Saved by Scandal (26 page)

“No, don’t eat that. The box is from your uncle, for Ansel, and I do not trust it. I locked the box up overnight, but I simply haven’t had a chance to deal with the stuff yet today.”

Margot looked at the sweetmeats as if bugs were crawling on them. “What are you going to do with them, then?”

“I mean to have them tested. I had thought to offer some to Florrie. If the candies simply contain laudanum or syrup of poppies, she’ll stop plaguing the servants for a while. If Manfred used rat poison, she’ll stop plaguing me.”

“The chemist in Half Moon Street seemed knowledgeable.”

“You mean I cannot try them on Florrie?” He smiled. “Very well, the chemist it is. Now, about the landscape. I have to decide soon, in order to get the pieces framed in time. You are certain I have to have three paintings?” His smile turned into a scowl at the painting of his ancestral
home, set amid its surrounding forests. “This one is definitely not good enough.”

Margot put a different picture on top of the pile. “This one is lovely, and yes, three. If I have to perform three songs for His Highness before the quartet plays, as we agreed, you have to exhibit three paintings.”

“The florals in the morning room don’t count?”

“No, for the guests won’t see them there. More will come here, where we will have card tables set up after the concert.”

“What if Prinny asks you for an encore? Am I supposed to run up to the attics to fetch another drawing?”

“Silly. At least you don’t have to worry that the Prince will climb all those stairs to inspect your studio, while I have to be concerned that he’ll ask me to sing something I don’t know.”

“We’ll merely tell him you are out of practice.” He was carrying another picture to the far wall, trying to decide where to hang it. “You’re sure this portrait of my mother is suitable?”

Margot came over to admire the painting. “It is perfect, and I am sure your father will be proud and pleased that you chose it. Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

“Hm. You are lovelier. I wish I had time to paint your portrait before the confounded gathering.”

His words brought a blush to Margot’s cheeks, especially when he went on to describe the pose in which he wished to paint her, and the scrap of gauze he’d dress her in.

“Goodness, you would never show that kind of portrait in public.”

“I suppose I cannot even paint it, at least not until Ansel goes away to school, not with him ensconced in my studio.”

Ansel. Margot was reminded of her little brother, and her uncle. “Do you think we should send Ansel away?”

“Why, because he is taking over my workroom?” Galen had moved to the space between the library windows, holding his mother’s portrait there.

Margot tapped her foot impatiently. How could he bother with such inconsequentialities at a time like this? “No, my lord, because he might be in danger.”

Looking over his shoulder, Galen asked, “You do not trust me to keep him safe?”

Margot was tempted to ask how she could have confidence in a man who couldn’t choose between ten paintings, but she did have faith in her husband. She knew he would do his best to protect Ansel, as he already had, but Galen’s best might not be enough. “It’s Uncle Manfred I do not trust. I doubt he’ll give up his wicked plans when a small boy is all that stands between him and a barony.”

Galen put the picture down and put his hands on both her arms. “Ansel is not the only thing in his way, sweetheart. I am there, and the law is, too. As soon as we can prove that he tried to poison Ansel, or that he embezzled the estate funds, or that he contributed to your father’s accident, any of those things, we can force Manfred to leave the country and renounce his rights to the succession. Depending on the evidence, we could have him hanged, otherwise, but I would like to avoid that, for Ansel’s sake. So off-putting to have a convicted felon in the family, don’t you know.”

“Until we have that evidence, you do not think Ansel would be safer elsewhere? Perhaps at that estate you deeded to me?”

“Peake Cottage has only a caretaking staff now, not nearly enough protection. Besides, you would fret yourself to flinders if you couldn’t keep an eye on him yourself. I know I would not wish to entrust Ansel’s safety to anyone else, not even Jake Humber, not even your dog. I am sure Ansel can find enough to do in the house until we all leave for the country.”

“Cook said she would teach him to make gingerbread—if she ever recovers from her nervous agitation—and Jake is going to teach him to read a racing form. Did you know they call him ‘Numbers’ Humber?”

