Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  ‘I had never understood your interest in the spa, my dear, but I have gone along with you—until now. My nerves are such that I am nearly overcome and I must think of my health.’ Phillida paused, though her expression held none of her usual drama. ‘I fear I must return to London,’ she said. ‘Thad, will you join me?’

  Stunned, Glory blinked at her aunt. Phillida had made her feelings clear all along, but her tendency towards theatrics had inured Glory to her complaints. Indeed, if Glory had expected such a defection, it would have been some time ago, after their initial arrival in Philtwell, but not now, when Phillida had developed a friendship with the duchess.

  Apparently, even a noble association was not worth the troubles of Queen’s Well. And although Glory could not blame Phillida, that didn’t stop the ache that came with the desertion of the woman she thought of as her mother. The three of them had been a family for so long, rarely separated, and now?

  Glory looked to Thad, her heart in her throat. She was not ready to be parted from her brother, but, more importantly, she did not want him back in town without any supervision. And if Phillida had any inkling of his previous doings there, she would not encourage him to join her.

  Glory held her breath as she awaited his response, but Thad shook his head, and Phillida did not attempt to persuade him. ‘Very well, then, I shall be off myself, if you don’t mind my taking the carriage,’ Phillida said, a bit stiffly.

  ‘Take mine, for it gets little enough use these days,’ Mr Pettit said. And Phillida appeared to be cheered by the attentions of the rest of the company as they tried to change her mind.

  But she was adamant in her decision. ‘I have had enough of this business of yours, Glory,’ she said. ‘There’s a reason your father never returned here, and you would do well to heed it.’

  Glory said nothing, but the duchess was not as wary. ‘And what is that?’ she asked.

  Phillida paused for effect before lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘The curse.’

  And even though Glory knew there was no such thing, she suppressed a shiver of apprehension for the future without her aunt.

  In the wake of the departure of Miss Bamford, Letitia had lingered over breakfast until only she and Randolph remained in the dining room. When the maid had refilled their cups with coffee, Letitia stirred some milk into hers and glanced across the table at her old friend, who was proving to be more astute than she had imagined.

  After their contretemps with Oberon, it was Randolph who reminded her, once he’d sobered, that she had wanted her son to feel something. And something was certainly on exhibit that night. The Oberon she’d rarely seen in the last few years wouldn’t have bestirred himself over such a trifling matter as matchmaking.

  While Randolph’s words had dragged her from the dismals into which she had sunk, it was days of observation that had revived Letitia’s flagging hopes. For even the most neutral bystander could see that the waters had worked their magic on her son and Miss Sutton. So why couldn’t they see it themselves?

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found out anything about Oberon’s activities in London,’ Letitia said, absently stirring her coffee. Although she had written a few letters to old friends, with discreet enquiries, she had not received any enlightening replies.

  ‘No,’ Randolph said. Reaching for the newspaper Thad had abandoned, he shook it out and proceeded to put it between them, as though suddenly engrossed in reports from town. ‘And I think your milk is well blended.’

  Letitia glanced down to see that she was still clutching her spoon. She set it aside. ‘Well, we simply cannot let things go on as they are,’ she said. Miss Sutton spent her days bent over old texts, while Oberon was out and about, as though deliberately avoiding her.

  Letitia frowned thoughtfully. ‘The departure of the girl’s chaperon, while regrettable, may work in our favour.’

  The newspaper lowered slightly, and Randolph eyed her from above the edge of it. ‘Tell me that was not your doing.’

  ‘What?’ Letitia asked.

  ‘You talked that foolish creature into leaving, didn’t you, by playing upon her fears? Really, Letty, you ought to be ashamed,’ Randolph said. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bribe the brother to go, too. I hesitate to imagine what you have planned for the girl next.’ He raised the page, once more putting the news between them.

  The duchess sniffed. ‘I do not intend to chain her to my son’s bed, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Ha! Nothing would surprise me at this point,’ he said from behind the paper.

