The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Darcy, Norma

  Lord Marcham picked up his hat and cane saying, “I hope you may be right. Your client must have deep pockets to keep you employed for ten years.”

  “He most particularly wishes to find her. She made rather a fool of him and he does not like to be made a fool of, your lordship, not one tiny bit. And he won’t let anyone get in his way.”

  His lordship smiled slightly. “Good day, Mr. Boyd.”

  * * *

  Lord Marcham threw open the door to his sister’s bedroom half an hour later and his eyes scanned the room until they found her seated before her dressing table in her robe.

  “Good Lord. Robbie, you’re back. I thought you’d be half way to Holme by now. What is the matter? Is anything amiss―?”

  He shook his head impatiently and came into the room. “Sophie Ashton. She was a friend of yours in the year of your come out, wasn’t she? Tell me about her.”

  Mrs. Weir put down her hairbrush and turned to face him. “Sophie Ashton?” she repeated blankly. “Why? What’s the matter? What has happened?”

  “Nothing. But who was she? Tell me.”

  Caroline looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t remember?”

  He shook his head. “I remember the name but I cannot put a face to it.”

  “The excesses of youth, Rob?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he replied. “Or it might have something to do with the fact that I was invalided out of the army with a leg wound.”

  “Ah, but Hal must have told you?”

  “Hal?” he repeated. “What has he to do with it?”

  “You really don’t remember, do you?” she said.

  “No,” he replied shortly. “I didn’t think much beyond the lead shot in my leg at the time.”

  “No,” agreed his sister, “and very sorry for yourself you were too. You were the worst patient in the world, desperate for every titbit of news from the front, jealous of every man who was going out there to fight, insisting you were well enough to go back when you could hardly stand up―”

  “Enough about that,” said the earl with an impatient wave of his hand. “You were telling me about Miss Ashton. Have you seen her recently?”

  Caroline sighed. “God, no. I haven’t seen Sophie in years. She disappeared after it all happened.”

  “She was the same age as you?” asked the earl.

  Caroline shook her head. “She was a year younger but she came out the same year as I did. We were rivals, you know,” said Mrs Weir, looking wistfully at the wall. “But she had by far the greater success of the two of us. She was a hit.”

  “Describe her to me.”

  Caroline shrugged and puffed out her cheeks. “Lord, I don’t know…beautiful, I suppose, in a rather unconventional way. She had an unusual way of arranging her hair which became her signature and all the crack…tall, elegant figure, but she had a vivaciousness about her which men could not resist. They were attracted to her like bees to a honey pot. It was quite a thing to behold. She’d have had you wrapped around her little finger, Robbie, no doubt of it. She was the daughter of a navy man, a ship’s captain I believe, but he died in the West Indies some years before.”

  Lord Marcham moved to the fireplace. “And her mother?”

  “She was dead too. Poor Sophie had nobody by the time I knew her.”

  “She must have lived with someone in London. A chaperone of some sort?”

  “Her aunt. Mrs. Thorpe. Frightful woman. She made it abundantly clear that Sophie was a burden to her. The aunt’s sole aim was to marry her off to the first rich man who came along. A candidate was chosen, the only trouble being that he was considerably older than her—old enough to be her father, in fact. But Sophie was rebellious and refused to do her aunt’s bidding. Then there was the scandal, of course.”

  “What scandal?”

  “While you were busy chasing Boney, Sophie was busy falling in love…”

  The earl laid his arm along the mantelpiece and clenched his fist. “And?”

  “And she eloped with him.”

  Chapter 24

  Miss Blakelow was leaving.

  She had hidden from John her intentions to leave without him. She would take nothing but the money she had earned from her writing and the bag she kept packed with a few precious belongings. She had sewn her money into the hem of her petticoat and felt wryly that it would be as safe under the skirts of an aging spinster as if it were in a locked vault. The ball was that evening and she planned to take Goodspeed from the stables and head out onto the back roads while her relations were all dancing the night away. By the time they returned she would be long gone.

