Rogue's Lady

“Did you not even read the notes I sent?” Lucilla asked with a touch of exasperation.

As if he would not have immediately devoured the contents of the first correspondence he’d received from any relation in nearly two years. But afraid, if he called upon her as she’d bid, he might not be strong enough to resist the temptation to renew the friendship they’d shared in their youth—a liaison that would now reflect no credit upon an otherwise respectable matron—he’d chosen not to go to North Audley Street.

Warmed as he was by her persistence in seeking him out, it would still be best for her if he rebuffed any attempts to renew that connection. Not correcting her mistaken impression of his indolence, he gave her instead a lazy grin. “Refresh my memory.”

“After being buried in the country producing offspring for years, now that Maria and Sarah are old enough to acquire a bit of town bronze and with Mark reading for Oxford, Domcaster agreed to my having the Season in London he’s long promised.”

“Your many friends must be ecstatic. Why contact me?”

Lucilla shook her head. “Don’t try to cozen me. When I walked in, before you put your mask-face back on, I could tell you were as pleased to see me as I am to see you. I’ve missed you, Will!”

Before he could divine her intent, she came over and seized him in a hug. Shocked anew, he allowed himself just a moment to fiercely return the pressure of her arms before setting her gently aside. “Lucilla, you unman me.”

“Oh, do drop that irritating manner and let us speak frankly. I expect you believe that my being seen with you can do my reputation no good, but what I propose will change all that. Fortunately, there is still time for you to make a recover before you succeed in isolating yourself permanently from good society.”

He’d suspected she wanted to quietly resume their friendship, interrupted by both their coming of age and her marriage. Surprised once again, he said, “That sounds foreboding. I tremble to think what you intend.”

“I intend to put a period to your career as a sometime gambler and full-time beguiler of ladies no better than they should be! Though I might have been buried in Hertfortshire raising a family, my dear friend Lydia here in London has kept me fully informed. Domcaster said one must expect a young man to sow some wild oats, but really, my dear, you’re nearing thirty now. ’Tis past time you settled to something more useful than fleecing lambs at whist and seducing other men’s wives.”

“They were not all of them wives,” he pointed out, amused. “’Twas a fair number of widows sprinkled in.”

“A good thing for your health. I understand some not-so-amenable husbands of several of your paramours almost insisted on grass for breakfast.”

“Since I was always able to persuade the injured party to swords rather than pistols, there wasn’t much danger. You know how good I am with a blade. Honor upheld, no one hurt.”

“Heavens, Will!” Lucilla exclaimed, laughing. “Trust you to leave both the lady and her husband satisfied.”

Will reached down to pick a speck of lint off the sleeve of his best jacket. “One must have a little excitement in one’s life, Lucilla.”

“Indeed.” Lucilla shook her head. “Although I should think your bouts at Gentleman Jackson’s—yes, Lydia has kept us informed about your boxing career!—would satisfy that desire! You’ve always been such a scrapper. I never understood why Uncle Harold refused to purchase you a commission. You could have been decimating the ranks of French cuirassiers instead of setting your lance at every loose-moraled woman in London.”

A vivid memory flashed into mind…his uncle impatiently dismissing Will’s plea to buy a set of colors, replying he had no intention of wasting his blunt sending Will where he’d only get his worthless carcass skewered by some Polish lancer. Though Will should have expected that, even with a war on, Uncle Harold would not consider the army in dire enough straits to require the dubious services of his late sister’s troublesome orphan.

“Someone must care for the poor unloved ladies,” he said after a moment.

Something like pity flickered briefly on Lucilla’s face. “You would know about the unloved part! I still think it atrocious the way Aunt Millicent—”

Will put a finger to her lips before she ventured into territory he’d rather not examine. “Enough!” He smiled, letting his affection show through this time. “You were ever my champion, even when we were quite young. Though what you saw in a grubby urchin who was always spoiling for a fight, I do not know.”

“Courage. Dignity. A keen sense of fair play,” she answered softly. “Or maybe,” she added with a grin before he could act on the compulsion to defuse her praise with some witticism, “it was just that, unlike Uncle Harold’s obnoxious son, you did not believe yourself above riding and rousting about with a mere girl.”

