Lord Scandal

by Kalen Hughes

“And the number of shots?”

  “Three, or until a serious wound is sustained by either party. It’s all terribly standard. I guarantee he won’t fire more than once though.”

  George made a face and tightened her grip on his arm. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Before he could reply, Morpeth and Haversham reappeared, flanked by the surgeons. Gabriel stripped out of his coat, tossing the expensive garment to George. “Hold that for me, my lady.” George clutched it to her, smiling back at him wickedly.

  Everyone set off across the wet grass, making for the large open green behind the inn. As they took their places, Perrin glanced nervously around, and rubbed his palms down the front of his thigh before choosing a pistol from the box Morpeth held.

  Gabriel smiled and flexed his hand. God how he’d been looking forward to this.

  The earl wandered almost lazily across the field, his long legs eating up the ten paces Haversham had marked out. He offered Gabriel the remaining pistol, and retreated to one side where the rest of the small audience was waiting.

  “Gentlemen, at the count of three, you may fire when ready,” Haversham announced loudly.

  Morpeth counted off, and there was a thunderous report from Perrin’s gun. Still breathing and completely whole Gabriel smiled and took careful aim. Perrin dropped to the grass, shrieking, both hands clasped to this thigh.

  Gabriel glanced around, almost disinterestedly, looking to see if Perrin had managed to hit anything at all. He didn’t think so. The bullet had certainly come nowhere near Gabriel himself. While he waited for the surgeon to make a pronouncement as to Perrin’s fitness to continue, he savored the smell of sulfur in the air, the sweet scent of victory.

  Perrin’s somewhat soused surgeon was hustled to him by Haversham. After a few minutes, Lord Haversham approached Morpeth, then hastened back to his friend.

  “Mr. Perrin is unable to continue,” Morpeth announced in form. “Are you satisfied, Mr. Angelstone?”

  “For the nonce.” Without crossing to examine his handiwork, Gabriel turned and left the field. His friends fell into place behind him, and once they reached the private parlor they had reserved, everyone broke into congratulatory whoops.

  “It would be beyond the pale to have cheered in front of Perrin, but oh, how I wanted to,” George said, her eyes positively glowing as she took seat at the long table.

  “You showed admirable restraint, witch,” Somercote said with a grin, entering the room in Morpeth’s wake.

  “I’ve set Bartleby on them,” Morpeth explained, as he piled his plate high with steak and eggs. “That sot Haversham engaged was next to useless.”

  Gabriel looked after shrugging himself back into his coat. “Did you tell Bartleby I’d foot the bill?”

  Morpeth nodded, his smile growing wider.

  “Well, that ought to stick in Perrin’s craw,” Gabriel added, picking up his coffee cup and inhaling the pungent scent with a sigh.

  “I thought it was a nice touch,” the earl admitted. “Dig the knife in a little deeper.”

  “Make him hunt you down to repay the dept,” Julian cried with a laugh.

  “Or better yet,” Gabriel said with a thoroughly evil smile, “simply refuse to accept the money. Being beholden to me for such a debt ought to chaff.”

  A few minutes later a loud commotion could be heard from the tap room, followed by the sounds of a large group heading up the stairs. Apparently Perrin was going to live long enough to occupy one of the Pelican’s rooms.

  A ball to the leg wasn’t likely to be life threatening, but one never knew. It could have hit an artery, or shattered the bone, or the wound could go septic. Right now he really didn’t give a damn. If he had to take Imogen and flee the country so be it.

  Chapter 32

  Please let the rumors be true…a marriage between a man whose very existence is a scandal and a woman whose every action is an affront can only enliven all of our days.

  Tête-à-Tête, 17 December 1789

  As they mounted up and started back, George cut him out of the pack. “Gabe,” she began, keeping her voice low.

  He glanced over at her and stiffened, causing his horse to toss his head in protest. “I don’t like that tone, Georgie. Why is it that whenever you sound like that I get shivers down my spine?”

  George made a face, grimacing, and wrinkling up one side of her nose. “Because you know me?”

