Lord Scandal (20 page)

The sight of Lord St. A——ape drunk in the street has become an all too common one. One would think the cause would have been driven to take pity by now…

Tête-à-Tête, 19 November 1789

Imogen ruthlessly jammed the gown she was holding into the trunk, hopelessly crushing it. She didn't pause when George entered, but continued to shove it down.

George eyed her thoughtfully and dropped into a chair a few feet away. “Going somewhere?” the countess inquired, as if what was going on wasn't perfectly obvious.

Imogen stiffened. She stopped what she was doing momentarily, leaving the train of the gown dangling out of the trunk like a waterfall of calico. She was behaving badly, and she knew it, but she had to escape. To get away from Gabriel, from town, from everything; to return to someplace quieter, somewhere she could think logically again. Someplace her brother wouldn't find her…

“You and the earl have always made it clear that I am welcome to the use of your carriage whenever I might want it. To date I never have.” She paused to pull the crumpled gown from the trunk and fold it neatly before putting it back in, rearranging the crushed dress in her trunk. “I'd like to return to Barton Court to get my things, and then I have to leave. Edinburh, maybe even Dublin. I don't know…”

“Of course,” George replied, her tone as conciliatory. “I sincerely hope you're not taking such a step because of Gabriel. I assure you, there's no need for such drastic action.”

Imogen goggled at her, her brows drawn together in a frown. “There's
every
need,” she insisted passionately, aghast that the countess truly didn't understand the position she was in.

She was on the brink of causing yet another scandal. A scandal which would forever cement the image of her as little better than a Cyprian in the eyes of the world. And she was going to drag the countess's friend down with her.

If he continued to badger her—to propose to her, to kiss her—she was going to falter, and then their marriage would be the talk of the town. The infamous Brimstone and the Portrait Divorcée. She'd make a laughing stock of him, and he'd ruin her.

Her brother would cause all the trouble he could, too. And knowing Robert, the trouble would be considerable. He hated her, and he loathed Gabriel. He'd delight in torturing them.

All she'd wanted was a quiet place to live, a few friends, and perhaps to make herself useful. Why did he have to go and complicate things? Rakes were not supposed to propose marriage. They were supposed to avoid it like the plague. But Gabriel—damn him—wasn't playing by the established rules.

He'd been the very pattern card of the charming, dissolute man-about-town. The perfect choice for a simple, quiet affair. The kind of thing Helen had been recommending to her for ages. Why did he have to break character and ruin everything?

The countess's brow puckered, and she held out her hand. “Come and explain it to me then. I didn't press you the last time this came up, but I do know Gabriel rather well. Perhaps I could help?”

 

He was going to kill Robert Mowbray.

Wrap his hands around the little toad's neck and squeeze until it popped right off. Gabriel raised his walking stick and knocked on the door to number twenty-six Queen Street with enough force that the silver head dented the wood.

She'd said no because some underhanded threat Mowbray had cooked up. Water spilled off his greatcoat, pooling on the small porch. He raised his cane and knocked again.

The door cracked open and he brushed past the startled footman hard enough that his wig was knocked askew. She'd said no, and she hadn't told him the reason. Damn her. Why hadn't she told him?

“Mr. Mowbray's not at home, sir.” The footman adjusted his wig, attempting to reassert his dignity and his authority.

“Of course he is. Saw him come in myself. He's just damn lucky I value my membership at White's too highly to have cornered him there. Mowbray!” His shout echoed off the wainscoting.

Several doors opened all at once. A wisp of a maid ducked back into whatever room she was cleaning, like a mouse scurrying to hide. A second footman appeared from below stairs, clambering down the hall with a loud, graceless tread.

“Mowbray, in private, or in public. It's your choice.”

His quarry appeared at the top of the stairs, red-faced and quivering with the impotent anger of a King Charles Spaniel cornered by the butcher's dog. “I have nothing to say to you Angelstone. Get out of my house.”

“But I have several things to say to you, Mowbray.” Gabriel stalked up the stairs, taking each step with deliberation, his eyes never leaving Imogen's brother.

Mowbray held his position until Gabriel reached out and grabbed him by the lapel. “Come along, then.” He dragged him down the hall.

Gabriel propelled his prisoner through the first door, sending him sprawling onto the floor. “Clumsy oaf, aren't you?”

He turned his back and crossed the room. Above the mantle a barefoot goatherd wooed a blushing shepherdess under a canopy of linden trees. “A Boucher? Really?” He turned around in time to see Mowbray heave himself to his feet. “I wouldn't have thought it of you. I'd have put you down as more of a Cozen's man. Maybe a Jones?”

“I'll kill you. I'll—I'll have you arrested for house-breaking. I'll—”

“You'll shut up, and perhaps by doing so you'll live long enough to sire a dynasty of little Mowbrays on that cow of a coal heiress you've married.”

“My wife sir is none of your business.”

