Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  Beau nodded, and Bradfield finally gave in and smiled as he bowed. The entry hall that he ushered them into was large and square, with an open colonnade circling it on the second story. The walls and pillars were of the same yellow stone as the façade of the house. The entire thing looked as though it were based on ruins. Her father, classical scholar that he was, would have loved it.

  Beau glanced around with interest. She could just make out that there were paintings lining the upstairs walkway, interspersed with doors and the occasional commode.

  “Is Souttar about?” Gareth said causally, as though it didn’t matter in the slightest.

  Beau licked her lips and tried not to appear as nervous as she felt. They needed his brother to be here and to corner him away from the earl.

  “He is,” Bradfield said. “As is Lady Souttar. Your parents are away though. Gone to Bath for the countess’s health.”

  “She still thinking of going to Spa?” Gareth wandered familiarly about the hall as Beau divested herself of her coat, hat, and gloves.

  Bradfield nodded, and Gareth laughed. “Stout as an ox, my mother, but she loves to pretend her health is delicate and to quack herself every chance she gets.”

  The butler’s eyes widened reproachfully, but he said nothing, leading Beau to believe that her husband’s assessment was generally correct. Bradfield draped her redingote carefully over his arm and extended a hand for the rest of her things. Beau dropped her gloves into her hat and relinquished it to him.

  “Will you be staying for supper, sir? Shall I have your room made ready?”

  “No, Bradfield. We have to be on our way, but could you send tea to the Tapestry Room in an hour or so? Thank you,” Gareth said. “Well, love?” He held out his arm and Beau took it, letting him lead her across the open hall and up the stairs.

  “Is the entire house carved of stone?” Beau trailed her fingers along the ornate handrail.

  “Most of it, yes. Cold as a mausoleum,” he added as they reached the colonnade. Carpets that had obviously been woven for the space ran along the floor, cushioning their steps. “My brother’s most likely in his study. He has a whole suite of rooms, as far from the earl’s as possible. Let’s go flush him out.”

  A large double door, finished to match the stone walls, led to a drawing room furnished entirely in cream and gold. Gareth ran his fingers lightly over the keys of the pianoforte, trilling out part of a piece that Beau couldn’t quite remember. She tipped her head. He glanced over, a hint of color splashed across the sharp jut of his cheekbones.

  “I didn’t know you played,” she said.

  “Only very indifferently,” he replied, moving away from the instrument and leading her onward.

  One room flowed into the next, without benefit of corridors. Beyond the drawing room was a snug library with a desk and window that overlooked the expanse of lawn behind the house.

  Souttar spun around as they entered. “Gareth? What the hell are you doing in Yorkshire?”

  “Looking to give you a hint, brother,” Gareth said, a note of menace in his voice.

  Souttar stared back at them both, eyes slightly wild. Beau knew that expression. She’d seen it on many a cornered fox just before it threw itself at the lead dog. “About what?”

  “About the world of trouble that’s about to come down on your head. Someone’s been poking around. Sending out letters claiming Jamie’s mother is still alive. At the moment, whoever he is, he thinks that I’m the father, but if he finds Jamie’s mother, assuming he’s correct about her miraculous resurrection, the jig will be up.”

  Souttar’s face drained of color. Beau felt a pang of sympathy. He looked so much like Gareth that it was impossible not to do so. The same shock of white hair, same sculpted nose and high cheekbones. The only real difference between them was Gareth’s superior height and his sad brows. Souttar’s didn’t dip downward. They were straight, dark slashes that nearly met over the bridge of his nose.

  “So tell me,” Gareth went on, stepping closer to his brother, crowding him, “is Jamie’s mother alive? Because if she is, you’d best get to her first and get this settled as swiftly as possible.”

  Gareth’s brother shook his head. “I told you. She died,” he said a little too quickly and far too emphatically. “She died, and her brat got dumped on my doorstep.”

