My Lord Wicked (Historical Regency Romance)

by Cheryl Bolen

  Julia had stayed on after Elizabeth died, and only on Stacks' firmest insistence did she leave.

  It was not until much later that Julia Smith finally married a much older man who made her a widow only two years after marrying her. It was said she was bitterly disappointed in the expectations of her husband's estate.

  Stacks leaned back in his chair, rolling the pen between his palms. He pictured Julia Smith as she had looked as a maiden some ten years earlier. She had dark hair and shrewd eyes that were nearly black. Though she was not fat, her fleshy chin and neck had given her the appearance of being overweight, which coupled with her hawk-like nose, dismally reduced her marital prospects. Stacks had often wondered why she chose to align herself to one as beautiful as Elizabeth.

  He tried to recall her married name. Something like Weaver or Taylor or something that reminded him of the guilds.

  Where was she now? She would be the ideal companion for poor Freddie. She had travelled within the upper echelons of society, yet pecuniary circumstances kept her from being too proud to be a paid companion.

  And the woman had enjoyed living at Marshbanks Abbey. He recalled that she had not wanted to leave.

  If only he could remember her name. He began to fumble in his desk. She had written him a couple of years ago to tell him of her widowhood and to commiserate with him about grief over losing life's mate.

  Thankfully, his desk was cluttered with many papers which should have been discarded long ago. Among them was a letter from Mrs. Julia Taylor.

  He drafted a letter to Mrs. Taylor, imploring her to come make her home once more at Marshbanks Abbey.

  With the letter dispatched, his thoughts turned to Freddie. She was much too weak to travel but too pure to stay at Marshbanks Abbey without proper chaperonage. The girl grew stronger daily. She was now out of bed for hours at a time, reading before the fire, little Marmalade curled on her lap. Her cough was less wracking, and the hoarseness in her voice grew less pronounced each new day. He did, indeed, owe much to Edgekirth.

  Though the two men despised each other, Edgekirth came daily to check his patient's progress. Stacks accepted--even welcomed--Edgekirth's presence. It was good that Freddie have the society of a learned gentleman since he himself could not taint her with his presence. Not until Mrs. Taylor arrived.

  ***

  Edgekirth tucked the blanket around Freddie in her invalid's chair. Maggie had helped her into a new sprigged muslin morning dress, and she did not at all think she needed the blanket, but the doctor had insisted. He pushed her chair across the red carpet that now held elongated patches of sunlight the exact shape of her gothic windows. The two of them settled before the fire in her chamber, and Marmalade contentedly hopped on Freddie's lap.

  Freddie studied Edgekirth's tanned face. "I am wondering how the complaints of your patients differ from those we had in Chelseymeade."

  The doctor ran his hand through his golden hair and smiled at her. "I believe illnesses are the same the world over."

  "But your climate here is so much damper," Freddie said, coughing. Her coughs no longer seemed to raise the phlegm from her very toes. "Surely that predisposes one to chills and lung fever."

  "It is my belief that the body regulates itself to its environment. Those raised in a moist climate are better able to endure it, not like you--who was unused to it--and took a fever your first week here while Lord Stacks remained perfectly healthy."

  She noted that he only addressed her guardian as Lord Stacks when talking about him, but never to his face. "There is merit in what you say. It has been my observation that those who are daily exposed to poison ivy suffer no complaint whereas if you or I would come into contact with it, we would scratch with uncommon vigor."

  He nodded. "It is unfortunate for the profession that you are a woman, Miss Lambeth, for you would have made an excellent physician."

  She sipped her tea. "Tell me, is there an apothecary in Morton?"

  "No. It is too small and too remote."

  "Then where do you procure your remedies, pray tell?" she asked.

  "From a shop in London."

  "In Spitafields?"

  "Why, yes," he said, puzzled.

  She took a bite of biscuit. "I know it well."

  He reached for a biscuit himself, admiration in his gaze.

  "Do you not find elixirs made of fresh plants and herbs to be far more satisfactory than those potions procured from London?"

