Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (26 page)

Crack.

Abigail’s stomach lurched; she gripped the sides of the seat, and pressed tight against the corner. She braced herself as the carriage tipped, and swayed, and her heart froze inside her chest. A scream worked its way out of her throat, as the conveyance bobbed and swayed like a ship at sea. It tossed Abigail against the opposite seat.

“Oomph!” Her shoulder struck the side of the carriage, and the window exploded into a shower of glass. She screamed, as the carriage jolted to a slow, sideways halt. The velocity of the movement whipped her neck back. She struck her head, even as the wood splintered and shards of glass sprayed the inside of the hackney.

From where she lay amidst glass and broken wood, Abigail stared sightless at the now opened roof over head. Her shoulders and back throbbed from where she’d been flung. She blinked seeing bright light dot the sky ahead. It couldn’t be stars. Not on this cold, vile night.

She touched her hand to the rain that streamed a salty path into her eyes, her breathing came in slow, shallow spurts. She raised trembling fingers and stared at her crimson stained fingers, and then slipped into the blessed painlessness of unconsciousness.

A gentleman should be able to name one or two gentlemen as close friends and confidantes.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~25~

In the light of a new day, with the rains passed, and nothing but his own mournful thoughts and pained regrets, Geoffrey Winters, 5
^th
Viscount Redbrooke, came to a staggering, if humbling revelation—he didn’t have a friend in the world.

The harsh truth of it flashed never more clear than now, as he sat alone with his misery at White’s. After an infernally long night, he’d resolved to confront the shame and pained humiliation of the scandal boldly, with his head held high.

Except as he sat at his private table, he felt no calming peace. He felt…oddly…empty.

Geoffrey stared down at the scrap of blood-stained lace in his hands, passing it back and forth between his fingers. He should burn the blasted piece of fabric, a memento that should mean nothing to him.
Well, Happy Birthday, Geoffrey. Now, you must certainly keep the scrap of lace from Lizzie

After Abigail had left last evening… His heart convulsed— no, after he’d sent her away, sleep had proven a fickle friend, indeed. He’d stared blankly out the window at the torrents of rain that fell from the sky until it faded to a slow stream, and then a steady trickle—until it stopped altogether.

Since he’d arrived at White’s nearly an hour past, he’d resolved to get himself well and thoroughly foxed.

Only, alcohol had little effect in helping him to forget Abigail.

With a curse, Geoffrey stuffed the lace back into the front pocket of his coat, and reached for his brandy.

Sunshine spilled through the front windows of White’s, and Geoffrey squinted at the nauseating brightness. He glared into the amber contents of the glass, silently cursing the sunlight that seemed to mock his foul temper and dark thoughts.

But then, following two days of violent storms, there couldn’t possibly be another drop of rain left in the sky.

He made the mistake of glancing up, and noted the cluster of dandies eyeing him with morbid fascination. Geoffrey growled, and they hastily averted their gazes. He downed the contents of his glass and reached for the crystal decanter. To those dandified fops, and all of the
ton
, Geoffrey happened to be nothing more than a juicy morsel of gossip passed about parlors, and bandied about through the pages of gossip columns.

But this was his life, and his pain.

And it was the kind of pain that haunted men until they lay, feeble and old at the end of their days.

Geoffrey took a small sip, and grimaced at the fiery, but welcome path the brandy trailed down his throat. He embraced even the small sting, and looked forward to getting himself completely and thoroughly soused. Only then could he drive back the memory of the pain that bled through the storm-gray of Abigail’s eyes as he’d escorted her from his home like a thief from Newgate.

“May I join you?” A deep voice murmured, interrupting his despondent musings.
 

Geoffrey continued to stare at the surface of his table, even as Lord Sinclair slid into the seat across from him. Geoffrey finished his brandy. No, he had no friends.

“May I?” Sinclair asked.

Wordlessly, Geoffrey poured himself another, and then shoved the bottle toward Sinclair.

Sinclair accepted a glass from a servant, and then waved the liveried waiter off and proceeded to pour his own glass. “You look like hell,” he said without preamble.

Geoffrey took another long swallow and grimaced around the burn of the liquor. “Go to hell, Sinclair.”

