Rake's Reform

“Flippant!” Her voice was as contemptuous as her stare as she looked at him a second time, taking in the studied carelessness of his Caesar haircut, the immaculately tailored grey topcoat that emphasised the broad width of his shoulders, leanness of his waist and hips, the glossy perfection of riding boots that did not often have contact with the ground. “If you think that an excuse, then you are as despicable as he is.”

Her gaze came back up to his, defiant and decidedly judgmental, he thought. She might as well call him a dandy and a plunger and have done with it as look at him in that fashion. Well, if that was how she wished it—

“Oh, no, I really cannot allow you to insult Derwent in such a fashion,” he drawled and returned her scrutiny with a blatancy which sent the colour flaring in her cheeks. “I’m worse, much worse, I assure you.”

“That I can well believe,” she replied, involuntarily lifting her free hand to the little white ruff collar at the neck of her grey gown to be sure it was fastened. And then, aware that his mocking blue gaze had followed the gesture, she let her hand drop swiftly back to her side and lifted her chin to glare at him again.

“But I do have my saving graces,” he said, drily feeling a flicker of satisfaction that he had succeeded in disconcerting her. “A sense of humour, for instance.”

“Really?” Her faintly husky voice was pure ice as her gaze blazed into his eyes. “I cannot say I find hanging a source of amusement.” Hitching the infant more firmly upon her hip, she made to turn away.

“Wait! My apologies. You are right, of course—hanging is no laughing matter.” He found himself speaking before he had even thought what he was going to say. “This lad who is to be hanged—if you tell me his name and circumstances, I might be able to do something. I cannot promise, of course, but I have some influence as a Member of Parliament.”

“You are a Member of Parliament?” There was astonishment in her voice and in the wide hazel eyes as she turned to face him again, and, he noted wryly, deep suspicion.

“Difficult to believe, I know, but it is the truth,” he drawled.

“For a rotten borough, no doubt,” she said, half to herself.

“Positively rank, I’m afraid. My father buys every vote in the place,” he taunted her lightly. “But the offer of help is a genuine one.”

She regarded him warily for a moment. There was no longer mockery in either the blue eyes or that velvety voice.

“You mean it?” she said incredulously. “You will try—?”

“My word on it,” he said, wondering how he had thought her hair was mouse at first glance. It was gold, he realised, as a shaft of weak sunlight filtered through the clouds. A warm tawny gold, like ripe corn under an August sun. And it looked soft. Released from that tight knot, he would wager it would run through a man’s hands like pure silk.

“His name is Jem, Jem Avery, he’s fourteen years old and he was sentenced at Salisbury Assizes, by Judge Richardson.”

Jonathan jerked his attention back from imagining the circumstances in which he might test his own wager and gave her his full attention. “Fourteen? That does seem harsh,” he said slowly.

“Yes. Fourteen. They seem to think that to make such an example will quell the discontent amongst the labourers and prevent it spreading to Wiltshire,” she said flatly, as his blue gaze met and held hers for a moment. “You really will see what you can do? You will not forget?”

“No. No.” He shook his head, quite certain that even if the unfortunate Jem slipped his mind, his advocate was not likely to do so for a week or two at least. “You have my word I will do what I can.”

“Why?” she asked suddenly. “You are a stranger here and can have no interest in what becomes of Jem.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Must be my altruistic nature. I can never resist a distressed damsel, so long as she is passably pretty, of course,” he added self-mockingly.

“I am not distressed, sir! I am angry!” she snapped with a lift of her chin. “And neither am I passably pretty!”

“No,” he said, after a pause in which his gaze travelled over her face, taking in the breadth of her brow, the fine straight nose that had absolutely no propensity towards turning up, the clean, strong upward slant of her jawbone from the point of her lifted chin, and that wide, generous mouth, “you are not passably pretty.”

“I am glad you realise your error—” she began to say, wondering why she felt such a sense of pique.

“Any man who considered you merely passable would be lacking in judgement and taste,” he interrupted her lazily, his eyes warm and teasing as they met her gaze. And that was true, he thought, with a touch of surprise as his gaze dropped fractionally to the decidedly kissable curve of her mouth and then lower still to the perfect sweeping lines of her body beneath the plain grey gown.

