“What position?”
“Come on, Deveril. If you marry Juliet Shelby’s cousin you will spend the rest of your days being forced to interact with Juliet at every family gathering until the end of time. You are setting yourself up for a lifetime of misery. Unless…”
Deveril did not like the look in Monteith’s eye.
“Unless what?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
“Can it be that you are so fastidious that you would give her up because of her infirmity?”
It was a reflex. That was all Alec could think later to account for what happened next.
One minute he was standing on the steps of Mrs. Turner’s flat having a civil, if uncomfortable conversation with Monteith, and the next he was plowing his fist into Montieth’s jaw. Caught off guard, Monteith fell backward down the three steps leading to the walk below.
“Here now!” shouted a gray-garbed woman from the doorway, which had opened shortly after Monteith’s shocked shout. “This is a respectable house! Don’t you fribbles bring your mischief onto my doorstep. I’ll call the constable. See if I don’t.”
Surprised by his own actions, Deveril stepped down to offer Monteith a hand up. Which Monteith took warily, then set to brushing his breeches off and settling his hat back atop his head.
“You’ve got a strong right, there, friend,” he told Deveril, grasping his jaw between thumb and forefinger to test its soundness. “You’ve been working with Jackson, haven’t you?”
“Sorry,” Alec told him, a bit sheepish. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, you meant to,” Christian said with a knowing smile. “Which tells me more than an admission would have.”
Deveril’s strong reaction to Monteith’s taunt had shocked even him. He’d always prided himself on the difference between his father and himself. Especially when it came to physical violence. What sort of man struck one of his best friends simply because he disliked something he’d said?
“That’s no excuse,” he told Monteith. “Even if I did find your accusation abhorrent, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Away with ye,” the housekeeper shouted down to them again. “I’ve sent the footman for the watch. Respectable folk don’t hold with brawling in the streets.”
Deveril mounted the steps to stand before the woman, his most charming smile at the ready. “I do apologize, ma’am, but my friend lost his footing.”
“Hmmph,” she grumbled. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”
Christian stepped up beside Deveril, sweeping his hat from his head in a formal bow. “I assure you, ma’am, we would not be so crass as to engage in fisticuffs like common street thugs. I’m afraid I have a lamentable sense of balance. The war, you know.”
At that last, the housekeeper’s features softened slightly. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm done.”
She turned to go back inside, but Deveril raised a staying hand. “Ma’am, we were just on our way to beg your assistance. I believe you recently had a tenant called Mrs. Turner living here?”
At the name, the woman scowled. “What if I did?”
“We would like to see her rooms, if that would be all right with you?” Alec said, exuding charm for all he was worth. “I loaned her a favorite book and she was unable to return it before her departure. I thought perhaps she would have left it behind here.”
The woman made a disgusted sound. “If you can find it in that mess you’re welcome to it,” she said. “I thought she was a respectable widow lady and I let her stay on account of the child. But she just up and left without a word three days ago and left the flat in shambles. And left that fancy piano and all. What’s a poor old woman to do with such a contraption, I ask ye? I asked Mr. Kimber in Sloane Street to come get the lot and sell it for what Mrs. Turner owed on account of the child, you see?”
“What about the child?” Alec asked, a tickle on the back of his neck telling him that something was terribly wrong here.
“Why, she left it here with me, didn’t she?” the old woman said, her mouth pursed. “And not a penny did she leave me for the child’s care. I would never have guessed that a genteel sort like that would just up and abandon her child. I know the quality has some strange ways, but if’n you’d seen her with the babe you’d be just as surprised as I am. I never would ha’ guessed she had it in her to leave her child. And for a man too.”
“Where is the child now, Mrs.…?” Monteith asked, all levity erased from his manner.
“Parks, yer lordship,” the old woman said, then her gaze sharpening she looked from one to the other of them. “See here, you aren’t the man who took her away? Because I warn you now that I will not let that little girl leave this respectable house to live in a house of sin. I don’t care if she is the child’s mother. I can make do.”
