A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (9 page)

“Lord Farleigh,” he said. Colin took the offered hand.

“Hudson. Delighted to see you again.”
Delighted
wasn't quite the term. Their acquaintance was an odd thing, steeped in secrets. Hudson had been one of those involved in the transformation of the thief Joan Price into the respectable Mrs. Hargrove. They'd all had to pledge to keep the secret—Hudson, Colin, Harken, Colin's sisters, Elinor. The keeping of secrets could curdle the air between the keepers, but in this case, the whole cabal seemed closer for it. There was too much of a fairy tale in the secret to be too weighed down. “That will be all, Bolton, thank you.”

The man departed, closing the door behind him, and Colin waved at a chair.

“Do sit. Drink?”

“I don't touch the stuff,” Hudson said, but accepted the seat. He rested his ankle atop the opposite knee. Hudson was a bulky man, solidly lower class and proud of it. He was also a brilliant investigator.

“Right. Forgot about that. Hope you don't mind if I do,” Colin said, already helping himself to a glass of brandy. He sat opposite Hudson, and took a sip before speaking again, ordering his thoughts. “You'll be wondering why I've asked you to come.”

“Obviously,” Hudson said. “Your message was extremely vague. Not something to do with Mrs. Hargrove, is it?”

“Joan? No,” Colin said. “Nothing at all to do with her.”

Hudson idly fidgeted with his cuffs. His clothing and his attitude were as rough spun and hard-bitten as the first time Colin had encountered the man, after discovering that Martin Hargrove's beloved was a jewel thief with a stolen identity. You'd never guess that he was now a man of considerable wealth thanks to his share of said stolen jewels.

“A little bit to do with her,” Colin amended. “But only
tangentially. Coincidentally? Something like that,” he said, and took a generous sip of his drink. “To do with her diamonds, in any case.”

“Quite fond of those diamonds, I am,” Hudson said, folding his hands over his belly. He grunted.

“I imagine so.” Colin had never quite understood the details of the deal Hudson had worked out with Joan, or where the three Copeland diamonds had ended up, but the end result was that the detective, Joan, and Joan's maid were suddenly in possession of a great deal of wealth.

Hudson grunted. “I'm listening.”

Colin slid his finger around the rim of his glass before continuing. “I had a sister,” he began, and though he had never told the story like this—to someone who didn't know, who had never met Marie—it came easily. Clinically. There were so few details, in the end. A bare summary of facts, and he was done. At least, done with the story as his family knew it.

“That's quite the story,” Hudson said.

“It is,” Colin said. “And there's more you should know, before you begin.”

Hudson had avoided looking at the box so far, but now his eyes went to it. Colin opened the top drawer of the desk and drew out a small brass key to match the lock. It turned with a soft click, and Colin set it gingerly aside before lifting the lid of the box with both hands.

The inside was lined in red. A collection of correspondence topped the contents, but these Colin set aside. They did no more than confirm what he had already told Hudson. Instead he reached for the folio beneath, and held it out, unopened, to Hudson. He took it. Colin settled back. He watched as Hudson unwound the twine that held the folio shut, and drew out the page contained within. He didn't need to look at the page in order to see it perfectly in his mind.

It was a sketch, in charcoal. The artist's hand was assured. Every stroke exuded sensuality, delighting in the interplay of light and shadow across the curves and planes of the chosen subject: a woman, her hair let down, her eyes dark and lively. She was pictured wearing only a shift that had
fallen down to bare one shoulder, half-reclined against the back of a chair, one hand lifted to touch the gem hanging at her neck.

Marie. She did not look the way he remembered her, but that did not surprise him. The woman in the portrait was a woman in love. And a woman beloved. This was no stranger's portrait. It had the ache of intimacy, of ecstasy. Whoever had drawn this portrait had been bewitched by that slight smile. And Marie's expression sung of the same bewitchment. She had looked back at the artist, and her eyes had shone with love.

“Is Mr. Foyle an artist?” Hudson asked, tone carefully neutral.

“No. Nor was Lord Hayes,” Colin said.

“I see.” Hudson put the report back in the folio and closed it. “I don't know if I can find all the information you want, the details about what happened. India's beyond my reach. But I can get you to Foyle. What do you mean to do once I do?”

