The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Hester ran only far enough to be out of Lady Stanchfield’s sight. But she didn’t find another spot to read. Instead she made her way back to her room. She breathed a sigh of relief to see the room she shared with Mrs. Bellows unoccupied. She didn’t know what she’d have done if she’d had to endure the lady’s chatter at that moment.

  She flung herself on her bed and buried her head in the pillow. Why had she come to this awful house party? She didn’t belong here. Her father had been right. These people were no sort of Christians. They were rich and spoiled and believed they could follow their own set of rules.

  If she’d believed last night’s run-in with Lord Billingsley had been an isolated incident, she’d been wrong. It had been only typical of the world in which she found herself.

  Her visit to England had been not at all what she had envisioned. She’d imagined lots of new gowns and sightseeing. What she had never imagined was the kind of people she would meet. She sometimes wondered if they would have seemed less strange if she’d gone to Africa or China.

  Naturally, she had expected a different mode of doing things. After all, her parents had told her enough of England to understand that what Americans did and ate, how they dressed and even spoke, would differ somewhat from their mother country.

  But what she had run into since Mrs. Bellows had begun to take her around to parties and routs and assemblies—and what she’d felt even more strongly since Lady Stanchfield had invited her to this fashionable house party—was a different mode of behavior. She’d sensed a deeper, ofttimes subtle, undercurrent in the people around her, as if they thought her slow and backward.

  Outwardly she might dress as these ladies dressed. She might be a few years’ younger—but she knew lots of women of various ages back home—and she might speak their same language, yet she felt like an entirely different creature.

  She remembered snippets of conversation between the guests, little of which she’d understood. She so often felt that there was a double meaning to their words. They would laugh at each other’s remarks when what had been said appeared completely innocuous to Hester. No wonder. Everything appeared quite clear to her now.

  That’s why she had spent so much time at sports with the gentlemen. She felt their conversation more straightforward, even if what they spent most of their time at was placing wagers on each others’ prowess at the different activities. Her parents and most of her acquaintances wouldn’t approve of the betting, but she still had found their language and behavior more direct.

  Until last evening.

  Even though she’d been honest when she’d told Major Hawkes that she’d never truly worried for her safety—she was too close to the Lord not to trust Him—the event with Lord Billingsley had shaken her. More than what liberties he had taken—or could have taken—with her, was the confrontation with his wickedness. For he had been wicked to try to overpower her when she’d clearly not welcomed his advances.

  Hester rarely came face-to-face with real evil and it always startled her when she did. It made her realize how truly sheltered her life was.

  Oh God, what am I doing here? Why did I come? Why didn’t I heed Papa? I need to go back to London. I want to go home. She rocked herself back and forth on her bed, wishing she could be transported immediately back to her safe home across the Atlantic.

  But then she’d never see Major Hawkes again. The thought brought her up short. He was the only bright spot among the Philistines she found herself amidst. But he came from their world, a small voice in her head reminded her. It was his world, too. But he was different, she argued. He was nothing like them.

  She felt to the core of her being that she had been meant to meet him. But could there ever be a future for the two of them? Sitting up in her bed, a pillow clutched to her chin, she stared at the dust motes in a streak of late-afternoon light.

  She had been brought up to seek God’s will above all. Since her birth, her parents had prayed for a godly man for her eventual husband, and she’d looked forward to that day, in anticipation of the one God would have for her. She swallowed, realizing Gerrit Hawkes could have very little part in that landscape. Suddenly everything in her life seemed out of kilter.

  She needed help. That much was certain. Scrambling off her bed, she went to the dresser and took up her Bible. She needed to hear from the Lord. Surely he had a purpose for bringing her to England and having her meet Gerrit Hawkes.

  Chapter Eleven

  That evening Gerrit entered the drawing room with some trepidation, wondering how he would find Miss Leighton. He regretted a thousand times his behavior of the evening before and was afraid he would see some expectancy in her eyes, or worse, some hurt.

