To Love A Wicked Scoundrel

He finished his coffee, setting the cup down on the bedside table.

‘I was upstairs painting until a few hours ago.’ His tone expressed exhaustion more than anything else. ‘I completely lost track of time, but it is good of you to wake me. I have business to attend to this afternoon and my correspondence has lingered too long. By the by, I need fresh canvases. See to the purchase.’

Aside from Brooks, few people knew of his passion for painting, and he chose to keep it that way. His affinity for artwork was a private pleasure in a life filled with reluctant celebrity. His studio served as a much-needed sanctuary: the room locked with Brooks in possession of the single extra key. The valet delivered food and drink as well as replacing linens or delivering supplies.

By no instigating of his own, society had adopted him as their chosen darling. Often in the gossip pages and sought after for all social events, Con was labeled the most eligible bachelor in London. He paid little attention to it all unless it interfered in his otherwise enjoyable lifestyle, as in the case of Lady Wilmington. His elaborate barouche with its distinguishing red wheels had made him an easy mark for her schemed escapade that past evening. He smiled at the pleasant remembrance.

‘You need more rest. I should never have entered without knocking.’

Wise to Brooks’ anxious departure, Con sought to redirect him before the servant escaped from the room with the same speed as he had entered.

‘I need a hired hack this evening. I cannot take the chance of using my own carriage to transport my work. As before, arrange for the vehicle’s arrival in the middle of the night and we will load my paintings. They are better off at Highborough House where there is ample wall space.’ His eyes swept from one framed painting to the other hanging within his bedchamber; the two pieces of art were among his favourites. Then he snapped his eyes to Brooks before he continued. ‘Besides, when I grow bored of the season I will likely retire to Highborough House and visit the vineyards. I can sort through my artwork then.’

‘As you wish, milord. Shall I arrange for three in the morning?’

‘Yes, three will be fine. Did you visit the costermongers? Did you purchase what I need?’

Resigned to the fact sleep would be sacrificed, Con stood to dress and turned to Brooks in wait of his answer.

‘I will obtain your canvases and order your supplies but I am sorry to tell you the costermonger sold no poppies. Daisies, primroses, elder, there were plenty, but I enquired throughout the market and no one had a single bloom.’

Constantine grunted in response. Fully clothed in a comfortable cambric shirt and loose trousers, he was quick to forego the need of cravat and waistcoat. He waved off Brooks as he approached with the linen cloth in hand.

Having his valet purchase his supplies and obtain botanicals was indispensible. Were he to send another servant or venture to the flower mart himself, unending speculation would begin as to why he needed quantities of linseed oil, or to which special lady the bouquets were being presented. Most of what he did was lionized by the ton. In this manner any strange habits were linked to the one servant he trusted never to compromise his privacy; even though that very same servant proved a meddling gossip in every case.

Accustomed to his master’s frequent requests for flowers to incorporate into his paintings, Brooks suggested an immediate solution. ‘If you merely need to look at them, there are poppies growing in the centre of Grosvenor Square.’ He walked to the window, parted the curtain, and glanced to the left. ‘Towards the far corner, across from the Bilmont townhouse.’

Con turned towards his valet and offered one of his most convincing smiles. The kind that caused ladies to request he undo their corset strings. ‘Do me a favour and go fetch a few.’

Brooks released a short laugh. ‘That smile won’t work with me. I will do no such thing. Regardless of the fact I remain curious as to the activity near the corner, I will not tread on the manicured lawns of London’s finest square and callously pick flowers from the viewing garden. What type of riff-raff do you believe me to be?’ Not allowing an answer, he excused himself to run errands and slipped from the room.

Constantine walked to the window and looked below. It was early in the afternoon for the general parade of strollers who frequented the square, yet three ladies twirled parasols at the corner right outside his front steps. It would be of no use to leave without catching someone’s attention, but then he noticed Brooks as he strode to the front of the house after having exited through the servant’s backdoor. A half-baked and inordinately bird-witted idea formed within his mind. Without another minute spent on reason, he dashed to the back stairs.