  “You mean your son,” Beau said with a flash of anger. “Because we’ve all seen him, and there’s no denying he’s a Sandison. He’s a butter pattern of you both.”

  Souttar stared at her dumbly, clearly not used to being spoken to in such a manner. Poor Olivia. Living in this mausoleum—for Gareth had quite correctly named it such—and married to such a dolt. Perhaps discovering that she was his bigamous second wife, and thus free to leave, wouldn’t be the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Beau looked Souttar up and down in disgust.

  “You’ve no right to look at me like that. No right to judge me.” He twitched his coat down by the pocket flaps, staring back at her defiantly.

  “She has every right, considering all the trouble that you’ve caused,” Gareth said, cutting off her own reply. “You’re a poor liar, Souttar. Always were. You should know the man behind the accusations has Jamie. He has him, and it’s entirely likely that he’ll use him to force a public declaration out of his mother. And if that happens, if it’s even remotely possible that it could happen, the pretense of Jamie being mine won’t stand.”

  “No?” Souttar lifted his chin, trying to brazen his way through the conversation.

  “No,” Gareth replied, a hard edge to his voice. “I was on the continent when this folly took place. People—father—won’t be fooled, and Beau’s family won’t stand for it.”

  “I tell you she’s dead.” Souttar’s voice rose an octave as he shouted, “She’s dead, and there’s nothing and no one to find.”

  Gareth shook his head and swept one arm toward the door, motioning her to precede him out. Beau took one last look at her husband’s brother and did as she was bid. Gareth caught up with her before she was halfway across the drawing room.

  “Hook baited?” she said.

  “Baited and set, I’d say,” he replied. “I suppose it was too much to hope for that he’d simply confess the truth and help. Now all we have to do is wait and follow.”

  “And hope Granby is close enough to uncovering the truth that we can catch him.”

  “That too,” Gareth said, taking her by the hand and leading her clockwise around the upper open corridor. He pushed open a door and motioned her in. “The Tapestry Room,” he said, allowing her to precede him.

  The room was small, really more of a closet than a drawing room. Just big enough for a fireplace and a writing desk. It had a window seat and was devoid of any ornamentation other than the magnificent tapestries that covered every wall.

  “They were specially woven,” Gareth said, crossing to sit by the window. “The countess wanted one comfortable room in the stone palace her husband built after the restoration of the monarchy. For the last several generations, it’s been the domain of one of the younger children. Most recently, me.”

  Beau wandered from wall to wall, studying the tapestry. The main scene was a medieval hunt, hounds and men in livery pursuing a stag. But over the fireplace, a life-sized hedgehog roamed, and there were other small creatures and birds peeking out of bushes and through the leaves of the trees.

  “Do you think your family would notice if we stripped the room bare and carried it all away with us?” Beau said, running her fingers over the hedgehog.

  “The family? Probably not. But Bradfield most certainly would.”

  “Are they Gobelin?”

  “Good eye.”

  “We’ve several at Lochmaben. One is original to the house, and the others Mother collected over the years. I’d love to show her this, though.”

  “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Unless the house burns to the ground—which is highly unlikely given that it’s entirely m
ade of stone—the room will be here any time you should choose to bring her.”

  “Assuming either of us is welcome here once this affair is concluded,” Beau said, crossing to join him on the window seat.

  “Well, there is that.” He took one hand in his own, circling his thumb in her palm. “But I’m sure Bradfield could always be trusted to smuggle us in.”

  Beau watched his thumb, let the sensation of his skin on hers wash over her. “Do you love me?”

  Gareth’s thumb stopped and his hand gripped hers. “I could ask the same thing, Beau. Was I simply an expedient method of self-preservation?”

  “That’s not an answer.” And she wanted an answer, wanted the actual words, not just veiled implications.

  He sighed and lowered his head so they were eye to eye. The blue of his irises blazed in the sunlight. “I’ve loved you since the hunt ball, where I refused to come to heel like your devoted spaniel, brat. Maybe even before that, but that’s the night I remember realizing it.”

