Never Resist a Rake (4 page)

“Thank you, my lady. I'll do my best.”

The dowager nodded approvingly, and the girl skittered out of the breakfast room. “Well, she should prove useful.”

Sophie sighed. Rebecca Kearsey was more than half smitten with Lord Hartley. That was plain for anyone with eyes to see. Sophie only hoped the dowager was too caught up in her own Machiavellian plans to mark the paleness of Rebecca's face or the way her brows drew together wistfully whenever she spoke of the new Lord Hartley.

“I admit you were right to suggest I task that girl with bringing Hartley to heel. As a mere baron's daughter, she undoubtedly knows what it's like to linger on the fringes. Like calls to like, they do say. She speaks his language.” The dowager allowed the ubiquitous footman to refill her teacup and then dismissed him with an imperious wave of her bejeweled fingers. She waited for the door to close, so she could speak privately. “However, now we must teach my grandson to speak a new language.”

“If you wish to have any influence at all with John, perhaps you should simply treat him as a grandson instead of someone to be managed,” Sophie suggested. The Barretts were a staunchly loyal family, but they weren't given to displays of affection. She suspected the new Lord Hartley would do more for a kind word or a spontaneous hug from the dowager than he'd ever do because she tried to maneuver him into a position to her liking.

“I would like nothing more than to coddle the lad,” the dowager proclaimed, she who'd never coddled anyone in her life. “But time is running on apace and he's in need of so very much instruction.”

“Why? John grew up with gentry in Wiltshire. He was well educated and constantly surrounded by the wellborn while he was at school. Surely he's managed to pick up on how you speak, how you carry yourselves, how you think.”

“What a terribly naive observation.” The dowager sent her a withering glance. “It's times like this that remind me I only put up with you because you amuse me, Sophie.”

“I'm glad to have gratified you.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Don't try to rile me with your impertinence when we have important work to do.” The dowager took a leisurely sip of tea. “Yes, what you say is true. Hartley does know how we live, but there's a difference. Consider the distinction between being a native-born speaker and one who learns a language later in life. One may develop the vocabulary, but rarely the fluency.”

“Back to language again. And pray, what language is it that John needs to learn?”

“The language of a man going a-courting,” the dowager said with a smile. “Nothing will put a man right so much as the right woman.”

“Not that I disagree, but surely you can't mean he must marry now.”

Young girls had their come-out in their late teens, and if they didn't “take” in a couple of Seasons, they'd retire to life “on the shelf.” Gentlemen had a much easier time of things. They simply decided for themselves when it was time to enter the marriage market. They could look around as long as they liked without becoming the least stale. Sophie thought John would benefit from waiting.

“I don't think you should rush matters. John is not yet adjusted to his new station,” Sophie said.

“And he'll never rise to being Lord Hartley if he's allowed to run rampant with the riffraff of London.”

“I don't see how you can keep him from doing whatever he pleases. He's a man fully grown and, what's more, the future marquess,” Sophie said. “I hardly need remind you that in this family, we tend to do any foolish thing we like.”

“Richard could leash him,” Lady Somerset said. “He still holds the power of the purse. If Hartley won't behave himself, Richard will have to cut him off.”

“Careful. There's nothing to stop John from going to court and relieving Richard of his duties as the estate's agent. I think you and I agree that it's in Somerset's best interests for my husband to continue managing the estate for the time being.”

The dowager huffed out a disgusted breath, but conceded the point. She enjoyed her comforts in the sumptuous dower house known as Somerset Steading. Richard's stewardship ensured those comforts would continue unabated.

“Well, perhaps there's not much we need do, actually, except point Hartley in the right direction,” Lady Somerset mused. “I've set the stage. We'll simply let nature take its course.”

“What do you mean you've set the stage?” Sophie asked suspiciously.

“My son has sent his invitations to the hunt and I've sent mine. Nearly every lord about to descend upon Somerfield Park also has a daughter or a niece of marriageable age.”

Sophie's eyes flared. “You didn't.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“But won't the fact that John's upbringing was…unconventional put them off?”

“Clearly, my dear, you underestimate the value of becoming a marchioness one day. But then, you always did.”

