Scandalous (34 page)

“Where is your son?” he asked finally. It was something Priscilla had been wondering, also. She would have thought that Bryan would come down to see her, yet he had never come into the drawing room. Had he heard them talking? Hope began to rise in her. Perhaps he had heard them and had realized what was going on. He might have gone to get the authorities— No, not Bryan. He would more likely have decided to hide until they came out, then jump Rutherford himself. At any moment, he might come out of nowhere and—

Her hopes were dashed by Ranleigh, who said, “He went out riding this morning. I am afraid I don't know where he is.”

Rutherford nodded, obviously relieved at the news. The Duke opened the door to his library and walked in. It was a large, elegant room, not the jumbled study that her father's library was, but a well-proportioned chamber lined with gilt-lettered leatherbound books. One wall was all books from floor to ceiling, with a tall ladder on rollers that moved along a track. The wall adjacent to it faced the front of the house, its long casement windows providing a view of the rolling green lawn that stretched out before it.

Ranleigh walked over to his desk, with Rutherford and Priscilla close behind him, and unlocked the center drawer. “Let's see.” He pulled out a small flat metal box and opened it. “Here are some bills.” He started to count them out, then paused, glancing over at the windows. “Trifle stuffy in here, isn't it?”

He turned and started toward the windows.

“What the devil are you doing?” Rutherford snarled. “I hope you don't think you can escape that easily.”

“Of course not.” Ranleigh turned back, looking affronted. “Do you think I would try to escape, leaving Miss Hamilton in your hands? It is warm. I thought I would open a window.”

“Well, don't. Come back here.”

Ranleigh shrugged and started back toward the desk, but Priscilla turned to Rutherford, saying, “Please, let him open one. I am feeling quite faint.” She did not know why Ranleigh wanted to open a window, but because of its very oddness, she felt it must be part of some plan he was cooking up.

Rutherford frowned, looking undecided.

“For pity's sake, Sebastian,” Ranleigh snapped. “You can come with me, if it bothers you. I give you my word of honor that I will not try to escape.”

“Oh, all right. But I do wish you would get on with it. I need to leave.”

Rutherford accompanied Ranleigh to the window, dragging Priscilla along with him, and he watched suspiciously as Ranleigh cranked out the window.

“There, that's better,” the duke said, breathing in the cool air. “Are you all right, Miss Hamilton?”

“Oh, yes, I feel much better,” Priscilla answered, taking a deep gulp of air, too. Ranleigh smiled at her, and there was a twinkle in his eye that made her wonder more than ever if he was planning to use the open window somehow.

Ranleigh returned to the desk, and Rutherford and Priscilla turned to follow him. As she did so, Priscilla caught a glimpse of the large bush to the left of the window. It trembled suddenly, and it wasn't until after
she had turned and taken a step away that she realized that a few branches of the bush had moved and that there had been a hand, a human hand, on one of them. She nearly stopped, but she caught herself, turning it into a stumble.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I am afraid I felt a little dizzy for a moment.”

Her mind was racing. There was someone out there, waiting for a chance to jump in and wrestle the gun away from Rutherford. It might be a servant who had overheard the conversation, but her heart told her it was Bryan. No doubt his father had been lying when he said he was out riding. He had known Bryan was in the house and would be maneuvering into position to take care of Rutherford.

“Be careful,” Rutherford returned irritably. “You will make my finger twitch on the trigger.”

“Yes. I know. I'm sorry.”

Ranleigh began to count out the money in his cash box. Then he handed it to Rutherford. Rutherford grabbed it out of his hand, saying, “But that's not nearly enough! I cannot even get to America on this!”

“I'm sorry. I am not in the habit of keeping large sums of money around the house. I would have to go to the bank to withdraw a larger amount.”

“Damn it, Damon, are you playing with me?”

“No! I swear it. It's the truth. Why would I keep enough money here for a man to go to the States and set up a new life? It would be foolhardy of me.”

“Open the safe. There is bound to be some in there.”

