A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6)

by Shirley Marks

  Thomas’s brother Frank had driven the transport from Faraday Hall to Penshaw. He had been instructed to find his way to Penshaw Manor where he could store the equipage and shelter the horses, preferably in a large rear parlor or some room other than the library, which normally housed the visiting guests.

  Under more favorable circumstances, Freddie would have sent Frank to the nearby town of Huddlesford where he and the equipage could remain until needed. Unfortunately, that would incur an additional debt, one, along with his many others, that he could not pay.

  As matters stood, the Duke of Faraday had provided ample funds for the two Sturgis brothers to make the journey north in the search for the Earl of Brent. Freddie, in turn, did not confiscate their funds, but instructed Frank to procure feed for the horses, and other stock residing at Penshaw, and some food supplies to offer Mrs. Morley for their upkeep and enough to supplement the family.

  Freddie wrote a letter of introduction for Frank to present to the Morleys and paused at the end, undecided if he should sign the missive as Mr. Freddie Worth or Earl of Brent.

  Thomas observed this hesitation and cleared his throat.

  “Do you have any thoughts on this matter you would like to share?” Freddie glanced up from the letter and the quill that hovered over the pot of ink while he pondered his signature.

  “I wondered if you intended that His Lordship should make his entrance tonight.”

  Freddie gazed absently about him as he considered the question. Open trunks and empty portmanteaus occupied one side of the room. The shirts, waistcoats, jackets, and the pile of starched cravats covered every flat surface. Freddie’s shoes easily lined the wall from the hearth to the window. It only took him a moment to realize that once Thomas dressed him, Mr. Freddie Worth would be instantly transformed into Frederick, Earl of Brent.

  It hadn’t taken Freddie any time to realize what he should do. He stared down at the missive and took the unavoidable step, thus signing Earl of Brent.

  Freddie left Thomas in his bedchamber with orders to bar the door and he was to under no circumstances open it to anyone but him. Freddie left for less than ten minutes, silently hailing the transport that had been waiting some distance off as not to been seen. He handed the missive to Frank himself along with the directions to Penshaw, with instruction to deliver the letter to one of the current residents, Mr. or Mrs. Morley.

  Upon entering the house, Freddie caught sight of Trevor, who kept company with Miss Clare, and indicated, with a jumble of confusing hand gestures, that he should make his excuses, the headache, a backache, some sort of spasm, if need be, and meet him in his bedchamber.

  Thomas unbolted the door for Freddie, who peeled off his outer garment and waited for Trevor. Trevor arrived another ten minutes later.

  “He’s here, is he?” Trevor remarked when setting eyes on Thomas.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Rutherford.” The valet paused in his duties to greet Trevor.

  “Wouldn’t happen to have any of ma-clothes in there, would you?” Trevor took in the expanse of Freddie’s clothing sprawled around the room.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, His Grace thought it a strong possibility you may be accompanying His Lordship and requested several sets of clothing sent from Rutherford House.”

  “You don’t say?” Trevor was agog. “Well, that’s all right, then!”

  “Unfortunately, your luggage remains, as well as several others of Lord Brent’s, on the traveling coach.”

  “Of all the rum luck!” Trevor cursed.

  “I’ve sent Frank to Penshaw to stable the coach and horses. We’ll retrieve it soon enough, Trev, don’t worry. I’ve thought of another idea and I believe you would wish to participate.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of this.” Trevor, who had been disappointed regarding his wardrobe, sank into one of the chairs.

  “Thomas?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is Frank robust enough to make the trip to Faraday Hall and back on horseback?” Freddie’s tone was that of a challenge and not of an inquiry.

  “I believe so, sir,” Thomas replied. “He had a good night’s sleep last night and a hearty breakfast this morning. And you know what a very sound fellow he is.”

  “Ride to Faraday Hall and back? What the blazes for?” Trevor all but threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

  Frank was the fastest rider in their county. No one could beat him. Not any rider, not on any horse, not on any road, no matter the conditions. He was the perfect messenger to send for the most expeditious response.

