The Rake's Bargain

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Of course. Of course, Lady Simon.’

  Deb tucked the black jewel box beneath her cloak and went out into the cobbled street, still stunned by what she’d just learned. Armitage was waiting outside the hired carriage, a little distance away, and he came swiftly towards her. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked anxiously. ‘My dear Lady Simon, you look pale. Let me offer you my arm...’

  ‘There is a slight problem.’ She was feeling very tired suddenly. ‘But I would rather tell the Duke himself, Mr Armitage.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  All the way back to the Duke’s house, she was thinking, How can I tell him that his dead brother gambled away part of his family’s heritage? Always, the Duke spoke of family honour; family duty; family loyalty. Always, he blamed Paulette for the disaster of his brother’s marriage. But Simon had lost the jewels at cards. Even worse, he had tried to cover his deception by having counterfeits made.

  Desperately she tried to imagine how she would tell the Duke all this. Should she hand over the counterfeit jewels after she told him, or before? I’m afraid I have bad news, your Grace. Your brother Simon was a cheat, and a liar.

  * * *

  As soon as they reached the big house in Albemarle Street, Mr Delaney, the butler, told her that his Grace the Duke wished to see her in his study. Bethany was already in Deb’s room, waiting to help her remove her cloak and gloves; to assist her in putting on a black cap and veil, instead of her bonnet. I must tell him, Deb kept thinking. I must tell him.

  She hid the box of jewels deep in a drawer. I can bring them downstairs later. It was going to be difficult, she knew. But she hadn’t realised quite how difficult until she entered his study half an hour later, and saw what was laid out on the big desk in there. The medals that Beau had shown her at Brandon Abbey. The officer’s sash. The sabre, and the pistols; the portrait of his brother in uniform...

  When he was a boy, Beau had said, he always dreamed of being a soldier.

  ‘You’ve had Simon’s things brought here,’ she blurted out.

  He looked at her steadily and nodded. ‘I told you, I think, that I was hoping to organise some kind of memorial service—a thanksgiving, if you like—for Simon’s life. To have them here seemed appropriate. Please—’ he gestured to a chair ‘—sit down.’

  She sat, and he lowered himself into a chair also. ‘I’ve postponed dealing with Simon’s possessions for too long,’ he went on. ‘But as with everything else relating to my brother, I must proceed to draw as much as I can of his life to a fitting conclusion. I hope you didn’t find your outing this morning too tiring, Miss O’Hara?’

  She could hardly speak. In his portrait, Simon was smiling and carefree; a younger, happier version of Beau...

  ‘The housekeeper brought in some cordial,’ he said, pointing to a jug and glasses on a tray. ‘Shall I pour you some? Armitage told me that there appeared to be a slight problem with the jewels.’ His voice was very steady. ‘Newman hasn’t sold them, has he?’

  Deborah drew a deep breath. She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not with what she recognised as deep-seated grief still shadowing his eyes.

  She sipped at the half-glass he’d poured for her. ‘There’s no problem,’ she lied. ‘But Mr Newman told me that he has lent the jewels to a colleague of his, a goldsmith who—who wished to make a study of the jewels on account of their craftsmanship....’ Oh, God. She hated herself, for doing this.

  He watched her for a long time—so long that her heart began to thud slowly. Did he know? Did he suspect? She almost jumped when he spoke at long last.

  ‘Did he tell you when you may have them back?’

  ‘Very soon,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then I must thank you for visiting him.’ His voice was very calm. ‘It was clearly an ordeal for you. And I’m afraid there is another ordeal I must put you through, Miss O’Hara. You see, you and I have been invited to a private party in Grosvenor Square tonight. I fear I failed to calculate that your arrival in London would cause something of a sensation, and set tongues wagging all around town.’

  He was starting to put away some of the medals, very carefully. Deb found that her throat had gone quite dry. ‘They aren’t—beginning to guess?’