  So occupied was Miss Blakelow by her preparations to leave Thorncote that the arrival of a parcel from Holme did not come into her hands until late in the day. She opened it as Marianne was being dressed in her new blue ball gown and a very fine knitted stole in a beautiful silver grey shone in the candlelight as it spilled out into her hands. Frowning, she opened the accompanying letter.

  My dear Miss Blakelow,

  You must forgive me but I have only today realised that your name has been omitted from the guest list for my sister’s ball. I therefore enclose an invitation along with the fondest hope that you will come this evening. I have my brother’s assurance that he will not bother you throughout the course of the evening and so you may be comfortable on that score.

  I enclose a stole that was given to me as a present. I find that it is a little old in style for me and I think will suit you better. I hope you like it and it is my wish that you will keep it and think of it as a peace offering. I trust you may make use of it this evening, as I think it will perfectly compliment your dress,

  Yours etc

  Lady St. Michael

  Miss Blakelow’s mouth fell open. Too old for her? Too old? How dare she? She screwed up her ladyship’s note and hurled it at the floor, pacing back and forth across the carpet.

  “Why, Georgie,” cried Marianne watching her in the mirror with some surprise, “whatever is the matter?”

  Too old? How old did she imagine she was, for heavens sake? Ninety? Why the sanctimonious, scheming―! Oh!

  “Nothing!” declared Miss Blakelow vehemently.

  “Nothing? But you look as if you might explode.”

  “And so I might! That hateful, odious...!”

  Too old? Too old? Miss Blakelow paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Of all the insulting, ill-mannered, devious women!

  “What has he done now?” asked Marianne wearily as she screwed one earring into her earlobe.

  Arrested by this unexpected question, Miss Blakelow halted her prowling across the carpet. “Who?”

  “Lord Marcham.”

  “Lord Marcham? What has he to say to it, pray?” demanded Miss Blakelow irritably.

  “I don’t know, but you look terribly put out and it is usually he who is the cause of it.”

  Miss Blakelow stopped dead in her tracks and stared at her sister. “Yes, I see.”

  “You see what?”

  “You may be right,” replied Miss Blakelow, thoughtfully tapping her nose. “He put her up to it.”

  Marianne blinked at her. “He did?”

  “You have hit the nail on the head, Marry. That odious, arrogant man is playing his games again. He thinks that he can manipulate me into doing exactly what he wishes.”

  “He does?”

  Miss Blakelow smiled slowly with narrowed eyes. “But he will find that two can play games.”

  Marianne watched in utter bewilderment as her sister stalked from the room.

  She’d show Lady St. Michael and her hateful brother.

  * * *

  This mood of outraged anger sustained her long enough to see her ensconced in the carriage with her sisters and her aunt, the steps taken up and the vehicle in motion. But when she saw the lights of Holme Park house glinting at her through the trees, her nerves returned to such an alarming degree that she asked for the carriage to be halted so that she might
walk home.

  “Walk home? In all this dirt?” cried Aunt Blakelow. “You will not.”

  “But Aunt, I have made a dreadful mistake. I cannot go. I was foolish to even think of it. I allowed my vanity to get the better of me because that woman made me lose my temper. Please let me go home.”

  “Nonsense. Enjoy yourself for once.”

  “Oh, yes do come, George,” breathed Marianne, radiant with excitement. “You do look so beautiful.”

  “I feel a fool.”

  “Georgie. Relax,” said her aunt, patting her hand.

  Miss Blakelow said no more. She would try and steal away once the carriage had pulled up before the house. The girls would be too distracted to notice her slipping away into the darkness.

  The carriage halted before the house, the steps were let down and Miss Blakelow stood before a thousand windows ablaze with light. Every chandelier appeared to be glowing, the light refracting and bouncing off a million crystal teardrops. As she followed her sisters and the crush of guests up the front stairs and into the hallway, she saw flowers in yellow and gold and white on every available surface. Champagne flowed, the guests milled around in their finery and she could hear the orchestra striking up for the dancing.

