Earl of Scandal (London Lords) (2 page)

“You fool!” Honoria put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You were supposed to burst in and challenge Faraday. Instead, you were here, snoring like an old goat!”

Anthony clutched his head. “Bloody hell! Don’t shout so. I still haven’t recovered from all the wine.”

“You’re pathetic! Can’t even manage a simple deceit like this one.”

“It’s not too late.” Anthony jumped from the bed and began to grope for his clothes.

“Yes, it is. He’s gone. Went dashing out of the room as if the hounds of hell were after him.”

“I’ll catch him before he leaves the house.”

“And what will you say?” Honoria’s voice dripped scorn. “That I came and told you he’d taken me to bed? Even with the drug addling his wits, he won’t believe that.”

Anthony paused in struggling into his pantaloons. “What do we do now?”

Honoria’s generous mouth curled in a sneer. “I don’t know, Anthony. You’re supposed to be the clever gamester. Why don’t you think up a new trick?”

~ ~ ~

“Gads, Faraday, you look like something the cat dragged in.”

Christian smiled tightly at Sir William Pennington as he encountered the stout nobleman in the foyer of Brooks. “Thanks for the words of cheer, Will. Heard you were off your feet for near a fortnight with gout. Still looking a bit done up yourself, I’d say.”

Pennington’s piggish eyes narrowed. “I managed to chair a committee on police reform in parliament this past session, which is more than I can say for you, Faraday. You young cubs nowadays, think of nothing but your own satisfactions. With money and power comes responsibility, boy. Why, at your age—”

Christian walked away, distressed that Pennington’s critical comments mirrored his own growing doubts.

Entering the high-ceilinged dining room, he looked around. Although he would never have admitted it publicly, at this moment, he desperately needed a friendly ear to share his worries with.

No, not Appleford, he decided as he observed the balding, ruddy-faced lord in the corner. An unredeemable rogue if there ever was one. Determined to kill himself with fast horses and faster women. Had at least three mistresses and was unfaithful to all of them. Odd, but only a few days ago, Christian had admired the man’s
panache
.

Hertford? An upstanding gentleman, and utter bore. If Christian sat with him, he’d have to endure hours of exposition on the new canal system the earl had invested in.

The devil take it, he thought, again scanning the room. Was there no one...

“Christian!”

He turned at the sound of a familiar voice. “Devon Langley! If you’re not a sight for sore eyes!”

The tall, black-haired lord regarded him with a faintly amused expression. “Speaking of which, Christian, those famous blue orbs of yours look decidedly bloodshot this morn.”

Christian shrugged. “Too much wine and women and too little sleep.”

“Still determined to come to a bad end, I see.”

“ ‘Course, old chap. What else is there?”

The indifferent words rang hollow and Devon gave him a searching look. To cover up the awkward silence, Christian cleared his throat. “So, what brings you to London?”

“Business interests. Her Ladyship and I would languish in the country year round if we could, but the responsibilities of her inheritance won’t allow us to avoid London altogether.”

“Want to do a little wagering later?” Christian asked hopefully. “I hear there’s a new hell on Jerym Street”

“No, thank you. Seems a waste of time these days. Besides, the sooner I finish with my business, the sooner I can get back to Darton Park. You should come, Christian. The fresh air and healthful setting would be the very thing for you.”

Christian hesitated. Here was the invitation he’d hoped for, yet it failed to ease his mind. Away from the diversions of London, he’d have too much damned time to think. He returned to his cynical pose. “Still trying to drag me off to the rustic tedium you favor, eh, Dev?” he drawled.

“All I’m asking is that you try it.” Devon found a table in the corner of the dining room and sat down. “You’ve pursued the fast life for years. Perhaps it’s time you gave simpler pleasures a chance.”

“Polite card parties? Lemonade and small talk with gawky country lasses?” Christian sniffed. “I’d be bored to tears in outside of a week.”

“Perhaps,” Devon conceded, “but you won’t know till you try. If nothing else, I wish you’d consider my offer for Caroline’s sake. She’s dying to show off the house. The locals all think it’s stunning, of course, but she’s not certain it’s up to London standards.”

“Ah, Caroline. That’s really why you’re doing this, isn’t it?”

