Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  The young man coming toward them did indeed look solemn, but there was a friendly shine to his hazel eyes that bespoke a kind nature. Physically, the two cousins were as dissimilar as their modes of life. Daniel was of moderate height rather than tall, and though he was dark like Colin, his face was more oval than square and his eyes did not turn down in the lazy manner of Stratford’s. His nose was narrow where his cousin’s was broad and no one would ever describe his straight lips as sensual. Daniel Baldwin was, moreover, of a calm temperament utterly foreign to Colin Phillips.

  As he reached his cousin, Daniel stretched out a hand. “You did not rusticate long, Colin. Did Grandfather give you a proper set-down? My mother was certain he would.”

  “I fear I must once again disappoint my Aunt Minerva,” Stratford replied. “I believe you are not acquainted with my friend, Jacques Maret? My cousin, Daniel Baldwin.”

  Baldwin bowed correctly, but the friendly light went out of his eyes. Mr. Maret was, in his opinion, a disturbing influence on one whose tendencies were already far too wind. Stratford’s reckless escapades had long been a source of embarrassment to the Baldwin side of the family, whose members were forever counseling the young viscount to more sedate pursuits, thus spurring Stratford on to some of his worst scrapes.

  With a coldness that quite amused Jacques, Daniel turned away from him to inquire of his cousin, “Why did you not stay longer at Hallbrook? I’m certain Grandfather would have liked your company and it would do you no harm to ruralize for a bit.”

  Colin gritted his teeth at this, prompted by his resentment of such advice to reply, “As a matter of fact, it is on the earl’s directive that I am here. He wishes me to take a wife—something I fear I cannot do by remaining at the Keep.” He leaned toward Maret, who was scanning the crowds through his beribboned glass. “Have you seen any prospects yet, Jacques? If we spend all night looking for my bride, we’ll not have time for a game of piquet at White’s.”

  “What is this?” Baldwin looked from one to the other with a grave frown.

  “Maret is being so obliging as to find me a likely chit,” Stratford offered as bait. He was rewarded, for his cousin’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in dismay.

  “You cannot be serious!” he protested. “Marriage is not a matter for such levity.”

  The viscount shrugged and said with a wide yawn, “Why not? One petticoat is much like another. It makes no odds to me which of them shares my name.”

  “Colin, if this is your idea of a joke—” Daniel began.

  “Unless I mistake,” Maret cut in, “a thing which I am not prone to do, that little beauty will utterly destroy the current fashion for blondes.”

  The two followed Maret’s gaze and saw a lovely vision in white satin and lace sitting delicately on a gilt chair across the room.

  Miss Helen Lawrence was a petite brunette of breathtaking beauty. Had she been named for Helen of Troy it would have been no less than her due. Beneath a crown of glossy chestnut curls was a finely structured oval face in which two dainty brows were arched over sparkling blue eyes and a small straight nose was centered above a pair of red heart-shaped lips. These features came delightfully together in her creamy face to such effect that all three men were, for a lengthy pause, awe-struck. Her figure, too, was such as must please even the most discriminating, being small, graceful and proportioned exactly.

  “She appears a suitable viscountess,” Colin said at length. “I commend you, Jacques. Your taste, as always, is impeccable.”

  Maret continued to eye the lovely girl as she laughed with a cheerful blonde seated next to her. “What do you wager, Stratford?” he asked.

  “A hundred guineas that she’s mine within a fortnight,” Colin promptly answered.

  “Are you that uncertain of your charm? I should say five hundred would be nearer the mark,” his friend said as he dropped his glass and faced him, amusement stamping his face with a faint tinge of color.

  “My god!” Baldwin exclaimed in horror. “You cannot place a wager upon Miss Lawrence as if she were some horse!”

  “Observe, Maret, how the fates smile upon your choice. My good cousin knows the beauty. Introduce us, Daniel.”

  “No,” said that worthy flatly. “I will not be made a party to this improper charade.”

