He smiled again.

  Gabriel pulled Imogen in tightly against him and steered her around a group of town bucks who were swaggering down the narrow sidewalk. One of them tipped his hat and another one winked at Imogen, earning a glare from Gabriel. Insolent puppies. If he’d had George on his arm he’d have wiped that grin from the whelp’s face. But he didn’t; he had Imogen, and he didn’t want to shock her…at least not publicly.

  Back at the inn they found that the few stragglers had now
arrived, and George was holding court over all the men in the tap room, happily chatting with her former father-in-law and Morpeth. Gabriel escorted his nymph over to the countess and smiled widely when George leapt up to greet him. He gave her a quick hug, wrapping one arm carelessly about her waist, and then paused. He stood staring down at her.

  “George,” he said, trying to keep his mouth from dropping open in disbelief. “You little devil. When were you going to tell us?”

  She blushed and gave him a half-smile, half-grimace. “Not till the shooting party. Damn you, Gabriel.”

  The tap room had grown suddenly quiet, everyone’s attention drawn to the tableau taking place near the windows. “What’s that then, George?” Bennett inquired, raising his brows.

  George glared at him one last time, then glanced across the room to her husband. The earl smiled and shrugged.

  “Victoria’s going to kill me when she finds out she’s the last to know,” George said with a nervous little laugh.

  “Not if my wife or mother get to you first, baggage,” Lord Glendower shouted. The whole room burst into laughter.

  “And poor St. Audley is going to be green that we all knew first,” Viscount Layton said, crossing the room.

  Gabriel gave way as her former brother-in-law pulled her in for a quick hug. “Not everyday I find out I’m to be an uncle,” Layton added, with a grin.

  The countess endured a good ribald ribbing from her friends, while the earl looked on smugly, accepting the congratulations of his circle with a satisfied smile. Imogen watched them all tease and scold George, shaking her head. It was no wonder the countess had stayed silent. It was like a seven-day-wonder had suddenly appeared in the room, with all of the men simply fascinated by the simple fact of George’s pregnancy.

  After the first swell of commotion died down, Imogen glanced up to find Gabriel approaching her with a glass of wine in either hand. He handed her one and claimed a seat at her table. “You’d think it was a miracle,” she said, listening to the room hum with chatter and excitement.

  “And you think it isn’t?” he asked, looking incredulous. “Think about it. George, pregnant. George.”

  Imogen raised her brows and shook her head slightly. She still didn’t understand their response to something as natural and commonplace as a married woman falling pregnant.

  “Well, I mean…it’s George,” he said again, lamely, seemingly unable to come up with any other reason for their surprise. “Julian,” he called, waving his cousin over, “back me up on this. George?” he asked with an exaggerated blinking of his eyes and raising of his brows.

  “I know,” the other Mr. Angelstone replied, with a low whistle. “George.”

  “I think you’re all mad,” Imogen announced, rolling her eyes.

  “No, really, it’s George for Christsake, she’s—she’s…” Julian struggled to find the right words.

  “She’s one of us.” Gabriel gave voice to what they all seemed unable to quite explain. “George is one of us, and the idea of one us pregnant is bizarre, to say the least.”

  Imogen laughed. She couldn’t help it. The idea that most of these men had never fully accepted or understood that the countess was, in fact, a woman was simply too funny. She laughed until she cried, and then when she realized the whole room was staring at her, she gasped out, “George…too funny…think you’re a man.” And burst right back into a fit of the giggles.

  The countess’s smile quirked up on one side, and she too began to laugh. The men simply stood about staring at the mad women in their midst. When the ladies finally got themselves under control, George called for a glass of water to try and alleviate the hiccups she’d suddenly caught, wiping her streaming eyes with the back of her hand. They really did think of her as one of them. Accepted her as such. Imogen found the idea was both comforting and immensely amusing.

  Imogen yawned, and poured herself another cup of tea. Everyone had been up late, playing cards, studying the racing forms, and continuing to amuse themselves with the idea of the countess’s pregnancy. Even after she’d excused herself and gone up to bed sleep had been impossible. Gabriel had caught her eye as she was leaving, and her stomach had turned over. She’d lain awake half the night, wondering if he would come knocking, but he hadn’t.

  Stifling a sigh, she ate a piece of toast, and stared out the window. Half the men had already breakfasted and left, and the other half had not yet left their rooms. Only the earl and Lord Morpeth were in the tap room with her, and they were both silently reading the paper the landlord had thoughtfully provided.

  George swept in, smartly attired in a double-breasted caraco with revers and a small shoulder cape. She paused to kiss her husband good morning, then took a seat next to Imogen. She poured herself some tea and spooned a large amount of marmalade onto a triangle of toast.

