My Scandalous Viscount (19 page)

Beau glanced at the first place on the list, and with a growl under his breath, stalked out the door.

It was time to bring his good lady wife to heel.

Chapter 19

C
arissa was tired, too, but she did not allow herself the luxury of sleep. If Beau had to suffer, she’d suffer with him. She vowed he would not go through this alone.

Still, either fatigue or all these spy intrigues must be getting to her, she thought as she walked through the art gallery, for she could have sworn she was being followed.

Surely it was just her weary mind or imagination playing tricks on her. After all, Beau was right—she wasn’t an agent, she was just a neophyte, jumpy with the quest she had undertaken.

Nevertheless, she was determined to help him. She might be just a gossip, but she knew how to collect information on someone, what sorts of questions to ask—and how to ask them without being too obvious.

Presently, she was working her feminine wiles on the curator of the third art gallery she had visited so far today, while Beau was detained, being grilled and berated once again by the panel.
Poor darling.
She saw no reason why she should not get started in the meanwhile since there was no time to lose if they were going to figure out who had hired Nick and hopefully stop him from shooting whoever he’d come to London to kill.

Of course, she realized that Beau might be a little cross at first when she told him how she had spent her day. But in the end, she was sure he’d appreciate her efforts—although, to be truthful, her quest hadn’t yielded much in the way of answers yet.

No matter.
She was not going home empty-handed. She had to find
something
about the artist Madame Angelique had described. It was the perfect way to prove her mettle to her husband, for she was determined to make her oh-so-capable spy husband take her as seriously as he did Madame Angelique.

Indeed, she had settled into the decision that she didn’t just want his affection, she wanted his respect.

Oddly enough, her conscience was not satisfied with this.

How can you demand his respect when you haven’t really earned it? You haven’t even told him the truth!

But I will,
she insisted.
I’ll tell him everything, just as soon as I’m sure it won’t destroy our marriage.

Not telling him the truth is what could destroy your marriage, you henwit,
it berated her.

But I can’t take that chance. I can’t bear to lose him.
Then she shook her head, trying to brush off her misgivings.
I must be as mad as half these artists, talking to myself.

The most uncomfortable feeling of all was her suspicion that it was not Beau’s respect she was truly after but her own.

There could be something to that, she admitted. To be sure, the fact that she had believed Roger Benton’s lies, that she had fallen for that, had thrown herself away on a man who never loved her, that she had been that desperate for love in the first place to willingly deceive herself about his sincerity—for, of course, deep down, she had known he was a bounder—but she had ignored that knowledge, needing to believe.

That foolish self-deception had cost her much of her self-respect. She had never really forgiven herself for it.

And if it cost her Beau as well, she never would.

No, it wasn’t worth it, she thought with a shudder.

Finally, after being orphaned, passed from home to home, seduced and betrayed, finally, she had found love. If she had to lie to keep it, then so be it.

Maybe it was best if he never found out.

“So, how can I help you today, Lady Beauchamp?” the curator asked, quite at her service after she had had her maid hand him her calling card.

It still made her giggle inwardly how having a title changed things, when, really, after all, she was still the same inside.

In quite a contrast to the clerk at that bookshop in Russell Square, the tidy little art dealer had dropped everything to wait upon Her Ladyship.

“I am interested in looking at works by English artists who’ve dealt with the French Revolution as their subject,” she told him.

He lifted his eyebrows. “A curious subject, if I may say so.”

“Oh, I know!” she answered gaily, playing the blithe ton lady once again, assuming that he kept an eye on the Society column in the
Post
, considering he made his living selling art to the aristocracy. Paintings were always needed for country estates and Town mansions. They made nice wedding gifts for highborn newlyweds, as well. “You might have seen the notice in the paper about the grand soiree my aunt, the Comtesse d’Arras, threw for me and my new husband.”

“I did hear something about that,” he admitted with a smile. “My humble congratulations to both you and Lord Beauchamp, my lady.”

