Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  Gareth’s thumb moved in tiny circles across the thin skin at her wrist. “You’re right,” he said. “And even if the laws were different, they’d have a hard time forcing an English earl to give up his heir to the mother who abandoned him.”

  Gareth’s lips brushed across her cheek. Beau nodded, unable to muster a verbal response, and Gareth captured her mouth for a long, devouring kiss. Beau moaned softly, going pliant in his arms. Still kissing her, he half carried, half dragged her to the adjoining bedchamber. He let her legs fall, but kept one arm securely about her waist as he shut the door behind them.

  “That room doesn’t have a lock, but this one does,” he said as he turned it.

  Beau shoved his coat off his shoulders with rabid haste. He let it fall to the floor. He fought with the hook and eyes holding her gown closed, but gave up as they hit the bed and tumbled into it.

  She kicked off her shoes, and they clattered noisily across the floor. Her nimble fingers attacked the buttons of his waistcoat and those that held his braces in place. Lord, she’d have him spilling himself in her hand if he wasn’t careful. He’d missed her far too much for this to end so quickly, so ignominiously.

  Gareth slid off the bed, Beau’s mewl of protest almost drowning out the rustle of fabric and the creak of the floor as he settled on his knees. He ran his fingers up her legs, the transition from silk to even softer flesh tantalizing and full of promise.

  Beau propped herself up on her elbows, barely able to see over the rise of her petticoats. She raised a brow and placed her stockinged foot on his shoulder, pushing him back slightly, staving him off.

  Without dropping her gaze, Gareth pushed her foot back over his shoulder, and he pushed her legs apart with both hands, palms flat against the tender skin of her inner thighs. He leaned forward to lave his tongue along soft, secret flesh. Sweet, like a plum plucked from a tree on a hot summer day.

  He opened the fall of his breeches as he traced every hill and valley with his mouth. He dipped his tongue inside her, licked up the length of her, locked his mouth over the engorged bud, and sucked until she thrashed.

  “Now.” Her hands locked in his hair. “Now.” Beau dragged him up, impossible to resist. No please. No begging. Just a command that she expected to be obeyed.

  Gareth entered her swiftly enough to catch the last pulsing contractions of her release. Beau smiled, lazy, self-satisfied, replete. She threw her head back, offering him the tender expanse of her neck.

  Gareth placed an open-mouthed kiss below her ear, added a hint of teeth, and sucked harder. Beau gasped and arched, legs locking about his ribs with a now-familiar strength.

  She bent upward, head tucked hard against his shoulder, hair falling about her in waves, its pins scattered all over the bed. Her hands slid up his back, beneath his waistcoat but over his shirt. Beau clung to the fine linen, wrenching it in two directions, using it to draw him to her, to hold him, trapped, entangled.

  The fabric gave way, the sound loud and sharp against their mingled breaths. Beau’s nails slid across his back, dug in, spurring him on. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, Beau’s gasps and cries almost too soft to hear beneath it. With an exultant shout, he spilled himself inside her.

  CHAPTER 53

  Beau pushed her fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp, trying to stave off the headache that was steadily building behind her left eye. Dinner had been blissfully quiet, since both Lady Olivia and the countess had chosen to eat in their rooms. Breakfast, however, was rapidly turning into something of a nightmare.

  “Father,” Gareth said with a flare of temper. “Lord Leonidas is, at this very moment, along with Sir Tobias Montagu and the entire constabulary of Kent, hunting for Jamie and for George Granby. Would you prefer I be there? Because I assure you, I would much rather be doing something other than kicking my heels here.”

  The earl grumbled something under his breath about being cursed with disrespectful children, and Gareth sliced into his steak as though he were picturing his father on his plate. Beau refilled her teacup and piled her muffin high with marmalade, ignoring them both.

  “The burial is scheduled for eleven, is it not?” Beau said into the strained silence.

  The earl blinked as though he’d forgot that she was there. “Yes, the vicar will meet us in the churchyard.”

