Last Rake Standing

by Jayne Fresina

  He snorted. “Mama, I assure you, I slept alone.”

  She cringed in an exaggerated fashion, her irritation plainly provoked by his refusal to address her in a manner more respectful of his position, and of hers. “Don’t play the innocent with me, Marcus. I’ve known you since you were born.”

  “Well, you’re my mother. You couldn’t really avoid the association.”

  “Don’t be cheeky with me, my boy.”

  “Sorry, mama.” He waved his fingers across his rumpled brow. “Feeling a trifle under the weather.”

  “What you need is a dose of salts.”

  His nose twitched as the feather on her hat tickled his upper lip. “Yes, mama.” Glancing over at Gudgeon, he signaled for the coffee to be poured. “Perhaps you’ll sit down and share some breakfast with—”

  “Breakfast? It’s almost time for luncheon, Marcus, and I am on my way to Lady Arlington’s. I have only a few moments to spare for you.”

  “Indeed.” He dropped to his chair with a sigh. “Can I be put to rights in so short a time?”

  She swished around the small table, tut-tutting under her breath, as if even the china on the breakfast tray didn’t meet with her approval. “You promised to cut off these dreadful, tawdry women and find yourself a respectable bride. A good, honest woman—”

  “And so I have, mama. You’ll be pleased to learn, I’m engaged.” Leaning back in his chair, out of the harsh sunlight that glared through the window, he took a sip of coffee, grateful for something to wet his parched lips. “She’s certainly good,” he smirked, “although perhaps not completely honest.”

  She exhaled a sharp gasp. “I don’t believe you. Who is she?”

  He thought about that for a moment. Realizing he didn’t know her name, he covered slyly. “It’s a secret.” With one long finger he tapped the side of his nose. “You’ll have to wait until you meet her.” He should have known the woman’s name, he chided himself. Still, he’d faced countless angry women armed with various weapons over the years and their names all tangled together. Screwing up his face, staring into his coffee, he assembled a list of possible names, trying each one on her like a new hat. Her first name began with an E. That much he could recall. Ermintrude MacGillacuddy? Esme Watkins? Esther Hart? No, no. Surely it was something similar to his own. Hall, perhaps? Or Hollis.

  “For goodness sake, Marcus, who is the gell? I have a right to know her name.”

  “And you will.” Just as soon as I know it. He reached for a triangle of toast, carefully avoiding Gudgeon’s curious gaze. “In precisely one hour, you can meet her in my library, just before the ceremony.”

  “In your library?” she exploded. “In one hour? Have you gone insane?”

  He crunched his toast loudly and chewed, making her wait before he answered. “I think a private affair is best. Get it over with quickly, before she changes her mind.”

  “Marcus, you cannot get married today.”

  “Why not? I have a special license left over from the last debacle. All I need to do is change the details. No one would dare question me. Why the pout? You should be pleased. I’m finally getting it done.”

  The Dowager Duchess turned her inquisition on the valet. “Gudgeon, do you know anything about this gell?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, my lady,” he intoned solemnly.

  She advanced around the table, her stride determined and forceful, ready to back Gudgeon into the wall paneling. “But you can certainly tell me.”

  “As a gentleman’s gentleman, I am obliged to be discreet at all times.”

  Marcus intervened. “Mama, do stop tormenting Gudgeon. He’s under strict orders not to tell a soul.”

  Spinning on her heel, she continued her angry pacing in the other direction. “Of all the ill luck. To be left with you to further the Craven dynasty.”

  He smiled at her histrionics. It was her greatest irritation that, of her three sons, only he, her least favorite, had survived. His eldest brother Miles, who should have inherited the title, had been killed in a hunting accident ten years ago. Followed by the tragic drowning of her second son, Mason, in a lake on the estate. The Cravens of Penhale were an unlucky lot. As for Marcus, he continued to live on, much to everyone’s surprise, and, so he suspected, considerable disappointment.