“I'll worry about that,” Colin said, because he didn't think that even Hudson would take the job if he admitted he intended to kill the man.

“You think that he killed your sister,” Hudson said.

“It is a possibility,” Colin said. He was certain of it.

“I won't be a party to murder,” Hudson said.

“All I'm asking for is an invitation.”

Hudson considered for a long time before he finally nodded. “Very well, then. The usual fee.”

“The usual fee,” Colin agreed. “And I don't think I need to tell you that this is a matter which requires great discretion.”

“And yet you told me anyhow,” Hudson said. He rose. “I'll see myself out, shall I?”

Colin waved his hand in assent. Something had eased within him now that Hudson had agreed to the job. No one could escape the man. Not thieves, not errant earls, not wayward heiresses. He had a positively unworldly ability to locate and procure any thing, person, or piece of information from places as low as the gutter and lofty as the prince regent's dinner table. Securing entry to Beauchene's chateau would not be a challenge for the man.

“You know,” Colin said, “you ought to raise your prices.”

“Lord Farleigh, do I strike you as a man over-reliant on money?” Hudson asked. Colin chuckled darkly.

“No. I find you to be a man most peculiarly immune to wealth. And thus of more resilient constitution than myself.”

“Tell Lady Elinor and your sister I send my regards,” Hudson said. “And congratulations.”

“For what?” Colin asked.

“Your engagement, of course,” Hudson said, and then his hat was back on his head and all of him was out the door. Colin frowned after him.

“How on earth did he know about that?” he asked the air, but received no reply.

Colin had provided one service with his late-night lechery, Elinor concluded as she half-listened to Phoebe's enthusiastic conversation. If she had ever harbored any inappropriate feelings for the man (and, she admitted, there had been periods in her adolescence when her regard for him strayed in that direction), they were now thoroughly extinguished. The kiss had begun the execution, and that encounter in the drawing room had delivered a masterful killing blow.

She would concede that he remained handsome. And she hadn't courted many men she could look through her eyelashes becomingly at. Not that she was courting Colin. It was only that he was tall, and she appreciated tall men.

He was, however, an ass. That much she had known. But now she knew he was a terrible kisser on top of it, which left nothing to recommend him.

By the time they reached their destination—her brother's country house—she had put the incident entirely out of her mind. There was no reason to think about Lord Farleigh at all. She resolved that she would avoid him for a time. Not out of any embarrassment for herself, of course. She had no feelings on the matter. But he was clearly unable to express himself with any eloquence, and she did not wish to damage
their friendship any further by allowing him continued blunders.

She was quite firm in this resolve, and determined not to be distracted, when Croft, her brother's butler, appeared at the door with a stricken look.

“Lady Elinor. Lady Phoebe,” the butler said. “It is our unexpected pleasure to welcome you. Shall I show you to the drawing room while we prepare rooms for you?”

The evening was gathering, darkness draping over the house and making it look a bit like a hunched gargoyle. The stone caught the light during the day, but had a deathly pallor at night. Elinor had a sudden sense of foreboding. “Is the lady of the house about?” she asked. She had thought to get this task dealt with quickly, and certainly Joan never stood on ceremony, but now she doubted her haste. She ought to have done this properly, sending a letter ahead and making arrangements for a proper visit.

“She is in the study with Mr. Hargrove,” Croft said. His voice hitched in hesitation before he spoke again. “I can show you to them,” he said.

“With a heavy tread,” Elinor said with exaggerated gravity. She had learned the importance of audible footsteps in the weeks following their marriage. Surprising Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove tended to have embarrassing results.

“Very good,” Croft said, his cheeks turning red. He'd been their under-butler at Birch Hall, their family estate, and a more loyal man Elinor had never met. He'd entered service so young that family, to him, had always meant
the
family, those he worked for—along with an ever-shifting staff. It was he who had first understood that Elinor desperately needed some small space where not even the maids would tread, a private corner she could be certain belonged to her and her alone. A small room, filled with books, cleaned only when she explicitly requested it, so that she did not have the feeling that a phantom had been about her things.

