The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  “Yes,” she agreed, her eyes blazing. “That I did. You made my sister’s life a misery from the moment she married you. I don’t think there was a maid in the house who you hadn’t tried to seduce. You are repulsive. And Mother and I knew that if we left for England, the child would have a better chance of a future without your polluting influence.”

  He was up and out of his chair in a trice and strode toward her. She steeled herself as he reached her, and the blow he dealt her across her jaw sent her reeling off the chair and onto the floor. He crouched down, leaning over her, grabbed her hair, and twisted the dark gleaming mass around his fist. Something heavy in his pocket banged against her head.

  “You are the polluting influence, my love,” he hissed. “Does he realize that his aunt is nothing but a cheap whore?”

  She brought her hand up to slap him hard across the face, but he easily swatted it away with one arm.

  He laughed harshly. “Touched a nerve, did we?”

  “Go to the devil,” she recommended, struggling against his grip.

  “You thought I was dead, didn’t you? You thought that I would not come after you because I had been killed in that fire. Did you set light to my bed, Sophie? Do you add attempted murder to your list of crimes?”

  “I wish that I’d had the forethought to do it,” she retorted, shoving her hands against his chest, “and I wish that it had succeeded.”

  “I was hard on your heels from the moment I arrived back in England. And what did I find? A mysterious Miss Sophie Ashton whom no one had ever heard of before had taken the ton by storm.” He broke off with a laugh, tugging her hair to bring her face up to his. “I will never forget the first time you saw me. You stood there in your ball gown, with your new name and your cleverly concocted new life, staring at me as if you had seen a ghost. It was perfect. And that very evening you eloped. And whom did Lady Marcham engage to bring back her wayward son? Why, the loyal family friend. Could there ever have been a moment of greater triumph? Finding you in that sordid inn, three miles from Stevenage. I could have crushed you then had I chosen to. You were still warm from Hal’s arms when I arrived, just after he had deserted you. And oh what a sight you were.”

  Miss Blakelow struggled to keep control of her emotions as she slowly worked her hand toward his pocket. “I had run away with the man I loved best in the world only to discover that he had deceived and abandoned me, without money or transport or even a servant to lend me respectability. I was utterly lost. Ruined. But even that degradation was not enough for you, was it? You would not be happy until you had broken me.”

  “All I wished for was to know the whereabouts of my son. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “No,” she hissed. “You wanted revenge. And were I not able to cut you with that knife and run, you might well have had it.”

  He leaned forward until his face was no more than an inch away from hers. The scar on his cheek was deeply rutted by the firelight.

  “I will ask you for the last time,” he snarled. “Where is he?”

  She spat in his face. “I will never tell you. Do you hear me? Never!”

  As she spoke these words, she grasped the butt of the pistol still inside his pocket, wrapped her finger around the trigger, and pulled.

  Lord Marcham heard the sound of a pistol shot as he dismounted his horse. He and John exchanged a swift glance. They had ridden long and hard, and their horses were sweating profusely.

  His lordship threw his reins to John and ran to the front door of the hunting lodge, pounding his fist loudly against the wood. There was no answer. He tried the door but it was bolted against him. He ran to a ground-floor window, picked up a large stone from the rockery, and threw it against the glass. The window smashed in a pool of glittering shards as the sun threw its first pink rays into the sky. Using another stone, he chipped at the remaining stalactites of glass until there was a hole big enough and safe enough for him to pass through. He laid his hands upon the sill and hoisted himself up off the ground and through the window.

  He knew the house well. He had been there on numerous occasions as a guest. Hunting parties, lavish dinners, female entertainment to follow.

  Cautiously he pulled the pistol from his pocket and made his way through the house, his body tensed, listening for sounds of life. A distant clock chimed the hour. He heard John scrambling through the window behind him.

  Suddenly a rustle of skirts caught his eye. A pale shape was moving along the wall toward the front door.

  “Halt right where you are,” said his lordship, aiming the pistol at the shape.

  “You need not fear me, my lord,” said a soft voice.

  “Georgie,” he whispered, relief surging through him at the sound of her voice. He thrust the pistol back in his pocket and was at her side in several quick strides. He saw the welt on her temple and the cut on her lip, and he lifted his hand to touch her face, but she jerked her head away. A stray curl fell forward across her forehead.

  “Did he do this to you?” he demanded.

  “There . . . there was a struggle,” she replied quietly.

  “Damn him to hell.”

  “Have I killed him?” she asked, her eyes full of fear and glistening with tears in the gray dawn.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think I’ve killed him,” she said, her hands trembling. He took them into his own and chafed them.

  “You’re cold,” he said.

  She gave a nervous laugh, disturbed by the warmth of his fingers on hers. “Yes,” she agreed sadly. “Always. Cold of body and cold of heart.”

  “Don’t say that,” he whispered. “You know that it isn’t true.”

  “It is true. You don’t want me, my lord. Trust me. Disaster follows me wherever I go,” she said. Her bottom lip trembled and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  He reached out a hand and gently wiped the tear away with his fingers. “I do want you,” he replied. “You will never know how much.”

