Page 12 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 12

Warfare

W hispers filled every corner of the drawing room at Lady Morton's estate. Ladies clustered in intimate groups, their heads bent together like flowers full of poison, while bits of conversation floated across the space in fragments that seemed intentional.

"…quite mad, they say…"

"…desperate enough to accept such a match…"

"…screams in the night…"

Marguerite's fingers tightened around her teacup, the delicate bone china growing warm against her skin as the whispers circled the room. She maintained her position on the settee, her spine straight enough to please her old governess, while her mother cast anxious glances at their surrounding company.

"Perhaps we might call elsewhere," the Marchioness murmured, her fingers worrying at her handkerchief. "Lady Pembroke mentioned—"

"The same Lady Pembroke who spent yesterday afternoon spreading tales about Lord Guildford's supposed fits of madness?" Marguerite set her cup in its saucer without a sound. "No, Mama. I won't give them the satisfaction of retreat."

"Of course, one understands why she accepted him," said Miss Edgecombe just loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone present. "With her father's…difficulties…she could hardly afford to be particular."

The teacup rattled against its saucer as Marguerite's hands trembled. She steadied them through force of will, noting pink spots blooming high on her mother's face, darkening steadily.

"My dear Lady Ash." Lady Morton materialized before them. The metal of a large brooch glinted harshly from her throat, making Marguerite's eyes water. "We've heard the most distressing rumors about Lord Guildford. Something about an incident in Spain?"

"I wasn't aware you took such interest in military matters." Marguerite's voice emerged cooler than the autumn air beyond the windows.

"Oh, one hears things." Lady Morton settled onto the settee opposite them, "Lord Edgecombe has been most informative about your betrothed's experiences abroad."

"Has he indeed?" Marguerite noted the way Miss Edgecombe drifted closer like a vulture scenting weakness. "How fascinating that he should know so much about events at which he wasn't present."

"My brother serves as an invaluable source of information." Miss Edgecombe's voice dripped false sympathy. "His connections in the military have provided quite detailed accounts of Lord Guildford's difficulties."

"Difficulties?" The Marchioness's voice quivered.

"The screaming, of course." Miss Edgecombe's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "The way he fled from a ball in Madrid. The incidents with his fellow officers. Really, one wonders how any proper young lady could contemplate such a match."

Marguerite pushed to her feet without hurry, deliberately as a drawn blade. "One might wonder how any proper lady could spread such malicious falsehoods about a decorated war hero."

"Falsehoods? But Lord Edgecombe assures us—"

"Lord Edgecombe," Marguerite cut in, "assures many things. He assures the men he offers credit to that he is just trying to help them. He assures his prospective brides about his intentions. He assures his sister about her continued welcome in society despite her tongue resembling an adder's. But all his assurances are false; he is a vile, unscrupulous man with the worst of intentions."

Miss Edgecombe's complexion grew blotchy with anger, making her look even uglier than usual. "How dare you—"

"How dare I?" Marguerite stepped closer, close enough to catch the sour scent of the other woman's perfume. "How dare I defend a man who served his country with honor? How dare I question the words of a known predator and his spiteful sister? I dare quite easily, Miss Edgecombe. The question is whether you dare continue spreading these lies once my betrothed learns of them."

The room had gone silent, all attention fixed on their confrontation. Marguerite felt each pair of eyes like needles against her skin, but she kept her chin lifted and her gaze steady.

"Come, Mama." She offered her arm to the Marchioness. "I believe we've had quite enough entertainment for one morning."

They swept from the room with as much dignity as they could muster, though Marguerite's chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. She allowed her shoulders to drop only when they were safely in their carriage.

"Oh, my dear." The Marchioness pressed her handkerchief to her lips. "What shall we do?"

"Do?" Marguerite pressed her palms against the smooth material, finding comfort in the familiar texture of silk. "We shall fight back."

"But how? Lord Edgecombe's influence—"

"Is built on gambling debts and false credit." Marguerite stared through the carriage window, considering each potential course of action. "He's spreading these rumors about Lord Guildford to distract from his own precarious position."

