A Rake by Any Other Name (26 page)

Secrets are like bread. They do not improve with keeping. Surprisingly, the scriptures admonish us to cast our bread upon the water, and we shall find it after many days. This, however, presumes one likes soggy bread.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Richard, my dear boy, I was hoping you'd come.”

He rose to his feet as his grandmother swept into the parlor at Somerset Steading. The dower house was grand, a stately home of some thirty-odd rooms. The dowager used her portion from the estate to keep Somerset Steading in fine fettle. The yellow-striped chintz on the matching settees in her parlor looked new, and his grandmother's small army of servants kept the place white-glove immaculate. Whatever financial deficiencies Somerset had suffered over the last few years, it was clear Richard's father had not stinted on his mother's household allowance.

“Sit down, my boy, and I'll ring for tea.”

“No need, Gran. I haven't time to stay,” Richard said. “I just came to return this.”

He offered the ruby ring to her.

“Nonsense.” She pretended not to see his extended hand, waving him to the opposite settee and tinkling the bell at her side. “Of course, you've time. If you don't have time, you don't have anything. Sit down while Hobbs brings us a small respite. Cook has baked some lovely butter biscuits, and I know they're your favorite.”

“I'm not a little boy anymore.” He shoved the ring back into his waistcoat pocket since she didn't seem disposed to take it. “Some things you can't make better with a biscuit.”

“Don't be obtuse. Everything's better with a biscuit.” She fixed him with a hard stare. “Besides, for what possible reason would you be hurrying away? Never say you wish to spend more time with your new fiancée.”

He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “No, Gran.”

Lady Somerset was right. He could scarcely bear to be in the same house as Antonia, even one as sprawling as Somerfield Park. To be fair, she didn't seek him out at all either, which was probably wise. He was still seething over how she'd entrapped him. Richard wasn't sure how he'd manage private conversation with her, let alone wed the girl. The most civilized option was to hunker behind the distance so common in marriages of the wellborn.

But Richard didn't feel like being civilized. He'd never forgive her. Never.

Most of all, he'd never forgive himself.

“I understand I missed some high drama by leaving the ball early last night,” his grandmother said.

Richard had expected to have to explain the whole debacle to his grandmother and was relieved not to have to rehash the events. They still had a nightmarish quality in his mind that wouldn't improve with retelling.

“How do you know about it at all?” Richard asked.

Hobbs, his grandmother's beanpole of a butler, appeared with a silver tea service on a tray balanced on his long-fingered hands. Along with the tea things and a plate a biscuits, a neatly folded letter sealed with a blob of red wax rested on a lacy doily.

“If one wants to know anything, one only need ask the servants. They know everything. My Hobbs is a terrible gossip,” she said. “Aren't you, Hobbs?”

“Yes, my lady,” came the reflexive reply. “If you say so, my lady.”

“There are few secrets from the servants in a great house like Somerfield Park, and since Hobbs collects our supplies from the main house each morning, he is a fount of information for me,” she said. “We cannot begrudge the servants their little entertainments. What else have they to do in that pokey little common room but discuss the lives of those who live above them?”

Hobbs's eyebrows twitched as if he might object to this characterization of below stairs life, but he said nothing as he deposited the tray on the low table between the settees.

“I'll pour out myself,” Lady Somerset said. “That'll be all, Hobbs.”

“Very good, my lady.” The butler glided smoothly to the glass French doors and pulled them shut behind him. If Hobbs
was
a gossip, he'd just lost the opportunity to cower to one side of the doorway and eavesdrop on Richard's conversation with his grandmother.

The dowager poured out the tea, lacing Richard's cup liberally with milk and two lumps of sugar. He normally took his plain, but he accepted the offering without comment.

“You look horrible, Richard,” she said, not unkindly. “Try a biscuit, dear.”

He brought one to his lips but couldn't bring himself to take a bite. It smelled fresh and sweet, but he knew it would taste like dust in his mouth. He balanced the biscuit on his saucer and set the whole thing back down on the tray.

“Richard, we Barretts are known for our stiff upper lips. You cannot let this get you down. You must simply soldier on.”

“Must I?” He rose and strode to the window. He barely stifled the urge to throw it open, leap over the casement, and fly helter-skelter through his grandmother's neatly tended garden. He couldn't seem to make his eyes focus. The colors ran into each other in blurry patches of pink, yellow, and green. “I can't help it, Gran. The sun is dark without her.”

“Poppycock. You're being theatrical.”

