Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  She knew he didn’t like her, but he’d never made it so clear. “Tell me.”

  “Tell ye what? How his lordship’s going t’ get his revenge? Nay, Yer Grace, na’ likely. I wouldna’ trust a female to keep her trap shut ever.”

  Madeline pounced. “Revenge? Revenge for what?”

  Stroking his stubbled chin, MacAllister considered her. “Aye, mayhap I’ll tell ye that. Not the plans, ye know, but ye deserve t’ know what ye’ve done t’ Gabriel’s family.”

  “What I’ve done?”

  “Was it na’ love of ye that caused his lordship t’ go out and win a fortune?”

  “I don’t know, was it?”

  MacAllister ignored her snippiness. “Was it na’ ye who abandoned him and left him t’ work and mourn, and na’ see that his brother was needing some guidance?”

  She wanted to object about that, too, but after a moment’s consideration, she shut her mouth. MacAllister was spare with information. Let him talk.

  “Was it na’ ye who was gone when Jerry fell int’ despair and joined the navy, there to be killed?”

  That snapped her to attention. “Fell into despair? Jerry?” He had been happy-go-lucky, the exact opposite of his forceful brother.

  “Aye, fell int’ despair,” MacAllister said in salubrious tones.

  “What happened to make Jerry fall into despair?”

  MacAllister seemed scarcely to hear her, so wound up was he in umbrage. “His lordship’s been blaming himself ever since, and seeking out the culprit, and setting him up t’ do wrong, and planning t’ catch him, but I know who t’ blame.” He glared balefully at her.

  She wanted to grab MacAllister’s shirtfront and shake the truth from him. “What did Jerry do?”

  MacAllister pointed his finger right in her face. “It’s ye, Yer Great and Righteous Grace, and ye should be ashamed of yerself.”

  Catching his finger, she bent it back. When MacAllister danced with the pain, she demanded, “What did Jerry do?” When she knew she had MacAllister’s attention, she let go, but hovered close enough to be threatening.

  To her surprise, MacAllister must have felt threatened, for he stopped censuring her. “Puir lad. Ye ken, Jerry worshiped his lordship.”

  “He did.” Jerry had worshiped her, too, and now, after hearing of his untimely end, Madeline suffered a guilt similar to Gabriel’s—and MacAllister clearly felt that she had reason.

  “Jerry wanted t’ be like his brother, and when his lordship went off and won a fortune, he saw the respect his lordship won with it.” MacAllister observed her expression and said brutally, “Aye, despite ye and yer jilting and yer spiteful scene, he had won the respect of every gentleman with his coolness and intelligence.”

  Stiff with resentment, she said, “I wasn’t spiteful!”

  “Weren’t ye? Ye could have broke yer betrothal with a note. Ye could have told him in private. Ye didn’t have t’ shriek like a fishwife in front of the whole ton. If ye’ve got any justice in yer pitiful female body, ye’ll admit that.”

  She took a breath to defend herself, and let it out. She wouldn’t admit it to MacAllister—but it was true. The memory of that scene had haunted her, not just because of the embarrassment, not just because of the results, but because of her shame. She’d done her best to ruin Gabriel. There was no excuse—except a rampaging temper—for that. She knew better than to let that temper go. She knew nothing good ever came of such excess.

  Moving restlessly from foot to foot, she recalled that night—and last night, and all the haunted, lonely nights in between.

  Come to me.

  MacAllister judged her sufficiently browbeaten. “Aye, na’ even ye can claim ye were justified. To treat a man like that—a man ye said ye loved!”

  She had loved him. Did she still? “All right. All right!” With a slash of her hand, she said, “Get on with Jerry’s story.”

  Her tense little snap must have satisfied MacAllister, for after a searching look, he continued, “Jerry went out t’ win a fortune like his brother. Get all that respect, maybe even make his lordship feel better about losing ye. His lordship dinna know about his brother’s plans. He was too busy with the coast defenses.”

  “Surely not so strenuous a task.”

  “Not so strenuous . . .” MacAllister puffed with indignation. “Worked night and day, he did, setting up watches, and when he was done with that”—he lowered his voice as if someone could overhear them, when in fact the other guests were playing charades in the library—“he also ferried men and women across the Channel in his yacht, coming and going, if ye know what I mean.”

