Chapter 5 #3
Lord Moreland’s features relaxed by the smallest degree, though his voice remained deliberate. “So this young woman has made an impression, then?”
Aidan immediately bobbed his head in assent. “She is Venus, with the mind of a scholar.”
Lord Moreland tilted his head, clearly bemused. “And how exactly did you compromise her? I would appreciate the particulars, considering half of London will be nattering of it by breakfast.”
Aidan swallowed. “I … we … I was embracing her …” He paused, vividly recalling how Gwen had confessed the details the night before in near-identical fashion. “My hands were on her … posterior. And we were … kissing. Passionately.”
He might as well have admitted to pinching a goose in the market square. It was mortifying, like a schoolboy caught licking icing from the pantry bowl rather than the actions of a man of five and twenty, university-educated and well-traveled.
Lord Moreland groaned and dragged his large hands over his dismayed face. “That is damning,” he muttered, his voice muffled by his palms. “And out of character?”
The final word carried weight. A question, but also a challenge.
Aidan squirmed, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as he searched for the words to explain behavior so unlike his usual reserve. “I was overcome. She was radiant in the moonlight. And when I quoted Manilius, she responded in kind.”
His father’s brows lifted a fraction. “She sounds … unusual.”
Gwen was unusual. She was extraordinary.
A blazing comet against the staid sky of ton femininity.
“She is,” Aidan said softly, the corners of his lips curving into an involuntary smile.
His thoughts, as ever, trailed down paths of memory to her fascinated gaze, the feel of her pressed close in the night.
Lord Moreland leaned forward, fingers steepled. “And her father may have murdered a peer to secure an inheritance?”
Aidan groaned and dropped his head back. “I know. What have I done?”
“I am not entirely certain,” his father replied, his tone dry. “The one fact presently clear is that we have a marriage contract to negotiate. It would be best,” he added, “if you did not uncover conclusive evidence of Mr. Smythe’s guilt until after the wedding.”
Aidan’s head whipped up. “You would prefer I delay an arrest?”
“I would prefer not to deliver fresh trauma to your mother in one fell blow. She requires time to recover from Lily’s ordeal.” He waved a hand as though to banish further discussion on the point. “First the wedding. Then the arrest. Not both at once.”
Aidan considered this, then nodded. “I can refrain from investigating Mr. Smythe until after the ceremony.”
Lord Moreland inclined his head. “Good. It must be soon, of course. The scandal will already be racing through Mayfair.”
“You support my decision?”
“The lady’s circumstances do not signify,” his father said quietly. “You must act with honor. You ruined an innocent woman, and that action carries consequences. You are my son, and I shall support you through them.”
The words rang with the weight of legacy. Aidan, who had spent his life emulating his father’s measured dignity and quiet strength, felt their significance to his very bones.
“I am sorry,” he said, “to bring shame upon our family.”
“You have always been a son to be proud of,” Lord Moreland said, his voice softening. “I must believe this young woman is indeed remarkable, or you would not be in this position.”
Aidan’s expression lightened. “She is bewitching.”
His father raked a hand through the thick dark hair they shared. He was already retreating into strategy. “Perhaps, after the wedding, your mother and I shall retire to the country. If an arrest is made, we would be wise to remove ourselves from town.”
Aidan nodded. “And Gwen as well. I would not have her caught in the chaos.”
His father’s gaze sharpened. “Especially if Smythe proves to be more than he appears.”
Aidan’s expression sobered. Mr. Smythe’s warmth and charm had not been helpful. If only the man were easier to loathe.
Instead, his reckless actions might one day shatter Gwen’s heart, and he would bear the burden of helping to rebuild her spirit in the wake of a second scandal.
One that would not be so easily mended with a marriage contract and declarations of devotion.
The prospect chilled him. This next disgrace, should it occurr, would be devastating and unrelenting.
The one saving grace was the name he bore. The title of Moreland carried weight. Enough, perhaps, to shield Gwen from the worst whispers that would follow.
