Rules for a Rogue

by Christy Carlyle

  “She wrote that awful book and gave it to my girls to read.”

  “The lady has an impressive ability to spread gossip at lightning speed,” Milly whispered as they stepped out of the ballroom and into the main hall.

  “Forgive me, Miss Marsden, but for your sake, perhaps it’s best if you depart early.” Lady Pembry waved toward a footman. “My carriage will deliver you home.”

  “I’m quite capable of walking, my lady.”

  “Now is not the time for stubbornness, Phee.” Milly clasped her arm in a reassuring squeeze. “Mama and I will do our best to stem the rush of rumors.” She glanced at her mother. “We should see that Mrs. Raybourn departs early too.”

  “But I wrote the book,” Phee mumbled. From the start, she’d wished she could claim Guidelines as her own, but she’d feared what a man like Leopold Ruthven might do if her authorship became known in the village. Now it was clear the consequences had outlived him.

  The Raybourns’ tuition and those of however many other parents Mrs. Raybourn could turn against Phee would be lost tonight. Her livelihood, which provided for her aunt and sister and kept Longacre running, would dwindle away.

  “Tomorrow, Miss Marsden.” Lady Pembry signaled to a maid who approached with Phee’s cloak and laid it gently on her shoulders. “All will look brighter tomorrow. Safe journey, my dear. I must get back.”

  “We’ll do what we can to quiet Mrs. Raybourn.” Milly embraced Phee. “And once Mama reads your book, I suspect she’ll be as proud of you as I am.”

  Milly might have intended her words as balm, but Phee wondered if, now that the worst was done, she should return to the ballroom and face Mrs. Raybourn and every other naysayer of Briar Heath. Still, she couldn’t ruin the ball for everyone else. Lady Pembry and her circle looked forward to her autumn dance all year.

  Before stepping through the Pembrys’ front door, Phee turned back to Milly. “If he looks for me, tell Kit I was sorry to depart early.”

  As she climbed into the Pembry carriage for the short journey home, Phee fought the sting of tears. For a fleeting moment, she’d allowed herself to indulge her desire for Kit, to forget rules and responsibilities. To behave as boldly as she advised other young ladies to do. Now her chest ached with a familiar pang of disappointment, the sting that always came when she allowed her heart to overrule her good sense.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Fortitude in misfortune. Courage in the face of calamity. Bear up in times of trial, young men. Adversity is the truest test of a man’s worth.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG MEN

  Notes began arriving the morning following the ball in a trickle that gushed to a steady stream by late morning. While most were delivered by servants, Phee wondered if some parents had been incensed enough to stomp a path straight to the post box themselves. Most senders couched their rejection in civil language. Others insisted on her unworthiness to tutor young woman in the boldest terms. All cited her “terrible,” “outrageous,” and “disgraceful” book as the cause.

  Juliet, who’d been tucked in bed when Phee returned from the Pembry dance, rose with her usual cheerfulness, but seemed to note Phee’s attempts to hide her darkening mood.

  “Aunt Rose asked me to bring you chocolate.” Juliet entered the library with a brimming cup and set it carefully on the edge of Phee’s desk. “She says it cures everything that ails a body.”

  “Our aunt is a very wise woman.”

  “Are you ailing, then?” Juliet took up her notebook and settled into her favorite chair as if she might begin to write or draw, but instead she watched Phee warily. No family welcomed sickness, but Juliet knew their mother had died of fever two days after her birth, and they’d both tended to their father during months of the infection that finally shortened his life. She worried more than most children her age about the devastating effects of illness.

  “Not at all. I’m perfectly healthy.” Though their bank account wouldn’t be after all of the pupils had gone. Phee’s thoughts immediately turned to her writing, but she wasn’t sure what putting pen to paper could earn. She would never write another etiquette book. Even out of print, Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines was causing unimaginable turmoil.

  “You’re frowning as if something hurts, and you don’t appear to have slept at all.”

  “I’m fine.” Phee resisted the urge to jump up and examine herself in the hallway mirror.

  “Are you mistaking me for some silly child?” Juliet’s voice had taken on a resolute tone that reminded Phee of their mother. Setting the latest letter aside, she turned her full attention on her sister.