The carriage wheels struck a rough patch, jostling them in their seats. Marguerite barely noticed, her thoughts racing ahead like horses breaking free of their traces.

"Take me to Carlisle Manor," she instructed their coachman through the window.

"Marguerite!" The Marchioness's eyes widened. "You cannot call upon him whenever you want."

"I cannot allow these rumors to destroy him either." She settled back against the squabs. "Lord Edgecombe means to ruin us both, Mama. He'll see me forced into marriage one way or another through Lord Guildford's reputation or Papa's debts."

"Unless?"

"Unless we strike first." Marguerite's fingers curled into her palms. "Lord Edgecombe isn't the only one who can gather damaging information."

The gates of Carlisle Manor rose before them, iron bars stark against the morning sky as their carriage rolled to a stop. Marguerite squared her shoulders.

"Once he attends to us, give us a little space to talk." She adjusted her bonnet with steady hands. "I suspect this conversation will prove easier without an audience."

"You know that talking with his Lordship alone is inappropriate; the rumors the servants spread—"

"Cannot possibly be worse than what Lord Edgecombe already spreads." Marguerite descended from the carriage, watching as her footsteps displaced loose stones. "Besides, what's one more rumor about the desperate lady and her mad Viscount?"

The bitterness in her voice surprised them both. The Marchioness reached for her daughter's hand, pressing it between hers.

"You really care for him."

It wasn't a question. Marguerite withdrew her hand, smoothing her gloves. "What I care for is justice. Lord Edgecombe cannot be allowed to destroy a good man's reputation simply because that man stands between him and his ambitions."

She didn't wait for her mother's response; instead, she mounted the manor's steps with unhurried tread. Each step brought her closer to a conversation she'd rather avoid yet could no longer postpone.

Mr. Thorne admitted them with his usual unflappable dignity, though his eyebrows rose.

"His lordship is in his private study," he said, leading them through corridors now familiar as her own. "I should announce—"

"No need." Marguerite moved past him. Lord Guildford will want to hear what I have to say. Mother, please stay here in the drawing room."

The study door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the corridor. Marguerite paused in the doorway, taking in the scene before her.

Tristan stood at the window, his broad shoulders outlined against the glass. Maps and papers covered every surface, suggesting he'd been reviewing estate matters. The scent of brandy mingled with leather and ink, creating an atmosphere uniquely his own.

"I know you're there." He didn't turn from the window. "I recognize the rustle of your dress."

"Then you've learned to pay close attention to my movements," she said as she entered the room.

Now he did turn, and something in his expression told her he already knew why she'd come. "I've heard the rumors."

"Have you heard their source?" She moved further into the room, her steps hushed against the carpet. "Or shall I tell you exactly what Lord Edgecombe says about that night in Madrid?"

His fingers curled against the windowsill, knuckles whitening. "I can imagine."

"Can you?" She stopped before his desk, resting her fingertips against the Norwegian wood. "Can you imagine how he twists your service into madness? Your honor into weakness? How he uses your pain to paint you as something dangerous and broken?"

"And what would you have me do?" His voice was uneven. "Challenge him? Create exactly the sort of scene he claims I'm prone to?"

"No." She lifted her chin. "I would have you help me destroy him instead."

Tristan's boots smashed into the floor with dawdling steps as he circled his desk. "Destroy him? And how exactly do you propose we accomplish that?"

"The same way he attacks us." Marguerite's fingers traced the edge of a map on his desk. "Through information. Through whispers in the right ears. Through exposure of his true nature rather than the facade he presents to society."

"You speak of reputation." His mouth twisted. "Mine is already in tatters."

"But his needn't remain intact." She met his gaze slowly. "Tell me, My Lord—how many of your fellow officers might speak to his character? Those who form his…ah, military connections?"

Understanding flickered in his eyes. "You mean to investigate him."

"I mean to learn the truth." She gestured to the papers scattered across his desk. "Just as he claims to know the truth about you."

His fingers drummed against the wood, a military tattoo that betrayed his agitation. "And if that truth proves dangerous?"

