Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  “Let’s not be too generous,” Vaughn said, his green eye unforgiving and his blue one flinty. “We both know he’s not doing it for the boy.”

  Padrig stared down at the crushed and trampled underbrush and the ashes of what had clearly been a large fire. Gone. Gone for days already at the very least, and no sign that the boy had been left behind to starve. Thank heavens on all accounts.

  If he and Granby found the boy before his family did, he didn’t know what he was going to do. But he couldn’t let Granby hurt the child.

  Hell. He closed his eyes for a moment, hand splayed out across the grass. He couldn’t live with any of the things he’d done, but this was one he still might have a chance to fix. That was all he had left at this point.

  Granby stood holding their horses, mouth curled into a disdainful frown. Padrig swallowed hard, feeling sick. He’d felt that way every day since abandoning the boy. He’d become a monster in the service of this man. An irredeemable monster. And he was no closer to retrieving his vowels and rescuing his family than he had been when he’d first agreed to Granby’s terms.

  He claimed the reins of his horse and fit his foot to the stirrup. A rustle from across the little clearing stopped him swinging up. He kicked his foot loose, eyes locked on Granby. The Englishman had yanked his pistol from its holster on his saddle and was standing his ground, rage and hatred screwing his face into a mask.

  “Damn you,” Granby said, as a man leading a bay by the reins stepped into the clearing. Tall, lean, silver-haired with dark, slashing brows drawn into a frown. His identity was unmistakable.

  Sandison raised one hand as if to hail them, as if he hadn’t yet recognized them. Granby brought the gun up and fired. The concussion of the shot was deafening. Birds burst from the trees in frightened, chittering flocks, and then there was silence. Sandison crumpled to the ground without a word.

  “What have you done, sir?” Padrig dropped the reins of his horse and raced across the clearing. He knelt down beside Sandison and put his hand to his chest. Nothing. He rolled him over and put his ear to his mouth. There was no stirring of breath, and a great red patch was spreading across his chest. He looked back at Granby. “I think he’s dead.”

  Granby shoved the gun back into its holster and swung into the saddle. He flicked the skirts of his coat out and adjusted the set of his hat. “It’s time we were leaving.”

  “We can’t just leave him here.”

  One side of Granby’s nose curled up. “That’s exactly what we have to do, fool. I’ve no intention of hanging.”

  When Padrig didn’t move, Granby sawed at the reins and swung his horse about. “Fine. Stay here and take the blame yourself, if you’re so inclined.”

  He spurred his horse and galloped off, great clods of dirt flying up from the animal’s hooves. Padrig stared at the body. The man was dead. Granby had shot him, and now he was dead. He staggered over to the nearest tree and vomited up his lunch.

  What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  CHAPTER 50

  Padrig forced himself to fish through Sandison’s pockets. The man must have a purse or pocketbook. He himself had a grand total of three shillings in his own pockets, and though robbing the dead was yet another sin, it was the only way he could present a credible front when he turned up with a body.

  And a credible front and story were going to be key to keeping his neck out of the noose. He found it at last in the tail pocket of Sandison’s coat. Twenty pounds in bills, an odd collection of coins in the other pockets, calling cards…

  Oh, God. Viscount Souttar, in fashionable copperplate. Nothing else. Just his title. Not Gareth Sandison, who’d robbed Granby of his first bid for revenge, but Sandison’s elder brother, who’d robbed Granby of his second grand scheme.

  Padrig stood as a sharp stab of panic hit him. He should leave. He should leave now and never come back. He vaulted into the saddle and then looked back at the crumpled body.

  Knowing he was making a mistake, but unable to stop himself, Padrig climbed back down out of the saddle and tossed his mount’s reins over the limb of a nearby tree. Souttar’s horse had bolted, but he could see him now, cropping grass some distance away. With a resigned sigh, Padrig wove his way through the trees. It took him several minutes to capture Souttar’s bay, and he was muddy and smeared in blood by the time he got the viscount draped over the saddle.

