Scandalous

by Karen Robards

  “What have you done with Barnet? He wouldn’t leave me, I’ll be bound.”

  Taking care not to move more of himself than was needful, he raised a hand to the wound. When he pressed, it hurt.

  “I sent him to bed. He was worn out. And you should leave that alone.” Gabriella was scowling at him: a reward, no doubt, for his earlier smile.

  “So you persuaded him to trust you, did you? I compliment you. Under the circumstances, that’s quite a feat.”

  Abandoning his tactile exploration of the bandage that wound round his midsection, he lay still for a moment, gathering his resolve for another try at sitting up. His gaze moved over her. There was the faintest damp spot over her breast, he discovered with interest, a tiny circle of darker black on black that would be practically invisible to anyone who didn’t know what he was looking for. But he knew, and enjoyed watching her eyes widen and her arms fold quickly over her chest as she noted where his gaze lingered and realized, too, why.

  “Needs must, as the saying goes.” Her eyes narrowed, and her voice was wintry.

  Jem nodded agreement. It was amusing to realize that of the two, the servant’s was now the friendlier expression. Of course, that was like saying, of an asp and a cobra, that one was the friendlier deadly snake.

  “We’ve been takin’ care of you in shifts. Fair worn us ragged, you have, especially Miss Gabby here. For meself, I say you ain’t worth it.”

  “Why you? Why not the servants?” Ignoring Jem, he directed his question to Gabriella.

  “Because you were out of your head with fever, and chatty with it. Under the circumstances, I thought it best that the servants at least not be made privy to all your secrets.”

  It was her turn to smile at him. Very malicious that smile was, too. The obvious implication was that she now knew all his secrets.

  He smiled back at her, and damn the effort involved.

  “Very wise of you. If indeed they, or anyone,” he gave her a meaningful look, “learned all my secrets, I’d probably have to kill them.”

  That wiped the smile from her face, just as he had intended. Both she and Jem regarded him with stony glares.

  “Shame on you, you scoundrel, to go a-threat-enin’ of one who has saved your life. If Miss Gabby hadn’t . . .”

  “That’s enough, Jem. One cannot expect someone of his stamp to be grateful for care rendered.”

  The disdainfulness of this reminded him of how haughty she could be. And remembering how haughty she could be made him remember other things about her, too—such as how very unhaughty she’d been when he’d had his hand, and his mouth, on her breast.

  If they’d been alone, that’s just what he would have said.

  His gaze met hers. Something in his expression must have given her some inkling of what he was thinking, because her cheeks deepened to the color of summer roses.

  “Is there water?” he asked abruptly. Embarrassing her in front of her servant was not his intention, and she was too transparent to keep much hidden if he continued to tease her. Besides, he was truly thirsty. His tongue felt like a slab of leather, and his throat was as parched and scratchy as if he’d been swallowing sand.

  “Yes, of course.” Her annoyance at him was not proof against her nursing instincts, he was glad to discover. She moved toward the bedside table, glancing over her shoulder at her servant at the same time.

  “Get a pillow under his head, please. ’Twill make drinking easier.”

  His eyes met Jem’s, and for an instant he and the servant stared at each other measuringly. The old man would just as soon have left him lying as he was; that much was plain in his eyes. For his own part, he didn’t much like accepting help at the best of times, and especially not from someone who looked at him as he might a pheasant whose neck he longed to wring. But being flat on his back made him feel vulnerable, and feeling vulnerable was not something he was used to, or enjoyed. And drinking when one was lying flat on one’s back carried its own difficulties.

  By way of compromise, when Jem, with an incomprehensible but obviously less than complimentary mutter, reached for a pillow, he lifted his head. When a second pillow was pressed into duty beneath the first and the servant straightened, the two of them regarded each other with dislike.

  “You might throw some more coal on the fire. It’s dying down.” With this direction to Jem, Gabriella took the servant’s place beside the bed. Sitting down on the edge of it, rather uncomfortably he thought, she took a spoon, dipped it into a glass she held, and carefully conveyed the brimming utensil toward his mouth.