Devon smiled, the change in expression making him look like a mischievous boy rather than a somber lord. “Actually, she suggested I kidnap you. Drag you back bound-and-gagged on the floor of the carriage.”

Christian gave a mock shudder. “Her Ladyship always was a ruthless sort. It’s well you have no interest in other women. I dread to think what she would do to you if you ever strayed.”

Devon’s smile broadened. “No point to it, old man. Caroline’s the only woman I’ll ever want.”

Christian felt a twinge of envy. Lord and Lady Northrup appeared devoted to each other. Despite his doubts that such an emotion as love even existed, Christian had to admit that whatever it was that those two shared, there was something magical about it.

Of course, unlike him, Devon Langley had never been one for fast living. While he...  Christian winced inwardly as he recalled waking up in bed with Honoria Averill. There was no denying it. He was a wastrel.

Devon frowned at him. “What’s wrong, Christian? Never known you to look so blue-deviled.”

Christian hesitated. This was his chance to unburden himself. But somehow, despite his years of friendship with Devon, he couldn’t get the words out. He forced a smile. “Must have been the wine, combined with the brandy. Had a dashed queer night.”

Devon shook his head. “You’ll rot your brain if you overindulge too often.”

“Have to keep myself amused.”

Devon’s hazel eyes narrowed, and he smiled a smile which would have been chilling if Christian hadn’t known him better. “Caroline’s right. I have to get you out of London. I still have some acquaintances on the East End who would be delighted to kidnap you and deliver you to the Darton Park doorstep on a single word.”

Christian laughed uneasily. “Really, Dev. No need for that. If you’re going to be so insistent, I’ll come willingly, I swear it.”

“Yes, swear.” Devon’s voice was firm. “Swear that you’ll come. And, furthermore, swear that you’ll stay long enough to do yourself some good.”

“How long is that?”

“Until the Derby.”

“Surely you jest! That’s months from now!”

“It won’t do you a bit of good to return to London after a fortnight and immediately resume your self-destructive ways,” Devon said sternly. “What you need is a complete change of outlook. Something to give your life meaning.”

“And I suppose you imagine that I will stumble onto that shining, noble purpose in the godforsaken wasteland you call ‘home’?”

“I don’t know. At least you’ll have a chance to restore your health and clear your wits.”

“I’m not unhealthy! My physique is as sound as a horse’s!”

“Hah! Have you looked in a mirror lately, Christian? Your skin’s sallow, your eyes more red than blue. A few more years of this and your insides will start to disintegrate from being pickled in spirits all the time. And your mind will go as well. That’s the worst of it. If you wait too long, you’ll end up a bacon-brained fool like Farningham.”

“Farningham!” Christian experienced a wave of revulsion. The once-elegant earl of Rosemore was now known mainly for getting so foxed at parties that he spent the evening slumped, drooling, in a chair in the corner.

“That’s nonsense,” Christian protested. “I’m exceedingly fit. I go a few rounds at the Daffy Club twice a week and there’s hunting in the season and races whenever I can get up a wager.”

Devon shook his head, looking very serious indeed. The knot in Christian’s stomach tightened. He stood abruptly. “Pardon me, old boy.”

In the lavatory, he leaned over the water closet, wracked by a spasm of dry heaves. Finally, he straightened, then washed his hands and gazed bleary-eyed into the glass. What was Devon talking about? He still looked like the same old Christian. Didn’t he? He leaned closer. Were there not faint strain lines around the famous Bedlington blue eyes? A trace of fleshiness to the once firm, manly jaw? A hint of puffiness obscuring the dimples so many women had admired?

Christian felt his ailing stomach clench again. The life of dissipation had begun to take its toll. At this rate, he would eventually come to resemble his great-uncle Albert!

The thought struck him rigid with dread. Before his eyes the image in the glass altered. The athletic body grew thick with bloat, the bloodshot eyes, pouchy and mean, the aquiline nose, swollen and red.

Christian brought his hands to his face in horror. “Gads! I must do something!”

He turned on his heel and left the terrifying vision in the glass behind.

At the entrance to the dining room, he paused and tried to gain control of his nerves. He must take Devon up on his offer. It was the only solution, the ideal escape from his current life of dissipation.

