The Infamous Rakes

by Amanda Scott

  “Oh, he was there, right enough, but if you’ll pardon my saying so, though the man may have money, he don’t have much sense in his cockloft. I wouldn’t want my sister to marry him.”

  “You haven’t got a sister.”

  “No, but all the same—”

  Crawley glanced at the interested fop beside him and muttered, “Leave it, Mongrel. This is no place to be saying such things. Not that you need worry about Corey, of course.”

  “No, no,” the fop said hastily. “Never.”

  “Because,” Crawley went on in the same conversational tone, “if I should hear that Dacres had got wind of this conversation, I should know in a moment who spoke out of turn.”

  “Not me,” the fop insisted. “I wouldn’t. That is, I couldn’t, because I never heard a thing. Assure you!”

  “Ah,” Crawley said, “how reassuring that is, Corey. Are you in a push to get home, Mongrel? I will do myself the honor of accompanying you if you like.”

  “A dashed good notion,” Dawlish said. “Good night, Corey.” When they had made their way down the grand stair, bade the porter a civil good night, and found themselves in St. James’s Street, he said as they began walking toward Piccadilly, “Sorry about that. Must have had a sip or two over the mark at Sefton’s. Only came here because I thought you might be with Thorne—he’s in town, you know.”

  “So I heard. I, too, thought I might find him here.”

  A short silence fell before Dawlish said abruptly, “Thought you had talked to Belinda.”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” Crawley replied. “I did dance with her, but she chattered sixteen to the dozen about a lot of people, including Dacres. She thinks he is interested in Caroline Oakley one moment and in Theodosia Adlam in the next.”

  “And why do you suppose she tells you such things.”

  “Chatter, Dawlish. What do you think?”

  Dawlish sighed, pulling his coat tighter against the chill of the night. “Not my business to think, of course—”

  “Glad to know you realize that.”

  “—but it appears to me that you’ve shifted the burden for saving your groats onto your sister, and I don’t like to see it. Think of her as my own sister, don’t you know, and have done since the first time I visited Longworth with you from school. Tiny thing she was then, with long chestnut curls down her back, and stockings always falling down around her ankles. Taking little puss, I thought then. Still do.”

  Crawley glared at him. “Don’t get any damned silly notions in your head, Mongrel.”

  “Oh, don’t put yourself in a pucker. I told you I think of her as a sister. More important than that—she thinks of me as just another brother. And even if she didn’t, though I wasn’t born without a shirt and my uncle’s a duke, I do know you ain’t interested in my pedigree but only in snaring a Midas for her. I liked you better before you inherited, Ned, and that’s a fact. Here is your street. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon ... That is, if I may still accompany you and the others to Queen’s House,” he added with a more doubtful air.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Crawley said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Of course you must come.”

  Dawlish nodded, started to turn away, took a deep breath, and turned back, blurting, “She is trying to let you know, as easily as she can, that she thinks Dacres is even more intent upon marrying money than you are for her to do so, that’s all!” And with that he turned and strode off down the street.

  Crawley stared after him for a long moment, then shook his head, and turned toward home.

  He did not sleep well, for not only had Dawlish made him think about Belinda and Dacres, but he was vexed about his own behavior with Miss Adlam. He remembered her saying that Vyne brought out the worst in her sister, and wondered if she did the same to him, if in fact her original letter might not—in some way he did not yet understand—have sparked an irresistible urge in him to make a cake of himself. Tossing and turning did no good. He could not convince himself that it was any doing of hers. He had done it all to himself. He was a fool.

  The following morning he resisted his valet’s strenuous attempts to waken him until the fellow said loudly that if he did not mean to go to Adlam House that day, he ought to have said so the night before.

  Crawley opened one sleepy eye, blinked at the glare in the room, and said, “Shut that damned curtain, Belsham, and give me whatever it is you give me when I have had too much to drink.”

  “But, my lord, you were not in the least inebriated when you came in last night. Nearly stone sober, I should have said.”

