The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  The Earl of Marcham smiled. “I have been busy.”

  “So I hear. Planning to get yourself leg-shackled, by all accounts.”

  There was a short silence.

  “News travels fast,” observed his lordship, reaching for a slice of toast.

  “Don’t be a fool, March. You have proposed to two females in the space of a month. Of course news of that is going to travel fast.”

  “Pass the marmalade, would you?”

  “You’re not seriously contemplating marriage with this girl are you?” asked Sir Julius. “I thought I could count on you to shun matrimony to the end of your days.”

  “I cannot afford to, Ju. In case it has escaped your notice, I am in need of an heir. And for that I need a wife. More coffee?”

  Sir Julius shook his head. “Who is she?”

  “Does it matter?” countered Lord Marcham evasively.

  “Oh-ho, touchy! Are you afraid that I might steal her away, Rob?”

  His friend smiled. “Not in the least. But she is a gentlewoman and not likely to welcome a carte blanche from you.”

  “Who said anything about carte blanche?” asked Sir Julius, wounded. “I may wish to get married myself. Describe her to me.”

  Lord Marcham smiled and picked up his coffee cup. “She is not your sort, Ju.”

  “Which means that she is something out of the ordinary and you wish to put me off the scent,” said his friend with a knowing look.

  “Undoubtedly. I wish to have her all to myself.”

  “A beauty then?”

  “In an unconventional way—yes. You will find out for yourself once I have . . . er . . . secured her affections.”

  Sir Julius thoughtfully rubbed the long scar on his cheek with the knuckle of his thumb. “You are confident of success?”

  His lordship merely smiled and sliced his toast in two. He looked over at his friend. “And you? Are you serious about matrimony?”

  Fawcett shrugged and took a sip from his tankard of ale. “I am in no rush. I am in no great hurry to leg-shackle myself again to any female. This time I plan to be much more exacting in my choice. Marry in haste and you wake up one morning a few years later lying next to a woman who you neither like nor desire. Were I not a widower, such would still be my lot in life. Heed my warning, March. Ask your brother if you don’t believe me. None knows better than Hal.”

  “He always said you were a cold fish,” remarked his lordship, before taking a bite of his toast.

  “Hal was the best of good friends, but the biggest fool of my acquaintance. Handsome as they come and a dashing red coat to boot. Not surprising he had half the women in London on the catch for him . . . more women after him than you, March. God alone knows what possessed him to hitch himself to Mary’s wagon.”

  The earl, who knew very well what caused his brother to hitch himself to Mary, ate his toast and remained silent. He generally considered himself to be open-minded where his brother’s love affairs were concerned and would only interfere when it was strictly necessary. But when Hal had gotten a young woman of a sickly disposition with child and had been proposing to leave her to her own devices, his lordship had felt obliged to step in. Affairs with married women, widows, or opera dancers were generally tolerated by society, if the participants were discreet, but to seduce a young innocent? That was too much, even for the earl. Lord Marcham had induced his brother to do the honorable thing before knowledge of the pregnancy was out, and the couple married. The child, a girl, was born as sickly as her mother and did not live to see her first birthday. Although relations between the two brothers had since been cordial, Hal had never quite forgiven him for forcing him into an unhappy, if respectable, marriage.

  “You know that Mary died, don’t you?” asked Sir Julius, thoughtfully playing with an unused fork on the table.

  “Yes. I received a letter from Hal last month informing me of the fact.”

  “Very sad business. Always ill, that girl, from the moment he married her. Between you and me, Rob, she barely let him touch her.”

  Lord Marcham lowered his eyes. “She was a . . . singular female.”

  “Frigid,” said Sir Julius with an expressive look in his eyes that showed exactly what he thought of that behavior.

  “I think she was rather hurt by—well . . . it’s none of our business, is it?”

