The Rake's Reflection

by Lesley-Anne McLeod

  Morag Lochmaddy had taken pains with her mistress' appearance. Delia appeared to advantage, gowned in lustrous blue silk, which matched her eyes. Her thick black hair was confined by a broad band of silk twisted with silver cord. Delicate silver earrings dangled gleaming sapphires against the satin skin of her neck. After being seated, she stared across the table at the earl curiously.

  Torgreave had not troubled himself to don his coat, but dined in barbaric splendor wearing the silk banyan over his shirt and pantaloons. The candlelight deepened the lines of dissipation drawn on his skin, but his fine bones, blue eyes and black silk hair were nonetheless prepossessing.

  "Thank you for joining me." He returned her scrutiny. "It seemed to me that we must further our acquaintance."

  Her glance slid away. "It would be foolish not to do so," she acquiesced.

  "You have been avoiding me. I wonder why?"

  "I wished for time to reflect, without interruption, or distraction."

  "I see." He surveyed the wine in his goblet. "And have you taken any decisions?"

  "None." The word vibrated in the air between them.

  "You still agree that we must travel to Leicestershire?"

  "I do, and I think we should undertake the journey soon." She accepted soup from Bowland, who seemed to undertake a myriad of duties in the household.

  "Then, if you have no objection, Delia, I should like to speak with your coachman." Torgreave's manner was polite but remote.

  "You may certainly, if you wish," she agreed. "I have consulted with him, however. The coach is in good repair. He is rested and has no objection to being seconded to your household."

  "How kind of him," Torgreave murmured.

  She let her expression reveal her distaste for his sardonic tone. "Mrs. Lochmaddy comes with me."

  He merely nodded and took a bite of fish. In a moment, he resumed speaking.

  "I shall not take Bowland." The small man made a move to speak but was silenced by a glance from the earl. "Yes you are invaluable, but I cannot descend on my brother overburdened with retainers."

  Bowland glared at his master, but was ignored.

  The earl continued speaking to Delia. "I should warn you that this visit will not be easy. My younger brother is a clergyman. He may not wish to receive me. I shall not bore you with the details but we have not been on the best of terms. In truth I have not spoken to him for five years."

  Delia abandoned the pretense of eating, and stared at him in horror. "What reason can he have to deny you? Can you be so very dreadful?" she exclaimed. She was surprised to see him wince.

  "I do not know if he will welcome me," he repeated, "but we must have his help. I have rented Manningford Tower and its park to a nabob these five years. I have not set foot there for ten."

  "Good gracious, but your tale grows more and more melancholy. I do not pretend to understand, but it seems your past may prevent us ever solving the problem before us."

  He rose abruptly and, turning his back, strode across the mahogany-paneled chamber.

  "We must hope to stay at my brother's rectory. I am known at the inn, and we cannot expect to keep the secret of your appearance, if we stop there." His grave voice echoed back to her.

  "This sounds a vain hope," she said.

  He swung round abruptly. "I believe not. My brother mixes logic with piety in varying degrees, and I think he may be talked into reason. As well, he appreciates a beautiful woman as much as the next man, and you are very beautiful." He came down the room, and stood beside her chair.

  She rose, so to be at less disadvantage.

  "A rake will always appreciate beauty. A clergyman may not. And my beauty or lack of it is of no matter." She countered the assessment in his dark blue gaze with a sharp retort.

  He regarded her, with her own eyes. The thought annoyed her.

  "And what experience have you of rakes?" he queried softly.

  "Little enough, though there are rakes a-plenty in Edinburgh. One hears of them by reputation, but never entertains them."

  "Never?"

  "Unwillingly, or unwittingly," she amended.

  "Ah, then they are not very successful rakes. A rake should always be welcome because of his charm."

  "Like you?"

  "You've not seen my company manners."

  She countered, "For a man of fashion...a rake...you do not go much abroad, my l...Rupert."

