Scandal Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 2)

by Isobel Carr

Imogen kissed his chest, and mumbled sleepily. Gabriel roused her enough to get her under the covers and slid in next to her, pulling her back into his arms once they were both under the blankets.

  ‘You’re not leaving?’ she asked, glancing up at him.

  ‘Not just yet. I’ll wait a couple of hours, until everyone has gone to bed.’

  ‘Good.’ She snuggled into his side and promptly closed her eyes, clearly content to trust him to escape her room on his own.

  Lying there he found himself very much looking forward to the next several months of shooting parties and race meetings and balls once Parliament was back in session.

  She hadn’t had anyone in her bed in years, he was certain of it. Gabriel let his thoughts roam over the various things he’d like to do to and with his nymph. The options were almost endless. She’s obviously had a very limited introduction to bed sport. Once again cementing the fact that Perrin was an idiot. An undeserving, incompetent, idiot.

  Gabriel glanced down at her; she was already soundly asleep, her face pillowed on her hand, resting on his chest. Worn out and utterly satisfied.

  The infamous portrait of her had been a seven-day-wonder; everyone had gone to see it. At the time he’d thought that it was much ado about nothing. Now he was sure of it.

  He had the most infamous portrait in England in his collection, and he was now the lover of the lady depicted in it. He kissed his sleeping nymph again and settled in; he was undoubtedly going to remain right where he was for a good long while, as he had not the slightest desire to move. Life was a beautiful thing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  If the gossips are to be believed—and in this case we think that they certainly are—the Portrait Divorcée has already transferred her affections from Lord S—— to the Angelstone Turk. Alas, no duel appears to have been required…

  Tête-à-Tête, 6 October 1789

  Imogen couldn’t help smiling the whole ride back to Barton Court.

  She’d had a very fine morning. Gabriel had flirted with her all through breakfast, but it aroused no suspicions. Almost all the gentlemen flirted with her; just as they did with George, though perhaps, in not quite so warm a vein. She had smiled, and teased him back, all the while wishing they could run back upstairs. It didn’t seem fair that after one night they had to part.

  Even the knowledge that she wouldn’t possibly see him for more than a fortnight couldn’t dampen her spirits. Not today. Today she felt invincible. He’d kissed her hand, in a mockingly grand manner that had sent George into whoops, and had asked almost offhandedly as he’d tossed her up into the saddle, if she’d be attending the Earl of Glendower’s shooting party.

  Before she could answer, the countess had said, ‘Of course she will,’ as though the question were absurd. So now she had something specific to look forward to…she’d see him again in a fortnight.

  When she’d woken up alone, she’d been vaguely uneasy about what would come next. How did these things work? She didn’t know, and she didn’t have anyone to ask. It didn’t feel right to talk to George, since she was Gabriel’s friend, and she couldn’t write it in a letter—she just couldn’t—so Helen was out as well.

  She was stuck muddling through on her own.

  She wished now she’d paid more attention to the intrigues of the affairs her friends had conducted, but at the time she simply hadn’t wanted to know what Helen and the rest were up to. It had seemed to sordid.

  There’d been no sign of his presence in the room this morning; no forgotten stocking, or misplaced glove; not even a dropped cufflink. Her nightgown and wrapper were draped neatly across the foot of the bed, and her slippers positioned beside it, just as though she hadn’t kicked them off haphazardly while making her way to the bed, nearly hysterical with laughter.

  He was nothing if not thorough, in every way, she thought with another irrepressible smile. She’d been smiling so much she felt as though her face might crack.

  Luckily the countess put her smiles and good humour down to her newfound love of the turf, and spent much of the ride filling Imogen in on all the major figures in the racing set, who was a member of the Jockey’s Club, which racing stables were the most famous and successful, which of the founding famous horses each line held to, or blended in their stock. All of it interesting information, and all of it lost on Imogen. She simply couldn’t think of anything but Gabriel. She was half afraid she was in love with him; she was certainly infatuated.

