Scandal at Vauxhall (Pleasure Garden Follies)

by Pimentel, Layna

  “But, Your Grace, no lady should view such wicked displays.”

  “It couldn’t be any more humiliating than finding out your husband was caught by another. A fellow peer, no less.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Your Grace.”

  Her attendance would mean going against all protocol and decorum, but she needed to see it, if for nothing more than closure.

  * * * *

  Nathaniel wondered what exactly had pulled her grace away in a hurry. As he walked around the ballroom, he listened to the whispers until he reached the games room. Lord Broxton waved him over to the whist table. Lords Avonlea and Rutledge cast an amused glance.

  Both had gone to Oxford with him and hadn’t spoken to him since his return to London. It was interesting. After his trip from the continent earlier this month, all the ladies still sought him out, but not his friends.

  “Come now, Lord Thompson, we still have room for one more, and the betting has just gotten more interesting.”

  “How so, Rutledge?” he asked.

  “Well, it all started with fifty guineas and you following her grace, the Duchess of Brimley, onto the terrace. Fifty guineas gets you in, and another says you’ll bed her before the year is out.”

  Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. If he were a gambling man, he’d have played along. But tonight he wasn’t. Something about the way Isabel had been trying to maintain her composure told him that things were going awry one way or another.

  “Rutledge, you may bet all you want on what I do in private, but I wager I’ll have my boot so far up your fob arse before the night is out.”

  The table broke out into a fit of laughter. “Game on, Thompson. I’m almost certain you’ll lose the bet.”

  The cards were dealt and all had played their hands when Lady Rutledge came up behind her husband. “My dear, the most intriguing news. His Grace, the Duke of Brimley, was called out by Downsbury. The duel is at daybreak. Apparently, he caught Brimley with his wife.”

  So that was what had her rushing out of here. This didn’t bode well for Isabel. Downsbury was an expert marksman, and Brimley didn’t stand a chance. Isabel could very well be a widow before breakfast, and the thought had to have frightened her. The worst thing about the entire scenario was that he couldn’t offer any assistance until knew of the outcome. Scandal already sat at her doorway, and it was only a matter of time before all of London heard.

  Lord Broxton chuckled and didn’t appear the least bit fazed by the revelation. “I wouldn’t worry about it, my dear. Her Grace, the Duchess, should be happy her tyrannical husband does not stand a chance. And if the rumors are correct, I imagine Downsbury will still remain a cuckold and very much at the center of bets at White’s, as his duchess has been stringing around several lords.”

  His wife gasped mockingly then giggled. “Oh my! She has certainly been a busy body, hasn’t she?”

  “My dear, if there is nothing else of import, please let us gentlemen return to our game.”

  “Certainly, My Lord.” She practically skipped away with the new information to gossip about.

  Heartache swelled in Nathaniel’s chest. Lady Broxton’s announcement certainly explained much. Had he not been sent off via the war office’s command and married poor Isabel as he had intended, he could have spared her this grief and embarrassment.

  In fact, he found it quite shocking that society should take so much pleasure in observing and commenting on everyone’s lives as if they were a Greek tragedy or some ridiculous play at the theatre. Mocking and ridiculing, subtle but harsh, ruthless and relentless. The follies of those who took pleasure in another’s misery should be eternally punished.

  Nevertheless, the more he pondered on the matter, the more he wanted to see Isabel and lift her spirits. Yet, he could not. She was above his station, and married, no less. It was bad enough his mother had many dinners planned and balls to attend.

  The dowager had an agenda of marrying him and his sister off. However, no respectable peer would go near his dear, naïve, imprudent sister. Thus, the future of his family estate was now left entitled to him. To keep the other two women in his life content, in addition to this conundrum, would prove to be his greatest feat ever.

  The game of whist lasted all of a half hour when Nathaniel excused himself from the gaming table, only to be met by his mother and sister on his way out.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Nathaniel?”

  “Nowhere of any import to you, Mama,” he whispered, removing her stiff hand from his wrist.

