Saved by Scandal (16 page)

Harriet went upstairs and cut off all her hair. Her brown locks were never going to be as stunning as her sister-in-law’s gold ones anyway, so she might as well have a style that was all the crack. Then she unpacked her gowns again, trying to decide which to wear to the theater that night.

*

Margot’s performance went well that evening, until she looked toward Galen’s box and spotted a bright pink gown, surrounded by scarlet regimental jackets. She thought she might have the wrong box, but there was Skippy Skidmore with her sister-in-law, tossing her roses.

“How could you have let her attend the theater?” Margot demanded of the irreverent reverend as soon as they were all in the carriage for the ride home from Drury Lane. “And wearing such an ensemble! Everyone in the audience must have noticed her. I suppose most of them would have recognized her as Galen’s sister and not your fancy piece.” Ignoring Lady Harriet’s gasp, Margot angrily told Skippy that he, at least, ought to have known better.

Skippy tugged at his cravat. “I knew I had no choice. The brat sent a note saying she’d go on her own if I didn’t escort her.”

“Without a maid? Were you trying to ruin her before she made her come-out?”

The neckcloth and Skippy’s conscience hung in limp disarray. “There was one, I swear, only the girl went off with one of the soldiers. Said she wouldn’t put up with Harry’s niffy-naffy nonsense. ’Sides, with so many men in the box, no one would have noticed whether there was a maid or not. People thought His Grace was still in Town, in the box, too, so her reputation ain’t totally destroyed.”

Lower lip trembling, one tear glistening on her eyelashes, Harriet whimpered, “I just wanted to hear you sing. I thought no one could criticize my presence with such an escort as the bishop’s own assistant.”

Skip the ceremony and get on with the toasts Skidmore? Margot decided her sister-in-law was either attics-to-let or a great actress. “Can’t you see that you will ruin your chances
of making a decent match? You know my social standing is too shaky to lend you countenance.”

Lady Harriet’s solitary tear disappeared as she stepped down from the carriage at Woburton House, without even thanking Skippy for his escort. The girl looked back at Margot and said, “I am supposed to be the innocent, not you. Do you really think the
ton
is going to turn its back on the Duke of Woburton’s daughter?” She waved a hand at the imposing edifice, the servants waiting to take their wraps. “Not with my connections and my dowry, they won’t.”

Margot followed her sister-in-law to the parlor, still trying to make the peagoose see the dangers of her prideful actions. “Certain doors will close even to you, if you continue to tie your garters in public. Don’t you care?”

The conversation was concluded, as far as Harriet was concerned. “Are you going to eat that slice of poppyseed cake, Margot? You really have to do something about getting a cook, you know. Why, I had to make Skippy stop at a chop house on the way to the theater, I was that famished. Did you know, Skippy tried to tell me women rarely eat in such places? I swear, he hasn’t the wits of a widgeon. There were at least two females. One was wearing a gown almost as fine as mine.”

If the female’s frock was anything like Harriet’s, the woman was a whore. Margot prayed Galen came home soon, so she could shoot him.

*

A message did arrive from the viscount the next morning, saying that Ansel was better, they were on their way. The brief note relieved Margot mightily, since Mrs. Hapgood and Mrs. Shircastle had also arrived, with dire tales of Ansel’s circumstances at Penrose Hall. If Galen had not approached her with his ridiculous offer, Margot realized, she would have been too late to save her brother.

The two older women settled into Woburton House as if they’d been born there. Cook’s father was a kennel-master, so she threw her arms around Ruff, promising she knew just
what to feed such a handsome creature, and now she had a fine kitchen in which to do it. Mrs. Hapgood started counting linen, thrilled to be working for Miss Margot again, and in the same household as her best friend. The two women were best friends, that is, until they began to vie for Fenning’s approbation, but Margot was going to pretend she did not notice.

