Ten o’clock in the morning of September 15
“I apologize, my lady. I’ve made a cake of it, and I am so sorry.”
Constance Fitzwilliam shook her head, rather pleased she could do so without having to worry about a ridiculous hat escaping from its pins. The simple bonnet she had borrowed from her maid, Simmons, was comfortable and managed to display her dark brown curls to great effect. “You did fine, Esther,” she said as she patted the back of her housekeeper’s gloved hand. “Meeting Mr. Roderick was good practice for you,” she added with an encouraging grin. “We’ll probably never see the man again, so it won’t matter what first impressions he was left contemplating.”
Dressed as her own lady’s maid and rather pleased with the anonymity the mode of dress provided, Constance found herself enjoying the morning outing immensely. Only a few riders were up and about in the park this early.
Coming upon the handsome gentleman—he had been reading what appeared to be a rather long letter—had been almost unexpected. Almost, because Constance was fairly certain she had seen the man take his leave of a townhouse very near to the one in which she had taken up residence in Curzon Street. He, too, had been heading in the direction of the park.
His destination was entirely unknown to her at the time, of course, but seeing him on the park bench, his brows furrowed and his posture suggesting he had just read some rather sad news hadn’t surprised her in the least.
It was too bad her housekeeper had panicked, though. And worse, that she had continually sought Constance’s counsel throughout their brief walk with Mr. Roderick.
The poor woman had only reluctantly agreed to this morning’s outing, believing Constance’s claim that no one would even be in the park at such an early hour. But it gave her housekeeper the opportunity to practice her curtsy and engage in the art of conversation with a gentleman.
Too bad she did it using my name, Constance thought with a sigh, cringing when she remembered how many times Esther had turned to her for guidance whilst they strolled with the man.
He seemed rather at home escorting them through the park, as if he knew that the path on which they walked would eventually lead them back to their rented barouche. He was certainly at ease with Esther Simmons on his arm, his attention entirely on her except when she needed help. And he seemed ever so patient with Esther, as if he dealt with uncertain chits every day.
Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was a shopkeeper who had to deal with young ladies who couldn’t make a decision if their very life depended on it. Or perhaps he had a business and employed some women who required a good deal of handholding.
One thing she knew for certain—if the man had met her father because they both had horses on the racing circuit, then he must either be an inveterate gambler or be employed in a trade where he could afford to be away for weeks at a time. Given the cost of racing—trainers, stable hands, and feed as well as the time required—traveling to the race meetings in Doncaster, Newmarket and Epsom Downs—meant that Randall Roderick had to be a man of some means.
And he probably liked horses, too.
Constance dared a glance at Esther, glad to see she had settled into the squabs and was enjoying the early morning ride. They would have to do this more often now that they were in London. Both of them.
Time was running out.
Annoyed by the sudden thought about why they had come to London, Constance turned her attention back to Esther. The young woman was more than adept at housekeeping. One day, she might even secure a position as the head of housekeeping for a large manor house or an estate home, but she wouldn’t until she was more at ease among those who might employ her. And if she couldn’t secure another position soon, Constance worried the woman would end up in the poor house.
Her thoughts scattered, Constance wondered at how often Mr. Roderick visited the park. She wondered if he ever rode a horse or simply preferred to walk whilst there. It was rather unlikely they would ever again see the gentleman, even though she was quite sure he had been the one she had seen leaving the nearby townhouse earlier that day. But even if she came upon him in another part of London, she doubted that he would remember having met her.
No one paid attention to the servants, after all. Or those dressed as the hired help.
Remembering his first name was Randall, Constance thought to ask about him when she was next in the company of Londoners. Based on the superfine of his top coat, his embroidered waistcoat, and the top hat he wore—Constance was sure the hat was from ‘Fitzsimmons and Smith’ in Oxford Street—he was no doubt a well-to-do cit. She now wondered if he might be a member of the aristocracy, but he hadn’t identified himself with a title during his introduction. Certainly he would have if he were a titled man!
Wouldn’t he?
Not having been in London more than a fortnight, Constance was still finding her way around the city. Mr. Roderick’s suggestion that she make her presence known to Daniel Fitzwilliam was a sound one, she had to admit. Her cousin might be of help. She had no idea if the Earl of Norwick knew she had reached her majority, or if he had learned of her missing inheritance from the solicitor in Chichester, but she needed the money to secure her future.
Thinking she had an inheritance on which she could live for the rest of her life, Constance had thought to remain a spinster. Why put herself at the mercy of a husband who would essentially own her and all her assets when she could enjoy the freedom the life of an unmarried woman provided?
Avoiding courtships was easy enough once she was past three-and-twenty. Now that she was five-and-twenty, she rarely had to fend off a marriage-minded man. At the moment, however, she realized that’s exactly what she needed to find. The funds she had brought with her from Chichester would last a month at most. After that, she would have to dismiss Esther and seek housing arrangements elsewhere, especially if the current Earl of Norwick discovered she had taken up residence in the abode he used prior to his marriage to Clarinda Fitzwilliam.