“What a pair we were!” Will chuckled. “You, at least, overcame your wild youth. I do appreciate your loyalty, you know.”

A knock indicated the return of Barrows, who entered to serve the wine before quietly bowing himself out again.

“I wasn’t able to do anything useful for you when we were children,” Lucilla continued after sipping her wine. “But I vowed that someday, if I had the chance, I would. As the wife of an earl—who just happens to be related to two of the Almack patronesses—I have an unassailable position in society, a whole Season in which to wield my power, and I’ve decided it’s time you assumed the place to which you were born.”

Will spread his arms wide. “Behold me occupying that position! Baron Penniless of Rack-and-Ruin Manor.”

Ignoring the bitterness in his tone, she nodded. “Exactly. You are still a baron. Uncle might have shamefully neglected the property put under his guardianship, but Brookwillow still possesses a stout stone manor house situated on a fine piece of land. Both need only an infusion of cash to put them to rights. You merely need to leave off pursuing light-skirted matrons and start looking for a wealthy bride. And I intend to help you find one.”

The idea was so preposterous, Will could not help laughing. “My dear, you are a dreamer! I hardly think I would be of interest to any respectable woman—unless she’s attics-to-let. Even should I manage to charm some tender innocent, no papa worth his salt would countenance my suit.”

“Nonsense,” Lucilla returned roundly. “You speak as if you were steeped in vice! You’ve only done what most young men do—game and seduce women all too willing to be seduced—albeit with a bit more flair. Indeed, I suspect Uncle Harold is proud of your reputation, though he’d never admit it. However, as head of the family, he will support your efforts to become established in good society.”

“He told you that?” Will asked, astounded.

“Why should he not? Since to do so,” she added dryly, “costs him neither time nor blunt. With your breeding and family connections, charming an innocent shouldn’t prove much of a challenge. You’re quite a handsome devil, you know, and what girl can resist the lure of a rake’s reputation?”

He stared at her a moment. “Given my ‘rake’s reputation,’ what does your lord husband have to say about your running tame with me?”

“You know Marcus always liked you, even when you were milling down every boy who whispered behind your back at Eton. He agrees that you ought to assume the responsibilities of your rank.” Lucilla giggled. “And knowing how he detests London, you may easily understand why he was happy to agree that you stand in for him as my escort to every party, ball and rout I choose to attend.”

“He trusts me that much—in spite of my reputation?”

Lucilla’s face grew serious. “He knows you would never do me harm—and so do I. Besides, the girls and their governess are with me, so we shall appear quite the family. Now, what we need to find you is a gently bred lass from the lower ranks. Despite Uncle Harold’s support, with your…limited means, ’tis best not to aspire to the hand of a duke or earl’s daughter. Perhaps a chit whose family wishes her to acquire a title…especially if she had a nabob grandfather to leave her his wealth!”

Holding up his hands, Will shook his head. “Lucilla my dear, I appreciate your kind intentions, but spare me! I’ve no desire to become a tenant for life.”

“What would you become, then? ’Tis past time to cease drifting as you have since leaving Oxford. Would it be so bad to find a kind, sensible girl to care for, who will care about you? One whose dowry will allow you to repair the manor house, refurbish your land and begin living as befits a Lord Tavener of Brookwillow?”

She gestured around the room. “You’ll never convince me you’d be sorry to give up this. Only think! Instead of a rented room—which hasn’t even a pianoforte!—you might recline in your own music room at Brookwillow. Become a patron of the arts, sponsor musicales and theatricals. Write music as you once did. Fill the library with all the rubbishy books you used to bring home from Eton and Oxford.” She giggled again. “Much to the horror of Uncle Harold.”

Will smiled. “The only thing more awful to our uncle than a nephew who wrote music was the idea of one becoming a scholar. I once choused him out of 200 pounds by threatening to accept a position as a don at Christ Church.”

“Did they really offer you a post?” Lucilla asked, diverted. “I think you might have been a good one.”

“No, I was wise not to accept it, even if I was angry at the time with Uncle Harold for not buying me that commission.” And despairing of what his future could offer, with a crumbling estate, no money and no chance to harness his few talents to earn any. “There wouldn’t have been any married ladies of wealth there for me to pursue.”

