The Spinster and the Rake

by Anne Stuart

“As if I cared for such trumpery things,” Bertram scoffed. “I’ve a great deal more on my mind than parties and such.”

  Gillian surveyed him with tolerant affection. The first of a seemingly endless line of nieces and nephews, he now, at the advanced age of nineteen, considered himself a gentleman of town bronze. Gillian suspected he fell far short of the mark and had noticed his increasing abstraction over the past two weeks since he had been sent down in disgrace from Oxford. A tentative question here and there was always turned off with a hearty laugh, but the haunted look had stayed in his trusting brown eyes, and he had developed a tendency to bite his full lower lip when no one was looking. “And what is on your mind, dearest?” she questioned gently. “If there’s any way I can help, you have only to let me know.”

  “As if I’d bother my favorite aunt with a few silly problems,” he scoffed, brushing a speck of imaginary lint from his coat. “A fine sort I’d be.”

  “But what else are aunts for? Truly, Bertie, I’ve been around for a bit and am not a complete innocent. You won’t shock me, you know.”

  “Doing it rather too brown, Gilly. You’re only eleven years older than I am, more like an older sister than an aunt. And one doesn’t tell one’s older sister everything.” He jumped out of the comfortable seat and began pacing restlessly about the room. “I just need a bit of time, and everything will come round right in the end.”

  “Is it money, Bertie? Because if it is, I have a great deal, you know, and scarcely any use for it. You could have any amount . . .”

  “I’d rather drown,” he said fiercely. “I appreciate the thought, Gilly, but I know in my bones that the luck will change. It can’t stay against me forever.”

  These artless confidences instilled even greater dread in Gillian’s heart, and she was searching for a way to continue the discussion when Felicity floated into the room, a vision in pale pink muslin.

  “Well, my aging aunt, you look positively terrible,” she announced with her usual forthrightness. “Are you never going to wear your new green dress instead of that wretched gray thing? One would think you were in mourning.”

  “I am, darling,” she replied flippantly. “For my lost youth.”

  An expression of absolute horror came over Felicity’s delicate countenance. “Your lost youth!” she echoed, aghast. “Oh, my heavens, it cannot be March twenty-sixth already!”

  Now it was Gillian’s turn to blush. “I hadn’t meant to mention it,” she said apologetically. “It is extremely embarrassing for people when they forget.”

  “Forget what?” Bertie questioned, mystified.

  “Today is Gillian’s thirtieth birthday,” Felicity declaimed in tragic tones. “And no one remembered.”

  “Why didn’t you remind us?” accused Bertie. “How do you expect us to remember things like that when the world’s in the state it’s in?”

  “Well, actually, I did mention it,” Gillian ventured in a meek voice. “I said something about it last Friday, and then after church, and yesterday at breakfast.” She smiled mischievously. “You see, I wanted to be certain I received a great many presents, but obviously I was served by my just desserts.”

  “Well, I’m not as wicked as I seem, Gilly,” Felicity said, tossing herself down by her aunt with her customary lack of decorum. “I did try to buy you a present. You remember that pretty locket we saw in the jeweler’s shop when Lord Marlowe walked us home? And the diamond ear-bobs you admired?”

  “Felicity, dearest, they were both far too expensive!” Gillian protested.

  “Well, I expected Papa would pay for them,” she admitted with disarming honesty. “But they were both gone when I went back there the next day. And knowing how disparate our tastes are, I didn’t dare choose something else for fear you’d hate it and feel you had to wear it all the time to please me. I did think of ordering the dress from Madame Racette’s, but that would have been too expensive, and Papa would have had apoplexy.”

  “Darling, the thought is worth far more than the present.” She embraced her niece’s slender shoulders, laughing. “I would have had no place to wear such an indecent dress, apart from my bedroom, and though the locket or the earbobs would have been divine, I didn’t really need them.”

  “A woman always needs more jewels,” Felicity said. “To ensure her femininity.”

  “And where did you hear that?” Gillian demanded, fascinated.

