Simply Scandalous

by Tamara Lejeune

  Swale stared at him in mute horror.

  "Some do believe you did it, Geoffrey," Alex told him, "but most don't care whether or not it's true, only that it's made life interesting to have something so sensational to talk about! To absolutely kill the rumor, you need the Wayborns on your side. And if Miss Wayborn is ever to return to Society, she will need a husband of some considerable rank."

  "They may all go to the devil," said Swale. "Society ought to be thanking me for getting rid of Miss Wayborn instead of curling its lip at me in scorn."

  At that moment, Bowditch, his lordship's valet, entered the room. He was dressed to go out, and he was carrying a satchel packed with, one assumed, all his worldly possessions. "Bowditch?" said Swale, rather surprised. "What the devil are you about?"

  " I am leaving, my lord," the valet announced.

  "Not now? I expect your mother is ill or some such thing?"

  "No, my lord," said Bowditch, drawing himself up to his full height. "I could not remain another day in the service of my Lord Swale. I have my reputation to consider."

  How anyone should care two straws for a servant's opinion, particularly when the servant sent one out into the world looking like an unmade bed, was beyond Alex Devize's comprehension, but apparently Swale was attached to his man. "Surely you do not believe this nonsense!" Swale said incredulously. "Bowditch?"

  Bowditch shook his head. "I do not wish to believe it, my lord, but Mademoiselle Huppert has issued me an ultimatum."

  "Who the devil is Mademoiselle Huppert?" Swale demanded. Alex, who was less interested in the mademoiselle's identity, poured himself another glass of his friend's execrable Madeira.

  "Mademoiselle and I," said Bowditch with dignity, "have an understanding, my lord. She is Miss Wayborn's femme de chambre, your lordship collects."

  "No, I don't collect! Let me tell you, old man, unless your mother is sick, you are going exactly nowhere. Consorting with the enemy, by God." Swale ground his fist into his open palm. "I expect this Mademoiselle, with whom you have an understanding, has painted me very black indeed."

  Bowditch appeared abashed. "It's not so much that, my lord, as Mademoiselle telling me that if I remain in the service of my Lord Swale, our friendship is at an end. I expect I shall find a place elsewhere."

  Alex seriously doubted it and thought his friend well rid of the odious Bowditch. "Never mind," he said callously. "What you want, Geoffrey, is a Frenchman like my Laval."

  Bowditch's face fell, and Alex almost expected tears, but Swale forestalled them. "No, no!" he cried. "A Frenchman! That would never do. Bowditch has known me all my life-he was a footman at Auckland when I was a boy."

  Bowditch looked at his lord, and his watery eyes spoke of nothing but gratitude and adoration.

  "Go upstairs at once and unpack," said Swale. "Leave it all to me."

  "Yes, my lord," Bowditch said. "Thank you, my lord."

  "Geoffrey, you astonish me," said Alex. "I should have sent him packing. Mademoiselle Huppert indeed!"

  Swale waved him off. "But you don't understand, old man. When I was twelve, I stole the key to the cellar at Auckland, and ... well, I drank rather a lot of the governor's best, I'm afraid. Bowditch-he was only a pageboy then-swore he'd broken the bottles and put up with no end of abuse on my behalf, I can tell you."

  "No doubt," said Alex, unimpressed. "But I can't help but wonder why you would undertake for a servant something you wouldn't do for either your father or your friend."

  Swale flushed. "I'll speak to Cary Wayborn, that's all. If he takes my word as a gentleman, so much the better. If not, he may go to the devil, and I'll tell him so to his head. But I don't think it necessary, even for Mademoiselle's sake, to pay my addresses to the Amazon! "

  "If you will but attend me with as much courtesy as you showed your man," said Alex, "I would tell you that there's no need for you to marry Miss Wayborn."

  I am glad you think so."

  "If you have made up your mind to call her Mamma."

  "What?"

  "You say your father means to ask for her hand if you do not. Let her take your mother's place in the Index as her Grace of Auckland. Let her preside at Auckland Palace. Sit in your mother's place. Sleep in your mother's bed. Who knows? She might even provide you with a few brothers and sisters. How would you like that, old man?"

  "If my excellent father wishes to make a cake of himself, it's nothing to me," Swale said stubbornly, but he was very red in the face, and his fists were clenched.