  "How could I know when no one here grows such plants?"

  "But if it can grow anywhere in England, it grows in my guardian's garden. He is a noted botanist."

  Edgekirth frowned. "Your guardian is hardly willing to share his bounty with me."

  How wrong he was about her guardian! Why the generous Lord Stacks would likely go to any lengths to help the less fortunate, including Dr. Edgekirth's patients. She sat down her cup and gazed up at the doctor. "You and Lord Stacks do not get on, do you?"

  He laughed. "How observant you are, Miss Lambeth."

  She wondered how a man such as her guardian could have an enemy. He was so very kind. Then she remembered Maggie's words. People said wicked things about Lord Stacks. "Why do you dislike Lord Stacks?" She watched him as his crooked grin vanished, the features of his agreeable face hardening.

  He did not answer for a moment. "That is a matter between your guardian and myself," he said firmly. "It does not concern you."

  She decided not to press further. If her plans came to fruition, she could learn more later. "When I am well, I hope to work with Lord Stacks' plants. Perhaps I can make elixirs for you."

  "I had thought you would not be staying at Marshbanks Abbey when you get your strength back."

  The idea of leaving Marshbanks Abbey stirred fury in her breast. Her eyes flashed defiantly. "But Lord Stacks plans to hire a lady to be my companion--a chaperon for propriety's sake, I daresay. I think, too, he wants her to teach me to behave as a lady. I fear I am a terrible embarrassment to him."

  He gave her a wistful look. "Never that, Miss Lambeth."

  ***

  Tonight she was going down to dine in the dining room for the first time since her illness. She could not have been more excited were she going to be presented to the queen. Maggie had curled her hair and arranged it in a swept back style with tendrils spiraling about her face. Freddie thought the style rather flattering. Together they selected one of her new gowns from Mrs. Baron, one of lilac sarcenet with a low-cut neckline. She stood back to peer in the small looking glass above her dresser.

  "You look beautiful, miss," Maggie said, admiration in her voice.

  Freddie thought the compliment exaggerated, but she was pleased with her reflection. Gazing at the sweep of her breasts, she felt like a woman. The feeling gave her a heady sense of femininity.

  She kept staring at her reflection, feeling something was missing. If only she possessed a necklace of purple stones to draw attention to her décolletage. Then she remembered a small pair of amethyst earrings that had been her mother's. She found them in a drawer where Maggie had unpacked them and fastened them to her ears.

  "The perfect touch!" Maggie exclaimed, moving closer to tuck back a stray strand of Freddie's toast-colored hair. "Won't his lordship be proud of you!"

  Freddie sighed. Would that he show any emotion toward her. Since she started mending, she had scarcely seen her guardian, a fact that wounded considerably. It seemed hard to believe that he had sat at her sickbed night after night when now he made no effort to seek her company.

  Freddie moved toward the door.

  "You'll need the Kashmir shawl, miss. The dining room can be as damp as a seaside cave."

  "I will not wear it," Freddie snapped. She had no desire to be compared to the lovely woman in the portrait, the woman whose lovely shoulders the shawl had once draped.

  "But, Miss--"

  "Say no more, Maggie," Freddie said firmly. She remembered her guardian's advice. She was always to be in command of Maggie. Here
tofore, she had deferred to her maid in all decisions. But not this one.

  She strode to the door and made her way to the dining room. It was the farthest she had walked since she had fallen ill, and she was breathless by the time his lordship rose from the table to greet her, a satisfied look in his eyes as he gazed admiringly at her. "How well you look, Miss Lambeth."

  A footman assisted her to a chair beside her guardian.

  She wondered if it would be inappropriate to commend him on his gentlemanly appearance for he looked like one born to rule in his ruffled sleeves and fitted velvet coat, so different now from the shirtsleeves she had glimpsed as he poked about in his garden.

  She decided to say nothing.

  They ate their meal in relative silence, Freddie feeling as if they were playing make believe. The table and the many courses of food seemed so extravagant. "It seems queer to have so grand a table for only the two of us," she said.