“Silly me,” Sophie said. “I was always more interested in the man who came with the title. Good thing, since his title went away.”

“You showed good sense in that, I'll grant you. Richard is a fine man, no matter that he no longer succeeds his father. And he was fortunate to have chosen a young woman who doesn't care about such things.” From the dowager, that was high praise indeed. “But back to the problem at hand. You needn't think I came right out and broadcast the news that Hartley was wife shopping. I simply wrote to the wives of the lords usually invited to the hunt. I explained that when their gentlemen weren't gallivanting about the estate trying to kill things, they might enjoy some genteel activities—card parties and dances, lawn bowling and archery. To that end, they might bring their marriageable daughters to Somerfield Park for the duration of the hunt.”

The dowager tittered at the double entendre of “hunt,” since poor John would definitely be in the crosshairs of all those hopeful misses.

“Perhaps we might organize some musical evenings,” Sophie suggested, getting into the spirit of the plan.

“Only if we can find a few debutantes who aren't tone deaf, which—trust me, my dear—is a very tall order indeed.” The dowager leaned forward for emphasis.

“Still, this whole plan seems terribly contrived.”

“Well, of course, it is. If we women didn't contrive to arrange marriages, how many do you think would actually come to pass?” Lady Somerset asked without pausing for an answer. “Besides, everyone I invited wrote back to accept. And not a one of the young ladies who'll be in attendance is less than the daughter of an earl. An important consideration, given Lord Hartley's humble beginnings.”

“Well, then perhaps John won't be in for a terrible time at the hands of the
ton
after all.”

“I should say not when it is seen that his whole family is behind him. If only he'd come directly to Somerfield Park in the first place, instead of haring off to London on his own—well, there's no putting the milk back in the jug.” The old lady sighed. “I simply want to see the succession settled for another generation before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“What sentimental rot.” Sophie chuckled. “You'll outlive us all and dance on our graves.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dance, my dear. Cutting a reel at my age causes far too much to jiggle that shouldn't.”

They laughed together at that. Sophie rose and came down to the dowager's end of the table. She gave Richard's grandmother her arm so they could take a turn through the pint-sized garden behind the Mayfair town house.

“You know,” Sophie said, “I've noticed that you are the only one besides me who calls my Richard by his Christian name.”

“I call all my grandchildren by their given names, even my grandchildren by marriage, my dear Sophie,” she added with a sly smile. “Why wouldn't I?”

“You don't call John by his name,” she pointed out. “He's only Hartley to you.”

“Much has been made about what an adjustment this has been for the young man. However, he is not the only one who finds difficulty in accepting these changes.” The dowager's lips pinched together. “You know what they say about old dogs.”

“Oh dear. If I repeat that to anyone, they'd never believe you referred to yourself in such a manner.”

“But I do sometimes feel as low as a dog about my involvement in the whole affair,” the dowager admitted with a quiver of her chin. She was the one, after all, who had surrendered young John to the nurture and training of Sir Humphrey and his wife, instead of taking him into the Somerfield Park nursery. She had known John was her son's issue. She just didn't know he was her
legitimate
grandson.

Sophie patted her arm. “You may indeed feel as low as a dog, but I think folk would be more surprised to hear you call yourself ‘old.'”

The dowager gave a choking cough of a laugh. “Quite. A momentary lapse, I assure you. I trust your discretion, my dear, not to reveal that I sometimes think myself a veritable Methuselah.”

“I am a vault. Your secret is safe with me.”

So it was guilt that kept the old lady from reaching out to John. Perhaps that was something Sophie could help mend. Somehow, she needed to reconcile this grandmother with her grandson, so they could both put the past behind them. But even as she thought about it, Sophie shook her head.

“Is something troubling you?” the dowager said.

“No, I'm just bemused over how alike you and I are. We both think we can rearrange the lives of those around us and expect the recipients of our meddling to be grateful.”

“And well they should be!” the old lady said.

Lady Somerset wouldn't think so if she knew she'd just been added to Sophie's list of people to manage.

What
the
dowager
doesn't know won't hurt me.

As they strolled out into the brittle autumn garden behind the Barretts' Mayfair town house, Sophie added another name to her list.

