Saved by Scandal (17 page)

“Harriet, go upstairs! Lady Floria, I do not wish to hear any more. It will not do, and that’s all. As you can see, my young sister-in-law is residing with us. I would not have her tarred with the brush of scandal.”

“La, that one is bound to blot her copybook sooner or later.” Floria took the time to notice Harriet’s low-cut, emerald green gown. “Sooner rather than later, I’d wager.”

For the first time, Margot had to agree with Galen’s former fiancée. “Nevertheless, I shall not permit my home to be an
on dit
,
not with my innocent little brother coming to stay.”

“Very well, then, I shall have to remain incognito.”

Margot shook her head. The green-eyed, auburn-haired beauty with her voluptuous curves and aristocratic airs would be as easy to hide as Harriet in her bright gowns.

Seeing Margot’s doubts, Floria hurried on. “I could wear a disguise. La, I have always loved a masquerade, don’t you? But I forget, actresses are always in costume, aren’t they? Why, I could dress as one of your maids. No one ever notices the servants, you know.”

No one except all the other servants, who would spread the tale through every pub and pantry in Town, Margot knew. “Somehow I cannot quite see you dusting the parlor or scrubbing the fireplace tiles.”

“No, of course not. I know, I can be your cousin from France, your widowed cousin, with a black veil to hide my face.”

“I have no French cousins.”

“
Allors, cherie
, you do now. Madame, ah…Millefleur. Just think, I will be able to accompany you on your rounds, and no one will know the difference. Do you think I should have a title?”

Comtesse Cork-brain ought to do the trick, Margot thought, but Harriet squealed. “Capital! Now I can have a chaperone while you are at the theater, Margot, so I don’t have to stay at home.”

“I thought I told you to go upstairs, Harriet.” Margot sighed, feeling as if she’d been run over by a carriage. “And neither one of you is to leave the house, is that quite clear?”

*

They were both at the theater that night, naturally.

Chapter Eighteen

Whoever said neither a borrower nor a lender be, could not have meant sisters, sisters-in-law, or superior house guests. Lady Floria was wearing Margot’s black lace mantilla, from when she sang Spanish love songs, and Lady Harriet was wearing some of Margot’s stage makeup.

Not all the young gentlemen visiting the box were wearing uniforms this evening, Margot noted from the wings. She did not know if that was better or worse, and supposed there was safety in the numbers of nodcocks swarming around Harriet. She could not imagine His Grace handing his daughter, and her dowry, to any impecunious second son or pockets-to-let lieutenant. The older flirts and fortune hunters were, thankfully, less interested in the infantry than in preserving their own skin, not daring to dally with such a well-connected chit. Lady Floria was a horse of another color, though: the black of a widow, experienced, available, alluring in her veil. If she kept fluttering her black lace fan—Margot’s black lace fan—in so seductive a manner, she’d have every libertine in London in that box.

Reverend Skidmore did not escort the ladies home, skipping the lecture he was sure would be coming. “The brat just arrived at the theater on her own, so you cannot blame me. At least she had her duenna along tonight,” was all he said as he handed them into their carriage. “So she’s halfway respectable.”

If he only knew! Margot thanked him and sank back against the cushions, drained from her performance on stage, and from watching Lady Floria’s in the box. She was
too tired to remonstrate with Harriet, which would have been a waste of her breath in any case, and too angry with Floria for jeopardizing an innocent’s reputation, flirting with another scandal. Margot did not even stay in the parlor for tea when they got home, unwilling to converse with either of her aggravating house guests. Let them eat all of Mrs. Shircastle’s macaroons, she told herself, unworthily hoping that Harriet would break out in spots and Floria would get fat as a flawn.

