She had taken only a few steps before Anthony had reached out to grasp her arm in a restraining grip.
“Where are you going?”
She glanced at him in surprise. “To speak with them.”
“I do not believe they wish to be interrupted.”
“They should not be out here alone.”
He smiled wryly at her impatient words. “Neither s—should we, my dear.”
The truth of his words sent a warm heat to her countenance. Still, it did not lessen her unease.
“What if Mr. Carlfield or Mr. Wingrove should happen out here and catch them?” she demanded.
“It is their risk to take, Rachel,” he said with firm insistence. “We should not interfere.”
She heaved a sigh, giving a reluctant shake of her head. He was right, of course. Although her father could be wildly impulsive and anxious to take risks that would make most gentlemen tremble in fear, he was a grown man capable of choosing his own path. It was not her place to chastise him for his behavior. Especially not when her body still throbbed from Anthony’s bold caresses.
“You are always so logical,” she murmured.
He gave a short laugh. “No, not always, I fear.”
She met his wry gaze. “No?”
“If I were l—logical I would pack my bags and leave for London before I am completely under your spell.”
Her heart came to a halt at the thought of him disappearing from her life.
“But you will not?” she demanded.
“No.” His hand lifted to gently cup her cheek. “Like a moth I will dance close to the flame. I can not seem to resist.”
Nine
Broswell Park was a ponderous house built of heavy gray stones with two long wings awkwardly attached to the main building. Behind the imposing structure was a tidy garden that was laid out in a predictable manner with the proper beddings and occasional fountains scattered near the pathways.
Like a queen presiding over her court, Lady Broswell was situated near the long tables groaning beneath a vast array of food and numerous bottles of champagne. About her the guests mingled and chatted with seeming indifference to the fact that they had seen each other every evening for the past fortnight.
Rachel stood with her father at the edge of the garden, watching the elegant scene with a jaundiced gaze. Although she had been anxious to see the home of her aunt and cousins, she discovered that it was as cold and impersonal as the people who inhabited it.
“Well, what do you think, my dearest?” her father murmured.
“It is precisely as I expected,” she retorted with a grimace. “Solid, respectable and utterly boring.”
The green eyes flashed with amusement. “Lady Broswell has never been accused of possessing an imagination.”
“No, she is determinedly tedious.” Her gaze lingered on Lady Broswell’s aloof expression and stiff form encased in a heavy gray gown. “Still, it is rather depressing.”
“The view?”
She waved a hand to include the entire garden. “Everything. The house, the gardens, and even the Misses Hamlin. It is all quite perfect, but there is no life behind the proper image. It is as if one were regarding a well-arranged painting upon a wall.”
The Devilish Dandy gave a slow nod of agreement. “You are quite right, of course. Lady Broswell has always considered her image of prime importance. Absurd notions of warmth and kindness and even love are meaningless when compared to the need to present an appearance of lofty superiority.”
A pang tugged at Rachel’s heart at the sheer waste of it all. Lady Broswell was a lady of means and position. She could have whatever she wished and yet she had chosen a shallow existence that benefited no one.
“Do you suppose it makes her happy?”
Solomon gave a shake of his head. “No, but it satisfies her pride.”
She turned to meet her father’s gaze. “I would rather be happy.”
His expression softened as he regarded her upturned countenance.
“That is what I wish for you. This is nothing more than an empty setting without love and a family.”
“Yes.”
“I am very pleased that both Sarah and Emma have found such happiness.”
Rachel smiled as she thought of her sisters. She missed their companionship, but she knew they were well satisfied with their choice of prospective husbands. And who could blame them? Although Lord Chance could be a trifle arrogant, he was well matched with the strong-willed Sarah and no one who met Lord Hartshore could deny that he was thoroughly besotted with the gentle Emma.
“As am I.”
A speculative expression descended upon the lean countenance. “Now I have only to see you suitably settled and I shall have done my duty.”
Rachel waved a chiding finger in his direction. “Do not turn your matchmaking efforts upon me, Father,” she warned. “I have no interest in being under the heel of any gentleman.”
“Fah. Do you believe either Sarah or Emma are under the heels of their fiancés?”
The very fact that she had lately begun to wonder if being at the mercy of one gentleman in particular would be so terribly bad made her determinedly square her shoulders. She was not a maiden destined to become a traditional wife and mother. It was ludicrous to even think of such things.
Ludicrous, and somehow vaguely painful.
“They are fortunate in their choices,” she said in firm tones.
“I have no doubt that you will be equally fortunate.” A rather mysterious smile curved his lips. “Of course, a gentleman would have to possess great courage and fortitude to willingly acquire you as a bride.”
A dangerous spark entered the hazel eyes at his deliberate teasing.
“Indeed?”
“You can not deny that you are extraordinarily stubborn and far too fond of having your own way,” he said dryly. “You have also been shamelessly spoiled by your numerous admirers.”
“I must wonder if I shall ever discover a gentleman who would wish such a shrew,” she mocked.
He shrugged in a negligent manner. “Oh, I believe we shall be able to hunt down one gentleman who possesses the necessary pluck to dare the challenge.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You relieve me greatly.”
