The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance)

by Jenn LeBlanc

  Francine nodded and smiled.

  As Mrs. Weston turned around, Francine’s hands fluttered to her face, fanning herself to try to cool her heated skin. Where had that dream come from? She colored deeper at the thought of it, of him, and started kicking at the sheets that bound her ankles. She felt a tightness in her belly.

  The dream she woke from had been so real she couldn’t bear to try to stand, so she lay back against the pillows and waited for the feelings to subside. Instead of waning they only grew in intensity, her heart racing and her breathing quickening as her mind wandered.

  Mrs. Weston brought the cool water and Francine drank deeply, then splashed some on her face and sighed as the heat caused it to evaporate. She set the glass down on the stand next to the bed and willed her body to calm.

  Mrs. Weston looked at her with concerned eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?”

  Francine nodded.

  “I’ll ready a nice calming bath, how does that sound?”

  Francine nodded again. She had a feeling that Mrs. Weston could have recommended she walk on burning cinders and she would have nodded still. But a bath did sound nice, and she hoped it would help calm the nerves that seemed to be beyond frayed. She lay there pondering her interrupted dream as Mrs. Weston fussed about.

  Sanders met Gideon at the base of the stairs. “We have prepared for your swift departure, Your Grace,” he said.

  “Have you now? And what, pray tell, compelled you to make such arrangements?”

  “Lord Trumbull instructed as such,” Sanders replied.

  Gideon stood on the bottom step of the staircase, giving him the ominous position of looking down on Sanders with a cold eye. “So in truth, nothing has been prepared.”

  “Quite, Your Grace, in truth,” the butler answered.

  “Good man.” Gideon went to greet his brother.

  “I hear I’m departing swiftly,” Gideon said when he entered the breakfast room.

  “I hear I’m to be drawn and quartered,” Perry countered.

  “Touché.”

  “Yes, quite. However, you are going to depart rather quickly. I’ve no doubt we can tie up any business you may have, with haste, so you can relax through the weekend, attend a soirée, and be off at first light Tuesday.” Perry smiled. “We must get you back to this girl,” he said, leaning forward.

  “Francine,” Gideon said with a swift glance. “What soirée?” he then added gruffly.

  “Oh, you caught that, did you? Yes— Well, it’s more of a minor presage to the Season at the estate of the Earl of Digby.”

  “Digby. They have a town house here on the square, do they not?”

  “Yes. But the ball will be held at the Grand Prout Estate, just east of London,” Perry said.

  “Oh, I see. And now it’s a ball. What happened to soirée?” Gideon grumbled.

  “Well, you know the English. They only like to mimic the French for so long, and soirées have become quite blasé.” Perry grinned.

  “In a matter of moments, in fact,” Gideon replied flatly.

  “As well, our cousins will be in attendance, saving us the rounds. Bad enough I wasn’t notified. If they were to learn of your objectionable handling of this visit, there would be no end to the discourse.”

  “Cousins.” Gideon grunted. “How many of them?”

  “Insofar as I can see, all of them.”

  Gideon sighed heavily. “I suppose this is to become a production, ably managed by your hand.”

  Perry cocked an eyebrow and nodded with a grin. “At any rate, we should break our fast and be on our way. I sent ahead to the solicitor, and you are expected precisely at eight.”

  “You are handling me, Perry. I don’t like to be handled.” Gideon’s voice was low and steady.

  “Am I? I hadn’t realized.” His brother gave an innocent lift of his shoulders. “I had only hoped to be accommodating and get you back where you belong, out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Gideon smiled and sat at the head of the table, motioning to the footmen to serve breakfast. This side of his younger brother was intriguing and somewhat amusing, as always. He might have to see what kind of trouble Perry led him to.

  Meggie woke early to see Lilly. She’d arrived late the night before, but didn’t want to disturb what rest she thought her sister might be getting. She’d been exhausted from the trip and went straight to bed, deciding she would visit her at first light. She dressed quickly and went to Lilly’s room where nothing—not the letter, which she had tried to read countless times on the way home, nor any spoken words, nor anything else--could have prepared her for what she saw.