  Sir Julius watched his friend, wondering what he had been about to say. Some subjects were forbidden, it seemed, even to a lifelong friend. The Holkham family always had closed ranks against the rest of the world—even against the people they considered their friends. It was a trait that irritated him. He always felt shut out and marginalized by the blood ties, which it seemed were stronger than even the closest of friendships.

  “How is he? Is he coming home? I suppose there is nothing to hold him in Brussels now. He was only there for Mary, after all.”

  “And the war,” said his lordship.

  “Yes, but he’s shot of all that now. A fresh start for him back home is what he needs.”

  “I had an idea on that very subject that I wished to discuss with you.”

  “By all means.”

  “A neighbor of mine has fallen on hard times. The woman’s father lost his estate to me at the faro table,” said Lord Marcham, leaning back in his chair. “It’s in the devil of a state, of course, and will need careful supervision to bring it back up to scratch. I was planning to sell it, but then I had an idea that I might gift it to Hal, give him something to do. Something to think about besides Mary.”

  Sir Julius raised his quizzing glass and frowned at his friend through it. “Lord, Rob. Can you see Hal as a farmer?”

  The earl smiled. “Not exactly. But they have a decent man there who would shoulder most of the responsibility.”

  “Where is the place? What is it called? Do I know it?”

  “I doubt it. It’s a pretty enough little estate with a fair-sized house. Thorncote, owned by Sir William Blakelow junior, currently to be found losing money hand over fist at the faro table. A boy so wet behind the ears he has not the sense to know when he’s about to lose his inheritance.”

  “Lord, not that chubby blond fellow who puts me in mind of a goat?”

  “The very same. His family are about to be turned out of their home, and all he cares about is cutting a dash—and, I may add, squaring up to me.”

  “Blakelow . . . weren’t we recently speaking of someone named Blakelow?” mused Sir Julius.

  Lord Marcham smiled. “Your pamphlet.”

  “Eh?”

  “‘The immoral Lords of Worcestershire and their pursuit of buxom lovelies in the bedroom’—or whatever that thing was called.”

  Sir Julius Fawcett gaped. “Not her?”

  “Miss Blakelow, author and arbiter of moral excellence.”

  “Well, I’m blowed,” breathed the other man.

  “Would you believe that she came to me asking for my help?” said his lordship. “The gall of the woman quite took my breath away. She wanted me to lend her money—a lot of money—and this after she had dragged my name through the mud. I said no, of course.”

  “What does she look like? Is she as horse faced as we feared?”

  The earl made no answer but reached for the coffee pot to refill his cup.

  “You dog, March!” cried Sir Julius, laughing. “You dog!”

  His lordship merely smiled.

  “I knew it! I knew that you wouldn’t let that pamphlet go unchallenged! You had to have your revenge somehow, and now you will take her home from her—but what will you do with the family? You cannot turn them out onto the street, Rob.”

  “I understand that the younger Blakelows have relatives living whom they can call upon for assistance . . . So what do you think?”

  Sir Julius shrugged. “It sounds as good a place as any. And close enough that you can keep an eye on Hal.”

  “That was precisely my thinking. I think he’s a little low in spirits as one might expect aft
er such a loss.”

  “Did he love Mary then?” asked his friend, looking surprised.

  “I don’t think love came into it. But she was his wife, after all.”

  “And what, may I ask, are your plans for Miss Blakelow?” asked Sir Julius with a grin.

  “Miss Blakelow . . . is to live with me.”

  A pale eyebrow rose. “The devil she is . . . with you? As your wife, my lord, or as your mistress?”

  His lordship smiled. “Miss Blakelow does not approve of me or my ways.”

  “I see. Then I fail to understand how you can assume that she will live with you. You can kidnap her, of course, but I hardly think that behavior of that sort will be tolerated in this day and age.”

  “I will do whatever it takes—what in God’s name is that racket?” said the earl as sounds of hysterical female voices emanated through the thick walls from his hallway.

