The Spinster and the Rake (10 page)

“You needn’t worry, Gilly. I can take care of myself. Unlike my sweet-natured aunt.” Leaning down, she gave her aunt a careless kiss good night. “Happy thirtieth birthday, Gilly. I promise I shall devise a suitable gift to mark the occasion, even if it is a trifle late.” She disappeared out the door, leaving Gillian prey to the greatest misgivings.

It was without question that her sweet-natured aunt was unable to take care of herself. Else she would never have allowed herself to be closeted in that sumptuous back room with a man of Marlowe’s address and reputation. Never would have accepted the beautiful diamond ear-bobs, and most certainly never would have allowed him to kiss her in that devastating fashion. Or kissed him back so enthusiastically.

Of course, she could always blame the champagne. But she knew perfectly well, deep in her heart of hearts, that that excuse wouldn’t hold water. It was with a troubled expression that Gillian crawled into bed just as dawn was streaking the dark sky with purple and rose. As she stared out into the night she found herself wondering where Ronan Marlowe was at that moment. Had he found another, less innocent lady to share his midnight supper of lobster and champagne? Or had he stayed alone in that room, thinking of her with a melancholy air? While the latter was distinctly preferable, Gillian was far too practical to hope such a thing had happened. No doubt he was lying in that gold-hung bed she had glimpsed, sound asleep, his conscience untroubled by any memory of his earlier visitor. The thought was disturbingly enticing—not his untroubled conscience, but the image of his long, lean body stretched out on what would undoubtedly be satin sheets. She wondered what he wore when he slept.

“Damn,” she said aloud, abruptly swearing off champagne for the rest of her life. Shutting her eyes to the lightening sky, she drifted off into a troubled sleep, the diamond earbobs clutched in her hand.

LORD MARLOWE WAS neither in bed nor asleep. As a matter of fact, he was doing exactly what Gillian would have wished. He was sitting alone in his rooms at the gaming salon, a glass of brandy in one slim, long-fingered hand, an abstracted expression on his dark face. And he was contemplating Gillian Redfern.

“So this is where you are.” Vivian’s voice drifted from the doorway. His reddened nose and watery eyes attested to a night of deep drinking, and his empty pockets and peevish temper attested to the quality of his luck at the faro tables. “I wondered where you had gotten to. I thought I’d lost my wager tonight. It’s all of a piece, though. The luck has been damnable lately.”

“You haven’t lost your wager yet, Viv.” Marlowe stirred himself. “That’s not to say you won’t, but it’s far more enjoyable stretching it out.”

“It seems to me the chit is about ready to be plucked,” he observed.

“The
lady,
Viv,” Marlowe corrected in a lazy tone that held a note of steel, “is absurdly vulnerable. But our bet is not about her eventual plucking, like some ripe piece of fruit. Our wager is simply whether she will be ready to compromise herself for me.”

“I would think you had already won,” Viv sneered.

“You forget that the lady
is
a lady. And a Redfern. Sister of Derwent Redfern. I don’t doubt she has strong misgivings about a rackety sort like me. And I have no intention of having her think I might offer for her. That would be cheating.”

“You think you can have her accept a slip on the shoulder? With that famous charm of yours?”

“I don’t doubt it. She’ll accept it, but I have no intention of collecting on her acceptance. Only on our little wager.”

There was an unreadable expression on Vivian’s face as he heard the unwelcome words. “Don’t fancy her much, do you? She’s a well enough looking piece, especially tonight. But there’s no accounting for tastes.” He belched politely.

“I find Miss Redfern quite delightful,” Marlowe replied repressively, draining his brandy glass.

“Then if you like her so much, why don’t you offer her marriage? You could always change your mind. And you’ve got to get leg-shackled sometime.”

“No.”

“Why ever not?” There was real curiosity in the watery eyes.

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern, Viv,” he said, his amiable tone taking a part, but not all, of the sting out of the snub. “Suffice it to say that I intend to free Miss Redfern of the odious constraints of society and then to hand her over to a far more eligible parti.”

“I would have thought a wealthy marquis would be extremely eligible, despite a somewhat shady reputation.”

Marlowe cocked an eye at him. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“You don’t mind if I write the precise nature of this wager down, do you?” Vivian continued, a sly expression on his dissipated face. “My poor brain gets so fuddled I quite often forget the particulars.”

“I would rather not.”

