A Rake by Any Other Name (23 page)

Richard was hers.

And she was his.

And by the toast before midnight supper on the evening of Ella's ball, everyone would know it.

It is often said that three can keep a secret provided two of them are dead. As it turns out, not even that will keep some things hidden.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“It's right good of you to help out, Mr. Porter, what with all the extra guests. We'd be lost without ye and that's God's truth,” Mrs. Culpepper said with a confiding lift of an eyebrow. “Will ye take more tea?”

“Don't mind if I do.” Porter held up his teacup for her to pour out for him. She added two precious lumps of sugar and a dollop of milk, just the way he liked it. “Please, Mrs. C, you're embarrassing me with your praise. Think nothing of it. I'm just happy I was here to salvage the situation.”

“I should say so. Mr. Hightower would have made a muddle of everything if ye hadn't swooped in at the last minute to save the day.” Porter noticed she didn't call the butler “Himself” anymore. Then Mrs. Culpepper smiled at him. Not the sort of smile she usually offered him, the practiced, no-nonsense one that she gave to everyone who ate her delicious food. No, this smile was almost girlish, despite her years. It was a smile of welcome. Of promise. Of—

“Now see here, Mr. Porter.” Mrs. Culpepper's real voice interrupted his idle daydreaming. She sounded neither girlish nor welcoming, but there was definitely a brusque promise in her tone. “I don't know what ye're used to at Barrett House, but here at the big house, if ye don't answer the first time, I won't offer again.”

“Hmm?” Porter gave himself a brisk shake. “Yes,” he said because it seemed the safest thing to say to a woman armed with a large wooden spoon. Then for good measure, he added, “Please.”

Mrs. Culpepper plopped a helping of stew into the bowl before him and moved on to the next servant gathered around the Somerfield Park common room table. With the onslaught of guests pouring into the estate, Porter and Mrs. Beckworth had both been summoned up to the big house to help out. Between the extra Quality Folk to tend to and David Abbot being unaccountably gone somewhere, the servants were all overwrought and overworked.

Were there another eighteen or twenty guests seated around the long dining table upstairs? Porter had lost count. But he and Mr. Hightower had inserted no fewer than six extra leaves into the expanse of mahogany before the snowy linen was laid. When they were done with their meticulous preparations, the china sparkled. The silverware glittered, and the crystal practically sang. Porter could see his misshapen reflection in each shining soup spoon.

“Good thing too,” Mr. Hightower had said when he saw the guest list. “Lady Wappington is here.”

Even Porter had heard of that lady's waspish tongue. Though her infamous wit often reached the point of cruelty, she was a respected arbiter of correctness and decorum throughout the
ton
. If the dinner party passed her stringent assessment, it would be high praise indeed.

But now that the Quality Folk had all been fed and were enjoying their port and cordials in the parlor, most of Somerfield Park's servants could finally see to their own empty bellies. Porter glanced around the common table. One of the chambermaids was almost dozing at her place, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Grahame, stifled a yawn.

Porter's stomach growled. The quick tea he'd managed to grab hours ago was a slim memory. The aroma of Mrs. Culpepper's stew set his stomach juices flowing.

Mr. Hightower tapped his spoon on his water glass and called everyone to attention. Porter sneaked one more look at his bowl. He wasn't allowed to eat a bite until the butler did.

“Her ladyship wishes me to inform you all that she is very pleased by the efforts of the Somerfield Park staff. Very pleased indeed,” he said, his voice gruff but with a grudging smile in the tone. “However, we cannot rest on our laurels. Lady Ella's ball is scheduled for tomorrow evening, and the midnight supper must be presented with such style folk will be talking about it all Season and those who were not present will forever wish they had been among the chosen few to partake of it. Now, Mrs. Culpepper, is everything shipshape and Bristol fashion for the menu?”

The beleaguered cook stopped mid-ladling. She alone of the assembled workers had continued to serve the others while Mr. Hightower spoke.

