Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  “My dear Miss Helen,” Maret said as he came forward. “I was about to give up hope of finding you.” He brook off as he saw her woebegone expression and was before her, holding her hands in the instant. “My dear! No one can have told you! Stratford is quite past danger.”

  “I know, I know, and I’m grateful, truly I am!” she burst out in distress. “But, oh, Mr. Maret, was there ever such a dreadful coil? Here I am betrothed to Lord Stratford whilst Rose is to be wed to Mr. Baldwin. It only remains for you to solicit Amy’s hand to make the farce complete!”

  He placed himself on the sofa beside her, studying the way her dark curls brushed tantalizingly against her neck. “I had wondered,” he mused tonelessly, “just when you would discover what a tangle we are in.”

  “You knew?” she asked with a blaze in her eye.

  “I . . . suspected. I only learned for a certainty that Stratford loves Rose after the duel.”

  “He loves Rose? Oh, that makes it even worse!” Helen cried, rising to her feet. “You see, I’ve only learned—it’s been plain to see—that Rose feels . . . deeply about him. But that he should love her! Oh, whatever can we do?”

  “For a start, my pet, you can sit calmly down.” His air of tranquil authority had its effect. Helen returned to her seat and summoned up a tremulous smile for him. Maret tilted her head up with his fingertips and lightly brought his lips to hers. “Now Helen . . . my sweet . . . beautiful . . . child,” he murmured as he punctuated his words with a series of light kisses, “you are going to tell Stratford you are releasing him of his obligation to you, because, quite frankly, my little love—”here he set a kiss upon the tip of her nose—“I am quite bored with being patient and honorable. I fully intend, dear heart, to marry you myself.”

  His kisses were now returned with a fervor which would have astonished the viscount, who had begun to fear his bride-to-be was of a frigid nature. Maret found Helen far from lacking in passion and it was quite some time before the original object of their discussion reasserted itself.

  “But, Jacques, even so,” Helen said a little breathlessly, “it will not do Rose or Stratford the least good, for there is Mr. Baldwin to be thought of. And poor, poor Amy!”

  “Ah, as to that, my love, I begin to perceive that I must bestir myself on the behalf of my future relations. Am I to understand that Miss Thacker has a tendre for Daniel Baldwin?”

  “Yes. And he was to have married her, but there was some misunderstanding whist we were here before and—and Rose ended up betrothed to him. I thought at the time it was most odd, but only now do I understand it had nothing to do with love.”

  “Ah . . . I confess, I had wondered what had set Colin on,” Maret admitted to his bewildered love. “Well, you are to leave this problem to me, Helen. Do not, as yet, broach the subject with your sister, however.”

  “You do not wish to have her hopes raised? Oh, Jacques, if you could only set the matter to rights! Then my happiness would be utterly complete!”

  Women who knew of Mr. Maret’s antipathy to having his clothes disarranged the slightest degree would have been astounded at how meekly he accepted the crushing embrace which quite thoroughly destroyed the intricate folds of his cravat.

  *****

  It was not until two days later when Dr. Martin pronounced his patient was fit to receive brief visits that anyone other than Rose and the earl was allowed into Stratford’s room. But at the first opportunity, Helen, with her hair pulled into a charming Grecian knot and tied with a ribbon as yellow as her buttercup gown, entered the room with her chin held high.

  The viscount was supported by a vast pile of monogrammed pillows, his dark hair gleaming against the whiteness. His burgundy brocade dressing gown accented the pallor of his face, but his black eyes were alert and he appeared transformed from the deathly ill person of three days ago. Upon seeing her, he smiled crookedly, looking much like the schoolboy Rose had termed him, and held out his hand. As she came to take it, he spoke with a seldom-heard solemnity.

  “I’ve been anxious to see you, Helen. I very much wish to make you my apologies—again! It must seem to you that I’m forever bringing some fresh scandal down upon us—”

  “No, indeed!” she interrupted quickly. “There is no need for you to apologize to me, my lord. I’m just thankful you are on the way to mending. It—it was a frightful scare.”

