At the look of surprise on Constance’s face, Clarinda realized the young woman feared she would be evicted from the residence. “Tell me, Miss Fitzwilliam. Are you ... betrothed or expecting an offer of marriage anytime soon?” Clarinda wondered, finishing off the cake.
Constance sighed. “I am not, nor do I expect an offer of marriage, my lady,” she replied.
“Clare, please,” the countess said with a shake of her head. “I don’t understand. Are there no worthy gentlemen in Sussex desiring your hand in marriage?” she asked outright.
Wincing, Constance shook her head. “I haven’t had interest from the males in Boxgrove for several years now, which isn’t surprising since most of the men are Benedictine monks,“ she said with a wan smile. ”If I may speak plainly, I find I prefer I find I prefer life as a spinster,” she explained.
“I see,” Clarinda replied with a nod. Having heard similar claims whilst in Lady Torrington’s parlor from several older unmarried women, she wondered at the appeal of living with only a companion and attending events without the benefit of a chaperone. “I understand,” she finally said with a nod. “Then, is it your intention to return to Boxgrove once you’ve secured you inheritance?” she asked carefully. She imagined life in the small village would be rather lonely for an unattached woman.
Constance nodded. “Yes. A stablehand is looking after the horses, and the butler and housekeeper are under the earl’s employ,” she explained, “So if the earl allows it, I can continue to look after the estate.”
“Horses?” Clarinda repeated, leaning forward suddenly.
“Yes. They’re my pride and joy, my lady,” Constance said with the first real smile Clarinda had seen her display. “The estate has excellent pasture land, so they do not cost much to keep.”
“You ride, then?” Clarinda asked.
“Oh, yes,” Constance replied happily. She didn’t add that she preferred to ride astride, and not just because she had outgrown her child-sized side-saddle. “I find a good ride is invigorating, and all eight horses love to run as much as I let them.”
Clarinda blinked as she remembered something her first husband had said long ago. “Is one of them a racehorse?” she asked then.
Constance sobered suddenly. “Mr. Tuttlebaum was at one time,” she answered carefully. “He won all his races. But my father gambled away all his winnings.” She stopped speaking and gave a sigh of frustration. “I apologize. You didn’t need to hear that,” she whispered before taking a breath and letting it out again.
The countess angled her head to one side. “Mr. Tuttlebaum must be quite a valuable stud,” she remarked, wondering who was seeing to those arrangements. The stablehand? She rather doubted it.
“Oh, he’s only sired a couple of horses, my lady, and both of his colts are in the stables.”
Before Clarinda could react to this bit of news, a footman appeared at the threshold. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but Lady Pettigrew is in the vestibule.”
Constance was up in an instant. “I should be going.” she announced, as if she had been waiting for an excuse to take her leave of Norwick House. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. And for the tea, my lady,” she said as she gave a quick curtsy and hurried out of the parlor.
The countess stared after the retreating back of Constance Fitzwilliam, not just stunned by her sudden departure but stunned by her news. For she found herself wondering if Constance Fitzwilliam’s inheritance wasn’t money at all but rather what resided in the stables at the Norwick estate in Boxgrove. Before she could give it more thought, though, Lady Pettigrew appeared on the parlor threshold, and Clarinda was forced to play hostess again.
Chapter 25
Confession is Good for the Soul
Three o’clock in the afternoon
“You’re quite sure you saw the lady in yellow go into that house?” Randall asked of the street urchin who was quick to take his sixpence, his forefinger directed at the Park Lane residence better known as Norwick House. Despite the young woman’s head start when leaving the solicitor’s office, Randall had simply retraced their steps, occasionally catching sight of her bright yellow ensemble as he hurried along. When he made it to Park Lane, however, she had disappeared.
“Aye, guv’nor,” the boy nodded.
“How long ago?”
The filthy boy seemed to think on it awhile before giving a one-shoulder shrug. “I dunno. Not long, though.”
Randall gave the boy a nod and another sixpence. Truth be told, he was quite surprised to find an urchin in this part of Mayfair. Boys of his ilk seemed more prevalent in the Seven Dials. Or in Whitechapel. “Fair enough,” he said, wondering how we was going to approach Miss Fitzwilliam when she took her leave of Norwick House.
Just as he was about to walk in that direction, a town coach pulled into the half-circle drive. He recognized the seal on the coach as that of Lord Pettigrew, so he wasn’t surprised to see Lady Pettigrew step down from the coach when a footman opened the door. He watched as the older woman ascended the front steps and decided to bide his time. Once she was announced, he rather imagined Miss Fitzwilliam—or her maid—would take her leave.
He wasn’t disappointed.
The lady in yellow appeared at the dark green double doors only moments after Lady Pettigrew had disappeared into the house, her yellow parasol popping open in response to the sudden wash of sunlight on her face.
Randall gulped and swallowed.
He was quite sure she was the woman who had been the maid that morning in the park. And she was positively beautiful. Lovelier now that she was properly dressed and wore a stylish hat instead of the serviceable bonnet she had been wearing that morning.
He made his way up the half-circle drive so he would meet her when she made it to the bottom of the stairs.