“Yes, sir, ye needn't worry. I should hope I know my own business,” she said saucily. “Mrs. Grahame approved it all a week ago, down to the last petit four.” Then she lowered her voice and grumbled as she continued to dish up the stew. “But it don't do me no favors to have to do the work of both Cook and kitchen girl.”

Porter knew it was a sore point with her that Theresa Dovecote hadn't proved as willing a helper as her sister Eliza. He wished suddenly that protocol would allow him to rise and hold the heavy kettle for Mrs. C while she served up the stew.

“Oh, thank ye, Mr. Porter,” Mrs. Culpepper would say. “What a gentleman. A knight in shining armor, that's what ye are, and no
mistake.”

Then
she'd wrap her arms around my neck, never mind the wooden spoon, and plant a big kiss on my cheek. And if it scandalized Mr. Hightower, so much the
better!

“I say, Mr. Porter, aren't you attending?” Mr. Hightower's loud voice jerked him back into the moment. “The parlor bell just rang. Nip off and see if you can help Toby with the last of the after-dinner drinks if you please.”

Hightower might have couched his order as a request, but it was an order nonetheless.

“Yes, sir,” Porter said with a final longing glance at his bowl of stew.

“I'll take this back into the kitchen and keep it warm for ye, Mr. Porter.” Mrs. Culpepper removed his bowl from in front of him.

“Thank you kindly. I always say as you're a woman who knows how to satisfy a man's appetites.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Porter's ears burned hotly.

Appetites? Oh dear. That could mean… She might think that I… Of course, she'd be right, but…

But instead of rounding on him with that spoon of hers, she chuckled. “Reckon I do at that, Mr. Porter.” Then she bent down and lowered her voice for his ears alone. “A few of the petit fours didn't turn out quite as well as I'd like. Maybe ye'll do me a favor by eating one later.”

“Gladly.” Porter rose from his place at the common table and started for the stairs, but he hadn't made it more than a couple steps when the back door opened. A whiff of the honeysuckle blooming in the kitchen herb garden behind the house breezed in with David Abbot.

“There you are, Abbot,” Mr. Hightower said as David took his seat at the table.

“Just in time for supper.” Mrs. Culpepper put Porter's steaming bowl in front of the young man.

So
much
for
keeping
it
warm
for
me.

“How was your trip?” Sarah, the maid who'd been dozing, looked wide-awake now.

“Fine. Thank you, Mrs. Culpepper,” he said before taking a big spoonful of Porter's supper. “Delicious as always.”

“Oh, go on with ye. Young fellows like ye would eat the putty out of the windows if they was hungry enough,” she said, but Porter could tell she was pleased with David.

Porter, however, was not. Especially his stomach, which rumbled loudly.

As the rest of the servants resumed eating, David didn't elaborate on his mysterious journey, and no one asked, which seemed odd to Porter, since no one seemed to know what it was about. He had come upon several knots of servants throughout the day, all speculating on what might have caused David, who'd never gone anywhere, to suddenly disappear for a day and a night. The cattier ones noted that Eliza was absent from the big house as well, but Porter knew the girl was seeing to her sick aunt in Brambleton and said so to anyone who'd listen.

“Judging from all the carriages parked behind the stables, looks like we have a full house,” David said as he liberally slathered a thick slice of barley bread with butter. “If you need me to act as a footman while his lordship entertains, I can do that as well as valet for Lord Hartley.”

Still lingering at the foot of the stairs, Porter's heart—and his empty stomach—surged with hope. Perhaps Hightower would send David up to help Toby instead of him, but it seemed everyone, including Mrs. Culpepper, was more intent on seeing that David got his supper than in putting his young hands to work.

Don't know why he's allowed to lark about when the rest of us have more than enough to
do.

Porter turned and started up the stairs but froze in midstep. The marquess was coming down.

It was unheard of for his lordship to do such a thing. Oh, occasionally Lady Somerset might venture below stairs to confer with Mrs. Grahame over something, though usually their meetings were held in the marchioness's frilly sitting room adjacent to her boudoir on the second floor. Once or twice, Lady Petra had wandered into the kitchen to conduct one of her unladylike experiments. But other than that, no member of the Family bothered to enter the subterranean regions of the great house.