  He was never going to stay there once they were moving. Damnation. Padrig dug through his saddlebags and pulled out his two spare cravats. He found three more in the viscount’s bags. He knotted them all together, along with the one he removed from around his own throat, and managed to fasten the body to the saddle somewhat securely.

  Once that gruesome chore was done, he remounted and led the dead man’s horse out of the woods. He was going to regret this. It was foolish beyond belief. Granby was right about that. It was likely he’d hang.

  He deserved nothing more.

  “Souttar’s dead,” Leo said as Gareth entered the room.

  Gareth looked green as he took the letter that Beau held out. Her eyes stung with the hot rush of tears. She blinked them away, swiping her hand across her face when one dared to run down her check.

  Selfish beast that Souttar had been, they’d been brothers. And Gareth had loved him. Even when they’d fought, that much had been clear.

  Gareth shook his head, as though trying to force his brain to make sense of the words coming out of Leo’s mouth. “The messenger said what?”

  “He said Lord Souttar is dead. It’s from Sir Tobias Montagu. His seat is in Kent, near Hawkenbury.”

  Gareth turned the sealed missive over in his hands several times. Beau put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. After a moment, he cracked the wax and spread the letter open.

  “Not just dead,” he said when he’d finished reading. “Murdered. His body was brought to Hawkenbury by Padrig Nowlin, who claimed Souttar had been shot by George Granby in a fit of rage. He says they’ve posted a man to Dover to be on the lookout for a one-eyed man.”

  Beau sank down to the floor beside him, hands on his knee. There was nothing that she could say. It all kept coming back to Granby. She was going to be sick.

  “Souttar was a fool, but he didn’t deserve this. It’s going to destroy the earl.”

  “Someone needs to go and claim the body,” Leo said softly, the floor creaking beneath him as he shifted his weight. “And whoever it is, they should speak to Nowlin. He might know more about the whereabouts of the boy than he told Viola in his drunken confession.”

  Gareth nodded, but Beau wasn’t sure that he’d actually heard or understood anything that had been said. She looked up at her brother. “Can you order the carriage put to?”

  Leo flicked a finger against her cheek before turning on his heel and marching out. Beau forced herself to rise and went to direct Gareth’s valet to pack for a short journey.

  When she returned, Gareth was still sitting where she’d left him. He gripped her hand and squeezed back. What was there to say? They sat in silence until Leo came to fetch him.

  Beau kissed Gareth as Leo frowned at them from beside the coach. Just a swift, hard meeting of the lips. “I’ll take care of everything here, and I’ll meet you at Ashburn.”

  Gareth and Leo piled into the coach. Beau turned back into the house as the door shut behind them. She had letters to write, arrangements to make, and, at most, two days to procure mourning clothes for both of them and get on the road. It wasn’t impossible, but it was daunting.

  Now was not the best time for them to leave London. They’d have to leave the hunt in the hands of her brother and Devere until Souttar was laid to rest.

  Oh, Lord. The title. Beau sank down into a chair in the drawing room, heart pounding double time while her head swam. Jamie was Lord Souttar now. Or he would be if his mother proved her marriage was valid. And if she didn’t, Gareth would become the heir.

  CHAPTER 51

  Gareth stared at Padrig
Nowlin. He was clean and well-groomed, but he looked hagridden. He’d aged a decade since Gareth had stolen Beau from his coach.

  Sir Tobias had kept him under lock and key, not entirely sure what to do with him. Gareth wasn’t sure what to do with him either. The man was villain enough that hanging didn’t seem entirely unjust, but still…

  “What have you told Sir Tobias?” Gareth said. If he’d told him too much, there’d be no saving him, even if he were to decide to try.

  The Irishman swallowed hard, hands clenched together, knuckles white. “As little as possible, and almost none of it true.”

  “Cast yourself as Souttar’s companion rather than Granby’s?”

  Nowlin nodded shamefacedly. “Said Granby kidnapped his child, and we were out looking for them both. Don’t think the baronet believed a word of it though.”

  “But he’s not certain, which is why you’re still here, locked up in a spare bedroom, rather than on your way to London to stand trial for murder.”