“Oh!” Constance managed to get out when she was forced to stop or walk into the marquess.
“Miss Fitzwilliam, I presume?” Randall said as he bowed and reached for her gloved hand. He brushed his lips over the back of it, aware of how she suddenly stiffened.
“Mr. Roderick, isn’t it?” she responded, giving him a curtsy.
“Indeed,” he replied, rather happy she remembered his name. “May I escort you?”
Constance dared a quick glance to her right and then to her left. “I ... I suppose,” she said, her cheeks suddenly flushed with a pink cast.
Randall offered her his arm. “To your home?” he asked. “Or would you like to walk in the park?”
Her look of guilt was quickly replaced with one of contrition. “I feel as if I have been walking all day,” she replied.
The marquess was about to agree but thought it better he not admit to having followed her through half of Mayfair that day.
“Home, then,” he said with a nod.
Constance sighed. “Yes, I suppose,” she agreed.
“Or, if we walk just a bit further, we could be at Gunter’s Tea Shop. We could enjoy an ice whilst you explain why it is you and your maid exchanged identities earlier today.”
Angling her head to one side as they made their way toward Curzon Street, Constance sighed. The thought of an ice was enough of an incentive to walk the additional two blocks or so, but she wondered about propriety. She hardly knew the man on whose arm hers rested as they walked. She could hardly accept the offer of an ice, and she dared not spend the bit of coin she had left to get her through the month in London.
Randall regarded the woman on his arm for a time before he realized she was uncomfortable strolling with him. “I mean you no harm,” he said suddenly. “And, in fact, I only mean to learn more about you since you so thoroughly intrigued me with your subterfuge earlier today.”
“Subterfuge?” she countered, her eyes widening with his words. “I assure you, there was nothing done to offend or ... mislead you,” she added hastily.
“Your maid introduced herself as you,” he stated suddenly.
Sighing, Constance angled her head to the other side.
“An unfortunate mistake on her part—”
“That you did not correct,” Randall interrupted.
“Because I did not wish to embarrass her,” she said quickly. “She is uncomfortable in social situations and could not think of a suitable name on such short notice.”
“She could not use her own?” Randall countered, rather liking how the young woman defended her servant.
Constance gave a shrug. “I have already admonished her on the matter.” She paused a moment. “Look, I know now that I should have insisted my maid not adopt my identity whilst she went about the park, but I assure you, it will not happen again.”
Randall regarded Constance for a moment, rather glad she wasn’t the maid she had appeared to be that morning. He had already wondered about why he found himself attracted to maids. “Your loyalty to your servant is to be commended,” he said then, leading them east on Curzon Street toward Berkeley Square.
Surprised by his comment, the young lady looked a bit confused. “Thank you, I think,” she managed. “I just ... I wanted her to learn how to get about in London should she ... should I be unable to continue to employ her.” She pursed her lips, frustrated to hear the words spoken aloud. They were a testament to her failure in securing her inheritance, and despite the positive meeting with Lady Norwick, she couldn’t help but believe her cousin would deny her request for funds. “I fear she won’t gain employment in a suitable house, and I hate to think of her on the streets of London without a place to live, or without a protector—”
“Nonsense,” Randall interrupted. “If it comes to that, she can work at my house in Cavendish Square,” he said shortly. “I believe there will be an opening for a maid as early as next month, in fact,” he added, thinking if he took a wife, there would be a need for a lady’s maid.
Whirling to face him, Constance’s move forced the two to stop in their tracks. “You would do that?” she whispered, her words out before she considered she hardly knew the man with whom she walked. If he had a house in Cavendish Square, though, it meant he was probably a physician or owned a lucrative business. And everyone knew the houses in Cavendish Square were some of the very best in that part of London.
Randall regarded the young woman for several seconds, rather liking how she gazed at him, her blue eyes full of question and query and gratitude. “For you, I would. Yes,” he said with a nod.
The words were out before he could censor them. Before he realized how they could be interpreted. How they could be misconstrued.
Although relief had settled Constance somewhat, the marquess’ last words had her on her guard once again. “In exchange for what, my lord?” she wondered, a blaze of anger appearing in her eyes.
Randall angled his head, curious as to what she implied with her question. He finally shook his head. “Nothing. That is, nothing but a simple ‘thank you’. What ... what did you think I meant?” he demanded to know, pretending to be offended by her comment.
A bright blush colored her face just then, a blush the marquess found rather fetching. “The worst, of course,” she whispered.
Then Randall really did feel a bit offended, but he put himself in her place. She had no idea he knew all about her, no idea he had followed her about town as she looked for her missing inheritance. “As I said before, you have nothing to fear from me,” he repeated. “However, I am in a position to help, should you require it. I have the good fortune of having a good fortune, which gives me the means to help where I can,” he explained. “Were you, perhaps, paying a visit to an office in Oxford Street earlier today?” he ventured carefully. “I was sure I saw a woman in yellow whilst I paid a visit to Lady E’s ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’,” he added when he saw her look of surprise.
Constance finally nodded. “I was visiting with a solicitor. He was recommended to me. I was hoping he might be able to help me with something.”