  “Then I propose to have our things packed and the horses harnessed and ready to leave by one,” she said before taking a bite. The marmalade was bitter and sweet on her tongue, much like everything else in her life at the moment. “There’s no reason to tarry.”

  Gareth nodded his agreement and stabbed a piece of meat with his fork hard enough that the metal squealed sharply against the plate. His face was flushed with anger, his brows drawn down over narrowed eyes.

  This was not a salubrious household, and she would not be sad to leave it behind. How Lady Olivia had survived in such an atmosphere was beyond her. She’d have come to blows with one of Gareth’s parents if she were forced to share a home with them.

  She finished her toast and excused herself to pack. Upstairs, she found Lady Olivia lying in wait in the Tapestry Room.

  “You have to take me with you, Beau,” she said. “I can’t stay here another day. I simply can’t. And I’ve no other means of escape.”

  Beau claimed the chair beside her, smoothing her skirts as she sat. She’d known Lady Olivia for years. They’d shared their first Season together. Pinned up each other’s trains at balls, fought over flirts. It could so easily be her trapped here. “Livy, I’m sure your father—”

  “Doesn’t want to accept the truth,” she said, voice shaking with anger. “He thinks if I just hang on everything will come about. His last letter advised me to remain here, stand my ground, and not give up my claim. I could strangle him.”

  Beau curled her hand over her mouth, thinking. The earl might object, but Gareth certainly wouldn’t. “Do you know where you’ll go?”

  Livy gave her a mocking smile. “I shall go to grandmamma, of course. I don’t think my arrival will come as a surprise to her, and she’s the only person I can think of whom my father will hesitate to cross. He’ll have to leave me in peace—they all will.”

  Beau found herself nodding. If anyone could knock heads together and force a resolution, it was the Dowager Duchess of Cherbury. “Pack what you can,” Beau said, squeezing Livy’s hand reassuringly. “But don’t let them see you. Let us be well on the road before they discover you’ve flown.”

  The first shovel of dirt hit Souttar’s coffin like a cannon going off, the sound loud enough to make his father wince. Gareth took a deep breath. His brother was gone. The grave didn’t make that fact any more real than it had been an hour previous, but somehow the feeling of finality, of futility and waste, was heightened by the sight of that scar in the earth being carefully refilled.

  Gareth took the earl by the arm and led him slowly back to their waiting coach. His father didn’t say a word as they rolled slowly back to Ashburn Park. He just stared, unseeingly, at his own hands.

  When they reached the stables, his father nodded silently and staggered toward the house. Beau was standing in the yard, black gown harsh against the pale stone, directing the footmen in the stowage of their baggage.

  “Did you really bring that much luggage with you?” he said, eyeing the numerous trunks and portmanteaus that were being strapped down.

  “I have my mourning clothes, your mourning clothes, as well as everything we were traveling with previously.” She put her foot on the step, jet sparkling on the buckle of her shoe, poised to enter and depart. “I wasn’t sure what I would need and I didn’t want to take the time to sort it.”

  She ducked her head, climbing inside. Gareth followed her, and the coach pitched slightly under his weight before righting itself as he took the seat beside her. Lady Olivia smiled nervously back at him from the far corner, eyes wide, begging him not to object.

  Gareth smiled. “Making good your escape, my lady
?”

  CHAPTER 54

  Gareth’s head snapped up as Padrig Nowlin came racing into The Red Lion. The man’s face was alight with excitement. “We found him!” Nowlin said loud enough that the entire room stopped to stare. He blushed and swallowed nervously.

  “Jamie?” A surge of excitement flushed through Gareth’s veins. He set his cup down before he dropped it and spilled coffee all over himself and the table.

  Nowlin’s face fell. “Granby. When he wasn’t at Dover, it occurred to me that he might try Ireland first. He has money there. And a house. From there, he might escape with his fortune to America, or the Continent. Sir Tobias wrote to the local magistrates of all the cities where a man could get a packet to Ireland. A one-eyed man boarded a packet in Bristol two days ago. Sir Tobias has sent a man to Dublin, and I’ve come to report to you.”