  “You’re very good at this,” he murmured provocatively, remembering how she had once fed him broth and quite unable to resist teasing her. Gabriella’s lips compressed—as he had noted before, they were really quite luscious when she didn’t have them folded into an angry line—but she continued with her self-appointed task.

  His fingers closed around her wrist when he had had his fill of water, trapping her hand in midair as it still clutched the now empty spoon. Her skin was silky to the touch; her bones felt as delicate as if they were made of spun glass.

  She stiffened. Her wrist was suddenly rigid beneath his hand. Her eyes were wary as they met his.

  “Thank you for your care of me,” he said quietly, so that the servant would not hear. The air between them was suddenly charged with electricity. There was confusion, and perhaps even a touch of panic, in her eyes as she registered it. Beneath his fingers, he could feel her pulse begin to race.

  Completely of its own volition, his gaze fell to her lips. They were slightly parted as she breathed through them. He distinctly remembered what he had said to her once before: you have the most kissable mouth.

  If it had been true then, it was doubly true now.

  Even as he focused on her lips, they met in a snug line. Glancing up to meet her gaze, he realized that she was remembering, too. She stood up abruptly, pulling her wrist free of his hold.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, her voice cool, and turned away from him without another word. Putting the glass and spoon down on the bedside table, she spoke to Jem.

  “I am going to bed,” she said. “Good night.”

  Then, without so much as another glance or word for him, she turned and disappeared through the door that joined their chambers. He watched with a darkening frown as she closed it carefully behind her.

  A moment later, a decided click told him that she had locked it tight.

  Left alone with Jem, he eyed the man with disfavor and said, “You may summon Barnet.”

  18

  By that evening, Wickham was measurably better, reportedly sleeping a large part of the time but aware and talking when he was awake. Plainly a corner had been turned. This information, which everyone else seemed to feel was the best of good tidings, Gabby had from Barnet, as she absolutely refused to go next or nigh her pestilent “brother” ever again in her life. He was clearly a conscienceless libertine, and she was just as clearly far too susceptible to his wiles. The only thing to be done was to keep out of his way. Now that there was no longer any question of the patient’s life being in danger, she excused herself from her nursing duties without compunction. With Wickham conscious, she judged it safe enough to detail a cadre of servants to assist in his care. His Lordship, according to Barnet, who persisted in giving her regular updates on his progress whether she wished to hear them or not, no longer talked out of turn, so there was little fear of any secrets being inadvertently revealed.

  Even while Wickham had been lying stricken abovestairs, visitors, whom one might have supposed would stay away out of respect for the supposedly distressed nature of the household, had called in droves as word of the earl’s mishap apparently spread with the speed of a wildfire throughout fashionable London. A missive had arrived from Lady Salcombe, bidding her nieces to present themselves at her house at a certain hour three days hence. Cards had been left by the dozen; with Wickham out of the woods and Gabby now ready to receive them in
person, callers flocked to their door. Lord Denby, claiming a close friendship with the stricken earl, was one of the first to be admitted, on the afternoon of the day when Gabby had abandoned her nursing duties. After inquiring politely about his friend’s well-being, he spent an agreeable quarter hour flirting madly with Claire.

  In this pursuit he was soon joined by the Honorable Mr. Pool, Lord Henry Ravenby, and Sir Barty Crane. These visitors were unexpected, but Gabby, mindful that Claire’s marriage was the ultimate object of all her machinations, and would, moreover, free her from any obligation to the rogue abovestairs, received them with all the hospitality Wickham House could muster.

  Somewhat less welcome was Lady Ware, who floated into the already crowded drawing room just as the aforementioned gentlemen were taking their leave, bestowed air kisses upon Gabby and Claire as if they were bosom friends, and joined the small cluster of gathered ladies in exclaiming over the earl’s accident before settling down to chat of fashionable on-dits about town. Although she stayed no longer than the correct quarter of an hour, when she stood up to go Gabby was conscious of a disproportionate feeling of relief. Claire’s whispered admiration of the lady’s gown—a simple sky-blue silk obviously designed to showcase a bosom that even Gabby had to admit was magnificent—irritated her, but not nearly as much as the note Lady Ware pressed into her hand as she took her leave.