  “But I am sorry, Helen, for the gossip you will have to bear,” he persisted. His eyes swept the room, then finally came back to rest upon her face. “I shall not put you through such straits again.”

  “My lord, please! There is something I must say, and then I think it shall be I who have to beg your pardon.” He looked quizzical, and she found she could not meet his eyes. Removing her hand from his, she played nervously with the lace ends of her sleeves. “I find that I must do what I ought to have done months ago. My lord, I must release you of your obligation to me. Wait, please! Let me finish! There are two reasons—”

  “There is no need to explain, Helen,” he interjected.

  “—why we cannot marry,” she continued, forcing herself to stare squarely at him. “Jacques and Rose.”

  A myriad of emotions crossed his face. Gradually, an understanding smile touched his lips. “Has Jacques spoken?”

  “Yes. I—I’ve loved him from the first, you know.” She bent her head rather shyly. “I am afraid that between the two of us we very nearly made a rare muddle of it.”

  Stratford captured the nervous hand. “May I offer you my sincere congratulations, Helen? Jacques is . . . unique.”

  “Yes,” she agreed simply. “He is.”

  They were interrupted by a knock, followed instantly by the entrance of Rose. She saw her sister sitting on the edge of his lordship’s bed, their hands resting comfortably together. She stopped and said in some confusion, “Oh! Pardon me! I did not know—”

  “Miss Lawrence, don’t leave! You may be the first to felicitate us,” Stratford said lightly.

  “Felicitate you?”

  “Miss Helen has had the rare good sense to throw me over.”

  As Helen giggled, Rose’s bewilderment grew. “Throw you over?”

  “Yes, my dear. I am a jilted man!” He laughed, which led to a fit of coughing. Rose carried a glass of water and thrust it rather ungently at him. “Serves you right, my lord, for making very unpleasant jest.”

  “But he’s not!” Helen exclaimed through her own laughter.

  “You are not—marrying?” Rose inquired in a hollow voice.

  “No! We have just unbetrothed ourselves,” Helen replied happily. “Or should I say, unplighted our troth?”

  “Whichever,” Stratford answered with an airy wave of his hand. “Furthermore, Miss Lawrence, I believe you’ve good cause to congratulate your sister. She is about to contract a brilliant match.”

  Understanding dawned. “Is it to be Mr. Maret?”

  “It is!” her sister assented brightly. “And though in general I would dislike dueling extremely, I find I’ve good cause to be grateful to Robert Loveday—for otherwise I’d not have discovered that Jacques loves me!”

  “Anything to oblige, my dear. After all, it was but a small hole in my shoulder.”

  Helen blushed at this, but Rose said quite firmly, “If you two are quite through funning, I believe Lord Stratford should take a nap. Yes, my lord, a nap.”

  She shooed Helen out and followed rapidly behind. Retreating to the haven of her room, Rose tried to sort through the chaos of her emotions. She sat on the curved window seat and leaned against the leaded panes. The excellent view of rolling hills carpeted in emerald held no interest. Her attention was given wholly over to the astounding news that Stratford was not, after all, to wed Helen.

  Thoroughly shaken from her usual equanimity, Rose’s heart raced wildly as her initial disbelief gave way to a rush of absolute happiness. Having Stratford so suddenly free of his obligation brought an upsurge of hope that fulfillment of their love was no longer
beyond her reach.

  As it had almost from its inception, the folly of her betrothal to Daniel Baldwin taunted her moment of happiness and she chastised herself even more bitterly than before for her impulsive acceptance. Rose’s growing conviction that she would never be able to marry Baldwin now crystallized into a determination to end the mockery of a betrothal as quickly as possible. She would, she decided, inform Colin of her intention the first moment he declared his love.

  But when, over the next few days, Stratford made no such declaration, Rose began to suffer the heartache of doubt. There had been no lack of opportunity. Though the viscount’s natural good health asserted itself and he began to mend with astonishing speed, Rose still came to his room on numerous occasions each day. Not trusting her own emotions, she kept her distance from his bed and spoke to him of only the most unexceptional topics. She felt more often than saw as his eyes followed her movement and waited for him to speak. As each day passed without so much as a hint of what she so desperately needed to hear, Rose came less and less frequently to tend her patient.