  “I know you’re not, better than anyone.” Phee was forever impressed by Juliet’s cleverness and maturity.

  “Then tell me about those.” She slid a pencil from behind her ear, loosening a single dark curl, and pointed at the letters. “You were happy when you left for the ball last night. Now you’re scowling, and there’s a mountain of envelopes on your desk.”

  “I’m not scowling.” Phee concentrated on trying to smooth her features and realized her head was pounding like a drum. Sleep had come in fits and starts, and she’d finally risen before sun-up with Kit on her heart and mind.

  Juliet scrunched her lips, a sure sign of her displeasure. “Papa always said lies gnaw at the soul.”

  “I’ve never lied to you.” At times, a simple fib would have been easier, but Phee had done her best to tell her sister the truth. She’d been honest about their father’s worsening illness and their waning fortunes. There was only one secret she’d kept from Juliet, the same she’d kept from everyone but Milly.

  “Then tell me what those letters say.” Juliet set her notebook aside and sat up in her chair, hands folded in her lap.

  Phee pressed two fingers to the throbbing between her eyes. “I wrote a book.”

  “I know that.”

  “You do?”

  “I suspected as much.” Lifting one hand, Juliet began ticking off facts, finger by finger. “First, you stayed up past my bedtime night after night. Second, we’re always running out of paper and ink. And third, you’ve made more trips to London in the past month than you have in over a dozen years.”

  “You haven’t been alive for over a dozen years.”

  “That’s beside the point. Why haven’t you allowed me to read your book? I love books.” She looked truly offended.

  “I was saving it until you got a bit older.”

  Her brown eyes went round as boiled sweets. “Is it scandalous?”

  “No.” Fingers clenching the fabric of her skirt, Phee fought past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat and attempted to explain that every proper family in Briar Heath thought her the worst sort of a termagant. “It’s a book of advice for young ladies.”

  Juliet reared her head back and squinted. “What sort of advice?”

  Phee opened her desk drawer and retrieved the soiled copy Mrs. Raybourn had found in her daughters’ possession and thrown on their grate. “This one’s a bit mussed, but all the pages are clean.”

  “You’ll let me read it, then?” Juliet bounced in her seat and snatched at the book as if she’d just been offered a Christmas gift.

  “Only as much as you wish to.”

  “I intend to read every word.” She’d already flipped to the first page, flattening it open with several gentle strokes and then turning to the dedication page. “Oh.” Her lower lip began to quiver, and Phee approached to crouch next to her chair.

  “Go on. Read it aloud.”

  After an enormous gulp, Juliet started reading in a breathy tone, just above a whisper. “To my dearest mother, who taught me what every young woman should aspire to be and gave me the best gift of all, my sister.”

  Juliet hurled herself into Phee’s arms. She squeezed with surprising force, and Phee drew strength from her sister’s affection. They would get through this downturn as they had all the others.

  “What’s all this, then?” Aunt Rose enter
ed the room with a tea service balanced expertly on a small tray. “Don’t tell me both of my young ladies are misty-eyed.”

  “I’ve never cried in my whole life.” Juliet detached herself from Phee and swiped at each eye.

  “Having swaddled you from the cradle and risen to feed you long before dawn, I beg to differ with you, Julie girl.”

  “Between tea and chocolate, you’ll restore us in no time, Aunt Rose. Especially if you come and join us.” Phee filled a cup and offered it to their beloved mother-aunt. As she reached for Juliet’s cup, Phee noticed the tray contained more than refreshments. A letter lay tucked under the teapot’s edge. Unlike the others she’d received, this note sported a wax seal marked with a large Dunstan insignia. She took the envelope and stuffed it into her skirt pocket.

  “I’ll stay with Juliet while you go.” Aunt Rose watched from the corner rocking chair. After setting down her teacup, she took up a square of knitting. “Unless you wish me to accompany you as a chaperone.” One silver eyebrow winged up in inquiry.

  “Even if it is an invitation to call, I have no interest in visiting Lord Dunstan. There’s too much to be done here.” Phee cast a glance toward the pile of letters she’d yet to open. Aunt Rose knew she’d refused Dunstan’s offer but still seemed to nurse hopes Phee would change her mind.

