The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  And then he’d left, forcing her fertile imagination to invent Lady Darcy.

  Isobel ran her palms down her concave belly to the sharp bones of her hips and sighed. Despite her loneliness and her bitterness, she had remained faithful to her vows. A wry smile touched her lips. Though, if she was being fair, she had gotten quite a bit of her frustrations out through Lady Darcy. That version of herself lived the life that Isobel had been cheated of…one of youthful desire and exploration. One of female pleasure and satisfaction.

  It was the reason the letters were so popular, she knew. Women had questions. They were sublimely romantic. And to no one’s surprise, they had many of the same needs as men and were largely unable to act on them. Especially if they were ladies.

  She blushed. Good God, Winter would probably be horrified if he knew what kind of caprices her mind housed. Well, it was his own fault, really. That was the price of a banished wife’s existence in Chelmsford. One had to use one’s imagination, after all, and as it turned out, hers was puckishly creative.

  Hers and Clarissa’s.

  She was not alone in her written crimes of passion.

  Although living in Chelmsford had kept her insulated from the ways of the ton, even Isobel wasn’t that green not to know that other highborn wives carried on discreet affairs when their husbands were away. The Countess of Mead, a headstrong woman, often boasted of her countless lovers, most of them her own footmen. Even that had been addressed in one of Lady Darcy’s letters—cuckolding one’s husband, a piece cleverly entitled “When the Cock Crows” that had scandalized men everywhere. The ladies had loved it.

  But despite the occasional pang of latent desire from her written exploits, Isobel had no desire to make a cuckold of her husband. Atonement for his behavior, however, was another matter. Winter Vance needed to be taught a lesson, and in spite of her inexperience, Isobel wasn’t a shy, naive girl anymore. She had an arsenal of information at her fingertips. Education in lieu of experience was one of life’s greatest weapons.

  Fate had given her a crate of lemons. She planned to drown her scoundrel of a husband in lemonade.

  A commotion outside her bedchamber made her sit up just as the door burst open. “Rise and shine, my dearest friend,” Clarissa cried gaily, followed by Violet and Molly. “We have gowns to purchase, hearts to slay, and deviant husbands to torture!”

  “Not us,” Violet grumbled. “We’re still in mourning for Papa. Though we do plan to live vicariously through you two, won’t we, Molly?”

  “Not me,” Molly said. “I intend to lose myself in the library and live vicariously through the pages. I should have stayed in Chelmsford.”

  “You don’t mean that.” Violet glared at her sister, and then turned back to Isobel. “Come on, Izzy, time to get up. Unlike Miss I-Love-Books-More-Than-People, I expect a full fashion show and all the details once you return.”

  “What do you have against books?” Molly yelled.

  Isobel groaned, burying her head anew beneath the mound of pillows. “Must you all be so loud?”

  “Of course we must.” Clarissa dragged the bedsheets to the side and then shoved open the curtains to the muted sunlight. She waved to an army of maids who bustled into the room. “You have an appointment with Madame Pinot for a fitting this afternoon.”

  Violet let out a delighted shriek, which made Isobel cover her ears.

  “She is very hard to get in to see,” Violet gushed, “but apparently, people move mountains for the Duke of Kendrick, and the chance to dress the mysteriously reclusive Marchioness of Roth, sister to the very outspoken, very contrary Duchess of Beswick.”

  “Wonderful. I loathe fittings.”

  “Liar.” Clarissa poked her in the side. “You love fashion.”

  It was true. Isobel had always loved perusing the latest in women’s couture, even though Chelmsford offered little in terms of entertainment, besides the occasional social assembly. Now that she had the chance to choose and wear some of the newest trends, she should have been thrilled. Instead, she only felt uncertainty. The emotion must have showed on her face, because Clarissa sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed her arm.

  “Think of the plan, sweeting. A woman’s style is part of her armory, and we must make sure yours is especially fitted for the occasion.” Clarissa leaned in, her voice a whisper for Isobel’s ears only. “Embody Lady Darcy. Make us proud.”

  “Lady Darcy isn’t real,” Isobel whispered back.