  “Come, dear brother. I shall not be deprived of at least one dance.”

  Nathaniel huffed, knowing what they were up to. “I think not. I have something I must do right now.”

  “Pish posh, love. White’s is no place for a man in the marriage mart. Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball is, and you’re leaving far too early!”

  “I think not,” he repeated. And without giving either woman a second glance, he abandoned the ball to find out more about Brimley’s dealings with the Duchess of Downsbury.

  * * * *

  Isabel dressed in her riding habit, prepared to go on horseback if needed. One way or another, she would witness the proof of her husband’s betrayal.

  “You’re mad, My Lady!” the butler exclaimed. “You cannot attend. No respectable lady attends a duel. If you wish, I’ll make an appearance in your stead and return once it is over to deliver the news myself.”

  “Absolutely not. If you desire to accompany me, then do so. Otherwise, I ride alone.”

  The servants begged and pleaded for her to stay behind, and deep down she knew she’d regret her decision, but one couldn’t blame her for wanting closure. Isabel slipped out the back entrance, racing toward the stables before her footmen could intervene.

  “I’d like my horse readied immediately,” she commanded the stable hand.

  When her mare was brought forth, she climbed up, accepting the young man’s assistance, and bolted willingly from the stall. No one, not even providence, could stop her from watching her foolish husband make the biggest mistake of his life.

  The unfortunate thing was that she could only watch from afar. Rows of Beech trees with lush foliage rustled in the early morning breeze. She dismounted her horse and wrapped the reins around the fence. Walking around the tree line, she attempted to remain out of site. At the sound of men shouting, Isabel halted beneath an oak and peered around the trunk for a better look.

  Her husband and Downsbury stood angrily facing each other, their seconds hovering to ensure they didn’t start before the surgeon arrived. When the he finally showed, he crossed the green, and the count began.

  “Five. Four. Three. Two.”

  The hair at the nape of her neck rose, and her lips trembled. Yes, her husband had many faults, but none should be punishable by death. Lord have mercy on his soul.

  “One.”

  The pistols went off, followed by some shouts.

  Isabel’s heart hammered in her chest as she gripped the bark harder. She squinted to find her husband on the ground, lifeless. His silvery-blue waistcoat was unmistakable. A chill washed over her, and her eyes began to well up with tears. The surgeon lifted his limp arm to check his pulse and loudly pronounced his death.

  Isabel inhaled sharply and backed into the tree, pushing a branch out of her way. It flung back and smacked her in the face. She bit back the sting, thankful for the momentary distraction. Hooves galloping away caught her attention. Stepping out from her hiding space, heavy hands caught her unawares.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” a deep, burly voice questioned her.

  She spun on her heels to face her inquisitor.

  The man gasped. “I’m beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace! I had no idea…you shouldn’t be here.” Henry’s solicitor growled, drawing the attention of the gentlemen that remained behind.

  No, I shouldn’t. Her life was about to change. She was stunned, horrified, and suddenly feeling very alone, the un
certainty of her future swallowing her whole. Before she could even speak, the surgeon approached. Would it be too much to ask, to be left alone. I cannot possibly deal with them right now.

  He tipped his hat and cast a downward glance. “Your Grace, I offer my condolences. Can I have someone escort you home?”

  Isabel shook her head. “I think I should be able to manage.”

  “Well, at least let me escort you back to your mare. I had no idea Your Grace could ride.” He tucked her gloved, tense hand into the crook of his elbow. Once they were close enough, he assumed position to help lift her.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re most welcome. Please, if there is anything I can do, let me or my wife know, Your Grace. We would be most honored to assist you in any way we can.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir. Should a need arise, I will call on you.”

  Within minutes, Isabel reared her horse back and rode home hard, only stopping when she reached her front door. Passing the reins to a surprised footman, she stepped through the threshold, collapsing onto her knees.

  The butler rushed forward, hollering for the housekeeper to come quickly. “Your Grace, what’s happened?”