  Catching Aunt Rose’s notice, Phee tipped her head toward Juliet. She needed to reply to each and every letter, but she wouldn’t get far with Juliet at her elbow quizzing her about their unpleasant content. Phee hoped she could salvage her reputation with at least a few parents until she came up with another way to earn funds.

  Aunt Rose took her meaning instantly. Laying aside her knitting, she stood and lifted a hand toward Juliet.

  “Come with me, lass. Bring your book if you like. I suspect our tea will go down much better with one of my fresh lavender scones.”

  With tea tray in hand, their aunt nudged her chin toward the kitchen, urging Juliet to precede her.

  “You’ll come and join us for lunch in a bit?” Juliet’s cocoa eyes watched her trustingly, and Phee nodded quickly to reassure her sister.

  “Are you unwell?” Sophia strode into the drawing room, planted a pale, slim hand on each black-clad hip, and cast Kit a scrutinizing gaze. “The housekeeper said you wished to see me. You look wretched. Did you imbibe too much at the Pembry ball?”

  His head was spinning, and he’d slept like hell, but liquor wasn’t the cause. Mostly, he’d been distracted with thoughts of Phee and felt drunk on the possibilities ahead. After a restless night of aching for her, he’d risen early, brimming with too much energy to remain abed another second.

  After hours of pacing and thinking and planning, he’d finally sorted out a few ideas on paper and asked a maid to summon his sisters to the drawing room.

  “None of the above.” Kit waved her over to a round table he’d placed in the center of the drawing room. “Will you come and have a seat? I thought we’d take tea in here.”

  “Why?” Her sharp eyes widened bit by bit as she took in how furniture had been moved, chairs brought to circle the table, and the window coverings pulled aside to cast the room in midday light. “We take afternoon tea in the back parlor. Never the drawing room, unless we are entertaining guests.”

  “Do you know, Sophia?” Kit approached and laid an arm lightly across her shoulders, steering her toward the center table. “Every time you recite the rules, you only make me more determined to break them.”

  “Just put the papers and pens over there, Dolly, and the tea tray goes on the round table, Abigail.” Clary led two housemaids into the drawing room. She carried a large flower arrangement herself and set it gingerly at the table’s edge. Blooms of pink, yellow, and white ringed with greenery instantly sweetened air that was usually cloistered behind thick drapes.

  Kit cast his younger sister a questioning glance.

  “Flowers improve every space.” Clary shrugged. “And this room needs cheering up.” She leaned closer and whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Honestly, every room does.”

  When the servants departed, they cast wary glances at Sophia. She stood vibrating like an agitated bird that might take flight at any moment, and she’d been in charge of the house long enough to garner their respect.

  “One of you needs to explain this chaos to me.” Sophia swept a hand around the sunlit room, her beaded jet bracelet and the rustle of inky lace on her bodice creating the only sound in the room. “Now.”

  “Kit has called a family meeting,” Clary announced. “Tea is a necessity, I thought we should all have writing supplies, and you can’t protest flowers.”

  Sophia stared at the cheerful bouquet, as if mustering an appropriate complaint.

  “Why can’t we speak in Father’s study?” Sophia still refused to sit, though she eyed the cup of fragrant Oolong tea Clary was pouring with an impressive degree of poise. Apparently she’d learned some of her older sister’s decorum after all. “That’s where he used to conduct all of his meetings.”

  “This discussion has nothing to do with Father’s preferences.” Using the word to refer to a man who’d never treated him with warmth or offered a word of encouragement left a bitter taste in Kit’s mouth. “We need to come together to determine Ruthven Publishing’s future.”

  His father’s study was drenched in the past, and the oppressive room still reeked of the man’s cigar smoke. It was the last place Kit wished to discuss what lay ahead. Besides, Leopold Ruthven would haunt them all with a vengeance if he knew what Kit was about to suggest.

  “No sugar and only a dash of milk.” Clary lifted a teacup and added a fresh shortbread biscuit at the saucer’s edge before offering both to Sophia.

