A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal by Kathleen Kimmel Page A

illegal.”
    â€œBut people would
know
,” Weathersby pressed. “Wouldn’t that be worth something? To honor your sister’s memory?”
    Colin glared at him. “My sister’s dead,” he said. “And memory has less substance than the hallucinations of an opium fiend. If I find Edward Foyle, I’m not going to make him confess. I’m going to make him pay.”
    â€œI’ll drink to that,” Harken said. Weathersby sat back in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. Gibson just shrugged.
    â€œBets, gentlemen,” he said, and the subject was closed. They moved on to other topics, but Colin didn’t respond except for the occasional grunt or bet. Tomorrow, he was going to find a way to reach Edward Foyle.
    And when he found him, he was going to kill him.
    *   *   *
    Elinor had never once suffered from insomnia, a pleasant contrast to the men in her family. She was, however, a light sleeper, and used to waking at the tread of her brother’s feet in the halls, or the desultory thump of a book cast aside for failing to lull him to sleep. When she woke that night, she thought at first that she was at Birch Hall, and Martin was having another of his restless nights. But, no. She was not at Birch Hall; for that matter, neither was Martin.
    She lay still a moment, listening. The thump came again. Her room was at the back of the town house, and she had learned on her first day that when the vent at the floor was left open, she could hear the servants coming and going at the back. But what servant would be up at this hour?
    She rose, taking a moment to light a candle and throw a shawl around her shoulders. She supposed she ought to wake a servant, but she had grown increasingly tired of relying on others for her every need and whim. She had spent enough of her life as an invalid; she did not enjoy the fact that wealth demanded a continuation of the same habits.
    She made her way lightly to the stairs and crept halfwaydown, lifting the candle high to peer into the dark hallway at the bottom.
    â€œColin?”
    The familiar name slipped out unbidden in her surprise. The man in question slumped against the wall, one foot awkwardly uplifted and his body hunched over in an attempt to extract his foot from his boot. He straightened up with a snap and a new thump when he saw her.
    â€œLady Elinor,” he declared in a whisper as loud as a normal voice. “I was trying not to wake anyone.”
    â€œI apologize for frustrating your attempts,” she said.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here?” he asked, squinting. He was distressingly drunk, she realized. She should fetch a footman to help him to his bed—but the servants were quartered in the basement, and she did not feel she should leave Lord Farleigh alone in this state.
    â€œI heard a noise,” Elinor said in answer to his question. “I came to investigate.”
    â€œI might’ve been a burglar. Or a murderer.”
    â€œWhat good fortune that you are neither,” Elinor said. “Good night, Lord Farleigh.”
    â€œHrm,” he said, apparently an attempt at agreement. He straightened up with limited success, bracing himself against the wall. His clothes were disheveled, and though he kept his wheat-colored hair unfashionably short, it stuck up at odd angles around the crown of his head. Something dark was smeared below his left ear. There was something delightful about seeing the precisely manicured Marquess of Farleigh in such a rumpled state, but her brief delight was replaced with the worrying realization that he was not going to get to his room on his own.
    She’d have to fetch a footman after all.
    She swept down the stairs, and he startled, nearly pitching over. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
    She stepped toward him. The way downstairs to the servants’ quarters was past him, and his loose-limbed pose managed to take up an impressive