Never Resist a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  “Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.”

  John looked away, staring down into the skylight that topped the grand foyer four floors beneath them. A man crossed the space below bearing a single candle. John frowned down at the wandering figure.

  “Come.” He grasped her elbow. “We need to hurry.”

  * * *

  Since there was someone besides them stirring in the great house, John couldn’t take Rebecca back to her chamber by the most direct route. They had to stop at every corner and survey the way ahead before he committed them to it. Traveling in silence, they threaded their way through the great house, hand in hand.

  When they reached her door, he wished he could say something to her. Words of love were dancing on his tongue, words he didn’t have the right to say to someone as fine as she. Besides, he didn’t want to chance being overheard by someone in a nearby room. Instead, he kissed her cheek and hurried away, trying to put some distance between them in case there were any other early risers among the occupants of Somerfield Park.

  Someone other than that man with the candle.

  It had been difficult for John to see the fellow’s features from the vantage point of the roof skylight. The man had moved slowly, stopping to examine objets d’art placed on side tables and running his fingertips over the polished horizontal surfaces as if he were trying to acquaint himself with the place by touch. He was dressed in a dark banyan whose silken folds flowed around his form like water as he moved. It was of obvious quality.

  Clearly the man roaming the halls was not a servant.

  John hastened to the grand staircase and headed down, breathing a sigh of relief. Rebecca was safe. It didn’t matter if he were discovered out of his chamber. He was bloody Lord Hartley, after all. If he wanted to dance naked through every parlor in the house, no one would dare say a word against it.

  So who else could wander Somerfield Park by night without purpose and without anyone saying them nay?

  John slipped through room after room, looking for the man with the candle. He heard some muttering ahead and followed the sound to a long, high-ceilinged gallery. Row upon row of portraits stared down at him from the canvases, some of them dark with age, some in brighter hues of more recent times.

  The man with the candle had stopped before one of them, lifting his light to squint up at the painting. He seemed to be in an earnest whispered conversation with the likeness of a double-chinned fellow whose aristocratic head was topped by a full-bottom powdered wig.

  “It’s not fair,” the man murmured. “You can’t expect me to give her up. I can’t and I won’t.”

  John drew closer, and when he was about ten paces away, the polished hardwood beneath his foot creaked. The man jerked his gaze to him, wild-eyed.

  Now that he was closer, John saw that the man’s hair was the same dark honey color as Lord Richard’s, but his temples were shot with silver. Still, the resemblance in coloring was striking and that wasn’t where the similarity ended. With his fine, straight nose and expressive brown eyes, the man’s face might be Richard’s, though his square jaw was weighted by another twenty-five or thirty years. John had rarely seen such an obvious stamp of paternity. The man was undoubtedly Richard’s father.

  And his father, he realized.

  “Who’s there?” Holding the candle before him, Lord Somerset’s eyes were so wide, one would have thought he was seeing a ghost. Then he gave himself a small shake. John suspected the older man had been sleepwalking and had only now awakened.

  “What are you doing with her eyes?” Lord Somerset demanded.

  “Who’s eyes?” John asked in surprise.

  “Sadie M— No. Mustn’t speak of her.” The marquess put down his candle on a small side table and wrung his hands. “That’s done with. No good thinking on it. What can’t be mended shouldn’t be kept. Toss it out and think on it nevermore.”

  John had intended to confront his father, to demand an explanation for his semi-benevolent neglect over the years. Silent rage had been John’s companion since his first day at Eton, when one of the boys in a higher form had named him a “penniless bastard” and proceeded to pummel him for something over which he had no control.

  Now he wondered if the man he blamed for his troubles could even be made aware of them.

  “Are you unwell?” John asked.

  “Me? No, I’m fit as a fiddle. I’ll live to be a hundred, Dr. Partridge says.” His lordship thumped his chest at this bit of bravado. “I simply fell off the roof, they tell me. It happened because… Confound it! I used to remember how it happened. At least I think I remember that I knew once, but now it’s… Well, things sort of retreat from one sometimes, don’t they?” Lord Somerset paced in a neat little circle. “I mean, first you think you have a thought in your net and then it slips away. Just like a trout, that little thought shakes off the hook and splashes back into the stream.”

  He stopped pacing and stared up at John, who topped him by a couple of inches.

  “You remind me of someone,” the marquess said.

  “I believe, sir, you were acquainted with my mother.” The irony in John’s tone was completely lost on Lord Somerset.

  “That must be it. Yes. Lovely woman, your mother. Never forget a face. Forgot plenty of other things though.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. Then he pointed an accusatory finger at the portrait of the man in the powdered wig. “He never forgot. Never forgave, either. Not a damned thing.”

  John came over and stood next to the marquess. “Who is he?”

  “Oh, I thought everyone knew. That’s my father, Lord Somerset.” The current Lord Somerset’s voice took on a curiously childish quality. “You won’t tell him I was out of bed, will you? He gets frightfully upset if anyone tampers with the schedule. Must do things right. Everything in its place. Everyone in his place. Promise you won’t tell.”

  The smoldering resentment John felt toward his sire began to fizzle out. It was impossible to remain angry with someone whose mind was so disheveled.

