The Reluctant Rake

by Jane Ashford

  “Oh.” It had not occurred to Bess that she might be recognized from the auction, and now she wondered why it had not. There had been many men present, and she had certainly not been disguised.

  “I hope you have been…well?” Lord Fenton’s gaze moved to Michael again, and he frowned a little.

  Bess nodded. There was something unsavory about this older man. She found she was very glad he hadn’t prevailed in the auction.

  “And your companion. We have met somewhere, have we not?”

  Michael Shea looked innocently bewildered. “I don’t think so.”

  Fenton shrugged, dismissing him. “And where is your, er, friend from the club, Miss Malone? Has he abandoned you to another so soon?”

  Bess drew herself up at his tone. He made commonplace phrases sound scurrilous. “No.”

  “Ah.” The older man’s cold gaze passed over each of them in turn. Bess’s blue eyes burned; Michael Shea looked noncommittal. “I mustn’t keep my horse standing. I shall hope to meet you again, Miss Malone.” Lord Fenton mounted gracefully and replaced his hat; with a nod, he rode on.

  “Devil,” muttered Bess.

  “Only a minor servant of his, I think,” replied Shea. And when she didn’t answer, he added, “You might easily have ended up with a man like that, you know, rather than a gentleman like Sir Richard. In fact, I understand you nearly did, with that very one. What if Sir Richard hadn’t taken it into his head to do a good deed? It was a stupid plan.”

  “How do you know anything about it?” demanded Bess. For some reason, she was outraged that this man should know what she’d done. Perhaps even ashamed? No!

  “Sir Richard told my aunt a little, and I got that out of her. Very stupid.”

  “What do you know? You’re a man.” But having spoken to Lord Fenton, Bess was having doubts. The old nobleman made her queasy.

  “A man has plenty of chances to sell himself,” replied Michael Shea. “It’s never a good bargain.”

  “Don’t speak to me in that superior way. You have no right. You won’t even tell me what you do. You’re probably a criminal of some kind.” Bess glared at him. “Of course, you must be.”

  He shook his head.

  “What, then? Tell me, or I shall believe what I choose.”

  “You won’t get me that way. I don’t intend to tell you. Not just yet anyway.”

  “Thief! Murderer!”

  Shea smiled, then laughed aloud. “Ah, you are a spitfire, aren’t you?”

  Bess pulled away from his arm and began walking swiftly back the way they’d come. He followed her and soon caught up, though he kept his distance, merely watching her slim figure and expressive face with amused admiration.

  They returned to the house in silence, and found Mrs. Hanlon anxiously watching for their return. “You needn’t come in,” said Bess.

  “Perhaps I want to speak to my aunt.”

  “Then go around to the kitchen!” Bess pushed through the door Mrs. Hanlon had opened for them and rushed inside and up the stairs.

  “What did you do to her?” demanded Mrs. Hanlon.

  “Me, Aunt? Why, nothing at all. I was the soul of politeness. I’ll come to see you again this evening.”

  “No. Sir Richard comes then. And I don’t want him to see you hanging about here. Indeed, Michael, that girl—”

  Shea’s face had clouded. “Tomorrow, then,” he interrupted, and turned away to saunter down the narrow street. His aunt watched him go with a frown.

  * * *

  But Sir Richard’s other concerns had pushed Bess to the back of his mind. He thought of nothing but Julia, and his appointment to discuss Bess’s future was forgotten.

  Indeed, the engaged couple were enduring very similar and sobering experiences. Both had been deeply offended in their highest principles, an area which each valued more than most people. In the past, when such a thing had happened, each of them had taken decisive action, cutting the connection with the person or group responsible. Julia and Richard had been perhaps a trifle rigid, a bit too proud of their own rectitude and quick to condemn others’ slips. They began to realize this dimly now, because Richard longed for Julia despite his belief that she’d fallen short of his ideal, and Julia thought of nothing but Richard, though it now appeared to her that he was the sort of man she had always avoided and deplored. The resulting internal conflict turned their lives topsy-turvy; they had to face revolution within themselves as well as in their chosen partners.

