A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (22 page)

“It took a mine's worth of diamonds to buy her reputation's safety, and she died before she could enjoy it,” Foyle said. “You've been waiting all these years to hear the truth, have you? Well the truth is that we saved her, Lord Copeland and I. It would have been ugly for her. You wondered why you couldn't find answers? It's because Lord Copeland kept his bargain with your sister. Silence was what she paid for, and silence was what she got.”

“You're lying.” His teeth ground together until he thought they'd crack. The edge of his vision blurred; there was only Foyle, a sneer distorting that rattish face. “My sister was not—”

“A whore? No, I suppose she never did get paid. Unlike that sweet dove of yours. You've quite the affection for whores, don't you? Though I suppose she isn't yours anymore.”

“What the
fuck
are you talking about?” Colin demanded. His hands were tight fists at his sides. He thought if he moved, even a centimeter, he would kill this man. And so he kept himself still, perfectly still, not even allowing his breath to stir his chest beyond the barest degree.

“Beauchene asked for her,” Foyle said. “And who am I to deny an old friend? If you're lucky, he'll give her back. Though you should be careful. The man has a taste for secrets. I hope you haven't told her too many of yours.”

Colin moved then. He seized Foyle by his shirt, hauling
him upright and slamming him back against the table again. He pushed the man back, spine contorting, his skull half an inch from a trembling orchid. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Why do you care? Do you think she cares who sticks his cock in her, so long as she gets what she wants? Lord Hayes learned that lesson, and so did I. Let me spare you the trouble. A woman like that isn't worth a single thought. Not Marie. Not your dove.”

“If you do not tell me where they are, I will dig out your eyeballs with my thumbs,” Colin said tonelessly.

A strange sort of calculus seemed to go through Foyle's mind. It took Colin a moment to realize what it was. Foyle was deciding whether he cared if he lived or died. And Colin could see the exact moment he decided that a few more miserable moments were better than whatever pain Colin could inflict. “She'll be in his study,” he said. “The floor above the guest rooms.”

Colin released him. Foyle slumped before catching himself against the lip of the table. Colin didn't wait around to watch him compose himself. He strode away, a sound like the beat of a drum echoing in his skull.

“I loved her,” Foyle said. Colin halted, half-turned. Foyle still clung to the edge of the table, but as Colin watched he straightened. “I loved her. I was kind to her. I
protected
her. And she threw it in my face.”

“If my sister had such lax standards as you say,” Colin said, voice chill as a winter storm, “she must have found something exceptionally disappointing about you to deny you so.” He turned away. He would listen to no more of the bastard's lies.

Elinor was with Beauchene, and unmasked. Which meant she was in danger. The dead could wait. Elinor needed him now.

Mr. Bhandari worked in silence; the one time Elinor tried to engage him in conversation, he only answered with a soft humming sound and a shake of his head. So she remained still, posed in her cage of light, and listened to the rasp of charcoal across paper.

Just as she was growing unbearably stiff, the door opened. Beauchene entered. When he caught sight of her, his lips twitched in a frown. Then he chuckled. “An interesting choice of costume,” he said. “Are you finished?”

Mr. Bhandari made one final mark upon the paper and nodded. Beauchene crossed to him and looked down at the image, eyes sharp with appraisal. “Good,” he said. “Very good.”

Elinor craned her neck to catch a glimpse, undeniably curious. Beauchene laughed again, an unkind edge bringing the sound to the border of mockery, and took the drawing and the board it rested on from Bhandari's hands. He turned it around with a flourish, holding it up for Elinor to see.

It was as true a likeness as any mirror could offer, and somehow more. He had drawn her face and shoulders with exacting, detailed lines, quick hash-marks bringing to life the texture of the jacket, soft wispy strokes delineating each wayward strand of hair. Details softened as they grew more
distant from her face, leaving her bare legs only the impression of grace and sunlit flesh. There was nothing tawdry about the drawing, nothing frantic or debauched about the disarray of her clothing and hair. She looked, she thought, like a wild creature who had allowed herself to be captured, if only for a moment—to draw about herself the trappings of civilization, without belonging to them.

She was not that wild creature, but she wished she were. Somehow, looking at the image, she felt an echo of that woman inside of her. Unafraid of this place, of this man. Certain that as soon as she wished, she could be unfettered once again.