  "No?" said Alex. "Very well. Only consider this: make her an offer, and Miss Wayborn will very likely fling it back in your teeth. Your father would not be such a damn fool as to ask for a lady that has refused his son. End of dilemma."

  "I always used to admire your brain, Alex," Swale said haughtily. "But I think you have gone slack! Of course she would snatch me up if I made her an offer. How could she resist? I am what is known by these grasping females as a matrimonial prize!"

  Alex shook his head. "Have you learned nothing about Miss Wayborn?"

  Swale snorted. "On the contrary, I know her like the back of my hand. The harpy would accept me if only to make the rest of my life a living hell."

  Alex smiled faintly. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But you needn't apply to her in person. That could be disastrous and anyway, improper, for you have never been introduced to Miss Wayborn."

  "God willing, I never shall be."

  "But Sir Benedict Wayborn can be relied upon to decline your very fine offer of marriage. He is very proud. He will absolutely forbid you to pay your addresses to her. Rely upon it. I daresay you will find him a formidable ally."

  "An ally!" cried Swale incredulously.

  "Dear boy," Alex said dryly. "He must have some little interest in who, if it was not my Lord Swale, has done this to his brother."

  As a matter of fact, Sir Benedict's interest in the matter was greater than Alex anticipated, and it was not much later that, as Swale was dressing to go out, Bowditch scratched at his lordship's door and told him in a hushed voice that Sir Benedict Wayborn had sent up his card.

  Swale scowled at his man. "But the fellow's got only one good arm! I can't shoot a man with one arm, Bowditch."

  Bowditch appeared startled. "My lord?"

  "Obviously, the damn fool has come to throw down the gauntlet, knowing I can no more fight him than I could his sister," Swale explained. "Tell him to go away and not be an ass."

  Bowditch returned a few minutes later with a note on a tray.

  "Bloody hell!" said Swale. He was at his mirror attempting to tie his neckcloth in a new style that his friend Mr. Devize had shown him. The attempt was not an unqualified success. "Read it to me, will you, Bowditch? It won't hurt you to practice your reading."

  "Thank you, my lord," said Bowditch, placing a monocle in one eye and reading slowly and ponderously. "Sir Benedict Wayborn sends his compliments to his lordship, the Marquess of Swale, and-"

  "Ha!" said Swale. "Compliments!"

  Bowditch checked the word again, but it seemed to him really to be `compliments.' "He begs the favor of your lordship's company," Bowditch went on, choosing to summarize.

  "At dawn, I suppose, in Hyde Park near the Serpentine?"

  Bowditch scanned the lines again. "No, my lord," he said regretfully. "He wishes to dine with you at his club, that is all."

  "What?" cried Swale, abandoning his neckcloth and snatching the letter from his man. "He awaits me downstairs?" he said incredulously. "Well, if the damn fool challenges me at the front door of my hotel, missing arm or no missing arm-" He broke off and irritably completed his toilette.

  Sir Benedict awaited him in a small private parlor downstairs. Seated in an armchair near the fire, he was enjoying a glass of claret, and his profile, Swale sourly observed, was that of a Greek god. The nose was particularly fine, long, but not too long; perfectly straight, with just the tiniest aquiline cast to its bridge. Swale was shocked to see that the baronet was not alone. Mr. Devize
was with him. Alex appeared amused.

  "What the devil do you want, Wayborn?" Swale demanded.

  Sir Benedict set his glass down, rose from his chair, and surveyed the Marquess with neither praise nor censure, his gray eyes cold and hard. He made no attempt to hide the scars that disfigured the right half of his face. His empty right sleeve had been sewn shut and neatly pinned at the elbow.

  Swale felt himself weighed and found wanting, but he was pleased to see that even when standing, the baronet had to tilt his head back to look the taller man in the eye.

  "Good evening, my lord," said Benedict, resting his left hand on the head of his cane and making a slight bow. "May I propose that we walk to my club?"

  Swale did not like Sir Benedict's high-handed manner. "I am dining with Mr. Devize at White's," he said shortly.

  Sir Benedict smiled amiably. "Splendid, my lord. I am also a member of White's."

  Swale eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want?" he said bluntly.

  The baronet raised a brow, but otherwise he remained undisturbed. "I wish to dine with your lordship at White's, in the window, if possible."

