The Rake's Retreat

by Nancy Butler

  “I prefer Jemima,” she said gently. “If you don’t mind. Lady Jemima.”

  The girl looked crestfallen for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be forward. It’s just that Jemima is a very…odd-sounding name, don’t you think? I liked it much better when I shortened it.”

  “Nevertheless,” Jemima said, in a voice that could have curdled milk, “odd or not, it is what I prefer.”

  Lovelace turned to their host. “What do you think, sir? I’m sure this lady will defer to your masculine taste.”

  “My taste?” Bryce echoed as he settled himself in a wing chair—one which happened to be farthest from the piano. “In truth, I give little thought to women’s names.” His eyes caught Jemima’s and held them. There was that strange fire burning again in their gray depths. “They have other attributes that I find more…compelling.” He dropped his gaze and let it linger on his glass of port. “But as for your question, Miss Wellesley—I think Jemima is a perfectly useful name. I believe my uncle once had a foxhound named Jemima… Or was that Jeremiah?” He looked up and shrugged apologetically.

  “See?” Lovelace crowed. “He called it useful. That is hardly a compliment.”

  Jemima thought the back of her head was going to explode. Which was the least of her problems; when Bryce had cast his heated gaze on her, another part of her anatomy, somewhere below her heart, had started to throb quite unaccountably.

  Intent on ignoring her traitorous body, she went to the piano and set up the sheet music Lovelace had chosen. She began to play—with perhaps a bit more heavy-handedness than a popular love ballad required, Lovelace sang with great animation, leaning her weight with both hands upon the cane and swaying in time to the music.

  It wasn’t a bad voice, Jemima had to admit. But somewhere along the line, someone had instructed the girl to sing every note at the top of her register. The result was a falsetto cacophony that sent one’s heart lurching up into one tonsils.

  After Lovelace finished her song, Bryce clapped politely. “Delightful, Miss Wellesley. Now if I can interest either of you ladies in a game of commerce…”

  “I have another song,” Lovelace announced breathlessly. She turned to Jemima. “Do you know, ‘My Bonny Lad that’s Gone Today off to War?’ ”

  Jemima nodded weakly. It wasn’t in her to lie, but the dashed song had at least seventeen verses.

  Bryce got to his feet. “Perhaps tomorrow night, Miss Wellesley, if you are still here at the Prospect, you can again inspire us with your voice. Now I think you’d best give your ankle a rest and sit here on the sofa.” He patted the seat invitingly. “And you can tell me again of your success in Shropshire.”

  Jemima let her fingers wander over the keys, picking out a Mozart sonata, while her host did his manful best to stay attentive through Lovelace’s prattling discourse. She was still feeling the aftereffects of Bryce’s heated glance. It bothered her that she could respond to a stranger in such a way. No man, libertine or otherwise, had ever made her insides feel as though someone had lit a torch there. Even in her youth, when she had been courted for who she was, and not yet for who her brother was, no one had ever sparked such a deep-seated, aching reaction.

  It would have mortified her, except that it was the only thing she had experienced lately that didn’t smack of encroaching middle age. She’d been noticing far too many aspects of her behavior altering for the worse. She had become more fearful, for one thing, afraid of stepping from her familiar path. She had become uncharacteristically vain, searching for gray hairs in her dressing table mirror—though happily none had yet been discovered. But just in case, she had taken to wearing lace caps at home. And worst of all, she had started sniffing at things people said, and humphing and tsking fit to beat the band.

  In light of those clear signs that she was slithering into old maidenhood, a heavy, languorous ache in her nether regions seemed almost like something to rejoice over. Beecham Bryce may have made a wry reference to her advanced age, but his eyes just now had told a completely different story. She’d seen desire smoldering there and a challenge she dared not even acknowledge.

  She was just finishing the Mozart, when the ancient butler appeared at the drawing room door, holding a silver tray in one trembling hand.

  “Mr. Bryce, sir,” he said in a reedy voice. “A message from Sir Walter.”