“Thank you. How kind! In any case, I wanted to thank my aunt by giving her a painting. She was married to a French count, you see. She’s still got property there, and I know so much French artwork made its way to England for safekeeping during the war.”

“That is correct, my lady. Many of the French nobles had to sell their collections to pay their way out of France in order to survive. Very sad. Art and jewelry were the easiest valuables to move to safety while so much of their property was being confiscated by the Revolution.”

She shook her head. “It’s hard to imagine how they simply took people’s homes away from them, where their families had lived for generations, and just handed over the estates and everything to their own supporters.”

“Jacobins,” the little man spat while her thoughts harkened back to Professor Culvert’s speech touching upon such subjects.

Even a Society miss knew that the Home Office was terrified of underground Jacobin sympathizers in England. Such groups were known to exist. The government was always trying to root them out before they tried to start all the guillotine-Revolution mischief here.

“Well, thank goodness for Wellington,” she murmured.

“Indeed,” he answered heartily. “So, could you tell me, Lady Beauchamp, more about what sort of painting you were looking for? We have quite a number of military portraits and a few battle scenes.” He gestured to the wall, where a few of them were hung.

“Do you have anything a bit earlier? Paris street scenes from perhaps the 1790s?”

He considered her request. “I may have something in the back. Let me go and look. May I offer you a chair while you wait, my lady?” He gestured to the elegant seating group in the front corner of the shop, near the sunny bay window.

She smiled at him. “That looks pleasant. Thank you.”

He bowed. “I won’t be long.” He retreated into the back, and Carissa went and made herself comfortable on a Chippendale chair upholstered in pastel blue striped satin.

Margaret followed, but Carissa pointed out the window at the bakery across the street. Even from here, the delicious smells made her mouth water. “Would you go across the street and buy a few muffins for us, Margaret? It’s been quite an undertaking this morning, and I find myself rather peckish. Get some for yourself, as well,” she added, handing her a few coins from her reticule.

Her maid smiled and bobbed a curtsy, then hurried off on her mission. The little bell above the shop door jangled when she left.

Carissa rested her elbow on the chair arm, propped her chin on her fist, and closed her eyes, hoping that a bite to eat would help her stay awake. With the spring sunshine streaming through the window, she could have drifted off, contented as a cat.

When the bell jangled again a moment later, she was too tired to acknowledge the arriving customer. She heard the door close, then a few footsteps as the person drifted into the shop.

“So, I see you are now a patroness of the arts, Lady Beauchamp,” a voice said. “How very aristocratic. I’m impressed.”

At the sound of that voice, she drew in her breath and flicked her eyes wide open, sitting up straight in her chair. Staring at the man with dark, tousled curls and flamboyant, if rather rumpled clothes, she shook herself. Surely she had nodded off, and this was but a nightmare.

Roger Benton sauntered closer with a sly smile.

“If you want to pay tribute to the muses, my lady, I can think of better ways to do it than squandering your new husband’s money on overpriced paintings.”

Her mouth went dry as he approached, bracing his hands on the back of the chair across from her. His gaze trailed over her. “Marriage must agree with you. You look spectacular, Carissa.”

“Oh, shut up,” she hissed, her heart pounding. “Stay away from me.”

“What, no time for an old friend now that you’re a viscountess?”

She was nonplussed, nearly too shocked to speak. How dare he approach her this way! Aunt Jo had warned he might try something, but she hadn’t expected it so soon.

“I always knew you’d land on your feet,” he said as he flicked out his dark plum coattails and took a seat across from her with the practiced ease of a dandy. He struck an elegant pose, crossing his legs, propping his patrician chin on his knuckles. He gave her another forced smile, but she could not miss the change in his appearance.

Dissipation had sent his good looks downhill. He had lost a good deal of weight, she could see. His color was poor, he had dark circles under his eyes, and the puffy lips that had enchanted her were very chapped and irritated, as if he’d had a cold for several weeks.

