A Gentleman and a Scoundrel (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Norma Darcy

  “You men talk of it, so why should I not talk of it?” Louisa demanded, flinging the badly folded nightdress into her box.

  “Because it ain’t ladylike.”

  “Oh pooh. I care not for being ladylike,” she said and examined herself in the tall looking glass. “Do you think I have nice bosoms?”

  He coloured scarlet. “Louisa!”

  “Well, do you? Do you think Malvern would like them?”

  Nicholas put his head in his hands. “God help me.”

  “Do you? I want to know.”

  “Yes,” he said exasperated. “I think Malvern has an eye for a prettily turned ankle the same as any other man.”

  “Does Miss Thomas have pretty ankles?”

  “No, calves like table legs.”

  “Really?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Does it matter? Don’t you understand? Malvern does not want Miss Thomas, he wants you. He only says such fustian to Marcus in the hopes that you will hear of it and go after him.”

  Louisa paused in the act of arranging a gown on the bed, ready to be folded. “Do you really think so?”

  “YES!”

  Louisa swallowed and sank back onto the bed, sitting on her gown and creasing it beneath her. “But he’s too old for me,” she said, staring at the wall.

  “Oh what rubbish!”

  “You said he was,” she pointed out reasonably.

  “Yes, but only because I was jealous at the time. But now I realise that we wouldn’t have suited at all and I’m not jealous in the least. But what I do want is for you to stop moping around.”

  Tears clouded her eyes. “Oh Nicky, I’m so unhappy.”

  “Confound it, she’s crying again. For God’s sake pull yourself together and make a plan to get him back.”

  “But he doesn’t want me anymore,” she sobbed. “He told Papa that hell will freeze over before he willingly sees me again.”

  “Said that did he?” mused Nicholas. “Well, he was angry. And no doubt you said something stupid and insulting and the poor man was heartbroken.”

  “Heartbroken?” she repeated. “Truly? Do you think so?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Trust to a female to make such a mull of it. Tomorrow Malvern leaves for his estate in Worcestershire. I will have a word with him when I get back to Stoneacre this evening and ten to one, he will come to you.”

  “Oh do you really think so?” she breathed.

  “Now stop blubbing and put your clothes back where you found them.”

  “Yes…Nicky…thank you.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, waving his hand impatiently in the air. “Let’s not get maudlin about it.” She threw herself onto his chest and he clumsily patted her back.

  “Oh dearest, dearest Nicky,” she cried into his shoulder.

  “Come now, chin up. Marcham won’t have you, I’ll see to that. I’d rather marry you myself than see you hitched to that wagon.”

  Mary O’Donnell, the Munsford family nurse, coming up the hallway at that moment, heard this last sentence with a little surprise and observing that Mr Nicholas was in Lady Louisa’s bedroom and had his arms around her and her ladyship’s face was turned into his coat and a half packed band box upon the bed, she drew her own conclusions. Nicholas hastily sprang apart from the lady red faced and bid her a hurried goodnight.

  Chapter 11

  Nicholas did his best.

  Against his brother’s advice, he cornered Malvern in the library at Stoneacre just as the Duke was about to retire to bed. He came swiftly to the point and tried to convince Malvern that it was all a misunderstanding and that were he to show his face at Foxhill the following morning, he would find the Lady Louisa eager to accept him.

  The Duke heard him out in silence, politely waited for his last sentence to end and set down his glass. Then he bid Nicholas a calm goodnight and quietly left the room almost as if he had not spoken.

  Mr Ashworth smiled into his brandy and crossed his booted ankles as the door closed behind his noble friend. “I warned you to leave him be, didn’t I?”

  “Oh go to the devil, Marcus!” snapped Nicholas, pouring himself a liberal brandy.

  Mr Ashworth grinned. “Not so easy playing cupid, is it?”

  “They are both of them stubborn as hell.”

  “Yes.”

  “And destined to spend the rest of their lives in misery rather than admit that they have feelings for each other,” said Nicholas, flinging himself into a chair.

  “That’s love, little brother,” said Mr Ashworth, smiling.

  “Oh what would you suggest then? Being the expert in our midst?”

