But no matter her idiocy, perhaps it wasn’t a fatal mistake. Because he recognized the voice on the other side of the door. It belonged to West’s oldest sister, Clare, though how she knew the woman he’d just kissed was anyone’s guess.
He had a name to identify his mystery woman now. No longer Miss Mouse.
Miss Channing. It suited her, he supposed.
Had a bland, mouse-like ring to it.
He stood fast as the door swung open, hoping for the best. Surely his sister would not make a fuss, would recognize the danger, the need to protect Miss Channing. At least, he hoped she wouldn’t make a fuss. In spite of having scandalously wed a mere doctor, Clare could be rigid about some aspects of propriety. But as the doorway opened, he realized the situation might not be in Clare’s control. His sister had not come alone.
“Geoffrey,” Clare hissed, her eyes wide with horror. Her gaze darted between Miss Channing and himself, while behind her, an eager group of authors crowded in, Mr. Dickens himself at the forefront of the gathering crowd. “What on earth is going on here?”
Beside him, Miss Channing gave a small, desperate squeak.
“I . . . that is, we . . .” His explanation trailed off. Because what was he supposed to say? Miss Channing was well and truly ruined.
And the truth was, he hadn’t even touched her properly.
“Miss Channing,” Clare said in a desperate tone. She motioned in the area of her own properly buttoned bodice. “You might want to . . . ah . . . cover yourself.”
Miss Channing looked down at the hint of a coral nipple peeking out above her bodice. Her squeak evolved into more of a squawk. She began to pant, tugging at her neckline to cover the offending bit of flesh. But then her attentions shifted elsewhere. Her face turned white and she clawed at her sides before going limp, sliding against West in a dead faint.
He caught her, one-armed, and then lowered her carefully to the floor, cradling her head in his hand. He crouched beside her and stared down at her pale face, smoothing strands of dark hair from her forehead. Miss Channing was the fainting type?
It figured. Went with her mouse-like demeanor.
Although . . . she certainly hadn’t fainted when he’d kissed her . . .
“Somebody call a doctor!” one of the authors cried out.
“No need.” West reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a vial of smelling salts. He uncorked it and waved it beneath Miss Channing’s nose. After a moment, she began to sputter, her head thrashing from side to side.
Clare pushed him aside, falling to her knees beside the girl. “For God’s sake, Geoffrey,” she snapped, putting a hand beneath Miss Channing’s head and helping her to a sitting position. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously in his direction. “Why are you carrying smelling salts around in your jacket, anyway?”
“Haven’t you heard? Women are always pitching over in dead faints around me.” He shrugged. “I find it better to be prepared.” He eyed the milling group of authors, the whispers behind cupped hands. He tried on an apologetic grin, hoping he looked charming instead of rakish. “Must be the Westmore charm.”
Clare helped Miss Channing gain her feet. The poor girl was swaying, almost as if she had too much drink, and Clare led her toward two uncomfortable-looking chairs that several of the authors had hastily pushed together to make a sort of bed. Seeing that she was being cared for, West let his thoughts pull to the dilemma even more concerning than what to do with her.
In spite of the drama unfolding in front of him, he could not forget the conversation he’d just overheard in this room. Assassinate. Constitution. Those were not words used in jest.
He ought to know.
He’d done enough jesting in his life.
As soon as he could, he pulled Clare to one side, leaving the others to tend to the situation. “Listen, Clare, I think you ought to know . . . this business with Miss Channing . . . put it aside for a minute. We have just overheard an assassination plot.”
There was a moment of silence, clearly laced with disbelief. “An assassination plot?” Clare raised a dubious brow. “Involving whom?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Clare smacked him, hard against the ear. “Stop trying to distract me with your incessant games,” she fumed, letting her anger wind up the way she used to, when they were children and he’d done something terrible to vex her. “I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous thing—an assassination plot. Anyone with eyes in their head can see what you’ve been doing with Miss Channing behind closed doors!” She lowered her voice. “Her breast was exposed. What were you thinking, Geoffrey?”
