The Writer and the Rake

by Shehanne Moore

  Shall we dance? Her mother had once danced around a school hall with the head of the music department, to that song in a bid to inspire two gaping classes of senior pupils to stop the Dundee cringe and put a bit of welly into the pantomime rehearsal. So long as she wasn’t asked to do the same she could do this. “Why not?”

  The couples were arranged with the man standing directly opposite. The men standing quite close. He led her onto the chequered floor, one hand on the base of her spine—at least it wasn’t on her backside—and sort of positioned her there before she could stop him, with that same alarming panache. He kept hold of her hand too.

  She cinched her lips, speared him with her gaze, dipped a curtsy. A bloody awful one. The first twirl was so slow, she breathed deeply of his soap, wood ash and lime. He wasn’t into cologne but he always smelled clean. But, perhaps that was why he wanted to twirl her slowly, so he could waft it everywhere? Look as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her either?

  Three steps back. One step towards him. Another close turn where their hands touched and she was aware of his gaze, of his proximity, of the sudden magic of the music, as if for them alone, the softness of the candlelight. Her heart began to beat faster. A glide to the side. A glide back. A long twirl. What was happening here? All she could see was him, his eyes different from before. Another step. It should have been two, probably even three steps. She didn’t know. What she knew was she must tear her gaze from his. What she knew was that if her feet didn’t stand this, she’d cut them off. When she thought about every piece of broken glass, burning fag end and every piece of dirt she’d ever trod on, she’d do anything to pull, if necessary and not knowing she’d stood on half these things, the concentration to get her to where she needed to get tonight. This wasn’t her world.

  One dance was what they had agreed. One dance. When her heart gambled beats with the devil at least she’d done something right. If necessary she’d stumble, but that would be a last resort. Did she want to stumble though when this moment seemed right?

  “Are you all right?”

  “Perfect, darling.”

  The merciless scratching of fiddle strings sawed to an end. Now she could leave the floor.

  He drew her closer. “I wouldn’t go. Francis Dashwood is over there and already he can’t keep his beady eyes off you.”

  “Sorry?”

  She edged her gaze sideways. That couldn’t be Francis Dashwood who ran the notorious Hellfire Club. She’d thought he’d be tall, devilish, sexily handsome, not some corpulent looking twat whose waistcoat was straining at the seams. Imagine some salacious ritual with him? She’d rather not. She wanted to drink her promised glass of punch, not throw it up all over the floor. Although, perhaps if Mitchell Killgower hadn’t danced so close, Dashwood wouldn’t be watching her?

  “You mean he beguiles women?”

  “Not exactly. He beguiles something far more dangerous. ”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ideas.”

  “Hmm.”

  He wouldn’t be beguiling her, that was for certain. Was that why Mitchell Killgower was so laid back about Gabriella? Because he couldn’t get his handsome head around the fact she’d gotten so involved? With an arse like that man? Unimaginable. Gabriella had had him. Handsome, sexy, young, intelligent, gorgeous in the candlelight.

  And yet . . . so did she.

  But then, Gabriella wasn’t in her predicament. What if that wasn’t Francis Dashwood at all. Just some silly old man who couldn’t stop waving his hands in all directions as he chatted to the two women at his side and Mitchell Killgower was just saying that. Why would a puritan like Christian ask Francis Dashwood here tonight? One dance was what Brittany had agreed. One dance was what they’d had.

  “Well, whatever he does, darling, I need to sit down. My bloody feet are killing me.”

  “Let me escort you out of here, then I’ll get you that glass of punch.”

  “Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable—”

  “Brittany, he’s not here by chance at a ball in our honor. Christian’s asked him, when she can’t abide him. Now, either I escort you, or we go home.”

  She swallowed the disgruntled noise that rose in her throat. The latter wasn’t an option, neither was having Mitchell Killgower at her side all evening. Choice? She raised her eyebrows.

  “Then darling, please do escort me.”

  She took the arm he offered. Now, she must pray that there weren’t any waiters hanging about wherever he took her. Then, she’d have to find the powder room. It was very strange the shadow Francis Dashwood cast over a man as assured as confident, as Mitchell Killgower. Why had Christian asked Dashwood here when she couldn’t abide him? Was it just to remind Mitchell of past sins?

  “In here.” Mitchell stopped at a set of open doors at the far end of the hall. “In fact, right through here, that room there.”

  She peered past the potted palms and sea of silken gowns to another set of open doors, ones that led into what appeared to be an empty room, with doors that opened onto the terrace. Perfect. Mitchell let go of her hand.

  “Sit down. I’ll get us both a drink.”

  Brittany eased through the sea of dresses, ostrich fans, plumes and velvet breeches and into the other room. She sat down on one of the empty chairs. They were all empty so there were plenty to choose from, which was also why she decided to rise and hobble the four steps to the one behind a potted plant.

  These bloody shoes were the best she’d come by here and her feet still felt like they’d been stood on by a herd of elephants. How the bloody hell was she even going to be able to get out this chair again tonight, never mind into the garden with them murdering her feet? Looking sophisticated enough to kill too when this bloody frock hampered her chances no end—as if he knew she needed to pull some other man. She bent down.

