Rescued From Ruin

She’d spent the better part of the morning calculating the value of her few possessions against their mounting debts, her depression growing by the minute. The one small ray of hope was the inheritance payment she’d soon receive. It was the only money left to her by her father, his share of a sugar plantation in Barbados, the single investment to have ever made him any money. The payments were never large because there were so many other investors, but even the paltry amount would be enough to ease some of her present worry.

She ran her hand over her wrist, feeling the small bump of the gold bracelet beneath the velvet, not wanting to think about the last time she’d so desperately needed the money. Her mother hadn’t been able to rouse herself for even two hours to see to this small matter and Cecelia had ventured alone to Mr Watkins’s office to collect the payment. Cecelia had railed at her mother afterwards, no longer capable of holding back all her fears and frustration, wishing her mother would wrap her arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. She hadn’t.

Not long afterwards, she had told Cecelia to pack for Lady Ellington’s.

Cecelia’s shoulders sagged, the pain and loneliness of then mirroring her life now. She wanted to slide off the gelding and crawl beneath a bush, curl up in a ball where no one and nothing could bother her. Then she forced back her shoulders and raised her head high, smiling at a passing gentleman. Was his name Mr Hammerworth or Mr Passingstoke? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter, nor did she let it trouble her when he trotted past without so much as a glance. She would not give up, she would not leave Theresa alone to face an uncertain future the way her mother had left her.

‘Look—’ Theresa’s voice pierced Cecelia’s thoughts ‘—there’s Lord Falconbridge.’

Cecelia’s body tensed as she watched Randall ride towards them, his eyes fixed on her, his smile wide and inviting. She struggled not to frown, frustrated to know she could elicit smiles from no one in Rotten Row except him.

‘Good evening, Lord Falconbridge,’ Madame de Badeau sang, more cheerful than she’d been the entire length of the ride.

‘Falconbridge,’ Lord Strathmore mumbled.

‘Isn’t it lovely out, Lord Falconbridge?’ Theresa greeted in a bright voice, arching a suggestive eyebrow at Cecelia with an obviousness as chafing as Randall’s presence.

‘Yes, it is, Miss Fields.’ Randall turned his horse, bringing it alongside Cecelia’s. ‘No greeting from you, Mrs Thompson?’

‘Hello, Lord Falconbridge.’ She tried to focus on the path instead of him, but she couldn’t. Atop the brown stallion, he looked like a fine sculpture, his confidence as solid as any bronze casting. He wore a dark riding coat tailored close to fit the strong angles and broad expanses of his torso. The cut of the coat was nothing compared to the close fit of his breeches. His stallion danced and Randall’s thigh muscles tightened as they gripped and eased to control his mount. She followed the line of them up to a more enticing muscle before a rumbling laugh made her eyes snap to his.

‘I see you’re enjoying all the sights of the Row,’ he teased.

She swatted a fly from her skirt, annoyed at having been caught staring at him.

‘I’m enjoying the ride, not the sights, Lord Falconbridge.’

‘Randall, please, like in old times.’ He placed one hand over his heart, the gesture genuine and matched by the sincerity in his eyes. She caught in their depths the young man who’d once sat beside her on the banks of the River Stour, listening while she cried out her anger at being sent away and her worries over the future. It touched the cold, lonely place inside of her, the one growing like a tumor since Daniel’s death.

‘I’m surprised to see you out riding,’ she commented, eager to thwart the encroaching pensiveness. His comfort had been fleeting and hardly worth remembering. ‘Why aren’t you home resting for another long night of ruining people?’

The teasing remark came out sharper than intended and she steeled herself, expecting a cutting response. Instead he laughed, the barb rolling off him like water off a fine saddle. ‘Contrary to what you believe, I don’t spend every evening ruining young gallants who possess more money than wits.’

‘How do you spend your evenings, then?’ She was truly curious.

He shrugged. ‘Much the same as you do.’

‘I doubt it.’ Since I don’t bed half the widows in society. Lady Ilsington rode by on her chestnut gelding, eyeing Randall with a hungry look, then frowning when he failed to acknowledge her. ‘With the exception of balls, it isn’t my habit to keep late hours.’