  “To tell His Grace that I have been found, and to reply to his letter, and tell him of—” Freddie stopped and glanced at Thomas to see if he was listening. If he had been, he showed no signs of it, but that was his place, wasn’t it? The simple fact of the matter was Freddie did not wish the valet to know. He whispered, “The sisters.”

  “What letter?” Trevor wanted to know. “And what about”—he whispered—“The sisters?”

  “Good Gad, Trev, come to the desk with me and let Thomas finish unpacking.” Freddie pulled up a straight-backed chair from the wall and set it next to him.

  It was Freddie’s idea that both he and Trevor would write letters to their fathers notifying them of their present circumstances and relaying their concerns. Frank Sturgis would take them to Faraday Hall for delivery. No doubt His Grace would see his friend Viscount Rutherford received his. And hopefully, not too much time would have passed until both Freddie and Trevor had their answers.

  Freddie and Trevor penned their letters to their fathers and as Freddie readied himself to hand carry them to Penshaw, he met Drew just outside of Thistles, bringing a note from his mum to Freddie. Drew looked at Freddie odd-like when his message was to be delivered to the guest and not to Mrs. Morley but agreed to do it, and keep quiet about it.

  Trevor had gone by the time Freddie returned to his bedchamber. Freddie opened the note from Mrs. Morley which told of her new guest who had been invited to stay at Penshaw by the Earl of Brent. Needless to say she was none too pleased about it. But she found Mr. Frank Sturgis kind and thoughtful. He had brought a surplus of provisions for himself and his animals that he would gladly share.

  He wished Frank a silent Godspeed then readied himself to be dressed for dinner.

  A good hour later, Sturgis had finished dressing him and he gazed into the cheval glass, examining his full-length image. It had been a long time since Freddie had seen this fellow.

  There was not one wrinkle along the front, sides, or back of his embroidered waistcoat or trousers. His starched cravat had been skillfully crafted by the valet into a not overly high Mathematical.

  Outwardly Freddie felt more like his old self but inside none of the old Freddie remained. His outlook and determination had drastically altered. Now, dressed in his proper clothing, he felt confident he could make the changes he knew he must.

  “How long do you think you can stay in my bedchamber undetected, Thomas?”

  “As long as you need, sir. However, I hope it is not too much longer.”

  “Understood. I think we’ll have you in your own room, and enjoying free run of the house, by this evening.” It really was too much of Freddie to ask from him.

  “I look forward to it. Here is your jacket, my lord.” Sturgis held the dark blue Superfine jacket, helping Freddie into it and resting the perfectly tailored garment across the shoulders.

  Freddie took a last look into the glass, now ready to face the music, and he knew exactly what that tune would be.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rosalind had taken her time to dress for dinner. She needed to remove the puffiness around her eyes and eliminate all traces of tears. Donning a somber lilac frock, it was all she could do not to dress in bombazine, for she felt as if she were experiencing full mourning.

  There would be no hiding her blackened mood from anyone. She could not pretend joy, could not even give the impression she was simply out of sorts. The truth
would be told this night. Everyone sitting around the dinner table would learn of his father’s letter, the Earl of Brent’s impending arrival, and her father’s deceit. They all needed to know the facts and make some decisions.

  Would Mr. Harris be prosecuted for embezzlement? Would Clare and Trevor run to the border and elope? Would the rest of the family end up in the poorhouse?

  What would the scandal do to them? How would it affect their standing here, in the village, and with their neighbors? Would the Harris family still be welcome in their homes or would the tenants feel betrayed and turn the whole lot of them away?

  Rosalind expected her father, coward that he was, not to show his face at the dinner table. Descending the staircase, she saw not another soul. She heard music from the pianoforte drifting down the corridor from the parlor and the thought of Freddie playing made her smile. Her pace quickened a bit until she recognized the piece. It was the nameless tune her mother had taught her. The song had a sad lilt to it, or was that only because it reflected her mood?