  “From Grandmama Smith-Davies, of course. Who else would I know who would look and talk like a courtesan?” questioned the young lady demurely.

  “Well, I am in no great need of jewels to ensure my femininity,” Gillian said in repressive tones belied by the sparkle in her eyes.

  “I think it completely rotten that no one thought to celebrate your birthday.”

  “I am just as happy to celebrate it with my niece and nephew,” Gillian replied.

  “Very well, then we’ll celebrate it. Bertie, go upstairs and put on full evening dress. Gilly, I want that nile green dress on you or I’ll dress you myself. I’ll send Marjorie in to do your hair—she’s much better than your Flossie, you know. And I’ll have Reynolds put champagne on ice, and Cook will make us up some festive little cakes . . .”

  “Felicity, it’s half past eight already,” Gillian protested, laughing, as she was pushed from the room with Bertie.

  “You see,” Felicity said triumphantly. “It’s quite early. The gaming salons don’t open until ten, do they, Bertie?” There was hidden meaning in her voice, and Bertie turned a guilty red as he escorted Gillian toward her bedroom. In the distance they could hear Felicity’s voice raised, giving excited orders to the servants.

  “We might as well do what she says, Gillian,” Bertie said with an effort at good cheer. “And don’t worry, I’ll go out and get you a present tomorrow. Can’t think what made it slip my mind.”

  “Perhaps it was gaming debts, Bertie?” Gillian asked gently.

  Bertie’s face flamed. “Never you mind about them. They’re not half as bad as most people I know. By the way, I didn’t hear Felicity aright, did I? She couldn’t have said Lord Marlowe walked you home, could she?”

  “She could, and he did. He’s a gentleman with a great deal of address. Have you met him?”

  “A . . . a few times. I wouldn’t have thought Uncle Derwent would approve of that.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Gillian tossed it off lightly. “But then, there’s a very great deal that Derwent doesn’t approve of, and if one spent all one’s time paying attention to it, one would have time for nothing else.”

  “You didn’t always used to feel that way,” Bertie observed shrewdly. “For as long as I can remember you’ve done exactly what everyone else has wanted you to do, and paid no attention whatsoever to your own needs and desires. What in the world has made you finally decide to consider yourself for a change?”

  She stared at him, nonplussed. “I suppose it is abominably selfish of me.”

  “Not at all,” Bertie protested. “It’s about time someone thought of you for a change. You’ve got my backing, Gilly. Any help you need, just let me know.”

  “Bless you, love.” She kissed him. “I’ll remember the offer. For now you would please me no end if you would hurry up and change. I want some champagne. After all, it’s not every day I turn thirty.”

  GILLIAN STARED AT her reflection in the dressing table mirror in the gleam of candlelight. The nile green dress was as pretty as she knew it would be, clinging tightly to her small, well-formed breasts, exhibiting an attractive expanse of chest and shoulder. Marjorie had dressed the red-gold hair in loose waves around her delicate head, framing the pretty face and softening her features. Her blue eyes were large and shining, the lips tremulous, the cheeks too pale. With a touch of defiance Gillian reached into her bottom drawer and pulled out a hidden rouge pot. A
bit of charcoal to her lashes wouldn’t come amiss either, she decided suddenly, a wave of unaccustomed anger and frustration sweeping over her. Her life was passing her by. There were slight mauve shadows under her large, brilliant eyes that hadn’t been there a couple of years ago, and she fancied she could recognize the beginnings of faint lines on her petal-soft skin. It wasn’t fair, she thought. To spend one’s life at the beck and call of others, to have reached the advanced age of thirty years old and never been kissed, never been held in a man’s arms, never known a man’s love. And never would, no matter how pretty she looked in the soft glow of the candlelight. No one would see her but Felicity and Bertie—it would all be a waste. It was enough to drive a girl to drink, she thought a little wildly. But then, she was scarcely a girl anymore. And hadn’t minded, until tonight.

  “Be honest, Gillian,” she told herself firmly, her voice light and breathless in the empty bedroom. “You started minding two and a half weeks ago.” Flipping open her jewelry box, she surveyed the sparse contents.

