Ripe for Scandal (30 page)

“He is,” Bradfield said. “As is Lady Souttar. Your parents are away though. Gone to Bath for the countess’s health.”

“She still thinking of going to Spa?” Gareth wandered familiarly about the hall as Beau divested herself of her coat, hat,
and gloves.

Bradfield nodded, and Gareth laughed. “Stout as an ox, my mother, but she loves to pretend her health is delicate and to quack
herself every chance she gets.”

The butler’s eyes widened reproachfully, but he said nothing, leading Beau to believe that her husband’s assessment was generally
correct. Bradfield draped her redingote carefully over his arm and extended a hand for the rest of her things. Beau dropped
her gloves into her hat and relinquished it to him.

“Will you be staying for supper, sir? Shall I have your room made ready?”

“No, Bradfield. We have to be on our way, but could you send tea to the Tapestry Room in an hour or so? Thank you,” Gareth
said. “Well, love?” He held out his arm and Beau took it, letting him lead her across the open hall and up the stairs.

“Is the entire house carved of stone?” Beau trailed her fingers along the ornate handrail.

“Most of it, yes. Cold as a mausoleum,” he added as they reached the colonnade. Carpets that had obviously been woven for
the space ran along the floor, cushioning their steps. “My brother’s most likely in his study. He has a whole suite of rooms,
as far from the earl’s as possible. Let’s go flush him out.”

A large double door, finished to match the stone walls, led to a drawing room furnished entirely in cream and gold. Gareth
ran his fingers lightly over the keys of the pianoforte, trilling out part of a piece that Beau couldn’t quite remember. She
tipped her head. He glanced over, a hint of color splashed across the sharp jut of his cheekbones.

“I didn’t know you played,” she said.

“Only very indifferently,” he replied, moving away from the instrument and leading her onward.

One room flowed into the next, without benefit of corridors. Beyond the drawing room was a snug library with a desk and window
that overlooked the expanse of lawn behind the house.

Souttar spun around as they entered. “Gareth? What the hell are you doing in Yorkshire?”

“Looking to give you a hint, brother,” Gareth said, a note of menace in his voice.

Souttar stared back at them both, eyes slightly wild. Beau knew that expression. She’d seen it on many a cornered fox just
before it threw itself at the lead dog. “About what?”

“About the world of trouble that’s about to come down on your head. Someone’s been poking around. Sending out letters claiming
Jamie’s mother is still alive. At the moment, whoever he is, he thinks that I’m the father, but if he finds Jamie’s mother,
assuming he’s correct about her miraculous resurrection, the jig will be up.”

Souttar’s face drained of color. Beau felt a pang of sympathy. He looked so much like Gareth that it was impossible not to
do so. The same shock of white hair, same sculpted nose and high cheekbones. The only real difference between them was Gareth’s
superior height and his sad brows. Souttar’s didn’t dip downward. They were straight, dark slashes that nearly met over the
bridge of his nose.

“So tell me,” Gareth went on, stepping closer to his brother, crowding him, “
is
Jamie’s mother alive? Because if she is, you’d best get to her first and get this settled as swiftly as possible.”

Gareth’s brother shook his head. “I told you. She died,” he said a little too quickly and far too emphatically. “She died,
and her brat got dumped on my doorstep.”

“You mean your son,” Beau said with a flash of anger. “Because we’ve all seen him, and there’s no denying he’s a Sandison.
He’s a butter pattern of you both.”

Souttar stared at her dumbly, clearly not used to being spoken to in such a manner. Poor Olivia. Living in this mausoleum—for
Gareth had quite correctly named it
such—and married to such a dolt. Perhaps discovering that she was his bigamous second wife, and thus free to leave, wouldn’t
be the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Beau looked Souttar up and down in disgust.

“You’ve no right to look at me like that. No right to judge me.” He twitched his coat down by the pocket flaps, staring back
at her defiantly.

“She has every right, considering all the trouble that you’ve caused,” Gareth said, cutting off her own reply. “You’re a poor
liar, Souttar. Always were. You should know the man behind the accusations has Jamie. He has him, and it’s entirely likely
that he’ll use him to force a public declaration out of his mother. And if that happens, if it’s even remotely possible that
it could happen, the pretense of Jamie being mine won’t stand.”

“No?” Souttar lifted his chin, trying to brazen his way through the conversation.

“No,” Gareth replied, a hard edge to his voice. “I was on the continent when this folly took place. People—father—won’t be
fooled, and Beau’s family won’t stand for it.”

“I tell you she’s dead.” Souttar’s voice rose an octave as he shouted, “She’s dead, and there’s nothing and no one to find.”

Gareth shook his head and swept one arm toward the door, motioning her to precede him out. Beau took one last look at her
husband’s brother and did as she was bid. Gareth caught up with her before she was halfway across the drawing room.

“Hook baited?” she said.

“Baited and set, I’d say,” he replied. “I suppose it was
too much to hope for that he’d simply confess the truth and help. Now all we have to do is wait and follow.”

“And hope Granby is close enough to uncovering the truth that we can catch him.”

“That too,” Gareth said, taking her by the hand and leading her clockwise around the upper open corridor. He pushed open a
door and motioned her in. “The Tapestry Room,” he said, allowing her to precede him.

The room was small, really more of a closet than a drawing room. Just big enough for a fireplace and a writing desk. It had
a window seat and was devoid of any ornamentation other than the magnificent tapestries that covered every wall.

