by Anne Stuart
Neither, for that matter, did Felicity. But the bishop had such kindly eyes, and Liam appeared to be so miserable, that she resolutely put the memory of his burning kisses from her mind, accepted the elderly cleric’s blessing, and followed Mr. Riddington’s massive figure out into the rain-swept afternoon. And if, later that night as she lay in her bed, she relived every moment of Liam’s fevered embrace, there was no one to know but herself.
Chapter Thirteen
IT WAS A DIFFICULT week for the Redfern household. Felicity, never known for her stability of manner or great good sense, had developed the oddest habit of staring out the front drawing room windows. Whenever a visitor was heard approaching, her face would pale, she would start up in great agitation, and then she would subside into a decidedly devious silence when it proved to be someone as unexceptionable as Letty’s dearest friend and fellow malade imaginaire, Hester Toussaint, or one of Bertie’s floridly attired cronies. At other times she would sit for long hours, her pretty dark eyes filled with a faraway expression, her lips curved in a manner that, had her aunt been more observant, she would have stigmatized as decidedly sly.
Bertie himself wasn’t faring much better. Paler than ever, he had even appeared to have lost interest in the extravagances of dress that had so obsessed his intellect this season. Likewise bouts of fisticuffs, cock fighting, bear baiting, curricle racing, and even gaming had suddenly ceased holding out any lure for him. The desperate expression in his eyes was strong enough, however, to penetrate even Gillian’s abstraction, although his Aunt Letty remained absorbed in her own world of chocolates and migraines and French novels.
Dragging herself from her self-absorption one late afternoon, Gillian encountered first Bertie, with a grim set to his mouth and a despairing look in his brown eyes. His cravat was tied in an execrable version of The Ordinary, informing Gilly’s experienced eye that here was trouble indeed.
“Bertie.” She caught his arm as he attempted to pass her on the broad, curving staircase of Redfern House. “The very person I was longing to see.”
He stared at her abstractedly. “I am afraid I cannot stop, Gilly. I . . . I have an appointment that I cannot miss.”
“An appointment?” she inquired, not missing the guilty expression or the furtive glances toward the closed door of Derwent’s study. “Surely this is a very odd time of day for an appointment. Everyone will be dressing for dinner. Including you, I hope. I was counting on you to accompany your cousin and me to the Drelincourts’ tonight. Your company is usually a great deal more amusing than Derwent’s, and I know your uncle would welcome a chance to cry off tonight.”
Bertie shook his head, removing her gentle hold on his arm in a manner that would have been rude if he weren’t so obviously beset by worry. “I’m sorry, Gilly, but I cannot. Fact of the matter is, I’m not much in the partying mood nowadays.”
“Bertie, if there’s any way I can help . . .” she offered anxiously. “You need only to drop a hint. I’m far from purse-pinched, and there’d be no questions asked.”
His affront was monumental. “What kind of rag-bird do you think I am, Gilly?” he demanded, outraged. “I haven’t gotten so far down the road to rack and ruin that I need must apply to the women in my family for rescue. Good evening, Aunt!”
“Bertie!” she called after him despairingly, but he had already vanished out the front door.
This did little to improve a humor that had been beset by the foulest, blackest moods it had ever had to endure. All week long she had waited for some sign from Marlowe, some word, some gesture. Why she should have expected it she couldn’t quite say, considering how abrupt had been his departure from them on Bond Street a mere week ago. But expect it she did. After all, a gentleman did not kiss a lady as Marlowe had and then abandon her in a fit of pique. Even if the gentleman was a rakehell. One would think he would be even more likely to pursue the acquaintance in that event. But Marlowe seemed to have lost interest in her completely, and the gossip passed along by her sharp-tongued sister-in-law that he was presently falling at the feet of one of London’s more notorious flirts was disheartening. The fact that the lady was older than Gillian and far more experienced didn’t ameliorate the situation.
