A Rake by Any Other Name (5 page)

But David would never put himself forward like that.

He
needs
to, or Toby will be running the house someday instead of
him.

She certainly didn't intend on chopping carrots and feeding wood to the smoky oven for the rest of her life. She didn't want Mrs. Culpepper's job. One fine day, Eliza wanted Mrs. Grahame's silvery chatelaine with all the keys to the locked cupboards on it dangling at
her
waist.

Then wouldn't her mum be proud? Maybe even her father, if anyone could find the man. Eliza had no memory of him at all.

She assumed David must have his sights set on Mr. Hightower's tidy office, which guarded access to the wine cellar and housed the fine silver service. The butler was lord in all but name below stairs. The power of hiring and firing, advancing some or holding others back would be in his hand.

What young man wouldn't aspire to that?

“Hurry up, girl,” Mrs. Culpepper said as she pushed Miss Bowthorpe's tray into Eliza's hands. “Ye're holding up my supper, and I'm right sharp set.”

Eliza and the cook took their meals in the kitchen with the scullery maid, but after all the dishes were done, she'd be allowed to join the other servants in the common room for cards and games and, if Mr. Hightower and Mrs. Grahame were not there, a bit of gossip too. She wasn't sure yet how much she should tell of what she'd seen in the gallery.

She didn't think David would like hearing that she'd spied on his lordship.

Then, as if she'd conjured him, there he was on the back stairs, coming down as she was going up.

“Good evening, David.” She forced herself not to stammer or waffle on. If the man wanted to talk to her, he should carry the conversation forward.

“Oh. Yes, good evening to you too, Eliza.” He was almost past her before he spoke, as if he didn't notice her until the tray made him flatten himself against the wall, so she could pass. A frown drew his brows together, and she wished she knew him well enough to ask what was troubling him.

She climbed a few more steps before she stopped and turned back to face him. “Just so you know, Toby made a cake of himself at the supper table tonight. If you play your cards right, Mr. Hightower will name you Lord Hartley's valet.”

“Thank you, Eliza.” David shook his head. “I don't know what I'm meant to be, but I don't see myself as a valet.”

Eliza was dumbfounded. “A valet is ever so much more important than a footman. Don't you want to move up the ranks?”

“Don't you ever get the sense that you weren't meant for back stairs and cellars?” he asked.

Amazingly enough, she did. Every time she sneaked into the gallery and pored over the paintings or imagined herself floating up into the painted clouds on the ceiling, she strained at the narrow confines of her life as a kitchen maid. “I understand just what you mean.”

His smile washed over her. “Good. I was beginning to think I was the only one with such thoughts. I don't know why I said something about that, but you've an openness about you. A fellow might tell you anything.”

Oh
yes, David, you can tell me anything, and I'll listen with my whole
heart.

But she didn't say that. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She just smiled back, hugging the moment she and David had shared close to her chest. It wasn't much, but for the first time, he'd truly noticed her. He'd given her a glimpse of the man behind his handsome face. Her insides had capered about over him at regular intervals. Now she felt giddy as a drunken faerie on a daisy stem.

Light as her heart was, her workload was still burdensome. However, as she trudged up the stairs, the tray didn't seem quite as heavy as before.

When an old woman says what's on her mind, she's considered outrageous yet charming. When a young woman voices her opinions, she's counted outrageous and decidedly
not
charming. Still, I can't help but admire the lady brave enough to do it.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“I say, that's a smart equipage.” Sophie's mother turned to watch as a coach-and-four rumbled past Barrett House the next afternoon. It slowed slightly, so the occupants could peer back at the Goodnights.

Sophie looked up from her weeding. If the gardens around the old dower house were going to amount to anything, it was clear she and her mother would have to see to it. The Barretts obviously didn't have the coin to put toward its upkeep. Her father had argued for hiring some of the locals to clear out the flower beds, but Sophie wanted something to do.

Besides, ripping into a few cankerwort roots was good for taking out her frustrations. And Richard Barrett had left her decidedly frustrated.

The young lady in the coach stared at her from the backward-facing seat as it rattled by. She was fashionably blond and pale, with a jaunty little capote fastened on top of her curls. Next to her was a woman in a maid's cap. The lady took in Barrett House in a swift, assessing glance and then turned to speak to the older couple, who were seated on the opposite squab.

“Oh, I know who that must be.” Sophie rose, removed her dirty gardening gloves, and dusted the knees of the apron protecting her frock.

“Who?”

“Lord Hartley's first and only original idea.” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, tilting the brim of her straw bonnet far enough for the sunlight to kiss her nose. “That's the girl he means to marry, I'll be bound.”

Her mother blinked in surprise. “But he's meant to marry you, sweet.”

“Only if I decide to have him, and that question, I assure you, is quite unresolved.”

Even if Lord Hartley did kiss like a god, Sophie didn't much care for him. Any fellow who would let himself be sacrificed on the matrimonial altar solely for the sake of her bloated dowry couldn't have much depth of character.

