Never Resist a Rake Page 7

  —Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

  Half a dozen gowns were spread out across Rebecca’s bed. Her off-white gown with the clever embroidery on the bodice was the best. The blue one that had been utterly ruined at that horrid boxing crib would have been next, but it was now fit only to wear while gardening. Rebecca’s wardrobe went downhill from there.

  “Can you turn this pale green muslin one more time, Crosby?” Rebecca asked the lady’s maid she shared with her mother.

  Agnes Crosby adjusted her spectacles and eyed the worn gown carefully. “I might just do. Think there’s enough fabric left at the hem and the sleeves to tuck the frayed bits once more. But this is the limit. It’ll be too short for modesty another turn after this.”

  Crosby took the green muslin and left to do the sewing while Rebecca continued packing for her fortnight in the country. With each folded gown, each rolled up stocking, Rebecca’s insides did a little jig.

  She loved to look at the stars from her terrace and imagine what sort of worlds might be swirling around each point of light. She was about to enter a world as seemingly unreachable as those distant orbs. Rebecca was acutely aware of her position on one of the lowest rungs of the aristocracy. It would be different if her father had the chinks, but his gambling left the family teetering on the edge of ruin. Though she was a baron’s daughter and technically considered an “honorable,” the rarified air of a marquessate would normally be too thin, too high for the likes of her.

  However, even if she didn’t really belong there, she’d still been invited to join the house party—not only by John, but by his family as well. She ought to think of him as Lord Hartley. It would be safer all around, but how quickly he’d been transformed in Rebecca’s mind from her nameless gentleman from the museum to simply John.

  Everything was happening at such a breakneck pace, she forced herself to plop down on the foot of the bed and take a deep breath. Rebecca had lived through a perilous adventure in Whitechapel. She’d kissed a man in his bedchamber and now she was going to Somerfield Park to rub elbows with the crème de la crème.

  She didn’t know which of those things was the most dangerously exciting.

  “Rebecca!” Freddie’s voice echoed down the hallway, the clack of her sensible half boots on the hardwood preceding her to Rebecca’s room. Her friend paused at the door and braced her arms on the frame as if she were being confined by the space and would push it back by sheer dint of will. “What’s this I hear about you going to Somerfield Park?”

  Rebecca skittered to her friend and caught up both her hands. Then she danced her about the small chamber. “You heard correctly. I leave in the morning with Lord Hartley’s family.”

  “Not to be a dash of cold water,” Freddie said as she stopped their circuit of the room, “but why?”

  Rebecca halted mid-step. “Why what?”

  “Why have you been invited?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, my dear. Among the upper strata of society, nothing is ever done without reason. What reason do the Barretts have for inviting you to this event? The word is that Lord Hartley is looking for his bride among the guests coming to his house party.” Freddie sat on the foot of the bed and patted the spot beside her. “You know I love you like a sister, Rebecca, but let’s be honest. You’re hopelessly outmatched, and I would be dreadfully upset if you’ve been invited solely to become a target for mean-spirited barbs. You see, I have it on good authority that all the other young ladies planning to attend the house party are daughters of earls at the least.”

  Rebecca perched beside her. “So I assume you’ve been invited, Lady Winifred.”

  Freddie stuck out her tongue and waved away Rebecca’s use of her title. “There’s no cause to be formal, not between you and me. You know I care nothing for that.”

  Rebecca would have said that was true, but now Freddie seemed to have erected a small wall between them with her pointed questions. They’d been friends since Rebecca first climbed over the rock wall that separated her father’s small holding from the Chalcroft country estate. The girls had gone birding together all that summer and had been inseparable ever after. They were both of a scholarly bent, so their shared interests were legion. Freddie, who could have been at the heart of a social whirl by virtue of her father’s rank, was content to avoid balls and routs alongside Rebecca, in favor of lectures and art exhibits.

  Until now.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Have you been invited to Somerfield Park too?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yes, I’ve known for weeks that my father was on Lord Somerset’s guest list.” To Rebecca’s surprise, Freddie actually preened a bit, patting the thin blond curls that graced her temple. “Mother and I hadn’t thought to attend, but then we received a personal invitation from the dowager marchioness.”

  So had Rebecca, but she wasn’t as annoyingly puffed up about it. “Does this mean you wish to be in the running for Lord Hartley’s bride?”

  Freddie shrugged. “Let us be honest. We must marry sometime. Men can lead productive, full lives without benefit of matrimony, but as much as I wish it were otherwise, a woman needs the security of a good match.”

  “That sounds like your mother talking.”

  “It does and I’ve decided she’s right. For once. Besides, think of all the good I could do as the Marchioness of Somerset.” Freddie was keen on making improvements, especially as they applied to other people’s lives.

  “I was under the impression that you didn’t think much of Lord Hartley,” Rebecca said as she folded a handkerchief and set it aside to be packed later.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Perhaps the way you dragged me away from him at the British Museum.”

