A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6)

by Shirley Marks

  A few minutes later, Trevor escorted Miss Clare and Mrs. Harris into the parlor. The ladies eyed Freddie with great interest and it was Miss Clare who said, “You look very, very fine this evening, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is that a new jacket?” Mrs. Harris added.

  “As to that . . .” Freddie said then hesitated and reminded himself that he did not wish to ruin their meal. “Is a tale I will tell after we have dined.”

  Miss Clare and Mrs. Harris tittered, delighting in the amusing story to come.

  “Shall we go in to dinner?” Freddie stepped aside for the couple to pass.

  “I am not feeling well enough to join you this evening, I’m afraid.” Mr. Harris made to rise from the chair and experienced some difficulty. “Would you, my dear Mrs. Harris, have a tray sent up to my room?”

  “Of course I shall.” Mrs. Harris rang the servant bell.

  “Father?” Rosalind, who had only minutes before showed no consideration for her parent, now showed some goodwill.

  “I’m fine, my dear. Fine.” He managed to stand but appeared still somewhat shaken. “I just need to take care. No excitement, you understand?”

  Freddie understood the excitement of the females would prove to be more than his constitution could take. He didn’t want to know about the questions Mrs. Harris would have for Mr. Harris that evening.

  Gordon soon arrived.

  “Will you see Mr. Harris to his bedchamber?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Harris.”

  “And if you would be so good as to have Cook send a tray up, I would be most grateful.” She punctuated her request with a kind smile.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gordon helped Mr. Harris out of the chair and they slowly exited the room.

  “Shall we go in?” Freddie offered his arm. “Mrs. Harris?”

  “Why thank you, sir. I daresay you put us all in the shade.” She graced him with a smile he had never seen and murmured, “Ah, me . . . he is ever so handsome.”

  “Miss Rosalind?” She accepted his escort in silence and averted her eyes. Freddie allowed her reaction to pass.

  Dinner was quiet but pleasant. Rosalind felt numb. She was not certain what to think and vacillated from anger at her father, to guilt that she should have known what he had done, to anger at Freddie for being the Earl of Brent, to guilt that her father had stolen the earl’s money.

  Rosalind could not be easy this night and expected it might be a few days, perhaps weeks, before all the emotions settled inside her and she could put a name to how she truly felt. She was fairly certain her affection for Freddie remained.

  She understood his reasoning for not bringing up their discussion with Mr. Harris previous to Mrs. Harris, Trevor, and Clare’s entrance. But all through the dinner the three were pointedly eyeing him. Both Clare and Mrs. Harris knew something was different about Mr. Freddie and it was more than the dark blue jacket he wore. One could not consider this an easy meal.

  Trevor and Freddie, as usual, did not stay and take port but removed to the parlor with the ladies after they had finished.

  No one expected Mr. Freddie to sit at the pianoforte this night. What they expected was a story. He stood in front of the instrument as if standing on a stage. Clare and Trevor sat on the striped sofa and Rosalind and Mrs. Harris each took a chair.

  “Now, Mr. Freddie, will you end our suspense and tell us about your new wardrobe?” Mrs. Harris asked ever so playfully.

  “It so happens, ma’am, my valet arrived this afternoon,” Freddie stated in great calm and waited for the next question. Clearly he did not wish to shock the ladies.

  “Your valet?” Clare repeated, her normally smooth brow furrowed in confusion. “Why would you have a valet?”

  “One employs a valet, my dear, when one is of Quality. When one holds a title . . .” Mrs. Harris stilled and her gaze moved from Clare to Freddie. “Sir?” her voice quavered. “Sir? Do you happen to hold a ti . . . a ti . . .”

  “Trevor?” Clare clutched on to Trevor’s arm with both hands. “Trevor, tell us.”

  “Go on, Trevor, tell them,” Freddie replied.

  “I thought I would not be the one to— Very well.” Trevor cleared his throat. “Ladies, Freddie, here, is the Earl of Brent.”

