Simply Scandalous (8 page)

"Lord Swale!" Cynthia shivered, picturing a tall,
dark, foreign-looking nobleman with a streak of silver
in his hair and perhaps, a monocle, if not an eyepatch.
"Even his name is sinister."

"I expect if we were to look him up in the Peerage,
we would find that he is descended of a demon, like
the Plantagenets," said Juliet.

"Shall we look him up then?" suggested Cynthia.

Juliet shrugged but expressed a slight curiosity in
knowing who the mother of the monster might be.
"A brewer's daughter, I should think," she said nastily. "The Duke is so refined."

"You said in your letter he wore more powder and
paint than Her Majesty," Cynthia objected.

"Well, yes, dear," replied Juliet. "But he is quite
old, you know. It must have been the fashion of his
youth. At least his Grace does not try to look like a
young man. That would be absurd!"

They reached the cottage of the invalid and completed their errand. Cynthia did not forget about the
Peerage, and when they returned home, she smuggled
it out of her father's study and up to Juliet's room.

"The family seat is at Auckland," Juliet said helpfully.
"Auckland Palace. From all his Grace told me, it is very
grand. There is an Amber drawing room and a room
set aside for his Grace's porcelain collection. The
Auckland Collection must make your father's china
cabinets look ridiculous."

"Is he handsome?" asked Cynthia, searching the
pages of the thick volume.

"His Grace?"Juliet shrugged. "I expect he was so in
his youth. His manners are very pleasing. He was
kind, but without that insufferable air of condescension which so many gentlemen of rank assume when
they are meeting little nobodies like Miss Wayborn."

Cynthia glanced up, her eyes round with fear. "If
Miss Wayborn is nobody, I expect I shall be nothingif
I go to London next Season! I wish Horatio would not
think of putting up so much money on my account.
I am certain to fail. Besides-"

"Are you to go to London next Season?" cried
Juliet. With a pang, she realized that she had very
likely forfeited her own chances for another London
Season, but she suppressed her feelings. "Oh, Cynthia,
that is famous! It will bring Benedict up to scratch, I
daresay," she added with a laugh. "He will not like to
see you dancing with the handsome young gentlemen
of Almack's!"

Two bright spots of red appeared in Cynthia's cheeks.
"Almack's! Sir Benedict! Pray, don't be so absurd." She
bent her fair head over the book and quickly changed
the subject. "When I asked if he were handsome, I
really meant Lord Swale, you know."

Juliet snorted. "He has horrid red hair and a snub
nose," she said scornfully. "You would not believe his
sideburns-they actually appear to be burning. He
looked rather like a stableboy, I thought. A stableboy
with nettlerash," she added contemptuously, recalling Swale's blotchy face as he jumped from his curricle, cursing furiously at her. "A big, hulking brute
with no refinement," she concluded.

Cynthia frowned. She had never been to London,
and she thought it must be filled with nothing but the most delightful ladies and gentlemen. She knew perfectly well what a marquess should look like. Even the
most sinister marquess should be tall, elegant, and
darkly handsome. They should not resemble stableboys with nettlerash. "I expect," she said doubtfully,
"his friends call him Carrots."

A scaly monster like Swale has no friends, "Juliet declared, conveniently forgetting Mr. Alexander Devize.
"He has henchmen, that is all. I daresay, when his back
is turned, they must call him Ginger, for not only
does he have the most appalling red hair, but he must
also have the most beastly temper that can be imagined. Cynthia, when he found he had lost the race to
me, he could do nothing more than accuse me of
cheating and threaten to horsewhip me!"

Cynthia gasped. "H-horsewhip you!" she cried in
terror. "But Juliet-!"

"He thought I was Cary, you see." She paused and
frowned suddenly. "Though how he should have
thought I was Cary I shall never know!"

Cynthia was puzzled. "You said you wore his coat
and his hat and his spectacles."