  Letitia frowned. ‘I assure you that I had no hand in sending that woman fleeing to town,’ she said. ‘It is entirely her own doing and foolish at that. Oberon is perfectly capable of ensuring her safety, and even if he weren’t, why would anyone wish to do her ill? She’s not even a Sutton.’

  Ignoring Randolph’s grunt, Letitia continued. ‘And if we are tossing about accusations, what do you mean by attaching yourself to Miss Sutton, so that no one, and by no one, I mean Oberon, is able to engage her privately?’

  ‘I am aiding her, as any gentleman would,’ he said. ‘And you might, as well, for the sooner these attacks are stopped, the sooner we can all get on with our lives.’

  Letitia felt a sharp pang at the thought, for though she wished no ill on the Sutton family, she was not eager to return to a life that had become empty, without grandchildren, without even her son. Without love.

  In the ensuing silence, Randolph lowered his paper again. ‘Letty, did you ever consider that perhaps you are the one who should be taking a drink of the waters?’

  ‘What? I have already been happily married,’ Letitia sputtered, blinking at the wall of newsprint that faced her, but this time, it did not come down. Instead, she heard Randolph’s voice speak safely from behind it.

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s time you were again.’

  Mr Pettit had proven himself to be good company. He was quiet and agreeable, with a wry sense of humour that cropped up now and then as he joined Glory in poring over old tomes in the library. And with him present, there was little chance of Westfield cornering her alone, a situation that Glory told herself was for the best, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

  But the hours still dragged and Glory became increasingly restless, eager for a change from the monotony of searching pages of scrawled signatures. Despite Mr Pettit’s interest in Elizabeth, Glory was prepared to ask him to trade tasks with her, if only briefly, when she finally came across the name for which she had been hunting for so long.

  Startled, Glory had to look twice, for fear she had imagined it, but Cornelius Thorpe had signed and dated the guestbook, as well as providing his place of residence with a flourish. ‘Little Wattling!’ she cried, startling Mr Pettit, who appeared to have been dozing over a thick volume.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, stirring in his seat.

  ‘Little Wattling,’ Glory said. ‘Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, straightening. ‘It’s down in the valley, not far away.’

  ‘Good,’ Glory said, slamming shut the guestbook. ‘Let’s go there.’

  Rousing himself further, Mr. Pettit eyed her in surprise. ‘But I don’t believe Westfield has returned.’

  ‘You and I can make the trip,’ Glory said. After days of inactivity, she was ready for an outing. But a glance towards her companion revealed that Mr Pettit did not share her enthusiasm, and Glory remembered that he had only recently recovered from an illness. ‘But are you well enough?’ she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

  ‘What? Oh, no, I’m quite hale and hearty,’ Mr Pettit said, rising from his seat, as if to prove his words. ‘But I’m not sure Westfield would approve.’

  Glory bristled at the notion that she needed to seek the duke’s approval for any and all of her actions. Although she appreciated his concern for her safety, she felt like a victim of his increasingly high-handed dictates.

  ‘We’ll take Thad along with
us,’ Glory said, getting to her feet. And before Mr Pettit could argue, she hurried off to find her brother.

  If Thad had objected, Glory might have waited, but her brother was more than eager to have something to do, especially when the errand involved the possible discovery of their enemy. And soon the three of them were ensconced in the Sutton carriage, heading towards Little Wattling, with Thad talking all the while about the bruising he would give Thorpe once he got hold of him.

  ‘But the man would have to be quite on in years, if he was an associate of our grandfather,’ Glory said.

  ‘Perhaps it is Thorpe’s son or grandson who bedevils you,’ Mr Pettit said.

  Thad did not seem quite as confident at the thought of fighting someone who could very well be his own age and maybe twice his size. ‘You don’t think there’s more than one, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps we should delay our investigation until Westfield can join us,’ Mr Pettit suggested, with a knowing glance at Thad.

