Rake's Redemption (Scandalous Miss Brightwells Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  “Lord Fenton—”

  Her mother’s wail of anger drowned Fanny’s reassurance that Lord Fenton was so unlike Alverley that the comparison was laughable.

  “Lord Fenton!” Lady Brightwell nearly choked on the name as she repeated it. “Why, if his mama is still alive—and unless she passed away this last week then she is—you can be assured you will not be marrying her son. Not while she has breath in her body. Of all the young bucks to pick, you have chosen the worst, Fanny! The one with the worst mama, at any rate! What have you done?”

  It was rare that Lady Brightwell’s anger took this despairing form. Usually she was brisk and cold, but now her railing frightened Fanny who cried, “He loves me, Mama, and he’s in the market for a wife! Lord Quamby himself told me—”

  “Well, you will not make it onto Lord Fenton’s list of contenders, Fanny—”

  “Mama, do you know what Lord Slyther made me do?” Fanny gripped her mother’s arm but Lady Brightwell prised off her fingers, replying, “I don’t care! I’ve had to do nothing less. We’ve spoken of this before.”

  The carriage rounded a corner. They were nearly home but it offered no sanctuary. Lady Brightwell would not hear her out.

  Desperately, Fanny cried, “You married Papa for love. What can you know of being mauled by a disgusting old man? He kissed me, and put his tongue in my mouth and then he made me—”

  “If you’d played your cards right, Fanny, he’d be doing it as your husband, not besmirching your reputation. Your position is weak. You are a complete fool, just like your father! Do you think he was some handsome young buck I fell head over heels for? He was charming enough when I wed him, thinking to elevate myself just a little, but it wasn’t long before the drink and the gambling ruined him—and your chances. A disappointed man, when he’s drunk, is a frightening prospect, Fanny. So don’t tell me I know nothing of the horrors you’ve endured. You know nothing of horror! I’ve shielded you, like the best of mothers, and look how you repay me! You are a stupid, ungrateful girl and you will rue this day!”

  Hunching back into the corner as the carriage halted in front of their town house, Fanny wiped her streaming eyes. “I’m going to marry Lord Fenton, Mama,” she muttered. “You’ll see.”

  Chapter 7

  Lord Fenton peered past the curtains into the darkness from the comfort of his silk-lined carriage at the empty street in front of Lord Slyther’s residence.

  Everything was silent. Unremarkable.

  He ran his fingers the length of his cane and fought the urge to rap on the roof and direct his coachman to leave. The mere fact he was here suggested he didn’t believe in the integrity of the woman with whom he’d fallen in love in two short days.

  He did; but George Bramley had goaded him until Fenton had ground out, in frustration as they’d parted ways on the top step of Lord Quamby’s, that he’d keep a late night vigil in front of Slyther’s townhouse only to prove that Bramley was feeding on conspiracies.

  Miss Brightwell was lively and, granted, a touch scandalous but she’d only taken risks to be with Fenton.

  The thought was an uncomfortable one that reflected more badly on him than Miss Brightwell. He felt shame burn his ears. Miss Brightwell was young and innocent and she’d fallen hard for Fenton.

  He should never have taken advantage of her.

  But he had and he would atone.

  As a gentleman.

  He closed his eyes but despite his good intentions his senses seemed to be drowning in a surfeit of feeling—lust, definitely, but something that reflected better on him; something sweet and deep and intense he’d never experienced until tonight.

  Now, as the sound of horse’s hooves on the cobbles punctuated the still night, another emotion, more difficult to describe, seeped through his bones. For a dusty hackney that had seen better days had just pulled up in front of the townhouse he had in his sights.

  And the cross-eyed jarvey who pulled on the reins was, he was sure, the very one who had conveyed Miss Brightwell, her sister and their chaperone home, not ten minutes earlier, from the ball.

  Two cloaked figures were now stepping out.

  Fenton’s earlier exuberance was thoroughly checked. It was long after midnight and this was the confirmation he’d been hoping not to see.

  He knew he had the right address. This was Lord Slyther’s London town house. No one else lived here. Earlier he was sure he’d seen Lord Slyther’s ring. Fenton would not have troubled to discern the crest had it not been for Bramley’s words before he’d been properly introduced to the young lady, but it had struck him as odd that Miss Brightwell had concealed the ring in her handkerchief when earlier she’d been wearing it on a chain around her neck.

  Why?

  She was surely too lovely for guile. He didn’t want to think the facade she presented was an act, just as he didn’t want to think of all Bramley’s ugly slurs upon Miss Brightwell’s character.

  That’s why he was here. To reassure himself. Now he didn’t know what to think.

  Of course, George Bramley had a grievance against the girl. Fenton nearly hadn’t come for that reason. He should trust the girl, Miss Brightwell of course. But surely if he intended to make her his wife it was all the more reason to ensure she was…trustworthy?

  Narrowing his eyes, he tried to make out the identity of the two cloaked figures that were being ushered into the house.

  A tall, straight-backed female wearing a grey opera cloak marched slightly ahead, turning to beckon the slighter young woman trailing in her wake.

  Both were heavily veiled.

  It was impossible to discern their identities.

  And yet, there was something familiar about the younger woman’s stance.

  No. He shook his head. He would not believe it. She was not his Miss Brightwell he told himself as they stepped into the dimly lit hallway and the door closed behind them.

  He leaned back against the squabs as he battled his indecision. Should he leave or should he stay?

  Fenton scanned the four storeys of the building for any chink through the curtains that might give a clue to what was going on inside. Anxiously? No—angrily—for a closer look at the jarvey convinced him it was indeed the same man, and the confident manner with which the younger woman had swept past the parlour maid was Miss Brightwell personified.

