Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  However, when he made his way to the dining hall, Oberon found it deserted. Obviously a part of the original structure, the room remained much as it must have looked when built. Although most of the house had been refurbished, here the dim lighting cast only a faint glow that did not reach the corners. The furniture, too, was heavy and dark, Oberon noted, as he walked slowly around the perimeter. He was approaching one wall where the paint appeared to be mottled with age when he heard footsteps.

  Turning, he saw only his mother on the threshold. ‘Your cousin is unable to join us?’ he asked, masking his disappointment. It appeared he would learn little about the locals tonight.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But he does seem to be improving.’

  Oberon wouldn’t know, having been shooed away from the sickroom of a man he could not recall. And he wondered, again, why his mother insisted that he accompany her when she would have been better served by a physician, companion or man of business who could put her cousin’s affairs in order, if necessary.

  But he was here, whether he liked it or not, and he took a seat across from his mother, hoping that the food would be palatable.

  ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

  Accustomed to hiding his reactions, Oberon gave only a non-committal nod in answer, for he was not prepared to share the details of his unexpected outing with his mother, at least not now. Perhaps not ever.

  ‘Did you see the Pump Room?’ she asked. ‘That’s where your father and I met, you know.’

  Oberon nodded. Despite her sharp wit, his mother seemed to have succumbed to nostalgia. Since receiving her cousin’s summons, her usual pragmatic comments had been replaced by such reminiscences, and Oberon was not quite sure what to make of them.

  ‘I understood that it is no longer in use,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, not long after your father and I were here, the spa was struck by a fire that consumed some of the buildings and resulted in its closure. That’s when the owners sold Sutton House, but it seems they held on to other properties.’

  ‘And yet I thought I saw some activity there,’ Oberon said, carefully.

  ‘Perhaps it was the Suttons. Randolph says they have returned to rebuild and re-open Queen’s Well.’ She seemed absurdly pleased by the prospect, while Oberon wondered what kind of fool would attempt such a venture.

  Although watering holes like Bath still had their adherents among the elderly and barely genteel, the Prince Regent had made the seaside, most notably Brighton, the fashionable destination. And from what little he had seen, a lot of money would be required to make Queen’s Well presentable, with little prospect of return.

  ‘And did you meet anyone when you were out?’ Something about his mother’s innocent tone made Oberon suspicious.

  ‘I hardly think I would be approached without an introduction, even in such a place as Philtwell,’ he said.

  His mother loosed a sigh of exasperation, whether directed at her son or the strictures of polite society, Oberon did not know. And he had no intention of finding out. Instead, he turned the conversation towards the village in the hopes of finding out what he could. But his mother had not visited Philtwell in decades, making her less than knowledgeable of current residents, including a pair of possible thatch-gallows whose names Oberon had not obtained. At the time, he had not bothered to ask, suspecting they might answer falsely.

  Now he wondered whether they played some part in the revival scheme. And if he was more intrigued by the female half of the duo, Oberon told himself it was because no woman had ever held him at gunpoint. Whatever else he had felt when subduing his opponent was not something he was ready to admit, even to himself.

  Glory would probably have remained where she was, gaping in shock, had Thad not hustled her away. So scattered were her wits that she had walked some distance from the Pump Room when she remembered the open door.

  ‘Thad, wait,’ Glory said, halting in her tracks. ‘I’ve got to go back and lock up.’

  ‘Well, I’m coming with you,’ he said. ‘It appears that you can’t take two steps on your own without getting into trouble.’

  The statement was ludicrous coming from Thad, but Glory didn’t argue. She was too grateful for his presence as they turned back towards the Pump Room. She had never been wary of the place before, but now the deep shadows gathering under the trees seemed ominous and menacing, as though anything, not just a handsome stranger, might be hiding there. Waiting. Watching.