Miss
Rebecca
Kearsey.

Watching John be hunted like the biggest trophy buck of the season might be amusing for Sophie and satisfying for his grandmother, but it would be a special circle of hell for any girl who harbored a
tendresse
for him. And since Rebecca was only the daughter of a baron, and a rather minor one at that, Lady Somerset wouldn't consider her highly placed enough for him to return the favor.

The trick to any hunt, I'm told, is to make sure the quarry is unaware it is about to be snared.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Should you be up and about, my lord?” Porter cringed a bit at the sight of Lord Hartley's left eye. The swelling had gone down since that morning, thanks to the housekeeper's knowledge of the use of leeches. But now in late afternoon, the skin around the offended orb had darkened to a ripe plum color with yellowish undertones. Just looking at it made Porter's own eyes ache.

“I'm fine, Mr. Porter,” Lord Hartley said as he sat down to allow Porter to help him into his polished Hessians. “Honestly, you fret like an old woman.”

It was Porter's job to fret. He was practically paid by the worry, and the position of Lord Hartley's valet was a goldmine of opportunity to earn that particular coin.

Not that Porter wasn't grateful for the rise in standing he'd enjoyed when John Fitzhugh Barrett had come into his own. A servant's place among the downstairs folk was dependent upon the status of the noble person they served. But honestly, being valet to the heir of Somerset was a daunting situation all the same.

There had been much palavering below stairs about who would take the post for the newly discovered heir. Mr. Hightower, who made all the personnel decisions from his fusty office as butler of Somerfield Park, deemed it too difficult for any of the existing servants to step in as the new lord's valet—not when they'd served Lord Richard and thought of him as the next marquess for so many years. It was bound to lead to confusion.

But neither did Mr. Hightower want to bring a total stranger into this new position. The Family needed someone of proven loyalty for this delicate task. For decades, Porter had been the butler at Barrett House, the cottage set aside for the estate's pensioners when there was need. He was counted as one of the Somerfield Park below stairs folk, yet he was somewhat set apart. Porter had been rendered nearly speechless with gratitude when Mr. Hightower gave him the nod for the post as the next marquess's valet. It was a gift from heaven to be handed a position that could see him through the rest of his working life.

Porter was proud to accompany Lord Richard to Wiltshire to fetch his half brother and welcome him into the bosom of his family. But when the new Lord Hartley learned of his elevation, he didn't return with Lord Richard to Somerfield Park. He abandoned country life altogether for London, forcing Porter to toddle along behind him. The job seemed much less of a gift then.

“Can't say I'm sorry to be going home,” Porter said as he neatly folded one of Lord Hartley's new shirts.

The one his lordship had been wearing when Lord Richard dragged him home last night was probably a lost cause, stained as it was with blood and a number of other substances Porter couldn't identify. However, like any good valet, he was obligated to try and salvage it.

“I'm used to country hours, you see, your lordship.” When Porter rose at dawn, as was his habit, Lord Hartley often hadn't even come home yet. So-called “morning calls” didn't occur till afternoon, and a gentleman might have supper as late as midnight when he was in Town. It was madness. “Things seem so topsy-turvy here in London.”

“Do they? I expect I'll feel even more turned about at Somerfield Park than I do here,” Lord Hartley said softly. “Everyone there knows I was once considered a bastard. Here in London, I'm simply a mad gentleman with a bit of blunt to pass around.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way, my lord. But back home, even if things do seem odd to you, you'll be among friends. You'll see.”

“I wonder.” Lord Hartley shrugged on a violent pink waistcoat before Porter could skitter across the room to finesse it from him or, failing that, to help him put it on.

Porter had tried to dissuade him from ordering the outlandish thing at the tailor's shop, but some of his lordship's friends had assured him it was “all the crack.” Those Daemon Club gentlemen—and Porter used the word very loosely—were likely having fun at Lord Hartley's expense behind his back.

The new lord started to pull on his tailcoat.

“A moment, my lord, and I'll set you to rights.” Porter scurried over in time to smooth down the collar of the jacket and make sure the shoulders lay straight.

“Do you think you could address me just once without ‘my lording' me?”