  "It's one more than my staff is used to."

  "You never entertain?"

  "Never."

  An awkward silence followed. Freddie could not imagine why a man of wealth and position chose to live so solitary a life.

  "Mrs. Taylor arrives tomorrow," he said complacently over the roast duck.

  "Mrs. Taylor?"

  "Your companion."

  That she would have a companion made her excessively grateful. Not, per se, because she liked the idea of having a companion. She didn’t. But she knew that if Lord Stacks procured her a companion, she would be allowed to make her home at Marshbanks Abbey, and that pleased her very much.

  Would it be too much to hope for a companion closer to her own age? "Of what age is she?"

  "She is nearer my age than yours."

  "And what duties is she to perform?"

  "She is to make a lady of you."

  His words utterly deflated her. She had actually felt attractive. Not beautiful, but attractive. And now he reminded her of how very unaccomplished she was.

  As dinner ended, he said, "I suggest we take up that game of cribbage we never finished when you took sick."

  The thought pleased her. She enjoyed being with him, even if he did think her unfeminine.

  He brought her to the library where a card table had been placed before the fire and settled her into a comfortable chair. They played one long game, with him barely reaching the home hole before her.

  When they finished, he said he would play the pianoforte for her. She watched his long fingers move fluidly across the keys and though she had never heard more beautiful music in her life. She remembered her father telling her there was nothing requiring intellect that his friend Stacks could not master.

  "I should love to play as you, my lord," she told him when his playing concluded.

  "I will teach you," he said gently. "Come sit beside me."

  She came and settled on the bench beside him, a strange feeling washing over her at being so near to him.

  He explained the correlation between the actual keys and the letters they stood for. "Now show me middle C, Miss Lambeth," he said gently.

  She struck the key, and he nodded.

  "Now G."

  She struck the G.

  He looked pleased, then he thumbed through yellowed pages of sheet music until he pulled out one. "This is a simple tune. A nursery rhyme, actually. The very piece I first learned. Before you were born. Do you know it?" He began to hum "Sing a Song of Sixpence."

  She tossed back her head in laughter.

  "With your facility for learning, you should be able to learn it within the week," he said.

  "I fear your confidence in me is misplaced, my lord," she protested.

  "Practice is all it takes to learn the pianoforte, Miss Lambeth. If you truly want to learn, you will."

  She looked up at his weathered but strangely handsome face. "I want very much to learn."

  "It will be my pleasure to teach you."

  She and he, side by side, practiced for nearly an hour before he urged her to bed. "I am tiring you, Miss Lambeth."

  "But I declare I have enjoyed this excessively." She meant every word. He was a patient teacher, a skilled musician. The time had passed all too quickly.

  "Then we will play again tomorrow."

  The thought comforted her.

  He strolled with her to her room. When they entered the outdoor cloister, he asked, "Why did you not wear the shawl?"

  "The Kashmir one that was your wife's?"

  He nodded grimly.

  "I do not wish to be compared to so lovely a woman, my lord."

  "But she is long dead. I can scarcely even remember the sound of her voice. You are young and vibrant and lovely in your own right. It would please me if you would wear the shawl. Else I will be forced to send to India for a replacement for I do not like you to go uncovered. You seem not to have a disposition for our damp climate."

  She was touched by his concern for her and greatly moved by his praise. She lay in bed thinking of him for a long while, remembering the soothing feel of his sinewy body so close to her as they sat in front of the pianoforte, his gentle voice in her ear. And when he had walked her to her chamber he had said she was lovely.

  Chapter 7

  Though Freddie had wanted to ride into Morton with him to greet Mrs. Taylor, Stacks had refused to take her, citing the strenuousness of the journey and her recent ill health. But his real reason for denying her was his fierce desire to protect Freddie's reputation. Riding alone with him in his coach would undoubtedly tarnish the poor girl. He was determined that his own repute not attach to her. For Freddie elicited in him a deep protectiveness.