Or feeling.

“Oh, my dear, the last thing your father and I want is to drag you into an uncomfortable situation.”

“Too late.” Sophie raised a hand, shading her eyes as she watched the coach round the bend on its way to Somerfield Park. “Being offered to the highest-ranking bachelor as breeding stock counts as uncomfortable, however benign your intentions.”

Her mother bristled at that. “You know we have only your best interests at heart. But we were unaware that another young lady is involved with Lord Somerset's heir.”

“I gather Lord and Lady Somerset were similarly uninformed, else they wouldn't have been scheming with you and Father.”

“We're not scheming. We're…planning. How very tawdry you make it all sound.” Her mother gave a frustrated snort. “Who is she?”

“I didn't ask her name.”

“How serious is Lord Hartley's attachment to this young lady?”

Sophie shrugged. “He told me he means to wed her. That sounds rather serious, don't you think? But that was before Father and his boundless bank notes arrived. Cheer up, Mother. Lord Hartley may yet be for sale.”

Mrs. Goodnight ignored this jab as she paced, her fingers steepled before her in thought. “We must do something, but first we must learn more about this new young lady.”

“Never commit the troops until you've reconnoitered, eh, Mother?” Sophie laughed. “You should have been a general.”

Her mother was so lost in thought she seemed not to have heard her. “I have it. We'll send a note to invite Lady Somerset and her daughters to tea tomorrow, wording the request in such a way as to include these new arrivals. We should be able to take this mysterious young lady's measure then.”

“A letter takes too long.” Sophie pulled off her apron and dropped it into the gardening basket. “I'll simply walk up to Somerfield Park and invite them all in person.”

“No, Sophie, wait. You must change. Dress your hair. You can't go up there looking like—”

“Like myself?” She was already through the garden gate with a swinging stride. “Mother, this is how I look. If anyone doesn't like it, they can look the other way.”

***

The coach wound through the woods and then burst into the open meadow, which was dotted with far too many sheep for Lady Antonia's comfort. She lifted a scented hanky to her nose.

Her lady's maid, Martha Quimby, sniffed appreciatively. “Just smell that air, my lady.”

“Must we?” Antonia asked. The country was so earthy sometimes, all shaggy mutton and sniffle-inducing grass and other appallingly fresh things she couldn't identify. “Why anyone of sense ever leaves London is a mystery to me.”

Unless
it's to go to
Paris.

Then the lane straightened and hundred-year-old oaks lined the way. At the end of the long drive, Somerfield Park beckoned, like a prize waiting to be claimed.

Which
it
most
certainly
is
, Antonia thought as she craned her neck to view it.
And
a
worthy
prize
at
that.

“Well, there's a proper place for Quality to lay their heads, if I do say so,” Quimby said. “Your young man must be swimming in lard, so he must.”

“Quimby, please,” Lady Pruett admonished. “Speaking of money is so gauche.”

Quimby rolled her eyes and sighed. Antonia could practically hear her thinking,
If
you
don't have it, speaking of money is better than
nothing.

The lady's maid frequently spoke out of turn, but she was also a veritable magpie when it came to collecting information about the
bon
ton
through her connections with other servants. She shared these shiny, often scandalous revelations with her employer with dependable frequency. That, combined with her absolute discretion when it came to being tight-lipped about the family she served, made Quimby worth her weight in gold.

And Quimby was right about Somerfield Park. The manor house was a delight to the eyes, symmetrical and ornate, yet not fussy enough in its embellishments to seem ostentatious. The only thing out of place was the large lilac bush at one corner which looked as if someone had taken a hacksaw to it. No matter. Once Antonia was the marchioness, she'd have it taken out completely and replaced by topiary in the French style. After her stay in Paris, she adored all things
français
.

“The first house we passed on the estate looked a bit shabby, but it appears the main house is in fine repair,” Lord Pruett said.

“What do we care about the outbuildings, Papa? Hartley invited us to stay at Somerfield Park. With his family.”

The distinction was not lost on her. This was not a house party with dozens of guests. It was simply her family and his.

“You'll be wearing a marchioness's coronet before you know it, my lady,” Quimby said. “His lordship can hardly have declared himself more clearly.”

“Of course, it would help if the man actually said the words,” Antonia muttered.

But that was an oversight easily mended. If she didn't know how to coax Hartley into saying them, she deserved to return to Surrey to live out her life as a dried-up spinster—which she might, if any suitor looked too closely at the canal shares her father intended to offer as her dowry. Of course, a family as old and venerable as the Barretts, with their vast estate and impeccable connections, didn't need her dowry in any case.

Besides, she loved Lord Hartley. She was almost sure of it. Sure enough to believe
Lady
Hartley had a fine ring to it indeed.