  “Then you are a fool, for I cannot have been sober. Get me the stuff. If it does nothing else, it will wake me up.”

  By the time the man returned, he had got out of bed and put on his dressing gown, an elaborate creation of bright red silk with purple cording. The sight of it made him react much as the sun’s glare had done, but he was feeling better now that he was upright. He truly did not know if he had had too much to drink the preceding night. He rather thought not, for his memory was perfectly clear. Particularly with regard to his discomfort over Dawlish’s parting words.

  Damning Vyne for making it necessary for him to be up so early—though he had begun to suspect he wasn’t needed to keep peace between artist and subject anymore—he let Belsham shave him and help him dress in tan breeches and a dark coat, smoothed his snowy neckcloth into place, and went down to the breakfast parlor. He had expected to have the room to himself, but to his immense surprise, he found his sister there before him.

  “Good God, Bella, what ails you that you are up so early?”

  She smiled. “Nothing ails me, Ned. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up. That is all.”

  She looked cheerful enough, he thought, moving to help himself from various dishes a footman was setting out on the sideboard. “I’ll have coffee,” Crawley said. He could still taste the awful concoction Belsham had mixed for him. Though he suspected it consisted of little more than whiskey and hot pepper, his head was clearer than it had been, and there was something in his sister’s casual air that troubled him.

  He sat down, waited until he had his coffee, then dismissed the footman and said, “Open the budget, love. What’s troubling you that you felt you had to see me this morning?”

  She was silent for a long moment, and he did not press her. At last, looking down, she said, “I cannot think why you must believe I have motives for doing quite natural things, Ned. One cannot sleep, so one gets up and eats breakfast. That is all.”

  “Rubbish. Last Season, there was not a single occasion that I can recall when you got out of bed before noon.”

  “Lady Jersey’s alfresco breakfast,” she retorted promptly.

  “You were late,” he reminded her. “Moreover it did not begin until two in the afternoon. Such so-called breakfasts never do begin before noon.”

  “Well, then, the day we rode to Richmond Park.”

  “Bella, cut line.”

  She flushed. “Oh, it is nothing. Now that I see you, I can think of nothing that I need tell you. Don’t provoke me! I must suppose you went to your club last night after you left us.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Did you lose very much, Ned?”

  “I cannot think why that should concern you.”

  “Did you?”

  “I lost more than I won,” he said.

  “Everyone loses,” she said with a long sigh. “What happens to all the money that gets lost?”

  “Well, Mr. Thynne retired from Brooks’s because he won only twelve thousand pounds in two months. Needless to recount, the other members are hoping he does not decide to return.” When she did not respond, he said coaxingly, “Come now, that was meant to make you smile. What’s amiss?”

  “I do not think I can bring Lord Dacres up to scratch,” she blurted. “Oh, Ned, I have tried, truly I have, but it is of no use whatsoever. I had thought, when it was only Caroline that he was interested in, that I still had a chance
, for her papa is in trade, you know, and they say that even Mr. Sheridan was not let into Brooks’s because his papa was an actor. Dacres would simply hate it if he were forced to resign from his clubs—”

  “He would not be asked to do so,” Crawley said. “Sheridan got in at the end, you know.”

  “Yes, but only because the Prince of Wales kept the man who always blackballed him away long enough for the others to vote.”

  “We are not talking of Sheridan, however. Nor do I much want to talk about Miss Oakley.”

  “Oh, I know, but she is not the problem now, anyway. Theo is. He is simply mad about her, Ned.”

  “Any red-blooded male in London who has seen her is mad about her,” Crawley said with a grimace.

  “You, too? Oh, Ned, I’m so sorry!”

  “Well, you needn’t be,” he said. He meant it. It did not bother him in the least that Dacres wanted Theo Adlam. But he had no wish to explain himself to her. Instead, he said firmly, “In my belief, Bella, you are quite as pretty as Miss Theodosia.”