Beauchene snapped the drawing back around and removed it from the bands that secured it to the board. “Excellent,” he said. “Not what I expected, but your work never is, Mr. Bhandari.” He crossed to his desk. He drew a key from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and opened the center drawer, setting the drawing within it. Elinor watched with interest. Mme. Beauchene collected secrets. M. Beauchene collected the obedience of men, and she had no doubt that those secrets helped him do it. A blackmailer, perhaps. A blackmailer with Foyle's obedience, which meant that somewhere, Beauchene possessed a catalog of Foyle's sins.

She almost felt sorry for the man. How many people were holding his leash?

The door crashed open. Elinor jumped up with a yelp. Mr. Bhandari rose, taking a step to interpose himself between Elinor and the intruder—between Elinor and Lord Farleigh. She relaxed. She shouldn't have. Lord Farleigh strode forward, shoving Bhandari out of the way. He halted before her, as if unsure what to do next.

“Mr. Egret,” Beauchene said. “You've decided to join us. How delightful.”

Lord Farleigh's head whipped around. There was violence in his eyes. His knuckles were bloodied. She grabbed at his hand before he could move. “We're done here,” she said, a chirrup of cheerfulness more false than any lie she'd even spoken. “Shall we go back to the room?” Her hand
tightened around his. When she stood, the jacket gaped open, baring her thin chemise to Beauchene's view once again. The safety she had briefly felt evaporated, and she wanted only for Colin to get her away from here. Away from this man.

His jaw was tight. She squeezed his hand again.

“Please, let's go,” she whispered. “Please.”

*   *   *

Colin did not know what to think when he burst into the room. Nor did he quite know what to think as he guided Elinor out, an arm protectively encircling her shoulders. Beauchene watched with dry amusement, while the Indian man withdrew against the window, his eyes on the floor and his posture stiff. Every instinct in Colin insisted that some ill must be corrected, some violence done to right the obvious wrong of the situation, but Elinor's hand in his stilled his rage. She didn't need his rage. She needed his help.

And so he left those men untouched. He left Beauchene with his smug grin, as he'd left Foyle. He felt as if he had released all his purpose, all his direction, felt it slide through his fingers like the reins of a charging carriage team. And yet it did not matter. Elinor needed him; that was purpose enough.

By the time they reached the room she was shaking. They did not speak. He took the jacket from her shoulders and wrapped a coverlet around her instead, and when she would not release his hand, he sat beside her on the bed and drew her against him. She rested her head on his shoulders and drew in breath after breath, each on the edge of tears he knew she would never allow herself to shed.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“If I said yes, would you hurt him?” Elinor asked idly, tracing the edge of his lapel with her finger. There was something alarmingly distant in her voice. “Would you charge back up the stairs to defend my honor?”

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“I wouldn't leave you alone again,” he said.

She pulled away from him, but only to turn, to press her lips against his. The touch began lightly, then deepened, her hands ghosting up to lace at the back of his neck. She broke the kiss and pressed her brow against his, eyes downcast.

“Elinor,” he said, and she kissed him again, a beat longer this time, her hands darting down to tug at his shirt. “We don't need to—” he began.

“Oh, Colin,” she said. “When will you learn to shut up and take yes for an answer?” she asked.

Now
, he decided.

There was no question of playful banter and carefully granted permissions; there was no need. She guided his hands where she wanted them, stripped his clothing from him with only scattered moments of hesitation. She left him in his breeches, but cast off the chemise. It was the first time he had seen her stripped of all her clothing. He ran a hand over her hip, marveling at the softness of her skin, the slight curve of her stomach, the perfection of her breasts. She straddled his lap at the edge of the bed, clearly not interested in giving him time to soak in the view. His disappointment was fleeting in the face of the gentle rocking of her hips. He was already engorged. Even through layers of fabric the friction was intense. She rode him, pressing herself against his cock, head tipped back as he tasted whatever part of her he could reach.

Her rhythm was fast, her peak quickly found. She cried out and the sound jolted through him. He caught her around the waist, pulling her down against him as he ground upward in one thrust, two, and then the last, liquid heat spilling. He groaned in wordless pleasure. She gathered him against her, his head resting at her bosom, and they rested a moment, perfectly still as their heartbeats fell back into a steady pace.

“What was that?” Colin asked, a little stunned.

She kissed his cheek. “Proof,” she said. “Proof that insidious weasel of a man took nothing from me.”

He frowned. Had she thought he needed it? Then he realized—she meant proof for herself. “He didn't touch you, did he?” he asked. Two murders would have him hanged no
more than one, he thought. Foyle and Beauchene both would be a worthy pair.

“Not like that,” Elinor said. “He wanted to humiliate me.” She stroked Colin's temples, brushing back his hair. The evidence of their activities was becoming uncomfortable, but he didn't dare move. Then she might look away, and he would lose that half-drowsy look in her eyes, that soft satisfaction. It might not matter that it was his body she had borrowed to reclaim her own and not some other convenient man's—but he didn't care.