The Devilish Dandy gave a bark of laughter, his expression fond as he reached out to tap the end of her slender nose.
“Ah, Rachel, you are indeed a rare and independent creature, but your heart will demand that you seek someone to love. Like your sisters you will need a gentleman who is true and honorable and strong enough to tame your wild tendencies.”
She shifted uneasily as the sudden image of Anthony’s countenance rose to mind. She did not doubt that he was true and honorable. And certainly he had a habit of making her want to behave in a manner that would make him proud of her.
But her father was wrong. She was not like her sisters. Instead she was far more in the image of the Devilish Dandy.
“At the moment I have no desire to be tamed,” she quipped lightly.
He smiled in a complacent fashion. “I sense that you will soon alter your opinion.”
Rachel was not at all certain that she liked the confident assurance in his tone.
“And what makes you say such an absurd thing?”
Rather than replying, the Devilish Dandy raised his quizzing glass to regard the paunchy gentleman bearing down upon them attired in a hideous puce coat.
“Egads, we are about to be descended upon.” The Devilish Dandy gave a delicate shudder. “Would you just look at that atrocity of a coat? It is really bad enough to be forced to endure the man’s coarse manners and lack of wit. To also be constantly insulted by his glaring want for taste is really more than any gentleman should be forced to bear.”
Although rather relieved to have the unsettling conversation brought to an end, Rachel regarded Mr. Carlfield with barely hidden dislike.
Her time under his roof had not improved her initial impression of t
he gentleman.
Quite frankly he was a buffoon.
Not only for his callous determination to marry off his daughter to save his worthless hide, but for his supreme lack of anything approaching intelligence. Heavens, he actually boasted that he had never finished reading a book and that a true gentleman never bothered thinking about anything beyond a rousing card game and his current mistress.
How Violet could be even remotely related to the fool went beyond all imagination.
“Mr. Foxworth,” Mr. Carlfield puffed, rubbing his hands together in a manner that set Rachel’s teeth on edge. “A lovely party, is it not?”
The Devilish Dandy dropped his quizzing glass with a languid motion.
“Tedious, I should say.”
“Oh, well, country gatherings are rather dull when compared to London,” Mr. Carlfield readily agreed, anxious to appear a gentleman of sophistication. “Lady Broswell does offer a fine spread, however. Her chef is French, you know.”
Solomon waved a dismissive hand at the proud claim. “Any fool with a cleaver and a ludicrous accent can pass himself as a chef. A true artist has no need to disguise his inadequacies in heavy sauces.”
“Oh yes, quite true.” The older gentleman paused before loudly clearing his throat. “Ah, I have some gentlemen who are quite anxious to meet you, Mr. Foxworth.”
“I thought you might,” the Devilish Dandy drawled in bored tones. “I do hope they are not related to Mr. Wingrove. My constitution could not bear the grim stupidity.”
Rachel was forced to duck her head as she smothered a giggle. Mr. Carlfield, however, obviously did not realize that he was being mocked by the elegant gentleman.
“No, no. Fine chaps, I assure you. Quite up to the mark.”
“I fear I do not believe in miracles.” Solomon heaved a sigh as he turned his attention to Rachel. “Well, my dear, it appears that I must leave you to your own devises for a time. Do try not to break too many hearts while I am gone.”
She raised her sparkling eyes and quirked her brow. “I shall be on my very best behavior.”
“That is what worries me,” he murmured before allowing himself to be led away by the anxious Mr. Carlfield.
Rachel chuckled, knowing her father fully intended to enjoy his role as the caustic, wretchedly arrogant Mr. Foxworth. She might have felt pity for the other gentlemen if they weren’t so deserving of a good set-down.
Once alone, Rachel glanced toward Lady Broswell. She knew that it would be a perfect opportunity to rile the older woman’s temper. What could be more galling than having Rachel at her home with no means of retaliation? But on the drive over Rachel had already determined what she intended to accomplish this afternoon. For the moment it was more important than her plot for revenge.
Glancing about to make sure that she was not being watched, Rachel slowly strolled along a low hedge until she was certain she was out of sight of the guests. Only then did she seek out a method of slipping into the house.
At last finding a doorway, she stepped into a long hall with an open-beamed ceiling. Not surprisingly it was as depressingly formal as the garden, with heavy shields on the paneled walls and suits of armor standing at rigid attention. Making her way through the heavy shadows, she at last discovered what she was looking for.
A heavy-set woman with a bundle of keys attached to her somber gown, proclaiming her to be the housekeeper.
Rachel had already discovered that the woman had been a servant at Broswell Park for the past twenty years. Certainly long enough to know the truth of poor Julia hidden in the dowager house.
Busily arranging a bowl of freshly cut flowers, the woman did not notice Rachel’s approach until she was nearly upon her. With a start of surprise she abruptly turned to regard the sudden intruder.
“Oh.”
Rachel smiled in a charming fashion. “Forgive me. I did not intend to startle you.”
Swiftly recovering, the servant ran her hands over her apron. “May I help you?”
