Ripe for Scandal (22 page)

“He’s the son of a tradesman’s daughter,” Souttar said dismissively, as though that made the deception alright.

“My help, my terms.”

CHAPTER 29

B
eau stormed up the stairs and marched through the winding corridors until she came to the suite of rooms that were devoted
to the nursery. Everything was draped in Holland covers, and the windows were filmed with dust.

It hadn’t seemed a priority to get the nursery in order. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around the idea that it was
now, even with a squirming little boy in her arms.

She flipped the cover back from a chair and sat down hard, legs nearly giving out from under her. The child pulled out of
her arms and worked his way to the floor. “Want mamma,” he said decisively, his forehead puckered with confusion.

“I’m sure you do, moppet. But mamma isn’t here.” Beau pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped his runny nose. She
looked around the room. There must be toys somewhere. Something to entertain him with. She got up from the chair to explore
the room.

Gareth’s son—Beau took a deep breath at the
thought—toddled after her. She knelt down beside the window seat and lifted the lid. Inside, there was a very battered stuffed
monkey, a box of blocks, and a broken leather cockhorse, just the head with a few inches of stick protruding from the neck.

She handed the little boy the monkey, and he clutched it to his chest, holding on as though it might come to life and escape.
“Monkey,” she said, pointing at it.

“Mokee.”

Beau nodded. It was close enough.

“Mokee, mokee, mokee.” He said the new word over and over, wrapping his tongue around it. “Up!” he demanded, pointing to the
window seat where she was now sitting. Beau lifted him up and set him down beside her on the unpadded wooden bench.

He was still snub-nosed and unformed in the way of all small children. It was hard to say if he looked like his father. But
there was certainly something very like Gareth about the eyes and chin.

Beau let her breath out with a shudder. It felt as though there was a bubble behind her breastbone, and it ached. Anger, resentment,
disillusionment, annoyance, betrayal. She could feel them all swirling inside that bubble. What would she do if it burst?

She’d known what Gareth was. A rake. A seducer of other men’s wives. A man who consorted with opera dancers and Cyprians.
She had assured her father that she knew and understood. Had sworn that she didn’t care.

It was a very inconvenient time to discover that she did. The
idea
of marrying a rake hadn’t bothered her. Seeing him with Lady Cook—wondering if he still desired
her, if he resented having to give her up—that had been painful enough in the moment, but easily dispelled. The reality of
having her nose rubbed in his past on a daily basis was nearly impossible to choke down.

The little boy sat quietly beside her, monkey in his lap, as though he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do now. At least
he’d stopped crying. Beau swallowed hard. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do either. It wasn’t quite the same as being left
to play with her nephews for an afternoon.

“My lady?” Mrs. Peebles stood in the doorway, nose wrinkled up as though something stank. Behind her, one of the grooms was
hefting a small, battered trunk in both hands.

Beau sat up straighter as annoyance overtook everything else.
She
was the only one who had a right to be offended. Mrs. Peebles could take it in stride, or she could give her notice. She
waved them both in. The groom deposited the trunk, tugged his forelock, and fled as though he knew full well there was about
to be a reckoning.

“Mrs. Peebles,” Beau said, using the same tone she would have when dealing with an overly familiar buck at the opera. “We’ll
need to set the nursery in order. Can you send up something for the child to eat and one of the maids to look after him?”

“I’ll send Peg up to prepare the nursery,” the housekeeper said with chilly hauteur before sweeping out, her ring of keys
jangling with every step.

“Well,” Beau said, addressing herself to the boy, “it appears that you may well be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”

The child blinked, his large eyes ringed with sooty lashes just as his father’s were. “No camel. Mokee.”

Gareth stared at the cold food on his plate before refilling his wine glass. The meat had congealed in its sauce, the fat
turning opaque. He’d foolishly thought his wife would join him. He’d held off eating, waiting for her to appear.

What the hell was he going to say to her?

He shoved the plate away and took another drink. Damn his brother. It was one thing to believe the world was your oyster.
When you were the heir to an earldom, it was, more or less. But Souttar’s utter belief that none of life’s rules or England’s
laws applied to him was maddening.

How could you save such a man from himself? How could you control the damage he did? Everything he touched was in danger of
exploding in his face like a mortar heaved over a castle wall and just lying there, smoldering.

If anyone ever found out what Souttar had done, what the two of them had conspired to cover up, it would be disastrous. Hell,
it already was for one small boy, and quite possibly for his own marriage.

