Saved by Scandal (27 page)

The water did land on the flames, extinguishing the last glow, but the flowers fell on Galen’s head and back. The vase landed on his foot. “Bloody hell! What are you trying
to do, woman, kill me and decorate my bier at the same time?”

He was hopping around, clutching his foot, and Margot’s shawl came unknotted from around his waist. He picked it up and started to swipe at the damp petals clinging to his shoulders, which was, of course, enough to send Margot into nervous giggles.

“Think it’s funny, do you, wench? You won’t be laughing so hard when I get finished with you.” He pulled her into his arms and held her as tightly as he could, kissing her cheeks, her brow, her eyes, in relief and reaction, and in gratitude for her quick wits, even if she had bad aim. Gratitude? “Dash it, I suppose I’ll have to be thankful to the fleahound, too, now.”

Margot shuddered in his arms, and not just because she could feel his bare body against the thin fabric of her night shift and robe. “If Ruff hadn’t barked, I don’t know what would have happened.”

That got Galen to thinking. “I wonder what
did
happen. It’s not as if a spark from the fireplace could have reached the draperies, nor a candle left carelessly burning.” He padded through the flowers over to where the velvet had hung. Charred scraps of paper were still strewn on the singed carpet. “Someone set the fire on purpose. Thank goodness he didn’t do a good job of it.”

*

In a hurry before the doctor finished loading the bags and boxes that she and Harriet had managed to toss out the upstairs windows after drugging the watchman’s wine, Floria had not given much thought to the act of arson. She knew the turpentine would do a good job of it, but her ankle was throbbing. She was not going back up those confounded stairs, nor scrabbling around looking for lamp oil. Her hand had closed on the decanter of brandy on the desk, and she’d almost poured its contents on the draperies, but decided she’d need it more if she was to spend the next few days in a carriage with Harriet and Dr. Hill. Instead, she’d grabbed
up a handful of correspondence from Woodbridge’s desk, hoping she’d taken something important, and lit the papers with her candle. She dropped the burning pages at the bottom of the nearest window before leaving. She could not have known that the draperies were still damp from being sponged clean just that afternoon, nor that the dampness in the air from so much rain had rendered the carpet harder to ignite.

*

And Margot and Galen could not know their unwelcome houseguest had left them such a parting gift.

“My stars!” Margot exclaimed. “Who could have done such a thing? Who would want to harm any—Oh, my God. My uncle!” In a blur of fabric she turned to fly up the stairs. Galen took the time to throw the sodden velvet out the door onto the stone terrace, just in case, before he followed her to the nursery level. He did not think Manfred Penrose would commit such a senseless crime, for it would avail him nothing. Besides, Galen did not think the dastard could have been in his house that night, not with the guard outside. His other suspicions could wait for morning.

Ansel was sound asleep, not even dreaming, that Galen could see. Margot was brushing the short curls off his forehead and straightening his covers, finding a metal soldier in the wrinkles. Ruff padded past Galen and leaped onto the bed, dug at the bedclothes, then curled up next to Ansel with a yawn, his ugly rusty head on the pillow next to Ansel’s golden one. Large brown eyes looked up through scraggly eyebrows, daring Galen to order him off the mattress. The viscount made a fencer’s salute. “You win, blast you, but you will not sleep in my wife’s bed.”

Ruff rolled over.

Lord and Lady Woodbridge agreed that no good could come of waking the household at this late hour, so they parted in the sitting room of their connecting chambers to get what few hours of rest were left before morning. Galen handed his wife the paisley shawl before he left, with a grin
and a germ of hope. Margot’s cheeks might be as red as the coats on Ansel’s toy soldiers, but those blue eyes, ah, they burned a path down his body that could have ignited the entire house. His lady was interested, all right.

*

Neither Galen nor Margot could fall back asleep, both thinking they would rather be awake, together. They went down to breakfast early, to get a start on the last-minute preparations for the dinner party and the duke’s arrival. As usual, they were the only ones at the table for what had become a pleasant part of every day, when they could make plans, discuss the day’s news, and covertly study each other.