  “His Grace, the Duke of Brimley, succumbed to a fatal gunshot. What will become of us?”

  “Your Grace,” he bent down to help her, “I know I speak out of turn when I say that we’re sorry for your loss, but no matter how uncertain all may be now, just know we—the staff—support you fully. We will be here for you no matter the challenge. You have my honor as a servant. No harm shall come to you. Now, if you’ll follow Mrs. Cooke, she shall see you settled into bed.”

  Isabel sighed, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. But what will they do if I can’t afford to keep them on? She’d hate to see them leave, but the harsh reality was this—what would be left to her with Henry’s passing would be determined by his solicitor. A man she wouldn’t give two farthings for, and had the manners of pig.

  Chapter Two

  Six months later

  Isabel paced to and fro from the dais to her gardens window facing the back of her townhouse. Uneasiness had her on guard, but she hadn’t the slightest clue the cause of her anxiety. The skies were gray and the clouds shifted in strange, hard angles above, threatening to unleash some sort of God-given punishment. Nevertheless, Isabel found her thoughts and paranoia distracted once again by Cecily’s incessant chattering.

  While she enjoyed the frequent visits by her closest friend, Miss Cecily Turner, their teatime had turned into a weekly accounting of London’s wagging tongues and scandalous mischief. For the most part, their conversations had been light and humorous, yet as of late their talk had been dark and unsatisfactory. Three times this month already, Cecily managed to bring up the Marquess of Stoughton, and every time his name was mentioned, her heart broke.

  She had written to Nathaniel on at least half a dozen occasions to seek his council on some stately matters—as her late husband’s solicitor sorely neglected her—and not one letter received a response. Disappointment summarized her life in light of recent events, especially after she had poured out her heart to him at the ball. Isabel glanced over to her companion then looked away as a single tear trickled down her cheek.

  She missed Nathaniel.

  Cecily scoffed, drawing her full attention. “I just find it utterly distasteful how the dowager countess continues to declare the marquess’ affections for Lady Eloise Morton, and insists the marriage would be most advantageous. Even more shocking is the age difference! Why, she’s barely out of school, and he’s a man in his prime. A man his age with a wife so young is a disaster of a match. The affairs, illegitimate children…the list goes on,” she ranted.

  Isabel dismissed the words with a wave of her hand.

  “Darling, what in heaven’s name are you thinking about?” Cecily asked, set her tea down. “My brother will be here soon, so we must finish making our list.”

  Isabel cocked her head to the side. What in the devil is she talking about? “What list are you going on about, Cecily?”

  A pounding on the door, followed by men shouting, alerted the women, and they sat there staring at the entrance. Smith, her butler, finally made face until he was pushed out of the way by the Duke of Downsbury. The duke marched toward her then halted as soon as Isabel rose to address him.

  “You, sir, have crossed the line!” she said staunchly.

  “And you, my lady, are going to be ruined! I want what is owed, and I’ll not stop until I have it.”

  Isabel sucked in a breath, trying to find the patience to avoid blurting out unladylike expletives. “My lord, would you care to explain? How is it exactly that I’m going to be ruined? Far be it from me to mention that all of London is still talking about my inability to keep my own husband in my bed. Or shall I remind you of with whom he was cavorting?”

  Richard Waite, the Duke of Downsbury, stood before her with his fists at his side and paled.

  “Edmonds! Please escort his lordship to the gate and see that he never returns.”

  Her butler moved to guide him out when Richard turned and viciously snarled, “It was just as well that your husband lost the duel, but mark my words, my lady, you will lose everything by the time I am done. He owes me far more coin than what is recorded in the books at Whites, Your Grace.

  “Once I am finished, you will be reduced to a pauper. A word of advice, madam—you may even be able to restore some power if you brush up on your skills. I hear Madam Martine is on the hunt for new courtesans.”

  Isabel’s limbs went limp. Her chest constricted, and the need to weep overwhelmed her every sense.