He leaned towards her, his thighs tightening beneath the buckskin, their hardness carrying up through the solid centre of him to his blue eyes shaded by his hat. ‘Then we must cure you of such a strange malady.’

Her hands tightened a little too hard on the reins and the horse began to veer towards Randall.

‘An interesting proposition, but I think your cure might be worse than the disease,’ she rushed, correcting the horse.

‘You would die a thousand little deaths.’

His low voice twined around her and her knee bent harder around the pommel, her pulse fluttering against the tight collar of her habit as she slowed the horse to drop behind the others, ignoring Theresa’s questioning look.

Randall slowed his stallion to keep pace, loosening his grip on the reins as the horses ambled along.

‘Shall we dismount here and wander off into the bushes?’ she suggested. ‘Or would you prefer a more clandestine meeting— your town house, perhaps—late at night? I could wear a veil and arrive by hackney, most sinful and nefarious indeed.’

His finger trilled slowly over his thigh. ‘You make it sound so sordid when it could be so beautiful.’

She ran her tongue over her lips, noting with triumph how it drew his eyes to her mouth, her power over him driving her boldness. ‘Am I really an illustrious enough candidate to bestow your favours on?’

‘Who could be more illustrious than an old friend?’

Friend. She brought the gelding to a stop, the word snapping her out of the seductive haze. They’d been more than friends once, or so she’d believed until the end. He was mistaken if he thought he could charm her into forgetting. It was time to bring his teasing to an end. ‘As an old friend you will understand when I politely decline.’

He turned his horse, walking it back to her as the others rode on. ‘And you will understand when I ask again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.’

‘No, Randall, I won’t.’ The gelding shifted and she tugged the reins to steady it, the animal’s agitation adding to her own. ‘Why do you continue to pester me when I’ve made my position clear?’

‘Because you captivate me, more than you realise.’

The revelation nearly knocked her from the saddle and she shifted her foot in the stirrup to keep her seat. Did he really care for her or was this all part of his game, his ego’s desire to capture the adoration of every woman in London, even an insignificant widow? Her horse shook its head and she turned it in a circle, eager like the animal to vent the energy building inside her.

She positioned her riding crop over the horse’s flank, mischief creeping in beneath her resentment. If he wanted the thrill of the chase, she’d give him one, along with a beating solid enough to end his interest in her. ‘Do you still race, my lord? I remember you were the best in the county.’

‘I was eighteen.’

‘Then I expect you’ve improved with age. To the statue and do not disappoint.’

She snapped the crop against the horse and it shot off down Rotten Row. Behind her, the stallion’s hooves drummed a steady beat on the packed dirt path and in a moment Randall was beside her. They raced side by side, the horses nearly in sync as they flew past geldings shying off the path or rearing up in surprise, their wide-eyed riders hanging on tightly. She turned the horse to the right to avoid a curricle, the driver’s curses lost in the pounding of the gelding’s hooves. Randall dodged around a group of riders and fell back until the path cleared and his stallion picked up speed. The statue came into view and his horse pulled ahead. She dug her heel into the side of the gelding and the horse leapt forward, passing the statue a nose length before Randall’s.

‘Now there’s the woman I remember,’ Randall congratulated, his thick voice echoing through her, infectious and alluring as they slowed their horses to a walk.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve ridden like that.’ Her heart raced in her ears and Cecelia lifted her face to catch the stiff breeze sweeping over her damp skin.

‘Shall we canter to the lake?’ He circled her with his horse, tempting her with the energy radiating between them. ‘Put that horse of yours through its paces?’

‘I think it’s you who’ll be put through his paces. You pulled back, just like you always used to do.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘You did, I saw it, and I’ll see it again at the lake.’ She raised the reins, ready to snap the horse back into action, when three old matrons crossing their path in the curricle stopped her. The tallest one glared at her from beneath a dark parasol while the other two whispered behind their hands. Only then did Cecelia notice the other riders watching them, their faces pinched and disapproving. What little she’d accomplished with all her smiles, she’d just undone in a moment of rashness.

She swallowed hard, the riders’ scrutiny too much like the morning she’d entered Bruton Parish Church to meet the cold stares of every family who believed General LaFette’s lies. It would happen again here in London if she wasn’t careful. Only this time, there was nowhere else for her and Theresa to go.

