Never Resist a Rake (16 page)

“Hartley, you've grown even more handsome since I saw you last. Do you suppose there's something to wholesome country air? Gives me hope for poor Smalley and Pitcairn.” Lady Chloe Endicott's red cherry of a mouth stretched into a broad smile. John brought her hand to his lips for a correct kiss. “How glad I am to see you.”

“Not half as glad as I am to see you, my lady,” he said. “How was your journey?”

“Crowded.”

Blackwood climbed down from the carriage behind her, followed swiftly by Pitcairn and Smalley. Lady Chloe's saucy French maid scrambled down from her perch beside the driver and, in heavily accented English, stridently instructed the Somerfield Park footman on the proper unloading of her mistress's trunks and accoutrements.

“Crowded, but lively,” Lady Chloe amended. “You know how I loathe being alone. The gentlemen's conversation made the miles pass by more quickly.”

“We'd have done more than bump our gums,” Smalley said, his affected country accent finally finding an appropriate venue, “but Lady Chloe don't allow no cards in the coach.”

“Just as well,” Blackwood said with a yawn. “I'd have cleaned out you and Pitcairn before we reached Tincross Bottom, and then you'd have nothing else to lose the whole time we're here.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Chloe said. “All three of you would have been left with nothing but your drawers if we'd gambled away the time and you know it, Blackwood. I can always tell when you're bluffing.”

“Why is that, I wonder?”

“Because, my dear Lord Blackwood, it's the only time your gaze is not glued to my décolletage.” She laughed. It wasn't the merry tinkle of a green girl, but the full-throated laughter of a woman who was sure of her own femininity and enjoyed flaunting it everywhere she went.

Mr. Hightower, who'd been trying to appear as if he weren't hanging on every word, coughed to cover his shock as his bushy brows shot skyward. The staid butler would only be the first to be scandalized by his friends, John suspected. He was beginning to look forward to this house party very much indeed.

“Mr. Hightower, please see Viscount Blackwood and Messrs. Smalley and Pitcairn to their rooms.”

“And the lady, my lord?”

“I'll escort Lady Chloe to her chamber after we have a spot of tea in the parlor. She and I have a few things to discuss. See to it, Mr. Hightower.”

“Very good, my lord. Toby.” Hightower snapped his fingers at the footman. “Step lively and see to his lordship's tea. This way, gentlemen, if you'll be pleased to follow me.”

Whatever his private thoughts about the new arrivals, Hightower was quick to do John's bidding. Sometimes, it was very good to be Lord Hartley.

His friends followed the butler, cracking jokes and warning John not to let Lady Chloe pull out a deck of cards in the parlor unless he wanted to end up in his drawers. Chloe took his arm and smiled up at him warmly.

“They're right, you know. If we cut a deck, I'd see you in your unmentionables,” she assured him.

“That's why I won't play cards with you.”

“Oh, Hartley, you don't know what you're missing. I'd make certain it was great fun for you, even if you lose.”

“Not if,
when
I lose,” he admitted. “You are a masterful poque player.”

Lady Chloe was also gracious when it suited her, and she deftly turned the conversation to a more socially acceptable topic. She chatted quite properly about the beauties of the Somerset countryside as they strolled at a leisurely pace up to the first-floor parlor, where tea was waiting for them. Lady Chloe nodded to the maid who brought the hurriedly assembled tray.

“I'll pour out myself. You may go,” Chloe told the girl. She took her seat on the striped settee as if she were mistress of the place and began arranging the teapot, cups, and saucers to suit her. Her upbringing as the daughter of an earl showed in every graceful movement.

“Thank you, Sarah.” John was making it his business to learn the servants' names as quickly as he could. The girl rewarded him with a toothsome smile, bobbed a deep curtsy, and then left, pulling the door closed behind her.

“I freely confess it, Hartley. You have me on pins,” Lady Chloe said as she poured the tea into egg-shell thin cups. “What is this mysterious tête-à-tête about?”

“Well, I hope—”

“One lump or two?”

Why did women always try to foist sugar on him? “None. I'm a simple man.”

