Candice Hern (19 page)

Life was easier now. Hedonism always was, he supposed. He enjoyed his life, doing as he pleased, answerable to no one. He lived well, but never got too attached to things. Or people.

Which was why he hesitated at the humble brick portal of Marlowe House. He had no news for Jane, though his man of affairs was looking into a few possibilities. And he had no wish to reminisce about the past with her. No, it was young Toby's face he could not shake from his mind, the boy who looked so much like Rochdale's old friend. The thought of that eager lad stuck in this place with a bunch of women did not sit well with him. Martin would not have approved. In fact, he would have hated it. Perhaps Toby did, too. Rochdale feared the boy might have the same impetuous streak that had got his father into so much mischief. But getting into mischief in London was another thing entirely. It was dangerous. Toby already had some taste of life in the streets. There was no telling what sort of skills he might have picked up in St. Giles. He just might think he was clever enough to survive on his own.

That, of course, is what drew Rochdale inexorably back to Chelsea. He did not want Martin's son lost in the stews of London. He would do his best to get him away, to find Jane a position in the country, where Toby could do all the rough, dirty, noisy things that boys did. In the meantime, Rochdale meant to give him a respite from all those females.

He stepped up to the door of Marlowe House and lifted the knocker.

* * *

Grace was feeling positively buoyant after her meeting with Mr. Willets, the architect who was to design the improvements to Marlowe House. His sketches were spread out before her, covering the desk in the small office she kept there. He would provide more detailed plans soon, but the initial designs he had presented today with these drawings were everything she could have hoped for, and more.

She could never have imagined having so much money available for Marlowe House and all the services it provided. And she had wasted no time in putting the unexpected windfall of Rochdale's donation to good use.

They could now afford more than just a new south wing. They were going to add a second story to the north wing as well. Mr. Willets had been justifiably proud of the more unified design, and the way he had integrated more modern features with the original Restoration structure. But what pleased Grace even more was what all that new space represented: accommodations for a great many more residents and the expansion of other areas, like the workshops and schoolrooms.

There would now be separate schoolrooms and teachers for the younger children and the older children. Mrs. Chalk had pressed for the new schoolrooms to be used to segregate the boys from the girls, but Grace felt it more efficient to separate them by age. It was not as though the girls here would receive lessons in deportment while the boys learned Greek and Latin. These were children who needed basic reading and writing skills, as well as simple mathematics, regardless of gender. If they learned no more than how to read, they would be in much better positions to find work as they got older. One of the guiding principles of Marlowe House was that a sound education provided one with better opportunities in life, and could mean the difference between security and destitution. If the children did not have, at the very least, reading skills, they were more likely to end up in dire circumstances. Many of their mothers could not read, either, and some of them sat alongside their children in the classroom so they could learn, too. Others felt awkward doing so, especially as their children learned more quickly, as children often did. Grace hoped to introduce a special reading class for adults so that the women would feel less inadequate.

Mr. Willets had promised a final estimate of costs and a detailed schedule by the end of the week. He did, however, seem confident that all could be completed before winter.

As she gathered up the drawings and the sheets of notes on the building project, Grace felt a wave of overwhelming gratitude for Rochdale's involvement. Without him, none of it would have been possible, at least not in so short a time.

The problem, however, was that when one felt grateful to a person for doing something entirely good and worthy, one tended to overlook that much of that person's life was entirely bad. Grace tried to ignore Rochdale's reputation as a libertine and simply be thankful for all he'd done for Marlowe House. He made it difficult, though, by continuing to pursue her.

In the last week, she'd met him at every social function she attended. Every rout, every card party, every ball — Rochdale was there. He had made an appearance in her drawing room again yesterday, when she was receiving callers. This time he'd come face to face with Margaret, and Grace had almost lost her famous composure. Rochdale had merely smiled at Margaret — one of his teasing, devilish smiles — and she had given him the cut direct. Rochdale, as Margaret must have known, was indifferent to her insult, not caring what Margaret or anyone else thought of him, and had actually laughed about it. But Grace had been forced to listen to another of Margaret's lectures on propriety and the bishop's memory, and had come very close to telling her stepdaughter to mind her own business. She had not done so, of course, but had instead stoically listened to every scornful word.