“True. But you’re bored with that now.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Am I?”

“Yes. Lydia reports you’ve not been involved in any new scandal for months. I understand you even rebuffed Lady Marlow’s quite flagrant lures.”

“Please, I beg you will not repeat that. Only consider my reputation!”

“No doubt ’twas your reputation as a lover that led her to pursue you.” She gave him a wicked look. “Employ those talents to charm your well-dowered maiden and you will both be happy! Marriage can be much more than a dreary arrangement based on wealth and position, as I can attest with great satisfaction.”

Hoping to throw her off, he gave her a lascivious look. “You certainly have the offspring to prove it.”

“’Tis another benefit of wedlock,” she replied, not at all embarrassed. “You might have a son.”

Will shuddered. “I can’t imagine anyone more ill-suited for the role of father. With my parents dead since I was a lad, what do I know about it?”

“You certainly know what not to do. Now, once the Season begins, I’m hosting a dinner for Lydia’s niece Cecelia, after which we will proceed to Lady Ormsby’s rout. You can make your first appearance then.” She cast a discerning eye over his attire and frowned. “It will give you enough time to get to the tailor and have some new garments made.”

“I am attending this rout, am I?”

Her face softened and she reached over to take his hand. “Dear Will, forgive me! I know I am terribly managing—which, I suppose, is what comes of running a household that includes a score of servants and three active children! I just want you to be happy, living in a place and a style worthy of you. I want you to have a chance to find the family you were robbed of as a child. I can’t make up for the lack of the commission or change the standards that forbid a gentleman from pursuing a career as a musician or scholar, but I can do this. Won’t you at least try to become respectable? If we don’t find an heiress to your liking, you can always go back to living the way you are now. What can you lose?”

“Several months of pursuing willing widows?” he suggested. But Lucilla was right. He was bored with the emptiness of his life, dissatisfied, restless, yearning for some indefinable something more.

He was by no means sure that acquiring a wife would satisfy those longings, however. “I doubt I have the temperament for matrimony,” he objected. “I’ve lived on my own so long, I don’t know that I could tolerate having a woman about all the time.”

“You’ve always enjoyed my company, haven’t you?”

He grinned. “Ah, but I don’t live with you day in and day out.”

“Well, married couples needn’t live in each other’s pockets, either. Indeed, much as I adore Domcaster, with his duties on the land and in town and mine with the house and children, we often go for days seeing each other only at dinner…or at night. Among all the young ladies on the Marriage Mart, surely you can find one who would be that congenial.”

“Perhaps,” Will temporized, not really putting much credit in that happy prediction. Certainly he had no illusions of tumbling into some great love match, as his cousin had. Save for Lucilla, the one relative who had inexplicably taken into her heart the fractious boy everyone else rebuffed, he knew about as much about familial affection as he did about fathering.

Indeed, the people to whom he was closest, he thought with a wry grimace, were neither of his own kin nor class. Barrows, now his valet and companion, a scruffy gutter rat he’d rescued when they were both boys. Maud and Andrew Phillips, the elderly caretakers of what was left of his crumbling estate, who’d shown him all he knew of parental affection. A pang of guilt pierced him that he’d not made the trip to Brookwillow to visit them in months.

Perhaps, if he could tell them he’d acquired the means to restore his ravaged estate and make easy their declining years, he might not be so reluctant to make the trip.

Even as he told himself it was highly improbable that Lucilla’s scheme could achieve that result, he heard himself say, “Very well, send me a card. I’ll make myself presentable and attend.”

“Wonderful!” Lucilla rose and gave him another hug. “Come for dinner next week. Domcaster is looking forward to talking with you.” As he walked her to the door she added, “I should have thought the last rich widow you dallied with would have kept a better kitchen. You look half-starved. You don’t need any money for the tailor—”

“No,” he interrupted, feeling heat flush his cheeks. Since his luck at the tables had been out of late, her comment about his ability to provide himself with food and raiment cut a bit too close for comfort. “My dear, my time with Clorinda was spent dining on delights far more arousing than any chef could devise.”

She batted his arm. “If you’re trying to put me to the blush, you’re all out. Domcaster says I have no sensibility at all. Very good! I’ll send you the invitation.”

