Never Resist a Rake (25 page)

“Yes, Phillippa?”

“It vexes me so when you're right.”

Sometimes a plan must be enacted violently and without need of further discussion. More talk would undoubtedly lead to more mistakes, and heaven knows we've already seen those in abundance.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Toby had to step lively to convince Mr. Hightower he'd left his post in the breakfast room for a good reason. It helped that the butler nearly idolized old Lady Somerset. If she'd sent Toby away, then away he had to go, provided he'd not given cause for offense that led to his dismissal. Toby had to revisit the whole conversation twice before Hightower was satisfied with the young footman's explanation. Then Toby asked where he might find Lord Hartley.

“His lordship is in the marquess's study, which some might find to be a bit presumptuous given that his father, Lord Somerset, is still with us,” Hightower said with a sniff. “Do not relay Lord Hartley's location to anyone else.”

Toby thought it would do the current marquess no good to spend time in the study, since his mind was obviously on holiday. The room might as well be put to use by someone who needed it, rather than left to gather dust. But he was careful not to share these sentiments with Mr. Hightower.

“Why do you wish to know Lord Hartley's whereabouts?”

“I've a message for him.” Toby failed to mention that the message was from the Cook's helper. It wasn't his fault if Mr. Hightower assumed it was from the esteemed dowager marchioness.

“Very well. Deliver the message and then nip back to the breakfast room. Lady Sophie is not one to linger over her plate if she's not holding court at a full table.”

Getting past the butler was one thing. Broaching the subject of the behavior of one of his lordship's guests, a guest who was likely one of Lord Hartley's bosom friends, with the future marquess himself was a much more daunting prospect.

“I'd better get another hug for this. In fact, a kiss would not be beyond reason,” Toby muttered as he rapped softly on the study door. At Lord Hartley's order to “Come,” Toby marched into the room and, with as much confidence as he could muster, launched into the telling of what Theresa had seen through the crack in the gallery door. Toby was, of course, careful to leave her name out of it. If anyone was going to come to grief over this breach of protocol, he'd make sure it would be him.

But once Toby finished, Lord Hartley didn't scold him for spying on Somerfield Park's guests or question the truthfulness of Toby's account. It was almost as if Lord Hartley had known about the incident already and Toby was merely confirming the facts of the matter.

“I'd thought of asking Mr. Porter to help me deal with this problem, but now that I think on it, he might not be the best choice. Don't misunderstand me. I think the world and all of Porter, but he's the nervous sort,” Lord Hartley said, closing the heavy book on the desk before him. “You, however, are not. How good are you with your hands, Toby?”

“Sir?”

“Could you act as a valet?”

Toby straightened to his full height. Was Lord Hartley about to promote him? He never expected to be rewarded like this. “I've not trained as one, but I daresay I could rise to the occasion.”

“More to the point, can you pick a pocket?”

“My lord?” Perhaps Lord Hartley didn't intend to reward him after all.

“What I mean is, are you quick enough of hand to lift something from someone's person without their knowledge?”

“I collect what a pickpocket is, sir.” A bead of sweat slid down his spine. Toby had lived hand-to-mouth as a lad, and if he hadn't been light-fingered on occasion, his stomach would have been knocking on his backbone regular-like. Somehow, Lord Hartley must have heard about his less-than-stellar past and was using this opportunity to expose him as unfit to work at Somerfield Park. But his lordship's face held no censure, just honest inquisitiveness. Toby decided to risk the truth. “Yes, your lordship. If you need a pocket picked, I'm your man.”

“Good. Then here's what I want you to do.”

* * *

No sooner had Toby left than Lady Somerset the elder appeared in the doorway of the marquess's study. Richard had left last month's ledgers for John to look over. If this steady stream of visitors kept up, he'd never get through the long rows of sums demanding his attention.

John rose as she entered the room. There might not be much love lost between him and his grandmother, but he would still afford her every courtesy. She moved slowly toward the desk, as if her years weighed more this day than usual.

“Please be seated,” John said.

“Actually, I prefer to stand.” She cleared her throat noisily. “That way I'll get right to the point with no shilly-shallying. We are both people of consequence, you and I, and our time is valuable.”

“Very well.” John clasped his hands behind his back and, still standing, waited for her to speak.

After the space of ten heartbeats, he was still waiting.

