Free A Proper Scandal by Charis Michaels Page B

difficult to say who has done more harm, you or the earl.”
    â€œOh, I’ll happily concede this distinction to Falcondale,” Rainsleigh said. “He may revel in it.” A footman cleared his soup, and he leaned back in his chair, smiling at the engrossed faces up and down the table. “But you make it very clear that I must make some sort of amends, my lady. I’ve no wish to embark on my new life surrounded by enemies in my own street. May I call on you in the coming days and provide a tour through the house? Perhaps you could tolerate the work if you were to see the inside.”
    The marchioness harrumphed. “Doubtless I have the strength to traverse such a vast expanse or climb such a great many stairs.”
    â€œI find that very hard to believe,” he said, eliciting chuckles from around the table. “Come now, you must be curious.”
    The tiny woman set down her spoon and raised her eyebrows. “How perceptive. Curious , am I?”
    A footman removed her soup and replaced it with a dish of vegetables. She muttered something disagreeable to him and then turned back to Rainsleigh. “Now that you’ve made mention, there is one thing about which I am exceedingly curious . . . ”
    Something about the way the sentence trailed off, about the look of determination in her keen, gray eyes, signaled the end of their discussion about his “castle” and heralded weightier topics. Her tone, certainly, could not have been more clear. He felt the stares of everyone at the table but kept his face impassive.
    â€œMy curiosity has nearly eaten me alive over the topic of your parents , Lord Rainsleigh,” the old woman began. “Your sire is dead, of course, but tell me—what of your mother? The viscountess. Lady Rainsleigh?”
    For a moment, Rainsleigh said nothing, allowing the footman to place a plate of vegetables before him. When the man was gone, he said, “My mother resides in Spain.”
    â€œSpain?” repeated the marchioness. “She will not relocate to Henrietta Place?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd you have a brother, have you not?”
    â€œI do. Mr. Beauregard Courtland. A retired naval officer and current merchant marine. He is in residence now, actually. You may have seen him in the street. He will, I can assure you, be a guest in my home when he is not at sea.”
    He had expected this, of course. Some manner of interrogation. Not necessarily here, during the meal, with a captive audience, and certainly not in front of the disdainful niece, but he had given some thought to what he might say. Direct answers. Levelness. No shame. He’d answered for his parents often enough. It was the wrong play to grow defensive. It only showed weakness and guilt, and he felt neither.
    Lady Banning obviously discerned his waning patience and strove to intercept. “I know I would relish a tour of Lord Rainsleigh’s house, if the offer extends to more distant neighbors,” she enthused. “The papers describe quite a marvel of modernity and high art. Won’t you tell us of your architect, my lord? I read you had him brought over from France?”
    He forced a smile. “Germany.” He turned back to the small woman now examining a hank of potato on her raised fork. “But I wish to satisfy Lady Frinfrock’s curiosity,” he said. “Please, my lady. What other questions have you for me? Not more offenses piled on my house, I hope.”
    â€œThe less I know about your German-built atrocity, the better.” She took a small, skeptical bite.
    He took up his glass. She stared back, chewing. Rainsleigh went on, “But surely you do not intend to tick off every relation I have, asking if they each have a bed. Come now, don’t be shy. What do you really want to know?”
    â€œVery well. What I really want to know ,” she said, inclining her knife at him in little taps, waving it like a