“Oh, you may keep the paper. Wouldn’t want for it to fall into the wrong hands, don’t you know. But really, Ronan, you can’t refuse me this. Unless you prefer to cry off from the entire wager?”

Marlowe hesitated for only a moment. “No, I don’t wish to cry off. Very well, Viv. But we’ll keep the paper in my safe at Bruton Street. I don’t want anyone having access to it.”

“Of course not. It would spoil our wager,” Vivian agreed roundly.

The look of suspicion in Marlowe’s eyes was masked. “Exactly so,” he said gently, and reached for a pen and paper.

Chapter Ten

IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock before Gillian opened her sleepy blue eyes once more, and then it was only under duress. A disgustingly cheerful Felicity bounced into her room unannounced, flinging open the curtains and greeting her muzzy-headed aunt with what the poor, benighted creature could only consider wickedly unfeeling volume.

“Mama has sent me to rouse you, Gilly,” she announced brightly. “I gather Papa forbore to tell her of your activities last night, and she has already had to endure a visit from the cook, demanding this week’s menus, another visit from the children’s governess, who has given her notice, and we’ve only had this poor creature less than a fortnight. And then the children descended with their usual lively spirits, with Jeremy smearing jam all over Mama’s new dress. And Papa left the house in a thunderous mood, and now Mrs. Huddleston and her loathsome daughter Prunella have arrived, subjecting poor Mama to all sorts of inquisitions. So you’d best come rescue her, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Cannot your mama,” Gillian demanded in a plaintive whisper to accommodate the pounding in her head, “manage her household for one morning? She must do it when I am off visiting Pamela or Eunice.”

“No, she doesn’t. Everytime you leave she succumbs to a severe spasm of the nerves which requires her to keep to her bedroom with no visitors, while she subsists on an invalid’s diet of beef tea and caramel creams.”

Gillian laughed, then regretted it as her head took exception to the noise. “You are an amazingly undutiful child,” she chided, throwing back the covers and pulling herself wearily to her feet.

“Not undutiful,” Felicity protested. “I came up here immediately when I noticed Mama’s look of fretful panic. I am merely accustomed to her little ways.”

“Honor thy father and thy mother,” Gillian quoted, rummaging in her closet for something uncomplicated to wear.

“Well, I do, whenever they do anything worth honoring,” Felicity said frankly. “Flossie’s on her way. I caught her in the second pantry with the footman. You’ll have to watch the girl, Gilly. We can’t have her sneaking off with every handsome man she sees.”

Gillian’s busy hands stopped as she blushed a deep red. “You’re absolutely right,” she said in a muffled tone.

“Oh, Gilly, don’t be absurd!” her niece said in stricken tones. “I didn’t mean you.”

“No, you are very wise. It doesn’t do for any poor female to allow herself to be persuaded by the male sex into unbecoming behavior,” she said in a strangled voice.

“Balderdash! Your behavior last night was becoming in the extreme. You have only to look in the mirror.”

“Don’t willfully misunderstand me, Felicity. I . . .” Before she could finish her wrathful sentence her pert niece was out the door with a flounce of her pale yellow skirts. Shaking her head ruefully, Gillian attempted to put herself into some semblance of order, with belated assistance from her breathless, red-faced maid, Flossie.

When she entered the puce drawing room that was Letty’s favorite and even in the best of times made Gillian feel faintly bilious, she wished she could have taken a bit longer. Mrs. Huddleston was still holding forth, her raddled cheeks, beaklike nose, and beady, curious eyes filling Gillian with a sinking feeling. Miss Prunella Huddleston, her only unmarried daughter, was looking similarly curious, and indeed, with the same unprepossessing features as her mama, down to the thin lips and pointed chin, the sight was not aesthetically pleasing to a lady suffering from the effects of a night of overindulgence.

“How delightful to see you again,” Mrs. Huddleston boomed forth, and Gillian nearly wept at the pounding of her head. “Prunella was just expressing great interest as to where you were, weren’t you, my dear?” Miss Prunella had been masking her interest admirably. “It’s been an age since we’ve seen you, Gillian dear. You haven’t changed a bit—the years have been very kind.”

Gritting her teeth, Gillian deposited a kiss on Letty’s plump, sulking cheek and smiled faintly at the two unwelcome visitors. “How thoughtful of you to visit Letty,” she said in her soft voice. “I am sure she has many times wished she could see more of you.”

