Saved by Scandal (18 page)

The stage manager had to push Margot out in front of the curtains when her turn to sing came, and her accompanist had to start the introduction to the aria twice. Margot had to keep telling herself that this was the last night, the last time she had to do this. Before, she’d told herself she could do it for Ansel; tonight she was doing it for Galen, to make him proud of the woman he’d married. So she did it.

Midway through the aria, she glanced at the viscount’s box to see if her sister-in-law was even bothering to listen. The box was nearly empty except for Skippy and another gentleman in dark evening clothes; the little vixen was most likely promenading in the halls with more unsuitable suitors.

Margot completed her second selection, a German anthem in honor of the visiting allies. Next she sang a medley of sprightly country tunes, encouraging the pit-sitters to sing the choruses with her to drown out the loud scene-changing behind her. At last she was ready for her last song, her very last public performance, for Margot vowed to become a milkmaid if her marriage failed, rather than face this terrifying ordeal again.

Since everyone expected it, Margot turned to direct her final love song toward the viscount’s box—and Galen was there, standing by the rail, ready to hand her a red rose. She flew toward the edge of the stage, nearer the box, all but tripping on the lights when she saw another figure next to him, a much smaller figure leaning over the railing with a white rose in his hand. Only Galen’s grip on the back of the boy’s coat kept him from tumbling onto the stage.

“
Mon ange!
”
Margot cried out. “My angel.”

Two doxies in the front row started weeping at the tender scene, unaware Margot was calling to Ansel by her pet name for him, not to her husband. But Galen was an angel too, tonight, Margot’s hero, her own knight in dark blue superfine, so she sang “Sweet, O My Sir Stoutheart,” about a knight and his fair maiden. She sang as if her heart would burst with joy if she did not let some of the love within her tumble forth.

The applause was thunderous when she finished, demanding an encore, begging her not to retire, but Margot heard none of it, only Galen’s “
Brava
,
my darling.”

Chapter Nineteen

Whoever said time heals all wounds forgot to mention the scars.

Margot rushed to her dressing room as soon as she finished her curtsey to the Prince and hurriedly scrubbed at her stage makeup. Then she almost floated to the rear door of the theater, clutching her two roses, shouting farewells to the friends she’d made. Only one lamppost illuminated the back exit, but it cast enough light for Margot to spot Galen, standing by the carriage, just as she knew he’d be, Ansel at his side. She ran to hug and kiss her brother until he protested, at which she hugged and kissed Galen, who did not. Then she remembered the others who might be watching, all the footmen, Floria, Galen’s sister. Dear heavens, where was his sister?

When he saw her glance toward the coach, Galen said he’d sent the others home in the town carriage and hired vehicles. “I wanted you to myself. And Ansel, of course.”

So she hugged him again, then Ansel again, and then she started weeping. Galen wrapped her in his arms, even though his new silk waistcoat would be quite ruined by her tears. Looking over her head, he told Ansel, who was looking worried, “Isn’t that just like a woman, to cry when she’s happy. I know it makes no sense, my boy, but get used to it. Women’s reasoning is as logical as a fish in a tree.” For some equally as illogical a reason, Galen’s arms refused to release her, even when Margot stopped sniffling. He kept an arm around his wife as he guided her to the carriage, and
then he squeezed her hand the whole way home while Ansel chattered.

Between yawns, the little baron enthused about all the sights he’d seen and his new pony, the horse fair, the inns, some jugglers, and his new pony. He told her how Galen was going to teach him to swim in the pond at Three Woods, and let him paint in the attic in Grosvenor Square. He seemed so happy, so normal, so like other little boys, that Margot could not keep the tears from flowing all over again. When her handkerchief became a sodden lump, Galen quietly placed his in her hand.

At their arrival home, Fenning opened the front door and bowed to his employers. Then, with great ceremony, he bowed to Ansel. “Welcome to Woodrow House, Lord Penrose. We are pleased and honored to have you.”