“Perhaps I will sit after all,” the dowager said as she settled into the overstuffed chair on the opposite side of the desk from his nail-studded leather one. “Heavens, this room is warm. Might you open a window, please? Just a sliver, mind.”

John had been comfortable enough, but the dowager's color was high. He could well believe she was too warm.

Or too anxious about something. He cracked the window behind the desk to allow in a stream of cool-ish air.

“Now, how may I be of assistance?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the windowsill.

“Perhaps…if you could just listen for a bit while I get through this… Yes, that will do. No questions until I'm finished.”

“All right.” When she still didn't speak, he added, “Of course, one has to begin before one can finish.”

Her face contorted into a scowl. “Dash it all, it's difficult to know where to start. The beginning, I suppose, though we have discussed the circumstances surrounding your birth ad nauseam. However, I fear I must revisit it one last time. You must believe that I did not realize you were my legitimate grandson when I arranged for you to be cared for in Wiltshire.”

“I do not doubt it.” He didn't forgive her for it either. Whether he was legitimate or not shouldn't have made a particle of difference. He'd been an unwanted child who knew to his bones that he was unwanted. The mark left by that knowledge was deep.

“What I want you to realize is the turmoil Somerfield Park was in during that time.” She hitched herself forward to perch on the edge of her seat. “My husband had died only a month before Hugh, your father, was to wed Lady Helen. When word came of your mother's death only a week before the wedding, I was left to deal with the consequences of her passing on my own. And remember, I did not know then that my son's first marriage had indeed been a valid one. With a husband to mourn, a wedding to oversee, and a son who was barely beginning to understand his role as the marquess at the time, I could only see how the knowledge of your existence would complicate matters beyond bearing.”

John resisted saying a little complication might have done Somerset a world of good. Besides, she'd told him all this before. Instead, he set his mouth in a hard line, determined not to interrupt her.

“However, I was wrong,” Lady Somerset said.

She hadn't told him
that
before. “What did you say?”

“I. Was. Wrong. In error. I made a mistake. No matter my situation, I failed you in the most miserable of ways. Even if I thought you born on the wrong side of the blanket, that circumstance was not your fault.”

Her eyes were overbright, but surely Lady Somerset wasn't about to let her emotions course down her withered cheeks. It would be beyond shocking. She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief to keep such a monumental thing as a tear from materializing.

“The fault was mine for trying to have the marriage between your mother and my son put aside in the first place,” the dowager said. “I shouldn't have meddled.”

John sank into the desk chair in shock. He never expected her to acknowledge guilt in such a forthright manner.

“You are my grandson. I should have had you brought here, so you could grow up knowing your father. I greatly fear the way his mind is going. The time when you might have been able to know him now is slipping away.” She shook her head. “Perhaps it is my punishment.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “Besides, I believe the Almighty visits the sins of the fathers on the children, not on their aging parents.”

She shot him an imperious glare, all signs of humility gone. “Mock if you like. I'm trying to be serious.”

“I am too. Lord Somerset may be slightly out of countenance”—that was being too charitable by half. If the marquess had been an ordinary man, he'd have been shipped off to Bedlam for his follies and frequent non sequiturs. Unless a miraculous cure could be affected, he'd never truly be able to serve as Lord of Somerset again—“but his lordship calls me his son and seems to know who I am from time to time. For that, I'm grateful.”

Her pursed lips showed her feathers were still ruffled. “Then you might show your gratitude by refraining from insulting your grandmother. I resent being called aging, you know.”

“My apologies.”

“That's exactly why I'm here,” she said emphatically.

“So that I can apologize to you?”

“No, John. So that I can apologize to you. I did you a grave disservice when you were a child. I ask your forgiveness for that offense, knowing I don't deserve it. I ask humbly and with no expectation that you will be gracious enough to respond. Though I dare not—”

“Enough! If you keep talking, you'll have me painted as a horrible monster who holds a grudge against his defenseless grandmother for a mistake she made years ago.” As the words left his lips, it occurred to him that's exactly what he'd been doing. John had been lugging around his resentment all his life. Perhaps that did make him a bit of a monster.

But he didn't have to stay one.

“For whatever hurts you might have done me in the past, I forgive you…Gran.” He decided to try out the name he'd heard Richard use for the dowager. It seemed right as it slid over his tongue.