Ruff ate the whole plate, though, so Margot’s hopes were dashed. Then the dog’s stomach kept rumbling all night until she had to get up and put him out in the back garden. Now she had to hope her father-in-law was not particularly fond of that ornamental shrub. Sitting on the stone bench, Margot pulled her robe closer around her and looked up at the moon and the stars. Was this really the same sky that hung overhead at Mrs. McGuirk’s house? she mused. How could it be, when she was such a different person? Margot was living in luxury, but that was not even the biggest change, and being married felt the same as being single. What was so different was that she was no longer alone in her thoughts. So used to relying on herself, now she kept wondering what Galen would do about his sister, about his former fiancée. Was he looking at the same sky, and did he ever think about her?

*

Lud, Galen thought, he could walk home faster than this blasted journey was taking. He’d have driven through the night; Zeus, he’d have driven through the rain, through the sheep, through that overflowing stream, to get back to Town, but not with Ansel in the coach. The boy was still too fragile. He was so delicate that the least draft sent him to shivering, his digestion so uncertain that he could only bear an hour of the rattling carriage at a time. He never complained, though, or grew peevish. Galen had to order him, in fact, to stop apologizing for all the fuss and bother he was causing.

No, if Galen did decide to get down and walk, or hire a
horse to ride ahead, he’d have to carry Ansel along with him to London. Having come this far, he was not abandoning his brother-in-law to Clegg’s care, as devoted as the valet was to the nipper. Galen wanted to be there when Margot caught the first sight of her little brother, now that he was cleaned up, with a bit of flesh on his bones, and the light of understanding back in his blue eyes.

Adding to the length of the journey was the stop they had to make to purchase Ansel a trunkful of clothes. Thinking to be in London within a day or two of leaving Penrose Hall, Galen had left the boy’s things behind, but Ansel could not walk into inns in his nightshirt or step behind a bush to relieve himself, and he refused to be carried. The lad was pluck to the backbone, just like his sister.

They had to stop for more drawing paper and crayons, also, for Galen had used up an entire pad, drawing Ansel while he was peacefully asleep, or when he marveled at the wonders of his first horse fair. The cattle market was not much of a detour, Galen convinced himself, and he’d promised the boy a pony, hadn’t he? Besides, they’d only stayed long enough to sketch the new acquisition, arguing over the proper mix of colors, so Ansel could have something to keep before the pony was delivered to London. The other horses Galen had bought for his breeding stock were to go directly to Three Woods in Cheshire.

Galen thought Margot would like best the last picture he’d done, showing Ansel with a wide grin, his short blond hair gleaming in the sunshine. The more recent drawings he’d done of Margot were not as pleasing to the viscount, since they were more copies of his previous sketches than new compositions. Her eyes could not be that blue, and where did that faint band of freckles begin, anyway? Damn, he’d been gone too long.

One more night, Galen promised himself, willing the night sky to stay clear so they could travel on the morrow, unless the bantling’s cough worsened. That was why the viscount was blowing a cloud in the inn’s backyard now, not
wanting to breathe smoke on the sleeping boy in the chamber they shared. Even with Clegg keeping watch in case Ansel got another nightmare or a fever, Galen decided he would not stay outside for many more minutes. He also decided that they would not keep Ansel in the soot-laden City for long, just long enough to hold that blasted party.

Despite his assurances to Margot, what had seemed an excellent idea a week ago was looking more and more of a disaster. The entertainment was only supposed to be a small gathering for dinner, to introduce Margot to his closest friends in the comfort of her own home. But what if no one came, not even Galen’s father? Without Galen’s guidance, an inexperienced chit like Margot could have blundered into another scandal while he was away, putting her beyond the pale of polite society. Damn, he’d been gone too long.

Galen told himself that he wouldn’t care for himself if his wife was given the cut direct. He’d married her knowing just such a thing could happen, hadn’t he? They could retire to the country all that sooner, and stay there. Margot would care, though, and Ansel would care if his beloved sister was slighted. For that matter, Galen would not wish his sons to be taunted, or his daughters unwelcome at Almack’s. Deuce take it, having a family was the devil of a thing.

Sons and daughters? Just the thought of begetting that family with Margot raised Galen’s heart rate, and his temperature. Damn, he’d been gone far too long.