  She wanted to lay her head against his chest, feel his arms around her. Warm. Safe. Comforting. Home. She looked up into his eyes, knowing it would be for the last time. If she had indeed killed Julius, she would need to leave the country that night. John would help her escape—she knew he would. But she knew she could never come back to England again, to see her family or the man standing before her, looking at her now with pleading eyes, willing her not to leave him. The sadness in her heart was almost overwhelming.

  She caught a movement over his shoulder, a shadow against the wall, black on black. The familiar shape moved catlike in the darkness.

  It was John.

  Miss Blakelow self-consciously pulled her hands from the earl’s hold. “John—your head, it’s cut.”

  He ruefully rubbed the back of his head. “A headache, miss, but I feel much better now that I have seen you,” he answered.

  “And I, you. John . . . my good friend. Look after my family for me and look after yourself. You have been a true friend to me all these years. My father could not have chosen a better one.” She turned back to Lord Marcham and stared up into his eyes. “Good-bye, my lord, my dear friend. I must go now before it is too late.” She paused and gave a twisted smile. “You will despise me, I know, but I find I do not have the courage to face the gallows, after all.”

  “Georgie, wait,” Lord Marcham begged, his hand on her arm. “You do not know the extent of the damage. He may yet live.”

  “I shot him,” she said baldly, “at close range.”

  His hands slid to her shoulders. “Give me the opportunity to speak with him,” he whispered. “I may yet be able to turn this situation to good account.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “How?”

  “By telling him the truth.” Fear leapt into her eyes, but he tightened his grip as if to hold her. “No, Georgie, listen. I know you’re frightened, but it’s for the best. All he wants to know is the whereabouts of his son. If I can elicit a promise from him to leave the boy
alone, we may finally lay the past to rest. Isn’t that what we all want?”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “I know you don’t and nor do I, but I do trust a sworn statement on paper. Do you trust me?”

  She nodded.

  “Then let John take you home to Thorncote. If the situation is such that your life is in danger, then I will come immediately to you. I will take you and the boy to Bristol or Liverpool or wherever you plan to go. We can then book our passage to America.”

  Tears clouded her eyes. “We? You’d come with me?” she asked, her voice breaking, hardly able to believe her ears.

  He stroked her cheek with the back of one hand. “I’ll go anywhere with you if you wish it. So, will you do as I ask? Will you leave now and go home with John?”

  She nodded, hope shining through her tears.

  “Promise me you’ll stay at Thorncote until I arrive? If you still wish to leave after I have spoken with you, then I won’t stand in your way, but there are things I have to say to you first,” he said. “Promise me you’ll wait for me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Then go with John now, and I will follow as soon as I can.”

  She stared up at him for a moment as John opened the front door. Then she followed John out into the dawn light.

  Lord Marcham watched her until she could no longer be seen through the doorway. He turned back toward the center of the house and followed the hallway until he heard voices. He moved toward them, pushing open the dining room door to find a scene of carnage. Sir Julius Fawcett lay on the floor, bleeding from a shoulder wound, his face as pale as the face of the moon. Blood seeped across the expensive carpet beneath him like a spill of Bordeaux.

  “Boyd, don’t mind me, go after her!” hissed the wounded man, gripping the other man’s shoulder. “Bring her back!”

  “I cannot leave you, sir,” replied Mr. Boyd, crouching at his master’s side with a pile of towels.

  “If we lose her again, I will personally rip you limb from limb,” said Sir Julius, grimacing with pain.

  “You will do no such thing, Julius,” said Lord Marcham icily from the doorway.

  Sir Julius Fawcett looked up as the earl entered. “March,” he muttered as Mr. Boyd plied towels to the wound. “The bitch shot me.”

  “Perhaps you deserved it.”

  “She can’t have gone far. Boyd, go and bring her back.”

  “But, sir, you’re bleeding—”

  “Go after her or you’ll be looking for new employment.”

  Lord Marcham raised his hand and leveled his pistol at the chest of the manservant. “Mr. Boyd, might I suggest that you remain where you are?”

  Mr. Boyd looked warily at the pistol, then at the pale face of his master, and finally back at his lordship.

  “Quite so,” agreed the earl, reading the man’s mind to a nicety. “You’ll be much better off following my orders rather than your master’s. What price loyalty, eh, Ju? You once warned me not to trust my servants.”

  “What the devil do you mean by brandishing that pistol in my house?” demanded Sir Julius, his forehead shiny with sweat. “We are friends. You owe me, March. You owe me this!”

  “I owe you nothing.”

  “Boyd! Get me up! I’ll go after her if you lack the courage.”

  “By all means,” replied the earl. “And we’ll watch you bleed to death all over this expensive carpet.”

  “You don’t know what she’s done to me! You don’t know what she is.”

  A muscle pulsed in his lordship’s jaw. “On the contrary, I know precisely what she is.”

  “She’s done for me, March. The bitch has done for me.”

  “You’ll live,” drawled the earl.

  “You don’t understand. She took my boy from me, Rob. She stole him. He’s my only son.”

  “So I understand. And I know where your boy is.”

  There was a silence.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sir Julius coughed and blood welled up in his wound.

  “I know where and who he is. And I will tell you.”

