The Countess and the Rake

by Georgette Brown

  “I HAVE NO DESIRE TO grant him an audience today,” Gertie informed the Lowry butler as she donned her bonnet. “Nor do I expect to have a change of heart the morrow.”

  “Lord Barclay will ask, as he has done the past dozen times, if you would—” the man began.

  “He may ask a hundred times, the answer shall be the same,” Gertie declared as she buttoned her riding jacket over her olive green gown.

  The butler hung his head. “Very well, your ladyship.”

  Gertie regretted her curtness with the butler, but she could not help but be cross whenever she had to think of that Phineas Barclay. Perhaps she needed to pay a visit to the Ballroom to relieve her nerves. It had been a sennight since last she went, attempting to dispel the anguish over Alexander and his mistress. Although the anguish remained, Hephaestus did provide some relief in the form of a distraction. She had been tempted to return earlier, curious to learn whether he had given up on Lady Athena, but she wanted some distance between them, some time to recapture her old form. Perhaps he would have moved on in her absence, and she would be relieved by it—and a little sorrowful. But it would prove much safer if they parted ways. She could not shake the suspicion that he was up to something.

  “Perhaps my lady would like one of her maids to ride along?” the footman inquired when her horse had been brought around to the front of the house.

  “I would keep them unnecessarily from their tasks,” Gertie answered as she stepped onto the footstool and mounted the steed. “I can manage quite well on my own.”

  Taking the reins, she barely managed to guide the horse beyond the square when a voice stopped her. At first she thought it was Hephaestus, and her heart nearly stopped. She had been discovered! But how?

  She turned around slowly and saw instead Lord Barclay, mounted gloriously on a trotter. With his graceful posture and smart attire—a French striped coat with square tails and black bicorn—he cut a most gallant figure.

  “Good day, Lady Lowry,” he greeted.

  The most simple words throbbed with sensuality when spoken by him. Gertie straightened her back and prepared her armor.

  “I fear I am indisposed at the moment,” she replied. “I have an engagement to keep.”

  He looked around her. “You are riding sans a chaperone?”

  “I am no young maid but a married woman of many years.”

  “You have six and twenty years—hardly an old matron.”

  She ground her teeth. For some reason it irked her that he knew her age, but then there was little that did not irk her with Lord Barclay.

  “I should be delighted to accompany you to your destination.”

  Her eyes widened before she could stop them. The last thing she desired was his company! Glancing towards the sun, she saw that the day was much later than she had hoped, and she did not wish to keep little Peggy waiting.

  “That will not be necessary,” she informed him. Of all people, Lord Barclay would be the least qualified to serve as a woman’s chaperone!

  As if reading her mind, he said, “Any indignity of our riding together would be mitigated as you are a married woman of many years.”

  “I am in some hurry.”

  “Where do you go, m’ lady?”

  Gertie shifted in her seat, causing her horse to scamper in its place. Wanting an end to their conversation, she replied truthfully, “St. Giles.”

  “The parish?”

  “Yes, and if you would be a gentleman, I should like to delay no longer.”

  He frowned. “You cannot venture to St. Giles alone.”

  “I can manage quite well on my own,” she snapped. “I have been there many times before alone.”

  “I would be a poor gentleman if I allowed you there.”

  “Thankfully I do not require your permission.”

  She urged her horse forward.

  “Then you will have to suffer my company,” he said, reigning his horse next to hers.

  Gertie bristled, but there was little she could do if she intended to keep her engagement. They rode in silence for most of the way—which baffled her since he had sought her audience. Now that he had the opportunity to speak with her, he said nothing. How perturbing this man was!

  She allowed herself one glance in his direction when she thought he wasn’t looking. He seemed perfectly at ease, content to be accompanying her as if they were out for a spring ride in the woodlands instead of heading into one of London’s poorest parishes. The only time he appeared bothered was when the stench of human waste and refuse that had been tossed out the windows proved too much. He had pulled out a scented handkerchief to cover his nose. Despite the hour, they passed a tavern where two men lay prone in the streets, sleeping off the effects of rot-gut gin.

