Rake's Honour

by Beverley Oakley

  Now two cloaked figures were being ushered through the door.

  Fenton’s exuberance was checked. It was long after midnight and this was the confirmation he had been hoping not to see.

  Lord Slyther’s London town house. Lord Slyther’s ring. Fenton would not have troubled to discern the crest had it not been for Bramley’s words earlier that night, but it had struck him as odd that Miss Brightwell had concealed the ring in her handkerchief when earlier she’d been wearing it on a chain around her neck.

  Why?

  Having discounted Bramley’s libellous slur upon Miss Brightwell the moment she was in his arms, Fenton had been deeply dismayed to pick up the ring after it had fallen from his beloved’s handkerchief. They’d still been in the post-coital stage after the most incendiary lovemaking he’d ever experienced. He’d been convinced that Miss Brightwell had been a virgin for all that she’d given herself to him with such ardour and despite the fact that she’d not bled.

  Although he’d tried to cast the coincidence from his mind, certain some innocent and plausible connection could be established between Miss Brightwell and Lord Slyther, he’d been unable to resist following her at the end of Lord Quamby’s ball.

  Now, suspicion and dismay crowded his mind, though he could not be entirely certain that one of the cloaked figures ushered into the house was his Miss Brightwell.

  Anxiously, Fenton scanned the four storeys of the building for any chink through the curtains that might give a clue to what was going on inside. Anxiously? No—angrily—for a closer look at the jarvey convinced him it was indeed the same man, and the confident manner with which the younger woman had swept past the parlour maid was Miss Brightwell personified.

  The idea that she could go directly from the ball where she’d given herself to Fenton with such enthusiasm straight to the arms of…who? Her erstwhile secret lover? Though perhaps it was public knowledge, given Bramley’s lewd talk. It made him sick to the stomach.

  There must be some explanation. Miss Brightwell must have a perfectly good reason for being there. Could Lord Slyther be her godfather, who’d requested her presence upon his deathbed?

  After Bramley’s talk, he doubted it.

  He was shivering, though his blood was boiling by the time the two cloaked figures reappeared nearly an hour later. He saw the older woman hurry into the carriage while the other paused for a moment upon the top step. Straining, Lord Fenton tried to identify the lonely, straight-backed figure as Miss Brightwell. Actually, he hoped to discount his suspicions, so when she raised her lovely, familiar face to the light spilling from the lamps he nearly wept aloud with disappointment.

  Miss Brightwell’s perfect, high cheekbones cast shadows over her rosebud of a mouth and her dimpled chin as she gazed into the darkness.

  Thinking of what? Fenton, or the man who kept her? Disappointment roiled in his gut. He’d been in the market for a wife and Miss Brightwell had seemed a gift from heaven—a creature who combined everything he desired. He’d had enough of transient pleasures. Spending so much time in the country, as he would from now on, he wanted a wife to please him in bed as much as she did over breakfast and…well, during every other part of the day.

  He was about to turn away in disappointed disgust when he saw her put her hand to her neck; to the chain upon which she kept Lord Slyther’s ring. She had secreted it away for the brief duration of their own clandestine tryst, but now she had returned it to its original position. With a sharp tug, she tore the chain from her neck. The ring skittered to the flagstones at her feet.

  Lord Fenton watched her stare at it, as if undecided.

  Then, slowly, like an old woman, she bent to retrieve it before putting it in her reticule.

  * * * *

  In his mama’s Mayfair drawing room the following morning, Lord Fenton paced between fireplace and window, his thoughts in turmoil. His mindless activity clearly infuriated his mother, who eventually snapped, “What is wrong with you, Fenton! Spit it out, for I cannot keep my mind on my stitching while you’re behaving like some lovelorn schoolboy…unless you’re dunned and too afraid to tell me.”

  Fenton stopped by the stuffed mongoose in its glass box atop a round table and managed a wry smile. “I’m not the gambler I used to be, Mama.” He let out a deep sigh as he looked out of the window, his gaze taking in a couple in the park across the street. Newlyweds, by the look of them, their fair heads bent towards one another as they discussed something in animated fashion, their bodies suggesting a companionable union.

