The Spinster and the Rake (14 page)

“Why didn’t you bring a gun?” Marlowe inquired curiously, pouring two glasses of brandy and handing one to the flustered cleric.

“I . . . I couldn’t find one. I am not in the habit of using firearms in the city, you know,” Liam said stiffly, trying to refuse the brandy.

“Drink it, damn you.” Marlowe’s voice was abrupt, his patience at an end. “You need it even more than I do. And then I would like you to answer some questions.”

“What sort of questions?” he demanded suspiciously, taking a cautious sip of the brandy and letting out a sigh. It was a very fine brandy, and Liam, despite his monastic tendencies, appreciated a good brandy.

“Concerning Miss Redfern. I think I have the right to ask them, since you seem intent on my giving up any claim I might have toward her. Let me assure you, if I had known she was attached I would never have . . . have . . .”

“Cast your wicked lures in her direction?” Liam supplied furiously, remembering that this soft-spoken gentleman with the lazy smile was his beloved’s seducer.

“Well, I doubt I would have phrased it in just that way,” Marlowe replied apologetically. “But I suppose that will have to do. I can understand perfectly why she would prefer you to me. You look like the very model for ‘The Corsair.’ But I wonder if you aren’t a trifle young for her.”

“I am twenty-six!” he shot back, his face pink from the Byronic allusion.

“Exactly so. And Miss Redfern is thirty.”

“Miss Redfern is eighteen!”

Marlowe stared at him for a long, incredulous moment. “Are we discussing Miss
Felicity
Redfern?”

“Of course,” Liam snapped. “Who else?”

“I was under the impression it was Miss Gillian Redfern who was the subject of my unholy attentions. For such, I must assure you, is the case. The only thing I would like to do with Miss Felicity Redfern is to spank her.”

“Gillian? You mean Felicity’s aunt?” Liam was still a few paces behind. “But what would you want with Felicity’s aunt?”

“I would suppose precisely what you want with her niece,” Marlowe said with a grin.

“Marriage?”

Marlowe shrugged. “I’m afraid not. My intentions are not so honorable as your own, I must confess. Ascribe it to my wickedly sinful nature. You will be pleased to know, Mr. Blackstone, that I have met Miss Felicity Redfern on only two occasions, during which she interfered with my pursuit of her aunt to an annoying degree. I am afraid she is making a may-game of you, my dear boy.”

“No doubt you’re right.” Liam stared at the Aubusson carpet in numb misery. “I know her far too well to deny that such is a distinct possibility.”

“I would suggest you go home and get a good night’s sleep. I am certain the light of day will bring forth an explanation of Miss Felicity’s little stratagems. I have no doubt you could ascribe better motives to it than I could.”

“She wants me to marry her, sir,” he offered. “And I told her I didn’t deserve her, and I couldn’t.”

“I would think the shoe is on the other foot,” Marlowe observed. “In any case she seems determined to prove it.”

Liam appeared much struck. “That must be it. I am amazed her aunt let her send that note.”

“You may also rest assured that Miss Gillian Redfern would not so forget her responsibilities as to let her niece compromise herself. Trust to it that Miss Felicity is safely asleep in bed. Tomorrow, if I were you, I would go and castigate her soundly, and then agree to marry her.”

“Her parents don’t approve.”

Marlowe snorted. “I would expect I can do something about that also. Go home, Mr. Blackstone, and get some rest.”

Chapter Fourteen

LORD MARLOWE WAS half right. Felicity was sound asleep in bed. Unfortunately, it was his bed.

It hadn’t taken a very great deal of ingenuity for Felicity to gain entrance into the fastness of Blakely House on Bruton Street. Both Redfern misses were only too aware that his residence was visible from the third story of Redfern House, and a week’s perusal had armed Felicity with the information that the windows of what appeared to be Marlowe’s study were usually left open to the damp night air. She was a strong, agile girl, and climbing over the railings and onto the small wrought-iron balcony had proved no more than a mild challenge. It had taken her longer to find Marlowe’s bedroom in the dark, deserted stretches of hallway, none of the apartments suiting her notion of what a hardened sybarite would inhabit. But finally she chose the large front suite, not because of its simple, almost Spartan furnishings that hardly brought to mind the rakish Lord Marlowe, but because she recognized his extensive wardrobe in the adjoining dressing room.

