The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance)

by Jenn LeBlanc

  Mrs. Weston stood. “No, that color is too bold, Madame. His Grace would never agree, and you know it isn’t proper for a miss,” she said sternly.

  Francine groaned. Proper, proper, proper! I am so sick of proper. She had never felt so trapped by her inability to speak. Madame Basire grasped the divine silk, wrapping it around Francine’s middle as she watched the end flutter gracefully to the floor. Francine grinned at the way it drifted about her ankles. She glanced at Mrs. Weston, who was refusing to return her pleading look.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Weston said after a moment. “But just the one. Please also allow for a riding habit. A deep green or blue would be appropriate for that.”

  Francine gave her an excited smile and Mrs. Weston signed you’re welcome.

  Monsieur Gautier Larrabee opened the letter from Lord Hepplewort, expecting confirmation of his daughter’s consummated marriage and instructions for the final payment as reward for his patience. What he found, however, was a rambling missive ending with his daughter being held by a duke at his remote English estate and the payment of his funds being retained by Hepplewort until she was restored to him.

  “Merde!” he exclaimed, then called to his wife. “Eglantine! Me venir maintenant!” She rushed to his side, hearing the anger in his voice. “Il faut que nous allions à l’Angleterre, notre fille manqué,” he said briskly.

  Eglantine gasped. “Elle manqué? Mon Dieu!” she said, stunned to learn her daughter was missing.

  “Oui, c’est vrai, cette lettre est d’elle fiancé. Nous devons aller immédiatement,” he responded.

  “Bien sûr, mon mari,” she agreed. They packed and left for England without hesitation.

  Francine walked to the window while Madame Basire and her assistant spoke with Mrs. Weston about her requirements. She leaned against the windowsill, looking over the drive in front of the manor. A sleek black carriage pulled by four beautiful black horses waited majestically. She motioned to Mrs. Weston to come to the window, then pointed down to the carriage.

  “They are magnificent, aren’t they? Look, there’s Samson,” Mrs. Weston said as she gestured to the steed now being tied at the back of the carriage. “Why the barouche?” she mused aloud. “Oh,” she said, sounding distressed. They watched a footman place a trunk in the boot. Mrs. Weston’s brow creased and she looked to the outer door. Roxleigh was giving directions to Ferry.

  He’s leaving, Francine thought as she latched onto Mrs. Weston’s arm.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Mrs. Weston said, pulling Francine’s fingers loose. She patted her arm and strode to the fireplace. A few moments later, she reappeared at the front entry next to Ferry.

  Francine watched with a heavy dose of concern. She guessed from the trunk that the duke was going somewhere for an extended time, and though she knew she shouldn’t, she felt a great deal of disappointment. After last night she was hoping they’d be able to spend some time together, even though they were still separated by his damned propriety. She wished she knew when he would return.

  Her brows creased and she leaned against the window, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of his face when he turned to climb inside the carriage. She could see him pointing and speaking directly to Mrs. Weston, and she knew he was admonishing her for being what he thought was careless.

  Mrs. Weston straightened her back and nodded, her hands clutched in front of her. The footman said something to Roxleigh and Francine caught his profile as he turned to acknowledge him. Her breath raced against the glass.

  Roxleigh paused, then lifted his face and looked directly at her.

  She held his gaze, neither of them giving any hint of emotion as they studied each other. She placed both hands in front of her face, fingers spread, palms toward her. She pulled her hands downward sharply and, when she looked back up, he was stepping into the carriage. She felt a pull deep within her chest. He moved the window curtain aside momentarily and Mrs. Weston nodded, then glanced toward Francine in the window. The outriders and Ferry mounted the carriage and rode swiftly away from the manor.

  Mrs. Weston returned to the room before Francine had a chance to move away from the window. “He’ll return soon, miss. He has business in London that he’s neglected and he needs to attend to,” she said, taking Francine’s hands in her own. “He’ll return,” she whispered again.

  Francine smiled, but the sadness she felt at watching the carriage rolling swiftly through the far gates refused to abate. She turned back to the room to find she had an audience.

