A Matter of Scandal

by Suzanne Enoch

  Grey rubbed his knuckles against his aching temple. “If my finances were as limited as yours, I would be spending my time going over the new estate plans for Haverly and figuring out how to adapt some of them to Dare.”

  The viscount rode in silence for a long moment. “Well,” he said finally, pulling his horse back around to face toward Basingstoke, “since we’re giving unsolicited advice, allow me to inform you that if you keep heading down this particularly obnoxious path, Your Grace, you may find the rest of yourself resembling the rotting carcass your insides have already become.”

  As Dare disappeared back around the curve in the road, Grey slowed Cornwall to a walk. When Tristan had inherited Dare Park three years ago, the debts had been piled so high around the once-grand estate that he’d barely been able to see over them. Adding to that the rumor that the old Lord Dare’s death hadn’t been the accident the family made it out to be, and four younger brothers to be educated or in need of incomes, it was a miracle that Tristan Carroway hadn’t immediately become the cold, liquor-pickled mirror of his father.

  “Damnation,” Grey muttered, and kneed Cornwall again. Apparently he was winning the race of which of them would first turn into their damned fathers.

  He wasn’t going to take all the blame himself, though. Not today. After meeting those outspoken school chits, he could almost believe the headmistress had maneuvered him into making the wager in the first place. He wasn’t sure whether he’d be better off trying to mold his so-called students into the sort of chits he could tolerate, or just shortening his sentence.

  As he reached the manor’s front entry, the doors slammed open. Charles Blumton hurtled down the chipped granite steps toward him, approaching so quickly that Cornwall shied away from his flapping coattails.

  “Thank God, Wycliffe!” he panted, dodging Cornwall’s prancing. “Come down from that monster and help me!”

  “Help you do what?”

  “Rescue Alice, of course!”

  Grey jerked the reins, and the bay came to an abrupt halt. “I am not participating in one of Alice’s little tantrums.”

  Charles grabbed onto the bridle, narrowly avoiding the gelding’s snapping teeth. “No, it’s not that at all. She’s stuck!”

  “Stuck where?” Grey asked skeptically.

  Blumton hesitated. “Well, you’d better come see.”

  If nothing else, it would distract him from Emma. Scowling as much at that thought as in anticipation of whatever mayhem lay inside, Grey swung down from Cornwall and tossed the reins to a hovering groom.

  “All right.” He gestured for Charles to precede him. “Enlighten me.”

  Charles hopped up the steps. “I’m not really sure what happened. Your aunt, Alice, and Lady Sylvia were chatting about that wager you made with that bluestocking chit, and then Alice decided she would get to the bottom of your ruse.”

  “My ruse?” he repeated coolly.

  Blumton paled. “That’s what she called it. I think it’s a bloody fine wager.”

  Hobbes wasn’t in the hallway as Blumton dashed through it and up the stairs, Grey following at a more dignified pace. The butler’s absence concerned him more than Charles’s hysterics; Hobbes had some common sense in his skull.

  “Where are we going?”

  Charles stumbled on the stairs. “You know, you really shouldn’t leave me in charge,” he said, picking himself up again. “You and Dare go riding off, and then your uncle—well, I don’t know where the devil he is, and—”

  “Don’t you dare poke me with that! Help!”

  A dozen servants and Aunt Regina were crowded around the open door of Grey’s bed chamber. Considering that he’d closed and locked the door this morning, the activity didn’t bode well. “What in damnation—”

  “I warned her not to be such a nitwit.” Lady Sylvia appeared in the doorway, and the servants scattered. She stepped back as Grey strode into the room—and stopped.

  Alice Boswell stood in his window. Actually, she stood outside his window, on the narrow ledge just below it, and leaned into the room, one hand wrapped around the heavy curtains. With the other hand she batted at the broom Hobbes held pointed in her direction.

  “Grey, save me!” she wailed as she caught sight of him.

  “Step over the damned windowsill,” he snapped.

  “I can’t! My gown is caught.”

