Glory And The Rake

She was certain the movement had been no accident and wondered if he took liberties because of what had happened the previous night. If so, Glory had more to worry about than his designs upon the spa, and a shiver ran up her spine. She was in no position to protect herself from a powerful lord, and poor Thad had proven himself no match for Westfield. As the implications struck her, Glory was hard pressed not to leap from her chair and flee into the night.

Although she remained where she was, all the Gothic novels Glory had read came back to haunt her in the dimly lit, old-fashioned room. She told herself that even a duke could do nothing while lodged in a gentleman’s home, with her family around her and his mother in attendance. And yet Glory felt as though no one else was present, the two of them existing in some kind of netherworld.

Vaguely, she heard Phillida launch into a lengthy explanation for her earlier fainting spell, including abundant praise for Westfield’s fast action in coming to her rescue. Mention of the incident restored Glory to herself, and she braced herself for Westfield’s comments. But he demurred, saying little and appearing uninterested, though Glory sensed that he was paying more attention than he pretended to.

‘We may have arrived only recently, but I have already heard of this physician,’ the duchess said. ‘It seems he is a most unpleasant sort. What on earth were you doing with him, Westfield?’

Glory looked towards the duke with no little curiosity. Whatever the man was up to, his mother apparently knew nothing of it.

‘The fellow accosted me, offering his dubious services, for whatever might ail me. Then he accosted Miss Sutton,’ Westfield said. ‘Apparently, he has designs upon her … waters.’

Glory gaped in astonishment, but she could read nothing in the duke’s expression. Was he telling the truth? If so, she had misjudged him, yet she could not cast aside her suspicions so easily. There was something about the man that just didn’t ring true …

‘Ah, the famous waters,’ the duchess said in a tone of delight. She went on to praise Queen’s Well, reminiscing about her visit many years ago, in such a manner that could only be deemed genuine. Gradually, Glory’s wariness receded over the course of the meal. She enjoyed hearing about the spa’s past success, for she had little first-hand information about those days. Even Phillida and Thad appeared impressed by the dowager’s enthusiasm.

But not the duke. Yet, even in his silence, he seemed to command Glory’s attention, a dark presence at the head of the table that drew her fleeting glances. And when he finally spoke, she was jolted by the sound, deep and low and seemingly intimate. Or had it simply sparked a memory of him leaning close and whispering in her ear …?

‘Why did you decide to resume operations?’

Although the question was a casual one, Glory sensed a deeper meaning behind the words. Yet she could see nothing untoward in his expression, handsome, vaguely attentive and distant. It was a polite query, nothing more.

Glory drew in a breath and wondered what on earth was happening to her. She had always been the one member of the family with common sense. It was not like her to envision Gothic scenarios or hidden mysteries, threats and dangers with no apparent substance. Stolid and determined, she was not one for fripperies or flirting. So why was her heart pounding so alarmingly?

Westfield.

When she realised that everyone was waiting expectantly for her reply, Glory forced a smile. ‘It is our family’s heritage and should not be allowed to languish when the well is still in good order.’

‘But don’t you think the time for such places has passed?’ the duke asked.

‘No, I think they will always be popular. Mineral springs have served as gathering spots probably since our earliest ancestors stumbled across them bubbling up from the ground,’ Glory said. ‘For a long time many wells were associated with saints and became the focus of pilgrimages for those who would be healed, with some people travelling great distances to partake of the waters.’

Over the years, Glory had done her research and she warmed to the history. ‘Later, when shrines were frowned upon, people still sought the therapeutic waters, along with the entertainments, music, dances, cards and the like, that were added so that visitors could enjoy the pleasures of society in a relaxed and healthful setting.’

‘There isn’t a lovelier setting than Philtwell,’ the duchess said, which made Phillida exclaim about the beauty of the area. Glory found her aunt’s speech so astonishing that she had to bite back a smile as she took a sip of wine. If the dowager could convince her aunt and brother they would be happy here, Glory was not about to argue.