Ranleigh shrugged. “If you wish. But it's mostly jewelry and some stock and bonds, debentures.”

“Just open it.”

“All right.” He went around the desk and over to the small safe in the wall.

Rutherford started to follow, but Priscilla sagged against the desk. She didn't want Rutherford going very far from the window, nor did she want him turning and perhaps catching a glimpse of Bryan climbing in. She grabbed Rutherford's arm, saying in a dying voice, “Please, I feel quite ill. This is too—too much excitement.”

Rutherford let out a curse, struggling to hold her up as Priscilla let the full weight of her body sag against him. “Bloody hell, woman!” he began, bringing the arm that held the gun up to catch her under the shoulder.

At that instant, there was an earsplitting yell from behind them, and before Rutherford could even turn, a heavy weight thudded into him from the rear. He staggered forward, carrying Priscilla with him, and they crashed into the desk. Priscilla, as soon as she heard the noise, grabbed for Rutherford's gun hand with both her own hands, and she hung on even when they fell against the desk. Her breath was knocked out of her, but she clung to Rutherford's arm like a limpet.

She could see nothing but darkness as the three of them struggled. There were curses and grunts as the men grappled atop her, driving the last of the air from her lungs. The gun went off with a loud bang, and something crashed across the room. Sparks danced before Priscilla's eyes, and she was certain that she was about to faint when suddenly there was a loud crash much closer by, as a stick slammed into the desk, not far above her hands—and right across Rutherford's arm.

Rutherford let loose an inhuman yowl, and suddenly
the two bodies were off her. Priscilla looked up to see Bryan lifting Rutherford from the floor and throwing him against the bookcase.

“Careful, Bryan. I may have broken the man's arm,” the Duke said calmly behind her head.

He reached down and slipped an arm under Priscilla, lifting her up into a sitting position on the desk. Priscilla looked up at him. In the other hand he held a long stick with a clamp at the end, useful for getting down hard-to-reach books. Rutherford's gun was lying useless on the ground at his feet.

Bryan, who had just slammed his fist into Rutherford's gut, let out a growl to the effect that he really did not care about the other man's arm. He followed his words with an uppercut to Rutherford's chin. Rutherford's eyes rolled up in his head, and he slid to the floor in a heap. Bryan looked down at him, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“Don't,” his father told him calmly, bending down and picking up Rutherford's gun. “It's unsportsmanlike.”

Bryan cast him an expressive look. “You forget. I'm not English.”

“True. But you are not entirely a savage, either.”

Bryan sighed regretfully. “I suppose you're right.”

He turned away, and his eyes went to Priscilla, who was sitting on the desk, still trying to recover her breath. He was at her side in one quick stride, pulling her off the desk and into his arms, burying his face against her neck.

“God, I was scared to death. I thought he would make a mistake and the gun would go off. Or I wouldn't hit him right and he would have enough time to shoot.”

Priscilla smiled brilliantly, surprised to find tears
suddenly coursing down her face. “You did it exactly right.”

“No, it was you who made it work.” He kissed her again and again as he spoke—quick, eager kisses. “You are so damned clever, getting him to open the window. And then to grab for the gun. You are a jewel. A woman in a million.”

Priscilla giggled through her tears, returning his kisses.

“No, wait, sir, wait!” came the agitated voice of the Ranleigh Court butler.

A moment later Florian Hamilton burst into the room, brandishing the large dueling pistol that had belonged to his father. “Damn you!” he shouted. “Release my daughter.”

Right behind him were Miss Pennybaker, clutching her parasol in a death grip and looking as if she were ready to dispatch a scoundrel or two with it, and the vicar, carrying no weapon and looking anxiety-stricken.

“Release her, I said!” Florian raised the old gun and pointed it straight at Bryan.

Bryan groaned. “Not that damnable pistol again!”

“No, Florian, wait,” the vicar exclaimed. “That isn't the one who dragged Priscilla off. It was Mr. Rutherford. Where is he?” He looked over at the person in question, who was lying on the floor, clutching his arm and groaning. “Oh. My. I—I guess the situation is in hand.”