*

Margot saw neither her sister-in-law nor her “cousin” the next morning. They were either sleeping till noon or avoiding her, which suited Margot just fine. Another message had arrived from Viscount Woodbridge, stating that he hoped to be home within a day or two, and to warn the stables of a new addition. The infuriating man was dawdling at horse breeders along the way, drat him, not caring that Margot would be on tenterhooks. She doubted Lord Woodbridge gave her feelings the slightest consideration, no more than Lady Harriet did, or Lady Floria. After all, she was only
Ansel’s sister, and she was only the mistress of this establishment.

So she declared that breakfasts would not be served in the bedrooms. If the two ladyships wanted more than chocolate and rolls, they could deuced well come downstairs.

Feeling a great deal better, Margot consulted with Fenning about his lordship’s favorite meals so she and Mrs. Shircastle could plan the menus, and she and Mrs. Hapgood directed a squad of maids in turning out the viscount’s rooms, so all would be in readiness for his return. The bedroom on the nursery floor was scrubbed again, and fresh linens put on the bed. Margot arranged flowers for the public rooms, and sent back the bouquets delivered for Harriet. She penned thank-yous to Harriet’s admirers herself, hinting that her sister-in-law was not old enough to receive either floral tributes or gentleman callers. Fenning might not be able to keep that hoydenish female in the house, but he could certainly keep her beaux on the other side of the door.

The nosegay that arrived for Madame Millefleur was from a gentleman who had sent similar ones to Margot many times. A married gentleman, he was, which ought to suggest to Lady Floria that her behavior had been suggestive, to say the least. Margot couldn’t toss the flowers on the dust heap, since Floria was not a schoolgirl relation, but she could relegate them to the library, which, containing only books, had little interest for Lady Floria.

For good measure, Margot took the carriage with her and Ella to the theater for rehearsals, and left Rufus home. Unless her houseguests’ swains brought bonbons instead of bouquets, they’d get a far different welcome than they expected.

Having waited as long as she could before leaving, in case Galen arrived, Margot had to suffer a reprimand from the theater director. No, she did not think she was better than anyone else just because she had fallen in clover, and no, she would not be late for the three days remaining of her contract.

She suffered worse that evening when she scanned the tiers, for her husband was not among the gentlemen in the viscount’s box. There would be no room for him, anyway. If Margot’s singing was somewhat lackluster that night, no one noticed. The novelty of a performing peeress was wearing off, and no juicy tidbits of gossip were to be had until Woodbridge returned from whatever mission he’d undertaken. With most of the menservants from Woburton House scattered among the audience, the groundlings had lost interest in badgering her, turning for entertainment to the painted pretties in their midst.

*

Thursday and Friday were much the same. Galen did not come home, Harriet did not stay home, Floria made herself at home, Margot made her home ready, and Ruff protected it.

Surely Galen would come back by Saturday, for her last performance, Margot prayed. Talk was that the Prince would attend again, along with a party of foreign dignitaries. Margot thought she was developing a weak upper register. She was certainly developing weak knees. Perhaps her carriage would overturn, or the theater would be closed by some legal writ. Dear Heaven, she could barely remember all of Galen’s names and honorary titles; how could she remember the words to her songs? She’d miss her high notes, miss her cues, or mistake the Prince for the actor playing Falstaff. Oh, how she missed Galen’s calming presence.

He did not come all day. Despondent, she left late for the theater, but the manager did not bother to scold her for her tardiness, seeing how sad Margot was and how full his theater was. Everyone wanted to see the Magnificent Margot’s final performance before she took up her duties as Lady Woodbridge, and everyone waited to see if her wayward groom would bother to come. He did not.

The box was filled, Margot noted from the wings. As usual, her sister-in-law was only visible among the scarlet uniforms and the dark jackets because her gown was such a
vivid color, magenta this evening. As usual, the veiled lady sitting beside Harriet was flirting with an older, married man and, as usual, Mr. Skidmore was nervously pulling at his cravat.