“No, no,” Deveril assured her. “We are friends of Mrs. Turner’s former pupil. And we’ve come at her behest. The young lady is afraid something untoward has happened to Mrs. Turner and we agreed to come investigate.”
This seemed to satisfy Mrs. Parks. “That nice Miss Shelby, I reckon,” she told them. “She is here every Monday without fail. And a proper young lady, make no mistake. It was her who convinced me to let Mrs. Turner let the flat in the first place. It’s a shame her trust was so misplaced.”
Not willing to discuss Juliet with the woman, Alec indicated that he and Monteith wished to come inside, and the woman shrugged and opened the door for them to follow her in.
While it was not a lavish establishment by any means, the house itself was clean and tidy. At least the entry hall was. As they followed her up the narrow staircase, Alec tried to imagine Juliet spending time here. He was so accustomed to seeing her in the fashionable haunts of London—even if she did manage to avoid the more lively circles—it was difficult to see her in this mean little house, with its sparse furnishings. He wondered if she came unaccompanied or brought a footman along. He disliked thinking of her encountering the other inhabitants of Hans Town unprotected.
“Here it is,” Mrs. Parks said, fitting the key into the lock. “I’ve got work to do in the kitchen and the child will need to be fed. I’ll leave the two of you here to yourselves. Just come and let me know when you leave so I can lock the door back.”
The two men stepped into the room, their boots echoing on the carpetless floor, and set to work, Deveril taking the small bedchamber and Monteith the parlor/sitting room.
With only a small bureau and an ancient bedstead, the tiny room seemed even smaller thanks to the clothes and belongings scattered across the floor. A plain cotton nightrail draped haphazardly over the washbasin, and one of the pillows had been sliced open, its feathers coating the bed and floor like a downy snowfall.
When the obvious places to hide things, like the bureau, turned out to contain nothing more interesting than a sachet and a bedraggled ribbon, Alec began to search the less obvious locations. Thinking back to his schooldays when secrecy had sometimes been necessary, he felt the undersides of the bureau drawers, in hopes that Mrs. Turner had affixed something there. And sure enough, he discovered a letter beneath the second drawer from the bottom.
It had been franked by the Earl of Mounthaven, though the letter itself was from that gentleman’s personal secretary, one Alistair MacEwan. Since the notion of reading a lady’s personal correspondence did not sit right with him, he tucked the letter into his coat to give to Juliet later.
From the next room, Monteith called out. “Do you get the impression that someone has already been here before us?”
Having moved over to search between the bed ropes and the mattress, Deveril had to shout from his supine position beneath the bed. “Yes, I do. In fact, it almost feels as if someone purposely ransacked the room to make it appear as if Mrs. Turner left in a hurry.”
“What the devil are you doing on the floor, man?” Montieth had wandered into the bedchamber. “This is no time for a nap.”
“Ha, ha, bloody, ha,” Deveril said, th
en finding what he’d been searching for, he slid out from beneath the bed.
Holding his find up for Monteith to see, he stood and brushed off his coat and breeches, knowing he’d be raked over the coals later by his valet.
“A diary?” Monteith asked. “Not a very convenient location for it. Let’s have a look.”
“I’d rather wait and let Ju … Miss Shelby look at it first. There might be personal information here.”
Though he shook his head, Monteith didn’t object.
“Nothing in the parlor?” Deveril asked, giving the room one last glance before the two men stepped into the other room.
“Nothing,” Monteith affirmed. “With the exception of the baby’s things, it looks as if Mrs. Turner took everything with her. Either that or she simply didn’t have very much to begin with.”
They closed the door and stepped back into the narrow hallway, taking the stairs two at a time until they reached the apartments below. From the kitchens they could hear the baby crying loudly, but the sound of a loud smack silenced her momentarily. Then, the wailing came again, this time louder.
“Be quiet or I’ll give you another!” they heard Mrs. Parks say menacingly.