  He accepted her diversion with a cynical grin. "There is little activity in town these days, except for Parliament, and there my views are not regarded seriously." His self- mockery was pitiless.

  "I thought a rake must be forever adventuring."

  "You hold many opinions on rakish behaviour," he observed. "If you require explanation, I was abroad on Tuesday night. In point of fact, I make a habit of absence from my home fire on Tuesdays. But even rakes grow weary, and will stay at home on a cold night."

  She sighed in frustration. He could not be bested in a contest of words.

  "We should depart on the morrow," were his final words. Abandoning his meal unfinished, he abruptly quitted the chamber.

  Delia sat down precipitately. She had a brief inclination to argue with the earl about their imminent departure, but quelled it with fatalistic reasoning. Better to have the trip over and the matter resolved.

  She finished her meal in solitary state, and trod up the broad stairs deep in thought. She harboured doubts about the wisdom of remaining in proximity with the earl. His manner disconcerted her even while his appearance reassured her. The intimations she had of his way of life appalled her. She was accustomed to deal with almost all manner of gentlemen in Edinburgh society, but had always been insulated by birth and fortune from its most rakish elements. He was right to query her on her experience of men of his sort.

  "I can scarcely credit the position in which I find myself, and I sadly feel the want of Aunt Barbara's good advice," Delia commented in a low voice, half to Morag as she gained her chamber. "But this problem will not be written of, and so I must deal as best I can."

  "You will manage," said the older woman calmly.

  "Perhaps," Delia broke the news of their sudden departure. "We leave for Leicestershire tomorrow."

  The Scotswoman received the news stoically. "His lordship's wee man told me what the earl was planning."

  "You have become very close with Bowland."

  Her companion snorted. "Ach, he's a sensible wee man for all his town-bred ways. And he is in a right taking that he is not to come on this journey. Says he always travels with Torgreave. Despite his good sense, I do doubt he is right in his respect for the earl. That one is a devil."

  "That one, as you phrase it, may be my brother. And you may say one will manage but I have never dealt with anything so...so...devastating. You have certain knowledge that you can cope with difficulty, nay tragedy, to some purpose." Delia removed a fragile silk gown from the press and clutched it, to its imminent danger. "I have not that confidence. I have dealt with little more than society in my life."

  "That is not true," Mrs. Lochmaddy responded, removing the dress from her mistress' uneasy hands, "and you know it. This is naught but nervous distress. The imputations his lordship has placed on your mother are enough to give anyone pause, and there is no doubt but what he is a wicked, disconcerting rogue. So our situation is uncomfortable, but I shall not permit him familiarities with you."

  Delia laughed with a rising note of hysteria. "How can you not permit him familiarity? He is as familiar as my face in the glass!"

  The Scotswoman continued. "Well, he may look as much like you as Jack does Jill, but he'll not play the brother with you, nor anything else as long as I draw breath. And howsomever, the truth of this oddity may be discovered quickly. Then we shall be back in Charlotte Square and soon forget his lordship's existence."

  Delia doubted her ability to forget Torgreave, but did not voice her opinion.

  "Besides, his lordship's brother is a clergyman, and that must stand us in
good stead," added Morag, from a stout Presbyterian perspective.

  Delia abandoned her hysterical laughter and began to weep instead.

  * * *

  "Aunt Barbara, Things are not quite as I could Wish. However, the Earl seems a kind enough Gentleman and has offered me to stay as long as I will. He has no family, but one brother. Morag Lochmaddy continues to be Disapproving, but I hope to see much of the Metropolis."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning, the comfortable traveling coach left London as dawn lightened the eastern horizon. The quiet, chilled villages on the edges of metropolis were quickly left behind. Though the cold had moderated slightly, frost had rendered the road surfaces iron hard. The coach, drawn by four very fresh horses, bowled up the Great North Road with some speed.

  There was little conversation within the coach. Morag was dour. Torgreave was remotely polite, and Delia was pale with anxiety and the previous night's tears.