Randall feigned ignorance of the situation, hoping she would provide her side of the tale. “And will he?” he prompted.
Sighing, Constance gave a shrug. “I rather doubt it. I’m beginning to wonder if ... well, it is of no matter now,” she hedged, wishing she hadn’t allowed the gentleman’s question.
Sure she was about to shed some tears, Randall considered reaching for his handkerchief when he realized her words were more of disappointment than sadness, which meant she expected to hear what she had been told. “You ... you don’t seemed surprised by what you’ve discovered,” he replied, his brows furrowing. He was quite sure she was going to say something about her inheritance, but she didn’t.
“I am not,” she agreed with a shake of her head. “My father was a gambler. Whatever monies he made, either from the Norwick estate in Sussex or from his one racehorse, he gambled away.”
One racehorse? The solicitor had implied there was a stable of horses. Surely there would be more than one suitable for the racing circuit. But perhaps they were too old. Most races required a horse be three years old.
Or perhaps they were too young. A horse had to be six to compete in the Ascot.
“Was the horse a winner?” Randall asked, wondering if he might have seen the nag in action at the Royal Ascot or at Epsom Downs.
“Mr. Tuttlebaum won every race he ran. He started when he was three and then won the Ascot when he was six,” Constance claimed.
Randall inhaled sharply, now quite sure he had seen the horse in action. “How old is he now?” he asked, thinking the horse wouldn’t be too old to use as a stud. He made a mental note to speak with Alistair Comber, the head groom at Lord Mayfield’s stables. The young man had been quite helpful the prior racing season, even if Randall’s horse had come in second.
“He’s nearly nine,” Constance replied. “Still runs as fast as he can. His brother is almost six. There’s a course set up on the grounds near Boxgrove where I live,” she explained. “I like to ride him and Mr. Wiggins there. It’s very invigorating.”
Randall watched as Constance’s face lit up with her description of the horse, witnessed how she seemed to come alive when remembering riding him.
Invigorating, indeed, he thought, imagining the woman on horseback, her dark hair loose from its pins and flowing behind her as the horse raced around the track. In an effort to tamp down the sudden arousal he felt at her excitement, he turned his thoughts back to the horse. He was about to ask how much the stud fees were when he realized the young woman probably didn’t know about matters of money. He hoped a man of business was seeing to it, though. The income might be a way for her to remain independent.
He was about to ask who her man of business might be when he suddenly realized he didn’t want her to be independent. At least, not so independent that she would eschew his presence in her life. The thought brought him up a bit short when he remembered his thoughts of her earlier that morning. He had spent a good part of the day either in pursuit of her or in her company. He knew more about her than he knew about any other woman of the ton.
And he found he wanted to know even more.
They were in sight of the tea shop when he was about to ask who her man of business might be. The solicitor mentioned there was a family solicitor in Sussex—wouldn’t that man know if there were income to be made off of a retired racehorse?
“Have you been to Gunter’s before?” he asked as he held the door open for her. A row of open carriages lined the road in front of the confectioner, their occupants engaged in conversation while they drank lemonade or enjoyed dishes of sorbet under the shade of the plane maple trees lining the square.
Constance shook her head as her eyes widened. Her attention wasn’t on the tea shop but rather on a town coach that was pulling away from the curb. “Poor thing,” she murmured, her face taking on a look of worry.
“What is it?” Randall wondered, following her line of sight. He watched the conveyance she seemed to be studying but didn’t recognize its occupants.
“The right lead. He’s lame. His back leg. See how he favors it?” she re
plied, nodding in the direction of the departing town coach.
Randall turned his attention to the horses that pulled the town coach and realized after watching them for a moment that the horse she described was, indeed, lame, although he wasn’t obviously so. “You’ve quite an eye, Miss Fitzwilliam. I rather doubt the driver even realizes it,” he responded, half-tempted to go after the coach and inform the driver. But the busy Berkeley Square traffic swallowed up the town coach, and he was forced to turn his attention back to the woman on his arm. “I’m sure he’ll realize it and see to its care once he’s back in the mews, my lady,” he said quietly.
Constance glanced up at him, apparently wanting to believe him. “Of course,” she replied with a nod. She glanced up at the shingle above the tea shop. “I have not been here before, Mr. Roderick,” she murmured, gripping his arm tighter as they entered the crowded shop. “But I have certainly heard of it.”
Randall felt a bit of satisfaction at feeling her hold on him increase. He thought by now she probably trusted him enough to share more about herself. She already seemed to trust him with her concerns for horseflesh. What was her favorite color? What was her favorite past-time, if not riding a horse?
“What is your favorite flavor?” Randall asked, giving a nod to a fellow lord when the man acknowledged him from where he sat in the back of the shop.
Constance appeared a bit stunned. “There’s more than one?” she countered. When Randall pointed to the menu board, her eyes widened even more. “I have absolutely no idea!” she replied, her eyes taking in the list and then darting about the small tables surrounded by fashionably dressed patrons as if she might find a flavor she liked that way.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, his manner most serious.
The young woman stilled herself, a shiver of excitement passing through her body and forcing her breath to catch. “I suppose,” she finally allowed.
The Love of a Rake Page 16