Letty set her sullen face into an unconvincing smile as she nodded agreement. “I was just saying so to dear Mrs. Huddleston,” she agreed, and only Gillian could recognize the edge in her plaintive tones. “You interrupted us in the midst of the most fascinating conversation, Gillian.”

Grasping at straws, Gillian said quickly, “Oh, forgive me. I’ll just leave . . .”

“Sit down, Gillian.” The note of steel in Letty’s voice was not well disguised, and the sharp-eyed Prunella eyed the sisters-in-law with avid delight. Gillian sat, accepting her fate with stoic forbearance.

“We were discussing the new Lord Marlowe,” Mrs. Huddleston explained with what she no doubt considered charming condescension. “I was asking dear Letty if she knew anything about the man. All sorts of rumors have been flying, and after all, I believe the two of them were rather well acquainted some twenty years ago.”

Gillian stared at her portly sister-in-law with undisguised fascination. “Oh, really? I had no idea, Letty.”

“I haven’t seen the man since he was sent away by his family,” she snapped with more energy than Gillian had seen her exhibit in many a year. “I should hope he had abandoned some of his more ramshackle ways.”

“I think it highly unlikely, despite the respect he owes to the title he never deserved,” Mrs. Huddleston said repressively. “The man has set up a gaming hell, Letty.”

“I had heard something to that effect.”

“And my husband has heard there are all sorts of wicked goings-on. Gambling for outrageous stakes, estates changing hands on the turn of a card.”

“Surely that is nothing new,” said Letty, reaching for a bonbon from the silver dish just in reach of her plump white fingers. “White’s and Watier’s have been operating in such a manner for years.”

“But my husband says there is a question of dishonesty in the play. And that certain people, people highly connected with the place, have developed the habit of luring green young men there and fleecing them shamelessly. Horace wouldn’t tell me where he heard it, but it was
the
most reliable source.”

“I would have thought
the
most reliable source would be Lord Marlowe himself,” Gillian snapped, unable to keep silent any longer. Those beady little eyes turned toward her, and she felt a sense of impending doom.

“I wouldn’t know, my dear. But then, Horace is not unconvinced.”

“Well, if he has such ignoble suspicions why does he continue to frequent the place?” Gillian inquired.

“Because he has no proof. And for some odd reason he likes Marlowe. Gentlemen have ever been incomprehensible. How one could like and admire a man that one suspects of shaving the cards and fleecing innocents is beyond me. And as for Marlowe’s licentious behavior . . . well, the less said about that the better.”

“Amen!” agreed Gillian in a determined tone.

Mrs. Huddleston looked nonplussed for a moment, then ploughed on, undefeated. “His opera dancers are legion. Never has the same one been in his keeping for more than a few weeks. He has been flirting and casting out lures to all sorts of ladies of good reputation, and then, once he has raised hopes in their breasts, he has dropped them and moved on to another.” She sniffed. “Thank heavens he knew better than to trifle with my sweet Prunella.”

Her sweet Prunella did not look similarly gratified at Marlowe’s forbearance. “But that’s not all, Mama,” she said in her whining voice. “Tell them about last night.”

All Gillian’s forebodings came home to roost. “Last night?” she echoed with an admirable attempt at innocence.

“Last night,” Mrs. Huddleston said in awesome tones, “a lady visited Marlowe’s gaming hell. And remained closeted alone with the lecherous beast for almost half an hour!” The sharp eyes left Gillian little doubt they knew perfectly well who that lady had been.

“I don’t know what you’re making such a piece of work over this for,” Letty said fretfully, her understanding not being great. “Any number of ladies must frequent Marlowe’s salon. Sally Jersey has been there and tells me it’s monstrously entertaining.”

“I mean a
lady,
Letty. Someone of heretofore unblemished reputation. Someone we know quite well.” Two pairs of Huddleston eyes were glaring at poor Gillian, and Letty, a bit slow on the uptake but not beyond hope, finally followed the direction of their accusatory gaze to Gillian’s flushed face.

“Good gracious,” she breathed. “You don’t mean . . . ?”

“She does,” replied Gillian, throwing her shoulders back.

“Good gracious,” Letty said again, resorting to another chocolate in her agitation. “I don’t know what Derwent will say to all this.”

“Derwent has already said a great deal about it,” Gillian assured her calmly, controlling her temper with an effort. “He escorted me home from Marlowe’s salon. Mrs. Huddleston forgot to tell you that, and also forgot to mention that I was accompanied by Bertie.”

