The Ton's Most Notorious Rake

by Sarah Mallory

  * * *

  It was with the feeling of one doing an onerous duty that Molly went upstairs to change later that evening. She had no intention of dancing at the assembly and she chose to wear her grey satin gown with a demitrain, but when she tried to add a lace cap to the ensemble, Edwin protested, saying it made her look like a dowd.

  ‘Nonsense, it is perfectly proper for a widow of my age.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were forty rather than four-and-twenty,’ retorted Edwin. He added, ‘Covering your head like that is the sort of thing Father would have approved. He was ever the puritan.’

  That made her laugh. ‘That is certainly a strong inducement to me to remove it.’

  ‘Which is my intention, little sister! Now, go and take that thing off.’

  Molly capitulated, realising that her brother was very much displeased, and ten minutes later, she presented herself in the drawing room again, her unruly dark curls almost tamed by a bandeau of white ribbon.

  * * *

  The public entrance to the King’s Head assembly rooms was at the top of a flight of stairs, leading up from the yard. When Molly and Edwin arrived, the Newlands party were about to go in, and Edwin would have hurried Molly up the stairs to meet them, but she hung back.

  ‘There can be no rush, Edwin, and I would like to take off my cloak and tidy myself first. Even that may take some time, though; I so rarely come to these dances that I can already see several of our acquaintances waiting to speak to me.’

  ‘Very well, go and talk to your friends, my dear, and I shall meet you in the ballroom.’

  Molly happily sent him on his way and went off to the cloakroom to change into her dancing shoes. She tried not to dawdle, acknowledging her reluctance to meet Sir Gerald Kilburn and his guests. The presence of a party of fashionable gentlemen and ladies in Compton Parva was bound to cause a flutter and, while the young ladies present this evening had the advantage of their parents’ protection, her girls, as Molly called the inhabitants of Prospect House, were very vulnerable.

  Molly had set up Prospect House as a refuge for young women who had lost their reputation and had nowhere to call home. Some were of humble birth, but many were young ladies who had been cast on to the streets and left with no means of supporting themselves. Molly provided them with food and shelter, and in return, her ‘girls’ helped out in the house and on the farm attached to it. Molly tried to find them suitable work and move them on, but she knew there would always be more destitute young women to take their place.

  Molly had worked hard to overcome the doubts and prejudice of the townspeople, but she knew that such a house would attract the attention of rakes and libertines, who would see its inhabitants as fair game. Molly was afraid that some of her younger charges were still innocent and naive enough to succumb to the blandishments of a personable man and that could have catastrophic consequences, not only for the young woman, but also for the refuge itself. In the five years since she had set it up, Prospect House had become self-supporting, but its success relied upon the continuing goodwill of the local townspeople.

  She was thus not inclined to look favourably upon the newcomers, and when she went into the ballroom and saw her brother chatting away in the friendliest style to a group of fashionably dressed strangers, she did not approach him. Surmising this must be the party from Newlands, Molly moved to a spot at the side of the room and took the opportunity to observe them.

  Sir Gerald was soon identified, a stocky young man with a cheerful, open countenance and a shock of red hair. Molly guessed it was his sister standing beside him. The likeness between the two was very marked, although Agnes’s hair was more golden than red, and in repose, her countenance was more serious. Her glance quickly surveyed the rest of the party. She had no doubt the local ladies would be taking note of every detail of the gowns, from the uncommonly short sleeves of one lady’s blossom-coloured crape to the deep frill of Vandyke lace around the bottom of Miss Kilburn’s gossamer silk. By contrast, the gentlemen’s fashions appeared to be very much the same—dark coats with lighter small clothes and pale waistcoats—but Molly was obliged to admit that she was no expert on the finer points of male fashion.