After a day or two of sulking Gillian had developed a sudden passion for Hookham’s Library, making at least two visits a day no matter what the weather, but with no success. Madame Racette’s had likewise proved a disappointment, as had the parties she had forced herself to attend. They had been dismally dull affairs, and Gillian told herself she should have known that a rackety fellow like Lord Marlowe would never have allowed his elegant person to grace such mundane festivities, but she couldn’t help watching for his familiar form. By the end of seven days she was ready to scream from vexation, and it had only been Bertie’s ill-disguised look of misery that had penetrated her own wretchedness. But she had provided no help, and only added worry about him to her burdens. With a sigh she went in search of Felicity. She could always be relied upon to brighten a gloomy day.
Felicity, at five o’clock on a spring afternoon, was lying on her bed, a bandage wrapped around her delicate jaw, a lace cap on her curls, and a suspicious flush to her cheeks and a gleam in her dark eyes.
“My dear child!” Gilly exclaimed, stifling her inward pang of despair over one more problem. “Are you feeling unwell? I had no idea.”
“I’m afraid I have the toothache,” Felicity replied in muffled tones. “Mama has given me some laudanum drops to dull the pain, and I expect I will simply sleep through the night. I do hope you weren’t counting on my accompanying you to the Drelincourts’ tonight. It should be a dreadful squeeze, and I am certain they won’t miss me.”
“They won’t miss either of us,” Gillian said briskly. “I had no real desire to go, and your father will be greatly relieved. He has made it clear these past three days that he cares for the Drelincourts not one bit, and your mama has expressed a preference for a small card party at the Toussaints’. Now they may gladly go, and I will keep you company this evening.”
“But I don’t need company!” Felicity cried in surprisingly strong tones. “All I desire is a good night’s sleep, and I have little doubt I shall feel splendid.”
“I have seldom found toothaches to be so accommodating,” her aunt observed wryly. “Perhaps I should have a look at it.”
“No!” Felicity wailed. “I can’t bear to have it mauled about. Please, best of all my aunts, just let me sleep. I am certain you’ll have something to keep you occupied, for I shall be no company whatsoever. Have you read Mrs. Overstreet’s newest romance?” She gestured to two slim marbled volumes by her bed.
“That trash!” Gillian sniffed, diving for the lurid novel with eager hands. “I don’t know how you can bear this romantic drivel. As if any sensible female would behave in such a way, throwing everything away for love. Is it as good as The Vicar’s Revenge?”
Felicity paled at the unfortunate title. “Even more nonsensically romantic, Gilly. You will adore it.”
Gillian looked down at the girl in the bed. “You might have a fever,” she suggested worriedly. “Your eyes are bright, and your cheeks are flushed. Perhaps we should call a doctor.”
“Please, Gilly!”
“Oh, very well,” she sighed. “But you must promise to call me if you feel worse.”
“I promise.” Felicity pulled herself upright and suddenly threw her arms around her aunt’s slender form. “I love you, best of all my aunts.”
Gillian returned the embrace with enthusiasm. “And I love you too, widgeon. Feel better soon, please. I need someone to pour my troubled heart out to.”
“Tomorrow, Gilly,” Felicity promised, and Gilly failed to notice the quickened breathing or rapidly pounding heart of her mischievous niece.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, and retired to her bedroom and the lurid delights of Virtue Rewarded or the
Lady’s Conscience. It was somewhere near midnight when sleep finally claimed her, still in the midst of that exciting tale. For a moment, before she drifted off, she remembered her ailing niece and contemplated checking to see if she was resting comfortably. But she knew from experience that Felicity hated to have anyone fussing over her unless she really felt ill. Either way, she would be better off sleeping the night through without an overprotective aunt sneaking into her bedroom. With a sigh Gillian closed her eyes again and gave her subconscious mind over to the possession of Ronan Marlowe, completely unaware that Felicity Redfern was at that moment making her determined way across the back gardens to Blakely House, Marlowe’s family residence.
IN THE MEANTIME Lord Marlowe himself was enjoying a decidedly uncomfortable evening at the gaming salon. First he had had to suffer Vivian’s pointed questions concerning the progress of their wager. Questions that had not been soothed with Marlowe’s lazy smile and the assurance that things were advancing just as he had envisioned.