But doubt nagged at him. What if he couldn’t do it? What if he had advanced so far into ruin that there was no turning back?

He approached the table where Devon sat. His friend put down his tea and regarded him intently as he slid into his chair. “What’s wrong, Christian? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a way, I have.” Christian motioned to the decanter of brandy in front of him. “Take that away,” he told the waiting servant.

“Sorry,” Devon said “I thought you’d want some `hair of the dog that bit you’. Rather have some of this?” He pushed a pot of tea towards Christian.

“No, thanks.”

Devon watched him a moment longer, then said, “Now, about my invitation, what do you say we make things a little more enticing by turning it into a wager?”

“A wager?” Christian felt a twinge of interest. He was always up for a challenge to his absurd good luck.

“Yes. Let’s say that I wager that you won’t be able to manage to stay away from London until May.”

“Stakes?” Christian asked, his excitement growing.

“You set them. Both of us can afford to lose a decent bit of blunt, so money’s not the thing.”

“Say five thousand,” Christian answered quickly. “And something else, some terrible affront to our pride that the loser must endure.” He grinned at Devon, rapidly getting into the spirit of things. “The loser has to drive his phaeton through Hyde Park wearing not a stitch of clothing!”

Devon raised his brows. “Really, Christian.”

“All right then, something else. Something which would embarrass me as much as it would you.”

“Is there anything which embarrasses you?” Devon asked.

Christian recalled waking up in bed with Anthony Averill’s wife. “I’m certain there is. I’ll have to think on that part of it. But I accept the wager anyway. Five thousand it is.”

Devon held out his hand and they shook.

“When do you want to leave?” Devon asked.

“Today. No sense putting things off. But I’d rather take my own rig. If I’m going to be trapped in the country for months, I want my beautiful new grays with me.”

“That suits my plans. I’ll be in London for several more days, but you’re welcome to go on ahead. I’ll warn you, though, the roads are treacherous. You can’t drive like a madman as you usually do.”

Christian grinned. He’d sworn off strong drink and other defilements, but that didn’t mean he had to give up every vice. After Devon left, he should be able to find someone willing to wager against him making Derlingham in five hours or less!

Two

As he drove north, Christian decided that Devon was right. His brain had rotted. Only a madman would race an open curricle in such abysmal weather. The roads were slick with ice, the air so damned raw, Christian’s face ached, and his hands had gone numb in his calves’ leather driving gloves.

He swore as another gust of wind caught his beaver hat and threatened to jerk it off. Grabbing the hat with one hand, he kept control of the reins with the other as the carriage bounced over the frozen ruts.

His stop at the town house to pick up the curricle and grays had delayed his departure until well after noon. Now it grew dark and he still had an estimated ten miles to travel. Gone was all hope of winning his bet with Wyngate. At this point, simply arriving in one piece at the posting station in Derlingham was his fondest wish.

The road wound into a forested area, which blocked the wind but did nothing to aid the fading light. Christian squinted into the gloom. All at once, a dark shape appeared in the road. He jerked hard on the reins, trying to avoid the oncoming carriage. His curricle hit a rut and went airborne, then landed with a jarring thud. The grays whinnied frantically as the careening vehicle crashed into the ditch and fell sideways.

Christian threw himself clear and landed in a pile of leaves. His first thought upon regaining his wits was for the horses. He picked himself up and hurried to them. Speaking soothing words, he examined their quivering, sweaty flesh inch-by-inch. Delilah seemed unharmed, but Jezebel gave a low nicker when he touched her right hock. “Damn!” he muttered.

Whirling, he stomped toward the other vehicle. It had halted a short distance down the road. As the driver approached him, Christian let loose with a violent tongue-lashing. “Are you blind? Didn’t you see me coming? Or, are you too hen-witted to think that quickly?”

“Hen-witted! You nearly run me off the road. Then you have the audacity to blame
me!
”

Christian halted in his tracks at the sound of a distinctly feminine voice.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t know you were a woman. That is, I...”

“Oh, really,” she interrupted tartly. “Meaning that if I were a man, you would find no impediment to blaming me for an incident that was clearly your fault.”