The Rake's Reflection

by Lesley-Anne McLeod

  "Something does," Rupert muttered. Hope was stirring with his chaotic thoughts. He threw himself into his chair once more.

  He said aloud, "I have entertained a visitor from Scotland these past four months...a young woman, of whose family I had never heard. She however knew of us, or at least of my father. The astonishing thing about this is that she looks remarkably like me, or I like her. It has to be a family similarity; it is close enough a mirror image. And she and I both bear likeness to my father and to you."

  Augustus Manningford was silent as he seated himself in a wing chair across from Rupert. He set his glass on a convenient table, and seemed to retreat within himself.

  Rupert grew impatient, yet he knew he would obtain no answer from his uncle if he pressed the older man. Augustus was ever contumacious. The resemblance between them was indisputable; it lay in more than appearance. Indeed Rupert had always been likened more to his uncle than his father.

  Rupert sought confirmation of his long-held suspicions. "What colour was your hair in youth?" he asked. Augustus' hair was silver. It had been since he could remember.

  "Black as your own." The reply was absent. His uncle seemed to be peering into the distant past.

  "And you have visited in Scotland?"

  His uncle's face paled. His age suddenly became apparent to Rupert despite his fashionable dress and his still very presentable person.

  "I have, but only the once," Augustus admitted. His thin hands gripped the chair's arms, until his knuckles whitened.

  "Ahhh," Rupert expelled a great sigh. "I thought this must be the explanation. But I could not see how. I could obtain no proof of it."

  The old man seemed not to hear. He spoke as though to himself. "It was a long time ago I traveled to Edinburgh...made a two months' stay."

  He reached for the glass he had set aside, and lifting it, drank deeply. "I met a lovely woman there, fell in love -- oh, top over tail. Margaret was her name...she was Lady Tyninghame. Her husband was a friend of the fourth earl, your father."

  Rupert stirred in his chair, and then rose.

  "I saw her frequently. She was not happy. But she found some joy in my company. Once, just once, our desires overcame us."

  Augustus' clouded gaze raised to Rupert's face. Rupert must have made some sound although he was unaware of it.

  "After that night I saw her but once. She would not leave the Scotsman for me. She was honour bound, she said, to stay." His face was old and sad.

  Pity stirred in Rupert. He was torn between a dawning realization of joy for himself, and concern for his uncle's distress.

  "And now...are you telling me that I have a daughter?" The old man whispered the words.

  "I believe I am," Rupert choked out. Tears stood in both men's eyes, as their gazes locked.

  It was typical, Rupert thought, of his selfishness that he had not realized that confirmation of his conjecture would bring painful memories and difficult realities to his uncle. On the other hand, the story Augustus told fit with Lady Barbara's discoveries at Carvosway. A handsome, dark-haired young man named Manningford, but not the Earl of Torgreave. Rupert smothered a triumphant smile in the face of his uncle's distress.

  "What shall I do? Shall I meet her?" The old man was uncertain. "And what of my Margaret?"

  "Lady Margaret has been dead these three years," Torgreave said gently, with deep regret at being the bearer of such unwelcome news.

  The old man bowed his head.

  After a moment, Torgreave said, "And yes, you shall meet Delia. She would not have it otherwise. Augustus, I love your daughter."

  His uncle displayed astonishment but said nothing.

  "And I hope she will consent to wed me, now that the facts are clear. She is my cousin, not my sister. I believe she is as honourable a woman as her mother."

  "Virtuous women are the very devil," Augustus mourned.

  Rupert threw back his head and laughed, as he thought he never would again. "They make wonderful wives," he said.

  "And daughters," said his uncle.

  Rupert and his uncle spent the rest of that night in conversation. Augustus wished to hear everything about the daughter he had not known existed. As there was nothing in the world that Rupert enjoyed more to discuss than Delia, he told his uncle all that he knew.

  They slept most of the following day, Rupert on a dressing room chaise. He parted from his uncle at six o'clock in the evening to return to his inn to bathe and shave.

