Saved by Scandal (21 page)

His words relieved another longstanding worry of Margot’s, so she thanked her lucky stars once more for sending her the viscount. She could even find it in her heart to thank Lady Floria, the fool, for not marrying this paragon of a
parti
.

Galen was not finished. Before leaving the solicitor’s office, he made Margot read the marriage contracts he had ordered drawn up right after their marriage.

“But I trust you,” she said, not wanting to take the time, with Ansel growing restless.

“You still need to know what is yours, so there is no question in your mind.”

After she’d found her spectacles and Mr. Hemmerdinger pointed out the pertinent passages, tears same to Margot’s eyes. “A whole estate?” As if rescuing her brother and looking after Penrose’s dependents were not enough, Viscount Woodbridge was deeding an unentailed property to her and her descendants. “It’s way too much, my lord. Far too generous.”

Galen handed over his handkerchief. He’d have to start carrying two or three if his wife was going to turn into a watering pot, but she seemed pleased, despite the red, puffy eyes and red, splotchy cheeks, so he’d carry five if he had to.

“But we have Penrose,” Ansel complained, concerned about his sister’s tears. “Margot doesn’t need another estate.”

“No, Ansel,” Galen corrected. “Penrose is yours, for your wife and children someday. Your sister deserves a place of her own, where she will always be mistress, no matter what.”

“Where she can hang any pictures she wants?”

“That, too. Of course, I am hoping she’ll let me stay there with her, for I cannot see any other way to get you those nieces and nephews to play with.”

Mr. Hemmerdinger turned red, too.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Whoever said that opportunity knocks but once did not know that Sir Henry Lytell would be at Gentleman Jackson’s that morning.

Recalling his appointment with Skippy, Galen stopped at the boxing parlor after introducing Ansel to ices at Gunther’s. The boy was full, sticky, and obviously weary, so Margot used bringing an ice home for Ruff as an excuse to end the excursion. Now Galen’s carriage was sticky, too. He walked.

Skippy was not at the popular gathering spot, but the man who had run off with Galen’s bride on the day of their wedding was. Galen owed Sir Henry a debt of gratitude for his deliverance from the devil’s own marriage, but the dastard had not finished the job. Galen had a wife who pleased him far more than Florrie ever had or ever could, but he still had that harridan on his hands. Lytell had taken Floria—and taken her reputation and her innocence too, for all Galen knew, if she’d had it—and then tossed her back, like an inedible species of fish. Galen owed that muckworm a debt, all right.

Sir Henry was joking with his friends when Lord Woodbridge entered, laughing about his own close call with parson’s mousetrap. Galen supposed Lytell had to make light of it, since the baronet likely owed all the other cabbage-heads money. For the first time one of life’s everyday injustices rankled Galen: Florrie was ruined, an outcast from everything and everybody she knew, but the man who had partnered her in that offense against polite society was back in
Town, enjoying himself with his friends as if nothing untoward had transpired. Well, he would not be enjoying himself much longer.

One of the coxcombs in Lytell’s circle laughed. “I guess you’ll just have to look around for another heiress, eh?” Then he spotted Galen approaching. “I heard your sister is in Town, Woodbridge. Is it true she has forty thousand pounds?”

Galen was removing his coat and cravat. “What she has is a father and a brother who would protect her interests and her reputation with their lives. Would anyone care to banter my sister’s name around again?”

He had no takers, only a few nervous chuckles. “Perhaps you thought to turn your attention to my sister, Lytell? Keep your villainy in the family, so to speak.”

The baronet was backing away. “Zounds, no. The chit is much too young for me. I already decided to try for a widow next, one with no papas. Or brothers.”

“Ah, but I think you need practice, just in case your widow has a cousin or an uncle…or a fiancé. Get in the ring before I pick you up and toss you in.”

