The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  “When did you do that?” Eleanor asked as she angled her head back to regard him, wondering at the pleasant tingle she felt in her fingers when his lips kissed them.

  “This morning. When I went to retrieve your valise. I ... Lucy said some things might be missing, but if that is the case, then I will take you shopping tomorrow so that you might ...”

  But Eleanor was already pulling herself from his hold and glancing about the bedchamber in search of the traveling case. “Chester may have put it in here,” he murmured, hoping beyond hope that the few items still in the valise were everything she had brought with her to London. Any missing clothing items he knew could be replaced—he would take her shopping on the morrow—but if she had brought mementos with her—priceless items—they were probably now in the hands of the harlots at Lucy Gibbons’ brothel.

  He followed Eleanor to the other side of the bed, pausing when saw her lift the valise onto the counterpane. She opened it, and he saw how her anticipation was palpable. He watched as she rifled through the few items of clothing. His heart clenched as she let out a stifled cry and flung the valise to the floor.

  Daring to join her on the bed, Charles pulled her into his arms and held her for several moments as she cried. Her sobs shook her entire body, sobs that had him tightening his hold on her. “Tell me what is missing. I shall replace whatever it is,” he said, burying his face in her hair.

  Eleanor shook her head against his arm. “My gowns. My silk stockings. Dance slippers. My jewelry,” she sobbed.

  Charles felt a bit of relief at hearing the list. At least nothing irreplaceable had been taken. “Then I suppose a shopping trip in New Bond Street and in Ludgate Hill is called for,” he whispered. “Will you join me tomorrow?” he asked gently. “I think I should like to escort you, my lady.”

  Eleanor heard the earl’s words and forced herself to stop sobbing. “I think I would rather die, my lord,” she managed to get out.

  Charles stilled himself, rather hurt by her curt words. “Nevertheless, I think you could do with a bit of air, my lady,” he countered with a sigh.

  Suddenly needing to be away from Eleanor, away from his townhouse and away from what he had done, Charles said, “You will have to excuse me, my lady, as I have an appointment.”

  Just as quickly as he had taken her into his arms, Charles removed himself from Eleanor and left her slumped over on the bed. “I’ll check on you when I return,” he added, not trying to hide the hurt in his voice.

  Unsure of what else to say and looking ever so confused, he speared his fingers through his dark hair, gave a slight bow, and took his leave of the room.

  Bereft at the loss of Charles’ strong arms to hold her up, Eleanor slumped onto the bed and wept.

  Chapter 18

  A Visitor to a Solicitor

  One o’clock in the afternoon of September 15

  Constance double-checked the address on the note her solicitor in Sussex had provided on her last visit. The Fitzwilliams had employed the short, balding man for as long as she could remember. If she couldn’t trust him, she didn’t know whom she could. As for the solicitor he recommended she see whilst in London, he angled his head and peered at her over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “He’s well-regarded and well-connected,” Bernard J. Asherman stated when he had handed her the sheet with the details. “You may require an appointment. Be sure to mention my name if that’s the case.”

  Constance gave the man her thanks and took her leave of him and of Sussex that very day. The trip to London, a whirlwind of a coach ride in the company of Mrs. Olivia Cunningham and her housekeeper, Esther Simmons, had been accomplished in the course of a long afternoon and evening. Although she had originally turned down the offer of a ride with the future viscountess, she found herself changing her mind when she realized she could use the time in the coach to learn everything she needed to about London.

  Having spent her entire life near Horton, Olivia Waterford Cunningham had been somewhat of an outcast upon her arrival in the world’s largest city. But after two years in a Grosvenor Square townhouse with her husband, Michael, she had settled into a life of a typical aristocrat’s wife—paying calls on other young matrons, hosting them in her parlor, shopping in New Bond Street and Oxford Street, and overseeing the Cunningham household. By the end of the year, she would also be a mother, a tidbit of information she had put voice to when they were discussing the birth of the Norwick twins and the impending birth of the Countess of Torrington’s baby.