  He returned to his uncle's hotel the following morning to bid the old man farewell. Rupert had not slept that night any more than he had the night before Delia's departure. Instead he roamed Paris, conscious of a lightness of spirit he had never previously experienced in his life. He was well aware that all his dreams were within his grasp. The freedom that Europe had recently gained was nothing to the freedom he felt within himself. Wild with excitement, he walked for hours, then returned to the inn at dawn and slept. At ten of the clock he woke, roused Bowland, and prepared to depart.

  Rupert was entrusted by his uncle with messages to Delia of remorse and delight. Augustus stammered over tangled apologies. Rupert assured his uncle they were not needed. He said, with confidence, that he and Delia would welcome Augustus at Manningford whenever he chose to come.

  As he left the hotel, Torgreave wondered at his own confidence. Delia had said she would marry him. She loved him, that he knew. He believed she would not deny that love now that the truth was known. But a small, black fear clutched at him. She could not deny him her love, could she?

  * * *

  "Aunt Barbara, I have remarkable News..."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Torgreave set a cruel pace for his hired mount on leaving Paris. Bowland followed at his back on a tough French pony. The first stages of the journey were accomplished without incident. The second night he chose a small auberge in Abbeville at which to rest. After a short night, he prepared eagerly to depart the place.

  He descended to the entry, and crossed the courtyard to a morning full of sun. The air was strong with the scents of horses, of baking, of laundry, and of the fields beyond the walls. Bowland was paying the proprietor. Rupert grinned to himself, thinking of his man's views. He had made his opinion of France clear to Torgreave and was as eager to be in England as the earl.

  As Torgreave walked toward the stables, his arm was grasped ungently. Abruptly he was swung round to face a man he knew very well. The Vicomte de Charney. Despite their history of friendship, the short, angry gentleman appeared very much less than friendly.

  De Charney spoke swiftly, retaining his hold on Torgreave's arm. "France is now open to the English once more. But not to such as you...not to spies who masquerade as friends." His tone was rancorous. "The rumours are true?"

  Taken by surprise, Rupert drew a deep breath, as much to compose himself as to organize his defences against the unexpected encounter. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Bowland had crossed the courtyard and was supervising the saddling of their mounts, and the loading of their gear.

  "The rumours are true," he confirmed, in his idiomatic, Parisian-accented French. He stared into De Charney's proud, sharp-featured face. "I helped my country as I could, as would you have done, in my position."

  "Never! I might have fought in the army. I might have done reconnaisance. But I would never, ever have been a spy." He released Torgreave's arm.

  "It was all I was fitted for. My friends were being killed. I did what I could."

  "WE were your friends. Or so we thought. You used us." De Charney's face coloured deep red with anger.

  "My friendship was never a masquerade. Whether you wish it or no, you have it. I did use such information as I came upon. I admit it freely." Torgreave tensed preparing for the outcome, whatever it might be, of this unfortunate, lamentable encounter.

  "My youngest brother died at the hands of the English, six months ago," the other man choked out.

  "It could as easily have been my brother. It wa
s war, despite how our countrymen overlook the past so easily now," Rupert responded. "I offer you my sympathies. I assure you they are genuine."

  "I want nothing from you...except perhaps your life." De Charney pulled a pistol from the deep pocket of his greatcoat.

  Torgreave was unarmed. He thought cynically that perhaps this was how his life was meant to end, within reach of happiness, in the mud of a stableyard. Deep regret tore at him. He thought of Delia but he experienced no fear. He stood very still, his gaze on De Charney's anguished countenance.

  The Frenchman dropped his pistol back in to his pocket. "I am not a murderer. If I am, I am no better than you. Perhaps I should call out, reveal your identity." De Charney gestured at the occupants of the bustling stableyard, who were apparently unaware of drama in their midst. "If I do, these good folk will beat you senseless!"

  Rupert was suddenly aware that Bowland had led their two horses to the arched entrance of the courtyard, and had mounted. His valet had one hand on the pistol in the leather holder on his saddle. He was evidently awaiting a signal from his master.

  "If you call out, they will indeed," Rupert agreed with De Charney. He warily removed his arm from his erstwhile friend's grip. He took one, then two, steps away and shook his head slightly at Bowland.