  For Stratford, those few occasions were the highlights of his very dull days. No matter how foul his mood, she had only to walk into the room to re store him to good humor. When she was gone, he occupied himself with devising methods to end his cousin Baldwin’s engagement. End it he would, but Stratford meant to take the greatest care of both Miss Lawrence’s reputation and her feelings. Thus, with unaccustomed self-control, he refrained from speaking the words of love he longed to shower upon Rose.

  On the viscount’s first venture from the sick room, the small party ranged themselves on the outside terrace to play a rubber of whist with an air of festivity. Stratford stretched easily over a chaise longue, propped up by a bank of plump cushions. Owing to the bulk of the bandage padded over his left shoulder, the viscount sat in his shirt sleeves to a devastatingly handsome effect. Everyone else had dressed as for a party, since the arrival from Willowley of the sisters’ trunk and from London of Maret’s outraged valet had occasioned almost as much excitement as the viscount’s first day up.

  His lordship was paying little mind to the game. He stared with a frown at Rose’s indigo kerseymere, wondering how many times more he was to have that drab frock inflicted upon his sight before he could get the chit to accept the gift of a decent gown or two, when his attention was claimed.

  “I do wonder,” Maret drawled, “what the talk will be when I insert the notice announcing the ending of your betrothal, Stratford.”

  “London will undoubtedly say they are relieved to find Miss Helen Lawrence came to her senses in time.”

  “And when they read the accompanying notice of my betrothal to Jacques?” Helen inquired with a coy laugh.

  “Ah, then they will say the poor girl is beyond hope!” Stratford replied with promptitude.

  “Should you care to wager which of the two excites the most comment?” Maret asked.

  “I think . . . not,” the viscount said, gazing directly into Rose’s gray eyes. “I rather fear my wagering days are over, Jacques. At least until the stakes are irresistible.”

  “For you, my lord, any stake is irresistible,” Rose put in.

  “Now there, my dear, you wrong me. It may have been so at one time, but now I find only one thing irresistible.”

  Rose flushed deeply and bent her head over her cards to hide her embarrassment, offering them only the view of the top of her best lace cap. While Stratford’s eyes appeared to bore through her card hand, Helen took pity on her and changed the subject, asking his lordship if there was anything Maret might bring him back from London.

  “God, yes! Bring Busick, will you? I’d have sent for him days ago, but the poor man cannot stand the sight of a wrinkle or a wound and I seem to have been abundantly possessed of them both. But by the time you return—when? In two or three days?—I should be sufficiently mended for my valet’s sensibilities.”

  Laughter eased the situation and Rose was able to finish the game credibly. But she realized she would soon have to leave the Keep. It had gradually become painfully apparent to her that what she had mistaken for love had merely been a lustful passion. Stratford wanted her, but not as a wife, and the realization bruised her more surely than any blow. She hid the anguish of her despair well and resolved never to give in to her own yearnings.

  The danger was only too real. She saw it in the way his eyes ran over every inch of her, in the way his full lips lazily smiled, and most of all, she feared, in the way her own body trembled in response.

  Chapter 19

  Amelia Thacker could not have been said to be in spirits. Over the weeks since the disastrous visit to Hallbrook Keep, she had evidenced only the most lackluster interest in all the plans advanced for her amusement. Her mother began to realize that Amy’s affections had been more deeply engaged by Mr. Baldwin than she had at first supposed. She was even wondering, as she sat watching her daughter listlessly flip the pages of the latest issue of The Lady’s Magazine, whether she ought not, perhaps, let Amelia attend the ridotto at Vauxhall after all. It was not the sort of affair she would normally have considered as suitable for a moment, but quite anything was seemingly preferable to the continuation of Amy’s doldrums.