  Both ladies went a bit pale. Exhaling a single sigh, Clare went limp. Trevor was there to support her and laid her back on the sofa.

  “The Earl of . . . The Earl of . . .” Mrs. Harris murmured, then with a high-pitched cry, she swooned. Rosalind, who had stood next to said lady, took a step to her left, leaving no one nearby to stop the lady of the house from sliding to the floor.

  “That was not well done of you at all,” Freddie reprimanded Rosalind and drew her away from the threesome who stood, reclined, and lay before the hearth.

  “Why do you think I should catch her? The floor has a carpet, after all. It’s quite thick, you know. I’m certain she’s fine.” Rosalind eyed his hand on her arm that drew her away. “I am not the one abandoning them.”

  “I am simply giving them some air,” Freddie remarked.

  Clare, who had revived, helped Trevor settle Mrs. Harris on the sofa. He waved a small, folded paper in front of her while Clare searched the drawers for a vinaigrette bottle.

  “You knew, Trevor!” Clare chided. “You knew about Mr. Freddie being His Lordship.”

  “Of course I knew. He’s ma-best friend!”

  “And you didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was supposed to be a secret, you know. Around here Brent is persona non grata.”

  “The Earl of Brent is a horrible person!” Clare slammed the drawer when she came up empty-handed.

  “No, Freddie ain’t.” The hand waving the paper stilled and Mrs. Harris groaned softly and he started up again. “Is your mother ever going to wake?”

  Freddie turned his attention away from the threesome. “How are you doing, my dear? How are you feeling?”

  “I beg that you do not ask me.” Rosalind could hardly face him. “I have no idea if I should hate you, be angry with you, or embrace you. I completely understand if you regard me in the same manner.”

  “No, I do not. My feeling for you remains constant, my heart.” If anything, Freddie had grown to admire her more. It could not have been easy for Rosalind to accept her father’s guilt.

  Chapter Twenty

  True to his word, Freddie had made arrangements for Thomas Sturgis’s own accommodations, near his own. The valet moved out of Freddie’s bedchamber and kept very busy with His Lordship’s wardrobe, even making the trip Penshaw to retrieve additional bags and, to Trevor’s delight, his trunks.

  “How long is he allowed to remain?” Trevor had always enjoyed his stays at Worth House and Faraday Hall while Sturgis was in residence. He took complete advantage of the valet’s talents.

  “As far as I know he isn’t expected back.”

  “What will His Grace do without him?” Trevor’s shock and devastation, part of the drama he was predisposed to invoke, made an appearance.

  “I’m quite certain my father will have no problem finding a replacement.”

  “No. I suppose not.” Trevor sat at the writing desk where he and Freddie had written letters to their fathers the day before. “Why have you asked me to come?”

  “Trev.” Freddie clapped his longtime friend on the shoulder. “I believe I have need of your guidance.”

  “Mine?” Trevor took the paper and pencil Freddie handed him and placed them on the writing table before him, readying himself for . . .

  “You’ve always been good managing money. I need you to help me come up with a plan to get my head above my debts, make repairs to the tenants’ dwellings and to Penshaw Manor itself. In the end, the estate must turn a profit to support us all.”

  “I see.” Trevor tapped the end of the pencil on his jaw as he considered the problem.

  “I do realize it might take years.” Freddie watched his friend for a sign that he had re
ached a solution. A few minutes more perhaps.

  “Yes, it may.” His gaze darted from side to side.

  “The whole of my income and allowance from this day forward will be focused to rebuilding the estate.”

  “Exactly,” Trevor commented. Whether he had been talking to himself or to Freddie was uncertain. “I cannot see how there is any other way to do it.”

  So Freddie waited.

  In the center of the paper, in block letters, Trevor wrote PENSHAW MANOR and drew a box around it. On the upper left-hand corner he drew a circle and inside he wrote DEBTS.

  Trevor blinked and turned his attention to Freddie. “You will need to make a list of your debts. The money you owe to businesses, shops, vendors, any other services . . . and make a full accounting of your vowels.”