  He raised his brows. Why was George stating the obvious? She was up to something, and that rarely boded well for any of them.

  “Imogen left yesterday.”

  “And you were going to tell me this when?” The light feeling fled, leading out his toes, draining away. Beetle shook his head again and Gabriel forced himself to loosen the reins.

  “Well,” she replied, without so much as a contrite look, “now.”

  “You couldn’t have told me yesterday?”

  She cocked her head, seemingly considering his question for a moment, while his hands itched to strangle her. “No, I don’t think I could have. You had a duel to fight, and you couldn’t have gone after her any sooner, so what would have been the point?”

  Irritated beyond all belief, Gabriel gave her a squinty-eyed glare. “Are you going to tell me exactly where she went, and how she’s getting there, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

  “As if you’d dare,” George replied with a laugh, which only got louder as he gnashed his teeth and half-heartedly swung at her with his crop. “I can’t tell you where she’s going. I promised not to, but I can tell you she’s in my coach, the brown one, with the Somercote arms on the boot. And she’s currently on the Great North Road. I can’t imagine she’s gotten all that far. I told Chandler to go slowly.”

  Gabriel sucked in one cheek and bit it softly to keep from yelling at her. Irritating, interfering female. “I thought you were on my side, Georgie.”

  “Oh, I am on your side,” she assured him, with her mischief-making smile beginning to peek out. The dimple in her cheek mocked him. “But this isn’t about sides. It’s about outcomes. And you and I both want the same outcome. Imogen does too, she just doesn’t know it yet, or can’t admit it.”

  Gabriel raised a brow. Lord save him from George and her machinations. “So Imogen has cried off, returned my ring, and run away from town, secure in the conceit that I won’t follow?”

  George nodded, her grin growing wider. “I told your valet to have a bag packed. If you hurry, I imagine you should catch up to her by Peterborough. Newark at the latest.”

  “Thought of everything, haven’t you?” Gabriel asked savagely.

  “I rather think so,” George replied, wholly unrepentant.

  Imogen pulled the fur carriage rug tighter about her legs and rested her forehead against the window while she watched the scenery go past. She’d been on the road for four days, and they hadn’t even reached Grantham yet.

  The first day they’d barely made Stevenage before dark, and the second they’d been unable to procure a proper change of horses in Sandy, and had had to stop their journey there and wait. Then it had begun raining, turning the roads into a near impassable mire.

  They’d become stuck twice before even reaching St. Neots, where she’d spent last night. She was hoping to reach Peterborough tonight. By now she would have normally expected to have been at least to Newark, if not beyond. At this rate it would take them a month to reach the Glenelg estate in northern Scotland.

  If she’d been the kind of woman who saw signs and portends in such things she’d have told the Somercote’s coachman to turn around and take her back to town. The coach hit another rut in the road and bounced her up off the seat. Grumbling, she rearranged herself for what felt like the thousandth time.

  Lunch was a welcome distraction. After an hour in a small private parlor, warmed by a cheerful fire and several mugs of hot punch Imogen was feeling much more the thing. Her teeth had even stopped chattering by the time Chandler appeared at the door to ur
ge her back into the carriage.

  She hurriedly drank the last of her punch and pulled her gloves back on. Picking up her muff she stepped out of the parlor and moved quickly through the almost empty tap room. Only the determined and the desperate were traveling in such weather.

  The earlier rain had diminished to a light drizzle, but even so, Imogen felt more than a bit guilty as she watched the coachman take his place on the box. She was freezing. How was he managing? There was no way she’d have been able to drive all day in such weather, even swathed in wool and coated in oilskin.

  Shivering, she stepped out from under the eaves, preparing to climb back into the coach. A sudden commotion in the yard caught her attention as a steaming horse skidded to a stop, its rider already swinging out of the saddle, the skirts of his coat flying out.

  An ostler claimed the animal and Imogen was left staring dumbly as Gabriel stormed across the muddy yard. Her heart gave a sickening lurch and her eyes felt suddenly hot. He was alive, and judging by his expression, he was very, very angry.

