A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6)

by Shirley Marks

  “I suppose you are right.” Clare cast a last longing glance into the corridor and retreated to the sofa where she finally sat.

  “There, that is much better, isn’t it?” Mrs. Harris settled next to Clare. “Did you have a word with Cook, Rosalind?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I informed the staff of our guest. There will be one extra setting needed at dinner tonight and a tray will be sent up to Mr. Rutherford.” Rosalind glanced at Clare to observe her sister’s reaction on hearing his name spoken aloud.

  “I’ll see to his tray myself after we finish dinner.” Clare was quick to volunteer.

  “You cannot possibly be alone with him in his bedchamber, my dear,” Mrs. Harris commented. “I shall accompany you and there will not be a question of propriety.”

  Rosalind thought Clare was behaving most peculiarly.

  “Oh, it is Mr. Freddie, he is come!” Clare leapt to her feet and moved quickly to the door and stepped into the corridor. “Mr. Freddie! We are in here!”

  This behavior absolutely shocked Rosalind. Never in her life had she seen her sister conduct herself in such a bold manner.

  Mr. Worth appeared at the door and acknowledged the ladies with a curt nod.

  “How did you find your friend Mr. Rutherford, sir?” Clare showed far more than just a casual interest.

  “He is in bed, resting comfortably, thank you.”

  “Will you not ask Mr. Worth to be seated first, Clare?” Rosalind had not meant to sound as if she were scolding her sister but really . . . Clare’s behavior was quite out of the ordinary.

  “Oh, yes,” Clare replied by rote and turned to their guest. “Will you not be seated, sir?”

  “Thank you, I shall.” Mr. Worth gestured to Clare to precede him.

  “Oh, no, we must first see if there is anything Mr. Trevor needs. Come, Mama.”

  “I fear that he has caught a chill if he is unwell.” Mrs. Harris stood and passed by Mr. Worth to join Clare. “I shall have something warm to drink brought to him at once.”

  Clare turned to her sister. “Of course you will stay and keep Mr. Freddie company, will you not, Rosalind?”

  “Of course I shall.” She would not like it but Rosalind would comply.

  “Thank you, Ros!” Clare touched her sister’s shoulder in gratitude before she quit the room, followed by Mrs. Harris.

  “You must be fatigued from your journey. Please be seated, Mr. Worth.” Rosalind made the best of her situation.

  “You are too kind, Miss Harris.” The gentleman inclined his head and moved to the striped sofa and finally took a seat.

  There was a long and very awkward silence that stretched between them. Mr. Worth cleared his throat but did not speak. The quiet continued. He could not have liked her any more than she cared for him. If he had proper manners he would not allow such an uncomfortable silence to take hold.

  Rudesby!

  “I must thank your family for welcoming two complete strangers into your home.” He had quite a pleasant, cultured voice. “I know Trevor’s, Mr. Rutherford’s, recovery will be expedited with his improved circumstances.”

  “You have Clare to thank, not I,” Rosalind corrected. “It was she who brought your friend’s plight to our parents’ attention. The Morleys are not responsible for their living conditions.”

  “Agreed. They have no proper dwelling to call their own. They did what they could. Why should they not move into the abandoned, large house? I do not believe anyone would have thought Penshaw Manor derelict?”

  “That was your and Mr. Rutherford’s destination, was it not? You must be acquainted with the Earl of Brent?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Worth replied. “We all attended Eton. On a lark, Trev and I thought we’d drop in. Must have been in our cups, I expect.”

  “Not a well-thought-out plan?” Rosalind could imagine two men-about-town acting in a rash fashion, especially after an evening of drinking.

  “No one has ever accused us . . . er . . . me of making plans ahead of time.” He sounded remorseful.

  “I see.” There was no reason for Mr. Worth to confide in her.

  “Once we arrived, Penshaw was not quite what we expected.” The stark honesty of his answer made Rosalind believe he, and perhaps Mr. Rutherford also, were more affected by the condition of the house than he let on. “I hear His Lordship is not very well liked in these parts but he’s really not a bad sort of a fellow upon acquaintance.”