But it was the glazed look in his eyes that was the biggest change. His eyes glittered with desperation.
What has he done to himself?
she wondered, startled to feel a small measure of pity amid her hatred and revulsion.

“Were you following me?”

“Only in hopes of finally getting my chance to wish you much happiness. You know, I’ve been reminiscing on the times we shared—”

“Stop it, you vulture,” she cut him off in a low tone. “You know I don’t want to see your face.”

“Oh, that’s sad. Well, I’m afraid it’s going to cost you for me to go away.”

Heart pounding, she glanced one way, then the other, making sure that neither Margaret nor the art dealer were in sight. Then she looked at him again.

“I am sorry,” he said politely. “I never thought it would come to this. But the poet’s path is not an easy one.”

“You’re no poet,” she whispered.

“Yes, I am. I even wrote a poem for you, my dear. A limerick. Would you like to hear it? There once was a lady in Brighton, a redhead whom little could frighten, till her aunt’s disapproval brought on her removal by an uncle whose fortune was titan.”

She scoffed and strove for patience, then she shook her head. “Do you know what my husband would do to you if he found out about this?”

“The question is, what would he do to you?”

She stared coldly at him. “How much do you want?”

“Two thousand pounds,” he answered evenly. “I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

She flinched. “That’s more than last time.”

“The stakes have gone up.”

The pity she had felt dissolved. No, she realized, he was a disgusting human being. How could she ever have thought otherwise? “That’s a lot of money. It’s going to take me some time. I only have five hundred in my personal account.”

“Well, I’ll take the five hundred now, and I’ll give you two days’ time to bring me a draft for the rest.”

“Very generous of you,” she murmured coldly. “You do know that I wish with all my heart I had never laid eyes on you. Don’t you?”

“There’s no need to be unkind, my dear. Now that I see you,” he said with a leer, “you should be grateful that money’s all I’m asking for.”

Repugnant.

What did I ever see in him?
She could not believe she was allowing herself to be blackmailed, but at that point, she would have paid any sum to make him go away.

She supposed at least she should be grateful that he had not showed up at her house. Her hands trembled with fear as she took her bankbook out of her reticule; she lowered her head and used the pen set on the nearby table to write him a cheque that emptied her account.

She handed it over to him.

He smiled and blew on it to dry the ink. “There. Was that so hard? Pleasure doing business with you once again, my lady. You can bring the remainder to me at The Clarendon Hotel, day after tomorrow. Agreed?”

“Go to Hell.”

He forced a taut chuckle. “So fiery! I’d nearly forgotten how hotly you burned,
ma chère
. I’ll take that for a yes.” He folded her cheque and slipped it discreetly into his breast pocket. “Until then.” He rose and sketched a bow to her. “Lady Beauchamp.”

As he turned to go, the bell on the shop door jangled again.

Carissa thanked God that Margaret had not been here to see this, but when she looked over at the door, she froze in horror. It was not her maid.

Her husband stepped into the shop, those keen blue eyes of his taking in the scene with a sweeping glance.

Roger did not seem to realize who the new arrival was as he strode toward the door, as though eager to get his money from the bank and spend it in the nearest opium den.

But as Roger approached, Beau shut the door behind him and locked it.

He paused in surprise, realizing the danger, when Beau pulled down the shade.

Beau leaned against the door and folded his arms across his chest.

She sat frozen in her chair, staring in disbelief at the nightmare tableau of her girlhood seducer face-to-face with the man she loved. The husband she had lied to.

Roger had suddenly started looking queasy, but he tried to play it off, no doubt hoping his suspicions about the large, blond man’s identity were mistaken. “Ah, you’re blocking the door, mate,” he said in a friendly tone.

Beau fixed him with a dark stare full of impending doom. “Carissa,” he murmured in a voice of terrifying calm. “Who is this?”

Chapter 20

B
eau had already been to the first two art galleries on Carissa’s list. Not finding her at either, he was on his way to the third. He still wanted, with every yard of ground he covered, to throttle the chit for snooping into matters he had specifically told her to leave alone.