Finding the key to the back door had been easy. Maintaining a low profile on such a high profile location as Curzon Street, directly off of Park Lane and the residences of most of England’s aristocrats, was proving difficult. Everyone seemed interested in their comings and goings.
Her mind wandered once again to Randall Roderick. How old is he? she wondered, remembering the hint of gray at his temples and the tiny lines around his eyes. He appeared well groomed. Well-fed, but certainly not fat. Confident.
And entirely too handsome.
A frisson passed through Constance as the barouche made its way out of the park and turned left. She was sure the man had seen her watching him, but try as she might, she couldn’t look away from his gaze. He had stared at her as if he knew her secret, knew she wasn’t who she appeared to be as she accompanied her housekeeper in the park.
Had he guessed she was more than a lady’s maid? Surmised she was really a relative of the ton and in dire need of funds? Of a husband?
Of course not. He thought she was the maid!
She bristled at the thought of having to marry because someone had drained the bank account that held her inheritance. There were only a few men who would have had access to the account. Her late father, of course. Her brother, perhaps. Someone at the bank. It was unlikely a bank employee had done such a thing, but it was still possible. Until she had an opportunity to speak with the London-based solicitor her own family’s solicitor had recommended, she really didn’t think she should bother her cousin with the issue. He was an earl, after all, and probably far too busy with matters of the Norwick earldom, a new wife, and twins to concern himself with her missing inheritance.
Besides, there was that issue she’d had with him all those years ago. Never find yourself in a situation requiring complete and utter secrecy, she now knew.
If only she had known when she made her debut at Norwick Park in Sussex. Her entire body shook on remembering that rather unfortunate evening. He had been so patient. So understanding. So gen
erous while he introduced her to his friends and associates. While he arranged dances on her behalf, seeing to it her dance card was full even before the first minuet had begun. And then she had made the mistake that could never be forgiven. Could never be forgotten.
Never find yourself alone in a dark stable at night.
Even thinking of it now had her cheeks reddening with embarrassment, her body shaking with the memory of how frightened she had been, of how angry the Earl of Norwick had been.
Constance lifted her eyes to find Esther staring at her. “What is it?” she asked, straightening against the squabs.
“The earl will help you, I’m quite sure,” the housekeeper said as she leaned toward Constance, her voice kept low lest the driver overhear her remark.
Constance silently cursed, displeased by the fact that Esther knew far more about her situation than any servant should know. But the woman was as much her housekeeper as her companion these days, and lately, she had become her confidante, as well.
“Of course, he will,” Constance agreed. “I am just hoping he won’t need to,” she added as the barouche pulled in front of the small Norwick townhouse in Curzon Street. Praying he won’t need to, she thought as she stepped down from the barouche and made her way toward the front door. For she rather doubted Daniel Fitzwilliam would welcome her into his home.
Not after what had happened all those years ago.
Chapter 15
A Brother Pays a Visit
Eleven o’clock in the morning of September 15
Sir Arthur Goodwin used the lion-head knocker to announce his presence at Lord Wakefield’s residence. Although he was merely a year younger than the earl, Sir Arthur had made a name for himself in London, and not for the kind of activities his older brother was known.
Arthur was a philanthropist, a researcher, and a sometimes-professor at a local college. He was not popular with the ladies, mainly because he avoided any interaction with them. Oh, he spoke with them in shops and occasionally danced with one during a ball, but he avoided bedding them, which meant he was able to avoid the kind of reputation Lord Wakefield seemed to be suffering at the moment. Or enjoying, if one considered the lifestyle Charles seemed to be living these days.
Unfortunately, Arthur’s reputation was of an entirely different sort. He could claim it was guilt by association. He could argue he was never in the company of a man who hosted other men at his public house. He could even state that he had never been in that particular public house. But anything he said at this point would be denying the truth.
He preferred the company of men. The company of men who preferred other men.
Now that The Tattler had all but pegged him as such—who else in London Society was a knight with the initials AG?— Arthur was desperate to take a wife. He needed to take a wife or risk arrest.
He had just asked a viscount’s daughter for her hand in marriage. Unlike most young ladies of the ton, the shy bluestocking had given him an immediate answer. “Yes, I will,” she had said, removing her gold wire-rimmed spectacles from the end of her nose as she gave him her answer.
Arthur could hardly wait to tell his brother of his impending nuptials. With any luck, Charles would share the news at White’s tonight and put some of the rumors to rest.
Chester opened the door and bowed to the knight. “Sir Arthur,” he murmured in his low voice as he stepped aside. “Lord Wakefield will be in his study shortly,” he intoned, his voice suggesting the earl was on his way there to solve all the world’s problems from behind his large mahogany desk.
“Is he sick?” Arthur asked as he stepped into the vestibule and handed the majordomo his top hat.
The question caught Chester off-guard. “Not that I know of,” the majordomo replied. Although if he had given the question a bit more thought, he might have responded in the affirmative with the word, ‘lovesick,’ but the man had just returned from Lucy Gibbon’s establishment, a valise in one hand and a rather disgusted look on his face. The majordomo no longer knew if his master was as inclined to want to marry as he had been earlier that morning.
Arthur afforded the butler an arched eyebrow. “I can find my way,” he said as he handed over his coat.
