Never Resist a Rake (22 page)

It is never good to eavesdrop. It diminishes both parties, the spy as well as the one being spied upon. But sometimes, it is the only way to learn anything worth knowing.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Theresa opened the secret door that led from the back staircase into the gallery, but she was careful to open it only a crack. She did it slowly and without making any more noise than a mouse fart. Then she put her eye to the slim opening and checked to see if anyone was in the high-ceilinged room.

She was in luck. No one was wandering the long, narrow space. Theresa slipped through the door, taking care not to let it close completely behind her. She sometimes had a dickens of a time finding the hidden latch from the Family side of the portal.

Like her sister Eliza, Theresa Dovecote loved sneaking into the gallery. She hadn't believed her sister when she first carried tales of the magical space. Now she didn't think Eliza had told her the half of it. The ornately painted ceiling was so lovely, so chock-full of phantasmagorical wonder, it made tears gather at the corners of her eyes. The walls of the room were lined with images of long-dead ladies in gorgeous gowns with glowing gems accenting perilously scooped necklines. Then there were the debonair gentlemen in suits of armor or plumed hats.

It was a faery world on canvas, filled with whimsy. Theresa had made up dozens of stories for herself about the people in the paintings. As often as her duties allowed, Theresa slipped into the gallery, so she could stop being a cook's helper, even if it was only for a few moments, and become one of those fancy ladies in her imagination.

If Mrs. Culpepper hadn't warned her off wandering into the gallery, would she still have felt compelled to visit the place? Probably not at this time of day. She usually tried to sneak into the forbidden upstairs world early in the morning when most of the Quality were still abed. But since the cook had brought it up, it was all she could think of as she washed up after the servants' tea. Mrs. C's threats to her hadn't helped her resist the gallery's tug one jot, and she nipped up to it the moment she was free.

Theresa didn't waste any time, but went promptly to the painting of
Him
. She didn't know his name. It might be on that brass plate at the bottom of the painting, but Theresa had never learned to read or write more than her own name. She had to content herself with the knowledge that her mystery gentleman was one of the Barrett ancestors. He was dressed in a suit of armor that still gleamed despite the patina of age on the canvas. His hair was the same dark honey color of the current Lord Somerset and his son Lord Richard. His eyes were a warm amber peering at her from the past. He seemed to be looking right at Theresa, as if he knew her, as if he could see her secret dreams and approved them.

“Oh, how I wish you weren't dead as a doorknob,” she whispered to him. “Indeed, I do.”

Toby the footman was fun to flirt with, but this long-departed gentleman called to her with his soulful eyes in a way the very much alive Toby didn't. Would she ever find a living, breathing man fit to take the place of her dream fellow?

Theresa very much doubted it. So she came here as often as she could to wallow in melancholy over her unanswerable love. Sometimes it hurt so badly, it was downright pleasurable.

She knew there was no reason to that, but knowing didn't make it any less so.

Theresa might have stood there for another quarter hour if she hadn't heard the clack of a man's boot on the polished hardwood, headed her way. She scurried back to the secret door, slipped through it, and pulled it nearly closed behind her just as a couple was framed in the broad opening that led from the foyer into the gallery. Most of her life was lived in the dim realm of “Below Stairs.” She couldn't resist peeping at these living examples of the rarified beings that inhabited the “Above Stairs” world.

The gentleman was dressed all in black save for his very white shirt front and intricately tied cravat. His trousers were cut close to his muscular thighs, his knee boots were glossy enough to cast reflections of the gilt spindle legs of the side table nearest him. His strong-featured face might be called striking, but it could not be called pleasant. His expression was far too severe for that.

The lady would have had a sweet face if her mouth weren't pinched so tight. Her gown was pale green, and now that Theresa considered it with a critical eye, she'd swear it wasn't silk. While it was a good deal finer than anything Theresa had ever owned or was ever likely to, the green gown looked as if its sleeves and hem had been “turned” a time or two to hide fraying edges.

Theresa knew she ought not to eavesdrop. Mr. Hightower was very specific on that point. Servants were expected to be seen and not heard. Except for her, of course. Theresa might have been content with merely being seen, only she wasn't even allowed to do that. She wasn't supposed to venture above stairs once the Family was up and about. But as for the other below stairs folk, once any of them crossed the threshold into the public areas of the house, they were assumed not to see or hear anything that wasn't directly related to their serving. It was rather as if the butler expected them to go about their duties like draft horses wearing blinders. Nothing could distract them while they used all their energy to pull Somerfield Park into the good opinion of all the respectable guests.

Phoo
to
that,
Theresa thought as she huddled closer to the crack in the door.
I'm here. They're here. I'm going to see how the Upper Crust behaves themselves when they think no one's looking if it strikes me blind.

* * *

“There are some very fine pieces here,” Rebecca said as she strolled down the center of the gallery, stopping from time to time to admire one painting after another. “If you'd let me send for my friend Lady Winifred, I'm sure she could tell us who the artists are.”

“I don't care a fig for that. The artists don't figure at all. It's the subjects, the Barretts, that you're supposed to be interested in, you know.” Blackwood stopped before a canvas showing a gentleman in early-eighteenth-century knee breeches. A cutlass dangled from his belt and a Letter of Marque was curled in his defiant fist. “Pirates, rogues, and thieves, all around, they are.”

“Surely not all. The Barretts are a venerable old family that has held Somerset since the time of William—”

“The Conqueror. Yes, so I've heard,” he drawled in a bored tone. “And do you not think it would take a string of ruthless lords to be able to hold this not inconsiderable piece of earth since then?”

“I suspect any man can be ruthless when the occasion calls for it,” she admitted. “But the present Lord Somerset seems a proper gentleman.”

