The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  Frowning, the marquess regarded the solicitor for a moment. “Well, if the money hasn’t gone missing, then why hasn’t Miss Fitzwilliam been able to find it?” he asked before taking another sip of the fiery liquid. Although he rarely drank before his afternoon visit to White’s, Randall could understand why the solicitor did so.

  Fortification.

  Barton shook his head. “It’s possible there’s no money involved,” he answered with a shake of his head.

  The marquess frowned. “If not money, then ... what?”

  The solicitor took a deep breath. “I received a letter from a solicitor who worked for the young woman’s father, Edward Fitzwilliam. Seems he was an inveterate gambler, and a rather poor one at that, which is why I suspect there wasn’t any money left for Miss Fitzwilliam’s inheritance. There was, however, a stable of horses.”

  “Horses?” Randall repeated. His eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, I remember now. Fitz had a racehorse. A three-year-old that did rather well a few years back,” he recalled. “In the Derby at Epsom Downs.”

  The solicitor nodded. “It did indeed, but Mr. Fitzwilliam’s winnings just gave him more grist for the gambling mill. According to Mr. Asherman—the family’s solicitor in Sussex—Mr. Fitzwilliam died a widower leaving only enough for his daughter to keep the estate and pay a few servants until she reached her majority.”

  The marquess nodded but his brows were suddenly elevated on his forehead. “Will she lose the house?” he asked in alarm.

  Barton gave a look of surprise. “She cannot. It’s entailed to the Norwick earldom.”

  Randall felt a bit of relief at hearing that bit of news. At least the woman would have a home in which to live, even if she didn’t have any funds. “And what of the horses?”

  Andrew Barton blinked as he regarded the marquess for a moment. “Yes, indeed,” he whispered, his attention suddenly moving to a document that had been folded at some time. “What of the horses?” he murmured as he perused the document. “There’s nothing mentioned here about the stables. But I should think there’s got to be a horse or two of some value. Probably the racehorse and a foal or two from it,” he reasoned as he returned his attention to Randall. “Unless Mr. Fitzwilliam sold them. But whether or not there was money involved, stolen or not, it still means the young lady will be left destitute when her funds run out in a month or so.”

  Randall’s eyebrows cocked up. “Destitute?” he repeated. “She’s a ...” He stopped, trying to remember how she was related to the Earl of Norwick.

  “Cousin,” Barton said with a sigh. “Apparently estranged and not particularly motivated to seek Lord Norwick’s help, it seems. I encouraged her to pay a call on the countess instead,” he explained. “Lady Norwick has just given birth to twins and may be more amenable to a request for help.”

  Randall gave a nod. “Good advice,” he said. And she’ll be more sympathetic to a unmarried woman’s plight, he considered.

  As am I.

  “Can you ... can you be sure the woman who was just here was indeed Constance Fitzwilliam?” he asked then, wondering if the solicitor had sought some proof of identification.

  Andrew Barton inhaled slowly. “She had documents in her possession, and there is certainly a family resemblance, but not having met the woman before, I cannot confirm that was she, indeed, Miss Constance Fitzwilliam. Should I suspect otherwise?” he asked, a bit cautious with his query.

  The marquess shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am just ... suspicious is all,” he added before draining his drink. “How much was the woman’s inheritance supposed to be?”

  Barton allowed a sigh and drained his own tumbler. “Fifty-thousand pounds,” he replied with an arched eyebrow.

  Randall’s eyebrows joined the solicitor’s in elevation. “Good God!” he said as he placed his tumbler on the desk. “It’s a wonder no man has insisted she marry him,” he said with a shake of his head.

  The solicitor gave a shrug. “Although I recommended she marry in order to avoid the poor house, I got the distinct impression Miss Fitzwilliam did not relish the idea of marriage,” he explained in response.

  Randall allowed a nod. “Perhaps she can be ... compelled should an offer be made,” he suggested, wondering how he might accomplish such a feat. Although most women could be compelled with a bauble from Rundell, Bridge & Rundell, he rather doubted Constance Fitzwilliam could be.

