“A young gentleman of discerning taste, I see,” Raoul commended.
Jimmy frowned. “Discerning?”
“Exquisite.”
“Oh.” Jimmy paused. “Do you believe in magic, sir?”
A faint smile touched his lips. “I’m beginning to. Now, perhaps you should tell me what has brought you to my doorstep.”
Willie exchanged a swift glance with his brother before squaring his shoulders. “Well sir, Christmas is coming and Jimmy and me were wanting a present for Miss Sarah.”
“Ah. Are you in need of a small loan?”
“Nay, we’ve been doing chores for the Vicar and saved our wages,” Willie proudly announced. “We can pay.”
“Then how can I be of service?”
“We seen a set of paints when Miss Sarah took us to Chester to buy shoes…”
“They were the fancy sort that real artists use,” Jimmy interrupted, only to be elbowed by his brother.
“Anyways, they would be the perfect gift, but we can’t figure a way to get to Chester,” Willie continued, his brow furrowed. “Leastways, not without Miss Sarah knowing where we’re going. She’s mighty particular about keeping track of us.”
“My opinion of Miss Sarah’s good sense rises with every passing moment.”
“We was hoping if we gave you the money, you could purchase the paints for us afore Christmas.”
Jimmy dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a tattered piece of paper.
“Look, we wrote down the name of the store and everything.”
Taking the offered scrap, Raoul read the neatly printed name.
“Spencer’s Fine Emporium.”
“Just a block from that big cathedral,” Willie directed.
“You can’t miss it,” Jimmy added.
Raoul lifted his head to meet their pleading glances. “That does not seem an excessive request.”
Willie breathed an exaggerated sigh. “Then you’ll do it?”
Raoul chuckled. “Yes, you scamp, I will collect your precious paints and even have them wrapped with a tidy bow.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll bring the money to you…”
“Perhaps it would be best if I call at the cottage,” Raoul overrode Willie’s offer, not making the least effort to resist temptation. “Miss Sarah might question why you would wish to come to the Lodge.”
“Aye, she would.” Willie sadly shook his head. “And she is near impossible to gull.”
Raoul regarded the young man with a severe gaze. “A true gentleman does not gull a lady.”
The boys pondered a moment, clearly not entirely pleased with the sage piece of advice.
“Not even when it’s just to keep her from fretting?” Jimmy demanded.
“Especially if it is to keep her from fretting, since a lady always manages to uncover any mischief, no matter how clever a gentleman might believe he is being. And then, of course…”
“There’s bloody hell to pay,” Willie muttered glumly.
Raoul knew precisely how he felt.
“Exactly.”
Chapter 7
December 15
Baxter Lodge
Raoul considered himself a gentleman of remarkably good sense.
Despite his undoubted success upon the stage, not to mention his near adoration among London society, he had never allowed his head to be turned. He, better than anyone, understood that his life of glittering fame was no more than an empty illusion. Only a fool would allow his well-crafted deception to fog his wits.
His good sense, however, seemed in dire jeopardy as he shrugged on a natty blue coat cut by Shultz that was perfectly matched to the blue and ivory striped waistcoat, and tied his cravat in an Oriental style.
By no stretch of the imagination could he claim his intention to travel to Miss Jefferson’s cottage furthered his attempts to discover the truth of his legacy. Nor could he pretend that this was simply a careless desire to help Willie and Jimmy. Not when he’d spent an agonizing hour deciding which coat best suited him.
Finally, he gave a shake of his head, and wrapping himself in his box coat and shoving a beaver hat on his golden curls, he headed to the stables to have his groom saddle Hercules.
He might not understand his provoking fascination with Miss Sarah Jefferson and her two rapscallions, but there was no battling it.
Avoiding the main thoroughfare, Raoul chose a rarely used path, hoping to keep his visit to Sarah’s cottage as discreet as possible. It would not be utterly scandalous to briefly call upon Sarah, so long as her maid and children were in attendance. Still, he preferred to avoid making her the source of gossip. And no matter what he did, even taking ale at the local pub managed to be a source of speculation.