"More dangerous than allowing him to destroy us?" She moved around the desk, crossing the barrier between them. "More dangerous than watching him turn your service into scandal?"

"The scandal exists regardless." But she noted how his body angled toward hers, how he turned toward her instinctively. "My…reactions to certain situations cannot be denied."

"No." She reached for his hand, ignoring how he became rigid at her touch. "But they can be understood. Explained. Honored rather than twisted into something shameful."

His fingers remained unyielding beneath hers. "You cannot fight all of society's battles."

"I don't intend to." She tightened her grip. "Only the ones that matter."

His breath caught audibly, the blankness on his features falling away as he looked at her imploringly. "And I matter?"

"More than I should admit." The thought slipped out unbidden. She released his hand, stepping back to a safer distance. "Though that's hardly relevant to our current situation."

"Isn't it?" His voice dropped lower. "You risk your own reputation by defending mine."

"My reputation?" A laugh escaped her, sharp as broken glass. "According to Miss Edgecombe, I'm already desperate enough to accept a madman's suit. What's a little more scandal between friends?"

"Is that what we are?" He moved closer, near enough that she felt the heat from his body against her arm. "Friends?"

"We're whatever we need to be to survive this." She raised her head, refusing to retreat despite his proximity. "Now, will you help me destroy Lord Edgecombe, or shall I do it alone?"

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

"First," she said, forcing herself to focus on the matter at hand rather than the pull of his presence, "we gather information—his military connections, the truth about his financial dealings and involvement in the gambling halls."

"And then?"

"Then we ensure that information reaches the right ears." She moved to his desk, rifling through papers decisively. "Lady Morton, for instance, whose nephew lost heavily at his gaming table. Or Lord Hampton, whose sister nearly accepted his suit before learning of his previous entanglements."

Tristan's eyebrows rose. "You've already begun investigating."

"Knowledge is power."

"Well, I do have some information."

He extracted a particular letter from the pile on his desk. "This, for instance—a note from his bank regarding certain…irregularities in his accounts."

"How did you come by it?"

"I have my own sources." She took the letter from his hands, her fingers brushing his in the exchange. "Though I question whether you truly wish to engage in this sort of warfare."

"Warfare?" Another laugh escaped her. "My Lord, I was raised in society. I've engaged in warfare since my first Season. The only difference now is that the stakes are higher."

"And the casualties?"

"Will be precisely those who deserve them." She looked directly into his eyes without wavering. "Unless you object to fighting back?"

His eyes moved over her features carefully. "You truly mean to do this."

"With or without your help." She waved the letter. "Though I imagine your assistance might prove invaluable."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You're rather formidable when roused."

"As are you when you choose to engage rather than retreat." She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "Shall I call tomorrow to discuss strategy?"

"You mean to return? After everything they're saying?"

"I mean to win." She turned back to face him. "The question is whether you're prepared to fight alongside me."

Something kindled in his eyes—not quite hope, but perhaps its distant cousin. "You're either the bravest woman I know or the most foolish."

"Perhaps both." She opened the door. "Though I prefer to think of it as strategic."

His low laugh followed her into the drawing room, warming something in her chest that had nothing to do with triumph and everything to do with the way he looked at her—as though seeing her properly for the first time.

Mr. Thorne appeared to escort her and her mother out. His features did not show any reaction, revealing what he might have overheard. At the front steps, he paused.

"It's good to see his lordship engaging again," he said quietly. "Even in matters of warfare."

Marguerite adjusted her gloves. "Sometimes warfare proves necessary for peace."

"Indeed, My Lady."

Was that approval in his tone?

"Indeed."

She descended the steps, with her mother following, with a leisurely tread that grew more certain with each beat of her heart. Carlisle Manor filled her view as she turned to look at it one last time, taking in its stone walls.

Let Lord Edgecombe spread his poison. Let society whisper its judgments. She would show them all that some things were worth fighting for—some people worth defending, even against their own instincts for retreat.

And if, in the process, she lost her heart entirely to the man she already recognized as dangerous to her peace…well, that was a battle for another day.