Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  Glory felt her jaw drop open. ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently, you’ve been suspecting me of all sorts of nefarious doings just because I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the right time.’

  Glory actually sputtered, unable to believe that Thad had spoken so freely to this man, who was little more than a stranger to them. As glad as she was that her brother’s choice of companions had improved, she was still going to murder him.

  And to add insult to injury, Westfield was enjoying her discomfiture in a way that a true gentleman would not. However, there was nothing suspicious about that. It was something Thad would do, if he were still alive, which he wouldn’t be when she got hold of him.

  Westfield was waiting, a dark brow cocked in question, and Glory struggled to come up with a polite reply. But his taunt was eroding the good will she had been feeling towards him for his help today. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said stiffly. ‘But you have some remarkable abilities that hardly seem typical of your peers.’

  Westfield inclined his head. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, however it was intended.’

  Glory was torn between irritation at the man and a giddy response to his closeness.

  ‘I admit that I wasn’t too sure about you, either,’ he said, jolting Glory from her girlish nonsense.

  Uncertain of his meaning, Glory eyed him warily. ‘What?’

  ‘Being held at gunpoint has a tendency to rouse my suspicions.’

  Glory flushed. ‘I told you—’ she began, but Westfield held up a hand to silence her.

  ‘Since I find myself in the position of acting magistrate, and you find yourself in need of my services, it appears we must work together. So let us simply agree to a cessation of hostilities, a private treaty, if you will.’

  Glory thought his choice of words odd for someone who was not a politician—she would hardly describe their mutual mistrust as hostilities. But she nodded and some of the tension left her body, only to be replaced by a different kind as she wondered just how closely he expected them to work.

  Pushing that apprehension aside for now, Glory cleared her throat. ‘And I would like to thank you for all that you’ve done here today,’ she began, prepared to give a gracious speech. She really was grateful, but the duke shook his head, dismissing her words. Piqued, Glory frowned until she realised that although he appeared to be focused solely upon her, Westfield was somehow keeping an eye on Tibold’s cohorts, as well.

  Surprised, Glory turned to look at the two men, who were stuffing themselves with pastries and loudly asking about available entertainments. Now that they weren’t with the fanatical physician, they looked more like gouty patrons than villains.

  ‘The good doctor denies his involvement, of course,’ Westfield said in a low voice. ‘He claims that he was eager for the Pump Room to open because his livelihood is tied to the waters, which makes sense. However, I’d like to speak to his patients before they disappear from view.’

  Nodding, Glory nevertheless felt a certain disappointment at his departure, which gave her pause. She might have put her doubts about the duke behind her, but she should not be as eager to abandon her wariness. It was all well and good to like the man—just as long as she didn’t like him too much.

  It wasn’t until the last customer had left the grounds that Glory returned to the Pump Room, and the changes that had been wrought in her absence were startling. All the debris had been cleared away and the undamaged furniture restored to its place. In fact, the duchess waved her over to the table where she sat with Phillida and Glory gratefully sank into a solid chair.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, your Grace,’ Glory said, for the noblewoman had been tirelessly gracious, moving among the patrons and drawing more in to make the day a success.

  ‘Nonsense. I was just doing my part for Queen’s Well, and you, too, my dear,’ she said with a smile as one of the servants placed some glasses in front of them. Having seen enough of the waters for one day, Glory pushed hers aside and reached up to rub the back of her neck, stopping when she saw Thad approaching, along with Westfield.

  Dropping her hand, she sat up straighter, her weariness seeming to fade at the sight of him. When she felt herself flush, Glory glanced away to focus on her brother, who seemed so much more adult in the duke’s company that she could only shake her head in bemusement.

  ‘Westfield doesn’t seem to think Tibold is behind this business, but who else could it be?’ Thad asked, his brows furrowed.

  ‘Not who, but what,’ Phillida said, dramatically. She waited until she had everyone’s attention before continuing in a breathless whisper, ‘It’s the curse.’