“Does that mean she’s ready to fall?” Viv demanded as he drained an overlarge glass of brandy. “You haven’t been seen with her in a week—been seen hanging about the dashing widow Frenshawe, so I hear.”
“Merely a smoke screen, my dear Viv.”
“I would have thought things had taken a decided turn for the worse.”
“You are unacquainted with my strategy, Viv. I have piqued the lady’s curiosity. Rest assured I know precisely what I am doing.”
“Ah, but then, I have a thousand pounds that says you do not know what you are doing, Marlowe,” his cousin replied, a sly look in his milky blue eyes. “And quarreling with her outside of Hookham’s Lending Library is no way to convince me otherwise.”
“How news does get around! I am astounded at the number of people interested in my goings-on, Vivian. It truly amazes me.” His mouth curved in an amiable smile that failed to reach the hard green eyes, and had Vivian Peacock any sense he would have admitted to a sudden nervous qualm.
Before he could speak a scratching sounded at the door, and one of Marlowe’s discreet servants entered the private drawing room that had recently witnessed the beginning of Gillian’s downfall. “There is a gentleman who insists on seeing you, my lord.”
Marlowe yawned. “Haven’t I employed Hobson to take care of difficult gentlemen, Tilden? I would have thought having an ex-boxer for a doorman would have spared me from such embarrassment.”
“Throw him out,” Peacock ordered casually, pouring himself another glass of brandy and heading toward the door with a slight weave in his gait. “Or damme, I’ll do it myself.”
Tilden kept his face impassive, the flinty eyes expressing his opinion of the dissolute Mr. Peacock, who hadn’t much success with the servant classes. “Hobson said to tell you he would be delighted to do so, sir, but it’s not a question of someone who’s had a bit too much to drink. It’s a minister, sir, and he seems to be in a tearing rage. Says it’s personal.”
“Throw him out,” Vivian said drunkenly. “Give the place a bad name, having the clergy frequent it, don’t you know.” He subsided in a fit of giggles as he wandered out into the public rooms.
Marlowe sighed. “You’d best show the gentleman in, Tilden. And see if Mr. Peacock might not be persuaded to leave a trifle early tonight.”
“It is already past two in the morning, sir,” the butler had the temerity to point out.
“Well do I know it,” his master sighed once more.
Liam Blackstone scarcely allowed the door to close behind him in the elegant confines of Marlowe’s private rooms when he advanced menacingly upon his reluctant host. “What have you done with her?” he demanded, his rich voice shaking with rage. “What have you done with that poor, innocent child?”
Marlowe stared at him for a long moment before rising languidly to his full height, a number of inches over Liam’s slender frame, and held out a well-shaped hand. “How do you do?” he inquired smoothly. “I’m Marlowe. And you . . . ?”
“You know damned well who I am,” Liam snarled, knocking the politely proffered hand away. “I’m the man whose life you’ve destroyed.”
Marlowe raised an eyebrow. “And how, dear fellow, have I managed to do that when I’ve never even met you?” Marlowe inquired civilly.
“I’m Liam Blackstone!” Liam announced accusingly. Marlowe continued to look politely blank. “Miss Redfern’s fiancé.”
At this point an emotion did cross Marlowe’s face, namely rage. “Miss Redfern’s fiancé?” he grated out. “She failed to mention your existence to me.”
“You failed to ask!” exclaimed Liam. “You were so intent on seducing an innocent girl you didn’t even bother to find out whether she might already have given her heart to another.”
“Apparently she had,” he said ironically. “Is it too much to hope that she hasn’t already bestowed other parts of her anatomy upon you?” He avoided Liam’s flailing fists quite neatly, controlling his own strong desire to mill down the handsome, wild-eyed boy in front of him with noble restraint. With a dispatch that attested to his prowess at following the fancy and the many hours during which Gentleman Jackson himself had allowed his lordship to pop in a few hits, he bundled the enraged Liam into a chair, shoving him back with a notable enthusiasm every time he leaped forward.