  Swale became contemptuous. "You wish to dine with me, do you? I am accused of hiring mercenaries to break your brother's arm, and you wish to dine with me? You, sir, are a shabby, grasping creature. I have no patience to spare toadeaters."

  "I daresay your lordship has little patience to spare anyone," said Benedict, unruffled. "You strike me as rather extraordinarily hotheaded, my lord."

  Swale's temper blazed. He did not care for remarks involving either the color or temperature of his head. "If you were a man-like your sister-you would be calling me out, sir, one arm or no one arm! Instead, you invite me to dinner. Are you a worm?"

  "I should find it difficult, indeed, to shoot your lordship with one arm," said Benedict with a faint smile, "which I am sure you would see, my lord, if you could only think it through."

  "By God, sir! " said Swale, his face blotched with red. "It is well for you that you have only one arm, or I should flatten you. Why, Miss Wayborn is worth ten of you!

  "I expect that is true," said Benedict pleasantly. "Your lordship seems agitated. Shall we walk, my lord? The evening is fine. Perhaps the cool air will soothe you, my lord." With perfect equanimity, he took his hat from the attendant and left the room.

  The faint chuckle that escaped the Honorable Mr. Alexander Devize at this point did nothing to improve Swale's temper.

  The dining room at White's was full to capacity, but Sir Benedict commanded a table at the bow window without difficulty. The conversation in the room fell away, and startled looks greeted Swale and Devize as they entered the room on Sir Benedict's heels.

  Apparently oblivious to the attention, Sir Benedict sat down and ordered dinner for himself and his guests. He then asked the attendant for the betting book.

  "What do you want the betting book for?" asked Swale, curiosity overcoming his annoyance.

  "It seems to me a good place to start," Benedict replied, "if I am to discover who is behind this attack upon my brother."

  Swale blinked in surprise. "You mean to say you don't think I did it?"

  "You, my lord?" said Benedict. "Do you mean to say you did do it?"

  Swale glowered at him. "Are you accusing me?"

  "Ought I to accuse you, my lord?" Benedict asked patiently.

  "No!"

  "Very well then," said Benedict. "And yet it seems undeniable that someone has plotted to harm my brother. Cary's attackers spoke of being sent on their errand by your lordship. To me, that is the most curious fact of the business. Apparently, our man hates my brother enough to wish him harm, but he also went to the trouble of blaming Lord Swale. I should not have thought this last part necessary if Cary's missing the race was all that mattered to him. Cary would have been forced to forfeit the race, but there it would have ended. Does it not strike you as curious that this was done in your name, my lord?"

  "No," Swale retorted. "It strikes me as bloody impertinent! "

  At White's, Swale's tastes were well-known. While the others were brought watercress soup, his lordship received his customary steak and kidney pie. He did not touch it, however. Now that Sir Benedict had laid the facts out, it did seem rather curious that his name had been brought into it.

  "Needlessly elaborate," he postulated, "in addition to being bloody impertinent."

  Sir Benedict, meanwhile, surveyed the ledger the attendant had brought along with the soup. "There are no less than eight bets recorded here concerning the race between Lord Swale and Mr. Wayborn," he said. "I expect any one of the parties might be cherishing a grudge against my brother."

  Swale's astonishment showed plainly on his face. "But your brother is universally admired! He is the favorite of all London."

  "Is that so?" said Benedict, smiling faintly. "It seems to me he has made fools of half of London with those pretty chestnuts of his. Yet you tell me he has no

  "He hasn't," said Swale. "Everyone likes him."

  "Cary can be impetuous," said Sir Benedict. "He does not always guard his tongue."

  Swale looked over the list of bets, frowning thoughtfully. `Kosher and Leighton-that's bound to be all right. I have known Bosher my whole life, and Leighton is his cousin. Devize and Calverstock. Obviously all right. Lord Alastair Hungerford and Lord Meadowsweet. Lord Alastair is the Duke of Ramfurline's son, you know. Charlie and Mr. Cammerleigh. Lord Redfylde and Lord Dulwich. Myself and Mr. Wayborn, obviously. Sir Adam Osbert and Lord Emsworth. Budgie St. John Jones and Old PartridgeBudgie wouldn't dare pull a mean trick like that. I rather think he's afraid of Mr. Wayborn. I know he's afraid of me."