  Glory tried to ignore the sensation, but a creak revealed the door was still swinging, and the back of her neck tingled. She wished she had her pistol back. Fie on the Duke of Westfield for taking it! But surely he hadn’t been the one creeping about the deserted Pump Room.

  Or had he? Now that she had recovered from the shock of his identity, Glory realised that a title was no guarantee against bad behaviour, and she shivered. Somehow the thought of the tall, dark and attractive duke intending harm was more disconcerting than some nameless, faceless pursuer. Was he mad or simply…bad?

  Pushing aside such speculation, Glory stepped towards the opening, only to flinch at a sudden flash of brightness. She whirled around, smacking into Thad, in time to see a lad passing by with a lantern. Seizing upon the opportunity, Glory sent Thad to borrow the lamp, so she could see what she was about.

  Thad grumbled, but did as she bid and was soon holding the light near the open door. Fingering the key, Glory was wondering whether they ought to look inside, just to make sure the place was empty, when something caught her eye.

  Leaning forwards, she stretched out her arm to keep Thad where he was and knelt down to get a better look. The mark was just outside the building on the first of the flagstones that led towards a gravel path. Crouching close, Glory saw it was in the shape a curve as though the painted outline of part of a boot heel. Tugging off one of her gloves, she reached out to touch the mark and lifted her finger. Fresh paint.

  ‘Lud, Glory, I think you’ve gone a bit too particular about the damned well, if you’re bothered by something back here that no one can see without crawling on the ground,’ Thad said. ‘Just lock the place and let’s go home. Isn’t it enough for one evening that you assaulted a duke?’

  Ignoring the question, Glory snatched the lantern from her brother and carefully walked over the threshold. Inside, she found another stain and then the source: a drip that had landed on the floor.

  ‘Here’s where they stepped in it, but when? And who?’ Glory asked aloud.

  ‘Are you playing at detective now?’ Thad asked, with a snort. ‘What can it matter? Are you going to sack the workmen for a stray drop or two?’

  Glory did not answer, but found her own lamp in one of the rear rooms, so that she could return the lantern, along with a coin, to the boy waiting patiently at the exit. Once he had hurried away, Glory closed the door and turned her attention back to the marks.

  Although they could have been made by one of the painters who had left the building before she had returned, Glory felt certain that was not the case. And she took a good look through the entire place, Thad at her heels. With her brother beside her and even the far corners and heavy curtains illuminated by her lamp, the Pump Room no longer seemed threatening. Nor did she find anything amiss.

  ‘Lud, Glory, what’s this about?’ Thad asked when they stood back in the main room.

  Glory drew a deep breath. ‘Why do you think I pointed a pistol at Westfield?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Thad said. ‘You’ve gone barmy over Queen’s Well? And what were you doing with a gun anyway?’

  ‘Don’t say anything to Aunt Phillida,’ Glory warned.

  Thad snorted. ‘I’m hardly likely to tell tales, especially since I don’t care to lug her lifeless form about should she hear that you were threatening a duke,’ he said, with a frown. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘When I came back to fetch my reticule, there was someone in here, hiding in the shadows.’ The tone of her voice made Thad look over his shoulder in alarm.


  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve felt like someone was watching me,’ Glory said, explaining the odd sensations she had experienced since they had arrived in Philtwell. ‘And that’s not all. The men who were hired to tear down the remains of the burned buildings aren’t doing the work. It’s as though someone is hindering our efforts to re-open the spa.’

  Having finally given voice to her suspicions, Glory felt a sense of relief, but Thad appeared both uneasy and sceptical. Finally, he shook his head. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past some of the locals to turn a blind eye to work, especially considering the attitudes we’ve seen from them.’ He paused, and Glory waited for him to try to talk her out of her plans. Again.

  However, when he spoke, it was not about ‘Glory’s Folly’, as he had dubbed her efforts to revive the family heritage. ‘The villagers might be up to mischief, but Westfield? I can’t see him sneaking about here in the dark, intent upon attacking you.’