  Barton frowned. “Just because she is owed her inheritance does not mean she will be able to collect it,” he said with a hint of warning.

  Furrowing his brows, Randall said, “So?”

  The solicitor sighed rather audibly. “You cannot count on her inheritance as a form of dowry,” he clarified with impatience.

  “I am not looking for a dowry,” Randall countered, his annoyance at the comment sounding in his voice. “I am, however, looking for a suitable wife.”

  This bit of news seemed to surprise the solicitor. “Then perhaps you should see to courting Miss Fitzwilliam,” he suggested, his manner most serious.

  “I plan to,” Randall responded before he realized what he was admitting. Although I would like to know if it’s the maid or the Norwick cousin I should be pursuing. He did not put voice to his thought but rather pulled out a guinea and placed it on the solicitor’s desk. “Thank you for your time.”

  Randall was about to take his leave when he paused and regarded the solicitor for a moment. “Could you send word if you learn anything more about her inheritance?” he asked, pulling out his calling card and offering it to Barton.

  The solicitor gave a nod. “I will send you word at the same time as I send word to Miss Fitzwilliam,” he promised. “But something tells me you’ll know before I do.”

  Giving the man a nod, the Marquess of Reading took his leave of the solicitor’s office, intending to find the object of his interest and offer her a ride home.

  Chapter 22

  A Meeting with a Godfather

  Turning back the clock to one in the afternoon ...

  Upon leaving his townhouse, Charles thought at first to pay a visit to White’s, but then considered the man he sought would probably not be at the men’s club until later in the day. The other man he thought might be of some help would probably be at his manor home, a man who prided himself on the number of goddaughters he had amassed over the course of nearly thirty years.

  Never having given a thought to those goddaughters, Charles now wondered if the current crop of unmarried daughters of the ton shared Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, as their godfather.

  Well, that was rather unlikely, he considered. But for the ones that were his earliest goddaughters, Grandby had made sure they were all either married to appropriate men or would be when they were old enough, even if those men weren’t always the most logical choices. And the chits were from the best families, with nary a poor word written about them in the gossip rags.

  The thought of Grandby had him wondering if Eleanor was one of his goddaughters. Charles considered returning to the townhouse to ask Eleanor but thought better of it. Grandby always made an appearance at White’s at seven o’clock every night. Perhaps he would simply go to the club later and confront the man. But Charles decided he couldn’t wait that long for the earl to appear.

  He would instead pay a visit to Worthington House and find out from the Earl of Torrington right then, giving a passing thought to the fact that it had been at Worthington House when he was first in the presence of his future wife.

  How ironic.

  Charles tossed a shilling to the young boy who still held the reins of his bay—he had been doing so since Charles returned from Lucy Gibbon’s brothel earlier that morning—and climbed up onto his phaeton. He took his leave of Curzon Street and turned onto Park Lane.

  Although he had heard some women of the ton were especially cruel with their gossip, he couldn’t help but hope Eleanor would be spared. She would be under his protection, after all. Being the wife of an earl had to co
unt for something.

  He blinked, realizing that his reputation as a rake made her the perfect fodder for gossip and for gossip rags like The Tattler.

  What am I doing? he wondered suddenly. Of course, everyone would assume he had ruined her and was forced to marry her. Better they think that than know the truth of what had happened to her.

  Or was it?

  Although he meant to visit with Grandby to learn if he was Eleanor’s godfather, Charles had a much longer list of concerns by the time he appeared at the front door of Worthington House.

  The butler answered, blinking when it was apparent he didn’t immediately recognize Charles. “Lord Wakefield to see Grandby,” he stated, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Stepping aside to open the door, the butler bowed. “My lord, the earl is ...” Fitzroy paused, as if he wasn’t sure he should say what he had been told to say when greeting a visitor on this auspicious day.

  “Indisposed?” Charles offered as a possible response.

  The butler shook his head. “In the nursery. He says if a visitor isn’t opposed to spending time in the company of a newborn baby and the odors associated with such, then they are welcome to join him.”

