It was time for Nicholas to lend a helping hand. “Are you saying you think women would be a match to men if they dressed the same?”
Fifteen sets of eyes swiveled his direction, but they immediately returned to Amelia when she tendered her response. “I do. Take riding, for instance. Many women are exceptional riders, but the restrictions of a side saddle and skirts limit their ability to compete in sport.”
“Compete!” Lady Chisholm’s shrill tones had drawn the attention of the rest of the party goers, including Lord Montrose. He was on the verge of turning purple and trying to make his way to Amelia’s side, but the crowd around her had grown too thick.
“You can’t honestly think a woman could outrace a man on a horse,” another man said. Nicholas recognized him as Mr. Bradley Preston, third son to Sir Walter Preston and a renowned gambler.
“I can and I do,” Amelia said earnestly.
Lady Chisholm wasn’t the only one to take offense to that, although she was certainly the loudest. Montrose had finally waded his way through to Amelia. Before anyone could say anything else, he dragged her off by the elbow.
Mr. Preston sneered.
Nicholas wanted to grind his face in the dirt. “I’ll wager a hundred pounds she can beat you in a matched race, Preston.”
“Do you mean that, or are you causing trouble?”
“I’m a Wakefield. We don’t cause trouble.”
Preston sized him up. “A hundred pounds?”
“One hundred pounds.”
“She’d never do it, though.” Preston’s covetous expression contradicted his words. He wanted that money.
“I can guarantee she would. If she doesn’t, I’ll consider the money forfeit.”
“Wakefield, you’ve got yourself a wager.”
A silent carriage ride later and Amelia was back at the townhouse, but when the wheels rolled to a stop Embry didn’t move to let her out.
“Embry?”
“I blame myself,” he said to the tops of his boots. “You were distraught and I neglected you. It’s only natural that you should seek to gain my attention other ways.”
For heaven’s sake. “I stand by the things I said, Embry.”
He waved it off like so much noise. “You’re hardly a bluestocking, Amelia. No, I drove you to this behavior and that villain Wakefield egged you on.”
Amelia was speechless. He was actually blaming himself—and now Nicholas as well. It was beyond comprehension.
After a moment, Embry nodded. “I will think of how to make this right. In the meantime, get some rest. You’re not yourself today, but I’m sure you’ll feel much better in the morning.”
He stepped out of the carriage and reached up to hand her down. There was nothing for her to do but take his offered hand. She could hardly live in the carriage, and she was too baffled by his thought process to trust herself to make a counter argument.
“Please make my excuses to your mother. I’ll come around for a visit tomorrow afternoon.”
Amelia nodded and made her way inside. How had her plan managed to go so far awry? She’d behaved abominably. She’d been difficult from the first moment, deliberately offended his family member, and caused a public spectacle. He should be livid, but instead he was making excuses and blaming himself. Was he truly that incapable of seeing her for herself?
“Amelia Marie Bishop!” Her mother shouted from the drawing room. “Get in here this instant.”
Apparently news traveled fast. “Yes, Mother?”
Lady Bishop put her pen down with a clatter, splattering ink across the lap desk. “Lydia Chisholm sent a rush message over with an appalling story about your behavior. I’m writing her an apology right now.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. She’s going to be my aunt, after all. I think she just has to learn to live with me.”
“What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Not nearly enough, apparently.” She couldn’t even scare off a fiancé properly.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh,” Amelia added. “Embry sends his excuses.”
“I should think so.”
“But he says he’ll call tomorrow.”
“You’d better pray he’s not calling to end your engagement.”
Amelia sighed. “He’s not. He assured me in the carriage that he doesn’t blame me for my opinions.”
“Well, if that isn’t a blessing I don’t know what is.”
The words faded as Amelia left and went upstairs again. She wished Julia was on her side. Julia would know how to get her out of this. Instead, Amelia had to face it alone. Being outrageous was exactly as awful as she’d always imagined it would be.
Chapter Eight
“I’m sorry, Lord Nicholas. She’s not at home.”
Nicholas stood in the parlor of the Bishops’ London house as Lady Bishop gave him an excessively polite brush off. “Do you know where she went?”
“I’m not certain.”
Because she was absolutely at home. Nicholas had watched her get out of Embry’s carriage.
Lady Bishop’s smile was stiff and did not reach her eyes—the picture of formality.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“I’m certain I don’t know.”
“Lady Bishop, I know she’s here. If there’s something I’ve done to offend you—”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. She’s not at home.” Lady Bishop led him to the door. “Probably out trying to apologize for her behavior at the garden party, but I’m certain you know all about that. I hear you were involved.”
Ahh. “Lady Bishop.”
“I’m afraid that’s all the time I have today. You’re welcome to leave your card, though.”
You’re welcome to leave your card. So. Nick had managed to make himself persona non grata with Lady Bishop. He cringed to think what Lady Wakefield would say when she found out. “Thank you, Lady Bishop.”