Lytell was nearly Galen’s height and weight, but nowhere near his skill or superb condition. He would have run in the other direction, in fact, if he’d had tuppence to hire a hackney, and somewhere to go. His friends were already laying bets, though, and whereas they forgave a man who tried to better himself with a wealthy bride, they would not be so charitable to a craven who backed down from a challenge, or one who weaseled on a wager. The baronet stripped and stepped onto the canvas.

Galen knocked him down, too soon for satisfaction, so he helped Lytell back to his feet. Then he knocked him down again. With the crowd urging him on, Sir Henry stood up. Galen let him jab a few times before knocking him out of the square altogether. His friends hauled him upright and pointed him toward Galen, which they would not have done, of course, if they were true friends. If the baronet had any
brains, he’d have stayed down, but anyone addled enough to run away with Lady Floria Cleary could not be counted a deep thinker. The fool staggered right into Galen’s left.

He would not be sniffing around any wealthy widow in the near future, not with that nose, anyway.

*

On his way home, Galen stopped off at Rundell and Bridges, Jewelers. He wanted to buy Margot a necklace, since the family heirlooms were all locked in the vault in the country. He’d have to ask His Grace to bring something suitable for the party when he came. Meantime, Lord Woodbridge wished to purchase a pretty trinket for his wife, not because she’d hinted, the way Florrie always had, nor because she expected it, the way a mistress always did. He was not even thinking to use the bauble in hopes of winning Margot’s affections—taking Ansel to Astley’s Amphitheater that evening would do more than any diamond could—or her favors. That last campaign was coming along very nicely, he fancied, considering the parting kiss she’d bestowed on him, and the way she’d murmured his name this morning in the studio. Galen was not going to rush his bride, although he’d be damned if he was going to wait the full six months of their original agreement to share her bed. As for his own frustrated feelings, he believed he’d perish in a fortnight if he could not consummate the marriage.

No, Galen wanted to give his wife a gift simply to bring her pleasure. He’d say it was in recompense for the uninvited female guests in the house, but to see her smile was his only real excuse. If a man could not buy a present for his wife, what was the point of having money, or a wife?

He liked everything in the store. Margot would likely flood the floor with tears if he presented half what he wished to purchase for her, though, so how the deuce was a fellow to decide? A mistress always wanted the most expensive; Florrie always wanted the showiest. Margot would want something fine and delicate, tasteful without being ostentatious. The clerk started to take out tray upon tray of
necklaces for his perusal, but Galen had too much to do to spend all day in the jewelry store, under the stares of three dowagers, two dandies, and a demi-rep. The ladybird had just rejected a simple strand of diamonds as too tame, so Galen told the clerk to wrap them.

He left the store whistling, planning the rest of the day and the rest of the week. He wanted to show Margot so many things, the galleries and art dealers, Vauxhall by moonlight, the maze at Richmond, Venice by moonlight. He’d start with the circus tonight. With so much to do, Galen realized he wasn’t even in as big a rush to return to the country and his horses. They needed to settle the questions about Ansel, and hold that blasted party that seemed to be growing larger every day, but there was no hurry. He was happy.

*

Margot was happy. For the first time in so long, she could smile from the inside, too. Ansel was sitting quietly with a book from Galen’s library after they’d played duets, he on the pianoforte and she on her guitar. Now Margot was just sitting, without sewing in her lap, without a new score to memorize, without her account book to agonize over. All she had to do was watch her beloved brother, and watch out the window for her husband’s return. What joy!

With such a heavy weight off her mind, a tiny spark had been kindled in her heart. Every one of Galen’s smiles and touches and bits of tenderness fanned that spark until she felt a warming glow right down to her toes, whenever she thought of him. Whenever he was near, the glow threatened to become a fire, and his kisses could start a conflagration.

In a moment she’d consult with the butler and the housekeeper, because she wanted to make sure his lordship’s house was as comfortable and as smooth-running as she could make it. How else was she to show Galen her growing affection? Margot wanted to make certain that he had no regrets, that he would not think of dissolving their marriage or leading separate lives. Margot wanted his children.

