Simply Scandalous (10 page)

"She has two brothers," Alex responded, "and between them, they now have two good arms. Sir Benedict's right arm was cut off, poor man."

"Sir Benedict," Swale repeated, trying to place the
name. 'What was he knighted for?"

"Why, nothing," said Alex, amused. "He's a baronet.
The Wayborns are Old County."

"How is it you know so much about them?" Swale
asked suspiciously. "Mr. Cary Wayborn and his chestnuts are famous, of course, but I never heard of any
Sir Benedict."

"My sister," Alex said apologetically. "Lady Cheviot
thinks I should marry sooner rather than later. It
will amuse you to know she had fastened her eye on
Miss Wayborn this Season."

Swale barked with laughter. 'What is it about this
wretched female that so attracts a man's relatives yet
so repels the man himself?"

"I did not say she repelled me," Alex said reproachfully. "As a gentleman, I should refrain from crit icizing a lady, but, if anything, I thought her rather
too mild for my taste."

Swale stared at him. "Mild!" he said incredulously.
"That hell-born termagant!"

"She seemed to me a quiet young lady with a wellordered mind," Alex said, laughing. "Very grave
and dignified. Bookish. I thought her well-suited to
marry a bishop."

Swale glared at him. "That damned race has made
me the laughingstock of all London, and her cursed
accusations have made me ... anathema!"

"My dear Geoffrey," said Alex, "you do realize that
the foolish girl has damaged herself more than she
could ever damage you? Your troubles will soon pass.
Hers never will."

"That is her own doing," Swale said stubbornly.

"Come, come!" said Alex, losing patience. "Not only
would such a marriage exonerate you in the matter of
her brother's injuries, but it would place the very
female that humiliated you in your power. You could
revenge yourself upon her quite freely, I imagine."

"Revenge myself on her!" Swale cried, startled by
the idea. "Beat her, I suppose!" he said, scowling.
"That is what you think of me."

"I beg your pardon," said Alex contritely. "If you will
but check your temper, you'll see that there's a great
deal of sense in what your father says."

Swale stared at him in mute horror.

"Some do believe you did it, Geoffrey," Alex told
him, "but most don't care whether or not it's true,
only that it's made life interesting to have something
so sensational to talk about! To absolutely kill the
rumor, you need the Wayborns on your side. And if
Miss Wayborn is ever to return to Society, she will need
a husband of some considerable rank."

"They may all go to the devil," said Swale. "Society
ought to be thanking me for getting rid of Miss Wayborn instead of curling its lip at me in scorn."

At that moment, Bowditch, his lordship's valet, entered the room. He was dressed to go out, and he was
carrying a satchel packed with, one assumed, all his
worldly possessions. "Bowditch?" said Swale, rather surprised. "What the devil are you about?"

" I am leaving, my lord," the valet announced.

"Not now? I expect your mother is ill or some such
thing?"

"No, my lord," said Bowditch, drawing himself up
to his full height. "I could not remain another day in
the service of my Lord Swale. I have my reputation
to consider."

How anyone should care two straws for a servant's
opinion, particularly when the servant sent one out into
the world looking like an unmade bed, was beyond
Alex Devize's comprehension, but apparently Swale was
attached to his man. "Surely you do not believe this
nonsense!" Swale said incredulously. "Bowditch?"

Bowditch shook his head. "I do not wish to believe
it, my lord, but Mademoiselle Huppert has issued me
an ultimatum."

"Who the devil is Mademoiselle Huppert?" Swale
demanded. Alex, who was less interested in the
mademoiselle's identity, poured himself another
glass of his friend's execrable Madeira.

"Mademoiselle and I," said Bowditch with dignity,
"have an understanding, my lord. She is Miss Wayborn's femme de chambre, your lordship collects."

"No, I don't collect! Let me tell you, old man, unless
your mother is sick, you are going exactly nowhere.
Consorting with the enemy, by God." Swale ground his
fist into his open palm. "I expect this Mademoiselle, with whom you have an understanding, has painted
me very black indeed."