  “Inside,” he shouted with enough of an edge that her eyes opened wide and she fell back a step. “Chandler,” he flung over his shoulder, “stable ’em.” Then he turned, grabbed her by her arm, and dragged her back inside the inn.

  The landlord appeared, confusion and concern bubbling over as Gabriel, his hand still locked about her upper arm, demanded a private parlor.

  Imogen didn’t bother to try and pull away. She didn’t want to. That was the problem; when faced with him, all she could think of was getting closer. Her only hope had been in getting as far away from him as she could, and staying away from him.

  At this exact moment her traitorous body was tingling from head to toe. A hot, wanton, totally inappropriate response to such a manhandling.

  He was dripping wet, shaking with anger, and holding her so hard she was sure she’d be bruised tomorrow. Her heart was racing, and not with fear. Biting her lip she allowed him to drag her into the parlor she had just vacated.

  Gabriel hauled Imogen into the room the frightened innkeep pointed to and kicked the door shut behind them with a resounding thump. Damn it all. He was wet to the skin, and suddenly so angry it was all he had been able to do not to beat her right there in the inn yard in front of God and everyone.

  He’d thought he had himself under control until he’d ridden into the yard and caught sight of his nymph preparing to climb into her coach. The edge of his vision had tunneled out to black. His whole body had begun to shake. She hadn’t even had the good sense to run. By the time he’d taken hold of her—a mistake that, he was well aware—his heart had been pounding so loudly he was practically deaf.

  Once the door was shut, he dropped her arm, afraid to continue touching her. He stepped back slightly, prepared for recriminations, accusations, even violence. In the same situation, George would have broken his nose at the very least. She might have shot him.

  Imogen swallowed hard, staring up at him, her eyes pricking with tears, a sea of blue shimmering beneath the rising water. Gabriel grimaced. Tears were something he had never been good at dealing with. She blinked, sending the first tear trailing down her cheek, then she launched herself at him, arms locking around his neck, lips finding his in a frenzied kiss.

  Caught off guard Gabriel stumbled back until he came up against the buffet, Imogen clinging to him like a limpet. The room simply faded away. She was pulling him down to her, fierce, passionate.

  He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her securely to his sodden chest, slanted his mouth over hers, meeting the thrust of her tongue with his own, devouring her as she offered herself up to him.

  His hand shook as he gripped her waist, thumbs pressed hard against her stays. He hooked his fingers into her redingote.

  A knock on the door interrupted them, and with a slightly guilty start Imogen’s grip slackened and she slid down his chest. Gabriel kept one arm securely about her waist. If she was going to have second thoughts, he wanted to have a hold of her.

  The door opened and the innkeep appeared, a steaming mug in his hands. He glanced worriedly at Imogen. “I thought, perhaps the gentleman, him being so wet and all, would welcome a hot arrack.”

  Gabriel’s gaze flicked down to meet Imogen’s. She smirked up at him. The landlord had obviously been afraid he was murdering her in here, and she was well aware of it.

  God knew he’d felt like murder only moments ago.

  “And so he would.” Imogen pulled away from him slightly and took the mug from the man with a soothing smile. “We’ll be needing a room, too, since my husband so objects to my little jaunt without him.”

  The obviously relieved man bobbed his head and assured them that he’d have one ready momentarily so that the gentleman could change into something dry.

  As he left, Imogen turned and handed Gabriel the mug, her expression impossible for him to read. Her eyes were still damp, her lashes tangled, but her mouth was soft, almost smiling. A dimple flashed in her cheek, so quickly he might have imagined it.

  “I’m going to hold you to that you know?” He took the mug and gratefully swallowed a mouthful of the hot, sweet, rum-laced punch.

  “I know.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. The swansdown of her tippet clung damply to her neck, trailed down over her chest in a bedraggled ruin.

  “I’d look a fool if I didn’t.” He reached out and flipped the tippet off of her. “Can’t fight a duel over one’s fiancée, and then not marry her.”

  “No, that would be bad.” Imogen nodded sagely.