  Although Thad’s dismissive tone made her suspicions seem ridiculous, Glory was fairly certain someone had been inside the building with her, someone who hadn’t made his presence known. And it chilled her.

  Perhaps Westfield was not the thug she had originally thought him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Glory shivered at the memory of being held tightly against him, disarmed and helpless. And if she was suddenly flushed with heat, as well, it had nothing to do with solid feel of his muscular form or the scent of him, so very close…

  Drawing in a deep breath, Glory pushed such thoughts aside. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘But I’d like to take a look at his boot.’

  Chapter Two

  The Dowager Duchess of Westfield paused before the bedroom door and knocked gently. Although she thought she heard movement, there was no answer. In other circumstances, she might have left quietly, in order not to disturb the occupant, should he be sleeping. But Letitia only knocked louder.

  ‘Come in.’ Randolph’s voice was frail and breathless when he finally answered, and Letitia slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The curtains were drawn, and she peered into the dimness of the room, finally spying the man lying prone among the covers of the elaborately carved four-poster.

  As she approached, he turned his head slightly and groaned, as if in pain. Then he opened his eyes and focused upon her.

  ‘Oh, it’s only you,’ he said before abruptly sitting up. ‘I hope you’ve brought me something to eat. The broth they’re giving me isn’t enough to keep a sparrow alive.’

  ‘I’ll tell the cook we need to build up your strength,’ Letitia said.

  Randolph sighed. ‘Well, please do. And I am ready to be rid of this room, as well.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Letitia warned. ‘Oberon is not slow- witted. He’s already giving me the eye. If he finds you’ve recovered, he might leave, which would bring us to nothing.’

  Randolph protested, ‘I would think my health would be worth something.’

  ‘Of course it is, but the only reason I brought Oberon is because of the girl, and I won’t have him slip away without throwing them together.’

  While Letitia was pleased to see Randolph’s illness had passed quickly, she was not about to relinquish this opportunity. When he’d written to her that the waters of Queen’s Well might be available once more and that the new owners included an interesting young woman, she had seized upon the prospect like a drowning man, investing all of her hopes and dreams in someone she had yet to meet.

  ‘I’m sorry I ever wrote to you about her,’ Randolph said, reaching under his pillow for a deck of cards.

  ‘No, you aren’t,’ Letitia said, pulling over a small table, which he used to deal out hands. ‘Because you know as well as I do that it’s high time Oberon settled down.’

  Randolph nodded. ‘I agree, but I would have preferred simply to throw a lavish entertainment and invite both your son and the promising prospect.’

  Letitia shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have come. I could barely get him here by claiming you were at death’s door. You don’t know how stubborn he is. He’s just like his father.’

  When Randolph lifted both brows in a sceptical glance, Letitia sighed. ‘All right, he might have inherited a bit of obstinacy from me,’ she admitted. ‘But if he thinks anyone’s trying to put forth an eligible female, he turns his back upon her. Literally.’

  ‘Well, did he run into her last evening?’ Randolph asked, taking up his cards.

  Letitia frowned, as she took her cards. ‘I don’t think so. He didn’t say, but then he’s not the most forthcoming even at the best of times.’

  ‘Cool. Quiet. Strong,’ Randolph said. ‘Far too handsome, and with a bit of stand-offishness that is like catnip to the females. I would think he’d have no trouble finding a duchess.’

  Letitia made a sound of derision. ‘Oh, he’s had mistresses. Don’t think I’m not aware of them! But he won’t have anything to do with marriage-minded misses or their mamas. Too arrogant, by half, I’m sure.’

  ‘Just like his father,’ they both said at once, and Letitia smiled fondly.

  ‘That’s why I wrote to you and asked you to keep an eye out for someone here, where I met my husband,’ she said, though at the time she’d had little hope that Queen’s Well would ever resume operation.

  ‘I cannot assure you that they will get on,’ Randolph warned.