“Who promptly abandoned you to that—that libertine’s attentions,” Mrs. Huddleston stated, her thin nose pinched in disapproval. “I have regretted coming here with such distressing news, Letty dear, but I believe I know my duty when it lies before me.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mrs. Huddleston,” Letty breathed. “If I had only realized Gillian was capable of such . . .”

Gillian rose to her full height. “Not that I think my presence is having a constraining effect,” she broke in affably, “but I’m certain you will be a great deal more comfortable castigating me without having me here. I promised I would escort Felicity to Hookhams.”

“More novels!” Letty shrieked, incensed. “You’ll be getting more novels, and I blame them for your current licentious behavior!” She blithely ignored the stack of French romances that lay beside her own bed next to the tray of chocolate creams.

“I will be certain, however, that Felicity only reads improving tales, Letty,” Gillian replied politely. “It is always a pleasure to see you both, Mrs. Huddleston. Prunella.” With that she sailed out of the drawing room, leaving more than one lady gasping in outrage.

“BUT I HAVE NOT the slightest desire to go to Hookham’s Lending Library,” Felicity argued as she kept pace with her aunt’s determined progress down the crowded London streets. “I have more than enough to read, and I was rather hoping I would have a chance to get down to see Liam this afternoon.”

“There’ll be time enough for that,” Gillian said grimly. “And as a matter of fact, I have more than enough to read myself. I merely had to leave the house before I did physical violence on that wicked old toad.”

“Mama?” Felicity inquired, surprised.

“Mrs. Huddleston. She arrived this morning with the express purpose of telling Letty where I had been last night. I left the three of them tearing my character to shreds when I could bear it no longer. They were just jealous because Lord Marlowe paid no attention to that bracket-faced daughter of hers. I should have known something like this would happen. I should have never left Winchester, no matter how insupportable I find Pamela’s husband.”

“Now, now, Gilly, don’t be absurd. Then you wouldn’t have met Lord Marlowe.”

“Exactly!”

“And you wouldn’t have those unsuitable diamond ear-bobs that I would give anything for,” Felicity pointed out. “You would be safe and secure and bored to death!”

“I hadn’t noticed I was bored before,” Gillian said stiffly without a great deal of veracity.

“Well, I had. And I think Lord Marlowe’s been very good for you. As long as you remain heart-whole, as you insist you will, I can only think it an excellent thing. You wanted some shaking up.”

“Not that I noticed,” Gillian snapped irritably, her head still pounding somewhat from last night’s exertions. “Are you coming in with me?”

“I thought I might wait out here. It’s such a delightful day I hate to miss any of this glorious sunshine,” Felicity said innocently.

Unfortunately Gillian was too preoccupied to notice this unusual affinity for Mother Nature on the part of her niece. Besides, the aforementioned glorious sunshine was contributing to the monstrous headache.

“You know perfectly well you shouldn’t be out here alone. But I suppose it is useless to try to stop you. I don’t suppose Letty has any faith in my chaperoning abilities anymore.”

“I don’t suppose she does,” Felicity agreed cheerfully.

“Hmmph!” Gillian was too weary and irritable to argue further. “I’ll be out directly. I know precisely what I want, and I don’t doubt they will not have it. Do not talk to strangers, Felicity.”

It took Gillian rather longer to find the book she was seeking, an unusual treatise on lives of monkish contemplation, but at last success was hers. With a feeling of foreboding, the leather-bound volume in her hand, she dashed out the door, her sharp eyes searching the street for her ingenuous niece.

With a sinking feeling Gillian finally discovered her, slender arm entwined through a gentleman’s strong, broadcloth one, her pretty face smiling up as she chattered on at breakneck pace, her eyes fluttering up in a manner that Gillian had come to recognize as Felicity Flirting.

“Blast!” she said under her breath, weaving her way through the passersby on the way to her niece’s rescue. “I cannot leave the child alone for a moment. She’s even worse than I am.”

She was almost upon them when Felicity turned, greeting her aunt with innocent charm as she retained her grip on the gentleman’s arm. “Aunt Gillian!” she cried. “Look who I have found this morning. Was there ever such a fortunate happenstance?”

The tall figure turned, the arm tried to detach itself from Felicity’s limpet grip, and Ronan Blakely, Lord Marlowe, bowed with his customary grace, the faint trace of a quizzical smile in his dark green eyes.