  ‘There are one or two malicious whispers.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘That’s why your attendance at this party is essential to convince people that you really are my brother’s widow. We’ll stay there for an hour, that’s all; you may rest assured that I won’t leave your side.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’ll no doubt have much to do to prepare yourself. I’ll let you go.’

  She nodded mutely and hurried upstairs. Beau waited till she’d gone then put the lid down, heavily, on the case of his brother’s medals.

  And he felt like hurling it to the floor.

  One year, his brother had lasted in the army. One year, then Simon had left—after gambling and drinking his way through a small fortune and making his fellow officers glad to see the back of him.

  Simon had next turned his thoughts to a rich marriage. Paulette Palfreyman had been the sensation of the Season, and Simon perhaps thought to recover some of his lost pride by marrying her. When Simon learned in March that his wife had run off abroad with the latest of her lovers, he had turned to Beau with a bitter smile on his face and said, Well, big brother. It turns out that you were right all the time about my beauteous bride. But then, you always were right, about almost bloody everything, weren’t you?

  Beau picked up Simon’s sabre and gazed bleakly at the gleaming hilt. He was normally a good judge of character. Of whether people were telling the truth or not, and he was sure—he was absolutely sure—that Deborah O’Hara had been lying her head off to him just now. He was pretty sure what had happened to the jewels, for her visits to Newman had not gone unnoticed, nor had his agents’ enquiries been fruitless. Over the last few days, certain developments— developments he’d almost expected—had ensued. For it had been part of his overall plan that bringing Paulette to London would set the cat amongst the pigeons, so to speak—and force out the murky truth.

  During the past couple of weeks he’d had Newman followed more closely than ever. Newman had been careless in whom he spoke to and what he said, no doubt startled out of caution by Lady Simon’s sudden return. Armitage had broken the news to Beau two days ago.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s my belief that your brother lost the Brandon jewels at cards, your Grace,’ Armitage had said in his level voice. ‘Back in February. He had counterfeits made, and he gave the counterfeits as a gift, to Paulette.’

  In some last-ditch attempt to save his marriage? wondered Beau. If so, Simon was a fool not to anticipate that the greedy Paulette would immediately go to have them valued—and after discovering the truth, she had walked out on him entirely.

  Miss O’Hara must have learnt all this today. And Beau was filled with anger and bleak disappointment that she hadn’t told him.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock that evening, Beau’s carriage was waiting at the front of the house. His driver William was ready and so was Beau, dressed in full black evening attire as befitted mourning for a brother whose untimely death had shocked London. Whose untimely death continued to send ripple after ripple of speculation and vicious gossip throughout so-called polite society.

  Well, Beau was prepared, especially since Armitage had come to him less than an hour ago with fresh news. He had the name of the man who had, in all likelihood, won the Brandon jewels off Simon.

  ‘I’m surprised he’s managed to keep quiet for so long, your Grace.’

  ‘He’ll be biding his time,’ answered Beau curtly. ‘Wondering exactly how high a price he can demand for returning the jewels to me, and for thereafter keeping silent over the whole affair.’ Beau remembered the tightness he’d felt in his chest when he’d discovered
, soon after Simon’s death, that the jewel box in the safe was empty.

  Armitage offered up one final piece of information: that the man to whom Simon had lost the jewels was quite likely to be at the party tonight. Beau was prepared. But he was never prepared for the effect that Miss Deborah O’Hara had on him. He had never been able to forget what she had felt like, in his arms.

  He was becoming obsessed by her—yes, obsessed was the word. It had to be a kind of madness, surely, for him to wake in the night because she had been drifting in and out of his dreams.

  In his dreams she would sometimes be wearing black—did she realise how damned alluring that half-veil was? Or she’d be dressed in the rough boy’s attire he’d first seen her in, when she’d teased him with those wicked books of hers. Which one do you find most interesting, Mr Beaumaris? she’d said, letting her tongue flick over her lips while that mischievous gleam glinted in her golden eyes. Oh, she’d enjoyed making him squirm in his bonds. She must, she must have realised how his pulse was pounding and he was growing hard with desire.