  They stopped before a two-storied building in need of a new roof. Most of its windows had lost at least one if not both shutters. A faded wooden sign above the door read Orphan Asylum for Girls. Gertie dismounted before Barclay could offer to assist her and rang the bell. She turned to inform Lord Barclay that she would be a while, but he, too, had dismounted.

  An older woman opened the door and showed them into a small parlor. Gertie sat upon the settee. Barclay, after a skeptical review of the furniture, opted to remain standing. A short, stout gentleman whose grey hairline cut a crescent at the top of his head entered the room, followed by a gaggle of little girls. Gertie smiled upon seeing their delighted faces. Her friend Harrietta, the Marchioness of Dunnesford, had introduced her to the orphanage. They would often come together, but now that the Marchioness had a child of her own and spent more of her time at Dunnesford, Gertie had taken to visiting the orphanage by herself.

  “Lady Lowry,” greeted Mr. Winters, the founder of the orphan asylum. He noticed Barclay. “Ah, this must be your husband, the Earl?”

  Gertie flushed as she watched the man bow obsequiously before Barclay.

  “This is the Baron Barclay,” she supplied. “A close relation.”

  Without looking, she could feel Barclay’s brows rise in amusement for he no doubt remembered that she had described him as a distant cousin at the Bennington ball.

  “Welcome, sir,” Mr. Winters said. “I am Mr. Winters. May I offer you some tea?”

  “Thank you, no,” Gertie answered for the both of them. This would have to be one of her shorter visits.

  “Lady Lowry, Lady Lowry!” a couple of girls chanted. “I have sewn the lace you gave us to my cap!”

  “’ave you brought us a treat?” asked a girl with freckles splashed across her nose.

  “Catherine!” Mr. Winters chided.

  “Of course!” Gertie replied as she pulled a small satchel of confections from her reticule.

  The girls squealed and thrust their eager hands before her. The room fell silent save for the sounds of chomping.

  “Aw come we ain’t seen you afore?” one of the girls asked Barclay.

  “Maggie, that is no way to address a gentleman,” Mr. Winters admonished.

  “I confess I knew not the existence of this place before today,” Barclay replied with ease.

  “What sort of relation are you to Lady Lowry?” Catherine inquired.

  Gertie interjected, “Tell me, girls, what activities you have engaged in this week? Did you like the books Lady Aubrey sent you?”

  “Aw like your garments,” Maggie said to Barclay. “Aw ‘ave a drawing of a prince in one of me books. You look as if you could be a prince.”

  Barclay gave her a warm smile.

  “A prince who dances with the princess,” supplied another girl. “Do you dance, sir?”

  “When the occasion arises,” he answered.

  “It is not often that these girls meet a gentleman,” Mr. Winters apologized. “If you should find them taxing–”

  “You are to be applauded for fostering such inquisitive minds.”

  Gertie stared at Barclay, surprised and reluctantly impressed by his patience.

  “I should dearly like to learn to
dance,” sighed Catherine, “and to attend a ball! Like Cendrillon!”

  “A minuet!” added another girl.

  “Is it very hard to dance the minuet, Lady Lowry?”

  “Not particularly difficult,” Gertie said.

  “Can you show us?”

  Gertie hesitated.

  The girls jumped up and down. “Show us! Show us!”

  “Very well,” said Gertie, rising to her feet. She turned to Mr. Winters, who shook his head.

  “I have not danced in too many years,” he explained.

  “With the prince!” Maggie cried.

  “Yes! Yes! With Lord Barclay!” the girls shouted as they clapped.

  Gertie stole a glance at Barclay, who did not appear averse to the idea. He stepped towards her and bowed. She looked at the hand he presented to her. Not wanting to disappoint the girls, she placed her own hand in his. He grasped her hand firmly and gently led her to the center of the room.

  “It is rather difficult without the music,” she began.