  Thus, when they met that evening at a ball, it was one of the most difficult occasions either had ever endured, exacerbated by intense public scrutiny from all sides.

  They could not avoid each other; that would have fed the gossip like oil thrown on flames. Yet they could scarcely face each other without revealing even more to the avid audience, for neither was skilled at dissimulation. The result was a kind of silent torment they had never imagined.

  They first had to greet each other as usual, under the eyes not only of the haut ton, but of their own families. The Deveres had not heard the rumors, but they had by this time gathered that something was wrong. Lady Beckwith was worn out with countering the innuendo and outright inquisitiveness of her friends, and Thomas was becoming positively belligerent.

  They had to stand up together at least twice, and go in to supper in apparent amity, talking commonplaces and smiling as naturally as possible. Julia’s eyes were hot with unshed tears the whole evening, and Sir Richard felt himself building to an explosion so all-encompassing that he feared for himself.

  The worst was the waltz. When the music began, none approached Julia. It was taken for granted that she would stand up with her fiancé. Knowing this, he did his duty, and they moved onto the floor together and slipped into the half embrace.

  The steps came easily; they were well matched and had danced so often, with such happiness. But conversation was another matter. No subject seemed safe in the midst of so many eager watchers. Yet silence would be noted, too.

  “It is warm,” offered Sir Richard after a while.

  “Do you find it so?” asked Julia.

  “Anyone must, I think. The room is quite hot.”

  “I myself rarely feel the heat.”

  “How convenient that must be for you in the summer months.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Having by this innocuous exchange reduced one another to tight-lipped rage, they fell silent for a time.

  “There is Mr. Staunton,” said Julia then. “He looks quite handsome tonight.”

  Since Harry Staunton had been the most successful of his rivals for Julia’s hand, Sir Richard recognized this as a calculated provocation. “That coat hides the slope of his shoulders admirably,” he agreed.

  “He is such a pleasant, open man,” countered Julia. “One cannot imagine him stooping to the least deception.”

  “He barely has the brains to stoop under a low doorway,” said Sir Richard savagely.

  Both their faces stiffened; they gazed fixedly at Mr. Staunton, who was nattering on to his partner in happy oblivion.

  But Sir Richard had not abandoned the field. The word deception had enflamed him. “There is Lydia Devereaux,” he continued. “I haven’t seen her in some time. A very pretty girl, I’ve always thought; her expression is so trusting.”

  Julia nearly ground her teeth. That he should use such a word, after what she had seen, was unbearable. “I would call it vacuous myself,” she replied in a languid voice. “She is too silly to have much discrimination.”

  Sir Richard’s arm tightened involuntarily about her waist, emphasizing their physical closeness. This seemed a bitter mockery, and at the same time a disquieting mystery. For both of them enjoyed the sensation despite their anger. They resisted, scandalized, but the fact was that Julia reveled in the feel of his arm and longed to move even closer, and Sir
Richard had to fight the impulse to pull her against him and kiss her so thoroughly that this nonsense about Bess would evaporate like dew in the heat of the sun.

  Instead, the music ended, to their mixed relief and regret. Julia returned to her parents. The Deveres left the ball early, at her request, giving Julia ample time to indulge in furious, forlorn sobbing before she at last fell asleep.

  When she was gone, Sir Richard remembered his previous appointment. Though it was nearly eleven, he drove homeward past the house where he had settled Bess, and when he saw a light, he stopped and knocked. Bess opened the door herself, warily.

  “I’m sorry to be so late,” said Sir Richard. “I had another engagement.”

  The girl stepped back to allow him to come in. “Mrs. Hanlon’s gone to bed,” she said.

  “Ah. I won’t stay, then.” But he made no move to go. He didn’t want to return home to his tumultuous thoughts. “Why are you sitting up so late?”

  Bess shrugged. “I wasn’t tired. And I wanted to finish my book.”