  “Thank you, Griggs.” Bryce looked away from the juvenile Juliet, who was caught in midstory with her mouth open. He rose and quickly scanned the note. And then stood with his head cocked for a moment, before he tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Well?” Lovelace said eagerly. “Is it something to do with the murder?”

  Bryce shrugged. “Only a request from Sir Walter that I ride by and see him in the morning.”

  Jemima stood up, pushing back the piano bench. “I think I will retire now, if you don’t mind.”

  Bryce moved to the piano and leaned upon it, his arms crossed. “You’re not going to wait up for your brother?”

  She shook her head. “He might be hours yet. Perhaps one of your footmen will show him to his room.”

  “Let me see you upstairs,” he said, his voice low.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” she said as she lowered the cover over the piano keys. “Your housekeeper showed me where I would be staying, if Lovelace’s family didn’t return tonight.”

  “They’re probably nearly to London by now,” Lovelace interjected. “Papa always likes to make good time when we travel.”

  As Jemima went past him, Bryce caught her arm. “A moment, Lady Jemima.” He drew her to the doorway and then turned to his young guest. “If you will excuse us, Miss Wellesley.”

  To Jemima’s dismay Bryce kept his hand on her arm once they were outside in the hallway.

  “Come into my library, a moment,” he said. “No, don’t look so shocked. I don’t have seduction in mind—at least not tonight. I need to tell you something.”

  Jemima let him lead her into the firelit library. As he went forward to light the branch of candles on the library table, she gazed around the high-ceilinged room, and then gasped as the upper reaches of the walls were illuminated. Above the towering mahogany bookshelves were displayed a variety of mounted animal heads. It was a surprising sight—Jemima didn’t picture her host as a hunter, at least not the sort that used a rifle to bring down his chosen game.

  “I know,” he said, reading the expression of distaste on her face. “It is rather macabre. When I was a boy I used to call it the morgue. My father shot a few of them, but I believe my Uncle Horatio contributed all of the more exotic animals.”

  “Was that the uncle with the foxhound named Jemima?” she asked archly, lowering her eyes from the walls.

  “No, that was my Uncle Harcourt,” he replied, and then added, “I gather that comment rankled a bit.”

  “It was intended to,” she responded. “So you can congratulate yourself.”

  “I was only getting my own back.” He grinned at her. “I can’t believe you encouraged her to sing.”

  Jemima tossed her head. “At least her song was about someone other than herself.”

  “True enough. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Anyhow, while my Uncle Horatio lived in India, he was obsessed with obliterating the local wildlife. Wooden crates would be delivered to this house at regular intervals, everyone containing some ghastly trophy. My brother and I started giving them names. Let me think…” He raised his arm and pointed to a heavily antlered stag. “That was Angus—shot in the Highlands by my father.” He shifted to a tiger, caught in midroar. “And that was Rajah, and the gazelle over there was Delilah. She was my favorite. The water buffalo was called Brutus…and the elephant—”

  Dear Lord! Jemima hadn’t noticed the large gray head near the French windows. Its trunk was raised almost entreatingly, and if it hadn’t been dead for decades, she thought she would have wept.

  “That was Tusker. He was my brother’s favorite.” His
voice lowered a notch. “We had to make it into a sort of game, you see, otherwise it would have hurt too much. To know they had died to furnish a rich man’s library. Such a waste.”

  Jemima turned to gaze at him. Those were the first words he had spoken to her that were not laced with irony, sarcasm, or simmering innuendo. But his eyes were hooded now, the frank openness gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Yes,” she said. “I don’t approve of killing animals for such a pointless reason. But then I expect you ride to hounds.”

  “No.”

  There was a moment of silence while she waited for him to expound on his answer. He stood before her, his arms relaxed at his sides, and said nothing—offered no disclaimer, no explanation. She realized then that he was a man who voiced no excuses to the world for the choices he made, either bad or good.