Today was not destined to be one of those quiet, taking-stock times.

A shout came from the hall. The egg man had discovered the outdoor guard tied and gagged under some bushes near the kitchen entrance.

A scream came from the kitchen. Cook had discovered that her lobster patties were missing, so she went after the dog with a rolling pin. Going to see what was the problem, Fenning discovered that the wine closet’s floor was awash in His Grace’s favorite year.

A shriek came from the Oriental Parlor when Mrs. Hapgood discovered some of the wedding gifts missing, including her favorite, a pair of silver chalices with swans etched in their sides, for loyalty.

A cry came from upstairs when Ella went to lay out her ladyship’s gown for the evening and discovered the blue silk in streamers.

A howl came from the attic studio when Ansel discovered his lordship’s paintings covered in a sticky, runny mess, and his own current painting, which was to be a wedding present for his sister and Galen, missing altogether.

Skippy Skidmore came, brandishing a newspaper, outraged that his best friend had never told him he had a hidden talent. The betting books were already filling with wagers as
to the nature of the viscount’s gift. “Lud, you ain’t going to sing, are you, Woodbridge? Worst voice I ever heard.”

Then the Duke of Woburton came, with the gout, and with another paper announcing his daughter’s marriage.

They all ran up the stairs, except for His Grace, who stood in the hall, bellowing about his young daughter and his old wine. Harriet’ s room was empty, of course, except for a letter filled with melodramatic, melancholic misspellings, signed
The future Mrs. Dr. Hill.

Floria’s room was in shambles. What she couldn’t pack, she’d shredded or smashed, including the furniture and the rags. Across the lemon wallpaper, in Galen’s yellow ochre paint, was written her parting message:
20,000 pounds.

Margot could only shake her head at the destruction. “You should have given her the money.”

“You should have strangled her when you had the chance,” Skippy argued.

“Blast it, I told her I’d give the deuced dowry back to her father as soon as she left. It was Cleary’s money, after all. The woman is a stark-raving lunatic.”

Who had a seven-hour head start to Scotland.

Galen wouldn’t consider going after Florrie, and he couldn’t go after Harriet, not with the Prince coming that evening, along with fifty other guests, and his house falling down around his ears, which were still ringing with all the barking, bellowing, and bemoaning. The duke was in no condition to go riding
ventre-a-terre
to rescue Harriet from a fortune-hunting physician, especially after downing the only remaining bottle of his favorite wine. That left the Reverend Mr. Skidmore, who did not mind skipping the party, if he could place an informed bet on Galen’s talent beforehand, to save his friend’s sister. If he didn’t make his fortune wagering on Woodbridge, Skippy could ask the viscountess to introduce him to some wealthy widows another time, if Margot could ever show her face in London after the debacle her dinner was going to be.

The cook was crying, the housekeeper was in a swoon,
and the duke was drinking. Ansel was trying not to cry, Margot was trying not to swoon, and Fenning was drinking. Galen was giving Skippy money, pistols, a fresh cravat, and a quick tour of his decimated studio. Ella was battering her husband about the head with a hairbrush for letting such a thing happen, and the dog was casting up his accounts behind the sofa. Nanny came downstairs wondering if she’d heard someone call her name.

Aunt Mathilda and Cousin Harold arrived to meet Galen’s new bride.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Whoever said that love conquers all should have remembered that sometimes it needs a little help from its friends.

Margot thought of trying to wrest one of the pistols from Skippy before he left, so she could shoot herself. Dead was the only way she was going to get through this disaster. Then she decided she had to go with the reverend to Scotland, to support her sister-in-law when the brat was found. No, she really had to find a place to be sick. Rufus had already used the marble hallway.

Seeing his wife about to collapse, Galen put his arm around her waist, there in the overcrowded entry. “Don’t fail me now, Margot Montclaire Penrose Woodrow,” he whispered in her ear. “You are the most courageous woman I have ever met, and you have to keep on being strong a little longer. Ansel needs you. My father needs you. Most of all, I need you.”