“Yes, Papa. I am fine. See?” Priscilla slid out of Bryan's embrace and went to kiss her father on the cheek. “Thank you for trying to rescue me, though. It was very sweet.”

“Well, you are my daughter,” Florian replied
reasonably, setting the dueling pistol down on the nearest table. He peered across the room at Rutherford, adjusting his spectacles. “I say, what happened to him?”

“Bryan saved me from him,” Priscilla explained.

“I see. Handy fellow with his fists, Bryan.” He came over and shook Bryan's hand. “Good work, lad. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Bryan returned. “I am glad to hear that, since I intend to marry your daughter.”

“Do you, now?” Florian looked faintly surprised, but not concerned. “Lot of that going on these days, isn't there?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Marrying. Seems to be an epidemic of it.”

“Papa and Miss Pennybaker have decided to tie the knot, also,” Priscilla explained to Bryan.

“Ah, I see.”

“Your father, too,” Florian pointed out. “Well, that's good. Priscilla's a trifle bored at home, what with the boys gone and all. And now Isabelle can do my copying, so it will work out nicely.” He nodded, satisfied.

“Wait.” Priscilla turned to Bryan. “I…I'm…you must not go about telling everyone that we are getting married. Not until…”

“Yes? Until what?”

“Until I tell you my…the secret. The scandal. I cannot in good conscience marry you unless you are aware of it.”

“All right.” He looked unconcerned. “Then tell me.”

“I—I am Elliot Pruett.”

He looked at her blankly. “Pardon?”

“I am Elliot Pruett. I mean, that is my nom de plume.”
When Bryan still said nothing, she went on, “I write books.”

“Yes. And…?” Bryan said encouragingly.

“And what?”

“The scandal. I thought you were going to tell me what the scandal was.”

“That's it. I write books. Not just books. I write adventure stories.”

“Really?” Bryan looked intrigued. He glanced over at the Duke. “Did you hear, Father?”

“Yes. It's rather unusual.”

“You wrote that book that I read,” Bryan went on in a tone of discovery. “That was good. Well, no wonder you always want to be in on the adventure. It gives you something to put in your books.”

“I had never been on any adventures until I met you.”

“You hadn't?”

“No. I think the adventure arrived with you.”

He grinned. “Well, you performed admirably your first time, then.”

“Bryan…aren't you even going to get upset?”

“No. Should I?”

“If it ever got out that I wrote adventure novels, it would be a terrible scandal, and the scandal would be far worse if I were the Duchess of Ranleigh.”

“And that is why you refused to marry me? Because of the scandal of your writing books?”

Priscilla nodded. Bryan threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. Priscilla, watching him, began to grow a little aggravated.

“Bryan! Would you stop? This is serious. Everyone else will take it seriously. They will talk. There will be
gossip. I don't know how we could possibly keep it a secret forever, not when I am married to you.”

“I'm sorry.” He tried to calm down. “But I can't be serious about this. You think I should worry because a bunch of people I don't know and couldn't care less about will gossip and be offended if they find out that my wife writes novels?”

Priscilla hesitated. “Well, yes, essentially.”

“Priscilla…when are you going to believe me? I don't give a damn about the British people, most particularly the peerage. They could talk about me every day of the week, and I wouldn't much care. I won't be here to hear them most of the time, and when I am, I still won't care. As for their talking about you, I think I can guarantee that they won't do it long.”

Priscilla looked aghast. “Bryan, you can't go around threatening everyone with all that Indian talk.”

“I shall use a different tack.” He reached out and took her hands, pulling her closer. “You silly goose. Did you honestly think I would care? That it would bother me that you wrote books?”

“It would many men.”

“I am not ‘many men.' I liked your book. And it fits in perfectly.”

“With what?”

“With our life. We will be at sea a lot, and writing will give you something to do to pass your time aboard ship. You can see all the exotic locales you want to, write stories set there….”

Priscilla's stomach quivered with eagerness. She squeezed Bryan's hands hard. “Tell me this is not a dream.”