  Morpeth eyed her toast thoughtfully. “I take it you’re not suffering the usual bane of women who find themselves in an interesting condition?”

  “Not at all.” George took a large bite of her toast and chewed it contentedly. “Though the smell of ale makes me queasy, and the thought of brandy makes my head swim.”

  Morpeth chuckled and assured her that Victoria had been much the same. “Torrie couldn’t drink at all when she was pregnant with the boys. She swears that’s how she always knew: when the smell of champagne made her sick.”

  George laughed, and between bites, gave Imogen a good idea of what to expect for the rest of the day. After breakfast they’d head down to the stables, then out to where the races would be held, then to The Blue Garter for luncheon, and then back out for the afternoon race.

  “Tonight we’ll host a party here to toast the winners, and then in the morning we’ll head back to the Park,” she said, finishing up her toast and her plans at the same time. “Come.” George dusted the toast crumbs from her hands. “Let’s be off.”

  Gabriel and his cousin Julian appeared as they were putting on their hats. Julian suggested they wander down to secure themselves a good view of the race.

  The crowd would gather on foot, on horseback, and in their carriages all along the raceway. Alençon had driven up in his own magnificent closed coach, and had offered the use of its roof to the ladies. The gentlemen escorted George and Imogen down to the track, doing their best to keep them clear of the surging crowd.

  The crowd of spectators was already quite large, and was growing by the minute. Even with an Angelstone cousin on either arm Imogen was considerably jostled by the time they reached the duke’s coach. Gabriel was actively thrusting men out of their way, much as Lord Somercote was attempting to do for his wife.

  Unfortunately for the earl, half the men present knew George, and they were overjoyed to see her. They were all stopped every few feet by some well-wisher, or old acquaintance. And George, as usual, was happy to see them all.

  When they finally reached the coach, Gabriel boosted Imogen up to the driver’s box. George scrambled up behind her, and promptly sat down, queen of all she surveyed. Imogen dropped down beside her, starting to catch a bit of the countess’s excitement.

  From the top of the coach they had a commanding view of the field. The duke’s coachman had positioned the coach so that the box faced the track, but had left room for the standing crowd in front of it. He’d unhitched the team and returned them to the stable, leaving one of the grooms to guard the coach. Their arrival had relieved the groom of his duty until after the race. With a vale from Gabriel clutched in his hand, the groom disappeared into the crowd.

  Imogen amused herself watching the crowd as it ebbed and swirled around the coach. Beside her, George was busy chatting with Lord Morpeth, while the others wandered away for a closer look at the field of contenders for the day’s first race. The crowd was made up of men from every walk of life. Cits and farmhands rubbed shoulders with liveried servants, country gentlemen, Corinthians and members of the militia. Here and there she spotted a well dressed lady of the ton, or an even better dressed membe
r of the demimonde.

  Gentlemen flocked to their coach, and soon Imogen had been introduced to the few remaining members of the Corinthian set who had yet to come her way. She’d met Lord Craven, and Tom Johnson, the rough and tumble champion pugilist. She’d even re-encountered Lord Fitzwilliam, and shared an amused glance with George when he’d expressed his dismay at missing the earl.

  “Wanted to make him an offer on that magnificent horse of his.”

  “George,” Imogen said as soon as he’d gone, “he’s going to drive Lord Somercote mad.”

  “Nonsense,” the countess responded with a wicked twinkle. “It will do Ivo good to learn to say no. Besides, an offer of purchase from a man such as Fitzwilliam is a compliment of the highest order. Ivo should be flattered.”

  Imogen laughed and shook her head at her friend. George delighted in twitting her husband, and luckily the earl seemed to thrive on her teasing. When she looked back out towards the track, it was to see a dark, very handsome man threading his way through the crowd, watching them intently. From the cut and style of his clothing, it was obvious he belonged to the sporting set, from his bearing, that he’d at some point and time been a military man, and from the smile on his face, that he was extremely happy to have spotted George.

  “George,” Imogen prompted. “Another friend of yours?”

  The countess looked out into the crowd and suddenly squealed. She was yelling, “Darling! Darling!” as she leapt down from the coach and flung herself into the man’s arms. Startled, Imogen stared down at them.

  The man hugged her close and swung her around, to the imminent danger of the surrounding spectators. He whispered something that made them both laugh, and then set George aside to shake hands with Lord Morpeth.

  “Imogen,” George called, motioning her to climb down. “I’m simply ecstatic to introduce you to a very old friend of mine, whom I thought to be still in the thick of things in India. Imogen, this is Major Lindsey Darling. Darling, this is Miss Imogen Mowbray.”