She was deeply fond of the man, and deeply sympathetic when, despite their conspicuous footsteps and a heavy knock
upon the door, they entered the study to find Martin and Joan in a loving embrace, Martin kissing his wife with ardor and, she suspected, far more skill than she herself had recently experienced. She drew back slightly, pulling Phoebe with her. Phoebe was almost incandescent with excitement. She'd been near-shaking the whole ride, and hadn't stopped her constant patter. Elinor was going to have to find a way to keep her calm. The girl was not made for this kind of intrigue.

Croft cleared his throat. There was a rustle and thump; Elinor imagined Martin had disengaged from his wife with alacrity. Croft's posture did not shift an iota. “Sir. Your visitors have arrived,” he said.

There was a pause. “Were you expecting anyone?” Martin asked. Another pause, and then, “Who is it?”

Phoebe bounced up on the balls of her feet and back again. Her fingers curled and knotted behind her back. Elinor pressed her arm to still her.

“The Lady Phoebe Spenser and the Lady Elinor Hargrove,” Croft said. Elinor drew Phoebe forward, stepping ostentatiously to cover their earlier approach and retreat. Croft stepped aside to allow them to enter. Phoebe was flushed, two points of color high on her cheeks. Elinor did her best to compensate with calm, offering her brother and sister-in-law a warm smile.

“Thank you, Croft, that will be all,” she said. He made his exit with the requisite bow. One requirement of Joan's servants was that they know when to exit and never linger past that point. There were too many secrets in this house to permit anything else.

The secret-holder in question was examining them both with unconcealed curiosity. Every angle of the small woman had rounded considerably since they had first met, thanks to abundant nutrition and her current condition, the evidence of which threatened to overwhelm her frame entirely. One of her hands lighted briefly on the curve of her belly before falling to her side. Elinor felt a pang of guilt. She should not be involving Joan in this kind of business, not with the child on the way.

“We need your help,” she said nonetheless. It was too late to turn back now.

“Anything, of course,” Martin said, sounding startled.

“Not you,” Elinor said. She fixed her eyes on Joan, whose lips parted, expression intrigued. “It's a rather delicate matter.”

“And possibly illegal,” Phoebe added behind her, breathless. Elinor shot her a quelling glance.

“Thank God,” Joan declared, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. Elinor arched an eyebrow, but Martin only stifled a sigh. He bent and kissed his wife, earning a gasp from Phoebe, and whispered something in her ear.

“I promise,” she said.

His hand lingered a moment on her belly, and then he turned. A grin lit his features. He touched Elinor's shoulder as he passed, and she stared after him, mystified. The joy in that grin was matched only by Joan, who beamed as if their arrival were the best news she'd had all year.

“Thank God,” she said again when Martin shut the door behind them. “I am nearly out of my mind with boredom. But I did promise nothing dangerous.”

“It shouldn't be,” Elinor assured her, and hid a smile of her own. Of course. Joan loved Martin, but she'd grown up breaking into houses and dodging the law. She was always in the mood for trouble, and while her life might be comfortable, it was short on adventure these days. She'd jump at the chance to help. “I should have found you some mischief to get into months ago,” Elinor added.

“It would have saved me a bushel of sighs,” Joan said. She waved them toward a trio of chairs, claiming a high-backed one for herself. It had come from Martin's study in Birch Hall, and Joan had a peculiar attachment to it. Elinor had asked Martin why, once, and judging by his stammering, she didn't actually want to know the answer.

Phoebe was nearly vibrating with excitement. She perched at the edge of her seat, and Elinor worried for a moment that she'd tremble her way right off it.

“Tell me what this is all about,” Joan said. Elinor sketched
out the situation in as much detail as she could. When she was finished, Joan considered for a moment. Then she smiled wryly. “I think I have ruined you all,” she said. “You were so very proper when I arrived.” She scooted forward in her seat, an ungainly motion, and leaned forward—or at least, attempted to. “Have you considered Hudson?” she asked.

Phoebe shook her head. “Not him. He might tell Colin.”

“More subtle minds are needed for this task,” Elinor said.

“Subtle? I suppose I can still manage subtle,” Joan said. “It will take time, though. I will need to locate him. And I assume that direct questioning will not amount to anything.”

“Send Elinor,” Phoebe said drily. “She's better than a fortune-teller.”

That incident was not soon to be forgotten, then. Elinor winced. She ought to have realized that it would be as humiliating for Phoebe as it was for Madame Vesta.