  “I suppose it remains to be seen, sir. If he ever dares to show his face.” Rosalind eyed Mr. Worth, measuring his trustworthiness as to Lord Brent’s character.

  “Do you think I should warn him off? Write to him and tell him to never inhabit Penshaw Manor?”

  “If he were a real man he would not care what anyone thinks of him and he would take residence, repair his house, and do his duty to his tenants.”

  Chapter Seven

  A few hours later Freddie dined with Mrs. Harris and the two Miss Harrises. There was a thick white soup followed by a cold tray of meat with tasty sauces, seasoned potatoes, and warm, crusty bread and butter. The longer Freddie sat at the table enjoying his dinner, the heavier his eyelids grew and the more Miss Rosalind Harris’s words haunted him: If he were a real man he would not care what anyone thinks of him and he would take residence, repair his house, and do his duty to his tenants.

  Too fatigued to push the words from his mind, he refused to allow himself to dwell on them, but Freddie knew she was right.

  At the end of the meal he refused Mrs. Harris’s generous offer of port, along with the continual plea that he excuse the absence of her husband. Mr. Harris should have joined them but had been otherwise engaged.

  Freddie could not complain about his dinner company and, at the risk of being a poor guest, he could no longer ignore the lure of his bed. A real bed.

  After thanking his hostess for her hospitality, it was all he could do to climb the staircase. He cracked open the door of Trevor’s bedchamber and looked in on him, making certain he rested peacefully. The banked hearth kept the room comfortable and the drapes drawn tight around the four-poster kept the sleeping Trevor warmer still. The rhythmic snoring told Freddie his friend slept soundly within. Freddie had no doubt he would soon sleep just as well that night.

  Once in his own bedchamber Freddie gladly took advantage of the pitcher of water on the dressing table for his evening ablutions and undressed, making preparations to retire to his bed. His stomach was pleasantly full of the best meal he had had since taking his seat at Brooks’s gaming table, just before he lost that monkey to Lord Albans almost a month ago.

  Upon further reflection, five hundred pounds would not make a noticeable difference in what was needed to restore Penshaw Manor. Unfortunately, Freddie had lost far more than that small amount in the months preceding that evening, and he had dwelled upon the consequence of his actions since that time.

  He had no complaints. Trevor would show a marked improvement in his recovery, there was no doubt, and Freddie, who had not deserved the improved environment, appreciated it nevertheless. Feeling remarkably better than he had in weeks, Freddie pulled back the counterpane and slid between the sheets, blowing out the candle on the bedside table before committing himself to bed.

  Only moments before his head settled on the pillow, his unguarded thoughts swept through the confusion of meeting the two Harris sisters versus Trevor’s description of the girl he fancied. Reflecting on the people he had met that afternoon, Freddie finally settled on the image of Miss Rosalind Harris.

  Wrapped in her Norwich shawl, Rosalind sat in the small parlor and gazed into the fire. How had her opinion of Frederick Worth been so wrong? Besides mistaking him for his friend Mr. Rutherford and believing he had somehow tricked Clare into an invitation to their home, Rosalind discovered Mr. Worth was not rude, as she had once believed.

  “Rosalind? Did you not hear me, dear?” Mrs. Harris’s raised voice called rather sternly to gain her attention. “I would li
ke your opinion.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I do believe I was woolgathering.” She drew her shawl around her shoulders, making up her mind to concern herself with Mr. Worth no longer.

  “I was just saying to Clare that Mr. Worth has the most exquisite manners, do you not agree?”

  And Rosalind had only now become determined to banish all thoughts of their guest.

  Mrs. Harris gazed at her quite expectantly yet she continued without giving a chance for an answer. “He has such polish and I must say I admire him greatly. If I were a young lady, as you two are, I do believe I might set my cap at him.”

  Two gasps and a “Mama!” from Clare and “Never say so!” from Rosalind followed.