  At last the earl spoke. "Your coach is comfortable, but I dare say you would not wish to be traveling again so soon. I regret the necessity."

  His words were apologetic but his tone, Delia fancied, was not. She had earlier wondered if he intended to converse at all. He had supplied himself with journals and had been perusing them since their departure. He seemed at ease beside her, with his tall beaver tilted over his intensely blue eyes. A fur rug concealed his long legs, but she had a notion that he was not as relaxed as he appeared. Certainly, she found herself unable to be at ease in such proximity to him. But she also possessed some arts of dissimulation and so agreed, "Both coach and road have a tiresome familiarity." She settled her fur and wool cloak about her more closely and put back her veil. "It remains very cold."

  He agreed to the prosaic observation with only a nod. He said, "You will have noticed that Bowland has, despite my decision, joined us."

  Delia had indeed observed with interest that the short, garrulous man directed the loading of her coach. She had watched him confidently mount the box beside Cullen. "I did remark his presence," she admitted.

  "He would not be gainsaid. He has accompanied me on several doubtful ventures these past six years. He now feels I cannot manage without him."

  "Such loyalty should be rewarded," Delia said. She imagined that the earl must appreciate such devotion.

  "He is a damned nuisance," Torgreave snapped.

  Morag Lochmaddy, seated with her back to the horses, across the carriage, frowned at the profanity.

  Apparently noting her reaction, the earl queried with an abrupt change of manner, "Mrs. Lochmaddy, are you warm enough?"

  "Thank you, my lord, I am," she said. She appeared to have difficulty diverting her gaze from the two faces, so very alike, across from her.

  "I am aware our similarity must be fascinating, but if you regard us too long, I fear we shall be put to the blush," he commented. His crooked grin coaxed a softened expression from the Scotswoman. He continued, "Am I right in thinking you a Highlander, Mrs. Lochmaddy?"

  "Ye are, my lord." Her reply was dauntingly brief.

  He appeared unaware of it. "I had the privilege of knowing several members of Highland regiments a year or two since. They were fine soldiers. You are a widow, are you not? Would your husband have been an army man?"

  Delia shot him a curious glance. She speculated briefly on the reason for his conversational efforts, and wondered about his military connections.

  "Sergeant Lochmaddy was killed in the peninsula in '08." Morag cast aside her reserve, to Delia's surprise.

  "My acquaintance was with officers in France, but I know something of the Peninsular actions. The Highlanders were most heroic, their lives not lost in vain," Torgreave said.

  Morag muttered something unintelligible, and smiled mistily at the earl. Delia realized her companion was quite overcome. She stared at the man by her side. He gazed back guilelessly.

  "I have followed the war closely," he said. It appeared he misunderstood her speculative glance.

  "What then is your opinion of our position at this moment? Is the war over?" she demanded. "Are we victorious?"

  "Our position? We have little to fear. It will never be over as long as Boney lives, but we are victorious."

  "That is pleasant hearing," Delia said. "We in Edinburgh have felt ourselves isolated from immediate threat but we have not been untouched by the conflict. Many of our men have been killed." She nodded sympathetically at her companion. "But our ties to France have been different from those of England. Loyalties can be confused."

  "Ah, Mary still causes concern in the hearts of her followers." Torgreave shook his head over the long-dead Queen of Scots.

  "She cannot do otherwise as long as Holyrood stands on Castle Rock," Delia countered. Unwittingly she opened a discussion that would last the better part of the day. They could not agree on Mary's role in history, but the brangling was without acrimony.

  With such conversations, the journey passed quickly. The earl did not again seek refuge in his journals, and Delia had no need of recourse to the volume of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry in her reticule. Torgreave's charm, when he exerted himself, was considerable. Their acquaintance deepened, and the capitulation of Morag Lochmaddy was complete. The level of tension in the carriage diminished.

  The party stopped that night at a substantial posting inn near Bedford, at which the earl was unknown. Their appearance made them instantly acceptable as brother and sister. Bowland's able interventions saw to their comfort. Their party was provided with several chambers, and all dined and slept well.