  Constance couldn’t imagine marrying, let alone giving birth to a baby! She was already five-and-twenty! When she mentioned this to Olivia, the younger woman merely shook her head. “The Countess of Torrington is in her late thirties,” she countered. “And although she was married and widowed before she became a countess, Adele claims she adores her husband and looks forward to motherhood.”

  Well, the Countess of Torrington was married to Milton Grandby, apparently one of the most agreeable men in all of London, so of course his wife would adore him, Constance thought with a sigh.

  She glanced up at the shingle that hung above the door marked No. 30, Oxford Street. Lady E’s Finding Work for the Wounded, she read to herself. That would be Viscountess Bostwick’s charity, she thought with a smile, rather happy to have met the viscount before he inherited.

  George Bennett-Jones was almost a hero to those who lived on his lands in Sussex or who worked in his coal mines. The man was considered fair and agreeable, even during the horrible summer of 1816 when there was no summer and so many crops failed.

  Then there was his willingness to allow her to borrow one of his horses, Bounder, the same one she had “borrowed” when she was a year from her come-out.

  The year she had decided it was time her mare produce a colt.

  Any other aristocrat would have denied her simple request out of concern for their horseflesh, or expected a large payment for leasing the beast, or charged her an exorbitant stud fee, but the viscount seemed rather honored she would request his assistance. “No one else seems to want anything to do with him,” he commented, despite knowing the resulting Thoroughbred from the first time she had “borrowed” the horse had done rather well on the racing circuit.

  She couldn’t help it if her father had gambled away all the winnings.

  Despite not having participated in the largesse the stallion’s first progeny generated, George Bennett-Jones seemed rather happy to learn the product of two Arabians behaved himself whenever Constance was leading him. The stallion had never been properly trained, but she seemed to have a calming effect on the headstrong horse.

  Or perhaps Bounder knew what he was expected to do and simply went willingly. He and Amasia got on quite well the first time they were introduced to one another, after all.

  Constance made a mental note to pay a call on Viscount Bostwick so she might meet his wife and give him her thanks in person.

  The solicitor was next door to the charity, she remembered being told by Mr. Asherman. She moved to the next door and paused before going in. The hair on the back of her neck suddenly seem to rise, and she turned around just as a well-dressed gentleman disappeared into the charity offices. No other people were about just then, so she took a deep breath and let herself into the solicitor’s office.

  Andrew S. Barton, Esquire, looked up from the stack of papers covering the middle of his desk and then suddenly attempted to get to his feet. “Pardon me,” he said with a shake of his head, bowing awkwardly after another moment. A glance at the end of his desk showed a pair of crutches leaning against the mahogany top.

  Constance curtsied. “No need, sir. I am sure I have caught you at an inopportune time. I wondered if I might make an appointment ..?”

  “Please, have a seat,” Barton said as he indicated the padded chair in front of his desk. He held out his right hand, as if he expected her to grasp it. Constance did so, giving it a firm shake.

  “I am Constance Fitzwilliam. I was referred to you by—�
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  “Asherman,” he interrupted. “Yes. I’ve been expecting you. For a week, at least,” he added as he held out his hand again.

  Constance blinked, realizing Bernard Asherman, Esquire, had sent word she would be paying Mr. Barton a visit. She regarded his outstretched hand for another moment and realized he expected her to provide Asherman’s note. Pulling open her reticule, she extracted the document and handed it over to the middle-aged man. How much does he already know? she wondered as she watched him read the carefully scripted parchment. After a moment, he lifted his head.

  “Have you an aversion to marriage, my lady?” he asked, his brows furrowing.

  Surprised by the question, Constance shook her head and then allowed a shrug. Until her coach ride with Mrs. Cunningham, she might have answered in the affirmative. Now, she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the matter. “I am five-and-twenty, Mr. Barton. I have never been courted, nor do I expect to be anytime in the future. Therefore, it is imperative my inheritance be restored so that I might see to my own welfare,” she said in what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech.