Though he popped up everywhere, Rochdale had not kissed her again, for she had not allowed herself to be alone with him. He did, though, take every opportunity to surreptitiously touch her — a brief stroke of her arm, a quick caress of her shoulder — and each touch made her feel horribly wicked.

Because despite how wrong it was, she wanted more. God would surely punish her for such wayward desires, but she could not seem to stop them. Her friends continued their encouragement, believing she should take what Rochdale offered and enjoy it. But they did not understand. It was not as simple as that. Not for her. She could admit to feeling wicked, but to actually act on those feelings was a more serious matter.

Sometimes Grace wished she could be more like Beatrice, for example, who entered into a love affair with Thayne without a single qualm. No, that was not true. She did have qualms, but only because of who he was — a younger man for whom her niece had set her cap — and not for what they did together. Penelope, God knew, had no reservations about taking Eustace Tolliver to her bed. Marianne had preferred an affair with Adam Cazenove before he talked her into marrying him. And Wilhelmina ... well, there was no telling how many men she'd had in her life.

It was easier for her friends, the Merry Widows. They had not been trained by a great church leader to see the evils of physical passion. None of them became awash in self-loathing every time she longed for a man's touch, as Grace did. None of them worried about going to hell for daring to enjoy a libertine's kiss, as Grace did. None of them felt guilty for being flattered that a man like Rochdale found her attractive, as Grace did. Neither did they have to contend with a stepdaughter's Greek chorus of shame, or dreams of a saintly husband's reprimands.

They encouraged her to forget about the bishop and his daughter, and she tried to do so. She really tried. It had become easy to dismiss Margaret, whose self-righteousness had begun to pall. The bishop was more difficult to forget when a full-length portrait of him, grand and austere in his formal robes, faced her on the first landing whenever she went up or down the stairs at Portland Place. A better likeness, capturing the more gentle countenance she had known so well, hung in the drawing room.

The bishop's presence was strong in the Portland Place house, even after Grace had redecorated some of the rooms in a more feminine style. And lately, he had haunted her dreams with increased frequency, but not as Ignatius, the kindly, indulgent husband who treated her like a delicate porcelain figurine. It was Bishop Marlowe who visited her dreams, his gentle brow furrowed in disapproval as he delivered private sermons on the evils of the flesh.

No doubt the dreams were a result of editing his sermons, which she most often did in the evenings before retiring. Last night she had found one in which he wrote of the weaker sex and the fragile nature of female virtue. "The virtuous woman," he wrote, "is to be honored for the difficult burden involved in remaining chaste and modest, uncorrupted by the coarse nature of men or depraved women. Those strong, ready passions that are natural in the male are indelicate and undesirable in a female. Modesty and decency forbid them from indulging in those natural urges which, in the male, cannot be denied. The virtuous woman's rejection of such earthly desires keeps her closer to heaven."

As she read on, Grace remembered how she had always felt these pronouncements to be directed at her, as reminders that he wanted her to be a shining example of the virtuous wife, and not the naïve girl who'd come to him expecting to enjoy physical intimacy with her husband. She had a different reaction to the words now. Having friends who unashamedly enjoyed sexual intimacy gave her a different perspective. She did not believe for a moment that either Beatrice or Marianne or Penelope or even Wilhelmina was an indecent, depraved woman who would be barred from heaven. The bishop had been wrong about them.

Had he been wrong about her, too?

Grace's thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Come in," she called, and began tidying her desk, organizing Willets's drawings and plans into neat piles.

Jane Fletcher stepped into the room. "I hope I am not interrupting?"

"Not at all. Come in and have a seat, Jane."

She did so, then said, "I have come to thank you for sending Lord Rochdale to take Toby in hand."

"Lord Rochdale has been back?" He had not mentioned it.