  In the battle for her mother’s jewelry her older sisters and sister-in-law had proved their usual assertive selves, and Gillian, with the barest minimum of social life, had acquiesced gracefully enough. But Felicity’s Grandmama Smith-Davies was right—it did make one feel more feminine to be adorned with jewels. Disgusted with her own maudlin self-pity, Gillian turned her jewelry box upside down and proceeded to bedeck herself with every single diamond she owned. A wide diamond necklace that Letty had stigmatized as old-fashioned but actually possessed too short a neck to do it justice, three diamond bracelets with weak catches and ornate settings, one ring (the sisters had a weakness for rings and from Mama’s twenty-seven diamond rings could only spare one rather small one for Gillian) and two diamond hair clips in the shape of swans. She owed their possession to the fortunate instance of everyone else in the family having shorter hair.

  The earbobs would have suited her to perfection, she thought, surveying her glittering reflection with a wry smile. Better to go without than to mar the glittering perfection of her toilette. At least, she thought defiantly, she was the prettiest thirty-year-old spinster she had ever seen. Not a complete antidote yet.

  As a finishing touch she reached out for the scarcely used bottle of scent, a Christmas present from the same Grandmama Smith-Davies. It was a deep, subtle fragrance that Derwent had stigmatized as tawdry. Well, tonight she felt tawdry, and mysterious, and blatantly sensual. She splashed it liberally around her neck and shoulders and in the vee between her breasts, dusted a touch more rouge on her high cheekbones, and sailed from the room, a satisfied smile on her lips.

  “Good heavens, Gillian, is that you?” Felicity demanded. “You look positively ravishing, doesn’t she, Bertie?”

  “Positively!” he agreed, somewhat dazed at his aunt’s transformation. Remembering his duties, he handed his aunt a large, bubbling glass of iced champagne. “You said you wanted some right away.”

  “Indeed I do.” She took a small sip, sighed, and drained the glass, holding it out for more. “I intend to drink a very great deal of champagne tonight, and eat those lovely little cakes I see, and be extremely gay. Thank you, Bertie.” She started in on her second glass.

  “Are you certain you ought to, Gilly?” Felicity asked. “You aren’t used to spirits, and I shudder to think what Papa would say if he were to return home and find us all above ourselves.”

  “I would say it would serve him right, to forget Gillian’s birthday,” Bertie averred, having imbibed a bit freely already. “And I think we should dashed well celebrate Gillian’s birthday any way she pleases. And if she pleases that we all drink a great deal of champagne, then I’m with her.”

  “Done!” cried Felicity, draining her glass with relish. “Just don’t tell poor Liam what depths I’ve sunk to.”

  “No one’s likely to see him except you, idiot!” said her cousin amiably. “Though why you want to get leg-shackled to such a dashed dull stick is beyond my comprehension. Anyone who would accept Uncle Derwent’s decree without making any effort to fight it seems pretty milk pudding to me.” He poured himself and the two ladies more champagne, spilling the wine somewhat.

  “He’s not a dull stick!” Felicity defended her true love. “He simply has very high principles, something you’re completely unacquainted with.”

  “Very amusing. I wonder you can find any man to marry you with a tongue like yours. More champagne, Gilly?” He poured before she could agree, and she cheerfully downed her fourth glass.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t argue on my birthday,” she said plaintively, moving with unsteady grace to the sofa by the banked fire. “I truly hate it. Why can’t everything be pleasant all the time?” she inquired soulfully, stifling a delicate little hiccup.

  “Because life ain’t like that,” Bertie said bluntly, striking his Byronesque pose.

  “Oh, cut line, Bertie,” Felicity snapped. “You do get tremendously tiresome at times.”

  “Well, then, it’s a great deal fortunate that I have no intention of marrying you,” he shot back, affronted.

  “Marrying me?” she scoffed, tossing her head. “That’s a rare jest.”

  “Not if our parents have their way,” Bertie said gloomily. “Your father’s been dropping all sorts of hints since I’ve come to stay, and my parents have been after me since Christmas.”