The knight rarely paid a call on his brother. The two had so little in common, there didn’t seem to be a reason to spend time in one another’s company. But it had been several weeks since he had seen Charles, and he had his good news to share, so he had sent a missive the day before. Are you alive? If so, I’ll pay a call on you in the late morning. Arthur.
Arthur figured the note would at least get his brother’s attention, and even if he only ended up gaining a few minutes of his time and a cheroot out of the visit, it would be worth the trip.
Charles returned to his bedchamber, sighing as he considered his less-than-satisfying meeting with Lucy Gibbons. Could the madame be any more disagreeable?
“How dare you lure young ladies to your establishment and then press them into service!” he had accused once she finally descended the carpeted stairs into the front parlor of her brothel. He had obviously awakened her, his demanding demeanor scaring a prostitute into hurrying up the stairs to fetch her from her slumber.
The madame frowned at her visitor. “Lured?” she repeated. “Why, every girl who comes to my door does so of her own volition,” she claimed, pulling her loose satin dressing gown a bit tighter around her middle. The action only emphasized that she wore nothing more than a corset beneath.
The earl angled his head and glared at Lucy Gibbons. “Do you even know whom you sent to my house last night?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. Although no one else was in the parlor, he didn’t wish to be overheard by any of the patrons or harlots who were in residence.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Did she claim she was a princess? Or the daughter of an earl?” she countered, one hand going to her hip.
Charles narrowed his eyes. Actually, Eleanor hadn’t claimed an association to anybody. It was Chester who had suggested she was Middleton’s daughter. “And if she is the daughter of an earl? Should I send him your way?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Her confidence suddenly faltering a bit, Lucy took a deep breath. “She didn’t entertain anyone here,” she replied. “So if you bedded her, then her loss of virtue is on you,” she accused with a nod of her head. “And I expect you to pay for her, too. She was my newest lightskirt.”
Shaking his head, Charles stepped forward. The madame held her ground while he wagged a finger in warning. “Now, you see here. You’ll give me her valise—with all the contents intact—and I won’t have a Bow Street Runner arrest you for kidnapping.”
Lucy gasped. “You do that, my lord, and I’ll never again send you another harlot.”
Well, that was certainly a threat worth throwing back in her face. He had absolutely no intention of allowing another prostitute into his home, nor did he think he would ever again employ one anywhere else, for that matter.
“Done,” he said, his chin thrust out. The valise landed in a heap at his feet. “As for compensation, I hardly think I need to pay for a gift when I was told she was my birthday present.”
The look on Lucy’s face had been so satisfying, Charles dared not say another word but merely picked up the valise and took his leave of the brothel.
Thinking of Eleanor had him wondering where she might be. His bed was empty. Moving to the bathing chamber’s door, he found it ajar and peeked in to find his future countess in the copper bathtub, a mound of bubbles hiding her body from view. The sight of her with her dark hair loosely piled atop her head had his breath catching. “Good morning, my lady,” he murmured as he made his way into the tile-floored room.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Eleanor replied, a look of shock appearing on her face. “Get out!”
Charles paused before taking a step back. “I merely wish to bestow you with a kiss, my beautiful,” he said in his softest voice.
Eleanor gave him a quelling glance. “Now?”
she whispered hoarsely, afraid the majordomo might be somewhere nearby.
“Well, anytime really,” Charles replied as he resumed his approach toward the tub.
Straightening in the tub so that her breasts were suddenly atop the bubbles, Eleanor lifted the bar of soap in one hand and held it as if she intended to throw it at him.
“Oh, an invitation to join you, I see,” he teased, his arresting smile having its desired effect on her. She seemed to pause, as if she were confused by his response to her threat.
“Don’t you dare,” she replied, her hand—and most of her torso—disappearing beneath the bubble-topped water.
Charles grinned. “Or you’ll ... what?” he responded, his next step taking him close enough so that he could bend down and kiss her on the forehead.
Before he had a chance to straighten up, a wave of sudsy water splashed onto the front of his breeches. “That!” Eleanor replied with a satisfied ‘huff ’. “Now get out!”
Soaked from the placket of his breeches down, Charles managed to refrain from putting voice to a curse and instead merely took a step back. The sudden look of hurt on his face was unmistakable, however. “I ... I apologize. I didn’t mean to anger you, my lady,” he managed to say before he quickly left the room and shut the door behind him.
This isn’t going well, he thought before realizing he would have to change his breeches. Given the circumstances, he supposed it would take some time for Eleanor to accept her new role, time to learn how a countess behaved. Perhaps countesses didn’t particularly like being visited during their morning bath, though. Which had him wondering, since a particular baroness not only wanted him to visit her in her bathing chamber, she expected him to join her in the tub!
Charles glanced back toward the closed door and realized he would have to acquire a larger tub in order to share a bath with Eleanor. That will have to wait for another day, though, he reasoned as he changed his breeches.
He reviewed what he would need to accomplish on this day, his excitement at the idea of marrying Eleanor growing with each passing moment. Acquire a special license, buy a ring, arrange for a modiste, and secure someone to marry them. How hard could that be? he wondered.
The Love of a Rake Page 9