Bowditch appeared abashed. "It's not so much that,
my lord, as Mademoiselle telling me that if I remain
in the service of my Lord Swale, our friendship is at
an end. I expect I shall find a place elsewhere."

Alex seriously doubted it and thought his friend well
rid of the odious Bowditch. "Never mind," he said callously. "What you want, Geoffrey, is a Frenchman like
my Laval."

Bowditch's face fell, and Alex almost expected
tears, but Swale forestalled them. "No, no!" he cried.
"A Frenchman! That would never do. Bowditch has
known me all my life-he was a footman at Auckland
when I was a boy."

Bowditch looked at his lord, and his watery eyes
spoke of nothing but gratitude and adoration.

"Go upstairs at once and unpack," said Swale.
"Leave it all to me."

"Yes, my lord," Bowditch said. "Thank you, my lord."

"Geoffrey, you astonish me," said Alex. "I should
have sent him packing. Mademoiselle Huppert indeed!"

Swale waved him off. "But you don't understand, old
man. When I was twelve, I stole the key to the cellar at
Auckland, and ... well, I drank rather a lot of the governor's best, I'm afraid. Bowditch-he was only a pageboy then-swore he'd broken the bottles and put up
with no end of abuse on my behalf, I can tell you."

"No doubt," said Alex, unimpressed. "But I can't
help but wonder why you would undertake for a servant something you wouldn't do for either your father
or your friend."

Swale flushed. "I'll speak to Cary Wayborn, that's
all. If he takes my word as a gentleman, so much the
better. If not, he may go to the devil, and I'll tell him so to his head. But I don't think it necessary, even
for Mademoiselle's sake, to pay my addresses to the
Amazon! "

"If you will but attend me with as much courtesy as
you showed your man," said Alex, "I would tell you
that there's no need for you to marry Miss Wayborn."

I am glad you think so."

"If you have made up your mind to call her
Mamma."

"What?"

"You say your father means to ask for her hand if
you do not. Let her take your mother's place in the
Index as her Grace of Auckland. Let her preside at
Auckland Palace. Sit in your mother's place. Sleep in
your mother's bed. Who knows? She might even provide you with a few brothers and sisters. How would
you like that, old man?"

"If my excellent father wishes to make a cake of himself, it's nothing to me," Swale said stubbornly, but he
was very red in the face, and his fists were clenched.

"No?" said Alex. "Very well. Only consider this:
make her an offer, and Miss Wayborn will very likely
fling it back in your teeth. Your father would not be
such a damn fool as to ask for a lady that has refused
his son. End of dilemma."

"I always used to admire your brain, Alex," Swale
said haughtily. "But I think you have gone slack! Of
course she would snatch me up if I made her an
offer. How could she resist? I am what is known by
these grasping females as a matrimonial prize!"

Alex shook his head. "Have you learned nothing
about Miss Wayborn?"

Swale snorted. "On the contrary, I know her like the
back of my hand. The harpy would accept me if only
to make the rest of my life a living hell."

Alex smiled faintly. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But
you needn't apply to her in person. That could be disastrous and anyway, improper, for you have never
been introduced to Miss Wayborn."

"God willing, I never shall be."

"But Sir Benedict Wayborn can be relied upon to
decline your very fine offer of marriage. He is very
proud. He will absolutely forbid you to pay your addresses to her. Rely upon it. I daresay you will find him
a formidable ally."

"An ally!" cried Swale incredulously.

"Dear boy," Alex said dryly. "He must have some
little interest in who, if it was not my Lord Swale, has
done this to his brother."

As a matter of fact, Sir Benedict's interest in the
matter was greater than Alex anticipated, and it was
not much later that, as Swale was dressing to go out,
Bowditch scratched at his lordship's door and told
him in a hushed voice that Sir Benedict Wayborn had
sent up his card.

Swale scowled at his man. "But the fellow's got
only one good arm! I can't shoot a man with one arm,
Bowditch."

