Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (21 page)

"Some mumbo-jumbo about her health," Overton said. "But that
^'
s what they always say, is it not, when an unmarried girl needs to disappear for some months. They go off to some continental spa to take the waters, and return with an infant left to them by some unnamed relative, or adopted off the street, or some such tarradiddle."

Max hung onto his temper by a thin thread. "I trust, Overton, that you are not spreading such a fiction about Miss Lacey," he said, his voice edged with steel. "It would be a most ungentlemanly thing to do."

"Egad, I hope you are not threatening me, Davenant," Overton drawled as his gaze surveyed the ballroom with lazy disinterest. "She is a prime article, to be sure, but not worthy of an affair of honor, don't you agree?"

"Don't push me, Overton. I'm in a foul mood and just itching to blow off some steam."

The cad held up his hands in a gesture of mock defense. "You terrify me. I would not dream of risking an insult, I assure you. Ah, I see Lady Gwedolyn Haskill has arrived."  He lifted his quizzing glass to study the young woman's entrance. "I do hope she is not another of your protégées, Davenant. I've already had her, too, you see." He walked away with a fluid catlike grace that set Max's teeth on edge.

God, how he wanted to plant the man a facer. And he would, if the blackguard started to circulate salacious hints about Rosalind's departure. Max was still furious at Rosalind, but he had no wish for malicious rumors to be spread about her.

The truth was, of course, that such rumors might ultimately prove to be true. She might indeed be carrying his child. Every time he pondered that particular notion, he had to stop himself from jumping into the fastest carriage he could find and rushing off to Devon to discover the truth. If she was pregnant, it was his child. It could be no one else's. And if she carried his child, he wanted to know about it, had a right to know about it.

It had only been a week since they'd made love. She couldn't possibly know yet if she was pregnant. Could she? If he was going to go haring off to Devon, he wanted to return with answers. He would wait until a month had passed, then, if he had not heard from her, he would go to her father's estate and confront her. If she was pregnant, then by God she would marry him. If she wasn't, he would return to London and try to forget her.

That, however, would be difficult. Before they'd made love, he had told Rosalind he thought it would be unforgettable, and so it had been. Sweet and passionate and unforgettable.

Forgetting her was impossible. He would simply have to learn to live without her.

*          *          *

"So, it's true what she said?" Sir Edmund asked his son. "She really did do all those things?"

Thomas squirmed in his seat and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. He had returned from London earlier that afternoon, obviously concerned about Rosie and relieved to find her safe and well. Sir Edmund had called his son into the library and told him the truth of his mother's death. Keeping the epilepsy a secret had done too much damage to his family. There would be no more secrets. Now, if only he could become a better father to his children.

"Well, son?"

Thomas cleared his throat. "She ... she was quite popular, sir."

Sir Edmund smiled. "I knew she would be. Pretty as her mother. I like her new short hair, though I must say it took me by surprise."

"It is all the crack," Thomas said. "Every woman in town wanted to emulate her style. Ought to have seen her all put together for a ball. Bang up to the nines, she was. I almost didn't recognize her. She looked ... beautiful."

"I suppose Fanny had more than a little to do with it. Always had flair, my sister."

"Aunt Fanny is still a very handsome woman."

"Is she? Haven't seen her in years. Tell me, son, did you actually see any of these antics of your sister?"

"Antics, sir?" He was squirming again.

"Settle down, Thomas, I'm not angry with Rosie and I'm not asking you to reveal any secrets. It is just so... so difficult to imagine our Rosie racing a curricle through Hyde Park."

Thomas sent his father a lop-sided grin, and seemed to be more at ease. "Actually, she did that several times. Quite a whip, our Rosie. Saw her race Lady Kirby from Holbourn to Hampstead. Won, too."

"And is it true that she ripped up at old Talmadge?"

"Smack in the middle of the Royal Academy exhibition with half the
ton
looking on," Thomas said, beaming with pride. "Can't blame her for that, sir. High time somebody told him what's what."

