A Dash of Scandal(71)

He stepped into the fawn-colored trousers Winston had laid out and pulled the white shirt over his head. He didn’t take the time to don a collar and neckcloth, he could do that later in the day. It wouldn’t matter to Andrew that he wasn’t properly garbed; however, Chandler took the time to stuff the tail of his shirt into his waistband as he headed down the stairs.

He rounded the doorway into the sitting room and saw a splendidly dressed Andrew pacing in front of the unlit fireplace. He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his damp hair before entering the room.

“What has you up and out so early?” he asked as he walked into the parlor.

“It’s about time you decided to rise from your slumber. Where the devil were you last night, anyway? I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Fines managed to locate me, and we had a drink together. Sorry you missed us.”

“After the third club, I called it a night. The weather was brutish. Where the devil did he find you?”

Chandler looked at the tray of tea and tarts and could see Andrew hadn’t touched it. It was unusual for anyone to ignore his cook’s apricot tarts. He knew everyone always enjoyed them, but he’d never realized that he always took them when he called on a lady until Millicent had mentioned it. Now he realized she was right. Since she was a writer of gossip he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she knew more about him than he knew himself.

“Well?” Andrew asked.

“That’s not important, but you being here at this hour is. What’s the reason?”

“This.” Andrew held out a sheet of newspaper. “Have you seen it?”

Chandler tensed, but he hoped it didn’t show. Maybe Millicent had told one of the gossip columnists about their clandestine meeting last night after all.

Instead of taking the paper, Chandler picked up the teapot and calmly poured himself a cup. “My eyes have been open all of five minutes, Andrew. What do you think the odds are I’ve seen that paper?”

“This is no time to be so damned sarcastic, Dunraven, and I’m in no mood for it, besides.”

Chandler returned the pot to the silver tray and asked, “Would you like a cup?”

“No, thank you. You know I don’t drink the vile stuff, but I will have a brandy, if you don’t mind.”

It must be bad. He’d never seen Andrew drink brandy in the middle of the day during their wildest years. But the odd thing was, whatever was written in that paper didn’t worry Chandler like it should. He should be furious at even the prospect that Millicent had talked about his late night call on her, but he wasn’t.

“Not at all. Help yourself, then stop pacing, sit down, and let me wake up while you tell me what has you stewing.”

“The damned gossipmongers are after me again.”

“You?”

Relief washed down him. Thank God it wasn’t anything about him and Millicent.

“You sound surprised.”

“No, it’s just that we’ve been in their columns for years.”

“What have you done this time?”

“Nothing, of course.”

“Good, then. Don’t worry and have a tart. I know you like these.” Chandler picked up one and took a generous bite.

“It’s that bastard Lord Truefitt. He says I’m hanging out for an heiress because I’m in financial trouble.”

Chandler choked on his tart and spilled his tea into his saucer. He coughed and set the teacup down on the table.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

“Damn right,” Andrew answered.

Millicent was responsible for that being written. She had mentioned to him that she’d heard of an earl who was in financial trouble and suggested he might be the one stealing from the houses, but she had refused to tell him the earl’s name. Now he knew why.

She thought Andrew might be the Mad Ton Thief. Damnation!

Andrew poured himself a generous amount of the liquor from the decanter, and turned back to Chandler. “The bastard is trying to ruin my chances with Miss Bardwell.”

Chandler cleared his throat again and said, “Wait a minute. You’re seriously pursuing Miss Bardwell?”

“Well—er—I’m not sure it is serious, you understand. That’s not the point.” Andrew took a generous sip of his drink and went back to the rosewood sideboard and poured another splash into the glass.

Andrew was stammering like a street ragamuffin caught stealing a loaf of bread. That was so unlike him. “When did this happen?” Chandler asked.