  The rush of excitement built inside him. Catching Granby wouldn’t bring Souttar back, but it was a start. Watching him hang would bring some small amount of satisfaction, and it would mean knowing that Beau was finally safe.

  Gareth stood and dusted off his hands. “Race you to Bristol?” he said to a grinning Devere.

  Mud spattered across Gareth’s face as Devere cut him off and shot round the mail coach. Beside him, Nowlin cursed and clung to the seat as they did the same. The light sporting phaeton bounced as it hit a rut, shimmying in a disturbing manner for several seconds as they flew after Devere.

  Gareth snapped the whip and sent it curling back on itself as it recoiled. His team surged, edging up on the other vehicle. Devere laughed as they passed him, making a rude gesture with one hand.

  They’d been running half the night. They were changing horses every eight or ten miles. Money flowing through their fingers like water.

  Nowlin adjusted his muffler, pulling it up to cover his mouth and nose. Gareth flexed his hands on the reins, working to keep some feeling in them. It was cold. Freezing. And they couldn’t afford to stop.

  “Hot bricks at the next change if they have them,” Gareth said, and Nowlin nodded back.

  When they reached the outskirts of Bristol, Devere was in the lead, but it was Gareth who rolled into the quiet yard at The Stag first, setting off a squabble as to who had won the race.

  “You’re a cheat,” Devere said, jumping down and handing over the reins to his tiger so his team could be walked.

  “I was carrying a full-size passenger.” Gareth braced his foot and held the team in place as the ostlers ran to their heads. “You had only Wilkins, who’s barely bigger than a child.”

  “We need an outsider’s opinion, Mr. Nowlin.” Devere turned to the startled Irishman. “Was the bet first to Bristol, or first to reach the port?”

  Nowlin’s gaze flew to Gareth, eyes wide with trepidation. “First to Bristol, sir. But I think first to reach the port, that being our destination, was implied.”

  Devere rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I need a drink.”

  “Next boat for Dublin doesn’t leave for a couple of hours,” Nowlin offered.

  “Plenty of time for a drink or two, and a meal besides then.” Gareth pulled his portmanteau from underneath his seat and pushed past Devere and entered the inn.

  Every inch of him ached. His bones felt as though they’d been rattled from their sockets. The others must feel the same. He should be exhausted, but anger seemed to be serving as a very good substitute for sleep.

  CHAPTER 55

  Dust motes filtered through the shafts of sunlight that cut across the darkness of the barn. Beau put her forehead against Gunpowder’s neck and let the scent of horse and hay wash over her, through her, until that and the warmth of the sun on her back were the only things that existed.

  The gelding stamped his foot, knocking his hoof against the door of his stall, an impatient demand for one of the lumps of sugar that he knew she kept on her person. She reached into her pocket, hand pushing carefully down past her gown and petticoats. Her fingers slid over the toy monkey she’d carried there since Jamie’s disappearance. She paused, then dug deeper, finding the lumps of sugar beneath the toy. She pulled several out and offered one to her horse.

  “Greedy beast,” she said as Gunpowder took it, lips brushing across her palm, ears swiveling at the sound of her voice.

  “Beau?”

  Gunpowder tossed his head at the sound of Leo’s voice. Beau put a hand across his nose and brought his head back down, offering him another lump of sugar.

  Leo was flushed, eyes bright with excitement. Beau’s pulse fluttered, and she braced herself against the stall door.

  Leo smiled as he strode toward her. “We have an emissary,” he said, gesturing toward a man behind him. The man was swarthy, with dark curls spilling out below his red woolen cap, and he wore a sash instead of a waistcoat. He barely reached Leo’s shoulder.

  “They have Jamie?” The lump in her throat pushed into her chest, burning as it went.

  Leo glanced down at the man before speaking, “Tobar, the rom baro of one of the large clans of horse traders, has invited us to visit him. He sent Yoska here to bring us to them.”

  The gypsy smiled, teeth flashing against his dark skin.