  But Letitia refused to be discouraged. ‘Well, I can assure you that a typical débutante would be no match for him. Why, he’d chew them up and spit them out before they knew what he was about. He needs someone attractive enough to hold his attention, but strong enough to stand up to him, an independent young lady with a mind of her own.’

  ‘Like the one his father married,’ Randolph said.

  Letitia smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged before growing sombre. She hated to interfere, for she was not a meddling mother, but she had given her eldest son plenty of time, and he was no closer to marriage now than when first weaned. She shook her head. ‘The Makepeaces are not easy matches…’

  She had not even finished before Randolph nodded and spoke what was on her mind. ‘Which is why we need the waters.’

  Stepping outside, Oberon viewed the cloudless sky and surrounding peaks with a jaundiced eye. Although not one to admire the picturesque, he was reminded of just how long it had been since he’d stayed at Westfield, the family seat. He knew a sudden yearning for those rolling hills, followed by other yearnings for all that went with a home, and paused in surprise.

  He had put such desires behind him long ago, so why they should strike him here and now, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was all his mother’s talk of meeting his father at Queen’s Well. They’d had a devoted marriage, but at what cost? Oberon had seen his mother’s devastation at her loss, and he remembered his own pain at the death of his father. It had left him vulnerable to those who did not have his best interests at heart, and he’d vowed never again to be that…weak.

  And he had never been tempted to break that vow. Most of the women who pursued him were cold and calculating, seeking the title of duchess as a business transaction. The younger ones and those less determined were usually vapid, pretty vessels that held nothing of worth. That was the sum of feminine society, at least in the circles in which he moved, an endless round of balls and routs and salons peopled by many of the same faces, the same deceits, the same falsehoods, year after year.

  Oberon shook his head at his bleak thoughts. What the devil was ailing him? He had slept like a stone and eaten an enormous breakfast, unusual behaviour that his mother claimed was brought on by ‘the air’. And now he was sunk in introspection of the kind for which he had neither the time nor the inclination.

  Oberon flexed his gloved fingers, an old habit, caught himself and then headed into Philtwell. Since his mother had shooed him away from the sickroom again, he was off to take a closer look at the village. Assuming the air of a common visitor, Oberon kept his eyes and ears open as
he strolled the main street, but he did not see anything out of the ordinary. The people seemed to be locals; there were no obvious foreigners or strangers.

  That came as no surprise, for Philtwell appeared never to have recovered from the fire his mother had mentioned. Several blackened buildings lingered, as eyesores and possible dangers to passers-by, while the weeds and brambles that grew around them threatened to overtake the neighbouring shops.

  In fact, the only place that appeared well tended was the Pump Room. From his position across the road, Oberon got a good look at the front of the building for the first time. In the bright light of day, he could see that the older structure sported a fresh coat of paint over its simple, columned façade. And a man was tending to the grounds, preparing to put in some new plantings.

  It seemed that someone was going to re-open the well, or at least they were making a show of the prospect. Oberon turned, intending to cross the road to casually question the worker, when a door burst open nearby. Immediately alert, he stepped out of the way, but the man who exited swung towards him.

  ‘Good sir, you must be new to our fine community!’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘As the pre-eminent physician in residence, Dr Tibold by name, I am pleased to offer my services to help you achieve complete health, no matter what your ailments.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m ailing?’ Oberon asked, with a lift of his brow. Had the fellow been watching from his rooms for potential patients? That possibility, along with his rather shabby attire, did not inspire confidence in his self-proclaimed abilities.

  ‘Certainly not! You are the picture of health, sir. But even those who appear robust can be suffering from some sort of inner disorder, and that is why a course of treatment is beneficial to all, even a fine specimen such as yourself.’

  Tibold paused to peer at Oberon, as though assessing the worth of his clothes and the size of his purse, in order to charge accordingly. ‘Have you been bled lately?’

  Oberon did not deign to comment.