Scandal at Vauxhall (Pleasure Garden Follies) (3 page)

The game of
whist lasted all of a half hour when Nathaniel excused himself from the gaming
table, only to be met by his mother and sister on his way out.

“Where do you
think you’re going, Nathaniel?”

“Nowhere of any
import to you, Mama,” he whispered, removing her stiff hand from his wrist.

“Come, dear
brother. I shall not be deprived of at least one dance.”

Nathaniel huffed,
knowing what they were up to. “I think not. I have something I must do right
now.”

“
Pish
posh, love. White’s is no place for a man in the
marriage mart. Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball is, and you’re leaving far too
early!”

“I think not,” he repeated. And without giving
either woman a second glance, he abandoned the ball to find out more about
Brimley’s dealings with the Duchess of Downsbury.

*
* * *

Isabel dressed
in her riding habit, prepared to go on horseback if needed. One way or another,
she would witness the proof of her husband’s betrayal.

“You’re mad, My Lady!”
the butler exclaimed. “You cannot attend. No respectable lady attends a duel.
If you wish, I’ll make an appearance in your stead and return once it is over
to deliver the news myself.”

“Absolutely not.
If you desire to accompany me, then do so. Otherwise, I ride alone.”

The servants
begged and pleaded for her to stay behind, and deep down she knew she’d regret
her decision, but one couldn’t blame her for wanting closure. Isabel slipped
out the back entrance, racing toward the stables before her footmen could
intervene.

“I’d like my
horse readied immediately,” she commanded the stable hand.

When her mare
was brought forth, she climbed up, accepting the young man’s assistance, and
bolted willingly from the stall. No one, not even providence, could stop her
from watching her foolish husband make the biggest mistake of his life.

The unfortunate
thing was that she could only watch from afar. Rows of Beech trees with lush foliage
rustled in the early morning breeze. She dismounted her horse and wrapped the
reins around the fence. Walking around the tree line, she attempted to remain
out of site. At the sound of men shouting, Isabel halted beneath an oak and
peered around the trunk for a better look.

Her husband and
Downsbury stood angrily facing each other, their seconds hovering to ensure
they didn’t start before the surgeon arrived. When the he finally showed, he
crossed the green, and the count began.

“Five. Four.
Three. Two.”

The hair at the
nape of her neck rose, and her lips trembled. Yes, her husband had many faults,
but none should be punishable by death.
Lord
have mercy on his soul.

“One.”

The pistols went
off, followed by some shouts.

Isabel’s heart
hammered in her chest as she gripped the bark harder. She squinted to find her
husband on the ground, lifeless. His silvery-blue waistcoat was unmistakable. A
chill washed over her, and her eyes began to well up with tears. The surgeon
lifted his limp arm to check his pulse and loudly pronounced his death.

Isabel inhaled
sharply and backed into the tree, pushing a branch out of her way. It flung
back and smacked her in the face. She bit back the sting, thankful for the
momentary distraction. Hooves galloping away caught her attention. Stepping out
from her hiding space, heavy hands caught her unawares.

“What do you
think you’re doing here?” a deep, burly voice questioned her.

She spun on her
heels to face her inquisitor.

The man gasped.
“I’m
beggin
’ your pardon, Your Grace! I had no idea…you
shouldn’t be here.” Henry’s solicitor growled, drawing the attention of the
gentlemen that remained behind.

No,
I shouldn’t.
Her life was about to change. She was
stunned, horrified, and suddenly feeling very alone, the uncertainty of her
future swallowing her whole. Before she could even speak, the surgeon
approached.
Would it be too much to ask,
to be left alone. I cannot possibly deal with them right now.

He tipped his
hat and cast a downward glance. “Your Grace, I offer my condolences. Can I have
someone escort you home?”

Isabel shook her
head. “I think I should be able to manage.”

“Well, at least
let me escort you back to your mare. I had no idea Your Grace could ride.” He
tucked her gloved, tense hand into the crook of his elbow. Once they were close
enough, he assumed position to help lift her.

“Thank you,
sir.”

“You’re most
welcome. Please, if there is anything I can do, let me or my wife know, Your
Grace. We would be most honored to assist you in any way we can.”

