Saved by Scandal (3 page)

Skippy’s mouth was hanging open. Galen feared the gudgeon had swallowed the cork or something. He started to pound him on the back, but Skidmore held up one hand. “I…I…”

“You won’t change my mind, dash it, if that’s what you are trying to say. I am going to marry Miss Montclaire, as soon as possible, and I’ll need you to officiate. You do know the words of the ceremony, don’t you?”

Skippy bobbed his head frantically, joyfully. Then he grabbed for Galen’s hand and started pumping it, a huge grin lighting his face. “Change your mind? Zeus, that’s the last thing I’d try. You’ve got to be the second luckiest man on earth. Mademoiselle Margot in your arms, you sly dog, you.”

Galen could not confess that he’d never spoken two words to the woman. He simply accepted his friend’s enthusiastic congratulations. “Then you’ll get the papers? Everything has to be aboveboard, you know. I don’t want anyone
questioning the legitimacy of my marriage or my children.” If there should be a marriage, and if there should be children. But he wasn’t going to overburden poor Skippy’s brain with any doubts.

Still shaking the viscount’s hand, Skippy said he’d clear the whole thing with the bishop in the morning. There would be no problem.

Galen reclaimed his hand while he could still use it to sign the documents. “But tell me, Skippy, why am I the second luckiest man in the world? Who’s the first?”

“Why, I am! I wagered you’d win the lady’s favor as soon as you came back from your wedding trip. Two weeks of Lady Floria ought to have cured you of any foolish notions of fidelity. I’m rich, man, I’m rich!”

Chapter Three

Whoever said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread would have been mowed down by Galen’s headlong dash back to the Nichol Street rooming house. The sun was almost up by the time Skippy finished with the papers, and folks in this neighborhood would be starting off to work. They would not recognize Viscount Woodbridge either, so Galen pushed the hood of his cape back. The sun on his head felt right, felt good: If he were the poetic sort, his lordship might have taken the clear dawning as an omen, leading him from darkest despair. Galen took it as a help in avoiding the offal in the streets.

This time, he was better prepared to call on his would-be wife. He had his pistol in his right pocket, a meat pasty in paper in his left pocket, a nosegay of violets in his left hand, and his
bona fides
in his right. The special license was carefully filled in, leaving extra space for Miss Montclaire’s real name in case she was using a stage persona. False names would invalidate the marriage, and his father, or Florrie’s, would have the marriage annulled before the ink was dry.

Wrapped in the folds of the official document was a gold band studded with diamonds, brand-new, never used. Galen had been going to present it to Florrie on their wedding night, knowing how she loved jewelry. She’d deemed his mother’s plain gold band hopelessly outdated, but agreed to wear it for the ceremony, to please His Grace. The viscount supposed the ring still reposed in his father’s pocket, where it could stay. He did not think that he could offer his mother’s wedding band to an unknown entertainer. His
name and fortune and courtesy title, yes. His mother’s ring, no.

Outside Number Ten, Nichol Road, Galen juggled the flowers and the license, straightened his neckcloth, a hastily donned fresh one from Skippy’s wardrobe, and smoothed back his dark hair. Then he took a deep breath and raised the brass knocker.

Before he could give an extra tap, the dog started barking. Galen wondered if the beast had breakfasted yet, and if one meat pasty would be enough. The hunched old hag opened the door an inch or two, peering out with red-rimmed eyes. She was wearing the same shapeless black gown and black lace cap whose ends trailed down her shoulders, as if she had a bat perched on her skull. Galen shook himself and pasted a smile on his face. “I have come to call on Miss Montclaire. Would you see that she gets these”—he handed over the flowers and the folded document—“and say that Viscount Woodbridge requests a moment of her time.” With his hands free, he could reach into his waistcoat and extract a coin, which disappeared down the front of the black sack.

“I’ll say you’re persistent, if nothing else. Missy ain’t going to listen to a word you say, but I don’t mind getting rich meantime if you don’t mind wasting the ready. I’ll take her your tokens, for all the good it’ll do you.” She sniffed at the violets, obviously disdaining such a paltry offering. “You can wait in the parlor. I don’t allow no gentlemen callers above the first floor.”

