The Reluctant Rake

by Jane Ashford

  At last, late in the afternoon on the second day, when Julia was alone in Bess’s room reading by her bed, the stricken girl blinked several times, then opened her eyes and looked around. She made no movement, so that Julia did not notice the change and Bess was able to examine her surroundings thoroughly before she said, “Who are you?”

  Julia started so violently that she dropped her book. “You’re awake!” she cried.

  Bess gazed at her in puzzlement, her eyes still slightly out of focus. “Am I?” she responded. “I don’t remember…” She tried to raise a hand to her head and seemed surprised to find it hampered by the bedclothes. “I was in that cottage.”

  “Yes. Sir Richard and his brother got you out. But you were very ill, so they brought you here to rest.” Julia recollected something. “Oh, Michael Shea, too.” Realizing that she wasn’t being clear, she paused to gather her thoughts.

  Bess gazed around the room again. “Here?”

  “I am Julia Devere,” began the other again. “This is my home. You have been here two days. The doctor says you will be all right.”

  “But who are you?” repeated Bess plaintively.

  “I am… Sir Richard and I are engaged to be married.”

  Bess’s blue eyes widened in astonishment. “He brought me to you!” She struggled to sit up.

  Julia reached out restraining hands. “The doctor says you should stay quiet. It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I’m not worried,” was the reply. “I’m…” She looked as if she couldn’t find a word.

  “It is a bit unusual,” admitted Julia. She was rather enjoying the other girl’s amazement; it was the first opportunity she’d had to impress someone with her daring.

  “What did he tell you about me?” asked Bess.

  “Oh, everything,” replied Julia cheerfully.

  Bess merely gaped.

  “He had to, you see. I had broken off the engagement because of all the rumors flying about. And he wanted to explain. Then when I met you four on the road… Well, he just told me.”

  “No wonder he didn’t want me for his fancy lady,” said Bess.

  Julia flushed at her forthrightness.

  “You’re not like any young lady I ever saw,” she continued. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I? Why, nothing. I mean—”

  “Because if you were thinking I’d be a housemaid or any such thing, I won’t.” Bess was recovering from her initial haziness now.

  The thought of Bess as a servant in her house made Julia shiver. “I assure you I have no such intention,” she said fervently. “Everyone here thinks you are an acquaintance of mine. I am merely trying to help you recover.”

  Bess examined the room again. “You have been nursing me?”

  “Yes. You…talked quite a bit.”

  Now, Bess flushed. “About…about the cottage?”

  Julia nodded, eyes on the floor. Some of the things Bess had muttered had shocked her to the core and filled her with outraged compassion.

  “What happened to him?” asked Bess fiercely.

  “L-Lord Fenton?” Julia stumbled over the name. “Nothing.”

  “They didn’t kill him? Oh, if only I’d been awake.”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “What?”

  “You must ask Mr. Shea for the story. He will be here to see you very soon. He always calls about this time.” Julia smiled, thinking this would certainly cheer Bess.

  “Michael Shea? What’s he doing here?”

  “Worrying over you. He could not go back to London under the circumstances.”

  Bess looked mystified.

  “Your engagement,” added Julia teasingly. “You cannot have forgotten that.”

  The other girl’s mouth dropped open. “My engagement?”

  “You and Mr. Shea. He said you were to be married and go abroad.” Julia faltered under her blank stare.

  “Married,” repeated Bess, managing to get a hand to her head this time.

  “They both told me so,” replied Julia.

  “Both?”

  “Sir Richard and Mr. Shea.”

  “Well, they’re both daft, then. Michael Shea never asked me, and I surely never took him.”

  The two girls stared at each other. At that moment, there was a discreet knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Michael Shea under the escort of a housemaid. “Mr. Shea,” said the latter with a bob of a curtsy, and she shut the door behind him.

  “Bess!” exclaimed Michael. “You’re awake!” He would have rushed forward, but two accusing stares stopped him by the door. “Eh?”

  “I’ve just been hearing about my wedding plans from Miss…er…”

  “Devere,” supplied Julia. “Indeed, Mr. Shea, I have been quite embarrassed. I had understood from you that—”

  “Ah,” interrupted Shea. “I see how it is.” He moved further into the room. “The thing is, Bess, I hadn’t the chance to—”

  “I don’t recollect giving you leave to use my name,” retorted Bess.

  Shea looked from one to the other. “I’m rightly in the soup now, aren’t I? But how was I to know it’d be mentioned before I had a chance to speak?”

  “You might have known when you told everyone in the place. I heard you tell the housekeeper yesterday,” replied Julia.

  “Well, she was chafing, you see. About me spending so much time up here practically alone with you, Miss Julia. So I had to tell her it was Bess—”

  “She is Miss Julia, but I am Bess, I see,” broke in Bess. She turned her head away. “Miss Devere, I am worn to the bone.”

  “Of course.” Julia rose at once. “We should not have kept you talking this way so soon. Come, Mr. Shea.”

  “Aw, but look, Bess—Miss Bess.”

