by Mia Marlowe
John caught his reflection in the tail of his eye as he passed the tall, decorative mirror on one of the grand staircase’s landings.
Porter was right.
He couldn’t look more aristocratic if he’d been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. So much the better for his plan.
He only wished he’d been able to speak to Rebecca about it first. Perhaps if he arrived in the drawing room early enough, he’d be able to pull her aside for a few moments. When he reached the foot of the staircase, he quickened his pace.
“Hartley, a word in your ear before we go through to our guests.” From the shadows in the corner of the foyer, the dowager’s voice stopped him in his tracks. They had yet to speak more than a few words to each other, and John was content to keep it that way. However, good manners required him to stop and acknowledge her with a shallow bow. He wouldn’t think of her as his grandmother, but he couldn’t deny she had been a marchioness.
“My lady.”
“I had wished to speak with you earlier, but you have been avoiding me.”
“You’re mistaken.” Avoiding her would require him to be aware of her. Since she had blithely dismissed him for most of his life, he was merely returning the favor.
“Be that as it may…” Leaning heavily on her ivory-headed cane, Lady Somerset the elder stepped from where she’d obviously been lying in wait for him. “My, you’re quite…presentable, aren’t you?”
“You needn’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. It is to be quite expected.” Pulling out her lorgnette and holding it to one eye, she circled him slowly, making a thorough inspection. “After all, you are a Barrett.”
“How gracious of you to finally come to that conclusion,” he said, his tone biting.
“You might give me a bit of credit.” She dropped the lorgnette, letting it dangle on its silver chain, and whipped out her fan, fluttering it furiously before herself. “When one is not in full possession of the facts of a matter, it is easy to make a lapse in judgment.”
“A lapse in judgment,” John repeated woodenly. “Is that how you explain relegating your own flesh and blood to obscurity?”
“I did not know—”
“That I was legitimate. Yes, I’ll give you that. However, you didn’t doubt I was your son’s progeny. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have provided for the Coopersmiths to foster me. I’d have been cast out on the streets to fend for myself.”
The dowager’s lips tightened into a thin line, like the mark of a spade on an old potato. “How heartless you must think me.”
“Madam, I try very hard not to think of you at all.”
When he would have moved on, she lifted a hand to stay him. “My husband had died a scant month before Hugh was expected to wed Lady Helen. That match was his final wish. Once I was made aware of you, there were so many decisions clamoring at me and no time to make them. Would you have had me upend my husband’s last act as marquess and overturn my son’s happiness for a child we all believed was…”
A bastard was left hanging unsaid. John let it echo in the silence.
“Nevertheless,” the dowager plowed on, “I wish to express…that is to say, regret is not a very fruitful emotion, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have any.”
John blinked in surprise. It was almost an apology.
“However, the past is the past and has little bearing on our present. You must realize now that everything which has been done was for your benefit.”
“I fail to see how growing up as an unacknowledged bastard redounded to my benefit.”
“You are very bitter. I understand that.”
“How gratifying to be understood.”
He took a step in the direction of the drawing room, but the dowager put a bejeweled hand on his forearm to stop him.
“You haven’t let me finish.”
“Trust me, madam, as far as I’m concerned, you are finished.” He shook her off and started to walk away.
“John Fitzhugh Barrett!”
He stopped and rounded on her. “I don’t believe I’ve given you leave to address me by my Christian name.”
“I don’t believe I asked your leave, you impertinent pup.” She glared up at him. “I call all my grandchildren by their given names. Why should you be any different? Now come back here this instant and give me your arm. We’ll go through together. You may be the handsomest devil in Somerfield Park this evening, and the most eligible bachelor in Christendom, but even you will benefit from having a veritable institution at your side. And trust me, I am that.”
John hesitated, wrestling with himself. Part of him wanted to remain aloof and untouchable.
Don’t let anyone close and you won’t give them a chance to turn on you.
