Scandal Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 2)

by Isobel Carr

  ‘Pistols?’ George curled her lip. ‘Coward.’

  Gabriel smiled, looking thoroughly satisfied, and lounged back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other and swinging his foot. ‘It doesn’t matter, Georgie. One will do as well as the other for my purposes.’

  When Gabriel arrived at Morpeth’s house the following morning, the city was just rumbling to life; drays hauling coal rattling through the dark streets, weaving through the fog past the occasional coach hauling home a late night reveller.

  Gabriel made his way around the back of the house to the mews, where he found most of the party already assembled. He was obviously the last to arrive. He dismounted and handed over the case containing his pistols to the earl. He gave his gelding a firm slap on the haunch and the horse tossed his head, the soft rattle of his bit sounding in the quiet like a bell.

  His friends milled about the stable yard, stamping their feet to ward off the cold. Gabriel checked his watch, and thrust the tortoiseshell bauble back into his pocket.

  ‘Time to be on our way.’

  He had to consciously resist the urge to ask about his nymph. If there was anything he needed to know, he trusted George to tell him. She wasn’t a secretive sort of woman. For now he needed to concentrate on the duel.

  He had no concerns about his own safety; it was highly unlikely that his opponent would so much as graze him, but his own plan to wound Perrin without killing him would require greater skill than simply killing him outright. A simple torso shot was out of the question, too high a risk of hitting a vital organ. Which meant he was going to have to aim for an arm, or a leg.

  If only he’d chosen swords. Cutting him to ribbons would have been so much more satisfying than putting a single bullet into him.

  The sky was turning orange in the east, colour cresting over the top of the trees as they arrived at The Drunken Pelican and turned their horses over to the ostler. Gabriel checked his watch again. Still only six-thirty. He flexed his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. There was no sign of the opponent or his seconds.

  Perrin had better hurry up, it smelt like rain.

  Inside the tap room they found the two surgeons. Gabriel spoke briefly to his, and paid him for his attendance. Bartleby was everything that was required in such a situation: reliable, highly skilled, and close as the grave.

  Perrin’s man on the other hand was huddled by the fire, imbibing heavily and muttering to himself in an aggrieved tone. Gabriel flicked his eyes over the man, and then looked questioningly at Bartleby, who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  At eight, when Perrin had still not put in an appearance, Gabriel and his friends stepped back outside to wait. Morpeth checked his watch and growled.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Julian ground an errant weed in the cobbles under his boot heel.

  ‘It does make one wonder if we’re merely waiting for the constabulary,’ George said, craning her head and staring down the foggy road.

  ‘It’s certainly a thought,’ Gabriel agreed.

  If Perrin didn’t show, he’d be branded a coward, and publicly humiliated once word got out, but it would hardly be the satisfying outcome Gabriel was seeking. Such an outcome paled next to the visceral impact of losing a duel.

  Another ten minutes passed before the sound of hooves caused everyone to watch the road. Eventually a carriage came into view, and upon entering the yard, it disgorged Perrin and four of his friends. Gabriel leaned insolently against the wall of the inn, chatting with his cousin and George while Morpeth approached the new arrivals.

  ‘You’re late,’ the earl snapped.

  ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ Lord Haversham replied, glancing guiltily at his boots.

  ‘I’m sure. Shall we proceed?’

  Haversham nodded and Morpeth motioned to Julian to bring the box of pistols over. ‘Do you wish to load for your principal, Haversham?’ Morpeth asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Haversham assured him. ‘Trust you to do it properly, Morpeth.’

  ‘Then I shall get to it, we’re late enough as it is. Will you accompany me?’ Morpeth turned without waiting for an answer, and went inside, Haversham trailing behind him.

  Perrin and his three remaining friends stood in a tight knot, as far from Gabriel as they could, all of them patently ignoring everyone else in the yard. Gabriel glanced at them, prompting George to do so as well.

  ‘Nervous as a hen with a fox outside the coop,’ she said with a smirk.

  Gabriel gave a bark of laughter, and then chuckled anew as Perrin shied, his head snapping round, and then hastily turned back to his friends.