In any case, he was driving into the street where his next destination awaited when he saw his wife’s maid leave the art shop ahead, heading for the bakery across from it.

He saw the carriage he had given Carissa for their wedding, and told his driver to pull up behind it. Leaving his carriage with the coachman, he had glanced in the bay window of the art gallery as he approached and had seen his wife talking to this man.

For the first split second, his knee-jerk reaction was a chilling thought of his mother’s unfaithfulness to his father. But edging closer for a better look at the man in question, he dismissed this passing fear. It would bloody well take more than the likes of that sad, sorry soul to provide any competition for him. No, he realized, something else was going on.

He had glanced at Carissa again, and in the next heartbeat, his well-honed instincts as a spy homed in on the subtle cues that told him she felt threatened.

Her tense posture.

The pallor in her face.

His anger at her for ignoring his orders immediately dissolved as his protective instincts went on full alert.

He had already been in motion to go in and rescue her when he saw her write something down and give it to the man.

He had paused, briefly bewildered. Was she passing information to someone? Had one of his enemies already got to her?

That’s when he stepped in.

Presently, he waited for her answer to his question. But it seemed Carissa could not speak.

He directed his next query to the stranger, a thin, slightly dilapidated dandy. “You have some business with my wife?” he demanded.

“N-no.”

“What did she give you?”

“Nothing!”

In no mood to argue, Beau shot out his right hand and grasped the dandy by his cravated throat. He lifted his arm just a bit to send the startled fellow up onto his toes to avoid being strangled.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Carissa watching with her hand pressed over her mouth while the stranger struggled to free himself from the grip cutting off his windpipe.

Beau, meanwhile, reached into the fellow’s breast pocket and calmly retrieved the piece of paper he had seen him tuck away there. When he dropped the young man, he stumbled forward, gagging for air and clutching at his neck. “You’re mad!”

“Sorry,” he said blandly. He unfolded the piece of paper. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what he saw.

A cheque from his wife’s account for the hefty sum of five hundred pounds.

He stared at it, holding his fury at bay and striving to make sense of this.
What the hell—?

In the financial discussions he’d had with her uncle, drawing up the particulars of their marriage settlement prior to the wedding, Beau had learned that, as an orphan, Carissa had inherited a generous trust fund from her father. The trust fund bestowed on her an annual allotment of five hundred pounds to do with as she pleased, apart from his own dowry settlement upon her for a certain amount of pin money each month.

But why the hell had she just signed over her entire year’s portion to this stranger?

He looked from one to the other. “Somebody care to explain this?”

Neither answered, but the excruciating glance they exchanged, indeed, something about the way the two reacted to each other tipped him off that they had once been more than friends.

And the truth dawned. Her lack of virginity on their wedding night . . . The vigilant way she kept watch over the ton gossip . . . He saw now that it was not for prurient interest’s sake but because she was keeping watch over her own secrets. He put two and two together with an inward flinch.
So, this was the chap she didn’t want to tell me about.

The stranger then attempted to lie to him.

First, he cleared his throat. “I take it you are Lord Beauchamp. I’m an artist, sir. Her Ladyship just commissioned a painting from me. It was supposed to be a surprise for you.”

“Really? And now I’ve gone and ruined the surprise . . . No, I don’t think so,” he murmured, but when the shop owner stepped out of the back, he barked abruptly at him, “Leave us!”

Startled, the little man halted in mid-stride—glanced around at them—then shrank back into his office without a word.

Though Beau had a feeling he already knew the answer, he asked the question anyway. “What’s the money for?” When he took a step forward, the stranger leaped back, staying out of arm’s length.

“Let’s be rational about this, Beauchamp! Violence isn’t going to solve anything! Besides”—he glanced at Carissa—“you can afford it. What I’m selling is worth at least that price.”

“And what exactly are you selling, Mr.—?”

“Benton,” he conceded warily. “Roger Benton.”