  She huffed with an aggrieved look. “Nonsense.”

  “You’re taking this much too seriously, you realize,” Isobel said, sitting up and rubbing her head. The brandy she’d hunted down upon arrival at Vance House hadn’t helped much to put her to sleep but had left her with a throbbing headache.

  Clarissa winked. “Take that back, wench. I’ll have you know I take sexual gratification very seriously.”

  “Goodness, Clarissa, the servants!” Molly said, glancing at the nearest maid who had gone pink-cheeked.

  Isobel, too, was sure her face bore the same color. It was a common occurrence in proximity to Clarissa, who lived to shock and titillate. Though Lady Darcy was an amalgamation of the two of them, the character’s predilection for the obscene came from Clarissa.

  “Three years is a long time by anyone’s standards, Izzy,” Clarissa went on with a dismissive wave. “At least that’s what my brothers say. It can cause physical deformation for a man supposedly. In coloration, too.”

  Isobel’s mouth dropped. “You are jesting.”

  “I never jest about sexual organs.”

  One of the maids made a choking noise.

  “Clarissa!” both twins burst out.

  Her eyes sparkled as she winked, waggling her eyebrows. “I happen to be an authority on the subject.”

  “Who’s the liar now? You don’t know anything about…such things,” Isobel huffed. But once the twins started giggling, that was it—their laughter was infectious. Clarissa was innocent in body, but her mind was unconscionably filthy. And she clearly had no problem corrupting friends and maids alike. Likely another consequence of being a chronic eavesdropper with five older brothers. “Unempirical knowledge does not make one an expert.”

  Clarissa waved a careless arm. “Be that as it may, we have a plan, and we must see through said plan. Seduce Lord Roth forthwith, and perhaps get Lady Roth up the pole, too.”

  “You wish to get with child, Isobel?” Violet asked, wide-eyed.

  She squashed the ugly ache that spiked in her breast. “One day if that’s in my future, but right now, my only goal is bringing the Maggot of Roth to heel.”

  “Just show him a little leg and he’ll be humping it in a hurry,” Clarissa said with a grin. “Woof, woof.”

  “You are truly dreadful.”

  Trying not to snicker, Isobel allowed the scarlet-faced maid to tend to her. She knew she’d rue the day she’d confided in Clarissa about her plan, and she should have known from the subsequent scream of “Long live Lady Darcy!” but she couldn’t have done any of this without her best friend. Once Clarissa set her mind to something, she completed it without fail. Which meant by the end of the season, Winter Vance would be a man-shaped puddle at Isobel’s feet.

  As far as becoming enceinte…well, as unlikely as it was to happen, a baby would not be unwelcomed.

  At least, Kendrick would get the grandchild he hoped for.

  …

  The fitting at Madame Pinot’s was delightful. Isobel was impressed with the efficiency of the women who worked there, as well as the Frenchwoman’s boundless knowledge of all things fashion. Isobel was certain she’d left a considerable dent in Kendrick’s accounts, but the duke had insisted that she avail herself of his credit. For Clarissa, too.

  Oliver would blow an artery once he was informed of their purchases. He was stingy to a fault and hated his older brother W
inter’s spendthrift ways. The thought of aggravating his stuffy, stuck-up self, made Isobel nearly chortle with unabashed delight. Oliver resented Winter with a passion, which had somehow extended to Isobel simply by default of being his wife. As a result, he was insufferably rude, treating her with the barest modicum of respect, and that was only in front of his father.

  It was, perhaps, the only thing she and her husband had in common.

  “Why are you smiling like the cat who ate all the cream?” Clarissa asked as they sat in the carriage surrounded by a mountain of parcels. “You know the rules…share the cream.”

  “I’m thinking of Oliver’s face when he sees those bills.”

  A wolfish look spread across Clarissa’s face. “Damnation, but I should have commissioned a dozen more gowns.” Her grin widened. “Shall we come up with a plan to spend more of the duke’s money, then? Shoes, hats, gloves, even new jewelry, perhaps?”

  “Clarissa, you are diabolical.”