  Charles blinked. And then blinked again before he remembered Lady Torrington had gone into confinement a few weeks ago. “Oh! The earl’s a father now, isn’t he?” Charles asked rhetorically. “Well, did his countess give birth to a boy or a girl?” he asked, deciding to take a chance and join the earl in the nursery. He had never actually been in the company of a baby, but from what he knew of them, they were small and didn’t speak.

  “Yes, my lord,” the butler replied with a nod.

  Charles removed his top hat and gave it to the servant. He was about to blink again at the butler’s odd response but thought carefully about what the man had said. “An heir?” he guessed.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Well, that certainly had to be good news. But the butler’s expectant look made him realize there was more information to be had. “And a ..?”

  The butler’s eyes flitted about before he finally blinked. “A ... a female.”

  Charles’ eyes widened. “Twins?” he said with some excitement. “Faith! Why, the Countess of Norwick just had twins a few weeks ago,” he murmured as he made his way to the stairs. Which was really a rather efficient way of going about procreation, he thought suddenly. He imagined Eleanor round with child—with twins—and his heart suddenly clenched just as he reached the stairway. He paused a moment, thinking of her large brown eyes, of her brunette hair splayed out on his pillow, of how she had felt with her soft body pressed against the front of his as he slept. Of how he had slowly awakened that morning feeling better than he had in months. Years, perhaps. It had taken every bit of self-control not to help himself to her body that morning and then ... then he had. The thought he could do so on occasion should she agree to marry him had him suddenly bounding up the stairs.

  Before he realized it, Charles was at the top and working his way down the wide hallway toward the quiet conversation he overheard. He poked his head around one open doorway, rather surprised to see the Earl and Countess of Torrington each seated in wooden rocking chairs and each holding a blanketed bundle in their arms.

  “Pardon me, my lady, Grandby,” he said by way of announcing himself. Fitzroy had probably planned to do so, but the poor man was probably still only halfway up the stairs. He bowed in the direction of Adele Grandby, who gave him a brilliant smile.

  “Why, Lord Wakefield, do come in,” she said as she readjusted the baby she held so she could hold out her hand in his direction. He leaned over and brushed his lips over her knuckles.

  “I hear you have an heir and a daughter,” the earl stated as he released Adele’s hand.

  The countess beamed as she held out the baby in her arms so he could better see the newborn. “Indeed,” she said proudly.

  “She’s beautiful,” Charles commented, deciding not to put voice to his real opinion of the scrunched up face below a shock of dark hair. Goodness! How could something so newly born look as if it were ninety years old?

  “He is,” Adele corrected him gently. “My daughter, Angelica, is the one his lordship won’t allow anyone else to hold. Unless she’s hungry or wet, and then he’s happy to hand her over,” she said with a wink in her husband’s direction.

  “And if you think I’m going to allow a rake to hold my daughter, think again, Wakefield,” Milton Grandby warned from where he gently rocked the baby he held. “She may end up in a nunnery on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday due to the likes of you.” He made the claim with a wink aimed in his wife’s direction.

  The rake was about to claim his days of being a rake were over, but he thought it better to discuss that with the other earl in private. “As I don’t know the first thing about holding babies, I will not ask for that honor, my lord,” Charles said from where he stood admiring the nursery.

  He could imagine Eleanor in just such a room, a blanket-wrapped babe held in her arms as she hummed a lullaby.

  His baby.

  Charles blinked and quickly shook his head, wondering how he had managed to conjure such an image.

  “What brings you to our nursery, if not the desire to hold a babe?” Grandby asked, slowly getting to his feet and moving the babe he held so it rested against his shoulder.

  Daring a glance at Lady Torrington, the younger earl allowed a shrug. “I am in need of some advice,” he replied.

  Grandby seemed surprised by the response. “Let us retire to the study then,” he suggested as he moved toward the door.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Adele asked with a raised eyebrow.

  The older earl paused and regarded his wife for a moment. “Oh!” he managed as he hurried back into the room and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I won’t be gone long,” he said as he moved to the door again.