“Thank you
kindly, sir. Should a need arise, I will call on you.”

Within minutes, Isabel
reared her horse back and rode home hard, only stopping when she reached her
front door. Passing the reins to a surprised footman, she stepped through the
threshold, collapsing onto her knees.

The butler rushed
forward, hollering for the housekeeper to come quickly. “Your Grace, what’s
happened?”

“His Grace, the Duke
of Brimley, succumbed to a fatal gunshot. What will become of us?”

“Your Grace,” he
bent down to help her, “I know I speak out of turn when I say that we’re sorry
for your loss, but no matter how uncertain all may be now, just know we—the
staff—support you fully. We will be here for you no matter the challenge. You
have my honor as a servant. No harm shall come to you. Now, if you’ll follow
Mrs. Cooke, she shall see you settled into bed.”

Isabel sighed,
feeling a weight lift from her shoulders.
But
what will they do if I can’t afford to keep them on?
She’d hate to see them
leave, but the harsh reality was this—what would be left to her with Henry’s
passing would be determined by his solicitor. A man she wouldn’t give two
farthings for, and had the manners of pig.

Six
months later

Isabel paced to
and fro from the dais to her gardens window facing the back of her townhouse.
Uneasiness had her on guard, but she hadn’t the slightest clue the cause of her
anxiety. The skies were gray and the clouds shifted in strange, hard angles
above, threatening to unleash some sort of God-given punishment. Nevertheless,
Isabel found her thoughts and paranoia distracted once again by Cecily’s
incessant chattering.

While she
enjoyed the frequent visits by her closest friend, Miss Cecily Turner, their teatime
had turned into a weekly accounting of London’s wagging tongues and scandalous
mischief. For the most part, their conversations had been light and humorous,
yet as of late their talk had been dark and unsatisfactory. Three times this
month already, Cecily managed to bring up the Marquess of Stoughton, and every
time his name was mentioned, her heart broke.

She had written
to Nathaniel on at least half a dozen occasions to seek his council on some
stately matters—as her late husband’s solicitor sorely neglected her—and not
one letter received a response. Disappointment summarized her life in light of
recent events, especially after she had poured out her heart to him at the
ball. Isabel glanced over to her companion then looked away as a single tear
trickled down her cheek.

She missed
Nathaniel.

Cecily scoffed,
drawing her full attention. “I just find it utterly distasteful how the dowager
countess continues to declare the
marquess
’
affections for Lady Eloise Morton, and insists the marriage would be most
advantageous. Even more shocking is the age difference! Why, she’s barely out of
school, and he’s a man in his prime. A man his age with a wife so young is a
disaster of a match. The affairs, illegitimate children…the list goes on,” she
ranted.

Isabel dismissed
the words with a wave of her hand.

“Darling, what
in heaven’s name are you thinking about?” Cecily asked, set her tea down. “My
brother will be here soon, so we must finish making our list.”

Isabel cocked
her head to the side.
What in the devil
is she talking about?
“What list are you going on about, Cecily?”

A pounding on
the door, followed by men shouting, alerted the women, and they sat there
staring at the entrance. Smith, her butler, finally made face until he was
pushed out of the way by the Duke of Downsbury. The duke marched toward her then
halted as soon as Isabel rose to address him.

“You, sir, have
crossed the line!” she said staunchly.

“And you, my
lady, are going to be ruined! I want what is owed, and I’ll not stop until I
have it.”

Isabel sucked in
a breath, trying to find the patience to avoid blurting out unladylike
expletives. “My lord, would you care to explain? How is it exactly that I’m
going to be ruined? Far be it from me to mention that all of London is still talking
about my inability to keep my own husband in my bed. Or shall I remind you of with
whom he was cavorting?”

Richard Waite,
the Duke of Downsbury, stood before her with his fists at his side and paled.

“Edmonds! Please
escort his lordship to the gate and see that he never returns.”

Her butler moved
to guide him out when Richard turned and viciously snarled, “It was just as
well that your husband lost the duel, but mark my words, my lady, you will lose
everything by the time I am done. He owes me far more coin than what is
recorded in the books at Whites, Your Grace.