  “Do what? What could you possibly do, Richard, without further embarrassing yourself?” the new, but familiar, voice asked from the door.

  Shock coursed through Isabel’s veins. Her knees quaked and soon she found herself unable to breathe.

  Nathaniel. He’s here were her last coherent thoughts before swooning.

  * * * *

  Nathaniel stood in the doorway, taking stock of the situation. Isabel and her guest looked positively aghast and Downsbury even more annoyed now that he’d been interrupted.

  “Thompson! What in the world are you doing here? Is the dowager of Brimley your latest conquest?”

  Nathaniel nearly erupted at the accusation. Instead, he crossed the floor in three large strides and grabbed the overzealous duke by the neck, only to lose his grasp when Downsbury kneed him in the jewels. Pain radiated down his legs, and his groin throbbed, but that didn’t keep him from finishing this.

  Downsbury sidestepped, but Nathaniel ran straight at him, tackling him into the side board. Tea cups clamored as they smashed to pieces on the parquet flooring. Isabel’s companion screamed. His face ground into the floor as Downsbury attempted to wrap his clammy, wiry hands around his throat. He craned his neck to where he saw the ladies last, and his heart plummeted at the sight of Isabel on the floor, her friend huddled over her, shielding her from debris.

  “Enough!” Nathaniel roared with all the compunction he could summon. “If you fail to cease this harassment, Your Grace, I will be sure to have a full investigation launched into all your comings and goings at Whites. And let me reassure you, there will be nothing left to your fortune by the time I’m done.”

  He heaved off the desperate duke and rose his feet. “Smith, see that His Grace finds his way out immediately.”

  The uninvited guest staggered from the parlor.

  Just how much trouble is he in? Nathaniel rushed to Isabel, falling onto his knees.

  “Don’t just stand there, miss. Go find Edmonds or the housekeeper. Immediately!” He stroked Isabel’s hair.

  The grim news of her marriage to Griffith had made it all the way out to the field, sending him into a bloody rage and boxing two agents while he wallowed in his regret. And now, here she lay in his arms. Who knew what she’d been told about his whereabouts, then and these last few months.

  His heart
crushed at the thought of her being told he was dead, or that he’d finally settled with a dim-witted chit who couldn’t have been more ill-matched than his own parents. Perhaps her father had convinced her that Griffith was a better match. With that idea, his frustration escalated, and the only thing he could do was stroke her cheek. “Come on, love, wake for me. Let me gaze upon those beautiful violet eyes.”

  She stirred for a moment, her ruby lips murmuring gibberish. Her companion entered the room, dragging a maid along. “The stable boy has run for the doctor. He should be along shortly.” Miss Turner blushed, kneeling next to him and gently taking Isabel’s hand into hers. The housekeeper paced frantically by the door.

  “You should know, My Lord, Bel was told you’d met your fate while you were in the service of the Crown. So you can imagine how surprised she was to see you all those months ago,” Miss Turner declared while gathering the folds of her skirt.

  “Of course she was told that, Miss Turner. I suspect her father arranged the match then?”

  She nodded.

  It was as he expected. Though, he suspected more to the tale then just what the haute ton read into.

  Nathaniel leaned forward, placing a kiss on the crown of Isabel’s head. Her eyes fluttered open. Miss Turner and the housekeeper squealed with joy. But Nathaniel was still distracted by his vengeful thoughts.

  Should Downsbury attempt to make further contact, he’d be sure to expose the duke for the very swine that he was. What kind of lord threatens the widow of the man he’d shot six months prior? No matter what happened, he would keep his love safe.

  * * * *

  “Wh-what happened?” Isabel pushed off the floor but fumbled, her legs still weak. She glared at the girls, trying to recall the last few moments. “Oh, good Lord!” she gasped. She’d been on his lap. What would my parents say if they saw me in such a position? Isabel summoned the gumption to stand on her own two feet, regardless of her knobby knees shaking furiously, and turned to face him.