  Had Miles, the golden boy, lived to inherit and produce sons, his mother wouldn’t be in such a panic now about the future of the Craven dynasty. Miles, raised to be the sixteenth Duke of Penhale, would have handled the position with skill, unlike Marcus, from whom, as the third son, nothing much was ever expected. When Miles and Mason both died so suddenly, Marcus tripped into the title, for which he was never prepared, and into shoes he knew he could never fill. Now, as the male figurehead of the family, all burdens were laid at his door. Although he constantly worked to convince everyone he was ill-equipped to deal with them.

  She took a small envelope from her muff and tossed it onto his plate. “This was attached to your door when I came in.”

  There was one word written on the front. Penhale. He picked it up cautiously and slid his butter knife under the seal.

  “Not another law suit, I hope,” she muttered sourly.

  He stared at the small, crisp, white card, keeping it out of her sight, while she tried feigning disinterest. Very poorly.

  Alright, sir. You can take me to supper tonight. No jiggery pokery. Or else. Sincerely, H.

  “What are you grinning at, Marcus? You look like the dratted cat that stole the cream.”

  Well, he had, hadn’t he? After giving him the cut last night, Le Petit Oiseau now deigned to let him take her to supper. The petulant brat was looking for a spanking, and she just might get one.

  Remembering the Dowager Duchess, he folded the card and tucked it away in the palm of his hand. “Is there anything else you wanted, mama?”

  “I came to remind you that your sister, Maude, arrives in London tomorrow with your nephews.”

  He sighed into his coffee. “How could I possibly forget?”

  “And she will stay here with you. I haven’t the room, of course, in that tiny house you granted me,” his mother continued, sliding in a wedge of not-so subtle complaint. “I promised her that you wouldn’t scold the little ones again for marking your hall tiles. Poor Hubert wouldn’t come out from under his bed for almost an entire day after you shouted at him last year.”

  “What was remarkable is not that he refused to come out from under his bed, but that he ever fit under it in the first place.”

  “And you wouldn’t even help us to get him out again.”

  “Depend upon it, mama, the lure of warm apricot tart succeeded with far greater expediency than any urging of mine.”

  “Well, children must be allowed to be children. You know, run about and exhaust themselves all to pieces.”

  Bewildered by his mother’s forbearance with grandchildren, a very different attitude to the one she adopted when raising her own children, Marcus replied, “Quite. One would hate for them never to fall asleep.”

  After a short pause, she continued, “And your Cousin Harlan is engaged to that young gell he met this summer. You know the one. You must remember, a dreadfully somber creature with a severe shoulder hunch and a grievous amount of teeth, although one seldom sees them in a smile of any sort. I was shocked when I heard she is only just one and twenty. She is lucky to be an only child and have her father’s fortune at her disposal. I’ve never seen such a tired, worn, old face on a young body.” She studied her reflection in his coffee pot. “I am fortunate, of course, to have a fresh and youthful complexion. People often mistake me for someone forty years younger.” She patted her cheek. “I still retain the silky complexion of a nineteen year old.”

  “Then you must be folding it incorrectly when you put it away.”

  Had she heard, she would have slapped him around the ears, but she continued without pause, “Her father never lets her out of his sight. If she was my daughter, I should be g
lad to see the back of her. She walks with her feet set permanently at a quarter to three, but apparently she is an excellent rider.”

  “Sounds a treasure. Wonder how I ever overlooked that one.”

  Again she ignored him. “New wealth, of course. Her father’s in trade.” She shook her shoulders, shuddering at the idea. “He has the most unkempt pair of eyebrows I’ve ever seen and never has a waistcoat that fits. But Harlan wants to marry her. What are you going to do about it?”

  Marcus swallowed a hasty mouthful of coffee to dislodge a stuck piece of toast. “Me?”

  “You are the head of the family, Marcus. He should have discussed it with you, before he embarked on this action.”

  He chuckled. “I hardly think I’m the best person to intervene.”