  In his dreams he also imagined her rather too often with nothing on at all—except perhaps the jewels. The damned Brandon jewels.

  He fought down his fantasies. He fought down the constant, simmering need to take her in his arms. He told himself he was able to resist her. At least, he’d thought he was, until at five past eight that evening Miss O’Hara came gliding down the broad staircase.

  She was in black as usual, with a gauze veil covering half her face, and Beau caught his breath. She was the perfect epitome of an elegant, grief-stricken widow about to embark on a social outing on the arm of her brother-in-law. She really was Paulette, except that she had a quiet dignity and courage to which Paulette could never aspire.

  As she came slowly towards him, he glimpsed her eyes through the gauze of the veil, and they looked—haunted. ‘Am I suitably dressed, your Grace?’ she whispered.

  He said to her, ‘You look perfect.’

  She glanced up at him, wary as ever, and Beau saw the lost child in her again, despite her fine clothes. The knowledge that she was accustomed to selling herself smote him bitterly, time and time again. And once more he wondered, with equal intensity: Why hadn’t she told him what she must surely have discovered that afternoon from Newman? That the jewels were fakes?

  He lifted her hand to his arm, to guide her to the doorway, then stopped. ‘By the way, Miss O’Hara, I mentioned to you a while ago that I intend to organise a memorial service, in honour of my brother. And I would very much like you to attend, before you officially retire to the countryside again.’

  She bowed her head, but was silent.

  ‘I’ve decided,’ he went on, ‘that it would be fitting to hold a ceremony at St Margaret’s church in Westminster, which is where he and Paulette were married. Your presence there should put paid to any lingering whispers about Paulette’s treachery.’

  She looked—tormented. Might she tell him the truth now about the counterfeit jewels?

  She raised her head, and this time the look on her face reminded him of a wild creature in captivity. ‘Very well,’ she whispered. ‘I will attend the memorial service...’

  And those were her only words. She rested her small, black-gloved hand on his arm once more and he led her in silence out to his waiting carriage.

  The merest touch of her hand on his arm. That was all it took—and his resolve to guard himself against her, which should only have been strengthened by her duplicity today, was once more almost fatally wrecked. Beau agonised anew over his inexplicable reaction to her. She was no virgin, by her own admission. She had lived a hard life, she must be accustomed to intrigue and lies. But something about her challenged him in a way he’d never experienced. And when she’d come down those stairs, and looked up at him almost uncertainly, whispering, ‘Am I suitably dressed, your Grace?’—he’d felt desire for her burning hard and dangerous.

  Soon—one way or another—he would retrieve the jewels. His brother’s memory would be duly honoured, and the girl would be paid off, with the lease of some lowly theatre for her friends. They had an agreement, didn’t they? But, as the Duke had been finding out to his cost lately, things did not always work out according to his plans.

  * * *

  As soon as they arrived at the big house in Grosvenor Square, their hostess, Lady Rebecca Tansley, pushed her way through the crowds of guests to greet them. ‘Your Grace. Lady Simon! It’s so very good to see you in town again. Even though the circumstances are extremely sad. My dear Lady Simon, I trust that you are feeling a little—stronger?’

  ‘The peace of the Norfolk countryside,’ said Deborah with a slight catch in her voice, ‘has helped to heal my grief a little. And I am almost resigned to my loss—if indeed such a loss can ever be borne.’

  Lady Rebecca blinked. ‘But of course. And to think that some wicked people have been whispering—’

  ‘Yes,’ the Duke interrupted. ‘I do believe there have been certain rumours about my widowed sister-in-law’s whereabouts. But Lady Simon and I thought it beneath her dignity to even try to refute them.’

  ‘I quite understand!’ said Lady Rebecca, flushing a little. ‘Dear me, these gossips.’