  Rosalind entered the parlor and when Freddie had come to the end and stopped she replied, “That is quite amazing, you’ve played it only after hearing it the one time.”

  Freddie stood and faced her.

  Rosalind’s breath caught. His clothes were different. No, it was his bearing that had also changed . . . It was more than merely what he wore.

  She eyed him from toe to head noting the exquisite cut of his jacket to the precise fit of his trousers. This was no ordinary musician standing before her, and she had the most absurd notion that she should curtsy to him. Rosalind’s knees weakened, threatening to buckle.

  “Be calm, my sweet,” he said gently.

  “I cannot . . . Does this mean . . . Are you . . .” In her state of confusion Rosalind stumbled as she stepped backward and caught hold of a chair. He moved forward to aid her and she held up her hand, asking him to remain where he stood. “You tried to tell me, didn’t you? Before . . . you tried to . . .” She did not want to believe what she’d seen with her very own eyes. “So it’s true . . . the Earl of Brent has arrived.”

  It was a shock. In that moment that Rosalind saw him standing there in all his finery, the pieces had come together: the Duke of Faraday’s letter, knowledge of the Earl of Brent’s impending visit, and Freddie’s odd declaration to her. It had been his attempt to tell her his real identity.

  “It’s you. It really is you. You are His Lordship.” Rosalind hated the Earl of Brent but she could not hate Freddie.

  “This changes nothing between us, I swear,” he vowed.

  But it had. It changed everything.

  “The previous Earl of Brent was not a bad man, merely a spendthrift who wagered his funds without a thought as to the consequences. I cannot tell you how much I regret my actions and will, the best I am able, make amends.” He watched her for a reaction.

  Rosalind had no more tears to cry. They’d long gone hours ago. At one time she condemned the earl for all their problems but now she understood her father had been stealing from Freddie. And when he found out, it would be his turn to resent her and her family.

  “You could not hate me, could you?”

  “No, Your Lordship, I do not hate you.” She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle the slip of emotion that threatened to voice itself.

  “I beg you do not call me that.” He took a step forward and continued in a gentle, calm manner.

  Rosalind lowered her hand, allowing her arm to rest by her side when she felt she had regained control.

  “I know I have made such a mull of things. It is so very clear to me now what I should do and none of it can be accomplished until I can get my finances under control.” He shrugged. “They were the digressions of my youth. I am so deeply in debt, you understand. I gambled my funds and my future funds—”

  “Men and your gambling!” Rosalind let loose a tirade. “Do you think you are the only person who has ruined lives through gambling? I am sick of hearing men who think nothing but of themselves! Their families are not even an afterthought.”

  The back door opened and in walked Mr. Harris. Elements of the cold outdoors slipped in with him. He pushed the door closed and eyed the two people in the room.

  “I beg your pardon.” He glanced from Rosalind to Freddie and must have sensed the tension. “I will just leave the two of you—”

  “No, Father. You should stay.”

  Mr. Harris appeared uncomfortable but removed his hat and gloves in preparation to remain.

  “Shall you tell him?” Freddie hesitated.

  Unbuttoning his coat, Mr. Harris said nothing, merely stood near the back door removing his outer garment.

  “I will understand if I am ejected from the house. I have admittedly deceived and lied to you and your family. How would it be possible for you to tolerate me in your midst?”

  Mr. Harris’s eyebrows furrowed. He was still in the dark as to what was happening before him.

  “Do you not see around you, sir?” Rosalind stretched out her arms to indicate the large, comfortable parlor. “Do you not know where you are?”

  By His Lordship’s blank expression, he did not.

  “This house in which our family resides is not ours. It is part of your estate, sir.”

  At those words Mr. Harris’s eyes widened to take in Freddie’s . . . the Earl of Brent’s presence.

  “It is the finest house, save the manor house, on the estate. Can you not guess who would have the position in your employ to afford them this residence?” She watched Freddie glance around and take in the details of the room as she spoke.

