A Rake by Any Other Name (27 page)

Antonia was puzzled by the fact that Henry Goodnight was present and settled in one of the more comfortable chairs before the hearth. Even though it was a warmish night, a small fire had been kindled for the obviously ill man's comfort. Surely since her betrothal to Hartley, the Goodnights ought to be pushing on to greener pastures. Those vulgar cits would just have to look for another lord to use to elevate themselves.

But the truly bewildering thing was that the local magistrate, a Mr. Ichabod Hempsworth, had been called in and was head down in earnest conversation with Lord Somerset. Antonia was even more astounded when the marquess offered the magistrate the throne-like chair behind his massive desk. Then his lordship paced before the fireplace like a caged leopard.

“I've no clue what's afoot,” Antonia's father whispered behind his hand.

“David,” Lord Somerset said to the footman, “see that everyone who wants one receives a shot of whisky. Or whatever they'd prefer.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Make mine a double, there's a good lad.” The elder Lady Somerset was apparently not as soundly asleep in her corner as she'd appeared.

Antonia ordered a glass of elderberry wine, hoping it would help her sleep after this bewildering meeting adjourned. Lady Ariel complained loudly when her mother told her to make do with milk.

Then they waited.

There was a scuffle in the hall and Hartley burst in, shoving a scruffy-looking fellow in front of him. The man sported a purpling bruise around one eye and seemed to be favoring his left leg. Hartley's jacket was ripped at the shoulder and his hair was wild, but he himself seemed no worse for the wear.

The magistrate eyed the man. “I assume this is the fellow who accosted you on your roof, Lord Somerset?”

The marquess cast an assessing gaze at the ruffian. “I can't be certain. I regret to admit there are still holes in my memory.” He turned to the footman. “David, is this the fellow you escorted up to the roof?”

The young man straightened to attention. “It is, my lord. His name is Thaddeus Clack. However, I wish I could say I had not allowed him into Somerfield Park, much less brought him to the roof, especially after your lordship went flying off the parapet.”

“Don't trouble yourself any further on that score. Barring the gaps in my remembrance, I'm right as rain now,” Lord Somerset said. “I rely wholeheartedly on David's identification of this miscreant, and you may also, Mr. Hempsworth. Thaddeus Clack is the one who attacked me.”

The magistrate looked down his long nose at Clack and then scratched away with a quill on the warrant before him. “Attempted murder to start. Have you anything to say for yourself, Mr. Clack?”

“Murder? No such thing, your excellence.” Clack mopped his brow with a dingy handkerchief. “I never meant for his lordship to fall from the roof. Honest, I never. He come at me, fists flyin'.” He cut a glance at Hartley. “Sorta like that one there. Both Lord Somerset and Lord Hartley got wicked left hooks. But I tell ye, it were self-defense on the roof. It coulda just as easy been me lying in a tangle on them bushes. He were that upset with me.”

“And what had you done to upset his lordship so?” Mr. Hempsworth asked.

Clack started to answer, but then seemed to think better of it.

“I can answer that,” Lord Somerset said. “Mr. Clack was attempting to blackmail me with information about an indiscreet incident in my past.”

“Blackmail,” Hempsworth repeated and inked the word in next to
murder
on the indictment before him.

“Indiscreet incident, ye say?” Clack reached into his grimy waistcoat and drew out a tattered envelope. He handed it to the magistrate. “Is that what Quality Folk call a secret marriage?”

Antonia's nose twitched as it always did at the threat of scandal. The only thing that saved her from a fit of sneezing was that Lady Wappington was not present at this little inquisition.

The younger Lady Somerset, however, was. Surprisingly enough, the marchioness gazed at her husband without outward show of dismay over the news. Antonia decided if her future mother-in-law wasn't frantic over these revelations, it likely wouldn't bode ill for her either.

Which, after all, was the most important thing.

At my age, I might shelter behind forgetfulness and no one would dare contradict me. But when memories are etched with such knife-sharp brightness, they are impossible to deny even when it would be more convenient to do so.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Richard leaned against the bookcase and hoped his mother had been told what to expect. When his father reached for his mother's hand, she extended it to him.

“I'm sorry to distress you with this, my dear,” Lord Somerset said.

“On the day we married, I vowed to stand by your side for better or worse,” Lady Somerset said, her voice trembling slightly. “This is definitely worse, but I am still here.”