  Lord Hepplewort paced in the small bedroom at the Running Iron Inn, his jowly face turning beet red and sweat dripping from his straggly grayish hair. He shook as he raged, his paunchy belly threatening to burst the buttons on his satin brocade waistcoat, sending them dangerously through the air like arrows to lambs. Madeleine’s betrothed, Lord Hepplewort, possessed a deportment that matched his manner measure for measure.

  Upon taking a foreign bride, the earl was required by tradition to show his betrothed her new country with a carriage tour that would end with the marriage at the chapel on his estate. To that end, on Madeleine’s seventeenth birthday he’d retrieved her from the convent in France where she’d led a peaceful and completely sheltered life. They’d proceeded by ship to the northern port of Newcastle upon Tyne, and from there to the northernmost edge of the United Kingdom in Scotland, close to the lands of the Duke of Roxleigh.

  He refused to return home without his bride, yet there was no way for him to retrieve her from Eildon Manor. He knew of the duke and his stalwart reputation. He would have to retrieve his bride later. She must have begged for shelter, provided some ridiculous tale about who she was, or that she had been mishandled or kidnapped or something of the sort. As her father’s property until marriage, certainly the duke would have no choice but to return her.

  He knew Roxleigh wasn’t one to dismiss the law, and by contract, she belonged with him. The problem would be explaining why he was on the duke’s land without permission. He was sure to be brought on charges of poaching for having his dogs out, and how would he explain them chasing her? Hepplewort fumed. No, it was all too difficult; he would have to wait until she was returned to her father. The man would certainly hold to the contract that had made him a rich man, especially with half the money awaiting confirmation of her chastity upon their marriage.

  He’d sent a message to France the day after the incident to notify Monsieur Larrabee that he expected to complete the bargain upon her return, and in the meantime he’d proceed to his estate in Shropshire. Perhaps he could pluck another fresh apple on the way home, sweet and tart, to have a little fun with as he had the one he found outside of Kelso. He went to tell his footman of the plans.

  Madame Basire broke the silence with a hearty laugh, drawing all the attention in the room to her. She was studying Francine and Mrs. Weston. “Oh my,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan. “It seems the most eligible duke in the kingdom has an admirer.”

  “I’ll thank you not to perpetuate such a rumor if you wish to stay in His Grace’s good temper,” Mrs. Weston admonished.

  “Well, Mrs. Weston, if my lips were loose my business would have suffered ages ago,” Madame Basire said happily.

  The housekeeper nodded. “Are we finished?”

  Madame Basire thought for a moment. “I need a few more measurements for her foundations.”

  “Of course.”

  Madame Basire whispered a few directions to her assistant, who nodded, then measured Francine a bit more and made some notes in Madame’s book. When they finished, they gathered the bolts of fabric and trimmings in a flurry of colors and sent the footmen to load her carriage.

  Francine turned to the settee in front of the fireplace, and clapping her hands to get their attention, she motioned to the garments they’d left.

  Madame Basire smiled. “I cannot leave a beautiful peach as you without a stitch! These may not fit perfectly, but they’ll do until I return. I’ve also left
some drawers and nightgowns, a few stockings and a corset. That’s fine with you, Mrs. Weston, yes?”

  “I’ve no doubt His Grace will appreciate the courtesy. I will be sure to let him know upon his return,” Mrs. Weston said.

  “Well, we will all await his swift return, won’t we?” Madame Basire placed her hand gently on Francine’s and, with a wink, a devilish grin, and a rustle of skirts and fabric, she was gone.

  Francine stood in awe of the brazen woman, then turned to the garments she’d left behind. She reached out, feeling the soft muslin in pale hues with delicate trimmings. The drawers were a bit strange to her. She realized with a frown that the cheeky panties and boy shorts she was fond of would not be available.

  The drawers were long, thin, bloomer-like pants with ribbons that tied at her hips. She looked from the drawers and stockings to the corset, petticoats, and dresses, and realized what a production being “proper” was. She lifted one leg of the drawers and saw the crotch shift, and thinking they were torn she looked closer, seeing both edges trimmed with a delicate lace. She rather suddenly understood the purpose for the slit in the drawers was that she wasn’t supposed to remove them when she used the bathroom.