  “So, no, I’m not dunned.” Though, to tell the truth, he might be accused of lacking the courage to tell his mother the exact nature of his distraction. Anyone would consider it a gamble to stake his happiness on a bold young woman whom he’d met for the first time when she’d encouraged his all but complete seduction of her. The truth was, despite everything he’d heard and the scene he’d witnessed in the dead of night at Lord Slyther’s residence, he still held out hope that Miss Brightwell remained a contender for the position of his viscountess.

  He ran his hand around his shirt collar and sighed again.

  What was the truth behind what he’d seen last night?

  Until he’d witnessed Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther, he’d convinced himself that Bramley’s spurious words were borne of spite and a need to avenge himself on a woman who more than likely had spurned him.

  He’d taken Bramley to task for his heedless behaviour towards Miss Antoinette, but perhaps it had not been so heedless. Perhaps Bramley had every indication that Miss Antoinette was in the market for nefarious activities if so inclined—that, like her elder sister, she was indeed willing to barter her body if the price was right. He imagined Fanny allowing Lords Bickling and Slyther the same liberties she’d allowed him the previous night and pain tore through him like a sabre.

  Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young couple reach the gates of the park, where the woman stopped and laughed, as though her companion had made a joke. She raised her head, touching the young man’s cheek, revealing her age to be at least two decades older than her companion—perhaps mother or aunt.

  Fenton nearly laughed out loud. Appearances were not always what they seemed. The observation ignited a spark of hope that made him raise his shoulders and turn towards his mother. No doubt there was some perfectly acceptable reason for Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther. The young woman had been chaperoned and there was every possibility of some family connection that Bramley, with his vulgar talk, had discounted. His imagination had conjured up all manner of lurid possibilities the night before because he’d been tired and had had too much to drink.

  Fired up with fresh hope, he said, “Old age must be catching up with me, Mama, for I’ll admit to being tempted by the idea of marriage for the very first time in my life.”

  Hah! What did he care for the opinion of others? It was a gamble he was prepared to take.

  He wanted Miss Brightwell and he wanted her for his wife. He felt his mouth stretch in a grin. Lord, the sight of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece was like gazing into the past—to the eager schoolboy he must once have been, contemplating some great adventure or intrigue.

  Marrying Miss Brightwell would be both.

  “Why, Fenton! This is news to me. Who is the young lady?” The severe lines around Lady Fenton’s mouth softened when she smiled.

  “Miss Brightwell.”

  It was the brittle silence more than the gasp—which could have been occasioned by the accidental stabbing of her needle into her thumb—that said more than words. Words, however, were quickly forthcoming.

  “Miss Brightwell?” His mother looked stricken, disbelieving and furious at the same time before she rose from her chair, her needlework falling at her feet. “Miss Brightwell! Oh, dear boy, pray don’t break your mama’s heart. No, no, it cannot be she who has stolen your heart—”

  Fenton made no move towards his mother’s open arms. His tone
was cool, though his feelings were the very opposite. “Pray tell what might discount her candidacy, Mama? I am aware that her father disgraced himself and that she comes with no dowry, but I love her.”

  Lady Fenton’s ashen face took on the heat of indignation. She clenched her fingers and drew in her breath. For a moment words failed her, before she croaked through bloodless lips, “The girl’s mother was a toad-eating upstart who sold herself for a title. A cooper’s daughter!”

  “She married Lord Brightwell in a union that, while not spectacular, was not ignominious.” Fenton’s voice rose. “Is there a slur upon the reputations of either Miss Brightwell or her newly fired-off sister?”

  “If you were a woman you’d blush at the tactics that Friday-faced miss used to entice Baron Brightwell. Now I hear she’s prepared to go to any lengths to snare good matches for her daughters. No doubt she’s parading her girls like—like enticing sweetmeats before any old duke or viscount in an attempt to ease the family’s financial woes. No, I wouldn’t put a little procurement past Lady Brightwell.” She all but spat the name.

