Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  ‘No,’ Glory said, in a tone that brooked no resistance. ‘We should never have come in here.’ She peered into the gloom, and when she could not see Mr Pettit, she called his name, perhaps a bit frantically.

  A shuffling sound heralded the arrival of their companion, somewhat short of breath as he hurried from the rear of the building. ‘What is it? Did you find something? I thought I heard shouting.’

  ‘Glory got hurt,’ Thad said.

  ‘What?’ Mr Pettit paled.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Glory said. She held her cloak tight to her arm, unwilling to let the others fuss over her, especially in her urgency to depart. And even when they stepped outside, away from the precarious structure, Glory could not breathe a sigh of relief.

  As she hurried away, stumbling over the uneven ground, she felt the familiar eerie sensation of watchful eyes upon her. But when she looked around, all she saw was the old house, its windows dark and forbidding now as the trees surrounding it cast long shadows. And beyond, the barley stretched into the distance, rustling in the wind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As much as he might fight it, every time Oberon returned to Sutton House, he felt a surge of anticipation. Sometimes, he refused to act upon it and seek her out. In other instances, he indulged himself, peeking into the library to admire her bent head and the way the light from the window gilded her hair.

  He had become completely and utterly nonsensical, he realised, but at least he restrained himself from clandestine meetings in attics and cellars—or even her book-filled lair. So why didn’t he feel virtuous? Instead, he was increasingly frustrated, filled with want, a sensation wholly alien to him and yet one which he embraced.

  Perhaps he was going mad.

  It had happened to others. Look at old Dee himself, reduced to scrying for angels on the head of a pin or some such rubbish, useless to his family, his colleagues and his country. Maybe it would be better to consider making some changes, rather than end up becoming a liability, a prospect that increasingly occupied Oberon’s thoughts.

  But the notion sat uneasily upon him, and as if to assuage his disquiet, his feet unerringly found the entrance to the library. Stripping off his gloves, Oberon stood in the doorway waiting for that sense of rightness to settle over him. But it didn’t.

  The room was empty.

  The fact that Miss Sutton wasn’t where he expected her to be shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did, and Oberon roamed through the house, searching for her. Yet he could find no one, and finally a servant informed him that his mother was in her room, while the others had taken the carriage out earlier.

  Oberon was not easily rattled, but he felt the treacherous creep of alarm. It had been simple when he cared for nothing and had watched the world play out around him without blinking. But now he was invested in something, in someone. And that someone was wandering around without his knowledge—or protection. A glance out the windows showed that the shadows had lengthened into twilight, and soon it would be full dark. Where was she?

  Was this Pettit’s doing or Thad’s? Or, more likely, his mother’s? His expression grim, Oberon headed towards the stairs, ready to turn the duchess out of bed in an effort to find out more information. And he was already halfway up the steps when he heard the footman hurrying after him.

  The carriage had returned.

  With a nod, Oberon took up a place by the door, a measure of relief warring against the anxiety that continued to plague him. It was an odd sensation for a man known for maintaining his composure in the most delicate of situations. But that man seemed like a different person, one untethered to anyone or anything, unfeeling, barely alive.

  Now he felt too much, Oberon realised, as he forced himself to remain where he was, instead of rushing to greet a woman who was not his relative. When he saw her emerge from the carriage unharmed, it was all he could do not to embrace her or take her face in his hands and bruise her lips with the strength of his relief. And the fact that he could not do so only increased his frustration.

  It must have shown on his face, for Mr Pettit gave him a wide berth, and even Thad slipped by, without his usual enthusiastic greeting. The servants followed, and finally he was alone with Miss Sutton, although there was little privacy in the foyer where they stood. Oberon was tempted to pull her into the nearby parlour, but she seemed intent upon the stairs, and he was forced to stand in front of her simply to gain her attention.

  ‘Where the devil were you?’ he demanded.