  ‘These gossips.’ Beau knew that Lady Rebecca herself was the biggest tattler in town. Leading Deb away, he introduced her to all those who eagerly awaited her, and they greeted her like a long-lost friend, even though Beau knew many of them had scarcely been on speaking terms with Paulette. He stood close as one by one they expressed their condolences. Those who’d already visited Beau’s house took a special pride in reminding her of their calls.

  They are liars and she is superb, the Duke thought in wonder. She was calm, and radiant. She was Paulette, but not the Paulette he’d known, who was an excitable little flirt unable to rest at any social gathering until she had every man in the room grovelling at her dainty and expensively clad feet.

  He himself was the subject of much attention, of course; but he was skilled in making polite talk while his mind was elsewhere. In fact, his eyes too were often elsewhere, because he was following his protégée always, watching her, guarding her with his presence. Several of the younger men had not met her before, and were clearly entranced.

  If only they knew, he thought, how she gained her skill in casting her spell over you all. He remembered vividly that day in Oxford, when he’d seen her climb on to a makeshift stage outside the Angel Inn, and how all the rough men in the crowd there, young and old, had listened to her spellbound. She was having pretty much the same effect on them all tonight. Some young gallant had brought her a glass of lemonade, while another had fetched her a chair, and she sat there with her eyes hidden beneath that veil, demurely responding to their questions, while she plied her fan.

  And then Beau saw someone else watching her—Lord Featherstone.

  Beau walked slowly towards him—Featherstone now had his back to him—and touched his shoulder.

  Lord Featherstone was badly startled. ‘Beaumaris,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘Good to see you again. I enjoyed visiting you and poor Lady Simon the other day...’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Beau. ‘But I believe you were intending to make a private visit to me—alone—some time soon. Weren’t you, Featherstone?’ Featherstone opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  ‘About something...confidential?’ went on Beau. ‘You know, I truly was surprised to learn that you’re so friendly with a second-hand dealer in shoddy jewellery called Newman. He came to visit you in rather a hurry recently, didn’t he?’

  Featherstone paled, and Beau was certain. Absolutely certain. ‘Shall we go somewhere quiet,’ said Beau, ‘and discuss the business of the Brandon jewels now?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Why, Miss O’Hara, didn’t you tell me? If you knew—as clearly you did—then why did
you not inform me straight away?’

  ‘I—I couldn’t quite take it in.’ For the first time Beau could remember, Deb looked visibly cowed by him. ‘I could hardly believe that your brother Simon had gambled the jewels away. And above all, I could not think how to break the news to you...’

  Her voice trailed away.

  Beau stared at her. ‘What, exactly, did you think I’d do? Collapse with grief, because my brother had been so wicked?’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head, looking terribly distressed. ‘No, of course I didn’t! But I needed just a little time to think. I was trying to find some solution...’

  ‘Were you really imagining,’ said Beau grimly, ‘that you could get the jewels back for me? Didn’t you think that I could have done something myself about the situation, if you’d told me?’

  They were in the Duke’s study. He’d brought her home early from the party, taking his leave of their hostess with icy politeness, but Deb could see that he was turbulent with inner rage. The summer heat had been transformed by a sudden rainstorm; hurrying her from Lady Rebecca’s house, he’d ushered her into his waiting carriage without a word, and the journey had passed in utter silence, broken only by the thudding of rain on the roof.

  When he did start speaking, once he’d led her into his study and firmly shut the door, his anger was all the more frightening.

  She clasped her hands together. ‘I—I thought you would be upset beyond belief to know that your brother had gambled them away.’

  ‘You were right. I was even more upset to learn that you knew of it but hadn’t told me. And as it happened, the news wasn’t as much as a shock to me as you appear to imagine.’

  ‘You’d guessed?’ Her lips were white.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps I should have been more honest with you.’ Beau’s jaw was clenched. ‘You see, I always knew that my brother was a reckless gambler. He was thrown out of the army for drinking, brawling and—gambling.’