  ‘You’re a wicked, wicked woman, my dear.’

  George smiled and gave him a deep, formal curtsy. She stood up and placed one hand lightly on his arm. ‘You will be careful?’

  ‘No such thing as careful in a duel, love. The only thing I got to choose was the distance.’

  ‘And the greater one you choose, the more to your advantage that would be.’ She clearly had a firm grasp on the inherent implications of someone of Gabriel’s known skills facing a man such as Perrin.

  ‘Ten paces.’ Gabriel shrugged, then twitched his coat so it lay more smoothly. ‘Gives him a chance of hitting me. A slight one anyway.’

  ‘And the number of shots?’

  ‘Three, or until a serious wound is sustained by either party. It’s all terribly standard. I guarantee he won’t fire more than once though.’

  George made a face and tightened her grip on his arm. ‘I’m going to hold you to that.’

  Before he could reply, Morpeth and Haversham reappeared, flanked by the surgeons. Gabriel stripped out of his coat, tossing the expensive garment to George. ‘Hold that for me, my lady.’ George clutched it to her, smiling back at him wickedly.

  Everyone set off across the wet grass, making for the large open green behind the inn. As they took their places, Perrin glanced nervously around, and rubbed his palms down the front of his thigh before choosing a pistol from the box Morpeth held.

  Gabriel smiled and flexed his hand. God how he’d been looking forward to this.

  The earl wandered almost lazily across the field, his long legs eating up the ten paces Haversham had marked out. He offered Gabriel the remaining pistol, and retreated to one side where the rest of the small audience was waiting.

  ‘Gentlemen, at the count of three, you may fire when ready,’ Haversham announced loudly.

  Morpeth counted off, and there was a thunderous report from Perrin’s gun. Still breathing and completely whole, Gabriel smiled and took careful aim. Perrin dropped to the grass, shrieking, both hands clasped to this thigh.

  Gabriel glanced around, almost disinterestedly, looking to see if Perrin had managed to hit anything at all. He didn’t think so. The bullet had certainly come nowhere near Gabriel himself. While he waited for the surgeon to make a pronouncement as to Perrin’s fitness to continue, he savoured the smell of sulphur in the air, the sweet scent of victory.

  Perrin’s somewhat soused surgeon was hustled to him by Haversham. After a few minutes, Lord Haversham approached Morpeth, then hastened back to his friend.

  ‘Mr Perrin is unable to continue,’ Morpeth announced in form. ‘Are you satisfied, Mr Angelstone?’

  ‘For the nonce.’ Without crossing to examine his handiwork, Gabriel turned and left the field. His friends fell into place behind him, and once they reached the private parlour they had reserved, everyone broke into congratulatory whoops.

  ‘It would be beyond the pale to have cheered in front of Perrin, but oh, how I wanted to,’ George said, her eyes positively glowing as she took seat at the long table.

  ‘You showed admirable restraint, witch,’ Somercote said with a grin, entering the room in Morpeth’s wake.

  ‘I’ve set Bartleby on them,’ Morpeth said as he piled his plate high with steak and eggs. ‘That sot Haversham engaged was next to useless.’

  Gabriel looked after shrugging himself back into his coat. ‘Did you tell Bartleby I’d f
oot the bill?’

  Morpeth nodded, his smile growing wider. ‘Loudly, and in front of Perrin.’

  ‘Well, that ought to stick in Perrin’s craw,’ Gabriel added, picking up his coffee cup and inhaling the pungent scent with a sigh.

  ‘I thought it was a nice touch,’ the earl admitted. ‘Dig the knife in a little deeper.’

  ‘Make him hunt you down to repay the debt,’ Julian cried with a laugh.

  ‘Or better yet,’ Gabriel said with a thoroughly evil smile, ‘simply refuse to accept the money. Being beholden to me for such a debt ought to chaff for years to come.’

  A few minutes later a loud commotion could be heard from the tap room, followed by the sounds of a large group heading up the stairs. Apparently Perrin was going to live long enough to occupy one of The Pelican’s rooms.