  She turned to flee, but the press of people was too thick, like an incoming tide, sweeping all before it. She was borne inexorably towards the receiving line where Lady Harriet, Lady St. Michael and their mother stood waiting to greet their guests. Miss Blakelow noticed with relief that Lord Marcham was absent. Perhaps he was still in London with his sister. Perhaps he had not been behind that note from his sister after all. She saw Lady St. Michael look over her appearance with a cold smile and itched to slap that lady’s rouged cheek. The Countess was no less warm in her greeting and it was with relief that Miss Blakelow felt her hand warmly clasped by Lady Harriet who expressed herself extremely happy to see her.

  Miss Blakelow was at first amused at the reaction to her appearance. People plainly did not know who she was. She found herself being stared at openly and surreptitiously, from behind fans and through quizzing glasses. Hal Hockingham, after his initial shock, openly ogled her and grinned at her from across the room with gleeful appreciation. Some of the ladies from the parish who had only been used to seeing her in dull grey or black stared at her with strong disapproval, giving her the cold shoulder as she approached them. But she did not care. In a few hours time, she would be gone.

  Lord Marcham, who was at the moment he saw her reaching for a glass of champagne from a silver tray, paused, his hand poised mid air, suddenly it seemed, unable to perform even this most simple of tasks. The footman had to place the glass in his lordship’s gloved hand himself because the man was transfixed by the sight of the woman who had just entered the room.

  She was dressed in a gown of midnight blue silk, which fell over the top of an azure blue satin under-skirt. The puffed sleeves were also made of midnight silk and were trimmed with blue silk rosebuds. The neckline slashed low across her bosom and a single sapphire on a gold chain nestled against the perfect swell of her breasts. Her beautiful chocolate brown tresses were arranged in a style so markedly different from the other women, with their bunches of tight curls clustered together like grapes either side of their temples, that several stares were directed at her and the simple twist of hair elegantly pinned to her head allowing her natural waves to curl onto her shoulder. Her womanly curves were very much on show, the spark of smiling defiance in her eyes dared anyone to object. The glasses, the shawl, the hated cap were all gone and Lord Marcham thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful or so downright alluring.

  “Do close your mouth, Robbie,” drawled Lady St. Michael as she passed by him on the arm of her husband.

  His lordship flushed, dragged his eyes away from Miss Blakelow and sipped his champagne, trying to order his disordered wits.

  “Is that her?” asked a soft voice at his side.

  He turned at last to look at his sister, Caroline. “I don’t know what you said to get her here, but you must be a genius.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Sarah. She sent her a note and whatever she said, it worked.”

  “I’ll say it did,” he murmured, his eyes unconsciously straying to Miss Blakelow once again.

  Caroline smiled and looped her arm through his. “Are you going to introduce me, then? Or are you going to stand here all night working up the courage to go and ask her to dance?”

  “I don’t want to ask her to dance.”

  “So don’t then. And when Mr. Peabody calls her wife, you may complain to someone else about it,” she replied sweetly.

  * * *

  Miss Blakelow saw him coming and willed herself to keep the smile pinned to her face. He came to stand before her with his sister on his arm, and the memory of the last time she had seen him was still painfully fresh in her mind. He was exquisitely dressed, as always, his black coat hugging his powerful shoulders, satin evening breeches and a simple yet elegant cravat at his throat. He was handsome and cool and aloof. He looked pensive and there was a frown on his brow, and she wondered if he too were thinking of the last time they had met and that kiss…

  He bowed stiffly. “Miss Blakelow, may I present my sister to you, Mrs. Caroline Weir?”

  Caroline smiled and squeezed her brother’s arm; a pre-arranged signal that the woman she was looking at was one Sophie Ashton. “How do you do, Miss Blakelow? Georgiana, is it not?”