‘But considering the current state of the village, what kind of patrons do you hope to attract?’ Westfield asked.

Although he didn’t elaborate, Glory assumed he envisioned only the most derelict and those who preyed upon them. She lifted her chin. ‘Queen’s Well has always served a fine clientele that has included royalty.’

‘Queen Elizabeth?’ Westfield asked, his tone wry.

‘Yes,’ Glory said. ‘In fact, the well was rediscovered by one of her courtiers.’

‘And has not changed much since.’

‘It has kept the appeal of a small site, of course, but there have been many developments through the centuries,’ Glory argued. ‘A new well and Pump Room were constructed, and Assembly Rooms and inns were added over the years, along with plantings and gravel walks. I’ve already had those cleared and the trees trimmed. I’m having some flowering bushes put in around the Pump Room, but eventually I hope to add new gardens.’

‘Excellent,’ the dowager said. ‘The spa needs plenty of tree-lined groves and secluded walks, where romance can flourish.’

Glory eyed the dowager with bemusement. ‘Perhaps, but I do not want to gain a reputation for that sort of thing, which has been the ruin of many a spa. Young women will not come to visit unless they feel completely safe from importuning adventurers … or any man, for that matter,’ she added, with a glance towards Westfield.

‘Or any one for that matter,’ he replied smoothly.

‘But Philtwell is above reproach,’ the duchess exclaimed. Unaware of any undercurrents between her son and her guests, she proceeded to assure a pale Phillida that the village was decidedly more secure than London.

‘But even if Philtwell is deemed the most bucolic and picturesque site in the country, it is too far out of the way to entice any except the most determined visitor,’ Westfield said.

Although Glory felt the duke’s gaze upon her as he waited for her reply, she refused to look at him. Perhaps he was not allied with Dr Tibold, but he certainly seemed to be against the re-opening of Queen’s Well.

‘Yet in the past the spa was successful, and now the roads are better and travel more common than in those days,’ Glory said. ‘And revivals have occurred before. Other spas have fallen into and out of favour again and again.’

‘Or opened, only to close,’ the duke said.

‘Don’t change her mind,’ his mother said. ‘I do so want to see the place as it should be.’

‘I am simply curious as to how she came to her decision,’ Westfield said. ‘The venture is a large undertaking, especially for a woman, an expensive proposition that may not repay in kind. What sort of investors have you secured?’

‘Don’t be rude, dear,’ the duchess admonished.

Thad looked as though he would speak, but Glory sent him a warning glance. Their finances weren’t anyone’s business, and she was not about to discuss them.

‘It is because I am a woman that you feel I am doomed to fail?’ Glory asked. Reaching for a fortifying sip of wine, she eyed Westfield directly.

‘Certainly not, for I am sure many females, including my own mother, are more than capable of astounding successes,’ he answered, his expression bland.

‘Very well put,’ the duchess said. She turned towards Glory. ‘And I’m sure all of us here, including Mr Pettit, wish for the triumph of what can only be an asset to the community.’

‘Thank you,’ Glory said, though she suspected Westfield did not share his mother’s sentiments. ‘I hope the spa will draw people for the simple reason that Philtwell is a lovely place to stay, with beautiful scenery and bracing air that is far more wholesome than the stench of London. If drinking or bathing in the waters proves beneficial, then that is all the better.’

‘There is a bathing pool?’ Westfield asked.

‘No, but we have private rooms for bathing on the upper floor of the Pump Room.’

‘And how soon can we look forward to seeing it all for ourselves?’ the duchess asked.

‘I can take you around at any time,’ Thad said. The offer took Glory by surprise, though it seemed to be directed to Westfield, rather than his mother.

Not to be outdone, Phillida tendered an invitation to the cottage, as well as a trip to the Pump Room, to ‘taste the waters’ on the morrow.

‘Delightful,’ the duchess exclaimed. ‘I am most anxious to see what you’ve done with it. And for the general public?’