"I mean," said Juliet patiently, "his mercenaries must
have reported their success in eliminating my brother
from the competition. Swale ought to have been quite
surprised to see me! Instead, he was grinning at me.
He even wished me luck. Never mind," she said quickly,
burying the tiny seed of doubt in righteous indignation.
"I expect he covered his amazement with that idiotic
grin. Have you found Auckland yet?"

Cynthia handed her the book silently, too overwhelmed by the imposing list of titles, patents, and lands
to speak.

"Why, his name is nothing more than Geoffrey
Ambler!" cried Juliet indignantly. "Look! One son, Ge offrey, Marquess of Swale, and one d. Maria. The
slimy snake has a sister. Since I did not hear of her this
Season, we can assume her ladyship has married
since this printing."

"Why, that sounds almost human," Cynthia remarked. "There is something stalwart about a Geoffrey, don't you think, Julie? And a Geoffrey with a sister
can not be all bad, surely. She probably calls him
Geoff or Geoffie."

"It is the name of a soulless swine," Juliet declared.
"I expect Geoffrey Ambler, swine, has fled to Auckland. I expect London is no longer pleasant for him.
I expect I shall never see him again."

"But Juliet!" Cynthia cried. "You do not wish to,
surely. "

"No, indeed," said Juliet. "No one who has ever
seen him ever wishes to see him again. But if I ever
do, I shan't call him Geoffie, I promise you. I shall
call him Ginger. "

Geoffrey, Lord Swale, was not greatly surprised to
find a summons to Auckland House awaiting him at
his rooms in Pall Mall when he returned to them after
the race. The Wayborn Excrescence had done her
damage with amazing speed. She had sown her miserable lies, broadcast them, like so much demon
seed, and all of London was convinced of his guilt.
Doubtless, his concerned parent wanted to console
his beloved son. The following day he found Everard
Ambler, the sixth Duke of Auckland, in his book
room at the back of the London mansion that stood
in Berkeley Square.

"Geoffrey, you mutt!" The Duke greeted him without any trace of paternal affection. The resemblance
between father and son was not very pronounced. His
Grace was one of the pale, slender aristocrats flawlessly
turned out by his valet in wig and maquillage, while
his son's burly physique, pugnacious face, and ruddy
complexion were such that no valet or tailor could
render them elegant. His clothes always looked rumpled; his hair was wild. His square chin regularly bore cuts from a clumsy razor, and his boots always
looked as though they'd been left out in the rain.

"I take it, sir, you have dismissed your valet at last?"

Swale scowled, further distinguishing himself from
the family portraits in the picture gallery at Auckland
House. Stern looks, yes, but never that menacing
glare a barman gives the bosky at last call. "Why
should I dismiss my valet, sir?" he said belligerently.
"Bowditch is as good as any other."

"Ha!" said his parent. "I don't say I want a dandy for
a son, but you might at least be neat in your person.
I also was cursed with red hair-"

"Were you, by God?" Swale exclaimed in astonishment.

The Duke smiled smugly. "Didn't know that, did
you, sir? That is because I have always been properly
ashamed of my head. I always cut as much of it off as
possible and put the rest under a wig so as not to
offend anyone. Good God! Look at you. It nearly
touches your shoulders."

"I am," said Swale expansively, "what I am."

"I have always been told," his father said coldly, "first
by your mother and then by your sister, that there are
hidden depths to your character and that one day I
shall be proud to call you my son! That day has not
yet arrived. I have heard things, things which put
me to the blush."

Swale's scowl deepened. It was only the Fifth Commandment that held his tongue in check.

"You have nothing to say to me, sirrah?"

"Sirrah!" cried Swale, unable to contain himself any
longer. "You sirrah me? My own father! You don't
mean to say you believe all this nonsense?"

The Duke raised one of the two slender brows
painted on that morning by the steady hand of his valet. "I am told by creditable sources that you were
involved in a curricle race yesterday morning?"

"Yes, obviously, I was," said Swale sullenly. "The
whole world knows it."