The parlor was clean and tidy, with signs of wear, but with no signs of a man’s presence, no racing forms or snuffboxes, no misplaced gloves, riding crops, or pipes. Perhaps the place really was a respectable boardinghouse and not the bordello he assumed. None of the furnishings was of high quality or new, and the only picture on the wall was of a poorly executed bowl of fruit. Overall it was a pleasant room, especially with sunshine streaming through the opened curtains, highlighting the pianoforte in the corner. He went over and plinked a few keys, picturing Miss Montclaire in his own music room, singing to him alone. He smiled at the vision and sat down to wait. He could afford to be patient now, for at least his foot was in the door. One hurdle was crossed.

The second hurdle hurtled at him from the doorway, pinning him to the pianoforte bench, drooling on his fresh neckcloth. Picket fence teeth snapped just inches from his nose, daring him to make a move. Galen stopped breathing. “Good doggie,” he lied, then gingerly reached into his pocket. The gun? No, he’d try the bribe first, wishing he’d thought to lace it with sleeping powder, or arsenic.

The dog took the meat pasty from his hand, paper and all, and swallowed both. He left the hand, to Galen’s relief, then showed his gratitude by swiping at Galen’s face with his tongue. The animal collapsed across the viscount’s feet with a sigh, and began to snore. Two hurdles leaped. But would the beast get hungry again before Miss Montclaire deigned to make an appearance? Judging from the creature’s prominent rib cage, the mutt must always be on the verge of starvation. Afraid to move, Galen looked around for a dish of bonbons or comfits to hold in reserve. There was nothing. Suddenly time seemed to stretch ahead like an endless cord. He drew his pocket watch out, and the dog raised its head to snarl. Where the deuce was the woman, anyway?

*

Margot was upstairs in bed. Where else should she be at seven o’clock of a morning? Besides, she had a performance this evening and needed as much rest as possible.

“Go away, Ella. It’s much too early. Tell Rufus our walk will have to wait.”

Ella, her friend and dresser at the theater, pulled the curtains aside, letting in bright sunlight. “The dog can hold his water. I don’t know about that swell down in Mrs. McGuirk’s parlor.”

Margot pulled the covers over her head, hiding her eyes. Then she poked her head out and squinted at Ella. “What swell?”

“That nob what called last night came by again, with that.” Ella jerked her head toward a bouquet of violets on the nightstand. “And this.” She tossed a thick folded packet onto Margot’s pillow. “Deuced libertine couldn’t wait for a proper hour to make his improper offer again.” She clucked her tongue at the wicked ways of man. “Seems he sweet-talked Mrs. McGuirk into letting him sit in the parlor. Now we’ll never be rid of him until you hear the blackguard out.”

Margot’s curiosity was fully aroused, to think of some Town buck winning over her crotchety landlady. She sat up in bed, letting her night braid hang over her shoulder, as she reached for a pair of spectacles by the bedside. “I suppose I shall have to see what he wants, then.”

Ella hissed between crooked teeth. “You know dashed well what the dastard wants. It’s what all of them wants.”

But Margot had unfolded the thick papers. “It…it seems to be a special license, and a wedding ring.”

“His lordship’s up to some tomfoolery, I don’t doubt. Last night you said you didn’t even know the toff when I brung you his card.”

“I said I’d never spoken to him. I know which box is his at the theater, though. Lord Woodbridge is never rude enough to be talking during my performance, or walking about.” Margot was turning the paper over and over, holding it to the light. “It seems official, with all these seals and signatures. And those look like real diamonds around the ring.”

“Then the man must be castaway. I told you, he smelled of spirits last night. I misdoubt he ever took to his bed to sleep it off.”

“I suppose,” Margot agreed. “But I’ll have to go talk to him, at any rate, and return these.”

“Something else you ought to see.” Ella tossed a newssheet onto Margot’s bed, folded to an article entitled:
Viscount’s Wedding Woes
.
Yes, she read, it was the very same viscount whose names were inscribed next to hers on the license, the same gentleman who was sitting in the shabby parlor.

“Oh, dear,” Margot murmured, instantly feeling sorry for the poor man. She had a glimmer of his intentions now, and they would never do, of course, but he did deserve a hearing. And breakfast. A man always felt better with a full stomach. “Why don’t you bring the gentleman a tray while I get dressed? Perhaps Mrs. McGuirk made scones again today. And be sure to bring a pot of coffee. I don’t think tea will suit Lord Woodbridge this morning.”

