Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  There was only one inn within easy reach of the estate so it hadn’t been hard to track down a likely source of information. All he’d had to do was wait and stand a few rounds to the likeliest candidates. When a groom in the earl’s employ had broached his third pint and begun loudly talking about his recent trip south, Granby had paid and invited the man to join him by the fire.

  “What prompted such a trip at this time of year?” Granby said. “The mud alone must have made the journey quite dismal. I wouldn’t be traveling myself, except that I got word my mother is very ill.”

  “Some Scot,” the groom said, ale sloshing off the edge of the newly arrived mug. “Showed up with a brat, claiming it was Mr. Sandison’s. You should have seen Lord Souttar.” The man paused and glanced around the taproom before adding sotto voice, “Desperate to keep his father from finding out.”

  “Why would Lord Souttar care if their father found out his brother had a bastard?”

  The footman grinned and downed half the mug of ale. “Wasn’t the babe that caused the stir. It was the mother.”

  “The mother?”

  The footman frowned into his beer. “Not su’posed to tell anyone. Hs’lordship made me swear.”

  Granby signaled for another mug. The man finished what was in his current one and reached unsteadily for the next.

  “His lordship made you swear to keep it from the earl?” Granby prompted.

  The footman nodded. “Big secret. Mother’s not dead. Makes Mr. Sandison a bi—a big—a—a something terrible.”

  “I think bigamist is the word you’re looking for.”

  CHAPTER 35

  My sister’s what?” Lord Leonidas struggled to contain his temper. The banked coals of betrayal that he’d been carefully maintaining flared into open flame.

  “Bastard,” Roland Devere said grimly, mouth pressed into a hard line. “That’s the latest on-dit. Heard it from several people last night at Lady Dalrymple’s. Everyone claiming not to believe it, but whispering about it all the same.”

  “Where do these kinds of rumors come from? It’s ridiculous. When would Beau have had time to accomplish such a feat without the entire world witnessing it?” Leo raked both hands through his hair, gripping his skull hard. This was madness. Pure and simple.

  “Proof is hardly needed.” Devere shook his head slightly, his own annoyance clear. He’d been the only one to stand by Sandison, and this was his reward. “And she does disappear for months every year. She spends the entire winter out of sight in Scotland.”

  “Everyone spends months in the country,” Leo protested.

  Devere leaned in across the table, his expression utterly serious. “Beau’s sudden marriage to a younger son with no fortune or prospects. That alone was enough to set tongues wagging. And now there’s a baby always at her knee. People are saying Sandison was bought and paid for. And that you had a hand in it. Helping your closest friend to a honey fall, and your sister out of a horrible predicament.”

  “That’s absurd.” Leo ground his teeth, repressing the urge to take his frustration out on his friend. Coming to blows with Devere wouldn’t help anything.

  “Agreed,” Devere said. “But just because it’s absurd, doesn’t mean it can be laughed off. What the hell is Sandison thinking? It’s not surprising that he might have a bastard—”

  “Or four,” Leo interjected sourly.

  “—tucked away, but even Sandison wouldn’t be fool enough to try and house it with his wife. Least of all when he and Beau were already drowning in scandal broth. Lady Cook was in alt as she spoke of it.”

  “I’m going to kill him,” Leo said, rising quickly enough that his chair scraped loudly across the floor, drawing the attention of the rest of the room. Leo stared out at them. His friends. The League. Sandison’s friends, too. Or they had been, until Leo had blackballed him. His gaze locked with Anthony Thane. He could tell by the man’s expression that he’d heard the same ugly rumor and felt just as powerless to do anything about it.

  Leo turned and strode toward the door. Anthony Thane caught up with him in the vestibule as he struggled into his greatcoat.

  “Don’t make it worse,” Thane said, putting a restraining hand on his arm.

  “It couldn’t be any worse,” Leo replied. Trust Thane to want to attack the issue calmly. With Thane, everything could be conquered with logic and wit. All those years in the Commons had deafened him to the call to action.

  Thane shook his head. “It could always be worse. If life’s taught me anything, it’s taught me that simple lesson.”