  Sir Julius stared at him as if he could not believe his ears. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I want something in return,” said Lord Marcham, calmly pulling out a chair and straddling it. He laid the pistol down on the table.

  “What? How would you know? You’re bluffing.”

  The earl folded his arms along the back of the chair. “Not in the least. I’ve seen him. He’s a fine lad.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  His lordship smiled. “You don’t. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  His friend raised himself painfully onto his elbows. “Go on.”

  “Captain Clayton was a naval man who moved his young family out to the West Indies to make his fortune. He bought a fine house and was happy and prosperous there until the fever claimed him a few years later. He had two daughters, the eldest of which he married off to the son of a plantation owner—you. Unfortunately your wife died shortly after giving birth to your first child. The bereaved family, without the captain’s protection, returned to England and changed their name. Imagine a young girl of sixteen, arriving in England with her baby nephew and her sickly mother. They have little money and little knowledge of England. Where would they go? But to relatives, of course. The mother had a brother, a Mr. Thorpe, who lived in London. But Mrs. Thorpe was not keen on her sister-in-law, and soon the lady was obliged to leave. She found herself a new husband—Sir William Blakelow. Blakelow, although a man of many failings, was father to a brood of young children and was looking for a mother for them. He was willing to take the boy into his house and the daughter, Sophie. There they lived until the mother’s death a few years later. Sir William, by this time in dire financial straits, had no choice but to ask Sophie to leave, hoping she would make a good match in London, but the boy stayed with his stepbrothers and sisters. Blakelow told everyone that the boy was his. His name is Jack.”

  “Are you certain?” Sir Julius asked, frowning. “I mean, I had considered the possibility, and I made inquiries, but I was told that Sir William was his father.”

  “As far as Jack is concerned, he was. After all, the boy was only an infant when he arrived in England. He has no memory of his real mother, or you for that matter. Georgie—Sophie, as you know her, is in fact his aunt, not his sister.”

  “And so Sophie left him there?”

  “Yes, with the family he had been brought up to believe was his. Sophie reluctantly returned to the Thorpes in the hopes of securing a husband for herself. Her uncle agreed to give her a season, to launch her into the ton and achieve a good match. She took her own Christian name and her grandmother’s maiden name, and Sophie Ashton was born into being. She formed a friendship. A friendship with a young widow whose husband had died in battle and who had a young son. Your son.”

  “My son?” Sir Julius repeated. “A second son? Who?”

  “You paid court to her for a time shortly after her husband died.”

  “Caro? I don’t believe it . . . I mean, how do I know he’s mine?”

  “Only look at him, Ju,” replied the earl caustically. “He’s got your damned hideous nose for one.”

  Sir Julius laughed and coughed and blood gurgled. “I have two sons,” he said.

  “They are both fine boys,” said his lordship. “Don’t make me regret telling you.”

  Sir Julius closed his eyes, nodding faintly.

  “Boyd?”

  “Yes, my lord?” the man said over his shoulder.

  “Have you sent for a doctor?”

  “Sir Julius wouldn’t let me.”

  “Might I suggest you see to it and with all possible haste?”

  “Yes, my lord,” he replied, running from the room.

  Lord Marcham knelt by his old friend and made a fresh swab from a clean towel and pressed it against the wound.

  “All I ever wanted was to do right by him, March . .
. young Jack, did you say his name was?”

  “So you hounded his young aunt halfway across the globe?” demanded the earl.

  “I was obsessed with finding him. I was a little obsessed with her too. I admit it,” he croaked. “I wanted to possess her, make her mine. Well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Sir Julius grimaced. “I loved her, in my own way. But then love grew to hate. Does Caro know that you’ve told me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So it is to be our secret.”

  “Yes. But I want your promise. I want you to promise me that you will give up your pursuit of Miss Blakelow, Miss Ashton, Miss Clayton, and whoever else she may have been in the intervening years. I won’t stand idly by and watch you make her life a misery any longer. Do you understand?”

  “You take her side against me? Such old friends as we are?”

  “Were, Julius. Past tense. Any man who can treat a woman as you have done is no friend of mine. I want your promise that this is the end.”

  There was a silence.

  “Julius?”

  “Alright,” said the man, wearily laying his head back against the carpet.

  “In writing,” insisted his lordship. “And you won’t do anything to take Jack away? Or Caro’s boy?”

  “No. But I would like to see them.”

  “Well, that would be a start.”

  CHAPTER 28

  LORD MARCHAM LEFT MR. Boyd to oversee the removal of Sir Julius up to his bedchamber while his lordship dealt with the doctor. By the time he had spoken to the housekeeper and bid her clean up the mess on the carpet, the sun had risen high into a crisp blue December sky.

  There was a sharp frost on the ground as he walked to his horse, and the fallen leaves were pale and curled and fringed with silver. He breathed in the air, wondering what the coming day would hold for him as he swung himself up into the saddle. Would Georgie finally confide in him? Could she put her past firmly behind her and give herself to him, completely and without question? She had kept him at arm’s length for so long and had been so determined to keep him from knowing her innermost secrets that he wondered if she could ever trust him with her heart.