  “He’s going to Worcestershire tomorrow. Follow him there. Go to Lansdowne and corner the lion in his den.”

  “Go to Lansdowne?”

  “Yes. Take Louisa, take my carriage too, if you like. She’s going to have to eat some humble pie if she wants him back,” replied Mr Ashworth. “I’ve known Jasper for twenty years and more, and I’ve never seen him so angry or so hurt. She’s going to have to go to Worcestershire and convince him to have her back.”

  * * *

  Lady Sophie Trent having summarily dispensed with her children into the charge of their nanny early Thursday morning, entered Foxhill Manor house with every expectation of an enjoyable day spent shopping with her sisters. However, it did not take her long to discover that the master of the house was out and that three other family members were also absent from it and had been up with the lark and that the whole household could be said to have been in an uproar.

  She was at the outset greeted by the housekeeper who informed her that Lady Emma was indisposed.

  “Indisposed?” cried Sophie. “Emmy? My good woman, she is never indisposed. We are going shopping for I saw the prettiest little hat in the milliners last week and I quite made up my mind to have it. You shall not mind if I go up to her, ma’am? I know my way.”

  The housekeeper wrung her hands. “No, you don’t understand, my lady. Lady Emma is not here.”

  “Oh. Where has she gone? Probably for a walk. It is perfectly stuffy in this hall, isn’t it? Shall I wait in the parlour?”

  “My lady, you misunderstand me. She has left Foxhill. Gone. Run away,” said the poor woman, tears gathering in her eyes.

  “Nonsense!” said Sophie brusquely.

  “Master Nicholas has gone too. And Lady Louisa. And Mr Ashworth.”

  There was a pause while her ladyship digested this information. “Good gracious.”

  “Yes, my lady. So you see, I don’t think you will be shopping today.”

  “No…no, I suppose not.”

  The doorbell rang violently at that moment and voices were heard in the hallway. The butler appeared. “A letter, for Mr King.”

  Lady Sophie Trent stepped forward, holding out her hand expectantly. “Is it from Emma? Let me see.”

  The butler looked affronted. “It is a private letter, my lady.”

  “If it is from Emma, I wish to see it. Let me look at the direction and see if I can recognise the handwriting.” Sophie snatched the letter out of his hand before he could protest and broke the seal. She read with eyes that devoured the page. “Good heavens!”

  “What is it, my lady? Is it the Lady Emma? Is she with friends?”

  “Oh no! No, no, no!” she cried, clasping the letter tightly in her hand. “I must go after her immediately! Have my barouche brought around immediately, Brent.”

  “Certainly, my lady.”

  “Oh but hurry, Brent, hurry!”

  The servant half ran from the room and Sophie followed him and walked up to the front door, threw it wide open and walked slap bang into Mr Vincent Deverill, their uncle King’s neighbour and friend, who was at that moment raising his hand to knock upon the door.

  The smile of surprise on his face was quickly replaced by concern when he saw the look of distress in her eyes.

  “My dear Lady Sophie, whatever is the matter?” he asked, taking off his hat.

 
“Deverill! Thank God. Read that,” she said, thrusting the letter into his hands, opening her reticule and reaching for her smelling salts.

  He stared at her for a moment and then looked down at the letter that she had pushed against his chest. He read the crumpled sheet of paper swiftly, his eyes scanning the pertinent facts and then he raised his eyes once again to her face.

  “I am afraid I do not perfectly understand, my lady,” he said, a frown between his brows.

  “You do not perfectly understand―? How can you be so dim-witted at this moment? Can you not see?” demanded her ladyship, pressing her smelling salts to her nose.

  “Er…see what, ma’am?”

  “Don’t be so dense, Vincent! Louisa has eloped!” she cried, passing her hand over her brow.

  Mr Deverill burst out laughing. “Eloped?”

  “Yes! Oh I’m sure it is vastly funny to a libertine like you!”

  “Indeed ma’am, I am only laughing because it seems so unlikely. I cannot imagine Malvern doing anything so improper―”

  “Not Malvern, you fool! She has gone with Nicky, that wretched boy! Oh why do you stand there dawdling? Go after them, man!”