“I'm being honest.” He didn't want to argue. He wanted to kidnap Sophie, sling her over his saddle, and run away with her. The only thing that stopped him was that he knew she'd fight him tooth and nail every step of the way. His shoulders sagged.

“Oh my dear,” his grandmother said softly. “You really do love her.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Well, Sophie Goodnight is an Original, I'll give her that,” she said. “She is not a conventional choice, but I confess, I thought her a good match for you right from the beginning. And not only because of her father's purse.”

“She is the other half of my soul,” he murmured. “The much better half.”

His grandmother was silent for so long he suspected she'd slipped into the light sleep of advancing years even sitting upright, but when Richard turned from the window to face her, she was peering down at the letter that had been delivered along with the tea service. It lay open in her lap.

“What is it, Gran?”

She refolded it hastily and started to put it back onto the tray. Then she stopped and eyed him pensively. “What would you give to have your Sophie Goodnight?”

“Everything.” He didn't have to think about it for a second.

“Do you mean that? Truly?”

“If it upended my entire life, I'd consider it a bargain.”

She exhaled noisily. “They say the truth is supposed to set one free, but I can make no promises. The lesson of Pandora is that one never knows what will happen when one opens a box of secrets.” She handed the missive to Richard. “Read this and tell me your thoughts.”

The letter was from a solicitor in London. Richard scanned the neat, round script, hardly daring to believe what the letter contained.

“Can this possibly be true?” he asked.

“I fear it is. Apparently, there was an unexpected death of one of the partners in the law firm at a critical juncture in the proceedings, and somehow, crucial documents which wanted signing were misplaced and never dealt with.” She shook her head. “The question is what are we to do with the information?”

“We trumpet it from the rooftops, Gran.”

“Speak to your father about it. I understand he has been contacted by unscrupulous parties who hope to profit. It's all so very unsavory. I wish we could spare you.” She gave a delicate shiver. “Oh, my dear boy, you do understand what this means, don't you?”

He nodded. She thought it meant sacrifice and self-denial. But to Richard, it meant hope.

***

“Honestly, Clack, how could you be so irresponsible?” Constance Bowthorpe had asked for the entire day off, something she'd done only once before during her employment at Somerfield Park. She'd promised to return to her duties that evening. Fortunately, what with the house party, there was so much activity to keep Lady Ariel busy during the day, it was no hardship for her employers to be lenient. Constance had taken the early morning mail coach to Crimble. Now she stared at her cohort across the pitted table in the tap room of the sorry excuse for an inn. “Just when I need you to hold up your end, I find you unable to climb out from the bottle.”

“I'm
prefectly
fine.
Prefectly.
Don't ye be worrying your head about my end. If anyone's end is up, it's mine. I'll make do.” Thaddeus Clack sipped his coffee and held a hand to his temple as if he willed the dark liquid to make his head stop pounding. “Tell me again how this will go.”

“You're to meet his lordship in the Greek folly tomorrow evening at ten. You'll present him with the ledger pages from Rosewood Chapel.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And he'll give you three hundred pounds.”

Clack rubbed his hands together. “That's something like. The things I could do in London with that.”

Constance narrowed her eyes at him. “But you won't go to London if you know what's good for you. You'll come right back here, and we'll divvy up the take.”

“Half of three hundred ain't near as good.” His face crinkled into a questioning frown.

“A third is even less, and that's what you'll be getting for your part in this endeavor. May I remind you that you have not contributed much to this plan? You are merely a courier and, as such, are entitled to a smaller portion.”

A lesser woman might have been cowed by his ferocious scowl. Of course, a lesser woman didn't carry a river-smooth rock in her reticule either.

“I know ye're supposed to be the brains of this outfit, but why are we only asking for three hundred?” Clack slurped his coffee. “Seems to me this sort of thing is worth a damn sight more.”

“It is. But if one finds a golden goose, one must not take care not to kill it.” She skewered him with a purse-lipped frown. “You very nearly ruined all by tossing his lordship off the roof.”

“That weren't my fault. He come at me, so he did. A bloke's got to defend himself.”

“At any rate, three hundred is what Somerset can spare at the moment. Once Lord Hartley's timber enterprise takes off, we'll up the ante next year.” Constance gave a satisfied sigh. “And every year thereafter.”

Clack scratched his head, sending his resident lice scurrying. “And why would the Quality Folk keep paying if we give 'em the pages from the chapel this time?”