“What a well-rounded education the boy will have. He’ll
be the envy of the other lads at school. Now, where do you think the still life should hang?”

“The still life goes between the windows, your mother’s portrait hangs over the mantel, and the house, or the horse, or the three houris goes above the desk, when you finally decide. I am going to check on Ansel.”

Ansel did better than Margot in the days to come. He was busy polishing silver with Fenning and turning pages for the quartet that came to rehearse. He practiced bareback riding by standing on Jake Humber’s shoulders, and taught Ruff to jump through hoops like the trick dogs at Astley’s, by throwing Galen’s leather gloves through first. Ansel even read to Lady Harriet, although he complained that the books she liked had too many pages where nothing whatsoever happened.

Margot, meanwhile, was being driven to distraction by all the preparations necessary for the formal dinner, the larger concert, the supper afterward. Rooms had to be prepared, gowns had to be fitted, and those wretched thank-you notes had to be written for the wedding presents. She also had to sit with some of her new friends, Galen’s friends’ wives, when the ladies paid morning calls, lest anyone deem her above herself.

Heaven knew what Galen was doing during all the days before the musicale; Margot did not. He was rarely home during the day, and at night, after escorting her to whatever gathering they were invited to attend in the evening, he left her with a brief good-night kiss.

Margot could not ask where he went, knowing how the viscount would hate a wife who pried or tried to keep him in fetters. They had agreed not to interfere with each other’s lives, and she had to accept that he was going his own way. Galen was everything courteous to her in public, the attentive, affectionate husband Margot had always wanted. Even the staunchest doubters now believed theirs was a love match. Unfortunately for Margot, she very much feared it was.

Somehow, she was smitten. Between saving Ansel and seducing her senses, Galen had managed to make Margot fall in love with him, despite knowing theirs was only an arrangement of convenience. He must be tired of her already, she mourned, for he never asked her to share a private glass of wine, nor teased about sharing her bed, not even when she made sure he knew that Ansel was sleeping in the nursery, guarded by Jake and Ella on one side, Nanny on the other. No, Galen did not love her, was not even attracted to her anymore. As soon as they left London, she supposed he’d find some excuse to leave her at Peake Cottage, or with his father, while he returned to the gayer life of a married bachelor. That was their agreement, after all, no matter how much Margot might wish otherwise.

How was she to know that Galen was spending his days looking for evidence against her uncle, or keeping track of his whereabouts? How was she to know that his nights were spent taking turns with Jake Humber, patrolling the house or sitting outside Ansel’s door? How was she to know that Galen had decided to spend less time in her company here in London, lest he have a permanent, embarrassing bulge in his breeches? Finally, how was she to know that his public performance as a doting husband was no act?

*

Even whoever said that all is fair in love and war would have agreed that Lady Floria went too far.

She hobbled into Lady Harriet’s bedchamber to feed the younger girl’s dissatisfaction and foster dissension, all in the guise of friendliness. She read the gossip columns and played cards with the chit. Harriet could barely read the pips, but that made no matter; Floria cheated anyway. She also convinced Harriet that she was so bored, nothing would do but the doctor share their meals, too, and keep them company during the evenings when Woodbridge and his wife were out enjoying themselves at some elegant affair or other. Nothing loath, the ambitious young physician placed himself at the ladies’ service, fetching pillows for under Floria’s foot, dimming the candles for Harriet’s aching eyes. So agreeable was he, in fact, that Floria decided to convince Harriet to elope with him. His birth was nearly acceptable—for a desperate female.

Harriet would be sent away as soon as her father arrived, Floria told her. She’d be imprisoned in the country, never permitted to visit London again after her last escapade. Conveniently forgetting her part in the Vauxhall venture, Floria painted a dismal picture of Lady Harriet’s future, using chub-faced Cousin Harold as the canvas. Harriet was convinced, but not as swiftly as the doctor, who thought he’d like marriage to a duke’s daughter better than earning his own living.