It pleased Lady Somerset out of all knowing. Her wrinkles bunched into a wreath around her smile. “Thank you, my dear boy. Now I have a bit more to say to you on the subject of your choice of wife—”

John held up a hand to signal a halt. “Stop right there. We've made a fair bit of progress, you and I. It feels as if we're starting fresh. Let's not muck it up with an argument right out of the gate.”

“If you'll allow me to finish, you'll find there's no argument ensuing. I simply wished to tell you that I shall not repeat the error of my past,” the dowager said. “It was wrong of me to separate your father and mother. She was Hugh's choice, and if I'd have accepted the match, you and I should never have had this divide between us.”

John shook his head slowly. “That's true, but in that case, you wouldn't have had Richard and his sisters. I doubt you'd wish them away. I don't think much good is served by wondering what might have happened.”

“You're right. The past is fixed, and we are powerless to alter it. However, in the here and now, I shall not interfere with your choice of a bride. You have my solemn promise that I'll not attempt to sway you to one young lady or another. Whomever you decide upon…” The dowager swallowed so hard that the folds of skin on her neck undulated. “No matter who the lady is…” She sighed deeply, clearly pained but doggedly determined to go on. “I shall support your selection.”

John leaned back in his chair, deciding to put her to the test. “Even if I wish to marry Lady Chloe?”

She erupted in a coughing fit, then finally managed to choke out, “Even if…if that lady is your choice.”

“Cheer up, Gran. I have no intention of marrying Lady Chloe.”

“Oh, that's a mercy.” Her shoulders slumped in obvious relief. Then her gray brows drew together in agitation. “You wicked boy. You gave me such a start. Tell me now, upon what fortunate maiden have you cast your eye?”

“Before I tell you that, answer me this, Gran: Are you game for a bit of fun while you help me settle a score?”

The old lady smiled, a beguiling expression that made her entire face lift and her pale gray eyes sparkle. John caught a glimpse of what a beauty she must have been some sixty years or so ago.

“At my age, a bit of fun for any reason is something to celebrate. Having fun while settling a score is icing on the cake,” Lady Somerset said. “What would you have me do?”

It is all well and good to have a plan. Essential, in fact. However, one can never provide for all possible contingencies, so once a course of action is put into motion, the best plan in the world at times flies right out the nearest window.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Few things had gone right for Lord Blackwood since he'd arrived at Somerfield Park. When Hartley had gone shooting with the most influential lords, Blackwood had been cordially
not
invited to join them. The debutantes in attendance at the house party had been warned away from him by that meddlesome Lady Winifred Chalcroft, so there'd been no opportunity for him to make any new conquests in that department. Even the Somerfield Park chambermaids skittered shy of him.

To make matters worse, Smalley and Pitcairn seemed to be moving out of his sphere of influence. He'd cornered them one evening with plans to host a Daemon Club party of his own in a few weeks featuring Miss Kearsey as the guest of honor. She owed him, he explained, and he had some inventive ways in mind for her to pay off the debt.

“Of course, I'll have her broken in so well by then,” Blackwood had boasted, “she'll even service you two caper-wits.”

The pair of them traded a sheepish glance. Then Pitcairn spoke up. “Not Miss Kearsey. She's a fine lady. And kind, too.”

“That she is. She didn't make a bit of fun of me when I was at the archery butts and my shafts didn't fly as true as I'd like,” Smalley said, making a great show of studying his boot tips, which, given the girth of his waist, was no mean feat. “Lord knows I'm no Nimrod the great hunter, but she was exceedingly gracious about helping me retrieve some arrows that had gone astray, with nary a word of censure. I'll not be a party to bringing her grief.”

“You're no great anything but a fool,” Blackwood had snarled.

Did they suddenly think that because they were rubbing elbows with the Upper Crust, they'd soon be on every society matron's guest list? The idiots were too stupid to know they'd have no standing at all without him. He'd stormed away, determined to have nothing more to do with them.

Pitcairn and Smalley would be easy to replace. They were almost deadweight, in any case. Never a truly imaginative wicked idea between them. There were surely other like-minded free spirits in London who shared Blackwood's sense of carnal adventurism. He'd think no more about his toadies' unexpected defection to the respectable side of the
ton
.

At least his luck at the gaming table had held. Since his big win on the first night of the house party, he'd stayed even or a little ahead each evening. And Lord Kearsey's IOU was still safely tucked into the drawstring at the waist of his smalls.