  “First you perform the honors,” Barclay told them. He bowed to the girls, then to her. “A basic step consists of four steps in six beats of music.”

  They demonstrated starting with a plié on the left foot, rising to the ball of the right foot before straightening the legs and bringing their heels together. The motion was repeated starting with the opposite foot. They stepped forward, then sank into a plié.

  The girls applauded. “Once more! Once more!”

  Gertie felt the pronounced thudding of her heart against her chest. Barclay sought her gaze for permission. She nodded. He turned her around and they repeated the steps in the opposite direction. His hand felt warm and comforting about hers. He would not lead her astray and seemed to imbue her with his own grace and elegance, the hallmark of the minuet. When they finished and performed the honors, her head felt light, giddy with accomplishment.

  “How marvelously lovely!” Catherine exclaimed. “How I wish I could dance the minuet!”

  “Would you do me the honor then, my lady?” Barclay asked with a sweeping bow.

  This threw the girls into another frenzy. The flush upon Catherine’s face was so deep, her freckles disappeared, but she executed a curtsy and eagerly put her little hand in his. Glad for the respite, Gertie sat back to watch Barclay as he instructed Catherine on the steps. After Catherine, many of the others wanted a turn. He humored each and every one of them and proved a skilled dance master. Soon the room was filled with girls dancing the minuet.

  The smiles and giggles made Gertie glow. A part of her frost towards Barclay thawed, though in truth, it had begun to the instant he took her hand for the minuet and stared into her eyes as if he had wanted to dance with her. How that could be when she as good as loathed the man stunned her. That same hand had fondled Sarah Farrington, had drawn cries of ecstasy, and the memory both disconcerted and excited Gertie. She could not keep her mind from wondering how his hand would feel upon her own body.

  It was deucedly unfair that a man of his sort should have such powers to charm. Even the little ones fell victim to his spell, Gertie noticed wryly as the girls argued over who would have a second dance with Barclay.

  “That is quite enough,” Mr. Winters pronounced, eliciting a chorus of moans. “If Lord Barclay is amenable, I should like to show him the grounds.”

  Barclay surprised her by accepting the invitation. The girls followed. Gertie shook her head at how quickly they had forgotten her in favor of their ‘prince,’ but smiled at how much they had enjoyed their dancing. Foregoing the tour, she made her way upstairs to the nursery, where she found Mrs. Devon, a wet nurse who had worked in the orphan asylum for over twenty years, in the midst of swaddling a thrashing babe.

  “I was about to bathe the wee one when Peggy awoke from her slumber cross as can be,” Mrs. Devon explained. “I fed her but still she hollers.”

  Gertie took the howling babe from Mrs. Devon and paced about the room as she bounced the child in her arms. Peggy had been in the asylum three months. A man had delivered her here after finding her in a dwelling that had caught fire from an unattended hearth. Peggy had been badly burned, and Gertie’s heart broke upon seeing the charred skin. They had bathed her in ointments and salves to ease the blisters. Her skin was finally beginning to heal, but she still had patches of red and white. Nonetheless, Gertie thought her beautiful.

  With Peggy occupied, Mrs. Devon was able to tend to the other infants. Gertie sang to little Peggy, eventually seating herself in a rocking chair. After sucking on Gertie’s finger, Peggy drifted into sleep. How calming the warm little bundle felt in her arms, Gertie reveled as she stared down at the small splotchy face. She imagined that she would never tire of holding Peggy. She would be content and want for nothing more if only she could have a Peggy for her own. Even the mighty Lady Athena would bow to such a sweet creature.

  Feeling eyes upon her, Gertie looked up. Lord Barclay stood upon the threshold. How long had he been there? she wondered.

  “It grows dark soon, my lady,” he informed her, his voice low as not to wake the sleeping babes.

  Gertie nodded. Rising, she reluctantly returned Peggy to Mrs. Devon. Downstairs in the parlor, the girls clamored for Lord Barclay to return.

  “You will bring him again, will you not?” Catherine begged Gertie.

  “Will you show us another dance next time?” another asked.