He had traveled some distance when his attention was caught by a run-down cottage with a roof badly in need of patching and a dozen chickens scratching at the snow. On the point of passing, he suddenly whistled, bringing Hercules to a halt.
Such a disreputable excuse for a home could only belong to one man in the neighborhood.
Perhaps he could use this journey to accomplish something beyond making a fool of himself.
Ignoring the chaffing need to continue on his path, Raoul vaulted from his saddle and, leading Hercules into the overgrown garden, tapped the horse lightly on the leg. Instantly, his obedient mount lifted his hoof, his head lowering as if in acute discomfort.
Raoul had never been able to deduce why anyone would train a horse with such a trick, but he couldn’t deny it had come in handy a time or two.
He had only a few minutes to pretend to inspect Hercules’s fetlock when there was the sound of a door slamming. A small, baldhead man with a ferret face and pointed nose marched toward him, wrapping a threadbare cloak around his scrawny body.
“Here now, this here be private land,” the man barked, glowering at Raoul.
“Forgive my intrusion, but my horse has come up lame.” Raoul straightened, his most charming smile curving his lips. “Ah…Mr. Drabble, is it not?”
The pale blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Aye.”
“Perhaps you do not recall me…”
“A course I remember you. Not like I would forget Merriot’s bastard.” He grimaced, his gaze flicking dismissively over Raoul’s elegant attire. “Not with the entire county forever jawing about your grand acting career.”
“You have my utmost sympathy. I cannot imagine a more tedious subject.”
The brewing belligerence faltered at Raoul’s mild retort. “Aye well, I never did have a bone to pick with you. Always a good enough lad. Not that I have any use for actors,” he was swift to add, as if worried that Raoul might take his words as a compliment. “Frippery business. A man should be expected to do a respectable day’s work to earn his coin.”
“Then it is a fortunate thing I have quit the stage.”
“Gads, I have heard of nothing else these past days. As if I give a grout if you choose to prance about a stage or become another one of them worthless libertines who litter London.”
Raoul wisely hid his smile. Although his memories of the man were sketchy at best, he did recall more than one angry confrontation between this man and Lord Merriot. One that nearly came to blows when Drabble arrived at the Great House with the complaint that the various workmen were disturbing his pig.
“No, I shouldn’t think it would matter a wit, although I must protest at being considered a worthless libertine,” he retorted. “I intend to devote the next few months to the writing of my memories.”
“Christ.” Turning his head, Drabble spit near his worn boots, clearly revealing his opinion of Raoul’s memoir.
More amused than offended, Raoul allowed his eyes to widen, as if struck by a sudden thought.
“Do you know, it occurs to me that you would be of service.”
“Me? Bah. What would I know of you beyond the fact that you were a snotty nosed brat who barely had two words to say for yourself?”
“Actually, my interest
is in my father’s past,” Raoul smoothly assured him. “My publisher is convinced that the readers will wish to know something of the man who fathered me. Unfortunately, the Earl has refused to be involved in what he considers a repulsive scheme.”
The mere mention of the Earl was enough to bring a militant gleam to the pale blue eyes, proving the ancient hostilities were far from buried.
Perfect.
“Oh, he does, does he? Not surprising,” the man growled. “Always was too high in the instep, thinking himself better than his fellow man, even when he didn’t have two shillings to rub together.”
“You’ve known him for several years, have you not?”
“Since we were both grubby lads and I gave him a black eye for pinching my favorite fishing pole. I near got thrashed to an inch of my life by my pa for having dared strike the old Earl’s precious son.”
Raoul frowned. Could Drabble be mistaken? Why the devil would his father steal a fishing pole from a penniless boy when he no doubt had a dozen of his own?