  "An excellent reason for hiring proxies," Sir Benedict pointed out.

  Swale's eyes bulged. "Budgie! Are you mad? Besides, he bet on Wayborn-your brother, I mean. Budgie can't afford to lose even the trifling sum of five hundred pounds."

  Devize said, "Really, Sir Benedict, there is no one at White's capable of such a thing. Why, it would be cheating! "

  "It is possible our quarry placed no bet on the race," Sir Benedict agreed thoughtfully.

  "But if he did, he would have put his money on me," said Swale, his brow wrinkled with concentration, "knowing that Mr. Wayborn would be forced to forfeit."

  "You assume his motive was simple greed," Benedict pointed out. "But if he merely wished to collect on a bet, why implicate my Lord Swale? Why not simply let it be known that my brother was attacked by footpads? Such attacks are woefully commonplace."

  Swale attacked his pie. "I would dearly like to know how my name came to be in the mouths of these criminals."

  "Perhaps our man impersonated you when he hired his thugs," said Alex.

  "The bloody cheek of him," said Swale. "I'll teach him to impersonate me."

  "Forgive me, my lord," said Benedict, "but if I meant to impersonate a Peer, you would not be my first choice. Why then were you his?"

  Swale frowned. "Eh?"

  "He did not pluck your name from thin air. The attack on my brother may have been motivated by greed, but the attack on you must be personal, I think."

  "But I was not attacked," said Swale, puzzled.

  "Not physically," Benedict said patiently. "But your good name has been attacked, if you see what I mean.

  "I don't care a damn about that," said Swale. "But my father is sick as a cat. And my sister ..." He pushed his plate away. "Maria's a little high-strung when it comes to me. Like a mother lioness with her cub. This will cause her pain."

  "It is difficult," Benedict agreed, "to see one's sister afflicted. "

  Swale blew out his breath. "Do you mean to say, Sir Benedict, that while this fellow broke your brother's arm, his true target was ... was my good name? Bloody devious! Bloody convoluted, if that's the word I want. If he wants to harm me, why don't he say so, like a man? Why go after Mr. Wayborn?"

  "It is possible he dislikes both of you," Benedict pointed out. "My brother's injuries do not begin and end wit
h his arm. He was nearly killed. I was quite shocked when I saw him. That was not the work of a disinterested man. Can you think of anyone who might hate you, my lord?"

  "Why should anyone hate me?" Swale demanded, scowling.

  "I myself find it difficult to like you, my lord," said Sir Benedict apologetically. "Forgive me, but yours is a personality that seems almost to invite animosity."

  "But anyone who hated Swale would want your brother to humiliate him," Alex pointed out.

  "I tell you no one hates me," said Swale, considerably annoyed by Sir Benedict's reflections on his personality.

  "Redfylde hates you, Swale," said Alex thoughtfully, consulting the ledger.

  "Nonsense," said Swale. "Why should he?"

  "When we were at school together, Redfylde tried calling you Ginger," said Alex. "You may recall knocking him to the ground. He's hated you ever since."

  "He deserved it," said Swale, shrugging. "In the end, he admitted as much, and we shook hands. My name," he explained to Sir Benedict, "is not Ginger, but Geoffrey."

  "Quite," said Benedict, hiding a smile. "I should say Lord Redfylde hates you more than the average man who is acquainted with you, and what is more, Lord Redfylde placed rather a large wager on Lord Swale to win."

  "Did he?" Swale was flattered. "Good old Reddy. School ties and all that."

  "Rather suspicious, wouldn't you say?" said Alex slyly.

  "What do you mean? Oh, you mean to imply that Redfylde knew Mr. Wayborn would not be able to drive that day?" Swale snorted. "Perhaps he thought I had a chance."

  "My dear Geoffrey," said Alex, "I am your friend, and I bet only five hundred pounds. My Lord Redfylde bet ten thousand pounds. He is very rich, I know, but he doesn't throw money away."

  "I tell you, I had as good a chance as anyone else," Swale snarled. "My grays-"

  "Never mind your grays," said Sir Benedict. "Had Lord Redfylde any reason to hate my brother?"

  "Redfylde took it rather hard when Mr. Wayborn beat him," Alex told him.

  "Another race?" Benedict guessed.

  Alex nodded. "Redfylde overturned, and, as I recall, Wayborn teased him about it."