  It didn’t matter if she’d never get the bloody things back on again, she must get them off. She was going home. There was no time to waste. She leaned back against the striped upholstery and toed both shoes off.

  Hell, just look at the state of her feet. That bunion had sprouted two inches since she came back here. She winced.

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  The voice, low and instantly memorable, rumbled in her ear. A good job she was sitting down. At least it made it harder for her to fall on the floor, possible for her to sit still as stone. She wasn’t going to speak. Not if wild horses were tied to her tongue. What she was going to do was go.

  “Certainly not with you.” At least she meant not to speak. Sometimes these things just couldn’t be helped. Twice too. “And if you want me to sign anything you can forget it.” Her scalp iced.

  “Oh, I’ve almost given up on that—”

  “Given up? You? What a cheap ruse, bargain-priced in fact.”

  “Oh, I have. Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  Why was he here, wearing ludicrous footman’s livery and a powder puff wig, if not to force her hand?

  She jerked up her chin. “Actually Mort, I don’t know how you have the gall to speak to me. Why don’t you just go away, back from where you came from and leave me alone?”

  “Because I’m your ten times great-grandson.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The reason I have the gall to speak to you.”

  She fought not to hang her mouth further.

  “Maybe it’s more than ten?” he added. “But I was born a thousand years ago.”

  Was he trying to cause her brain the same crushing agony as her feet?

  “Impossible.”

  “Not at all. I told you, didn’t I, about Amoret and Carter?”

  “Who?”

  “Your daughters. That name Amoret means love of course, but I get your thinking in juggling the letters and ta
king that ‘a’ out.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh never mind, you don’t do anagrams. Your granddaughter, Malice, and Sin, her Viking lover?”

  “Have you been reading my books?”

  “Their daughter, Remain? Well what I didn’t tell you is that Amoret had more children in a slightly earlier time. Quite a squad.”

  “This is getting very confusing.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing.

  “You and Mitchell certainly seemed to be getting along.”

  Was that what it was called? She picked her shoe out of her lap, set it on the rug.

  “Just how long have you been here?”

  A shrug of his expansive shoulders, broad in the robin’s egg coat. “About as long as you. But I’m pleased.”

  “Pleased? Isn’t that a consummation devoutly to be wished for? What about?”

  “To see you and Mitchell together. Looking so good, so right together too. I must admit I had my doubts about Mitchell. He’s complicated. A bit too fond of women, was my reckoning for this to work. Then there was that unfortunate stuff to start with, that water pump business. But, you’ve come along at the right time for him to be the father of our future. I get that now. And wow, just wow. May I just say how impressed I am?”

  “Mitchell and I are together because I have no choice when I’m here. I don’t have a penny to my name. So I’ve had to stick it out with him.”

  “You could have written, Brittany.”

  “And you could shut up. This is 1765. What the hell could I write here?”

  “Cleaned floors, anything.”

  “How could I when I needed to stay here and find that portal. And then . . . then when I found there was none, when you said kiss, which might as well have been my—”

  She bit her tongue. Was it so wise to say arse when Mort held the key? Probably not. Even though he probably wouldn’t give it to her.

  He leaned forward, holding out a silver platter. “Oh, have a glass of champagne, you know you want to.”

  “Do I?”

  “I’m not your enemy, whatever you may think.”

  “Well, you’re not my friend. And the last time I drank with you . . . well, let’s just say that was an experience I’ll never forget.”

  “But, you must have forgotten.”

  She raised her chin, glanced at the shining flute of champagne bubbling on the salver. She didn’t want to admit to forgetting anything because she’d been too drunk to stand. But the fact was there were gaps, gaping chasms she couldn’t fathom. She had come here this evening with the best of intentions to further Mitchell’s cause. Of course she hoped that furthering his cause would lead to certain things. It did seem though that a lot of this furthering would have been so much easier, indeed she might not be furthering at all, if she had every piece of this puzzle, especially when she could see that despite furthering Mitchell’s cause, Mort wasn’t here to help her.

  Despite that Mort had these pieces. Mort was the key. Was she going to cut her nose off to spite her face by walking out of here without that information? It might even mean she wouldn’t have to pull some random. It was probably why she felt her eyes frost.

  “And you are about to finally tell me? Or do you want me to sign something first?”

  “I told you it was about choice. You’re wrong to think you have none.”

  “Well, I don’t see me zooming off home, do you?”

  “Do you mind?” He indicated the chair beside her.

  “Yes, I do actually. You can’t sit there. This is 1765. Do you want me to be the talk of the place?”

  He didn’t even raise an eyebrow, to convey the fact that if she wasn’t the talk of the place, it was nothing short of a miracle. Whatever he thought and however much she needed to hear him out, wild horses wouldn’t force her to let him sit there. She raised her chin higher.

  “I’m meant to be God-fearing.”

  “And I’m meant to be serious.”