Margot looked around at the chaos in the hall, with guests and servants and Skippy milling about, getting in one another’s way, tripping over the trunks and the sick dog and the prostrate housekeeper. She found Ansel in the confusion, frightened and bewildered at the maelstrom swirling in what he’d thought was a safe harbor. Margot saw His Grace leaning against the newel post, an empty glass in his hand. Ten years seem to have been added to the duke’s face in the last hour, but whether that was at the loss of his daughter, the pain in his foot, or the sight of his brother’s son, Margot did not know. Finally, she looked up at her husband, and what
she saw made her stand taller, even if his arm was all that was keeping her erect at all. Galen did need her, not simply because no man should face the end of the world on his own, but because he was smiling, pleading with her to see the absurdity, and she was the only one who could smile back.

Galen needed Margot to be strong, therefore she was. If nothing else, she reasoned, her husband would have to join her in the country, for he’d never be able to hold his head up in Town again. She stepped out of the security of his arms and began to put her house back in order.

Skidmore was sent off, and Aunt Mathilda and Cousin Harold were escorted to their rooms to recover from the strenuous journey and the overset nerves. The trunks were hauled to the bedchambers, and Ruff was hauled to the rear garden. Servants were sent to replace the food that was either destroyed by Floria or Mrs. Shircastle’s desperation, decimating every sweet shop, bakery, and victualer they could find. Fenning himself was driven to the various vintners, and Ella was closeted with two other Drury Lane wardrobe seamstresses, trying to complete a new gown for Margot. The stitching might be hurried, and the fabric might resemble something last seen on Desdemona or Titania, but Margot would have a gown worthy of a queen.

Mrs. Hapgood was revived with some of the duke’s brandy, and the two of them and Margot got busy arranging the wagonload of flowers His Grace had brought from the country, while Galen and Ansel worked with the art restorers in the studio.

Since Margot had no time to replace the fire-damaged draperies, she had footmen tear down the rest of the library hangings. She replaced them, temporarily, with swags of white netting that fluttered nicely in the warm breeze from the windows that were opened to air out the smoke.

With Ansel in Galen’s company, Jake Humber volunteered to tote the finished flower arrangements around, so Margot had him place a big urn over the burned spot on the
library carpet. The rest filled the dining room, the music room, and the parlors, their scents overcoming any lingering odor from the fire.

Margot spent a great deal of time directing the hanging of Galen’s paintings, which were more precious than ever with so many others damaged or destroyed, and a very short period of time having her new gown fitted, to Ella’s dismay.

Luncheon was a hurried affair, thankfully declined by the Bath contingent, and the duke had finally stopped begging Margot for grandsons to succeed Galen as heir, instead of Horrid Harold.

After lunch, Margot gathered Ansel to help her practice for the evening’s performance, which she had almost forgotten to panic over with so much else happening, while Galen and his father and Jake were closeted with Mr. Hemmerdinger and the Bow Street Runners. She’d worry about that conversation tomorrow.

Gracious, how was she to stand in front of all those connoisseurs and critics, knowing they were already thinking the worst of her? Worse, what if they did not come, not wishing to suffer the stain of scandal? Galen would be furious. Fenning would be mortified. Ruff and Harold would argue over the uneaten food.

“Margot, you left out a whole verse,” Ansel complained.

“So I did, dearest. That must mean I need a rest. Why don’t you come read in my room while I take a nap?”

Five minutes later, it seemed, Ella was shaking her awake. “Time to start getting ready, my lady.”

A month wouldn’t be enough time for this.

*

Dinner might have been sawdust and old shoes, for all Margot tasted of it. She never ate before a performance, anyway, and tonight those butterflies in her stomach were doing pirouettes and pliès. No matter, for Harold ate her portion. The ten other guests did their best to pretend the daughter of the house had not just fallen from grace, except His Grace, who glowered at them all from the head of the table.