Margot asked Fenning to find a vase for her roses to be placed in her bedroom, before she turned to her brother. “I know it is long past your bedtime, angel, and your room has been ready for you this age, but let me take a good look at my little brother, now that there is light enough to see you properly.” Enough candles lit the entry at Woburton House to rival daylight.

“My, how you have grown,” Margot told him, disguising her dismay at Ansel’s thinness. She’d seen beggar children in London look better nourished. “You’ll grow even faster here, I swear. Mrs. Shircastle has been baking gingerbread all week, for your coming.”

Margot knelt down to Ansel’s level so she could finally look into those eyes so much like hers, finally study the dearly memorized face she had not seen in almost a year. Ansel’s complexion held a healthy color, likely from standing in the sun at that horse fair for hours. He had a few freckles dotting his cheeks…and a huge yellow-and-purple bruise on his jaw.

“Goodness, angel, whatever happened to you? Did you fall off the coach?”

“Oh, no. Galen hit me, but—”

* * *

Now
the nipper’s memory worked fine? Galen cursed as he watched Margot drag the child up the stairs so fast Ansel’s feet barely touched the treads. When she reached the first landing, she halted long enough to demand that Fenning send for the doctor, the magistrate, the Watch, the militia.

Fenning raised his eyebrows.

Galen said, “She’ll feel better if she has a physician look at him.” Then he shouted loudly enough to be heard on the third floor, before Margot disappeared from sight, “Whatever you do, don’t let any quack give him laudanum. In fact,” he told the butler, “I don’t want a single drop of laudanum in the house. Is that clear?”

“Quite, my lord. I am certain the doctor heard you in his house on Half Moon Street.” Anticipating the need, as any good butler would, Fenning had already sent a footman to fetch the progressive young physician Lady Woodbridge had previously selected. Anticipating Galen’s need, Fenning directed him to the Crimson Parlor, where tea was being served, along with a bottle of cognac.

Only one thing stood between Galen and the parlor, the same thing that stood between him and the stairs—a very large, very ugly, fang-flashing, rib-showing canine who’d been told to guard against strange men.

“Thunderation, don’t tell me the mutt’s memory is gone missing now! I live here, you misbegotten mongrel. Shoo.”

“Grr.”

“Fenning, either fetch me a slice of something from the tea cart to bribe the fleahound, or get me my pistol. I don’t much care which you bring.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Grr.”

This was not the welcome Galen had been anticipating for a sennight. He’d been envisioning Margot showering him with kisses, before they went upstairs to renegotiate the terms of their marriage contract. He’d pictured all that glorious golden hair spread across his pillow, and that luscious,
sultry voice singing his name, not calling him a blackhearted bully. He’d saved her brother from certain death, brought him to her safe and sound and sane, and what did he get? Her back, and a belligerent bag of bones keeping him boxed in his own entry hall.

Fenning eventually returned with some slices of ham on a platter. “Sweets are not good for a dog, my lord.”

“Neither is a pistol. Here, let me feed the beast. If he does not recall me as the one who pays for his supper, you coax him out the door, then bolt it behind him. He’s too stupid to remember his way back in.”

Ruff wasn’t too stupid to follow Galen to the parlor, where good food often resided on low tables.

Denied a warm welcome, obviously denied his wife’s trust, much less her bed, Galen was in no mood to be pleasant. He stalked into the drawing room, not seeking refreshment as much as an argument. After he’d cleared the theater box of all the raff and scaff, Lord Woodbridge had sent his sister home with Skippy and the black-draped female. Galen guessed the supposed widow was a school chum of Harry’s, masquerading as a chaperone to make the appearance at the theater of a chit not out yet, sans family, more
convenable
.
Like hell it did. He’d see them all later, the viscount had declared, meaning he’d have a piece of their hides when he returned home. All three were in the parlor, enjoying a comfortable coze and Mrs. Shircastle’s cherry tarts.

They would not be enjoying his hospitality for long.