  “So you have a brother,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Not any longer,” he said as he moved away from her. This time, however, he did explain. “He was in the navy, and was drowned off this coast. Late last year it was, before Christmas.”

  She remembered hearing the tale of Bryce’s lost brother last January at a house party. She also recalled thinking at the time that a man as wicked as Bryce probably didn’t deserve to have a brother. “That is very sad for you,” she said with great feeling, trying to make up for her harsh thoughts of last winter. “I would certainly be devastated if anything happened to Terry.”

  “Ah, yes, your missing sibling. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually. Now if you would have a seat, I can tell you my news, and then send you off to bed.” He sat down across from her. “By the way, I hope your headache is improving.”

  “I never said—”

  “Just an educated guess. I noticed how you kept rubbing the back of your neck. I do the same thing when my head starts to throb.”

  “It’s a little better.”

  “Here, let me get you a cordial.” He shifted to the tray of decanters on the table beside his chair. “Though I believe earplugs would have been more efficacious as a preventative measure.”

  Jemima chuckled. “Perhaps by tomorrow we will have grown used to her.”

  “Or have throttled her. It’s anybody’s guess.”

  He filled two glasses and leaned forward to hand her one. “To my hostage,” he said as he clinked his drink against hers. “The ever-surprising Lady J.” He took a slow sip, his eyes watching her as he drank.

  Jemima refused to comment on his teasing use of Lovelace’s nickname. She merely inquired, “Whyever would you consider me surprising?”

  He lowered his glass. “Because you are still water, my pet. I wouldn’t have guessed it when we met in the woods. And I rarely have to revise my first impression of people—especially women.”

  “Then I can chalk that up as a small victory—that I have mystified the omniscient Beecham Bryce.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I never said you mystified me, only that you surprised me. But keep on as you are doing, and mystification can’t be far behind. Now as for this matter I wanted to discuss…”

  He had switched so rapidly from banter to business, that Jemima had to take a few seconds to catch up.

  “…so you can imagine how amazed I was when I read Sir Walter’s note.” He tapped his waistcoat pocket. “Apparently the man’s body was found and reported only a short time after I left Sir Walter’s house this afternoon. A farmer whose land adjoins this estate discovered the missing corpse in one of his hay ricks, an old one, left over from last year. It appears the murderer set fire to it, trying to cover his crime. It was a lucky thing the farmer happened to be working nearby, otherwise the body would have been burned beyond recognition.

  Jemima’s eyes widened as he continued. “You understand now why I didn’t want to bring this up in front of Miss Wellesley—she may be irritating, but she is a young girl and still overwrought. It’s bad enough Sir Walter had to identify the body—poor chap must still be feeling the shock.”

  “How did Sir Walter know who the man was?” Jemima winced as she added, “What I mean is, was there enough left of him to identify?”

  Bryce grinned at her squeamishness. “The corpse was only slightly…braised. Sir Walter was able to identify him by his possessions—a watch and a signet ring, apparently. And the fellow’s appearance matched his much-heralded descriptions.”

  Jemima blinked her eyes in confusion. “What descriptions?”

  “Medium height, fair, athletic build. Everyone’s heard him described that way. The newspapers are always rattling on about his gilded looks, whenever his name appears in print. I wager there will be teary eyes aplenty when the news gets out that he’s been murdered—especially amongst the female population.”

  “Mr. Bryce,” Jemima cried crossly, “I have no idea who you are talking about.”

  He shot her a look of impatience. “Didn’t you hear what I said at the beginning of my story? The murdered man was that perishing national treasure—Lord Troy, the poet.”

  Jemima staggered to her feet and took one step toward Bryce. Her glass slid through her fingers, the cordial draining out onto the hearth rug.

  “Lady Jemima?” Bryce crossed to her in one stride.

  “Troy?” she echoed raggedly.

  “Terence Vale—” he started to explain. And then it hit him. Lady Jemima Vale, awaiting the return of her brother Terry. Terence Vale.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he caught Jemima, just before she followed the path of her spilled cordial and tumbled to the carpet.