  Stratford studied his cousin with an amused glint. “My dear Maret,” he began sweetly, “did I ever tell you of the time I called upon Cordelia Glover in her private boudoir only to find my cousin—”

  “Colin,” Daniel interrupted, “you cannot wish to tell that tale.”

  “On the contrary, cousin. I shall enjoy relating that little incident to everyone here—including, I perceive, your dear mama. Unless, that is, you introduce me to Miss Lawrence.”

  “But that’s infamous!”

  Colin laughed outright at this, then turned to Maret. “Five hundred it is, Jacques. To be doubled if I have her within the week.” The terms were accepted with a half-bow and Stratford directed a curt command to his cousin. “Daniel, lead us on to the future Viscountess Stratford.”

  “I must protest this entire disgraceful proceeding. Your behavior is scandalous.”

  “I do hope so,” the viscount drawled, giving his cousin a gentle nudge toward the beauty.

  The trio crossed the room in silence, arriving at their destination as the strains of the waltz being played came to an end. Pushing through a knot of gentlemen surrounding the gilt chair containing their object, Baldwin bowed to an older lady seated on the left, “Good evening, Mrs. Thacker.”

  She responded with a surprisingly youthful smile. “Good evening Mr. Baldwin. I’ve seen your mother here, but have not yet had a chance to speak with her. All is well with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I present my cousin, Viscount Stratford, and a friend, Mr. Maret?” Daniel said stiffly as the pair moved forward. “They have been looking forward to meeting you. Gentlemen, Mrs. Thacker, a dear friend of my mother’s.”

  An amused, knowing glint came into her eye. She nodded at each in turn, saying, “How do you do? I should like to make you known to my daughter, Miss Amelia Thacker—”she indicated the giggling blonde on the beauty’s other side—“and my niece, Miss Helen Lawrence.”

  The dark goddess looked up, her lovely lips forming a silent circle as she saw the two handsome men—the one so very dark, the other so very fair—standing before her.

  “I am happy to meet you,” she murmured in a musical voice.

  “Not near so happy as I,” Stratford said with a perfect bow. “May I dare hope you will honor me with a dance?”

  She hesitated, glancing toward her aunt. When that lady tipped her head in a brief nod, Miss Lawrence rose gracefully and said in a soft voice, “Of course, my lord. It is I who am honored.”

  With practiced ease, Stratford extracted Miss Lawrence from her ring of admiring beaux and led her into the set then forming. They began the country dance in silence, but presently, as the steps brought them together, the viscount remarked, “I must remember to say my prayers this evening.”

  “My lord?” questioned Miss Lawrence, her puzzled smile displaying two delightful dimples at the corners of her pretty mouth.

  “I must certainly thank the Fates that led me here to meet you tonight,” he replied with his most charming smile. “I begin to appreciate young Montague’s feelings upon meeting Juliet.”

  Miss Helen blushed. She could not be unaware of her beauty, but she was not used to such outright flattery and had, indeed, always felt herself unworthy of such compliments as her loveliness brought forth. Watching the light mantle of color rise over her cheeks, Stratford coolly calculated his next remark.

  “I wonder that I have not seen you before, Miss Lawrence.”

  “I’ve not been in London long,” she responded, thankful to have the subject changed. “Indeed, this is my first ball, though I’ve been several times to the Assembly Rooms in Norwich.”

  “You are from Norfolk, then?”
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br />   “Yes, my lord. Our home is in Willowley near Norwich.”

  “It is a great pity that I’ve never before had occasion to visit Willowley near Norwich,” he said softly.

  The speaking look beneath the heavy lids unnerved her and she colored prettily as she stammered a brief reply. As he continued to rake her over lazily with his dark eyes, she managed to observe, “Lady Carmichael must be vastly admired, for there are ever so many people here.”

  “It is my belief that is because they all knew what I did not . . . that you were to be here tonight.”

  She paused, then made a fresh attempt. “Your cousin, Mr. Baldwin, has been very kind. He escorted Amel—Miss Thacker—and me to Astley’s yesterday.”

  “I trust that in future, Miss Lawrence, you will have no need to look to my cousin for escort.”

