Scandalous

by Karen Robards

  Lady Salcombe set her cup down, and gave Gabby a shrewd look. “Well, I don’t believe in beating about the bush and never have, so you may as well tell me plainly: Have you come to town hoping to make a splash?”

  Gabby put down her own cup. “Yes, ma’am, we have.”

  Lady Salcombe looked a visibly uncomfortable Claire over from head to toe, then glanced back at Gabby. “Well, she’ll puff off easy enough, and may look as high as she chooses, too, unless I very much miss my guess. ’Twill be harder to find a husband for you, but I don’t despair of it by any means. A widower with children, perhaps. You do like children?”

  Claire’s eyes widened, and she made a choked sound that Gabby at least recognized for a hastily stifled laugh. When Lady Salcombe glanced at her with a gathering frown, however, Claire turned the sound, with great presence of mind, into a cough.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gabby responded, successfully diverting Lady Salcombe from Claire’s small lapse. “I do like children, but in any case I don’t seek a husband for myself. We are here in London to establish Claire.”

  “Hmmph. All females seek husbands, my dear. It is the way of our sex. But that is neither here nor there. I presume you’ve come to me to ask my help in launching you and your sister into the ton?”

  Gabby had meant to broach the subject tactfully. But Lady Salcombe, who was far from anything she had expected, seemed to have no use for tact. The only possible defense, Gabby thought, was to be as direct as she was herself.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lady Salcombe actually smiled. The effect was rather like watching the sun rise over a particularly bleak landscape, bestowing on it a warmth it was never meant to possess. Out of the corner of her eye Gabby caught Claire openly staring at their aunt with a kind of bemused wonder. Claire must have felt Gabby’s look, because she recovered herself almost instantly and glanced away.

  “You’ve a great deal of sense,” Lady Salcombe said approvingly to Gabby, who, unlike Claire, managed to preserve a serene expression. “I like that in a girl. I detest today’s mealymouthed misses, let me tell you.” This was accompanied by a darkling glance at Claire. “Well, I’ll do it. I’ll sponsor you both into the ton, on the condition that you let yourselves be guided by me. Sally Jersey shall provide you with vouchers for Almack’s—she said she was going to call on you, by the by; I’m glad you had the sense to come see me before she did so, for now you may tell her that you’re under my aegis—and Wickham shall give you a come-out ball. ’Twill require a great deal of work on my part—see to it that you’re properly grateful, young misses—but I feel I owe it to the name. Plus I expect to be wonderfully diverted by it all.” A sly twinkle crept into her eyes. “Maud is bringing out her youngest this year: Desdemona, or some such idiotic name, don’t you know. Won’t she be green when she sees this one?” She nodded at Claire, and suddenly looked almost cheerful. Claire blushed at the obvious implication.

  Gabby smiled at Lady Salcombe. “Thank you, ma’am. We accept your offer most gratefully, do we not, Claire? You are too kind. But as to Wickham’s giving us a ball . . .”

  “I told you you were to be guided by me.” Lady Salcombe sent Gabby a martial look. “If I say there is to be a ball, then there will be one. Everything bang-up, or I won’t do it at all. I shall talk to Wickham myself.”

  An irresistible picture of Lady Salcombe browbeating her supposed nephew into providing a ball for his unwanted “sisters” made Gabby smile. She was still smiling as she got to her feet, the allotted time for a call being well past, and all she had hoped to accomplish being done.

  “He won’t be able to resist you, ma’am. No one could, I’m sure.”

  Claire rose in Gabby’s wake, and Lady Salcombe did, too.

  “I should make you aware at the outset that flattery is abhorrent to me,” Lady Salcombe said, fixing Gabby with a stern look. “Although it is true that I am held to be most persuasive, I believe. Well. We may as well get started without delay. The season has already begun. I will call for you this evening in my carriage and we will attend the opera together. You may bring the young one, too, if you like. That will let everyone know that you are in town, and under my protection. By tomorrow, your knocker should be beating a hole in your door. What else, what else? A more fashionable hairstyle, Gabriella, if you please. I shall send someone around. You, Claire, should strive to cultivate the art of polite conversation. An inability to string more than two words together at a time may be considered a sad fault, believe me. I know either of you will not mind me giving you a hint. And you may call me Aunt Augusta, the pair of you.”