  Barton regarded her for a moment and then gave a sigh and a nod. “In the meantime, how are you meeting your expenses?” he asked, one of his bushy eyebrows cocking up with the query.

  Constance sighed as well, realizing the solicitor did not have time for pleasantries, nor for beating around the bush. “I have a bit of money,” she replied, deciding she didn’t need to be specific.

  “How much?” Barton asked.

  Her eyes widening in surprise, Constance gave a shake of her head. “How is it any of your concern?” she countered as she shifted in her chair.

  The solicitor took a deep breath and sighed again. “Although I believe I will be able to help you ... in time ... I may not be able to resolve the situation for a few months. Perhaps a year—”

  “A year?” Constance interrupted, panic setting in. She wouldn’t last a year on the monies she had managed to squirrel away. She didn’t think she would make it another month given the cost of goods in London. She struggled to fight back tears that threatened the corners of her eyes. “I’ve only enough for a month. Maybe two if I ...”

  Mr. Barton settled back in his worn leather chair and sighed. “Certainly Lord Norwick could see to your expenses—”

  “No,” Constance said with a shake of her head. When she saw the solicitor’s look of surprise, she added, “We are ... estranged,” she said in a whisper. “I rather doubt he would be willing to pay for anything for me given our ... given my father’s past with the man,” she struggled to explain, not wanting to tell the solicitor about the reasons for her estrangement. She was quite sure the man would laugh at her.

  The oddest things happened at balls.

  “I don’t see as you have much choice, my lady,” he said with a shake of his head. “Unless you can find a husband or have Lord Norwick cover your expenses, you will ... you will be destitute.”

  The word echoed in Constance’s ears.

  Destitute.

  How was she supposed to find someone to help her in a month’s time? How was she supposed to find a husband? Especially when she didn’t particularly want to get married?

  The solicitor crossed his arms over his ample chest and leaned forward. “Perhaps you could pay a call on the countess and present your case to her? Lady Norwick is a rather agreeable woman,” he suggested. “I’ve heard she’s just given birth to twins.”

  Constance considered the idea, realizing she might have to prevail upon her cousin’s wife for help. She was about to thank the solicitor for his time when he suddenly angled his head to one side. “Or you could seek employment.”

  Her eyes widening again, Constance considered the idea. “Doing what?” she asked, nervous as to what the man might suggest.

  “Servant, governess, mistress,” he said quickly.

  Feeling as if she had been punched in the stomach, Constance stared at the solicitor for several seconds before she finally blinked. And blinked again at just how direct the man could be. “I will seek an audience with Lady Norwick,” she whispered. “Thank you for your time,” she added as she slowly stood up.

  “I’ll have my resources work on finding your inheritance right away, Miss Fitzwilliam,” Barton said as he carefully got to his feet, hanging onto the edge of the desk since he needed it for support. “But if the money was stolen, it may be lost for good,” he warned.

  Feeling a bit sick, Constance nodded. “I understand.” She gave a curtsy and took her leave of the solicitor’s office, completely unaware of the gentleman who watched her as she dried her tears and made her way down Oxford Street toward Mayfair.

  Chapter 19

  A Marquess Becomes Charitable

  Meanwhile, next door ...

  Realizing the woman he was following would probably recognize him as she entered the solicitor’s office, Randall Roderick stepped into the offices of ‘Lady E’s Finding Work for the Wounded’ and stopped short. A beehive of activity beyond the small lobby area was visible, and several men who looked as if they hadn’t eaten or slept in days were lined up on a bench along one wall.

  “May I help you?”

  The marquess turned to find Lady Lily ... he blinked, suddenly unable to remember her new last name.

  Overby.

  “Good morning, Lady Overby,” he said as he removed his hat.