“This isn’t a game.” West rubbed his ear. “And don’t call me Geoffrey, as if I’m still a child.”
“It is always a game with you. And if you don’t want to be called a child’s name, stop acting like a child.”
Guilt swirled, hot and thick, but so did resentment. But just as quickly as the anger rose up, his shoulders wanted to slump. Clare was right. Miss Channing wasn’t exactly a problem he could ignore. But perchance she was a problem he could pass off, at least until he could collect his thoughts. “Look.” He flashed his sister a hopeful smile. “This is all just a misunderstanding, and things will look better tomorrow. But . . . could you . . . ah . . . help her home?”
“Can’t you see?” Clare hissed, eyeing the group of authors who were all clucking over Miss Channing like a brood of agitated chickens. “I have to see her home. I am her chaperone!”
West blinked. “You are Miss Channing’s chaperone?” At his sister’s terse nod, he groaned. Miss Mouse was a woman whose pristine reputation required a chaperone?
Christ above. There was definitely going to be a fuss.
Clare’s eyes narrowed back at him. “You’ve been side-stepping your responsibilities ever since you returned from Crimea, acting more like the thirteen year old you once were than the grown man you ought to have become.” She crossed her arms. “I am sick of it all. And if I find out you forced yourself on her, so help me God . . . ”
Shame coursed through West. He wasn’t a man who coerced unwilling women.
But she hadn’t been unwilling, precisely.
She had kissed him back.
In the wake of his silence, Clare glanced toward the gaggle of authors, who were bent over Miss Channing’s form, murmuring false sympathies. She frowned in that big-sisterly way that had always set him on edge when they were children. “It’s not only about Miss Channing, though that ought to be enough to bring you around to the right decision,” she warned. “If you do not fix this, you will harm my and Daniel’s reputation as well.”
West flinched. His brother-in-law, Dr. Daniel Merial, was a good man, someone who had always believed in West’s potential and encouraged him against poor behavior. If there had ever been anything good in West, it was only there because it had been noticed and encouraged by Daniel. The thought of disappointing his brother-in-law was definitely enough to make him cringe. “I would not purposefully do anything to harm either of you—” he began.
“Purposeful or not, you know we depend on the good will of those influential in society to keep St. Bartholomew’s in enough funds to operate the charity ward here. It’s been a lean year, which is why we held tonight’s salon to raise more funds. If we are forced to close the charity ward because of this, you’ll be directly responsible for people’s deaths, Geoffrey.”
West remained silent.
Better that, than to confess to his sister they wouldn’t be the first.
She drew a deep breath. “You’ve really stepped in it this time, and you can’t brush this away the way you do your other indiscretions. This isn’t some willing widow, or a doxy who understands the rules of the game. This is the sister of the Earl of Haversham, one of Daniel’s dearest friends.”
“What?”
“And she is the sister of Lord Ashington’s new wife, as well.”
West reared back, feeling nearly a
s if his sister had struck him again. Ten feet away, a group of very famous authors were hovering over one very fragile girl, no doubt spinning stories in their mind, even as they pretended to care. A girl with apparently excellent connections, one who ostensibly moved in circles more lofty than his own.
“Bugger me blue,” he groaned.
Clare rolled her eyes. “That particular sin might not have gotten you in as much trouble.”
From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing
From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing
June 2, 1858
So this is how it feels to be ruined.
It is almost a relief to turn myself over to it. All those years of imagining it, reading about it . . . and now it has happened. I am ruined, and nothing worse can happen to me.
Eleanor, of course, was horrified, and spent all morning begging my forgiveness for forcing me to attend last night’s salon. My scoundrel’s name is Mr. Geoffrey Westmore, apparently. The future Viscount Cardwell. Mrs. Merial said she will ensure her brother does “the right thing”, whatever that may be.