  Leo arrived home, Thane’s warning still ringing in his ears, to find his wife pacing the length of the carpet in their drawing room, a letter clutched in her hand. She spun about and held out the piece of foolscap as though it were a snake.

  “This came while you were out.”

  Leo turned the letter over. It bore no name. Just their London address. He unfolded it and scanned its contents. His blood went from boiling to icy cold by the time he reached the final paragraph.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Viola said. “Sandison wouldn’t do such a thing. Not to Beau. Not to you.”

  Leo crumpled the letter in his fist, the sound satisfying in the moment. “I’m beginning to wonder if I know Gareth Sandison at all.”

  Viola shook her head, took the note from him, and tossed it onto the fire. The flames licked over it, slowly turning it to char. “I shouldn’t have shown it to you. I should have burnt it the moment I read it.”

  Leo pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. She was the one solid, trustworthy thing in his world. “Not showing me wouldn’t have helped. If Sandison really did already have a wife—”

  “Then I’ll kill him myself,” Viola said. “But I can’t believe it of him. I simply can’t.”

  “Won’t.”

  Viola gave him a little shake. “Can’t,” she said with single-minded determination, as though willing the tale to be false could make it so. “And you don’t believe it either. You’re just too angry to think at the moment.”

  “Just for you, I’ll hold off killing him until we have proof, but if a similar note has been sent to the duke…”

  “It will take your father at least a week to get here from Lochmaben. And another day or two beyond that to reach Sandison.”

  “So we have our deadline,” Leo said, feeling a chill run up his spine. A week. Seven short days to find proof of innocence or guilt. And no idea where to start, except with Sandison himself.

  CHAPTER 36

  The winter sun broke weakly through the bed curtains, barely diffusing the shadows where it trailed across the bedclothes. Beau lay still, Gareth curled around her, and watched the light move slowly toward them as the minutes passed. Any moment it would hit Gareth’s eyes and wake him.

  It had taken two days for her to reconcile herself to his machinations and return to his bed, but she couldn’t even pretend to regret that she’d done so. Sleeping alone had punished her every bit as much as it had him. And to no real purpose, except that she’d been feeling prideful.

  He nuzzled sleepily into the back of her neck, fingers playing almost idly with her nipple. His hips rocked against her, his erection riding the cleft of her buttocks.

  After a moment, his hand left her breast, sliding down to lift her leg, hooking her calf back over his knee. Fingers between her thighs, cock now riding the valley between them, Gareth kissed his way up her shoulder. His mouth was hot on her neck, teeth scraping lightly over her skin.

  Beau twisted her head just enough so she could kiss him. Gareth curled his body against hers, and then he was inside her, the shallow penetration just enough to make her crave more. His hand cupped her sex, holding her in place for his thrusts.

  She pushed her knee higher, opened herself wider. Gareth’s fingers found her clitoris, riding slickly over the swollen peak with every rock of their hips. Beau’s release washed over her like a wave—soft, sudden, utterly di
fferent from the wild crash engendered by a frantic coupling.

  Gareth held still long enough for the small tremors to abate, and then rolled her under him, his knees on the outside of hers, and found his own release with long, slow strokes that left Beau shattered and boneless.

  “Morning, love.” He kissed her on the shoulder, his weight still pressing her down into their newly arrived mattress.

  Beau stretched out her neck, utterly content. “It can’t be morning yet.”

  “I heard the clock chime eight some time ago,” he said as he slid off her.

  Beau made a wordless sound of disgust and buried her face in the pillow. They’d been up half the night. She had no intention of getting out of bed until at least noon.

  She heard the floorboards creak, and she cracked one eye open just in time to see Gareth pull on his banyan. The heavy silk slid around him, masking the long, lean lines of his body.

  Hers. Beau smiled to herself. Whatever he may have done previously, he was hers now, and she had every intention of keeping him. He glanced over, caught her watching him, and smiled. She knew that smile. Had seen it often enough on his face when he looked at other women. Lazy, self-satisfied, possessive.

  It was madness to feel warmed by it, but it was impossible to resist.