  ‘We went to Little Wattling in search of the Thorpe family,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’ Oberon could barely keep his voice even. ‘You were not to leave this house.’

  ‘Are you my gaoler, as well as magistrate, your Grace?’ she asked, lifting her chin.

  Oberon swallowed his sharp retort, for now he could see the weariness in her face, the dullness in her eyes that bespoke pain of some kind. Against all the dictates of sense or propriety, he reached out to pull her to him, but she winced.

  ‘What is it? Are you hurt?’

  Without waiting for her reply, Oberon lifted her cloak away to reveal a nasty-looking scratch below her shoulder, still oozing blood. At the sight of the wound, he swung her into his arms, ignoring her squeal of protest when her feet left the floor.

  ‘I’m all right, your Grace,’ she said. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking.’

  But Oberon paid her no heed as he strode to the top of the stairs. There he came across his mother, who evinced no alarm at the sight of her son carrying a genteel young woman towards the private rooms. Indeed, she walked past him without a word, which was just as well, for Oberon did not feel like explaining himself.

  Instead, he threw open the door to his room and placed Miss Sutton upon his bed. Though no woman had ever graced that space, she looked…right. And Oberon suspected she would look even more so in the ducal rooms at Westfield, if only that were possible.

  Calling for Pearson, Oberon ordered warm water and some kind of bandage to dress the wound even as his patient protested her presence here. Again, Oberon ignored her, leaving her side only to pour a glass of brandy. His back to her, he paused to take a quick gulp himself before turning to press the wine upon his patient.

  Refusing to lie down, she sat up, her slight wince a testament to her courage and composure. Miss Sutton was pluck to the backbone, as Thad would say, but Oberon frowned at the thought of her brother and the poor protection he and Pettit had provided.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Thad was moving some wood and a stray piece struck me,’ she said. ‘It is a minor scrape and hardly worthy of concern.’

  Oberon untied her cloak and let it fall away to get a better look. Although it was not deep, such wounds could become infected or turn gangrenous. Sometimes the worst happened, as he well remembered, and he remembered, too, just why he had stepped away from connections, from family and friends, in order to avoid the pain that came when things went awry. Yet this time, he could not turn away or run away.

  Shaken, Oberon looked to her, his gaze seeking hers, but Pearson appeared at his elbow. And then he was occupied cleaning the wound, while she reported on the ill-conceived trip to Little Wattling. Oberon had to bite his tongue, steady his hand and curb his reactions until she fell quiet, her lashes drifting shut.

  But he remained at her bedside, deep in thought, for the emotions she had roused could not as easily be laid to rest.

  Oberon was up early again. He was accustomed to getting by on little sleep when necessary, but the last few restless nights were beginning to take their toll. Despite his best efforts, he could see no resolution to the problems here, including his own deepening dilemma. And when he looked into the mirror, the bleary-eyed fellow who stared back was a far cry from the renowned London host.

  Frowning, Oberon jerked at the ties of his banyan and wondered what was taking Pearson so long in the dressing room. When a knock on the door signalled the arrival of the hot water for shaving, he c
alled for entry, only to gape in astonishment as the door flew open to admit Miss Sutton, still clad in her nightclothes.

  Although a master of all situations, Oberon found himself at a loss. And Miss Sutton seemed just as surprised as he. For a long moment, she stared at his bare calves and feet, clearly visible beneath the hem of his long garment. And somehow, her innocent scrutiny was more arousing than the most brazen stare of a courtesan. Swallowing a groan, Oberon was vaguely aware of Pearson emerging to take in the scene, then disappearing back into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him.

  The slight noise seemed to bring Miss Sutton to her senses, for her gaze finally met his, and Oberon could see this was no early morning seduction, but something far more serious.

  ‘Thad’s gone missing,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘I went to his room to have a private word with him, but his bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  Normally, Oberon wouldn’t worry about a fellow of Thad’s age disappearing for the night. Even in this backwater, a willing woman could always be found, whether for payment or pleasure, and the boy might have taken advantage of the opportunities offered. As Thad had often opined, there was little to occupy him here, compared with London and its environs.