“You, sir,” he began, poking his finger at Skippy’s puce-and-purple waistcoat, “were supposed to guard my wife. You were supposed to stay in the background, shielding her from gossip. What did you do? You dragged my sister into an indiscretion that could cost her reputation. I have a good mind to call you out over this, you chawbacon.”

“Well, you can’t challenge a man of the cloth.” Skippy was praying—a rare occurrence indeed—that his statement was true. “Asides, you’ve never been able to break the brat
to bridle yourself.” When the brat kicked him, Skippy amended, “I mean, Harry, ah, Lady Harriet.”

“You mean my sap-skulled sister. And I dashed well can challenge you to meet me at Gentleman Jackson’s in the morning to continue this discussion of a gentleman’s responsibilities.”

“Deuce take it, can’t we skip the fisticuffs? Last time we had that kind of discussion I ended up with my daylights darkened. The bishop wasn’t happy, said I was a bad example.”

“Well, you are.”

Galen turned toward the women, but before he could say anything, the still-veiled widow stood to leave. “This is a family matter,
non
?
Pardonnez-moi
.
I excuse myself,
s’il vous plait
.”

Galen bowed slightly and faced his sister, who was feeding a cherry tart to the mongrel, pretending to be rapt in the chore of breaking off tiny pieces. Rufus was half across her knees, pretending to be a fluffy lapdog.

“I do not know what you were thinking of, by coming to London on your own, or what you hoped to accomplish by making your name a byword in polite circles, but I won’t have it in my house.”

Harriet raised her chin. “It’s Papa’s house.”

“And when he is not here, I am master. Or were you thinking to wrap me around your little finger the way you do His Grace? Well, you won’t, by George, not even if you turn into a watering pot, which usually turns the trick with our father.”

The tears getting ready to fall from Harriet’s eyes dried up on the instant. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing except show the world what a hoyden you are! I know Papa intended to send you to Aunt Matty in Bath, and that’s where you are going, tomorrow morning.”

“No, I am staying for the party. Papa is coming, and I can go home with him.”

“That party is too far off. By then you could ruin your
chances of making a respectable match, and I could be left with you on my hands for the rest of my life! No, thank you, Harry. Besides, you have not been presented, so you cannot attend an adult entertainment.”

“Pooh, what do I care about the silly old rules? Those are for plain girls of undistinguished backgrounds and no dowry to speak of. ‘Prettily behaved’ is the best that can be said for those unfortunate females, so they have to toe the mark if they hope to be accepted.”

“What, you think your forty thousand pounds will make up for a blackened name? It will not.”

By now, Skippy was trying to edge his way out of the room, but Madame Millefleur was blocking the door, unabashedly eavesdropping. The chit had forty thousand pounds? Floria had only twenty, if she could wrest it away from Woodbridge.

Galen helped himself to the last cherry tart. “You are leaving tomorrow, and that’s that.”

“No, I won’t!” Harriet stamped her foot, then she came and stamped on his toes. When he jumped, the pastry flew out of Galen’s hand, right into the dog’s always-open mouth.

Galen raised one eyebrow. “After that charming example of your maturity and manners, I rest my case. You are not ready for London.”

“I am, too! And I am staying!”

The viscount had to settle for a slice of seed cake. “You are leaving if I have to carry you out over my shoulder. And don’t bother holding your breath until you turn purple, brat. I’ve seen you do it too often.”

“You are mean and hateful and…and stiff-rumped,” Harriet shouted. Then she started to reach for a knick-knack to toss at Galen. Unfortunately, she did not see the dog in her way, wolfing down the last tart, until it was too late. Harriet tripped, fell, and hit her head on the corner of the low table. Her screaming increased in volume, more so when her fingers touched her temple and came away bloody.

Galen grabbed for a napkin and was on the floor in an instant, Skippy on Harriet’s other side. “It’s just a scratch, Harry. Tell her, Skippy.” But the reverend was turning green at sight of the blood, so Galen had to push his friend’s head down between his knees. Meanwhile, Harriet kept shrieking.

“Dash it, woman, don’t you have a vinaigrette or something?” Galen shouted to the widow, who hadn’t moved from the door.