  There was one figure, however, who stood out from the rest of the gentlemen. It was not merely his height, but a certain flamboyance in his appearance. His improbably black hair was pomaded to a high gloss and brushed forward to frame his face with several artistic curls. His countenance was handsome, in a florid sort of way, with thick dark brows and lashes that Molly thought suspiciously dark. His lips, too, appeared unnaturally red, even from this distance. The points of his collar hid most of his cheeks and the folds of his cravat frothed around his neck. His black tailcoat was so broad across the back and nipped in at the waist that she suspected the shoulders were padded. He was gesticulating elaborately as he talked and the ladies around him appeared to be hanging on to his every word. Molly’s lip curled in scorn.

  ‘So that is Beau Russington.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The startled voice at her shoulder made her look around. A tall gentleman in a plain blue coat was regarding her. She did not know him, but recalled seeing him talking to Mr Fetherpen, the bookseller, when she came in.

  ‘Oh, dear, I did not mean to speak aloud.’ She smiled an apology. ‘The gentleman over there, holding forth to the group standing before the mirror. He has been described to me as an—’ She stopped herself from saying an infamous rake. That would be most impolite, and for all she knew the man at her side might well be one of the Newlands party. ‘As a leader of fashion,’ she ended lamely. She saw the amused look on the stranger’s face and added quickly, ‘That is what the epithet beau denotes, does it not?’

  ‘It does indeed, ma’am.’ The stranger looked across the room. ‘You refer to the exquisite in the garish waistcoat, I presume?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That fribble,’ he said, a note of contempt in his voice. ‘That painted fop.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Molly, glad to discover he shared her opinion.

  ‘That is not Beau Russington, madam. It is Sir Joseph Aikers.’

  ‘Not?’ She looked at the stranger in surprise.

  He gave a slight bow. ‘I am Russington.’

  ‘You!’ Molly’s first impulse was to apologise profusely, but she held back. It was not her intention to pander to any man. Instead she gave a little gurgle of laughter. ‘I thought you were a book salesman.’ His brows shot up and she explained kindly, ‘I saw you talking with Mr Fetherpen, you see. And our assemblies are open to everyone, as long as they have a decent set of clothes.’

  Had she gone too far? She saw the very slight twitch of his lips and was emboldened to look up at him. There was a dangerous glint in his dark brown eyes, but that thought was nothing to the danger she perceived as she studied him properly for the first time. He was tall, certainly, but well proportioned with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair was too long to be neat and curled thickly about his head and over his collar. In repose, she thought his lean face might look saturnine, but with that smile tugging at the corners of a mobile mouth and his dark eyes laughing at her beneath their black brows, a bolt of attraction shot through Molly and knocked the air from her body.

  Quickly she turned away. Lady Currick had in no way exaggerated this notorious rake’s charms and Molly felt a stab of alarm. If she felt this way, what effect might he have on her girls?

  ‘A book salesman?’ he murmured, dashing hopes that he might have walked off. ‘I suppose I should be thankful I was not talking to the butcher.’

  Another laugh bubbled up inside Molly, but she resolutely stifled it and with an incoherent murmur she hurried away.

  * * *

  Oh, heavens, was there ever anything so unfortunate? Molly moved quickly around the room, smiling but not stopping when Lady Currick beckoned to her. Tha
t lady would have seen Molly talking to Mr Russington, but Molly was not ready to discuss it. She would dearly like to go home, but that would only cause more speculation. Instead she made her way to Edwin’s side, bracing herself for the introductions she knew he would be eager to make.

  Her nerves were still raw, but she achieved a creditable appearance of calm as her brother presented Sir Gerald and his friends to her. They were all genial enough, clearly willing to be pleased by the provincial company in which they found themselves. Even Sir Joseph, the painted fop, bowed over her hand and paid her a few fulsome compliments.

  Molly made her responses like an automaton, her thoughts still distracted by her recent encounter with Mr Russington. However, she forced her chaotic mind to concentrate when Sir Gerald presented his sister. Agnes Kilburn was handsome rather than pretty, and during their short conversation, Molly gained the impression that she was an intelligent, thoughtful young woman. In any other circumstances, Molly would have been delighted to make her acquaintance, but she had no wish to give Sir Gerald and his friends any reason to spend more time than necessary in Compton Parva.