  But nothing involving the owners of Queen’s Well was as it seemed, and whoever was targeting Miss Sutton might have broadened their scope to include Thad. Suddenly, Oberon remembered the bruise the boy had sported a while ago, which he had dismissed as youthful contretemps. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Miss Sutton was looking at him with such obvious distress that Oberon knew she was thinking the same thing. Unaccustomed to giving comfort—or giving of himself at all—Oberon none the less reached out to take her hand. In their current state of dishabille, it was all that he dared to do.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Oberon said. But his assurance only seemed to cause her more misery.

  ‘We quarrelled,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘Yesterday, he put a hole in the wall of the room behind the mural, convinced that the Queen’s Gift was hidden there, and I scolded him for it. After all, this is not our property.’

  She sighed, her eyes downcast, her fingers holding tightly to his own. ‘We’ve all been under the strain of the recent circumstances, and I probably said more than I should have…that he was too old to be playing at treasure hunts. He stormed off, I assumed to his room. Later, I knocked, but he wouldn’t answer.’

  She drew another deep breath. ‘I thought he was ignoring me, as he sometimes has in recent years, and that he would come around. But after tossing and turning…well, I regretted my words and wanted to make amends this morning before breakfast.’

  Her haunted gaze met Oberon’s. ‘That’s when I discovered he was gone. And if anything has happened to him, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  Trusting his instincts, if not himself, Oberon pulled her close and tucked her dark head under his chin. She whispered against his chest, and the silk that separated her cheek from his overheating skin seemed at once too little and too much of a barrier.

  ‘He means everything to me,’ she said. And as she held tight to Oberon, she spoke of family loss and love that made him regret his behaviour after the death of his father. Miss Sutton had pulled her little family together, not abandoned it, and Oberon could only admire her actions.

  ‘I’ve spent all these years raising him only to drive him away,’ she said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Oberon said. ‘Young men of Thad’s age, or any age for that matter, do not take well to scolding, especially from someone older and wiser and female. He’s probably gone to the cottage.’ Or to London, Oberon did not add.

  She lifted her head, her gaze sharp, despite her distress. ‘But what of the threats against the well? What if someone was out there lying in wait for him?’

  ‘Thad has come and gone freely all along,’ Oberon said. ‘There’s no reason to think that he’s been waylaid now.’ However, they both knew that the possibility existed. Miss Sutton was too intelligent to swallow his assurances whole, and Oberon would not insult her by trying to force them down her throat.

  And although she had not mentioned it, or perhaps even thought it, there was another prospect that nagged at Oberon. Once he had convinced himself that Miss Sutton was not up to any mischief, he had dismissed his reservations about the family. But, in doing so, he had chosen to ignore some things that he otherwise would not have.

  Now he recalled that Thad was never with his sister when these mishaps occurred, except during the most recent outing. And in that instance, Miss Sutton was struck by wood that her brother was handling. By his own admission, the boy had not wanted to live in Philtwell, and then there were the allusions to his troubles in London.

  It all made Oberon wonder whether Miss Sutton’s brother was up to his neck in it—right here.

  After Glory was assured that Westfield would not leave without her, she hurried back to her own room to dress. She tried not to remember how he had looked with his bare feet and tousled hair, for she had more important concerns. And this time when she rushed downstairs to meet the duke, her heart was pounding with anxiety, not anticipation.

  They did not pause for breakfast, but set out at once, stopping first at the Pump Room to see whether Thad was there, by any chance. But neither the guard nor the arriving workers had seen him.

  While Westfield questioned them further, Glory walked towards the well to check on the progress of the repairs. They soon would be completed, making the building ready for the public, whenever the business opened again, yet Glory took no pleasure in the sight.