  To think she had found him attractive. Sort of anyway. On a sliding scale, he would have been veering towards an ugly mug rating. And he said he was her grandson, several times great? What he was, was a liar—also several times great. For a start it didn’t matter how many times down the line he was, she would never have produced anything like this.

  As for finding even one iota of attractiveness when, or rather, if, he was related? She was not that much of a deviant. Still, she’d kept her voice nice, her smile in place.

  “Just say what you have to, will you? And get out.”

  “I’ve already explained some of this, Brittany, but you were a bit the worse for wear, so maybe you don’t remember.”

  “Oh rub it in, why don’t you? What did I just say to you?”

  “If that’s what you want?” He half turned.

  She exhaled sharply. She couldn’t very well let him walk out of here. “Fine. Seeing as you’re not my enemy, I capitulate. Do sit down.”

  “Choice. That’s what I mean about choice.”

  “Rub my nose in it, why don’t you? I said I capitulate. What do you want? Me to be gracious about it?”

  He set the tray on the side table, eased his large frame into the spindle chair beside her.

  “I don’t know that’s something you’re very good at, being gracious, capitulating or making the right choices.”

  “And I don’t know that you know the half of it. What would you call not having Sebastian up on a murder charge? Especially—”

  “When I’m not telling you anything Sebastian didn’t already say to you and Mitchell hasn’t thought. Every day, in fact.”

  Her breath sank to the very pit of her stomach. Was there no end to the things people thought she was? Without examining themselves? Mort leaned over, obviously to whisper but she kept her gaze fixed on the soft drapery billowing in the wind. Whatever he said was of no consequence to her.

  “If you want to go home, you should listen.”

  She almost leapt from the chair. Was she really about to learn the great secret of this? The bit she’d obviously consigned to the outer reaches of her memory that night according to him, where, like a distant traveller, it continued to elude her.

  Not even a darling passed her lips. Had she ever sat so still in her life? Her gaze fixed on the billowing curtain. Beyond it, the daisy fringed lawn, the sweetly scented lavender standing to attention in pots.

  “Mitchell must have fallen for you.”

  “What?”

  Was that all? The great revelation? The one that somehow kept her here?

  “And you for him.”

  Even bigger what. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “At least a little. It’s that simple. I told you to find true love, or be doomed forever to live like I do, travelling back and forward between worlds, no control over where I land, forgotten by time, forgotten by everyone.”

  “And that’s why I’ve been—”

  She snapped her mouth shut. Shagging Mitchell senseless for nothing, was not the thing to admit to here, certainly not before her several times grandson.

  “Let me show you this.”

  “What?”

  He reached towards her forehead and she flinched. He smiled faintly.

  “Believe me, you want to see this.”

  “Do I?”

  “Close your eyes. Go on.”

  Now she had the missing piece what she wanted was to go home. But the problem was knowing how to use it so she never came back. She shut her eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “Your life if you don’t make the right choice. You see, this road-trip all looks like fun. No. Don’t open your eyes. I’m going to touch you here. What do you see?”

  “Nothin
g.”

  The pressure of his thumb increased against her right temple.

  “Yes you do. Look again.”

  “Snow. Lots of snow. Why that’s—”

  “It’s outside of this window here, the avenue of trees. Killem House.”

  “And who’s the woman lying there?”

  In the long black evening dress, like a broken bird on the pristine white, face down, her hair a dark veil as she struggled to rise. Brittany’s breath dried at the back of her throat.

  “I don’t—”

  “Who’s the man coming down the steps with the lantern?”

  “You’ve got me beat.”

  “I don’t think so. Do you hear what he’s saying to his servant? ‘It’s her ladyship, drunk again.’ Because that woman is. We can’t all stick to our resolutions, Brittany, not over years, not when certain things call us back. And this woman has been coming back and forward so many times, this man knows to pick her up, carry her through the storm, wrap her up, hold her as she shivers with hypothermia so cruel she will be lucky to survive it, when it is her fate to survive. Just as it is his to know that in the morning she will be gone again. You know it could have been the prologue to this story?”

  She jerked her eyes open. “But, I’m not in love with Mitchell. My God, don’t be bloody ridiculous. Putting aside the fact I can’t be loving any man—”

  “How do you define love, Brittany?”

  What an impossible question. Was it any wonder she shrugged? A strange I’m trying my damndest to think sound came from the back of her throat.

  “There’s a hundred different kinds of it. Instant love now, is that lust?”

  “Well . . .”

  “There’s couples still together years after that arrow strikes. There’s what starts out as an obstacle course, so you might not see what’s under your nose. You might think this is not the person for you. But that person, by ways too complicated, too tortuous, too twisted to explain, becomes that very one you will never find another of, who you will perish without. The very things about them, you think you hate will, by degrees and inches, turn your head, make you look, will worm its canker’s way into your heart, weave into the fabric of your soul. You have no choice but to admit, this is the person for you. And you will never walk away because that road is dust, ashes and every lousy thing under the sun that will break you into a thousand pieces if you do. Twisted paths. Brittany. That you’re still here means you’re somewhere on the journey.”