Page 25 of The Wrong Rake
And that was Harry’s cue to hand this matter off to Simon, thank the Lord. “Ah. Mrs. Carlyle, I’m afraid that is what brings me here.This,” and he gestured at Simon, who had come to stand beside him, “is Mr. Simon Beaumont.”
Harry braced himself. As expected, Mrs. Carlyle erupted in a flurry of questions, her hand flying to her mouth in shock that Harry thought might be only a cover for heartfelt delight—for clearly, nothing so odd and scandalous had happened in this lady’s orbit for quite some time.
Adam looked about him like a hunted animal, and Harry dropped back and positioned himself right at his shoulder lest he try to bolt. And from that vantage, he watched in awe as Simon bowed, explained his identity, coaxed Mrs. Carlyle to sit down again, and insinuated himself onto the sofa beside her, soothing and apologizing and winning her over within moments.
“I am as shocked as you, madam,” Simon opined. “Youthful high spirits can excuse much, but really, some things are beyond the pale. He has always been a trifle unsteady,” he murmured, leaning in close, Mrs. Carlyle matching him. Adam made an explosive noise at Harry’s side, and said, “No, really—”
“You ought to hold your tongue,” Mrs. Carlyle said sharply, glancing up at him with fire in her eyes. “Really, indeed! I have three sons of my own,” she added, turning back to Simon as Adam subsided, his shoulders slumping. “I understand these matters.”
Simon agreed, though he hinted that the young Carlyles could never have behaved so shockingly, and Mrs. Carlyle smiled, and told Simon that he at least must be a credit to his own mother.
Harry thought of Perdition and had to smother a laugh.
Simon brought the conversation around to Amelia at last, explaining to Mrs. Carlyle—quite fictitiously, as far as Harry knew—that Adam had set his sights on another lady, and had panicked, fearing that his attentions to Miss Standish might have ruined his plans.
“Oh?” Mrs. Carlyle asked, clearly bursting at the seams to know more. “Is this other lady still in Bath? A…young lady of fortune, perhaps?”
Simon leaned back, smiling widely, and winked.
Harry stared at him in awe. He had not even had to call Adam a fortune-hunter himself; he had brought Mrs. Carlyle to assume it for herself. And he had neatly dodged her question, leaving the matter of the other young lady’s identity utterly mysterious—since she was, of course, imaginary.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Carlyle said, most gratified. “And there was of course no wrongdoing on Miss Standish’s part, it sounds to me! Not that I had thought there could have been,” she added quickly, with a look at Harry. “Of course not. She’s the sweetest girl. So pretty-mannered, too.”
Simon shot a glance of his own at Harry, a speaking one. Good Lord, did he have more lines in this farce? No one had given him a copy of the play! Where was bloody Shakespeare when a man damn well needed him? “Ah,” he stammered. “My sister was quite distraught. Particularly as, ah, Mr. Adam Beaumont had attempted a certain amount of forwardness with her that confused and frightened her. She is so very innocent.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Carlyle’s eyes widened. “Indeed! How shocking! Mr. Beaumont, really. This is dreadful. Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Caught between Simon’s glare and Harry’s looming six-feet-some of muscle and anger, Adam mumbled, sounding as if he’d rather be dead, “Nothing at all, madam. I was—it was—I am most heartily ashamed.”
“As you should be!”
Adam simply bit his lip and remained silent—wisely, in Harry’s opinion.
“I do depend upon your discretion, my dear madam,” Simon said. “Naturally, I hope you will inform a few of your confidantes that Miss Standish is entirely blameless. But you know,” he went on, dropping his voice, “our cousin the earl is a very high stickler.” Mrs. Carlyle’s gasp echoed like a rifle shot, and Harry smiled. Of course. Of course the earl had to make his appearance. God, Simon. Harry’s heart swelled with affection and pride and something uncomfortably like an even warmer emotion. Wellington himself would have been impressed, and there was a man who knew something about both difficult campaignsandabout society ladies. “Those not of the Ton don’t concern him, but if a lady as fashionable as you are were to say anything about the Beaumonts, he would be forced to take notice. And that would make my life very uncomfortable when he wrote to my mother, I must admit!”
Mrs. Carlyle blushed, tittered, and assured Simon of her absolute discretion. “Like the grave, Mr. Beaumont! I promise you, not a word of this will reach,” and she lowered her own voice to the same intimate pitch, “your noble cousin.”
Simon took that as his cue to make their excuses, rising from the sofa and thanking Mrs. Carlyle for her kindness.
She said all the proper things, along with a few more sharp words for Adam and a reiteration of her complete silence except where absolutely necessary, and then asked Harry to tell his mother and sister to expect a call from her that afternoon.
And at last they were allowed to withdraw in fairly good order, only rather depleted of ammunition and harried about the flanks.
Harry’s first breath as the front door of the house shut behind them went all the way down to the bottom of his lungs, the first to do so since they’d stepped inside.
Amelia’s reputation would be saved, and her position in society, which mattered little to Harry but meant everything to her, restored; Harry’s mother wouldn’t need to weep at home and avoid assemblies anymore. And without Simon, Harry would never have managed it. In fact, he’d done his best to bungle it, and Simon had generously, kindly, wonderfully forgiven him for it and saved his bacon all the same.
He opened his mouth to say something to Simon—probably something unwise, considering they were on a public street and Adam stood right beside them.
But Simon beat him to it, leaving Harry all but vibrating with the need to pull him into his arms and thank him with all the passion he had burning in him.
“Adam,” Simon said crisply. “You will return to the inn at once, collect your valise, and find yourself a stage to London. I’m not sharing the chaise with you again.” He reached into his pocket and took out his purse, from which he extracted a small pile of guineas, perhaps five. “This will pay your fare and then some. And that’s all you can expect from me for the foreseeable future.” Adam began to protest, his face going red, a horrid contrast with the lingering purple and yellow bruises around his eye. “No, not a bloody word. I’ll write to mother this very day and urge her to write to the redoubtable Mrs. Carlyle if you say one, single, bloody word to me, Adam!”
Adam’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, and finally snapped shut. His fist clenched around the guineas. And then he spun on his heel and stomped off, hat askew.
Harry turned to Simon, who stood as perfectly elegant and composed as if he’d just spent an hour with his valet. “You,” he breathed, “are utterly magnificent in every way.”
“Oh,” Simon said softly, his eyes going impossibly wide. “It makes me think—when you speak to me like—it was nothing at all,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing the most delightful shade of rose. It made Harry want to lick him, to see if he tasted as sweet and hot as he looked. In the summer sunshine, his hair shone blue-black and his eyes glittered like jet. Good Lord, he was so bloody lovely. And wait a moment, but was Simon as flustered as Harry himself? It seemed unlikely, for Simon was so perfect and so far above Harry’s touch, in many different ways.