  Suddenly Molly was aware of a tingling down her spine and she heard a deep, amused voice behind her.

  ‘Ah, Mr Frayne, will you not introduce us?’

  ‘I’d be delighted to do so! Molly, my dear, may I present Mr Russington to you? M’sister, sir. Mrs Morgan.’

  Steeling herself, Molly turned, her smile pinned in place. She could not recall putting out her hand, but within moments he was bowing over her fingers. It was ridiculous to think she could feel the touch of his lips through her glove. That must surely be her fancy, but she did not imagine the little squeeze he gave her hand before releasing it.

  ‘Mrs Morgan and I, ah, encountered one another a little earlier.’

  She thought angrily that he might expect her to apologise for her mistake, but when he lifted his head and looked at her there was nothing but amusement in his dark eyes. A faint smile curved his lips and she felt the full force of his charm wrap around her.

  She could hear music, but it took her a moment to realise the sweet strains were the sounds of the musicians striking up for the first dance. She was vaguely aware of Edwin leading Agnes Kilburn on to the dance floor, but for the world she could not tear her gaze away from Beau Russington’s laughing eyes.

  ‘Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, Mrs Morgan, or does that privilege fall to your husband?’

  She felt dangerously off balance and his amusement ruffled her. It was as if he was aware of her agitation.

  She said coldly, ‘I am a widow, sir. And I do not dance tonight.’ She moved towards the empty chairs at the side of the room. When he followed her, she said crossly, ‘Surely, Mr Russington, you should dance with some other lady. There are plenty without partners.’

  ‘Ah, but none to whom I have been introduced. Besides, the dance is now started. I shall have to wait for the next.’

  When she sat down, he took a seat next to her. Could the man not take a hint?

  ‘Pray do not feel you need to remain with me,’ she told him. ‘I am sure there are many here who would prefer your company.’

  ‘I am sure there are,’ he agreed, not at all offended.

  Her agitation disappeared, ousted by a desire to shake him from that maddening calm.

  She said, ‘When I was a child, Mama had a house cat, a very superior being that had the unfortunate trait of always making for the visitor who liked him least. You are displaying a similar trait, Mr Russington.’

  ‘You liken me to a cat?’

  Molly hid a smile. She murmured provocatively, ‘A tomcat, perhaps.’

  * * *

  A tomcat?

  Russ glanced at the lady beside him. She was fanning herself as she watched the dancing and looking quite unconcerned. Did she realise what she had said, at the insult she had just uttered? Of course, she did. From their first exchanges he had had the impression that she was trying to annoy him. Well, perhaps not at first. Not until she had known his identity. He wished now he had not spoken, but when he had heard her speak his name and had seen her looking with such contempt at Aikers, he had not been able to help himself.

  He remembered how she had turned to him, a smiling apology upon her lips and in her frank grey eyes. Then, when she realised who he was, the look had changed to one of unholy amusement and soon after that, sheer dislike. He was used to ladies fawning over him, or teasing him in an attempt to gain his attention. Never before had one been so openly hostile. A tomcat! He felt a momentary shock, until his sense of humour kicked in and he laughed.

  ‘I fear a longer acquaintance with you will do my self-esteem no good, madam!’

  ‘No good at all,’ she agreed affably.

  She rose and, with a nod of dismissal, she left him. Russ watched her walk away, noting the proud tilt of her head, her straight back and the soft, seductive sway and shimmer of her skirts as she glided across the floor. Perhaps it was a ruse to pique his interest. Perhaps he might indulge the widow in a flirtation. After all she was pretty enough, although nothing like the ripe, luscious beauties that he favoured.

  He decided against it. Compton Parva was a small town and she was the reverend’s sister. In his experience it was better to dally with dashing matrons who could be relied upon to enjoy a brief liaison without expecting anything more lasting, and then, when the time came to part, they would do so amicably and with never a second thought. No. Much better to leave well alone.