  Sophia took a sip of tea and turned her gaze on Kit. “I thought you were determined to sell to the highest bidder.”

  “Plans alter.” His had undergone a sea change since his arrival in Briar Heath. Kit reached into his pocket and unfolded a page of hastily scribbled notes. “While I wish us to make decisions together, I’ve written down a few notions of my own.”

  Though he’d shared none of his ideas with Clary, she grinned at him encouragingly.

  Kit opened his mouth to begin and found he needed to stand. Perhaps he’d chosen the wrong room. The quiet was as oppressive as the dark wood paneling and precise placement of every knickknack, every bloody portrait of Ruthven ancestors and dim oil paintings of men hunting foxes and fowls. His heart began thumping, and he cast his thoughts back to the hedge maze and the bliss of having Ophelia in his arms. He knew what he wanted. Now he simply had to pull it off.

  “We need to modernize.” Ignoring the little gasp of irritation from Sophia, he pressed on. “The twentieth century comes rushing on, and Ruthven’s must change.” He gazed long into Clary’s round eyes and then into Sophia’s narrowed ones, as clear and cutting as mirror glass. “The publishing house is ours to do with as we wish.”

  “Father left his business to you, Kit.” No scorn or jealousy. Sophia simply stated the fact with a firm finality.

  “On paper, yes, but if we are all in agreement, I wish to have Ruthven’s ownership amended so that we’re each allotted an equal share.”

  Clary fidgeted in her chair. A dimple near the corner of Sophia’s mouth began quivering, as if a smile fought to break free. Instead, she took a long swig of tea and shot him a look Torquemada would have envied.

  “That would only make sense if you were certain about maintaining Ruthven’s. What’s changed your mind about selling?”

  “Circumstances.” Now was not the time to mention Phee or any of the hope he’d tucked close to his rusty heart. “But you’ve hit on what must become our guiding precept, Sophia. Change. We must devote ourselves to transformation if Ruthven’s is going to survive.”

  Fountain pen poised above a fresh piece of paper, Clary urged, “Tell us. What changes? What must we do?”

  Kit flattened his scribbled sheet of notes between his hands. “The
reading public is hungry, paper and ink are affordable, and we have connections with several suppliers. Ruthven’s problem is our books. Father relied too heavily on the Rules and publishing awful poetry written by bored country squires. We must take another path.”

  “Penny dreadfuls?” Clary asked a bit too eagerly.

  “No,” Sophia insisted before lowering her eyes and fidgeting with the gilded handle of her teacup. “Though detective fiction is rather popular. I am quite fond of Mr. Conan Doyle’s stories.”

  Kit and Clary cast surprised glances at their sister, who apparently had a secret taste for detective fiction.

  “Both excellent suggestions,” Kit praised, “and I’d like to add another. All of The Ruthven Rules must be updated. Truly updated. Not simply the addition of new rules, but the infusion of fresh thoughts. Modern notions of behavior, something more akin to this.” He pulled Mrs. Croft’s volume of Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies from his inner coat pocket and handed it to Sophia.

  “This book is causing a stir in the village. Mrs. Raybourn railed against Miss Gilroy when paying her condolence call.” Sophia examined the volume with interest, then opened to a random page. One brow shot up as she read.

  “Not just here,” Kit admitted. “The London papers have published a series of letters from the public, some celebrating the book. Other reviewers seem to share Mrs. Raybourn’s opinions. The initial print run was small. Wellbeck is cautious and committed to only two hundred volumes. Despite the attention it’s drawn, he’s bowed to pressure and released the author from her contract. I suggest we publish instead.”

  When Sophia laid the book down and frowned at him, Clary scooped it up. She smiled as she began reading, then laid a finger inside to hold her page and glanced at him. “And what does Miss Gilroy say to that?”

  Kit cleared his throat. “Ophelia Marsden wrote the book.” Rumors about her authorship spread like brush fire at the Pembry ball. He didn’t fear exposing her with his admission. Mrs. Raybourn and others of her ilk had already done their worst. More, he saw no reason for Phee to hide. The book was delightful and thoroughly modern. After reading much of the volume, he felt nothing but pride.