“Yes, my…I'll try.”

“Never mind, Porter. It's not your fault.”

Perpetual guilt was deeply ingrained in Porter's soul. If things didn't go well, it was almost always deemed the servant's fault.

“Tell me, Mr. Porter. Is there someone special at Somerfield Park that makes you want to return so?”

A vision of Mrs. Culpepper, the pleasingly plump cook at Somerfield Park, wandered across his mind along with a parade of several platters of her delicious food.

“Happens there is, at that,” Porter said.

“Well, that explains your eagerness to hie yourself back to the hinterlands.”

Porter might harbor tender feelings for Mrs. Culpepper, but he'd never gathered the courage needed to act upon them. The most he'd managed were a few brief conversations with her, none of them of any consequence.

But once he was finally living in the fourth-floor servants' wing of Somerfield Park, he'd be sitting down to her savory meals three times a day. After the needs of the Family had been met, he'd pass quiet evenings in the below stairs common room with the other servants. Surely with all those opportunities, he'd find the gumption to ask her to walk out with him some night.

It'd be a fine, soft evening with a whiff of the sea on the breeze. Overhead, the stars would shimmer like an upset box of diamond cuff links on a square of dark superfine.

“Never thought I'd be stepping out with the valet of a future marquess,” Mrs. Culpepper might say.

And once again, he'd be grateful that there wasn't now nor had there ever been a Mr. Culpepper. The
Mrs.
before her name was only a term of respect due her position as cook in the great house.

“Never thought I'd be squiring 'round a kitchen witch, either.”

“
A witch, ye say?” When she was miffed, her cheeks always pinked up like a girl's. He loved to see her that way, though it was more likely to be Toby, the popular footman, who teased her into a fit of blushing than Porter.

“
A witch in the best sense, if you follow my meaning,” he'd hasten to explain. “I only mean you make magic with your mixing bowls and wooden spoons.”

“Well,” she'd say, somewhat mollified, “so long as that's the way ye feel. Otherwise, I'll have to find another use for one of those spoons…on your backside.”

“Not until I've done something wicked enough to warrant it, I hope,” he'd venture with a slight waggle of his brows. He'd summon his courage and reach for her hand. Then—

“I say, Porter, if you're done woolgathering, do you think you might find my pocket watch?”

Lord Hartley's voice yanked him out of his pleasant, vaguely naughty musings, and he leaped to be of service.

“Yes, my…yes, indeed. Here it is.” Porter arranged the chain to drape properly from the fob to his employer's pocket, where the dear gold watch resided. “What about you, your lordship? Aren't you the least curious about Somerfield Park and the folk whom you'll meet there?”

“Yes, but I'm not thinking of the family, if that's what you mean.” Frowning, his lordship tugged at the abominable pink waistcoat as he surveyed himself in the long looking glass. “There's at least one person I'll be glad to see. Miss Kearsey will be there. I've seen to that.”

That was a mercy. Porter liked Miss Kearsey very much indeed. Perhaps his lordship was getting better about judging the quality of character in others. Heaven knew his friends in the Daemon Club weren't the right sort at all.

Lord Hartley fiddled with the knot in his cravat that Porter had worked so hard to fashion. Fortunately, he abandoned it before he did too much damage, and pulled on his fine kid gloves. Porter eyed his lordship from the tips of his spit-shined Hessians to his tousled head of hair. Barring the hurt-your-eyes pink waistcoat and the shiner, Lord Hartley was as well turned out as the prince regent himself. Then Porter's gaze wandered back to his employer's face, and he nearly staggered back a step at the abject misery he saw there.

“But as it happens, I probably shouldn't be eager to see her. For her own good.” Lord Hartley didn't wait for Porter to hand him his topper. He whisked the hat off the end of the bed himself and popped it on his head. “The best way to save Miss Kearsey from having to spend too much time with me is to fill up the house with other people, people who won't feel uncomfortable around a lately made lord, so it falls to me to invite my own guests to the country.”

Porter shuddered to think who Lord Hartley might be considering inflicting on Somerfield Park. “Not wanting to speak out of turn, but—”

“But you fully intend to in any case, don't you?”