Just one day before the party, Floria put her plans into motion. While Galen and Margot were attending a rout, she filled a portmanteau with silver candlesticks, no easy feat for a female on one foot. She stole Galen’s silver-headed cane, too, before she limped back upstairs to shred the gown Margot had ordered from Madame Pauline. She hung it back in the dressing room, then hobbled to the attic level, where the boy and that convict were busy reenacting some battle or other, and found Galen’s studio. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of turpentine and linseed oil, she defaced as many paintings as she could without getting any of the stuff on her hands. The best picture, the one Woodbridge was working on now, though, Floria took off its easel and packed away in her portmanteau, to sell. It would never bring her twenty thousand pounds, only a great deal of satisfaction. Not knowing that the chosen works were already at the framer’s, she thought the viscount would be in Queer Street, since she also sent an anonymous notice to the papers, stating that part of the coming evening’s entertainment would be Viscount Woodbridge’s surprise talent. Another message said that Lady Floria Cleary would be leaving Town, where she had been sojourning with Woodbridge and his wife, to escort Lady Harriet Woodrow on her wedding journey, which was also a surprise.

Floria did so love a surprise.

Later, after the family and servants were asleep, she fed Margot’s dog all the lobster patties that had been made in advance, and tipped out all the wine Fenning had brought up from the cellar. Then she led Harriet to the side door, where Dr. Hill was waiting with his carriage. Oh, and she set the library on fire.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Whoever said every dog has its day never heard one barking all night.

Lord Woodbridge tried to pull the pillow over his ears, but no mere sack of feathers could drown out the infernal noise. The blasted dog was so loud, Galen felt he would need a whole flock of ducks, all quacking at once. Since he’d just gone to bed after a shift outside Ansel’s room, which was after an overcrowded, tedious affair where every scoundrel in the city wanted to simper over Margot’s hand, Galen was not pleased. He tried to ignore the racket, but sleep wouldn’t come with the very walls reverberating. Finally, Galen got up and stormed through the sitting room to rap on Margot’s door before turning the knob.

She was awake, of course, tying the belt on her dressing gown.

“Devil take it, woman. Can you not control the beast? He’ll have the whole household up next, and Lud knows the servants have enough to do getting ready for your wretched party.”

“My party, is it?” Margot was just as tired and just as cross as he was, having lain awake wondering what her husband was doing for the last few hours. “And poor Ruff must need to go out. You are the one who keeps feeding him tidbits.”

“Only to preserve my own skin, I swear.”

Finding her slipper beneath the bed, Margot turned to her husband. The slipper fell out of her fingers. “You seem to have done a…a remarkable job.”

Galen always slept in the altogether. He did not usually parade around his house in his pelt, but with so little sleep and so much noise, he’d forgotten to put on his robe. “Thunderation,” he swore, grabbing up the first scrap of fabric that caught his eye, the paisley shawl Margot had carried that evening, and tying it around his waist. “My apologies.”

Margot dragged her eyes away from his nearly naked male body, haloed in the light of the candle he carried, and tried to catch her breath. “I’ll…I’ll go let him out, shall I?”

“No, dash it. I am up, I’ll go.”

They both went. Ruff bounded up to them at the foot of the stairs, then tore down the hall, barking his head off, toward the library.

“You don’t think he could have heard a burglar, do you?” Margot hurried after, shielding her candle with her hand.

“No, the man I have posted outside would have sounded the alarm. The red menace most likely spotted a squirrel or something, and he’s yapping over his midnight snack getting away.”

But Rufus was barking at flames starting to rise up the velvet draperies in the
library. Without pausing, Galen rushed over and started to tear the heavy lined hangings off the window. Margot ran to help, but he pushed her away. “No, stay back.” She helped anyway, pulling until the cloth ripped. While Galen folded the velvet over and over itself, trying to smother the flames, Margot grabbed the vase of flowers on the mantel and emptied that over the draperies, then she ran for the bigger arrangement in the hall they’d just passed. Galen was bent over, trying to gather the fabric into a wad to carry it out to the terrace, where sparks could not ignite the dry old books on the library shelves. “Open the—” he started to say when Margot heaved the weighty vase at the still-burning fire.