  “Robert?” cried an imperious voice. “Robert Louis Edward Phillip Holkham. Show yourself this minute!”

  “Oh, Lord,” muttered the earl, throwing down his napkin, “what on earth can she want now?”

  “I imagine,” answered Sir Julius, leaning back in his chair as one preparing to be hugely entertained, “that your mother has heard of your imminent engagement.”

  “Robbie? Are you in there?” The door was thrown open and the Countess of Marcham stood upon the threshold, a picture of outrage in purple silk, a shawl around her shoulders that grazed the floor, and a bonnet of such vast size upon her head that her son rather marveled at her being able to get through the door. She fixed him with her fulminating glare, her ample bosom heaving with indignation. “There you are. What, may I ask, is the meaning of this?”

  “The meaning of what, Mama?” asked his lordship, dutifully rising to his feet.

  “Your engagement,” she said with almost violent passion. “Another one!”

  “Won’t you sit down, ma’am?”

  “Don’t you try that flummery with me! Tell me at once, is it true that you have made an offer for that . . . that Blakelow creature?”

  “You may not choose to sit down, but I have not finished my breakfast, so you will forgive me if I continue with my toast.”

  “Answer me!” she said, coming farther into the room, leaning heavily upon her parasol, which looked as if it might well give up under the weight it was forced to bear.

  “Yes, it is true,” her son replied calmly.

  “Are you not aware that she is the author of that . . . that rag?”

  “Precisely what I said,” put in Sir Julius helpfully.

  “Are you not aware that you have been most viciously maligned?” demanded her ladyship.

  “As the stories are for the most part true,” replied Lord Marcham, “I rather think she is guilty of nothing more than dredging up my past—disagreeable though that may be.”

  “You defend her?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Who is this woman that she should dare to criticize you? A poor nobody, that’s who. And you make the woman an offer? I thought you had lost your mind when you announced your intention to marry Lady Emily Holt, but at least she has breeding! A Miss Blakelow? Nobody had ever heard of her before she wrote that . . . that drivel! Who is her father, pray? Who are her family? Are you expecting to go up in the world with this alliance?”

  His lordship gave up on his toast and pushed back his chair, allowing his eyes to coolly assess his enraged mother. “No, ma’am, I am expecting to be happy.”

  Sir Julius picked up his eyeglass and examined his friend through it. “Happy, do you say?”

  “Happy . . . yes.”

  “With her?” asked her ladyship. “How can you be?”

  “Because I like her.”

  The countess pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “You like her?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I like her,” said the earl, looking amused.

  “Define ‘like,’ March,” said Sir Julius. “Like as in enjoy her company, or like as in wanting to take her . . . er . . . clothes off . . .” his voice trailed off as he encountered the chilly stare of her ladyship.

  “Both,” replied his lordship calmly.

  “A woman of no fashion or beauty?” said the countess. “A woman with no connections or expectations or title? A woman, in short, who is so far beneath your company that she is not fit to shine your boots?”

  “She is a gentleman’s daughter and that is good enough for me. Now if you will both excuse me, I have an appointment in an hour.”

  “Stay precisely where you are, young man!” said her ladyship in a voice that seemed to shake the glass in the windows.

  “With all due respect, Mama, I am a little old to be put over your knee. I am a grown man and will make my own decisions.”

  “Like you did with Lady Emily Holt, you mean?” she snapped.

  His lordship smiled coldly. “That young lady was bait for a trap that I was foolish enough to fall into. She was innocent, I believe, in the schemes that her parents hatched. She was as relieved as I was that the match between us fell through.”

  “And how do you know that you haven’t once again fallen into a trap?” demanded his mother. “How do you know that this Blakelow creature is not another money-grabbing harpy who wants you only for your purse?”

  “She has a point there, Rob,” put in Sir Julius. “You have to admit that it is a consideration. Especially as you told me that she was after your blunt to save her family’s property.”

  “There!” said her ladyship triumphantly. “I knew it!”