***

Richard usually rode only in the early mornings, but his mother and grandmother had been pestering him about Miss Goodnight with sidelong looks and outright entreaties all day. He escaped to the stables after luncheon and took Pasha, his favorite Arabian, out for a second punishing ride along the hedgerows. The vigorous activity soothed him. When he stretched out on the horse's back, his breathing falling into rhythm with the pounding hooves, he didn't have to think.

And it hurt to think quite a lot.

Before his mother's letter had caught up to him in Paris, he'd been master of his own fate. Now his entire life was being mapped out for him by forces beyond his control. He cursed the South Sea volcano, which had had the audacity to disrupt the entire earth's weather, and the
Betsy
Ross
, which had the temerity to sink with his family's entire fortune riding in its hold. He blamed his poor father, who probably wouldn't even be aware his son was upset with him for saddling him with responsibility for the estate too soon. Not even the crumbling Barrett House escaped Richard's silent diatribe.

Sometimes, he wished he was more like Seymour, who could give easy vent to his frustration. Lawrence had been known to howl at the moon on occasion, an action he described as highly cathartic and usually accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol.

But Richard bottled up his anger, controlled it, lest it control him. He didn't know any other way. He feared what might happen if he ever did relent and let it all out.

When he reached the top of a rise, he reined Pasha up short and let the gelding catch his breath. He didn't need to take his frustrations out on the horse.

Besides, of all the people and things he was angry with, Richard put himself at the top of the list.

He was devoted to Antonia. Hers was the first face he thought of each morning, the last imagined smile he enjoyed each night. It had been easy to become enamored of her. Since she was the daughter of an earl, they moved in the same circles, and shared similar interests and acquaintances.

But beyond that, there were no awkward silences between them, for which he was profoundly grateful. Antonia filled them with witty banter, which Richard appreciated because conversation had never been his strong suit. Even though he was perfectly at home on a horse or wielding a cricket bat, the thought of facing a roomful of glittering people and being expected to converse left him with damp palms.

It was Antonia's métier. She dazzled everyone each time she entered a room, and some of her reflected glory fell on him when he was with her. He'd been within an ace of proposing to her before the letter came.

But if he loved Antonia, what on earth had possessed him to kiss Sophie Goodnight?

She was rude. Common. And most shocking of all, not a virgin.

Yet when he woke last night with a flush of guilty pleasure and damp sheets, it wasn't Antonia he'd been twisted up with in his wet dream.

Down on the lane below, a young woman burst out of the trees. Arms swinging, her long stride pushed the limits of the hem of her column dress. She was headed for Somerfield Park, and if her determined pace was any indication, she was on a mission.

“Call up the devil and she will come,” Richard muttered. He chirruped to the gelding and nudged him down the hill. Perhaps he could head Miss Goodnight off before she reached the manor house. After all, Antonia and her parents were due to arrive sometime today. The last thing he wanted was for Sophie to accost Antonia before he had a chance to speak to her privately and explain the Goodnight's unexpected presence.

“Hullo,” he said as he drew even with Sophie. “Where are you going?”

She flicked her gaze up at him and then back to the lane ahead. “I'll give you three guesses, but if you don't manage it in one, I shall have to conclude that you are not as smart as your horse.”

He'd finished at the head of all his forms in school, yet she managed to make him feel like an idiot almost every time he opened his mouth around her. Richard dismounted and fell into step beside her. One of them had to be civilized. It appeared it would have to be him.

“Perhaps I should have asked
why
you are going to Somerfield,” he amended.

“Don't worry. I'm not planning to measure the parlor for new drapes.” She slowed her pace a bit. “Actually, I'm delivering an invitation to your mother and sisters to join us at Barrett House for tea tomorrow.”

“Oh. That's…kind.”

“You needn't sound so surprised.” She stuck out her tongue at him.

For a hot moment, memories of that pointed little tongue tangled up with his had him crowding his trousers.

“I can be kind,” she assured him, “when it suits me, of course.”

Of
course.
He tamped down his body's unwanted response to her. The last thing he needed was to feel anything—especially lust—for the unpredictable Miss Goodnight.

“You might save yourself the trip. I suspect my mother and sisters will be unavailable for tea tomorrow.” Despite her straw bonnet, the sun had pinked her cheeks. Miss Goodnight didn't seem bothered by it. Richard wouldn't put it past her not to mind sprouting freckles. “We are expecting guests to arrive today, and it would be rude to leave them.”

“Oh, yes, your almost fiancée. I'm so looking forward to meeting her,” she said, her lips curving upward. “Who is she, by the way?”

“Lady Antonia Pruett, but that's none of your concern.”

“Of course, it is. How else shall I help you disentangle yourself from this situation unless I know all the principals in our little comedy?”

“If you think to come between me and Lady Antonia—”

“You mistake me, Richard.” She stopped walking and turned to face him. “I don't want to disrupt whatever little agreement you have with this Antonia person.”

Antonia would be aghast at Sophie's easy familiarity, referring to her by her Christian name before they'd even been introduced. But Sophie Goodnight was like the tide. There seemed no way to stop her.