“And you are selling . . . ?”

“Protection,” he replied, visibly steeling himself, “for your lady’s reputation.”

Hardened as he was to the darker side of life, Beau was slightly shocked that the blackguard had just admitted to extortion. How bad was it, whatever Benton had on her?

He looked over at Carissa, longing for her to say something. Anything. But she just stared at him with soulful anguish brimming in her eyes.

The pain in her gaze checked the fury rising in him.

He did not know what might have happened between them, but it was obvious this man had hurt her, and that was all that mattered.

Everything in him wanted to throw Benton through the window. But he had a better idea in mind . . .

“I see.” He drew himself up with a cool stare. “How much, then?”

“Three thousand.”

“You said two!” she cried.

He glanced over his shoulder at her with a mocking sneer. “His pockets are deeper than yours.”

“Oh, God,” she wrenched out, hiding her face in her hands and turning away.

“No, it’s fair,” Beau said stiffly, like a very copy of her uncle, Lord Denbury. Playing his role with a tense nod, he was, of course, already plotting treachery.

“This is a very serious matter, as we all know how easily rumors get started. Once begun, they are impossible to root out. It isn’t worth it. My lady, you will explain your part in this to me later. Mr. Benton, of course I would pay any price to protect my family’s honor.”

“Very reasonable of you, Beauchamp.”

“I am a reasonable man,” he said through gritted teeth, “and not unacquainted with the ways of the world. But my bankbook is at my home. If you’ll accompany me in my carriage, we shall go there now, and I’ll write you a cheque for the full amount. Then you can be on your way—”

“Hold on, now, I am hardly getting into your carriage, Beauchamp. I’m not a fool. And I have no interest in seeing the inside of your home though I’m sure it’s splendid,” he said with a sneer, looking very satisfied with his own cleverness. “We meet in a public place.”

“Very well.” Beau gave him a cold stare. “Not everyone is as dishonorable as you, Benton. I was merely trying to keep the matter out of the public eye. But if that is your preference, then I will meet you at, say, The Gray Gull Inn on the docks near Billingsgate. Do you know the place?”

He nodded warily. “I can find it.”

“Good. Then, when we have concluded our business, you will never come near my wife again, and you will stay silent on this matter—if you value your life.”

“Fair enough.”

Beau stepped out of the way from where he’d been blocking the door and unlocked it for him.

Benton sauntered toward the exit, looking slightly relieved to be making a clean escape. He glanced back at Carissa, then paused next to Beau, one hand on the doorknob. “The Gray Gull, in an hour.”

Beau nodded, and Roger Benton slipped out.

He stared after him, lifting the shade on the door’s window and watching through narrowed eyes as the blackguard hailed a hackney. One stopped for him shortly. Benton climbed in, and as the hired carriage trundled off down the street, Carissa’s maid returned.

He opened the door for her as she came cheerfully gusting in. “Oh, Your Lordship, ye found us! Are ye hungry, sir?” She lifted the assortment of muffins wrapped in cheesecloth that she had brought over from the bakery shop.

“No, Margaret. Er, your mistress shall be heading home now. When you get there, would you tell Mr. Vickers to have the traveling chariot made ready? Her Ladyship will be going on a journey—and you will join her. You’ll be leaving immediately, this afternoon.”

“Beau!” Carissa wrenched out.

He ignored her with a flinch. “This will be a long trip to the country, so pack whatever clothes she might need for a month. You may go out to her carriage now. Her Ladyship will join you in a moment.”

“Yes, sir,” the maid murmured, hesitating with a somber glance over at her mistress.

But when he nodded gently at the door, Margaret bobbed a curtsy and scurried out to tell Jamison they’d be leaving in a trice.

Beau could hear Carissa crying softly. He turned slowly and met her teary-eyed gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered with shame and grief in her eyes.

He stiffened, threatened by her tears. This was not the time or place for this, and he was not ready to let go of his anger. Nevertheless, raised from his cradle to be a gentleman, he offered her his hand. “Come, I’ll walk you to your carriage.”