  “No,” John promised solemnly, “I won’t tell him.”

  “Good.” The marquess’s face split into a smile of unabashed pleasure. “If I don’t get any demerits this week, I can ride my pony to Somerset-on-the-Sea on Saturday.”

  “Perhaps we should see you back to your bed, sir, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Oh, yes, quite right. Wouldn’t do to be caught out of line, would it?” Lord Somerset took a few steps, then stopped and narrowed his eyes at John. “You must be the new footman. What’s your name?”

  “I’m…John.”

  “No, the new footman’s name is Toby. I remember that distinctly. Hightower claims this new chap’s quite a goer. But John…there was something about a John.” The marquess thumped the side of his head as if the sudden blow might shake loose a stray memory. “Oh, now I remember. My son’s name is John.”

  “John Fitzhugh Barrett,” John supplied as he took up the candle and shepherded the marquess out of the gallery, toward the grand staircase.

  “Oh, know him, do you? Haven’t met him myself. Can’t think why not.” Shaking his head, the marquess allowed himself to be led along. “That’s a dickens of a thing, not to know one’s own son.”

  “Quite a dickens of a thing.” John slowed his pace to match his father’s halting steps. Lord Somerset sounded regretful over their relationship now. Why had he not taken action when it might have made a difference?

  “Takes his middle name from me, you know. Fitzhugh. My Christian name is Hugh, though no one but Helen and Maman ever call me that.” He chuckled to himself. “And then only when they’re upset with me.”

  John couldn’t be upset with the shattered remains of the man climbing the staircase beside him, but he was frustrated that his pent-up bitterness no longer had a focus. Who could he blame for his childhood if not his father?


  No, wait. There was always the dowager. She had been up to her bony shoulders in the scheme to hide John away in Wiltshire. And no doubt now she had her own reasons for bringing him back.

  The marquess stopped at the head of the staircase and looked up and down the long dark corridor. “Say, I don’t suppose you know which chamber is mine, do you?”

  Yesterday afternoon after he left Rebecca in the garden, John had thoroughly explored the house and learned where everything and everyone was. He had to know, if he was going to spirit her up to the rooftop in secrecy and safety.

  “Yes, my lord, I know where your room is.”

  “Well, that’s capital, Toby. Hightower was right. You are a goer!”

  John had been elevated from unclaimed bastard to footman in his father’s eyes. It wasn’t much of a step up. And there likely wouldn’t be any more. He doubted Lord Somerset could be made to understand who he was.

  His chest constricted. He’d never hear his father claim him as his son.

  But he still might glean some information from Lord Somerset. The man knew more than he was aware of and might be coaxed into answers if John could keep him talking.

  “You say your son’s name is John. Will we be seeing him here at Somerfield Park?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s on his way, but he’s late. Waited for him on the roof till Helen made me come down. Can’t think why she was so upset at me being up there.”

  “You fell off the roof once,” John reminded him.

  “Oh, quite right. That must be it. Well, can’t say as I blame her then, but my son has to come home, you see.”

  “Why?” John kicked himself for a fool, but something in him hoped to hear his father say that he longed to meet him, that he wanted to ask his forgiveness, that he was sorry for the wasted years, and could they start afresh?

  “On account of the hunt,” the marquess said as he shuffled along.

  John’s belly spiraled downward in disappointment. He should have known better. “Oh, you need his help when you entertain the visiting lords.”

  “Oh, no. We’ve already set up the blinds and have beaters lined up ready for the shooting. It’ll be grand. Always is.”

  John wondered if everyone in Somerfield Park was dotty. They surely had to be if Lord Somerset was going to be allowed to handle a loaded weapon.

  “Then if your son isn’t helping you with the annual hunting party, what hunt are you talking about?”

  His lordship put a finger to his mouth and made a shushing sound. “Maman says we’re not to speak of it until it’s time.”

  John’s curiosity burned. “That’s all right,” he assured the marquess. “You can tell me.”

  “Why, so I can. If one can’t trust one’s footman, who can one trust? The hunt my son must come home for is the Hartley Hunt.”

  “The Hartley Hunt?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s Lord Hartley now, and it’s high time he did his duty.”

  “What duty?”

  “Why, to wed and breed a gaggle of sons to ensure the continuation of the line, of course. So Maman has invited all the right sorts of young ladies, not a one of them less than an earl’s daughter, mind you. One of them will bag him before the season turns.” Lord Somerset stopped mid-stride and sighed. “Mark my words. When a woman sets her cap for a man, it’s all up with him.”

  He’d suspected as much, but John swallowed back his indignation at this confirmation that he’d been summoned to Somerfield Park simply to serve as breeding stock. Something in his father’s tone suggested he’d recalled a vivid memory, and while it was fresh in Lord Somerset’s mind, John wanted to hear about it. “Is that what happened to you? A woman set her cap for you?”

  “Yes. She beguiled me,” Lord Somerset said.

  John was right. The way the older man smiled at the memory convinced him it was clearer than most of what scampered about his father’s confused brain.

  “I knew I shouldn’t,” his lordship continued, “but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

  “Lady Somerset is a striking woman.” During the tea they had shared, his father’s wife had impressed John as being equally lovely on the inside.