  She ran her fingers over the delicate lace then tucked them through the slit with a shudder. This is considered proper? There is nothing between the ground and me. She sighed heavily as Mrs. Weston approached.

  “Well, now. Let’s get you out of the manor. Since His Grace has taken his leave I’ve arranged for afternoon tea over the gardens. I thought a small celebration of your lack of restrictions would lift your spirits, yes?” A sparkle lit her eye.

  Francine nodded happily and started yanking at her nightgown. Mrs. Weston laughed at her excitement and picked up the sturdy whalebone corset, holding it up over her chemise to lace it tightly in the back. Francine gasped as the housekeeper tightened it, jerking the laces tighter. Francine put her hands on the corset, feeling the stiff, restricting bodice as it molded her torso to its shape. She breathed slowly to keep from passing out.

  Mrs. Weston buckled a bustle at her waist, then picked up a large petticoat and swung it over Francine’s head, fastening it over the bustle. The heavy skirts of the cotton petticoat were gathered meticulously at the back of the garment, leaving a long, clean silhouette in the front. Several layers of skirts were attached under the petticoat to give it the proper fullness. Francine groaned, thinking she must have just gained fifty pounds.

  Mrs. Weston helped her into a shirtwaist and fastened the numerous pearl buttons at the sleeves. The tailored shirt was covered with pin tucks that fitted her waist. After the shirt was fastened, Mrs. Weston tossed the lavender skirt over her head, pulling it down in place. The skirt was flat-fronted with large gathers of ruffles in the back, covering the petticoat perfectly. It didn’t add much weight to the overall ensemble, which she was glad about, wishing she could skip all the foundation garments and simply wear the lavender skirt alone. She was finally ready for her independence. Funny. My freedom comes with such physical restrictions.

  “Beautiful!” Mrs. Weston exclaimed. “Now let’s see to that cup of tea, shall we?” Francine follow ed Mrs. Weston from the room.

  “Never you worry Miss, he shall return.”

  Yes, but will I still be here?

  Dr. Walcott rose shortly before sunset. He was surprised he’d been able to slumber for so long with the girl in the state she was. The thought that she hadn’t made it through the day, and they’d chosen to let him sleep, disturbed him.

  He washed at the basin quickly before rushing out. Nobody was about—not a good sign. He knocked gently and entered.

  Her parents sat in the dim room in chairs at the end of the small bed. She was covered with so many linens that in her stillness they resembled a death shroud. He shuddered as he walked toward the bed, nodding to her parents as he passed. Her mother’s face was drawn and puffy, her father’s empty gaze on the small window.

  Dr. Walcott grasped her wrist and, feeling the flutter of her heartbeat, he finally took a breath. He started looking over her bandages. They all seemed to be holding well, staying in place and not drying out. He stroked the hair back from her forehead, whispering, “Good girl, Lilly, we all know you are a strong, brave girl.”

  He started once again with her face, checking each wound and adding salve, before replacing the linen. They propped her forward on pillows to relieve the pressure on her back for a while, then turned her to the other side. It was unnerving that she didn’t react to their handling of her, but he surmised that the laudanum they’d poured down her throat was helping to keep her insensate. He had no intention of stopping the medication just yet. He wasn’t sure if it was because he thought she couldn’t stand the pain, or because they wouldn’t be able to stand her cries that would surely follow.

  He spent a second night by her side, taking breaks only for the necessaries.

  Gideon made the long trip to London primarily by rail, but as the lines were under construction, he detoured through the country by carriage whenever necessary. He was not anxious to get to Roxleigh House on Grosvenor Square. Not because the house itself wasn’t appealing, but because it was in London, a social mecca amidst squalor.

  The town house, though, was a small sanctuary surrounded by the bustle. While most of the houses on Grosvenor were five to seven bays in width and three stories with an attic, Roxleigh House held nine bays with four stories. It was the crown jewel on the square with its Georgian architecture and dramatic columns rising the full height of the façade.