  Freddie’s face paled to the color of a fish’s belly. “That was him? Oh dear. Oh no. Do you think he’ll remember me?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Well, you do seem to have…some special connection to the family since you’ve been invited to the Somerfield Park.” Freddie frowned in obvious puzzlement. “I know all your associations. Why is it that I’ve never known you to be on such friendly terms with the Barretts?”

  Rebecca normally would have told Freddie about her brush with disaster in Whitechapel and the way John Fitzhugh Barrett came to her rescue. Once, she might have even shared what it was like to kiss Lord Hartley. Now, something inside her warned her to hold her secrets close.

  “How should I know why I’ve been invited? I only know I have, and I’ve never been invited anywhere to speak of.” Rebecca took her favorite bonnet from the wardrobe and examined it for flaws. Fortunately, it was still in good repair. “With all the high-ranking ladies about to descend upon Somerfield Park, it rather takes all the pressure off me. I’m obviously not under consideration as a match for Lord Hartley so I intend to enjoy myself thoroughly.”

  Freddie gave her an assessing gaze as if weighing her words for veracity. What was happening to them? Rebecca would have said their friendship would stand up to anything, firm as a tower. Apparently it was teetering a bit over Lord Hartley.

  “Frankly, I don’t understand your interest in the gentleman,” Rebecca went on. She knew why she was interested in John Fitzhugh Barrett. He was bold and brash, but also a bit damaged. Rebecca ached for the boy inside the man. “I thought you said the ton wouldn’t accept the new Lord Hartley.”

  “Normally, they wouldn’t, especially after his behavior since his elevation has been just shy of beyond the pale. But that was before the dowager stepped into the situation. Now that she has, it’s a signal to society that the succession is secure and the new Lord Hartley is being groomed for his station. He’s definitely the heir to Somerset and—”

  “And a marchioness’s coronet is no small matter,” Rebecca finished for her.

  “Exactly. Someone has to wear
it. It might as well be me,” Freddie said. “Let’s have a look at what you’re packing. We can’t have you looking like last season’s rose.”

  Freddie usually pooh-poohed fashion. Her own wardrobe was a paean to functionality, not frivolity, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have good taste. She pawed through Rebecca’s gowns, approving some and shaking her head in dismay over others.

  “What do you have that’s suitable for a ball?” Freddie asked.

  “This gathering is supposed to be a hunting party at its heart. What makes you think there will be a ball?”

  “It’s a hunting party, all right, but not all the game has hooves and antlers.” Freddie cocked her head to one side and sighed as if putting up with Rebecca’s obtuseness was a trial to her soul. “If the future marquess truly means to choose a bride, there will definitely be a ball. The dowager will see to it. Now, what do you have?”

  Rebecca pulled a tired peach silk from her wardrobe.

  “Oh no. No, no, no,” Freddie said, making clucking noises with her tongue against her teeth. “This might do for Almack’s or a country assembly, so long as you were sure you’d never see any of the attendees again, but not for Somerfield Park.”

  “I can’t afford a new gown, and there isn’t time in any case.”

  Freddie dug into her reticule and came up with a tape measure. “Let me take your measurements. I have a sweet little pink gown that I’ll never wear. It’s far too pale for me. Mother says it washes me out something fierce, and I have to agree.”

  “You and your mother seem to be marching in lockstep all of a sudden.”

  “No, she still has antiquated notions about so many things, but when it comes to fashion, I defer to her expertise,” Freddie said. “I’ll have my modiste alter my pink gown and bring it for you when I come to the country in a few days.”

  “That’s so kind of you.” Rebecca took back everything she was thinking about how Lord Hartley was coming between them. She gave her friend a hug and then held her arms up while Freddie wrapped the tape around her at the bosom and hips. Rebecca’s friend muttered to herself about how fashion made fools of them all, but what else could one do? After she finished, Freddie scribbled down Rebecca’s measurements on a scrap of paper she’d squirreled away in her reticule and then stuffed it and the tape measure back into her beaded bag.

  “What will you be wearing to the ball?” Rebecca asked.

  “Mother and I ordered new wardrobes for the occasion as soon as Father received his invitation. My ball gown is robin’s egg blue with a white lace overlay. The new French styles really aren’t as hideous as I’d previously thought,” Freddie said.

  Rebecca’s brows arched. Freddie, who never kept anything from her, had kept this secret. Truly, bringing a man into the mix changed things.

  “Seriously, Freddie, do you really want to try to catch Lord Hartley’s eye?”

  Her friend looked affronted. “You think I can’t.”

  “No, it’s not that. I just wonder what you’ll find in common with him, that’s all.”

  “I’m not certain that signifies in the least,” Freddie said. “My father and mother have virtually nothing in common, and they’ve been successfully married for twenty-five years.”

  Successfully, but not necessarily happily.

  Even though Rebecca’s father had a terrible gambling habit, he and her mother clearly adored each other. There were times when Rebecca was embarrassed to be in the same room with them because they still sent smoldering looks to each other. Her mother’s illness had only intensified their passion, because her days seemed numbered. Even though no one spoke it aloud, the whole family knew Lady Kearsey was in the early stages of consumption.

  Sometimes, Rebecca wondered if that was why her father gambled. Perhaps he hoped to win enough to be able to afford to take his wife to a spa where she might regain her health.