She remained where she stood, struggling for composure. She took a handkerchief out of her reticule. “You’re sending me away?”

“You leave me no choice,” he replied.

“A-are you going to kill him?”

“Should I?”

She shook her head with a shrug. “I was just surprised that you didn’t challenge him to a duel.”

“There’s no point dueling with a man who has no honor. It defeats the whole purpose.” He paused, lowering his head. “I don’t want to make any wrong assumptions, since you’ve provided no information for me to go on, but it seems to me this man would not have the power to blackmail you unless your involvement with him at some point was voluntary?”

“Yes,” she admitted in a strangled whisper, lowering her head. “It was the biggest mistake of my life, but he did not—force me.”

Beau nodded, feeling strangely numb, as though he were watching the scene unfold from outside his own body. Perhaps his heart was still in shock now that he faced the reality of her deception, but none of it felt real. “You do know that if he had, he’d be dead on the floor at this moment?”

Drying her tears with her handkerchief, she managed a nod.

“That can still be arranged if you feel he deserves it,” he added. “The choice is yours. Only say the word, and I’ll take care of it. In fact, it would give me great pleasure.”

“No. Not for his sake but for yours. It’s not worth the risk you’d take, with the panel breathing down your neck.”

He could not help his cynical reaction, muttering, “I am touched by your concern.”

“Please! I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“Stop.” He glared at her in warning, fighting back a wave of anguish. “Not now.” He looked away again. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

She closed her eyes, steadying herself. Clutching her reticule, she glided past him toward the door, head down. But she paused beside him, looking up into his eyes. “You’re really going to pay him off, just like Uncle Denbury did?”

“Hell, no,” he breathed. “I’m going to pay him
back.
”

What Roger Benton did not know was that The Gray Gull Inn was the haunt of an infamous press gang that worked the docks, hunting for recruits—willing or otherwise.

So, instead of going to hand over three thousand pounds to buy the blackmailer’s silence, it was the blackmailer himself he went to hand over to the press gang.

When Beau sat down in the sailor’s tavern across from Roger Benton an hour later, he glanced over at the group of swarthy sea dogs drinking in the corner. He beckoned them over with a crook of his finger, then he laughed as they surrounded his dandyish companion.

It was too bad Carissa wasn’t there to see it as the press gang dragged Roger Benton away, kicking and shrieking, to introduce him into His Majesty’s service and fit him with a uniform—the newest recruit for the Royal Navy.

Now he might have the chance to make something of himself, Beau thought in amusement as he bought himself a drink. He was going to need it before heading home, for next came the hard part.

Dealing with Carissa.

There was no use putting it off. Tamping down his anger and frustration, he tossed back a well-earned shot of whiskey, also ignoring the hurt. Then he set his glass down, gathered his thoughts, and returned to the house.

When he arrived, the staff had already packed her bags. Margaret was telling the footmen which pieces of luggage still had to be loaded into the traveling chariot.

“Where is Lady Beauchamp?” he inquired of his butler.

“In the drawing room, my lord.”

Beau walked slowly up the stairs and found her sitting by herself in front of the musical automaton clock, waiting for it to chime. Her shoulders were slumped. Her slender arms were wrapped around herself as though she were trying to ward off a chill.

He pushed the door shut behind him with a soft click; she didn’t look over.

As he sauntered up beside her, she glanced at him. He noted her red, puffy eyes and pale face. The sight of her like that wrenched his heart. It made him want to gather her into his arms and tell her nothing mattered, kiss away the hurt of whatever that bastard had done to her.

But she had misused him, and a man had to draw the line somewhere, or he ceased being a man.

Mistrusting his own emotions, not quite knowing what else to do, he joined her in staring at the clock. “Benton won’t be a problem anymore,” he spoke up at length. “In case you were wondering.”

“Thank you,” she breathed in a shaky whisper. Then she paused, her head down. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”