The dressing gong sounded two hours earlier than usual this evening. He made his way to his bedchamber to prepare for the ball, followed by a midnight supper, which would signal an end to the house party's festivities.

Then, his festivities with Miss Kearsey were set to begin. He grew hard just thinking about invading her bedchamber later and plucking her maidenhead as easily as picking a daisy. He'd go easy on her tonight. After all, they were in a great house filled to capacity with guests. He wondered if she'd bite her lip to keep from crying out. Would it be hard enough to draw blood?

He hoped to taste a little of that coppery substance and relish the tightly contained despair that brought it to the surface of her lips.

There'd be time enough to hear her sob and scream later, when they had more privacy.

When he opened the door to his bedchamber, he was surprised to see a servant in Somerfield Park livery waiting for him.

“Good evening, my lord,” the young man said with a proper bow. “As you brought no man with you, and it's a special evening what with the ball and all, Lord Hartley sent me to act as your valet. I took the liberty of drawing your bath and laying out your ensemble.”

Blackwood's cutaway tailcoat and knee britches were spread across the bed. His best shoes had been spit-shined to within an inch of the leather's life, and the silver buckles gleamed.

“Hartley sent you, eh?” Perhaps Blackwood hadn't lost touch with the new lordling after all. Nice to see someone remembered who his friends were. “What's your name?”

“Hollis, sir. Toby Hollis.”

“Very well, Hollis, help me out of these boots, and look sharp about it. While I bathe, see what you can do to put the shine back into them. I want to see my reflection in them by tomorrow morning.”

Blackwood stripped, letting his clothing fall where it may. Then he sank into the inviting copper hip bath. He leaned back into the suds and commanded Hollis to nip down and bring back a jigger of whisky for him to enjoy while he soaked.

“Of course, sir. Just let me gather up your things first.” The valet picked up the items of clothing, folding them carefully and stowing them away. Lastly, he retrieved Blackwood's smalls and gave them a shake. The neatly folded IOU fluttered to the floor.

“Pick that up, you clumsy oaf. Lay it on the foot of the bed where I can see it.”

“Yes, sir. I'm ever so sorry, sir. No harm done. There it is.” Hollis placed the paper on the bed as instructed. Then he smoothed down the brocade waistcoat that was spread out on the bed for Blackwood to wear that evening. “Lovely workmanship, this.”

“I should hope so. The entire ensemble is the creation of one of the finest bespoke tailors in London. Brummell himself used to frequent the shop. Now get me that whisky!”

Hollis skidded out of the chamber as if his trousers were afire. Blackwood took a last look at the IOU on the foot of the bed. It was his ticket to the heaven between Miss Kearsey's legs…and any place else on her delectable body he cared to claim.

She
does
have
the
loveliest
little
pink
mouth.

With that delightful thought in mind, he decided to see if he could imagine defiling her mouth hard enough to spend before Hollis returned or the bathwater got cold.

* * *

“Oh, you look even better than I'd hoped in that gown.” Freddie adjusted the clever little headdress for Rebecca and smiled at her in the dressing table mirror. “There. If only I weren't an earl's daughter, I'd have a real future as a lady's maid.”

Rebecca laughed. “Being an earl's daughter
is
a real future.”

“I suppose, but it hasn't availed me much this fortnight. Lord Hartley only has eyes for one lady it seems.”

“Oh, yes. Lady Chloe.” Rebecca cast her gaze downward, lest Freddie see her duplicity. She felt terrible keeping things from her friend, but the fewer people who knew of John's plans, the better.

“It won't answer, you know,” Freddie said. “I collect you're up to something. And you and I both know perfectly well that the lady Lord Hartley favors is you.”

Her gaze jerked back to Freddie's reflection. “What? How can you say that?”

Freddie rolled her eyes. “Because he's a veritable mooncalf. He covers it well, to be sure, but no matter how much time he spends in the company of that merry widow, it can't trump the way he looks at you in unguarded moments.”

This didn't bode well. John was adamant about keeping their secret until the right time. “Does everyone know?”

“Of course not. How many of the
ton
have my powers of observation and keen reasoning skills? Not many,” she answered her own query. “Even the book at White's has Lady Chloe leading the pack of future marchioness hopefuls.”

“How on earth can you know what the White's wager book says?”

“Believe me, I have my sources. But that's of no consequence since we know who the real front-runner is.” Freddie gave her a quick hug. “I'm so happy for you, my dear, but also curious as to why the need for subterfuge?”