  “I really can’t talk any more now,” came the faint reply.

  “Come along,” repeated Julia, taking Shea’s arm and guiding him out of the room. “The doctor says she must rest.”

  “Oh, Miss Devere?” came a thready voice.

  “Yes?”

  A hand from the bed gestured toward the door, and Julia shut it. Immediately, two bright blue eyes appeared over the covers. “I’m fair starving,” said Bess in a perfectly normal tone. “Can I have something to eat?”

  Julia smiled. “Certainly. I’ll have a tray sent right up.”

  “But you won’t tell Michael.”

  Julia laughed a little. “By no means.”

  “Good.” The eyes disappeared again, and Julia composed her face and joined Mr. Shea in the corridor.

  “She’s all right, isn’t she?” he asked anxiously.

  “Rather shaken,” was the solemn reply.

  “Ah, I’ve made a mull of this, that’s certain.”

  “Why did you tell us you were to be married when you hadn’t even asked her?” wondered Julia.

  “I had to convince Sir Richard. I knew he’d like the idea. And then, I don’t know, it just kept slipping out. I thought she cared for me, I swear.”

  Julia took pity on him. “Perhaps she does.”

  “She said something to you?” His expression was eager.

  “No.”

  His face fell.

  “But you must have had some reason for supposing she would accept you.”

  “She’s angry,” he answered doubtfully.

  “Of course she is. Any woman would be. But it may pass.”

  “You think so?”

  “Quarrels are made up every day, Mr. Shea.” Julia smiled, thinking of her own case and deciding she would help him. “But you must give it time. Call again tomorrow, and beg pardon.”

  “Yes. Yes, I will. Perhaps I’ll ride up to London and buy her something. A bracelet, perhaps?”

  �
�Hardly suitable,” replied Julia, enjoying herself.

  “No. I’ll have to think. She has flowers. Fruit?”

  “We have ample supplies from my father’s succession houses.” Julia did not see why this should be made easy for him.

  “Ah. Well, I’ll look about. Tomorrow at two?”

  She nodded, and Mr. Shea took his leave with some haste. Julia was smiling as she went downstairs to give orders that a tray be sent to Bess and a message be carried to Sir Richard in town. She had sent a bulletin that morning, but developments called for another.

  When the food was ready, Julia went upstairs with the maid and sat down beside the bed again. At first, Bess concentrated on the meal, but after a while she sighed and sat back a little. “That was fine,” she declared.

  “And no wonder. You have had little but barley water and broth for two days.”

  “Four,” said Bess curtly. “Is Michael Shea gone?”

  “Yes. But he returns tomorrow at two. With abject apologies. And a gift, I believe, if he can find something grand enough.”

  Bess dimpled. “I deserve them.”

  “Undoubtedly. Do you like him?”

  “Oh, yes. But I hadn’t thought of marrying.” Some of her indignation came back. “He never even mentioned it!”

  “Outrageous.”

  “I don’t know one thing about him, only that he has an aunt who is…a fine woman. I like her.” Bess’s tone had grown less strident.

  “That’s something,” said Julia.

  “I do like him. But why must men be such great dolts?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “To have him saying I’d marry him, without even asking, after…everything. I couldn’t stand it.”

  She was thinking of Lord Fenton, Julia realized, and cringed.

  “But it’s not the same,” Julia protested aloud, unable to stop herself.

  “I know,” agreed Bess. “It’s just that after that…”

  Julia nodded soberly.

  Fifteen

  Michael Shea very much enjoyed his expedition to London the following day. He rose early and dressed in his best town clothes. During the ride, he imagined all the things he might buy for Bess, and on arrival he went directly to Bond Street, wandering among the best shops without trying to make a choice for some time. He envisioned Bess in a celestial blue satin gown lavishly trimmed with lace displayed in the windows of London’s most exclusive modiste. He saw her in a series of fascinating hats, from a chip straw to a high poke covered with feathers. He most enjoyed the jeweler’s, where he spent a good twenty minutes poring over diamonds and sapphires, having made up his own mind that these were the only jewels for Bess.

  But he reluctantly left all these things behind, certain that Miss Devere, at least, would consider them unsuitable gifts. And as things stood, Shea wryly told himself, Bess would side with Julia Devere even if she wanted the things with all her heart.

  Having come back down to earth, he found himself in difficulties. What could he buy, he began to wonder, that would satisfy both the proprieties and himself. He refused the paltry blandishments of flowers or sweets. After sapphires, they looked pallid. He examined the latest three-volume novels, but found the idea unromantic. As the morning wore on, he became concerned that he would find nothing, and the search grew more serious.

  At last, a small, discreet display caught his eye, and he halted before a shop near the end of the street and eyed it. It might just do, he decided. Miss Devere might frown a little, but she would not absolutely veto his choice. With a quick nod, he strode into the shop.

