‘But, of course, that’s not always called for,’ the physician said, nodding and smiling as he changed tactics. ‘The waters, that is what we are famous for, and that is what you need.’
Again, Oberon lifted a brow. ‘I thought the well was closed.’
The physician’s face twisted, as though ill pleased by the reminder. ‘Sadly, at the moment, yes, but soon we shall ply you with our famous remedy. Of course, the waters should be available at all times, for all persons, and not at the whims of a single family.’ He paused to draw a deep breath before continuing in a louder voice, ‘Title to such things ought to be illegal. How can a person own water? It’s like taxing the very air.’
‘If you feel so strongly, perhaps you should put down a new well and open your own facilities,’ Oberon said.
But his suggestion was met with another scowl. ‘All the prime property is owned by Miss Sutton,’ he said, practically spitting out the name. ‘And her tight grip is felt by all who would do good for the community.’
‘Miss Sutton?’ Oberon asked.
‘Yes, a female, if you can countenance it!’ Tibold said. ‘Though one would hardly believe it, the way she behaves, without even the manners of a gentleman, though she mimics a man. An ape leader, to be sure.’
Oberon soon regretted his query, for Tibold proceeded to blame the woman for everything from the depressed economy to untreated boils. The physician was practically frothing at the mouth, such was his enmity, and Oberon realised he would get little solid information from the fellow. He was considering how to extricate himself when Tibold abruptly ceased his tirade and lifted a hand to point in accusation.
‘There she is, right there!’
Frowning at the doctor’s manner, Oberon none the less looked in the direction of his outstretched arm. From Tibold’s ranting, Oberon expected to see a harridan, a crone fully capable of beating the doctor about the shoulders with her cane. But the female he saw was a plump, but decidedly dainty woman of middle age, holding a parasol, who eyed them with a vague expression of alarm.
It took Oberon a moment to realise the object of his companion’s derision was not that timid-looking creature but another, a trim figure crossing the road with her back towards him. Although the length of her stride marked her as no mincing débutante, the infamous Miss Sutton did not resemble a man, at least from the rear. She wore a simple sprigged muslin gown that delineated a slender female form when caught by the breeze.
In fact, Oberon was contemplating the familiarity of those slim curves when his companion surged forwards, calling out the woman’s name. Concerned for her safety, Oberon followed, ready to step in, if need be. But when she turned with a determined expression that Oberon recognised, he stepped back instead, neatly avoiding the heavy reticule that she sent swinging through the air at her pursuers. Dr Tibold, taken unawares, was struck full force in the stomach by the missile which, more than likely, contained a weight, for the physician doubled over, the wind knocked from him.
Either she didn’t believe in using a more lethal weapon in public, or she hadn’t the time to obtain another pistol to replace the one that was tucked away in Oberon’s bureau. ‘Miss Sutton, I presume?’ he asked with a slight bow.
‘Your Grace.’ The distaste she made no attempt to hide surprised Oberon, accustomed as he was to being pursued for his company, his invitations or his influence. Even more surprising was his own, very different and well concealed, response.
At his first glimpse of her, Oberon felt a slam to the chest, just as though he had been on the receiving end of her reticule, his senses heightened and alert. The force of his reaction was baffling, especially since she had not stepped out of the shadows to threaten him with a gun. But perhaps the threat she posed was more subtle and her dislike stemmed from something more sinister.
For she would hardly draw his interest otherwise. She was pretty enough; her face was a perfect oval, but her dark hair was unremarkable and her colouring was not pale enough to be fashionable. Still, it suited her, as did the green eyes that sparked with intelligence and strength of will, which had already been in evidence.
‘I’ll have you on charges of assault!’ Tibold said, having finally recovered his breath.
‘It was an act of self-defence, for you and your assassin have attacked me once and would do so again,’ the young woman argued, lifting her chin.
Her fearless behaviour sent a jolt of awareness through Oberon. Although bold, she didn’t appear to be brazen, and, contrary to Tibold’s claims, no man in his right mind would confuse her gender. Oberon considered himself an astute judge of people; he had to be. But Miss Sutton was an intriguing piece of work. Who the devil was she?