“I always knew there was bad blood between the two of you, but I didn’t realize it extended back quite so far.”
Drabble snorted. “It wasn’t the fishing pole or even the thrashing I got that’s made for bad blood.”
“No?”
Lifting his hand, the older man pointed a gnarled finger directly into Raoul’s face.
“That blighter accused my brother of stealing his watch and had him transported.”
Raoul jerked in surprise. He knew his father could be a cold, callous jackass, but to have a young man transported…
“Mon Dieu.”
Mistaking Raoul’s astonishment for condemnation of his brother, Drabble yanked his brows together.
“Frank was as honest as the day was long. He would never have taken nothing that didn’t belong to him.”
“Then why would my father accuse him?”
“Frank was an under-gardener at the Great House. One night they caught him sneaking through the back parlor.”
“As much as I loathe having a man transported for anything but the most serious crimes, that does seem rather suspicious. I presume he didn’t reside at the house?”
“Nay, but Francine did.”
Raoul’s vague curiosity altered to acute interest.
The mention of Francine twice in one day could be mere coincidence, but Raoul felt a strange premonition creep down his spine.
“My nurse?”
“Frank and her were stepping out,” Drabble clarified. “He was only there to be with her.”
“Did Frank have any notion why Lord Merriot would accuse him of stealing his watch?”
“Nary a one.” Drabble’s face hardened with his long-nurtured resentment. “So far as Frank knew, the Earl didn’t so much as say a word to him the three years he worked at the estate.”
“Did my father know that Frank was courting Francine?”
“It weren’t no secret. The two were planning to wed.” Drabble clenched his hand into a fist. “Vindictive rotter had Frank hauled away while she pleaded on her knees for him to have mercy.”
Raoul had no argument with Drabble’s estimation of his father’s character, but he was more interested in the reason for Lord Merriot’s ruthless treatment of Frank.
Was it just the act of a nobleman who was outraged at having a thief in his home? Or was it an attempt to be rid of a young man who had such a close connection to Francine?
A young man who perhaps had shared intimate secrets with his French lover?
“My memories of my nurse are spotty at best, but I do recall her leaving,” he murmured, becoming increasingly certain his father must have paid Francine an enormous sum to leave the Great House. And to leave him. “She traveled to…London, did she not?”
“That was the rumors.”
There was nothing in the old man’s voice to suggest he knew anything about her flight to the city.
“Did my father treat any other servants with such cruelty?”
“Not that I heard tale of.” Drabble snorted. “Course, most people in these here parts are frightened to speak ill of such a powerful family. Hell, most of them would kiss the Earl’s arse if he asked it of them.”
Raoul’s lips twisted, intimately familiar with the repulsive fawning accorded the Merriots by the locals.
“One can hardly blame them. There are few families in the neighborhood who do not depend upon the Merriots for their livelihood.”
“Cowards, the lot of them.”
“You, however, are obviously made of sterner stuff.” Raoul determinedly steered the conversation back in the direction that he desired. “I commend your courage.”
Drabble narrowed his gaze. “Trotting it a bit hard, Charlebois. What is it you’re a wanting?”
“It occurs to me that beyond the mere details of my father’s past, the sales of my memoir will be greatly enhanced by a few…disreputable stories. There is nothing London society adores more than scandal.”
The older man nodded sagely. “Ah, wanting to make a few pounds off the old swell, are you?”
“It would be the only thing I ever received from my father,” Raoul said grimly. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to discover even a hint of gossip. I can only presume Lord and Lady Merriot have lived the lives of near saints.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“You know of a scandal?”
“Beyond ruining my brother?”
“A grievous act certainly, but do you know of any others?”
A sly glint entered the pale blue eyes. “I heard tale that he was seen in London in a certain establishment just off Fleet Street. Course that was years ago and it was all hushed up.”
It took Raoul a moment to realize what the elder man was implying.