“A fact for which I am eternally grateful. My hat's off to you on that account. I don't know how you can bring yourself to the point.” Gabriel allowed himself a faint shudder.

Mowbray's mouth opened and closed like that of a clockwork toy. The vein in his forehead stood out, throbbing.

“Having an apoplexy?” When he didn't fall to the floor in a twitching heap Gabriel smiled. “I suppose that was too much to hope for.” He sighed and removed his gloves slowly. “I understand your mother's pearls have gone missing?”

Mowbray eyed him warily.

“I would suggest you check with her dresser. Perhaps they were sent out for repair? Or maybe they were simply left behind when you came to Town? At any rate, there'll be no more mentioning them—or anything else but your deepest felicitations—to your sister. Do I make myself clear?”

“Or what?” Mowbray attempted to brazen it out, raising his chin so that he only had one, rather than his normal two.

Gabriel spun his walking stick in a lazy circle. “You seem to forget that while I may be, how did you put it—‘the Angelstone mongrel' was it?—that I'm still an Angelstone. I'm the great-grandson of a duke. The brother-in-law of an earl.”

Gabriel allowed that to sink in. “And I'm one of three men in England who can touch Angelo. I'm more than happy to give you a personal demonstration if you'd like?”

Mowbray's face twitched as though he were having a fit.

“I thought not.” He pulled his gloves back on. “It's been a pleasure, sir. I'll make sure and send you an invitation to the wedding.”

 

Gabriel slouched down in his chair and blew out an irritated breath. He'd endured another helpful visit from George this afternoon, in which he'd been told in no uncertain terms to leave Imogen alone. To allow her to come around to the idea slowly before he pressed his case.

Damn all helpful, interfering women. Damn them especially for being right. At least he'd been able to relate his interview with Mowbray. That had pleased her to no end.

He got up and poured himself a drink and stood staring at the portrait of Imogen that hung over the mantle. He set his glass down hard enough to break it, amber liquid streaming down the marble.

There she was, the teasing smile he'd come to know so well just peeping out, the shoulder which had been her downfall revealed in all its glory. He retreated to the center of the room from which he could better study the larger than life rendition of his nymph. She hadn't changed much since it had been painted. Perhaps she was a little thinner, a little more serious, but not one jot less beautiful.

It really was an amazing portrait. It captured Imogen perfectly, from her wildly spiraling curls, to her elegantly shod feet. Firth had even managed to show the subtle sparkle of her eyes, and the enigmatic smile that lurked in the corner of her mouth.

There didn't seem to be anything so terribly provocative about it. But people saw what they wanted to see, and it only took one society tabby with a wagging tongue to have started the rumor, and then people would have wanted to believe it; to watch the downfall of such a beautiful young political hostess.

That prospect would have been titillating and extremely satisfying to those members of the ton who reveled in the downfall of others. Irresistible, in fact. Lord knew they'd dug their claws into him often enough for him to sympathize.

And it was clear from the painting that whether she'd been guilty or not, the artist had been in love with his subject. She'd have been better off going to Gainsborough or Reynolds rather than to the young rising star.

With a groan Gabriel threw himself back into his chair. This was not how he'd planned things. Not how things should be. He should not be trapped here alone with nothing but a facsimile of his nymph. Even one as enchanting as this one.

By all rights he should be sitting across from the flesh and blood woman—or better yet—making love to her in the bed behind him.

We can only speculate as to what the Angelstone Turk could possibly have to discuss with the Portrait Divorcée's brother…and speculate we shall.

Tête-à-Tête, 3 December 1789

The night of the Morpeth's ball Imogen realized she hadn't seen Gabriel in weeks. A long collection of days in which she'd been hauled around the city, to musicals, dinner parties, boating parties, the theatre, the opera, even to a cricket match; if it was a social event of any significance, she'd attended.

She had been, if not deluged, then at least slightly flooded with invitations. Everyone wanted her at their parties; if for no other reason, than that they were hoping the hinted at liaison with Gabriel would come to a head there, burning their event permanently into the memories of all the attendees.

To date she had been happy to disappoint them.

Tonight she had been included in the pre-ball dinner, along with all of the Morpeth's family and closest friends. Including not only Gabriel, but the prime minister, Mr. Pitt. He had not been the prime minister when she had been active as a political hostess, but he was well-known to her all the same. William was one of his supporters.

She was extremely grateful that he was seated at the far end of the table near the earl. It was bad enough to have been on the receiving end of one of his condescending glares earlier as they had all assembled in the drawing room. To have been forced to make polite conversation with him throughout dinner—or worse, to have been publicly snubbed by him—would have been awful.

When dinner was over, the countess led the ladies out, leaving the men to their port. Imogen took George's arm and was led through the house to the main drawing room.

“Let's have a drink before the men join us,” Lady Morpeth suggested. “I'm sure they're all enjoying their port, and frankly, I need a bit of fortification before I spend the next hour or so receiving guests.”