  “But, Marcus, you’re all we’re left with. I do wish you’d take more interest in the family.” Huffing and puffing, she adjusted the hang of a landscape on his wall, and then ran a gloved finger along the mantle, checking for dust. “For instance, your sister Mariana. It’s time we started looking to her future.”

  He sighed into his coffee cup. If she heard anything he muttered under that low exhale, she made no comment on it, but rattled on in her usual style. “For pity’s sake, Marcus, at the next ball don’t hover over her all evening. The girl has no chance while you lurk about beside her, so grim and dour that nobody dare come near.”

  “It keeps the riff-raff away. Isn’t that the idea?” He knew his mother was anxious to marry his little sister off and have the house in Mayfair to herself.

  “The idea, Marcus, is for you to get Mariana a husband.”

  “She’s seventeen.”

  “Exactly. You’ve shirked the responsibility long enough. Just because you put off marriage for yourself, you cannot expect your sister to do the same. Men have the liberty of waiting, women do not. Don’t you want Mariana to be happy and have a home of her own?”

  “Good lord, yes! What was I thinking to delay? I shall get her one this instant. An advertisement in the Times should do the trick. Wanted. One husband with an abundance of patience and a tolerance for giggling, young women. Possibly hard of hearing.”

  Shoulders heaving, she loudly lamented her youngest child’s fate under his undeserving guardianship. “My poor, darling Mariana. She has no entertainments and you won’t have her presented at court. She’s dreadfully bored.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Mariana should be thankful. Some girls of seventeen have to work to support their family. They don’t have the luxury to be bored.”

  “And that little house is wretchedly understaffed. You take no interest in our comfort. Sometimes, Marcus, I think you would prefer to live without a household staff. Which is all well and good for you, but it’s most inconvenient that you expect us to scrabble along on a pittance, making do as best we can in that ramshackle abode.”

  “I was unaware they did ramshackle in Mayfair, mama.”

  “You know very well what I mean. That house is too small and cramped. It does not befit our status in life. You waste all your money on foolish ventures, giving it away when it’s needed here and we are left without.”

  He knew there were few things she resented more than his anonymous works for charity. She’d often complained he was very sneaky about his causes. “It’s as if you don’t want folks to know what you’ve done,” she would complain, adding that, in her opinion, he completely missed the point of doing anything charitable.

  “While you might be content with a handful of staff, Marcus, that doesn’t mean we must all suffer. Just because you would rather be anywhere but here doing your family duty. Just because you would rather be sheep farming or planting turnips than taking your little sister to balls, that is no reason for the rest of us to struggle along with the barest necessities.”

  His eyes opened wide. Once, seven years ago, not entirely in jest, he had declared that he wished he was a sheep farmer in Australia. His mother had never forgotten the comment. She brought it out and polished it whenever she decided he was not concentrating on what she saw as his duties to the family and the title. As to planting turnips, that was a new one.

  She covered her eyes with one gloved hand, although he’d never known her to shed a solitary tear. “My darling Miles. Such a sweet boy. Oh why was he taken from me so suddenly? Such an excellent Duke, he would have made. He would have taken care of me, not left me to wear rags and starve.”

  “Sweet! He threw my tin soldiers in the fire to watch them melt. He tormented me because I preferred books to fox hunting.”

  She continued her brisk promenade around his breakfast table. “And I’m left with you, Marcus, the most quarrelsome, ungrateful child.”

  “I suppose heaven has no use for me, mama. Only the good die young.”

  She threw him a peevish look. “Evidently.”

  “God works in mysterious ways and all that.”

  “Please don’t bring God into it, Marcus. It’s slanderous coming from your lips.”

  Another sigh cooled the coffee in his cup. “Yes, indeed.”

  “How many times have you been engaged, Marcus? I lost count somewhere after five.”

  He hid a crooked smile with another bite of toast. “Come, come, mama, you have more fingers than that.”

  The extravagant plume in her hat trembled in concert with her chins, irritation visibly growing each time he used the word mama. He always wondered why she objected to the term, when he thought it far more affectionate than anything else he might have called her. Apparently, Dukes were not allowed to be affectionate.