“That I seriously doubt. The quiet ones are always the most complicated. And the most worth unraveling.” She handed him a steaming cup and prepared her own with a generous dollop of milk and one lump of sugar. “Tell me, Hartley. What's afoot here?”

His plan had seemed a good one when the idea first came to him. Now he wondered if her role in the game he intended to play would offend her. Still, she was his friend. If she wouldn't help him, who would?

John shared his scheme, and, along with it, his hopes and a piece of his twisted soul. She listened without interruption. When he finished, she leaned back on the settee, teacup halfway to her artfully rouged lips. Chloe peered at him through half-closed eyes, considering him like a tabby studying a mouse hole.

He had no idea what was racing around in her pretty little head. No wonder she was a terror at a poque table.

Lady Chloe smiled at him, her teeth stark white against her red lips. It struck him as a feral smile. Then the smile moved up to crinkle the corners of her eyes, and the predatory impression vanished. His heart-stopping, sleepless night on the roof with Rebecca was making his imagination run rampant.

“Well, what do you think? I can't do this without you, my lady,” he asked. “Will you help me?”

“Why not?” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. “It'll be fun.”

I have always subscribed to the adage “One must begin as one means to continue.” Fortunately, my grandson Hartley has been given a rare opportunity to begin a second time.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

John came down the grand staircase with a spring in his step. For the first time since he had learned he was Lord Hartley, he finally felt in control of his destiny. He had a plan. He wasn't waiting for things to happen to him anymore. He was acting instead of reacting.

He intended to make a memorable impression on the Upper Crust tonight. Mr. Porter had moved heaven and earth to make sure he looked every inch the marquess's heir. The valet nearly had a case of the vapors when John called for his striking pink waistcoat. Porter seemed beyond grateful when John relented and allowed himself to be dressed in elegant, Brummell-esque simplicity.

John caught his reflection in the tail of his eye as he passed the tall, decorative mirror on one of the grand staircase's landings.

Porter was right.

He couldn't look more aristocratic if he'd been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. So much the better for his plan.

He only wished he'd been able to speak to Rebecca about it first. Perhaps if he arrived in the drawing room early enough, he'd be able to pull her aside for a few moments. When he reached the foot of the staircase, he quickened his pace.

“Hartley, a word in your ear before we go through to our guests.” From the shadows in the corner of the foyer, the dowager's voice stopped him in his tracks. They had yet to speak more than a few words to each other, and John was content to keep it that way. However, good manners required him to stop and acknowledge her with a shallow bow. He wouldn't think of her as his grandmother, but he couldn't deny she had been a marchioness.

“My lady.”

“I had wished to speak with you earlier, but you have been avoiding me.”

“You're mistaken.” Avoiding her would require him to be aware of her. Since she had blithely dismissed him for most of his life, he was merely returning the favor.

“Be that as it may…” Leaning heavily on her ivory-headed cane, Lady Somerset the elder stepped from where she'd obviously been lying in wait for him. “My, you're quite…presentable, aren't you?”

“You needn't sound so surprised.”

“I'm not. It is to be quite expected.” Pulling out her lorgnette and holding it to one eye, she circled him slowly, making a thorough inspection. “After all, you are a Barrett.”

“How gracious of you to finally come to that conclusion,” he said, his tone biting.

“You might give me a bit of credit.” She dropped the lorgnette, letting it dangle on its silver chain, and whipped out her fan, fluttering it furiously before herself. “When one is not in full possession of the facts of a matter, it is easy to make a lapse in judgment.”

“A lapse in judgment,” John repeated woodenly. “Is that how you explain relegating your own flesh and blood to obscurity?”

“I did not know—”

“That I was legitimate. Yes, I'll give you that. However, you didn't doubt I was your son's progeny. Otherwise, you wouldn't have provided for the Coopersmiths to foster me. I'd have been cast out on the streets to fend for myself.”

The dowager's lips tightened into a thin line, like the mark of a spade on an old potato. “How heartless you must think me.”

“Madam, I try very hard not to think of you at all.”

When he would have moved on, she lifted a hand to stay him. “My husband had died a scant month before Hugh was expected to wed Lady Helen. That match was his final wish. Once I was made aware of you, there were so many decisions clamoring at me and no time to make them. Would you have had me upend my husband's last act as marquess and overturn my son's happiness for a child we all believed was…”

A
bastard
was left hanging unsaid. John let it echo in the silence.