‘What’s wrong?’ Randall asked.

She wrapped the reins around one hand, eager to be away from him, the Row and everyone who’d seen them. ‘Once again I’ve forgotten myself in your presence.’

Randall scowled, bringing his horse close to hers. ‘Don’t worry what they think.’

She pulled her horse’s head to one side, forcing him away from Randall’s mount. ‘Unlike you, I must.’

‘What happened to the brave girl I remember?’

‘As you said, I was a girl. A lady must mind her behaviour.’

‘No, you have the means to be free. Don’t let these people make you afraid.’

‘Don’t seek to counsel me, Lord Falconbridge,’ she snapped. ‘You know nothing of me or my life.’

She kicked her horse into a trot back up the path, her habit itchy under the rising heat of her embarrassment and anger. How dare Randall sit on his horse with all the privileges of his sex, title and wealth and instruct her on how to behave? How dare he try to tempt her into an indiscretion, then chide her for wanting to protect her reputation? He’d abandoned his so long ago, it was clear he couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to keep theirs.

The animal tried to gallop, but she kept him at a trot, despite wanting to let it run, to carry her away from all the heartless people and her own troubles. Ahead, Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore came into view, their faces hard. Madame de Badeau walked her horse out to meet Cecelia.

‘A splendid display of horsemanship.’ It was a warning, not a compliment. ‘I don’t know how ladies ride in Virginia, but here they don’t race through Rotten Row.’

‘I’m sorry. I quite forgot myself.’

‘I don’t recommend forgetting yourself again.’ She inclined her head at Lord Strathmore, his snub nose wrinkled in disapproval. ‘Not all gentlemen appreciate such spirited public displays.’

Anger burned up Cecelia’s spine and she wanted to turn and gallop back to Randall, dismiss them both and embrace the freedom he offered. Only the sight of Theresa beside the Earl kept her from snapping the horse into a run. It wasn’t freedom Randall offered, but an illusion as fleeting as those her father used to create before every failed trip to Calais, and as likely to sink her as her father’s ship had sunk him and his business.

‘Come along, then.’ Madame de Badeau escorted Cecelia back to Lord Strathmore, riding beside her like a guard.

Cecelia felt like a prisoner to her debt and to every bad choice made by her father, her mother and even Daniel. They’d all escaped the ramifications of their decisions, leaving her, always her, to deal with the consequences.

Resignation extinguished her anger and she let the horse, Lord Strathmore’s horse, continue forward. It wasn’t just her future at risk, but Theresa’s. If she lost the Earl’s good opinion, and the opinion of who knew how many others, Theresa would suffer, too, and she refused to allow it. Fingering her gold bracelet, she tried to look contrite while thinking of all the simpering words she might say to soothe the hard set of Lord Strathmore’s lips. Each turn of phrase burned her tongue like hot water, but she would say them. Life was what it was and she must make the best of it. Nothing good could come from wishing for it to be any different.

Chapter Five

Randall stood on the staircase, watching the elite men of London snigger and cough as they examined the selection of paintings arranged on easels across his wide marble hall. A fine collection of art base enough to make a bawd blush was on display. It was the last of Uncle Edmund’s collection, which used to hang in the entrance hall of Falconbridge Manor, his uncle’s defence against respectable ladies attempting to cross the threshold and land a Marquess.

‘Impressive works, Falconbridge,’ Strathmore mumbled as he walked past, looking a little red around the collar, as if this much flesh so early in the day was more than even a man of his tastes could tolerate.

The footmen carrying trays of Madeira were also having trouble maintaining a steady course in the face of so much painted flesh. For the second time in five minutes, Randall watched as the wiry-haired Duke of St Avery nearly collided with a gaped-mouth footman.

‘You’ll gain quite the reputation as a collector after this,’ Lord Bolton offered with a touch of reverence as he stopped to examine a nearby portrait.

‘I don’t think that’s the reputation I’ll gain.’ Randall smirked with more arrogance than he felt. The exhibition might titillate society, but today, the excitement of shocking their sensibilities left him flat. Instead all he could think about was Cecelia and their encounter yesterday in Rotten Row. His agitation was exacerbated by the ridiculously early hour he’d arisen. Not even Reverend had deigned to join him to watch the sun rise and tease out why Cecelia, after flying like a mad woman down the row, all lively laughter and glowing skin, had shrunk back into herself like some scared turtle at the sight of a few old matrons.

