by Darcy, Norma
“A little groggy, my lord,” replied Aunt Blakelow, as she closed the door, “but on the mend.”
“Can I see her?”
“She’s sleeping at the moment. Best to leave her.”
He nodded stiffly and smiled. “Very well. Perhaps later.”
He turned to go and Aunt Blakelow bit her lip. “Oh, go on then! But don’t tire her out.”
The earl flashed a boyish grin and placed his hand upon the door knob. “I won’t ma’am, thank you.”
Miss Blakelow was sitting up in bed when he entered the room, staring out of the window, apparently deep in thought. She turned her head when the door opened and self-consciously pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Someone’s feeling better,” he observed as he closed the door.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He took a few steps further into the room. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. You have been very kind.”
He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down.
“Sir, I have been thinking,” she began.
“Oh, Lord,” he murmured.
She glared at him but the look was spoiled by the smile tugging at her mouth. “You needn’t look like that.”
“I always look afraid when women get that look in their eye,” he commented, bracing one booted foot across the opposite knee. “It means I am either just about to be put to a great deal of expense or a great deal of trouble. Come on then, out with it.”
“Thorncote.”
“Ah…I was wondering when we would get to that.”
“…the debts. I cannot let you write them off. Indeed it is most kind of you but―”
“Nonsense.”
“But you must let me at least try and pay them back. It may take me some time, but I will do it. I swear I will.”
“Please put them out of your mind. I did it for purely selfish reasons. You can have no notion how enjoyable it was to tear them up.”
Miss Blakelow looked down at her hands. “I want to do something for you in return.”
Several rather powerful images flashed across his lordship’s brain at that moment and he was hard pressed not to smile. But he had no desire to be in her black books again so he quashed the suggestion that sprang to his lips in favour of something less contentious.
“There is no need, Miss Blakelow. To see you restored to full health is all the thanks I need.”
She reached for the glass of water on the table by the bed and sipped from it delicately. “I would like to return home this morning,” she said, “if I might impose upon you to borrow your carriage?”
“My carriage is at your disposal, ma’am but I believe the doctor advised that you stay here for a couple of days.”
“There is no need. I am very much better already.”
“Are you going to argue with me about everything?” he asked, amused.
“No, my lord.”
“Well,” he said, standing and pushing the chair back against the wall. “I promised your aunt that I would not stay too long. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”
“A book?” she replied, her eyes flicking over him as he walked to the door.
“Something instructional and morally improving? Fordyce’s Sermons perhaps?” he asked with a smile.
“I do not believe such a work exists amongst your collection, my lord.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” he replied with a hand on the door knob. “And no, it is not used as a paper weight; I have actually read it.”
“And enjoyed it?”
“I’m a rake, Miss Blakelow. I’m afraid there you are pushing the realms of possibility too far.”
She smiled and snuggled down under the covers. “Choose me a novel, if you please.”
He bowed. “Something frivolous coming up.”
Miss Blakelow watched him until he had closed the door.
* * *
Miss Blakelow was persuaded to stay at Holme for two days. She read two extremely frivolous books, one of which was a gothic romance that was so preposterous that she pronounced herself surprised that he would countenance its presence upon his hallowed bookshelves. They fell into a routine of sorts; he came to see her once briefly in the morning and once for a longer visit in the afternoon when they played chess while Aunt Blakelow changed the dressing on her head. The only blot on her landscape was Lady St. Michael, who seemed to delight bursting into the room uninvited at any hour, once catching Miss Blakelow about to use the chamber pot.
Miss Blakelow was angry at the woman’s intrusion and was at a loss to explain it. Nothing would have pleased her more than to have told the woman to get out. But it was not her room and not her house. She was a guest. And a guest deeply beholden to the Hockingham family, at that.
It was during his lordship’s afternoon visit on the second day that things came to a head.
Aunt Blakelow had gone for her afternoon nap leaving her niece alone with their host. He was seated on the edge of the bed, as he usually did, and the chess board sat on Miss Blakelow’s lap. She was pondering her move when she slanted a deeply wicked look at him from under her brows and asked, “Is it true that you fought a duel when you were only sixteen?”
He looked up from contemplation of the pieces. “Where on earth did you hear that?”
“My brother. He said you nearly killed your man, cool as you please, and went out drinking afterwards.”
Lord Marcham shifted uncomfortably. “There are lots of stories about me. Not all of them are true.”
“Is that one?” she asked.
He sighed. “It is true that I fought a duel when I was sixteen. But I was not ‘cool as you please,’ I was little more than a boy and frankly terrified.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Now concentrate, Miss Blakelow, I am about to take your queen.”
“But is it true that you gambled Holme Park away on the turn of a card and lost? And then won it back the very next moment?”
He leaned back, frowning. “What’s brought all this on?”
“Nothing…I’m just trying to gauge exactly how debauched you are.”
“I see,” he said stiffly.