  Sir Richard couldn’t hide his astonishment, and the girl smiled wryly. “Oh, yes, I can read. The priest taught me when I asked him, and he let me borrow books now and then. Dull as ditch water they were, too. But my mother got novels sometimes up at the Hall, where she…worked.”

  “I see. No doubt that is where you picked up the notions that took you to the Chaos Club. Romantic bilge.”

  “I didn’t expect you would care for them.” Bess sounded indifferent to his opinion.

  “No, indeed. Novel reading is the source of much that is wrong with young people today. Particularly girls.”

  Bess made a disgusted sound. “How would you know? I wager you’ve never read one. Nor does that young lady you’re engaged to, I suppose.”

  Sir Richard stiffened. The mention of Julia was like a lash on skin already wounded.

  Bess misunderstood. “I’m not to speak her name, eh? She’s not to be mentioned by the likes of me. She isn’t to know that girls like me exist. I’ll bet she does, though.”

  “Be quiet!”

  “And from what I hear, many fine ladies aren’t so sweet and pure. No indeed. Yours may turn out to be something quite different once she’s married.”

  This suggestion, though ridiculous, grated on Sir Richard intolerably after the evening he’d endured. He grasped Bess’s shoulder. “I said, be quiet!”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” She pulled away, but stumbled and fell against him. Their bodies pressed together, Bess’s nervous eyes very close to his.

  Sir Richard thrust Bess away so abruptly that she nearly fell. He was shocked at himself. He’d come close to striking her. He didn’t understand that his fury had been roused by the situation with Julia, bursting out because it must. He thought he must be going mad. It had to be madness, to make him behave in a manner he despised.

  “I…I’m sorry,” whispered Bess, who had backed into the corner of the tiny hall, frightened by the look in his gray eyes.

  Sir Richard raised his head and stared at her; Bess crouched and waited for she knew not what—a blow, a curse. She hadn’t thought Sir Richard prone to this sort of outburst, but she saw now he was more like other men she’d encountered than she realized.

  She was surprised again, however, for he simply turned and strode out the front door, leaving it open behind him. She heard the jingle of harness and then the snap of a whip. Hoof beats began and quickened to a furious gallop before they faded in the distance. Bess went to shut the door, carefully slipping the bolt. She fetched her reading candle and went slowly up the stairs.

  Eight

  “You don’t seem to understand. I am not offering you a choice,” said Lord Fenton to the younger man he faced across the shabby disorder of the latter’s front parlor. “I want the address. Now.”

  “I don’t care to give it to you,” replied Lord Charles Wearingham. His youthful face was pale, but he stood very straight, his hand resting on the back of an ancient armchair.

  Fenton’s gray-flecked brows rose; they had a curious V-shape that made his seamed face diabolical in the dim early morning light filtering through the blinds. “No? That isn’t very wise of you. It displeases me, and makes me feel that I no longer wish to hold your notes of hand.”

  “My…? How did you get them?”

  “I bought them. From your customary moneylender. He seemed extremely glad to be rid of them. Do you suppose he doubted their quality? A distressing amount of debt, Charles.”

  Wearingham whitened further. Though he didn’t move, he seemed to collapse in on himself. He was so deeply in debt that there was no chance of getting out, he knew that. Even a big win at the tables would likely only keep him from debtor’s prison. And the devil of it was, he never did win. He’d lost the thousand guineas Beckwith paid for Bess in four days, when he’d been certain it was a sum sent by Providence to get him on his feet again. Now, he had taken to waking suddenly in the night, in a cold sweat of fear, unable to sleep again as his brain went around and around without discovering an escape. If Fenton called in his vowels, he was ruined. “Why do you want it?” he croaked.

  “Perhaps I wish to call on the young lady.”

  “I don’t know if she…”

  “For God’s sake, Wearingham, we’re talking about a girl who sold herself to the highest bidder, not a duke’s daughter. You say you know where she is. Tell me.”

  Wearingham hesitated for a moment longer, then grimaced and gave him Bess Malone’s address.