  “However, in the interests of uncovering every bit of intelligence that might aid the cause,” Freddie said, “what sort of things do you think Lord Hartley likes in a woman?”

  Rebecca knew Lord Hartley liked kissing her. He liked having his own way. But she had no idea what sort of young lady John might choose for his wife.

  “I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Freddie. The best thing you can do is be yourself,” she said. “If his lordship is going to find you attractive, shouldn’t it be the real you? Otherwise, you’ll have to pretend to be someone else for a very long time.”

  “You’ve gotten very wise very quickly.” Freddie sighed. “But what if sometimes I wish I were someone else?”

  “Never say that. You are quite the most amazing scholar I know. You’re an intrepid birder, a fount of information about historical events and cultures, and no one knows more about the poems of George Chapman than you do.”

  “No one should know as much about George Chapman as I do,” Freddie said morosely.

  She was right. The sonnets of that Renaissance poet were the epitome of obscurity.

  “Never mind, Freddie. Just decide to join me in having fun on this lark. We don’t need to figure out what Lord Hartley wants. We should be more interested in what we want.”

  “Rebecca, you will never be accused of being a pattern sort of girl.”

  “Good. I can’t imagine anything more repugnant. Now help me finish packing!”

  Seven

  “If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.” Perhaps the Apostle Paul would revise that advice if he ever met the Barrett family. “Lieth-ing” is at the root of all our troubles.

  —Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

  A bright shaft of sunlight shot through the freshly opened window and stabbed John in his good eye.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” the nervous footman standing beside John’s bed said. “Mr. Porter left with the baggage some time ago. I didn’t wish to wake you, but it’s only…well, everyone else is waiting on you.”

  “What ungodly hour is it?”

  “Half past ten.”

  John had spent his last night in London carousing with the Daemon Club. It was the best way he knew to try to put that kiss of Rebecca Kearsey’s out of his mind. He really hadn’t expected she’d do it. He’d only intended to tease her.

  Instead, she’d teased him.

  Her kiss wasn’t practiced or even particularly sensual, at least not at first. But it was honest. And honesty was in short supply in John’s life.

  It made everything else seem false by comparison, and he couldn’t bear that. So he got roaring drunk. He’d only returned to the town house when the sun began to lighten the eastern sky. He didn’t remember collapsing crosswise on his counterpane without undressing, but he must have done. He was still wearing his boots. He pulled a pillow over his head and uttered an obscenity into it.

  “Surely Mr. Porter informed you of the Family’s plans,” the troublesome voice came again. “You’re to return to the country today, my lord.”

  Now he remembered. Porter had said someone else would be on hand to help him dress this morning because the Somerfield Park servants would leave very early to transport the baggage and prepare rooms at the estate. That way, the Family could rise at a leisurely hour, have their breakfast, and be on their way in the marquessate’s opulent coach in the style and decorum due them.

  “If you please, my lord, the rest of the Family has already bathed, dressed, and breakfasted. They are awaiting only the pleasure of your company to begin their journey.”

  “The pleasure of my company is highly in doubt at present,” John grumbled into the pillow. “Not even I enjoy my company.”

  “Perhaps your lordship will feel better after a bath and—”

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?” John sat up and waved off the offer, though he had seldom needed a bath more. The Daemon Club had wand
ered into a filthy opium den last night, but John hadn’t tried the mind-numbing drug. If he wanted oblivion—and when didn’t he?—Scottish whisky was his choice. Still, the slightly acrid, slightly sweet smell of opiates and their additives clung to his hair and clothing.

  “Then a shave and a change of attire at least, my lord. Mr. Porter left a traveling ensemble for—”

  “No, if they’re so all-fired ready to go, far be it from me to thwart the Family.” He spat the word out as if it were a bite of herring that had turned. “If they don’t like the way I’m dressed, they’ll simply have to learn to live with disappointment.”

  God knew he had to.

  John threw his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet. Then, with the harried footman at his heels urging him to wait, to change his clothes, to at least let his servant run a comb through his lordship’s hair, John clomped down the back stairs to the town house’s kitchen. There he wolfed down a couple of day-old buns without even a plate held beneath them.

  The help was scandalized.

  “Lord Hartley’s eating in the servants’ hall.” The news buzzed through the town house faster than a case of chicken pox through a nursery. Quality folk didn’t eat in the kitchen. It just wasn’t done.

  “Surely, his lordship’s wits are as addled as his father’s,” someone whispered.

  “I’m not anything like my father,” he bellowed, which stunned the servants around him into silence. “And I’m damned sure not deaf. I’ll thank you not to talk about me as if I’m not right in front of you. And in any case, Lord Somerset’s wits are fine. He just can’t remember everything.” His head pounded like a smith’s hammer, so he lowered his voice. “Where’s my coffee?”

  The cook scurried to put a hot mug into his hand, and he took a big swig, burning his tongue. He couldn’t do anything right.

  John looked around the kitchen, his vision bleary even though he could open both eyes completely now. “I’m sorry,” he said.