With a beaver cap pulled low on his brow and his loose fitting shirt and beige trousers, he appeared more the delivery person than the impeccably dressed earl expected to emerge from the front door of the townhouse. He exited through the servant’s door and cut long strides across the street into the parterre gardens with its many walkways and paths. Preoccupied with reaching the poppy garden without being recognised, he startled when something collided with his legs, and belatedly pushed his cap past his forehead to ascertain what occurred.

A child stood before him; a lovely little thing actually. He noticed she clutched a stick, the hoop having bumped into his legs and veered off into a nearby garden, one containing a vast bed of pert coquelicot poppies.

Without pause he retrieved the young lady’s wooden toy and plucked a few poppies while he leaned into the flowerbed. ‘Here you are. It is my pleasure to be of service.’ He handed the child the hoop and one flower. She smiled sweetly at his favour.

‘Thank you, sir. I shall give this poppy to Isabelle.’ The child turned and looked over her shoulder to a nearby bench where a dowdy looking woman sat, her nose buried in a thick book.

‘I believe your governess will be very pleased.’ His mission accomplished, he offered her a quick nod.

‘That is not my governess. That is my sister. Stepsister actually, but we do not regard the first four letters. Isabelle is not fond of four-letter words. She says most are utterly distasteful.’

Taken off-guard by the youngling’s forthright appeal, Con stalled, the little miss was quite a charmer. ‘Is that so?’ His eyes skimmed over the woman seated on the bench, taking in the long loose gown and pale green pelisse. Her hair remained hidden under a conservative straw bonnet and the shadow of its long brim obscured her face. She appeared unremarkable, and his attention returned to the child who continued to converse with him even though his mind wandered.

Her expectant expression prompted him to reply. ‘I do understand about four letter words.’ That was a flat out lie. Some of his favourite words were comprised of four letters. Still, he managed a suitable answer. ‘Okra. I despise that one.’

The child gazed at him with beseeching eyes, seemingly reluctant to release him from their conversation. For such a young female, she certainly knew how to flutter her eyelashes.

‘It has been my pleasure, milady, but I do need to leave. If you will excuse me?’ He extended his hand to bid farewell, but she did not take it. Instead she pointed to the ivory engraved button on his cuff before she ran her dainty fingertip over the raised horse head in reverence.

‘That is a very fine button, milord. I collect buttons and I do not have one in such sharp detail.’ She touched it again as if afraid she imagined its existence and Con couldn’t help but smile at her unrehearsed charm.

‘Then you shall have it.’ He spared not a moment to consider Brooks’ anger at finding his shirt in need of repair and snapped the button from its threads to hand to the child. He watched as she secured it in her apron pocket and picked up the ash wood hoop from where it had dropped when she had accepted the flower.

‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ In a scuttle of muslin and eyelet, she turned and ran further into the park towards the woman on the bench.

Constantine wasted no time making his way across the street, not wishing to engage the reserved looking sister and receive another scolding that afternoon.

Chapter Three

Isabelle filled the last of the drawing room shelves with her most treasured books and stepped back to view the progress within their new living space. Meredith had spoken the truth. While the rented townhouse appeared musty at first and in need of repairs, it was otherwise a very fine property. Once the initial cleaning had been completed and they’d directed the servants in furniture arrangement and drapery restringing, the house revealed great potential for splendour. There were solid mantelpieces in all the rooms, showy grates and attractive wall papers, and while one could argue that as a whole the interior begged for a thorough redecorating, they planned to reside there for a few scant months and voiced no complaints.

‘I knew we could transform these empty rooms in no time. It was good of my solicitor to secure the address I desired.’ Meredith breezed in with a quick glance at the interior. ‘It is coming along, wouldn’t you agree?’ Her eyes flitted to Isabelle and swept over her from head to toe before she continued to speak, her tone harbouring a thoughtful note. ‘The beauty is there. It just needs to be uncovered, polished, and refined a bit.’ She walked over and gently pushed a few strands of hair back from her stepdaughter’s forehead and rubbed a smudge of dirt from her cheek.