Well, I must do “the right thing” as well. I am humiliated, of course, but I am far less frightened of my newly blemished reputation than by what I overheard in the library last night. I’ve read enough books to recognize a nefarious plot when I hear one. If Mr. Westmore doesn’t plan to do something about it, I fear I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.
If only I was brave enough to step outside . . .
Chapter 6
West sat at the Cardwell breakfast table, his head cradled in his hands, though he’d not had a drop to drink. In fact, after the debacle in the library, he’d come straight home—an uncharacteristic diversion from his usual nocturnal patterns. He’d paced his carpet into the wee hours of the morning, studying both of his dilemmas from every possible angle.
And finally, he’d reached an unpalatable decision.
Nearly as unpalatable as his breakfast. After such a long night, he ought to be ravenous, but the sight of eggs and toast this morning made his stomach turn. The only good thing he could imagine doing with his fork this morning was sticking it in his eye.
“You are up early today, Geoffrey,” his father observed from across the table, rattling his morning paper.
“Yes, it is good to see you up for a change, and on a Wednesday, no less,” Mother chimed in as if the day of the week made a difference. She lifted a cup of chocolate to her lips. “Though, you’ve shadows beneath your eyes. Are you getting enough sleep, dear?”
“Mmmph,” West replied, capable of little else. His parents might think his appearance this morning at the breakfast table was a good sign, but they didn’t know the truth: he was only here because he’d been unable to sleep.
And because he had a sour bit of business to tend to this morning.
He stared down at the eggs on his plate, contemplating whether he could choke them down. Relief from that decision came in the sound of shoes clicking against the floorboards. His gaze pulled toward the dining room door to see Wilson appear, a smile replacing the servant’s usual scowl. “You’ve a visitor, Lord Cardwell,” he announced, sounding happy for once.
“A visitor?” Father nudged his spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose. “It is scarcely nine o’clock in the morning.” He looked down at his plate. “And we already finished all the eggs, thanks to Geoffrey’s unexpected appearance at breakfast.”
Clare appeared at Wilson’s side. “Fortunately, it is a visitor who doesn’t expect to be fed,” she announced, looking crisp and polished as she sailed into the room. She slid seamlessly into the chair where she’d always sat growing up, and beamed up at the butler. “Thank you for announcing me so formally, Wilson. My life is so different now—sometimes I forget what it is like to have a lovely friend of a butler greet you at the door.” Clare’s smile shifted to their parents. “Mother, Father, it is good to see you all.”
“Well, I must say, this is a lovely surprise,” Mother exclaimed. “Just like old times, when we’d gather every morning for a family breakfast.” She sighed, almost wistfully. “If only Lucy and Lydia were here too. Though there are times I enjoy the quiet, I miss having my children in the house again. Geoffrey is hardly ever up in time for breakfast anymore.”
“Oh, I don’t think we want Lucy and Lydia to hear what I’ve come to discuss just yet.” Clare’s smile faltered, and she pulled a folded up bit of newsprint from her reticule and placed it in front of her. “It’s a bit delicate, actually.”
His mother put down her cup of chocolate. “Has something happened to you or Daniel?” Her hand fluttered near her throat. “Or one of the children?”
“No, no, the children are fine, and already at their lessons for the day. As for whether something has happened to me or Daniel, I think that depends on Geoffrey’s decisions this morning. We’ll be fine, I think, if he comes up to scratch.” His sister looked at him, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Has he told you about what happened last night?”
“Clare—” West warned. Surely this was the sort of conversation best had in private.
“What has he done now?” Mother asked, sounding resigned. “Is it worse than last year, when he took out an advertisement in the London Times and advertised Cardwell House for sale?”
West winced. That had been blown entirely out of proportion, a bit of fun intended to make his father sweat after threatening to cut off his monthly allowance for some small transgression. The advertisement had offered the house and its furnishings—including several Ming dynasty vases and the gold-plated china—for two hundred pounds. There’d been a line of agitated buyers a half mile long wrapping around Grosvenor Square, all desperate to purchase such a valuable property for such a paltry price. His father had certainly been surprised.