  Miss Blakelow could barely meet her eyes. She knew that she had been recognised. “Mrs. Weir, I―”

  “Call me Caroline, if you please. We are to be friends, are we not? Well, what a sad crush it is. I knew it would be, of course, because Mama and Sarah would invite everybody. Robbie, is that Mrs. Grant over there? Lord, what a gown! She looks like a joint of ham. And that woman in the frightful turban who I have never before seen in my life. Who are all these people?”

  Her brother shrugged. “Ask Sarah. I do not know one in ten of them.”

  “No, and depend upon it, Miss Blakelow, my brother here only wanted one person to attend anyway, and that person is you. He’s desperate to ask you to dance, by the way.”

  Miss Blakelow blushed and looked down at her gloved hands.

  “I am quite capable of asking Miss Blakelow myself, if I wish to ask her,” said his lordship acidly, looking somewhat annoyed.

  “Well get on with it then,” recommended his sister, “the evening will be half way over by the time you take to the floor.”

  Miss Blakelow, receiving the message loud and clear that he did not want to dance with her, looked away. “I should find my aunt―” she began.

  “Miss Blakelow,” interrupted the earl in his deep voice. “May I have the honour of the next set?”

  “I don’t wish to force you into dancing with me if you do not wish to,” she stammered, heartily wishing herself back at Thorncote and him at Jericho.

  Their eyes met. “Do you wish to dance with me?” he asked.

  “No, my lord, thank you,” she murmured.

  He stiffened as if she had just slapped his face. He bowed with cold civility and was about to move away, but his sister was having none of it and grabbed his arm to halt his escape.

  “My dear Georgiana,” she said with her most winning smile, “you must dance with him. Indeed, he will be insufferable if you do not. He has been like a bear with a sore head all week as it is. For the sake of the future of his line and any progeny, you must dance and put him out of his misery, because if you do not then I may well murder him and what then for the Earldom?”

  Miss Blakelow could not help smiling faintly at that.

  Mrs. Weir placed a hand on her old friend’s arm. “Besides, he is by far the best looking man here, wouldn’t you agree? You will make all the other women envious.” She ignored the derisive snort from her brother and added, “And if you do not, Mr. Peabody is bearing down upon you and will claim your hand for this dance instead.”

  Lord Marcham
pulled a face filled with disgust. “I do not think it is very flattering to a gentleman to be told that the only reason a girl wishes to dance with him is because his company is slightly preferable to that of Mr. Peapod.”

  “Very well, my lord,” replied Miss Blakelow, realising that to continue to refuse would look very rude indeed. She spoke to his cravat, curiously unable to meet his eyes, “But I am a wretched dancer, and will step on your toes.”

  “My toes are at your disposal,” he murmured, bowing again, and unsmilingly held out his arm as the set was forming, stopping only to say into his sister’s ear, “Caroline, you go too far.”

  “So I do, but I get results, do I not?” she retorted with a smile up at him.

  They took their positions on the floor and Miss Blakelow hardly dared look at him as the music began and he clasped her hand. The moves of the dance were performed in silence, each too pre-occupied to think of anything to say. It was a full five minutes in this manner before his lordship could stand it no more and said, as lightly as he could, “Miss Blakelow, you are here without your spectacles. Do you not fear to trip over a chair leg and land head first in the rum punch?”

  His tone was light, teasing. But there was a reserve in his voice, which made her suspect that his mind was elsewhere. That kiss. That wretched kiss. She should have pushed him away. She should have done anything but submit to him. And she definitely should not have leaned into him or curled her arms around his neck or answered the insistent pressure of his lips with her own. Was he thinking of it too? Did the memory give him pleasure? Or did he regret their entire acquaintance and her ever coming to Holme Park at all?

  “Indeed I am, my lord. Some clumsy oaf trod on them. I hope you will make yourself useful and point out to me such obstructions as I am likely to fall over,” she replied, as her eyes fleetingly met his.