Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  Her brother rushed from the library, as though to avoid any objections from Glory, and she swallowed her protests. She still thought fisticuffs a dangerous activity, but if it would give Thad an advantage over their enemies, she would not stand in his way. After all those years raising a boy, Glory sometimes forgot that Thad now was a young man.

  As though sharing her thoughts, Phillida sighed deeply. ‘I hope he has not got himself into any more trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Westfield asked.

  ‘Just the usual temptations every young man in London faces,’ Glory said. Since she had been careful to keep Thad’s escapades from their aunt, she wasn’t quite sure what Phillida was talking about. Nor did she care to discuss her brother’s past in public.

  But Phillida had no such qualms. ‘I did not like the look of his friends,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Low sorts, who did not seem trustworthy. And, make no mistake, they were leading him astray!’

  ‘Thankfully, there are none like that here in Philtwell,’ Glory said. In an effort to put an end to the conversation, she rose to her feet and walked towards the table littered with the journals they had found, along with various references. ‘I’ll return to looking for something among these records that may prove useful.’

  ‘Of course,’ the duchess said. ‘Shall we repair to the parlour?’

  Soon, everyone had filed out of the library, except for Westfield, which wasn’t quite what Glory had in mind. The last thing she wanted right now was to converse privately with him. What if he could see just how she felt? She deliberately eyed the book before her.

  ‘It is your decision whether or not to keep the Pump Room open, but I worry about the waters,’ he said.

  Glory looked up at him blankly, unable to form a thought except for the terrifying knowledge that she loved him. It coursed through her blood, sending warmth and life to every part of her body.

  ‘If someone would manage to put something into the well itself or the pump or even into some of the glasses, you might be faced with real illness or death, rather than rumoured ones, as the newspaper story implied,’ he said.

  Glory’s heart skipped a beat that had nothing to do with her feelings for the duke. ‘You don’t think someone would…poison the waters?’

  Westfield stepped forwards, as though to reach out for her, but then turned aside. ‘I think after what happened today, we should take every precaution.’

  Glory didn’t want to disappoint Thad, who finally had shown an interest in the Pump Room, but she could not endanger her patrons. And even the slightest outbreak of illness could spell their ruin. ‘Perhaps it would be best to shut its doors for a while.’

  ‘I think that would be wise,’ Westfield said. He inclined his head politely, then turned to go.

  For a moment, Glory wanted to call him back. But what would she do? Or say? The only thing that had changed between them was her own feelings. He was still Westfield, a duke of the realm, and there was little chance of him pursuing her for anything except a dalliance.

  Glory flushed, but it was a truth she would do well to remember. These feelings of hers could only lead to more trouble, and she had enough problems with Queen’s Well. She drew in a deep breath at the thought of her beloved spa, which would still be here when Westfield was long gone. It was all she had ever wanted.

  And it would have to be enough.

  Lifting her chin, Glory took her seat at the table and reached for the books in front of her. Earlier, she had been reading an old manuscript, in hopes of discovering more about the Queen’s Gift in order to satisfy Thad’s curiosity. But instead of trying to make her way through the difficult, old-fashioned language, she put it aside to study the most recent ledgers that they had found in the trunk.

  Although Westfield had suggested such records might hold a clue as to ‘past enmities’, Glory hadn’t paid him much heed. After all, Queen’s Well had been closed for a generation and had been successful for much of its history, operating for centuries until the fire… Glory paused as a sudden, dark suspicion seized her and she wondered whether the spa’s ultimate destruction was deliberate, an act of arson.

  Frowning, Glory shook her head. Even had someone set the fire, it was unlikely that the same person could be responsible for the problems that plagued the Suttons now. Too many years had passed. And yet Glory knew that some of the villagers had not welcomed the family’s return. She remembered the sensation of being watched by unfriendly eyes and shivered. Then she bent over the books.