  He stood beside his own fine coach and watched the weary passengers disembark from the afternoon mail coach. He almost did not recognize Julia Smith--now Mrs. Taylor--for he pictured her as she had looked at twenty. These past ten years had been cruel to the girl who had already been dealt an unfortunate hand by nature. For the girl whose only girth had been in the sloping flesh beneath her chin had now grown quite plump.

  As if to ignore the unwanted march of age, she clung to youthful fashions. She wore a traveling gown of pastel muslin--much too maidenly a hue for her and much too light for this dank climate. He fleetingly questioned his decision to bring her to Marshbanks Abbey. If she had no more sense than to dress as she did, she was hardly a fitting example for Freddie.

  He put aside his doubts and rushed forward to greet her. "How good it is to see you once again, Mrs. Taylor."

  A coy smile played at her lips as she fluttered her eyelashes and offered him her chunky hand. "How good it is to be here in Yorkshire once again."

  He touched his lips to the proffered hand, then bowed. "It was very good of you to come." Turning away, he instructed the coachman to procure Mrs. Taylor's baggage, which was no small feat since the woman had brought a trunk as well as two bulging valises.

  They then settled in his coach, facing one another, Mrs. Taylor's eyes flitting from the coachman in lime-colored livery, to the tiger, to the plush velvet seats.

  "How very kind it is of you to meet me yourself, my lord." She patted her well coifed hair and beamed at him. "I think we will be good together, you and I. Now that I've lost my dear Mr. Taylor I know only too well the terrible loss you suffered when sweet Elizabeth passed on."

  "It's been ten years, Mrs. Taylor. I assure you I have recovered."

  "You must call me Julia."

  "I think it only proper to address you as my ward will."

  He took note that the fabric of her clothing was of an inferior quality. She must have found the offer to come to Marshbanks most welcome.

  The plumpish matron settled back comfortably on the soft squabs. "Now you must tell me all about my little girl. It was a great sadness that Mr. Taylor and I had no children for I should love to have had a little girl of my own. I remember learning so many of the feminine arts at my own grandmother's knee." She threw him a haughty look. "My grandmother was a Meriwether, you know."

&n
bsp; "Actually, my ward is not a little girl. She is eighteen, but her education has been sadly neglected, having been raised by a widowed father. He had been my great friend at Oxford."

  "What is the girl's name?"

  "Miss Lambeth."

  "What is her Christian name?"

  "Fredericka, but she is known as Freddie." His voice softened when he said her name.

  She grimaced. "Well, we must do something about that horrid name."

  "I think not," he said firmly. "Freddie suits her."

  Her eyes widened. "Then she is a tomboy?"

  He nodded. "With a quickness for learning. You will be able to make a lady of her easily, I am sure."

  She gave him a puzzled glance. "What is it you wish her to learn, my lord?"

  "Well," he began, then faltered. What did he want for the girl? Freddie repeatedly told him she did not need to learn the ways of the ton since she would never be one of them. But she deserved the best he could offer. "She has no knowledge of those things most young ladies have been instructed in. She does no needlework and has no experience with watercolors. She cannot speak French or play the pianoforte. She has never danced."

  "Oh, the poor creature!"

  Her words irritated him. "Do not pity her, Mrs. Taylor," he said, his lips compressed. "You will have much to work with."

  She cocked her head and gave him a quizzing gaze. "What of her appearance?"

  "It improves. I helped her select a suitable wardrobe and have procured a maid who has a talent with hair. Miss Lambeth is tolerably good looking now."

  The coach slowed as the horses made their ascent up the steep rocks to Marshbanks Abbey. Mrs. Taylor scooted closer to the window. "How wonderful to see the abbey again!"

  ***

  The sound of Freddie's erratic playing echoed throughout the great hall as Stacks led Mrs. Taylor into the room to introduce the two women.

  Freddie, self conscious that they had heard her inexperienced efforts at the pianoforte, quickly got to her feet, pulling the Kashmir shawl about her to ward off the room's chill. Marmalade remained curled on top the pianoforte.