“Nevertheless,” the dowager plowed on, “I wish to express…that is to say, regret is not a very fruitful emotion, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have any.”

John blinked in surprise. It was almost an apology.

“However, the past is the past and has little bearing on our present. You must realize now that everything which has been done was for your benefit.”

“I fail to see how growing up as an unacknowledged bastard redounded to my benefit.”

“You are very bitter. I understand that.”

“How gratifying to be understood.”

He took a step in the direction of the drawing room, but the dowager put a bejeweled hand on his forearm to stop him.

“You haven't let me finish.”

“Trust me, madam, as far as I'm concerned, you are finished.” He shook her off and started to walk away.

“John Fitzhugh Barrett!”

He stopped and rounded on her. “I don't believe I've given you leave to address me by my Christian name.”

“I don't believe I asked your leave, you impertinent pup.” She glared up at him. “I call all my grandchildren by their given names. Why should you be any different? Now come back here this instant and give me your arm. We'll go through together. You may be the handsomest devil in Somerfield Park this evening, and the most eligible bachelor in Christendom, but even you will benefit from having a veritable institution at your side. And trust me, I am that.”

John hesitated, wrestling with himself. Part of him wanted to remain aloof and untouchable.

Don't let anyone close and you won't give them a chance to turn on you.

Another part wanted to offer his arm to this woman who considered herself his grandmother enough to scold him and call him by name.

The six-year-old who still lived inside him won.

“That's better,” the dowager said as she slipped her bony knuckles around his elbow. “I knew you were quick-minded.”

“This is when good form would oblige me to say I come from good stock.”

“Oh, my dear boy, one is never obliged to acknowledge the obvious.” She chuckled at her own wit. “Now, this evening, all you have to do is smile and make polite conversation. Think no more upon your past and no one else will either.”

That would be easier said than done.

They paused at the drawing room door, and she placed a slightly trembling hand on his chest. “The weight of the entire family is behind you, John. This night, you can do no wrong.”

Want
to
bet?
he thought, still stubbornly set on implementing his plan.
This
changes
nothing.

The door before them swung open as if by magic.

* * *

“Sit here, Mother, and I'll see if the footman will fetch you something to drink.” Rebecca helped Lady Kearsey into a chair beside the cheery drawing room fire. The room was so full of glittering people engaged in less-than-glittering small talk, Rebecca was fortunate to find an empty place for her mother to sit. Her parents had arrived that afternoon, along with all the other guests, but Rebecca hadn't seen them until now.

“Oh, no, dear,” her mother said breathlessly. The blue vein at her temple showed clearly through alabaster skin. “Don't make a fuss. I'll be fine until we go through to dinner.”

“I'm sure you'll start to feel better here in the country, my dear,” Rebecca's father said solicitously. “The fresh air alone is better than a tonic.”

“Undoubtedly, you're right,” Lady Kearsey said with typical agreeableness. She'd have said the same thing if Lord Kearsey had announced that standing on her head would have a beneficial effect. Sometimes Rebecca wondered if her mother had made a bargain with God that He'd allow her to remain on earth so long as she was amenable to all and a burden to none.

Rebecca's father leaned down and whispered for their ears alone. “And our pockets might benefit from this country excursion as well. I overheard Lord Blackwood talking about a poque game later.”

“Oh, Father.” Rebecca didn't feel the need to whisper. She loved her father, but the lure of a deck of cards was as much a sickness as her mother's consumption. “Please don't.”

Lord Kearsey narrowed his eyes at her. “Daughter, because I'm so pleased you provided us with an entry into this little gathering, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the censure in your tone. It is not becoming for a daughter to reprimand her father.”

It's not becoming for a father to need one
leaped to the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. She didn't know what he'd have to gamble with, in any case. She didn't have any more jewelry for him to pawn.

Rebecca was wearing only an ecru-colored ribbon at her throat to compliment the off-white muslin that was her best remaining gown. She'd thought the embroidered bodice exceptionally fine until she saw some of the other ensembles parading around the Somerfield Park drawing room. She'd never seen so much silk and satin in one place, so many furbelows and flounces. It was as if fashion plates had come to life and were on parade.