So had West when the authorities had knocked on the door and accused him of fraudulent advertising.
Clare shook her head. “Worse.”
“Is it worse than that time he let the rats loose in the room of that bully at Harrow?” Wilson chuckled.
The pounding in West’s head got worse. However well-intentioned, that had been an adolescent prank that had miscarried. Although the rats were intended to terrorize Peter Wetford—the son of the Duke of Southingham, a brutish young man who liked to pummel those with lesser titles and who, thanks to room assignments based on alphabetic order, occupied the room next door to him at Harrow—the rats showed no allegiance to worthy causes. They had chewed beneath the walls and found their way back to West’s room.
He still woke up sometimes at night, drenched in sweat, the sensation of rats climbing over him all too real, and in all too delicate of places.
“It is worse than Harrow,” Clare said firmly.
The serving maid giggled. “Surely it isn’t worse than the time he snuck into the Duke of Southingham’s house?” The girl’s cheeks pinked up. “My friend told me about that one. She told me the entire household was in an uproar when he was caught with the duchess’s maid.”
West slumped in his chair. Bloody wonderful. Now, now even the downstairs crowd was spreading tales of his exploits, and ones scarcely suitable for his mother’s ears.
“I feel quite sure it must be worse than his inflated-bladder-on-the-stairwell routine,” his father interjected. “Stepped on that one this morning. Nearly scared the living daylights out of me.” He looked sternly over the top of his spectacles. “Honestly, Geoffrey, you need to find another place to put it. Frightening people on the stairs could have dire consequences. You wouldn’t want someone to fall.”
“It is worse than any of it, I promise you.” Clare leveled a look at him, a look he knew all too well from growing up with a shrew for a sister. “I suppose he’ll claim it’s all a misunderstanding, as he only did it to thwart an assassination plot,” she said, bringing a round of laughter from family and servants alike.
West looked down at his eggs again, his gaze lingering on the glistening mess. Thanks to Clare, they’d never be
lieve him if he told them what he’d heard now, would presume it was just another one of his infamous tricks.
Come to think of it, the authorities probably would think it another one of his practical jokes as well. He knew all too well there was a two-inch-thick file with his name on it in the local constable’s office, overlooked only because of his father’s generous contribution to the Fund for Constabulary Widows and Orphans.
How was he to convince someone to take his worries seriously if they all refused to believe he was capable of anything more than an elaborately planned hoax?
Clare slid the folded bit of newsprint across the table to their mother. “His newest sin is ruining Miss Mary Channing, the Earl of Haversham’s sister. It happened last night, and the gossip columns have all covered it quite thoroughly this morning, even going so far as to identify the poor woman by name.” She leaned back in her chair, not needing to say the rest of it.
And I’ve come this morning to ensure he makes amends.
West’s mother unfolded the gossip column, her lips moving silently as she read. West waited in stiff silence. It was usually considered quite a badge of honor to hold a featured spot in the daily rags, but this morning it felt far less a badge than a noose.
“Geoffrey,” his mother gasped, looking up through rounded eyes. “Is this horrible bit of gossip true?”
“Yes.” He met and held his parents’ shocked gazes. They might not believe an excuse of a treasonous plot, but his past romantic adventures and rumors of his exploits about town ensured they would believe this about him. “I simply hadn’t had a chance to say anything yet. I had planned to tell you both.”
And he had. This was no simple rig, to be swept under a rug. He wasn’t at school, where expulsion was the worst he could expect, or on board a ship, where a half-dozen lashes with a cat of nines would set things straight. He could feel the weight of his sister’s disappointment and the desperation that had brought her here, running below the surface of this conversation. He couldn’t ruin his family. Clare’s and Daniel’s hard work was the only thing holding the hospital together.
The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel Page 6