Deveril and Monteith exchanged a look. With silent agreement, they walked into the kitchen.
At the sight of the two men, Mrs. Parks was all smiles, saying over the baby’s cries, “My lords, I hope you were able to find some clue as to where this poor mite’s mother has gone off to.”
“Indeed,” Alec said, taking in the sight of little Alice, whose face bore the bright red mark of a palm print. “What’s happened here?”
Looking from the baby to Alec, Mrs. Parks gushed. “Oh, the poor little thing needs her nap. Pay her no mind. All babies cry.”
“I believe I should cry too if someone biffed me in the face,” Monteith said with deceptive calm. “Wouldn’t you, Deveril?”
“Indeed I should,” Deveril said. “In fact, I believe if I were a small child at the mercy of a grown woman who took advantage of my helplessness I’d cry quite loudly.”
The mask of civility vanished from the woman’s face and was replaced by a hard look. “Since the child’s mother left her in my care, I don’t see what business it is of yours how I discipline the child. The money that slut left won’t last the week and then I’m stuck with another mouth to feed.”
“I hardly think such a small child requires discipline, madam,” Deveril said coldly. “As to your guardianship of the child, you may safely conclude that that arrangement is at an end now. We’ll be taking Alice with us.”
“Yes, we’ll be taking Alice with—” Monteith echoed, then stopped. “Wait? We’re taking Alice with us?”
“Yes we are,” Alec said firmly. “Kindly gather together the child’s belongings and we’ll take her now.”
Not one to miss an opportunity for exploitation, Mrs. Parks moved closer to the child, but thought better of it when Alec made a threatening sound. “And what of my expenses? I’ve taken good care of the babe for two weeks now.”
“You’ll be compensated, have no fear,” Alec said, his disgust evident in his voice.
With a satisfied nod, the woman stepped out of the room to get Alice’s things.
“What the devil are you playing at?” Monteith said in a low voice. “We can’t just take this baby away from here. Where will we take her? It’s not as if your sisters or my mother are going to welcome some bast—”
“My sisters will not object,” Alec interrupted. “It’s not as if my family is unfamiliar with children from the wrong side of the blanket. And I have reason to believe this one might belong to my uncle. Though I’d prefer it if you kept that speculation to yourself.”
“You have my word,” Monteith said. “And if you think your sisters won’t mind, I suppose your house is as good a place as any to shelter her. Anything is better than this place. I don’t spend much time around children, but I don’t think they cry like that without good reason.”
“They don’t,” Alec said grimly, remembering his own childhood and how his father’s tempers had affected him. He could still remember the sting of an open palm across his cheeks. If he had any say in it, Alice would never feel that sting again.
With the promise of compensation, Mrs. Parks’s attitude changed dramatically. She had gathered the baby’s things and changed and dressed her while Monteith went to alert the coachman that they’d be leaving shortly.
Finally, some ten pounds poorer, Alec carried Alice from the dingy rooming house, Monteith following with Alice’s things.
As if she knew she were being rescued, Alice clung tightly to Deveril, wrapping her little arms round his neck.
If the coachman thought it irregular for his master to be accompanied by a baby, he kept his thoughts to himself.
Ensconced in the carriage, Alice now fingered the simple ebony stickpin adorning Alec’s cravat, while the two men stared bemused at one another.
“This will make an excellent story for Winterson’s delectation,” Monteith said finally. “Only one thing remains to be seen.”
“What’s that?” Alec asked, removing a small hand from poking him in the eye.
“Whether little Alice gets carriage sick.”
Deveril’s response was not fit for a child’s ears, though Alice didn’t seem to mind.
* * *
While Deveril was searching Mrs. Turner’s flat, Juliet was trying to listen politely to Lord Turlington’s comments about the paintings they observed in the new Southerton Gallery.
She had planned on asking Madeline to accompany her to see if Mrs. Turner had perhaps gone to visit her sister in Richmond, but when she’d reached the breakfast table that morning, her mother informed her that they were to attend the gallery opening with Lord Turlington.