  “We are honored, ma’am,” Gabby said truthfully, swallowing any other of the possible responses that occurred to her, and dutifully pecked the weathered cheek presented to her. Claire followed suit without comment, and was thus sped on her way by a testy admonition to find her tongue before she went out again in company. Thus the sisters went away from Berkeley Square, their aunt’s promise to call for them at nine o’clock that same evening ringing in their ears.

  “What a dreadful woman,” Claire gasped when they were safely bestowed in the carriage. “I declare, just the thought of having her take us about makes me feel ready to sink.”

  “You need pay her no mind,” Gabby said absently. “Indeed, I count it very fortunate that she has agreed to help us. With her to sponsor us, you will be the toast of London, Claire.”

  “But Gabby, she terrifies me. She reminds me so of Papa I can scarcely think when she is near.”

  Gabby, roused from her reverie by this revelation, turned a softened gaze upon her sister and admitted that the resemblance was both uncanny and unfortunate. To make matters worse, she thought, Claire had always been too gentle natured to bear up well under harsh treatment, and Lady Salcombe—Aunt Augusta—was nothing if not abrasive.

  “I shan’t let her bully you, I promise. Remember, she has no authority over us. She is not our guardian, after all.”

  “No, Wickham is that, isn’t he?” Claire sounded comforted by the reflection. Gabby, who had never thought of the situation in just that light, was instantly appalled. It was too horribly true: in the eyes of the world, the snake in earl’s clothing lying at that moment sick in the bedchamber next to hers was their guardian, and had the authority to order their lives as he pleased.

  The carriage reached Grosvenor Square just then. Once inside, Gabby and Claire went to their respective chambers to put off their outer garments. Still feeling out of sorts as a result of Claire’s epiphany, Gabby was pulling off her gloves and thinking unpleasant thoughts as she walked along the corridor to her apartment.

  A muffled shriek from Wickham’s room arrested her progress just a few feet before she reached her own door. A muffled feminine shriek. Gabby froze, listening. There was no other sound. The hush of a well-ordered household descended as soon as the shriek died away.

  But there was no denying what she had heard.

  Was the man so depraved that he had taken to attacking the chambermaids? Or was he so deadened to all sense of propriety as to—as to entertain one such as Lady Ware in his bedroom? Was he even now indulging—or attempting to indulge—in the kind of vice he had tried to force on her?

  In broad daylight? In Wickham House?

  Gabby couldn’t help it. She had to know. If it was a chambermaid, poor hapless creature, a rescue had to be launched. If it was Lady Ware or another of her ilk—well, such immorality had no place in a nobleman’s household, and so she meant to inform him as soon as she decently could. But the man in the earl’s chamber was no nobleman, she reminded herself, and no gentleman, either, as she knew to her cost.

  He was, however, to all intents and purposes the earl.

  Before she could determine what, if anything, was best to be done with that circumstance in mind, another sound from beyond the door made her eyes widen. Another scream, perhaps, muffled this time?

  Was it possible that he really was ravishing one of the maids?

 
; Feeling quite guilty, and even more foolish, she crept right up to the earl’s bedroom door. Looking swiftly up and down the corridor to make certain that she was unobserved, she leaned forward and pressed her ear to the smooth wooden panel.

  There were definitely two people in the bedroom: a male and a female. She could hear the murmur of their voices quite distinctly, although she could not make out what was being said. The male was, of course, Wickham. The question was, who was the female, and what was he doing with her?

  Her imagination boggled at the possibilities.

  Gabby heard Wickham say something that ended with a laugh, then listened very hard for the female’s reply. If it sounded normal, as though the creature, whoever she was, was not in any distress, her best course of action would be to simply creep away and pretend that this embarrassing interlude had never occurred.

  After all, no matter how much his licentiousness might offend her, she could hardly order a lightskirt out of what was, in the eyes of everyone save herself and Jem, the bounder’s own house.

  Realizing that, Gabby practically gnashed her teeth.

  Wickham’s companion spoke. Gabby listened to the giggling voice, and felt the hair stand straight up on the back of her neck.

  She knew that voice as well as she knew her own.