‘Ridiculous!’ Tibold said. ‘It is you who attacked me, as my witness can verify.’
Oberon had no intention of corroborating the mad doctor’s claim and would have said so, but for the arrival of the small woman with the parasol. ‘Glory, dear, whatever are you doing?’ she asked, obviously uneasy.
Miss Sutton paid her no heed. ‘Witness?’ she said, scoffing. ‘We both know that the duke is allied with you, and, indeed, is doing your dirty work!’ she said, pointing a finger at Oberon.
‘D-duke?’ the dainty female echoed.
‘Duke?’ Tibold repeated.
‘Westfield,’ Miss Sutton said, with apparent exasperation.
Oberon could well imagine the disdainful glare she was sending his way, but he was occupied with the older woman, who had paled at the mention of his title and now swayed upon her feet. Since no one else was paying any attention to her, Oberon felt obliged to catch her as she fainted dead away.
When Tibold turned to gape at Westfield, Glory did, too, only to see that he was cradling her aunt in his arms. Horrified, she wanted to demand that he unhand her relative, but she feared he would drop Phillida to the ground. Frantically, Glory began searching past the rocks in her reticule for the hartshorn with which to revive her.
Where was Thad? Glory glanced around for her brother, but he had stopped at one of the burned buildings to urge the workers on. Though she held out little hope for his success, Glory was pleased that he was finally offering to help. Now, however, she wished they had not separated. Trying to take care of a business had made her careless, and she had walked the short distance alone. But who would have thought she’d be accosted upon the village’s main thoroughfare, travelling from one property to another?
‘Phillida?’ Glory spoke her aunt’s name sharply, though she doubted she could be heard above Tibold, who was rambling on, as usual. With her aunt prone and Thad nowhere in sight, Glory was at the mercy of the two men and she did not like turning her back on the physician, whose threatening manner had alarmed her more than once.
She felt cornered, and her hand shook as she waved the restorative under her aunt’s nose. She refused to look up at the man who held Phillida, for one glance at Westfield already had robbed her of her breath. Last evening, he had been striking, but now she had clearly seen his tall form, wide shoulders and the body she once had been pressed against.
And that face. It was not beautiful in a feminine sense, for it held no softness, but Westfield might have been sculpted by one of the great artists. Indeed, he could have been carved from stone, for his expression revealed nothing. For some reason—fear, perhaps—the more Glory thought about him, the more her heart pounded.
Thankfully, Phillida snorted and blinked, and Glory eased her aunt upright while avoiding any contact with the duke. Phillida moaned in a dramatic fashion, as though eager to remain right where she was, and who could blame her? If Glory had not known the nobleman’s true nature, she might have been thrilled to wake up to that handsome visage, cradled in arms that she knew were hard and strong.
Suppressing a shiver, Glory forced Phillida to her feet. ‘Come, Aunt, we must be going.’
‘Oh!’ Phillida took one look at the duke and threatened to swoon again, but Glory was having none of it. Grabbing her aunt’s arm, she pul
led Phillida away from his grip. The duke said something, but it was drowned out by Tibold’s speech, so they were able to make their escape. No doubt the men would have tried to detain them, if they were not in full view of passers-by.
As she dragged her aunt towards the Pump Room, Glory resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the nobleman. Ignoring Phillida’s horrified mutterings at their undignified progress, Glory did not stop even when the building’s doors closed behind them, but continued on until they reached the privacy of one of the rear rooms.
There, Glory was able to deposit Phillida on a chaise, where she could swoon at her leisure. However, as Glory suspected, the lack of an audience speeded her recovery and she was able to fan herself as she lay prone.
‘Mercy, Glory!’ she said in a breathless whisper. ‘I simply cannot countenance such outlandish behaviour! Whatever has come over you? It’s this place, this wretched village. Oh, to be back in London. Please say that you have come to your senses and we can return to our town house.’