  “I am not going anywhere until I fully understand what is going on,” he answered calmly. “Brent, please fetch her ladyship a glass of wine.”

  “I do not need wine,” snapped the lady. “Why do you not go after them?”

  Mr Deverill led Lady Sophie Trent to a sofa in the hall and sat her down. Her ladyship looked up at the painting above the fireplace and shuddered.

  “Because for a start I do not know that they have eloped and for another thing, I do not know in which direction they have gone,” he answered reasonably.

  Sophie picked up the letter and waved it in the air. “Emma says Papa wanted Louisa to marry Marcham―”

  “Marcham?” ejaculated Mr Deverill. Then he began to laugh. “Poor little Louisa.”

  Her ladyship stiffened in her chair. “I fail to see what is so funny.”

  “Yes, I can see that you do…” he said, amused. “Nevermind. Drink your wine, Lady Sophie, and let me read the letter again. Yes, see here, your sister says that Nicky has gone off with Louisa. That does not necessarily mean that they have marriage in mind.”

  “What?” shrieked Sophie. “Oh where is my vinaigrette? How can you say so? They must be married. Her reputation will be ruined if they are not. Oh my poor nerves!”

  “If you will listen ma’am, I will read it again. See here she says: ’Nicky has gone off with Louisa. They left early this morning. I have spoken to my maid and she knew something of the plan last night.’ Who is Lady Emma’s maid?”

  “Mary,” replied Lady Sophie faintly.

  “Brent, bring her ladyship’s maid Mary to see me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Mr Deverill returned to the letter. ’I know it seemed to us that we were doing the right thing but it seems that the Earl of Marcham was the straw which broke the camel’s back. Our game backfired, I think.’ What game?”

  “I don’t know,” wailed her ladyship.

  “’I aim to find them and return them to Foxhill before any harm can be done to her reputation. Trust in me…etc etc,” he read, frowning. “Interesting sign off.”

  “Eh?”

  “Emma says that Marcus Ashworth has gone with her. I’ll bet he has, the dog…”

  “But never mind that now. Where have they gone?” demanded Sophie, slugging a great mouthful of wine.

  Deverill folded his arms across his chest. “Emma sounds calm. I think that if she truly thought they had eloped she would have written it in a blind panic. Which leads me to think that she is not much concerned.”

  “Then why has she chased after them?”

  “That is an extremely good question…ah…Mary is it?”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, sir.”

  “You appear to have information about the Lady Louisa’s whereabouts?” asked Mr Deverill with his most charming smile.

  Mary Beth O’Donnell was not impressed. She glared frostily at the handsome gentleman and folded her arms across her bosom. “I don’t speak of my lady to anyone.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes, long used to her old nanny’s ways. “Oh come down off your high ropes Mary and tell him, do. We do not have time for your hoity toity airs.”

  The maid sniffed. “I didn’t see anything, your ladyship.”

  “Mary…tell him!” said Sophie with a quelling look.

  “All I seen was a bandbox on the bed with Lady Louisa’s things in it and some such talk of going to Malvern.”

  “Malvern, Derbyshire? Or the Duke of Malvern?” asked Sophie sharply.

  “I don’t know as I can say, my lady, she was all upset and Master Nicholas had her in his arms and they spoke of some fellow called Marcham who Master Nicky said was having to marry Lady Louisa and that he would marry her himself if such a thing were to come to pass.”

  Mr Deverill exchanged glances with Sophie before returning his attention to the maid. “And did you speak of what you had heard to your mistress?” he asked.

  “To be sure I did. Lady Louisa has always been a headstrong girl ever since she were a babe. I knew that if I did not tell Lady Emmy, it would all be too late to stop her.”

  “I told you!” cried Lady Sophie triumphantly.

  “And Lady Emmy…er, I mean, Lady Emma, went after them?”

  “Yes sir. She’s left with Mr Ashworth. Indecent if you ask me.”

  There was a silence.

  “By that you mean left alone with Mr Ashworth?” Sophie repeated, thunderstruck.

  “Aye, my lady. The gentleman said he wouldn’t let her go alone,” said Mary, shuddering at the thought.