  * * *

  Edwin and Molly strolled home from the King’s Head once the dancing had ended. They had decided against using the carriage for such a short journey and the full moon and balmy summer night made it a pleasant walk, but for Molly the enjoyment was dimmed as she waited for the inevitable question from her brother.

  ‘Well, sister, what thought you of Miss Kilburn?’

  Molly was cautious. ‘She appeared to be a very pleasant girl, although we did not have an opportunity to speak a great deal.’

  ‘You would have had more if you had not insisted upon spending all your time with the old ladies such as Lady Currick.’

  ‘Edwin!’

  ‘Well, you must admit, Molly, you are young enough to be her daughter.’

  ‘But I could hardly sit with the young ladies who were waiting for partners. It was embarrassing to watch them all making sheep’s eyes at the gentlemen.’

  ‘You might have stayed with the ladies from Newlands,’ he suggested mildly. ‘Then you might have had more opportunity to become acquainted with Miss Kilburn.’

  ‘Perhaps, but these things are never easy at a ball.’

  Edwin patted her hand, where it rested on his sleeve. ‘Never mind. All is not lost, my dear, we have been invited to Newlands for dinner next Tuesday. I am going fishing with Sir Gerald during the day, but I will come home to fetch you for the evening.’

  Molly’s heart sank, but before she could utter a word he continued, ‘I know you usually visit Prospect House on Tuesdays, but if you take the gig, you will be back in plenty of time to change. And you will have saved yourself a tiring walk.’

  ‘Well, that is the clincher!’ She laughed. ‘Especially since I tell you that I am never tired.’

  ‘There you are, then. It is settled, you will come!’

  She heard the satisfaction in his voice and said nothing more. It was clear that Edwin wanted her there and, after all the help he had given her, how could she refuse?

  Chapter Two

  Molly had never visited Newlands and as Edwin’s carriage rattled along the drive she leaned forward to catch a first glimpse of the house. What she saw, glowing golden in the sunlight, was a rambling stone house in a mix of styles. Its previous, ageing owner had not used it for years, so she could understand the excitement that had erupted in the town when Sir Gerald bought the hunting lod
ge. The gossip had started several months earlier, when workmen had descended upon the property. Word soon spread that Sir Gerald was a bachelor of substantial means who was planning to bring a large party to the house at the end of the summer. Molly’s sister, Louisa, soon provided even more information, writing to inform her that Sir Gerald was a familiar figure in London and numbered amongst his acquaintances many of the fashionable rakes and Corinthians who flocked to the capital each Season.

  Now those fashionable acquaintances were here, staying only a couple of miles from the town and far too close to Prospect House for Molly’s comfort. Beside her, she heard Edwin chuckle.

  ‘You look disappointed, Molly. Were you hoping Newlands would be so ugly and uncomfortable Sir Gerald and his friends would quit it within the month?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Do not fret, my dear,’ He patted her hands. ‘Sir Gerald has made it very clear he and his party are here for the sport. Why else would he have bought a hunting lodge?’

  ‘But if the area’s hunting, shooting and fishing do not live up to the party’s expectations, might not Sir Gerald and his louche friends look elsewhere for a little entertainment? And a house full of what they would consider to be “fallen women” is certain to attract their attention.’

  ‘Now you are being unreasonable,’ exclaimed Edwin. ‘You cannot deny that at last week’s assembly the gentlemen from Newlands behaved impeccably. You have no reason to think ill of them.’

  ‘I have Louisa’s letters,’ replied Molly darkly.

  ‘Louisa has nothing better to do with her time than pass on salacious gossip, for the most part untrue or exaggerated. Come, Molly, you are being unfair to Sir Gerald and his friends. When people are disparaging about the inhabitants of Prospect House, you tell them that one should not make hasty judgements, yet here you are doing just that.’ Edwin squeezed her fingers, pressing home his point. ‘I am sure our new neighbours will have no interest at all in Prospect House, and if they do...’ He spread his hands. ‘You cannot keep your charges locked away for the duration of Sir Gerald’s visit, my dear.’