“Stop enacting me these Cheltenham tragedies, I beg you!” Marlowe said witheringly. “I am sorry if you feel I have cut you out in the lady’s affections, but I hardly think you should attack me.”
“If you mean honestly by her I would take my heartbreak like a man,” Liam declaimed nobly. “But to seduce her, entice her to your house . . .”
“Don’t be absurd, man!” he snapped. “Miss Redfern has never been in my house. Not that I wouldn’t like to get her there, I do admit. But I know better than to attempt such a thing.”
“Then why did she send me a note tonight saying she had accepted your invitation for a midnight supper and had renounced all claim to my heart? I never thought she would go so far. I . . . I love her. I only wanted what was best for her. She deserves so much more than I can ever give her.”
Marlowe was watching him with a puzzled expression on his dark face. “She certainly does. But as you can see, the hour is far past midnight and Miss Redfern is nowhere around. Nor has she been here for more than a week. You may ask anyone, though I would suggest you not do so. A lady’s reputation is at stake.”
Liam’s beautiful dark eyes clouded with confusion and pain. “But I don’t understand. Why would she lie? What would she have to gain? I . . . I was going to bring a gun with me. I could have killed you, and all over a misunderstanding.”
“Why didn’t you bring a gun?” Marlowe inquired curiously, pouring two glasses of brandy and handing one to the flustered cleric.
“I . . . I couldn’t find one. I am not in the habit of using firearms in the city, you know,” Liam said stiffly, trying to refuse the brandy.
“Drink it, damn you.” Marlowe’s voice was abrupt, his patience at an end. “You need it even more than I do. And then I would like you to answer some questions.”
“What sort of questions?” he demanded suspiciously, taking a cautious sip of the brandy and letting out a sigh. It was a very fine brandy, and Liam, despite his monastic tendencies, appreciated a good brandy.
“Concerning Miss Redfern. I think I have the right to ask them, since you seem intent on my giving up any claim I might have toward her. Let me assure you, if I had known she was attached I would never have . . . have . . .”
“Cast your wicked lures in her direction?” Liam supplied furiously, remembering that this soft-spoken gentleman with the lazy smile was his beloved’s seducer.
“Well, I doubt I would have phrased it in just that way,” Marlowe replied apologetically. “But I suppose that will have to do. I can understand per
fectly why she would prefer you to me. You look like the very model for ‘The Corsair.’ But I wonder if you aren’t a trifle young for her.”
“I am twenty-six!” he shot back, his face pink from the Byronic allusion.
“Exactly so. And Miss Redfern is thirty.”
“Miss Redfern is eighteen!”
Marlowe stared at him for a long, incredulous moment. “Are we discussing Miss Felicity Redfern?”
“Of course,” Liam snapped. “Who else?”
“I was under the impression it was Miss Gillian Redfern who was the subject of my unholy attentions. For such, I must assure you, is the case. The only thing I would like to do with Miss Felicity Redfern is to spank her.”
“Gillian? You mean Felicity’s aunt?” Liam was still a few paces behind. “But what would you want with Felicity’s aunt?”
“I would suppose precisely what you want with her niece,” Marlowe said with a grin.
“Marriage?”
Marlowe shrugged. “I’m afraid not. My intentions are not so honorable as your own, I must confess. Ascribe it to my wickedly sinful nature. You will be pleased to know, Mr. Blackstone, that I have met Miss Felicity Redfern on only two occasions, during which she interfered with my pursuit of her aunt to an annoying degree. I am afraid she is making a may-game of you, my dear boy.”
“No doubt you’re right.” Liam stared at the Aubusson carpet in numb misery. “I know her far too well to deny that such is a distinct possibility.”
“I would suggest you go home and get a good night’s sleep. I am certain the light of day will bring forth an explanation of Miss Felicity’s little stratagems. I have no doubt you could ascribe better motives to it than I could.”
“She wants me to marry her, sir,” he offered. “And I told her I didn’t deserve her, and I couldn’t.”
“I would think the shoe is on the other foot,” Marlowe observed. “In any case she seems determined to prove it.”