  The thin light filtered through the drapes by the bed, illuminating Dr. Walcott as he hunched over Lilly’s feet, lifting and checking and rubbing and rewrapping the long strips of linen. He looked as haggard as Meggie felt.

  Her sister was as still as the grave while he ministered. He straightened, then slowly pulled a sheet up to her chin, being very careful not to drag it across her skin but to let it gently waft down over her, soft as a feather.

  He turned toward Meggie and she knew she must be a sight, standing in the doorway, pale as a ghost, streams of tears pouring down her cheeks, her hands tied in white and red knots of tension.

  He sighed and walked to her, pulling her into the hallway and closing the door quietly. “Meggie, I am so sorry you have to see this.”

  “How is she? Will she be all right?”

  “I don’t know anything more than I wrote in the letter. There isn’t much else we can do for her. I rewrap her bandages every day, making sure her blood is not poisoned and her skin is not becoming taut to where it would crack when she moves.”

  “It’s no matter,” she said, straightening her spine and looking him square in the eyes. “I’ll see to it. Just tell me what need be done. Send the other women home. She is my sister and I will tend her.”

  “Of course,” he replied. He gave her explicit instructions as to how to administer both the laudanum and a beef broth to prevent Lilly from wasting away, as well as how to lean her body up and move her about so she wouldn’t get pressure sores. It took almost an hour to go over all the instructions.

  Meggie nodded, and as she started to walk into the room to attend to Lilly he asked about Francine. “She is well, sir. She is up and about—the dressmaker came yesterday, or was it the day before? I’m not sure, but she left her with a few samples, so Miss Francine can get about. Mrs. Weston stays with her at all times, and she still doesn’t speak. Mrs. Weston has followed your directions carefully.”

  Dr. Walcott frowned. “Is she acting— Is she behaving normally? I mean, she isn’t doing anything dangerous, or terribly unsound?”

  Meggie thought for a moment about the night Francine ran off to the garden, and then about her care and attention when Meggie received the letter about Lilly. “She’s not perfect, sir, but she doesn’t seem injured beyond her voice being done.”

  “I should go check on her, but I fear I can’t leave Lilly right now,” Dr. Walcott said.

  Meggie nodded. “His Grace was called to London. Mrs. Weston bid me let you know so you would understand why he hasn’t come here. He doesn’t yet know the injured girl was Lilly, and he’s not aware of the extent.” She waved her hand toward the bedroom where her sister was.

  “I will be sure to send an account to him, and to Mrs. Weston, so she will not worry unnecessarily. I will take my leave. Remember, if anything changes, you are to wake me. No exceptions,” he said. “Thank you, Meggie.”

  “Yes, sir, Dr. Walcott. I will.”

  “His Grace, Gideon Trumbull, Duke of Roxleigh,” the assistant announced as he opened the door to the solicitor’s office. Perry entered behind Gideon and smiled at the assistant, who then said, with slightly less effect, “And Lord Peregrine Trumbull, Viscount Roxleigh.”

  Perry rubbed his chin with his thumb and followed his brother over to the stately desk as the man behind it stood in deference to them. We
ll, to the duke, anyway, he thought wryly.

  “Please, sit,” said the small bespectacled man, motioning to the chairs on the opposite side. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “A terrible bit of honor floating around these days,” Perry said under his breath as the brothers exchanged humored glances.

  “Let’s get on with this,” Gideon replied sternly.

  “Yes, let us.”

  “I will be signing over the title and management papers for Westcreek Park to the viscountcy,” Gideon said without preamble. “I understand you have the documents.”

  Perry stared. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  Gideon turned to the solicitor. “A moment, if you please?”

  “Of course,” he replied, standing to leave his office.

  “What the devil are you up to, Gideon? I do not fancy a jest,” Perry said once the door closed.

