MISS ROSE AND THE RAKEHELL
Fran Baker
Chapter 1
The sporty curricle ripped neatly through the arched gateway of Hallbrook Keep and pulled to an abrupt halt amidst a fine spray of gravel.
Pursing his lips in an admiring whistle, a thin groom jumped from the back of the vehicle and ran to hold the heads of two splendidly matched grays. The driver to whom this wordless compliment had been addressed threw down the ribbons and leapt nimbly to the ground. From the curly beaver skin hat perched jauntily atop his black hair to the gleaming black Hessians on his feet, the gentleman looked every inch the Corinthian as he mounted the imposing marble steps up to the Keep’s grand entrance two at a time.
A collection of servants lined to greet the darkly handsome man who strode briskly into the drafty Great Hall, dropping his kid gloves, many-caped greatcoat and beaver hat into the hands of a different footman. At the end of this row of liveried men stood a solemn figure of indeterminate age who had stood thus to meet him for as long as the Viscount Stratford could remember.
“Welcome, my lord,” said that venerable with a creaky bow.
“Hullo, Jasper,” responded the viscount. “Does the old curmudgeon await me?”
There was a flash of a twinkle in the old servant’s eye which was reflected in his lordship’s. “Yes, my lord. The earl desires to see you immediately in his library.”
Though he well knew the way, Stratford followed the ancient up the wide stairway to wait restively in a polished paneled hall while Jasper announced his presence to the Earl of Hallbrook. Left to kick his heels, the viscount gazed fondly about him, appreciating the effect of the classical archways cut into the wall, each giving rest to a fine statuette. Those acquainted with Colin Phillips would have been amazed at the warmth shining in those large ebony eyes, for the gleam beneath the heavy lids was usually coolly cynical. But within the walls of the Keep, Stratford generally shed the sardonic mask he wore among the ton.
Hallbrook Keep had become Colin’s home when his parents had been tragically killed nearly twenty years before. Their coach had overturned in a severe summer storm the year of his eighth birthday, and all that remained of them in his memories were dim images of a vivacious, handsome pair. A feminine scent and tinkling laugh came to mind as he stood waiting and could almost hear his mother’s soft voice saying, “Not now, darling! You’ll smudge my gown! Run along with Nurse.” He could almost feel those delicate white hands pushing him firmly away as they had so often done, and his jaw clenched.
The frown lingered as Jasper returned to escort him into the lion’s den. Seated in a heavy wingback chair before a blazing fire, an elderly man perused a long, much-crossed letter. He did not acknowledge his grandson’s presence, but left the tall young man standing. Only the tense flexing of his cheek muscles showed the viscount’s annoyance with this ploy.
At last Hallbrook waved the viscount to a matching chair opposite. “I must account myself fortunate, indeed,” began the earl on a crackling drawl, “for though my grandson does not choose to honor me with frequent visits, I never fail to hear of him. His activities keep half the London tongues clacking!” He tapped the parchment of the letter with one long, thin fingertip. “I trust Mrs. Loveday was not too disconsolate to lose your company,” he finished dryly.
The viscount lifted one straight black brow. “Surely you did not summon me from London to lecture me about my mistress?”
“Nor did I summon you here to be impertinent!” returned the old man in the hard tone that never failed to silence the younger lord. After a lengthy pause during which the earl stared keenly at his grandson, he asked in a more congenial tone, “When do you anticipate your meeting with Loveday?”
“Sir?”
“I do not fancy Loveday will long tolerate your indiscreet handling of his wife.”
“I shall not kill him, sir, if that is your worry,” Colin said in a voice of disinterest.
Hallbrook studied the viscount’s face, disliking the lines of dissipation beginning to mar the youthful set of his wide mouth and creasing the corners of his large black eyes. The jaw was still firm in the squared face, but the pallor washing over it caused the earl to retort more intensely than he had intended. “Loveday is a fair shot, and it is not inconceivable that he should kill you!”