  Like Eildon Manor, the bedrooms and sitting rooms at the front rose with the sun, and the common rooms and ballroom gazed upon the sunset over a large, private garden between the rear terrace and Blackburne’s Mews, where his outriders and cattle were housed.

  He bounded up the front steps and across the shallow portico into the house, exhaling the moment his foot crossed the threshold at the heavy door. Sanders attended him straightaway as Ferry assisted the footmen with Gideon’s accoutrements.

  “A guest awaits you in the study, Your Grace,” Sanders said as Gideon handed off his greatcoat and hat.

  He stopped cold, presenting Sanders with a severe gaze. “My outriders were sent ahead to direct that my arrival be held in confidence. Who would be here at this hour?”

  “His lordship, Your Grace,” Sanders replied without wavering.

  “Of course,” Gideon ground out.

  His younger brother would have noticed Roxleigh House being lit and warmed, even in the dead of night, from his own town house across the square. His brother held to the hours of a rake, sleeping through the morning and into the waning light so he could attend society parties in the evenings and entertain women deep into the night.

  “Shall I have Cook prepare a repast?” Sanders asked.

  “No, Sanders, that will be all.” Gideon slapped his gloves on his thigh.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Gideon handed off the gloves and Sanders withdrew. Steeling himself, he strode toward the study where a liveried footman swung the door wide. “And to what do we owe the honor?” his jaw tightened as he walked directly to the tantalus on the sideboard for a snifter of brandy. He was not prepared to face his brother just yet. He had assumed he would have at least the night to rest and consider. His brother was the Lord Peregrine Trumbull, Viscount of Roxleigh in name, but a rake of the worst order by action.

  “Your Grace,” Perry said wryly. “I did not receive advance notice of your arrival, even though your household has. Surely an oversight.”

  “Surely, my lord, a terrible oversight,” Gideon replied, shaking his head in mock confusion.

  “Humph. So, to what do we owe the honor?” Perry asked.

  Gideon sat in one of his plush wingback chairs next to the fireplace as Perry poured his own snifter and followed, dropping into the chair across from him.

  “I have matters that need tending. As you are well aware.” Gideon examined the face that could hav
e served as a younger mirror of his own. He studied Perry, attempting to determine a suitable tack to follow.

  “Indeed, Your Grace, as I’ve been aware for months. Yet I did not expect you for some time, as you prefer to leave most of these things to gather for one visit,” he said while Gideon glared.

  “Yes, of course,” Gideon said, shifting his gaze to the fire, then back as he swirled the brandy. “I— I had need to take my leave,” he said quietly, measuring his brother’s reaction. He wasn’t disappointed, as Perry’s jaw dropped.

  “From Eildon? You cannot be serious. You cannot bear to leave that reclusive estate, regardless of the condition of your affairs. What on earth could possibly drive you away?” Perry rolled the brandy over a candle flame to warm it.

  Gideon considered where to start and how much to reveal. He ultimately decided on full disclosure, because if anyone could help him with this conundrum, it was surely the one man in the world who knew him better than he knew himself.

  Gideon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he palmed the balloon of brandy. “Well,” he began, “her name is Francine, and she is a—a paradox.”

  Nearly an hour and another snifter of brandy later Gideon’s tale was complete. He turned to stoke the fire that had burned down in the grate.

  Perry leaned casually in the chair, legs straight, ankles crossed, brandy chilling between his fingers. With his mouth agape and his eyes wide and twinkling, he’d sat uncharacteristically quiet while Gideon finished.

  “What?”

  Perry rubbed his jaw with his thumb. “I, uh. Hmm. I— Well, I believed it would be a while yet.”

  “For what?” Gideon asked, staring at his snifter as he swirled the liquor in the bowl.

  Perry chuckled.

  Gideon glared at his younger brother from beneath his eyelashes.

  “Good God, man! You really don’t see it?”

  “What— That I am besotted with this female? That has naught to do with love. I simply have no idea why she draws me the way she does.”