His father bent and brushed his lips over his wife's knuckles. Richard had never been prouder of his parents. His gaze swept the room to see if the disclosures were upsetting anyone else. His sisters seemed to be bearing up with typical Barrett stoicism, but Ariel's governess looked as if a fish bone had just lodged in her throat.

“Ain't that sweet? When the great and mighty join, it's all hearts and flowers,” Clack said. “Only his lordship made the same sort of promise to another girl about seven years before he stood up in church beside you, your ladyship.”

“To be honest,” Lord Somerset said, “I still have no memory of that day or the young lady in question.”

“She weren't no lady, far as I know,” Clack said. “She were plain Lyda Mae Saxton.”

“At this point, I defer to the document you have before you, Mr. Hempsworth,” the marquess said.

Mr. Hempsworth unfolded the page Clack had given him and studied it.

“That's from the parish records itself,” Clack said.

“How can we be sure of that?” Hempsworth said. “All I see here is a list of names and dates. Yes, his lordship's name is one of them, but the provenance of the document is spotty at best.”

The footman succumbed to a coughing fit before clearing his throat loudly.

“Have you something to add?” Richard asked.

“Not wanting to push myself forward, my lord, but I'm fair certain that page is from the church records,” David said. “Miss Dovecote and I looked through the ledgers at Rosewood Chapel and discovered some pages had been cut from the books. I reckon if we take that page back to Brambleton, we'll find the same hand wrote the entries on either side of it.”

“Quite enterprising of you, David.” Lord Somerset picked up the page and squinted at it. “It appears I was wed to Miss Saxton at Rosewood Chapel in Brambleton on 20 July 1788.”

“But that's impossible,” Ella piped up. “Or if it is true, surely that marriage was annulled.”

Gran stirred from her place in the corner. “Regrettably, it was not annulled, though not for lack of trying. Your grandfather and I were understandably upset when your father eloped with his young actress, this Lyda Mae person. We immediately set out to have the union set aside and engaged the law firm of Petersmith, Guthrie, and Helzberg to handle the sordid business. Apparently, Mr. Petersmith had the ill grace to die without communicating to his partners that the signatures required for the undoing of this misalliance had not been properly collected. Messers Guthrie and Helzberg had assumed all was well and assured us of it. In fact, it was not.” She shifted in the chair and glared imperiously around the room. “Needless to say, their services will no longer be required.”

“Father, do you mean to say you've been married to someone else all this time?” Ella dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. “But that makes us…”

“Bastards?” Richard supplied helpfully. Antonia gasped. He bet she wished she hadn't snared him now.

Lord Somerset nodded soberly. “I was evidently still married to Miss Saxton when I married your mother, Ella.”

“No,” Gran said with forcefulness. “That's not strictly true. The remaining partners at Petersmith, Guthrie, and Helzberg informed me that Miss Saxton died a week before your marriage to Lady Helen. Of natural causes,” she added quickly.

Antonia sighed in obvious relief. “Then barring a bit of scandal in the distant past, which we can surely all agree to keep secret, nothing has changed.”

A potent look passed between Richard and his grandmother. He nodded almost imperceptibly to her.

“You would be right, Lady Antonia, but for one thing,” the dowager said, her gaze sweeping the room. “When we tried to arrange an annulment of that ill-considered marriage, we gave the young woman in question a great deal of money, which she accepted in return for her promise never to contact my son again. She lived up to her end of the agreement on that score, I will give her that. Miss Saxton burned through the funds in riotous and, not to speak ill of the dead, drunken excess, but as agreed, she did not send Somerset so much as a note in the following years. However, she refused to sign the annulment documents.”

Old Lady Somerset fell silent.

“Go on, Gran,” Richard urged.

“As it happens, the reason Miss Saxton wouldn't sign the annulment is that during the brief week when she and my son were playing at being married, she conceived a child.”

“They weren't playing, Gran,” Richard said. “The marriage was valid.”

“Oh, very well. Yes, it was valid. But I didn't learn about the existence of the child until after she died. And I certainly didn't realize at the time that his mother had not signed the annulment papers.” His grandmother rose and crossed the room, leaning more heavily on her cane than Richard had ever seen her. “So you see, our dear Richard is not Lord Hartley. The true heir to Somerset has been fostered quietly by a couple in Wiltshire since he was orphaned. He's been well cared for and educated, but is without knowledge of his true parentage. His name is John Fitzhugh.”