  But it was tedious work, and soon a noise from outside drew her attention away from the pages. Setting aside the heavy volume, she rose to her feet and wandered to the tall doors that faced the rear of the property. She could see nothing except the old walled garden, but she heard a shout, and concern drove her out on to the gravel path. She hurried around the corner, to where the formal gardens began, only to halt in her tracks.

  She’d forgotten that Westfield had planned to box with her brother. But even if she had remembered, Glory certainly wouldn’t have expected this. The two males were facing each other, shifting from foot to foot, their fists poised in front of them. But it wasn’t what they were doing that made Glory gape; it was the way they were dressed.

  Apparently, they had become too warm from their exertions and had stripped off their shirts. Glory might had scolded Thad for that unseemly behaviour, especially when he was not at home, but she could not find her voice. The sight of Westfield robbed her of even her breath.

  Wide shoulders and a solid chest two shades darker than Thad’s pale back glistened in the sun, strong muscles undulating beneath the smooth surface. He sported no bruises or scars or imperfections of any kind, the only interruption in the expanse of skin being a patch of dark hair that narrowed until it disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.

  Glory swallowed hard and forced her gaze upwards to where his dark hair fell across a throat free of high collar and neckcloth. Moving with a lithe and silent grace, the man kicked out suddenly, then smiled as Thad dodged his foot. Glory realised that for once Westfield was not wearing his usual impenetrable expression. His handsome features hinted at concentration, but also a kind of joy, perhaps of his physical freedom.

  Her heart thundering, Glory knew she should turn and go, but she couldn’t wrest her attention away from him. Then, as though aware of her scrutiny, he glanced in her direction and she saw something in his face that made her sway upon her feet. Passion flickered in his dark gaze, so heated that Glory felt as though he had stripped away her own clothing with one look, leaving both of them naked and wanting.

  Gasping at her wayward thoughts, Glory turned and fled, back into the house and the relative safety of the library, where she pressed hands to her burning cheeks and took great gulps of breath. Dangerous. Westfield was dangerous, just as she always suspected, for the giddiness she had dismissed as romantic nonsense had turned into something else entirely. And like a smouldering ash, all it needed was one spark to flare and burn out of control.

  Chapter Ten

  Although Glory tried to return to her research, she found it hard to concentrate, and when she heard footsteps approaching the library, she looked up warily, her heart thudding. But it was not Westfield who entered, only Thad, now fully dressed and eager to share the excitement of his first boxing lesson.

  Her mind still filled with the image of a half-naked duke, Glory was slow to comprehend what Thad was rattling on about. But eventually, she was induced to stand up, so he could demonstrate. And after her initial reluctance, Glory realised that she might learn something, if she listened.

  In fact, she learned to keep her thumbs down when forming a fist and to keep her hands up to avoid a facer. Blows to various other parts of the body were termed bodiers, doublers and the like, but Glory was not so much concerned with the terminology as the technique.

  ‘A moving target is harder to hit,’ Thad advised, hopping about in a sort of a jig that looked more like dancing than fighting. Glor
y thought it nonsense until Thad proved just how easily it would be to land a flush hit upon a stationary opponent.

  ‘Westfield says if you’re not in a proper mill, but a rough and tumble, then you do anything you can to floor your adversary,’ Thad told her. He showed her how to strike a ‘chopper’ with the back of the hand and how to kick out suddenly, a manoeuvre that would be hampered by the typical female garments.

  In truth, Glory was more interested in the simple right-handed swing to the jaw, as well as the left-handed ‘dig’ that sneaked under an adversary’s guard. She practised both until Thad grew weary of the game and set off to change before supper.

  But after he had left, Glory continued, going over her steps and throwing tentative punches in the air in front of the long mirror between the windows.

  Later, when Thad returned to take her to the dining room, she proudly exhibited her improvement.

  ‘Uh…maybe you had better not say anything about my, uh, demonstration,’ Thad said, frowning. Apparently, his excitement had waned through his toilette, and he realised that teaching his sister to box probably wasn’t something of which Westfield, let alone Aunt Phillida, would approve.