  “Oh, Ned, you are kind to say so, but—”

  “No ‘buts’ about it. The only difference between the two of you is that she is accustomed to hearing herself praised and you are not, which has given her a confidence you do not feel, but I promise you that if you were to carry yourself as she does and look at the world with the same sort of confidence, you would find that you could be just as popular as the lovely Miss Theo.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I do. Now, hush, and let me drink my coffee, for I must make haste if I am to get to Adlam House before she murders Dickon or he murders her.”

  Belinda laughed. “I cannot believe you are still playing nursemaid, Ned, for that is what it sounds like to me, and you have not yet missed a day. Although I suppose that if you are in love with Theo yourself, there is no real mystery about it. If you weren’t, I should certainly wonder.”

  Indignantly he said, “It’s been little more than a weekend only two hours each day!”

  “Very true, but you are generally not so much to be relied upon. You will not mind my saying that, I know, for you quite frequently say the same thing yourself.”

  Maybe he did, but he did not like hearing it from her after the soul searching he had done in the night, and since one day of hearing Miss Theodosia Adlam snipe at Vyne had put any thought of wedding her straight out of his head, he wondered why he did feel so obligated to continue his job as nursemaid—for Bella had hit the mark there. It was exactly how the pair of them made him feel, and since the first day, he had not even had the benefit of Miss Adlam’s company to keep him from becoming bored.

  When Belinda jumped up, kissed him on the cheek, and took herself off, he wondered if his telling her she was as pretty as Theo had done any good. He had hoped that if she felt more confident, she would begin to concentrate on her own interests instead of his. While he would not turn down a wealthy suitor, he certainly did not want her marrying only to please him.

  Realizing he had no time to waste, he finished his meal and left for Adlam House. When Heath admitted him, the next person he saw was Miss Adlam. She looked worried, and he instantly wondered if she had feared he would not come today. In that instant, he realized that the reason he felt such an urgency to keep his word was simply because he had pledged it to her.

  Felicia was relieved to see him. She had been certain that he, of all people, had not retired early the previous evening. Had Theo not said that he and his party had gone on to other events? It was absurd of her, she knew, to be counting on a man like Crawley to keep peace between two such temperamental persons as her sister and Sir Richard, for he was clearly irresponsible. Even his friends seemed to agree on that point.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said. “I am glad to see you.”

  “Did you suppose I would not come?” he asked, smiling at her. “You might well have wondered, had you known what a chore my man had to rouse me this morning. Have they begun?”

  “No, Theo has not yet come down, and Sir Richard is a bit cross about it, but he said he wanted to look his sketches over in any event. There ... there is a small complication, sir.”

  “Complication? Is something amiss with the children?”

  “No.” She smiled more naturally. “I am not surprised that in the short time you have known us you have come to think them my primary concern, but Sara Ann and Freddy are with Miss Ames, and Tom has found himself a tutor.”

  “The boy found his own tutor?”

  “Yes, was that not resourceful of him?”

  “I doubt the fellow can be much good if the boy found him. You ought to have told me he wanted a tutor. I might have been able to ferret out a proper one for him.”

  “That is kind of you, though I do not know why you should. You are already doing a great deal more than we have any right to expect by attempting to keep peace between my sister and Sir Richard. And I think Tom has found the very man. He has been going about the neighborhood on his own, you know, exploring the park and the streets as far as St. George’s Square. And he found his man at St. George’s Chapel, for he is one of the curates there. He and Tom got to talking, for Tom is the friendliest boy, you know, and due to his odd upbringing is quite experienced in talking to strangers. He told the man he was planning to enter Eton when the new term begins, and it turns out that this man does a good deal of work with other boys preparing to enter, to see that they are not behind boys their age when they do.”

  “Who is this fellow?”

  “Well, I don’t know, precisely. His name is Chambers, and I know of no family with that name, but there can be nothing out of the way about a curate of St. George’s, surely.” She realized she was holding her breath, waiting to hear what he would say.