  “And not one of those engagements lasted more than two days,” she added. “I don’t believe you’ve just become engaged again. If you have, it won’t last any longer than all the others. You’ll find some way out of it. You’ll be obnoxious, say something terribly crude to her mother, or insult the parson.” She heaved her shoulders, hands clasped under her bosom. “From what I hear, you intend to continue this debauchery well into your dotage.”

  He couldn’t hold back another chuckle, spitting a few crumbs across the tablecloth. “Perhaps I’ll be the last rake standing, mama. It’ll be my epitaph.”

  Disapproval etched deep lines in her face. She straightened her indomitable spine and swept to the door. “If that’s your plan, Marcus dear boy, you’d better start going to bed at a decent hour and getting up earlier in the morning. Old rakes tend to grow rusty when they’re not put to good use or well maintained.”

  The door closed behind her and Gudgeon crossed the room with his customary silent glide. “The Dowager Duchess was in fine fettle today, your grace.”

  “Quite.” Marcus looked up. “How long has that rumor been out? The one about my French trollop?”

  The valet took out a tiny pan and brush to clean the tablecloth. “I was informed of it by the chimney sweep outside in the lane not half an hour ago. The cook next door apprised our housemaid of the same information when she went out to polish the brass doorknocker this morning, your grace. It’s widely known that you are quite smitten with the lady, and will allow no other man near.”

  He laughed. “As usual, I’m the last to know about developments in my own life.” Was he smitten? Possibly. He’d certainly never felt anything like this before.

  “One hesitates to jump to conclusions of any sort, your grace. But if I might be permitted to make an observation on the subject, it would seem a rumor put about for some mischievous purpose is best treated with the disdain it deserves. It will, like all such rumors, run its course.”

  “An observation resounding in its clarity, Gudgeon. Thank you.”

  “Because you cannot possibly be thinking of taking another mistress, your grace. Not after the last few disasters.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “I’ll take it into consideration, Gudgeon.” And, like most warnings, it would be ignored. Le Petit Oiseau was irresistible. He shifted in his chair, aware of the fact that all was not calm and content under his robe. She had the most delectable
ivory shoulders, long legs, luscious little bottom, and an exquisite bosom that just begged to be set free of its cruel prison every time he saw her. “By the way, Gudgeon, I’ll be dining out this evening. Late.”

  “Very good, your grace. Shall I arrange your bath now?”

  He scratched his head, ruffling his hair until it stood on end. “Yes. I must look my best for my future wife this morning.”

  Gudgeon stood in the open doorway between the two rooms, head inclined. “Might I ask, your grace, where you came by this valiant young lady?”

  “I nearly trampled her into the gutter.” He stretched his arms overhead. “A most fortuitous accident in light of a recent wager placed at the Elysium Club.”

  “A wager, sir?” Gudgeon’s expression drooped like that of a hound dog accustomed to being left out in the rain.

  “Yes, yes, but there’s no time for the details now. Do you remember when that girl faced me in a duel, years ago, dressed as her brother?”

  The valet paled several shades. “The one who shot you.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “No, no. She shot at me.”

  “I see, your grace.”

  “She missed. There’s a difference.”

  “It didn’t seem such a great difference at the time, your grace. I recall you were considerably enraged by the incident, threatening to have the young lady hanged if she ever came within your sight again.”

  “Yes, well, I daresay I over-reacted somewhat. In my youth, I was impulsive, my temper too easily roused.”

  Gudgeon coughed. “Thank goodness you’ve changed since then, your grace.”

  “Quite.”

  “May one enquire, your grace, why this matter is once again raised?”

  Marcus wiped his smiling lips on a napkin. “I’m going to wed her, bed her, and make her the mother of my bratty offspring.”

  The valet was silent, his expression dolorous.

  “I sense you don’t approve, Gudgeon.”

  “Indeed, your grace, one wonders if this is not a little rash. There are a great many women of marriageable age, in and around the city of London. Women who haven’t shot at you.”