  “But he can’t…I mean, the scandal,” said Sophie, fanning herself vigorously. “Oh the shame of it. I shall end up in an asylum!”

  Mr Deverill turned once again to the maid. “Are you quite sure your mistress left with Ashworth?”

  “Oh yes! I seen them with me own eyes. Didn’t say as where they were headed. Some place as I don’t know as civilised people even live there.”

  “Probably Bath,” put in Mr Deverill with a shudder. “Enough card parties to drive any man to drink.”

  “Will you be serious, Vincent?” said her ladyship. “Now, Mary, are you telling us that Emmy has gone to this hideous place alone with him?”

  “Not a bit of it, my lady. Lady Garbey would have none of it. She went after them, much to Mr Ashworth’s annoyance, I might add.”

  Mr Deverill gave a shout of laughter. “Did she by God?”

  “I fail to see what you find so amusing, Vincent,” said Sophie.

  “Lady Garbey’s gone to play chaperone,” he replied, still laughing, “and scupper Marc’s plans for wedding bells.”

  “Are you telling me that Mr Ashworth is planning to ruin Emma?” demanded Mrs Trent.

  “Marcus Ashworth wants her for his wife,” replied the gentleman. “And he’ll do anything to make that happen. The devil of it is, Lady Garbey knows what he is about and is much inclined to throw a spoke in the wheel at every opportunity.”

  * * *

  Louisa arrived in the town of Lansdowne late in the evening three days later, tired and irritable and out of all patience with her escort.

  She ordered the coachman to take her and Nicholas immediately around to his grace the Duke of Malvern’s estate two miles distant from the town. To all entreaties made by her young male travelling companion that you could not accost a man in his own home, unannounced at such an unreasonable hour, fell upon deaf ears. She called him an old woman, at which point they fell out again. After a heated discussion, the carriage pulled up before the imposing house and they received very short shrift from the butler who was not about the let a young chit of a girl into his master’s house at nearly eleven o’clock in the evening unless something quite extraordinary had happened.

  Nicholas smiled smugly at her in barely disguised triumph as the d
oor was closed in their faces. This resulted in another argument and neither the lady nor the gentleman spoke to each other until breakfast the following morning.

  They had put up at the White Hart in the town, posing as brother and sister, which given that they argued over everything from the moment they arrived, was entirely realistic to the staff who served them.

  Nicholas had hired a private parlour and had bespoken breakfast without any idea of how he was going to pay for it. The matter didn’t concern him long, however, perhaps because he realised that soon the girl would be off his hands and he could return to Stoneacre, or perhaps because he was expecting a surge of generosity from the Duke when his lover was restored to him. Thus his mood was buoyant, even despite having to wait for Louisa for nearly an hour as she three times changed her mind about the gown she was wearing, went off to change her clothes and then immediately demanded his opinion as she preened about before the mirror. Having finally settled on a pale pink morning dress, and a bonnet trimmed with matching pink ribbons, they set off for Lansdowne Hall, in a hired gig, once more in charity with one another.

  His grace was not at home.

  As the butler imperiously informed them, it was the Duke’s habit to drive his curricle early every morning as anyone acquainted with his master would know.

  Louisa wanted to say that in fact she was very well acquainted with the Duke and indeed so much so that she was almost his fiancée, and that she knew him so well that she had almost been kissed by him. And that she knew his master a great deal better than he did himself. And that if she had not been so stupidly blind, she might at this point be planning her wedding celebrations to him rather than battling with his bad tempered butler on the steps of his house.

  Nicholas bundled her back into the carriage before the argument threatened to come to blows.

  “Pompous, odious man! Why Malvern employs such a man I have no notion,” cried Louisa.

  “Probably because he’s a good butler,” replied Nicholas. “Well I warned you not to show up on his doorstep like a beggar, didn’t I? You should have done what I told you, sent him a note requesting him to call in at his earliest convenience at the White Hart. By far the better way to do it. But instead of that you turn up on his doorstep in the dead of night, expecting him to welcome you with open arms. Well, he’s a proud man, Lou, and you hurt him and you had much better eat some humble pie.”