  Back at the park they found Caesar very happy to see them, and a letter from Colonel Staunton inviting them to dinner, any night they should please. There was a pile of invitations and general correspondence for the earl and countess, and even a letter for Imogen from Helen.

  She wrote that town just now was very slow; so many of the gentlemen being absent due to the manifold opportunities for sport being offered in the country at this time of year. Not only was the race season wrapping up, but fox hunting was in full swing, and all manner of game was in season: pheasant, grouse, woodcock. Left to her own devices, Helen was finding things in town quite flat. The only real entertainment was being provided by Lord Dalton, who had left his wife, and was openly living with his mistress, and that the whole city was riveted by reports of a man strangling shop girls in Whitechapel. Bow Street was said to be looking into it, which at least made the public at large feel safer, if not the poor girls standing behind innumerable counters all over the city.

  Imogen read her letter and immediately wrote back. Her quill spilt details of the races, who she’d met, and mentioning her upcoming trip to Winsham Court for Lord Glendower’s annual shooting party. It skittered and spat a line of ink across the page when she thought of Gabriel. She couldn’t put that in a letter. Better not to mention him at all.

  On Thursday they went to dine with the Stauntons, and spent a very pleasant evening there, fussing over the twins. There really wasn’t all that much to say about them just yet, but they were, nonetheless, adorable. The two small boys seemed entirely identical to Imogen, though their mother insisted she could tell them apart without the aid of the brightly coloured floss tied around their wrists.

  ‘Eleanor claims it’s quite easy to distinguish them,’ the colonel said, staring down perplexedly at the boy he held, ‘but I must confess that I can’t do it.’

  ‘You can’t tell them apart, Papa, because you think of them as a set.’ Simone leaned over her new half-brother, and twitched the blanket back from his face. ‘Toby here is the watchful one, while Bryan over there, is the demanding one. They’re entirely different,’ she said, seemingly disgusted by her father’s inability to tell his own children apart.

  ‘Perhaps to you and your mother, poppet,’ George said. ‘But I’m forced to concede that, like your father…they seem just alike to me. I’m sure it will become easier for the rest of us as they get older,’ she added, by way of a peace offering.

  Simone made a slightly rude noise in the back of her throat that put Imogen so strongly in mind of George that she had to bite back a laugh. The girl stared at her former guardian reproachfully. ‘You can’t tell them apart either?’ she asked in an appalled voice. ‘And I was sure Papa couldn’t do it because he’s a man.’

  ‘Well,’ Imogen jumped in, struggling to keep her tone serious, ‘I’m sure your mother can tell them apart because she’s their mother, and mothers have a special sense about these sorts of things. And I’m sure you can tell them apart because you’ve trained your eye so carefully with all your art lessons, but you’ll have to let the rest of us get to know the boys better. In time we too will be able to tell which is which. Even your poor father,’ she suggested wickedly, causing everyone, the colonel included, to laugh.

  Not at all mollified, Simone harrumphed, and sat back down next to George. The countess caught Imogen’s eye, and wiggled her brows up and down comically. Imogen stifled another laugh. George was simply too wicked sometimes, now was not the time to make her laugh.

  ‘Imogen!’

&
nbsp; The angry shout carried all the way across the garden. Imogen skidded to a stop, afraid she was going to vomit. Her hands began to shake. She could have sworn the flowers trembled, buds furling in fright.

  Her brother couldn’t be here.

  There was no reason for Richard to be here. The garden spun, a sickening sea of green. The scent of freshly mown lawn washed over her and she desperately swallowed down her rising gorge.

  She glanced towards the top of the garden. Richard was practically running, his face bright red, the skirts of his coat flying out behind him.

  How had he even known where to find her? Why would he care to? He’d sent her one letter since her divorce. One. Refusing the use of a long vacant cottage on the estate he’d been given when he’d reached his majority. Why would he be here now? He’d made it more than clear that she was no sister of his. Not anymore.

  ‘Does Lord Somercote know you’re here?’

  His face went from red to mottled puce. Sweat ran down his temple, oozing out from under his wig. ‘I don’t need that damn lap dog’s permission to speak to my own sister.’