Sinclair sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs in front of him. He hooked one of his ankles over the other. “It looks like you yourself have already been there,” he drawled.

Geoffrey tossed back another brandy. He set the glass down hard upon the table. All Sinclair’s presence served to do was remind him of Abigail. Abigail as she’d waltzed with the too-affable gentleman. Abigail as she’d spoken candidly with Sinclair about her dreadful dancing skills. Would Sinclair have turned her away in shame as Geoffrey had done? No, he rather suspected the charming, roguish gentleman would have told the all of Society to go to hell with a wave and a smile, and done right by Abigail.

Not like Geoffrey. Selfish, cowardly bastard who couldn’t sort out which was of greater importance—his heart’s desire for Abigail Stone or his familial obligations. “What do you want?” he asked tersely.

The hard planes of Sinclair’s face settled into an uncharacteristically serious mask. “I thought you might need a friend.”

Geoffrey chuckled, the sound harsh and raw to his own ears. “And is that what you are? A friend?”

“Yes.”

That simple confirmation struck Geoffrey. “I don’t have any friends.”

An inelegant snort escaped Sinclair. “Probably because you’re such a pompous prig.”

Geoffrey managed his first half-grin since Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ball two days past. Odd, he’d imagined he’d never be able to muster a hint of a smile again after Abigail had walked out of his life. The grin died on his lips. Geoffrey reached for the bottle and sloshed several fingerfuls into his glass.

He took a long swallow, no longer feeling the sharp burn of the brew.

“You loved her.”

Geoffrey’s fingers tightened hard about his glass at Sinclair’s statement. The faint tremor in his hands sent liquid drops spraying onto the table. He wanted to snap and snarl like a caged beast. How dare Sinclair come and force him to speak of her, in White’s, with his ragged spirit bared for all to see?

Geoffrey swirled his brandy. “I did.” The whisper tore from deep inside him.
I do.

Sinclair raised his glass to his lips. He studied Geoffrey over the rim, took a sip, and then tugged his chair closer to the table. “Do you think any of this matters, Redbrooke?” He waved his hand, gesturing to the club. “Do you believe these heartless bastards were more important than your own happiness?”

Geoffrey’s throat worked up and down. “It is not that simple,” Geoffrey said hoarsely. “She lied. She deliberately deceived me.” He cleared his throat, squaring his jaw. “And, in her actions the lady had sneered in the face of propriety and I cannot in good conscience wed such a woman.”

“Surely you’re not so foolish as to believe those words.” He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “What would you have had the lady do? Bandy her shame about the
ton
? Would you have had her share the fact that she’d been forced across the ocean because she’d been discovered with her lover?”

Oh, God
. Geoffrey gripped the edge of the table, his nails bit hard into the hardwood surface. Sinclair’s words ate at him like poison that destroyed.

Sinclair sat his glass down with a loud thunk. He planted his elbows upon the table. “This isn’t about your title or propriety. This is about nothing more than your own jealousy, Redbrooke.”

Geoffrey froze, allowing that volatile charge to seep into his brandy-laden brain. He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes. I’m telling you this because I’m your friend.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Geoffrey said blankly.

“No, you don’t. With the exception of me, of course.” Sinclair took a sip of his drink. “Have you attempted to speak to the duke?”

Geoffrey shook his head jerkily. He’d intended to. At Lady Ainsworth’s he’d made plans to call on the duke and request Abigail’s hand in marriage. Had it been only two days since his world had fallen apart.

“I haven’t.” Nor would he. There was nothing left to say. He’d said everything and then some, on that thunderous night when he’d shoved Abigail into a hired hackney

Sinclair shook his head. “I never took you for a coward, Redbrooke.”

His life had been coldly empty and meaningless until her. She’d taught him to again laugh, had forced him to confront the feelings of guilt and shame he carried over his role in Father’s death. Could Geoffrey trade all that he valued, his mother’s stringent expectations, his own self-pride, for her?

I’m not unlike you. I loved and trusted…and was deceived.

And how had he repaid her love? He’d turned his back on her, treating her as nothing more than a common strumpet in the street.

Oh, god, what have I done?

Geoffrey’s shoulders stiffened, as a steely resolve filled him. “I love her,” he said into the quiet. He shoved his chair back. “I need to see her.”