Another part wanted to offer his arm to this woman who considered herself his grandmother enough to scold him and call him by name.
The six-year-old who still lived inside him won.
“That’s better,” the dowager said as she slipped her bony knuckles around his elbow. “I knew you were quick-minded.”
“This is when good form would oblige me to say I come from good stock.”
“Oh, my dear boy, one is never obliged to acknowledge the obvious.” She chuckled at her own wit. “Now, this evening, all you have to do is smile and make polite conversation. Think no more upon your past and no one else will either.”
That would be easier said than done.
They paused at the drawing room door, and she placed a slightly trembling hand on his chest. “The weight of the entire family is behind you, John. This night, you can do no wrong.”
Want to bet? he thought, still stubbornly set on implementing his plan. This changes nothing.
The door before them swung open as if by magic.
* * *
“Sit here, Mother, and I’ll see if the footman will fetch you something to drink.” Rebecca helped Lady Kearsey into a chair beside the cheery drawing room fire. The room was so full of glittering people engaged in less-than-glittering small talk, Rebecca was fortunate to find an empty place for her mother to sit. Her parents had arrived that afternoon, along with all the other guests, but Rebecca hadn’t seen them until now.
“Oh, no, dear,” her mother said breathlessly. The blue vein at her temple showed clearly through alabaster skin. “Don’t make a fuss. I’ll be fine until we go through to dinner.”
“I’m sure you’ll start to feel better here in the country, my dear,” Rebecca’s father said solicitously. “The fresh air alone is better than a tonic.”
“Undoubtedly, you’re right,” Lady Kearsey said with typical agreeableness. She’d have said the same thing if Lord Kearsey had announced that standing on her head would have a beneficial effect. Sometimes Rebecca wondered if her mother had made a bargain with God that He’d allow her to remain on earth so long as she was amenable to all and a burden to none.
Rebecca’s father leaned down and whispered for their ears alone. “And our pockets might benefit from this country excursion as well. I overheard Lord Blackwood talking about a poque game later.”
“Oh, Father.” Rebecca didn’t feel the need to whisper. She loved her father, but the lure of a deck of cards was as much a sickness as her mother’s consumption. “Please don’t.”
Lord Kearsey narrowed his eyes at her. “Daughter, because I’m so pleased you provided us with an entry into this little gathering, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear the censure in your tone. It is not becoming for a daughter to reprimand her father.”
It’s not becoming for a father to need one leaped to the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. She didn’t know what he’d have to gamble with, in any case. She didn’t have any more jewelry for him to pawn.
Rebecca was wearing only an ecru-colored ribbon at her throat to compliment the off-white mus
lin that was her best remaining gown. She’d thought the embroidered bodice exceptionally fine until she saw some of the other ensembles parading around the Somerfield Park drawing room. She’d never seen so much silk and satin in one place, so many furbelows and flounces. It was as if fashion plates had come to life and were on parade.
She heartily wished she still had the blue gown that had been ruined in that boxing crib in Whitechapel. Try as she might, it was beyond redemption and had to be cut up to be pieced into a quilt her mother was working.
“Rebecca, dearest, go on,” her mother said, mistaking her intent gaze at the other visitors for a desire to engage them in conversation. “Please don’t trouble yourself with us tonight. Your friend Lady Winifred seems to be trying to catch your eye.”
Freddie was practicing her fan language. She touched her ivory and silk accessory along the edge repeatedly, while shooting pointed looks in their direction. As nearly as Rebecca could recall, that gesture meant either “You are cruel,” or “I’m married. Go away,” or “I want to talk to you.”
When the plain sense makes sense, seek no other sense. “I’m guessing she wants to talk to me.”
“Have a lovely evening, and we’ll chat later. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon…” Her mother’s voice drifted into a breathy whisper.
