A Rake's Redemption

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “What a lovely spot.”

  Phaedra whirled and plunked down on her bottom, startled by the voice behind her. “My lord,” she gasped. “I did not expect you.”

  Hardcastle was leaning on a chair on the flagstone terrace, and though his face was white and his dark eyes shadowed, he was smiling. “I delight in surprising you, Phaedra, especially if it causes you to land in such a pretty confusion.”

  Phaedra jumped up and dusted off her bottom. Somehow he always managed to make her blush. In his room earlier, she had been surprised by the warmth still evident in his eyes, even after their quarrel the night before. Now was the time to test her theory. She had begun to wonder if he was hard by nature, or if there really was a warm, compassionate man lurking underneath the aristocratic façade. His main objection to releasing Baron Fossey from the results of his disastrous wager seemed to lie in the young man’s supposed intention to cheat the earl. But if he truly did not mean to renege—

  “Will you sit down, my lord, and let me bring you breakfast out here? I have some fresh scones and honey laid out and ready.” She smiled at him sweetly. One did not catch flies with vinegar. If honey would soften the earl and regain the Fossey estate, then she would drown him in it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A day like this really did show off her Oxfordshire home to its best advantage, Phaedra thought, taking in the radiant scene of blue skies, birds chirping in the hawthorne and the mellow golden stone of the garden wall lit by the morning sun climbing higher. She glanced over at her companion, who appeared to be watching a wren stealing pieces of straw from her flower bed for his nest. She crumbled a bit of her breakfast, the last of one of her own scones, and tossed it onto the flagstones that made up the terrace. The bird hopped over and stole the crumb, flying off with it.

  “This is a much different scene from that of London, I imagine,” she ventured at last.

  “Much,” he agreed as they watched the bird return and hop over to another crumb. It gazed up at them for a second and chirped a thank-you before stealing the last crumb and fluttering off to the wall to consume his breakfast. “In London even the birds are quarrelsome and demanding, shrieking at one like a fishwife instead of chirping in tune like they do here. I have not spent a spring in the country for . . . well, for more years than I can count. I had forgotten how peaceful it is.”

  Hope welled like a new spring in Phaedra’s heart. No man who spoke thus could be entirely without feeling, without ruth. “My friend Anna says the same. When her husband was alive she spent all of her time in London, and she told me that coming back to Oxfordshire, even though it was in tragic circumstances—her husband was a lieutenant in the light dragoons and lost his life at Quatre Bras—was like a reawakening. She cannot imagine now going back to her old life.” She glanced over at the earl, but there was no sign on his face that he remembered who Anna was.

  “But there is much to distract one in London,” Hardcastle said, stretching out his long legs and grimacing. “Ow. There is still pain in my muscles. Will this never go away?”

  “You must learn patience, my lord.” Phaedra pondered how to introduce the subject she had in mind. She had intended to work up from the mention of Anna, Charles Fossey’s widowed sister, but that had not gone quite as planned. “You mentioned last night that you had a country estate. Where would it be?”

  “Northampton,” he said.

  “That is just north of us. Is it very big?”

  “Fair. I have another in Dorset and a hunting box in Exmoor.”

  Phaedra clenched her hands in her skirts. Hearing him enumerate his holdings was only making her grow more angry that with all he had, he would still take away poor Charles’s estate. It was shameful! How could he not—she forced herself to calm. He likely did not see things her way. To him this was a matter of principle. How principle could make him steal the only home the dowager baroness and a poverty-stricken widow had, she could not reconcile, but if she was to win this battle, she must remain clear-sighted.

  “And I believe I own a small estate in Yorkshire, as well, of course, as the house in London.”