“Because I have reams of other documents, official sorts of things that would stand up in any court. Then there are the letters.” Constance smiled at the thought that the seeds of Somerfield Park's destruction resided safely in the locked box under her bed. “A gentleman like Lord Somerset will pay a good deal to make sure those salacious missives never see the light of day.”

“Don't know what sally-ay-shous means, but sounds like his lordship were randy as a billy goat.”

“Mr. Clack, you have no idea.” Constance sipped her tea. Some of the letters positively curled her toes. She was especially partial to one or two of them and kept them handily on top for when she wanted to reread them. Who would know if she pretended his lordship had written those very naughty things to her? In fact, before she turned loose of those particular missives, she'd have to copy them out for her personal use later.

“Good thing she kept 'em then.” Clack's gravelly voice interrupted her decidedly scandalous musings.

“My niece was a pack rat and no mistake.”

“How would you know? You din't have much to do with her toward the end you said. Come to think on it, how long have you had all these documents and letters and suchlike?”

“Last fall, her old landlord was fixing up the place where she died and found a small strongbox she'd hidden under the floorboards. Since I'd paid him the rent she owed him, he figured he'd send me the chest as a courtesy.”

In fact, the man had threatened to take her to court to settle her niece's debt. Though it had chafed her soul at the time, Constance was now grateful she hadn't been able to afford a lawyer to defend her and she'd settled with the landlord instead. As a result, the man had felt honor bound to hand over the small chest with her niece's name burned into the wooden top.

“Lucky for you he didn't open it,” Clack said. “Otherwise, he'd be the one meeting his lordship on the morrow.”

Or not. Not everyone was comfortable with blackmail. Fortunately, Constance Bowthorpe had no such scruples. She was done being a governess, too good for the servant quarters yet not good enough to rub elbows with the Family on a regular basis. Besides, chasing after the youngest Barrett brat over hither and yon was dancing on her last nerve.

Once she got her two hundred pounds, she intended to give notice and set up housekeeping in a tidy little cottage in Wiltshire. The White Horse country had always called to her. She'd invent a past for herself, something romantic and slightly tragic. Perhaps a sea captain for a husband who was lost off the coast of Zanzibar.

And every year she'd refill her coffers, courtesy of the secrets of Somerfield Park.

There are crossroads in life, those moments when one goes left instead of right, and for better or worse, the direction of one's life is permanently altered. It's not often one is able to face that same crossroad again and even less likely that one will make a different choice the second time around.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

The appearance of Barrett House had improved out of all knowing since Richard had come home. The masons he'd engaged to repoint the chimney had finished their work, and new slate graced the roof. As Richard strode up to the freshly painted green door, he noticed that his grandmother's rosebush had filled out. Its fresh green shoots were loaded with unopened buds, just as Sophie had predicted. He'd never considered himself the superstitious sort, but he decided to take the fact that the bush was not dead as a good sign.

He started to push open the door, but then realized that even though this was his property, he couldn't be certain of his welcome. The Goodnights had moved back into Barrett House on the morning after Ella's ball. He was grateful they were still in the area. He'd half expected them to disappear into the mist.

Richard rapped the ornate ironwork knocker on the door and waited till Porter opened it.

“Oh, Lord Hartley, good afternoon,” the butler said, his eyes darting down the hall as if looking for guidance about what to do next. “Ahem. Come in. May I take your hat? Very good, my lord. Will you be pleased to step into the parlor? In what way may I serve you? However, I feel I should tell you”—he cleared his throat uncomfortably—“that I believe Miss Goodnight is not at home. To anyone.”

Sophie had evidently left orders that she would not receive him. He wasn't surprised, but the thought that she was somewhere in the smallish house, knowing he was there and not willing to see him, made his chest ache.

“I'm not here to see Miss Goodnight.”

The butler's hunched shoulders slumped in obvious relief.

“I wish to speak to her father.”

Porter's shoulders bunched up again. “Oh, my lord, I don't know if… Well, I mean… Are you sure that's…wise?”

“No, I'm not sure it's wise, but it is my wish. Tell Mr. Goodnight I'm waiting for him and I will not leave until we speak.” Then Richard reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a sealed letter. “Give this to Mr. Goodnight after I'm gone.”

Porter's eyes grew round as a pair of coach wheels, but he scurried off to do Richard's bidding.

Richard sat in one of the leather wing chairs flanking the fireplace and watched the hands on the ormolu mantle clock creep around its face. He tried not to be distracted by thoughts of Sophie, but how could he not when he knew she was so near? If he closed his eyes, he could still taste her. That last salty, tear-stained kiss burned his lips.