  “You mean . . . he helped emigrants escape, and sent spies back to France?” That explained the muscles Gabriel had developed—voyages where he raised sail and hauled anchor. Such labor would build a man’s strength to impressive proportions.

  “Shh.” MacAllister glanced around. “I shouldn’t have told ye that. Damn, but ye’re an aggravating woman!”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  He glared at her. “As easy as breathing t’ ye, it is.”

  She knew people like that. People who couldn’t ever be pleased. But she never thought she was one of them. She had worked hard to be the kind of duchess who was approachable by the lesser members of society and beloved by her servants. Her eyes narrowed on MacAllister. “You’re a misogynist.”

  “I am na’!” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I’m a Presbyterian.”

  “No. I mean . . . a misogynist is a man who doesn’t care for women.”

  “Oh.” He chewed on that, his wrinkled mouth moving silently. “Weel, I do like women. Flat on their backs with their mouths shut.”

  “Excuse me. I see my mistake now.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “Now, what about Jerry . . . and Gabriel?”

  MacAllister settled back into his story. “Gabriel did all that work on the coast, and he worried about ye, being abroad at such a dangerous time.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “Go on.”

  “So a wretched scoundrel got his claws int’ Jerry. Gambled with him. Played him like a fish. Took everything.”

  Madeline felt faintly queasy. “His mother’s fortune?”

  “Which his lordship had been at pains to keep intact for him. The puir lad couldn’t face his brother. Joined Nelson’s crew. They buried him at sea after Trafalgar. God rest his soul.”

  That bright, smiling young man had died without ever seeing Gabriel again. Covering her mouth, she tried, unsuccessfully, to fight back the tears.

  Fists on hips, MacAllister stood on tiptoe to look right in her face. “Aye, ye should weep. They told his lordship Jerry died a hero’s death. His lordship has nightmares still.”

  She wiped at her wet cheeks. “The scoundrel was Mr. Rumbelow.”

  “Ye’ve guessed! How clever of ye.” MacAllister observed her distress with morbid approval, and handed her a large white handkerchief. “So now ye know. Get away from here. Ye’re distracting his lordship from his duty. He owes his brother vengeance against Rumbelow. Jerry might rest in peace without it, but his lordship will never be content until Rumbelow has been brought low.”

  “I know. I see.”

  Come to me.

  “Yer father’s not turning up here. As long as ye’re here, his lordship will be more worried about yer safety than aboot uncovering whatever mischief Rumbelow has cooked up. I’ll bring yer tiara t’ yer bedchamber as soon as he gives it t’ me. Then, fast as ye can—go home.” MacAllister picked up the tray and stared at the dishes all in disarray. Then he put it back down and looked into her eyes. For the first time, he spoke to her with an awful sincerity. “Rumbelow’s a bad piece, Yer Grace, and this is a dastardly scam.”

  “I could help Gabriel.” She wouldn’t leave Gabriel to face the danger alone.

  “Nay!”

  “I know you don’t like me, but I’m sensible, I think on my feet, and I’m a good shot.”

  “It’s na’ that. Or na’
so much that. I’ve got a powerful intuition aboot this.” MacAllister touched her lightly, once, on the arm. “Someone’s going t’ die.”

  By the time the game was over, all of the ladies in Chalice Hall were watching the dowager’s house, waiting to see which of the men had fulfilled his promise to win the tiara. They stood on the terrace, at the windows, even in the garden. Lady Tabard said nothing to Madeline as Madeline continued to pace in the sitting room. She stared at the house as if she could see through the walls, as if her concentration could help Gabriel win the match.

  Finally, at four o’clock, the door of the dowager’s house opened and Madeline beheld the men as they staggered out, coats off, cravats askew. Gabriel exited last, with Mr. Rumbelow at his side, and Gabriel looked as cool as when he walked in.

  In his hand, he held a polished wooden box. Not the plain box that the queen’s tiara used to reside in, but a richly carved box with an elegant silver pattern and a silver lock.

  The ladies around the house groaned.

  Madeline groped her way to a chair and collapsed. Bowing her head, she said a prayer of thanksgiving. The queen’s tiara was safe. Her mother would approve. And Gabriel . . .