Sinclair’s eyes went wide. All the color drained from his olive-hued cheeks. “Christ,” he hissed. He reached for the decanter and poured a glass full of brandy. He proceeded to down the contents in a long, steady swallow.

Something in the man’s horrified expression, the blend of shock and pity in his blue eyes gave Geoffrey pause. His heart thudded in his breast.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Sinclair set his glass down hard, and shoved it away. He leaned across the table; his eyes seemed to search Geoffrey’s face. “You do not know,” he said, the spoken words a statement, not a question, said more to himself.

The odd thumping of his heart increased its rhythm, pounding hard, and painful, threatening to shatter his chest. “Know what?” He reached across the table and gripped Sinclair by the lapels of his double-breasted jacket.

Shocked gasps and loud whispers filled White’s. Geoffrey ignored them. “Know what?” he asked, giving a shake.

Sinclair turned his palms up. “There was an accident.”

And Geoffrey’s world stopped.

***

Geoffrey rode at a maddening speed through the streets of London. He kneed his horse Decorum onward toward the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse.

The pounding of Decorum’s hooves echoed around his mind.

There was an accident.

There was an accident.

Oh, Christ.

A carriage accident. Head injuries. Injured arm. Possibly broken. Unlikely she’ll survive.

Bile burned like acid at the back of his throat, and his stomach churned until he nearly cast the contents of his stomach onto the muddied London streets.

As he came to the duke’s townhouse, Geoffrey jerked on Decorum’s reins with such force, the horse reared and pawed the air with its front legs. Geoffrey leapt down, and tossed the reins over to a nearby street urchin. He tossed the boy a sovereign. “Wait for me. There will be more,” he said, his words harsh and hard.

He raced up the steps, and pounded upon the front of the door.

I sent her away.

I put her in that carriage and sent her off.

The butler pulled the door open and Geoffrey shoved past the butler.

“My lord, the family is not receiving callers,” the servant said, his flinty eyes as hard as the edge to his words.

Geoffrey swept a circle about the foyer. He scraped a hand through his hair, and glanced up the stairway. He considered storming the bloody townhouse until he located her. “Abigail,” he forced out. And then remembered himself, “Miss Stone. I’m here to see Miss Stone.”

Mayhap Sinclair had been mistaken. Mayhap a gossipy
ton
had merely circulated a story fashioned on hideous rumors.

Something flashed in the other man’s eyes and Geoffrey knew with all the intuitiveness of a man who’d suffered great loss, that the rumors were indeed true. “Miss Stone is indisposed.” The butler motioned to the door. “Now if you will, my lord.”

Geoffrey stepped around the butler and made for the stairs.

The butler gasped. “My lord,” he planted himself in front of Geoffrey halting his advance.

“Get the hell out of my way,” he seethed. He knew how he must look; like a madman escaped Bedlam and for the first time in his life, he didn’t give a damn for propriety.

“What is the meaning of this?” A sharp voice barked from the top of the stairs.

Geoffrey looked up as the Marquess Westfield stomped down the stairs.

“You?” Westfield growled. His lip pulled back in a sneer.

Geoffrey didn’t anticipate the other man’s right handed jab to his cheek.

The air left Geoffrey as the force of Westfield’s unexpected blow knocked him to his knees.

“You bloody bastard,” Westfield seethed. Westfield dragged him up by the front of his jacket, and gave him a solid shake. “You dare come here?”

Geoffrey staggered to his feet. He pressed the back of his coat sleeve to staunch his bleeding nose. He winced, certain Westfield had broken it which was no less than Geoffrey deserved. “I…Abigail…I heard…Is it true…?”

Westfield’s eyes narrowed to impenetrable slits. “What do you want?” he finally said. “It is my understanding that you were very clear in your feelings for Abigail.”

His mind raced. “She told you.”
That I sent her away. That I handed her up into the carriage. That I said she was unworthy of me.
When in actuality, Geoffrey had never deserved her. Abigail had always been entirely too good for him.

Westfield’s eyes blazed with fury. “The bloody servant who escorted her to your townhouse was very informative.” He stuck his finger out, pointing to the door. “Now get the hell out.” He clasped Geoffrey by the forearm.