‘Well, I had planned to wait until the old buildings had been torn down, but I’m afraid I’ve had some problems with the local workers,’ Glory said. Although earlier she had suspected Westfield’s involvement, that appeared unlikely now. ‘They seem unable to complete their work in a timely manner.’

‘I’ve spoken to them, so we should be soon set to rights,’ Thad said, and Glory wished fervently that it were so.

‘Perhaps when Mr Pettit recovers, he can have a word, as well, for such behaviour reflects poorly on the community,’ the duchess said. ‘Although I understand that not everyone here has been enthusiastic, I’m sure they will all come around once the Pump Room is open again.’

Her words gave Glory pause, and she fell silent, which gave Phillida an opportunity to launch into a recitation of some of the supposed slights she had received since their arrival. While the duchess made soothing noises, Glory reconsidered her plans.

Perhaps it was the dowager’s encouragement that moved her to make the decision. Or it might have been the duke’s discouragement that made up her mind. But suddenly she was quite certain of what to do. And when Phillida finally ran out of anecdotes, Glory spoke up.

‘I think we shall open next week.’

‘Oh, how lovely,’ the duchess said, in obvious delight.

Trying to keep a defiant expression from her face, Glory turned towards the duke, but he did not appear disappointed. In fact, he seemed only mildly curious when he spoke. ‘Why the hurry?’

‘I was going to wait until more work had been done, but now I think her Grace is right. If the villagers see our newly renovated Pump Room and what a wonderful addition it is to Philtwell, they will “come around” all the sooner.’

Although Glory expected the duke to raise some objection or argument, he made no further comment, and her heady sense of triumph began to fade in the face of his apparent indifference. It disappeared entirely when he began to question Thad about the activities available to young people.

Later, when they removed to the parlour, Glory tried her best to get a good look at the man’s boots, but she could tell nothing except that the size of his feet were proportional to the rest of him. And, no doubt, he had an attentive valet to remove all traces of stains, including paint, from his apparel.

Glancing up from her study, Glory caught him eyeing her, one dark brow cocked in question, and she turned away, flushing. Thankfully, the duke did not comment. Nor did he say anything more about Queen’s Well, but played the part of host with ease until the Suttons took their leave, yet Glory could not dismiss the notion that he was playing a part and that the Duke of Westfield was not what he seemed.

Chapter Four

It was so late by the time Letitia was able to visit Randolph’s room that she wondered whether she should wait until morning to seek him out. But, eager to hear his opinion, she slipped through the door and was glad to see a candle still burning near the bed.

‘Are you awake?’

‘Well, if I wasn’t, I am now,’ Randolph grumbled, but Letitia noticed that he put aside a book, so he must have been reading. His ill mood probably was due to his continued occupation of this bedchamber, a suspicion that he soon confirmed.

‘I feel like I’ve been cooped up here for ever.’

‘You can’t come out now, or Oberon will surely make plans for departure, for he has nothing to hold him here … yet.’

Randolph said nothing, but glared at her over his half-spectacles.

‘Only a few more days,’ Letitia promised. ‘Once we have dosed them, I will have more faith in our plans.’ Without giving him the opportunity to argue, she went on. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think I’m lucky I didn’t get caught sneaking around the house in my nightshirt,’ he muttered. ‘Your son’s valet seems to have eyes in the back of his head.’

Letitia dismissed his complaint with a wave of her hand. ‘Well?’

He sat back amongst the pillows and sighed. ‘I do not like to discourage you, especially since I am the one responsible for your high hopes, but it does not look good to me.’

‘Why?’ Letitia asked.

‘From what I could see, which was precious little, mind you,’ Randolph said, ‘they do not even like each other.’

‘Well, I would be disappointed if they did,’ Letitia said. ‘I don’t want him to befriend her. I want him to fall passionately in love with her.’

Randolph shook his head. ‘I don’t see how that is going to happen when they are barely civil to each other. You could have dined out on their animosity.’