Janey stared back at him. He was flirting with her. This laconic, drawling, society dandy was flirting with her! He was looking at her as if he wanted to kiss her, touch her…The image that arose in her mind was so shocking, so devastating, that she could do nothing for a second or so but stare back at him helplessly. And then, as the corners of his wide, clever mouth lifted imperceptibly, and the clear blue eyes dared her to respond, the breath left her throat in a small exasperated sigh.

“Have you no sense of propriety?” she found herself blurting out and then frowned as it occurred to her she had sounded all too much like Mrs Filmore.

“Afraid not,” he answered with a complete lack of apology. “I blame it upon a youth spent in hells and houses of ill-repute, not to mention the houses of the aristocracy and Parliament, of course.”

“Oh, you are quite impossible!” In spite of herself, in spite of everything, she found her mouth tugging up at the corners.

“You can smile, then?” he said lightly. “I was beginning to wonder if you considered it a sin.”

“No.” She sobered, feeling guilty that for a second or two she had almost forgotten Jem. “But I cannot say that I much in the mood for merriment at present.”

“No.” The hint of mockery, of invitation, left his face and voice as he glanced at the cottage. “That is understandable enough in the circumstances. You have not told me where I might send word. The Rectory?”

“No, Pettridges Hall,” she said with inexplicable satisfaction, having overheard his comments about the likely owner of the trap through the open cottage window. “I have no connection with the Rectory and no fondness for reforming tracts.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” he said without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Especially since it seems we are to be neighbours. I have just become the new owner of Southbrook, which I understand borders the Pettridges estate.”

“You have bought Southbrook?” Janey’s face lit as she looked at him with unhidden delight. “That is wonderful!”

The dark brows lifted, mocking her faintly. “I am flattered by your enthusiasm to have me for a neighbour.”

“It is not for you in particular, sir, I meant merely that it is wonderful that Southbrook has been bought at last,” Janey said, and knew as she caught the flicker of amusement in the pale blue eyes that she had spoken just a little too quickly to be completely convincing either to him or herself. “The land has lain idle so long and there are so many men in the village who desperately need work.”

“I stand corrected,” he said drily. “Though I feel honour bound to confess that I did not buy the estate from any sense of philanthropic duty. I accepted it in lieu of a card debt after the owner assured me it was no longer his family home. We are on our way to inspect the property now.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, her voice flat again suddenly. “You are not familiar with the estate, then?” she asked, thinking that he and his companion would undoubtedly take one look and return to town forthwith, as had all the other potential purchasers.

“Not yet. Why?” he asked sharply. For a moment she considered warning him about the leaking roof, the broken windows, the last five years of complete neglect that had followed upon twenty of inadequate maintenance, but then she decided against it. There was always a chance that he might see beyond Southbrook’s failings to its original beauty and decide to restore the estate.

“Oh—no reason,” she replied, carefully giving her attention to the child in her arms who was beginning to grizzle and wriggle. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked whom I should ask for?”

“Janey.” Stupidly, for no reason she could think of, she answered with the name with which she had been known to family and friends for the first sixteen years of her life. “Miss Hilton, Miss Jane Hilton, I mean,” she stammered slightly as the straight black brows lifted again.

“Jane,” he repeated it with a half-laugh. “Plain Jane.”

“Yes,” she said defensively. It was a jest she had endured more times than she could count from her guardian’s son and daughter. “What of it?”

“Nothing.” Again his narrow lips curved. “Somehow I did not think you would be an Araminta or Arabella, Miss Hilton.”

“Jono! Are you coming through or not?” Lord Derwent called impatiently.

“I must go. I think your trap would be better there by the gate, but if you wish—”

“No, your friend was right, it was a stupid place to leave it,” she admitted ruefully. “I was thinking only of how to break the news to Jem’s mother. I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It is of no consequence.” He smiled at her as he gathered up the reins. “Good day, Miss Hilton, I shall send word as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Mr—” she began to say and then realised she did not even know his name.

“Lindsay,” he called over his shoulder as he sent the bays forward, “Jonathan Lindsay.”

She stood staring after him in disbelief. That was the Honourable Jonathan Lindsay? That laconic mocking dandy had made the passionate speech, demanding better conditions for the labouring poor that she had read in the paper? Surely not! And yet he had offered to help Jem, a boy he had never met.