Since Glory heard this litany on a regular basis, she was unmoved. ‘There is no reason for you to become agitated, dear,’ she said, soothingly. ‘Let me get you a glass of the waters.’
‘No reason? Why, I have only to see my own niece in a public shouting match, in the middle of the street, mind you! And with a duke, no less!’ Phillida fell back among the pillows with a shudder.
‘I wasn’t doing the shouting,’ Glory said. ‘It was that awful physician.’ She paused to wonder how the shabby fellow had managed to align himself with a nobleman, but even a creature like Tibold could have connections, she supposed. She only wished they would spirit him away from Philtwell instead of trying to ruin her business.
Her business. Glory felt strengthened by the thought as she hurried to fetch her aunt a glass. Of course, Phillida did not approve, though Glory had assured her that even noblemen had run such resorts. Noblemen, not women, Phillida had argued, and therein lay the rub. If Glory were a man, Phillida probably would let her do what she liked.
But it was precisely because she was a woman, with few opportunities open to her, that Glory had taken an interest in the forgotten spa. Soon she would be aged twenty and firmly on the shelf in the eyes of society. Since she’d spent most of her life taking care of her younger brother after the death of their parents, Glory could not regret her unmarried status.
However, she did not care to spend the rest of her days in social calls or charity work. And she had no intention of settling quietly into a corner, tatting and sewing bonnets for her brother’s future children. Although she would love to spoil babies, Glory thought with a pang, she didn’t want to end up as some batty old spinster her nieces and nephews were forced to visit.
She wanted to do something with her life. But Glory could hardly use such terms to Phillida, who was an ageing spinster herself, though not quite batty. Yet. Instead, Glory had spoken of the family heritage, which was more acceptable and just as true. Queen’s Well had been owned by the Suttons for generations. After the fateful fire, Glory’s father, then a young man, had left Philtwell to seek his fortunes, never to return. It was only after his death that Glory discovered the legacy, rich in history, that he had left behind.
Gradually, she had found out more about Queen’s Well, becoming further intrigued. She couldn’t remember when the idea of reviving the spa first came to her, but it had remained at the back of her mind, a tempting possibility for the future—until Thad’s wayward behaviour had forced her to action.
Although neither he nor Phillida had wanted to make the move, Glory had insisted. She had hoped the fresh air and simple pleasures of a village would change their minds, but Phillida complained of the lack of society and Thad remained sullen and uncooperative, evincing no interest in her venture.
Oddly enough, it was their encounter with Westfield that seemed to have wrought a change in him. Perhaps the presence of such an exalted personage had improved Thad’s opinion of Philtwell, Glory mused. She didn’t like to consider the other possibility: that Thad was simply drawn to a dangerous sort who would do him no favours.
The sound of a door slamming made Glory nearly drop the glass in her hand; for a moment she feared the duke was striding through the Pump Room, intent upon her. She turned in alarm when she heard footsteps approaching, even though she had told the workmen not to admit anyone.
But who would dare deny a duke?
Caught unprepared, Glory had no weapon except warm mineral water, but she faced the intruder with a hammering heart. She lifted her arm, only to shudder with relief when her brother burst into the room.
‘Thad!’ Glory admonished, lowering the vessel in her grip.
‘What?’ he asked. A moan from Phillida made him glance behind Glory, a questioning look on his face. ‘What?’ he repeated, ignoring his sister’s warning grimace. ‘Did something happen?’
‘Yes, something happened,’ Phillida said, lifting her head. ‘Your sister made a spectacle of herself in the middle of the street, with a duke!’ Phillida fell back, as though too overcome to continue, but she was bound to be disappointed by her nephew’s reaction.
Instead of appearing shocked, Thad frowned in apparent disappointment. ‘You saw Westfield? You might have waited for me,’ he complained, throwing himself into a medallion-backed chair.