George laughed and plucked the brandy decanter from the decorative commode which hid the earl's liquor supply.

“Anyone else?” she asked, filling a glass for Lady Morpeth.

A few of the braver ladies piped up, and George pulled out more glasses. Imogen accepted a glass and stared down the tabbies watching to see what she would do. She refused to be cowed.

If the countesses were drinking, then so too would she. The gossips could hardly label her as fast for doing so without also insulting their hostess. She sipped her brandy while George led her about the room, introducing her to the few women she was not already acquainted with. Some of them were less than friendly, but no one was willing to slight the Countess of Somercote, the future Marchioness of Tregaron, by cutting her bosom beau.

A maid brought in the tea things and those ladies not inclined to brandy or port were able to avail themselves of milder refreshment. China clinked, cups rattled in their saucers, a low buzz of conversation filled the room. Just before ten the earl arrived, proceeding the rest of the gentlemen, and then the Morpeths ushered everyone out of the drawing room and into the ballroom down on the ground floor.

Imogen went down on Viscount Layton's arm, a direct snub to many of the other women present, whose claims stood well-above her own. He seemed perfectly unaware of having committed any socialism, and chatted gaily with her all the way down the stairs. Once in the ballroom, he held onto her arm, and politely demanded the first set of dances.

“Not much of a dancer,” he confessed, as they strolled about, admiring the decorations, nodding to their acquaintances. “But it looks bad if a man don't make at least a small effort.”

Imogen laughed, loud enough to draw eyes to them, and the viscount smiled down at her. He was handsomer in powder and a formal wig. His eyes seemed brighter, his bearing somehow more dignified. As if he wore a suit of armor rather than one of spangled cut velvet.

Relieved to have been secured for the first set, Imogen soon found herself under siege. Her dances were rapidly snapped up by George's friends. Before the musicians had stuck up the first note, she had only two sets unclaimed, and was just a little uncertain that she would be able to dance all the dances she had promised. It would be exhausting.

The gentlemen could not have drawn their battle lines more clearly if they'd been wearing regimentals and sporting her name on a flag. She was theirs, and they would throw her in the teeth of the ton, and force society to accept her. She could only be flattered. Even George could not have forced them all to dance attendance on her in such a fashion.

The first set of country dances flowed into the next, and then the one after that, as she changed partners effortlessly, never being left alone for so much as a moment. Her partners even managed to make it all look completely natural, as though they weren't relentlessly guarding her. Eventually the countess caught her between sets, as she was being handed off from the countess's brother to Lord St. Audley.

“My lord,” George said, quite loudly, “you might want to skip the first dance in the set and procure Miss Mowbray a drink. I don't think she's been off the dance floor since the dancing commenced. I'm sure she must be parched by now.” Then she flitted off on the arm of an unknown officer.

Imogen smiled and assured the viscount that she would much rather dance. On the dance floor she was distracted from searching for Gabriel among the throng that packed the Morpeths' ballroom, and protected from any prolonged encounters with him, and whatever might ensue from there.

 

Gabriel watched George's little drama play out, gritting his teeth, trying to decide just how long he had to endure this farce of an evening. He'd watched his friends all dutifully paying court to Imogen; dancing with her, strolling with her between sets, making sure she was never alone.

They were like a large pack of dogs with one tender, juicy bone. He should be grateful. Whether or not they knew it, they were doing him a favor. But he wasn't. Jealousy flooded through him, leaving him resentful that they could all dance and flirt with her with impunity, while he was relegated to the sidelines. Left to watch her like some specter.

She was wearing some preposterous concoction that could only have been chosen by George. Blue watered silk covered by a slightly lighter colored netting, with small clumps of silver spangles decorating the bodice and hem. The dress had a bodice which barely managed to contain her, and showed off nearly as much of her shoulders as the infamous portrait which graced his bedchamber.

Gabriel slugged back the last of his drink and plucked another glass from a passing footman. That dress shouldn't have been allowed. Not on any woman, and certainly not on Imogen. Fashion be damned. More than one man was watching her with what could only be called lurid interest.

One poor sod had been so thoroughly distracted his wife had soundly boxed him on the ear, and another had tripped over his own feet while staring, spilling his glass of champagne all over Lady Jersey. Luckily for Imogen the lady's back had been turned, and she'd had no idea why the bumbling fool had done such a thing.

Gabriel was still brooding when St. Audley's set ended, and Alençon claimed Imogen for the supper dance. It was the final feather in her cap. Many of the people who would be willing to challenge George and Victoria over their championing such a black sheep, would bend to the duke's opinion. If Alençon approved, so would most of the toad eaters who aped him, which—as he was well aware—could prove useful when wielded purposefully.

With an irritated frown marring his features, Gabriel left the ballroom. He had been forbidden to go near her for now, and he'd be damned if he spent the entire night watching her like some moonling.