He bowed. “As you command, my lady.”

“Stuff!” she said, making a face at him. “No, you needn’t see me to my carriage,” she added as he opened the door and made to walk her out. “My maid Berthe is waiting.” She pointed down the hall to a young woman who stood by the staircase, a liveried footman beside her. “Until next week, then. It is good to see you again, Will,” she added softly before she turned to stroll away.

“You, too, Lucilla,” he murmured, returning her wave before she disappeared down the stairs.

Slowly Will reentered his room and sat back down in his chair. Lord Tavener of Brookwillow Manor. Could he really become such a man? Restore his house, revive the land, take up his music again, build a true scholar’s library? Find someone who wished to share that life?

It seemed too good to be true…but in the last nine years, he’d not found any other way to achieve that dream. He discovered quickly enough after leaving Oxford that gaming, the only source of income open to a gentleman of no resources who wished to remain a gentleman, provided too irregular an income to facilitate the restoration of his birthright, nor after meeting his basic needs was there ever enough left to invest in some capital-generating venture. Nothing less than a substantial influx of cash—the sort that could be provided by the richly dowered bride Lucilla proposed to find him—could accomplish the task.

Already in poor condition at the time of his father’s death, Brookwillow had been too modest a property and too needful of time and serious investment to set it to rights to induce his uncle and guardian, the Earl of Pennhurst, possessed as he was of so many grander and more extensive lands, to bother with it. The last time Will had visited his estate, rain was dripping through the dining-room roof and birds nested in the upper guest chambers. The Phillipses managed to keep the servant’s quarters and kitchen habitable, but could do little with the rest.

As for the land, a few tenants still worked small plots around their cottages, but there weren’t nearly enough acres under cultivation to produce a saleable crop. Not that, after spending his youth at boarding schools, he had any idea how to go about transforming the estate into a productive agricultural property.

In short, his indifferent uncle’s provision of the bare modicum of a gentleman’s upbringing had left Will with few resources and no useable skills. His only innate talent, beyond music, scholarship and a way with cards and horses, seemed to be the ability to beguile bored women into his bed. Though at first that unexpected aptitude had amused him and kept loneliness at bay, of late, even this facility had lost its charm. And no matter how many sessions he battled every contender who dared challenge him at Gentleman Jackson’s, he could no longer box away the sense of emptiness inside.

While he was pondering the possibilities, Barrows walked back in. “So to what did we owe the honor of Lady Domcaster’s most improper visit?”

Will smiled. “It seems I am to become a respectable member of the gentry, Barrows. Leave off gambling, shun immoral women, and find a tender bud of an heiress who will embrace me willingly, love me madly and hand over her fortune so I can restore Brookwillow.”

Picking up the glass Lucilla had left, Barrows drained the last of the wine. “Do you know anything about charming a respectable maid?”

“About as much as I do about farming. But Lucilla insists I have naught to lose by attempting it. Perhaps ’twill be entertaining to attend some ton parties.”

“You’ve always derived enjoyment from your cousin’s company,” Barrows pointed out. “And I have perceived of late that you seemed disinclined to accept some of the lures cast at you. Why, Lady Marlow practically—”

“Not you, too,” Will groaned.

“If pursuing the improper sort of female has left you dissatisfied, attempting to entice the other sort might at least add a spice of variety to your life.”

“I expect we shall see. Count how many coins we’ve set aside, won’t you? It seems I must visit the tailor. I’m to make my grand entrance soon at Lady Ormsby’s rout.”

“At once, m’lord.” Raising the glass to him, Barrows walked out.

Add a spice of variety to his existence. Yes, entering the ton should do that. After a lifetime of being an outsider, the child not wanted, the student left behind at school during term breaks, he had no expectation that Lucilla’s experiment would do anything more.

CHAPTER THREE

TWO WEEKS LATER, as she helped Mrs. Bessborough stack freshly laundered sheets in the linen press, Allegra reflected wryly that the changes the housekeeper had predicted had begun sooner than—and not at all in the manner—that good woman had predicted.

