Nothing But Scandal. Allegra GrayЧитать онлайн книгу.
found a bevy of pleasant suitors, and their whole family would be out of this mess. Or perhaps not. As the eldest, Elizabeth had sheltered her sister for most of their lives. She’d always been the responsible one, the one to deflect their parents’ displeasure over childhood foibles, and the one to try desperately to atone for not having been born a boy. Was it any wonder they’d turned out so differently?
Yet Elizabeth loved her sister far too much to remain jealous. Gently she pried her sister’s hand from her hair. “You’ll ruin your lovely curls.”
Charity shrugged. “I don’t know why I let Emma bother with them today anyway. E., how can you stand it? He’s just too awful. Income or no, I can’t fathom why Mother and Uncle wish you to marry him. I, for one, am glad you slapped him.”
Elizabeth cringed, embarrassed when she recalled all Charity must have overheard. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“You’re wrong. He deserved that and more. You just can’t marry him.”
“I know.”
Charity glanced around, seeming to notice for the first time that Elizabeth was packing. “I take it you’re leaving.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“As well you should. But where will you go?”
For that, at least, she had an answer. “I’ll visit Beatrice. She’ll take me in until I can figure something out.”
Lady Beatrice Pullington had made her bow to Society the same year as Elizabeth, and they’d been fast friends ever since. Bea had married almost immediately, for her family had made prior arrangements with Lord Pullington, an older member of the peerage. That gentleman had survived only six months of his marriage before his failing heart gave up entirely, leaving Bea a wealthy young widow.
For the past two years, Bea had kept her own house in town—a privilege afforded her by her widowed status. She was certainly pretty, and wealthy, enough to attract another husband, but she had no desire to relinquish the independence she felt she’d earned during her brief but stifling marriage.
Elizabeth knew she could find a temporary haven there. She had too much pride to prevail upon Bea’s generosity forever, but she could at least hide there while she formulated a new plan. Bea knew how to be discreet.
Charity nodded, her eyes wide. “Shall I compose a message to her while you pack?”
“No. It would have to be delivered, and it’s better if fewer people know my whereabouts. I can trust Bea not to leave me standing on her doorstep, unexpected though I may be. And I know I can trust you not to speak of it to anyone.”
“Of course. See, you can do this on your own. You didn’t need Beaufort to ruin you at all.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Whatever was I thinking?” Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead. The fight with Harold had one benefit: it had made her temporarily forget her humiliating and short-lived foray into wickedness.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Perhaps you just wanted a bit of fun before consigning yourself to a life of drudgery. The duke is rather, um, red-blooded, isn’t he?”
“Charity!” Elizabeth giggled in spite of herself.
Her sister grinned back. “When will you leave?”
“This evening, after Mother has gone out or retired for the night.”
“Perfect. I’ll simply say you sneaked out while I was sleeping. And I shall act hurt, as though I’m disappointed you didn’t confide in me.” Mischief lit Charity’s eyes as she warmed to the falsehood.
“Thank you.” Her sister’s love for drama had gotten them into more than one awkward scrape, but Elizabeth was grateful for it now. She gave Charity a quick hug, then snapped her valise shut. There was no point in packing more, since she had no idea what her next step in life would be. If she needed additional items later, she could always have Charity sneak them to her.
The two sisters moved aimlessly about the house for the next several hours, pretending all was normal whenever the servants were near, and making plans in whispered exchanges when they weren’t.
The darkness of night now lurked at the windows, but neither girl showed any inclination toward sleep. Charity was staring out Elizabeth’s window, unconsciously gripping the curtains until her knuckles turned white. Elizabeth, oddly calm, sat near her dressing table.
“I heard Mother say she was attending a gathering at the Jameson residence this evening,” Charity said. “As soon as she goes, you can be on your way. There. That new man is preparing the coach.”
Elizabeth nodded. Their old driver, Fuston, had disappeared shortly after her father’s death. He’d been driving the night of the accident. Presumably he’d been too guilt-stricken to remain in the Medfords’ employ, though from what Elizabeth understood, there was little he could have done.
“There. Mother’s climbing in. He just closed the door.”
Elizabeth stood.
“They’re gone. The coach just turned the corner. You can leave now and not be seen. I’ll find a hired hack and tell them to pull around back, if you want. That way no one else will see you leave either.”
Elizabeth looked at the golden-haired little sister she loved with all her heart. “Charity, are you absolutely sure you’ll be all right after I go?”
Her sister grinned. “Of course. Oh, I know they won’t be happy with me, but I can stand it, E. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”
Elizabeth gave her a quick hug, then quickly composed herself. “I’ll miss you more than anything. Go ahead and hire a carriage. I’ll finish here and be ready by the time it arrives.”
She gathered a few last things as Charity left the room. She debated leaving a note, then decided against it. Better to simply let them wonder.
Her mother would be furious, especially when Harold cried off, but Elizabeth was long past the point of caring. She was strong enough to make it on her own, and Charity was wily enough to withstand their mother’s interrogations. That was all that mattered.
Elizabeth took one last glance at the lovely green-and-gold bedroom she’d known for years, then shut the door on that former life.
The Derringworth stables, located just outside London, catered only to discerning customers—mostly the nobility. The firm raised everything from racehorses to ladies’ mounts, with only one stipulation: any horse the Derringworths signed off on was of highest quality. The operation represented the epitome of what Harold Wetherby aspired to be. Which was exactly why he was on his way there to purchase a new mount, preferably one that would draw attention to him.
He even had an appointment. The morning held considerable promise.
Harold left his unimpressive rig—another item that would have to be upgraded, now that he was marrying nobility—out of sight when he neared the stables.
He tugged down his straining waistcoat, then entered the posh facility. It smelled of leather and fresh hay—so unlike the manure and sweat of the farmers’ stables where he’d grown up.
A young man sat in a small office to the left of the entrance. He stood as Harold entered.
Harold thrust out his chest. “Harold Wetherby,” he announced. “Here to see about that stallion I’ve heard is for sale.”
“Mr. Wetherby,” the young man said. “Yes, I see your appointment in our book. Tim Kemble here, Mr. Derringworth’s assistant manager. So, it’s the stallion you’re interested in?”
An assistant. His appointment hadn’t merited the owner. Harold cleared his throat, irritated. “Yes, the stallion, of course.”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me, we’ll have a look at him.”
They