  When the dance took her away from the viscount, Miss Helen felt a wave of relief. His fulsome compliments, delivered as they were with an easy charm that never dispelled the mockery from his black eyes, had quite overset her. She was a simple, direct girl, not used to the light manners of the ton. She had never before encountered the art of dalliance as practiced by society and was unsure how to respond to Stratford’s flirtatious comments.

  He resumed when they again drew close by stating, “The bucks in Willowley must be flatter than the Broads there to have let you out of the vicinity.”

  She had, by now, determined to ignore such flattery, so Helen let this go by asking him instead where it was he came from.

  “My family home is in Kent,” he answered. “Hallbrook Keep,” he added, looking as if he expected her to know of it.

  Helen saw that some reaction was expected of her, but not knowing what, stammered, “Is . . . is it a nice town?”

  A startled look briefly crossed his features, then Stratford laughed, showing a sincerity which his manner had previously lacked. She thought perhaps she may have been mistaken in her first impression of him as a remote and forbidding man.

  “The Keep is my grandfather’s estate, my dear,” he explained with a smile. “I’m inclined to think of it as somewhat nice.”

  “I am sorry!” she apologized, then instantly wished had not. Despite his continued smile, the disturbing chill returned to his eyes. Though she racked her brain for something to say, Helen could think of nothing. They continued to dance without conversing, but his stare put her so out of countenance that she missed a step and felt even more miserable.

  The fact that the lovely young miss dancing with the Viscount Stratford had entertained him so well was not missed by the ever-watchful members of the ton. Speculation began to spread as tongues wagged throughout the room.

  Jacques Maret was among those who stood watching the pair, his thin lips curled up in amusement as he did so. His satisfaction was not shared by the younger man standing rigidly beside him.

  “You should not encourage him in this outrage,” Daniel Baldwin said in a furious undertone, unable to refrain any longer from speaking. “You must see that Colin cannot marry Miss Lawrence!”

  “Are you suggesting that Miss Lawrence would not suit?” Maret inquired with cool contempt. “Is she the daughter of some country cit?”

  “No! Of course not. But to select a wife as if one were at Tattersall’s is offensive to any person of sensibility.”

  “But, my dear sir, you mistake. Stratford would never choose his horses with so much haste,” Maret objected before bowing and moving languidly off.

  Baldwin’s face clearly showed his shock and it was some little while before he felt himself composed enough to attend to the activity around him. He sought out his mother, but by the time he reached her side, Daniel had decided to keep his own counsel on this matter for the time being. He resolved instead to call upon his cousin on the morrow to talk Colin out of this mad scheme.

  Maret reappeared as the viscount returned Miss Helen to her aunt’s care. Her cheeks were mantled with a soft rose, heightening the appeal of her blue eyes and deeply red lips, and Jacques silently congratulated himself on his unerring taste. He stepped forward. “I claim this next dance, Miss Lawrence.”

  This time Miss Helen did not look to her aunt for approval, but lightly laid her fingers upon Maret’s velvet sleeve. She did cast a glance over her shoulder as they moved away and thus saw the viscount settling himself beside Amelia Thacker.

  Mindful of her mistakes during the previous dance and still feeling disconcerted from her encounter with Stratford, Helen at first paid more attention to her steps than to her partner. Maret did not press her in any way. After a bit, she peered up shyly at him through her thick lashes in such an enchanting manner, Jacques experienced an unaccustomed desire to please. His habitual coolness evaporated and smiled warmly down at her.

  “Have you been enjoying London, Miss Lawrence?” he asked in a friendly tone that elicited an open response.

  “Oh, yes. There is so much to see and do that I’ve been quite in a whirl since I arrived. Although, of course, it would be even more enjoyable if Rose or Esmond were here to share in all the pleasures.”

  “You have brothers and sisters, then?”

  “Yes, two of each, all of them older than I.”

  “And are your sisters as lovely as you?” he questioned, much enjoying the honeyed tones of her voice.