“No, Gran,” Richard said gently. “My half brother's name is John Fitzhugh
Barrett
.”

The only thing worse than making a mistake is not being given a chance to rectify matters.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Honestly, Sophie, you look like a washerwoman. And after your father spent so much on that new wardrobe.”

Sophie was wearing her oldest frock, one her mother kept threatening to throw away. The faded muslin was already little more than a rag, but it only made sense to garden in something that wouldn't be ruined by dirt and thorn pricks.

“Mother, I fail to see why I need to dress to impress the greenery,” she said as she knelt to yank out a cankerwort that had sprouted by the rosebush. “Let me worry about what I wear and go on with your story.”

“Well, after the revelation that the marquess was being blackmailed over his first marriage,” Sophie's mother told her, “your father said the magistrate was quick to indict Mr. Clack, though Lord Somerset was certain the man had an accomplice.”

Millicent Goodnight held the basket for Sophie while she cut a few long-stemmed roses. The bush by the door to Barrett House produced white blooms the size of a child's fist. Their perfume was so sweet that it almost made Sophie dizzy. Or maybe it was just that she had to keep reminding herself to breathe while her mother related the events that took place in Lord Somerset's study last evening. Sophie wished she'd been a mouse in her father's pocket. Instead, she had to be content with a third-hand version of the tale.

“But Mr. Clack wasn't the sort to go quietly,” her mother said. “He named his conspirator. It was Miss Bowthorpe.”

“The governess?”

“The same. As it turns out, she is also the aunt of Lord Somerset's first wife, Lyda Mae Saxton, and as such, Miss Bowthorpe was privy to the scandal once she collected her niece's belongings.”

“But she didn't claim her niece's son?” Even though her mind reeled over what these shocking disclosures meant to Richard, Sophie spared a bit of pity for John Fitzhugh, the child who grew up with no notion of who he truly was.

“No, though Miss Bowthorpe apparently kept a discrete eye on him and bided her time, waiting till the threat of exposure would yield the most return.”

Sophie shivered in revulsion. “What a horrid person. And to think Lord and Lady Somerset allowed her to care for Ariel.”

“Well, Miss Bowthorpe is paying for her nefarious dealings now. Unless the new Lord Hartley intervenes on his great-aunt's behalf, she'll be shipped off to New South Wales along with Mr. Clack on the next prison ship going that way.”

“Good riddance, I'd say, but then I'm not as nice a person as this John Fitzhugh probably is.”

“Nonsense. You're perfectly nice enough for all normal intentions. Besides, no one has any idea what sort of person Fitzhugh is, and I gather it's causing quite a stir. All they're certain of is that he's his lordship's heir. The Earl of Hartley by courtesy, and—”

“Mother, stop. This is sounding suspiciously familiar.” She rolled her eyes. “Never say you and father are trying to arrange a match between me and the new heir now.”

“No, dear. When your father came home last night, he told me he was done trying to live out his dreams through you. It wasn't fair, he said. You have your own dreams, and he hopes they come true.”

Sophie snipped another bloom to add to the basket. “Wish he'd say it to me.”

“You know how your father is. He feels things deeply, but if he doesn't speak about them, he doesn't have to show weakness.” Her mother's eyes grew over-bright. “He just wants to see you settled and happy.”

Settled she might manage, but happy? There wasn't much chance of that. Not without Richard.

“Only think of it. All his life, Richard believed he'd be the marquess one day.” The title didn't mean much to Sophie, but she ached for his loss. “He must be devastated.”

“Perhaps, but that didn't stop him from doing the right thing,” her mother said. “As soon as he learned of his half brother's claim, he was the driving force to make sure it came to light.”

A coach clattered past Barrett House, and Sophie looked up in time to make out its occupants.

“Lady Antonia and her family seem to be in a hurry.”

“That was the other shoe to drop last night. As soon as it became apparent that Richard Barrett was no longer the heir, Lady Antonia cried off on their engagement. She claimed she'd been courted under false pretenses.”

Sophie snorted. “Courted? She all but roped and tied and dragged him into the betrothal.”