The Duke brought his fingertips together. "And
who was your opponent?"

"I had rather not say," Swale replied with a touch
of hauteur.

"Did you or did you not compete against a female?"
his father demanded. "A female called Miss Juliet
Wayborn?"

"I hardly call that a female," said Swale, rather surprised that the creature in question possessed a Christian name. "More of a fiend in human shape."

"Is it true, sirrah, that you have been beaten by a
mere female?"

"Dammed unnatural female if you ask me," Swale
muttered, the nettlerash returning to his face. "A
damned, dirty trick is what I call it! What does Wayborn mean, sending his sister out in his clothes?"

"It is popularly believed," said the Duke dryly, "that
you hired two men to break his arm."

"I don't believe his arm is broken at all. I heard the
man was put to bed suffering from nothing more
than a touch of influenza. That is precisely what I
said in my note."

The Duke's frown was very stern. "What note?"

"The note I sent 'round with the monkey that the
bloody female threw at me."

"You damned fool! " said his father, and a bit of nettlerash peeped through the powder and paint so
carefully applied by his valet.

"You don't expect me to keep his beastly money," said
Swale, shocked. "By strict rules, I was the winner, but,
really, after all ... I sent a note to Wayborn, wishing him a swift recovery from the influenza. Naturally, as soon
as he is recovered, I intend to shoot him. I daresay he
thought it a pretty fine joke, sneaking his sister past me,
but I don't go in for that shabby sort of thing."

"I have had speech of Mr. Norton, the surgeon," said
the Duke in an icy voice, "and I am satisfied that Mr.
Wayborn's arm is broken. There is also a head injury."

"And I expect you believe that I hired the ruffians
who injured him too," Swale said bitterly. "My own
father! Why the devil would I do such a thing? I was
looking forward to racing Cary Wayborn. I had as good
a chance as any man in England of beating him."

"You! " scoffed his parent. "You couldn't beat Cary
Wayborn's baby sister, and you expect me to believe you entertained hopes of triumphing over the
man himself?"

"That's hard," Swale observed belligerently. "And
anyway, the Wayborn doxy bloody well cheated. She
bloody well came to a full stop in the middle of the
bloody road. To keep from ramming her, I had to
swerve around. Bloody devious! I ought to have known
then I was racing a damned, interfering bloody female!"

"Do you swear to me that you had nothing to do
with the attack on Mr. Wayborn?"

Swale was incensed. "Do I swear?"

"Yes, sir," said his father. "Do you swear?"

"You are asking me," said Swale. He paused to gain
control of his temper. "Let me be clear, sir. You are
asking your only son to swear to his innocence?"

"That is what 'l am asking," the Duke said coldly.

'Well, I do not swear," said Swale defiantly. "Believe
what you will, sir, and be damned."

"Very well," said the Duke, much relieved. "I believe you."

"I should bloody well hope so," growled his son. "My own father asking me to swear like a common criminal. I like that! That pleases me like nothing else. I
should rather be the son of a costermonger than of
a father who entertains such doubts about me."

The Duke held up his slim hand. "I never doubted
you for a moment, Geoffrey. I am merely trying to prepare you for the harsh reality of life. From now on, everywhere you go, you will be questioned. Your ferocious
temper is well-known. On the whole, I think it would
be best if you were to leave London for a while."

"Why should I leave London?" Swale growled. "Let
the Wayborns leave. They have cast aspersions against
me. By that I mean they have told bold-faced lies!"

"But why would they lie?" asked his Grace.

Swale exploded. "You said you believed me!"

"Mr. Calverstock apparently heard the villains say
`Compliments of Lord Swale' or some such thing. I
don't think Mr. Calverstock is lying. His grandfather
was the Fourth Earl of Ludham! "

"`Compliments of Lord Swale!' As though I would!"

"Your name must be cleared, Geoffrey. It is the
Ambler name, after all. Someone has attacked Mr.
Wayborn and has taken a deal of trouble to implicate
us in this dishonorable business."