If she had started the day being tired from another evening of performing and another night of wakefulness over her brother, her husband, and her future, she was even more exhausted after a morning of shopping with Lady Harriet. The child refused to consider white or pastels or sprigged muslins. She had her own funds to finance her outrageous purchases, and enough boldness to ignore Margot, the modistes, the milliners, and the current mode for young misses.

Every purchase turned into a debate until Margot developed a headache—and a great deal of sympathy for her father-in-law. Rather than argue with the impossible chit, she simply informed each shopkeeper that if her unfledged sister-in-law was permitted to purchase goods more suitable for a bird of paradise, Margot would take her own business elsewhere. Forced to choose between a duke’s daughter or a viscount’s wife, the dressmakers wisely opted for the levelheaded, and wealthier, Lady Woodbridge.

Harriet was not speaking to her when they returned to the house, for which Margot would say an extra prayer. She decided to forgo luncheon, even if Mrs. Shircastle was cooking, in favor of a nap.

Fenning himself knocked on her door as soon as her head hit the pillow, it seemed. A caller had arrived. “But I am not at home to visitors. You know that.”

The butler extended a silver platter on which reposed a single card, one corner turned down. “I think madam had better make an exception.”

Chapter Seventeen

Whoever said the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence had never seen the gray gorse and the purple heather of Scotland. Neither had Lady Floria Cleary.

The Earl of Cleary’s groom had caught up with the eloping couple not much past where the earl’s carriage had come a-cropper. Floria and Sir Henry Lytell had not outdistanced the earl or his rider because of the frequent stops necessitated by the lady’s headaches, hunger, need to use the necessary, and outright boredom. Sir Henry was wishing he’d been able to afford to bring his horse along, so he did not have to ride inside the cramped coach with his inamorata, who had brought her entire trousseau.

The groom dutifully passed on the earl’s message: Unless Floria detoured to her grandmother’s in Wales, without Sir Henry, she would never see a groat of her dowry, or the inside of her father’s house again.

Suddenly, Lady Floria did not appear quite so fetching to the below-hatches baronet. Perhaps Lytell’s change of heart was not so sudden, because he’d been fetching the demanding female’s shawl, a glass of lemonade, a bouquet of wild-flowers from alongside the highway, for days, it seemed. Nothing he did was good enough for the lady, and nothing, he found out, was going to convince her to anticipate their wedding vows. He, in turn, had not anticipated the cost of hiring two bedrooms whenever they stopped. Without Floria’s bride’s portion, it was bellows-to-mend with him. Floria’s assurance that she’d be able to talk her father around, in a few years, was not going to pay his creditors now.

Clutching his heart in regret—and her jewel case in repayment of his expenses—Sir Henry stepped down from the hired—and unpaid for—coach.

Good riddance, thought the lady. Since leaving London, Sir Henry had not written one poem to her beauty, nor bought her one pretty trinket, quite unlike his previous courtly devotion. Furthermore, he had wanted a great deal more than to kiss her hand. Lady Floria might have flirted—didn’t all women?—but she did not go beyond the line, not even with her betrothed. Woodbridge never wrote poems or showered her with gifts, but at least he never slobbered on her.

Going to her grandmother’s, where the servants barely spoke the King’s English, was out of the question. Why, rusticating in Wales would be as boring as marrying Woodbridge, with his plans to take up estate management or some tedious rural activity. Of course Floria never intended to let the viscount bury himself in the country, not with the elegant town house right in the center of the social world. No, they’d have to be in London to see about all the renovations she was planning, in the Egyptian style. Woodbridge would understand that they had to stay
au courant
,
of course. The more Florrie thought about her options, the better Galen looked. Looking at the depleted contents of her reticule, she decided to marry him after all.

The groom reminded Lady Floria that her father was not going to welcome her with open arms. With the door slammed in her face was more like it, was his opinion.

“La, he always comes down from the boughs in a week or so.” Nevertheless, Floria decided to give her father a fortnight to get over her latest escapade. Besides, he’d open the purse strings that much sooner if she could present him with a
fait accompli
,
in the form of his favored son-in-law. Woodbridge would just have to get a special license.

