The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Darcy, Norma

  “Duped? What do you mean duped?”

  She smiled into the mirror and briefly met his eyes. “You once called me a heartbreaker. You meant it flippantly but little did you know how accurate you were.” She paused and kicked off her satin slippers. “Poor Robbie. Never been in love before, have you? And the first time you fall, you fall for a woman with no heart.”

  “What’s happened? Why are you being like this?”

  “Like this, my lord? I am being like this because this is who I am.”

  “No,” he said. “This is not my Georgie.”

  “This is me,” she insisted, twisting around on the seat so that she faced him. “I am not Georgiana Blakelow. I’m nobody, can’t you see that? I change my name at will; I have been Mary and Sophie and Jessica and Emily. I have been Jane and Louisa too. I have been a widow, a governess, a paid companion and a teacher. I have lived amongst thieves as well as the most respectable people in society. I have dined on stale bread and yet I have tasted the finest sauces cooked by the best of French chefs. I have worn rich velvets and I have worn rags too. I have been every woman and no one. I have acted so many parts that I do not know who I am anymore.” She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. “And I have left a trail of broken hearts behind me. And now I add the best to my portfolio—the Earl of Marcham, no less,” she cried, flinging up her hands. “How many women would love to claim that?”

  He came towards her and seized her shoulders and pulled her off the stool. “Stop it.”

  “I set out to break you from the moment I saw you. I have avenged myself on men up and down the country, didn’t you know?” she jeered, staring up into his eyes, her own moist with unshed tears. “I warned you to stay away from me. I am broken.”

  He shook her. “Stop it, I say. Stop saying those things.”

  “I wanted your money. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I have fleeced men of their money through love the same way you have with cards. I am no better than you are. And what perfect way to hide from the world than behind the skirts of the most respectable bluestocking? How many people I duped! I wrote pamphlets condemning everyone else when it is me who should have featured in many of them. How I laughed at you!” she said, her voice brittle with forced laughter. “You fell into my trap because you wanted to be loved. All I did was give you what you wanted. Men like you are so easy to deceive.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why not? When there is money to be had?”

  “You don’t care for that. You only ever wanted my money to save Thorncote.”

  She smiled. “Poor Robert. Why, pray, would I care for Thorncote? What is it to me? It is not my inheritance. I used it as a means to an end, to obtain your money.”

  He shook his head. “You are pushing me away again. I don’t know what or why but―what is this all about? What game is this now?” he demanded, his fingers biting into her shoulders.

  “The biggest game of all. If you chose to believe me to be the woman of your dreams, that is because I meant for you to believe it. I reeled you in like the biggest, fattest trout,” she said triumphantly. “You ripped up the mortgages on Thorncote. You paid off the debts. You have been utterly and completely duped, my lord.”

  He jerked her roughly into his arms, her hands trapped against his chest. His hand came up to cup her chin, turning her face up to meet his. “And is this a lie?” he demanded hoarsely a moment before his lips came down hard on hers.

  He kissed her long and hard, his lips almost bruising in their intensity, his arms so tightly around her that she could scarcely breathe. He kissed her until she was fairly drunk with it, intoxicated with his nearness and the pressure of his mouth on hers. He kissed her until only the need for air forced them apart.

  She threw him a mocking smile as she forced her eyes to meet his, and said archly, “La, as I said my lord, men like you are easily duped. For all your famed experience with women, it seems that you cannot tell an actress from the real thing.”

  He stared at her, his eyes ablaze. “You were not acting,” he said savagely.

  “I’m sorry, but I was,” she said replied. “There is nothing so easy as to dupe a man who wants to be duped. A word, a look and a sigh and the deed is done.”

  He released her suddenly and almost flung himself away from her.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, laughing at the anger upon his face. “You have been well and truly deceived. How clever you thought you were. How superior. You thought I would just fall at your feet, did you not, my lord? The great rake seducer just clicks his fingers and the plain little spinster is expected to jump into his arms.”

  He laughed, a harsh abrasive sound. “Plain innocent spinster? Hardly! You are the same as all the rest of them; beauty and avarice and treachery in equal measure. And I thought you were different. I thought―my God, what a fool I have been.”

  She forced her lips to smile even though she felt wretched inside. “I put it to you that I would not look half so beautiful without the candlelight or the half bottle of champagne that you no doubt have drunk. And any woman is beautiful when you think there is a chance of sport, eh, my lord?”

  He blinked at her. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “It means that men like you give a little flattery when they think they might be something for them in return. But I am too old and too wise to fall for your charm. You have come here in the hopes of bedding me, have you not?”

  “I came here to convince you to stay, although why I put myself to the trouble, I know not.”

  “Did you indeed? With rough kisses and promises of fidelity? Do you think that your suit is in any way attractive to me, my lord?”

  He made no answer but a muscle pulsed angrily in his jaw.

