Too Hot For A Rake (11 page)

“Good. I’ve had a letter from my mother. She’s her goddaughter, but it’s been many years since they’ve seen one another.” She turned to the door and noticed a timid Amy pressed against the wall, as if wishing to remain invisible.

“Amy? I’m glad you’re here. Will you carry the tray for Cook?”

Amy’s eyes lit up at the friendly sound in her mistress’ voice. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had been forgiven, never mind that she knew not what crime she had committed to earn such a tongue-lashing. “Of course, milady.” She took the tray from the table and led the way up the back staircase.

Helena followed behind Cook slowly, for the older woman’s labored breathing signaled her difficulty in climbing the steps. She weighed far more than she should.

When the three reached the chamber, Cook put her finger to her lips, opened the door quietly and stepped aside for Helena and Amy.

The dowager was awake.

“Good morning, Helena, my dear.”

“How are you feeling this morning, ma’am?”

“Her fever’s down,” said Mrs. Hubley, plumping the pillows so the dowager could sit to eat her breakfast.

“That’s a good sign,” said Helena. “With Mrs. Hubley’s help, you’ll be up and about in no time.”

“Have you seen my grandson? He promised to visit.”

“I haven’t seen him this morning, ma’am. Shall I send my abigail to fetch him for you?”

The old woman sighed. “No, dear. I’ll wait for him to come to me. He always keeps his promises, you know.”

Right! When pigs fly.
Aloud she said, “I’m sure he does, ma’am.”

“My Des is a good lad.” The dowager waved the tray away when she’d had her fill.

Helena nodded to Amy, who took the tray and withdrew, followed by Cook. The nurse returned to her chair and picked up her needlework.

“Let me look at you, my child. How is your mother? Is she well? I was at her wedding in Bodmin, you know. Tell me all about your family.”

“She and my father are well, ma’am. I’ve had a letter in which they send you their good wishes. I am one of their five daughters—the second oldest, in fact. Edward is our only brother and the spoiled darling of all his sisters.”

The dowager managed a weak smile. “I used to spend time in London during the Season, where we visited one another often. But I’m no longer well enough to travel.”

Helena noted a frown on the dowager’s face and said in alarm, “What is it, my dear?”

“I felt so hopeless before you and Desmond came to my rescue. I should never have allowed the Traskers into my home, but a lonely old woman is sometimes eager for family to care for her in her dotage.”

Helena vowed to nurture this dear old lady and make her life worth living again. She took the old woman’s hand in hers and stroked it.

“I know they’re up to no good, those two. They’ve sacked so many of the old-timers. Now I hardly recognize any of the staff.”

“No harm will come to you from now on, I promise.” Helena noted that the marchioness looked as if she was about to nod off. “Rest, dearest. Shall I return this evening and read to you?”

The dowager made no answer, though a smile played on her lips as she turned her head and shut her eyes. Helena tucked her in and withdrew. Here was useful purpose for her at last, she thought as she returned to her chamber opposite the dowager. She hoped she was up to the challenge. Her sister Olivia’s farewell words rang in her ears: “Remember, my love. You’re a Fairchild, and Fairchilds do not fail.” The thought heartened her resolve.

She returned to her chamber, intending to write in her journal, but exhaustion overtook her. She was weary not only from lack of sleep but also from the earlier confrontation with Mrs. Trasker and that lot of churlish servants. She removed her shoes and her gown, crawled into her bed and fell asleep at once.

Friday, the Seventeenth of April, 1818

Waverley’s quarters were now restored, thanks to Rabu. Had his father been responsible for the neglect of the original old castle? He doubted that was the case, for the third marquis was meticulous in his attention to detail. But he died a year ago, enough time for neglect and decay to mar what, if memory served, had once been in sterling condition.

Waverley Castle was prominently mentioned in the “Guide to Historic Landmarks.” Built in the fifteenth century, the castle lay unoccupied for almost a century. In 1733, King George the First, known chiefly for his generosity to his closest friends, ceded it to Lord Thomas Bannington, the First Marquis of Waverley. The second marquis, Lord Neville Bannington, was an avid student of architecture. When his lordship died in 1779, the modern wings facing north opposite the sea had not yet been completed. The third marquis, Lord James, Desmond’s father, finished both wings well before he banished his only son and sent him off to India.