Captain Lord Lynton had still not arrived, although the household continued to expect him at any moment. Apparently unconcerned with how Lynton House’s new owner might view her actions, however, the day after her husband’s funeral Sapphira summoned a small army of merchants and craftsmen to measure windows, floors, mantels and stairs. She intended, Allegra overheard her telling friends, to refurbish her late spouse’s fusty old town house from attic to cellars.

And so she had, banishing the Chippendale mahogany furniture and brocaded hangings and replacing them with draperies in the startlingly bright colors she preferred and furnishings in the new Egyptian style.

When Hobbs, begging her pardon, objected to her wreaking a similar transformation upon the library until the new master determined what he wished to have done with his private domain, she’d sacked him and hired a sharp-faced younger man. She’d gone on to demote Cook to a mere assistant and hire a French chef whose expertise, she informed Mrs. Bessborough, would better please her discriminating guests.

“I visited Mr. Hobbs during my half-day,” Mrs. Bessborough said, pulling Allegra out of her contemplation. “So sad it was to see him, stripped of his duties, and he a man still in his prime!” She shook her head. “I expect at any moment she will turn me off, as well.”

“You needn’t fear that,” Allegra assured her. “Whatever her failings, Aunt Sapphira is clever enough to understand that with Stirling still finding his way about his butler’s duties, the household would come to a complete halt without your steadying hand at the reins.”

The housekeeper sniffed. “Indeed, for who would smooth down Cook’s hackles or calm the maids after one of Monsieur Leveque’s tantrums? She oughta be grateful you’re here, too, speaking that Frenchie’s tongue sweet as a lark and soothing his devil’s temper like you do. I declare, even with the both of us, sometimes ’tis a pure miracle she gets her morning chocolate and her fancy dinners on time!”

At a jangling sound, Mrs. Bessborough glanced over at the bell case. “The front parlor—that will be the mistress. Now, where is Lizzie?”

“I’ll go.” With a half-smile, Allegra added, “Aunt Sapphira is probably looking for me anyway.”

Wondering what chore her aunt would try to foist on her now, Allegra gave the last sheet to the housekeeper and took the stairs to the parlor.

Allegra suspected Lady Lynton’s speedy sacking of Hobbs and demotion of Cook was intended both to begin restaffing the household with key employees loyal only to her and to deprive Allegra of anyone in authority who remembered her as a valued family member instead of a poor relation kept to do Sapphira’s bidding. Welcoming the struggle as a distraction from her grief, since the new butler’s arrival Allegra had been fighting a small rearguard action to stymie Sapphira’s attempts to relegate her to servant status.

The day of his arrival, most certainly upon Sapphira’s order, Stirling had stopped her in the hall and commanded her to clean the fireplaces in the guest bedrooms. With a hauteur that would have done Lady Grace proud, Allegra raked the man with a frosty glance and informed him that as Lord Lynton’s cousin, she would determine for herself which tasks, fit for a gentlewoman, she wished to perform. Shrewd enough to realize the imprudence of challenging Allegra—at least not until the new master returned and made her position clear—he’d since ignored her.

Allegra also refused to Sapphira’s face any chore the widow tried to assign her that did not fall, by Allegra’s definition, within the scope of a lady’s duties. Though her aunt had several times vowed she’d have “that ungrateful foreign brat” thrown into the street, nothing so dire had come to pass. Allegra concluded that Sapphira either did not trust her new butler to lay hands on a self-proclaimed lady—or realized she could not count on any of the footmen to assist Stirling in carrying out an order to eject her husband’s unwanted relation.

Balked at forcing Allegra into menial duties, Sapphira countered by devising a never-ending succession of the most tedious but genteel chores she could imagine. Wondering whether she would be taxed to answer letters, sort the tangle of embroidery threads in Sapphira’s sewing basket, pour tea or fetch the shawl, fan, sewing scissors or other item Sapphira inexplicably could not locate, particularly when there was an audience to watch Allegra do her bidding, Allegra knocked on the parlor door.

She entered to find Sapphira entertaining Lady Ingram and Mrs. Barton-Smythe, the two among her friends Allegra most disliked. At least, she thought with relief, it wasn’t any of Sapphira’s sycophant admirers, who, emboldened by her husband’s death, paid her calls nearly every day.