  Too much! Phaedra leaped to her feet and stood in front of Hardcastle. “How can you even think about taking away Charles Fossey’s home when you have four? No, five! I cannot believe how arrogant and unfeeling you are. Why can you not just let the poor idiot off the hook instead of making him pay for an idiotic wager—and not just him, but his whole family must suffer. It is unconscionable.” Phaedra clamped her lips together to stop her vitriolic tirade. Lord preserve her! It was exactly what she had not intended to do, but that last little addition, that estate in Yorkshire that he could not even recall . . . she wanted to scream at him. She slumped back down in her seat, turned her face away and stared off into the distance, biting her lip. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Not bloody likely! The meek, it seemed, were destined to be turned out of their homes and inherit nothing.

  “Phaedra,” Hardcastle said, sitting up and gazing over at her with a mild look on his face. “You must see that this has nothing to do with how many estates I own. That Charles Fossey had only the one should have made him more careful of it. Especially if, as you say, that is the home of his mother and sister, too.”

  The calm reasonableness of his voice only made her want to throw something at his head, preferably something heavy and rotten. No one else had ever affected her this way, making her by turns amused, passionate and furious. And no one had ever made her want to throw something at them! But that would do Charles and his family no good, and she had made a promise to herself to put their interests above everything else. She would do anything and everything she could to keep them from losing their home. This was not just for Charles, but for Anna, her friend, and for Deborah, who had hopes of marrying Charles before too many more months passed. This spring was to see her convince her father that she would wed no one but Charles. If he lost his home there would be no hope for them ever.

  And this was for the dowager baroness. Phaedra had been greatly saddened by the once-vibrant woman’s frailty and descent into illness since her husband’s death. What would being pitched from their family estate do to her?

  But how was she to change Hardcastle’s mind? He was an intelligent man, a logical man, but she did not think him evil. He was, perhaps, dispassionate to the point of coolness, but he had a passionate side. She had seen it blazing in his eyes. However, she saw no way to use that side of him in aid of her friends. Passion toward her—she still did not know whether to believe it, or whether it was all a part of his rake’s bag of tricks—would not help them. No, she must find a way to appeal to his sense of justice and honor. She glanced over at him. He was sprawled at his ease, letting the sun warm his upturned face. This was why God had sent him to her, to stop the horrible train of events that had started with Charles Fossey stupidly gambling away his ancestral home.

  Think, Phaedra, think, she admonished herself. An idea formed in her mind, the result of a half-remembered detail that Hardcastle had told her in his relation of the story of the night he and Charles played that fatal game of cards. “I think, my lord, that you told me what the note Charles left for you said. What was it again?”

  “The note? It was some nonsense about needing time. If it was true, why did he not stay in London and ask me for it himself? That would have been the honorable thing.”

  “Perhaps,” Phaedra said doubtfully. “But you said yourself you did not know each other when you sat down to play cards. He could not know if you would acquiesce or not; perhaps he dared not risk it. After all,” she added wryly, “I cannot imagine that you are well known for your merciful side. Did you always do the exact right thing when you were three and twenty, sir? Were you always perfectly knowledgeable of the right thing to do or say?”

  She had hit upon something, for he quickly turned crimson. He sat up straighter but remained silent.

  “You do not know Charles,” she said quickly, following up
on her advantage, if that was what it was. “I do not know him well myself, but he is well-liked in this county, and the locals call him a ‘likely lad.’ That is high praise from some of them. He is thought to be honorable and promises to become a better landlord and employer than even his father. Do you truly think he meant to cheat you, or could it be that he raced home to try to arrange things, to try to prepare his mother and his sister for the necessity of their moving? Perhaps he is even trying to arrange it himself, to find some place for them to live that would not be too horrible for them. Could it be that was what he asked for time for?”

  Reluctantly, Hardcastle said, “I suppose. But I’m not an evil man, Phaedra. If he had told me that, if he had asked for time for that reason, I would have given him the time! As much, within reason, as he could need.”

  Carefully, Phaedra considered her next words. He said he was not an evil man, and he had a sense of justice. Perhaps— “Then you will admit that there was likely no intention to defraud you. I can tell you, he has not left the county. Does that not plead his case that he is just trying to do right by his family? By his mother who is ill, and his sister who is poor?”