The marquis’ suite in the east wing overlooked the gardens. A balcony ran the length of the suite as well. His chamber was large, and a fireplace in the middle of the east wall faced his bed. A modern bathing closet was situated inside his dressing room in the corner of the west wall. Beyond that, a small room housed his valet, Rabu. The third chamber, adjacent to his sleeping quarters, contained Waverley’s private office. It was connected to a waiting room housing a desk for his secretary and seats for visitors.

He sat at his own desk and tried to concentrate on the sheaf of papers his man of business had delivered to him. But his mind was not on his work. The thought of Helena nagged at him. He’d hurt her badly. The look on her face when he’d stormed out of her bedchamber without a word of explanation was enough to unman him. Rake or no, he’d never been that cruel to any woman. Not until now.

Bloody hell! Much easier being a rake. Thank your willing bed partner, offer a kind word and pay her. Simple. No complications. What’s more, the lady in your bed has no other expectations. Fool! Did you really think you could shake off your dissolute past? Easier said than done, isn’t it, your lordship? Instead, you surrender to temptation at the first opportunity. And hurt the only woman you’ve ever truly loved. You’ll have to mend it, you know. The question is how?

He rang for Rabu.

“Yes, your lor’sheep?”

“Ask Lady Fairchild to do me the kindness of a few moments of her time whenever it is convenient.”

“Excuse, please. You wear dressing gown. I help you dress, first, your lor’sheep.”

“No. I’ll do it myself.” He rose and retired to his dressing room.
Will she agree to see me? Serves me right if she refuses.
He concentrated on choosing an appropriate wardrobe: morning trousers, a starched white shirt and neck cloth, a plain linen vest, and a blue superfine coat. He was seated at his dressing table tying his neck cloth when Rabu reappeared.

“Well? Will she come?”

“Yes, your lor’sheep. Her la’sheep say soon.” His valet picked up a comb and proceeded to pull it through his master’s unruly locks.

“All right. Disappear when you let her in, do you understand?”

“Yes, your lor’sheep.”

“Stop your giggling. It’s not what you think.”

Ill at ease, Waverley felt the need for fresh air and went out to the balcony. Rabu’s skilled hair combing quickly unraveled, a result of the wind, but the sight of the gardeners at work restoring the damage calmed his unease.

Doubt assailed him.
What should I say? I’m sorry? Forgive me? I beg your pardon?
He let out a harsh laugh at the lame phrases that came to his mind.

A knock on the door caused his stomach to churn. “Come in, please.”

“You sent for me, my lord?”

Helena’s icy formality did nothing to calm him. He stepped inside and closed the balcony doors. “Won’t you sit here by the fire, ma’am?” He indicated a chair opposite the one he planned to use.

“I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind, my lord.”

“As you wish.” He dismissed Rabu with a nod. When they were alone, he said, “I haven’t the proper words to ask you to forgive my behavior, ma’am. It was most ill-bred of me.”

“Limit our discussion to matters of business, sir.”

“All right, if you prefer. Cook informed me of your confrontation with Trasker’s people. Well done.”

“Thank you, my lord. Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”

“Don’t leave me like this, Helena. We were friends once. Have I lost that in addition to your esteem? At least hear me out.”

She unbent a trifle. “Very well.” She sat on the edge of the seat opposite his desk and folded her hands in her lap.

“When Darlington found me in Paris, I was content with my lot. When he told me my father had died and the Regent demanded my return, I was tempted to tell him he and the Regent might go to the devil for all I cared. But when Darlington informed me that my grandmother still lived, my choice was clear. It was no longer possible to relinquish the marquisate. My grandmother was the only woman in my life who ever loved me. Until you came into my life. I wanted to tell you I felt the same way, but the words stuck in my throat. I’m not the same man I once was, Helena.

