Ripe for Scandal (27 page)

The precariousness of his exile hit him like a physical blow. It had burned like salt in a wound, but he’d convinced himself
that it wasn’t as serious as it seemed. That there was time to fix it. But there wasn’t. He needed The League, and he needed
them now, which meant he needed to somehow get Beau’s brother to not just forgive him but to stand with him.

When he finally arrived back at the Hall, it was well past noon, Monty being unable to sustain a second mad dash across the
countryside. The house was utterly quiet. He handed his hat and coat to Peebles.

“Lady Boudicea?”

“Still abed, sir.”

Gareth took the stairs two at a time. He found his wife’s maid darning stockings in his room. She took one look at him, scooped
up her work basket, and whisked herself out the door. Smart girl. Beau was unlikely to take the news of his failure well.

He pulled the bed curtains aside just enough to peer inside. There was nothing but a lump under the coverlet to tell him Beau
was there. The dog was curled up protectively beside her, its giant head resting on top her.

“They weren’t at Dover,” Beau said, not bothering to emerge. The flat conviction of her statement was like a slap.

“No, they weren’t at Dover.”

Beau didn’t respond. She didn’t rail at him or demand what he intended to do next. She didn’t declare that she, herself, was
going to find them. If anything, she disappeared further into the mattress.

Gareth felt a stab of concern. He’d been expecting to return to the warrior queen, to hell and brimstone and demands for action.
Something was very, very wrong, and he hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about fixing it.

“Beau?”

“It’s my fault. My fault. Mine. All of it. All of this. My fault. Leo warned me.”

Gareth put a knee on the bed and attempted to roll her over. She shrugged him off.

“Don’t touch me!”

The dog whined, looking at him anxiously.

“Beau.” Gareth knew he sounded exasperated, but he couldn’t help it. She was being ridiculous. This was no one’s fault. Least
of all hers.

She flipped over, pushing the covers back as she did so, and glared at him. “I should never have married you.”

Gareth slipped into bed beside her, displacing the dog, which got down with a grumpy sigh and went to flop beside the hearth.
It was well after midnight, and this was the first she’d seen of him since she’d made her cutting pronouncement. She hadn’t
gone after him because she’d meant it. She should never have married him. Should
never have used him to solve her own problem. But she had, and this was the result. Three lives ruined, and no going back.
No fixing things.

She didn’t think that she could bear it. She’d wanted to make him happy, wanted to be happy. But happiness seemed an impossibility
under the circumstances. A hollow bubble of panic and worry was slowly expanding inside her chest, choking off reason and
logic.

He locked her to him, chest to back, arm clamped across her waist as though she might float away. “I don’t know what’s going
on in that head of yours, brat. It’s not your fault Jamie’s gone. It’s Granby’s. I’ll get Jamie back. Promise.”

Beau grasped his hand with both of hers and held on tightly. She wanted to believe him. “You were right,” she said quietly.
“I should have left Jamie alone. He’d be safe and sound in the nursery if I had.”

“That’s neither here nor there.” Gareth smoothed her hair back from her shoulder and rested his cheek along hers, the faint
burr of stubble reminding her what a very long day they’d both had.

“It’s me Granby wants, not Jamie.” Everything that had happened was her fault. There was no other way of looking at it. It
all came down to her.

“Which is why you’re not to leave the house. You’re going to stay here, with an army of servants guarding you, while I go
to London for help.”

“I can’t stay here and do nothing, Gareth.” She’d go mad locked inside the house with nothing to do but fret and wonder what
was happening.

“Against your nature to do so, I know. But I’m asking you to all the same. Please, Beau? I can’t do what needs
to be done if I’m worried that something might happen to you.”

Beau pushed his arm away and climbed out of bed. She paced across the room, wincing as her feet touched the icy floor. Why
wouldn’t he listen? Her fault. Her responsibility. She couldn’t sit idly home like a princess in a tower. She’d done enough
of that already.

Gareth threw off the bedclothes with a huff and came after her. Beau dropped down into a chair before he could manhandle her
back into bed. It would be so easy for him to make her forget everything, at least for a short while. But she didn’t want
to forget. She’d done enough of that already.

“Do you even want your son back?” Beau said, horrified by the accusatory tone of her own voice. The question had been lurking
in the back of her mind all day, and it had slipped out of its own volition.

Gareth’s expression hardened, but he didn’t answer her, and she couldn’t be sure if he was repulsed by her asking, or if it
was self-loathing, because she’d come too close to the truth. He just spun on his heel and stalked into his dressing room.

The clink of glass was followed by the distinctive sound of splashing liquid. The squeak of a door was next, and then the
sound of his valet’s sleepy voice. Gareth’s reply was impossible to make out, but the rustle of a man getting dressed was
unmistakable.

Beau tucked her freezing feet up under her and worried her thumbnail with her teeth. She’d gone too far. True or not, she
should never have said it. Gareth deserved better from her.

Gulliver put his head in her lap, and she smoothed her hand over the tangled fur. Beau yawned and let her head rest on the
winged back of the chair. Gareth might not have embraced the addition of Jamie to the household, but he’d done his duty by
him. Accusing him of being glad the boy was gone was unjust. Unjust, and unkind.