  “I admit it, yes.” Hardcastle gave her a twisted smile. “You have no doubt never been in a court of law, my dear, but you would make an admirable barrister. All right, I freely admit that the young man likely did not mean to defraud me, if, as you say, he is still in the county and has not fled in this week I have been laid up here.”

  “And isn’t it that which really angered you, causing you to race across country at night? You thought he was attempting to escape his rightful debt, to flee the country even.”

  “Yes. If what you conjecture is the truth, I am not angry at the pup. But he should have stayed to explain to me. Idiot.”

  “Then, knowing how desperate he is, knowing he is still an honorable young man, can you not make an exception this once? Release him from his debt, my lord. Let him go. He will be eternally grateful.” Blessed are the merciful—

  Sighing deeply, Hardcastle said nothing for a moment. He was going to capitulate, Phaedra thought, feeling a tiny welling of joy in her heart. He must see how important this was. He could not possibly want the estate at the cost of the dowager baroness and her widowed daughter.

  “I wish it was that easy, Phaedra.” His voice was quiet and he stared down at his hands, laced together over his leg. “But it is not as simple as releasing this young man from his debt. It truly is not.”

  “Why not?” she said. It seemed simple enough. “All you have to do is send a message saying Charles need not pay. We could send one this very afternoon.”

  Hardcastle shifted in his seat and gazed steadily into her eyes. “My dear, you do not understand the code among men, nor do you know London society. Gambling debts are debts of honor, and honor must be served! If he could not afford to gamble, he should not have risked his family’s fate on the turn of a card, but that is not my fault. I neither cajoled, nor bullied, nor entreated him to play. He challenged me. And now, in honor, he must pay his debt.”

  Frustrated, Phaedra said, “Honor! What honor is there in tossing out an older lady and a penniless young woman, along with the young man who foolishly gambled away their lives, the only home they have?” She felt the tears well up, but she would not weep. He must see her side, must give in, but she would despise herself if she gave in to tears, and that was the reason he changed his mind.

  His voice hard, his face grim, Hardcastle said, “What moralizing tripe! You know nothing of life if you think that it is as easy as just telling Charles Fossey that he is off the hook, that he does not have to pay his legal and rightful debt.” He leaned over toward Phaedra and said, “That card game was a very public one. There were plenty of people there to witness it. Even if I were to forgo my winnings, Fossey would be ruined in London. Everyone would suspect some funny business. And I! I would not be welcome in my clubs. I would have let down the unspoken rules of behavior, the code of ethics that every young man learns, that your young Fossey knew before he engaged me to play.”

  “There must be some way,” Phaedra cried, jumping up and pacing the length of the short flagstone terrace. She turned back and stared at the earl. “There must! It just isn’t right that you who have so much should take away the only home Charles and his family have!”

  “I am not ‘taking’ it away! I am not stealing it! For God’s sake, why can you not see that?” Hardcastle clutched his head, jamming his fingers into his hair until it stood out in unusually ruffled spikes. He took a deep breath and passed one hand over his hair, laying it down flat again. When he spoke, it was slow and clear, much as one might talk to an idiot or an elderly maiden aunt tottering on the edge of dotage. “It is a debt of honor, and honor must be served!”

  Exasperated, Phaedra threw her arms up in the air and cried, “You keep saying that as if honor is some kind of Gorgon who will lash out and destroy society if her needs are not met exactly. It is ridiculous, insane! I will not believe it.” She slumped back down in her chair.

  “Now you are retreating to the last refuge of the loser, and that is ridicule. Do not deride what you do not understand.”

  “Hey, now, children; what is all this gibble-gabble about?” Mr. Gillian, blinking in the late morning sun, came out of a set of French doors to the garden terrace.

  “Papa! Did we disturb you?” Phaedra leaped to her feet and raced to her father’s side.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and she laid her head on his. Hardcastle felt a tug of regret. There was so much reliance between them, so much trust and love. What must that be like, to have someone run to you that way, knowing they were welcome, knowing you would love them and hold them, no matter what?