  Glory stifled a groan, while the duchess looked confused. ‘Curse?’

  ‘Several of the residents told me that the well is blighted. It has long been associated with ill luck,’ Phillida said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ the duchess said, briskly. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth, for the waters have always been the cause of good fortune, not bad.’

  ‘I doubt if all the owners would agree,’ Westfield said drily.

  The duchess frowned at her son. ‘There is a difference between outside events and the effects of the waters, which are steeped in legend.’

  ‘But Miss Sutton claims her waters were never associated with miraculous cures,’ Westfield said, turning towards Glory, as if for confirmation.

  ‘And I spoke the truth, as far as I can tell,’ Glory said, hesitant to contradict the duchess. ‘Although discovered by the Romans, the waters appear to have fallen out of use after their departure, so Queen’s Well was never a shrine or holy site during the great age of such cures.’

  ‘All mineral waters are known for their healing,’ the duchess said with a wave of dismissal. ‘But those from Queen’s Well are unique in their benefits.’

  ‘And what might they be?’ Westfield asked.

  The duchess smiled slyly. ‘The waters here have a certain propensity for bringing about unions.’

  Glory blinked in surprise, while Westfield looked dubious. ‘Unions?’ he asked.

  ‘Romance, dear, romance,’ the duchess said. ‘How do you think I met your father?’

  ‘You were introduced to him,’ Westfield said. ‘Whether this happened in a Pump Room, rather than somewhere else, does not make the place enchanted.’

  ‘Enchantment gone awry,’ Phillida muttered loudly. ‘Perhaps that is what led to the curse or is a part of it.’

  Dead silence followed her pronouncement, though Glory doubted it was Phillida’s nonsense that had struck everyone dumb. Glory and Thad, at least, were accustomed to their aunt spouting rubbish. But the duchess was a different sort altogether, which made her claim all the more astonishing.

  Westfield lifted a dark brow. ‘If such are its properties, I’m surprised every randy buck from London isn’t here drinking his fill.’

  His mother frowned. ‘The waters do not incite lust, but true love.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t word of this spread throughout the female populace?’ Westfield asked, making light of her argument.

  But his mother gave him a jaundiced look. ‘Because it is not widely known. Those who are affected do not suspect that they have been brought together by anything other than their own appeal. And the waters only work upon two suitable parties. They are not a love potion, but a stimulus for romance between those ripe for it.’

  Thad turned towards Glory in obvious confusion. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  Glory shook her head. She had read some strange, old references to the ‘powers’ of Queen’s Well, but she had assumed they were curative. And she had never seen anything alluding to matters of the heart, unless… She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Wait! I’d forgotten that the old Roman site was known as Aquae Philtri.’

  ‘The spa of the philter, especially of love,’ Thad translated aloud. He glanced down at the glass before him as if it were filled with poison and slowly pushed it away.


  Glory laughed at his reaction, only to swallow her amusement as she realised just who had been drinking those very waters a few days before. Flushing, she tried to recall whether anyone except Westfield had joined her, but all she remembered was their shared toast. Against her better judgement, Glory glanced up at him and saw that infernal brow was cocked. That and the smile playing about his lips told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had not forgotten.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, his dark gaze meeting hers, ‘it’s a good thing I’m not a superstitious man.’

  Oberon felt like he was working blind—or with his hands tied behind him. Because he had no contacts in the area, he could not summon anyone to follow Tibold or the doctor’s patients. But Oberon’s main concern was Miss Sutton, who, by all appearances, was an innocent victim of vandalism—or worse.

  Oberon frowned. It was the violence of the destruction at the Pump Room that disturbed him, and while Thad seemed to be a devoted sibling, the boy had already proven himself incapable of protecting his sister. That left Oberon to choose between watching over her or pursuing an investigation that had become official.