Rebecca gave her a peck on the cheek and started across the room to Freddie. At least as long as her mother was up and about, her father was bound to behave himself. It was only once Lady Kearsey was out of sight that he’d be tempted to ruin by a deck of cards. Perhaps she could mention something to John about keeping him occupied once the gentlemen separated from the ladies.
“You look lovely tonight,” she told Freddie.
“I should. Father spent the earth on my wardrobe for this house party.” Freddie’s gown was white with a small print pattern overlaid in the color of a robin’s egg on lovely watered silk. A full two inches of matching ribbon and lace from her petticoat showed at the hem. “When this is all over, I’m thinking of donating every stitch of new clothing to the Society for the Improvement of Morals among the Lower Classes. They are doing such important work with the prostitutes in Whitechapel. Correct clothing leads to correct morals, you know.”
Rebecca tried to imagine one of the slatternly wretches she’d seen during her brief foray into that district in one of Freddie’s castoffs. Chances were the unfortunate recipient of Freddie’s largess would simply sell the dress on the second-hand clothing market. The proceeds would probably feed her for a month.
“Yes, indeed, one can tell a good deal about a person from their wardrobe,” Freddie went on. “For instance, do you know who that woman is over there? The one who’s draped herself so artfully over the chaise longue?”
It was the woman John had handed down from the carriage earlier today. Now, instead of the gaudy red dress, she was wearing a shocking shade of yellow called jonquil. No flower ever bared so much cleavage.
“No, I don’t know her.” But John evidently does.
“She’s Lady Chloe Endicott, the one who styles herself the Merry Widow.”
“Goodness, that’s cold.”
“But unfailingly accurate,” Freddie said. “The woman has buried no less than four husbands, all of them under suspicious circumstances, and rumor has it that she’s looking for number five!”
“She’s no debutante.” Rebecca noted that every other young lady in the room was flanked by doting parents. “She doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the party. I wonder why she’s here.”
“Rumor has it Lord Hartley invited her himself. I greatly fear his lordship is living down to my expectations if he keeps company with her sort.”
“Perhaps he feels sorry for her,” Rebecca said, grasping at an innocent reason John might have for consorting with the lady. “After all, she is a widow.”
Freddie cast her a pitying look, as if she were a not-quite-bright child. “We may hope Lord Hartley notices that Lady Chloe is decidedly long in the tooth.”
All the other young women in the room were close to Rebecca and Freddie’s age of twenty. Some even younger. While Lady Chloe was still a strikingly handsome woman, she’d never see thirty again.
“That doesn’t seem to be a deterrent to the gentlemen.” In addition to the three fellows Rebecca recognized as John’s companions from the boxing crib fiasco, there were several other men hovering around Lady Chloe. She was holding court, obviously relating a funny tale, for they all threw back their heads and laughed.
“Not to mention that association with Lady Chloe is not conducive to a man’s longevity,” Freddie continued uncharitably.
“If you know these things about her, surely Joh—Lord Hartley knows them too.”
“Yes, but what a man knows with his head doesn’t always sway what he knows with his other less contemplative parts.” Freddie cast her a suggestive look.
“Freddie, that’s positively wicked.” The solid feel of John pressed against her hip as he initiated her in delight rushed back into her. Rebecca knew firsthand about those “less than contemplative parts.” Where had Freddie come by such knowledge? “I’m surprised at you.”
“Nevertheless,” Freddie said with a sniff, “it’s true.”
“Well, I’m not one to believe every bit of gossip I hear. Someone may spread unpleasant lies about me sometime, and I wouldn’t want others to believe it without giving me a chance to convince them otherwise,” Rebecca said. “Let’s go meet her.”
“Oh, no, we mustn’t. Scandal taints everyone within its reach, and that woman fairly reeks of it.”
If John invited the lady to Somerfield Park, Rebecca wanted to know why. “If you won’t go with me, I’ll go by myself,” she said and started across the room.
Twenty
If one catches me smiling when there’s nothing amusing afoot, it’s because I’m contemplating doing something I really ought not. However, if I’m chuckling under my breath, it means I’ve already done it.