“
Le roué Anglais
is no more. It was a cowardly action to leave you in the lurch, and I apologize for the pain I caused you. I know now that I must change my ways, you see. For four reasons.”

She showed a glimmer of interest. “And they are?”

He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. “The people of Waverley Park depend on their marquis. I owe it to them. I owe it to my grandmother. I owe it to myself, worthless though I may be in my own eyes. And last, I owe it to you.”

“Admirable. I wish you success, but you owe me nothing. When I said I loved you, it was in the heat of passion, but it vanished in the cold light of day. While I remain under your roof, I shall keep my word to you to set things right within these walls. I plan to return home no later than the first of June for my sister’s debut.”

“Can we not be civil to one another until then, Helena? I shall not molest you again. Here’s my hand on it.”

She shook it as if they had been strangers. “Good day, my lord.” She left the room without a backward glance.

London

“Done,” said the duke to his wife when she entered the library.

“Oh, good.” She bent to peck him on the cheek, for they were quite alone. “What is it you’ve done?”

“My man of business has found a suitable instructor for Mary. I did mention the Royal Philharmonic Society, didn’t I?”

“Yes, dear. What’s he like?”

“You’ve already met my man of business.”

She laughed. “No, dear. I meant Mary’s new instructor.”

“His name is Signore Giovanni Bartoli. He’s come to England to study classical composition or some such thing.”

“He’s from Italy, I assume.”

“Of course. He must teach or starve, for he is impoverished. If Mary likes him, I mean to offer him wages in addition to lodgings and meals in exchange for lessons for our talented daughter.”

“Most generous, dear. Has he agreed to these terms?”

“So I’m told. I have yet to meet him.”

“What of his own studies?”

“Oh, he’ll have plenty of time to pursue them, I assure you.”

“Have you told Mary?”

“No, love. I leave all such arrangements to you. Besides, I was sure you would wish to interview him first. He’s waiting for you in the blue drawing room as we speak.”

The duchess hurried upstairs to the blue drawing room to greet the new maestro. She allowed herself a small smile. Knowing the duke as well as she did, the instructor had already been engaged.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with her customary hospitality. “I am Mary’s mother.” She hid her astonishment at the thin young man who could not have been more than twenty, standing near the fireplace. He wore a plain white shirt adorned at the neck with a thin black tie in the Italian manner and a black coat over black pantaloons. His shoes were scuffed, but these were not what caught her attention. His long curled hair fell casually around an oval face graced with classic Roman features: full lips, thick eyebrows, and intense dark eyes. The only flaw, hardly noticeable, was a slightly bent nose. He was one of the handsomest young men the duchess had ever seen. She wondered what effect on her daughter Mary, an impressionable innocent at fifteen, was likely to be.

“Good afternoon, your grace,” he said, bowing. “Forgive, please. My English, she is not good. I only come here three month.”

“It is fine, sir.” The duchess rang the bell to send for Mary. “I’d like you to meet my daughter Lady Mary. She will be your pupil.”

He drew himself up with dignity. “First, I hear her play. I teach, but only if she, the daughter, has the talent.”

“In that case, sir, we shall join her in the music room. There you can listen to her play.” She gave the servant her order and led the young man downstairs to the large music room, at the end of which was a pianoforte.

Bartoli strode to it and ran his fingers over the keys. “Excellent instrument.”

“You sent for me, Mother?” asked Mary upon entering the room. At the sight of the stranger standing near the pianoforte, she froze.

“Yes, dear. I’d like you to meet Signore Bartoli. He—”

“Play for me,” the young man demanded abruptly, interrupting the duchess with a wave of his hand.

Mary glanced at her mother, alarm written on her face.

“Go ahead, dear. Signore Bartoli wishes to determine your ability in order to instruct—”

“No!” said Bartoli. “I do not teach if she has not the talent.”

Mary sat and began to play from memory. Her fingers flew over the keys as if they had a life of their own.

“Mozart,” said Bartoli, his hands clasped behind his back.
Eine Kleine Nacht Musick.
Yes. I will teach.”

“Th-thank you, Signore….” Mary stuttered.