  Come to me.

  At the window, Lady Tabard pronounced, “At least it was Lord Campion who won the crown. We all know how lucky he is.”

  “Yes, heaven forbid Lord Achard should ever win anything,” Lady Achard said peevishly. “With his execrable luck, he should stop playing altogether.”

  “Mother says we’ll be up the River Tick soon if he doesn’t stop,” one of the younger Lady Achards confided.

  Her mother hushed her, then smiled nervously at the assemblage. “You know how it is. The creditors are dunning us. We may have to repair to the country for a time.”

  The other ladies nodded. Their husbands were gamblers. They did know how it was to repair to the country, to borrow money to go on, to dodge creditors.

  “But it does bode ill for the big game if Lord Campion is basking in luck,” Mrs. Greene said.

  Lifting her head, Madeline prepared to rise—and found Thomasin observing her. For the first time, Madeline realized Thomasin had been monitoring her quite intently and for quite a while. Why? What did she see that made her curious? What did she know?

  Madeline should talk to her, but . . . not now. Not when she needed to go, to hold the queen’s tiara in her hands. To look into Gabriel’s eyes, thank him and say . . . say what? She didn’t know. She felt off balance, uneasy with herself. She had accused Gabriel of coming here to feed a frivolous, destructive obsession. Instead, he had come out of pain, out of the dark need to avenge his brother.

  She had to say something, do something. There had to be a way to make matters right for Gabriel. She would find a way.

  Come to me.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Madeline clutched the wooden jewel box. She couldn’t open the lock, she didn’t have the key, but she knew what the tiara looked like—dainty, golden and glittering. Her mother had worn it on her presentation to court, and again in the formal portrait in the gallery. The tiara was Madeline’s only link to her mother—and Gabriel had won it for her.

  Now, she thought . . . she thought she must have lost her mind. She had paid Gabriel for her tiara with the present of her body. Of course, he’d stopped and made her choose him for himself and her need alone, so really, she owed him nothing. Nothing.

  But he’d given her as much enjoyment as she’d given him. More, for he’d bent his mind on seduction, and he knew how to pleasure a woman.

  She had been nothing more than a woman faced with the fierce unleashing of a passion she had hoped long vanquished. And now she felt . . . grateful?

  No.

  Amazed?

  Absolutely.

  Uncertain?

  She was the future duchess of Magnus, and she was never uncertain.

  She lifted her head and looked out the window. No. She was not uncertain. For the first time in days, she knew exactly what she wanted. Slipping the tiara under the bed, she prepared herself to go to him.

  Silent and grim, Gabriel pulled the thin, handleless blade from under his sleeve and laid it on the table by the washbasin. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his stockings. He stripped off his jacket, his cravat and his shirt.

  Just as silent, just as grim, MacAllister filled the basin with water and placed a rag, a bar of lemon soap and towel beside him.

  Splashing water on his face, Gabriel reflected on the action about to begin. The game for the tiara had given him a chance to decipher the other men’s playing strategies. Lord Achard was impulsive, hoping for luck against all odds. Mr. Greene was precise, picking through his cards, arranging them from left to right, high to low. Mr. Payborn was a good player with consistently bad luck, but luck could always change. Mr. Payborn was someone to watch out for.

  And Rumbelow . . . Rumbelow was good. Rumbelow was the best of them all. Perhaps that was because he didn’t care whether he won or lost. He would have the money anyway.

  Dipping the rag in the water, Gabriel soaped it up and washed his neck, his face, his armpits and scrubbed lightly across his chest.

  One hundred thousand pounds. Gabriel’s yearly income was a tenth of that, and he was a wealthy man.

  Gabriel rinsed the cloth and wiped off the soap. The cool water felt good, soothing on his hot skin, and inevitably his mind returned to Madeline. “MacAllister, did you give Maddie the tiara?”

  “Aye. I delivered it t’ the bedchamber she shares with that young girl.”

  “Was the girl there?”

  MacAllister took the basin of dirty water, tossed it out the window and refilled it with clean. As he placed it in front of Gabriel once more, he said, “Only Her Grace. Will ye be wanting a shave?”