  “Do you think that I wish for myself the life of the libertine’s wife? Do you think that I will be happy in the knowledge that my husband seduces other women behind my back? Will you tie me to the leading strings of all our children while you entertain yourself in town? Until I have grown old and fat and saggy from all those children, of course, and then you will tire of me and take a mistress. You will forgive me for owning that this life does not hold much appeal for me.”

  “You have me all worked out, do you not?” he asked bitterly. “You have plotted my life for me without even considering whether it’s what I want.”

  “It is what you want,” she countered. “It’s what you are. I know you.”

  “No,” he answered. “It seems that you don’t know me at all.”

  There was a silence.

  “Well then,” she said at last. “Perhaps our parting is for the best.”

  “I begin to think that it is,” he agreed moodily.

  “We wouldn’t suit, you know.”

  “So it seems. I count myself fortunate to have escaped from the toils of a woman with the morals of a snake.”

  She flinched as if he had slapped her. “You had much better leave. It is late and your absence will be remarked upon.”

  “Where has my Georgie gone?” he whispered, almost to himself, “I want her back.”

  “She never existed, my lord,” she answered. “She was a fabrication.”

  “She did exist,” he insisted. “She laughed and danced in my arms. I held her and I kissed her and she kissed me back.”

  She tossed her head. “The woman you speak of was a creature of my imaginings. All I did was play a part.” She moved towards the bed, flinging a book into her bag. “You should go, my lord. I suspect my husband will be here shortly.”

  Lord Marcham felt the room spin around his ears. He clutched at the mantelpiece for support. “Your husband?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she said with a ragged laugh at his reaction. “I am married to my past, didn’t you know? And he has been looking for me for a great many years. I did warn you not to involve yourself with me, didn’t I? Will you unfasten my gown, my lord?” she asked, turning
her back to him and lifting her hair aside. “My maid has the evening off. And as you are here, you may as do the one thing you do so well.”

  Mechanically he lifted his fingers to do her bidding, and never had he struggled so much with a thing which he had always anticipated doing with great pleasure on their wedding night. His fingers were clumsy and the buttons seemed to develop a mind of their own.

  “You’d make a terrible lady’s maid,” she commented with a mocking smile as she moved away from him and shrugged the gown forward off her shoulders. “It is a wonder to me that you managed to seduce any women at all if it took you that long to disrobe them.”

  “Will you stop?” he thundered.

  She swallowed hard, flinching at the tone in his voice and the expression on his face, but she had come too far to give up now. “Are you going to watch me disrobe?” she asked, with a shaky smile, her act slipping a notch. “Stay long enough and you will witness my use of the chamber pot too. Only imagine how that would contribute to your edification.”

  His lordship could take no more. He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  And with him departed Miss Blakelow’s act.

  Her resolve crumbled and she sank onto the bed in her undergarments and stared at the floor.

  From the shadows of the room a movement flickered in the darkness. Candlelight gleamed along the barrel of a pistol.

  “You have done well,” said a low male voice.

  “I’ve done what you asked,” Miss Blakelow said coldly to the shadowy figure.

  “So you have,” agreed the man.

  “And you’ll let him go, unhurt?” she asked, raising her fearful eyes to his.

  The man smiled and Miss Blakelow felt a shudder ricochet along her spine. “If he does not interfere.”

  “He knows nothing,” she said.

  “I only have your word for that.”

  “He knows nothing, I swear it.”

  “Very well, my dear. Then I suggest that you finish your packing. Mr. Boyd, would you please ensure that our guest does not take too long? And if she tries to escape, hit her over the head. After last time, I am taking no chances.”

  * * *

  Miss Blakelow stiffened as the man came out of his chair.

  He walked forward, a lazy, self-satisfied smile upon his face. She felt her knees threaten to give way beneath her; her hands were cold and clammy, her heart thudding hard. She stared at him, disbelieving what her eyes told her even though she had known for the last ten years that this time would come. He’d found her. And she knew now that the face that she’d seen at the assembly rooms but a week before was him. It was not a face from a nightmare, but a real, living and breathing man. A man who’d come close to destroying her life.

  “You have what you want,” she said. “Let John and the servants go.”

  The man smiled. “Ah but I don’t have what I want, do I?” he replied softly.

  She swallowed hard and lowered her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t take me for a fool, Mary.”

  Mary. No one had called her that name in a very, very long time. She had been so many different names that she could not remember who Mary Clayton was anymore.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, looking about her for a weapon.

  He gave a soundless laugh. “I think you know that answer to that. Forgive me, my dear, but remembering our last encounter, I have taken the liberty of moving the paper knife and the fire poker out of reach. You may sit down.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “I will stand thank you.”

  “Still so haughty,” he marvelled, coming forward to stand before her.

  “Let me see to John. Where is he?” she demanded.

  He smiled. “He is…er…sleeping and will do well enough without your ministrations. I hope you pay him well, my dear. The poor man has had a good deal of trouble on your behalf over the years.”

  “Leave him out of this. He did nothing but follow my orders. It is me you want. Let him and the others go.”