  Beau nodded. “And so you avoided me,” she said softly.

  “I couldn’t have you, so why torture myself?”

  “And I ran after you like a child chasing a butterfly through the garden. How ridiculous I must have seemed.”

  Gareth chuckled softly. “You were adorable.”

  Beau bit her lip and then let it go. “You weren’t merely expedient,” she said. “If it had been Devere or Thane or any of Leo’s other friends who’d found me, I’d have gone chastely home.”

  Gareth yanked her onto his lap and his mouth descended on hers. He kissed her fiercely, tongue tangling with hers, teeth clashing. “You’re never again to say marrying me was a mistake,” he said.

  Beau grinned and caught her lips between her teeth. “If we’ve frightened Souttar sufficiently,” she said, dragging herself back to the most pressing of their problems, “when do you think your brother will leave?”

  “Not till after we’ve gone,” Gareth replied with a lopsided smile. “We’ll have tea and then be on our way. We can join your brother and Devere at The Bell and watch for Souttar. He’ll have to pass through the village on his way north.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Well, the hunt is on,” Devere said, as he and Vaughn vaulted into their saddles. The dust from Souttar’s coach was still visible, though it had been traveling at a rattling pace. Gareth nodded and sent them off with a slap to the hindquarters of Devere’s mare.

  One of them would circle back to report on Souttar’s path, the other sticking close behind. They’d agreed on a specific series of inns, in case something went wrong and they had to send a message rather than meet up themselves. Once they reached Scotland though, they’d have to wait and see what direction Souttar chose.

  He and Beau set off a short while later, Beau fidgeting and anxious. “I could take one of Souttar’s horses and send you home,” Gareth offered. “Or I could drop you at Lochmaben and you could try your luck explaining recent events to the duke.”

  Beau narrowed her eyes at him. “Feeling brave enough to face down my father? If Leo got a letter accusing you of being a bigamist, you can be assured that my father did as well.”

  Gareth smiled and shook his head. “Hence my concern,” he said lightly. “Or are you out for my blood now too?”

  “Just Souttar’s,” Beau said with a hard frown. “There’s no way he comes out of this clean.”

  “Not if Jamie’s mother really is alive, and I’m fairly certain that she must be. My brother looks fagged to death. A dead woman wouldn’t cause that much worry.” Gareth put his feet up on the rear-facing seat, one ankle crossed over the other.

  “No, but a live wife with a suit before the commissaries would,” Beau said.

  “The what?”

  “Commissaries,” she repeated, turning in the seat to face him. “The court in Edinburgh that oversees petitions for divorce. We Scots aren’t like the English. Women have the same rights as men when it comes to divorce, and the means of obtaining one are far simpler than in England. If Souttar’s first wife really is alive, and she can prove that they were married, she could cause a great deal of trouble by suing him for either abandonment or adultery.”

  Gareth winced, sucking a breath past his teeth. “Given that the announcement of his marriage to Lady Olivia was widely published, the adultery part would be easy enough to substantiate.” All the possible outcomes of such a suit swirled through his brain like a murder of crows, but his brain kept shying away from accepting the full horror.

  Beau’s eyes softened for a moment. She clearly understood exactly what was at stake. “And I’d wager that the man who brought Jamie to Ashburn is either the first wife’s lawyer, or someone hired by her lawyer. She’ll need a great deal of information to support her libel for divorce.”

  “So, Souttar put his own neck into the noose when he accepted Jamie,” Gareth said, all hope of rectifying the situation quietly withering away like a plant uprooted and left lying in the sun.

  Beau nodded grimly. “Though claiming paternity isn’t the same as admitting to the marriage. She’ll have to prove that first. If theirs was a typical irregular marriage, it will come down to testimony from their servants, neighbors, and clergy.”

  “Is there any chance at all of keeping it quiet?”

