Saved by Scandal (11 page)

Galen got short shrift at the front door. A greasy-haired butler with an unbuttoned coat took his card and said, “Wait here.” “Here” was an empty hall, with bare spots on the wall where paintings must have hung, and dust motes kicked up from the carpet by Galen’s pacing. This was not the profitable estate Margot had described. Either Penrose Hall had fallen on hard times due to mismanagement, or it was being bled dry by that same manager. Galen wagered on the last.

Penrose had a diamond in his dirty linen, and another on his dirty fingers. The cognac he grudgingly offered was some of the finest Galen had tasted, and boasted no excise labels. This close to the coast, the viscount was not surprised to find smuggled goods. This close to Margot’s uncle, he was not surprised to smell a rat who betrayed his country and its fighting army with every shipment. He set the glass aside and waited while Penrose swallowed his drink and poured another.

The older man’s hands never stilled, shifting from the glass to the decanter to his penknife to the newspaper to the diamond at his throat. Penrose did not look Galen in the eye, either, as if he had something to hide. He could not hide his nervousness, nor his dislike for his missing niece.

He stabbed the newspaper with the penknife, right through the notice, no doubt, of Margot’s marriage to Viscount Woodbridge. “If you’ve come for the chit’s dowry, you’ve wasted your time.”

Galen raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know she had a dowry.”

“She didn’t, not once she ran off to disoblige me. I checked with m’solicitor soon as I read this claptrap. I don’t have to give any dowry if I didn’t approve the marriage.”

“Of course you wouldn’t be looking for any settlements either, in that case,” Galen put in smoothly. “But I do not need Penrose money, you know.”

Manfred did know, and it infuriated him even more. This nob could wed a penniless female of dicey repute, while he, Manfred Penrose, had to wed some Cit’s pasty-faced daughter, just for her portion. The bitch had turned out cold and barren, before she hied back to her papa’s shipyard six years ago. Manfred hadn’t seen her since, nor a shilling more of her father’s money, either. She’d come back, he had no doubt, when he was baron.

“If it ain’t the money, why are you here?” he demanded now.

Galen wiped a speck of dust off his superfine sleeve. “I don’t suppose you’d believe I came for your blessing on the match, would you?”

Manfred just snorted. “I doubt you’d care one way or t’other, marrying the jade out of hand to spite those other swells. I might have been a fool to think she’d take old Grinsted to please her uncle, but you’re twice the fool, Woodbridge, for taking on a common actress who’s no better’n she should be, when you could have had her for the price of a bauble or two.”

Galen made the other man’s shifty eyes meet his by rapping on the desk. “Because you are Margot’s family, I will forgive your insults to my wife. Once. The next time you shall swallow those words, along with your rabbity teeth. Do you understand?”

“No insult, heh-heh. Teasing, is all.” Beads of sweat were forming on Manfred’s back-sloping brow, though. Changing the subject, he poked at the newspaper article. “I see Maggie’s still singing for her supper. Can’t need to, with your blunt.”

“It was Margot’s choice to honor her commitments.” He emphasized the correct pronunciation of his bride’s name. “I respect her for not disappointing her friends at the theater. And her admirers, like Prince George.” Galen might hate that Margot had taken the notice of the First Gentleman of Europe, who was also the foremost womanizer, but he was also more than a little proud.

“Headstrong, that’s what she always was. That’s got to rankle some, eh, Woodbridge, having a wife tie her garters in public, or as near as makes no difference?”

Galen swore he’d never know how much. “Her voice is too lovely to stifle.”

Manfred poured yet another glass. “Got to be firm with the doxies, teach ’em who’s in charge.” He raised his fist to show Galen the method he’d use. The viscount almost drew the dastard’s claret then and there. He promised himself he’d pay this knave back in his own coin for every misery he’d caused, as soon as he had the boy safely out of the cur’s clutches. Galen sipped at his cognac, smuggled or not, to get the taste of Penrose’s filth out of his mouth.

“So what did you say was your reason for coming here?”

“Actually, I didn’t say. I had some business nearby, though, and Margot asked me to undertake a few commissions for her.”