  * * *

  Bryce had rung for Mrs. Patch to sit with Jemima until she recovered from her swoon, and had then gone to the drawing room to send a protesting Lovelace to her bed, saying only that Lady Jemima was feeling unwell.

  He was now striding agitatedly around the perimeter of his house, trying to sort out what he needed to do. He had one house guest who had witnessed a murder and another whose brother had been the victim. He felt like he was sitting on a crate of explosives. So much for his quiet stay in the country.

  Bryce had turned the corner that led to the dark stableyard, when he spotted a man lying in the straw near the hay wagon. He quickly reached into his coat pocket for the small pistol he always carried and approached the fallen man cautiously, fearing that the murderer had already traced Lovelace to his home, and coshed one of his grooms. Not that the fellow in the straw appeared to be dressed like a groom—in the moonlight Bryce saw how the man’s topboots gleamed.

  As he knelt beside the fallen stranger he got a whiff of him. Christ! It wasn’t a cudgel that had felled the man, it was gin.

  “Up you go,” he said as he caught the fellow under the arms. “Let’s get you sobered up.”

  The man opened one eye. “Dwy-know-you?” he muttered thickly as he tried to stand and only succeeded in reeling over backward. Bryce caught him before he hit the straw and then dragged him over the cobbles. It was only a few yards to the stable pump.

  Bryce held him under his arm while he worked the handle. Once a steady surge of water was issuing from the spout he levered his charge under the stream. There were several loud, inarticulate, sputtering curses, and then the man thrust away from him.

  He was managing to stand on his own now, Bryce was happy to see.

  “Who th’ devil’re you?” he growled as he swiped his wet hair back from his face. “And where in blazes is m’sister?”

  Bryce nearly laughed. He’d been asked that particular question numerous times in the past.

  “Your sister is undoubtedly home, sleeping in her bed,” he replied reasonably. “Now if you will just tell me where that is, I can send you on your way.”

  The man looked up at the house that loomed before him. “S’this Bryce Hall?”

  “Bryce Prospect,” he corrected him. “I am Beecham Bryce.”

  The man turned toward him and stood weaving slightly. “Then she’s here. Left me a note—” He fished around in his pockets and
then gave up with a wobbly shrug. “Now f’ew will take me to Shemima—”

  Bryce stepped forward and grasped the man by the shoulders. “What lunacy is this? Lady Jemima’s brother was killed today.”

  “Not killed,” the man muttered irritably, “only foxed.”

  And then with a beatific smile he slid to his knees and fell slowly forward onto the cobblestones. “Best damn fight I e’er saw,” he mused, his face against the ground. “Best damn fight…”

  Bryce stood unmoving, waiting for his shock to wear off. And then, when the irony of it hit him, he began to laugh. He was soon doubled over—by the sheer bloody humor of it and by the enormous relief he was feeling.

  He raised the drunken man up, hoisted him over one shoulder, and then made his way in through the rear door of the house. He’d already carried one Vale this evening, the female sibling, who had felt particularly pleasant in his arms before he’d settled her on his library couch.

  There would be hell to pay in the morning, he had no doubt. Weighing up all his crimes against society, this one might just be the capper—when word got out that the man he had so unceremoniously doused under a pump, as though he were a bosky schoolboy, was none other than Lord Troy, England’s premier poet.

  Chapter Three

  Bryce was in the breakfast parlor by nine, and so was surprised when Miss Wellesley joined him only a few minutes after he’d drawn his chair up to the table. In spite of her limp, she looked bright-eyed and chipper, which he attributed to the fact that she knew none of what had transpired last night with Lady Jemima and her brother. She offered him a pleasant “Good morning,” asked after Lady Jemima’s health, and then busied herself at the sideboard.

  Troy appeared soon after, looking less chipper; his eyes were bloodshot and bore heavy shadows beneath them. Bryce had asked his own valet to look after the new guest, and Quigley had done wonders with the man’s appearance, almost disguising the aftereffects of a night of carousing.