  Nowlin shuddered, seeming to shrink at the very thought.

  “My brother’s body should be loaded by now and ready for the journey home. I suggest you get your things.”

  “Going to deliver me to gaol yourself?”

  Gareth sucked in one cheek and studied the Irishman. Truth be told, he felt vaguely indebted to the man. If not for Nowlin, he wouldn’t have Beau.

  “What happens next is up to you,” Gareth said, suddenly sure that saving Nowlin was the right course of action. “You’re our best hope of finding Granby, and our only witness to the crime, and I do want him to hang. What I propose to do is corroborate your version of events to Sir Tobias and take you with me. But if you’d rather, Lord Leonidas and I could tell the baronet the truth and leave you here.”

  “Why, sir?” He looked as though he were afraid to believe his luck. Afraid to hope.

  “Because you told us how to find the child, and you risked your neck by bringing my brother’s body back.” Gareth stood, impatient to be gone.

  “That hardly makes up for having participated in the crimes that led to both events. For abducting your lady.”

  “Which begs the question, why were you assisting George Granby? You don’t seem to care much for the man—a perfectly natural sentiment as far as I can tell—so why help him?”

  “Debts,” Nowlin said simply, expression pained and full of self-loathing. “I lost hugely at table. Ruined myself and my family. Granby said he’d tear my markers up if I helped him abduct an heiress. It was her or my sisters…” He let his voice trail away.

  Gareth exhaled in a rush. Feeling indebted was far better than feeling sympathy. “And you chose your sisters. I would have done the same, which makes neither one of us as good a man as we should be. Grab your things and let’s go lie to Sir Tobias.”

  “You won’t regret this, sir,” Nowlin said as they strode toward the stables. The deep grooves of worry were still carved into his face, but his eyes had grown lively.

  “The boy alive and Granby captured or dead, that’s the only thing that matters. I’ll expect word from you upon my return to London. If you need to reach me, see Lord Leonidas.”

  Nowlin nodded and disappeared into the stable block. Vaughn quizzed him with his eyes as the Irishman rushed past him. “Don’t ask,” Gareth said.

  “You honestly trust him?”

  Gareth shrugged. “I trust that he wants to be a better man than he has been. I’d rather be wrong than hang a man for a good deed. And right now, he’s free to look for Jamie, and I’m not.”

  Vaughn nodded. “As am I. I’m sure Sir Tobias will loan me a horse, and I can keep an eye on Nowlin. You take Souttar home, and I’ll hope to see you in a week with happier news.”

  CHAPTER 52

  The sound of pottery shattering greeted Gareth as he walked into the grand entry hall of Ashburn Park. A brief silence was followed by a storm of voices, all cursing and screaming at the same time. With his greatcoat still on, Gareth took the stairs two at a time, following the cacophony to his mother’s drawing room.

  “Why shouldn’t I say it?” the countess said as he entered the room. “She’s a widow. She should be in mourning.”

  “Lady Olivia—”

  “Lady Souttar. Lady Souttar!” his mother screamed, cutting Beau off.

  “We got word yesterday that Souttar’s Scottish marriage was ruled valid. That Scottish woman is Lady Souttar, not me.” Lady Olivia stood rigid by the fireplace, dressed in scarlet and pink, surrounded by a sea of shattered figurines. “I am not a widow,” she said with a brittle laugh. “I was never truly married, so there is not the slightest reason for me to wear mourning.”

  His mother’s Limoges snuffbox shattered against the fireplace, raining tiny bits of painted porcelain all over Lady Olivia’s skirts.

  “Throw all the figurines and snuffboxes and candlesticks you like. Doing so is hardly going to change my mind.”

  “Ungrateful girl!” His mother turned, clearly hunting for something else to smash. When she saw Gareth, she flung herself upon his chest, sobbing.

  Beau, a slightly frazzled expression on her face, was standing across the room, her back to the long windows. Her gown was black, the sheen dull even in sunlight. Her face was pale, trapped between the dark fabric and her equally dark hair.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said as she saw him.