  “Miss Blakelow is not that kind of woman. She is good, kind, and decent. She is also proposing to pay me back for any monies lent to her.” He walked toward the door. “You may not approve, Mama, but for the first time in my life, I have found someone who makes me smile, someone whose absence from a room makes me sad, someone whose eyes seek mine when there is a good joke to be shared. For the first time in my life I wonder what it would be like to hold that person when I am old and gray. And that, in my experience, is a most promising start. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go.”

  And with that, and stopping only to peck her upon the cheek, he went away.

  “Well,” fumed Lady Marcham, flinging down her parasol. “Well! That is how he speaks to his own mother! That is the son whom I bore into this world and nurtured and raised. Ungrateful boy!”

  Sir Julius looked longingly at the door, wondering how he could get out of the room without appearing rude. “I . . . erm—”

  “This is how he repays me! This is how much he thinks of his father’s name . . . of his father’s inheritance! Are that woman’s children to run free at Holme? Is her blood to taint the Holkham name for future generations?”

  “I . . . what a fetching bonnet that is, my lady.”

  “And I am just expected to sit back and let him throw himself away on a . . . a harpy? No and no!”

  “No, my lady.”

  “I will not let that woman wreck my son’s future. I will not stand idly by and let that odious creature take him from us. Oh, no!” said her ladyship. “She will find out exactly what I am made of!”

  CHAPTER 12

  MISS BLAKELOW WAS BUSY polishing the copper late one morning the following week when John appeared before her to inform her that his lordship had called and was waiting in the parlor to take her out in his curricle for a drive.

  The lady’s first inclination was to ask John to inform the earl that it was not convenient and that he should come back again another day. She had started to relay this message to her butler, but when he gave her one of his looks, the one that contained that perfect mix of skepticism and “tell him yourself,” she was persuaded to give it up. She untied her apron, hastily put on the cap and spectacles, and went into the parlor.

  He was standing by the fireplace, talking to Aunt Blakelow, when she came in, and Miss Blakelow did not miss the swift but thorough assessment the man gave her figure as she appeared. She lifted her chi
n and wrapped her arms protectively across her bosom, but on seeing the gleam of amusement that stole into his eyes, unfolded them again.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “Did you have a good trip to London?”

  “Certainly I did, thank you,” he replied. “How do you do? Your aunt has just persuaded me to take you out for a drive, and I have to say that I think it a capital idea. It is a glorious day, and I have a fancy to see the far side of the lake where there is a grotto, or so I have been told. My curricle awaits, ma’am, if you would send a maid for your shawl and bonnet?”

  “I told you before that I am too busy to drive out with you.”

  “What nonsense. Do you never stop for luncheon? Even paragons of womanly virtue such as you have to eat, and I have brought a picnic. Now, what say you to that?”

  “Of course she will be pleased to go with you, Lord Marcham,” said Aunt Blakelow, ignoring the glare she received from her niece.

  Miss Blakelow gritted her teeth. “I don’t wish to appear rude, my lord—”

  “Good, that settles it then,” he replied promptly. “Go and fetch your bonnet.”

  “Do you ever take ‘no’ for an answer?” she complained.

  He grinned. “Not when I want something. I’ll wait for you here.”

  For some inexplicable reason, it took her an age to decide what to wear. It was a warm autumn day, and yet she tugged on a thick winter pelisse because it was smarter than the old cape she habitually wore. She changed her gown three times and ended up back in the one that she had been wearing earlier. She put on her glasses and a hideous bonnet that she had only bought because it completely hid her hair and cast her face into shadow, which greatly added to her straitlaced image. By the time she was dressed to her own satisfaction, it was fully forty-five minutes before she finally returned to the parlor.

  “Well,” he said as she entered the room. He stood by the window, impatiently slapping his gloves against his thighs. “If this is how you treat your beaux, it is not surprising that you have never married.”