“Once I am
finished, you will be reduced to a pauper. A word of advice, madam—you may even
be able to restore some power if you brush up on your skills. I hear Madam Martine
is on the hunt for new courtesans.”

Isabel’s limbs
went limp. Her chest constricted, and the need to weep overwhelmed her every
sense.

“Do what? What
could you possibly do, Richard, without further embarrassing yourself?” the new,
but familiar, voice asked from the door.

Shock coursed
through Isabel’s veins. Her knees quaked and soon she found herself unable to
breathe.

Nathaniel.
He’s here
were her last coherent thoughts before swooning.

* * * *

Nathaniel stood
in the doorway, taking stock of the situation. Isabel and her guest looked
positively aghast and Downsbury even more annoyed now that he’d been
interrupted.

“Thompson! What
in the world are you doing here? Is the dowager of Brimley your latest
conquest?”

Nathaniel nearly
erupted at the accusation. Instead, he crossed the floor in three large strides
and grabbed the overzealous duke by the neck, only to lose his grasp when
Downsbury kneed him in the jewels. Pain radiated down his legs, and his groin
throbbed, but that didn’t keep him from finishing this.

Downsbury sidestepped,
but Nathaniel ran straight at him, tackling him into the side board. Tea cups
clamored as they smashed to pieces on the parquet flooring. Isabel’s companion
screamed. His face ground into the floor as Downsbury attempted to wrap his
clammy, wiry hands around his throat. He craned his neck to where he saw the
ladies last, and his heart plummeted at the sight of Isabel on the floor, her
friend huddled over her, shielding her from debris.

“Enough!”
Nathaniel roared with all the compunction he could summon. “If you fail to
cease this harassment, Your Grace, I will be sure to have a full investigation
launched into all your comings and goings at Whites. And let me reassure you,
there will be nothing left to your fortune by the time
I’m done
.”

He heaved off the
desperate duke and rose his feet. “Smith, see that His Grace finds his way out
immediately.”

The uninvited
guest staggered from the parlor.

Just
how much trouble is he in?
Nathaniel rushed to Isabel,
falling onto his knees.

“Don’t just
stand there, miss. Go find Edmonds or the housekeeper. Immediately!” He stroked
Isabel’s hair.

The grim news of
her marriage to Griffith had made it all the way out to the field, sending him
into a bloody rage and boxing two agents while he wallowed in his regret. And
now, here she lay in his arms. Who knew what she’d been told about his
whereabouts, then and these last few months.

His heart
crushed at the thought of her being told he was dead, or that he’d finally
settled with a dim-witted chit who couldn’t have been more ill-matched than his
own parents. Perhaps her father had convinced her that Griffith was a better
match. With that idea, his frustration escalated, and the only thing he could
do was stroke her cheek. “Come on, love, wake for me. Let me gaze upon those
beautiful violet eyes.”

She stirred for
a moment, her ruby lips murmuring gibberish. Her companion entered the room,
dragging a maid along. “The stable boy has run for the doctor. He should be
along shortly.” Miss Turner blushed, kneeling next to him and gently taking
Isabel’s hand into hers. The housekeeper paced frantically by the door.

“You should
know, My Lord,
Bel
was told you’d met your fate while
you were in the service of the Crown. So you can imagine how surprised she was
to see you all those months ago,” Miss Turner declared while gathering the
folds of her skirt.

“Of course she
was told that, Miss Turner. I suspect her father arranged the match then?”

She nodded.

It was as he expected.
Though, he suspected more to the tale then just what the
haute ton
read into.

Nathaniel leaned
forward, placing a kiss on the crown of Isabel’s head. Her eyes fluttered open.
Miss Turner and the housekeeper squealed with joy. But Nathaniel was still
distracted by his vengeful thoughts.

Should Downsbury
attempt to make further contact, he’d be sure to expose the duke for the very
swine that he was.
What kind of lord
threatens the widow of the man he’d shot six months prior?
No matter what
happened, he would keep his love safe.