In the meantime, however, he needed to update Amelia on her impending horse race. If he wasn’t allowed to see her, he doubted a letter would get through unscathed.
It was time to take advantage of rank.
Nicholas took a hired carriage—this time to Jasper’s townhouse. He was not asked to leave his card, and instead was led directly up to Jasper’s bedroom where the man in question was undergoing a shave. The dubious benefits of friendship.
“Nicholas! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I could have waited downstairs.”
“Nonsense. It’s not like you never saw me shave in France.” Jasper lifted his neck so his valet could get the area under his chin. “Are you here for something in particular or purely the pleasure of my company?”
“I need your name.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Lady Bishop is attempting to give me the cut. She wouldn’t dare do it to a duke’s heir,” Nicholas said. “I need your name.”
There was a distinct twinkle in Jas’s eyes when he responded. “It is useful sometimes, isn’t it?”
“I need you to tell Amelia about the wager I put on her beating Bradley Preston in a horse race.”
“Amelia is racing Bradley Preston?”
“Yes, but she doesn’t know it yet.”
Jasper stood up, waving his valet off as he wiped the last of the cream from his neck. “What have you two been getting up to?”
“We went to Lady Chisholm’s salon. Amelia got into an argument over women’s rights, and I entered her into a horse race.”
For a moment, Jasper only stared at him. “At a salon.”
“Yes.”
“One of those boring parlor functions where some old battle-axe holds court over young people too insipid to challenge her?”
“Yes.”
“From now on, I am attending everything you attend,” Jasper announced.
“That’s not really—”
“I insist. London is going to be much more interesting
with you two running around stirring things up. Where you go, I go.”
“Fine,” Nicholas said. “As long as you’re also going to Amelia’s—right now.”
“Winslow, lay out something for visiting a respectable young lady and have the carriage brought around.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Winslow said before disappearing.
Nicholas knew from experience that getting dressed would take Jasper far longer than common sense dictated. He found a seat in a chair by the fireplace. “So. Tell her about the race, and I also need to know which room she’s staying in at the new townhouse.”
Jasper paused again, turning to him incredulously. “Why?”
“In case I need to speak with her.”
“I find this bedroom window precedent you two have going on most intriguing.”
“It’s not like that.”
“You realize you’re not fooling anyone, don’t you?”
Nicholas sighed. Being Jasper’s friend was exhausting. “It doesn’t matter. Her mother won’t let me past the front door, so I need to know which room is hers. In case something urgent arises.”
The smirk on Jasper’s face was not helping. “Oh, indeed.”
“Will you shut up and get dressed already?”
“As you wish,” Jasper said, still smirking.
Amelia was pleasantly surprised when the maid came to tell her Lord Bellamy had come to call. She’d expected to hear from Nicholas, but Jasper was an equally welcome boon to her spirits.
“Lord Bellamy!” She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“I don’t think your mother feels the same way,” Jasper said, with a tip of his head toward Lady Bishop’s rigid posture.
Her lips pursed visibly. “Lord Bellamy, I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”
Amelia was still feeling reckless in the wake of the Chisholm salon and there was something thrilling about Jasper’s candor. “She’s still angry with you for hitting Embry. My mother adores Lord Montrose, more than she likes me, I’m beginning to suspect.”
“Amelia!”
“We’re going to keep on like this, Mother. It might be kinder on your nerves if you let us speak in private.”
“Despite my derelict manners, I promise not to ravish your daughter senseless.” The way he said it was not convincing in the slightest.
Lady Bishop was the picture of indignation as she huffed and rose from her chair. “I’m leaving the door open.”
Amelia nodded, watching her go. “Goodness. I enjoyed that a little too much. She’s been so awful lately.”
Before Embry’s carriage axle had broken in front of their drive, her mother had been devoted to Julia. They had so many more shared interests—Amelia had often been happily left to her own devices with a book while the two of them poured over fashion plates and the latest dance steps. That her own mother could abandon Julia so abruptly, and over a ridiculous wedding, was appalling.
Jasper smiled. “I’m afraid it was contrived on my part. I needed to speak with you privately.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been sent as a messenger from Nicholas.”
“Why didn’t he come himself?”
“He did. Your mother told him you weren’t at home.”
For a moment, all Amelia could do was gape.
“It appears his role in your salon scandal has removed him from your mother’s good graces.”
“She has no right!”
Jasper patted her hand. “There, there. Is it so awful having to use me as a middle man?”
“Not at all, I just can’t believe it.” Amelia shook her head. “Did you know she banned my sister from my engagement party?”
“I did.”
“She’s gone completely addled over this engagement. It’s like she’s an entirely different person.”
“Well, hopefully when you manage to get yourself un-engaged, she’ll go back to normal.”
“Hopefully, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive her for what she’s done.” Amelia rubbed her temple. “Or that I’ll be able to get thrown over. Embry blamed himself for the argument with his aunt.”
Jasper’s eyebrow raised as he grinned. “How saintly of him.”