“No, no. You must call me
Maestro.”

Mary bit her lip and said, “Yes,
Maestro.”

He took both her hands in his and examined her fingers. “You will treat these like your jewels, no?”

“Yes,
Maestro.”

He turned away abruptly and moved to the door. “I take residence here in the morning. Good day, your grace. Good day, Lady Mary. Practice chords today. We begin work tomorrow afternoon.” He bowed to them, turned, and left the music room.

The duchess eyed her daughter with alarm, for the child’s eyes were misted over. “What’s wrong, Mary? If you don’t like him, we’ll find another teacher for you.”

“Oh no, Mother. I like him very well indeed. The maestro understands music. He knew I was playing Mozart.”

Waverley Castle

Waverley had given Helena much food for thought. Was friendship possible after all that had passed between them? Perhaps that would be best. She made her way to the library to search for a suitable book to read to the marchioness. The door was ajar, the voices of Mrs. Trasker and her son, Harry, clearly audible. She was about to enter when she heard her name mentioned and thought better of it. She pressed against the wall just outside the door to listen.

“I say we murder the marquis and that bitch.”

“Don’t be so addlepated, Harry. How do you expect to become the fifth marquis if you’re charged with murder? No, me boy. We’ll have to think of a clever way to get rid of them. And don’t you be doin’ anything rash, hear? Can’t have you suspicioned for murder. We haven’t come this far for nothing, have we? Once we get rid of them and the old lady dies—it can’t be soon enough to my way o’ thinking—you’re the heir. No question.”

“What d’ya want me to do, Ma?”

“Keep a sharp eye, that’s what. Don’t trouble yourself about Lady Fairchild. I got her thinkin’ I’m on her side. You got to do the same. Try to be pleasant, respectful-like, hear? That should throw her off her stride. If she wants new hires, well then, let her hire them. Where’s the harm? Which reminds me, I promised to give her your accountin’ books.”

“But, Mum, you can’t give…” He paused, then chuckled. “I get it. Give her t’other set, you mean.”

“Clever lad. I been thinkin’ it over real careful. Better to gull the pair of them into believin’ they’ve won, see? Then they’ll be off their guard when we strike.” She took a swig of her coffee, as usual laced with a large splash of gin.

Harry scratched his head in puzzlement. “How you fixin’ to get rid of ’em?”

“Never you mind, me boy. Just trust in your ma. Haven’t steered you wrong yet, have I? Let them think they’ve won out. That’s the ticket.”

“Gotter hand it to yer, Mum. Yer mind’s as sharp as a knife. Ye’ll do ’em in fer sure. No question.” He kissed her on the cheek, a wet, sloppy buss.

Mrs. Trasker wiped her cheek with her soiled apron. “All part o’ me master plan, me lad. All part o’ me master plan.”

So they think they can do us in. We’re in the way of their plans. What are they? Never mind. Forewarned is forearmed. We’ll have to watch them, but we’ll win in the end because we’re smarter than thickheaded Harry and his sot of a mother. I’ll have to warn Waverley, I suppose.

Helena didn’t stay to hear any more of the conversation. She’d heard enough.

The marquis watched Helena from his office window as she rode off with Casper. She rode like a graceful swan gliding across a smooth pond. He envied Casper this duty, for the mere sight of her tormented him. He turned to the pile of work on his desk.

The wind in Helena’s face and the sound of the sea were a welcome relief from this day’s perplexing events. They rode at a brisk pace along the moors. At the sound of a dog’s bark, her horse shied and threw her into a bramble of bushes. Her horse would have bolted were it not for the quick thinking of Casper, who grabbed the reins.

“Heel, Horatio! Heel, I say!” shouted an unfamiliar voice. The stranger threw his reins to his groom and dismounted to come to Helena’s aid. “Give me your hand, ma’am.”

Startled, Helena looked up into the kindly gray eyes of a handsome, fair-haired young gentleman dressed in the fashion of a country squire—buckskins, Hessian boots, a smart brown coat worn over a white linen shirt and simple neck cloth and a beaver hat.