She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Dear sir, please don’t be angry. I’m just curious. One hears so many stories…”
“I am glad that you find my past so entertaining.”
“I have upset you.”
“My dear girl, it would take more than that to upset me. But I am not altogether proud of all my…er…youthful achievements.”
“So is it true?” she asked softly.
He folded his arms. “It’s partly true. It was not Holme that I nearly lost but my house in London. It was the height of folly and I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. And that particular experience taught me to never gamble away that which you are unwilling to part with.”
“Very true,” she said wisely.
“An adage your father would have done well to have lived by.”
There was a silence but she did not seem to be much inclined to focus on the game and his lordship rolled his eyes. “What else do you want to know?”
“Lady Burford,” said Miss Blakelow with a wicked smile.
He stared at her. “How did you find out about Lady Burford? You are supposed to be a fine upstanding paragon of Christian virtue.”
Miss Blakelow winced slightly at his choice of words. “I have ears. I hear the stories the same as anyone else.”
“Yes, I had an affair with Lady Burford. Happy?”
“Oh, I know that! Everyone knows it. What I am curious about is whether you managed to make love to her at the supper table at a masquerade in a room full of people. That’s what William says you did.”
He stared at her as if he could hardly believe his ears. “Remind me to have stern words with your brother for filling your head with stories which are not fit for the ears of a well bred young woman. Miss Blakelow, I am not going to answer that question.”
“But if she was sitting at the table and there with her husband and everyone was watching…”
“They were not watching, or at least not me,” he said uncomfortably. “And this is a highly improper subject for a young lady.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“No,” he muttered, “and I’d be worried if you did.”
She grew thoughtful again and he put his head in his hand. “If she was at the table, and her husband was sitting next to her, where were you?”
“Miss Blakelow, we are supposed to be playing chess.”
“He was under the table,” said Lady St. Michael suddenly from behind them.
Miss Blakelow jumped and overset the chess board and all the pieces rolled and fell onto the counterpane and the carpet.
His lordship turned and glared at his sister. “Thank you, Sarah, thank you very much indeed.”
She smiled her bittersweet smile. “Anything to help, dear Robbie. You seemed to be unable to tell dear Miss Blakelow that which she most wanted to know. You are wanted downstairs, by the way. You may leave Miss Blakelow in my care.”
“Your care, Sarah? Why does that thought send a shiver down my spine?” he murmured.
She smiled. “You needn’t look so worried. Your secrets are safe with me.”
He hesitated, a chess piece in his hand, reluctant to leave his sister alone with Miss Blakelow given the recent topic of conversation. How many more stories would Sarah tell her? How much further would he sink in the eyes of Miss Georgiana Blakelow?
“Go, Robbie,” commanded his sister. “Miss Blakelow is to have a wash and you will be very much in the way.”
Lady St. Michael closed the door on her brother and looked on with wry amusement as the poor woman in the bed tried to work it out.
Under the table, thought Miss Blakelow, under the table. Her eyes flew open. “Oh.”
“Yes, Miss Blakelow, ‘oh’ indeed,” said Lady St. Michael dryly. “There was quite a lot of ‘oh’…”
Miss Blakelow blushed a vivid shade of red and turned her face away. “I…I thought he’d say that it wasn’t true,” she said, unable to meet the woman’s mocking eyes, “merely a tall story. I never imagined…”
“No,” said Lady St. Michael setting down a pitcher of water. “One never does. My brother is nothing if not entertaining, is he not? Are you very shocked, Miss Blakelow? I would be if I were you. But you should know precisely the sort of man he is if you intend to marry him, you know. He is rather a selfish creature who takes little interest in anything but the pursuit of pleasure. Did you think that he had reformed his character just for you? Do you think you will be able to convince him to give up his mistress after you are wed? You poor, little innocent. You’d best not let your heart become involved, my dear. It is much the best thing to look upon it as a business deal, for ten to one he will return to his old ways within a year. You said you wanted to know how debauched he is? Be under no illusions, he is not called a rake for nothing.”
“He is not debauched,” said Miss Blakelow firmly, “merely bored.”
Lady St. Michael raised a brow politely. “Indeed? You know him so well on only a month’s acquaintance?”
“I know that he has been a good and kind friend to me.”
“Friend,” scoffed Lady St. Michael. “Is that what you call it? Trust me, when a man’s primary motive is to bed you, it is not friendship that he’s offering.”
Miss Blakelow threw back the bed covers and swung her legs over the side. “I’m not listening to this.”
“How long do you think he is going to be happy living here in the middle of the country with you and nothing for entertainment but sheep and fresh air? He is an inveterate gambler, my dear. He spends days of his life in one gaming hell or another. He drinks to excess. He frequents the homes of opera dancers. Rural Worcestershire will not hold him for long and neither, to be blunt, will you. Be warned, this is no green boy you trifle with.”
“Why are you doing this?” Miss Blakelow demanded, as she disappeared behind a screen and whipped the nightdress over her head.