  “Mother!”

  “You have no idea, Fenton.” His mother’s lips were a compressed line. “I went to school with the designing creature. Her father made his fortune through trade. He thought his money could put her on a par with the daughters of baronets, if not earls.” Lady Fenton’s lip curled. “No, nothing was too good for little Miss Lottie Lucas as she was then and, believe me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t put past her.”

  “You went to school with her? I know, too, your father was a friend of the fourth Baron Brightwell. Nothing wrong with the lineage, Mama…”

  Lady Fenton’s trembling increased. Tugging on the bell rope to demand her vinaigrette in a high, thin voice, she turned to Fenton and muttered, “Nothing wrong with the lineage but everything wrong with your choice, my boy, just remember that!” Her eyes flashed and for a moment Fenton believed she was going to beat him with her clenched fists as she took an unsteady step forward. “Let me warn you, Fenton, if you marry this designing Miss Brightwell I will never receive her! Do you hear me? Never!”

  * * * *

  “What do you think of these?” Lady Brightwell waved a pair of York tan gloves at her eldest daughter from the other side of the shop. “Without waiting for a response, she said to the assistant, “We’ll have two pairs. Fanny, try them on for size…oh, and perhaps the lilac, too. They’re very fetching and will brighten up your newest muslin.”

  There was no time for a new gown but Lady Brightwell was finding far greater enjoyment than Fanny in spending the money Lord Slyther had provided for a few accoutrements for his intended. It was not the August heat that made Fanny feel like a wilting dandelion. It was late afternoon on the day following the Earl of Quamby’s ball and she’d heard nothing from…

  Closing her eyes and clutching her reticule as she steadied herself against the counter beneath a hanging display of shawls, she forced herself to silently finish the sentence—the man who’d stolen her heart and her virtue.

  No! The truth, Fanny. The man to whom you’ve given your heart and your virtue.

  Certainly, she’d not disclosed her address but they had sufficient mutual acquaintances that it would not be difficult to locate her.

  She noticed her mother looking oddly at her as she glanced up from perusing a selection of fans.

  Fanny forced a smile. “I thought Antoinette and Bertram would be here by now.” Rousing herself, she looked around as if for her siblings, when in truth she was hoping beyond hope to see Lord Fenton passing by the window in the midst of Oxford Street. The busy shopping quarter was teeming but she could see no sign of anyone who bore any resemblance either from the back or from the front to the man who made her pulses race—nor anyone who could rival him in looks and presence. With a sigh, she peeled off the gloves she’d just tried, nodding to the shop assistant that she’d take them. “You must watch Antoinette, Mama,” she said. “Bertram is not a suitable chaperone, for he’ll let her go wherever she chooses. Besides, I’ve never heard Antoinette profess the desire for a long walk before. I’d wager she’s gone to meet someone and is hoping Bertram will make himself scarce.”

  Fanny’s concern was hardly allayed by her normally exacting mother’s reply.

  “Once you’ve wed Lord Slyther, my darling, I’ll pay more heed to Antoinette—though our troubles will be over then.”

  For a moment, Fanny was afraid her mother was going to embrace her right there in the shop. At least Lady Brightwell’s anger over the postponement had abated. What was a short delay when the day after next Lady Brightwell would see her ambitions realised? Her daughter would be wed to a titled man of fortune.

  Lady Brightwell tapped one of the fans, indicating to the assistant that she’d take that, too. Looking extremely satisfied, she said, “I think a treat is in order, Fanny. An ice at Gunter’s after your siblings appear, perhaps?”

  A treat?

  Fanny was in no mood for treating herself after the events of last night. She’d treated herself at Lord Quamby’s, treated herself to the heated kisses and the hot and humid embrace of muscled, manly flesh, and now it appeared she’d completely miscalculated.

  Oh, dear Lord…

  She closed her eyes briefly and concentrated on holding back the nausea. She had only ulcerous sores and limbs of white, marbled fat flanking Lord Slyther’s all-too-enthusiastic Magnificent Member to look forward to.