  Gareth smiled at her over his mother’s lacy cap. He’d missed her, though it had been only a few short days since he’d left her in London. He’d got rather used to having a termagant underfoot.

  “And you.” His mother pulled herself out of his arms and rounded on Beau. “None of this would have happened without you. I hate you. I hate you all, and I wish you’d leave me in peace.”

  “Gladly,” Lady Olivia said. “I’ve been asking for the same courtesy for weeks now. And now that the decision has come down, I’m finally free to leave this horrible place.”

  “You’d be dancing on his grave if you could,” the countess said as Lady Olivia stormed out.

  “I just might,” she shouted before slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the hinges.

  Gareth surveyed the scene. Shattered figurines littered the floor. There were dents in the plaster walls, and a chair had been overturned. He glanced at Beau, and she rushed across the room, took him by the hand, and pulled him out behind her, completely ignoring his mother’s protesting wail.

  “You have no idea what we’ve been putting up with here,” she said as she led him unerringly to the Tapestry Room and closed the door behind them. She leaned back against it, bracing herself as though she expected an assault.

  “My apologies, brat. I should have thought before sending you here alone. I see you found my family on their very best behavior.”

  “It’s bedlam. Your father is inconsolable. Your mother alternates between blaming me and berating Lady Olivia for not playing the dutiful widow. And one can hardly blame poor Livy. She’s in the most unenviable position, neither fish nor fowl in this whole unfortunate mess, and now that the Commissaries has declared your brother’s first marriage valid, well, her situation has gone from bad to worse.”

  “Why is she still here?”

  “I asked the same thing when I arrived. It seems her father and your father agreed that it was best for her to remain, to stake her position as Souttar’s legitimate wife—widow now. They want to fight on. To challenge the ruling here in England. The earl’s solicitor found some sort of precedent they’re hanging their hopes on.”

  “I take it Lady Olivia doesn’t agree.”

  Beau shook her head and moved away from the door. “Poor Livy. Scandal and humiliation are not her usual fare.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “Unlike me. I’d brazen my way through it. Livy can’t.”

  “She seemed to be doing pretty well standing up to Mother just now,” Gareth said, taking a seat and pulling Beau down with him. She settled into his lap and dropped her head to his shoulder.r />
  “Livy’s taking a stand now that Souttar’s dead.” She pushed herself up and turned her head so that she was looking him dead in the eye. “You never told me what a bully your mother is.”

  “I never knew she was,” Gareth replied. And he hadn’t. He’d never seen his mother behave as she had today, and he hadn’t been around much during Souttar’s brief marriage to Lady Olivia. He had no idea if the two of them had been fighting like cats and dogs since day one, or if this was something brought on by grief and disappointment.

  “Well she is, and I’m telling you right now that I won’t put up with it as Livy has.”

  “Good thing we don’t have to live here with her then,” Gareth said.

  “She seems to expect that Jamie will though,” Beau said, worry marring her brow. “She vacillates between railing about ‘that Scottish woman’s bastard’ and crying to be united with ‘all that’s left of her beloved son.’ ”

  Gareth let his breath out in a long sigh. He’d been worried about this for days. “My mother’s right to want him at Ashburn,” he said.

  “No.” Beau shook her head, dark curls tumbling across her eyes, her tone accepting no disagreement.

  “I can fight my parents, but I won’t win. I suggest we encourage ‘the Scottish woman’s bastard’ line of thinking then. If mother refuses to accept him, it will be easier to justify leaving him with us, at least until he’s old enough to go to school.”

  “It could take that long before this is all concluded if your father fights to have the marriage declared invalid under English law.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Gareth smoothed his thumb over the soft skin on the inside of her forearm, stopping when he reached the pulse point in her wrist. Her pulse leapt.

  “Then as Souttar’s widow, she’ll be entitled to a dower, and your father can send her on her way with a pittance and a curse, which is about all she deserves after abandoning Jamie because his existence was inconvenient. And in the eyes of the law, she’s got no right to Jamie, so even that need not concern him.”