Since coming into control of his father's estate, he'd learned to plan. The projected earnings from his new timber interest would put Somerfield Park on solid footing for generations. Now his grandmother had shown him a slim chance to right an old wrong and change everything. But if this new plan didn't work, if at the end of his machinations he still couldn't have Sophie, none of it would matter.

He thrust the possibility away. He couldn't give up on her. Not if there was an ounce of fight left in his body.

Half an hour later, Mr. Goodnight finally shuffled into the room. Richard rose to his feet.

Sophie's father had seemed frail when Richard first met him. He'd shrunk since then. Even though the day was warm, a woolen shawl draped Mr. Goodnight's shoulders. His skin seemed scraped tight over his skull, and its yellowish tinge was even more pronounced than usual. But once he settled into the wing chair opposite Richard, his pale eyes burned with anger.

“What do you want?” Henry Goodnight demanded without preamble.

“First, to thank you for investing in Somerset's timber.”

Goodnight's eyes narrowed. “How did you know I was your investor?”

“You are not the only one with business resources. I may be new to trade, but even I know one does not accept funds from an anonymous source—not unless one wishes to risk getting into financial bed with unsavory characters. However, once my man of business confirmed he was dealing with your factor, I told him to allow you the illusion of anonymity.”

“Allow me?” Mr. Goodnight snapped. “You insolent pup! I only did it to preserve your dignity.”

“And I thank you for that.”

“You won't thank me for long,” he said, spite dripping from his tone. “I intend to call the note.”

“That is your prerogative, but I hope you will reconsider. For your own self-interest, if nothing else. I have promised you a healthy return on your investment, and I'll see that you get it.”

“That gives me no comfort. I've seen how much value you put on your promises.”

Richard refused to rise to the bait and instead met the man's gaze steadily. “I understand. I'm not here to beg. That would demean us both. However, for the sake of the villagers who are now employed thanks to your investment, I hope you will rethink your plans.”

Goodnight shook his head in wonderment. “How you titled folk think the world owes you. It's not enough your family has lorded it over this patch of earth for generations. You think it your right to use my money to continue to do so.”

“No, I mean to use your money to lift up those who depend upon my family and put a decent profit in your pocket while I'm at it,” Richard assured him. “Your ideas about what having a title is like are all wrong. While a
Lord
before my name does bestow certain privileges, it doesn't come without obligation. It is my station to care for the needs of my father's estate and everyone attached to it. Everything I have done—everything—is because I am a slave to the title I hold. In many ways, it holds me.”

Mr. Goodnight's brows knit together as he considered this.

“Your daughter told me your dearest wish is to have a grandchild who stands to inherit a title. I hope you'll reconsider this desire. It's a pretty conceit to be ‘my lorded' left and right, but trust me, it is not the be-all and end-all you seem to think it.”

“And that's why you came to see me? To ask me to continue to invest in Somerset and try to persuade me to give up my dream?”

“Partly.” Richard leaned forward in his seat. “The main reason I came is to tell you this. Despite all that's happened, I love your daughter, Mr. Goodnight.”

“You have a demmed poor way of showing it.”

“You're probably right, but whether you believe it or not, I assure you it's true.” Richard stood and moved toward the door. “And will be true till I draw my final breath.”

***

Henry Goodnight didn't move from his place by the fire. He was still so angry at Lord Hartley he feared he'd fly apart if he left the confines of the wing chair. How dare the man come begging for Goodnight funds to continue to flow into Somerset's coffers? Yes, he protested that he wasn't begging, but what else could anyone call it? And those protestations of love for Sophie! If only Henry had the strength he'd left in India, he'd have happily pummeled Lord Hartley into next week.

A board creaked in the hallway outside the parlor door.

“Who's there?” he demanded. “Porter, is that you? Stop skulking and come in.”

“It's not Mr. Porter, Father.” Sophie appeared in the open doorway.

“I suppose you heard all that,” Henry said.

“Some of it. I hid on the other side of the long case clock when Richard left.” Her nose was pink. She'd either been gardening without a bonnet or weeping. He hoped she'd forgotten her bonnet.

He lifted a hand to her, and she came and settled on the small ottoman before him. “I suppose you believe him when he says he still loves you.”

She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I wish I didn't.”

Henry took her hand between his. He'd give his entire fortune if it would take away the pain he read in his daughter's eyes.

“Being loved is no small thing,” he said. “However, you are not obliged to love him back.”