*

Ansel was deliriously happy. He was going to see the trick riding tonight, and tomorrow perhaps his pony would arrive so he could practice all those daring feats Galen described. Music and art and books were all well and good, but a fellow who could stand on the bare back of a galloping horse was something special, no matter what Margot said. He just wouldn’t tell her, that’s all.

*

Fenning was happy. Perhaps he was not as enraptured as Master Ansel, nor as dreamy-eyed as Lady Woodbridge, nor as cat-in-the-creampot as his lordship, but he was the butler, after all, and above such undignified passions. The viscount was home to see about the large details; the viscountess was handling the minor ones as if she were to the manor born, which she was, thank goodness. The elite of London were leaving their cards and
douceurs
with Fenning, and the butler had more and more underlings to impress. Fenning’s domain was all it should be. Moreover, his linens were being ironed the way he wished, and his favorite dishes were being prepared in the kitchens. He might even smile one of these days.

*

Lord Woodbridge’s sister was not happy. Lady Harriet was ill, suffering grievously. Well, she was suffering ill-usage at any rate. Her brother hated her; her father thought she was an infant; her sister-in-law was doting on that puny child instead of sitting by Harriet’s bedside; and they all wanted to ship her off to Bath, to Aunt Matty and Horrid Harold. Nothing could be worse, except the awful wound on her head. Why, any deeper, the physician said, and she would have required stitches. As it was, she needed a sticking plaster, a tisane, and a doctor’s care—a
lot of that handsome doctor’s care. He didn’t think she was too young; Harriet could tell by the way he smoothed her hair back to look at the bruise. That nice Dr. Hill would never let her be sent to Jericho, not when Margot and Galen were entertaining here in Town.

Harriet made sure she was wearing her prettiest dressing gown, and a bit of Margot’s face powder to give an interesting pallor, when he called that morning. She practiced draping herself on the chaise tongue until she reached what she considered the perfect balance of seventeen-year-old siren and sickly swan. Before the physician could declare her fit as a fiddle, she moaned and begged, “You do not think I should have to sit cooped up in a carriage, do you, sir? My poor head aches just thinking about it.” She brought the back of her hand to her forehead for emphasis.

“Definitely not, Lady Harriet. An injury to the head could cause permanent damage if exacerbated by further jostling. Your memory might be affected, for one thing.”

“What did you say your name was, doctor? Oh, yes, Dr. Hill.”

“There have been cases where a head wound leads to loss of sight.”

Harriet squinted at him. “You don’t say?”

“Or the wound might turn septic, without constant watching. Furthermore, a young woman of your delicate constitution, having suffered such a trauma, should not be subjected to any untoward upset such as a sudden change of surroundings.”

“Or a chawbacon cousin.”

Dr. Hill smiled. “Decidedly not a chawbacon cousin. They can be quite detrimental to one’s health, as bad as wet feet.”

“Why, I might go into a decline if I have to leave London, mightn’t I?”

“If I were a gambler, which, I assure you, I am not, having dedicated my life to science and the betterment of mankind, I would definitely wager on your chances of falling into a decline.”

“You’ll tell my loathsome brother that, won’t you?” She clutched his coat sleeve. “You’ll tell him I cannot possibly travel until…until…”

“Until the wound is entirely healed? That should take a fortnight, at least.”

Harriet was content with that, for who knew what two weeks could bring? Surely something would happen that would keep her from spending the summer in Bath. The world could not be so unjust, otherwise. Aunt Matty’s rheumatics might grow worse. No, Harriet would not consider such a possibility, for her father might think Harriet ought to go keep the querulous old woman company. Cousin Harold might drown in the Roman baths. Yes, that would do. Now Harriet was happy.

The well-born, well-educated, but not well-off doctor was happy, too. In two weeks he could collect a tidy sum in fees from Lord Woodbridge, and who knew what other treasure might fall into his waiting hands?

*

Lady Floria was not happy, and she was never going to be, especially after Galen told her to leave his house.