“Smythe indicated he would be available this afternoon to negotiate the marriage settlements,” Aidan said quietly. “I hoped you and I could attend together?”
Lord Moreland gave a single, brisk nod. “I shall cancel my appointments. It is imperative we forestall the scandal.”
Aidan rotated his shoulders, attempting to ease the tightness gathering at the base of his neck.
Less than a month had passed since his father had rearranged every engagement to ensure Lily’s swift union with Filminster.
Now, here he was again, asking the same indulgence of a man who had already borne more than his share of familial upheaval.
It weighed heavily on him. Who would have imagined that both he and Lily, devoted heirs of a distinguished line, would find themselves marrying under the shadow of public disgrace?
Nothing enraged Gwen more than witnessing the mistreatment of others. Thus she banged on the window, alerting the coachman that she wished to stop. Octavia, sitting on the bench opposite her, groaned loudly as the carriage drew to a halt.
“Please do not involve yourself!”
She glanced at her lady’s maid, who sat next to the pile of books Gwen had only just purchased. “I cannot do that.”
“London is filled with sad stories. You cannot shoulder the burdens of the world.”
“But I can do something about this one.”
The footman opened the door, lowering the steps so Gwen could disembark. She quickly climbed down, with Octavia mumbling rebukes as she followed Gwen out onto the street.
“This is a bad part of town. We shouldn’t be stopping here.”
“We have both a footman and a coachman to defend us if needed. Gird your loins and stir your stumps!”
A heavy sigh was the only answer, as Gwen strode back up the street.
A hulking halfpenny showman in a tan overcoat and a battered, old three-pointed hat was operating his mechanical exhibition of puppets, squeaking in a ludicrously high voice as the role of Punch, she supposed, who must be moving across the tiny stage hidden from view.
“Sir, do you make it a habit to mistreat small creatures?”
The showman looked up, his broad face scowling at her interruption. A mother stood with three children, two of whom stood upon a bench and had their faces pressed to the little viewing holes to watch the show within the mechanical contrivance of the traveling tinker.
Behind his dull buckled shoes, tied to a piece of string at the opening of an alleyway, a small white and brown mongrel cowered in the shadows.
“What d’ye want?” grumbled the showman.
The two children looked up from their viewing holes to see what the interruption to their show was about.
“Your dog. I saw what you did.” Gwen firmed her jaw in what she hoped was a menacing manner.
The tinker scowled again, narrowing his bloodshot eyes. “An’ what do ye think ye saw?”
“You kicked him. Hard. In the ribs. See?” Gwen pointed at the shivering mongrel, who was hunched over as if wounded. The mother of the three children gasped, bending to peer around the wooden show cabinet.
The woman rose back up with a look of outrage. “Mister, is that true?”
“Wha’ of it?” The defensive posturing of the scruffy reprobate did not unsettle Gwen at all. At least, not too much. She moved closer to glare at him, holding her breath lest she be overcome by his stench. He topped her by a few inches, but she refused to be intimidated.
“The dog is defenseless. There was no cause to kick him so.”
“The cur were annoyin’ me.”
The mother gasped again. “Come. We are leaving, boys.”
The two lads standing on the bench groaned. “Mama, we want to finish the show!”
“We shall find another amusement elsewhere. Come along.”
The older daughter followed as their mother grabbed hold of her boys’ hands and led them away. The girl looked back as they walked away, peeking at Gwen in something akin to awe.
“Cor! You be brave, miss. That man is huge!”
Gwen smiled in acknowledgment before returning her attention to the showman.
He had moved closer, towering over her in a menacing fashion. “Now, lookie here! See wha’ ye done? That be me audience. Ye done lost me money.”
A stockinged calf swept at the mongrel, which had come forward during the disturbance to sniff at Gwen’s slippers. The dog whimpered, backing up to avoid the club-like appendage. Gwen noted that the little thing was gaunt. Clearly, the brute was not feeding his animal enough.
Gwen stared down at the dog who suffered at the feet of the bully who had him tied to a dirty string, and she could not walk away.