“Too late.” She stood and paced the room, nervous energy crackling off her like heat lightning. “How do I stop? It's not as if I can snuff it out like a candle. It would be so much easier if I could hate him.”

Henry sighed. “Hate is not the opposite of love. What you're looking for is indifference.”

“Then I'm doomed,” Sophie said. “I can't imagine a world where I could be indifferent to Richard Barrett.”

Porter appeared at the doorway, hemming and hawing.

“Don't stand there, man. If you've something to say, say it!”

“Er, yes, if it pleases you, sir, I've a letter here for you from Lord Hartley.” Porter presented the missive on a silver tray and then stepped back.

Henry tore open the seal and read the bold script. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie frozen by the window, curiosity straining from every pore.

“Do you wish to send a reply?” Porter asked.

“No. I'll deliver it myself. Tonight.” Henry rose and tucked the letter into his waistcoat pocket. Lord Hartley wanted a chance to prove his devotion to Sophie. Very well. Henry was curious as to what lengths the young man would go.

But he wasn't about to let his daughter's hopes be raised and then dashed. When she took a step toward him, obviously wanting a chance to read the missive, he raised a hand to stop her and shuffled from the room.

***

The appointed hour had arrived. Thaddeus Clack stumbled through the darkness toward the architectural nonsense called the Greek folly. It was a jumble of tumble-down columns surrounding a small amphitheater.

And
to
think
they
built
the
silly
thing
to
look
like
a
ruin. On
purpose!

If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never understand the rich.

Of course, once he had his hundred pounds, he'd be in a bit of the pink himself. Maybe the sense of a folly would become clear to him then, but he doubted it. All Clack knew was that there was a certain sporting girl in Whitechapel who'd help him spend his newfound wealth right enough, and a rollicking good time they'd have of it too.

And they wouldn't waste tuppence on building something that looked as if it were already falling down.

There was no moon, but the starlight was bright enough for him to make out the shadowy shape of his lordship. He was waiting for him on what was supposed to be the stage of the folly. Clack climbed down the sloping sides of the amphitheater and hoisted himself onto the raised platform.

“You got the money?” he demanded.

The dark figure nodded.

“Let's see it.”

“First, what are you offering?”

Clack had only spoken with the marquess that one time on the roof. While the voice he'd just heard was similar, it wasn't exactly the same.

“Who are you?” Clack asked.

“Lord Hartley.”

“Hmph. His lordship still poorly after his tumble off the roof? Well, guess it's all right for me to deal with you. I figure you're in this business up to your neck, just like your old man.” Clack hitched his thumbs under his greasy lapels. “What I'm offering is a chance for you to destroy a certain record what Lord Somerset don't want to surface. Reckon your father's told you what it's about if he sent you on his account.”

“Not all of it, though I expect to know the whole tale soon,” Hartley said agreeably. “But what I'd like to know now is how you expect to spend Somerset's money once I break both your arms?”

Then there was a flash of fists. Lord Hartley's punch landed squarely on Clack's jaw and spun him around. He stumbled to his knees but came up swinging. Clack fought back, kicking and gouging with every gutter trick in his bag.

Suddenly a mere one-third of the take for this caper was looking very small indeed.

***

Antonia stifled a yawn. She still hadn't recovered since the ball two nights ago. It had been hailed a ringing success and more credit redounded to her than praise for Ella, the debutante for whom the ball was given. However, Antonia was plagued with niggling worry.

Since the very public announcement of their betrothal, Hartley had been no more than coldly polite to her when others were around. He avoided her completely otherwise. She'd expected him to be put out at first. No man wishes to be thwarted in the pursuit of his light-o'-love, her father had explained. But she fully anticipated her relationship with Hartley to return to the way it had been in Paris. He'd showered her with courtly devotion and abject adoration at every turn.

Said adoration was not forthcoming. He seemed like another man entirely.

“Have you any idea why we've been summoned?” she asked her father. Her mother was at her side as well, but since Lady Pruett had confessed to feeling guilty over her part in entrapping Lord Hartley, Antonia couldn't trust her. Only her father had her best interests at heart.

All the Barretts were assembled in his lordship's crowded study. The footman was still bringing in extra chairs to accommodate everyone. Even Lady Ariel and her governess were there, though it was long past the time the thirteen-year-old ought to be abed. The dowager marchioness dozed in a cushioned chair in one of the small chamber's dark corners.

High
time
for
one
of
her
advanced
years
to
be
toddled
off
to
her
own
dower
house
as
well.