“It’s ludicrous. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Race Bradley Preston on Rotten Row.”
“Excuse me?” She couldn’t have heard him right.
“Apparently, our Nick signed you up for it already.” Jasper settled himself into an armchair, crossing a boot over his knee.
A race on Rotten Row? Was he mad? She clutched a settee pillow to her stomach, shaking her head. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“He’s on the hook for one hundred pounds if you lose or back out.”
“One hundred pounds!”
“Nicholas has great faith in your horsemanship.”
Amelia appreciated Nicholas’s confidence in her, but it was a lot of money to come up with if she lost, which she might very well do. She didn’t know a thing about Bradley Preston. He could be an exceptional rider. “Surely he must be joking. Rotten Row, in front of all those people?”
Jasper leaned back against the cushions. “Think of it as an excellent opportunity to commission a new pair of trousers.”
Amelia’s worried her lower lip with her teeth. “With a matching jacket?”
“Of course,” Jasper promised. “You’ll be impeccably fashionable.”
“While I engage in a scandalous public spectacle.”
“The best way to occupy one’s time when one is fashionable.”
Amelia grinned. It was impossible to be worried in Jasper’s company. “All right.”
He avoided looking at her, choosing instead to inspect the weave of his own cobalt trousers, when he said, “Nicholas also asked me to find out which room you’re staying in here.”
The barest of tingles started up under her skin. “Did he say why?”
“In case something urgent comes up.”
“I see.” Of course. If her mother wouldn’t let him in the house, he would need to reach her some other way. Jasper wouldn’t always be available to play messenger. “It’s on the first floor. Third from the back of the house.”
The sound of Lady Bishop coming back down the hall put an end to the discussion. “Amelia. You’d better go up and change soon if you don’t want to be late for dinner.”
“I won’t keep you,” Jasper said, rising to leave. “May I call on you again at the end of the week?”
“I don’t think—” Lady Bishop began.
“That would be lovely. I’ll make sure I’m available.”
Jasper bowed formally to her mother. “Lady Bishop, always a pleasure.”
Lady Bishop acknowledged him with a slight inclining of her head as he left. Then it was only her and her mother.
“What were you two discussing?”
“The usual,” Amelia answered. “Fashion. Horses. The new house.”
It wasn’t even technically a lie.
On his return—after an inconsiderate number of detours—Jasper announced that Nicholas would be responsible for the costume since it would be difficult for Amelia to procure men’s clothing without a great deal of questions being asked. In typical Jasper fashion, he had not collected any of the required information to accomplish that task, requiring Nick to go to great lengths to fulfill the promise. He went to his dressing room and dug through Bertram’s kit until he found a measuring cord. Stuffing it in his pocket, he went downstairs to call for the carriage.
There was still a great deal left to be weathered in the task of getting Amelia free of her fiancé. While he hoped to avoid bringing any shame to his family in helping her, he would see it through no matter the cost. Explaining that would take more than a few moments though, so he was glad when the carriage was announced.
Nicholas had the driver let him out around the corner from Amelia’s house and made his way through darkened alleys into the yard behin
d their townhouse. He found the window Jasper had described and started his assault with one of a handful of stones.
“You ought to fight giants,” Amelia’s voice drifted down.
“What?” he whispered back.
“David and Goliath. You ought to fight giants, the way you’re always throwing little stones.”
“Can we discuss the Bible at another time? Is it safe to come up?”
There was an agonizing pause as she went to check. “Yes. Be careful, though.”
As if he could be anything else, sneaking into a woman’s bedroom. He made his way up the back stairs and down the hall without incident, but he could practically feel his hair turning grey. When he closed the bedroom door she’d left cracked, Amelia laughed. “You look petrified.”
“You would, too, if you’d had to sneak around below stairs. This is why I have a tree by my window in the countryside.”
“Oh? You coordinated with the groundskeeper to make it easier for me to sneak into your bedroom?”
He would have, if he’d thought of it. “How can you be so calm? You’re usually at least as much of a wreck as I am.”
“Mother went off to the opera with a friend after dinner, and most of the staff have the night off.” She stretched out her arms. “I am blissfully alone. Anyhow, what was so urgent?”
“I need your measurements.”
Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “For?”
“Your riding costume. I need to have it made at my tailor, and I can’t exactly bring you in.” He held out Bertram’s measuring cord. “So I need measurements.”
Amelia blushed, studying the carpet for a moment before nodding. She moved to the middle of the room, arms still outstretched.
Nicholas tried. When they asked him at the gates of heaven, right before they refused him entry, he wanted it on record that he’d tried. He attempted to get an accurate measurement—first without touching her at all, and then without asking what he knew he needed to ask.
“What’s the matter?” Amelia asked. “Does it usually take this long?”
“No.” This was some sort of cosmic retribution.
“Well, what’s the trouble?”
“Your dress. The skirts are all in the way and it has inconvenient poofs in places and I—”
The Importance of Being Scandalous Page 12