The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  It took the earl some time to track his quarry to earth as Sir William had spent all the previous night at the card table and was no doubt much afraid to return to his rooms for fear that creditors would find him there. His losses had been heavy, his consumption of alcohol even heavier, and the earl eventually found him sleeping off his excesses under the table at his friend Mr. Boyd’s lodgings.

  His lordship walked into the room, assessed the situation with one swift look, and, stripping off his gloves, kicked the boots of the sleeping man to wake him. The man groaned but did not open his eyes.

  “He’s not very awake, Rob,” commented Sir Julius, following his friend into the room and observing the young man on the floor through his quizzing glass. “Gad, what a waistcoat.”

  Lord Marcham went to the stand, picked up the pitcher of water, and emptied it into the face of Sir William Blakelow. Then he calmly laid his gloves upon the table, sat down, crossed his booted ankles, and waited.

  The young man surged to his feet in a storm of bluster and foul language. He looked about him as if trying to find his assailant, and on spying his lordship stormed forward. “You!” he cried. “What are you—? How dare you come in here?”

  His lordship nonchalantly reached across for a towel, picked it off the washstand, and flung it in the face of the young man. “Dry yourself off, Blakelow. You are dripping water all over Mr. Boyd’s floor.”

  “He’s rather pale, March,” drawled Sir Julius, observing the young man at length through his quizzing glass. “He’s not going to part company with his breakfast is he?”

  “I would be very much surprised if he hasn’t already parted company with it,” replied the earl. “Do sit down, Julius, you are frightening our friend here.”

  Sir Julius did as he was told, stretching his extremely long legs out before him.

  “You—what do you mean by coming in here and accosting me in such a manner?” demanded Sir William, absently plying the towel to his red and dripping face.

  “I wished to speak to you. You were . . . ah . . . indisposed. And that method seemed to be the most effective.”

  “You will meet me for this,” said Sir William, lifting his fists menacingly.

  Sir Julius put up his brows. “Good God, is he actually threatening you, Rob?” he asked, astounded.

  His lordship smiled faintly. “He seems to have a penchant for violence—against me anyway.”

  “How very peculiar,” observed his friend.

  “I will have satisfaction,” declared Sir William furiously.

  “He wants satisfaction, Rob. Very bad business. And him hardly out of short coats. Not the done thing at all, but if he will force it upon you . . .”

  “Hush, Julius, you interrupt Sir William,” said Lord Marcham.

  “Hardly out of short coats?” repeated the young baronet, practically exploding with rage.

  “For God’s sake, puppy, calm down,” recommended his lordship. “Do you think I want to fight with you? Take a damper.”

  Sir William Blakelow was a bullish-looking young man with a short, thick neck and a rather stocky physique. He was a shade over medium height with a ruddy countenance, and he put his lordship in mind of young Ned Blakelow. His hair was more copper than gold and his eyes a pale blue, but he was unmistakably a Blakelow. He plied the towel to his wet shirt, glaring angrily at his lordly visitor.

  “What do you want?” Sir William demanded belligerently.

  The earl pulled his snuffbox from his pocket and flicked open the lid. “Sit down, Blakelow.”

  “I’d rather stand. I don’t take orders from no murderer.”

  “Sit down,” said his lordship quietly, taking a pinch of snuff and putting it to his nostril.

  Sir William balked a little. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

  “On the contrary, while I hold the purse strings, I can tell you precisely what to do. Now, are you going to sit down or do I have to resort to more immediate methods?”

  The young man reluctantly drew out a chair and sat down.

  “Thank you,” said his lordship. “I wish to speak to you on a delicate matter. Your sister came to me about two months ago with a preposterous idea. She wanted me to loan her the money to make Thorncote profitable enough again to pay the debts your father owed me.”

  “Eh?” put in Sir Julius, putting up his quizzing glass again.

  “Exactly. That is almost to the letter what I said at the time. Now, while I admire her courage and enterprise, I am, as you may imagine, rather reluctant to invest my blunt in a sinking ship without some . . . contingencies . . . put in place.” The earl paused and looked over at the florid young man before him. “You play deep, do you not, Blakelow?”

  Sir William Blakelow flushed. “No deeper than you, my lord.”

  “Ah, but I can afford to pay off any debts I may incur . . . You, on the other hand, are a little . . . er . . . compromised.”

  “I pay my debts, sir,” said the young man through his teeth.

  “That’s not what I heard,” drawled Sir Julius.

  “I do, I tell you!”

  “Of course you do,” said the earl soothingly, “and I would not imply otherwise. But you must see that from my point of view, I do not wish to be—how do I phrase it?—forever filling up a leaking bucket.”

  Sir William flushed. “I have an allowance. My debts will be paid come the beginning of the next quarter.”