Porter wrung his hands and nodded. “I do, beggin' your pardon. Even in a great house like Somerfield Park, there are only so many guest rooms. Oughtn't you discuss the matter with Lord Richard or perhaps your lady grandmother? She's in residence here, part of the party what came looking for you, my—” He caught himself before he said “my lord,” but only just. “Sorry, my lord. I can't help when a term of respect passes my lips. I fear it's force of habit.”

“Don't fret. I've been called worse and probably deserved it more. But no, I won't be asking my brother's permission to invite my friends to what is, after all,
my
estate.” Lord Hartley tilted his topper into a rakish slant. “And I have no grandmother.”

He strode from the room without a backward glance.

* * *

Lady Chloe Endicott leaned back on the settee and let Lord Blackstone tease a ripe strawberry along her lower lip before he popped it into her mouth.

“Mmm.” She licked her lip to make sure she didn't miss a single drop of sweetness. What was life if one didn't savor every pleasure to the fullest? “Where on earth did you get strawberries at this time of year?”

“Believe it or not, I won an orangery in a game of poque at White's last week. The gardener who came with it forces a number of delectable things to grow year-round.” The viscount leaned down to nibble at her earlobe. “Though none of them are as delectable as you.”

She pushed him away playfully. “Stop it, you rogue, or I'll have to make you my next husband.”

Blackwood pulled back the next berry he'd begun to offer, a startled look on his aristocratic features. “Oh, that's an honor I shall be forced to decline, my dear Lady Chloe. Becoming your husband is not conducive to a man's health.”

“Never say you believe everything you hear about me.”

“Well, let's see.”

He put the berry back in its box and began fiddling with one of the long, golden locks that draped alongside her neck and ended in a curl just below her bosom. Chloe's French maid had advised her to leave a few strands dangling, in order to encourage this very behavior. When it came to matters sensual, the French were rarely wrong.

“Stop me if I say something that is untrue.” Blackwood began her litany of misfortune. “The first time you wed, the church where the ceremony was held burned to the ground within a week of your nuptials.”

“But I was nowhere near the church when—”

“True or false?”

Chloe huffed out a disgruntled breath. “True.”

“That unfortunate event was seen as a harbinger of things to come. At least that's what the tongue-waggers claimed when your bridegroom failed to survive the honeymoon in Venice.”

“Lucius fell off a gondola.” Chloe crossed her arms under her breasts knowing full well the gesture only accentuated her charms. “You can hardly blame me if the man couldn't swim.”

True to form, Blackwood's gaze dipped to her décolletage. Men were so very easy to predict.

But Blackwood pressed gamely on, refusing to be distracted. “Your husband wasn't helped to fall off the gondola, was he?”

“Of course not,” she said in a properly scandalized tone. “Well, not unless one believes a bottle of amaretto could be guilty of such a crime. Poor Lucius did imbibe an overabundance of the liquor. I had no idea when I married him how fond he was of drink.”

“And the gondolier couldn't be bothered to fish him out of the canal?”

“Despite what you hear about how romantic Venice is, the water is terribly dirty. The gondolier couldn't see a thing in that murk.” She shrugged and then smiled. “Dear Giovanni. He was such a comfort.”

“I'll just bet he was. Especially since your dearly departed Lucius left you a bequest large enough to make you a considerable heiress.” Blackwood smiled unpleasantly, as if he knew more than he was saying and could somehow prove it. “Then there was your second husband.”

“Viscount Cavendish,” she supplied helpfully.

“If memory serves, he lasted a scant six months before you were forced to don widow's weeds again. True?”

“True,” she admitted. “But you must realize, Cavendish was rather elderly to begin with.”

“Forty years your senior, by all accounts.” This time Lord Blackwood's gaze held grudging admiration. “You simply wore him out.”

She giggled and returned his wicked smile. “That's true. But believe me, he died a happy man.”

“I'm sure, but he didn't succumb amid the delights of your bed until after he'd redrafted his will, making you the sole heiress of his liquid assets,” Blackwood said. “I hear it left the son from his first marriage with a venerable title, a crumbling estate, and no funds with which to run it.”