Having confronted the man, and subsequently losing him business, Gwen knew precisely who would bear the brunt of his frustrations.
She might have made matters worse for the poor mongrel.
Octavia shifted from foot to foot by her side. “Do not you do it, Gwendolyn Smythe. Do not you do it!” she muttered just loud enough for Gwen to hear.
The showman leaned closer, his fetid breath causing Gwen to bend away in disgust. “Wha’s that?”
Gwen raised her head to stare him in the eye. “She asked how much for the pup?”
“Tarnation!” Octavia sounded peeved, probably contemplating the fact that the dog would be the cause of untold troubles once Gwen took him home.
But the mongrel, which must have had the blood of North Country Beagle coursing through its thready veins, was staring up at her with big brown eyes and floppy chestnut ears. All she could think of was how the filthy little animal needed her help.
The showman straightened up in surprise. “Me dog?”
“Aye, how much for the dog?”
He shook his head, his hair lank over his collar. “The dog’s a pest, inna ’e? No good to ye.”
“How much?” Gwen stared at him, unwavering in her resolve to remove the little pest as far from the tinker as she could take him.
He grunted, shrugging. “A shilling.”
Gwen fumbled through her reticule, feeling about her coins until her fingers measured out one the size of a shilling. She yanked it out and presented it triumphantly.
The halfpenny showman took it from her with large blunt fingers. His long, grimy fingernails made her nauseous at the sight, but she released the shilling and took the string from his opposite hand.
He shook his head in dazed amazement. “The dog a cur, ain’t ’e?”
Gwen raised herself to her full height, squaring her shoulders. “But now, sir, he is my cur.”
With that, she turned and led the dog away. Octavia groaned, catching up to her side and mumbling beneath her breath the entire length of their walk.
When they reached the carriage, Gwen leaned down to pick the dog up and place it inside, wondering if her gloves would survive the contact with so much filth.
“Faugh! He reeks something fierce.” Octavia’s exclamation barely registered as Gwen fought back the impulse to gag, almost dizzy from the pungency of such a little animal. “He is a right skunk!”
“She. She is a right skunk. And a good wash will do her wonders.” Gwen had checked when she had picked the animal up, an action that she was sure had cost her a favorite pair of gloves. Surely, such a depth of odor could not simply be washed away?
Octavia mumbled as she followed Gwen back into the interior of the carriage, quickly cranking the windows open to let in fresh air. “It better wash away, or that beast will be living in the stables.”
Gwen looked down into the big brown eyes staring at her from the shadow of the bench. “She will be fine.”
Octavia settled in next to the pile of books, shaking her head in perplexment. “I shall never understand why you are so quick to defend others, but not yourself, Gwendolyn Smythe.”
Gwen stared back at the dog, whose snout was quivering with interest, sniffing the air of the carriage. How it did not gag on its own smell was a mystery. “I do not know. It is easier when it is not me.”
“You have a fire in your belly, girl. You need to use it against your adversaries, or you shall never claim your rightful place in society.”
Sighing, Gwen leaned back into the puffy squabs to catch a breath of fresh air from the open window before the impulse to cast up her accounts could best her.
The little hound’s stench had a life and will of its own, which permeated the entire carriage with its power.
“I do not need the approval of others. I shall find my own way.”
Octavia shook her large head again, her bulbous eyes sympathetic in the dim light. “We all need connections. You must allow your new betrothed a chance to bring you happiness and status within that high society. You deserve it more than anyone I know.”
Gwen nodded, but she did not know what she was agreeing to. It was merely a signal she had heard what Octavia had to say. It still seemed an impossibility that she was to marry a man like Lord Abbott.
When she had learned this morning that Lord Abbott, his father, and their solicitor would be meeting with Papa in his study, Gwen had hurriedly made plans to depart their home for the day. She was not ready to meet Viscount Moreland after being caught with his heir and forcing a marriage.
For her cowardice, she had acquired a malodorous little dog to care for and had only postponed the inevitable meeting with Lord Abbott’s presumably disappointed parents.