  She canted her head in receipt of the compliment. “I try.” She paused. “So, are you finally going to tell me what was it like seeing your marquess now that the twins aren’t around?”

  Isobel gulped, a dozen thoughts translating to her lips and resulting in only one. “He’s an ass.”

  “Naturally.” Clarissa smirked. “But is he still handsome as the devil?”

  “Yes.” Isobel didn’t bother lying to her best friend. She could always see right through her anyway.

  “I bet Oliver’s peeved because Winter got all the good looks in the family,” she said with a laugh.

  Isobel shot her a glance. “Oliver’s not ugly.”

  While he favored his mother’s side with his rounder face and blond hair, there was still some resemblance between the brothers. If he wasn’t such a condescending prig at heart, he’d actually be handsome.

  “Yes, well he’s a cad.” Clarissa glowered at her. “Stop trying to redirect the conversation. I want to hear about what it was like to see dear Winter after all this time. Especially considering he’s one of Lady Darcy’s deepest, darkest fantasies. Well, at least the Izzy half.”

  Isobel went hot. “He is not!”

  “Let’s agree to disagree. Now spill it.”

  In a bland tone, Isobel recounted the details of her visit, watching Clarissa’s eyes get wider and wider.

  “Your eyeballs are going to roll out of their sockets,” Isobel warned.

  Clarissa gaped. “I cannot believe you actually went to 15 Audley Street.”

  “Why?”

  “Derrick says it is a den of depravity. And Derrick is the seediest of all my brothers. Trust me, I’ve overheard him tell stories of the parties at that place. How do you think Lady Darcy gets some of her more creative explanations?”

  Face aflame, Isobel made a gagging noise. “I don’t want to know about Derrick’s sex life.”

  Clarissa’s nose wrinkled as her green eyes turned speculative. “Derrick did mention a week ago that it was strange that the marquess was never around.” She frowned. “Don’t you think that’s odd? I mean what if Roth is no longer the rakehell everyone thinks he is?”

  Wait, what? Isobel’s heart stuttered in her chest at her friend’s complete turnabout. Had she forgotten that he just fought a blasted duel? Isobel’s irritation sizzled back to the surface. “What about Contessa James, then? He doesn’t want to be married, Clarissa. He’s made that more than clear. He left me alone in Chelmsford for three years. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, no matter how much one might wish it to. Roth is a complete mutton monger!”

  Clarissa’s lips twitched at the inventive insult that the man was addicted to wenching, but she shrugged. “People can change.”

  “I think too much shopping has addled your mind.”

  …

  They didn’t speak the entire way back to Vance House. Isobel was fuming. Coming to London with a plan to take down her husband was a far cry from allowing herself to believe he had been miraculously cured of being a complete scoundrel. Yes, his sister’s death was tragic, but that didn’t change who he was. It was after Prudence’s death that the rotter had chosen to leave her and abandon her.

  Winter Vance deserved what was coming to him.

  She glanced over at Clarissa, whose face was openly remorseful. Isobel sighed. She could never remain angry with her friend for long. The carriage rolled to a stop, and just as Isobel opened her mouth to apologize, the door was pulled open. Her groom stood there, his pale face wreathed in worry.

  “Randolph? What is it? Is it Hellion?”

  “There’s been a fire, my lady,” he said. “Hellion is safe, but others in the mews have not fared so well. Someone left a lit cheroot and the hay caught fire. The blaze was contained, but the smoke is still thick.”

  She descended and made to dash around the back of the residence to the mews, but the groom cleared his throat and blocked her way. “It’s not safe, milady.”

  “Randolph, move,” she said with a glare when he wouldn’t let her pass.

  Clarissa tugged on her sleeve. “He’s right, Isobel. The men will have been instructed to keep anyone away for safety. Especially the lady in residence.”

  “But Hellion…” Perhaps it was silly, but Isobel needed to see her mare. She needed to hold her, make sure she was all right. Hellion had become so much more than a pet to her. The horse was family.

  “I know,” Clarissa soothed. “Randolph has told you she’s fine. Listen to him.”