  “Yes, she is, but no, I don’t mean Helen. I learned to love her later, after our parents arranged everything. In fact, I loved her so well, we had to rush the wedding a bit.” Lord Somerset chuckled. “Shh. Don’t tell.”

  Then his face took on a wistful expression, and John suspected his father was in another time and place entirely.

  “When I first saw my Sadie on the stage, her eyes lit with fire, her voice… Lord, the woman had a voice that would tempt angels.”

  Lord Somerset was speaking of John’s mother. So the old man did remember her. John remembered the sound of her voice as well. She used to sing to him sometimes, low and comforting.

  “I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to have her. Father was furious. If he could have disowned me, he would have.” The marquess hung his head. “Then, as it turned out, she didn’t want me either. Father was even more furious.”

  “What did you do?” John wanted desperately to know how things fell out between his parents. Why his mother had decided not to remain with a marquess was a mystery beyond his ability to unravel.

  “I think…I think I need my valet,” Lord Somerset said, abruptly changing the subject. “I say, Toby, nip off and find Mr. Cope, will you?”

  “Why do you need your valet, my lord?”

  “Well, if I’m going to bed, I need my pajamas, don’t I?”

  “You’re already wearing your banyan.”

  The marquess looked down at himself and laughed. “So I am. You are a sharp one, Toby. Hightower said so. Don’t know what Somerfield Park would do without him. That butler is always right.”

  The marquess went into his bedchamber, leaving John in the dark corridor. Then he walked the short distance down the same hall to the room he’d been allotted.

  It was a fine chamber, as befitted the heir to Somerset, firmly central in the Family wing of this floor. To all appearances, he was being welcomed by the Barretts with open arms.

  Except now his father had let slip the reason he’d been sought out in London and dragged back to the country. They didn’t want him. Not really. His grandmother intended to use him solely to further the Barrett lineage. No doubt once John begat an heir of his own on an approved earl’s daughter, his usefulness to the Family would be over. They could relegate him, as the unorthodox heir, to the background and lavish their attention on the next marquess in the making, biding their time until that nameless one could take his rightful place.

  And it seemed his future wife’s pedigree was important enough that the dowager had decreed she must be at least the daughter of an earl.

  Rebecca’s father was a threadbare baron.

  He shoved that thought away. Even if she met the dowager’s requirements, John wouldn’t saddle her with his mess. She was too fine, too innocent, too open a person to be burdened with a shut-off fellow like him.

  As his hand closed over the doorknob to his chamber, an idea to thwart the dowager’s plans for him, and have a bit of fun while he was at it, popped into his head.

  “So she wants to see me with an earl’s daughter, does she?” he murmured. “As luck would have it, I have one in mind.”

  Eighteen

  When I had my coming out, nothing could separate me from my bosom friends, with one notable exception. If a match with an eligible party was in the offing, all bonds of sisterhood were strained to the breaking point.

  —Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

  “Thank heaven Somerfield Park isn’t too terribly distant from London. Else I couldn’t bear all the sheep.” Lady Winifred Chalcroft removed the charming little capote from her blond head and settled on the foot of Rebecca’s bed
. With un-Freddie-like attention to her wardrobe, she smoothed out her column gown’s sheer overlay to ensure it didn’t wrinkle. “There were simply endless flocks of them on the way here. Honestly, how can anyone enjoy rusticating in the country when there are museums and plays and lectures to be had in the city?”

  Remembered pleasure from her time on the roof with John rushed back into Rebecca. She bit her lower lip, trying to avoid a blush. “Country life has its charms.”

  “No doubt, if one is content to be a cabbage. I, for one, prefer to improve my mind. Gallivanting along the hedgerows, trying to avoid animal droppings, is not my idea of time well spent.”

  “I believe there is an extensive library here.”

  “Well, that’s a mercy.” Freddie narrowed her eyes at Rebecca. “You look terribly wan, and there are dark smudges under your eyes. Are you unwell?”

  Rebecca pressed her palms to her cheeks. With all the young ladies descending upon Somerfield Park, she had to be in her best looks. “No, I’m fine. I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was on the roof for a meteor shower.”

  “That’s right. The Leonids. Well, where are your notes? Did you time the event? How many meteorites did you observe per hour?”

  Nothing could have been farther from her thoughts at the time the stars began to fall. “I’m afraid I only observed the phenomenon.”

  “What? A cow could merely watch the Leonids shower, Rebecca. Where’s your sense of scientific inquiry?” Freddie shook her head. “Well, never mind. The meteorites should return tonight, and I’ll make a detailed record. The roof should be a good vantage point, eh? Perhaps this won’t be a wholly wasted fortnight after all.”

  “Does that mean you’ve given up winning Lord Hartley?” Rebecca wandered to the window and looked down on yet another coach pulling up the long drive. Once it stopped, the butler and footman leaped to open the carriage door for the visiting dignitaries and handed them out with aplomb.

  “Oh no,” Freddie said, waving a hand airily. “Father is adamant that I give becoming Lady Hartley my best, and you know when I set my mind to something, I rarely fail.”