Ripe for Scandal (34 page)

“You could remarry once the divorce was granted,” the earl said, desperation leaking out.

“So could Lady Olivia,” Beau parried.

“Lady Olivia isn’t the hussy you are,” the earl snapped, yanking off his wig and crumpling it in his hand. “And why would
an heiress want to marry a man who already has an heir? She’d be throwing her fortune away. Her father would never allow it.
It has to be you.” He punctuated the
you
by shaking his wig at her.

“I don’t think you’ve thought it through, Father,” Gareth said before the two of them could come to blows. “The switch wouldn’t
stand up to even the most cursory inspection.”

“Why not?” the earl said, clearly not ready to give up on his pet solution.

“The dates, sir. The dates.” Gareth almost felt bad about having to point out something so basic to his father. It was a clear
sign of how upset the earl was that he hadn’t already worked it out for himself. “They must have already been clearly established
in the libel, and while Souttar was in Scotland committing his folly, I was abroad committing my own.”

Beau smiled triumphantly, and his father let loose with a blistering string of invective. “Look at her smile,” the earl said
when he was done turning the air blue. “A
lady
ought to be stunned. Offended.”

“A
gentleman
wouldn’t have put a lady to the blush in the first place, so I would propose we’re even on that score, my lord.”

“Saucy bitch,” the earl growled.

Beau curtsied to him as she would have to the king. An elegant maneuver, even in her dressing gown and bare feet. Saucy bitch
indeed. She was practically daring his
father to strike her. Of all things Gareth was sure of in life, he was dead sure that he didn’t want to contend with that.

“Father, I suggest you prepare for the worst. When the scandal breaks—and it will break; it’s inevitable now—it’s probably
best that mother not be in town.”

The earl flicked an angry glance over both of them, as though they were somehow to blame, as though he were still trying to
concoct some logic by which they could be blamed.

“I suppose I shall take your mother to Spa after all.” The earl turned on his heel to leave, clapping his mauled wig back
atop his head as he walked. He stopped at the door. “The boy,” he said. “I shall want to see him before we go.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir.” Gareth said.

“Why pray tell?”

“He’s missing,” Beau said. “He’s missing, and we’ve yet to recover him.”

The earl blanched. “He can’t be missing. You can’t just lose the heir to a title. Do you know what that would mean?”

“It would mean the title would go into abeyance after Souttar’s death,” Gareth replied. The same horror that gripped his father
rushed through him, making his pulse lurch unevenly. He hadn’t thought it through until just now. Damnation.

“We can’t have that, Gareth. You find that child. Find him and bring him to Ashburn. Whatever you have to do, do it.”

“Everything that can be done
is
being done, my lord,”
Beau said. “When we find Jamie, we’ll certainly bring him to meet you.”

“Jamie?” The earl looked decidedly displeased with the name.

“James Gareth Sandison,” Gareth said.

“Named him after the damn pretender, did she?” The earl shook his head in obvious disgust.

“You named
us
after the knights of King Arthur’s court, sir. Being named after the first Scottish king to sit upon the English throne or
his displaced descendant hardly seems more outrageous in comparison,” Gareth said. “What would you have done if one of us
had been a girl?” he added, the thought simply spilling from his lips before he could stop it.

“Named her Vivienne,” the earl snapped and stormed out.

“The Lady of the Lake.” Beau stretched her neck, rubbing the back of it with one hand. “I’d have thought him more inclined
to choose Elaine, who died pining. It seems he likes women of power after all.” Beau blinked up at him, doing her best impression
of girlish innocence.

“Only in theory,” Gareth replied dryly. “And certainly not when they stand up to him.”

CHAPTER 49

G
areth was ensconced at The Red Lion with Vaughn and Devere when his brother ran him to ground. His friends took one look at
Souttar and melted away with only the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor to mark their departure.

From across the room, young Kettleston glared at them. Vaughn’s forgiveness had been enough for most of the League to welcome
him back into its ranks, but there were a few holdouts, especially among the youngest members, who seemed to share Kettleston’s
rather rigid view of right and wrong.

Ignoring the open hostility radiating off the boys gathered near the door, Souttar strode right past them and sat down heavily
at Gareth’s table. The viscount rested his head in his hands, the long cuffs of his shirt obscuring his eyes. “What did you
have to go and tell him for?” Souttar said, hands balling up into fists in his hair.

“He had to know, Souttar. It would have come out sooner or later.”

“He came home in a rage this morning. Yanked me out of bed and told me to leave. I’m cut off. Not welcome. Father said to
come back with my son or not at all.” He looked up, hair wild, falling all about his face. “I gave him to you to take care
of. How could you lose him?”

“So this is my fault, is it?” Gareth picked up his glass and drank. It was just like his brother to want to shift responsibility
onto his shoulders. He’d been Souttar’s whipping boy any number of times over the years.

Souttar glared at him.