  Isobel bit her lip and nodded. The groom, seemingly mollified that she would stay put, disappeared back to the stables.

  But the worry would not leave her as they entered the house.

  Struck with an idea, she raced upstairs then discarded the dress she’d been wearing, shucked on a pair of old trousers, a linen shirt, a brown coat, and worn boots that she’d used to train Hellion at Kendrick Abbey. All things she could get dirty.

  Clarissa gasped as she made to leave her chambers. “Izzy, what are you doing? You cannot run down willy-nilly to the mews dressed like that. This isn’t like in Chelmsford where you could do as you please. It’s not proper. Even I know that.”

  Isobel knotted her hair and tucked it into the tweed cap she held in hand. “There,” she said, ignoring Clarissa’s disapproving glare. “I look like a boy. No one in society will know and all proper female reputations will be guarded from infamy and shame.” Isobel glanced down at herself with a grin. “Never thought I’d thank the heavens for my nonexistent chest and stick-figure body.”

  “If I can’t stop you, at least wear this.” Clarissa fumbled in her pockets and handed Isobel a gray square of cloth that had ties on the sides. “The maids use it for dusting.”

  Isobel narrowed her gaze. “Why do you have it?”

  “I might have nicked it to do some snooping,” Clarissa said, cheeks pink.

  Snooping where? The only people in residence were the two of them, the twins, and the duke, and Oliver, from time to time. Curious, Isobel wanted to press the issue and Clarissa’s obvious secrets, but she also wanted to check on Hellion. She narrowed her eyes on her friend. “This isn’t over. Confessions on the snooping when I return.”

  “Isobel…”

  “I know, I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  She fastened the cloth and raced downstairs to the kitchens before jogging to the mews. As she’d expected, no one spared her a second glance. She was dressed like every other servant running around and carrying buckets of water. The men all had rags tied around their noses and mouths. The stench of smoke was heavy in the air as Randolph had said. She located him where he stood next to a smoking paddock and tapped him on his shoulder.

  “What are you standing around for, boy?” he snapped. “Get a bucket and get to work.”

  Isobel realized he would not recognize her behind the cloth that obscured most of her face
and the cap kept her eyes in shadow. “It’s me, Randolph.”

  His round eyes widened as he took measure of her and matched her voice to the image she presented. “My lady!”

  “Just call me Iz,” she whispered. Randolph’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and Isobel sighed. “You’ve seen me in breeches for years, Randolph.”

  “But you’re in town, my lady.” He lowered his voice to a horrified whisper. “And the duke is in residence.”

  “Well I couldn’t wear a gown, could I?” she said. “Now stop being dramatic and take me to Hellion. You won’t get into trouble with the duke, I swear it. Kendrick won’t even know.”

  “And your husband?”

  She scowled. “Take me to my horse, Randolph. I won’t ask again.”

  Randolph stared at her as though waging a mental battle, but then with a terse nod, he obeyed her command without another word. Isobel knew she was treading a dangerous line, and she understood the man’s trepidation around the imperious Duke of Kendrick, whose strict observance of propriety was well-known. Isobel suspected the duke had an inkling of her wardrobe misadventures in Chelmsford, but Randolph was right. London was a whole different beast. Here, she was Lady Roth, first and foremost, with a reputation to safeguard. And ladies of quality did not run amok with the servant classes while dressed in men’s clothing.

  But Isobel forgot everything as her eyes fell on Hellion, and instantly, she went to her mare, crooning softly under her breath. Thankfully, the horse seemed fine as Randolph had said, though a little more skittish than usual.

  “Did we lose any others?” she asked him.

  “One,” he said. “Though he was old and his heart likely gave out.”

  Still saddened, Isobel stared over at the smoking and charred end of the stables. “It was lucky that the fire was contained so quickly. It could have been disastrous.”

  “We had more than luck on our side,” Randolph said somberly, and moved away to assist a man with a ruined piece of timber.

  Isobel stared at the blackened, collapsed corner of the mews. The fire had been fierce, and so many horses could have perished, including her beloved Hellion. She stroked the mare’s glossy flanks, grateful that she’d escaped injury.