  Shock made Felicity sink to the sofa beside her aunt. “How simply ghastly. I had no idea.”

  Bertie sat down beside the two of them, sunk in companionable gloom. “Thought you didn’t. But you know what our parents are like when they’ve got a maggot in their brains. I’ve been counting on Gilly to keep ‘em in line, but I’m not sure that she can hold out much longer.”

  Felicity turned her great blue eyes toward her aunt. “Do you think they can make us? We should make a horrid pair, you know. Besides, I love Liam.”

  “And I have no intention of getting married for a good long time,” Bertie added.

  “They may very well try,” Gillian conceded, swirling the dregs of her champagne and slopping just a tiny bit on her green silk skirt. “But I have little doubt you two are more than a match for them. If worse comes to worse you will simply have to elope with your vicar, Felicity.”

  “Gilly, you’re drunk!”

  “Heavens, no, child,” she said sweetly, moving over to the table on skittering feet and pouring herself another glass. “Merely very happy. And right now I think every member of the illustrious Redfern family can go to the devil. Present company excepted, of course. I fail to see why you should sacrifice your happiness on the altar of family duty. One is enough.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Oh, Gilly, do you feel you’ve been sacrificed?” Felicity questioned with tearful and champagne-induced sympathy.

  “What else are virgins for?” Gillian inquired with simplicity.

  “I say, Gilly, you ought to watch your language.” Bertie’s shirt points seemed to have grown suddenly tighter. “You never know who might hear you.”

  “No one will hear me,” she said sadly. “Look, even Felicity has gone to sleep.”

  Bertie looked at his cousin’s sleeping form with disgust. “Can’t hold her wine,” he pronounced.

  “Ah, but I can, dearest Bertie,” Gillian announced. “And I think we must be careful not to wake her up. We should leave.”

  “Leave?” Bertie echoed.

  “Absolutely. All this finery shouldn’t be wasted on a nephew. Where can we go?”

  “I have no idea,” he said uneasily, sobering a bit.

  “Where did Derwent and Letty go? We could follow them.”

  “Good God, no! We weren’t invited.”

  “I wouldn’t think that would matter on my birthday,” she said soulfully.

  “Well, I wouldn’t think so either, but y
ou never can tell. We might go to the opera,” he suggested rather wildly.

  She shook her head. “Too late. It’s almost eleven. Now where can we possibly go where it won’t be too late for . . . Bertie!”

  Her nephew jumped guiltily. “I think we should stay home.”

  “I know where we can go. Gaming salons are just beginning to be lively right about now, aren’t they? And I have a great deal of money. We shall go and gamble. I am bound to be in luck on my birthday.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Bertie said weakly.

  “And I know exactly where we should go. Lord Marlowe’s establishment. I’m certain he’ll be delighted to see us.”

  Bertie’s complexion was an alarming combination of pale horror and rosy embarrassment, with a touch of green around the gills. “I don’t know where it is.”

  “Now don’t prevaricate, Bertie. You were the one who told Felicity about it. You needn’t worry—Lord Marlowe and I are old friends. He’s scarcely likely to turn us away from the door. Is he?”

  “He doesn’t turn anyone of good ton from the door. And some of bad ton are just as welcome. Though I sometimes think that’s more Vivian Peacock’s doing,” he added darkly.

  “And women are allowed?”

  “With someone like Marlowe?” Bertie scoffed. “Women are encouraged. But not your sort of woman, Gilly.”

  “Lightskirts?” she questioned knowledgeably, handing a fresh bottle of champagne to Bertie to open.

  “Nooo. But ladies who are not really top-drawer. There’s Lady Kempton, of course, and Sally Jersey can be seen there any number of evenings. Of course, she always had a weak spot for a handsome man, no matter what his reputation.”

  “Well, that settles it. If a patroness of Almack’s may go there with impunity, then a Redfern need not blush to be seen there also. We’ll finish this bottle, Bertie, and then be off. Cheers!”