As she stepped out of her morocco dancing slippers (a bit damp from her midnight sojourn) she felt a flash of doubt assail her. But Liam would receive her note, she could count on that. And she had it on Bertie’s reluctant authority that Marlowe never left the gaming hell on St. James’s Street until well into the morning. By that time she would be rescued and well on her way to Gretna Green if she had anything to say about the matter. Thinking of Liam’s dangerous eyes and warm, bold mouth, she climbed onto the huge, soft bed with a sigh, burrowing down beneath the coverlet and wriggling her toes. To be sure, it was an obscenely large bed, just the right size for all manner of orgies, but then, Lord Marlowe was a very large man. No doubt he needed all this room to rest in comfort. She wondered what Gillian would think if she were to see it. With a yawn she nestled down farther into the inviting warmth and closed her eyes, prepared to wait in comfort for her rescuer. In a few moments she was asleep. So soundly did she sleep, in fact, that she failed to awake when a tall gentleman strode into the darkened chamber a few hours later, swore under his breath at the sight of her guileless repose, and beat a hasty retreat.

“MISS GILLIAN!” Flossie’s piercing whisper finally penetrated through the mists of sleep, and Gillian sat bolt upright in her elegant room on Berkeley Square, her heart pounding in fright.

“Good heavens, Flossie, what’s come over you?” she demanded irascibly. “You frightened me half to death. What time is it?”

“Half past four, miss. I’m sorry to waken you, but I wouldn’t have except that it was ever so important. I’ve got a message for you.”

“A message for me?” Gillian found herself matching Flossie’s whisper. “At four in the morning? Have you lost your senses?”

“No, miss. It’s from Lord Marlowe, miss.”

All trace of drowsiness vanished in a flash. With shaking hands Gillian lit the tinder beside her bed. The candlelight revealed her flighty maidservant in even greater disarray than usual. With a great effort Gilly forced herself to be calm, swinging her legs from the warmth and comfort of her soft bed. “I think you’d best try to explain this, Flossie, calmly and rationally, if you think you could manage. First of all, how did you manage to get a message from Lord Marlowe at this hour?”

Flossie’s ruddy face flushed a deeper shade. “I was visiting a gentleman friend,” she stated with a touch of defiance. “Lord Marlowe’s head coachman, James, if you must know.”

“At four in the morning? Never mind, Flossie. I cannot say that I am surprised.”

“Well, it’s a fortunate thing I was there, what with the servants tearing all over the place, and his lordship demanding someone sneak into your bedroom and leave you this note,” she said with self-righteous dignity.

“He demanded what?” Gilly shrieked.

“If you’ll let me finish, miss,” Flossie said in an aggrieved tone of voice.

Gilly took a deep breath. “Please continue.”

“Miss Felicity is there. At least, that’s what James told me in the strictest confidence. He got it from the housekeeper, who knew we were keeping company, but none of the other servants are supposed to know about it.”

“Don’t be absurd. Felicity is sound asleep with the toothache.” Even as she spoke Gillian was assailed with strong misgivings.

“No, she’s not, miss. I was so bold as to check on my way in here, and her bed is filled with pillows made to look like she was sound asleep. She’s been up to something these past few days, and I don’t doubt for a moment that Lord Marlowe is in the midst of it.”

Gillian shook off the numb feeling of despair that had swept over her. “You said he sent a message?” Her voice came out sounding surprisingly normal, considering the depths of her misery.

Belatedly Flossie pulled a thick vellum note from her deep cleavage and handed it to her mistress. “He said as how you was to come straight back with me before anyone could find out,” she continued, going on in her artless prattle as Gilly read the brief message in the strong, bold handwriting that seemed characteristic of the man.

Miss Redfern.