For a moment, as she watched the phaeton disappear down the long winding lane, she felt like chasing after it and begging him to take on Southbrook. If she were honest, it was not only because a humane landlord would make such a difference to so many in the village, but because he had made her feel truly alive for the first time since she had arrived in England.

“Miss, miss…” The child who had been swinging on the gate came and tugged at her skirt. “Have you brought us something, miss? I’m hungry—”

“Yes, Sam. Some broth, some bread and some preserves,” she answered, still staring after the phaeton, “and some gingerbread, if you promise to be a good boy for your mother.”

She broke off, frowning as she watched the little boy who was already running for the door, his too thin arms and legs flying in all directions. Even with what she could persuade cook to let her have from the kitchen, they were not getting enough to eat, nor were at least half a dozen other families in the village.

As farm after farm took to the new threshing machines, there would be more men out of work this autumn—and she could do nothing, since she had no control of her estate, nor access to the fortune left her by her grandfather until she was twenty-one. And five months was far too long for Sam and the other families, who would starve and freeze this winter. There was nothing she could do, nothing—heiress she might be, but she was almost as powerless as poor Jem in his prison cell.

Biting her lip, she adjusted the child on her hip again as she limped slowly up the little herringbone brick path to the cottage door. As ever when she was tired, the leg she had broken a year ago had begun to ache. But there was no time to think of that now, not when Mrs Avery stood in the doorway, her face grey and desperate.

“He’ll be so scared, miss, so frightened,” the older woman blurted out. “I’d rather it was me than him.”

“I know,” she said helplessly.

“I’ve got to go to him, miss.” Mrs Avery caught her arm. “I’ve got to!”

“I will take you tomorrow, I am sure they will let you visit,” Janey said huskily as she guided the other woman back into the little dark room, where the other four Avery children were huddled upon the box bed, pale and silent. As she looked from one thin, pinched miserable face to another, the rage in her bubbled up afresh. If Jonathan Lindsay failed them, she would not let them hang Jem! She would not! Not even if she had to break him out of gaol herself.

Chapter Two

“Great God, Jono!” Lord Derwent broke the lengthy silence which had ensued after the phaeton drew up before the edifice of Southbrook House. “You took this in lieu of ten thousand? I should not give five hundred for the whole place! The park is nothing but weeds, the woods looked as if they had not been managed in half a century and as for this—” he gestured to the ivy-masked façade of the house “—look at it! There is not a whole pane of glass in the place, and what the roof is like I hate to think…”

“Perfect proportions, though,” Jonathan Lindsay said thoughtfully as he, too, surveyed the house. “See how the width of the steps exactly balances the height of the columns on the portico. Come on, Perry, let’s look inside now we’re here.”

Knotting the ribbons loosely, he leapt lithely down from the box.

“Do we have to?” Derwent groaned.

There was no answer. Jonathan Lindsay was already striding across the weed-choked gravel of the drive.

“You are not serious about intending to live here?” Lord Derwent pleaded an hour later, after they had inspected the house from attic to cellar. “It’s damp, dusty and—” he paused, shivering in his blue frock coat “—colder than an ice house in December.”

“Nothing that someone else’s industry will not put right,” his friend said absently, as he stared up at the painted ceiling of the salon adjacent to the ballroom. “This ceiling is very fine, don’t you think?”

“It might be,” Lord Derwent said unenthusiastically, “if you could see it for dust and cobwebs. I’m sorry, Jono, but I simply can’t understand why you would wish to reside here when Ravensfield is at your disposal.”

“I never shared my late uncle’s taste for Gothic fakery, you know that, Perry.”

“Yes, but it has every convenience, it’s in damned good hunting country and the agent runs the estate tighter than a ship of the line: you wouldn’t need to lift a finger from one year end to the next. Local society’s not up to much, I’ll grant you that, but it won’t be any different here.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jonathan smiled. “I thought the neighbourhood showed some promise of providing entertainment.”

“You mean that extraordinary young woman?”

“Ah, so you thought she was extraordinary, too,” he said, as he began to walk slowly back towards the entrance hall.