“Wear the new peach sarcenet,” Lady Shelby told her. “And ask Weston to arrange your hair in something more elaborate than your usual chignon.”
As usual, Lady Shelby herself was exquisite. Her dark, glossy tresses were artfully arranged to reveal her elegant neckline. And her deep russet-colored gown fit her to perfection. Juliet wondered, not for the first time, if it were possible for such a plebian specimen as herself to be birthed by such a paragon.
“I had hoped to visit Madeline today,” she said, hoping that the mention of her cousin would remind Lady Shelby that she was not the only one of the Ugly Ducklings who had yet to snare a husband. But it was of no avail.
“I’m afraid that is impossible, Juliet.” Her mother’s rosy lips pursed in a pouty frown. “Lord Turlington has requested your company in particular. I believe if you handle him carefully he might be brought up to scratch.”
Juliet stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea and said nothing. Her mother had begun pushing her toward Turlington at the beginning of the season. Even before Cecily had married Winterson. It had come as a surprise because until this year her mother had openly scoffed at the notion Juliet would ever marry at all because of her injury.
Never one to balk at speaking her mind, Lady Shelby had lamented the consequences of Juliet’s accident almost from the moment it happened. Not so much the fact that Juliet would find ambulation difficult, but that she would not be able to take her rightful position in society.
But this season, even before the family made the journey from their estate in Kent, Lady Shelby had begun to sing a different tune. She’d praised the virtues of married life to her daughter. She’d taken a renewed interest in Juliet’s fashion choices, even going so far as to insist that she wear colors that for most debutantes would be verboten.
Accustomed to blending in with the other young unmarried ladies of society, Juliet had braced herself for taking a more active role in ton activities, but to her shock, she soon learned that her mother’s hopes for her centered on one gentleman alone: Lord Turlington.
A widower in his late thirties, Turlington was known for his passionate interest in art. A painter himself, he could often be found discu
ssing his interest with anyone who would listen. And he had written several well-received pieces of criticism for various serial publications. As an expert in his field, he was impressive. As a marriage prospect for an unassuming young lady, however, he left much to be desired.
Though she had often chafed at her mother’s lack of optimism regarding her marriageability, Juliet found her sudden insistence that Lord Turlington could be hers for the taking odd in the extreme. His title was not particularly old, or prestigious. And he was viewed by many, including Juliet’s own father, as a grasping social climber.
Then there was her own opinion of the man. Not only did she find Turlington’s constant discussion of his own accomplishments tedious, she also thought that his assessment of his own skill as an artist was dead wrong. Since her mother had developed an interest in him as a possible suitor for Juliet, she had paraded her daughter through the various galleries of London that had Turlington’s works on display. And if she were being completely honest, Juliet found them … disturbing.
Like most artists of his generation, Turlington liked to paint scenes from great historical or literary events. But Turlington’s always seemed to depict women in some sort of dire situation. Having gone through a dire situation of her own, she did not care to see such raw emotions depicted on canvas. And though she knew the models themselves were merely acting, she could not help but sense that Turlington, with his brush and paints, brought life to such emotions because he enjoyed them.
* * *
“Juliet, are you attending to me?” Lady Shelby demanded. “I said that Turlington might be brought up to scratch. I should think you would be grateful considering that only recently you had no hopes for making a marriage at all.”
Ah, yes, Mama, do not mince words.
“I am not sure that I should find Lord Turlington to my liking as a husband,” she said aloud. “I know he is your friend, but I was hoping that I might be able to find someone a bit closer to me in age…”
“For what, pray?” Lady Shelby asked. “For dancing, as you were attempting at Winterson House last evening? My dear Juliet, you know that I wish more than anything that you were like other young ladies, but you are not. A young husband would only find you tedious because you would not be able to keep up with him … physically, I mean.”
How to Romance a Rake Page 5