  The female in the bedroom with Wickham was Beth.

  20

  The door, fortunately, was not locked. Gabby turned the knob and took three quick steps inside the earl’s apartment as the identity of the owner of that voice exploded on her consciousness. Beth—if he had done aught to Beth . . .

  Heart pounding, eyes enormous, one hand still clinging to the knob, she then stopped in her tracks, goggling at the pair on the bed.

  Beth sat on the near edge of the enormous mattress, back to the door, her red hair, which she wore caught up by a white ribbon at the crown, tumbling in schoolgirl ringlets around her shoulders. Her dainty, yellow-sprigged muslin had been hiked up by her careless posture—she sat leaning forward, with one leg curled beneath her—to reveal a plump, white-stockinged leg almost to the knee. If she was in distress, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she appeared to be engaged in examining, with every indication of intense concentration, a number of playing cards which were spread out before her on the coverlet.

  “Beth!” It was a strangled-sounding gasp.

  At this, Beth, who was clearly preoccupied, spared her a quick, over-the-shoulder glance.

  “Hello, Gabby,” she said, with an airy wave and a marked lack of concern. Her attention returned immediately to the cards. “Did you see our aunt?”

  Gabby drew a deep, shaken breath. Her heart began to slow to its normal rhythm. Her knees felt weak. Beyond Gabby, Wickham met her gaze, quizzing her wickedly with his eyes. Gabby felt her skin begin to heat as she remembered the circumstances under which they had last met. The wicked beast had used her unforgivably—and she had permitted it. No, if truth were to be told she had revelled in it.

  Determined not to let him guess how deeply mortifying she found it just to be in his presence again, she lifted her brows and coolly met his gaze.

  “Did you see our aunt?” he asked with every indication of polite interest. Gabby, however, was not fooled. She knew when she was being teased.

  “Certainly I did,” she said sweetly, glad to discover that she was in full command of her voice. “And very formidable she is indeed. She calls on you tomorrow, by the by, and means to take you to task for not yet having had the courtesy to visit her.”

  “Unfortunately, I am confined to my bed and cannot, as yet, receive visitors,” he replied with aplomb. “Our aunt will have to save her scold for another occasion.”

  “You received me,” Beth pointed out in an abstracted tone as she continued to study the cards. “And Gabby, too, for that matter.”

  “Ah, but you are my sisters, which denotes a different degree of kinship entirely. And I did not exactly receive either of you, though you are very welcome, of course. You both just—er—arrived.”

  Gabby shot him a withering look. His eyes twinkled at her, and for an instant, just an instant, the sheer unexpected charm of the man caught her off guard. Gabby almost forgot what a rogue he was as she teetered on the verge of succumbing to the amusement in his gaze. He was such a handsome scoundrel. . . .

  The thought acted like a dash of cold water over her rattled senses, and she recovered enough to frown balefully at him. He was sitting up in bed, propped on pillows, with a fistful of cards fanned out in one hand. At least, Gabby was relieved to see, he was decently clad, in an elegant maroon dressing gown which was tied carelessly over his nightshirt. The bedspread covered the lower half of his body to the waist. He looked surprisingly healthy for one who had so lately been on the brink of death; for this he could no doubt thank the natural swarthiness of his skin. His black hair, grown too long over the course of his indisposition, waved back from his forehead in casual disorder, and several days’ worth of black stubble added a piratical edge to his grin.

  “Did you want me for something, Gabby?” Beth asked without looking around.

  “Beth, my child, I am afraid you flatter yourself. Doubtless Gabby barged into my chamber so precipitously because she was looking for me.” His eyes teased as they met hers. Gabby realized that he knew perfectly well the suspicion that had brought her bursting into his room. “Behold me at your service, sister.”

  She glared at him before transferring her attention to Beth.

  “Beth, dear, what are you doing?” This question, uttered by Gabby, was prompted by a shift in her sister’s posture. With sublime disregard for both the proprieties and the amount of leg she was revealing, Beth now lay sideways across the bed, her head propped on one hand, while she appeared to count the cards lined up before her.