"Oh, yes. He comes most every day and takes Toby off to some sporting event or other. He has even begun teaching the boy to ride." A smile lit her face, making her appear years younger. "Toby is beside himself with the pleasure of it all. Can't stop talking about his lordship and all the things they do together. It's the first sparkle I've seen in his eyes in a very long time. And I wanted to thank you for it. Lord Rochdale says it was your idea to provide Toby with more male companionship. You were right. He is surrounded by women here, with only a few younger boys to play with. Bless you for sending Lord Rochdale for him."

Grace bit her tongue. She'd been about to blurt out that she had not, in fact, sent Rochdale, but decided to allow him his little charade. So, he had not been able to resist Toby, but attributed his visits to a fictitious request from Grace. The wretched man was determined to keep his bad reputation intact. Heaven forbid that anyone should suspect he cared about a young boy, or that he had taken the boy under his wing out of kindness. The wicked Rochdale would never do anything so selfless.

Grace smiled. She knew there was good in him. No matter what anyone said, she had suspected all along that he could not be as bad as he seemed.

"I am glad to hear Toby is enjoying himself."

"He is. Thanks to you. I am no end pleased that you decided that John — Lord Rochdale, I mean — would not be a bad influence on the boy. He's a good man, and very good to Toby. Good to us all. He's trying to arrange for us to go back to Suffolk to live. Did you know? Toby has taken a liking to horses, and John thinks he would be a good stable boy at the old Bettisfont stables. He keeps all his horses there, you know, and it is where they get trained for racing."

"And Toby is to be a stable boy? How marvelous for him. But what of you and Sally? Surely you will not allow Toby to go to Bettisfont alone?"

Jane shook her head. "No, we'll go all. John — Lord Rochdale, I mean — I can't seem to get used to calling him that; it always sounds like I'm speaking of his father. Anyway, he is having our old farmhouse repaired. Imagine that. We will actually be living in our own house again, the house where I was so happy with Martin. The children have never seen it, of course, but they will love it. I'll keep a small vegetable garden and maybe some nice roses, too."

One more clue as to the true nature of Lord Rochdale. What would his gambling associates think to know that he had such a kind heart? "It sounds lovely," Grace said. "I'll miss all of you, but I am always pleased to see our families well placed. Lord Rochdale will make sure you are provided for, I am sure."

"Oh, no, we don't want to be his charity family." Jane's posture had stiffened and there was a proud angle to her lifted chin. "It's enough that he is making a home available to us. We'll pay him rent, same as anyone would. He's going to have all three of us working at Bettisfont. Seems there's quite a large staff at the stables, what with all the horses to look after. Dozens and dozens, I hear. I am to be a cook and Sally my helper." The challenge in her pose transformed into an almost girlish preening. She grinned and said, "Isn't that grand?"

"It is indeed. Will you like that, cooking for a group of men? I imagine the staff is all men."

"Remember, Mrs. Marlowe, that I followed the drum for fourteen years. I'm used to being around a bunch of dirty, hungry, foulmouthed brutes. I can hold my own with them, don't you worry. Though they'll watch their language around me and Sally if I have any say in the matter."

Grace was genuinely pleased for Jane's good fortune. The woman's face beamed with happiness as they spoke a while longer about Bettisfont and what the future held there. Finally, Jane rose and said she had to get back to work. "Cooking for all the folks here is good practice for me."

Grace followed her out the office door. She needed to run Alice Chalk to earth and let her know of the improvements Mr. Willets had proposed. As they walked toward the entry hall, Grace said, "Do you suppose he will ever rebuild the house?"

There was no need for Jane to ask of whom Grace spoke, or of what house. "I don't know. Someday, perhaps. When he's finished punishing God for what happened."

"Punishing God? Is that what you —"

"Mama!" The ear-splitting shriek of pure delight was followed by the charge of a very dirty young boy through the front door and across the entry hall. Toby came to a skidding halt in front of his mother and lifted his face to proudly display an eye swollen shut and rimmed in a deep purple bruise.