  “Naturally.” Lord Marcham smiled. “But by then, you will have another handful of debts to pay off. And a few more the next month and a few more the month after that. You will, I am persuaded, understand my concern.”

  “You wish me to retrench?”

  “No, Blakelow, I wish you to go home.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Go home?”

  “If you wish me to help you set Thorncote back upon the road to recovery, then I need to see evidence that you are willing to put in the work to make it happen. Your sister cannot manage it all on her own.” The earl paused, smoothing the fabric of his pantaloons across one knee. “And besides, she may not always be at Thorncote. She loves the place and wishes to see it restored for your sake. And I want to see you taking responsibility for your own property. I don’t want to see you burdening her any longer with problems that are yours. Is that clear?”

  “What has this got to do with you?”

  His lordship smiled. “Here we get to the delicate aspect that I mentioned. I wish to have the honor of your sister’s hand in marriage.”

  “What?” cried William.

  “As you are head of the family, I feel I should . . . er . . . inform you that I intend to pay my addresses.”

  “She’s barely half your age! I will not have it. It’s disgusting.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said the earl softly but with a steely glint in his eye.

  Sir William Blakelow gulped. “She is an innocent and you . . . you . . .”

  His lordship raised a brow in silent inquiry.

  “Are . . . not,” the young man finished lamely.

  Lord Marcham picked up a clock on the table, examined it briefly, and then set it down again. “Miss Blakelow is an exceptional woman. Not only does she look after your brothers and sisters and the running of Thorncote and the house, but she is also the most selfless person I have ever met.”

  “Marianne?” demanded William. “She does not know one end of a scythe from the other!”

  “Ah . . . I think we are talking at cross-purposes,” the earl said with a smile. “I wish to marry your eldest sister . . . Georgiana.”

  William stared at him. “I don’t have a sister called Georgiana.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “I’m sorry?” said his lordship.

  “I don’t have an older sister called Georgiana.”

  “He don’t have an older sister, March,” added Sir Julius, helpfully.

  His lordship suddenly felt that the carpet appeared to have moved of its own
volition under his feet. He sat up in his chair, looking at the younger man intently. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have an aunt called Georgiana. She lives at Thorncote. But I doubt you wish to marry her, my lord. You can give her twenty years.”

  There was another silence.

  Lord Marcham regarded William fixedly. “Georgiana Blakelow is nine and twenty, tall, with dark hair and green eyes. She is bookish and wears thick spectacles. Now tell me you don’t know her.”

  William blinked at him. “I have three sisters: Marianne, Kitty, and Lizzy.”

  The earl got up and began to pace about the room. “What the devil—?” he began and then broke off suddenly, whirling around to face his prospective brother-in-law. “When was the last time you were at Thorncote?”

  “I was there for Christmas, my lord.”

  “The Christmas just gone?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you have never seen such a young woman as I have described?”

  “Georgiana Blakelow is, as you say, a rather bookish and damnably prudish lady, who loves moralizing at the dissolute young men in the neighborhood and writing pamphlets . . . and making my life miserable. She is in her sixtieth year and spends a great deal of time dispensing health remedies to those unfortunate enough to get stuck with her.”

  Lord Marcham ran a hand over his jaw. “When did your mother die? Forgive the question, but I must know.”

  William shrugged. “Lord, years ago. Why?”

  “And what was her maiden name?”

  “Oh, Lord, I don’t know. Bray or Gray or something.”

  The earl thought for a moment. The name rang no bells. He looked at Sir Julius, who shrugged; he did not recognize the name either. “And she had six children?”

  “Yes. She died giving birth to Jack. Look, what is this? Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “Was your father married before?”

  “No, my lord.”

  The earl swore under his breath.

  Sir William stood up. “Will that be all, my lord? I have an appointment to view a horse at one and I need to get home to change. I say, that is a natty waistcoat you are wearing, who made it for you?”

  Lord Marcham was not listening. He was staring out of the window, a frown like a furrow between his brows. “Your father . . . forgive the question . . . had no illegitimate children?”

  “How should I know?”

  “No wards or other dependents?”

  William picked up his coat and began to put it on, shrugging it over his shoulders. “He had a stepdaughter.”

  The earl turned around. “What was her name?”

  “Lord, I don’t remember. She lives abroad. Haven’t seen her for years.”

  “Your father married again?”

  “Yes, after my mother died, although briefly. But the lady was not in the best of health, and she died not three years from their wedding. Can I go now?”

  “And you don’t remember the lady’s maiden name?”

  William rolled his eyes. “How should I? I was hardly eleven years old at the time of the marriage.”