  “Marcus is teaching me to play piquet,” she said, clearly missing the point of Gabby’s question. “It is the most vexing thing. I have already lost my ring, my locket, and nearly all the pin money I had left over from shopping the other day. He is not enough of a gentleman to let me win, and so far has very meanly taken every trick.”

  Following Beth’s comically despairing gesture, Gabby’s gaze went to the little pile of her belongings nestled in a hollow in the bedspread.

  “I told you when we began that you could expect no mercy from me.” Wickham smiled faintly as his gaze flicked over Beth.

  “Yes, but I could not believe you meant it. I am your little sister, after all.”

  “Very true. You should have reminded me earlier. I might then have pointed out to you that you have a seven hiding under that queen, thus giving you a tierce and the trick.”

  Beth looked, saw, and squealed indignantly as she pounced on the card in question. “A cheat! You should have said. Oh, give me back my locket! It was not lost in fair play.”

  Wickham grinned at her as she snatched her locket from the pile and reclasped it about her neck. Watching, Gabby was struck by how very engaging he looked as he bantered with Beth. If she had not known the truth, she would never have taken him for the unprincipled charlatan he was.

  She would, in fact, have taken him for the earl of Wickham, Beth’s indulgent older brother.

  “I thought Twindle was taking you to see the Elgin Marbles this afternoon,” Gabby said to her sister with a shortness brought on by her disapproval of the situation in which she found her instead.

  “Oh, she did, but was there ever anything more famous? The museum was closed. And then we went for a walk in the park, and she turned her ankle, so we had to come home. She went to her chamber to soak it as soon as we arrived. There was nothing to do, so I thought I would look in on Marcus to see how he did. He was very glad to see me, too. He was quite bored, weren’t you?” She glanced up at Wickham for confirmation. “And he has been telling me all about life in Ceylon.”

  “Have you indeed?” Gabby asked, discovering that she quite enjoyed the idea of Beth putting Wickham on the spot.

  “Certainly I
have,” he said with aplomb. When Beth’s attention returned to the cards once more, he looked over her head at Gabby. “I know I am new to the family, but I had expected that my sisters would at least inquire about my welfare once in a while.”

  The reproach in his voice—mock reproach, Gabby knew—was quite wasted on her. Beth, however, glanced at him sympathetically.

  “It is just that we are not in the way of having a brother,” she explained. “I expect we’ll soon get the knack of it, however.”

  “Just as I will soon, er, get the knack of having sisters,” he responded gravely. Beth nodded as though agreeing to her end of a pact.

  Gabby, on the other hand, watched Wickham toy with Beth’s affections and was—impotently—infuriated.

  “Beth, get up at once. To be lounging like that on Wickham’s bed is not at all the thing, let me tell you.” Her annoyance with Wickham made her voice sharper than she had intended.

  Involved with rearranging her cards, Beth cast her a distracted glance. “Oh, Gabby, don’t be so stuffy. I declare, you’re worse than Twindle about preaching propriety. Remember, if you please, that Marcus is our brother.”

  Gabby looked at her sister, opened her mouth, and shut it again with a snap. What could she say to that? The truth would ruin them all.

  Wickham was watching her. As Beth returned her attention to the cards, he said softly, “There is really no harm in it, you know.”

  Meeting his gaze, Gabby found herself, much against her will, somewhat reassured.

  Beth let out a sudden squeal of delight, and looked up. “Marcus, I have four of a kind.”

  Wickham’s gaze flicked down to his own cards. “Not good. Much as I hate to concede victory to a novice, it appears you take the trick again.”

  Beth whooped with joy. Smiling faintly, Wickham put down his hand, then fished a coin from a pile near his elbow and handed it over.

  Gabby looked at the pair of them consideringly. Her sister was now sitting fully upon the bed, both legs curled beneath her, her body close enough to Wickham’s to brush against his bedspread-covered legs every time either of them moved. For an unrelated pair, to be caught in such a posture would be positively ruinous. Even for a brother and sister—which, she reminded herself, these two emphatically were not—the propriety of the situation was problematic. But clearly, despite her own warning, Beth had no intimation that anything was in any way amiss; and for all that Gabby considered Wickham a reprobate of almost frightening proportions, she was now ready to acquit him of having nefarious designs on Beth. Still, she could not in good conscience allow Beth to make herself at home on his bed.