  He’d taken the cowardly way out today; he’d left the house. Knowing that Billingsley was in the hunting party put his mind at rest about Miss Leighton’s safety at home. The man sported a good-sized bruise high on his cheek, and as Gerrit had predicted, he’d been asked about it quite a bit. When the marquess hadn’t been forthcoming, the men had begun teasing him that it was the lady who’d given him the injury.

  Luckily, Gerrit’s own bruise along his jawline hardly showed. As he scanned the drawing room, he saw no signs of Miss Leighton. Strange, she was rarely late. He saw Mrs. Bellows and decided to inquire about her charge’s whereabouts.

  “Oh, Major Hawkes, how dashing you always look in your regimentals. How was the hunt today? We missed the gentlemen but I’m sure you were all having too grand a time to give a thought to us.”

  “We had some success,” he managed to interrupt. “You’ll probably be tasting some pheasant and woodcock at the table in the coming days.”

  “Oh, I do so love a roast pheasant.” She fluttered her fan in the throes of anticipation.

  “By the by, I don’t see Miss Leighton.”

  Mrs. Bellows shook her head. “Oh, the poor dear. She said she would stay in her room this evening.”

  He frowned at the older woman. “Indeed? Is she ill?” Had Billingsley harmed her more than she’d let on?

  “Well, I don’t rightly know,” she answered, pursing her lips. “She didn’t complain of any ailments, although I will say she looked a bit pale and seemed subdued.” She gave a smile. “I told you we ladies were pining your absence today.”

  He smiled wanly, wishing he could know for certain what was wrong with Miss Leighton. Could she be avoiding Billingsley—or him?

  “I’m sure she’ll be quite all right after an early night. She’s not used to the late hours of a house party,” Mrs. Bellows prattled on. “I had the maid prepare her an infusion of pennyroyal and take her a little toast. Good against a touch of melancholia. Perhaps it is a religious melancholia. She was reading her Bible again…although she assured me she was quite well.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bellows. Please send her my well wishes for her speedy recovery when you see her again this evening.”

  “Of course, my dear major. I’m sure your wishes will do the trick. She’s quite fond of you.”

  Gerrit swallowed, not wishing the confirmation of what he was most afraid of. Was she really unwell, or was she just avoiding the company? Melancholia? He couldn’t picture Miss Leighton melancholic. Well, he’d have to bide his time until the morrow and see how she appeared—or more precisely, how she reacted to his presence.

  He toyed with the idea of going back to London. That would probably be best, he decided. Yet, he was reluctant to leave as long as Billingsley remained at Delia’s. The young lord had avoided Gerrit during the entire hunt. Gerrit sighed. He’d just have to have a word with him after dinner and gauge his state of mind.

  He knew if he were in Billingsley’s shoes, he wouldn’t give up on a lady he had his eye on just because of a first refusal on the lady’s part. He was skilled in the art of wearing down a woman’s resistance.

  If Billingsley was worth any of his reputation as a dandy of the first stare, he would be just as persistent with Miss Leighton. This was precisely what worried Gerrit
.

  What if he weren’t around the next time to rescue her?

  Late that night, when the men were in their cups and hadn’t yet risen from the table to join the ladies, Gerrit stood from his place and sauntered over to where Billingsley was regaling some fellows with his exploits at the hunt.

  Gerrit pulled out a chair and straddled it. “How’s the bruise?” he asked.

  Billingsley gave him a cold look, but shrugged. “Your concern overwhelms me.”

  “Tell us again how your lovely face got so battered?” Astley inquired from across the table. “You fell in the tub, you say?”

  “No, wasn’t it when you couldn’t find your way back to your bedchamber last night and stumbled on the stairs?” The other men roared with laughter.

  “The question is, was it Miss Leighton’s room he hailed from or another?”

  “Perhaps it was Miss Leighton herself who milled him down,” Gerrit offered.

  “That’s a good one!” one of the men said, and the table erupted in a round of guffaws.

  “I can just picture it. She opened her door and there stands his lordship in his silk dressing gown, candle in hand, asking the way to the library. The next thing he knows, she’s drawn his cork. Never saw it coming, did you, old fellow?” another man asked with a slap on the back.