*

“No, Woodbridge would not have married you,” Lady Floria insisted. “He’s much too concerned for the conventions.” He was dry as dust, but Floria would not belittle her betrothed in front of this…this mushroom.

Fenning had placed the unexpected, unwanted, and entirely unwelcome guest in the library, away from prying eyes and listening ears. He had not been able to do much about Harriet.

“Well, he
did
marry her!” Lady Harriet was all too happy to dash the hopes of the woman who’d jilted her brother. Worse, Lady Floria had made the viscount’s sister wear a frumpish frock to the wedding, most likely so the bride wouldn’t be overshadowed by the groom’s young sister, Harriet told herself. “She’s prettier than you and nicer, too, I swear.”

“Harriet, go upstairs,” Margot ordered. “This discussion does not concern you.”

To no one’s surprise, Harriet didn’t budge. “Of course it does. The most interesting scandal of the Season, and in my own family! Isn’t it smashing?”

Margot felt like smashing something, for sure, especially when Lady Floria declared the marriage was not legal, since Woodbridge had been previously promised and the banns were read. Margot eyed the bust of Plato on Galen’s desk, but reminded herself that she was a lady, even if the other two women had been born with the title. “I am sorry to say…” she began. “No, I am not sorry at all. I am pleased to say that Lord Woodbridge and I are indeed wed, and His Grace has given his blessing to the match. Notices were in all the papers, and an announcement was made at the Drury Lane theater. I understand your father himself publicly released my lord from any prior commitment, in light of
your
reneging on your promise. In fact, I believe Lord Cleary ceded your dowry to Lord Woodbridge to satisfy his sense of honor.”

“He gave
my
portion away to satisfy
his
honor? Damnation!” Poor Plato hit the carpet.

“Harriet, go upstairs.” Margot stepped in front of the desk before the inkwell and the stacks of invitations could join
the philosopher. “Don’t you think Lord Woodbridge was entitled to something for the embarrassment you caused him?”

“Something besides an opera singer, you mean?”

When Margot gasped at such a blatant insult, Harriet tossed back, “Something like a baron’s daughter, you must mean, Lady Floria. Dear Margot is the daughter of the late Baron Penrose of Rossington, you know.”

Floria did not know, of course. She did not apologize, either. “La, Woodbridge’s pride was hurt, that was all. But you do not understand.” Her tone seemed to imply that Margot was incapable of such a feat. “If I have no dowry, who will marry me?”

“No one with any sense,” Harriet put in, causing both of the older women to frown at her.

Floria was tapping her foot, thinking. “Woodbridge will simply have to give it back, that’s all. When did you say he’s returning?”

“My lord should be in Town before the end of the week. I am certain he will be willing to discuss the matter with your father then.”

“My father? He’d only give it to some other fool. It is my money. With such a sum I can set up an establishment of my own, an elegant salon for aspiring poets. Yes, and then I can marry one of them if I choose.”

Margot stepped toward the door, indicating the visit was, mercifully, over. “I’ll tell Lord Woodbridge that you called and you are eager to speak with him.”

“No, I’m not leaving, not without the dowry.”

“Of course you are. You cannot stay here.”

Floria crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. “I was nearly mistress of this pile, and I know to the inch how many bedchambers are in it. Surely one of them is empty.”

Margot countered: “Surely, you would not wish to stay here, with another woman in charge.”

“My father is not pleased with me, and I cannot very well put up at a hotel, can I? Without funds and without Woodbridge’s protection, I cannot call on my friends, either. You married my fiancé so you can deuced well give me lodging until he gives me my money.”

“Good grief, people will think…will think that…”

“That we are conducting a
ménage à trois
?”
Floria laughed. “So what? If you were at all familiar with the Polite World, you’d know it happens all the time. There’s the Melbourne House arrangement and—”