Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  “There is nothing to explain, my lord,” she said in frozen accents. “Your arrant contempt for my sister is all to evident.”

  “But I did not mean—”

  “What you meant, sir, was obvious! To marry my sister on the basis of a wager is—is odiously wicked.”

  With a curl of his lip, Stratford answered her charge. “I believe the majority of your family would feel that my fortune—if not my title—more than compensated for any lack of finer sentiment.”

  “Must you insult us all?” she exclaimed in heat. “Have you not the least shred of decency?”

  Her biting words and disdainful tone kindled his ever-ready temper as the viscount invariably met anger with anger. “I am aware—as indeed, you have not made the least attempt to disguise it—of your disapprobation of me, of this match. I’m willing to admit I should not have wagered on my choice of a bride, but you needn’t fear I’ll treat Helen with any disrespect.”

  “But you have already done so! What you do not realize, however, is that Helen is not so brainless as you would believe. In fact, the only bird-witted thing that I know she has ever done is to have agreed to marry you!”

  “I take leave to tell you, Miss Lawrence, that Helen stands in no need of your defense. I shall treat her with the utmost respect and kindness. I shall treat her as befits the Viscountess Stratford.”

  Rose sat perfectly still, her eyes blazing and her back held rigidly straight.

  Colin cast his eyes at her once, then away as he made a fresh attempt. “I do not often make apologies—”

  “That I can well believe!”

  “But I’m offering you my sincere apology for having offended you,” he finished stiffly.

  “Do you not understand, Lord Stratford, that it is not I to whom you should make your apology, but to Helen, whom you have offended most gravely? Helen’s nature is so sweet, so kind that she would undoubtedly forgive you. I cannot,” she declared in a colorless voice.

  Stratford said no more and devoted his attention, seemingly, to the road. His jaw muscles flexed erratically and lines etched deeply beside his set mouth. But Rose did not see this for she kept her eyes resolutely fixed upon her lap. She vowed not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her eyes blur with tears.

  When he pulled the curricle to a sharp stop before Appleton Cottage, his groom ran quickly up to help Miss Lawrence alight. She entered the house without so much as a backward glance, wondering at the perversity of her own heart, which was at this moment knocking painfully against her ribs at the departure of one whom she thoroughly detested.

  “Tell Mr. Baldwin I am waiting!” the viscount rapped to Jem, who emitted a soundless whistle as he ran to obey this stern command. He could only conjecture wildly as to the cause for m’lord’s ugly mood.

  When Daniel climbed into the vehicle, he could not keep from inquiring, “So Miss Lawrence did indeed overhear us last night?”

  “Yes.”

  Curiosity unwisely prodded Daniel. “And?”

  “And Miss Lawrence could give you lessons in the art of dressing me down,” Colin answered with a ghost of a laugh.

  Baldwin subsided and Jem saw that it was to be a very uncomfortable sort of journey home. He took mental bets with himself as to when his lordship and the gentleman would have a regular set-to, for it was clear m’lord greatly ached for one. However, it appeared Jem would lose his bets for by the time the viscount’s curricle rolled beneath the stone arch of the Rutland Arms in Newmarket, the two were conversing, if somewhat uneasily, on neutral subjects.

  It was an unlucky stroke that, as they reviewed their progress the following morning, Daniel chance to remark, “You know, that Miss Parker we met at the Arms last night put me in mind of Miss Lawrence.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Stratford thrust at him. “Miss Parker was by far too well-mannered.”

  “Miss Lawrence is a very good sort of woman. I’ve rarely met better. She is worth a dozen Thalia Lovedays!”

  “I suggest we leave Mrs. Loveday’s name out of this conversation” his lordship said in no uncertain terms.

  “How can I? When your name has been coupled with hers more often than a cock to a hen . . .” Baldwin’s peeved voice trailed off as Stratford turned a quelling glare upon him, thereby thwarting Jem’s hopes of seeing m’lord plant his priggish cousin a proper leveler.