  ‘Of course,’ Glory said, taking his arm. ‘And I hope you won’t use your newfound skills to get into any more mills with the locals.’

  ‘What? Oh, of course not,’ Thad said.

  As they approached the dining room, Glory’s pulse picked up its pace in anticipation of seeing Westfield. She told herself he might not be there, but she soon saw that he was examining the mural with Mr Pettit. At least his back was turned. And at least he was dressed.

  Her face flushing, Glory was happy to take her seat and avoid looking his way. But, eventually, she needed to speak to him, if only to share her discovery. So as soon as the usual pleasantries over the meal had subsided, Glory took the opportunity.

  ‘I’ve found something in the recent ledgers that you might find interesting,’ she said, daring to glance at the man. But when his gaze met hers, she swiftly turned towards his mother and Mr Pettit. ‘Do you know anything about a possible investor in Queen’s Well, someone outside of the family?’

  ‘What? When?’ the duchess asked, looking confused.

  ‘Before the fire, when the spa was last open.’

  ‘I don’t recall anyone else ever being involved in the spa, at least during my time. It was always a family enterprise,’ Mr Pettit said firmly. He reached for his wine glass. ‘Was it a local fellow?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Glory answered. ‘But there’s a notation in the margin of the final ledger reporting Thorpe paid in full. And when I looked further back, I found an influx of capital attributed to the same name.’

  Mr Pettit frowned. ‘I understand that the spa was not doing as well in those final years. Perhaps Mr Sutton was forced to seek additional funding.’

  ‘But who is this Thorpe?’ the duchess asked. ‘And why didn’t anyone know of him?’

  ‘He could have been a silent partner, a secret investor,’ the duke said, in an odd tone.

  ‘Then you think this Thorpe is the one causing all the troubles?’ Mr Pettit asked.

  Glory shook her head. ‘He would be quite elderly, wouldn’t he? And the notation shows that he was paid, probably through the sale of this house, so I don’t see what grievance he would have.’

  ‘Still, it’s something that wasn’t common knowledge and anything involving money is worth pursuing,’ Westfield said. ‘I’ll call upon Mrs Goodhew again and see if she knows the name or can recommend someone else who might.’

  Thad did not seem to share the others’ interest in Glory’s revelation. ‘I thought you were trying to find out information about the Queen’s Gift,’ he said, frowning. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to report about that?’

  ‘Actually, I have,’ Glory said, with a smile.

  ‘What? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Thad asked, leaning forwards eagerly.

  ‘I have nothing definite, but I became curious after coming across several mentions of Dr Dee,’ Glory said.

  ‘Dr Dee? Is he one of the spa’s physicians?’ Phillida asked.

  ‘No, he was one of Queen Elizabeth’s advisers, among other things,’ Glory said. ‘Since his name cropped up so often in the older records, I did some investigating of my own and discovered he was quite an unusual character.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Dee was ahead of his time in many fields, including mathematics, astronomy, map making, and cryptography,’ Mr Pettit said. His knowledge surprised Glory until she realised that he would hardly be unfamiliar with the works in his own library, which he had recommended to her.

  ‘Cryptography?’ Phillida asked in a voice that suggested graves might be involved.

  ‘The study of ciphers and codes,’ Mr Pettit explained.

  ‘For secret messages?’ Thad asked, showing a sudden interest.

  Mr Pettit nodded. ‘For political uses, mostly. Such communications were Queen Mary’s undoing by order of Elizabeth herself.’

  ‘Dee was also a mystic, dabbling in astrology and the occult,’ the duke said, in a dismissive tone.

  ‘His interests were many and varied. Some say he was more than an adviser to the queen, serving at times as a spy for his sovereign,’ Mr Pettit said.

  ‘Really?’ Glory asked, for she had not discovered that bit of information. ‘How intriguing.’

  However, Westfield was not impressed. ‘I fail to see what Dee has to do with Queen’s Well, unless you are suggesting that he used a divining rod of his own design to discover the source of the waters.’

  ‘Obviously, you are too literal minded to appreciate the romance of the tale,’ Glory said, though she might have said the same of herself not that long ago.