  “Very bad. Wouldn’t be able to show my face in town ever again.”

  “Well, we can’t have that…whatever would the ton have left to gossip about if they were deprived of your presence? And the shops in Bond Street. We must think of poor Mr. Manton. He’d go out of business. And Angelo’s, why your business alone must account for—”

  “Spiteful cat,” he protested, laughing.

  “I’m only agreeing with you.”

  “Seriously, my exasperating little nymph, I’ve got a special license in my bag, and tomorrow morning we’re going to find the nearest vicar, and put it to good use.”

  “But Lady Glendower—”

  “Will understand.” He tugged her to him and kissed her again, his lips softly capturing hers in a brief, welcoming salute. “Not even going to ask about Perrin’s fate?”

  “I don’t care.” She slid her arms more securely about his neck and looked up at him, meeting his gaze squarely. “Are we fleeing to Italy after the ceremony? My bags are rather conveniently packed and ready you know.”

  Gabriel chuckled and kissed her again. “If it’s Italy you want, love, Italy you shall have, but I think I’d prefer to live in England. We might be endlessly snubbed by Torrie, and we’ll never cross the portals of Almack’s, but I, for one, am prepared to live without warm lemonade and evenings spent performing endless country dances.”

  Imogen rested her check on his shoulder. “We’ve got to get you out of these clothes, Gabriel.”

  “I thought you’d never get to that.”

  She shook her head reprovingly at him. “I’m not going upstairs with you to make love in the middle of the afternoon, Gabriel.”

  “You think not?” He raised one brow in mock challenge. “What else do you propose we do for the rest of the day?”

  Imogen glanced around the bare and rather cheerless little parlor, then with a wicked little grin she preceded him out of the room, calling for the landlord.

  Epilogue

  Corinthians, pugilists, and beaux everywhere are in alt. Their messiah is delivered, or so the steady flow of their ranks in the eastwardly direction of their queen would seem to indicate…

  Tête-à-Tête, 18 May 1790

  Gabriel adjusted his hold on George’s new son and glanced across the room. His wife was curled up in the window seat beside George, both of them looking out over the gardens, speaking in tones low enough that only a soft murmur reached him.
The baby made an incoherent sound of protest as he settled into the crook of Gabriel’s arm, and both women glanced over their shoulders.

  Gabriel shook his head at them and stood up, carrying the baby around the room with a soft bounce. He could understand Imogen mistrusting his skills, but George had seen him with his cousin’s children often enough over the years to know better.

  The walk failed to do its job and little Dysart Alan Dauntry waved a small fist in the air, his small form swelling with outrage.

  George yawned and turned to take him, arms already outstretched long before he reached her. The baby hiccupped and nestled into George like a puppy, clearly content now that he had achieved his goal. Gabriel grinned and stooped to kiss his wife on the back of the neck, the exposed skin too sweet to resist.

  They’d attended the races at Epsom Downs last week, then immediately traveled up from London to be present for George’s laying in—as had half their other friends—causing George to laugh and assign them all roles from the nativity.

  He and Imogen had been proclaimed camels, while the Morpeths were sheep. Poor Bennett and Layton had been labeled asses. Probably because they were the ones most likely to hover over her. Only Alençon and Carr had come off well, being assigned the roles of angels. George refused to allow any of them to claim the roles of wise men, no matter what presents they might have brought. And no one spoke of the conspicuously absent St. Audley, at least after George brushed off his tardiness by calling him a star rising in the South.

  “Want to go for a punt on the lake?” Gabriel whispered, trying not to let too wolfish an edge into his smile.

  Imogen smiled back, extending her hand to be helped up off the seat. George made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Do go and play for heaven’s sake. There’s no need to hover over me.”

  Gabriel gave a bark of laughter that made the baby jump. Imogen hushed him and pushed him from the room, one hand firmly set against his spine, propelling him forward.

  Clearly the damp heat of the afternoon wasn’t going to put her off a stroll down to the lake…and whatever else he might have in mind for her entertainment.