  ‘I never said you did. I merely asked if his lordship was aware that you’d invaded his gardens.’

  Please let someone know he was here. Please.

  ‘Besides, Richard. You’ve made it quite clear you have no interest in my well-being, so why would I think you were here to see me?’

  ‘Why would—of all the—you damn—’ he sputtered to a stop.

  Imogen stared him down. Richard had always been a bully. He was like a savage dog. If she showed any fear at all he’d tear her to pieces.

  He took a deep breath, his colour still high. He reached in to the pocket of his coat and pulled a newspaper out. He shook it at her, crumpling it in his fist.

  ‘I warned you. Gave you every chance.’

  Imogen took a step back. He was clearly out of his mind. She’d be lucky if he didn’t beat her to death here and now. Lord knew he’d tried once before, when she’d dared to try to see their mother.

  ‘Brimstone? Of all the men in England you make a public show of yourself with the Angelstone family mongrel?’

  Imogen took another step back and Richard surged forward, grabbing a hold of her arm. ‘There’s been a general call for women to be transported to New South Wales. You’re going to be on that ship.’

  Imogen jerked, trying to pull her arm free. ‘You can’t have me transported on a whim.’ She pulled again, pushing with her free hand, her heart beating frantically.

  ‘On a whim? Perhaps not. But for theft? We’ve been wondering what happened to mother’s pearls ever since you left. Now we know.’

  Fingers digging into her he dragged her towards the stables. ‘I’ve come to fetch you to Bow Street. If you come quietly maybe we’ll simply pack you off to Madras to become some fat major’s mistress.’

  Imogen swung, her fist connecting with his ear. Richard let out a bellow that was quickly cut off by the explosion of a gun being fired. He dropped her arm as he turned towards the noise, sending her flying into the flower bed.

  She pushed her hair out her eyes in time to see the countess cock a second pistol as an army of footmen and grooms came running from all directions.

  ‘Would it be simpler if I shot him?’ George called, taking aim.

  ‘Much.’ Imogen yelled back, half-wishing the countess already had. ‘Except that he’s my brother.’

  ‘A family reunion. How charming. It’s too bad we have guests coming and Mr Mowbray’s presence would unbalance my table. I’ll make sure and mention your visit to the earl, though.’

  Richard sputtered and reached up to adjust his wig, fingers fumbling with it. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Mowbray.’ The countess nodded and the wall of footmen and grooms behind her spilt over, rushing down the steps.

  Her brother stood his ground until one of the beefier grooms grabbed hold of his shoulder and propelled him towards the stables.

  One of the footmen helped her to her feet and Imogen brushed at her skirts. Rage filling her.

  ‘Up to the house,’ George said in a tone that brooked no opposition, placing her hand on Imogen’s elbow and steering her back towards the steps.

  ‘I’m not safe,’ Imogen replied, restraining herself from throwing off George’s hand.

  ‘What you need is a drink. Everything looks better from the bottom of an empty glass.’

  Practically twitching the whole time, Imogen allowed her friend to drag her up to the house. Once inside, George pulled her into the library.

  Imogen dropped in the reassuring embrace of one of the large chairs near the fireplace, while George set her pistols down on the desk and poured her a very full glass of brandy. She handed it over, and sank into the chair beside Imogen’s.

  ‘Drink up.’

  Imogen took a gulp and gasped as it hit the back of her throat. It burnt all the way down and made her eyes water. She blinked and took a smaller sip.

  ‘That’s a girl. Finish up, and I’ll pour you another.’ Imogen drained the glass and held it out. George filled it again bringing the decanter back with her.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your brother’s visit?’

  Imogen opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She was simply too angry to speak yet. She took another sip of brandy, letting its warm glow spread through her body.

  George settled back into her chair with the causal nonchalance for which she was famous. ‘I’m going to guess one of the London gossip rags has made you their latest victim?’

  Imogen nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Don’t pay it any mind,’ the countess advised. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing. They’ve been saying worse about me for years. You should have seen the things that were being written when Ivo and I were courting. Let alone the things they wrote about me before that. I don’t know when I would have found time to sleep.’