“They were specially woven,” Gareth said, crossing to sit by the window. “The countess wanted one comfortable room in the
stone palace her husband built after the restoration of the monarchy. For the last several generations, it’s been the domain
of one of the younger children. Most recently, me.”

Beau wandered from wall to wall, studying the tapestry. The main scene was a medieval hunt, hounds and men in livery pursuing
a stag. But over the fireplace, a life-sized hedgehog roamed, and there were other small creatures and birds peeking out of
bushes and through the leaves of the trees.

“Do you think your family would notice if we stripped the room bare and carried it all away with us?” Beau said, running her
fingers over the hedgehog.

“The family? Probably not. But Bradfield most certainly would.”

“Are they Gobelin?”

“Good eye.”

“We’ve several at Lochmaben. One is original to the house, and the others Mother collected over the years. I’d love to show
her this, though.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Unless the house burns to the ground—which is highly unlikely given that it’s entirely
made of stone—the room will be here any time you should choose to bring her.”

“Assuming either of us is welcome here once this affair is concluded,” Beau said, crossing to join him on the window seat.

“Well, there is that.” He took one hand in his own, circling his thumb in her palm. “But I’m sure Bradfield could always be
trusted to smuggle us in.”

Beau watched his thumb, let the sensation of his skin on hers wash over her. “Do you love me?”

Gareth’s thumb stopped and his hand gripped hers. “I could ask the same thing, Beau. Was I simply an expedient method of self-preservation?”

“That’s not an answer.” And she wanted an answer, wanted the actual words, not just veiled implications.

He sighed and lowered his head so they were eye to eye. The blue of his irises blazed in the sunlight. “I’ve loved you since
the hunt ball, where I refused to come to heel like your devoted spaniel, brat. Maybe even before that, but that’s the night
I remember realizing it.”

Beau nodded. “And so you avoided me,” she said softly.

“I couldn’t have you, so why torture myself?”

“And I ran after you like a child chasing a butterfly through the garden. How ridiculous I must have seemed.”

Gareth chuckled softly. “You were adorable.”

Beau bit her lip and then let it go. “You weren’t merely expedient,” she said. “If it had been Devere or Thane or any of Leo’s
other friends who’d found me, I’d have gone chastely home.”

Gareth yanked her onto his lap and his mouth descended on hers. He kissed her fiercely, tongue tangling with hers, teeth clashing.
“You’re never again to say marrying me was a mistake,” he said.

Beau grinned and caught her lips between her teeth. “If we’ve frightened Souttar sufficiently,” she said, dragging herself
back to the most pressing of their problems, “when do you think your brother will leave?”

“Not till after we’ve gone,” Gareth replied with a lopsided smile. “We’ll have tea and then be on our way. We can join your
brother and Devere at The Bell and watch for Souttar. He’ll have to pass through the village on his way north.”

CHAPTER 43

W
ell, the hunt is on,” Devere said, as he and Vaughn vaulted into their saddles. The dust from Souttar’s coach was still visible,
though it had been traveling at a rattling pace. Gareth nodded and sent them off with a slap to the hindquarters of Devere’s
mare.

One of them would circle back to report on Souttar’s path, the other sticking close behind. They’d agreed on a specific series
of inns, in case something went wrong and they had to send a message rather than meet up themselves. Once they reached Scotland
though, they’d have to wait and see what direction Souttar chose.

He and Beau set off a short while later, Beau fidgeting and anxious. “I could take one of Souttar’s horses and send you home,”
Gareth offered. “Or I could drop you at Lochmaben and you could try your luck explaining recent events to the duke.”

Beau narrowed her eyes at him. “Feeling brave enough to face down my father? If Leo got a letter accusing you of being a bigamist,
you can be assured that my father did as well.”

Gareth smiled and shook his head. “Hence my concern,” he said lightly. “Or are you out for my blood now too?”

“Just Souttar’s,” Beau said with a hard frown. “There’s no way he comes out of this clean.”

“Not if Jamie’s mother really is alive, and I’m fairly certain that she must be. My brother looks fagged to death. A dead
woman wouldn’t cause that much worry.” Gareth put his feet up on the rear-facing seat, one ankle crossed over the other.

“No, but a live wife with a suit before the commissaries would,” Beau said.

“The what?”

“Commissaries,” she repeated, turning in the seat to face him. “The court in Edinburgh that oversees petitions for divorce.
We Scots aren’t like the English. Women have the same rights as men when it comes to divorce, and the means of obtaining one
are far simpler than in England. If Souttar’s first wife really is alive, and she can prove that they were married, she could
cause a great deal of trouble by suing him for either abandonment or adultery.”

Gareth winced, sucking a breath past his teeth. “Given that the announcement of his marriage to Lady Olivia was widely published,
the adultery part would be easy enough to substantiate.” All the possible outcomes of such a suit swirled through his brain
like a murder of crows, but his brain kept shying away from accepting the full horror.

Beau’s eyes softened for a moment. She clearly understood exactly what was at stake. “And I’d wager that the man who brought
Jamie to Ashburn is either the first
wife’s lawyer, or someone hired by her lawyer. She’ll need a great deal of information to support her libel for divorce.”

“So, Souttar put his own neck into the noose when he accepted Jamie,” Gareth said, all hope of rectifying the situation quietly
withering away like a plant uprooted and left lying in the sun.