‘Ah, but both are strong emotions, one sometimes standing in for the other,’ the duchess said. ‘And I’m so pleased that he is feeling something that I must account it a good sign.’

Randolph shot her a questioning look, and Letitia wondered if she had said too much. She looked down at the hands in her lap. ‘He was much affected by his father’s death; I fear he was thrust too soon under the mantle of ducal responsibilities. He rose to the occasion admirably, of course, but he changed. I’ve often wondered if something happened while I was … grieving, but Oberon has kept his thoughts to himself. I worry about him, Randolph.’

He said nothing, and she sought to explain. ‘He began distancing himself from his home and his family, spending more and more time at the town house in London until it has been his primary home for years now. I don’t understand why he won’t visit the place he so loved.’ Or his mother, she did not add.

‘It’s not as though he’s gambling away his inheritance,’ Letitia said. ‘Far from it, for he has several gentlemen overseeing everything from the farms at Westfield to foreign investments. So how does he spend his days?’

When Randolph did not answer, she went on. ‘He attends social functions, frittering away his time at one ball or rout or salon after another.’

‘There are worse activities,’ Randolph said.

‘Yes,’ Letitia admitted, for she had told herself that many a time. ‘But there are better ones.’ And she hesitated to think what his father would say, if he knew that his heir was gadding about among a society he had held in contempt. Her husband had devoted his life to his family and public service, championing charities and improvements, so that he had left the world a better place. Letitia felt her eyes well up at the loss of her husband, far too soon, and she swallowed.

‘Somehow he doesn’t seem the type to be engaged in such frippery,’ Randolph said, interrupting her maudlin thoughts.

‘I know,’ Letitia said. ‘He is far too intelligent. He is well read, but beyond that he doesn’t appear to have any interests.’ Even worse, he didn’t seem to care. Although she assumed that her son loved her, he was so composed that she had begun to wonder if he felt anything at all.

But tonight, there had been little hints that he was not his usual urbane self. Perhaps it was not the behaviour she had been hoping for, but it was something. And she was heartened by it. She rose to her feet and smiled to herself.

‘I don’t believe it will be too difficult to turn this passion of his in a more positive direction,’ she said to Randolph. ‘All we need is for Queen’s Well to work its magic.’

Rain had been battering the windows since breakfast, making Oberon wonder why anyone would want to seek out more water. But he did not refuse when his mother insisted he accompany her to the Pump Room for their private tour. What he had learned the evening before only made him more curious about the Suttons and their dubious enterprise.

‘It appears that Miss Sutton has rather grandiose plans for her spa,’ he said casually, once they were settled in the coach for the short drive. ‘I wonder where she is getting the funding for such a venture?’

‘Oberon, please do not be so rude as to enquire again,’ his mother said. ‘It was bad of you to do so during supper.’

‘I don’t see why, for it is a business, is it not? I would think they would be eager to put their case to prospective financers.’ In fact, Oberon was surprised that his mother, stricken as she was with nostalgia, had not been solicited. He slanted her a glance. ‘They haven’t approached you, have they?’

‘Certainly not,’ she answered. ‘Miss Sutton is too gently reared to speak of such things.’

Oberon’s brows shot upwards. Miss Sutton was practically in trade, and he could think of no good reason for her silence on the subject. Although he doubted she was running a swindle, there was always the possibility that her investors wanted to keep their participation quiet. And in his experience, such secrecy meant they were up to something, whether Miss Sutton was aware of it or not.

Oberon frowned, unwilling to believe that she was a knowing participant in anything unsavoury, only to shake his head. Such thoughts led to misjudgements, mistakes or worse, no matter whether he was in London or in a remote village. And he would do well to keep that in mind, he realised, as he entered Miss Sutton’s lair, the infamous Pump Room.