  Weeks, perhaps even days ago, the newly laid floor and polished fixtures would have filled her with pride. She remembered her sense of accomplishment when the Pump Room was refurbished and she had taken her place in a long line of Sutton ancestors.

  But now, as Glory stood looking over the pump, she knew only a great emptiness. This is what she had wanted, to pour her life into the spa that was her heritage, but suddenly, that desire seemed hollow, a desperate replacement for what really mattered.

  In her yearning to fill the coming void, had she hastened its approach? Phillida was already gone, back to her life in London, and sooner or later Westfield would return to his unnamed obligations, taking the remnants of her heart with him. And Thad? Her chest constricting, Glory turned towards the duke, hoping for some good news about her brother.

  ‘I’ve got quite a few people out combing the area, so, if he’s here, we shall find him,’ Westfield said.

  The if made Glory uneasy, but she nodded.

  ‘Meanwhile, I thought we should speak with some of the area’s young people to see whether they might know of his plans,’ Westfield said. ‘Did he have any particular friends?’

  Glory shook her head. ‘One of Thad’s complaints has been the lack of good company.’ At first, especially, he dismissed the residents of Philtwell and its environs as provincial, compared to his London acquaintances.

  ‘Still, if he’s a typical young man, he might not keep his sister apprised of all that goes on in his life,’ Westfield said, as he gave her his arm.

  The casual comment made Glory shudder and she gripped his sleeve more tightly than necessary, for she was well aware of the trouble a boy of Thad’s age could fall into. However, she didn’t think there were many opportunities for such in Philtwell, least of all at the place where Westfield finally stopped.

  Glory eyed the vicarage dubiously, for Reverend Longley was not one of her favourite people. A rather strict, stuffy sort, he seemed to view the spa as a possible breeding ground for licentious behaviour, which made for awkward conversation, at best.

  Although Glory braced herself for an uncertain welcome, it was not the good reverend, but his son, Clarence Longley, who greeted them after they were shown into the small morning room. But while the young Mr Longley expressed dismay at Thad’s disappearance, he could offer no suggestions as to where Glory’s brother might be.

  ‘So he did not confid
e in you?’ Westfield asked.

  ‘No,’ Mr Longley said. ‘I could not claim such a close acquaintance…yet.’

  ‘But you were not at odds?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Mr Longley said, his pale face showing surprise at the question.

  ‘Then you never were involved in a fight with Mr Sutton?’ Westfield asked, startling both Glory and Mr Longley.

  ‘Me?’ The young man laughed. ‘My father would have my head if I struck anyone. And I’ve got nothing against the Suttons or Queen’s Well, which will bring new life to Philtwell—entertainment, visitors, dances—just what we need.’

  ‘Your father isn’t as enthused,’ Glory said.

  Mr Longley coloured. ‘Well, he has some old-fashioned ideas, but he’ll come around eventually. You can’t stand in the way of progress and all that.’

  ‘What do you mean by old-fashioned ideas?’ Westfield asked.

  ‘Oh, he claims the waters are tainted somehow because they were thought to have special powers,’ Mr Longley said, with a laugh. ‘He can’t condone anything like that because he’s a churchman. And then when he heard my sister had taken a drink, he really got up in the boughs about it.’

  Longley flushed again, as though he might have said too much, and Glory wondered whether the old rumours of romance were responsible for the vicar’s condemnation. It seemed that more people knew about that legend than she had ever thought possible.

  Glory was dragged from her thoughts by Westfield’s subtle questions about Mr Longley’s sister, and soon she was stunned to learn that her brother appeared to have formed an attachment to the girl. In fact, Thad’s interest in the Pump Room could be traced to the appearance of Miss Longley, who first arrived with some of her friends and later toasted Queen’s Well with its owner.

  Glory blinked, baffled by just how Westfield had discovered so much in only a few minutes of seemingly casual conversation. But the duke looked perfectly at ease, as though he did as much every day.