The viscount shrugged, boredom evident in his face as he gazed down into the flickering fire.
“And, of course, if you do not manage to end your life over one of your many light-skirts, you will no doubt manage to do it in the reckless manner in which you drive. Still going hell for leather with those grays of yours?”
“The finest pair of high-goers in England cannot be driven like some commonplace cattle, sir.”
“I would have you take more care, Colin!”
The use of his given name brought Stratford’s head up. A crease marked his brow as he examined his grandfather’s thin, lined face beneath the powdery white hair. He saw the old man’s vivid blue eyes filled with concern, yet hardened with the same determination Colin had known since he was in short coats. It was this strong and loving man who had first set him upon a horse, given him his first snuffbox, eased him to bed after his first bout of drinking. With a gentle warmth that was but seldom heard from him, Stratford said, “You need not worry, sir. I assure you I shall take care.”
The elder lord set his lips in a thin line. “A Phillips has governed Hallbrook since the Conquest and I desire to see the title secured before I meet my maker. Or before some jealous husband sends you to yours. It’s time for you to marry and beget Hallbrook an heir.”
“My Aunt Minerva—” Stratford began.
“Paugh! I won’t have any of Minnie’s brood taking over the Keep! How my own daughter could produce such a pack of fools is more than I can fathom.” The earl leaned toward his grandson and said firmly, “You’ve watched society’s belles pass by year after year and turned your back upon them all. I tell you, it is time—nay, past time—for you to marry. Pick one and be done with it!”
“Dare I point out, sir, that I am not yet thirty?”
“You’ll take a wife this season, Colin,” the earl snapped.
“And if I do not?” the viscount asked.
“I should very much dislike having to select one for you,” came the harsh answer, “but should I be put to that effort, I would not hesitate to publish the banns as well.”
An amused spark lit the viscount’s dark eyes as he inquired in a curious tone, “Have you a bride in mind? Or will just any woman do?”
His grandfather reflected upon the dancing flames for a moment. “Blunt’s youngest might do very well,” he mused.
“Horatia Blunt!” Colin exclaimed in disbelief. “My god, sir, she’s at least ten stone and she squints besides! You cannot be serious!”
“Serious is precisely what I am, Colin,” the earl returned decisively. “I shan’t be alive much longer and I mean to see the Phillips line continued before I go.”
Stratford came to bend over his grandfather’s thin, bluish hand. “You shall most likely outlive us all, sir. But since you wish for it, I shall pick out a chit to marry as soon as may be.”
The earl’s hand curled tightly about his grandson’s wrist. “You would do well to have care, Colin. If a silly fool like Minnie can be so aware of your liaison with the Loveday woman, you can be damned certain her husband ain’t in the dark. Give her up, my boy!”
“So you did bring me here to lecture me about my mistress!” Stratford said with a laugh as he extricated his wrist. He strode quickly from the room before the earl could respond with the set-down he deserved.
As the door closed behind the recklessly charming viscount, Hallbrook returned his attention to his daughter�
�s letter. With a cackle of laughter, he tossed it into the flames before him.
*****
It was as well that the earl did not witness his grandson’s return to London, for Stratford set his grays going at a punishing pace. Having been in service long enough to recognize the set line of his lordship’s jaw, the young groom kept mutely in his place. If Jem wondered just what the old earl could have done to put that cold frown into the viscount’s eyes, he was far too well-trained to show it.
Upon reaching his townhome in Half Moon Street, Stratford retired to his study where he flipped through a sizable stack of correspondence while sipping from a curved snifter of fine brandy. It was a man’s room, darkly paneled and liberally decorated with leather and brass. Bookcases stuffed with leathered volumes of all sizes and colors lined three walls before which stood a massive cherry-wood desk.
Stratford threw a number of gilt-edged invites down atop this desk, tossed off the end of the brandy, and flung himself in the burgundy leather chair facing the desk. Once seated, he did not hesitate, but dashed off an abrupt note. Thalia, it read, I must cry off. S.