  “Well, I think so,” she answered stoutly, leaving him in no doubt that they were not. “Sarah is married, with children. And Rose, well, Rose is quite wonderful—she can take care of anything!”

  This last was said with so much fervor that Miss Helen looked totally and charmingly animated.

  “And Esmond?” Jacques prompted.

  “He’s a scholar, you see, and would much enjoy all the museums and sights. Have you seen the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly?”

  Maret suppressed a shudder to reply evenly, “No, I’ve not yet had that particular pleasure.”

  “Well, I could not help but think of Esmond while there,” she said with a solemnity that brought an expression of delight to Jacques’s narrow face.

  They continued to converse in much the same vein, with Maret quietly drawing Miss Helen out so that she was thoroughly at ease with the normally unapproachable man.

  While he watched the couple upon the dance floor, Colin was maintaining an easy flow of talk with Mrs. Thacker.

  “Oh, indeed,” she was saying in response to his lordship’s admission of surprise that Miss Lawrence came from Willowley. “I could not but be grateful that Helen doesn’t have any of the Broads inflections in her speech, though, of course, it would not have greatly mattered. She is as lovely in her manners as she is in her looks.” She raised a hand to brush back a few strands of flaxen hair dusted lightly with gray.

  “And her father?” Colin queried.

  “Mr. Lawrence passed away a number of years ago—not too long before my own husband, in fact—and her brother Griffen is head of the family now.” She would have expanded on this, but the music stopped and Amelia sailed up with her partner in tow. Stratford came to his feet as Maret escorted Helen to her seat.

  Sometime after midnight, Stratford and Maret took their leave of their hostess. By the time they departed, all two hundred of Lady Carmichael’s guests were aware that the Viscount Stratford had embarked on a new flirtation, for he had remained by the side of Miss Helen Lawrence throughout the evening. Though he had danced with no one else, he had actually led the country beauty out twice. His unusual attentiveness had not gone unremarked and was recounted several times all over London before dawn broke through.

  While on the way to White’s, Maret inquired in an indifferent tone, “What do you think of the future viscountess?”

  “Blushing virgins aren’t much to my taste,” yawned Stratford, “but I suppose she will do well enough.” As his friend was seated in the shadowed corner of the carriage, Colin did not see the spasm of annoyance which crossed Jacques’s face, and he continued blithely, “At any rate, she’s a damn sight easier to take than Horati
a Blunt.”

  “Horatia Blunt!”

  “My reaction exactly. She was my grandfather’s threat of a fiancée.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “All the brandy you were diving into earlier.”

  The viscount’s laughter filled the carriage, while the moment of displeasure that had piqued Maret completely dissipated. As he calmed, Stratford said, “I shall send one of my men to Willowley in the morning to make certain she’s not some damned mill owner’s daughter or anything as undesirable. I learned from her aunt that her father is dead and her brother is head of the family.”

  “Esmond?”

  “No, his name is Griffen. Who is Esmond?”

  “A brother of scholarly pursuits, according to Miss Lawrence. I was also given to understand that she has two sisters. It seems, dear boy, you are about to be saddled with a family of considerable size,” Jacques said with a laugh.

  “Your guineas in my pocket shall compensate me to a large degree,” Colin retorted as the coach came to a halt before the impressive edifice of the exclusive men’s club known as White’s. “Yes, it shall be most satisfying to win this wager.”

  Chapter 3

  Helen Lawrence awoke late the following morning to the cacophony that was London’s traffic outside her window. She sleepily noted the cheery display of sunlight upon the papered pattern of the walls, wondering for a few moments just where she was. She still had difficulty in comprehending the fact that she was not at home, that this was not her own little square room in Appleton Cottage.

  Her gaze came to rest upon an enormous basket of roses standing atop a dressing table. Her eyes flew open wide and she sat upright, staring at the bright bouquet. After a stunned moment, she threw back the satin coverlet and crossed to take a square white card from the heart of the red flowers.

  Their color pales beside your lips, she read, and hardly drew a breath before looking at the signature. Stratford. She let out a sigh and dropped the card carelessly upon the table.