  ‘He is a good man to have in a fight,’ Thad admitted.

  Mr Pettit nodded. ‘And a nobleman is harder to refuse than a mere gentleman. A duke, especially, commands respect and wields power.’

  ‘Still, he has no more expertise in this sort of investigation than the rest of us,’ Glory said.

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ Mr Pettit murmured. ‘I wonder.’

  ‘He might be acquainted with some Bow Street Runners,’ Thad said, referring to those in London who were charged with capturing the criminal element. ‘Maybe he steps in to aid them on a lark.’

  Glory shook her head at the fanciful notion. Although Westfield could defend himself more than capably, she could not picture him chasing convicts down filthy alleyways. But, obviously, she wasn’t the only one who thought the duke was more than he seemed.

  Glory frowned, trying to work out where his social skills and ability to handle fragile documents might figure in his ‘obligations’. But her attention was soon captured by Thad, who was speculating on Westfield’s involvement in the apprehension of the town’s most infamous murderers.

  Perhaps it was the talk of killings that bothered her, but by the time they reached Little Wattling, Glory was coming to regret her hasty decision. And she was forced to admit that pique had no little place in it. After all, she was accustomed to running her family, her life and her business. Now, it seemed that Westfield was in command of the latter two, at least, as well as a good portion of her heart.

  While Glory had been kept in the library and in the dark, he was out and about all day. And once she had stumbled across him meeting clandestinely with strangers late at night, men who said ‘the office’ had sent them. Who could blame her for wanting to regain some control? And her trip was hardly a reckless one. All she had was a bit of faded script in an old guestbook to lead her to a family that might be long gone, their former ties to Queen’s Well forgotten.

  At least that’s what Glory told herself as she waited for Mr Pettit, who had exited the carriage to speak with a resident of Little Wattling. Yet even as she watched, Glory could see the passer-by pointing towards the edge of town, where a few dilapidated houses were scattered before pastures and farmland.

  ‘It appears our Mr Thorpe was a farmer and a prosperous one,’ Mr Pettit said when he returned to his seat.

  ‘He must have been to invest in Queen’s Well,’ Glory said.

  ‘But he sold off all the land, as well as various houses, until only one remained,’ Mr. Pettit said. Then he instructed the coachman to stop in front of the last residence that stood along the road.

  ‘Is this it?’ Glory asked as Thad helped her from the conveyance.

  ‘No, that is,’ Mr Pettit said, pointing to an abandoned building surrounded by gnarled oaks and growing grain, its façade faded, its roof fallen in.

  ‘But no one lives there, do they?’ Thad asked, his voice rising in some alarm. Apparently, he thought if anyone did live there, they were hardy enough to give him a bruising.

  Mr Pettit shook his head. ‘Your Mr Thorpe died more than a year ago.’

  Glory breathed a sigh of relief. She had her pistol in her reticule, but was grateful that there would be no confrontations with the old man.

  ‘What of his family?’ Thad asked, glancing around as though ten strapping sons would suddenly appear out of the fields, armed with scythes and other farm implements.

  ‘Gone,’ Mr Pettit said. ‘But let us ask the neighbour for more information.’

  The neighbour was Mrs Marleybone, who had only a vague recollection of Mr Thorpe as a crazy old man. ‘Always yelling at someone, hateful, he was,’ she said.

  ‘And his family?’

  ‘Oh, they couldn’t abide him, either, from what I gather. The wife ran off, rather than put up with him, and he had five daughters who all left as soon as they could, farmed out to relatives, married or the like.’

  ‘None of them have remained in the area?’

  Mrs Marleybone shook her head. ‘When the roof fell in, Thorpe and the last of the girls left, though I can’t say where they went. She came back after he died, poking around the old house, but she didn’t stay. How could she?’ the woman said, inclining her head towards the remains of the family home.

  ‘Did she have anyone with her, a lad, perhaps a son?’ Glory asked, thinking of the mysterious youth who had played at least some part in the mischief at Queen’s Well.