  The Vicomte made no move to stop him, but said, "I hope I never see you again." He spat on the ground.

  Rupert strode to his horse. Bowland tossed him the reins, and the earl mounted without speaking. He did not look back, as they entered the street, but he could feel De Charney's hostile stare follow him.

  Torgreave's journey to Calais was dogged by memories. English friends in army hospitals, grieving families, French friends at balls and salons, amused by his drunken wit, unsuspecting of his treachery. Guilt and regret haunted him.

  He argued with himself, mile after mile. He had had to do what he had done. He had experienced the news of the wounding or death of one friend after another. He had suffered a terrible sense of powerlessness, a desperate sense of waste, until Rhyle had offered employment.

  There had been no honour in the work he had done; he had taken no pride in being a spy. His life had been devoid of honour and pride for many years at that point. He had not cared if he lived or died, had not indeed expected to live. He had only hoped to save some valiant lives with his own poor sacrifice. English lives, and ultimately French lives.

  Torgreave changed horses mechanically at Crecy, then Montreuil. He was peripherally aware of Bowland's concerned presence, watching and guarding him. He rode on thinking of De Charney's dead young brother, and his own, thankfully alive. His choices, his spying, played a part surely in their destinies. In the destinies of many young men. He was conscious of a cold rain, or was it tears, streaming down his face as he galloped into the wind.

  He had saved lives, French and English, if he had done anything to shorten the war. As he rode into Calais, he concluded that he had done the right thing. There had been no black and white in the world, no clear cut choices or decisions. He had betrayed his French friends to no one. He had used their information to help end the carnage. As he had told De Charney, he had done the only thing he could.

  As he boarded the sloop that would carry him to England, he knew that he would not set foot in France again. That part of his life was over, and could be stored with all the other regrets and hurts, in the past. England, Delia, and his future, lay ahead.

  ***

  The progress of Torgreave and Bowland, from Dover to London, was slow, for rain turned the road to a treacherous sea of mud. Torgreave arrived in London a day later than he had hoped and found his belongings, as he had requested, in a room at Long's Hotel.

  Wearied by the trip, and with his spirits still impaired, he ordered a meal. Then frowning at his grimy image in the mirror, he sent Bowland for hot water and a tub. He slid out of his near-ruined riding coat, and ripped off his neckcloth.

  He had bathed, but had only just pulled on fresh biscuit pantaloons when, after a brief knock, the door was thrust open. Charles stood in the opening, a haggard, dejected figure.

  Rupert crossed the room in three strides to seize his brother's shoulders. "What in God's name has happened?" he demanded.

  His younger brother pushed him away roughly and slammed the door. "You," he snapped. "You happened to my life. I thought our reunion wonderful, but you have ruined everything."

  "I can see our positions are reversed from where they stood on my departure," Rupert said. "I have good report. Augustus is, it appears, Delia's father. What is your news?"

  "Augustus, Delia's father?" The younger man was bewildered, but overcome by his own anguish. He achieved a sneer. "My news? Well, it will be public in a day or two. My betrothal is ended...ended because Sir Thomas heard of your debauch at Grillon's, and realized you had not changed. He will not allow his daughter to be allied with my family. So while your hopes are realized, mine are dashed. Because of your godforsaken whims and appetites. My father was right about you, every last word."

  He staggered to a chair and sat, burying his face in his hands.

  Rupert shuddered, remembering of De Charney and his brother.

  "Many would agree with you, and him," he said. He shrugged off his weariness. He crossed the room to his brother's side and laid his hand on a bowed shoulder. It was permitted to remain.

  "I will see Sir Thomas. I will make it right. I regret that night. It was, I think, an old reaction to trouble. I was used to defy my father with every revel I celebrated. They were a pathetic defiance of his rules and strictures. I now know debauchery no longer satisfies me. Your happiness means as much to me as my own. My father, I hope, was not correct, for he saw only the worst in me."

  "If you can make this right, it will be a miracle," the younger man said. "When shall you go?"