She woke stiff and shivering in the wee hours of the morning. The predawn glow illuminated the windows, casting hazy shadows
across the room. Beau glanced at the bed, but there was no sign of Gareth. She grabbed her wrapper and slippers and went in
search of him. She owed him an apology.

Like as not, he’d got drunk as David’s sow and was sleeping it off in his study. She hurried downstairs, but when she got
to his study, there was no sign of him. He’d not been in the drawing room or Great Hall either, both of which she’d had to
pass through.

She ran back upstairs to check the warren of bedchambers. He was not in her room, nor any of the spare bedchambers. Taking
a deep breath, she forced herself to check the nursery. Quiet, dark, and stone cold.

Furious and worried, she was headed to the barn when Peebles, nightcap askew on his bald pate, musket in hand, stumbled into
her path. He lowered the gun with an expression of horror.

“My lady? I thought we were under attack.”

“No. I was just looking for Mr. Sandison.”

Peebles’s brow furrowed. “The master left for London several hours ago.”

CHAPTER 39

H
e was going to lose her. Gareth circled the block for the third time, worry over Beau clouding his mind, making it impossible
to formulate a proper argument to put to her brother. The wind picked up, and he turned up the collar of his coat.

If he didn’t find Jamie, Beau would never forgive him. She’d withdraw even further, cut him out, perhaps even leave him outright.
They could never go back to how things had been before.

And Jamie, poor unwanted boy, deserved better from everyone. He certainly deserved better from the uncle who had conspired
to deny him his rightful place in the world. If he wasn’t to be the future Earl of Roxwell, at least he could be the cosseted
son of Gareth’s household. Beau hadn’t been the one to deny Jamie that—he had.

His circuit brought him back around to Lord Leonidas’s house. Still unsure of what he was going to say, Gareth grasped the
knocker and employed it several times. The door opened, and the butler’s expression slid
from impersonal disinterest to unmistakable hostility in an instant. It was a subtle shift. A hardening of the eyes. A downward
pinching of the nostrils.

Gareth held out his card. “I need to speak with Lord Leonidas.”

The butler took the card and shut the door in his face. Clearly Vaughn had made no secret of his feelings about Gareth and
his sister’s marriage. To be left kicking his heels on the steps was beyond insult, especially from a household that he’d
treated nearly as his own not so long ago.

A long quarter of an hour later, the door opened again. “His lordship is not at home,” the butler said, before shutting the
door upon him a second time.

Gareth knocked again. Hard. The door opened, and the butler stared at him as though he were a sewer rat. “When Lord Leonidas
returns, please tell him I’m at The Red Lion, and that what I have to say concerns Lady Boudicea’s safety.”

Gareth didn’t wait for the door to shut on him a third time. He spun on his heel and marched off. If he was lucky, he’d be
able to find Roland Devere or Anthony Thane and run the situation by them. Someone had to listen to him. He couldn’t take
no for an answer.

The League might think him a villain, but their concern for Beau could only help his cause today. They might not want to help
him
, but they would help for Beau’s sake.

When he entered The Red Lion, all conversation stopped. Most of the faces were familiar, but none belonged to his particular
set. Damnation. He’d been hoping to find someone to help him tackle Vaughn, though at
this time of year, it was impossible to predict who would have returned to town already.

One of the younger members stood up from his card game. “This is a private club, sir,” the boy said. “I’ll ask you to leave.”

Gareth finished shrugging out of his greatcoat and hung it on one of the hooks beside the door. “A private club in a public
house,” he said, stuffing his hat down on the hook as well. “And I’ve an appointment with a member.”

“We all know what you did.” The boy dropped his cards on the table. “You’re not welcome here. Not anymore.”

“Leave him be, Kettleston,” Devere said from a dark corner at the rear of the pub. “If Mr. Sandison is to be evicted, there
are others who’d claim the right before you.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy glared one last time and reclaimed his seat and his cards.

Gareth wove his way through the staring crowd to join Devere. The most jovial member of his set watched him without so much
as a hint of a smile. Not exactly the welcome that he’d hoped for. He’d expected it from the others, but not from Devere.

“In your black books too now, am I?” Gareth said, taking the seat across from him.

“Vaughn’s likely to horsewhip you in the street,” Devere said. “And I’m inclined to let him. No, not just let him.” Devere
flicked his gaze over him as though picturing it. “I’m inclined to hold you down while he does it.”

What the devil? Devere hadn’t been nearly this severe the last time he’d seen him. He’d been the person Gareth had thought
most likely to stand with him today, in fact. He’d been counting on his help.

“Did you honestly believe nothing has consequences?” Devere said, clearly warming to his subject. “That no one would find
out?”

“What are you—”

“It’s all over town that you’ve foisted your bastard on Lady Boudicea. The meaner spirited among the
ton
are even claiming the reverse. That it’s Beau’s bastard you’re housing. How could you have let this happen? What the hell
were you thinking? A runaway marriage wasn’t enough to contend with?”

Gareth ground his teeth. Explanations were risky, if not impossible. Every detail could lead to a fatal slip. “It wasn’t my
idea, believe me. Souttar brought the child, and Beau walked in on us. The decision to keep the boy was hers. And you know
Beau. There’s no stopping her when she has the bit between her teeth.”

“Why would Souttar do such a thing? Couldn’t he have taken care of matters? He must have known bringing the babe to you would
be disastrous.”