  Whatever his own vague suspicions about the revival of Queen’s Well, there was no denying that a crime had been committed there. And although Oberon had no idea what Randolph Pettit might have done, as acting magistrate he intended to find the perpetrator and prevent any further harm—especially to Miss Sutton.

  Not wanting to leave her unguarded, Oberon headed out early, determined to find out what he could before she left the safety of her cottage. Something she had said while dining at Sutton House sent him to one of the burned-out buildings that was being dismantled.

  There he found two men employed for that task lounging in the grass, which certainly confirmed her complaints about their progress. But did it have anything to do with the vandalism at the Pump Room? When questioned, one fellow simply shrugged. The other, named Jeremy, gave Oberon a surly look.

  ‘We’re working as fast as Jeb wants us to,’ he said. Apparently, the noticeably absent Jeb, whether he existed or not, was in charge.

  ‘Well, tell him he’s been replaced,’ Oberon said, as he handed both men some pound notes. ‘You are now in charge,’ he told Jeremy. ‘And if Jeb has any questions about his employment, he is to see me, not Miss Sutton. Do you understand?’

  Although Jeremy appeared suspicious of such largesse, he pocketed the money, while the other fellow scratched his head in wonder.

  ‘And the faster you work, the more money you’ll receive. From me,’ Oberon added. ‘So there’s no reason to mention our little arrangement to the Suttons.’

  After the two men nodded their agreement, Oberon remained where he was, one eyebrow cocked expectantly, until they began their labours. When he was satisfied with what he saw, Oberon turned towards the Pump Room. A glance at the front of the structure showed nothing amiss, so he walked by, only to duck into the trees behind the building. Although nothing moved except the leaves above him, Oberon was aware of a presence in the shadows.

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Aye, your Grace,’ the figure said, keeping to his position off the path. ‘Not a soul’s been around since the place was closed up last night.’

  ‘Very good,’ Oberon said. ‘You can go now, but I’ll expect you back this evening.’

  ‘Yes, your Grace,’ the fellow said. ‘I’ll be here.’

  Without any associates of his own, Oberon had to make do with those he had chosen yesterday from the crowd at the opening. Forced to trust his instincts, he had hired Finn, the butcher’s brother, to secure the building against any further disturbances.

  But there was no one he trusted to guard Miss Sutton, and so he took the path that led to the family’s cottage while trying to ignore an insidious sense of anticipation. However, despite his best efforts, he felt something indefinable when she appeared, exiting the small house.

  She glanced towards him, and Oberon was lighter somehow, as though the weight of the last years was lifting from his shoulders. The thought gave him pause, for his life had not become a burden. His existence was what he had made it, what he had needed to make it. Wasn’t it?

  ‘Your Grace!’ Thad’s hail drew Oberon’s attention from Miss Sutton to her brother, who was following behind her. The boy brushed past his sister, far more eager to see Oberon than she had been, or at least more willing to show it.

  ‘Where are you headed this morning?’ Thad asked, like an eager pup.

  ‘I was going to ask your sister to accompany me upon a visit that my mother recommended,’ Oberon said. ‘I’m hoping that the local matriarch, Mrs Goodhew, might be able to give us more information on the local residents and who might be responsible for your vandalism.’

  Oberon saw a flash of indecision cross Miss Sutton’s face before she nodded and turned to hand her brother a set a keys. In a low voice, she instructed him about the servants and the hours of the Pump Room, information that made Thad frown impatiently before he hurried off.

  ‘You should let your brother handle things himself,’ Oberon said as he gave her his arm.

  To his surprise, she nodded. ‘I know, but he was so against the spa to begin with that it is taking me a while to become accustomed to this new attitude, which is very welcome, mind you, just unexpected.’

  ‘He was against the spa?’ Oberon asked.

  ‘Oh, you know that any young man would prefer the enticements of London,’ she said, brushing off his question.