  “Are you all right, Fanny?”

  Fanny forced a smile.

  “You groaned.” Her mother took her wrist, the smile that brightened her face so at odds with her usual sour expression. “Later, after we visit Gunter’s, we must talk. You’re to be married soon and there are some things I need to tell you”—Lady Brightwell rarely spoke so kindly but she did so now, her tone low in their deserted corner of the shop—“about what to expect.”

  They were near the door, the obsequious shop assistant wrapping their purchases, when Antoinette and Bertram rushed in. Their handsome faces were flushed and showed signs of barely tempered exertion or excitement, very different from the usual languor displayed by world-weary Bertram.

  “Mama! Have you heard the news?” Antoinette’s eyes were like saucers; Bertram looked green around the gills. It was he who clapped his hand over his sister’s mouth, muttering, “Not here, Antoinette. Have you no sense of decorum?” before discreetly ushering his mother further from the curious looks of the assistant. Fanny followed. This was most unlike her brother.

  “What news?” Fanny tugged at Bertram’s sleeve, for now he was gaping like a fish, unable to say what Antoinette had been about to say so peremptorily.

  “Lord Slyther’s dead.” Antoinette’s voice shook. She looked uncertainly at her mother. “Of a stroke…around midday, I overheard it said.”

  Relief was Fanny’s immediate reaction. Relief that they were in a public place so her mother could not beat her over the head with whatever object came to hand, and relief that salvation had come before it was too late.

  Lady Brightwell put her hand to the wall to steady herself. The blood drained from her face while her eyes blazed like they were being stoked by the fires of Hell. Fanny’s joy at her reprieve was tempered somewhat by the observation. Her mother was never going to forgive her unless she succeeded with Lord Fenton.

  By all the saints in Heaven, though, she was!

  “Mama, you need to sit down.” Fanny’s tone was soothing, as if her first concern was her mother, but when she laid her hand upon her mother’s sleeve Lady Brightwell shook it off.

  “Stupid girl,” she hissed. She drew a staccato breath. Fearfully, her children watched while they formed a barrier to potential interest from other shoppers. Like a spider about to strike, Lady Brightwell glared at Fanny from the shadow of her bonnet as she tossed her tippet around her neck and stepped forward. “Stupid, stupid girl, Fanny! You’d be a widow right now if you’d played your cards right and all our fortunes would be made
. But no, you were too precious and too selfish to do what was required.”

  Antoinette and Bertram looked downcast. Shuffling one foot over the flagstones, Antoinette ventured, “I saw Mr Bramley today and he was very attentive. I’m sure he’s going to make me an offer and as he is the Earl of Quamby’s heir—”

  “Shut up, Antoinette!” Her mother rounded on her. “You understand nothing of the ways of men. You think because you are loose and obliging with your affections that a wedding band will secure the deal?” She shook her fist at her youngest. “They’ll be only too delighted to secure their pleasures without having to negotiate a marriage contract with ticklish family who consider there are better contenders than the Brightwells. You are, there’s no getting round the fact”—the substance appeared to drain from her and she slumped against the wall—“not every designing mama’s dream.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lady Brightwell was in no mood to accept the various attempts made by her offspring to paint their circumstances more rosily. In the bleak hues she had cast over their futures, ‘Fanny’s gross selfishness and disregard had ruined those who had sacrificed everything on her account’.

  “Fanny will find another brilliant match, Mama,” Bertram generously predicted as Lady Brightwell directed her three children—in clipped tones and with a brow as glowering as they’d ever seen—to arrange for a conveyance to take her home.

  To Fanny’s relief, she had acquiesced in allowing the rest of them to walk, provided they return directly to their dingy residence, but she was in no mood to be mollified by Bertram.

  “You’re as much a foolish optimist over your sister’s prospects as you are over your fortune at the gaming tables, Bertram,” Lady Brightwell snapped, slapping away his hand as he solicitously tugged her skirt clear of the door of the hackney.

  “Really, Mama, you all but forced the match upon her,” he persisted, unperturbed by the set-down.