  “You did. My library is right there, or have you forgotten?” He squeezed his daughter’s shoulder while he pointed with a sheaf of papers in his hand toward the curtained window behind them.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Hardcastle said, struggling to his feet. “Phaedra and I have had a difference of opinion, and she was expressing herself, uh, vigorously.”

  “She always does.” He chuckled and squeezed her shoulders again and released her. “Good to see you up and about, my lord. How are you feeling?”

  “Better, though not at full force. I seem to have bruised some, er, vital areas. It is good to be outside, though, and in clothing. I have never been a layabout type.”

  “Ah, yes, and there is nothing like an Oxfordshire morning!” The vicar looked around him and smiled benevolently at the brilliant scene of sun and blue sky.

  Phaedra glanced over at Hardcastle and then back to her father. “Papa,” she said slowly, as though she were thinking of what she was about to say. Then in a rush she continued, “Papa, Lord Hardcastle and I have been having a difference of opinion over honor. Do you agree that honor can be used to excuse unpleasant behavior? That one must judge each circumstance on its own merits and not use ‘honor’ as some sort of feeble refuge?”

  “That is not what I am doing!” Hardcastle turned to the older man and said, “I say, sir, that honor is inflexible, and must not be bent to one’s own will. One cannot just change the rules where honor is concerned; it is immutable.”

  Phaedra turned on him and said, “I’m not saying to change the rules, but merely to let compassion—”

  “Stop!” Mr. Gillian held up his free hand. “I will not arbitrate this quarrel, children. I have other things to think about. But keep this in mind. Honor is real and important; no person has the right to judge another’s sense of honor because it is not a thing, like this table or that chair, immutable and unchanging. Every person’s sense of honor comes from within themselves and must be respected.”

  Hardcastle nodded. “We may disagree on the nature of honor, sir, but I support your right to that view. And your beliefs buttress my argument, in this case. I cannot bend my own notion of honor to fit someone else’s.”

  “However,” Mr. Gillian said, with a warning glance f
or the earl, “evil done to another in the name of honor is still evil; there is no way to ameliorate it with fine words and high-flown philosophies. Compassion will sometimes force us to rethink our code of honor and amend it, for we only live in this world once, and all of us depend upon one another to live. In some cultures honor demands that an insult must be returned by death; one must kill the one who has insulted your family or your name or your wife. In our own culture, consider the dying practice of dueling. It was once considered that honor had to be served, and that a slight must be served with vengeance to soothe honor. All that did was kill young men who had so much to live for. Now, though dueling is still practiced, we are more likely to let our quarrels be solved by the courts, thus saving lives.”

  “What are you saying, sir?” Hardcastle began to feel that the argument had gone far afield, and he was lost. No wonder this scholar’s daughter sounded like a barrister.

  “I am saying that I will not pronounce a victor in your quarrel. You are two intelligent youngsters. You will sort it out.” And with a twinkle in his eye, he turned and started back toward the door. “But please, for my sake, sort it out more quietly.”

  The door closed, and they were alone again. Phaedra’s face was turned away from Hardcastle, and he could not see her expression. He could not sort out what Mr. Gillian had really been saying. It was a matter of interpretation, he supposed. As a parson he understandably would come down on the side of people, of preventing the harm that would occur to them.

  But one made a hundred decisions a day; if one spent all one’s time rethinking everything to make sure it hurt no one— Surely the mill owner and the brewer and the landlord could not consider every man’s good before he considered his own profits? If the landlord tossed out of one of his buildings the family of a layabout who would not pay his rent, did he need to consider that he would be putting a woman and children out of a home? What about his freedom to conduct his business how he chose? If a mill owner or a mine owner needed to modernize, to bring in machinery that would displace a hundred men, could he think about the impact that would have on every last one of his workers? No, that was ludicrous! He had to stay competitive.