  “If she’s as good with her fives as she is with the bow and pistol, you’re lucky your nose isn’t broken.”

  Billingsley gave Gerrit a look that promised they would have words later, and that they wouldn’t be pleasant ones.

  Gerrit hardly cared what Billingsley’s opinion of him was. What concerned him was his opinion of Miss Leighton. If he couldn’t make it clear to Billingsley in private that her virtue was not to be toyed with by word or deed, he’d have to take matters further.

  When the others were leaving the dining room for the drawing room, Gerrit stopped Billingsley with a touch on his elbow.

  “A word if you please.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like better,” he said, his jaw hard. It would have had more effect if it didn’t look so mottled by a bruise.

  Once on the terrace, Billingsley faced Gerrit. “I’ll thank you to stay out of my business and leave your clever remarks to yourself.”

  “I consider it my business if they involve Miss Leighton.”

  “Fancy her yourself, is that it?”

  “That’s not your concern. She’s an innocent, and as such, it’s beneath you to compromise her virtue.”

  “That’s a fine thing coming from you.”

  Gerrit swallowed back his growing anger. It would be much simpler to have another round with him instead of trying to appeal to his better nature.

  “Be that as it may, I’m telling you to stop slandering her character among the male company. She’s done nothing to you except show excruciating patience with your inept advances, and it shows poor sportsmanship to try and get back at her by talking of her as if she were available to anyone.”

  Billingsley made a show of taking a pinch of snuff from his box. After inhaling of it deeply and sneezing into his handkerchief, he rocked back on his heels, trying to stare Gerrit down. “As I see it, you have very little control over what a man says—”

  Gerrit grabbed his cravat, cutting off his words. Billingsley’s snuff box dropped with a clatter to the stone pavement.

  “If you can’t control your speech, then I’ll have to make sure your mouth isn’t in working order.” Gerrit squeezed the neck cloth tighter until he could see Billingsley’s face turning redder and his eyes begin to widen with entreaty.

  “Don’t trifle with Miss Leighton. I’ve killed more frogs than you’ve years on you, and I wouldn’t hesitate to add one more corpse to the pile.” With a shove, he let him go. Billingsley flailed his arms but to no avail. He landed with a thud on his backside. Gerrit would have found the sight of his ridiculous position amusing if he had had any inclination to laugh.

  “Leave her alone, Billingsley. Are we clear on that?”

  At Billingsley’s nod, Gerrit turned and strode from the terrace. He didn’t have much faith that his threat would do any good. He rubbed his own sore jaw, wishing again that he’d never left London. Now, he’d clearly have to stay to the bitter end, at least as long as Miss Leighton and Billingsley were residing under the same roof.

  Since when had he become a protector of female virtue?

  If the idea weren’t so ludicrous it would be as laughable as Billingsley on his rump.

  Tomorrow he’d have to find Miss Leighton and see for himself what her feelings toward him might be. If there was any hero worship, he’d have to make sure to quash it.

  Of the two encounters, he feared this next one the more.

  It was much later, when he was finally retiring, that Gerrit was faced with another encounter. His hand was on the doorknob of his room, when a female figure detached itself from the shadowy corridor. He hid his annoyance, wondering if it was one of Delia’s friends looking for male companionship.

  A second later he breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized Delia. “What are you doing there in the shadows like a specter?”

  She didn’t smile.

  “What is it, love?” he asked. “You look scared.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m lost, Gerrit.” She bit her lip and closed her eyes.

  “What happened?” He turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Come, it can’t be as bad as that.”

  She reopened her eyes. They were red and swollen. “It’s worse.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t talk here.”

  “Let me see if my room is unoccupied.” He opened the door and shone his candle in. The fellow he shared the chamber with hadn’t come up yet. “Come in and tell me what’s happened.”

  Delia entered and he closed the door behind her. “Now, what is so dire that you must be skulking in dark hallways?”