* * * *

“
Wh
-what happened?” Isabel pushed off the floor but fumbled,
her legs still weak. She glared at the girls, trying to recall the last few
moments. “Oh, good Lord!” she gasped. She’d been on his lap.
What would my parents say if they saw me in
such a position?
Isabel summoned the gumption to stand on her own two feet,
regardless of her knobby knees shaking furiously, and turned to face him.

“You—you’re
here.” She crossed her arms, lips twisting into a snarl. “What in damnation
took you so long? All those letters and not one single response. What did I do
to be punished so?”

He followed suit
by rising, but instead of replying, lifted her into his arms and carried her across
the room to the dais. “You, my dear, are unwell. Rest first. Scold later.”

Of
all the nerve!
“A slight presumptuous, are we? And
precisely what makes you think there will ever
be
a later, Nathaniel?”

But for all the
anger slowly simmering, seeing him again made her soft, warm, and light-headed.
Many a night, she lay in her bed chambers, dreaming of all the wicked things
she wanted to do with him. To him. Wicked temptations. Temptations that only
Nathaniel could satisfy. If only they had married as planned, and she had not been
told that he had died during his service to the crown.

During the few
evenings that Henry had come to her chambers to claim his husbandly right, she had
imagined and replaced his cold detachment for the warm caress of Nathaniel.
Stolen kisses in the moonlight, naughty exchanges, and gentle strokes of
forbidden flesh.

Her fondest
memory was the time that he climbed through her window in the middle of the
night, coaxing and teasing her to join him in the grove.

That night had
sealed her fate.

Or so she’d
thought. He had kissed her slow, instructing her on how two people in love
communicated with touch alone, his gentle ministrations keeping her maidenhead
intact.

Good
Lord, how is it even possible to become damp with only memories?

This man, for as
deeply as she loved him, had given her much pain and grief with his absence. He
hadn’t written to her once. For her that was unforgivable. Though he could try
to make amends, they weren’t foolish children any more. They had
responsibilities. Their time together had most certainly passed. And even if
they were so fortunate to be blessed with another chance, she’d have to wait at
least until the year was out.

“I have no idea
why you’re here, Lord Thompson, but I assure you, you needn’t have wasted your
time. Your presence here is not required. And while I thank you for your
concern and assistance, I think it’s time you left.”

“Leave us,” he
ordered Cecily and the staff who hovered by the door.

How
dare he!
Isabel bolted from her seat. “You, sir, are
impertinent. You cannot just waltz in here and command my guest to leave!”

Nathaniel closed
in, blocking any route of escape. “And you, My Lady, need your rest. Once you
have recovered and the doctor issues a clean bill of health, I am taking you
away from here. I suspect Downsbury will not cease until he’s fully embarrassed
himself and embroiled you in another unnecessary scandal.”

“And you think
that leaving with you, after my husband’s passing only six months ago, will not
create a scandal of its own? You are mad.”

“Well, you can’t
very well stay here.”

His logic had
merit, but no respectable widow would consider entangling herself in an
affaire
de
coeur
. But
the solution was simple enough. “Very well, My Lord, you have made your point.
I shall travel to Bath then perhaps I will stop for a bit at Vauxhall.”

“Alone?”

She refrained
from laughing at the ghastly glare he gave her. “Of course not. Robert Turner
was planning on taking Cecily for her birthday. I think I shall accompany them.
That way I will not be alone, and it would be impossible for me to find myself
in the embrace of another scandal.”

He rolled his
eyes heavenward. “Why do I get the impression, Isabel, that nothing has
changed?”

What
does he mean that nothing has changed?

“Changed? What
in the world is that supposed to mean? You…up and left, without so much as
explaining to my parents what your intentions were. Do you have any idea how
many days I spent hating you, loathing the day you were born? You were the one who
did not have to endure Henry’s cruelty!

“Much has
changed, Nathaniel. The only difference is that you are not centered around it.
You say you thought of me often while you were on the continent, but pray tell,
how many women did you spend time with? Wait. Don’t answer that. I have no
desire to learn of how many maidens you took or exotic courtesans with which you
fornicated.” Anger boiled dangerously, and for a woman who barely raised her
voice, Isabel neared her point of no return.