Isabelle smiled having just considered the townhouse’s hidden appeal. She moved to the window and gazed out into the square. ‘I am so pleased we are close to the park. Such excellent planning on your part! It was lovely to sit in the gardens earlier while the carriages were being unloaded. I presumed London’s air to be thick and the traffic hectic, but the square provides Lily a refreshing place to play.’

As if conjured at the mere mention of her name, the child bounded down the staircase, her small face abeam with satisfaction. ‘I have set out all my collections. Would anyone like to come and see? My new bedchamber has a huge cupboard and I gave each jar and bottle its very own space.’

Isabelle moved towards the stairs. ‘Of course I want to see. Now your pebbles, feathers, shells, and buttons have as cozy a home as we do.’

Meredith greeted her daughter with a kiss on the cheek and continued the conversation. ‘It is not just the park that caused me to request this address, although I agree it is wonderful to have such a lovely view. It is more that Lord Highborough resides on the opposing corner. His is a very grand house, as polished as he. I saw his infamous barouche with its golden crest and bright red wheels earlier this morning.’

‘Meredith, you can’t mean to imply you brought us to this address so you could live across the lane from Lord Highborough. You would not be so bold.’ Isabelle rushed to the window and peered out. Overcome with consternation, she turned to view her stepmother.

‘Do not look at me like that. While I do not doubt my feminine charms, one should never underestimate the power of proximity.’ Meredith patted Lily on the head before she paced across the room. ‘Lord Highborough will know we have arrived soon enough. Lady Newby, who also lives across the square, is securing our names on every invitation list of importance. I am grateful she recalled your father and their friendship. She is also in care of her four young nieces and they will make fine friends for Lily. It is an advantageous association as she will arrange for all the right introductions.’

Isabelle was hardly reassured. ‘I have the sneaking suspicion there is only one introduction you seek and from the tales you shared during our carriage ride you have convinced me Lord Highborough’s reputation is very well earned. Therefore the man should be avoided, not enticed. Sometimes your behaviour does not make sense.’

Meredith’s laugh dismissed her protestation. ‘Not everything makes sense. I trust you will discover that some day. Would you not find it enjoyable to spend a few evenings dancing the night away or conversing with polite society? You know – ’ she reached forward in a swift movement and removed the pins holding Isabelle’s flowing auburn tresses confined to a severe bun ‘ – we could style your hair differently and allow everyone to see how very unique it is.’ She continued to rearrange the lengths until Isabelle reached up with an assertive grasp and removed her stepmother’s hands.

‘You mean allow everyone to see it is such a hideous shade of red.’ Making quick work of the task, she pinned her bun back into place.

‘Your hair is every shade of auburn imaginable and that is worthy of any woman’s envy and every gentleman’s compliment. You have no idea what a trial it is to keep myself satisfied with ordinary brown hair and equally common eyes. Now your eyes are such a lovely shade of grey, they remind me of a stormy winter sky.’

‘How very depressing.’ Isabelle released a long-suffering sigh. ‘I do not know why you insist on romanticising my unfortunate appearance.’

Unwilling to accept her comments, Meredith continued. ‘What rubbish. Your eyes are one of your best features.’

Best features? Plural? Ridiculous. Her stepmother exaggerated on her behalf. If pressed, Isabelle would concede her eyes were interesting; mostly in the way they lightened or darkened depending upon the shade of dress she wore. But other than that, she was at a complete loss. Her father told her ever since she could remember that her unusual colouring would have been more forgivable on a boy and as a lady she was at a great disadvantage with her fiery locks and soft, lilting features. But what an incredible waste of time it was to consider her appearance in great detail. She lived a very quiet and content life and preferred it so.

‘I think you are beautiful,’ Lily offered.

Isabelle almost forgot Lily was present. It served as a testament to childhood innocence that her sister would interrupt her self-deprecating thoughts with a compliment, and she offered her a gentle smile. ‘Thank you. It is kind of you to mention.’

As an afterthought, Isabelle noted Lily found beauty in everything from feathers to little round pebbles. She turned to speak but Meredith snatched the waist of her muslin gown and pulled it together with a tight twist at the back.

‘Of course we will visit the most exclusive dressmakers now that we have arrived, but if you choose fabrics and colours to compliment your flawless skin and accentuate your figure.’