  The next day was gloomy and bitterly cold. They were to reach the environs of Manningford Tower -- a little south and east of Leicester -- shortly after midday. Delia perceived Torgreave's heightened tension from their earliest encounter in the morning. His conversation was abstracted and punctuated by silences.

  They paused for a nuncheon near Market Harborough at the smallest inn upon which Cullen, Bowland, and the earl could agree. Delia bore the men's discussion of respective inns with determined patience. She found it interesting that the earl did not overrule his inferiors. He weighed their suggestions with courtesy and attention.

  When they had eaten and were once more settled within the coach, Delia commented, "It is a deal of work to keep this visit secret."

  She observed that the earl's gloved hands were fisted on his thighs. In the close confines she shared his unease and contracted some of his anxiety.

  "In the end it will not be possible. There was a farmer in the taproom there who stared intently at me. He will remember shortly why he knows my face."

  "Does it matter so much?"

  "Not for my sake...but for yours." He shrugged his broad shoulders with a curiously foreign gesture. "So that if we cannot solve this mystery, you may at least go back to Edinburgh with your family history unblemished."

  "You are kind." She stared at him, at the fine lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes, the sardonic grooves etched beside his mouth.

  "I do believe no one has ever said that of me before. I cannot think it true. If we cannot discover our relationship, I shall have to vow never to visit your city. I might not be kind enough to do that," he mocked. All hint of humour drained from his expression, and he grew serious. "I should tell you that our stay at Manningford may be very brief. My brother may refuse to see me."

  "I cannot believe that he would...no matter what you have done. He is a minister of the cloth."

  "He's no Presbyterian," muttered Morag, who had been silent for most of the day.

  Even that wry jibe did not relax the earl's stiff expression. He said, "We shall soon know. Within the hour."

  ***

  The high road soon offered a distant view of Manningford Tower. Rupert had not thought the sight would affect him, but he found his vision blurred. A wave of longing swept over him, coupled with a fierce possessiveness. He was right to come home; he was right to seek a reconciliation with Charles. His gloved hands remained clenched though. The coac
h clattered through the small village, which subsisted because of Manningford Tower. It drew up to the church and the substantial rectory that it dominated. He had rarely been so nervous as he now was.

  "What if he is from home?" Delia cried with sudden concern.

  The earl did not respond to the question but realized that he had not even taken into account that possibility. Her words reminded him that Cordelia Tyninghame was a complication he could have done without on this difficult journey.

  "I shall ask you to wait in the coach while I go in. I shall not keep you long in the cold." He could not forbear to draw courage from her presence. Raising her gloved hand, he touched his lips to back. He could not meet her eyes.

  The coach swayed as he stepped out. He was conscious that the two women watched him closely.

  He strode unhesitatingly to the rectory door. Acutely aware of his own tension, he plied the knocker. The door opened, and after a moment, the middle-aged servant in the aperture dropped him a deep curtsey. Astonishment was writ on her face.

  Torgreave stepped into the Rectory entry. The maidservant had long served the Manningford family.

  "W...Will you come into the parlour, my lord? I...I...I will fetch the Rector, my lord." She curtsied again and almost tripped upon the Turkey carpet.

  "I will wait here, ah Jane...is it not?" the earl said gravely. "You know how matters stand between my brother and I."

  Concern transformed her expression. She disappeared down the corridor.

  While he waited, Torgreave stripped off his gloves and looked about the chamber. He saw with relief that Charles lived comfortably. He had wondered, for his younger brother had refused any support from him but the stipend of his living. He recognized a few of the pictures decorating the walls. They were from his brother's bedroom at Manningford Tower.

  He drew off his beaver and, with it held tensely in his long hands, examined one painting more closely. Only the click of a door latch told him he was no longer alone. He turned slowly, and his younger brother stood before him. Charles was unsmiling and assessing him with a keen gaze.