“Thank you, but I merely wish for a place to rest from the sun for a moment.”
“Of course.” With brisk motions a chair was pulled from further down the hall and Rachel was urged to settle on the brocade cushion. Once assured she was comfortable, the woman gave a nod of her head. “I shall leave you to your rest.”
“A moment, please.” Rachel hastily halted her departure.
With a faint start of surprise the servant obediently halted. “Yes?”
Rachel paused, knowing that she would have to be extremely careful not to arouse undue suspicion. She did not make the mistake of most aristocrats in assuming that servants were stupid or incapable of understanding what was happening about them. She knew that there was little in the household that was not fully discussed below stairs.
“Are you the housekeeper?”
“Yes. I am Mrs. Stalton.”
“Have you been with Lady Broswell long?”
“Near on twenty years.”
“Ah.” She smiled again, hoping Mrs. Stalton would dismiss her chatter as that of a rather dim-witted maiden. “This is a lovely house. You must be very proud.”
The compliment had the desired effective of lessening the natural restraint of the older woman.
“I do my best.”
“That is obvious. Not that I am surprised. My mother often said that Lady Broswell was most particular.”
A grimace was barely suppressed at the mention of the overbearing matron.
“That she is. Your mother was acquainted with Lady Broswell?”
“Yes, although it has been several years since they have seen one another.” Rachel deliberately paused, her head tilting to one side. “You know, it is the oddest thing.”
“What is?”
“I was certain that my mother said that Lady Broswell possessed three daughters, and yet, there are only two.”
A sharp silence fell as the housekeeper nervously clutched her hands together.
“Yes, well, the youngest died when she was just a babe.”
Rachel felt a fierce flare of satisfaction. So, her suspicions were correct. There had been a third daughter. Although she would bet her last quid that she had not died as a babe.
“Oh, how horrid,” she forced herself to murmur in sympathy. “I did not know.”
“It was a terribly tragedy,” Mrs. Stalton said stiffly.
“I believe her name was Julia, was it not?”
Obviously disturbed, the housekeeper glanced over her shoulder as if she feared Lady Broswell might suddenly emerge from the shadows.
“I believe so. Now, you must excuse me. I am very busy today.”
This time Rachel did not attempt to halt the housekeeper as she scurried away. Indeed, she doubted that a team of oxen could halt her determined flight. Besides, she had already discovered the truth she had been seeking.
Julia was indeed the daughter of Lady Broswell. And the woman had deliberately hidden her away from the world, pretending that she had died.
Rising to her feet, Rachel slowly made her way back to the garden.
She realized that she had discovered the answers she had desired, but she hadn’t the least notion what she intended to do with the information.
She was still pondering the dilemma as she entered the garden and made her way back along the hedge. Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice the slender gentleman hurrying in her direction until too late.
“Miss Cresswell, there you are.” Reaching her side, Lord Newell smiled in relief. “I feared that you had left.”
Rachel bit back a curse of annoyance. She was in no mood to play the role of flirt. She simply wished to be on her own so that she could consider what she had learned.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said, her expression impatient.
“Please, can you not call me George?”
She ignored his soft plea, wanting only to be rid of his persistent attentions.
“Should you not be with Miss Hamlin?”
He gave a deliberate shudder. “I do not wish to ruin such a beautiful afternoon with talk of Miss Hamlin. I would much rather discuss you.”
“A rather tedious subject, I would think.”
“Tedious?” He stepped closer, nearly overwhelming her with the heavy scent of his cologne. “How could one tire of speaking of your beauty or the charm of your smile?”
Her lips thinned. “How, indeed?”
“Would you care to walk beside the lake?” he asked eagerly. “Or perhaps we could enjoy the shade of the grotto?”
Not about to be alone with this man so that he could clumsily grope at her, Rachel gave a firm shake of her head.
“I do not believe that would be wise.”
“I do not wish to be wise. I only want to be alone with you,” he said with a petulant frown.
“I think it best that you return to the others.”
“But why?” he demanded. “Have I offended you?”
Gads, what would it take to rid herself of this man?
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you avoiding me?”
“I merely have no desire to create undue gossip.”
“You have never concerned yourself with gossip before.”
“My concern is for you,” Rachel said, suddenly struck by inspiration. There was one certain means of driving Lord Newell from her vicinity. “My uncle can be swift to anger and even more swift to use his dueling pistols to soothe his pride.”
The boyish countenance abruptly drained of color at her casual threat.
“Good Lord.”
“I think it best that we take care until we return to London.”
He gave a furtive glance toward the Devilish Dandy, obviously not relishing the thought of a duel at dawn. Even if she were an angel fallen from heaven.
“Yes, perhaps you are right. I shall call upon you when we return to town.”
She flashed him a smile. “A most sensible notion.”
* * *
Anthony had no intention of attending the garden party. He had no desire to witness Rachel continuing her determined game of revenge. He found it oddly disturbing. Not that he feared she possessed a truly spiteful nature. Her love for her family and kindness toward Julia was proof of her tender heart. But there was something deeper beneath her open dislike of Lady Broswell. Something he could not put his finger on.
When You Wish Page 46