Bowditch appeared startled. "My lord?"

"Obviously, the damn fool has come to throw down
the gauntlet, knowing I can no more fight him than
I could his sister," Swale explained. "Tell him to go
away and not be an ass."

Bowditch returned a few minutes later with a note
on a tray.

"Bloody hell!" said Swale. He was at his mirror attempting to tie his neckcloth in a new style that his
friend Mr. Devize had shown him. The attempt was
not an unqualified success. "Read it to me, will you,
Bowditch? It won't hurt you to practice your reading."

"Thank you, my lord," said Bowditch, placing a
monocle in one eye and reading slowly and ponderously. "Sir Benedict Wayborn sends his compliments
to his lordship, the Marquess of Swale, and-"

"Ha!" said Swale. "Compliments!"

Bowditch checked the word again, but it seemed to
him really to be `compliments.' "He begs the favor of your lordship's company," Bowditch went on, choosing to summarize.

"At dawn, I suppose, in Hyde Park near the
Serpentine?"

Bowditch scanned the lines again. "No, my lord,"
he said regretfully. "He wishes to dine with you at his
club, that is all."

"What?" cried Swale, abandoning his neckcloth
and snatching the letter from his man. "He awaits me
downstairs?" he said incredulously. "Well, if the damn
fool challenges me at the front door of my hotel, missing arm or no missing arm-" He broke off and irritably completed his toilette.

Sir Benedict awaited him in a small private parlor
downstairs. Seated in an armchair near the fire, he was
enjoying a glass of claret, and his profile, Swale sourly
observed, was that of a Greek god. The nose was particularly fine, long, but not too long; perfectly straight,
with just the tiniest aquiline cast to its bridge. Swale
was shocked to see that the baronet was not alone. Mr.
Devize was with him. Alex appeared amused.

"What the devil do you want, Wayborn?" Swale
demanded.

Sir Benedict set his glass down, rose from his chair,
and surveyed the Marquess with neither praise nor
censure, his gray eyes cold and hard. He made no attempt to hide the scars that disfigured the right half
of his face. His empty right sleeve had been sewn shut
and neatly pinned at the elbow.

Swale felt himself weighed and found wanting, but
he was pleased to see that even when standing, the
baronet had to tilt his head back to look the taller man
in the eye.

"Good evening, my lord," said Benedict, resting his left hand on the head of his cane and making a slight
bow. "May I propose that we walk to my club?"

Swale did not like Sir Benedict's high-handed
manner. "I am dining with Mr. Devize at White's," he
said shortly.

Sir Benedict smiled amiably. "Splendid, my lord. I
am also a member of White's."

Swale eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want?"
he said bluntly.

The baronet raised a brow, but otherwise he remained undisturbed. "I wish to dine with your lordship at White's, in the window, if possible."

Swale became contemptuous. "You wish to dine with
me, do you? I am accused of hiring mercenaries to
break your brother's arm, and you wish to dine with
me? You, sir, are a shabby, grasping creature. I have
no patience to spare toadeaters."

"I daresay your lordship has little patience to spare
anyone," said Benedict, unruffled. "You strike me as
rather extraordinarily hotheaded, my lord."

Swale's temper blazed. He did not care for remarks
involving either the color or temperature of his head.
"If you were a man-like your sister-you would be
calling me out, sir, one arm or no one arm! Instead,
you invite me to dinner. Are you a worm?"

"I should find it difficult, indeed, to shoot your lordship with one arm," said Benedict with a faint smile,
"which I am sure you would see, my lord, if you could
only think it through."

"By God, sir! " said Swale, his face blotched with red.
"It is well for you that you have only one arm, or I
should flatten you. Why, Miss Wayborn is worth ten
of you!

"I expect that is true," said Benedict pleasantly.
"Your lordship seems agitated. Shall we walk, my lord? The evening is fine. Perhaps the cool air will
soothe you, my lord." With perfect equanimity, he
took his hat from the attendant and left the room.