  A ball to the leg wasn’t likely to be life threatening, but one never knew. It could have hit an artery, or shattered the bone, or the wound could go septic. Right now he really didn’t give a damn. If he had to take Imogen and flee the country so be it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Please let the rumours be true…a marriage between a man whose very existence is a scandal and a woman whose every action is an affront can only enliven all of our days.

  Tête-à-Tête, 17 December 1789

  As they mounted up and started back, George cut him out of the pack. ‘Gabe,’ she began, keeping her voice low.

  He glanced over at her and stiffened, causing his horse to toss his head in protest. ‘I don’t like that tone, Georgie. Why is it that whenever you sound like that I get shivers down my spine?’

  George made a face, grimacing, and wrinkling up one side of her nose. ‘Because you know me?’

  He raised his brows. Why was George stating the obvious? She was up to something, and that rarely boded well for any of them.

  ‘Imogen left yesterday.’

  ‘And you were going to tell me this when?’ The light feeling fled, leaking out his toes, draining away. Beetle shook his head again and Gabriel forced himself to loosen the reins.

  ‘Well,’ she replied, without so much as a contrite look, ‘now.’

  ‘You couldn’t have told me yesterday?’

  She cocked her head, seemingly considering his question for a moment, while his hands itched to strangle her. ‘No, I don’t think I could have. You had a duel to fight, and you couldn’t have gone after her any sooner, so what would have been the point?’

  Irritated beyond all belief, Gabriel gave her a squinty-eyed glare. ‘Are you going to tell me exactly where she went, and how she’s getting there, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?’

  ‘As if you’d dare,’ George replied with a laugh, which only got louder as he gnashed his teeth and half-heartedly swung at her with his crop. ‘I can’t tell you where she’s going. I promised not to, but I can tell you she’s in my coach, the brown one, with the Somercote arms on the boot. And she’s currently on the Great North Road. I can’t imagine she’s gotten all that far. I told Chandler to go slowly.’

  Gabriel sucked in one cheek and bit it softly to keep from yelling at her. Irritating, interfering female. ‘I thought you were on my side, Georgie.’

  ‘Oh, I am on your side,’ she assured him, with her mischief-making smile beginning to peek out. The dimple in her cheek mocked him. ‘But this isn’t about sides. It’s about outcomes. And you and I both want the same outcome. Imogen does too, she just doesn’t know it yet, or can’t admit it.’

  Gabriel raised a brow. Lord save him from George and her machinations. ‘So Imogen has cried off, returned my ring, and run away from Town, secure in the conceit that I won’t follow?’

  George nodded, her grin growing wider. ‘I told your valet to have a bag packed. If you hurry, I imagine you should catch up to her by Peterborough. Newark at the latest.’

  ‘Thought of everything, haven’t you?’ Gabriel asked savagely.

  ‘I rather think so,’ George replied, wholly unrepentant.

  Imogen pulled the fur carriage rug tighter about her legs and rested her forehead against the window while she watched the scenery go past. She’d been on the road for four days, and they hadn’t even reached Grantham yet.

  The first day they’d barely made Stevenage before dark, and the second they’d been unable to procure a proper change of horses in Sandy, and had had to stop their journey there and wait. Then it had begun raining, turning the roads into a near impassable mire.

  They’d become stuck twice before even reaching St Neots, where she’d spent last night. She was hoping to reach Peterborough tonight. By now she would have normally expected to have been at least to Newark, if not beyond. At this rate it would take them a month to reach the Glenelg estate in northern Scotland.

  If she’d been the kind of woman who saw signs and portends in such things she’d have told the Somercote’s coachman to turn around and take her back to Town. The coach hit another rut in the road and bounced her up off the seat. Grumbling, she rearranged herself for what felt like the thousandth time.

  Lunch was a welcome distraction. After an hour in a small private parlour, warmed by a cheerful fire and several mugs of hot punch Imogen was feeling much more the thing. Her teeth had even stopped chattering by the time Chandler appeared at the door to urge her back into the carriage.