His grandfather’s imperious warnings had only spurred the inevitable, for Stratford was already bored with Thalia’s tantrums and constant demands on his time. It had been commented of the viscount that he discarded women the way other men did cloaks, and it was with nearly as little concern that he now dismissed Thalia Loveday from his life.
After he had sanded and sealed the brief missive, he sat for a time in a brown study, his heavy brows pushed together and his lips set in a grim line. Although he felt one woman to be much like another, he was having difficulty contemplating marriage with any of the eligible females he knew. Having promised the earl to do so, however, Stratford was set upon making one of them an offer, no matter how disagreeable the thought of it seemed.
With an impatient shrug, he rang for a servant. As the door opened he instructed flatly, “Have this delivered immediately, Felton. And send another bottle up to me.”
Felton waited until the viscount had quit the room to give his head a shake. He soon confirmed to the servants’ hall what had already been suspected, that his lordship was indeed in one of his wild moods tonight.
Shortly thereafter, Stratford was standing in full evening dress arguing with his valet. “I do not wish to look like some damned fop, Busick!”
“But, my lord, just one small diamond placed just so,” persisted the diminutive servant, “would make all the difference!” He was reaching up toward Stratford’s frilled shirt when the door opened and a footman announced, “Mr. Maret, my lord.”
Jacques Maret had adopted Brummell’s dictum of dressing only in somber colors, to the extreme that he only wore shades of black and white. The style accentuated the gold of his blond hair and the ghostly fairness of his skin. His pale blue eyes, long, thin nose and bloodless lips were featured in a narrow face accounted by most to be handsome, but his nature was thought to be so cold and distant that he had formed few attachments. He always wore a square ruby ring upon one niveous hand, and when most bored, lowered his gaze to the ring in such a manner as to depress anyone’s intentions of wearying him further. The ton believed him to be wildly dangerous, particularly in association with Viscount Stratford, but they forgave him because he was worth quite twenty thousand pounds a year.
He strolled casually in, observing the glitter in Stratford’s eye and the open bottle standing on the dressing table as he did so. He leaned wearily on the marble edge of this table, stretching out his long legs before him. His air of lethargy did not deceive Colin, who knew Maret to be as restlessly discontent as he was himself.
Stratford now pushed Busick’s hand away and presented his friend with a rare genuine smile that transformed his harsh handsomeness into a boyish charm. “B’god, I’m glad you’re back!” he declared. “London has been a dead bore without you.”
“My dear Colin,” drawled Maret, “everywhere is a dead bore without me. Even now I am certain someone in the wilds of Dorset or possibly Northumberland is saying, ‘Ah, if only Maret were here to make life worth living.’”
Stratford laughed. “I don’t doubt it in the least, Jacques.”
“I have heard you and the Loveday have been stirring up the ton in my absence. Is it true that when she cropped her hair she sent you the shorn locks?”
“Quite true—bound into the shape of a heart, no less,” replied the viscount as he wandered aimlessly about his room. “I fear, however, I shall have to disappoint the ton in future. I have broken with the passionate Thalia.”
“Oh?” inquired Maret with the tilt of one bond brow.
“Her dramatics bored me. God, all women bore me!”
“Must you continuously pace about the room?” Jacques asked on fretful note. “You are quite wearing me out.”
Colin flashed a twisted smile and threw himself onto an armless chair.
Maret slowly raised his ribboned quizzing glass and scrutinized the dark lord from head to toe. “I fear, I very much fear, Colin,” he complained pettishly, “that I simply cannot be seen anywhere with someone whose neckcloth is tied so abominably.”
“I don’t give a fig for fashion, Maret.”
“That is only too apparent, dear boy. Busick, please remove that thing from his lordship’s neck and bring me a fresh muslin.”