He’d seen Beau angry, offended, upset, but he’d never seen her hurt. Not like she had been today. This was a thousand times
worse than the day that they’d encountered Lady Cook in the park, and Lord knew that had been awful enough. Something vital
had been crushed right out of Beau today. Trust perhaps? Faith that she’d made the right decision? And it was all Souttar’s
fault.

Gareth finished the wine and went in search of his
wife. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know where to look. He found her down on her knees on the worn Turkey carpet in the nursery,
surrounded by open trunks, sorting through a sea of clothing, toys, and linens.

The floor creaked beneath his foot, and she looked up from her trove. “Shhhh.” She crossed her lips with her finger. “He’s
finally asleep.”

Gareth searched her face. Nothing. She was carefully blank. Devoid of any hint of emotion. Was it mad that he would rather
she railed at him? He stepped closer, careful to walk on the balls of his feet.

He looked down at the various stacks of garments. “What are you doing?”

“Sorting through all the things that Peebles brought down from the attic.” She shook out a small blue gown, its long sleeves
and large cuffs clearly from an earlier generation.

“Why?” Gareth stared down at the clutter. Very little of it appeared salvageable. It was just the ghosts of children past,
remnants of unknown childhoods boxed up and forgot.

Beau shrugged and shook out the next garment, tossing it aside when she found it badly moth-eaten. “Someone has to. There
was little enough in the boy’s own trunk. Some of this can be made over for his use. It will at least get us by until more
suitable clothing can be procured.”

“Leave it to the maids then,” he said, holding out a hand to help her up.

Beau’s shoulders stiffened, and she pointedly ignored his hand. She held up a tiny yellow gown and then tossed it into what
appeared to be the discard pile.

“Really, Beau. We’ll hire one just for the boy. She can deal with all of his. With him. You needn’t bother yourself. In fact,
I’d prefer if you didn’t.” He felt like a monster the second the words were out of his mouth, but it was true nonetheless.

Beau’s hands dropped to her lap, fingers clutching a small, padded pudding cap. She nodded her head, but she was biting her
lips, holding them shut. Gareth looked away, sure she was about to cry.

“I don’t know what else to say, Beau. Come downstairs and eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” She tossed the pudding cap back into the trunk, her head still lowered, face averted.

Gareth tiptoed back to the door. She didn’t want him there, and he had no desire to stay. He was unwelcome, unwanted, and
utterly superfluous. In his own home. All because of a child who wasn’t even his.

“What’s his name?” Beau asked with a sniffle that clearly presaged tears.

“Jamie. James Gareth Sandison.”

CHAPTER 30

J
amie toddled through the ruins of the garden, trailing his leading strings behind him. Beau clutched her shawl about her shoulders
to keep it from trailing likewise and followed him down the path.

Gareth had ridden out before she’d risen. Peebles said something about the master wanting to look over the oast houses where
the hops were dried and stored. Beau had a vague understanding that the crop was valuable and had something to do with brewing,
and she found herself resenting the fact that Gareth hadn’t asked her to accompany him.

Not that she’d given him a chance to do so. For the first time since their marriage, she’d slept in her own bed. It had been
cold, and slightly musty, and she’d lain awake half the night waiting for Gareth to storm in and carry her back to his bed.

But he hadn’t done so.

Jamie tripped over his skirts and tumbled to the ground, his monkey flying out of his grasp and landing in
the dirt. The boy lay there for a moment, quietly, before looking back at her. The moment he saw she was looking, he began
to cry.

Unlike his pleas for his mother, this she knew how to deal with, having seen her nephews do the same any number of times.
With a shake of her head, Beau scooped him up and put him back on his feet. She dusted him off and wiped away his tears with
her thumbs.

“Little faker,” she said, ruffling his dark curls. “We should put you on the stage.”

Jamie blinked at her and then shook his head
no
quite decisively. One of the stable cats slunk by, and Jamie darted after it, abandoning his toy where it lay.

Beau picked up his monkey and shook it off. One of its eyes was lolling off to one side, and its rag stuffing was leaking
out of a split seam along its side. It looked thoroughly disreputable, and like some child had likely loved it to death.

Before Jamie made it even halfway to the stables, the cat made good its escape by darting into the shrubbery. Jamie stopped
and turned back to face her. His expression of confusion and consternation made the bubble inside her chest expand until her
lungs felt crushed between it and her stays. She knew that look. Those brows. Jamie spotted his toy and ran stiffly back to
her to reclaim it.