  “Dash it all, Trev, that’s going to take some thinking.” Had Freddie expected Trevor to solve the problems of “his debts” with one stroke of his pencil? He had hoped . . .

  “Then you’d best get on it. We can’t even formulate a plan until we know exactly how much you owe.”

  Freddie pulled some paper close and took up the quill. No one said getting his affairs in order would be easy. Actually, he never expected it to be easy but dash it all, this was like going back to the schoolroom.

  “If you don’t know the exact amount, you’ll find out when you contact them with your intent to pay. You can be sure they’ll know exactly what is owed down to the farthing.”

  “What do you mean contact them?” Freddie griped.

  “To maintain any good standing with the merchants and peers, not to mention to preserve your good name and reputation in Town, it would be best if you wrote each one personally.”

  He was to write to every person to whom he owed money?

  On the upper right-hand side of the paper, Trevor drew a box and wrote QA. He slid a half sheet of paper across the desk. “Would you be so good as to jot down your quarterly allowance?”

  “I do hope His Grace does not see fit to reduce or cut me off altogether. Then I’ll be in for it!” Freddie glanced up at Mr. Sum of All Answers before writing the four numbers. “There.”

  “That’s all right, then. We should be able to do something with that.” Even upside down Trevor could read the digits. “When you write you will notify them of your current predicament, we will contrive a more acceptable version, and see what leeway they will grant for repayment. There are those who want their blunt right away but then there are those who would be willing to wait a bit. That should give you a small amount to invest and build some future funds.”

  Future funds . . . is that how Trevor did it?

  Below the box containing QA, he drew another box, and inside he wrote INVESTMENTS.

  “The investments will be very small at first but it is best to get something started and you need to get into the habit of adding to it every now and again.” Trevor scribbled something on the paper before him. “We’ll know more when you have exact numbers.”

  Writing each person he owed money to . . .

  “As for any estate profits . . . well, I suppose we should not count on that for a bit, not until we’ve got everyone on their feet and able to feed themselves. We can go ahead and evaluate each cottage on the estate and make a list of repairs needed. It might be in your best interest to provide a farming common on the estate grounds.” To the left next to PENSHAW MANOR he wrote common farming. “That way the villagers can grow some food, perhaps enough to feed everyone at no additional costs.”

  Freddie was truly amazed. Trevor really did have some good ideas.

  “Penshaw Manor is another thing entirely.” Trevor scratched his head, causing his hair to stick up on the side. “You’ll need to hire a new steward. Someone who knows what’s what and can manage several tasks at a time: the tenants, the repairs, hiring a proper household staff . . .”

  Freddie stared at Trevor.

  “But I’ve already got a steward.”

  “Lucian Harris?” Trevor scoffed. “I cannot say I approve after what he’s done. I’m all in for giving a fellow a second chance and all but I do not think he’s up to the task.”

  “No, not Mr. Harris.” Freddie gazed at his friend. “You.”

  “Me? You can’t mean it, me? I don’t know the first thing about—”

  “You’re planning it all out right in front of me.” Freddie indicated the paper Trevor had marked up. “Who better than you to see this all through? And there is no one I trust more.”

  “A job?” Trevor hadn’t been exactly averse to the idea but he did need some time to get used to the notion.

  “You’re going to marry Clare, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.” Trevor answered without hesitation.

  “Did you plan on dragging her away from these parts? From her friends, from her family, from her sister?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. I can’t imagine she’d want to be far from Rosalind. I had thought since we’re good friends that they might remain close, in residence and proximity in general.”

  “It is my wish to make Rosalind lady of Penshaw. Her home will be here.”

  “Hmm . . .” Trevor hesitated. “I won’t have to sack the old man, will I?”

  “No, that’ll be my task.” Sacking one’s father-in-law could not be considered good form. If events unfolded as Freddie would like, Lucian Harris would someday call them both son. “And I must repay the Morleys for their loyalty.” He felt ashamed to admit it. “They stayed, as awful as their circumstance grew, they stayed in the house and took care of the stock, and us, when we came along.”