The valet stepped from the shadows to take the crumpled cloth from Stratford’s hand as his lordship untied it, then disappeared silently from the room. He had long been used to Mr. Maret’s dictates where his master’s dress was concerned and far from resenting the interference, actually welcomed the fact that he could influence the viscount into presenting a more fashionable appearance.
“You had best tell me what has put you into such a pet, Stratford,” Jacques said as the valet left the room. “I cannot endure an entire evening having you wear me out with this tiresome energy of yours.”
“My grandfather has decided it’s time for me to wed,” Colin told him. “And I promised him to do so as quickly as possible. The damnation of it is that I cannot think of one woman of my acquaintance for whom I would even remotely wish to offer.”
Maret studied the lines on the square face before him. He saw there what few others had ever seen, for at the moment the unhappiness was clearly etched into his lordship’s features.
“But where is your hunting spirit?” he asked lightly. “The matter seems simple enough to me—we must go on the hunt for a suitable bride for the Viscount Stratford.”
Colin put his head back and laughed with full enjoyment. “Jacques, you astound me,” he said at last. “I should have realized that only you would be capable of finding me a proper wife. By all means, let us find me a bride—tonight! Where do we conduct the hunt?”
“Lady Carmichael’s ball, of course. All the young ladies will be there displaying their wares.”
Busick returned to hand Maret a freshly starched square of muslin which the beau whipped adroitly round Stratford’s neck and skillfully tied before stepping back to admire the effect of his handiwork. “Perfect.”
“Do you think a diamond, perhaps?” Busick inquired.
“No, diamonds,” Colin said. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite, my lord,” answered that little man unhappily as he bowed out of the room.
“I believe it is time we set out to discover which lucky lady is to have the honor of becoming the Viscountess Stratford,” Maret said.
“I entrust the matter to you with complete confidence,” Colin responded as they descended the stairs.
Chapter 2
The appearance of Viscount Stratford and Jacques Maret at Lady Carmichael’s ball caused even more than their usual stir as the news of their arrival rippled through the excited belles and their grasping mamas.
“I had no idea they’d returned to Town,” whispered one turbaned matron to another.
“My dear Mrs. Baldwin, surely you realized that those two make it a habit to always be whe
re you least expect them,” responded her companion behind her fan.
Thrilled to have London’s two most sought-after bachelors grace her evening, thus assuring the rating of her ball as a success, Lady Carmichael waited breathlessly for them to reach her. “I am so pleased,” she gushed as the pair came forward, “to have you attend my small gathering.”
Her small gathering consisted of some two hundred of the Town’s beau monde squeezed into her drawing room, numerous small salons and her columned ballroom. Several people had opted for a few rubbers of whist in the salons, but Stratford and Maret went purposefully into the marbled ballroom. There, beneath the bright glow of hundreds of candles, they were entertained by an orchestra at the far end of the room and surrounded by elegantly dressed guests passing the latest on dits and drinking vast amounts of flowing champagne.
“I perceive that my instincts were, as usual, correct,” intoned Maret as they stood surveying the scene. “Every fresh miss of the season is here.”
“Well, to quote the earl, pick one and be done with it,” Colin said impatiently as his dark gaze swept the room.
“Dear boy, you cannot rush an artist,” Maret protested.
They moved leisurely through the rooms, nodding to acquaintances and skillfully depressing the attentions of overzealous mamas and social climbers while intently studying and eliminating various damsels from the rank of viscountess. They were seriously regarding a slender fair beauty whom Stratford had termed delectable when that unfortunate miss laughed.
“I cannot feel that you can possibly wish for a wife whose laugh sounds like a jungle screech,” Maret remarked.
“No, I must admit, even my dogs bark more gently,” agreed the viscount. As he turned his gaze from the blonde, he suddenly said with a hint of disgust, “Oh, Lord, here comes my cousin Daniel.”
“What, the preacher-faced one?” Maret asked as he raised his quizzing glass.
“He’s a good enough fellow, but he’s so damned solemn and pure, he makes Cromwell look like a hardened libertine.”
Fran Baker Page 1