“Neither you nor his mother wanted Jamie,” Gareth said. “You both made that much perfectly clear.”

Souttar blanched. “I could hardly—”

“You,” Gareth said with disdain, “could hardly be trusted with a puppy, let alone a child. What woman in her right mind would
think her son would be better off with you?”

His brother flinched as though Gareth had struck him. “Her letter said she wants to marry again, and her prospective husband
doesn’t want Jamie underfoot.”

Gareth fought down the urge to leap across the table and throttle Souttar. What a pair they were, he and his illicit wife.
Neither of them gave a damn about Jamie.

“He was taken when Beau was attacked,” Gareth said after he’d got his temper back under control. “There wasn’t anything I
could have done about it. And if you don’t think that makes me sick, then you don’t know me at all, brother. They were mine
to protect, both of them, and I failed.”

Souttar dragged a hand over his face, rubbing at the shadow of beard on his chin. “What’s being done to recover him?”

“We’ve got men searching all over England. Searching and reporting back.” Gareth pulled out his pocketbook and opened up the
notebook inside. “These are all the gypsy encampments we’ve found and alerted.”

Souttar leaned closer and Gareth pushed the list at him.

“Gypsies?”

Gareth nodded. “One of the men who took him said he abandoned him near a gypsy encampment. It’s all we have to go on.”

“Tell me what to do,” Souttar said as though the words were being wrenched out of him with something sharp. “Tell me where
to look.”

Gareth studied his brother. The offer was utterly surprising, but he looked and sounded sincere. Being cut off must have shaken
his world off its axis. Perhaps Jamie had one decent parent—or the makings thereof—after all.

“Well,” Gareth said, “we have reports of an encampment near Burgess Hill. I was going to go, but if you like, you can go instead
and I’ll take the next one. If he’s not there, don’t forget to ask them where we might find other camps. Get names. Introductions.
That’s vital.”

“Burgess Hill.” Souttar nodded and stood, a little color flowing back into his face. “I’ll leave at once.”

When his brother had left, Vaughn wandered back over and reclaimed his former seat. “Will wonders never cease?” Beau’s brother
said, watching as Souttar pulled on his coat near the door.

Gareth took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I’d never thought to see the day Souttar put himself out for anything
or anyone.”

“Let’s not be too generous,” Vaughn said, his green eye unforgiving and his blue one flinty. “We both know he’s not doing
it for the boy.”

Padrig stared down at the crushed and trampled underbrush and the ashes of what had clearly been a large fire. Gone. Gone
for days already at the very least, and no sign that the boy had been left behind to starve. Thank heavens on all accounts.

If he and Granby found the boy before his family did, he didn’t know what he was going to do. But he couldn’t let Granby hurt
the child.

Hell. He closed his eyes for a moment, hand splayed out across the grass. He couldn’t live with any of the things he’d done,
but this was one he still might have a chance to fix. That was all he had left at this point.

Granby stood holding their horses, mouth curled into a disdainful frown. Padrig swallowed hard, feeling sick. He’d felt that
way every day since abandoning the boy. He’d become a monster in the service of this man. An irredeemable monster. And he
was no closer to retrieving his vowels and rescuing his family than he had been when he’d first agreed to Granby’s terms.

He claimed the reins of his horse and fit his foot to the stirrup. A rustle from across the little clearing stopped him swinging
up. He kicked his foot loose, eyes locked on Granby. The Englishman had yanked his pistol from its holster on his saddle and
was standing his ground, rage and hatred screwing his face into a mask.

“Damn you,” Granby said, as a man leading a bay by the reins stepped into the clearing. Tall, lean, silver-
haired with dark, slashing brows drawn into a frown. His identity was unmistakable.

Sandison raised one hand as if to hail them, as if he hadn’t yet recognized them. Granby brought the gun up and fired. The
concussion of the shot was deafening. Birds burst from the trees in frightened, chittering flocks, and then there was silence.
Sandison crumpled to the ground without a word.

“What have you done, sir?” Padrig dropped the reins of his horse and raced across the clearing. He knelt down beside Sandison
and put his hand to his chest. Nothing. He rolled him over and put his ear to his mouth. There was no stirring of breath,
and a great red patch was spreading across his chest. He looked back at Granby. “I think he’s dead.”

Granby shoved the gun back into its holster and swung into the saddle. He flicked the skirts of his coat out and adjusted
the set of his hat. “It’s time we were leaving.”

“We can’t just leave him here.”

One side of Granby’s nose curled up. “That’s exactly what we
have
to do, fool. I’ve no intention of hanging.”

When Padrig didn’t move, Granby sawed at the reins and swung his horse about. “Fine. Stay here and take the blame yourself,
if you’re so inclined.”

He spurred his horse and galloped off, great clods of dirt flying up from the animal’s hooves. Padrig stared at the body.
The man was dead. Granby had shot him, and now he was dead. He staggered over to the nearest tree and vomited up his lunch.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

CHAPTER 50