  London was reached none too soon for either of the travelers, neither of whom had spoken a word beyond the barest necessity for the remainder of the trip. One look at his lordship’s face as he admitted him into the house was enough to inform Felton that the sojourn out of town had not been a success. If he did not actually tiptoe around the viscount that night, it was the only precaution not taken in an effort to avoid stirring up his well-known and much-feared temper. All such efforts failed completely as Stratford found fault with everything and everyone who had the misfortune to come his way. No, decided those belowstairs to a man, his lordship had not enjoyed his stay in the country.

  *****

  Lord Stratford was in the act of putting foot to boot the following morning when Jacques Maret was ushered into his room. His lordship paused, his stockinged foot poised as his eyes met the cool green gaze of his friend. Then he slid his foot into the Hessian and yanked it on. He reached for the mate and put it on while Maret critically surveyed him.

  “Those are very fine boots, Colin,” he said lazily at last. “Hobe made them, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  Strolling into the room, Maret turned his rare smile upon his friend. “I came to welcome you back and to discover the particulars of your excursion into the bosom of your in-laws.”

  “You might have known from the outset,” Stratford pointed out acidly.

  “Still displeased with me, Colin? I fear I would have been very much . . . shall we say, de trop? Confess, you’d have done as well without your cousin along.”

  His lordship was not impervious to Maret’s charm. “Oh, God, yes!” he agreed as he stood. “In fact, we ended with a fantastic row, as usual. I rather doubt the good Daniel will have much to say to me for several weeks.”

  “I believe it is said that some good comes out of everything,” his friend commented dryly.

  The last vestige of their previous falling out was wiped away as Colin laughed outright.

  “But I am waiting to hear about your adventures in Willowley. How and why did you come to—er, no, how stupid of me. Of course you quarreled with Baldwin. But tell me the rest.”

  Shrugging into a snug morning jacket of bottle green that stretched handsomely across his broad shoulders, Stratford waved away Busick and faced Maret to lament in a comical tone, “I’ve been saddled with a damnable pack of relatives I wouldn’t care to foist on anyone this side of Hades! Jacques, how could you?”

  “My dear Colin, surely you cannot hold me responsible?” Maret protested, smiling.

  “Oh, can’t I, though?” As they descended to the spacious breakfast parlor, he set to describing his future in-laws. The mother is one of those semi-invalids who gloat over each new symptom, the half of which are devised—”

  “You begin, my friend, to fill me with remorse,” Jacques said apologetically.

  “Lord, I’ve scarcely begun! There’s a bookish brother who, at first glance, set me down as a mere brawny fellow not worth the noticing—though I rather fancy I made a recovery in his esteem with my skill at slip groat—”

  “Slip-groat?”

  “Ah, you see what you have missed!” Stratford took a long sip from the coffee that had been mutely set before him and considered before continuing. “And there’s another brother whose main concerns are hock and hounds. He at least would be tolerable if it weren’t for his wife. She is a rapacious, pinch-faced shrew whose greatest pleasure seems to be directing thinly veiled barbs at the eldest sister.”

  “That would be, I collect, the estimable Rose?”

  “Yes,” Colin confirmed curtly. One of Maret’s fair brows li
fted and, upon seeing it, Stratford added, “She took me in dislike.”

  “What? And you did not use the infamous Phillips charm to overcome her?”

  “Miss Lawrence found my charm totally resistible. I strongly suspect she would gladly welcome the news of my early demise.”

  “Now, Colin, you interest me greatly. Tell me about this Miss Rose Lawrence. Is she a beauty?”

  Colin sat still, staring blankly as her image rose clearly before him. “No, she’s not a beauty,” he answered with a rueful smile. “She is rather plain, though her eyes are . . . expressive . . . and her smile . . . pleasing. She’s a regular Long Meg—quite a head taller than Helen, in fact—and has a trick of looking down her nose that sets one in place right enough. She, at least, doesn’t attempt to veil her barbs, preferring to make the hit direct.”

  “And were you . . . hit?” Despite the casualness of the query, Maret watched the viscount closely from under half-closed lids.