She heartily wished she still had the blue gown that had been ruined in that boxing crib in Whitechapel. Try as she might, it was beyond redemption and had to be cut up to be pieced into a quilt her mother was working.

“Rebecca, dearest, go on,” her mother said, mistaking her intent gaze at the other visitors for a desire to engage them in conversation. “Please don't trouble yourself with us tonight. Your friend Lady Winifred seems to be trying to catch your eye.”

Freddie was practicing her fan language. She touched her ivory and silk accessory along the edge repeatedly, while shooting pointed looks in their direction. As nearly as Rebecca could recall, that gesture meant either “You are cruel,” or “I'm married. Go away,” or “I want to talk to you.”

When
the
plain
sense
makes
sense, seek no other sense.
“I'm guessing she wants to talk to me.”

“Have a lovely evening, and we'll chat later. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon…” Her mother's voice drifted into a breathy whisper.

Rebecca gave her a peck on the cheek and started across the room to Freddie. At least as long as her mother was up and about, her father was bound to behave himself. It was only once Lady Kearsey was out of sight that he'd be tempted to ruin by a deck of cards. Perhaps she could mention something to John about keeping him occupied once the gentlemen separated from the ladies.

“You look lovely tonight,” she told Freddie.

“I should. Father spent the earth on my wardrobe for this house party.” Freddie's gown was white with a small print pattern overlaid in the color of a robin's egg on lovely watered silk. A full two inches of matching ribbon and lace from her petticoat showed at the hem. “When this is all over, I'm thinking of donating every stitch of new clothing to the Society for the Improvement of Morals among the Lower Classes. They are doing such important work with the prostitutes in Whitechapel. Correct clothing leads to correct morals, you know.”

Rebecca tried to imagine one of the slatternly wretches she'd seen during her brief foray into that district in one of Freddie's castoffs. Chances were the unfortunate recipient of Freddie's largess would simply sell the dress on the second-hand clothing market. The proceeds would probably feed her for a month.

“Yes, indeed, one can tell a good deal about a person from their wardrobe,” Freddie went on. “For instance, do you know who that woman is over there? The one who's draped herself so artfully over the chaise longue?”

It was the woman John had handed down from the carriage earlier today. Now, instead of the gaudy red dress, she was wearing a shocking shade of yellow called
jonquil
. No flower ever bared so much cleavage.

“No, I don't know her.”
But
John
evidently
does
.

“She's Lady Chloe Endicott, the one who styles herself the Merry Widow.”

“Goodness, that's cold.”

“But unfailingly accurate,” Freddie said. “The woman has buried no less than four husbands, all of them under suspicious circumstances, and rumor has it that she's looking for number five!”

“She's no debutante.” Rebecca noted that every other young lady in the room was flanked by doting parents. “She doesn't seem to fit in with the rest of the party. I wonder why she's here.”

“Rumor has it Lord Hartley invited her himself. I greatly fear his lordship is living down to my expectations if he keeps company with her sort.”

“Perhaps he feels sorry for her,” Rebecca said, grasping at an innocent reason John might have for consorting with the lady. “After all, she is a widow.”

Freddie cast her a pitying look, as if she were a not-quite-bright child. “We may hope Lord Hartley notices that Lady Chloe is decidedly long in the tooth.”

All the other young women in the room were close to Rebecca and Freddie's age of twenty. Some even younger. While Lady Chloe was still a strikingly handsome woman, she'd never see thirty again.

“That doesn't seem to be a deterrent to the gentlemen.” In addition to the three fellows Rebecca recognized as John's companions from the boxing crib fiasco, there were several other men hovering around Lady Chloe. She was holding court, obviously relating a funny tale, for they all threw back their heads and laughed.

“Not to mention that association with Lady Chloe is not conducive to a man's longevity,” Freddie continued uncharitably.

“If you know these things about her, surely Joh—Lord Hartley knows them too.”

“Yes, but what a man knows with his head doesn't always sway what he knows with his other less contemplative parts.” Freddie cast her a suggestive look.