Manfred snickered. “She’s got you under the cat’s paw already. Can’t imagine you liked leaving such a cozy armful behind. Couldn’t be sick of her yet.” He stared into the dregs of his glass. “Less’n she’s as cold as the codfish I married. Glad to see the back of that one, I was.”

Holding his temper by the slenderest of threads, Galen decided he had to get on with the business at hand, else he’d be laying his hands on the dirt-encrusted dirty dish. “One of the requests my lady wife made was that I look up her old housekeeper. Mrs. Hapgood, is it? She had an infusion for
the gout Margot wishes to prepare for my father. She said it worked like a charm for the late baron.”

“Well, your father will just have to give up his port. That’s what the sawbones told me, at any rate. Hapgood’s gone.”

“Margot will be disappointed, but she feared the woman might have retired by now. Perhaps you could give me the woman’s direction so she could write?”

“How the devil should I know her address? Think I keep track of every servant who passes through? And she didn’t retire; I threw her out, I did. Blasted woman was cheating me, I swear. Always had money for some trifle or other I didn’t order. Disobeyed me, too. Be damned if I was paying any pension to such a sneaksby.”

The dastard was already damned as far as Galen was concerned. The unconscionable act of dismissing a loyal old retainer after years of service, without compensation, only earned Penrose a hotter corner of Hell. “Maybe they’d know in the village if she had any relations to go to,” he casually offered.

“I think there was a sister in Maidstone. Maggie would know.”

Manfred picked at his fingernails with the penknife, then he picked at his teeth. If the long carriage ride hadn’t turned Galen’s stomach, his host certainly did. The viscount stood to leave. “I’ll tell Margot. Oh, before I forget, the other favor she asked was that I look in on her brother. I’m sure the boy is fine, but you know how women get.”

Manfred nodded. “Especially that one, gets a bee in her bonnet and won’t let go. Well, the brat ain’t fine, and that’s a fact. Never been fine, and now he’s worse.”

“Worse? How much worse? I’d hate to tell her bad news for nothing.”

“Can’t get much worse. Surgeon says the affliction in his head has migrated to the rest of his body. A wasting sickness. He says all we can do is keep him from suffering too badly.”

“My word, I had no idea things were so bad with the youngster. Have you consulted another physician?”

“A’course I did. My only nevvy, don’t you know. The first quack half bled him to death, and the next one near killed him with purges. Cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you. Even had to hire a man to play nursemaid. Boy’s too old for petticoat coddling, don’t you know.”

The viscount was shaking his head. “This can’t be. My wife said the boy got nightmares. I assumed he had headaches or something.”

“Nightmares, eh? The boy used to scream the house down, that’s what, like he was possessed or something. Couldn’t keep servants in the place. Other times he took to sleepwalking. Near burned the west wing to cinders. I’d have had him locked in a Bedlam years ago if not for Maggie. She wouldn’t hear of it, and look where it’s got the poor little devil now. At least he’s too weak to try climbing out the windows again, or head up to the roof. We don’t have to tie him to the bed anymore.”

Galen did not have to pretend his dismay. “I don’t know what to say. And how am I going to tell Margot? She seems somewhat attached to the boy, you see. Perhaps I’d better send for her to come see him for herself.”

Manfred did not want his niece anywhere near the house or the tenant farmers or the villagers. “Mightn’t be time. Brat’s only got days, I’d guess.”

“Lud, she’ll be heartbroken. As I am sure you will be, too. How terrible this must be for you, to face such a tragedy. And how deuced awkward, having your ward pass away with no one home but you.”

“Awkward? What’s awkward about it? The boy’s been touched in the upper works ever since his father fell off that cliff. Everyone knows it. Can’t hide a thing like that from the locals, not when the servants go running in terror.”

“Yes, but now he has a wasting illness. Some people might want to question your care of the boy, you being next in line for the title and all. You know how people will talk. They might even suggest the solicitors take a look at the estate books.”

Manfred turned even grayer, his shaking hand reaching for the bottle. “Nothing wrong with the books. Everything’s aboveboard.”