  ‘No, I never saw a boy around, unless it was someone courting the girls, but that would have been years ago.’

  ‘Maybe we should take a look,’ Thad said, eyeing the old structure as if the Queen’s Gift might be lodged there.

  Mrs Marleybone’s eyes narrowed, with a local’s natural suspicion of strangers poking about their property. ‘I wouldn’t go there if I were you,’ she said. ‘It’s dangerous. And queer. They say the old man’s ghost haunts the place.’

  ‘Well, then, we should definitely have a look,’ Mr Pettit said.

  The woman shrugged, as if dismissing any interest in their fates. ‘You’d better keep to the old hedgerow. Mr Dobbins won’t like you traipsing through his barley.’

  Nodding in agreement, they trooped off, walking through the tall grass and keeping to the uneven ground near the thicket of growth that stretched into the distance. Any path that had led to the house was no longer visible, and when they reached the broken steps that led to the front door, Mr Pettit hesitated.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better stay back, Miss Sutton,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how safe it is.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Glory said. ‘The walls look sturdy enough.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving,’ Mr Pettit muttered.

  But Thad was already opening the door, and Glory followed behind him. Although the low cottage had once been a nice home, the broken roof had let in the elements, leading to rot and decay. And despite the warmth of the day outside, it seemed dark and chilly inside, making Glory shiver.

  ‘I don’t see any signs of life,’ Thad said.

  ‘Except the four-legged kind,’ Pettit said.

  In fact, it was obvious the place had been empty for some time, its furniture and personal items stripped away and even some of the walls and floors damaged. The corners were cluttered with old leaves and accumulated dirt; Glory felt an unaccountable sadness at the loss.

  ‘What should we look for?’ Thad called over his shoulder as he disappeared into another room, oblivious to the melancholy that had settled over her.

  ‘Any old papers or records, I suppose,’ Glory said, though it was apparent that they would find nothing of use here. And now she rued all of the time she had spent pouring over the spa’s thick ledgers.

  Blindly following after Thad, Glory started climbing a broken flight of stairs, but a sound made her start. She clutched at the wall, half-expecting the building to come tumbling down around her, only to hear the flap of wings. Looking up, she saw a bird flying out of the rafters, where it had made a nest.

  Still, Glory paused, aware of a g
loom that clung to the upper storey. Either the sun had gone behind a cloud or it was heading towards the horizon, and this area, where part of the roof remained intact, was sunk in darkness. Glory had to squint to see Thad’s figure ahead, and a glance behind her showed that their companion had not followed.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ Glory said. ‘Let’s find Mr Pettit and be on our way.’

  ‘But there might be something left in the attic,’ Thad said, heading towards a section that was buried under heavy slate tiles and debris. Parts of the floor up here were broken, and Glory did not care to venture any further from her place on the stairs. The wind moving through the rubble sent the old wood to creaking, and Glory heard the scurry and thud of birds or rodents. Or perhaps it was simply Mr. Pettit below them.

  ‘No, Thad,’ she called, increasingly anxious. She did not want their host, recently recovered from a long illness, to make a misstep or fall, especially since she was the one who had insisted on this journey.

  ‘Leave that be and come along,’ she said, louder. But he was already pulling at a heavy piece of wood, and Glory heard a loud crack, as though he had dislodged it.

  She felt a puff of air and then the weight of something striking her shoulder. Reeling, she slammed against the wall even as her footing failed her. With a cry, she tried to find purchase, grasping finally at an exposed beam to keep from falling down the steps behind her. Shaken, she clutched her arm, breathing deeply as Thad rushed to her side.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Your wood struck me,’ Glory said.

  ‘But it can’t have been my doing. Something must have fallen from above,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘I don’t care where it came from,’ Glory said. ‘Let’s get out of here before the whole place falls down around our ears.’

  Thad argued even as he helped her make her descent. ‘Once I get you outside, I can come back in and see what’s up there.’