  Amy heaved a sigh and turned another page. Elizabeth decided to let her go to the ridotto, but got no further than taking a breath to speak when the opening door interrupted her. Amelia scarcely raised her head when their caller was announced, but when Mr. Maret explained that he carried a message from Miss Helen, she at last showed a spark of interest.

  “You’ve been to Willowley, Mr. Maret?” she asked putting aside the magazine.

  “I have come, Miss Thacker, directly from Hallbrook Keep.”

  “Oh! So it is true, then!” Amy’s violet eyes rounded. “Was Stratford very badly shot?”

  “Amelia!” Elizabeth chided quietly.

  “But, Mama, it’s been the most famous on dit in years!” her daughter protested.

  “Lord Stratford sustained a severe wound,” Maret confirmed with one of his rare smiles, “but he is happily recovering. I believe Miss Helen writes to request your company at the Keep during the convalescence.”

  The young girl eagerly took the paper he extended toward her and broke open the seal. “Oh!” she exclaimed after reading a bit. “She writes that she and Stratford have decided they would not suit!” Her eyes ran the length of the thin sheet. “Oh!” she again shrieked loudly.

  “Amelia, could you not at least strive for a ladylike tone?” her mother inquired in a damping tone.

  “But, Mama, Helen is to marry Mr. Maret!”

  The gentleman in question received the pair of inquisitive stares with a short bow. “I have the honor to be betrothed to Miss Helen.”

  “But—but what about the viscount? Was he not outraged? Did Helen jilt him for you?” Amy asked her questions in such a rush, Maret had no opportunity to answer them.

  “Such curiosity, my dear, shows a vulgarity of mind that cannot be liked,” Elizabeth scolded. “Mr. Maret, may I offer you my sincere wishes for your future happiness?”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Miss Thacker, will you be joining Miss Helen for the length of her stay at the Keep?”

  “Yes, that is, I should like to . . .” She looked anxiously at her mother and when that lady nodded her head, she jumped up. “I must see to packing instantly, for Helen writes I am to come as soon as may be!” She skipped from the room, to leave her mother shaking her head.

  “She’s a sad romp, but it’s been such a time since I’ve seen her look so happy, I could not scold her. I must thank you for the invitation.”

  “As to that, Miss Thacker will be doing Helen a kind service and, I believe, may find her own interests served.” The lazy tone was noncommittal, but Elizabeth’s brows raised.

  “Whatever can you mean, sir?”

  Maret’s shoulder lifted slightly. “Only that a visit could serve to divert her mind. Pray see that she leaves no later than tomo
rrow morning, if you please,” he said as he rose.

  “You haven’t some nonsensical notion of fixing her with Stratford, have you? For you must know that I would not—”

  “My dear woman, do not think to cast me in the role of Cupid, I beg you. It should not do at all.” With his brilliant, slow smile, Maret was gone.

  *****

  Elizabeth was still envisioning the memory of that smile on the following morning when she saw Amelia off. She had not been able to decipher the puzzle of Maret’s purpose, but a great deal would have been made clear to her had she been standing in Curzon Street somewhat later that day. From such a vantage point, Mrs. Thacker would have met with the highly edifying view of Maret entering the lodgings of Daniel Baldwin.

  Her surprise, had she been able to witness it, could not have matched that of Baldwin himself, for upon the identity of his morning caller being made known to him, Daniel had perfectly imitated a fish at feeding time. His servant having taken his reaction in a positive light, Maret soon joined his host. Baldwin recovered himself sufficiently to beg his guest to be seated, and as Maret languidly placed himself in an oval-backed armchair, inquired in a constricted tone if this call concerned the Viscount Stratford.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Maret replied easily. “Being Stratford, he is once again doing that which is least expected by making an astounding recovery.

  A breath was audibly released. “I am glad to hear of it.” Baldwin nervously drilled his fingers upon the thin arm of his chair, then added self-consciously, “Despite all our differences, it would give me great pain to lose him.”

  “We are not to lose him this time. A fact which brings relief to a great many and outrage to a great many more,” Maret remarked in his mocking tone.