  “Something to cheer up poor dear Wickham,” Lady Ware said with a naughty smile.

  Gabby, accepting the sealed missive because she could think of no civil way to decline it, just managed to summon a smile in return as she battled the urge to crush the billet doux in her fist.

  It was even more irritating that, even after she passed the note on to Stivers with instructions that it be conveyed to its rightful recipient, Gabby could not seem to rid her hands of the cloying perfume with which it had been scented. Even repeated scrubbings of her fingers, and, ultimately, a complete change of raiment, did not clear the scent from her nostrils.

  Which was not, perhaps, quite properly Wickham’s fault, but it was certainly something for which Gabby blamed him.

  The identities of some of those who came over the next two days were most flattering: Lady Jersey, who was apparently a long-time friend of their aunt’s and was accompanied by the Countess Lieven, left her card. That these ladies were patronesses of Almack’s, that most august of supper clubs, and as such to be carefully cultivated, was revealed by Twindle with great excitement.

  “Only the most select are admitted there, you know,” Twindle told Gabby and Claire as they looked over the collection of cards with some awe. “The vulgar call it the Marriage Mart. Nothing could be more fatal to a girl’s chances than to be denied admission. If the patronesses should frown on you . . . But there is no chance of that, of course. No one could find the least fault with you, Miss Claire, or with Miss Gabby or Miss Beth either, for that matter. Nothing shabby genteel here.”

  “That’s as may be, Twindle, but it is quite likely that if our aunt frowns on us Lady Jersey and her like will not be so gracious,” Gabby said. She was tired as a result of passing another indifferent night. A slight headache plagued her as well, but none of that mattered when weighed against the need to secure their aunt’s support.

  Accordingly, four o’clock on the appointed day found Gabby and Claire ascending the steps of Lady Salcombe’s house in Berkeley Square. Beth, not yet being out, had been spared this expedition, for which she was thankful. However, when apprised of the program Twindle had in mind for her entertainment instead—visiting some stuffy museum to view Greek marbles that, she said gloomily, could be counted on to put one to the blush, and were, besides, broken—she was openly unenthused and muttered something about only Johnny Raws being ripe for such an expedition. This brought down on her head another lecture from Twindle on the evils that were certain to befall young ladies who used vulgar cant instead of the King’s English, so Beth was looking very glum indeed as she and Twindle took their leave.

  Having just finished recounting this tale for Claire’s benefit, Gabby was smiling as the sisters were ushered into their aunt’s presence, the footman who had answered the door having determined that she was at home.

  Claire was smiling, too, as they walked into the drawing room, as she usually could be counted on to do over Beth’s skirmishes with Twindle. Gabby had hoped the story would have just such an effect on her sister, so that Claire would not seem quite stricken with fright when she first appeared before their aunt. It worked, although even with the smile Claire was pale with nerves. Still, Gabby thought proudly, a lovelier picture than Claire presented could scarcely have been imagined. In a simple dress of primrose muslin, caught up under the bosom by gold ribbons and set off by the most charming little chip-straw bonnet, she was a picture to gladden anyone’s heart.

  Except, perhaps, that of the imposing lady who, setting aside her embroidery, rose to her feet upon their entrance to her drawing room and commenced to look them both over with a highly critical eye.

  “Well,” she said in a gruff baritone so remarkably like their late father’s that even Gabby gave a little start. “I suppose I must count myself honored that you chose to let me know that you had come to town.”

  19

  One look at Claire’s widened eyes brought Gabby’s chin up. However this visit turned out, she refused to allow herself and her sister to be bullied. They’d had enough of that from their father to last several lifetimes.