‘I think you know what is wrong with my figure.’ She attempted to swat away her stepmother’s hands from where they held her gown captive, but failed miserably.

‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Women would do anything to have your full bosom.’

Lily’s burst of giggles prodded Isabelle to a darker shade of pink. Her figure was as confused as the colour of her hair. Full breasts, a slim waist, and the gentle curve of her hips remained hidden under the respectable loose gowns she favoured. Shamelessly, her father remarked more than once about the irregular development of her body. She should have been born a boy. She might have made her father happy then. If only the midwife announced ‘It is a boy!’ Isabelle’s entire life would have taken a different path.

‘Well, if you think for one moment I will allow you to leave any respectable modiste without flattering gowns and undergarments, then you need to reconsider the matter with care. We are no longer in Wiltshire. Resign yourself to the fact.’ Meredith’s eyes flared in emphasis. ‘You cannot embrace true adventure in plain fabrics and last year’s fashion.’

From the corner of her eye, Isabelle noticed Lily nod her head in emphatic agreement.

‘Since we will attend a gathering two nights from now, we have no choice but to modify something off the rack, but from every point forward our wardrobe will overflow with the finest silks and the latest designs. Lest you forget, I have London’s favourite scoundrel to entice.’

Isabelle clamped her hands over Lily’s ears unsure what other nonsense her stepmother might utter and with a gentle nudge steered her sister up the stairs, anxious to examine every wondrous piece of her collections and escape Meredith’s ambitious plans.

***

Constantine brushed his gloves together in an effort to rid them of dust and opened the hack door as he spoke to Brooks in a low tone. ‘There is one painting left in the studio. It is large and I’ll need your help bringing it down to the street.’ His command cut through the unsettling quiet of the night.

The two men had already made several trips from the third-floor studio to the hired hackney with eleven of his most recent works of art. Unframed they weren’t very heavy. Now arranged with care, each wrapped in a tarp so the long ride to Highborough House would not cause damage, their work was almost complete.

Without a word, the two men turned and took the steps. They manoeuvered the last canvas down to street level. It took a bit longer than anticipated, but eventually they placed the painting on the curb.

‘Bloody hell, why did the driver leave? I mentioned we needed to bring one more painting out.’ Con grunted his disapproval, aggravated with the tedious day.

‘I cannot explain it, milord. Did the driver give you any indication how long it will take him to reach Highborough House? Although the lamps are well lit in Grosvenor Square, I doubt the less traveled roadways will be serviceable until sunrise.’

‘I did not speak to him, but I thank you for arranging this appointment. It seems the best way to transport my paintings without detection.’

‘Milord?’ Brooks voice held a note of apprehension. ‘You did not speak to the driver? Nor did I. I arranged for him to meet us here at three o’clock but did not furnish a destination address. I assumed you would direct him once we finished the task.’

Con jerked his head up and he eyed the anxious valet with a steely glare. ‘Then where the devil are my paintings? And how the hell will I get them back?’

Chapter Four

‘Good heavens, it is crowded in here.’ Isabelle’s eyes scanned the room with reluctant enthusiasm, her barely contained excitement at war with her natural pragmatism. ‘Hasn’t anyone given a thought to safety? Lady Rochester has invited far too many people to this event. I can scarcely move in the crush.’

Beside her, Meredith smiled at a passing guest. ‘Crowded and wonderful. I am thankful Lady Newby kept her word and secured this invitation. The Rochester Ball is the most prestigious event of the season.’ She placed her hand on Isabelle’s arm and squeezed. ‘Oh this is a terrible crush and utterly exciting.’

Isabelle looked at her stepmother with mild confusion. During the entire carriage ride she’d endured Meredith’s incessant chatter explaining her strategy for attracting the attention of Lord Highborough. She failed to comprehend how any female could become so infatuated by reading of a man’s exploits having never set eyes on the individual. Wouldn’t one need to know him on a personal level before falling helplessly in love?

‘Won’t this ridiculous crowd hamper your search for the wicked earl?’ She inflected just enough drama into the final three words to express her opinion of Meredith’s goal for the evening. She just couldn’t help herself. The idea of hunting down the man and stalking him until he noticed her seemed immature and absurd.