  “Well, I—I suspect Lord Barclay is a busy man,” Gertie stuttered.

  “On the contrary, my schedule is quite open,” Barclay supplied.

  Gertie bristled for he seemed amused to gainsay her. “Let us—we shall see then, my darlings.”

  Barclay bid adieu with a gallant leg to the little girls, who gathered at the door to wave to them and see them off until their horses rounded the block and went out of view. Silence descended once again between them. Gertie decided to fill the void.

  “It was...kind of you to learn the girls how to dance.”

  “It would have been unseemly to deny such eager students.”

  “You have a—you have endeared them to you. I confess I thought your charms reserved for...” She could not finish the thought as the memory of him and Sarah came to mind.

  “I have two younger sisters,” he explained. “Prudence, the youngest, is nearly twenty years my junior.”

  “Ah. I have not met her. She has not had her come-out, I take it?”

  “Another year. She is in no hurry, though I would merit her with having the greatest maturity amongst us Barclays despite her years.”

  “I should have liked to have had a sister,” Gertie thought aloud. “A younger one.”

  “You have many at the asylum.”

  “Yes, though I feel more like a doddering aunt to them at times. They are quite lively.”

  “I have no doubt they could eat a man alive with the voracity of a pack of wolves,” he reflected.

  Gertie chuckled. “They would not eat you alive. You have entranced them—like a snake charmer.”

  He studied her. “Somehow I think I am at once the charmer and the snake?”

  “Yes, well...there is the matter of your repute, sir. Alas, you have a way with the fair sex, young and old—or so I am told.”

  And witnessed. Gertie scolded herself for surely she had given him an opening to make a spiteful remark as he had that night at the ball.

  “And you have a way with the littlest ones,” he said. “The one named Peggy—she suits you.”

  Perhaps she was nearing her menses, when maudlin sentiments could overcome her, for she nearly choked at hearing his words. She had never told anyone how much she longed for a child of her own. For a man she barely knew to have come close to touching that chord was too much.

  “She survived a horrific fire,” she explained, feeling safer discussing the babe. “She was apparently alone, and whoever cared for her did not return to claim her.”

  “Hers is a cruel world.”

  “Yes, but what I h
ave learned from the girls at the asylum is that children are remarkable creatures. They are driven to be happy, their resiliency unmatched. Their presence invigorates me.”

  “Indeed? I think they have drained me completely of my vigor.”

  An inadvertent laugh escaped her lips. “All the better, that you may wreak less of your mischief.”

  She caught herself voicing her thoughts aloud and quickly added, “In truth, I find the girls tiring at times as well.”

  But he would not be diverted so easily. “And you disapprove of my ‘mischief.’”

  She caught her lower lip beneath her teeth. To her surprise, she was enjoying her tête-à-tête with him and had no wish to be reminded of their night at the Bennington ball.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Why?”

  “Who does not?”

  “Is it so hard a question for you to answer?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “The mark of a self-absorbed man is one who insists the conversation revolve around him.”

  Turning up her nose, she quickened the pace of her horse. But he matched her and grabbed her reins, forcing her to turn and face him.

  “If you disapprove, why did you watch us?”

  Her heart began to beat rapidly, and she had to force herself not to look away from his intense stare.

  “You came into the room of a sudden,” she threw at him.

  “You did not have to hide and...observe.”

  “I did not...” She felt herself turn red. “I hid only because...oh, you are an insufferable man!”

  To add insult to injury, he threw his head back and laughed. “I have had much worse said of me, madam.”

  “I am sure you have!” she snapped with a tug of the reins.

  “Do not mistake that I disapprove of your Peeping Tom. I understand its titillation.”

  She sucked in an incredulous breath. “You overstep your bounds, my lord, if you think I am a woman who would discuss such matters with you!”

  She jerked her reins free from her hand. Fortunately, Lowry House was just around the corner.

  “You prefer dialogue with Alexander.”

  “Decent folk would not–”

  The specter of Lady Athena would not allow her to finish her sentence.