  Hobbes gave him a pained look. “We’ve been attempting to free Miss Boswell, Your Grace, but without much success.”

  “They’re trying to kill me!” she gasped.

  “If only.” Cursing, Grey stalked to the window, wrapped his arms around her trim waist, and pulled.

  With a rip, the fabric of her skirt came free. Alice half stumbled into the bed chamber, clutching Grey’s shoulder for balance as he yanked her forward.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she sobbed, clinging to him.

  “Miss Boswell,” he said, his jaw clenched yet again, “do not enter my private chambers again without my permission.”

  “But Grey—”

  He set her away from him, untangling her fingers from his lapels. “Is that clear?”

  Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed down her ivory cheeks. Before he could applaud her theatrical skills, though, she gathered her torn skirt and fled the room. Blumton opened his mouth, apparently read the look on Grey’s face, and exited on her heels. Aunt Regina followed them, an unsurprised expression on her face. Evidently she expected such behavior from the female companions of Brakenridge men.

  “Hm,” Sylvia murmured from the doorway. “You haven’t exactly quieted anyone’s curiosity, Your Grace.”

  He faced her, annoyed and frustrated that even this little play hadn’t taken his mind for one instant away from a damned headmistress who didn’t seem to be moved at all by his kissing her. “There is nothing to be curious about. I’m in Hampshire at my uncle’s request. The lot of you are here so you wouldn’t gab my whereabouts all over London.”

  She glided up to him, all long lashes and cool blue eyes. He hadn’t quite figured out why she’d been visiting his box at Vauxhall that night, because they were only casual social acquaintances. Knowing that she’d been hunting Tristan explained a great deal, though it left open the question of why she continued to remain at Haverly.

  She reached up to straighten his cravat. Perhaps she’d chosen a new target in lieu of Tristan.

  “Your uncle’s request explains why you journeyed to Hampshire,” she said in her honeyed voice, “but it doesn’t explain why you’re wagering with bookish females and banning your mistress from your bed chamber.”

  “Because I choose to do so.”

  She lowered her hands and nodded. “I do like a man who knows what he wants. Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

  “Lady Sylvia.”

  He would have closed the door after her, but Blumton and the servants had knocked it off its hinges during their rescue attempt. With a sigh, Grey dropped into the chair at his dressing table. Damnation. Alice left him with nothing but a feeling of mild disgust anymore. Even the elegant Sylvia didn’t stir him, though she apparently had further temptations in mind.

  Perhaps that was it: he was used to females who pursued him. Since he’d turned eighteen, he’d been deluged with perfumed skin and dropped scarves and female callers whose carriages mysteriously broke down at his doorstep in the middle of the night. He hated it, but he expected it. Caroline had provided a small buffer until she’d decided to take the reins and run the proverbial horses off the proverbial cliff, after which the hounds had returned in force.

  Emma Grenville, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be interested in him at all. Given the way he’d been behaving, though, that shouldn’t be surprising. He’d grown adept over the years at being arrogant and boorish just to give himself a moment to breathe while his opponents and pursuers regrouped. After today, Alice would no doubt begin trying to poison him. He would be lucky if Tristan didn’t join her.

  Well, he could
still do something about his friend, at least. Climbing to his feet again, he went downstairs and left instructions for someone to repair his door, then headed out to find a groom and his horse. There were only three inns in Haverly’s immediate vicinity; Tris was bound to be at one of them. A few glasses should put them both in better humor. At least, he hoped so.

  Emma tapped her pencil against the worn surface of her desk, scowling at the pages spread out before her. It had only taken a few minutes of skimming through the duke’s closely spaced figures and descriptions for her to realize that her task was going to be much more difficult than she’d envisioned, and that coming up with a better estate plan than his was going to be nearly impossible.

  True, she managed the Academy and made a profit in the process. With the school, though, it was straightforward: one source of income, and the expenses for payroll, food, supplies, rent, and upkeep. An estate was infinitely more complicated, with—

  “Miss Emma, another of the Haverly gentlemen is at the front gate!”