“In any case, leave me to it,” Joan said. “If half of what I've heard about this Beauchene's parties is true, it shouldn't be
too
hard to procure an invitation for the right kind of woman.”

“What kind of woman is the right kind of woman?” Phoebe asked.

“An intelligent, trustworthy woman,” Elinor said.

“Well, you're intelligent and trustworthy,” Phoebe said.

“Who sells her company,” Joan added blandly. Phoebe blushed furiously.

Elinor raised an eyebrow. “I thought you already knew about the parties.”

“Well. I knew that Beauchene has parties and I'm not supposed to know about them.” Phoebe bit her lip and plucked at her skirt while Joan stifled a laugh. “I didn't really think through the mechanics of the thing.”

“Suffice it to say my reputation would not survive a visit,” Elinor said.

“Assuming anyone recognized you,” Joan mused. “Wait, no. Pretend I didn't say that. Please. Actually, I have just the person in mind. She owes me a few favors. All we need to do is find out when the party is, then secure an invitation.”

Elinor relaxed. There was some burden eased, then. She
wouldn't be alone in this. She wished she could take Joan aside and explain to her exactly what Marie had meant to her, but some part of her rebelled at the notion. Joan belonged to a different life, in so many ways. The life after Marie and Matthew. Inviting her into the past seemed like trespassing on hallowed ground.

“You should find Martin,” Joan said. “I don't know how much you intend to tell him, but he'll be worried.”

“He does too much of that,” Elinor said. “Worrying.”

“More and more,” Joan agreed. “But he's very talented at it, so it seems a waste for him not to.”

“It's only going to get worse, you know,” Elinor warned her.

Joan laughed. “I'm hoping that the worry gets spread out among all our children, a bit thinner with each addition. Like jam.”

“More like each individual worry is a pair of rabbits, quickly begetting new generations,” Elinor said. “I'll speak to him.” She rose and turned, and nearly knocked into a new arrival—a red-haired young woman with a soft, sweet face and sharp green eyes that lit up when she spotted Elinor. “Maddy?” Elinor said.

The girl broke into a grin. “Lady Elinor! I didn't realize you'd be home.”

“I didn't expect to be,” Elinor said.

Maddy was—had been—a maid at Birch Hall. Now she was masquerading as Diana Hargrove's sister, though judging by her accent, she too dropped the fiction entirely when not in public. She was dressed conservatively in gray, the quality of her dress ambiguously serviceable. She'd been seventeen when Elinor last saw her, and since then the gawkiness of her teenage years had abandoned her. But not the enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled with delight at seeing Elinor.

“You look well,” Elinor said. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Here and there, m'lady,” Maddy said. “Doing some work for Mrs. Hargrove, mostly.”

“She has a remarkable talent for investigation,” Joan said. “Actually, Maddy, I may need your help. I'm a bit constrained
at the moment, when it comes to mobility. If you don't object, Elinor?”

“No,” Elinor said. “Of course not. After all, she already knows our darkest secrets.”

“And the shiniest,” Maddy said.

“Oh, you're
that
Maddy,” Phoebe said. She'd been watching Maddy with a puzzled expression, but now her face lit up. “The maid.”

“I used to be,” Maddy allowed. “And we've met a few times, actually.”

“Yes, but. You were the
maid
,” Phoebe said.

“Nothing wrong with being a maid.”

“No,” Phoebe said. “Only . . . well, I think I can be excused for forgetting what you look like.”

Joan caught Elinor's eye and tilted her head, indicating the door and a quick escape. Elinor mouthed a thank-you. Joan enjoyed conflict. Elinor tended to want to sink into a very deep hole to escape it. She sneaked out to the sounds of Phoebe trying very valiantly to justify herself, while Maddy grew increasingly—if politely—irate.

Elinor found Martin outside, looking out over the small garden in the back of the house. He looked up as she approached.

“Did you get things settled with Joan?” Martin asked.

“For now,” Elinor said.

“Nothing too exciting, I hope,” he said.

“Not yet,” Elinor said. “Don't worry, I won't get your wife in any more trouble than she's used to.”

He grinned at her. “I've missed you.”

“I've only been gone a few weeks.”

“Entirely too long,” he told her. “Will you walk with me? I'd like to catch some of this sunlight, before we lose it.”