A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (2 page)

SUMMER, 1817, LONDON

The Earl of Levenbane was a frightening man. Everyone said so. It was one of the rare points of agreement across the whole of the peerage. Colin, of course, was not intimidated. Admittedly, he was thirty years the man's junior, and currently the recipient of a scowl that would down a pheasant at a hundred paces. But Colin had one advantage. Lord Levenbane had thirty more years of multi-course meals and idle days to expand his person to an impressive girth, along with a bad knee that necessitated a cane. In short, Colin was fairly certain he could outrun the man, if things turned sour.

Nonetheless, when the earl settled back in his seat and pierced Colin with that infamous stare, Colin experienced a definite prickling at the back of his neck.

“We've edged around this thing long enough. I think it is well past time we made it official,” Levenbane said. “Don't you?”

Colin gave a languid wave of his hand. “I have no particular timetable,” he said. “And thus I bow to yours. As long as Lady Penelope is agreeable, of course.”

Levenbane grunted and reached for the wine at his side. Colin reached for his own wine. He'd never gotten a nose for the stuff, but even he could tell it was expensive. Light, lighter than he preferred, though he supposed it was early in the day.

Levenbane's drawing room was steeped in opulence. The cushions were a rich burgundy, the arms of the chairs intricately carved. Gold leaf had been applied to the wallpaper in curlicues, with wild and mythical creatures sketched in miniature at the edges, all of them seeming to peer at Colin with appraising expressions.

Colin's own father had been an austere man, not fond of excess, and the style of his homes reflected that. Colin had seen no reason to change it, and while his mother clotted up her private rooms with decadent flourishes, she had preserved his father's tastes wherever she could, leaving every residence a mausoleum in the man's memory. Colin supposed that Penelope would want to change that.

Well, good. Lack of change was stagnation, and stagnation might as well be death. He'd been worse than stagnant the last few years. He'd refused to even entertain the notion of marriage since the disastrous interlude with Elinor, and it was well past time he put aside his sentiment and took care of the task in a logical manner.

Even if it meant marrying a woman with whom he'd never had an entire conversation.

“My daughter is a sensible girl,” Levenbane was saying. “Most of the time. Every girl has a fairy tale knocking around her mind, of course. But proper breeding and education teaches them to ignore it when reality comes to call.”

“Lord Levenbane—”

“Levenbane, please,” the man said. Colin paused. He did not particularly want to establish casual intimacy with his soon-to-be father-in-law. He had always imagined the role as one of a dragon on a nearby hill, watching him with narrowed eyes and smoke trailing out of his (rather wide, it must be said) nostrils. One did not befriend the dragon; it only made it more awkward when conflict inevitably arose.

“Levenbane,” Colin corrected himself. “I intend to make your daughter quite happy.”

“Not at first,” Levenbane said. Colin found himself at a loss for words. “She will be happy with the life you give her, certainly. And happy with you for a protector in time. And
happy to be a bride, certainly; what woman can resist being at the center of attention so thoroughly? But the first year will be difficult. Perhaps even the second. It is one thing to throw a party, and another to look ahead to a long lifetime in each other's company. More wine?”

At some point Colin had finished the glass. He nodded.

“Or something stronger, perhaps,” Levenbane suggested.

“If you have it.”

Levenbane gave him a look like Colin had inquired about the religious affiliation of the Pope and fetched a decanter of brandy from a side table.

“It is superior to a love match, of course,” Levenbane said as he poured. “In a love match, the first year is bliss and the rest is hell. In the more civilized mode, the first year is awkward and the rest have the ease and efficiency of practice, without the disorienting addition of strong emotion.”

“I should think passion has its place in either mode,” Colin said.

Levenbane settled back into his chair. “Passion? If you want passion, get a mistress. Wait until you've got your wife with child, of course, that's safest. But it will keep you sane, and keep her from needing to bear the burden of your ‘passion' along with the management of your household. A mistress, a wife, a set of children, and enough residences that the three don't have to see one another. That is the recipe for a perfect marriage.”

“I see,” Colin said. It was not at all the model of his parents' marriage. They'd adored each other, though they'd not spent five minutes alone together before their wedding. Up until the day he died, his father was forever darting off the street because he spotted some treasure he wished to present to his wife, and serenading her behind closed doors. Colin had spent so many years hearing how rare, how spectacular their love was, that he had never believed it could be replicated. He had assumed he would, at best, marry a woman he had a moderate amount of affection for. He had allowed for the possibility of this bloodless type of match, and it had not troubled him.

Until Elinor.

Damn it all. It had been five years. It was well past time for that foolishness to be forgotten. It was undoubtedly preferable to enter a marriage of equals, with no strong affection on either side, than to be left longing after a woman who didn't return his feelings. He had done a thorough job of scrubbing his soul of its pathetic, moping regard for Elinor Hargrove.

And then this summer she had the gall to come and spend the Season in his household, gadding about London with his youngest sister and wafting through his presence every hour of the day. He would say it was driving him to drink, but that was too mild a statement. Instead, it had driven him to an engagement, which was a far more drastic step. And hopefully far more effective.

“You're a smart man,” Levenbane said. “You'll see. And now I think you'd better spend a little time with the girl, eh? Make her feel like she's got something to do with the whole business.” He chuckled.

Colin murmured assent and finished his drink quickly so that it could be cleared away. Lady Penelope appeared in short order, looking very charming and very young in a pale blue frock. She had the most remarkable curls, he noted, perfect ringlets that shone in the light. She was adorable. He was marrying a woman who could be described as adorable. God help him. God help
her.