It wasn’t the Cecelia he remembered, the one who used to laugh boldly at these paintings in front of Uncle Edmund instead of averting her eyes.

What had dulled her bravery and made her more afraid of a few old crows than she’d ever been of Uncle Edmund? Perhaps the husband was to blame.

Randall tightened his hands into fists behind his back, imagining the colonial’s face twisted in disapproval. Cecelia might have stood up to such scrutiny at first, but over time it would have chipped at her, like his father’s constant reprimands ate at him.

Randall cracked the knuckle of one finger.

The colonial was a fool if he’d failed to cherish Cecelia’s spirit or revel in her sweet laughter the way Randall had yesterday.

The art dealer, a short man with a wide forehead, approached, tugging at the knot of his cravat, his discomfort no doubt eased by the tidy profit waiting for him at the end of the sale. ‘I know I objected to your lordship displaying such a...’ he paused, searching for the proper word ‘...unique collection in an open exhibition, but you were right. The interest this showing has generated is stunning. I don’t expect one painting to remain unsold.’

‘Good. I want them gone by the end of the day.’ For years, they’d kept Aunt Ella ensconced in the dower house until a fire the spring before Cecelia had come to visit made it unlivable. The morning after Uncle Edmund’s funeral, she’d demanded the paintings be taken down and Randall had agreed. He possessed no more desire than she did to live in a manor house decorated like a bordello.

Strathmore, standing before a painting of two naked women wrestling for the amusement of several soldiers, waved the dealer over.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Lord Falconbridge, I believe we’ve made another sale.’ The dealer hurried off to join the Earl.

Randall watched as Strathmore pointed a thick finger at first one and then another of the most sordid of the lot. All at once, he imagined Strathmore sitting close to Cecelia, his dry lips hovering near her ear as he relayed with delight the dirty details of every picture, relishing the chance to poison her against him.

Randall took a step down, ready to grab the Earl by the collar and toss him out of the house, but he stopped, regaining his imperious stance and wiping away all traces of annoyance from his expression. Strathmore was beneath his notice and his anger.

A footman pulled open the front door and Lord Weatherly, Lord Hartley and Lord Malvern entered, their loud voices dropping at the sight before them.

‘Heavens,’ Lord Weatherly mumbled as he stepped up to the nearest painting, an explicit depiction of an ancient Roman man and woman watched by their curious servants. It used to hang in Uncle Edmund’s study, a strange complement to the paintings of birds and hunting dogs.

Behind him stood Lord Hartley, Marquess of Hartley, a stately man of forty-five and a fixture of society whom Randall liked and respected. He could not say the same about his dolt of a nephew, Lord Malvern. The young Baron in the tight blue silk coat possessed more words than brains and little knew how to wield either.

The fop gaped at the paintings before catching Randall’s eye. He made for Randall, his poor uncle following behind like a tired governess chasing after a wayward charge. If it weren’t for Lord Hartley, Randall would have cut his nephew. Instead, he remained standing on the steps, looking down at the rail-thin Malvern.

‘Lord Falconbridge, with so much interesting art for sale, may we assume you have a new conquest, one who is making you part with your precious collection?’ His weak lips drew up into a grin Randall assumed was meant to be haughty, but it only made him look as if he’d smelled curdled milk.

Behind him Lord Hartley rolled his eyes.

Randall twisted the signet ring on his small finger, looking over the stupid man’s head. ‘You may assume whatever you like.’

‘Don’t disappoint, Lord Falconbridge.’ He lifted one foot to step up and Randall pinned him with a look to melt ice.

Malvern lowered his foot back to the floor. ‘Tell us who she is. All society wants to know.’

‘If by all society, you mean the betting book at White’s, don’t think I’ll give you the advantage. We aren’t on familiar enough terms for such confidences.’

Lord Malvern’s lips twitched as if trying to form a retort when his uncle dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Spare the Marquess any more of your wit, Morton. Go see the paintings and enjoy the only visit you’ll likely make to the Marquess’s house.’