As opposed to her present company. Not that Lord Blackwood had done anything untoward, but there was something in his manner, in the way his gaze drifted downward that made Rebecca feel as if one or more of her buttons had come undone. She didn't dare check, for fear of drawing more attention to her bosom than he was already giving it.

“The present Lord Somerset is a befogged scatter-wit, and that's being charitable. But don't fool yourself. He was undoubtedly a wolf of a man in his prime.” Lord Blackwood leaned against the wall, looking more than a little wolfish himself. “Even my friend Lord Hartley has a rod of steel where his spine should be. I don't say that to condemn him, you understand. Pride of place and privilege is all it's cracked up to be. It is a fine thing to be in a position to have one's every want gratified.”

“I don't think that's how Lord Hartley would class his situation.” In fact, John seemed to feel himself particularly powerless where his family was concerned and hence wasn't as demanding of them as he could be. John would never cut off the current Lord Somerset's entire family once he became the marquess, despite the way they'd treated him as a boy. However, she had no doubt it would be first on Lord Blackwood's list if he were in John's shoes. “He never expected to become Lord Somerset's heir, you know. I don't believe his change in station will change him.”

“Don't be too sure about that. He'll come around to it soon. Just because he wasn't raised with certain advantages doesn't mean he won't learn to love them and demand them in a short time.”

Rebecca walked farther down the gallery, pretending interest in the myriad canvases but really just trying to put some distance between them. “I thought you were his friend.”

Lord Blackwood laughed. “I am. I'm not tarring him with any brush I'm not tainted with myself. You see, I too know what I want, and I know I can have it.”

“I collect you have high expectations since you're a peer of the realm.”

And according to Freddie, he was a well-heeled peer. “Poor taste and an empty purse don't always go hand in hand,” Freddie was fond of saying. “Low habits and a high income, that Lord Blackwood.”

“But even you can't have everything you want, my lord. It wouldn't be good for you.”

“Please, call me Blackwood.” He closed the distance between them, crowding her as she tried to stroll along the length of the room. “It's friendlier that way.”

She didn't feel the least friendly toward him. In fact, the way he matched her steps around the long hall made gooseflesh rise. But she thought it best to humor him. “Blackwood, then.”

“Good. Come now, Miss Kearsey. Surely you can guess what I want.”

She never expected he'd move so quickly. Before she knew what he was about, he had her pressed up against the polished mahogany wall next to a distressing portrait of old Lady Somerset in a most unfortunate hat.

“I want you, of course,” he said, his voice the rumbling growl of a predator.

She pressed against his chest, but he didn't budge an inch. “In that case, you are destined for disappointment. I am not to be had for the wanting.”

“You are gravely mistaken, my dear.” He bent his head to sniff appreciatively at her hair. His nearness made Rebecca feel as though she needed a bath. A scalding hot one, for choice. “You see, Lord Kearsey and I were the last to leave the poque table on the first night of the house party. He thought he had a winning hand with his four queens, but I dissuaded him of the notion with my four aces. As a result, I hold your father's vowels.”

Her stomach began to swirl and then sink. Whatever his failings, her father could be counted upon to pay his gambling debts. She just wasn't sure what the Kearseys had left to sell. The family already dined on pewter instead of china, and the staff that served them had been cut to the bone. Still, he'd find a way to satisfy the debt. Her father might be quite run off his legs, but no one could accuse him of failing to pay what he owed.

“My father always makes good on his debts of honor,” she said staunchly.

“I'm depending upon that. But I suspect he's never been this far into dun territory before. You see, the only way he can manage to pay this time is to petition the House of Lords to allow him to carve up his land and sell it off piecemeal.”

This was devastating news, but Rebecca tried not to let him see how it affected her. The meager rent from the tenants who farmed the land surrounding the Kearsey countryseat was the only dependable source of income for the family. The home place might be ever so shabby since there was never any extra money to do the upkeep the manor house so desperately needed, but it was all they had. When her father had lost at the gaming tables badly before, Rebecca had been so embarrassed at the way their home fell into disrepair, she declined to invite anyone to visit but Freddie, who could be depended upon not to care about their reduced circumstances.

But this was more than merely an embarrassment. She'd never considered that her father might someday lose even what little remained to them. The Kearseys would be ruined this time.

Unless…

So that's why her father was so insistent that she consider Blackwood as husband material. Likely the return of his IOUs was part of a marriage bargain they'd discussed.

She crossed her arms over her chest, a small shield from Blackwood. “I don't know what sort of scheme you and my father have concocted between you, but nothing could be more repugnant to me than a forced match.”

“A forced match?” Blackwood threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, bravo, Miss Kearsey. Innocence played with such devastating conviction. Are you certain you've never trod the boards in Drury Lane?”

As if a lady would engage in so common an activity as acting on the stage.

“But I—”
am
innocent
almost tumbled out her mouth before she remembered it would be a lie. John had well and thoroughly initiated her into the world of the sensual. Did Blackwood somehow sense that? Like a smallpox scar, did carnal experience leave a mark for all to see? More to the point, why was the man still laughing?

“You think I intend to offer marriage?” he finally managed to wheeze out.

She cocked her head at him, ready to believe him crackbrained, the way he chuckled through his words.

“Do you mean to say your father didn't tell you? No, I can see from the expression on your pretty face that he didn't, the coward.” Then the laughter faded and he suddenly grabbed her and pressed her against the wall again, his body flush against hers. “You, my dear, are the down payment on your father's debt. First, you will give yourself to me unreservedly. Do you know what I mean by that?”

She narrowly resisted the urged to scream. If she did, her father would be well and truly ruined. Blackwood would see to it.

“It means I use you in any way I like.” He put two fingers to her mouth and brushed the tips across her lower lip. “If I want you to take me in your mouth, you will, my lovely. And you'll smile when you do it.”