Granted, Lord Highborough was likely very handsome. The few gossip papers she’d suffered through on Meredith’s insistence described him as dashing and well built, and favoured by every member of the ton, including distinguished gentlemen and aged dowagers. Such a unilateral collection of admirable traits struck her as uncommonly rare. Rather like a unicorn or a four-leaf clover. Surely Lord Perfection possessed some kind of flaw. Yet every article craftily depicted his clandestine indiscretions as romantic, his excessive indulgence as grandiose.

‘Well, I wish you luck in your conquest. I believe if we become separated we will never find each other until the dinner bell rings. There are far too many people crammed into this ballroom. I sincerely hope no one overturns a candle.’ Isabelle ended her complaint with a little squeak and moved her slipper before a nearby gentleman trod upon her toe.

‘I agree, isn’t it wonderful?’ Meredith scrutinised each passing guest in search of her quarry.

Isabelle was happy to leave her to the task as she had no intention of crossing the wicked earl’s path. And if ever she had the notion, which she absolutely did not, how would she even approach him? It sounded as though the man was forever surrounded by dozens of twittering females and raucous upstarts. Perhaps the obsequious mob was needed to support his exaggerated reputation.

The musicians took up their instruments and as she stood on the cusp of the marble floor, dance card on her wrist and champagne glass in hand, Isabelle could almost hear Meredith’s rehearsed plan of strategy and see her stepmother’s diligent gaze darting around the room. Any stranger would assume the lady had something in her eye or was bothered by the huge candle filled chandeliers that bathed the dance floor in soft golden hues. Isabelle rolled her eyes and caught a glance of the elaborate crystal lighting overhead. The shimmering display gave her pause.

The ballroom did look uncommonly beautiful if she allowed herself to appreciate it. Every colour of the rainbow was represented by the beau monde’s extravagant mode of dress. Ample arrangements of flowers graced each available surface not covered with syllabub, sweets and savouries. Much to her delight, Isabelle had noticed a rare bouquet of tulips on the entryway chiffonier as they had whisked though the doorway earlier. Servants bustled about and elegant laughter wafted over the delicate strains of the orchestra. The evening did feel a little enchanted. She took a small sip of champagne and rationalised how it proved impractical to be ensconced in the ballroom and not take full advantage of the situation. Isabelle prided herself on resourcefulness.

With a bemused smile, she relaxed in her new satin slippers. How she had fussed and complained throughout the entire shopping trip to Bond Street, protesting she had no time for foolish vanity. But now she could not be happier she had heeded Meredith’s advice. Dressed in a deep glittering shade of green, she complemented the lovely ladies surrounding her. An unfamiliar, but welcomed feeling washed over her.

***

Constantine Highborough, Earl of Colehill, was not currently ensconced in conversation with a bevy of fluttering females, nor otherwise occupied with a Johnny raw anxious to copy his style or listen to tales of his exploits. Instead, he’d retreated to the study with his closest friends to enjoy an aged brandy courtesy of Lord Rochester’s liquor cabinet. Beside him, Devlin Ravensdale, Duke of Wharncliffe, and Phineas Betcham, Viscount Fenhurst, discussed the purchase of a new barouche. The three of them enjoyed a solid friendship although Devlin rarely mixed with society. Phineas, the tallest and most reserved, balanced family obligations with social responsibilities. He presented himself as a fine gentleman and was considered a prime husband candidate by those who compiled such lists. A stark contrast to Devlin, a dark, reclusive man who lived in secret and shadow. Yet no matter their differences, the men had formed a strong bond, one for which Constantine was grateful.

For the umpteenth time his thoughts returned to the runaway hack and the loss of his artwork. He did not fear discovery as no one in their right mind could decipher the scrawled signature in the lower corner of each work as his name. But the paintings were a part of him, an expression put upon canvas, and he wanted them returned. The hackney yard had record of Brooks ordering a hired vehicle, yet two had shown instead of one, the second carriage arriving nearly twenty minutes later than the first, the driver flustered and apologetic. The entire situation vexed Con immensely.