Until now.

“My lord.” Mr. Hightower leaped to attention and everyone seated around the table followed suit. Even Mrs. Culpepper stopped ladling. “How may we be of assistance?”

Even though his lordship was immaculately dressed for the evening in a dapper tailcoat with a shirt so white it almost hurt the eyes, the marquess had a harried look about him. Porter noticed a bead of sweat trickling down the side of Lord Somerset's neck and disappearing into his elegantly tied cravat.

“Has anyone arrived who was not on the guest list?” the marquess demanded.

“No, my lord.”

“Have you allowed anyone into my study, Mr. Hightower?”

“No, my lord, of course not. Unless you specifically request it, no one ever enters that room, except the maids. Sarah, when was the last time you and Drucilla dusted the study?”

Sarah dropped a bobbing curtsy. “I'm afraid we've neglected it of late, what with everything to do for the house party. We haven't done his lordship's study since Monday last.”

“And the key is still in your office?” his lordship asked Hightower.

“I'd swear to it.”

“Don't swear, confound it,” the marquess said, his jaw clenched. “Check and make certain.”

“Right.” Mr. Hightower disappeared from the common room in double-quick march time. Everyone else dropped their gazes to their toes while the marquess stood like a statue waiting for the butler to return.

A statue that nearly had steam coming out of his ears. Though good form dictated that his lordship not show his upset before the help, he was stewing something fierce about someone being in his study and no mistake.

Porter was suddenly glad he usually worked at Barrett House, though most of the time he served merely as a glorified caretaker instead of a proper butler. The Goodnights had been simple folk to care for, and he missed their easygoing ways. Pity they had moved up to Somerfield Park.

Mr. Hightower chugged back into the common room with the key in his hand. “It was on the proper hook as always, my lord.”

“I'll take that key.” The marquess held out his hand.

“Have you lost yours, my lord?”

“No, but I don't want anyone in the study without my presence from now on.”

“It will be difficult for the maids to—”

“When it becomes such a boar's nest I can't bear it, I will allow them in to clean. Otherwise, no one is to enter without my presence. Ever. Is that understood?”

Mr. Hightower cleared his throat. “Is…is something missing, my lord?”

Porter's heart sank to his toes. The worst thing that could happen to a servant was to be accused of theft. Even the suspicion of thievery was enough to cause a body to lose his position without character. He was glad he was standing behind the marquess so he didn't have to meet his gaze. Even though Porter had done nothing wrong, he was the nervous sort.

And nervous sorts tended to look guilty.

“No, nothing's been taken,” the marquess said, and there was a collective sigh of relief all around. “Something was…left.”

“What?”

Lord Somerset raised a hand to signal the discussion was over. “Never mind, Hightower. That'll be all.”

The marquess turned and marched past Porter back up the stairs. For the space of about ten heartbeats, no one in the common room moved. Then Mr. Hightower collected himself and scowled in Porter's direction.

“What are you still doing here? You're supposed to be helping Toby with the drinks.”

“Yes, sir, right away.” Of course, it was much too late to be right away, but it didn't hurt to say so. Sometimes the suggestion of obedience was every bit as important as the fact. Before Porter had gone two trudging steps, someone caught him by the arm.

“I'll be saving ye that petit four, Mr. Porter,” Mrs. Culpepper whispered. “Don't forget.”

“No, indeed.” The sudden bloom of warmth in his chest made him forget all about the rumbling of his belly, and Porter took the stairs two at a time.

In the garden, one learns that if one doesn't completely eradicate the root of an unwanted plant, it will assuredly return given enough time. I've found the same to be true of people.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Honestly, dear, you're neglecting your guests,” Lady Somerset said as her son, the marquess, closed the door to his study behind her. “What's so important that it couldn't wait till after your party retires?” She stifled a yawn. “Or better yet, until tomorrow? Really, I ought to be heading home. I may seem vigorous, but I'm not as young as I used to be. Be a lamb and ring for my carriage, will you please?”