  She jumped as Elizabeth Newcombe charged into her office. “Lizzy, please calm yourself.”

  Elizabeth glared at her. “I’m very calm, Miss Emma. I’m just wondering how many men are going to be instructing us.”

  “Just the one.”

  “Good. He’s quite enough. This other one gave me a shilling, though, to come and tell you he was here.” She held out the bright copper coin.

  “Elizabeth, that is a bribe.”

  “No, it’s not, because I would have told you about him, anyway.”

  Well, that seemed logical. “Come along, then, and we’ll go see what he wants.”

  A crowd of girls surrounded the front gates, their giggling chatter audible from halfway across the yard. She frowned. Allowing the Duke of Wycliffe into the Academy had been an unfortunate necessity, but she had no intention of permitting the reputation of the school, or the behavior of its students, to suffer because of his presence.

  “Ladies,” she said sternly as she approached, “I believe this afternoon is for writing letters or for reading. We do not stare, we do not gawk, and we do not make spectacles of ourselves.”

  “I take all the blame on myself, Miss Emma,” the tall, dark-haired viscount from Wycliffe’s group drawled from the far side of the gates. “It’s just my devastating charm.”

  Emma stopped at the gate. “The Duke of Wycliffe isn’t here, Lord…”

  “Dare. Tristan Carroway. Wycliffe was too occupied with trying to bring you to ruin to introduce us.”

  “Trying, perhaps, but I can assure you that he won’t succeed. Is there—”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here.” He glanced beyond her, to the grassy park where she could still hear giggling and whispering. “Is there somewhere we could chat?” he asked.

  “Men aren’t allowed on Academy grounds, my lord. And unfortunately, I’m quite busy at the mo—”

  “Just five minutes,” the viscount interrupted, favoring her with an engaging smile. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  Under normal circumstances she would have refused. Nothing about the past two days, though, had been normal. And if Lord Dare could give her some insight into Wycliffe’s character, that could only be beneficial.

  “Five minutes,” she said, pulling the gate key from her pocket. Tobias only manned the gate when she was out in the cart or on Pimpernel, so she wouldn’t have to climb down to open it. Most of the time, the gate simply remained locked against the outside world.

  Emma slipped through the heavy iron and closed it again behind her. “How may I assist you then, my lord?” she asked, leading him toward the walking path which meandered in a wide circle around the Academy.

  He fell into step beside her, tugging on his horse’s reins to lead it along behind them. “I’ve come to offer you my assistance.”

  “Your assistance in what?”

  “In winning the wager.”

  She stopped, surprised. “Why?”

  Lord Dare shrugged. “General contrariness.”

  It was tempting to accept, but considering Wycliffe’s confidence in his imminent victory, it also seemed far too convenient. “I appreciate the offer, my lord, but I’m sure you understand if I don’t quite…trust its sincerity.”

  He gave a brief grin. “Zooks, you make me feel like Iago or Lady Macbeth or something. Not that I blame you, of course. You have to realize, though, that we have something in common.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “We both want to see the Duke of Wycliffe lose.”

  Emma frowned. “But I thought you were his friend.”

  “I am. That doesn’t keep me from finding him completely insufferable, sometimes. I’ve decided this will be good for him.”

  Hope touched Emma as she studied the expression in his light blue eyes, less amused than she expected. To have a landed lord assisting her would more than even the odds. “His Grace offered his own expertise to me, so I can’t think how accepting yours could possibly be cheating,” she said slowly.

  “It wouldn’t be cheating. It would be brilliant.”

  It would certainly serve Wycliffe right. She drew a breath. “Shall we go for a walk then, my lord? I have a few questions for you.”

  Lord Dare nodded. “I am at your service, my lady.”

  Chapter 7

  Grey looked down at his guard. “Your headmistress sent you to escort me?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  Elizabeth Newcombe shook her head, gesturing at sharp-elbowed Miss Perchase behind them. “I thought Miss Perchase might wish the company.” The infant leaned closer and cupped a hand to her mouth, whispering, “She has the vapors.”