Lord Malvern sneered at his uncle, but shuffled off to join a group of similarly dressed young men crowding around a painting of nymphs and satyrs engaged in an orgy.

‘If he wasn’t my wife’s nephew, I’d have nothing to do with him.’ Lord Hartley shook his head, leaning one elbow on the wood balustrade. ‘He thinks his mouth will make him a reputation, but it won’t be the one he wants. I don’t suppose you’d consider calling him out, aim wide and send him scurrying back to the country?’

‘As tempting as it is to draw first blood on him, he’s hardly worth the effort or the bullet.’ Randall stepped down to join the Marquess. ‘Besides, with his lack of wit, you won’t be saddled with him for long.’

‘Ah, how I look forward to the day he leaves.’ Lord Hartley laughed before he sobered at the sight of his nephew making a rude gesture to one of the other fops. ‘I’d better see to it he doesn’t embarrass himself further. Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’

Lord Hartley walked off to rejoin his nephew near the Roman painting.

The fops crowded around it, laughing into their hands like a gaggle of school girls before one of them reached out to run a gloved finger over the Roman woman’s arm.

Her arm is too long, Cecelia’s voice rang through his mind, the memory of her laughing at the painting bringing a smile to his face, but it faded fast. Her innocence felt too pure for a display like this.

The fops moved on to a similar Egyptian painting, leaving the Roman woman and her lover to their joy. Randall followed the line of the Roman woman’s arm and the long strokes of cream paint giving it a fleshlike texture. He stopped at the smudge of black in the corner of her elbow, the same speck of paint he’d fixed on the morning Uncle Edmund had called him into the study.

I like Cecelia, she’s a good girl, full of spirit. Uncle Edmund rubbed the wood of the hunting rifle lying across his lap, the smell of oil mixing with the dust of old books. But she’s poor and you’ll be a Marquess some day. Don’t think she doesn’t know it and won’t try to land you. Don’t let her, my boy, don’t let any of them ever trap you. Bored wives and widows, that’s what you need to keep you amused. They ask less of a man.

Randall had refused to believe him, until the morning in the conservatory when Cecelia had pressed him about their future together.

Randal dropped his hands to his sides, trying to laugh as another footman collided with the Duke of St Avery, but the little joy he’d gleaned from this ridiculous display was gone. He hated it and everyone here. For all the sideways glances and whispered remarks they made about him, he might as well crawl up on a dais like Cecelia, wrap his body in a toga and display himself to the crowd.

He clasped his hands tight behind his back, wanting to knock the filthy art off the easels and toss everyone from his house. Let them find some other fool to feed their need for amusement. He was tired of performing for them.

He turned and started up the stairs before stopping on the landing, his hand tight on the banister. No, he was not part of their amusement, but the lord and master of this game. He turned, resuming his imperious stance, meeting Lord Bolton’s eyes and smirking in triumph when the young lord dropped his gaze into his drink. The Marquess of Falconbridge would not run from society like some coward, no more than he’d run from Cecelia’s rebukes. Let them whisper and gawk at him, it was to his benefit, not theirs.

* * *

‘You mean I won’t receive a payment from my father’s inheritance until December?’ Cecelia blurted across the desk at Mr Watkins, the solicitor responsible for distributing the Barbados payments. In the chair next to hers, Theresa squeaked out a worried gasp and Cecelia reached over, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Watkins sat back, his leather chair creaking. ‘And perhaps not even then. The hurricane devastated the harvest and though it’s expected to recover, as is always the case with crops, there is no guarantee.’

‘Perhaps I may receive an advance on future earnings?’ Cecelia asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, feeling the blow to her situation as if Mr Watkins had struck her. ‘My income from Virginia has also been delayed. I was counting on this money to see me through until it arrives.’

It was a plausible enough lie, for there were many in London who received income from abroad and often found regular payments interrupted by storms or pirates.

‘There’s nothing I can do. The plantation doesn’t have the money to spare and there are other recipients waiting to be paid as well. If there are no further disasters, the harvest will recover and you may see a payment in December.’ He flicked the file on his desk closed, making it plain he intended to do no more for her than deliver this devastating news. Even if he wished to help them, what could he do? He couldn’t make the crops fruitful or force the ships transporting the money to sail faster.