  “This is no jest. It’s time you overtook management of the estate—”

  “I do not need an estate to hold a courtesy title,” Perry interrupted sorely.

  “I am aware of that, but you are not my employee and should not be treated as such. I discussed it with Father before he passed. He filed the original documents requesting the severance of Westcreek from the entailed properties, with transference to the esteemed viscountcy.” He paused. “Just as he petitioned that the title pass to you, instead of me.”

  Perry stared at his older brother, his jaw clenched and his teeth bared. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  “I wasn’t sure the severance of Westcreek from the titled properties would be accepted by the House of Lords. I was only notified a few months ago of the sanction, and this has been my first opportunity to see it through. As you did not know about it, I decided it wasn’t a pressing issue, but the time has come now. Westcreek is yours.”

  “And if I refuse?” Perry drawled.

  “You will not,” Gideon answered definitively, then knocked on the door to alert the solicitor.

  Perry seethed at his brother’s heavy-handedness as the solicitor completed the documents.

  As they walked out to the street, Perry turned to Gideon and held out his hand. Gideon ignored it, pulling his brother into a rough embrace and clapping him on the back.

  “You earned that title, as you earned your place in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. Now, not another word,” Gideon said as he pushed him into the carriage.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Perry answered with a crooked grin.

  They continued their rounds, finalizing accounts no longer needed and bringing others current, leaving Gideon with no task to occupy his brain but to think of Francine.

  Meggie carefully rolled her sister from one side to the other, singing to her, smoothing what was left of her hair, making sure her bandages did not dry. She talked about her work at Eildon Hill, about His Grace and how he was planning to change the manor and the gardens. She spoke of the extended gathering that he had planned for the end of summer and how they would need extra help. She explained to her sister how she thought maybe Mrs. Weston would hire Lilly then, because she would surely be able.

  Meggie fussed over her as she told her about Francine. She told her about how she’d lost her the other night and feared for her job, and how the master’s horses, which also killed a hound in the chaos, had injured Francine and how she was still unable to talk. At this Lilly seemed to struggle through her unconsciousness. Her hand shot out and grasped at Meggie, who screamed.

  Dr. Walcott stormed through the door. “Meggie?”

  “Oh, Dr. Walcott, quick, she is waking!”

  Dr. Walcott walked to her side, looking at Lilly.

  “Calm down, Lilly, everything will be fine,” he said. “Meggie, the laudanum.”

  Lilly shook her head. “No,” she whispered. She clenched her eyes, and a tear squeezed out onto her cheek.

  Meggie blotted it away quickly before the salt of the tear caused pain in her sister’s wounds.

  Lilly looked up into Meggie’s eyes. “The man, he was—” She cringed. “He was horrible,” she cried, her voice breaking.

  “Please, Lilly, not now. Rest a bit, please,” Meggie begged, sitting carefully at the edge of the bed.

  Lilly shook her head, wincing again. “No. Listen, please. He said things. He was angry with his betrothed. She ran from him, through the wood. He said—” She gasped, clutching at Meggie’s hand.

  “Please, Lilly, stop,” she pleaded, her eyes welling up with tears as she watched her sister struggling.

  Lilly shook her head again as she looked into Meggie’s eyes. “He said even his hounds could not retrieve her,” she whispered.

  Meggie’s hand flew to her mouth. “No!” she cried.

  Lilly wept silently.

  “No, it cannot be the same man,” Meggie said.

  The doctor looked from Lilly to Meggie.

  “I’ll send a messenger to His Grace immediately,” Dr. Walcott said.

  Meggie could only nod as he strode from the room. Lilly turned her head into the pillow, falling into a restless sleep.

  Francine walked in the gardens. She knew that Roxleigh had told her specifically not to return alone, but she chose to ignore his admonishment because she needed to feel close to him. She was drawn to where they’d spoken. She walked slowly through the rose arbor, gently stroking the white buds, remembering how they had glowed that night in the moonlight.