  She hurriedly drank the last of her punch and pulled her gloves back on. Picking up her muff she stepped out of the parlour and moved quickly through the almost empty tap room. Only the determined and the desperate were traveling in such weather.

  The earlier rain had diminished to a light drizzle, but even so, Imogen felt more than a bit guilty as she watched the coachman take his place on the box. She was freezing. How was he managing? There was no way she’d have been able to drive all day in such weather, even swathed in wool and coated in oilskin.

  Shivering, she stepped out from under the eaves, preparing to climb back into the coach. A sudden commotion in the yard caught her attention as a steaming horse skidded to a stop, its rider already swinging out of the saddle, the skirts of his coat flying out.

  An ostler claimed the animal and Imogen was left staring dumbly as Gabriel stormed across the muddy yard. Her heart gave a sickening lurch and her eyes felt suddenly hot. He was alive, and judging by his expression, he was very, very angry.

  ‘Inside,’ he shouted with enough of an edge that her eyes opened wide and she fell back a step. ‘Chandler,’ he flung over his shoulder, ‘stable ’em.’ Then he turned, grabbed her by her arm, and dragged her back inside the inn.

  The landlord appeared, confusion and concern bubbling over as Gabriel, his hand still locked about her upper arm, demanded a private parlour.

  Imogen didn’t bother to try and pull away. She didn’t want to. That was the problem; when faced with him, all she could think of was getting closer. Her only hope had been in getting as far away from him as she could, and staying away from him.

  At this exact moment her traitorous body was tingling from head to toe. A hot, wanton, a totally inappropriate response to such a manhandling.

  He was dripping wet, shaking with anger, and holding her so hard she was sure she’d be bruised tomorrow. Her heart was racing, and not with fear. Biting her lip she allowed him to drag her into the parlour she had just vacated.

  Gabriel hauled Imogen into the room the frightened innkeep pointed to and kicked the door shut behind them with a resounding thump. Damn it all. He was wet to the skin, and suddenly so angry it was all he had been able to do not to beat her right there in the inn yard in front of God and everyone.

  He’d thought he had himself under control until he’d ridden into the yard and caught sight of his nymph preparing to climb into her coach. The edge of his vision had tunnelled out to black. His whole body had begun to shake. She hadn’t even had the good sense to run. By the time he’d taken hold of her—a mistake that, he was well aware—his heart had been pounding so loudly he was practically deaf.

&n
bsp; Once the door was shut, he dropped her arm, afraid to continue touching her. He stepped back slightly, prepared for recriminations, accusations, even violence. In the same situation, George would have broken his nose at the very least. She might have shot him.

  Imogen swallowed hard, staring up at him, her eyes pricking with tears, a sea of blue shimmering beneath the rising water. Gabriel grimaced. Tears were something he had never been good at dealing with. She blinked, sending the first tear trailing down her cheek, then she launched herself at him, arms locking around his neck, lips finding his in a frenzied kiss.

  Caught off guard, Gabriel stumbled back until he came up against the buffet, Imogen clinging to him like a limpet. The room simply faded away. She was pulling him down to her, fierce, passionate.

  He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her securely to his sodden chest, slanted his mouth over hers, meeting the thrust of her tongue with his own, devouring her as she offered herself up to him.

  His hand shook as he gripped her waist, thumbs pressed hard against her stays. He hooked his fingers into her redingote.

  A knock on the door interrupted them, and with a slightly guilty start, Imogen’s grip slackened and she slid down his chest. Gabriel kept one arm securely about her waist. If she was going to have second thoughts, he wanted to have a hold of her.

  The door opened and the innkeep appeared, a steaming mug in his hands. He glanced worriedly at Imogen. ‘I thought, perhaps the gentleman, him being so wet and all, would welcome a hot arrack.’

  Gabriel’s gaze flicked down to meet Imogen’s. She smirked up at him. The landlord had obviously been afraid he was murdering her in here, and she was well aware of it.

  God knew he’d felt like murder only moments ago.

  ‘And so he would.’ Imogen pulled away from him slightly and took the mug from the man with a soothing smile. ‘We’ll be needing a room, too, since my husband so objects to my little jaunt without him.’