Even though Freddie was dearer to her than any sister could be, she couldn't share the terrible situation in which her father had placed her with Lord Blackwood. Instead, Rebecca settled for telling Freddie about a complication she would understand. “The dowager is set on John marrying no less than an earl's daughter. Lady Chloe meets that standard, but is wholly unacceptable to her ladyship in other regards.”

“I should think so.”

“No, don't say that. Chloe has proved to be a friend.” Rebecca rose and paced the room. “In any case, John thinks his grandmother will be so relieved when he tells her that he won't be offering for Lady Chloe, she'll be much more accepting when he proposes to me.”

“That is probably a good plan. Well,
if
you decide to accept him, he'll be an extremely lucky gentleman. Hold a moment.” Freddie stooped to spread the short train of Rebecca's gown so that it swept behind her as lightly as faery dust. Then she straightened and gave an approving nod. “Now, is your father coming to escort you to the ballroom?”

Rebecca shook her head. Her father had scrupulously avoided her since the night he all but shoved her into Blackwood's arms.

“Mine isn't either. I do believe they're all plotting to disappear to their wicked little poque game again at some point in the evening, instead of supporting the dancing.” Freddie linked arms with her. “Let's go down together then. I hear the string quartet warming up.”

Rebecca called her courage and headed toward the ballroom with her friend. So much more was riding on this night's work than putting the right foot forward before the
ton
. Though John had promised he'd settled everything in one stroke, Polite Society expected him to marry extremely well, and she still didn't signify in that case. Her father was still deeply in debt.

And Blackwood still expected her to pay.

* * *

The first dance called by the dancing master was the minuet, the most correct and elegant dance with which to begin any ball. Since not every couple dared attempt the intricate steps and figures, it was more a display piece. Once the reels and quadrilles began, the entire assembly would line up to be included, but now only a handful of dancers glided to the center of the floor to take their positions.

Rebecca and Freddie had settled in to watch as the quartet continued to torture their instruments into tune with each other. She nearly toppled out of her chair when John appeared before her and asked most correctly for the honor of this dance.

“I didn't know you could dance the minuet,” she stammered as she rose and made the obligatory curtsy.

“There are many things you don't know about me yet.” His eyes glinted with promise. “But trust me enough to lead you through a few figures, will you?”

“Yes, my lord, of course. The honor is mine.”

As he lead her out, he whispered, “That's better. You know you're always supposed to say yes to the marquess, don't you?”

She turned to make her first pose and pulled a quick face at him. “You're not the marquess yet.”

He grinned. “Consider it practice for the future.”

“And what about saying yes to the marchioness?” She had to play as if her heart weren't pounding like a coach-and-six, as if nothing was more important than whether she missed a dance step. If she let herself think about Blackwood coming to her at midnight, she'd melt into a terrified puddle in the middle of the floor.

“Oh, a yes to the marchioness is a given. It comes standard with the coronet and jewels.”

He brought her in close for the first figure, which allowed them to look adoringly at each other as a matter of course. To her surprise, his lead was sure and correct, if not the most refined. That was fine with her. One of the things she loved most about John was his rough edges.

“Besides,” he whispered, “I could never say no to you.”

“Then tell me, is everything in train for your plan this evening?”

He hadn't confided the whole plan to her. In fact, he claimed not to have told anyone all of it. If everyone did their part, it would all come together. Nothing would be helped by worrying about the bits for which others were responsible, John had said. She desperately wanted to hear him say yes now, that everything was going to work out exactly as they hoped.

But John didn't answer. Instead, his gaze swept over the room, as if he were looking for someone. She followed the direction of his gaze until he finally settled on a footman moving smoothly around the room offering a tray of canapés to the matrons who were seated along the walls to observe the dancing. The footman never glanced toward John.

“Does that footman have something to do with our plans?” she asked.

John pulled his gaze away and smiled down at her. “If he does, he strikes me as a handy fellow at whatever he's tasked to do. Don't fret. Please, Rebecca. I need you to trust me tonight. Do you?”

They drew together for the stylized kiss required by the dance. Even though it couldn't be the kiss she wished for, John's mouth was firm and warm on hers. It settled the unruly flutters in her stomach and gave her a small measure of peace.

“Yes, John,” she whispered. “I'll always trust you.”