  She smiled. There was no way to retrace her footsteps; she’d been running headlong in the darkness and today she was strolling lucidly, the garden bright and warm with a gentle breeze. She inspected the hedgerows: their perfect vertical faces of lush green foliage, growing up from thick twisting roots.

  Delicate flowers were also woven throughout the hedge—on one wall pink, the next yellow or blue, then back to pink. She followed the walls of pink petals to what she thought was a dead end. Then, turning around, she followed another hedge to the end of the row. She rounded the corner and found herself in the center of the maze, staring into the cool, blue pool at the base of the fountain.

  She sat at the edge and pushed her slippers off. Surely now, alone in the middle of the maze, she could dare to put her feet in the water. She smiled and swung her legs over the side, lifting her skirts to keep them from getting wet.

  She kicked her feet out, remembering the summers she’d spent with her mom at Congress pool. It’s where she’d learned to swim and, when older, she’d joined the swim team. The smell of remembered chlorine and cut grass filled her senses, bringing her back to her former, future life.

  When her parents were killed in the accident, she’d lost everything. She was unceremoniously dumped in one foster home, then another, and yet another. It was the last home where she’d met Ava, the girl who taught her to sign.

  Ava had always striven for acceptance from her peers in any way she could because of her disability. She hadn’t grown up with a decent role model. The two girls looked to each other as adolescents forging their way through middle and high school, trying to either join the popular crowd or stay off their radar, but always, always watching.

  It seemed to them that the only way into the elite circle was to have a popular boyfriend, and the way to get a boyfriend was to sleep with someone. Although Ava became quite successful in her quest, Francine never did. She rode on Ava’s deflowered skirt-tails, pretending she knew about sex and was willing to participate, but still a virgin and terrified they would find out. She’d wished there was a way to just get rid of her virginity; for her it was like the scarlet letter. Virgin, she signed, though no one was in the maze.

  The way she felt back in high school had persisted long after. She was never one of the cool kids, never belonged. She thought of Roxleigh—he was definitely in the clique, but not because he wanted to be. He was quiet and brooding, the one everyone was afraid to cut out of the group.

  Francine shook off the memories and stood in the fountain, walking around the base as she held her skirts
. Her skin pricked as she thought about the circumstances. Her mind wanted to panic, but her body felt content. She’d never felt at peace in her own skin before. She was always unnerved—prepared to be moved.

  The nature of foster care was so unsettling that she’d become accustomed to the feeling of being unsettled. No matter that she’d been thrown into a different culture and time, she was starting to feel more comfortable here than she had anywhere since losing her parents. Between the man she barely knew who somehow provided an overwhelming sense of security, and the servant woman who was more of a mother than any of her too-busy foster mothers had been, Francine felt safe. Finally, safe.

  Francine jumped, nearly toppling into the fountain at the sound of a human roar that traveled over the tops of the hedgerows. She closed her eyes. Please don’t be Gideon, please don’t be Gideon. Stepping out of the fountain, she slid her damp feet back into her slippers as her heart raced. Turning in the direction of the voice, she breathed slowly to calm the heart that rattled painfully against the inside of her ribs. She listened and heard more admonishing curses. She walked to one of the entrances leading back into the maze, creeping cautiously toward the sound.

  “Blast it all!” Amberly Shaw yelled as he walked into yet another dead end. He was generally quite astute when it came to navigating new places, even other mazes he’d found himself in, but this one was different. It wasn’t patterned from an easily recognizable geometric shape; in fact, the hedgerows held no real pattern within the perimeter whatsoever.

  “Insanity!” he cursed, turning about once again to retrace his steps. He leaned back, turning his face toward the waning sun. The hedgerows loomed high above, leaving no chance for him to climb his way out. He couldn’t even logically fathom how the groundskeeper managed them so beautifully.

  He had to find a way through or be stuck here until Roxleigh returned; and if he was found here, the duke would surely lose all confidence in him, having been bested by fancy shrubbery. He let out a deep-throated yell as he stumbled into yet another dead end. He went to lean against the hedge wall but was pricked, sending him back upright.