“Then he's a fool,” Colin said. “He could not have chosen a more formidable opponent.”

She kissed him—on the nose this time. “You are sweet,” she said. Not what he wanted to hear. “When you aren't being an ass.” Definitely not what he wanted to hear.

She swung off of him and stretched, showing off the whole, curved length of her body. If he were a younger man, that sight alone might have brought him immediately back to attention.

“That can't be comfortable,” she said, without indicating the intimate area she clearly meant. “You should get cleaned up, and we should talk. I've found out a few things.”

“I—have as well,” Colin said.

She crossed to the wardrobe where she had hung her gowns, and he forced himself to stand. He walked gingerly to the wash basin and cleaned himself. He was glad for once that he overpacked for every outing. He was going through drawers and breeches at an alarming pace. By the time he was clothed again, at least to the waist, Elinor had clad herself in a sky-blue gown that did not quite suit her coloring. She sat on the far side of the bed, one knee bent and her body turned to face him. She had regained her composure and secured the knowing, calm expression that was her default.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “It's not so much that I found something out,” he admitted. “I heard quite a bit, but I don't believe any of it.” He couldn't believe any of it.

“And?”

He adjusted his collar. He did not care to admit how bullheaded and hasty he'd been, but there was no way around it. “I told Foyle who I am.”

She gaped at him. “You
what
? What did he do?”

Colin scrubbed his face. “He ranted. He said . . .” He couldn't repeat what Foyle had said. “He claimed that Marie had ruined her own reputation, and that Lord Copeland and he protected her, in exchange for her stake in the mines.”

“Ruined her reputation in what way?” Elinor asked.

“I don't wish to speak of the subject.”

Elinor pursed her lips. “Colin.”

When had she started calling him that? He hadn't noticed the moment of the shift, but he liked it. There were so many barriers between them; the simple name invited her in past all of them, until it was only the two of them, unfettered by past or promises. “He said she had lovers. Many of them,” he said sourly, and sat on the bed with his back to her. A moment later she was behind him, her arms crossed over his shoulders and her chin resting on her forearm, so her cheek was beside his. The casual proximity startled him. It was almost as if they were lovers—true lovers, not this odd arrangement of inconvenience—and she was unthinkingly seeking the simple pleasure of his touch.

“I don't believe that's true,” she said.

“Nor do I,” Colin said, more harshly than he meant. “But there are things I can't ignore.”

“What sort of things?” Elinor said.

“There is . . .” He paused. He had brought the portrait. Perhaps he'd thought to confront Foyle with it. He went to his bags now, and found the wide, flat box where it lay. He set it on the bed gingerly while Elinor watched in expectant silence, holding still, as if he would startle if she moved too quickly.

He slid the portrait from its envelope and laid it on the bedspread. Elinor pressed a hand to her lips. He found himself looking at it again, at the strokes that did not so much suggest beauty as command the viewer to acknowledge it.

“Lord Hayes was no artist,” he said. “My sister had at least one lover.”

Elinor touched the edge of the portrait. “He loved her,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

“Look at this,” she said. “Truly look at it. He made her a goddess. And the way she looks at him . . .” Her fingertips hovered over the page, above Marie's staring eyes, and then she drew away. “It's the same hand. Mr. Bhandari drew this.”

“Mr. Banderwho?”

“Bhandari. The Indian gentleman,” Elinor said. “Foyle's employee. He drew me, and I guarantee that the portraits were done by the same hand. It's unmistakable.”

He furrowed his brow, staring at her. “An Indian?”

“She
was
in India,” Elinor said. She drew her legs in beside her, propping herself up on one arm. The pose accentuated the length of her torso, drawing the eye inexorably to the swell of her breasts. Colin wished she did not look so much like she
belonged
—in his company, not in this place. “And Mr. Bhandari is a handsome man.”

“Is he?” He frowned. He had not appraised the man's looks, other than to note his race. That was so defining a feature that he hadn't bothered to notice much else, and now he found he had only a hazy recollection of the man's appearance. The realization made him feel odd, almost guilty. That guilt mingled with curiosity, with confusion, with unnamable emotions that swirled at the thought of Marie with the man—with any man. “You said that the man who drew that portrait loved her,” he said.

“He did,” she said firmly. “And I believe that she loved him.”

“Then why marry Foyle?”

She hesitated.

“What do you know?” Colin asked.

“There was a babe,” she said. “Stillborn.”