  Beau kept Jamie well back from the cliff’s edge as they took their afternoon walk. He pointed excitedly to the roiling whitecaps racing toward the beach.

  “Waves,” Beau said. “Waves on the ocean.”

  “Jamie go ocean.”

  Beau shook her head. “Not today, little man.” She tugged back on his leading strings, wrapping them securely around her hand when he tried to pull away. “Today Jamie will have to make do with the garden before he goes with Peg to take a nap.”

  Jamie wrinkled his nose, his expression remarkably like his father’s when Gareth was feeling disgruntled. Whatever Gareth’s reason for ignoring the child, questionable paternity wasn’t among them. Jamie was clearly a Sandison.

  “Mokee go ocean?”

  “Monkey most certainly does not want to go to the ocean. Monkeys don’t like water.”

  Jamie’s face fell and then his eyes lit with clear intent. “Mokee take nap. Jamie go horses.”

  Beau laughed and knelt down beside him. There was a child after her own heart. Horses were far better than naps. “Would you like to go see the horses?”

  Jamie nodded, dark curls bouncing all about his head.

  “Then go to the horses we shall.” She scooped him up and turned toward the stable, only to find her path blocked by two very familiar faces. Granby and Nowlin.

  Granby’s smile didn’t hide the malice in the eye she’d left him. Beau took a step back and let Jamie slide to the ground. She glanced at the house. Not a servant in sight.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Boudicea,” Granby said, bowing formally, as though he were paying a call.

  “Jamie,” Beau said, not taking her eyes off the men. “Go back to the house. Back to Peg.”

  Jamie’s grip on her hand tightened.

  “No need for the little mite to cause alarm.” Granby snapped his fingers and pointed from Nowlin to Jamie. The Irishman reached for the boy, and Beau lashed out with a fist, landing a lucky and unexpected hit that sent him sprawling onto the wet grass. Jamie clutched her skirts and shrieked at the top of his lungs.

  Nowlin scrambled up, wiping mud from his breeches. He and Granby moved in from opposite sides. Granby grabbed hold of her arm while Nowlin plucked Jamie up.

  Beau struggled free but tripped as Granby caught her by the skirts and yanked. She pulled away, stumbled, and then she was falling.

  The water felt like stone when she hit it, knocking the air from her lungs. It took a moment to realize that she wasn’t dead, another to recognize the sensation of sinking and to combat the overwhelming urge to scream.

  Her skirts dragged her down, making it nearly impossible to kick. Beau fought her way toward the surface, clawing at the water. Her lungs burned. The pain—the need to breathe—growing more intense by the second. She broke the surface, swallowing air and water both, and sank back under, choking.

  Something hard and sharp caught her arm, and this time she did scream, losing what little air she’d managed to inhale. She was pushed up. Borne up. She gasped for air, hands disconcertingly full of fur.

  Beau took another breath, and the panic started to recede. Gulliver circled, whining softly, pushing her up whenever she started to sink. Beau looked about frantically. No tiny body bobbed in waves. No toy monkey either.

  The dog nudged her as a wave broke over her, thrusting her down. Beau grabbed ahold of him, arms around his neck. He turned about and swam powerfully toward shore.

  Men splashed into the water as they approached the beach. Beau struggled to her feet, using Gulliver as a crutch. Someone threw a blanket smelling of fish and smoke about her shoulders, and Beau clutched it to her, teeth chattering as the wind raised gooseflesh all over her body.

  She pushed her hair from her face and looked up at the top of the cliffs. She could see no one peering down. Had they taken Jamie? Left him alone on the cliffs? Had they watched as she was rescued? Or had they fled the moment that she’d tumbled over the cliff?

  “My lady?” one of the men said, face puckered with concern.

  “Poor woman’s lucky to be alive,” another one responded.

  The dog sat at her feet, pressed close, rumbling low in the back of its throat whenever any of the men got too close. Beau put a hand on its head, and it quieted.

  “Don’t growl at me, beast,” the second man said, wind-chapped face stern. “Get her ladyship back to the vicar’s house, John. You, Henry, run up to the Hall and tell them we’ve got her safe. Have them send a coach and a change of clothes.”