  Gabriel ran his fingers over his rough chin. “I probably should. It’ll be a long time until the next shave.”

  “I suppose ye’ll be wanting hot water?”

  He did, of course, but MacAllister could never get it back from the kitchen in time. “Never mind the water. When you gave her the tiara, what did she say?”

  “She thanks ye.”

  Gabriel nodded, and wondered briefly if he could find the key and lock Madeline in that room and keep her safe. But no. She was smart. She’d figure a way to escape.

  As MacAllister placed the razor beside Gabriel, MacAllister announced, “She’s matured a wee bit since the first time ye pursued her.”

  Stunned at such a concession from his valet, Gabriel turned on him. “You approve of her?”

  MacAllister screwed his face into his most annoyed expression. “I ne’er said that. But for a woman, she’s brave. Na’ sensible, but brave.”

  “Hm.” Gabriel had given her an ultimatum last night. Would she come to him, or would she try to run as she’d done before?

  He wouldn’t permit that cowardice again. He’d go after her and drag her back by her hair, he swore it—although that invalidated his demand that she come to him. He smiled savagely. That was a bluff, of course. He was going to reel her in any way he could, but if she discarded false pride and blasted independence to come to him, then he would be assured she would stay.

  MacAllister laid out Gabriel’s garments and placed the knife where Gabriel couldn’t overlook it. “With training and firm discipline, Her Grace could be an acceptable wife.”

  Gabriel laughed, and the laughter felt odd, as if he never laughed anymore. “You’d be the expert on that, you old bachelor.”

  “As much as ye, ye young fool.” But MacAllister sounded cheerful, or as cheerful as the dour Scotsman ever sounded.

  Turning back to the basin, Gabriel splashed himself again. Looking into the small mirror above the table, he soaped his chin and picked up the razor. “If Rumbelow locks us in the dowager’s house, and I suspect that’s the plan, I’ll signal with the mirror when it’s time.”

  MacAllister’s brief fling at good spirits faded. “I’ll watch.”

 
; “Take my horse.” Pulling his skin tight, Gabriel slid the razor across his cheek and over his jaw. Swishing the soap and hair off in the water, he said, “It’s a long twenty miles to Renatehead where the king’s men are lodged.”

  “I’ll bring them, and yer men, too.”

  Gabriel met MacAllister’s gaze in the mirror. “It’s almost over, my friend. We almost have him.”

  Gloomily, MacAllister said, “Almost is the most fearsome word in the English language.”

  A tentative knock sounded on the door.

  The two men looked at each other, caution in their gazes. Holding the razor like a weapon, Gabriel waved MacAllister toward the door.

  MacAllister opened it slightly. “Oh. It’s ye.” He opened it wider. “ ‘Tis the lass,” he said with patent disgust.

  Madeline stepped in.

  Gabriel placed the razor on the table. It was as if his thoughts had summoned her.

  “I’ll go fetch hot water.” MacAllister slipped out and shut the door with a slam.

  Gabriel scarcely noticed he was gone.

  Damn, Madeline was a fine-looking woman. Tall, curvaceous, with strong, bare arms and skin tanned to the color of cream-laden coffee. Her hair was orderly today, but he’d seen it falling down around her shoulders often these last two days, and last night it had dusted the white sheets with strands of midnight. Her eyes, big and blue, were fringed with the same midnight.

  Her strong, angular face could never be called beautiful; she was too lively, too direct. But her lips made a man think of many things, wicked and exuberant activities. She wore a dark blue gown that formed to her bare legs as she walked, caressing her like a lover’s fingers. He could see the junction of her thighs and the shape of her mound beneath the thin silk. Her white elbow-length gloves shimmered in rich satin, but their creaminess was nothing compared to the skin above them. As her gaze skittered over his bare chest, he experienced a weakness in his knees, and a stiffening in his groin. Two quite pleasurable sensations he suffered only in Madeline’s presence.

  What had she come for? To thank him in person? He could think of a simple way for her to do that. To insist he allow her to help ruin Rumbelow? She was out of luck. She looked around the room as if trying to avoid his gaze, and he couldn’t resist that challenge. “Welcome,” he said. “I never thought you’d come to me so soon.”