  “You can start out by building them a barn for the animals.” Trevor crossed his legs. “I daresay their living situation would drastically improve once the beasts get a place of their own.”

  “That goes without saying. The place needs a new roof. The floors and walls need to be repaired if not replaced. The chimneys . . . get them all in working order. How many of the rooms need to be completely redone?”

  “It’s an awful lot of work,” Trevor admitted, and he hadn’t bothered to write any of it down.

  “Mrs. Morley needs a proper kitchen. I’d like her to stay on as Cook.”

  “If she decides to remain and work for Lord Brent,” Trevor added. “She might feel put out after you sent Frank over as a houseguest. I expect she’s none too pleased with taking orders from Lord Brent. She’ll probably end up strangling you with your own scarf.”

  “I expect she might.” Freddie brought his hand up to his throat and swallowed hard. They had been joking but it could turn out to be quite true.

  “I can’t imagine how the place would run without her.” Freddie groaned and passed his hand over his face. “I should have never ignored the estate. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . I wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. My father tried to tell me— No matter, I plan to make amends. I have to for the tenants and to prove to my father his faith was not misplaced.”

  “I suppose there’s a lot to learn, ain’t there?” Trevor set the pencil on the paper with his diagram. “Seems to me one only has to have the desire to make such improvements . . . and take the proper steps. The rest should follow.”

  It sounded like a momentous task.

  Freddie glanced up at the mantel clock. “I’d best get down to the kitchen and start mixing that cake batter.” He set his list of those who held his vowels aside and stood. “Cook’s sent word up that she wants me to give her a hand.”

  “You, in the kitchen? Only reason you’d steal into the kitchen is to pinch a biscuit or two.” Trevor stood and helped Freddie on with his jacket when he turned ’round.

  “She says I am welcome to mix the Twelfth Night pudding, earl or no.” There was something pleasant knowing not everyone cared about the rank to which he was born and would treat him as one of their own.

  Clare’s crying had started last night after the announcement that the Earl of Brent had been in their midst all along. It was the comb
ination of that and the realization that Trevor, whom Clare adored, had kept the information from her that turned her into a watering pot.

  When Rosalind returned to Clare’s bedchamber the next morning she realized her sister’s tears had never ceased.

  “Will you ever stop crying, my dear?” Rosalind begged. “Faith, you cannot go on like this.” Clare had not risen and had not changed out of her night rail. She must have cried herself to sleep only to wake and continue where she had left off.

  “How can you bear it, Ros?” Clare rolled onto her back to face her sister. “Lies! We’ve been living in a world of lies!”

  “Well . . .” Rosalind could barely make sense of what had happened. How was it possible to put into words all that she thought and felt? There had been many secrets and she hoped they had all been uncovered. “Not everything is a lie.”

  “How can you say that?” She sat upright at this and threw off her covers. “You who have accepted Mr. Freddie, who is the biggest liar of all! He is a fraud!”

  It would be more understandable that a commoner might pass himself off as a peer, not the other way around. But it had not made Freddie . . . Lord Brent’s charade any easier to accept.

  “And . . . and our own father! He stole from our friends and from the earl who’s already a cad for pretending to be a nobody.” Clare wiped her running nose. “That’s even worse!”

  Rosalind had difficulty sorting out who bore the brunt of the blame before she decided it was not worth keeping track.

  “But what I find absolutely traitorous is Trevor knew about Freddie all along and he never said a word to me. How could he keep such a secret between us? I thought he loved me!” Clare dissolved into tears again.

  “But that hasn’t changed. He still loves you, doesn’t he?” Rosalind sat on the bed next to Clare and attempted to focus her onto things that mattered, that were truly important.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She sniffed.

  “And he still wishes to marry you. Do you not wish to marry him?” Rosalind peered into her sister’s reddened and slightly swollen face.