  “Do you know that I nearly caught you once?” he asked, ignoring her request with a smile.

  She raised a brow in silent enquiry.

  “You were going under the name of Mrs. Cork and living on the last of the funds that your uncle had given you. John was posing as your husband, and it was barely a year after your fall from grace. But you did not have your story straight, did you? You slipped up. And I broke down the front door barely five minutes after you had left; your sheets were still warm. I nearly had you then, but the trail went cold. You vanished into thin air. Now I realise that you had already transformed yourself into your aunt, or something very much akin to her. I applaud you for that, my dear.”

  She had to look up a long way into his face. He towered over her and as her eyes met his, she tried to repress the shudder that went through her. He reached out a hand and cupped her chin, tilting her head from one side to the other. “Well, well,” he murmured, “still a beauty, aren’t we?”

  She stood her ground, staring doggedly up at him. “And you are still a snake.”

  He smiled. “Have you any idea how long I have spent looking for you?” he whispered, his breath on her face.

  “As long as I have spent avoiding you,” she retorted.

  “Your Aunt Thorpe sent word to me of where you were. She really doesn’t like you very much, does she? She informed me that you had been here all the time and I had begun to think you’d gone back to the West Indies. After all, that was the rumour.”

  “I considered it. America too.”

  “I congratulate you, my dear. Georgiana Blakelow was the perfect disguise. The deliberate use of your aunt’s name caused us much confusion, I must confess. Two ladies named Georgiana, living together and yet each denying the existence of the other. Your family closed ranks around you. William did admirably well. He denied all knowledge of you as a sister or even living in that house―and I would know for I was there. You should be proud of him. But I am not a man who gives up easily, my dear. And this scar which you gave me at that inn on a hot summer’s night long ago aches to be with you again.” He took her hand and forced it to cup his face, forced her fingers to splay across the smoothness of the scar. “Does it repulse you, my love? Do you know what it is like to be stared at by children? Do you know how many women have turned away from me in disgust because of this mark which you gave me?”

  “If women turn away from you in disgust it is because they see what kind of man you are,” she said, yanking her hand out of his.

  He nodded slowly. “You will pay for that remark, my dear. Boyd?”

  “Yes master. All ready.”

  Miss Blakelow looked with deep foreboding from Mr. Boyd to the face of her tormentor. “What are you going to do?”

  “Firstly, I want to see if you are as pretty under that gown as I imagined,” he said softly.

  The skin on her neck began to crawl. “No.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her across the room to the door.

  “No,” she said again, more firmly.

  He halted them and pulled a blade from his pocket and laid the cold steel against her cheek. “If you scream, I will mark you the way you have marked me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide with fear.

  “And then, my dear, you will tell me where he is.”

  Chapter 27

  Something, a nagging feeling that all was not well, assailed Lord Marcham. Thorncote had been utterly quiet; no servants, no fires lit, no John.

  And Miss Blakelow never went anywhere without John.

  His lordship swore under his breath as he swung himself back off his horse and looped the reins once more around the balustrade. He strode to the rear of the house and across the stable yard. His footsteps crunched against the gravel as he walked over to a horse that had been hitched to an old gig, and for lack of anyone to guide her, had wandered towards a green verge of grass where she was
happily munching away, towing the gig with her. The horse eyed him warily as he approached, her eyes wide and bulging like cue balls on a billiard table. He murmured soothing words to the animal, and called softly, “John?”

  He took the path that led under a brick archway that gave onto a small kitchen garden and made his way back into the house. The kitchen, pantry and other rooms were all quiet and still. The servant’s dining hall was empty. There was no sign of life. He turned―

  A sound. A muffled moan came to his ears. He whirled around in the direction of the noise and moved cautiously towards the stairs his heart pounding hard. Another moan led him through the doors and towards a room where the silver was once kept and polished. The shelves were empty now, the silver sold long ago to pay off Sir William’s debts.

  There was a pause and then a muffled but frantic attempt to answer him. Lord Marcham ran to the back of the room. There, trussed up like a Christmas goose and covered in strands of straw, was John Maynard and four frightened servants all bound and gagged and looking up at him with pleading eyes. His lordship crouched down beside John and untied the gag around his mouth. The butler’s head was bleeding and the side of his head was sticky and warm with blood.

  John gratefully sucked in great lungfuls of air. “He’s got her,” he gasped.

  “Who’s got her?”

  “We stayed here too long and now he’s found us. It’s my fault, my lord. I should have listened to her when she said that it was time for us to move on. But we were so happy here and neither of us wanted to leave and now it is too late―”

  His lordship held up his hand to stem the flow and tried to make sense of the garbled speech. “Whoa, gently my friend. You mean Georgiana?”

  “Aye, my lord. He’s taken her and the lord only knows what he’ll do now he’s found her again―I have to go after them. Untie me, quickly, if you please. I have a fair notion of where he’s headed.”

  “I will come with you,” replied the earl, pulling out his knife and attacking the rope which bound the man’s hands and feet together.