Sir Edmund chuckled. "Good old Rosie. Hard to imagine."

"She was different, sir. Not the quiet, prim girl we're all accustomed to. She was... I don't know... vibrant. Dynamic. Different."

"I'd like to have seen that."

Thomas pulled a face. "She's back to the old Rosie, ain't she?"

"Seems to be. Except for the hair, of course."

"A shame. She cut quite a dash in town."

"Lots of beaux?"

"Dozens."

Sir Edmund's brows shot up to his hairline. "Really?"

"Lord, you would not have believed it, sir. Every rake, rogue, buck, beau, and blood in town was dangling after her. She had a whole circle of  'em around her everywhere she went."

"Did she? No one in particular? She mentioned some fellow ... Davenant, I think."

"Max Davenant. Greatest rake in London. List of conquests as long as your arm."

"Oh?" And his little Rosie was one of them, damn the man's eyes.

"He's a friend of Fanny's. I daresay that's how Rosie got to know him."

"Davenant. Where have I heard—Wait a moment. Davenant. That's the name of the Earl of Blythe, is it not?"

"Yes, sir. Max, I believe, is one of the younger brothers of the present earl."

And the son of Fanny's lover, Basil Davenant. Sir Edmund wondered if perhaps Fanny had set this up deliberately: his daughter with her lover's son. It would appeal to her sense of irony.

"Tell me about this Max Davenant. What sort of fellow is he, besides being a rake?"

"He's a first-rate player. Amazing luck. Saw him one night with R—er, with friends, and he was having the most incredible streak at the hazard table. Superb ivory-turner."

A rake
and
a gambler? Good Lord, what had Rosie done? "Sounds like a rough character to me."

"Oh no, sir. Straight as an arrow. Never heard any whispers of him running the legs off young gulls or taking some poor sod's estate. Not a Greek. Nothing like that."

"What about women?"

"Even more luck there, I should say. The man's deuced good-looking and oozes charm, if you take my meaning. But nothing havey-cavey as far as I know. Sticks to high flyers. Never heard of him ruining young innocents or anything of that sort."

Until now. Poor old Rosie. She would have been particularly vulnerable to that sort of seducer. So innocent for her age, so anxious to explore all she could in the short time she believed was left her. His heart still ached to think of that fateful misapprehension.

"An adventurer?" he asked.

"No, sir. No need to be. Seems to have a tidy fortune. Oh, I say. Got a picture of him and Rosie." Thomas reached deep into a pocket and finally extracted a slightly crumpled piece of paper. "Rosie won't be pleased, but take a look, sir."

Sir Edmund did, and burst out laughing. "Well, I'm dashed. Suppose I have to believe it now, don't I? My little Rosie made famous, and buxom, by Mr. Rowlandson. And this fine, broad fellow with the lantern jaw is your good-looking gamester?"

"His jaw is exaggerated, just like Rosie's bos—well, you know. But the cravat is spot on. Perfect mathematical."

"I think I should like to know more about this Davenant fellow."

"Why?"

"Curiosity. I do believe it's time I wrote to my sister."

*          *          *

"Did you really waltz without permission?" Pamela's expression was a combination of incredulity and awe. Though never as stiff-necked as Ursula, she still maintained conventional notions of propriety. During her own Season, Pamela would have died before breaking one of the accepted rules of ladylike behavior.

"I'm afraid if s true," Rosie said. They sat together on a stone bench in Wycombe's rose garden. Rosie breathed deeply of the lush fragrance of hundreds of blossoms and tried to convince herself that this quiet, pastoral life was what she wanted. It was. It always had been. She loved Wycombe. If only memories of London didn't intrude at random moments, unsettling her peace and tranquility. It would be easier to forget about her London adventures if she was not constantly queried about them.