  ‘But no one in your family was threatening to have you transported.’ And she was a wealthy woman with a powerful family. Always had been.

  ‘Transported?’ George’s eyes flashed. ‘You should have let me shoot him.’

  Gabriel stared down at the most recent edition of Lady Banbury’s scandal sheet and cursed. His cousin Victoria had sent it round, folded up inside a sheet of foolscap upon which she had written, Damn you.—V.

  He hadn’t been thinking. He’d made sure to keep George and the rest of them in the dark, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that the gossips would take such vicious notice of a single outing. She’d been seen on his arm for less than an hour, in a very public place. But the column spoke for itself:

  As mentioned here before, this author has heard over and over from the gentlemen of her acquaintance, of the beauty of the mystery lady seen on the dangerous Brimstone’s arm at the First October Races. This same lady is reported to have been seen in the company of the even more deadly Lord Drake, and the equally reprehensible Duke of Alençon. Such a wild group of cicisbei has not been seen in recent years. I am happy to announce that it required little effort to discover the lady’s identity. It seems that the infamous Portrait Divorcée has reappeared, and is keeping company with one of, or possibly many of, society’s most scandalous bachelors. This comes as no surprise after the episode which ended her marriage, but one would have thought the lady would have learnt her lesson. This author is forced to wonder, has the devilish Brimstone found a new way to keep himself entertained when the lure of his usual pursuits wanes? And is poor Mr Perrin aware of his former wife’s current tastes in entertainment?

  As he read the column over, phrases jumped out at him: Mystery Lady…one of, possibly some of. Gabriel cursed again and clenched his teeth. He’d dearly like to throttle Lady Banbury, whoever supplied her with information, and her damned publisher. Imogen had been skittish enough as it was.

  This couldn’t possibly be good.

  If Torrie was angry, George was likely to be in a rage, and Lord only
knew what his nymph’s response would be. He’d be lucky to get within ten feet of her at the shooting party, if she even showed up.

  Horrible thought, that. She might not even attend. And even if she did, he might not want to; George was sure to be out for blood. She’d specifically warned him off, and he’d ignored her. Gabriel crumpled his cousin’s note and the column and tossed it into the fire. Taking a savage satisfaction as they blossomed atop the coals.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Not even the considerable charms of London’s most beautiful widow have proven enough to lure Lord St A—— from his monastic ways. What a pity…

  Tête-à-Tête, 16 October 1789

  Imogen sat beside George in the countess’s phaeton. Driving had been a compromise with the earl, who had wanted his now noticeably pregnant wife to take the coach, while she had wanted to ride. They were bowling along at a spanking pace, behind the countess’s greys, on their way to Winsham Court.

  No argument Imogen had put forth had swayed her friend in the least. George insisted Imogen attend. If for no other reason than that to not do so would reinforce the damage the gossips had done, and possibly make her brother think she’d been deserted. It would make it appear as if Imogen was being shunned, and nothing, as Imogen knew, drew the attention of the scandal mongers like the scent of wounded prey.

  Though she knew George was right, Imogen was still not feeling at all confident. Before her mother and Helen’s letters she’d been happily dreaming about two weeks with Gabriel. Now she was almost dreading them.

  A private affair was one thing; a public intrigue was something else. People were already watching, and any signs of an illicit relationship would spread like wildfire. None of their close friends would gossip, but Lord Glendower’s party would not be limited to their small, select group.

  She couldn’t endure being raked over the coals again.

  She gripped the side of the seat as George swung through the gates of Winsham Court, and the phaeton sluiced slightly from side to side as the wheels rolled onto the gravel of the drive. The earl, riding behind them, gave a yelp, and George slowed her team. They travelled up the shady drive, until finally the house came into view. Imogen gave an appreciative gasp and simply stared. The seat of the Earls of Glendower was every bit as amazing as the guide books made it out to be. The house was massive; four stories of yellow Bath stone that reflected the light back with a soft glow. The drive circled up to a semi-circular dais of steps that led to a massive door.