“Because I don’t want to see my brother unhappy…or you, for that matter. Whatever I may think of you, I would not wish to see you trapped in an unhappy marriage for the rest of your life.”
“I’m touched by your concern,” said Miss Blakelow coldly as she pulled on her shift, “but you are suffering under a delusion; I have no intention of marrying your brother or anyone else.”
“I am relieved to hear it, Miss Blakelow.”
“I have not given Lord Marcham any reason to believe that we are anything other than friends,” she said, throwing on her gown.
“Then you had better reassert that intention. My brother is looking for a wife and he seems to have chosen you.”
“Only because he cannot be bothered with searching for a replacement for Lady Emily Holt,” said Miss Blakelow. “To be frank with your ladyship, he wants a brood mare to give him a son. And that is…not what I want. He had best look in another direction for his wife and so I have already told him.”
“You are not then in love with him?” asked Lady St. Michael.
Miss Blakelow struggled with the fastenings on her dress. “I…I am not.”
Her ladyship seemed to relax. “And you have no intention of accepting him were he to make you an offer?”
“I have already refused him,” said Miss Blakelow quietly.
“You relieve me, Miss Blakelow. I have to own that you relieve me a great deal.”
“But he will marry one day, my lady, and you had best get used to the fact. He needs an heir and that is something that even you cannot give him.”
There was a chilly silence.
“And what do you mean by that remark?” demanded Lady St. Michael.
“That you will not always be the first woman in your brother’s life,” said Miss Blakelow, as she pulled on her boots.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I suspect that you are rather used to having him all to yourself…”
Lady St Michael gave a scornful laugh. “If you say so.”
“…and you don’t like the thought that one day he might choose his wife over you.”
Lady St. Michael simmered with anger. “I want him to be happy.”
“With a lady of your own choosing, no doubt,” said Miss Blakelow, wrapping her cloak around her half fastened dress. “A lady who won’t answer back. A lady who you may order around as you choose.”
“How dare you?”
“Does your brother continually flout your choices for him?” mocked Miss Blakelow, pulling her hair into a bun and thrusting it under the hood of the cloak. “Poor Lady St. Michael. You try so hard to choose him someone you think he should be happy with and drat the man, he’d rather choose his bride himself.”
Miss Blakelow came out from behind the screen, dressed in haphazard style but decent nonetheless. Her appearance would not pass public scrutiny but her cloak hid the unfastened buttons of her gown from view. “I won’t stay in this house with you for another second, Lady St. Michael. I am going home. I will let you explain to your brother the reason why I have gone. Good day.”
* * *
Miss Blakelow found an entrance to the servants’ staircase and yanked open the door. She flew down the rough stone stairs, her hand gliding down the cold steel banister rail, her boots echoing on the steps as she ran. She did not want to be caught by his lordship or anyone else; she was so close to tears that any further confrontation would completely overset her composure.
She followed the stairs down and down until she emerged in a small lobby. The servants’ hall was to her left, the great long table empty, a huge clock on the wall above them, no doubt to remind them that even their leisure time belonged to the master. She sped out of the door in front of her and found herself in the stable yard.
A stable hand was looking at her curiously from one of the stalls.
“Can I help you miss?” he asked, wipin
g his fingers on his trousers.
“My horse was brought here two days ago, a black mare with a white flash―”
“Down its nose. I know, miss. Were you the lady that had the accident?”
She smiled. “Yes. But I am recovered now and should like to go home. Would you be able to saddle her for me?”
“Right away, miss.”
Miss Blakelow was in an agony that his lordship would find her at any second and ask the reason for her departure. And she could not face him. She could not let him know that his sister had chased her away by reminding her of the things she already knew; Lord Marcham was not the man for her.
* * *
Lord Marcham stood behind his desk in the library, bracing his fists on its surface so that he leaned over it and could look into his sister’s face. “What the devil was all that about?”
Lady St. Michael bristled. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You decide to tell an innocent female one of the choicer stories from my past and you tell me it was nothing?”
“May I remind you, Robbie, that she brought it up? She wanted to know the truth.”
“That’s because she had no comprehension of what the truth would be,” he said furiously. “And you took great delight in telling her, didn’t you? I could see it all over your face. No matter that I was barely eighteen and drunk as a wheelbarrow at the time. No matter that I did it for a dare because I was bored out of my brain. Or that I have regretted it ever since. I find it remarkable that those facts never seem to be recounted, just the juicier parts of the story.”
“Oh, poor Robbie. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?” she mocked.
He paused, a muscle pulsing with anger in his cheek. “What else did you tell her?” he asked her, controlling his temper with an effort.
Her ladyship adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “I told her nothing that she could not have heard from anyone else.”
“What else did you tell her?” he demanded again, more insistently.
“That you gamble and drink and see opera dancers. She needs to know what you are, Robbie. She has some nonsensical notion that you have reformed yourself for her, just as every other female did who ever set up a flirtation with you. They all think they can change you. And they are all wrong.”