  “Good afternoon, Aunt,” Gabby said coolly, holding out her hand. Dressed in deep orange sarsenet with a white lace bonnet perched upon her head, she was conscious of looking very well herself, although not, of course, anything to rival Claire.

  Augusta Salcombe’s smallish blue eyes narrowed on her nieces. Even in her youth she could never have been a beauty, and now, at what Gabby estimated must be something more than sixty, she was the kind of woman for whom the phrase battle-ax had been coined. Nearly six feet tall and mannish in build, she had an angular, large-nosed face topped by a coronet of silver braids. As if to emphasize their color, she was dressed in the palest gray lustring in a style several seasons old.

  “Well, I’m glad to see that at least you’re no milk-and-water miss. You’ve the sense to dress your age, too, which many females who are at their last prayers do not.” She shook Gabby’s hand as she uttered this backhanded compliment, then turned her gimlet gaze upon Claire. Poor Claire almost visibly quaked, and instinctively dropped a small curtsy. Lady Salcombe harrumphed. “You have the look of your mother, girl. A beauty, she was, but a complete pea goose. Which goes without saying, I suppose. She wed Wickham, didn’t she?” She gave a short barking laugh. “It’s to be hoped that you’re not as silly as she was.” Her gaze moved back to Gabby. “You, too, have a look of your mother, but if Sophia ever had a spine I never saw any evidence of it. I’ve a notion you do, however. Well, sit down, sit down, the pair of you.”

  They sat, and refreshments were brought in. When they were sipping tea from tiny porcelain cups, Lady Salcombe looked at Gabby.

  “I’ve heard Wickham shot himself, or some such tomfool thing. What’s the truth of it?”

  Gabby told her the version that had been given out for popular consumption, and Lady Salcombe clucked disapprovingly.

  “What a mutton-headed thing to have done. It’s to be hoped he’s got more in his cockloft than that, in the general way of things. He’s the head of our house now, after all, and if he’s such a gudgeon as that makes him sound he’s likely to be an embarrassment to us all. Well. He’s a handsome scamp, from all I’ve heard, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he is a scamp: He’s been in town for more than a fortnight, and hasn’t had the common courtesy to pay a call upon his aunt. What have you to say to that, eh?” Her gaze fixed accusingly on Gabby.

  “Why, that I should hate to be held responsible for my brother’s sins, ma’am,” Gabby responded tranquilly, taking a sip of her tea. Lady Salcombe laughed.

&nb
sp; “I like you, Gabriella, and I’m surprised at that. Your father—well, that’s neither here nor there now that he’s gone, but you must know that we never did get on. Well, I didn’t even go to his funeral. You should have read the letter he wrote me when I offered to bring you out. Such stuff. Well.” Lady Salcombe shook her head, then frowned. Her gaze ran over Gabby from head to toe. “He said you were crippled?”

  “Gabby is not,” Claire spoke up with a touch of indignation. Knowing how intimidated she was—Claire had never been the least hand at standing up to bullies—Gabby smiled faintly at her sister, then directed her gaze back to their aunt.

  “I have a limp, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t notice it.”

  “It is only noticeable when she is tired, or—or sick, or must walk long distances. She is certainly not crippled.” Claire’s cheeks had pinkened becomingly in her sister’s defense.

  Lady Salcombe looked hard at Claire. “So you do have a tongue. I was beginning to wonder. Isn’t there another one of you? I thought Matthew had three daughters.”

  “Beth is with her governess today. She is fifteen.”

  “Hmph. I should like to see her.”

  “We would be happy to have you visit us in Grosvenor Square,” Gabby said smoothly.

  “I may just do that. Salcombe’s dead these ten years, you know, and I’ve no children. Besides the two of you, and your sister and brother, my closest relatives are Thomas and his girls. Not relations with whom I care to spend a great deal of time, as you may imagine if you are acquainted with them. I have it in mind to get to know the four of you better.”

  “We would be honored, ma’am.” Gabby smiled at her aunt.