“You're not going anywhere just now.” Lord Somerset pulled the cursed note from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it to her. “Once you read this, you'll understand my urgency, Mother.”

“I don't have my reading glasses with me.” Nevertheless, she unfolded the missive and held it at arm's length, trying to find the right distance that would allow her to focus on the even script.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, I'll read it to you,” he said after several minutes of watching her struggle and frown at the page. He took it back and held the paper so the candles of the wall sconce would light it adequately.

“You are not the only one

With sins to hide from day.

What was done, was not undone.

And now you'll have to pay.”

“Ghastly rhyme scheme,” the dowager said, fanning herself languidly.

“Mother, that's not important. They go on to say they have incontrovertible proof and we'll be contacted with details of where and when and how much it will cost us to keep them quiet.”

“Keep them quiet about what?”

“That's just the thing. They don't come out and say anything really, but I've a sick feeling I should know what they mean.” He massaged his temples. “It's so disconcerting not to be fully in possession of one's memory. Sometimes, I feel it's all there, dancing on the edge of my mind. It taunts me, and the closer I come to remembering, the more the memories retreat. However, some more recent recollections are starting to come back.”

“What, dear?”

“What happened on the roof. Everything's been sort of hazy, but now I remember there was another fellow on the roof with me.”

“Nonsense, dear. Your footman David told you that, and now you've tricked yourself into believing that you remember.”

“No, Mother. David has been very close-mouthed about the incident. Probably because he fears he'll get into trouble for bringing the man up there, but I distinctly remember ordering him to do so. It's one of the few things that are clear in my mind.”

“Don't overtax yourself, Son. It leads to wrinkles. How do you think I've maintained my reputation as a handsome woman all these years? I simply refuse to worry about that which I cannot control. Of course, there's precious little I can't.” She gave a self-satisfied shrug, rose, and started toward the door. “Come now. Your guests will wonder what's keeping you.”

“Don't try to smooth this over and cover it up. Secrets are what got us into this, and we don't need more of them. The man told David to say two words to me.”

“And they were?” she asked.

“Rosewood Chapel.”

The way her eyes widened told him she knew more than she was saying.

“The words are like ground glass in my ears,” he admitted.

His mother cast him a questioning gaze. “And you don't recall why they should strike you that way?”

“No. My mind is a jumble. It's as if I've come upon a mosaic that's been scattered on the floor. I don't understand how all the pieces fit. Images from the past fly at me sometimes, and from far longer ago than my fall off the roof. Faces without names, places that seem significant but are gone before I can get a net around them.” He swiped a hand over his eyes. “I'm very much in sympathy with our mad king at the moment.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. Undoubtedly your recovery will continue, and it will all come right eventually.”

“But what if it doesn't?” he snapped. “I seem to remember… I was younger than Hartley is now. I'd done something rather unwise, and you and father were furious with me. That much I'm sure of.”

“We all do things we regret in this life,” his mother said cryptically.

“And what about you, Mother? Have you done something you regret?”

“Almost every day, but I've learned not to burden myself by toting excess baggage. That's what footmen are for.”

He paced the room, waving the note in the air. “Don't make little of this. It feels deathly serious in light of… Well, I can only see it as a blackmail threat.”

“I fear it is.”

“Then you know what the message means?” He stopped before his mother.

“I suspect, which is not quite the same thing.” She laid a hand on his shoulder and then took the note from him. “Now, let me make some inquiries about this.” She squinted at the missive. “‘What was done was not undone,' eh? We shall see about that. In the meantime, notify me immediately if you receive further instructions or demands for payment.”

She made a tsking sound. “How very gauche blackmail is, a not-so-small crime for small minds. Vulgar in the extreme.”

Lady Somerset turned and slipped out of his study.

“Evidently, I've done something which made me a target for them,” Lord Somerset said softly. “Perhaps that's even more vulgar.”