“Extraordinarily rude,” Lord Derwent replied huffily. “It is scarcely my fault some idiot boy is going to get himself turned off, but she looked at me as if she’d have preferred to see me in a tumbril on the way to Madame Guillotine.”

“I’m sure you misjudge the fair maiden—I think she’d have settled for a horse whipping,” Jonathan said drily.

“I don’t!” Derwent said with feeling. “I can’t think why you offered to help.”

“No, not like me, is it?” Jonathan agreed, deadpan. “I must have succumbed to this fever for worthiness.”

“Succumbed to a weakness for perfect proportions, more like,” Derwent said darkly, “and I’m not referring to the portico.”

“Ah, Perry, you do know how to wound one’s feelings,” Jonathan said, grinning. “But you must confess, she was very easy on the eye.”

“And to think that, only two hours ago, you were telling me that you were going to give up women along with the tables.” Derwent sighed. “But I’ll wager you’ll get not that one past the bedroom door, Jono. These radical females are all the same—they only give their affections to ugly curates or longhaired poets who write execrable drivel.”

“No gentleman could possibly accept such a challenge.” Jonathan laughed. “So, what are your terms?”

“Triton against your chestnut stallion,” Lord Derwent said after a moment’s thought.

“Triton!” Jonathan’s dark brows rose. “I’d almost contemplate marrying the girl to get my hands on that horse before the Derby. Are you so certain of my failure?”

“Positive. I chased after a gal like that once. There I was, in the midst of telling her about my critical role in defeating old Boney and waiting for her to fall at my feet in admiration, and all she says is ‘Yes, but do you read the scriptures, Lord Derwent? Spiritual courage is so much more important than the physical kind, don’t you think?”’

“Poor Perry.” Jonathan sighed. “It must be a sad affliction to lack both good looks and natural charm—” He broke off, laughing as he ducked to evade a friendly blow from Derwent.

“And,” Derwent went on, “she’ll never forgive you for not saving her arsonist. You said yourself the local men were determined to make an example, so they’re not likely to listen to a newcomer to the district, not even you, Jono.”

“Who said anything about local men?” Jonathan smiled, a wide slow smile. “We are going to get some fresh horses, and then we’re going straight back to town and I am going to see the Home Secretary.”

“The Home Secretary! He wouldn’t intervene on behalf of an arsonist and thief if his mother begged him on bended knee. And you are not exactly in favour with the government after that speech—the front bench did not appear to share your sense of humour.”

“Oh, I think he’ll lend a sympathetic ear,” Jonathan drawled. “Remember I told you I was involved in a bit of a mill with the Peelers when the hell in Ransome Street was raided? Well, if I hadn’t landed a well-aimed blow upon one of the guardians of the law, our esteemed Home Secretary would have found himself in an extremely embarrassing situation.”

“Great God!” Derwent cried. “You mean you are going to blackmail the Home Secretary to win the admiration of some parson’s daughter! It’ll be you on the gallows next.”

“Blackmail—what an ugly word.” Jonathan grinned. “I’m just going to seek a favour from a friend. And she’s not the parson’s daughter, her name is Jane Hilton and she resides at Pettridges Hall,” he added, his grin widening.

“If she’s not a clerical’s brat, she must be a poor relation or a companion and they’re as bad,” Perry said huffily.

“You know the people at Pettridges?” Jonathan’s blue eyes regarded him with sharpened interest.

“Hardly describe ’em as acquaintances, but their name’s not Hilton, so she’s not one of ’em,” Derwent said lazily. “I met the offspring last season: sulky-looking lad who talked of nothing but hunting and a distinctly useful little redhead that Mama was doing her best to marry off before she got herself into a tangle of one sort or another. Now, what the devil was the name—ah—Filmore, that’s it. They must be comfortably off, though—Pettridges wouldn’t have come cheap. My father told me old Fenton never spared a penny when it came to improving the place.”

“Fenton? I don’t know the name.”

“Well, he was something of a recluse. He was a cloth manufacturer, worked his way up from millhand to owner and dragged himself out of gutter by clothing half the army and navy and, if the rumours were true, half Boney’s lot as well.