—Lady Chloe Endicott
Rebecca wasn’t sure how to approach Lady Chloe. They hadn’t been properly introduced, and she didn’t know any of the respectable gentlemen surrounding the lady who might be relied upon to do the honors. Lord Blackwood and his toadies didn’t count. It occurred to Rebecca that she was about to commit the same social faux pas that John had when he spoke to her in the museum without benefit of introduction.
Rebecca hoped Lady Chloe would be kinder to her than she and Freddie had been to John. The lady’s smile was encouraging.
Rebecca dipped in a shallow curtsy. “How do you do?”
“According to the gossips, I do entirely too well and far too often.” The lady rose to her feet and dropped a correct curtsy in return. “I’m Lady Chloe Endicott, but then you probably know that.”
Rebecca repeated her curtsy, still not sure what to say. All the guidebooks for correct behavior she and Freddie patterned their lives after had neglected to give instruction on how to make the acquaintance of a self-admitted merry widow.
“You’re very brave, whoever you are,” Lady Chloe said. “None of the other women here would spit on me if I were on fire.”
“Only because spitting is not the done thing,” popped into Rebecca’s head and out her mouth before she could censor herself. Had her night on the roof with John removed all her inhibitions?
The lady laughed. Whatever else she was, Lady Chloe didn’t take herself too seriously, and she harbored no illusions about her welcome in this company. Rebecca admired her pluck.
“My lady,” Lord Blackwood said, his voice as smooth as oil, “may I present Miss Rebecca Kearsey?”
“Oh, so you’re Miss Kearsey, she of the boxing crib fame. It must have been wildly exciting to have two men exchange blows over you. I confess it sounds quite…exhilarating.” Lady Chloe took Rebecca’s arm and started a slow walk around the room with her
, seemingly oblivious to the way heads turned to follow their progress.
“Perhaps it would have been, had I not been tied up at the time,” Rebecca said in a whisper. From the corner of her eye, she saw Freddie’s jaw drop in horrified fascination. Even if her conversation with Lady Chloe couldn’t be overheard, this little promenade firmly equated Rebecca with the infamous Merry Widow in the minds of the other guests.
“Really? I’d have thought being tied up would add something to the experience,” she said with a throaty laugh. “Despite your naiveté, I do believe you and I shall get on swimmingly, Miss Kearsey. Lord Hartley has told me so much about you.”
“How very surprising.” Rebecca’s cheeks heated as she wondered what John might have told this wholly unorthodox woman—or even why he was connected with her in the first place. “He neglected to mention you.”
“Oh, my dear, you should consider that a good sign. Clearly, he had other things on his mind when he was with you if he failed to drop my name.” Her very red mouth tilted in a crooked smile. “But a word of advice. Never believe a man will tell you about other women in his circle of acquaintance. My husbands never did, God rest them. At least, one may hope they’re at rest now. I certainly gave them little enough of that while they were alive. But back to your dealings with gentlemen. May I advise lowered expectations where they are concerned? It reduces disappointment, you know.”
Rebecca had been prepared to like Lady Chloe for John’s sake, since she must be a friend of his. But the lady’s words sounded more like a warning than friendly advice.
“And yet expectation seems to be the watchword for this house party,” Rebecca said. “What is yours, if I may ask?”
She cast a smile of promise to the group of gentlemen she’d recently abandoned to walk with Rebecca. “Why, the same as every other unattached woman here—to find a husband, of course.”
The door to the drawing room opened slowly and Lord Hartley entered with the dowager marchioness on his arm. Framed in the doorway, the two of them were dazzling. A net of gems was set in the dowager’s iron-gray coiffure. More winked at her wattled throat and wrists. John needed no jewels to draw every eye in the room. His dark good looks were devastating enough when he’d been in nothing but his shirtsleeves in that boxing crib. In full dress, he made Rebecca’s mouth go dry.
