Read Scandal in Scotland for Free Online

and her infernal draughts, I would now be asleep.
    But since I am able to sit up and write, I find myself wondering why you are able to go to sea for such lengths of time while my stomach protests if I merely set foot upon a ship. It makes me wonder which tendencies are decided by birth, and which by desire.

          C HAPTER 4

    R ain pelted the cobblestones, pooled in the dips, and soaked every stocking and skirt hem it could reach. Through the downpour, a coach pulled up to a large classical building on St. James Street that let out quality bachelor apartments. The door of the coach opened and a man emerged waving the coach on as he dashed through sheets of rain. Wet in an instant, he paused under the portico to dump the collected rain from the stiff curled brim of his hat, then knocked it against his palm to dislodge more water. He removed his greatcoat and shook it vigorously before entering his apartment.
    “Sir!” The butler was just reaching for the sitting room door when William appeared. Lippton set down a tray containing a decanter of whiskey, a smaller one of sherry, and five glasses to hurry forward and take William’s coat.
    Lippton grimaced at the weight of the wet wool. “It must be pouring.”
    “I practically had to swim here.” The sky suited his mood, black and furious. He still had the bitter taste of defeat from Marcail’s visit, even though it had been more than a week ago.
    When he’d finally been able to drag himself to the door, he’d interrogated his men to no avail. She had blithely walked off his ship, waving good-bye to the unsuspecting crew. He’d sent crew members to search the inns near the dock, but she was nowhere to be found.
    It was infuriating to be taken for a fool on his own ship, and even more galling that it had been she who’d done it.
    As soon as day broke, he’d set sail for London. They’d run into a storm which had delayed their return and dissipated whatever good temper he’d had left.
    When they’d finally docked two days behind schedule, he’d sent for his coach and gone directly to Marcail’s residence in the heart of Mayfair. Four stories tall, the magnificent house possessed a portico flanked by twin lions set upon decorative pedestals. It was an ostentatious house, especially when one considered it had been purchased for the sole purpose of keeping a mistress.
    The thought stirred William’s anger with bitterness. He’d considered forcing his way in to demand the artifact, but the house was swarming with large, able-bodied footmen—and William was not prepared to fail again.
    No, he had to find another way to deal with Marcail Beauchamp. One that involved him and her and no one else.
    That decision made, he’d returned to his coach and had a few words with one of the footmen, whom he’d left standing watch under a sheltered area beside the street, a greatcoat now covering his livery. William then left for his own apartments on St. James Street.
    Lippton shook out William’s coat, water dripping on the marble floor and seeping toward the edge of the Persian rug. The white-haired servant tsked, hung the coat on a brass rack in the foyer, and then slid the umbrella stand beneath the dripping mess.
    “I shall not be here long,” William said. “I just need to clean up and pack some clothes.”
    Lippton lifted his brows. “You are leaving so soon?”
    “Yes. I came to town to fetch something, and then I’m off to rescue Michael. Please send John Poston to watch number twelve Grosvenor Square. I left a footman there temporarily. Tell him that the home belongs to the Earl of Colchester.”
    Lippton blinked. “We’re watching an earl, sir?”
    “No. I have no desire to know Colchester’s comings and goings, but I do want to know the comings and goings of his mistress, Miss Marcail Beauchamp.”
    “The actress?” Lippton positively glowed with admiration. “I saw her perform a magnificent Lady MacBeth on Drury Lane. It was—” He