Page 10 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
Chapter 4
“Getyour gloomy self up from my sofa and share my toast.” Penderbrook’s voice pierced the fog in Charley’s head.
When he opened his eyes, his friend waved to him from the table. The aroma of coffee wafted to him, and he sat up. Penderbrook’s small, comfortable drawing room was strewn with papers and books, and carelessly discarded clothing.
Some of the clothing was his. He’d shed his coats, and his shirt bloused over his trousers. “Am I drunk?” he asked.
“Not very. Nor was I. You were no fun last night, Everly. That funk you were in was a bore. I’m sure the lady is out of range of your concern now. Whatever scolding she was to have has already taken place. Come and eat.”
Details of the night before came to him. Miss Kingsley had been dead weight in his arms, a very vital, nubile, soul-stirring dead weight. Her guardian’s red face and bulging veins had left no doubt of her fate. Yet, he’d gone along with Perry elbowing him aside to offer her own assistance while Penderbrook pulled him away.
And from a distance, Carvelle’s glare had followed him. Hostile before, he would now be an avowed enemy.
Damn, damn, damn. As sure as Charley was, at least most of the time, a gentleman, Carvelle was not getting that girl.
He hoisted himself up and took a sip of the coffee set out for him, his fog clearing more.
There was something murky about the whole arrangement of Miss Kingsley’s life and impending marriage. His funk after they left the ball had been the result of the great matter of thinking through the facts.
He was a ponderer, not a good trait for a spy—and he had a few scars to prove it—but it would do for a diplomat. Someday, he would sit in a tropical office, an ocean breeze blowing over him from the veranda doors, a domesticated lizard staring down at him from the whitewashed wall, while he sipped a rum-laced beverage and considered some treaty or other.
Perhaps that was what Captain Kingsley was doing now. Miss Kingsley was right—he might be alive. The report of a rich father’s demise at sea could be easily arranged. In Kingsley’s case another privateer had limped into a port with the news of the Captain’s death on his sinking ship. And almost as soon as Lord Kingsley had learned of it, he’d set that great ball and the engagement in motion.
The girl had reason to be angry.
“No need to dress.” Penderbrook waved a hand over his own attire, a dark dressing gown.
Penderbrook’s all-around manservant—valet, butler, and footman—entered, carrying a covered tray. The scent of meat wafted up and drew his thoughts away from the lady.
“You’re a good man, Pender.”
“And perhaps I’ll need a loan next quarter day.” Penderbrook slid a news sheet over to him and pointed to a column of print. “How quickly they get out this drivel.”
Charley squinted at the paper. It was a scandal sheet, and the breathless text told the story of an unnamed and reluctant heiress fainting dead away at her own betrothal ball. The paper noted that the handsome young man who had caught the swooner was not her intended, but a notorious man about town with whom she had been seen entering the ballroom from the garden.
He cursed and tossed the paper aside.
A plate of food slid toward him. “Eat. You'll think more clearly.”
Charley rose and found his shoes and his coats.
“Off your feed, Everly? This girl has struck a chord within you. Are you perhaps smitten?”
He took a deep breath and finished buttoning his waistcoat.This is the want of a rod. Which I have not spared.
He had a very good memory. “They are beating her into this, Pender.”
Penderbrook dropped his fork. “Surely not?” His eyes narrowed. “Or...” His mouth firmed. “Whatever you are planning, count me in.”
Lloyd, the family’s long-time butler, opened the door of the Shaldon townhouse for Charley and wished him a good morning.
He had hoped to slip in unobtrusively, but it was just as well. “I need to send an express to Lord Shaldon,” he said. “I will be but a few minutes.”
“Certainly, sir. But perhaps—Lady Perpetua has already sent Lord Shaldon and Lord Bakeley urgent messages earlier this morning.”
Squeals, like the shrieks of a cat-fight, raced through the hall. The sound had emanated from one of the chambers at the back of the large Shaldon townhouse. He raised an eyebrow at the butler.
“Lady Perpetua is in the morning room, waiting for you.”