  “Lord Reading! ’Tis so good to see you,” Lily replied as she offered her hand. The marquess took it and brushed his lips over her knuckles, giving a bow as he did so.

  “And you, my lady. Although, I wouldn’t have expected to find you here,” he added, his brows furrowing as he jerked his head toward the men who sat on the bench. “Seeing as how you were just recently wed.”

  The young lady gave him a brilliant smile with her curtsy. “I was, although I won’t be going on a wedding trip for a few weeks. Mr. Overby’s presence is required at Wellingham Imports until the owners return from their holiday, so it makes sense for me to continue my work here,” she said as she led him into the main office of the charity. Several older gentlemen were seated at desks, quills in hand as they performed their duties.

  “But, my lady,” Randall started to say and then stopped when one of the men stood up from his desk and glared at him. “You seem to be the only ... female ... here. Is it ...?”

  “Lord Reading, I’d like you to meet my husband’s uncle, Mr. Augustus Overby,” Lily interrupted, understanding the marquess’ concern for her. Given the appearance of the men in the lobby, any gentleman would be concerned for the welfare of a lady in their presence. “He’s my protector, and Lady Bostwick’s when the viscountess is in the office,” she explained as she angled her head toward the clerk.

  The two men nodded to one another. “My pleasure,” the two said in unison. When the marquess turned his attention back to Lily, he found her gazing at him, her eyes having taken in the sight of him from head to toe.

  “You received my letter,” she said, not making it a question. He had greeted her using her married name.

  “I did,” Randall replied. “And I ... thank you for informing me of your decision,” he struggled to get out, rather annoyed that his face was taking on the reddish cast of embarrassment. He had never in his life felt embarrassment in the company of a woman, and could not now understand his reaction to Lady Lily’s presence except that he had felt affection for her.

  Enough so that he had proposed marriage.

  “Thank you for having offered, my lord, but I do believe there is a better choice for your marchioness out there,” she said in a voice meant only for his ears.

  Possibly, Randall thought as he gave a nod. And she might be right next door in Barton’s office. “Let’s hope so,” he finally replied. “In the meantime, I came ... well, I hope to visit with the solicitor next door once his current appointment is finished. Until then, I thought I would do what you suggested regarding charity,” he explained, his brief glance in Mr. Overb
y’s direction confirming the man was still staring at him and would pounce should the marquess attempt to do anything untoward with respect to Lily.

  Lily smiled again and the marquess felt a twinge of regret at knowing he wouldn’t see that smile everyday as he had hoped when he proposed to her at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. “Have you come to make a donation?” she asked then, anticipation apparent in her tone of voice.

  The marquess allowed a grin. “I am. I ... I have a bank draft here,” he said as he pulled the paper from his waistcoat pocket. Relieved he had stuffed the cheque into his coat earlier that morning, he thought of what he had originally intended to purchase with it.

  Jewelry.

  A bauble he would probably only see once on its intended recipient. Although Rachel hadn’t expected such a gift—he had only spent a few days with her at her Chiswick estate—the second youngest daughter of Mary Margaret Merriweather and George Grandby was rather discreet and rather thankful for his time and attention. Despite her age—she had to be in her late-forties—the woman lived the life of a spinster, quite happy in her independence and wealth.

  Rachel made it quite clear she had no designs on him for marriage or even a continuing liaison. “Darling, you have more than satisfied an old woman,” she had said when he took his leave of her bedchamber. “But now it’s past time you find a wife.”

  Seeing Lady Lily and remembering the words in her letter to him, he decided right then and there he would never again buy jewelry for a woman unless she was either betrothed to him or his sister.

  “May I ask how my donation might be used?” he asked as he surveyed the office again. Every desk was neat, with small stacks of what appeared to be applications on either side of where the men were busy transcribing information. In one corner, a tailor was measuring a man, apparently for a suit of clothes, and in another, a man spoke in low tones to an older man whose face displayed the ropy scars of burned flesh.