Levenbane was saying something about an official announcement and Lady Copeland's ball—the last of any note that season.

“The Copeland ball,” Colin repeated dully.

“Is there a problem?” Levenbane asked, in a tone that allowed only one answer.

“I do not usually attend,” Colin said. Though he was, of course, invited. The ill blood between their families was not the sort one could speak of, nor act on; they'd spent years smiling and nodding to each other in passing and simply ignoring each other the rest of the time.

Levenbane's expression darkened.

“I will have to make an exception,” Colin said, with a roguish smile to Penelope, who blushed scarlet. She had a good
complexion for blushing, he noted. When his sisters blushed they turned all blotchy; Penelope bloomed like a rose. He wondered if she'd practiced.

“Very good,” Levenbane said. “And October for the wedding, then?”

“If that is enough time for Lady Penelope,” Colin said graciously.

“Oh, yes,” Penelope said. It was the first she'd spoken. “It needn't be extravagant.”

Her father's expression suggested that it would be, if he had anything to say about it. Since Colin would be only minimally involved in the planning, he didn't see how it affected him. Levenbane extended his hand. Colin shook it. And that was that.

In three months, he'd be a married man.

He exited Levenbane's town house with a curious numbness in his limbs. It was taken care of, then. It was done, and he could finally put Elinor out of his mind.

He paused as he reached his carriage, frowning. A thin figure was puffing its way up the street toward him. William, he realized, the youngest footman.

“Lord Farleigh,” the boy squeaked as he came within wheezing distance. “I came—you said—”

“Deep breaths, William,” Colin said. The boy was far too excitable. His cheeks were so red now that Colin feared he would pitch over in the street. “What is it?”

“You told me to tell you if Lady Phoebe got into any trouble,” William said between panting breaths. He leaned over, bracing a hand on his thigh.

Colin stifled a sigh. Of course the boy had taken his offhand jest about watching the youngest Spenser sister as a sacred mission. He accepted every order—from fetching lemonade to straightening his cuffs—with the gravity of a holy crusade. “I take it my sister has found some mischief to get into, then. You really didn't have to run all the way here.”

“Oh,” William said, crestfallen. He straightened up. “My apologies, my lord.”

“Don't worry about it. I did say to tell me,” Colin said, rubbing his temples. “So what's she done now?”

“Lady Phoebe and Lady Elinor have gone out,” William said. “To the East End. Whitechapel. My lord.”

Colin scowled. What the devil were Elinor and his sister doing there? No doubt chasing some harebrained adventure Phoebe had concocted. It was one thing when she darted off in search of excitement, but Elinor ought to have known better. He looked William in the eye. The boy straightened up, setting his jaw and no doubt channeling every ancestor who'd ever lifted musket or sword in service of his country. He looked ready to charge Napoleon's armies single-handed.

“You did well,” Colin said. “Now. Tell me exactly where they've gone.”

*   *   *

Elinor Hargrove did not believe in ghosts. The dead stayed dead. Their voices did not echo back to the living, and anyone who claimed to hear them must be mad—or a cheat. In the case of Madame Vesta, it was almost certainly the latter. And Elinor intended to prove it, even if it meant a trip to a thoroughly dubious neighborhood of London.

The streets were narrow and filthy, and the buildings seemed to lean against one another like drunken friends. A mangy cat and a mangier child ambled down the street, unperturbed by the clatter of the carriage's wheels or the slowing clop of the horse's hooves. As the carriage pulled reluctantly to a stop, Elinor turned her skeptical gaze on her companion.

Phoebe Spenser sat, perched at the very limit of her seat, on the far side of the carriage. She buzzed with energy, her fingers fidgeting in her lap and her teeth nibbling at the inside of her lip.

Elinor could not claim to be close to Phoebe. They were a full decade apart in age, and Elinor had spent far more time with her elder sisters, Kitty and Marie. After all the kindness Phoebe's mother had shown her over the years, though, it had been impossible to decline her request that Elinor serve as Phoebe's unofficial companion and escort during the London Season. The dowager marchioness herself was indisposed
with a bout of existential despair regarding her youngest child's marriageability, and had decamped to Kitty's estate to fawn over her young grandson. And of course Elinor had nothing better to do, having no spouse or children or social obligations of her own, so
obviously
she ought to be the one to grapple with Phoebe Spenser's overinflated sense of adventure and try to steer her toward an eligible man at last.

“We are here,” Phoebe declared, drawing Elinor's attention back to the present. “That's it, just down the way.” She had flung open the door and hopped onto the street before the coachman had the chance to clamber down to assist. Elinor hurried after, nearly tripping on her skirts.

She was beginning to sympathize a great deal more with Lady Farleigh. Phoebe was positively manic; no wonder the woman had engineered an escape from her. It was like trying to keep up with an excitable terrier. At least the Season was nearly over. She could manage a few more weeks.

The narrow house Phoebe now hurried toward stood crushed between two brutish tenements, its windows masked with gray curtains. A sign hung outside, creaking ostentatiously in the breeze. Faded paint in a jagged script declared it the home of Madame Vesta. A crudely painted eye glared beneath the words.

“Are you certain this is where you want to be, m'lady?” the coachman asked. Judging by the tremor in his voice, he was thinking of what Lord Farleigh would do if he discovered the location of their afternoon errand.

“Apparently so. Wait here,” Elinor said firmly. The coachman touched his cap in acknowledgment, but concern still wrinkled his brow.