  “Do you mean is there any chance of your father, Souttar’s new wife, and the ton not finding out?” She shook her head, lower lip caught between her teeth. “No. She’ll be entitled to a third of his property, just as though he’d died, and I imagine she’ll have to sue in an English court to get it, which will cause additional problems and possibly drag the case out for years. Even if Souttar just wanted to give it to her, your father would have to be told in order for him to do so.”

  “So Souttar’s best hope is that the marriage can’t be proven, but even so, the scandal will be enormous. Once the suit is brought, and his name is attached, it will be in every paper in the British Isles.”

  “Do you think he even knows?” Beau said. Pity his brother didn’t deserve was writ plainly on her face. Or maybe it was pity for Lady Olivia. Lord knew someone ought to be thinking of her in all of this.

  “He must have an inkling by now,” Gareth said. “The sword of Damocles is dangling over his head and has been for months. Can you imagine his panic?”

  “I’d rather not,” Beau said with a shiver, lifting his arm and pulling it around her. “It’s a disaster for everyone involved. All I want is to get Jamie back. Whatever else happens is secondary and beyond our control.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Granby cursed as the street twisted again, winding through the sooty streets of Edinburgh. Somewhere in the muddle of stone buildings was his goal. At first, it had been hard to pick up the trail in Yorkshire, but once he had—thanks to a coachman with no love for their northern neighbors—the man who’d delivered the child hadn’t been that hard to trace. A Scottish man traveling with a child and no woman with them—well, that was unusual enough to be memorable to many. Add in the fact that the man’s accent was so thick as to be unintelligible and you had a very memorable man indeed.

  Granby had gleaned enough of a description to trace his way back along the route of the mail coaches that he’d taken all the way to Edinburgh. Along the way, he’d discovered the man was a lawyer. One Mr. Budel. Further inquires had uncovered offices in Bell’s Wynd.

  All that was left to do was find the child’s mother, or at the very least obtain proof of her marriage to Gareth Sandison. If she was preparing a libel for divorce, all the better. The news would be catastrophic, and it would travel the length of the country on mercurial wings. If she wasn’t, she’d have to be pressured into doing so, and his possession of her son ought to be more than persuasive.

  A trio of dogs ran yapping through the street, a boy in ragged breeches and coat chasing after them, a brace of rats hanging over one shoulder. A heavy dray shuddered to a stop, the driver cursing and waving his fist at the boy. Granby shrank back against
the wall to avoid the mud-caked wheels. The door to Budel, Dunlop, and Piget opened, and a silver-haired gentleman stepped out.

  Granby looked more closely as the man walked quickly past him. Not Gareth Sandison. His brother, Lord Souttar. A sick feeling crawled up his spine. He crossed the street and went quickly through the door that Sandison’s brother had just exited.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Budel,” Granby said.

  A squat man, well past his prime, stuck his head into the room. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Giles,” Granby said, extending his hand, the false name coming easily. “I’m working on behalf of Lord Souttar. I was delayed, and I think I missed our appointment. I need to see the file for his case.”

  “I can assure you it’s all in order, sir. The marriage is thoroughly documented and attested to, and in light of his second marriage, my client will have no trouble obtaining her divorce. You may see it all when we go before the commissionaires.”

  “So the lady will be seeking to prove her marriage to Lord Souttar?”

  “She will.”

  Granby ground his teeth as rage flushed through him. All this for nothing. Nothing. Without another word, he spun on his heel and marched out.

  When returned to the inn where he’d left Nowlin, it was to find the man hurriedly packing. “Going somewhere?”

  “There are men looking for you, sir.”

  “What men?”

  “I don’t know. I just know I heard a man asking after you by name. He gave a description as well: a one-eyed Englishman, possibly traveling with a child. It was the child they were most interested in. Offered a reward for any information leading to the boy’s discovery.”

  “And what were they told?”

  “Nothing. Only the innkeeper’s wife was present in the taproom, and she hasn’t seen you.”