  "Now," Rupert responded, as Bowland entered with his shaving implements. "As soon as I am presentable." Bowland began to lather the shaving soap, and Rupert seized the razor.

  "Go lie on the bed, Charles," he said over his shoulder. "You look as though you haven't slept for days."

  "I have my own chamber," his brother protested.

  "Lie down!"

  His brother obeyed, and within minutes was asleep.

  Rupert exchanged a grim look with his valet, and applied himself to shaving. He condemned his father as he scraped his face, and he damned himself for his thoughtless response to his father's repression.

  It was all the old man's fault, and yet it was not, for he was himself responsible for his reaction to his father's actions. He had sworn six months ago to change, to make himself a good life, to live to the benefit of others, and challenge the assumptions that his now dead father had made of him. And he had changed, but one challenge from fate had sent him slipping back, into old ways and useless habits.

  Never again. It would not happen again, and Charles should never suffer again through him. He made the promise to himself, and to De Charney and De Charney's dead brother. He would see Charles happy.

  ***

  Determination fueled Torgreave when he trod up the steps of the Slimbridge house in North Audley Street. He pulled the bell and was admitted immediately. Thanks to Bowland's efforts, he was the epitome of sartorial perfection. His linen was impeccable, his corbeau coat sleekly brushed, even his over-long black hair was immaculately ordered. His intentions were no less orderly. He would see Charles' bethrothal restored, and with it, his happiness. He would accept nothing less.

  After presenting his request to see Sir Thomas, he was shown to the drawing room. Although justice motivated him, impatience was his chief emotion. His only real desire was to see Delia...to disclose his discovery to her, to see her beautiful face again. Selfishness again, he realized.

  The door opened, and he swung around to see Lady Slimbridge entering.

  "My lord." She offered her hand, and he saluted it gracefully. "You look better than the night of our ill fated rout."

  "I thought I conceale
d my emotion well," he frowned.

  "I am thought to be an acute observer."

  "Then you may wish to know that several difficult problems have been resolved, and I mean to wed Delia."

  "I am very happy to hear it. You will suit very well." She seated herself and waved him to a chair. "Sir Thomas will not see you," she said.

  "I believe I understand his concerns, but they are unfounded. I am here to convince him of it. No notice has been sent to the papers?"

  "No. My daughter is in great distress. We deemed it best to wait."

  "My brother is also overset. My thoughtless actions have caused many people distress for several years. That is ended, I assure you."

  She considered him thoughtfully in silence. "I believe you," she said then, "but will Sir Thomas?"

  "If you will permit me to go to him?"

  "He is in the library. William -- in the hall -- will guide you."

  ***

  Torgreave returned to Long's Hotel in the early evening. He ordered a supper to be brought to his chamber, and mounted the stairs noisily two at a time. He entered his chamber quietly however, and found his brother still asleep on the bed. Bowland had removed the rector's boots and drawn a coverlet over him.

  "Wake up, Charlie," Rupert prodded his brother.

  "Damn you, Rupert! What is it?" Charles sat up. Full consciousness came to him with its memories. "Aghhh," he groaned, thrusting back his dark hair.

  Rupert removed his coat and tossed it on the table. He threw himself into a chair. "Your wedding date is June 6, brother mine. Banns to be read beginning next Sunday, Sir Thomas holding to tradition."

  Charles showed a pardonable confusion, with joy just dawning.

  "You...Rupert...did you...you did."

  "You are incomprehensible, dear boy," Torgreave drawled. "Sir Thomas has withdrawn his objections, and you remain betrothed to Miss Slimbridge."

  "How?" His brother managed to get out only the single syllable.

  "Lady Slimbridge. He was hostile, refused at first to see me," Rupert sobered a little. "However when I appeared unannounced in his library, he had to talk to me. I apologized for the pain I caused. I grovelled a little. It seemed to please him. Then I explained my ill-judged debauch in light of Delia's rejection of me. And I told him I still had hopes of being respectably wed to her. After I informed him of my interest in sobriety and domesticity, he relented. He even mentioned a few, very few, wild exploits of his. Finally we discussed my plans for Manningford. He seemed to find them of considerable interest."