Muttering that what her lamb knew about gentlemen could fit in her thimble, Ella clomped off down the stairs.

As Margot dabbed lukewarm water on her cheeks, she tried to picture the viscount’s face. She held only a faint impression of dark hair and broad shoulders. Well, if nothing else, she’d get to chat with a real live lordship, in Mrs. McGuirk’s parlor. Margot couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips, to think of a top-of-the-trees Corinthian taking tea with her landlady. If he thought to perpetuate any evil designs, Mrs. McGuirk and Ella would set him straight. Or Rufus would. But that special license did seem authentic….

*

The next hurdle was going to be harder, Galen decided; someone kept raising the bars. The other old woman, not the ancient one, marched into the room, bearing a tray. “Mistress be dressing. She said to feed you betimes.”

In truth, Galen could not remember when he’d eaten last. He’d bought the meat pie on the way from Skippy’s, before remembering he had a better use for it. Now the scones looked inviting, and the strong coffee smell was making his mouth water. It was a good thing that he drank his coffee black, though, for the scowl on the servant’s face would have curdled the cream. Her arms crossed across a boney chest, she was watching him as if he were going to steal the silverware.

Galen turned on his most ingratiating smile. “Thank you, Miss, ah…?”

“That’s Mrs. Humber,” she said, her raised chin daring him to challenge the existence of any Mr. Humber, the poor
sod. “But folks just call me Ella. I’m a costume seamstress at the theater. And I am
mademoiselle’s
dresser here.”

And watchdog. Galen would wager Ella Humber was more vigilant than the four-legged one, the one who was drooling on his fawn-colored breeches, begging for a scone. The dog could be bribed with food, the landlady with gold. He wondered what it would take to win Ella Humber’s approval, and decided to try the truth. “I don’t mean her any dishonor, you know.”

“Humph. Fine nob like you can’t mean anything else. You’re up to some rig or row, I swear.” She settled in the chair near the window with her sewing basket, obviously intending to stay for the duration.

Galen buttered another scone for the dog. He needed all the allies he could get. He sipped at his coffee and said, “But what if there is no trickery, only a grand opportunity for Miss Montclaire?”

Ella jabbed her needle through the hem she was sewing. “Missy’s doing fine on her own.”

“Is she?” The viscount let his gaze roam the tiny parlor, from the threadbare carpets to the faded curtains, the earthenware coffee cup that did not match its saucer. His eyes fixed on the still life with blotchy fruit, and he grimaced. Either the fruit was all rotten, or the artist hadn’t bothered cleaning his brushes. Even the servants’ quarters at Woburton House had more appealing artwork. “I can offer her a better life.”

“That’s what they all promise. A cozy love nest, servants, a carriage of her own. Two weeks or two months later, a girl finds herself out on the street, with no choice but to find another so-called protector.”

That sounded to Galen like the bitter voice of experience. “Yes, unfortunately it often happens that way. I cannot excuse the conduct of some men. But if the woman was married, no one could toss her out. She’d be cared for and respected and protected. Even if the marriage was not a success, she’d have security. Solicitors can have such things
written into contracts, with settlements put aside for the future.”

Ella glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t hold with any contracts and lawyers. Marriage, is it, that you’re offering? Humph. I’d need to hear it from the bishop himself, before I’d believe a silver-tongued devil like you.”

Galen drank his coffee and smiled. At least she hadn’t asked to hear it from God’s own lips. The bishop he could manage.

Chapter Four

Whoever said look before you leap could not have meant staring through the keyhole, but that’s just what Margot did before entering Mrs. McGuirk’s guest parlor. She could get a good peek at his lordship, sitting as he was directly opposite the door, at the pianoforte bench. His shoulders were even broader than she’d recalled, and his hair darker. He needed a shave, too, giving his complexion a somber cast. With the cape thrown over his back he looked like a pirate, or a bird of prey. But his fingers were idly rubbing Ruff’s ears, and he was smiling at Ella. No man ever smiled at Ella, but this one did. What a smile it was, too, all flashing white teeth and crinkled eyes and a dimple. No wonder the broadsides called him Galahad.