Galen went on as though the older man hadn’t spoken. “No, it won’t look good, the boy passing away in your arms, so to speak. My wife won’t be happy with me for not standing by the both of you, either. I know, why don’t I take the lad back to London with me? I can make the trip in no time, and that way you’ll have the responsibility for young Penrose off your hands. He’ll be gone, one way or the other, and so will all those niggling questions.”

“I suppose it’s only right that his sister gets to make her farewells.”

“Yes, but now I think on it, I am not sure I want to deal with a sick child. You say he screams?”

“Oh, not so much anymore. You just give him the laudanum regular like. He’ll be no trouble, I swear.”

“I don’t know. Margot and I are just recently married, after all. I don’t want her spending her nights at the boy’s bedside, if you know what I mean.”

“No need. You’ll take the keeper, ah, the manservant I have watching Ansel, of course. I wouldn’t think of sending you off with the brat otherwise. Renshaw has all the sawbones’s instructions and knows all the right doses, and the estate will bear the expense of his salary, naturally. No, the boy can be your headache for whatever time he has left. You’ve got to learn the pitfalls of married life, as well as the pleasures. You marry a girl, you get her family.”

Galen took one last look at Margot’s uncle and swore to himself. Heaven forbid.

Chapter Twelve

Whoever said that the meek shall inherit the earth couldn’t have meant this poor little lamb. Galen doubted Ansel Penrose would last long enough to inherit his own barony.

For the first time, the viscount doubted his own judgment. He’d been a good officer and a competent manager of estate matters, knowing his decisions were sound and well-reasoned. Now he had no idea if he was doing the right thing for the boy, or for Margot, bringing her this heartbreak. Galen was no expert when it came to the sickroom, and rarely trusted those who said they were, for he’d seen more instances of incompetence or ignorance than he’d seen cures. Broken bones were easy, like bullet wounds and gashes needing stitches. Broken spirits were quite another affair, and he had yet to hear of a remedy. Now all he had to trust was his instinct, which was shouting at him that the boy would never survive another week at Penrose Hall. The question was whether Ansel would survive the carriage ride to London.

Galen had seen livelier figures in a wax museum. The child’s cheeks were sunken in, his color was paler than the sheets he was lying upon, and his wrists were barely wider around than Lord Woodbridge’s cane. His hair might have been the gold of Margot’s, but it was so damp, dirty, and matted to his head that the viscount could not tell. Ansel’s mouth hung open, drooling on a stained nightshirt. Galen had to lean over the bed to make sure the boy’s chest was moving, thinking that if he were forced to inhale the noxious odors of this sickroom, he’d stop breathing, too. The youngster did not seem to be in pain, but that was the only positive thing Galen could discern in his condition.

Damn it, he’d seen death: soldiers in battle, old people at Three Woods, pitiful wretches in the streets of London, even his own beloved mother. But not a child. Children were supposed to run and laugh and play in the sunshine, not die unloved in some foul cubby, watched by a ham-fisted hireling. No one should die like that.

Ansel was certainly going to, though, unless Galen did something, and soon. A quick look around showed him two bottles on the nightstand, no lemonade, no bowl of broth, no barley water, no pastilles, no tea. He’d never seen a sickroom without tea. Then again, he’d never seen a sickroom presided over by a retired pugilist, either. The flattened ear and broken nose proclaimed Renshaw’s profession; the fact that he was working for the nipcheese Manfred proved he hadn’t been much of a success at it. He was big enough to wrestle an elephant, though, so one small boy would be no match for him. His hands were larger than Ansel’s head, and no cleaner than his master’s.

That master did not deign to go up to the attic nursery with Galen, sending the surly butler instead with instructions for Renshaw to get the boy ready for the journey first, then himself.

“I’d best be givin’ ’im ’is potion early in that case, I s’pose,” the hulking servant said. “Wouldn’t want no trouble in the coach.”

Galen watched Renshaw pour a thick, foul-smelling yellowish liquid onto a spoon. He didn’t mix it with water or lemonade to hide the taste, and he did not lift the boy to a sitting position. He just poured the dose down Ansel’s throat, causing the boy to gag and thrash.