  When he emerged ten minutes later, Michael Shea was smiling. He walked back up Bond Street with a long package under his arm and total disinterest, now, in the offered wares. His one thought was to return to the country and give his gift. Thus, he did not notice Thomas Beckwith’s start of recognition and wave from the other side of the pavement. It was not until the younger man actually touched his arm that he saw him and stopped, saying, “Hello, there,” in a jaunty tone.

  “What are you doing in town?” was Beckwith’s terse reply. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing at all. I came up to buy Bess a little something.” He indicated his package.

  “We agreed that we would not call attention to ourselves,” replied Thomas. “That is why Richard and I have been kicking up our heels in town these past days.”

  “No one knows me,” Shea pointed out with a tinge of bitterness. “I can go where I like if you and your brother take care.”

  The last was a reproach, and Thomas belatedly realized that he should not have stopped Shea so pointedly. He looked around for his constant companion, a small ferret-like man who seemed to imagine that his furtive slipping along the shopfronts was unobtrusive. He spotted him at some distance, peering at a display of riding gear. To Thomas’s relief, he didn’t seem to be paying any particular attention. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I was just surprised to see you. Is everything all right in the country?”

  “As far as you’re concerned, yes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bess is a mite put out with me.”

  Thomas Beckwith grinned. “Is she? No wonder you’re shopping. I hope you’ve got something splendid.”

  Shea looked as if he were unsure whether to be offended, then finally grinned also. “I do.”

  “Good. I’ll leave you, then. I don’t think our encounter was noticed. Richard and I are still hemmed up here in London. Fenton has not given up his suspicions.”

  “The man’s not stupid,” replied Shea, his jaw hardening.

  “By no means. We will come when we can. Tell Julia that Richard waits for her messages with some…eagerness.” He grinned again.

  “I will that. Good day.”

  Thomas nodded, and they parted, Shea striding along toward his livery stable and Beckwith continuing to his club. Neither looked back to see Lord Fenton emerge from a doorway quite near where they had been standing and stare intently after Shea. Nor did they see him walk quickly to a closed carriage waiting in the street and give orders to the driver before getting in. But the carriage began to move slowly down the crowded avenue in the wake of Michael Shea, and it paused as he entered the livery to retrieve his horse.

  Shea was in a fine mood as he made his way back to the Deveres’ country house. He balanced his package before him in the saddle and imagined to himself Bess opening it and discovering what he had bought. That would bring her around, he thought, though he intended to be lavishly apologetic as well. He had no real doubts that she would eventually listen to his suit. In the time they had spent together in town, he had become convinced that she liked him as well as he did her. He was so taken up with pleasant fantasies that he did not pay any heed to the carriage behind him even when the busy streets of London were left behind and it was the only vehicle visible. It was not unusual for travelers to take the road he followed, and thus no alarms were set off in his mind. He might have been more wary had he not come to think of himself as invisible, but too many evenings passed in the gaming clubs had sealed this impression. The young scions of the haut ton were recognized and deferred to everywhere, while no footman or serving maid could so much as remember his name. This had caused him some bitterness at the time, but lately he had been glad for his anonymity, and perhaps lulled by it.

  The journey passed quickly in pleasant visions, and Shea reached his inn just after noon. After his early start, his hunger was sharp, and he merely tossed his reins to the ostler and went into the tap room in search of ale and sustenance, never looking back to see the carriage slow and halt some distance off. Fenton leaned out the opposite window, where he could not be seen from the building, and gave his driver further orders. The man accordingly climbed down and made his way to the inn, falling into conversation with the same ostler.

  “Name of Sh
ea,” was the driver’s laconic remark when he returned. “Been here a matter of four days. Rides off to the big house every afternoon.”

  “The big house?” asked Lord Fenton sharply.

  The man pointed. “A few miles further on. Belongs to a family called Devere. Local nobs.”

  Lord Fenton’s V-shaped brows drew together. “It can’t be!”

  “That’s the name the hayseed told me, y’r lordship. Devere.”

  “He would not take her there,” said Fenton to himself. “Impossible!”

  The driver waited, recognizing now that his information was not being disputed.

  “Drive to the house,” ordered Fenton.

  The other climbed back onto the box and got the vehicle moving again. They bowled past the inn at a spanking pace, and Michael Shea did look up from his luncheon. But he saw only a closed carriage like a hundred others and simply returned to his bread and cheese.

  When they neared the Devere house, Lord Fenton rapped on the ceiling to bring the coach to a halt. “Go to the stables to ask the way,” he told his driver when they had stopped. “And while you are there, bring the conversation around to the visitor in the house. Tell them you have heard she is a red-haired beauty, or some such thing. You will know how to go about it. I want to know when the girl arrived and what her position here is.”

  “Girl, is it?” answered the driver, securing the reins.

  “Yes.” Lord Fenton’s eyes narrowed in his seamed face. “Can she actually be here? But where else? There is no trace.” He turned to the other. “You’ll know what to say.”

  “Aye,” was the stolid reply, and the driver trudged along the road and in at the gate.

  Lord Fenton waited, keeping well back in the carriage so as not to be seen.