  His lordship sighed impatiently, sensing that the young Sir William Blakelow, Baronet, was lying through his teeth. He wished now he had paid more attention to the machinations of his neighbor’s marital affairs, but he’d been fighting abroad in Spain for much of the time in question, and for as long as he could remember, his mother had considered the Blakelow family beneath their notice. The two families moved in decidedly different circles. The natural children of the baronet and his first wife were at least ten years his lordship’s junior and so were unlikely to have developed a close friendship with the Holkham children, even had the countess allowed it. By the time the late Sir William had married again, the earl was abroad with Wellington’s army. “Do you have other relatives in London?”

  “Only my Uncle Charles, but he had no daughters,” said the young man quickly, impatient to be gone. “Can I go now, my lord?”

  Lord Marcham nodded absently and picked up his gloves from the table. “Let us go, Julius,” he said.

  “With the greatest pleasure on earth,” responded his friend and stood up. He went to the door and held it open for Sir William and watched as the young man took himself off without as much as a thank you to his host. Sir Julius smiled at his friend and followed Sir William out.

  A footstep sounded in the hall, and the earl looked up to see a man loitering in the doorway in such a way as to make his lordship suspect that he had been listening at the door to at least the latter part of their conversation. His name was Mr. Boyd, and he had flinty eyes and a watchful look that the earl mistrusted. He was supposedly the friend of Sir William, but Lord Marcham had met enough unsavory characters in his time to suspect that this gentleman was befriending the young gentleman for his own ends. What could he possibly want from Blakelow? Did he too wish to solve the mystery of who Georgiana really was?

  “Apologies for the intrusion, Mr. Boyd,” said his lordship, pulling on one of his gloves. “And apologies for that young man’s less than beautiful manners.”

  Mr. Boyd smiled. “Not at all, my lord. Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  “In the usual way of things, my inquiries have raised more questions than they have answered. Is Blakelow a good friend of yours?”

  “An acquaintance. He has the ability to land himself in a scrape in the time it would take you to tie that neckcloth.”

  Lord Marcham smiled faintly as he drew on his other glove. “Taken him under your wing, have you?”

  “All young men need a little guidance.”

  “To be sure.”

  Mr. Boyd clasped his hands behind his back. “I think we both want the same thing, my lord.”

  “Indeed?” inquired the earl. “And what is that?”

  Mr. Boyd smiled again and his cold eyes gleamed. “To find Miss Sophie Ashton.”

  His lordship felt a distant chord of recognition, a chime against his memory. The name was familiar somehow but he could not place it. A friend of Sarah’s perhaps? Or an old flame of his? No, he felt sure he’d remember her face if it had been that. His lordship decided to humor Mr. Boyd a little and see where it got him. “I see that we begin to understand one another,” he said.

  “I work for a gentleman who has entrusted me with the task of finding that young woman. A woman who vanished off the face of the earth. A woman who has been invisible for ten years. And I believe we are very close now, my lord, very close indeed.”

  Lord Marcham picked up his hat and cane. “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 halfway 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, wasn’t she? Tell me about her.”

  Mrs. Weir put down her hairbrush and turned to face him. “Sophie Ashton?” she repeated. “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 know?”

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

  “But surely Hal must have told you?”

  “Hal? Told me what? What has he to do with it?” he asked, although he already had that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach as he began to sense another disaster of his brother’s making.

  “You
really don’t know what happened, do you?” she said.

  “No. But I think I’m able to hazard a guess,” he replied. “An affair, perhaps?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  The earl went over to the window and looked out, slapping his driving gloves against his thigh. There was a silence while he struggled for mastery over his feelings.

  “Are you so very angry with me?” Caroline asked him at length.

  He gave a long sigh and shrugged. “I can see why my family kept me in the dark for all these years—especially after the Diana Ingham affair. I warned the boy after I extracted him from that entanglement that I would not tolerate any more scandals. But he defied me and got Mary with child—she a gently bred female whose father was a respected local magistrate. I was furious. I practically had to force Hal to the altar with a gun to his head. I told him that I was done with him from that moment on.”

  There was another short silence.

  Caroline folded her hands in her lap. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t be able to forgive him,” she said quietly. “You were so angry with him over Mary. Mama begged us, Sarah and me, not to tell you about Sophie. She said you and Hal were at loggerheads already and that you would cut him from your notice if you found out that he had toyed with the affections of yet another young innocent.”

  “So you kept it from me,” he said.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry, Robbie. I should have told you.”

  “Yes, you should. I might have been able to help her then, even if I can do nothing about it now. I might have been able to spare her some pain at least,” he muttered to himself. He walked over to the window and stared down at the road with his back to her. He was quiet for a long time, thinking. Finally he turned around. “Just to be clear, it was Sophie Ashton he ruined?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, a muscle tensing in his jaw. “Are you still in touch with her?”

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