  Lord Fenton smiled. “Thank you.” He turned to go.

  “What are you planning?” Wearingham asked.

  He was not vouchsafed an answer, and when the door shut behind his uninvited visitor, he let his head drop in his hands.

  Lord Fenton returned home to make certain arrangements. Though these were somewhat unusual, the men he employed had done similar work for him in the past, and had few questions. They went on their way without comment and took up unobtrusive positions near the house where Bess Malone was staying.

  And thus it was that when Dora Hanlon went out at midmorning with a market basket over her arm, a burly man approached the front door and knocked. After a moment, it was opened by Bess, who gazed at the visitor with some surprise. She was not given time to speak, however. The man pushed hard on the door, throwing Bess back against the wall, and stepped quickly inside. His colleague, who had come forward as soon as the door opened, followed suit and shut the door with a snap.

  There was a brief pause, then the door opened again and the two men reappeared, supporting a limp Bess between them. They hurried her along the street and around the corner to a shabby livery stable, where a closed carriage with a team that had made the ostler gape awaited them, already harnessed. Bess was shoved inside and the doors secured; the two men mounted the box and whipped up the horses, driving quickly through the streets of London and out into the countryside, to a secluded cottage they had visited several times before.

  * * *

  When a footman informed Sir Richard Beckwith that Dora Hanlon had called at the back door and wished to give him a message, he experienced a disturbing sinking feeling. He had not gone near the house where he had placed Bess in a day and a half, and whenever he thought of her, a haze of embarrassment obscured his mind. Though he had done nothing wrong, he felt he had made a mistake. The good deed he had aimed at had not played out as he expected it would. In fact, it had become a threat to his lifelong happiness. And he hadn’t figured out how to remedy this situation.

  Mrs. Hanlon was visibly uncomfortable when she was brought before him. Her broad, pleasant face was creased with worry. “She’s gone again,” she said without preliminaries. “I went out to market, and she slipped away. I thought she’d made up her mind to stay, else I wouldn’t have left her alone, Sir Richard.”

  Beckwith’s first reaction was relief. Could
he simply dismiss Mrs. Hanlon with thanks and forget Bess had ever existed? In the next instant he knew he could not. “She left no message?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Nor took her things. The new gowns came yesterday late, and they’re hanging in her room.”

  Bess would never have run away without these. “I’m sure she will be back, in that case, Mrs. Hanlon. You may as well go home and wait for her.”

  “Yes, sir.” But the woman made no move. “I’ve a bad feeling about this,” she added finally. “There’s a smell about it.”

  Beckwith raised his blond eyebrows, and Mrs. Hanlon looked uneasy. “I know things sometimes, sir. It comes to me.”

  “I don’t think this is such a time,” was his reply. “Go back now, and send word when Bess returns.”

  Mrs. Hanlon dropped a small curtsy and went out, her face showing pique at his dismissal of her warning. Sir Richard turned to his papers, but his mind wouldn’t stay on his work. He was restless and impatient. He longed to speak to Julia, he realized. More than anything else, he wanted to be reconciled with her. He wanted to think only of her.

  He heard nothing more of Bess that day. But the following morning Michael Shea called early and was admitted before Sir Richard had risen from the breakfast table. When Beckwith joined him in the library, Mr. Shea was obviously impatient. “Bess has disappeared,” he said at once.

  Something in his tone annoyed Sir Richard so that he took his time closing the door and moving to his desk in the corner. “She has not returned?” he said then.

  “No. We must start a search, though it may well be too late.” Shea’s voice was accusing, and his handsome ruddy face showed signs of deep agitation.

  “Too late?” Sir Richard was not accustomed to being addressed in this way.

  “Anything might have happened to her.”

  “Bess seemed able to take care of herself.”

  “Are you daft, man? That’s just what she isn’t. Selling herself at the Chaos Club! If she hadn’t had the luck to meet you there, Lord knows where she’d be now. We’ve got to find her.”