  “She learned of our wager,” he said by way of answer. “And I rather fear she’ll not easily forgive me.”

  “And Miss Helen, did she learn of it as well?”

  “No—no, and I don’t think Miss Lawrence will tell her.”

  They sat silently for some minutes, each seeing a vision of a woman. But Stratford was somewhat disconcerted when he realized he was picturing an oversized pair of clear gray eyes beneath a muslin mobcap, and he pushed his chair abruptly from the table.

  “I’ve a week before my fiancée arrives to claim my attention, Jacques, and I’ve a strong desire to kick the country dust from my heels. Shall we begin at White’s or Watier’s?”

  “I believe a view of the cattle at Tattersalls’ to begin,” Maret drawled. “Then, of course, we must take a turn through the park as a prelude to an evening at the tables of White’s.”

  This pleasant program proved to set the pattern for Stratford’s week. The viscount was seen everywhere from Cribb’s Parlour to Carlton House in such a heavy round of socializing that Maret was moved to cynically comment that it was apparent Colin was more intent on kicking up dust than on kicking it off.

  But Stratford merely shrugged and continued to clutter each day with a hectic schedule, beginning and ending every engagement with a level of restless energy previously unmatched.

  Chapter 10

  Lady Minerva Baldwin was not the person in whom one confided a secret, for in general news given her was no sooner taken in than it was revealed. It was as if she were but a resting house where news paused briefly before galloping on to visit the rest of the ton. But such was her utter disbelief over the tidings delivered by her son that her nephew had indeed offered for the country nobody that Lady Minerva had for once kept her own counsel. After making several fruitless attempts to corner Stratford during the week, she finally sallied forth to Half Moon Street, where she brushed majestically past Felton as he opened the door.

  “Do not be trying to deny Stratford to me! I’m going to see him if I have to sit here the entire day!” Upon her declaration, she removed her pink kid gloves and thrust them at the impassive butler as one throwing down a gauntlet.

  “I think, m’lady,” he intoned with a wooden face, “that his lordship will receive you in the yellow morning room.” He led her across the black-and-white marbled foyer to hold wide a door.

  With her befeathered head erect, Lady Minerva marched in. The room, though not large, was well-proportioned with a bright and cheery setting. Like every other room in the viscount’s house, it was finely decorated with an understated elegance. Her admirable surroundings had no effect upon Lady Minerva, however, for her thoughts were fully occupied with the incredible intelligence that her nephew meant to marry at last.

  She placed her short, stout body plumply on a chair covered in shiny yellow-striped satin, with every expectation of being kept there at length. But Stratford was not one to avoid any unpleasantness. He had accepted with resignation Felton’s message that he was entertaining a morning call from his aunt and he stepped immediately toward the yellow room.

  His aunt had her hands raised to gently lift her hat from her head when Stratford entered. As this monstrous structure was a straw tower of what appeared to him to be the entire plumage of some once-proud bird, he watched with amusement her intricate maneuverings as she contrived to bring it safely from atop her gray curls to the seat beside her.

  “Quite right, Aunt Minnie,” he approved, strolling forward when she had at last accomplished the removal of her bonnet. “You are wise to divest yourself of that thing—shall I summon Felton to banish it from our sight?” She managed only to drop open her mouth in wordless outrage before he went lightly on. “You really ought to get rid of your dresser, my dear. She lets you go abroad in the most appalling headgear.”

  She eyed him with hostility as he sat easily across from her. “That hat is quite the height of fashion, Stratford!”

  “Fashion is at a low ebb these days.”

  “Really, if you choose to be disagreeable, there’s no sense in talking with her.” Her nephew’s brief hopes were dashed, however, as her double chin folded in an earmark of obstinacy that he well knew. “But I’ve come to discover if what Daniel has told me can indeed be true. Have you truly offered for the Lawrence chit?”

  Stratford studied the toe of his boot. “Yes, my dear aunt, I have.”

  “There is no understanding you, and so I’ve always said. You surely do not claim to love her?”