***

The next day, Eliza returned to Somerfield Park, and Sophie was beyond ready for her maid to resume her duties.

“I never thought I needed a maid, but I'm so glad you're back in time to help me with this ridiculous gown,” Sophie said as Eliza cinched her stays a bit tighter than normal in order to fit in the bodice of white silk. It was a concession to her mother that she was wearing the pale gown when she much preferred jewel tones. “I hope your aunt is better.”

“Better than what? Oh! Yes, it must have been a passing malady,” Eliza said. “She was right as rain by the time I left Brambleton. Thank you ever so much for allowing me to go.”

“Keeping you from your family when you're needed wouldn't have been fair.”

Sophie studied her reflection as Eliza fluffed the gown's gauzy train. The fabric was trimmed with silver and gold thread in a pattern styled after the Egyptian influence. The modiste had warned Sophie that such ornamentation was a decade out of date, but she much preferred the simple geometric embellishments to the flounces and furbelows required of the truly fashionable gown.

She allowed Eliza to fuss over her hair for an excruciatingly long time. Finally, the matching bandeau was threaded through her tresses in a way that seemed to satisfy her maid.

“The bodice seems awfully low,” Eliza said doubtfully.

“I've been assured it's all the crack to display this much bosom for a ball,” Sophie said, though her cheeks did pink a bit when she thought about what Richard's reaction to her décolletage would be. Since the arrival of all the new guests, she hadn't seen much of him except from across crowded rooms. With the extra people in the great house, there'd been no more nocturnal ramblings that led him to her chamber—more's the pity. Well, at least after the toast at midnight, the world would know they belonged together when he announced their betrothal.

“Perhaps a bit of ribbon at your neck,” Eliza suggested.

“If you like.” Sophie had never really understood the fascination with fashion. However, if the right gown made Richard desperate to rip it off her, she was willing to let Eliza dress her in it.

While her maid pawed through a drawer in the vanity for just the right bit of satin, Sophie opened her jewelry box. She drew out the ruby ring and slipped it on her left ring finger.

“Oh, my lady, that's lovely.”

“Shh! It's a secret. And besides, as you're perfectly aware, I'm no lady.”

“In all the ways that matter, you are, and I'll have words with any who denies it.” Eliza met her gaze in the mirror. “But you're about to be a lady in truth or I'm much mistook.”

She took the ring off and secreted it down her bodice. “The ring is a gift from Lord Hartley.”

Eliza's eyes sparkled. “A betrothal gift?”

Sophie nodded.

“Lady Hartley.” Eliza tried the new title on her tongue and seemed to like the taste, for she beamed from ear to ear. “Oh, my lady, I'm so very happy for you.”

Then she launched into one of her running diatribes. This time she waxed poetic about the joys of being a bride and how a betrothed lady's happiness infects everyone around her.

“Sort of like the chicken pox,” the little maid said, “only joyful-like instead of itchy.”

“Yes, well, Lord Hartley and I will be spreading our brand of pox at midnight. He'll make the announcement then. And I trust general itchiness will not ensue.”

Eliza chuckled and then chattered on. The sound was soothing, and Sophie didn't have to be bothered about the substance. Her parents would be thrilled with the news. Her dear father would get his wish—to have wellborn grandchildren. Even though Richard was adamant about not taking her dowry, she'd find a way to put the money to good use for their future children, so her father wouldn't be insulted by his new son-in-law's stubbornness.

Mr. Goodnight might see it as pridefulness, but Sophie was glad Richard didn't want her father's money.

He only wanted her.

She hugged the delicious knowledge to herself, as close as the ruby settled between her breasts. Richard loved her. Not her dowry. Just her.

“Oh, my lady, I think I hear the musicians tuning up.” Eliza's one-sided conversation finally pierced Sophie's musings. “It's time.”

“Indeed.” Sophie toed on her jeweled slippers and gave herself one last glance in the mirror. She was done with the bitterness left over from her affair with Julian Parrish. Something new had bloomed in its place. Trust.

Her life was changing forever, for the better, and it would all begin at midnight.