Your tiresome niece has chosen to involve me in her latest harum-scarum adventure. If you have any feelings of pity for an aging rogue, you will come to my rescue immediately. I’ve sent for her fiancé, but I have little doubt he may be tempted to run me through when he espies the wretched contretemps Felicity has forced upon me.

Marlowe

“Oh, my heavens,” Gilly breathed, aware of a strong feeling of relief washing over her. “That miserable, wretched girl. I warned her she would go too far. Find me some clothing, Flossie. Something simple that I may throw over my night rail. I haven’t time to dress properly.”

“You aren’t going over there, are you, miss?” Flossie asked, scandalized. “To a gentleman’s house? At this hour of the night?”

“I most certainly am. I cannot abandon Felicity, even though she richly deserves it. Fetch me that pale blue dress.”

“But, miss, that’s years out of style . . .”

“Damn you, Flossie, if you won’t be silent and do as I tell you I will box your ears. I am in no mood to listen to your chatter,” she said abruptly, and then touched the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I snapped, Flossie. I’m terribly worried about Miss Felicity.”

“That’s all right, miss.” Flossie sniffed, an irritating habit of hers, as she watched her mistress throw the soft blue walking dress over the thin cotton nightgown. A moment later she protested as her mistress slipped bare feet into a pair of dancing slippers and tossed a light cape around her shoulders. “You’re never going out like that, miss!” she protested, horrified. “Your hair all down your back, and scarcely a stitch on under your dress . . .” Her voice trailed off as her mistress turned wrathfully.

“I presume you know how to leave this house without anyone else being aware of it. I cannot believe Letty’s housekeeper would countenance your little trysts.”

“Yes, miss. But I don’t see why you need to be in such a hurry. From the look on his lordship’s face I’m sure he wouldn’t touch Miss Felicity with a ten-foot pole.”

“He wasn’t pleased to see her?” Gilly couldn’t help but seek confirmation of the note.

“Blazing mad is more like it,” Flossie said artlessly.

HE WAS STILL blazing mad when Gillian was shown into his study by a poker-faced butler still correctly attired despite the absurd hour. Flossie was sent to the kitchens to await her mistress, and as the door closed behind Gilly’s straight figure she felt a moment’s trepidation—trepidation that was not in any way lessened as Marlowe rose from behind the desk, his tall, lean form threatening in the wavering lamplight. His green eyes surveyed her for a long, deliberate moment: the unbound hair a tawny cloud down her back, the thin barrier of clothing feeling suddenly transparent to his slow, languorous regard. Gillian found herself blushing, and Marlowe’s eyes lightened as a smile reached them.

“Thank heavens you have come,” he said simply, moving across the room in a few grateful strides and taking her unwilling hand in his strong, capable one. “What are we to do with that wretched child?”

“I . . . I don’t understand what happened,” she stammered, telling herself that he smiled in just that fashion at everybody, that the strong hand holding hers was nothing more to her than a polite gesture.

“As far as I can make it out,” he said, drawing her into the room toward the fire and the sofa directly in front of it, “she has concocted some scheme in which she hopes to render herself compromised. She seems to feel that this will make her acceptable to a rather serious young cleric who knocked me up earlier this evening.”

“Mr. Blackstone?” Gillian inquired, sinking down on the sofa without recognizing the dangers of Marlowe’s proximity. As he nodded, she sighed. “Poor, poor Felicity.”

“Poor Felicity?” Marlowe echoed, incensed, as he threw himself down beside her with easy grace. “What about poor, poor Marlowe? If Derwent Redfern were ever to get wind of it, he would insist I marry the chit. And I have no intention of getting leg-shackled, to her or to anyone else.” He spoke the words unflinchingly, and there was no way Gilly could pretend to misunderstand their meaning.

“I don’t think that’s what Felicity had in mind. Liam Blackstone thinks she’s too good for him, and Felicity’s parents are inclined to agree.”

“They would,” Marlowe snorted.

“But she’s stayed remarkably constant during the past three years. I think she truly does love him, and I think he would be the making of her. And vice versa.”

“Do you? I found them peculiarly ill matched, myself.”