  She walked to the center of the small chamber and spoke without turning around. “Miss Leighton came upon Reginald and me in the rose garden.”

  “So, what is so unusual about that?”

  Delia swung around to him. “She saw us!” When he still didn’t react, she added, “Embracing!” She gave a harsh laugh. “Believe me, even your innocent Miss Leighton couldn’t misconstrue that type of embrace.”

  “What did she say?” he asked, trying to imagine how Miss Leighton might react to the sight of a passionate embrace between a married woman and her lover. After all, she was far from the jaded members of the ton into which she’d been thrust.

  Delia gave a choked laugh. “What could she say? She was clearly shocked. I ran after her. I had to. I couldn’t let her go without knowing what she might do.”

  “And?”

  Delia shook her head. “I think she was too stunned to say much of anything. But what will happen when she’s had a chance to think about it? She wasn’t at dinner this evening.” Delia looked at him, her eyes beseeching. “What if she goes to Lionel?”

  “Oh, come now, she wouldn’t do that. She hasn’t said more than two words to your husband this whole time. She’s not very well going to go up to him and tell him, ‘pardon me, but I caught your wife in a compromising position.’”

  “It’s nothing to joke about. If Lionel ever had any proof, he’d throw me out.”

  “Does he really believe you’ve been faithful to him all these years?” he asked with a touch of wry humor. Although he didn’t interfere in his sister’s affairs, he knew her marriage was a loveless one.

  “I’ve never given him any reason to suspect me. I’ve been very discreet.”

  Gerrit made a sound of disbelief, but at her hurt expression he relented. “All right, so he has no reason to suspect anything. Why be so worried now? I’m sure Miss Leighton would never do anything to prejudice you. She might not approve of your conduct, but she wouldn’t go running to your husband.”

  “I can’t be sure of that.” Delia pulled out a handkerchief from her sle
eve and wiped at her eyes. “You never know. What if Miss Leighton feels it her moral duty to inform my husband? I know she’s quite religious. Why, all she plays on the pianoforte are hymns. What if—”

  Gerrit reached out for her. “Shh. She’ll do nothing of the sort. Now get those silly thoughts out of your head.”

  “Oh, Gerrit, I’m so scared.” Her lower lip trembled and her eyes began to well up with tears again. “I know it’s wrong the way I’ve conducted myself, but I…love Reggie. Lionel is so cold…so distant.”

  Gerrit wrapped her in his arms. “There, there, I know that. You’ll make yourself sick with worry. Do you want me to talk with Miss Leighton?” He tried to picture that and hadn’t a clue what he would say.

  Delia’s head came up immediately from his chest. “Would you? I know she’d listen to you.”

  He twisted his lips into a smile which came out more a grimace. “Very well,” he answered, hiding the reluctance he felt. “Now, stop fretting about it and try to get some sleep. I’ll seek Miss Leighton out tomorrow and see what I can do.”

  “You’re such a dear,” Delia murmured from his chest. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “What did Reggie say when he saw Miss Leighton?” asked Gerrit, wishing he could have seen the old chub’s expression.

  “He was livid, of course.”

  Gerrit stifled a laugh. Typical. “Isn’t he worried about Lionel?”

  “Of course he is, but he was so furious at Miss Leighton’s intrusion that he didn’t think about that at first. He wanted to throttle the girl, as if it was Miss Leighton’s fault that she had come upon us. Poor thing, she was just trying to find a secluded spot in which to read.”

  Gerrit chuckled then sobered as he pictured Miss Leighton in a secluded spot in the vast gardens, just ripe for Billingsley to pounce.

  He sighed. Now he had two females to look out for. When had he gotten himself into such a whisker?

  The next morning, Hester attended church with Mrs. Bellows. When she saw Lady Stanchfield in a pew at the front of the church, she felt even worse than she had the previous afternoon. Immediately she scolded herself; maybe Lady Stanchfield was there in a spirit of repentance. But no matter how much she observed her during the service, Hester didn’t detect anything to point to a change of heart. She sat beside her husband, the two were even sharing a prayer book.