  “Ah.” Leaving Cornwall with the troll, he fell into step beside the little chit as Tobias swung the gate closed and headed back to wherever he went when he wasn’t guarding the fortress. “And where is Miss Emma?”

  The Latin instructor cleared her throat. “Miss Emma is otherwise occupied.”

  “Otherwise occupied with what?”

  “With studying estate management,” Lizzy supplied.

  Grey glanced toward the stairs as they entered the main building. “She’s in her office, then? I did require a word with her this morning.”

  “Oh, no. She drove out to Haverly with that other gentleman.”

  A few things that had been bothering him since yesterday clicked into place. “Lord Dare, you mean?”

  “Yes. He gave me a shilling.”

  “Elizabeth,” Miss Perchase remonstrated, too late to quell the chit’s tongue.

  That explained why the rat hadn’t been at any of the local inns or taverns yesterday afternoon. He’d told Tris to have a go at Emma, but he hadn’t meant it, damn it all. And now they expected him to sit in a classroom all morning while Tristan explained how water helped crops grow and charmed the headmistress right out of his grasp.

  “Are students allowed to leave the Academy grounds, Miss Perchase?”

  “I…it’s…it’s not encouraged, Your Grace.”

  Lizzy looked up at him. “We are, but not without an instructor.”

  A slow smile touched his lips. “I’m an instructor.”

  “My…Your Gr—”

  “You want to take us out? But you’re supposed to be teaching us ballroom decorum.”

  “I cannot condone—”

  “That begins well before a ball. And London has parks and gardens, you know. Dozens of them. Why don’t you and Miss Perchase fetch your classmates, and I’ll have the tr…Tobias rig out some transportation for us?”

  Elizabeth looked at him dubiously. “All right, but I don’t think Miss Emma would like it.”

  “Then she shouldn’t have hired me. I’ll be waiting for you out front.”

  With another suspicious look at him, Elizabeth grabbed the Latin instructor’s hand and hurried off. Humming, Grey retraced his steps outside. The entire old monastery echoed with whispers of female voices and lavender perfume. He wondered what the monks w
ould think of having these hallowed floors, upon which they’d knelt to worship, being trod by countless chits bent on hunting husbands.

  The troll kingdom turned out to be the stable. Other than an old two-seater curricle, the only transportation the Academy possessed was the cart Emma had driven yesterday. With a sigh, Grey helped Tobias rig it out. At last count he owned three phaetons, four coaches, a barouche, and five curricles, and he could think of at least two cronies in London who would die of laughter if they ever saw him driving five little chits in a cart. Emma was going to pay for this, and he knew precisely how. The thought of her slender body spread beneath him, her auburn curls lying across the pillow while he took his delicious revenge, left him taut with impatience.

  “Ye taking the young ones out for a nature study, then?” Tobias asked as they brought the rig around to the front door.

  “Something like that. Did Miss Emma say where she was headed this morning?”

  “Aye.”

  Females had no idea how to hire proper servants. “And where was she going this morning?” he asked, doubting that Tobias had any idea how patient he was being or how thankful the gatekeeper should be for that fact.

  “With that other fellow from Haverly.”

  Grey took a deep breath. In about another two minutes he was going to thrash the man. “Tobias, have you considered what I—”

  “Hold on, Your Grace,” the old groom interrupted. “I’ve worked here for thirty years, since the day Miss Grenville opened the doors. I’m an old tomcat, and these girls—all of ’em—are my kittens. Nobody harms my kittens. So whatever trouble you’ve a mind to cause for Miss Emma, don’t expect me t’make it any easier for you.”

  Grey looked at Tobias for a long moment, reassessing his estimation of the troll. “Interesting,” he finally drawled, “but I’m here to win a wager. Your ‘kittens’ will receive no harm from me.” If a certain cat among them wanted to play, though, he would be more than happy to oblige.

  “I’ll be keeping my eye on you just to be sure of that, Your Grace.”