  Oberon sensed there was more she wasn’t telling, and he wondered whether to pursue the subject or let it drop. Instead he said nothing, for sometimes the urge to fill a silence made people speak. And she was obviously uneasy, her gaze resolutely fixed on the distance as she drew a deep breath.

  ‘Your Grace, I…uh…want to make it quite clear that I was unaware of the…legend that the duchess mentioned yesterday.’

  Oberon bit back a laugh at her confession. Perhaps Pearson was right, and he had been immersed in his work for so long that he saw shadows everywhere. However, his amusement fled at the thought that he might not be able to conduct a normal conversation, and the vaguely alarming notion made him determined to do so.

  ‘Really?’ Oberon asked, and he took a moment to enjoy Miss Sutton’s discomfiture. ‘I would think you’d know all there is to know about your family’s spa.’

  She lifted her chin, in preparation for dressing him down, no doubt, and Oberon decided to avoid any arguments. ‘I assure you that I do not believe in such nonsense and I apologise for my mother, who has succumbed to a nostalgia that seems to have robbed her of her usual wits.’

  Although she nodded, Miss Sutton appeared ill at ease and drew another deep breath. ‘While I appreciate her support, I do hope that she won’t revive that old fustian about the waters acting as some sort of matchmaker,’ she said. ‘It’s just not the kind of thing I’d like Queen’s Well to be known for, you understand. Of course, we want to draw genteel visitors and I’m afraid that wouldn’t be the case if patrons came for…romance. A spa survives or fails on its reputation, you know.’

  ‘I doubt whether she has been spreading the tale, for yesterday was the first time she made mention of it,’ Oberon said. Then again, his mother might have had good reason to keep quiet about her magic brew.

  Although Pearson claimed he was overly suspicious, now Oberon wondered whether she had arranged for him to share a drink with Miss Sutton. In her younger days, his mother would never have left the ducal succession up to a glass of mineral water, but she had changed after his father’s death. As had they all, Oberon thought grimly.

  But surely she could have found a better prospect than Miss Sutton, who did not seem a likely duchess. Oberon could understand his mother trying to throw him together with the daughter of one of her friends, such as Lady Oxbridge or Lady Eppington, young women who could move seamlessly within the requisite social circles. But only a week ago he had questioned whether Miss Sutton was using her real name, and h
e knew little of her antecedents, except that her forebears were associated with the spa.

  Slanting a glance at her averted profile, Oberon reminded himself that her suitability for such a position was irrelevant. For no matter what faith his mother might place in a glass of foul-tasting liquid, he had no intention of making anyone his wife, not even Miss Sutton.

  ‘I hope you are right,’ she said, looking worried still. And Oberon realised that she certainly had experience in the running of a venture on the scale of a noble household. The spa was a huge undertaking for one woman, with only a boy and a goosecap to aid her, and again, he wondered who else might be involved.

  But he forced himself to put such concerns aside and conduct an exchange in which he sought no information except that which might please himself. It would be a good exercise should he one day retire, Oberon thought, only to pause in his steps, for he had never considered the possibility.

  Miss Sutton glanced up at him curiously; to explain his sudden halt, Oberon turned to point out some bright red blossoms that lined the walkway ahead.

  ‘Oh, they are beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said and the smile that lit her face transformed her from merely lovely to beautiful. ‘I adore flowers, but I would never have guessed that you would hold such an interest.’

  She eyed him askance, and Oberon, who had spent most of the past several years inside amongst society, nevertheless took exception to her scepticism. ‘But of course,’ he said. ‘There are extensive gardens at Westfield.’

  And though they resumed walking, their steps were slower and their conversation decidedly normal.

  Chapter Six

  Glory had seen Mrs Goodhew before, but not often, for the older woman rarely left her home. It was not until a servant showed the visitors into a cosy room with a crackling fire that Glory realised she should have brought some of her famous waters.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring you a bit of Queen’s Well,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure to have some sent over.’