  His lordship made no attempt to deny this charge. “I should have thought,” he drawled instead, “that you would be overjoyed to learn I’ve at last awakened to my sense of familial duty.”

  “Of course, of course, but why that little nobody?” As his head came up with a quick frown, she added, “Oh, she’s quite the loveliest girl to be seen in years, I’ll give you that. But she has neither fortune nor position to recommend her.”

  “She has, nonetheless, one thing of import to recommend her, dear aunt.”

  “And what is that, pray?” she demanded waspishly.

  “My ring as pledge upon her finger.” The viscount stood and looked down upon his aunt. “I’ll have Miss Helen treated with all the respect due the Viscountess Stratford.”

  “Naturally—I did not mean—and if it is indeed true . . .” Lady Minerva halted in her flustered attempts to explain herself and gathered her dignity to inquire with more composure, “But why have you not published the notice of your betrothal?”

  “Imagine, if you will, the stunning effect when we announce the news at Miss Helen’s come-out ball.”

  She appeared satisfied and in quite a mollified tone inquired, “When is the wedding to be? Daniel was so close I swear I was ready to box his ears!”

  “We’ve not yet decided upon a date,” he replied as he moved to stand with one foot upon the polished steel grate.

  Lady Minerva stared at him with narrowed eyes, wondering what could be behind that colorless tone. “Well, I do not say that you couldn’t have done better—though indeed you could have if you’d but come to me—but that is neither here nor there.” She broke off as she saw his eyes darken and then continued in a rush, “But I for one shall welcome the dear girl with a grateful heart, for she has at least put an end to your liaison with that dreadful Thalia Loveday. That woman is as bad as Caroline Lamb, you know, and you are well rid of her. The scandalous gossip alone—”

  Her steam was clearly up and Stratford let her disperse it for quite some time. At length, however, he could take no more. He turned a suppressive gaze upon her and said, “Forgive me, Aunt Minerva, but I’ve yet to discover how my personal affairs are any of your business and I’ll thank you to cease your interference in them. Ah, yes, you are affronted! I suggest you take yourself and that godawful hat off to find a sympathetic friend to commiserate over what shocking bad manners your nephew has.”

  When she and her bonnet had departed in a huff, Stratford could only wonder that, with such a mother, his cousin Daniel had retained h
is sanity into manhood.

  ***

  Whether he was spurred by his well-meaning aunt or by his own sense of devilment, only the viscount knew. But it was certainly with an eye to making mischief that he rode to the side of an elegant town-barouche in Hyde Park that afternoon. With the slightest hesitation, Maret had reined in beside him to view from narrowed eyes the touching reunion between Lord Stratford and Mrs. Thalia Loveday. It was to be observed that Mrs. Loveday’s alabaster hand trembled as it encountered his lordship’s, but she managed a tolerably casual air.

  “What a delightful surprise! My Lord Stratford, Mr. Maret, you are acquainted with Lady Holden, are you not?”

  “But of course,” Stratford responded, his eyes never leaving the seductive emerald gaze of Mrs. Loveday.

  “You must know,” put in Maret in a dry tone, “that Stratford is known to every female in town—and a great many beyond.”

  A round of laughter met this sally, to be followed by more commonplace conversation. After some five minutes, his lordship straightened in his saddle. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “Were I not engaged to be at Vauxhall tonight,” said Thalia coyly, “I’d gladly give you the pleasure of my company again.”

  Stratford regarded her from beneath drooping lids. “But, my dear Thalia, I don’t recall asking for that, er, pleasure.” He bowed curtly at the waist, ignoring Thalia’s sharply audible gasp, and rode off.

  As they cantered on through the park, Maret casually examined his friend. “Forgive me—perhaps I was not attending—but did you not tell me this affair was quite finished?”

  “It is. Are you worrying over me?” Stratford asked, smiling.

  Maret lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Not at all, Colin, not at all. I was merely ascertaining the facts of the situation.”

  “Well, Jacques, the fact is I was of a mind to see how the passionate Thalia has been faring without me, nothing more.”