A Proper Scandal by Charis Michaels Page A

her, then I should ask permission first. It will sound more natural, I think, if she is already here on the charity errand. That said, leave the paperwork.”
    The secretary complied begrudgingly, and they worked on shipyard invoicing for an hour more, until the butler interrupted to announce a guest.
    â€œThe Marchioness of Frinfrock,” Sewell intoned, handing the viscount her card. “I told her I would ascertain if you were ‘in,’ my lord, and she assured me that you are. Claims you promised her a tour of the house.”
    Rainsleigh thought about it, turning the card in his hand. Lady Frinfrock. His inquisitor from last night. His first inclination was to send her away, if for no other reason than he was exceedingly busy, and Dunhip was already in a petulant mood. Still, in hindsight, the old woman had done him a great service last night. The result of her interrogation was that, for once, everyone had the story straight. The guests left the Countess of Banning’s dinner with answers to the questions no one dared ask. No one but this old bat. She’d pumped him for the unknown details of his life and allowed him to speak for himself—or rather, had allowed a certain ginger-haired lady to leap from her seat and rattle off an impassioned history that summed up everything in glowing terms.
    The entire exchange was over and done in a quarter hour or less, and the only person who looked truly ridiculous was the marchioness. Clearly, she couldn’t have cared less. The least he could do was give her a tour.
    â€œI will see her,” he told Sewell slowly, dismissing Dunhip with a nod.
    Ten minutes later, the marchioness informed him of how the tour would go. “My companion is here to accompany me because the sheer distance we may travel within this mammoth structure might do me ill. Miss Breedlowe, please ,” she hissed to the tall woman beside her, “do not hover. I am not on the verge of collapse”—she shot Rainsleigh a warning look—“yet.”
    Rainsleigh nodded to the younger woman. “How do you do?”
    The woman bobbed a respectful dip and inclined her head. With a gentle smile, she said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. I am Jocelyn Breedlowe.”
    â€œMiss Breedlowe, yes,” he said, “I believe I’ve made your acquaintance once or twice before. Next door, is it?”
    She nodded. “Indeed. When I am not serving as, er, companion to the marchioness, I assist the Countess of Falcondale with personal matters. Before they sailed for Far East, she spoke very highly of you.”
    â€œLet us not bore Lord Rainsleigh with your myriad occupations, Miss Breedlowe; we’ll be here all week.” Lady Frinfrock looked right and left. “Very well, Lord Rainsleigh. Let us commence. My God, is there a written guide? An atlas, perhaps?”
    Their hour-long tour visited every room, including the closets and cupboards, with a triple turn around the garden. When they’d finally seen it all—indeed, when they’d heard a critical comment about nearly every detail—the marchioness pronounced the lone compliment of the day. “ ’Tis, at the very least, an improvement over the neglected heap that Lord Falcondale would have it be. You may call upon me about your garden drains before the next heavy rain.”
    â€œThank you,” he said, the only appropriate answer. He nodded to Sewell to open the front door and effectively send them on their way. He’d been patient and amenable for forty-five minutes longer than he was, on most days, capable. He’d only just turned to go when the marchioness could be heard gasping on the stoop.
    â€œ But who is this? ” she breathed.
    Gritting his teeth, Rainsleigh turned. A carriage had arrived. The marchioness now squinted disapprovingly into the glare on its polished door. “The Countess of Banning?”
    Rainsleigh went still. Something like