  “That’s all he said? That we’ve been invited to visit?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “Yoska doesn’t seem to speak much English,” her brother replied, stressing the one word. “So he didn’t even say that much. What he did say was Tobar and come. I spoke to Tobar myself not a week ago. He wouldn’t send for us for no reason. If he doesn’t have Jamie, he knows who does. If we leave now, we can be there by nightfall.”

  When they reached the Romani camp, the moon had already risen, a tiny sliver of silver filtering through the trees. Beau was shaking with anticipation. She flexed her hands and then balled them into fists, skirts clutched tight within them. There was music in the camp. And a fire. And horses. Lots and lots of horses. Beau recognized Tobar immediately. She’d gone with Leo on more than one occasion to the various horse fairs, and Tobar was always there. A big, bluff man with a quick smile and two missing front teeth.

  A hush fell over the camp as they were spotted, and their guide disappeared into the crowd. Tobar stood up and came to greet them. “Lord Leonidas, I think we have your lost colt.”

  “We certainly hope so,” Leo responded. “And we’re very grateful.”

  Tobar motioned with his hand, and a woman broke away from the fire. “Plenty of Romanipen in this one,” Tobar said. “Like you, my lord. I almost hate to give him up.”

  “Where did you find him?” Beau said, knowing she should stay quiet, but unable to do so.

  Tobar turned to look at her. “With my cousin’s people, lady. But they were too afraid to return him. After all,” he said bitterly, “everyone knows gypsies steal children.”

  Before Beau could respond, the woman whom Tobar had sent to fetch Jamie returned, leading a sleepy boy by the hand. Jamie yawned and blinked before flinging himself at Beau.

  Beau crouched down and smoothed her hand over his curls. “Hello, puss.”

  “Want to go home. Want Mokee.”

  “Yes, little man,” Beau said. “I’ve got Mokee right here.” She pulled the battered toy out of her pocket and handed it over. Jamie held up his arms, and Beau scooped him up, staggering slightly under his weight. “What have you been feeding him? He feels like he’s gained a stone.”

  Tobar smiled and winked. “That one eats anything.”

  CHAPTER 56

  The house Nowlin led them to in Dublin appeared unoccupied. The knocker was off the door, and there was no sign of servants or Granby. Gareth tried the door, but it remained stubbornly locked. He retreated to the walk and stood studying the house. It was narrow, made of soot-darkened stone, and identical to twenty others running in a solid row down the street.

  Devere shook the handle.

  “We could break it down,” Nowlin said. “Or slip in a window and have a look around.”

  “Yo
u’re sure this is the right house?” Gareth asked, glancing up the street.

  “Yes, sir. Number six.”

  “Well, then, I suppose one of us should wait here while the others return to confer with the Lord Magistrate.”

  “I say we have a look around and wait in comfort,” Devere said, pushing the door open.

  Gareth raised a brow, and Devere held up a pen knife before folding it shut and shoving it into his pocket. “So now you’ve added housebreaking to your list of crimes?”

  Devere shrugged and walked into the house. “I suggest we have a quick look around for signs of habitation.”

  Gareth drew his pistol from his pocket as Devere did the same. Nowlin hurriedly shut the door behind them. Devere walked off to explore the ground floor, and Gareth moved toward the stairs. At the top of them was a small hall with doors on three sides. The stairs twisted up another floor behind him.

  There were footprints in the fine layer of dust that covered the dark wooden floor. Gareth followed them to the middle door and pushed it open. The chair was still swaddled in a linen drape, but there was a coat tossed carelessly across its back.

  A trunk, open and belching forth its contents, sat under the room’s only window. One drawer of the clothespress lolled open, overflowing with scraps of paper. Granby’s belongings were strewn all across the bed, as though he’d been sorting them.

  Gareth picked up a stack of paper and sorted through it. Debts of honor. Markers and IOUs in at least a dozen hands. He swiftly leafed through them. Nowlin’s appeared to be mixed in with the rest. With a smile of grim satisfaction, he collected them all and went to inform Devere and Nowlin of what he’d found. They had him, and after they burnt his cache of markers, he’d have no hold over Nowlin.