  “I could almost imagine he would fit right in with the haute ton. Oh, he might be mistaken for a top-of-the-trees Corinthian if it were not for his dress. There is something not quite right there. But one cannot fault him for his deportment. I’m certain he would be found in all of the finest drawing rooms in London. Quite certain. I suppose him to be a great catch, I would venture to say.” Her glazed-over stare accompanied the fingering of her draping lace trimming. “The man must come from a distinguished family, I am sure. What he is doing in these parts, who is to say?”

  “You know I cannot set my cap for him, Mama,” Clare replied in rather a heated manner.

  “But there is more than one young lady of marriageable age in this household, to be sure.” Mrs. Harris turned her head from Rosalind, moving her gaze innocently to look at the teapot. Without mention of a name, it was perfectly clear to whom she referred.

  Rosalind chose to ignore the comment. She simply would not react for she had no intention of setting a cap at anyone.

  “In any case, I imagine our patient will be up and around in the next day or two.” Mrs. Harris directed her gaze at Clare. “I do believe he is most anxious to join the household festivities belowstairs and we must add a new decorative element this year.” She glanced from one sister to the other. “We are in need of a kissing bough.”

  “A kissing bough!” Clare gasped with delight, sitting forward with interest. “You have never allowed . . . oh, Mama! Truly? Will you permit it?”

  “I think the right time is now, my dear. Find some mistletoe, with plenty of berries, and together with a sprig of holly, perhaps a bit of evergreen, and plenty of ivy twined throughout. Bind it with some ribbon and it will be quite satisfactory, I should think. You will see to it, will you not?”

  “Oh, yes, Rosalind and I shall make one straightaway. Where shall we hang it?” Clare stood and glanced about, searching for the perfect location. “At the front door? No, I don’t think that is the place. At the base of the staircase? Certainly not at the top!”

  “How could you encourage such a match to us on a mere acquaintance, ma’am?” Rosalind could not imagine whence this madness had come. All this talk of setting caps and mistletoe with the appearance of two strangers in their midst. Strangers! Had the females of this household lost their senses? “We know nothing of them and, lest you forget, they have a connection to the Earl of Brent. Nothing good could come of that.”

  “Come now, dear Rosalind, these men may be acquainted with the earl but it is not as if I were encouraging a direct association with His Lordship himself.”

  “Mr. Trevor is a perfect gentleman.” Clare would favor his side. Ever since she had met him all Rosalind heard was Mr. Trevor this and Mr. Trevor that.

  “You see there, Rosalind. Your sister says—”

  “Clare’s feelings on this matter are all too clear to me, ma’am.” Rosalind hated to sound like the old, sensible spinster of the group but the elderly married lady and the youngest, and apparently silliest, female had both lost their wits. Just because two strangers, with moderate consequence, happened to stumble onto their doorstep did not mean Rosalind and her sister need marry them.

  Never had they thought to travel to London in search of husbands nor had they even gone to the nearest town in search of a beau. Rosalind thought, as she presumed Clare had, they would live out their lives here outside Huddlesford and taking care of those around them.

  Clare might have been willing to run into Mr. Rutherford’s arms and into a life of wedded bliss, however Rosalind had to admit she had no taste for marriage for marriage’s sake.

  Chapter Eight

  Freddie had looked in on the still-slumbering Trevor the following morning after waking. Continuing belowstairs to the breakfast room, Freddie had found gammon, eggs, coffee, and bread. During his journey through the house, he had not come across another soul.

  The previous day there had been a number of servants milling about besides the family. Last night he’d seen some of the kitchen staff who served supper in the dining room. Yesterday afternoon there were two men aiding with the guests’ relocation, lending a hand with Trevor and the luggage.

  Where were they now?

  There was nothing for him to complain about. His clothing, which was admittedly not his, had been laundered and pressed to his satisfaction. The neckcloth had not been starched as he would have liked but it was clean.

  Freddie touched the simple knotted linen at his throat and bristled slightly at the feeling of the overly generous cuff sliding from his wrist.

  This would do, he reminded himself.

  After dispensing coffee from a small urn, Freddie filled a plate and sat at the table, taking his time to browse through the various dated newspapers while he ate his morning meal alone.