  “Milton!” Adele admonished him, both of her brows arched up. “I’ll not have you smoking whilst you hold your daughter,” she said with a shake of her head.

  Grandby regarded his wife for a moment. “I promise I won’t smoke,” he replied.

  When Charles realized the countess had turned her attention on him, he shook his head. “I won’t either,” he said quickly, realizing Lady Torrington was quite serious.

  The two earls took their leave of the nursery and headed down the stairs. “Something tells me you wanted a daughter and she wanted a son,” Charles ventured as they reached the bottom step.

  Grandby allowed a grin. “My wife is all about duty, and I ... I always thought my cousin, Gregory, would inherit the earldom,” he replied with a shake of his head. “He’ll be relieved to learn my beloved delivered a boy. Although he would make an excellent earl, Gregory didn’t really want the responsibility,” Grandby explained as they made their way into the study. “So my son, George, will have to do so.”

  Charles was rather surprised Grandby didn’t hand off the baby to the nearest servant when they took their seats in the overstuffed chairs near the fireplace. The earl continued to hold the sleeping baby girl against his shoulder, occasionally bestowing her with a kiss on her hairy head. “You seem to have ... experience with babies,” Charles commented, accepting the glass of brandy a footman offered him.

  Grandby took his brandy balloon and set it aside. “I do. I have the honor of being a godfather to two-and-twenty goddaughters and six godsons,” he said with some pride. “I hope to add two more when I talk my oldest goddaughter into allowing me to be the godfather to her twins,” he added.

  Charles realized the earl referred to the twins the Countess of Norwick had delivered just a few weeks ago, but the news that the older earl was her godfather was a bit of a surprise. He figured the man could only have been in his late teens when he took on the responsibility. Wondering again if Grandby was also Eleanor’s godfather, he cleared his throat and put voice to his query. “And Lord Middleton’s daughter, Lady Eleanor. Are you her godfa
ther as well?” he asked carefully.

  Grandby frowned as he considered the question. “And if I am?” he countered, a suspicious expression developing on his face.

  “I wish to marry her,” Charles responded, deciding not to take the sip of his brandy he was about to just then.

  Had Grandby taken a sip of his, the brandy would have been spewed out onto the hearth near their feet. “What?” he said in reply, leaning forward so he had to catch Lady Angelica from falling from his shoulder. The baby squirmed a bit but was soon sound asleep as he moved her into a crook of one arm.

  The younger earl sighed. “I wish to marry Lady Eleanor. I admit I ... I ruined her. By accident. But I find myself rather enamored with the young lady and have decided I would like to make her my wife,” he explained, ignoring Grandby’s expression of surprise coupled with horror and a good deal of disbelief. Realizing he had to provide more details in order so he wouldn’t seem the absolute worst of rakes, Charles proceeded to explain what had happened. “Mrs. Gibbons was rather angry at my insistence that I would not be sending Lady Eleanor back to her brothel,” he finished with a shake of his head.

  Grandby suddenly held out a hand. “Language, man. There’s a young lady in our presence,” he added in admonishment.

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. House of ill repute?” he ventured.

  “Well, it’s too late now,” Grandby countered. But his sigh of frustration was followed by a shake of his head. “How long had the young lady been there before she was sent to your house?” he asked in a whisper. Good God! What had Eleanor Merriweather done to end up at Lucy Gibbons’ brothel? He knew she wasn’t the first to suffer the indignity of being kidnapped by the wily madame, and she wouldn’t be the last despite his warnings to the contrary. It was most unfortunate she enjoyed such a rich and varied clientele. And that she could abide an occasional retribution from a powerful lord.

  The Earl of Wakefield shrugged. “Just yesterday is all. But ... she was placed in a cupboard and forced to watch Lord Sinclair spend time with his favorite lady of the evening in the middle of the afternoon.” The older earl’s wince was quite evident to the younger earl. “So, you see the predicament. I wish to do right by the lady and marry her,” he explained, finally draining his brandy.