  “Henry,” Beau said through chattering teeth, “tell them to look for Jamie. He was with me. He’s up there by himself now.” Or she hoped he was. Better that than with Granby.

  Men darted off in several directions. The man who seemed to be in charge offered his arm, and Beau took it, shushing the dog again as she did so. Gulliver protested softly all the way to the vicar’s cottage and then flung itself down across the doorway when the vicar refused to allow it inside.

  The vicar’s housekeeper chased Beau into her own quarters and ruthlessly stripped her wet garments off. “You can wear my flannel wrapper, ma’am. I mean my lady.”

  “Either is fine, Mrs. Batey,” Beau said, reaching for the proffered robe. “I’m not about to stand on ceremony. Not today.”

  “You tuck in by the fire. And I’ll be back with something hot for you to drink quick as a cat can lick its ear.”

  “Thank you. Have they come back from the Hall yet?”

  “No, my lady. It’s a steep hill, and they were on foot. They’ll be a while yet.”

  Beau huddled by the fire, toes and fingers cold on the inside, skin painfully hot as she held them near the flames. The numbness in her extremities gave way to full-fledged pain as she slowly warmed up. Everything ached. Every joint. Her head throbbed as though it had been used as an anvil.

  Mrs. Batey returned with a pot of tea, Gareth hard upon her heels. Beau flung herself into his arms, and he held her tight. “What the devil happened?”

  Beau opened her mouth and nothing but a sob came out. Gareth forced her back into the chair, pulled a flask from his pocket, and dropped down beside the chair, his expression harried.

  “Brandy,” he said. “Drink it.”

  Beau took the flask and drank, the fumes nearly choking her.

  “All of it,” Gareth said, pushing her hand back to her mouth with his own. He tipped it up, so she had to either drink it or wear it. Beau pushed his hand away and drained it.

  “Jamie?” she said when she’d finished, knowing to expect the worst. Granby. Her past come back to haunt them this time. Hers, not Gareth’s.

  Gareth shook his head. “No sign of him. No one seems to have known either of you were missing unt
il Mr. Dobbs showed up claiming they’d fished you out of the sea.”

  “They had nothing to do with it.” Beau clutched the robe tighter around herself as the brandy burned inside her belly. “It was the dog. Gulliver. I’d have drowned if he hadn’t swum out and pulled me in.”

  “What happened, brat?”

  “Granby. Granby happened,” she said bleakly, tears leaking uncontrollably down her cheeks, so hot that they stung. “It’s been him all along. Nowlin was his, and now this. I think he’s taken Jamie. What could he possibly want with him?”

  CHAPTER 37

  What the hell did you bring that along for?” Granby asked, staring with revulsion at the squalling child clutched in Padrig’s arms.

  Padrig looked down at the little boy. He’d wrapped him in his coat and chased after Granby’s coach on horseback. “You said grab them. I thought you wanted him.”

  Granby rubbed his temples. “A misstatement. Clearly. I wanted Lady Boudicea. That,” he said and waved one hand dismissively at the boy, “you could have chucked over the cliff after her. Should have, as a matter of fact.”

  Padrig’s mouth fell open. “You can’t just drop a baby over a cliff, sir.”

  “Why not? Once we’d lost Lady Boudicea, there was no reason to keep the child. I’m certainly not going to cart it all the way back to London. You took it. You get rid of it.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Beau’s breathing steadied as she dropped off to sleep. Gareth loosened his grip and let her slide down beside him on the bed. She’d been disturbingly quiet until they’d entered the house, but once she’d started crying, she’d been unable to stop.

  She’d sobbed until she’d begun hiccupping, face buried in his chest, the child’s toy monkey locked in her hand. Gareth hadn’t the slightest idea what to say to comfort her. She’d been flung off a cliff. Had nearly drowned. And Jamie was gone, perhaps forever.

  Granby could be anywhere by now, though there were a couple of options more likely than the rest. Gareth wiped a thumb over his wife’s tear-stained cheek. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it now. Every minute put Jamie further out of their reach.