“But that’s because you’ve never seen them together. Mr. Blackstone has a tendency to take himself too seriously, and Felicity depresses all his pretensions admirably with a laugh and a turn of phrase. As for her more extravagant habits, he seems able to control them with a gentle reproof. But Letty and Derwent won’t be made to see the sense of it. And you see what it leads to? She was ever such a headstrong girl.”

“You think they should marry?” Marlowe inquired coolly. “You think that Blackstone might be willing to, after tonight’s behavior?”

“You said you saw him earlier. He must know perfectly well that you had no interest in . . . in compromising her.” She stumbled slightly over the words.

“No, indeed. He quite upset me for a moment with his rantings and accusations, however.” There was a wicked smile on his lean, dark face.

“I wouldn’t think it would be pleasant to be accused of harboring evil designs on young ladies,” Gilly offered nervously.

“That bothers me not in the slightest. I am more likely to be offended if someone thought I was harmless. No, your Mr. Blackstone upset me with his proprietary attitude because I thought his beloved was the elder Miss Redfern.” He was rewarded with an even deeper blush, and his hand reached out to catch one long strand of her silken hair. “I always thought,” he continued in a meditative voice, “what a great shame that women are never allowed to have their hair unbound.” His other hand came up and caught her willful chin, forcing her to meet his laughing, dangerous eyes. “When it renders them irresistibly beautiful.” His voice was husky, and he moved closer, his lips hovering over hers for a long, breathless moment.

“My lord,” Gillian breathed helplessly, mesmerized by his proximity.

A smile curved the mouth so very close to hers. “That’s rather formal, don’t you think?” he questioned softly. “My name is Ronan.”

Gillian felt as if she were drowning, impaled by those searing green eyes. “Ronan,” she whispered. “Please . . .”

“Don’t you think I deserve some sort of reward for the trials and tribulations I have been forced to endure this evening?” His voice was soft, soothing, seductive, and Gillian felt her resolve slipping from her. His mouth was so close, barely inches away, and she could feel his breath warm on her face, feel his heartbeat thudding in time with hers. So very close. It would take but an instant to cross the small barrier that separated them. He was waiting, watching, his eyes hooded, that enticing mouth so damnably close. With a sigh she moved toward him, just as the door to the study was flung open.

The word Marlowe uttered under his breath was in a foreign language, and Gillian could only be glad. Its meaning was far too clear as he jumped away from her, meeting Liam Blackstone’s fulminating gaze with surprisingly shaken calm.

“So you were lying to me,” Liam began, advancing upon the taller man in a menacing fashion. “I should have known a man of your ilk couldn’t be trusted. You low-lying, gutter-crawling, disreputable—”

“Mr. Blackstone!” Gilly rose from her ignominious position on the couch, brushing her trailing hair behind her in an ineffectual gesture. “You owe Lord Marlowe an apology. Felicity has placed him in an extremely embarrassing position, and he doesn’t need any more insults from you to add to his burdens.”

Liam stared at her, his beautiful brown eyes wide in amazement. “Miss Redfern!” he gasped. “You’re here? But why?”

“To try and salvage the harm my niece has done to her reputation, and all for love of you,” Gilly said fiercely. “I am surprised at you, Liam. If the two of you had just shown a bit more resolution we wouldn’t be in this pickle right now. Don’t you realize that Felicity will never be happy with anyone but you? She doesn’t care for balls or dresses or society half as much as she cares for you.” She was uncomfortably aware of the amusement in Marlowe’s hooded eyes as he witnessed this confrontation, but she pressed onward nonetheless. “If you had merely shown you meant to stick by your intentions, my brother and his wife would have acquiesced before long. But you gave in without a fight, leaving my poor Felicity to pine away.”

“I hadn’t noticed she was pining,” Marlowe interjected, and Gilly cast him a fulminating glance.

Liam bowed his head. “I suppose I did give in too easily. But I thought it was God’s will that that beautiful creature be denied to me. If I cannot control my wretchedly lustful nature, what good will I be to the people I’m supposed to lead?”