“True, but the story that will go out is that she is the wronged party.” Her mother made a tsking noise. “The Barrett family is beset by scandal all around. Just imagine—a secret marriage, a blackmail plot, and a totally unknown fellow for an heir. I wonder if the reputation of Somerfield Park will ever recover.”

Sophie was more concerned about the people connected to the marquessate. Richard had rubbed off on her in that way. He'd always been about his duty to others. It was maddening sometimes, but it was who he was.

And she loved him for it, even after he set her aside for the sake of all those others. It still hurt, but she realized he couldn't have done anything differently, not and remain himself.

She wouldn't change him for worlds.

“Still trying to kill that rosebush?” His familiar voice rumbled over her.

As if she'd conjured him by thinking of him so hard, there he was, dismounting beside the garden gate and looping the reins around a fence post. She'd never have believed it when she had first arrived at Somerfield Park, but Richard Barrett was everything she'd ever wanted, all she needed. Light to her dark, honorable enough to make up for the way she lived to skirt the rules—the wrinkles in Richard's soul fit snugly into the depressions in hers.

But just because Antonia had thrown him over, Sophie couldn't be sure he was here for her.

“I'll be inside if you need me, dear,” her mother said and withdrew. In truth, Sophie had forgotten she was even there. She saw only Richard coming up the walkway toward her. He'd asked her a question, but it wasn't the one she burned to hear. She gave herself a small shake. Oh yes. The roses.

“I did not kill it. As you can see, I was right about the bush. It responded beautifully to my pruning.”

“It's not the only thing. You've been hacking away at me since you arrived too,” he said with a grin. “And like the bush, I'm still here.”

She decided to tease him a bit. “Yes, but somewhat diminished I hear. I can't ‘my lord' you any longer.”

“Actually, you can. It's true that I'm not Lord Hartley, but even the younger son of a marquess is entitled to an honorific. I'm Lord Richard Barrett now. Still wellborn, if anyone attached to my woefully unconventional family can be counted such, but technically, I'm a commoner now.”

“One of us, eh? Welcome to the ranks of the ordinary.”

“You are anything but that.” He reached up and brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek. “You've a smudge there.”

“One can't create anything worth having without a smudge or two.”

“By those lights, we should be spectacular together because I've certainly smudged things up.” He took her hand between his and gently tugged off her gardening glove. Her fingers twined with his of their own accord. “Sophie, I haven't any right to ask this of you. I've no title. No wealth of my own. If you accept me, you'd be able to style yourself Lady Richard, so perhaps that will satisfy your father.”

“A title has never been important to me.”

His brows drew together in a frown. “It is to me. I wanted to make you my marchioness. As it is, my bride will be the wife of a tradesman. My father is not the man he once was. His mind is still foggy at times, so I'm staying on to manage the timber enterprise and estate's finances because my half brother will have his hands full adjusting to his new station. I've been given Barrett House, but it's not nearly grand enough for you.”

“Haven't you seen what I've done with the garden?” Sophie leaned toward him. “Wait till you turn me loose on the inside of the house.”

“You're making fun of me. We started off all wrong. Now I'm trying to do this properly,” Richard said as he dropped to one knee, his soul shining in his dark eyes. “Sophie Goodnight, I love you. I can't imagine life without you, and I'll spend every moment of every day trying to deserve you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“Of course I will, with all my heart.” She no longer needed to so carefully guard her heart. Sophie could leave it safely in Richard's keeping. She bent and kissed him. “And I'll happily do you the honor, but I don't want proper. I want laughter and adventures and a whole houseful of untitled brats. And don't expect me not to make fun of you when you deserve it. If I don't make fun, who will? Oh, let's have fun together, Richard. All our lives.”

“We will, darling. I promise.” He picked her up and swung her around, her tattered muslin frock billowing out like a banner. “Every day will be golden. Some people go all their lives without realizing what they have. I'm the luckiest man on earth because I know what a treasure you are.”

He covered her mouth in a sweet kiss of promise. Then the kiss darkened with passion till her insides throbbed. All his rakish skills were hers now, and she'd never get enough of him.

“We're both lucky,” she gasped when he finally released her lips. “But I've got to stop thinking of you as a rake.”

“I hope you have another name for me by now.”

“Oh, I do. It's love, Richard. Simply love.”