“It is not that unusual for a nobleman to hock a few belongings to pay his most pressing bills,” he at last retorted. “And from what little I can discover, my father was in dire need of funds until he came into his inheritance.”
“Aye, but this occurred after his good stroke of fortune, which is why it was so easily dismissed as a hum.”
Raoul frowned. That did seem odd. Why would a gentleman who had come into a vast inheritance need to sell off his valuables.
“After, you say?”
Drabble leaned forward. “For my part I always wondered if his high and mighty lordship had become a common thief.”
Raoul choked back a laugh of disbelief. “A thief?”
“He stole my fishing pole as cool as you please,” Drabble pointed out. “What’s to halt him from pinching a few pretty baubles from his rich friends?”
“Surely his guests would eventually become suspicious if their valuables were forever disappearing when they visited the Great House?”
“Not if he were to place the blame on his servants.” Drabble’s eyes glittered, clearly warming to his outlandish tale. “Perhaps he was afraid others were beginning to realize something was amiss, and made a show of catching poor Frank filching from the house.”
For a brief moment of insanity, Raoul actually considered the notion.
It would explain his father’s sudden wealth, his eagerness to have a hapless servant transported, his presence near Fleet Street, and even his willingness to be extorted of twenty thousand pounds by Dunnington.
Then, he gave a sharp shake of his head.
Sacrebleu. This was not one of his plays.
No matter what their desperation, peers of the realm did not become jewel thieves.
Besides, his father didn’t have the backbone to set upon such a daring path.
“I am not certain my readers will be prepared to believe such a…colorful tale,” he at last admitted.
“They’d readily believe it if I was the one accused.”
Well, Raoul couldn’t argue with that logic.
“And therein lays the difference between being an aristocrat or one of the great unwashed masses.”
“You have that right and tig
ht.”
Realizing that he had drained this particular well dry, Raoul reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.
“If you happen to think of anything else, I hope you will call on me at the Lodge.” He held out the small bounty. “Allow me to compensate for your time. I know you must be a busy man.”
“Thank you kindly.” The coins were tucked away with remarkable speed. “Difficult to believe you can be related to Merriot.”
“Nearly impossible.” He gave a discreet tap on Hercules’s flank, and the horse promptly lowered his leg and tossed his head with a display of impatience. “Ah, it seems that Hercules has recovered. Good day, Drabble.”
Seated in her favorite seat beside the parlor fireplace, Sarah stitched a rip in Jimmy’s shirt, sternly keeping her thoughts from wandering.
As tempting as it might be to dwell upon her latest encounter with Raoul Charlebois, she was wise enough to resist. A pity really. She couldn’t deny that she would enjoy recalling the skill of his caresses and the scent of his warm, male skin.
She might be a virgin, but she had been kissed more than once. Certainly enough to recognize the touch of an expert. What better means of keeping a lonely spinster warm on such a chill afternoon?
Unfortunately, as much as she might secretly have enjoyed Raoul’s brief, tantalizing seduction, she had been honest when she told him that she couldn’t risk any hint of scandal being attached to her.
Sarah lifted her head, her gaze instinctively seeking out the slender form of Willie who stood across the small parlor.
A familiar warmth stirred in her heart.
“Willie, you have been standing at the window for a near a half hour,” she murmured. “Whatever are you staring at?”
The lad jerked, as if caught in some mischief, before he turned his head to grin at her with charming innocence.
“I’m thinking the snow is piled mighty high. Do you think Father Christmas will be able to find us?”
“I do not have a doubt in the world.” Setting aside the shirt, Sarah rose to her feet and crossed to her young charge. In the past three years, she’d come to know Willie. Although he was like any other boy of his age, quick to fall into scrapes and full of high spirits, he was also fiercely protective of his brother and, despite Sarah’s best efforts, inclined to harbor fears that he and Jimmy might be taken from their newfound home. Reaching out, she absently brushed a hand through his tumbled locks. “Now tell me what is truly on your mind.”
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