  “No, I suppose not. It seems Master Tom has done well, which means he cannot be the reason for that frown I saw, so perhaps you will be so good as to explain. I might warn you that I have already had to cajole one young lady into confiding in me this morning, so do not expect me to coax you, for I shall not.”

  She chuckled, relieved beyond measure that for once he had accepted her reading of a situation without argument. “I collect that you refer to your sister, sir, and I hope that means you have encouraged her to know better what you want from her.”

  “Miss Adlam, what do you want of me?”

  “Only for you to discover if Sir Richard can finish Theo’s portrait in time to unveil it at a ball my aunt wishes to give for her,” Felicia said in a rush.

  “When is the ball to be? If you tell me ‘in a fortnight,’ I can assure you I won’t even ask him, for he will never finish the thing in less than a month.”

  “Well, he will have a bit longer than a fortnight, for Theo is to be presented at the queen’s drawing room a week from Thursday, and she cannot have a ball until after that. But Aunt Augusta wants to arrange it for the twenty-fourth of April.”

  “About three weeks, then,” he murmured. “I do not know if I can persuade him to finish so soon.”

  “Well, if you will not ask him, then I am sure I do not know what we shall do, for Theo is persuaded that he would refuse even to consider such a thing if she were to ask, and if I do so, he will suspect it is at her instigation, will he not?”

  Crawley smiled. “I will see what I can do. Wait. I have just remembered something. This is the year the Royal Academy awards gold and silver medals for excellence. They do so every two years, you know, and Dickon and the other two portrait artists will be vying for the gold. He has said nothing about what he intends to enter, but I’d wager a large sum that at least one entry will be your sister’s portrait. And the exhibition begins the last Monday in April. There will be a big dinner the Saturday before the opening, and all the entries have to be judged before then, for that is when the awards are announced.”

  “Then we have only to ask him if he means to enter the portrait for the exhibition,” Felicia said.

  “Let us ask him now. If we wait for M
iss Theo, the answer we get may be different, for he does seem to enjoy teasing her.”

  Accordingly, they went to the northeast parlor to confront the artist. He looked up expectantly when they entered, and Felicia was certain he was disappointed to see only them, but there was nothing to suggest that in his crisp tone of voice.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I am nearly ready to begin, so I hope Miss Theodosia does not mean to keep me waiting long.”

  “Oh, no,” Felicia said. “It is not quite half past eight, sir, and you know she never comes down before then.”

  “I know.” There was a twinkle in his eyes when he said the two words, so Felicia decided they need not equivocate with him, and did not wait for Crawley to frame his question.

  “I have a small difficulty with which you can help me, Sir Richard,” she said, flushing when she saw Crawley’s lips twitch with amusement.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” Vyne said. “What can I do?”

  “Finish Theo’s portrait in time to unveil it at the ball my aunt is to give next month. It was Aunt Augusta’s notion,” she said quickly when he frowned. “She thought it would make the ball a truly memorable occasion, and she would like to include in the invitation that the portrait will be unveiled.”

  He was silent long enough for her to fear he was going to refuse, and she glanced anxiously at Crawley. When he smiled, she looked more hopefully back at Sir Richard.

  He too had glanced at Crawley, and he said now, “I have no doubt, ma’am, that you have heard about the Royal Academy Exhibition, and that I have been asked to submit my work for the judging. I should be an utter fool not to consider submitting your sister’s portrait. Once it has been submitted, it cannot be taken from Somerset House until after the exhibition is ended in May, but there is no rule to prevent its unveiling before submission. What is the date of this ball?”

  She told him.

  He nodded. “It can be done, certainly.”

  “Crawley feared you could not finish so soon.”

  “Which shows only how little he knows. The biggest problem is that certain bits must dry before others may be painted, and since your sister is wearing a white dress, that necessitates some careful planning. White takes longer than any other color to dry, you see, and cannot be painted over a dark color that has not yet dried; however, I am not painting a large canvas—only three feet by five—so such difficulties can be surmounted. Lawrence is painting a portrait of the Princess of Wales for the exhibition,” he added as an apparent afterthought.