Pamela giggled, reminding Rosie that her sister was only nineteen—still a young, giddy girl, despite marriage and impending motherhood. Pamela had always been the least restrained of the three sisters. A chatterbox from the age of two, she always had something to say on every subject. Today, her subject of interest was Rosie's adventure in London.

"Oh, Rosie, I can hardly believe you did all those things. Not you! It's ... it's..."

"Outrageous?"

"Yes! And I hope you won't repeat this to Ursula or Papa, but I think it's wonderful that you kicked up your heels. I wish I could have been there!"

"You would not have been pleased with me, Pam. Quite the opposite I should think."

"Tommy says you were magnificent, that Aunt Fanny turned you out in fine rig. I do like your short hair. It is so much more becoming than your old style. Do you think I should have mine cut?"

Pamela was the only blonde in the family, and her golden ringlets had always been the envy of her sisters. "Your hair is always lovely, Pam. You must do as you please. Thomas is right, though. If I had any style at all, it was due to Fanny. I don't believe I have a fashionable bone in my body."

"I cannot wait for your trunks to arrive so you can show us your gowns."

Rosie did not know what she was going to do with all her new clothes. None of them suited country life and certainly did not suit Rosie. They had belonged to Rosalind.

"Thomas also says you had a bigger circle of admirers than any other girl. Is that true?"

Dear God, she wished they could talk of something else. "There were several gentlemen who were very kind to me. Have you and John thought of names for the baby yet?"

"There's plenty of time for that. How many gentlemen?"

"What?"

"How many gentlemen in your circle? Last year, when I was out, Miranda Fenimore had more beaux than anyone and the rest of us were positively green with envy. She never had fewer than seven or eight gentlemen paying court to her. Did you have as many as that?"

"I don't remember."

"Rosie! Don't be so tiresome. I'm dying to know everything. It is so exciting to have my own sister cut such a dash. Who were some of your beaux?"

Rosie gave a weary sigh. "I don't believe I had any beaux." Except one, and she would not speak of him. "I had a lot of friends and acquaintances, that is all."

Pamela scowled in exasperation. "You are going to make me pull out every detail one at a time, aren't you? All right then. Did you drive in the park with any gentlemen?"

"Yes "

"Who?"

"Pamela!"

"Name one. Just one gentlemen who drove you in the park."

"Jeremy Aldrich."

"Hmm, I think I may have met him once, but I cannot be certain. Who else?"

"You said just one."

"Please, Rosie. Someone I might know of."

"Lord Radcliffe."

"You rode with Lord Radcliffe? Goodness, Rosie, but isn't he a rake? Lady Hartwell would not allow me to associate with him. He is quite handsome, though, is he not? And who else?"

"Enough, Pamela."

"Oh, don't be such a bore. If you are worried that I will tell Ursula that you consorted with rakes, I promise I will not."

"I am much obliged to you, I'm sure. Why don't you tell me about your plans for the nursery. Have you chosen a nurse yet? Do you think Mrs. Theobald will be available?"

"We can talk about all that later. Were there any other rakes in your circle? No, don't give me that look. How about... let's see... Mr. Dwight Newcombe. Did you drive out with him or dance with him?"

"Yes."

"Did you? Two rakes, Rosie? Let me see if I can recall any others. How about Mr. Alfred Hepworth?"

"Yes."

"Oh, my! Three. And Lord Vaughn?"

"Yes."

Pamela squealed with delight. "Four! I cannot believe it. Did no one tell you these gentlemen were rakes, Rosie, and not the sort good girls from the country should associate with? No, of course not. Aunt Fanny no doubt encouraged them. That is just the sort of gentleman she prefers, I suspect."

"Please do not disparage my aunt. You do not know her, Pam. She is the most wonderful woman I ever met. If I chose to keep company with a less than respectable set of gentlemen, that was my own doing, not hers. She let me do exactly as I pleased. Every shocking thing I did was my own decision. Now I have to live with my horrid behavior. It is not something of which I am very proud. I would prefer to forget about it, if you please."