While his mother exclaimed in delight, Oberon assessed the place coolly. Although the main room might be light and airy on a good day, with its tall, arched windows on three sides, the rain cast a pall over the interior this afternoon. Or perhaps the dearth of patrons made it seem devoid of life. The neatly polished parquet floor was empty except for some tables and chairs clustered at the perimeter, where those who did not wish to mill around, socialising, could partake of the waters in seated comfort.

It was at one of these small tables where Miss Sutton’s aunt, Miss Bamford, sat waving her handkerchief in their direction. An empty-headed creature who provided little beyond haphazard chaperonage, she was an odd companion for Miss Sutton. The boy was there, too, though he seemed more like a typical youth than anything else. But where was his sister?

Despite Oberon’s best intentions, he felt a frisson of anticipation as he scanned the area, and when he saw her, his reaction was as baffling as it was difficult to disguise. He had assumed that the long evening before spent acting as host in Mr Pettit’s absence would have inured him to whatever appeal Miss Sutton pre sented—but it had not. He felt just as he had the first time he had glimpsed her standing in the shadows behind this very building, like he had been struck by some powerful force in his gut or perhaps lower …

‘Miss Sutton,’ he said, with a nod.

‘Your Grace,’ she answered. Was there a breathlessness to her tone? Oberon didn’t flatter himself. She probably had rushed to greet the visitors. She took a seat at the table next to her aunt and Oberon joined them. They were not obliged to obtain their own waters, but were served by a robust young female in a starched apron.

‘None for me, thank you,’ Thad said.

‘Nor I,’ Oberon added.

‘Drink up,’ his mother urged. ‘It will do you good.’

Oberon frowned as he eyed the liquid. ‘So it is said of every spring in England, from the fountains of Bath to the meanest dribble coming up from a farm field that the cows refuse to taste. Each is supposed to cure everything from boils to consumption, but I don’t put much faith in those claims.’

‘Actually, Queen’s Well has never been associated with a specific cure,’ Miss Sutton said, which was hardly surprising since she seemed to argue with him at every opportunity. And yet Oberon felt, not irritated, but pleased by the byplay.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ his mother murmured with a sly smile. Apparently, her nostalgia for the waters knew no bounds.

However, after Oberon had downed half of the wretched brew he realised that neither his mother nor Miss Bamford had touched their glasses and he lodged a protest.

‘I’m afraid I’ve had my share this morning,’ Miss Bamford said. ‘I must admit that it is rather nice to have one’s own supply. No more need to buy bottles of Epsom.’

‘And you?’ Oberon asked his mother, lifting a brow. After all, she seemed to be the spa’s chief supporter.

Smiling as though privy to some private amusement, she shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ve no need of it,’ she said. Oberon opened his mouth to enquire further until he remembered that such waters were known purgatives, so he held his tongue.

Since it appeared that the only other person drinking was Miss Sutton, Oberon lifted his glass in a toast. ‘To Queen’s Well,’ he said, speaking words he’d never thought to utter. And somehow the noxious drink was made palatable by her surprised smile as her gaze met his own. Like the finest of emeralds, her green eyes were beautiful, rare and glowing with light, an observation that seemed to send heat surging through him.

Either that or the waters she forced on him were poisoned.

Oberon waited a long moment, but when he felt no queasiness, he allowed himself to be talked into a tour of the building. His mother claimed to have seen it all before, as did Miss Bamford, and though Thad looked eager to show off the facilities, his aunt querulously demanded his attention. That left Miss Sutton with only Oberon to guide around her domain, a prospect that obviously left her dismayed.

In fact, Oberon thought she would demur, but when he rose to his feet and gave her a curious glance, she joined him, her chin lifted. With a few words of explanation, she gestured towards what Oberon could already see: the new floor, the window seats and the curved counter behind which the drinks were dispensed.

The public displays did not interest Oberon so much as the personal, though he hardly expected to find evidence of mysterious doings. Still, he made it his business to investigate and so turned towards the stairway to the upper floor, inclining his head in question.

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