“By the Peace of Amien he’d made enough for a country estate and respectability, even had an impoverished earl lined up for his daughter. But she reverted to type and ran off with her childhood sweetheart, a millhand. Fenton was furious. He never saw her again and cut her off without a penny. Affair made him a laughing stock, of course, and he never made any attempt to take part in society after that.” Derwent sighed. “Damned waste of a fortune and a pretty face by all accounts. Wonder who did get his money? They say he had one of the biggest fortunes in Southwest England.” Then he brightened. “I think I might look into it, Jono. You never know, there might be a great-niece or something, and I might land myself an heiress.”

Jonathan laughed. “He probably left it all to the Mill Owners Benevolent Fund for Virtuous Widows, Perry.”

“Probably,” Derwent agreed gloomily. “I suppose it will just have to be Diana, then. My father has told me he wants to see his grandson and a generous dowry in the family coffers before next year is out or he will discontinue my allowances, and tell the bankers to withdraw my credit. You don’t know how lucky you are being the youngest son and possessing a fortune to match those of your brothers—it spares you no end of trouble.”

“Yes,” Jonathan said beneath his breath, “and leaves you no end of time to fill.”

Janey sat in the window-seat of the morning-room, the copy of Cobbett’s Register in her lap, still at the same page she had opened it at half an hour earlier. She stared out at the gravelled sweep of drive that remained empty but for the gardeners, raking up the fallen leaves from the beeches that lined the drive. Surely Mr Lindsay would send word today, even if he had been unsuccessful. It was eight days now, and time was running out. In five days’ time Jem would be led out from Dorchester Gaol and hanged.

She dropped her eyes unseeingly to Mr Cobbett’s prose. At least she had not told Mrs Avery, at least she had not raised false hopes there—

“Jane! Have you heard a word I have said?”

She started as she realised that Annabel Filmore had entered the morning-room. “I’m sorry,” she said absently, “I was thinking.”

“You mean you had your head in a book as usual,” the red-haired girl said disparagingly as she studied her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece. “Mama says so much reading and brainwork ruins one’s looks,” she added as she patted one of her fat sausage-shaped curls into place over her forehead.

“You need not worry, then,” Janey said, not quite as quietly as she had meant.

“I have never had to worry about my looks,” Annabel said blithely, utterly oblivious to the insult as she turned upon her toes in a pirouette to admire the swirling skirts of her frilled pink muslin. “Just as well, with Jonathan Lindsay coming to live at Southbrook.”

“He is coming!” Janey’s face lit up. “When?”

“Oh, in a week or two, I think Papa said,” Annabel replied carelessly still admiring herself in the glass.

“A week or two!” The brief flare of hope she had felt died instantly. A week and all would be over for Jem. No doubt the promise had been forgotten as soon as made. So now what was she to do?

“Yes, but whatever has Jonathan Lindsay to do with you?” Annabel asked, suddenly curious as she turned to look at Jane. “You have gone quite pale.”

“Nothing, I met him in Burton’s Lane a few days ago,” she said tersely, Mr Cobbett’s Register fluttering unnoticed from the lap of her lavender muslin gown as she got to her feet. “That’s all.”

“That’s all!” Annabel’s blue eyes widened in exaggerated despair. “You meet the most handsome man in England in Burton’s Lane and you did not say a word to anyone!”

“I did not think him so very handsome,” Janey said, not entirely truthfully. “He was a little too much of the dandy for my taste.”

“Not handsome!” Annabel groaned and flounced down upon a sofa. “When he is so dark, so rugged—and that profile! Why, he could be Miss Austen’s Darcy in the flesh.”

“That is not how I see him,” Janey said, half to herself, as an unexpected image of his face, chiselled, and hard, lightened only by the slant of his mouth and brows, and the lazy amusement in the cool blue eyes, came instantly into her mind. Oh, no, she thought, Mr Lindsay was definitely no Mr Darcy. He was far too incorrect—far too dangerous in every sense.

She doubted he was afraid of breaking conventions, or anything else for that matter. In fact, strip him of his dandified clothes and put him in a suit of buckskins and he would not have been so out of place among the backwoodsmen among whom she had grown up. Whether or not someone would survive on the frontier was the yardstick by which she always found herself assessing people; in Mr Lindsay’s case, she found her answer was a surprising “yes”.