‘It was not a social visit,’ Glory said, glaring at her brother. ‘He was with Dr Tibold, who approached me from behind and began shouting at me.’ She did not add that she had swung at the physician in her own defence. Since Phillida had not mentioned it, Glory hoped her aunt had not seen the blow.
‘The bounder! He needs a good thrashing,’ Thad said, and Glory was comforted by his outrage. She had been right to share her concerns with him, for he finally was taking an interest. Or so she thought until he spoke again.
‘But Westfield? I don’t believe it. Why would he even be seen with such a character?’
‘Perhaps they are related,’ Glory suggested, though she did not need evidence of the duke’s true nature. He had demonstrated it last evening, when he had put his hands upon her…
But Thad shook his head. ‘That doesn’t seem likely, or Tibold would have been bragging of his connections. And why didn’t I see Westfield? I suppose that I wasn’t paying much attention after… Well, now that I know he’s out and about, I’ll keep an eye out for him.’
‘And why would you do that?’ Glory asked, warily. She did not want her brother confronting the duke, nor did she want her brother to seek the man’s company.
‘Perhaps Thad can offer his Grace some kind of explanation for his sister’s outlandish behaviour,’ Phillida said, interrupting Glory’s thoughts. ‘I cannot show my face in society knowing that we will be cut by a famous nobleman. The gossip! The rumours! If only you could make amends, dear boy.’ Rousing herself on to an elbow, Phillida sent her nephew a beseeching look.
Glory found the thought of making amends with Westfield disconcerting, but she did not care to admit as much to her aunt. ‘It is not as though you move in the same circles,’ she said.
‘But aren’t you always claiming that the spas are a perfect place to mingle with all manner of people?’ Phillida demanded. ‘Where else might we be included in such company?’
Where else indeed? Glory thought, her own words coming back to haunt her. ‘But why should we aspire to such an acquaintance? Westfield has allied himself with our enemy and proven himself unworthy of our regard.’
At Glory’s words, her aunt dropped back upon the chaise, moaning again, seemingly unable to respond.
Ignoring the dramatics, Glory turned towards Thad. ‘How did you find the work site?’ she asked, eager to change the subject.
‘Oh,’ Thad said, looking down at the tips of his boots. ‘I gave them a good talking to, and they promised to pick up the pace, as they well should.’
Although his words were reassuring, his demeanour was not and Glory bit back a sigh. More likely t
he men hadn’t paid any more heed to Thad than they had to her, but she was grateful for his efforts.
‘Thank you, Thad,’ she said, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest. Before new buildings could even be considered, the remains of the old needed to be torn down and cleared away. As she had many times before, Glory wondered what would convince men to avoid doing the job they were being paid to do, even at the possible forfeiture of their wages. But this time, an answer came to her.
Westfield.
Chapter Three
Trapped by the blathering physician, Oberon stood watching Miss Sutton retreat to the Pump Room, her Pump Room, which made last evening’s story more believable. But there were still several things that didn’t quite fit. The young woman seemed too well bred to be in trade and too clever to be involved with a hopeless venture like Queen’s Well. Even more jarring was her array of weapons and her inclination to use them.
Her behaviour was odd, to say the least. Having disdained his help, she had raced towards the Pump Room as though fleeing his company, and it was that, most of all, that raised Oberon’s suspicions. She had dragged her aunt down the road, drawing the stares of the villagers in a public display that would have her ostracised in London. Never had a female been so eager to escape him. But why? Did she have something to hide? And, if so, what made her determined to hide it from him?
Oberon’s musings were interrupted by a stream of gibberish from the man at his side, which might better explain Miss Sutton’s hasty exit. Having discovered Oberon’s identity, the volatile physician had turned the full force of his flattery upon Oberon. No doubt he hoped for a fat purse from a noble patron, but finally his words trailed off as he realised where Oberon’s gaze lingered.
‘As you have seen for yourself, your Grace,’ the man said, his earlier tone of condemnation returning, ‘she’s a bold piece, a menace to society. I’m sure everyone in our little community would be most grateful if you could use your influence to liberate our waters.’
Glory and the Rake Page 3