  ‘But if this Dee is famous for hidden messages, maybe he left some clue to the location of the Queen’s Gift,’ Thad said.

  Glory smiled at her brother’s enthusiasm. ‘I think that is doubtful, but I did find some references to rumours that he was involved. So perhaps he had a hand in choosing or presenting the gift or made an offering in the queen’s stead.’

  Thad sat back, frowning in apparent disappointment. ‘So you’re saying the Queen’s Gift could just be some old manuscript about mathematics?’

  ‘It might be a mystical object,’ Phillida said, ominously. ‘Perhaps one that is responsible for the curse.’

  ‘There is no curse,’ Glory said. ‘Whether there was a gift or not, Elizabeth’s patronage made Queen’s Well a success for many years.’

  ‘And when I met my husband here, although on the wane, the spa was still a lovely place to visit,’ the duchess added. ‘And it will soon be so again.’

  Once Glory would have agreed automatically, but now she had her doubts. ‘I hope so, but not yet, I’m afraid. Until we can be assured of the safety of our patrons, the Pump Room will have to close.’

  ‘What?’ Thad sputtered. ‘You can’t mean to give in to them!’

  Glory shook her head. ‘I would hardly call it that, but I will not be responsible for anything happening that could cause more harm and ruin us for ever.’

  Thad looked as though he would say more, but the duchess stepped in. ‘It is a loss for everyone, young man,’ she said. ‘Why, we all have a stake in the success of the waters, don’t we?’

  Mr Pettit appeared to choke upon his wine, while Phillida looked unconvinced. The duke scowled as he reached for his own glass, and Thad, who had brightened after his boxing bout, now visibly sulked.

  It was enough to make even Glory suspect a curse—of more recent vintage than any Dr Dee could have conjured.

  Oberon waited until long after supper to pursue the nugget he had heard let slip at the table. Experience had taught him it was best to wait until the person he planned to question was completely at ease, unconcerned with watching his tongue. It was a technique he had honed on foreign ministers, visitors and politicians, but that he never had expected to use upon his own mother.

  He foun
d her in her favourite spot in the parlour, relaxed by wine and a friendly game of cards with her cousin, who was well into his cups by now. ‘Ah, Oberon, come join us,’ she urged.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Oberon said, with a nod towards his host.

  ‘Of course not,’ Pettit said, waving his arm in an expansive fashion. ‘Have a seat wherever you wish. After all, it’s your house.’

  Oberon’s mother laughed shrilly. ‘I’m sure we’ve all come to think of Sutton House as home because of your generous hospitality, Randolph.’

  Oberon could not help but notice the look that she sent her companion, but it seemed that Pettit was a little slow on the receiving end.

  ‘Oh, of course, yes,’ the man finally said, gesturing towards Oberon. ‘We’re all family here.’

  Were they? Oberon wondered, but he nodded. ‘Then you won’t mind if I have a little chat with my mother.’

  Apparently, Pettit was not that foxed, for he eyed Oberon warily and shifted in his seat.

  ‘No, please, stay,’ Oberon said when the fellow looked like he might bolt. ‘You might be able to clarify some things for me.’

  This time there was no mistaking Pettit’s panicked expression, but the duchess stepped in. ‘What is it that you want, Oberon?’ she asked. ‘I warn you that I can spare you only a moment because I am trouncing Randolph quite soundly and do not wish to lose my edge.’

  That was unlikely. No matter what Pettit was, the Dowager Duchess of Westfield was no fool, and Oberon knew it. ‘Oh, it won’t take long,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering how much you’ve sunk in the spa?’

  ‘What?’ His mother had the grace to look bewildered.

  Oberon leaned back and crossed his legs. ‘I’ve always wondered who Miss Sutton convinced to funnel money into an abandoned spa, and for a long time I thought those unknown investors were responsible for the problems plaguing the enterprise. So you can imagine my relief to discover that no usurers or shady characters were involved, only my mother.’