  Freddie’s expression altered to . . . not quite fear, but more along the lines of dread.

  “The steward’s lodgings,” he whispered. The highest-ranking staff member whom the estate would employ. The steward who cared for the tenants and collected the rents, and maintained their lodgings . . . kept the estate running well. Except on this property where they were not.

  Mr. Harris, who had been rendered unable to stand, had now lowered himself into a chair.

  “Allow me to make the introductions. Mr. Harris.” Rosalind’s anger with her father grew, for what he had done to his family and what he had done to Freddie had ruined all of their lives. “Mr. Freddie, Father, is Frederick, the Earl of Brent.”

  “No!” Mr. Harris wailed. He covered his alarmed expression with both hands.

  “My father, sir, is your steward. You can expect that no one will throw you off your own property.”

  Mr. Harris sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Rosalind . . .” Freddie tried to calm her but she was determined to continue.

  “Will you tell His Lordship what you have done, sir, or shall I?” Rosalind bent toward the chair containing her parent and inquired. At the inability to raise his head she went on, “Your steward, my lord, has been most diligent in his duty to collecting the rents. Unfortunately, he has not carried out his obligation to your tenants and their homes, which, as you have seen for yourself, have gone into disrepair. Not as bad, I fear, as Penshaw Manor.”

  “I understand the butler and housekeeper”—Freddie cleared his throat—“have long gone after the property was sold years ago.”

  “They had not been paid for over a year before that,” she replied. “And they were not willing to wait any longer for your arrival.”

  The room became eerily quiet.

  “We have never had a surplus of money.” Rosalind did not comment to defend her father, only to state the truth. “I have always known my father gambled. I did not know to what extent his sickness lay. To steal your money, to deprive our friends and neighbors of a decent roof over their heads . . . it is inexcusable.”

  “I am a cheat and a scoundrel on the highest level.” Mr. Harris no longer displayed tears but his face was now an emotionless mask. “There is no atonement for me, I fear.”

  “In the last few years we were all convinced my father was industrious, carrying out his duty. The family
had no idea he had gambled all your income and the estate rents away.”

  Finally the Earl of Brent turned to glare at Mr. Harris in disbelief.

  All of it? Everything was gone? As astonished as he was, Freddie could not hate the man or bring himself to cast him as any type of villain.

  “I will completely understand if you take my entire family in dislike,” Rosalind uttered bravely and moved her gaze to meet his.

  “I believe our situation to be grave.” It felt as if they were at some balancing point and Freddie had no wish to misspeak and upset their equilibrium. “If assigning blame and guilt were to solve the problems before us we should, by all means, continue on that path. That is not my desire. I have well accepted the consequences of my old bad habits and misdeeds and only wish to make amends and reform.”

  He gazed at his muse and wished she would forgive her father for his wrongdoing. The very same vice had ensnared Freddie. He could not blame Mr. Harris for his fall. Rosalind’s ire would not solve their problems, only cloud her judgment and make her miserable.

  “We all desire a satisfying resolution, a successful running estate, happy tenants, and a happy family life. I wish you both to take some time and think on this. I intend to make Penshaw Manor my residence. I, as funds allow, plan to make improvements throughout the estate beginning with the tenants’ cottages. The repairs needed for the manor house will take a great deal more money and I am not willing to see the people living on this estate . . .” Freddie stopped when his voice filled with emotion. There was no need to explain, really. Rosalind fully understood the living conditions.

  “My lord . . . Freddie . . .” Rosalind intervened. “Clare, Mr. Trevor, and Mrs. Harris will soon be joining us. Might it be best if we not mention any of this to them?”

  “You are quite right. We’ve had a bit of a dustup here,” Freddie replied. “Perhaps we should give ourselves some time to ponder the matter and we’ll not tell the others the whole of it now.” He drew in a breath and turned toward the doorway. “I see no need to spoil their meal.”