  Some two hours later, he climbed the stairs to peer around the threshold of the open door of Trevor’s bedchamber. Inside he observed what he thought was a near miracle. Trevor stood, without holding on for dear life to the bedpost, but with his arm around Miss Clare Harris’s shoulders while Mrs. Harris, as chaperone, looked on.

  Miss Clare had her arm, perhaps both arms, around Trevor’s waist for balance. It was a believable excuse to explain their proximity. Apparently it was not disputed by her mother. Moving together slowly across the room, Clare spoke to Trevor, so softly Freddie could not make out her words.

  Freddie did not need to be the second third wheel in that group with Mrs. Harris’s presence. Therefore Freddie took himself off and it seemed he would be left to his own devices. If the past was any indication of what might soon happen, it could spell trouble for him.

  After descending the staircase Freddie walked past the front door and glanced down the length of a long corridor before stepping into what he considered a large parlor. Disguised as a piece of furniture, near a corner and against the wall stood a square pianoforte.

  What good luck! It had been ages since he’d played. Before Freddie knew it he was standing by its side. Upon further inspection he noticed it was a simple mahogany instrument sitting upon a French frame. He guessed it of an older make because it lacked pedals.

  This was not his house and he really should not proceed with . . . yet . . . glancing around he saw no one and knew most of the household were occupied elsewhere. He was the only person with idle hands. Idle hands that could be occupied without incurring debts or drinking himself into oblivion or making promises to a tempting armful of sweet-smelling female for a bit of companionship.

  Yes, he would proceed. After relocating the candlesticks and vase that sat on its surface, he lifted the lid to reveal the keyboard and floral garlands decorating the satinwood-inlaid nameplate.

  He pulled the chair back, sat at the keyboard and played one note. Middle C. The sound did not set well with Freddie’s ear and his eyes closed in sharp discomfort. He played the G beneath it and cringed again. Playing both together caused a rather sour reaction. The instrument was out of tune.

  He pulled a fob from his, rather Trevor’s, waistcoat. There hung a simple, unadorned metal cylinder with a loop at the top. It had been a while since he’d used the tool but it did not take a great deal of skill and it would give him a great deal of pleasure to be of some use while he resided at Thistles. He collected the fob and dre
w his metal-cased pencil from his jacket breast pocket. Inserting the pencil into the hole at the fob end of the cylinder, Freddie turned it until he felt it click. Now he had a useful hand wrench.

  He would have liked to ask permission to proceed with what he was about to do but with no one around . . . Freddie decided to go ahead anyway since there was clearly a need. Setting the tool aside, he removed his borrowed jacket and carefully folded it before laying it across the back of a chair.

  Returning to the instrument, he lifted the lid, set it on the stick, and peered inside. He was anxious to get to work. Freddie seated the hand wrench on the peg and pressed the middle C and closed his eyes, allowing the sour note to resonate in his brain. Then he tightened the peg before sounding the note again, repeating the process until it was in tune. He moved on to the G. Once he finished the two notes, he played both together, then made small adjustments until he was satisfied.

  Note by note, the C, G, D, E, and A, octave by octave, until he had completed all four and a half. It had taken several hours. Unbelievably, not one person had interrupted him. Freddie sat at the keyboard and tested his work by several runs of scales. His fingers were not moving as nimbly as he recalled. Then he moved on to playing arpeggios.

  Not bad, not bad. He discovered the majority of worn dampers and a few hammers were in need of repair. Freddie was limited to what he could do. With his current efforts the instrument would be playable without much offending the audience. Because of neglect the pianoforte would need to be retuned fairly soon.

  Feeling quite satisfied with his last few hours’ labor, Freddie disassembled his tools, replacing them from whence they came, slipped into his borrowed jacket, and took his place behind the keyboard, expecting a great improvement. He began to play a Scarlatti sonata. It was a favorite tune of his and it sounded quite splendid. Yes, this was much, much better.

  He switched to another piece, one with easier fingering. After some minutes he completed that and Freddie played a Beethoven tune. Oh my, he was enjoying himself. Great fun, this.