  He pressed his fists against his cheeks. Miss Brightwell was here?

  Miss Brightwell was here!

  The idea appalled him that she could go directly from the ball where she’d given herself to Fenton with such enthusiasm straight to the arms of…who? Her erstwhile secret lover? Given Bramley’s lewd talk and the fact Fenton was newly returned to London, perhaps it was common knowledge.

  There must be some explanation. Miss Brightwell must have a perfectly good reason for being there. Could Lord Slyther be her godfather, who’d requested her presence upon his deathbed?

  Bramley insisted Miss Brightwell was carrying on a secret liaison with Lord Slyther. Fenton had nearly called him out on it.

  Now he could only stare and wonder. What possible reason would the young lady have for such a clandestine late-night visit?

  He shivered though his blood was boiling by the time the two cloaked figures reappeared nearly an hour later. He saw the older woman hurry into the carriage while the other paused for a moment upon the top step. Straining, Lord Fenton tried to identify the lonely, straight-backed figure as Miss Brightwell. He wanted desperately to be proved wrong but when she raised her lovely, now-unveiled, familiar face to the light spilling from the lamps he nearly wept aloud with disappointment.

  Miss Brightwell’s perfect, high cheekbones cast shadows over her rosebud of a mouth and her dimpled chin as she gazed into the darkness.

  Thinking of what? Fenton, or the man who kept her?

  Emotion roiled in his gut. He’d been in the market for a wife and Miss Brightwell had seemed a gift from heaven—a creature who combined everything he desired. He’d had enou
gh of transient pleasures. Spending so much time in the country, as he would from now on, he wanted a wife to please him in bed as much as she did over breakfast and…well, during every other part of the day.

  He was about to turn away when he saw her put her hand to her neck; to the chain upon which she kept Lord Slyther’s ring. She had secreted it away for the brief duration of their own clandestine tryst, but now she had returned it to its original position. With a sharp tug, she tore the chain from her neck. The ring skittered to the flagstones at her feet.

  Lord Fenton watched her stare at it, as if undecided.

  Then, slowly, like an old woman, she bent to retrieve it before putting it in her reticule.

  In his mama’s Mayfair drawing room the following morning, Lord Fenton paced between fireplace and window, his thoughts in turmoil. His mindless activity clearly infuriated the dowager who eventually snapped, “What is wrong with you, Fenton! Spit it out, for I cannot keep my mind on my stitching while you’re behaving like some lovelorn schoolboy…unless you’re dunned and too afraid to tell me.”

  Fenton stopped by the stuffed mongoose in its glass box atop a round table and managed a wry smile. “I’m not the gambler I used to be, Mama.” He let out a deep sigh as he looked out of the window, his gaze taking in a couple in the park across the street. Newlyweds, by the look of them, their fair heads bent towards one another as they discussed something in animated fashion, their bodies suggesting a companionable union.

  “So, no, I’m not dunned.” Though, to tell the truth, he might be accused of lacking the courage to tell his mother the exact nature of his distraction. Anyone would consider it a gamble to stake his happiness on a bold young woman whom he’d met for the first time when she’d encouraged his all but complete seduction of her. The truth was, despite everything he’d heard and the scene he’d witnessed in the dead of night at Lord Slyther’s residence, he still held out hope that Miss Brightwell remained a contender for the position of his viscountess.

  He ran his hand around his shirt collar and sighed again. What was the truth behind what he’d seen last night?

  Until he’d witnessed Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther, he’d convinced himself that Bramley’s spurious words were borne of spite and a need to avenge himself on a woman who had spurned him.

  He’d taken Bramley to task for his heedless behaviour towards Miss Antoinette, but perhaps it had not been so heedless. Perhaps Bramley had every indication that Miss Antoinette was in the market for nefarious activities if so inclined—that, like her elder sister, she was indeed willing to barter her body if the price was right. He had a sudden vision of Miss Fanny Brightwell allowing Lords Bickling and Slyther the same liberties she’d allowed him the previous night and pain tore through him like a sabre.

  Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young couple reach the gates of the park, where the woman stopped and laughed, as though her companion had made a joke. She raised her head, touching the young man’s cheek, revealing her age to be at least two decades older than her companion—perhaps mother or aunt.

  Fenton nearly laughed out loud. Appearances were not always what they seemed. The observation ignited a spark of hope that made him raise his shoulders and turn towards his mother. No doubt there was some perfectly acceptable reason for Miss Brightwell’s nocturnal visit to Lord Slyther. The young woman had been chaperoned and there was every possibility of some family connection that Bramley, with his vulgar talk, had discounted. His imagination had conjured up all manner of lurid possibilities the night before because he’d been tired and had had too much to drink.

  Fired up with fresh hope, he said, “Old age must be catching up with me, Mama, for I’ll admit to being tempted by the idea of marriage for the very first time in my life.”

  Hah! What did he care for the opinion of others? It was a gamble he was prepared to take.

  He wanted Miss Brightwell and he wanted her for his wife. His mouthed stretched in a grin. Lord, the sight of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece was like gazing into the past—to the eager schoolboy he must once have been, contemplating some great adventure or intrigue.

  Marrying Miss Brightwell would be both.

  “Why, Fenton! This is news to me. Who is the young lady?” The severe lines around Lady Fenton’s mouth softened when she smiled.

  “Miss Brightwell.”

  It was the brittle silence more than the gasp—which could have been occasioned by the accidental stabbing of her needle into her thumb—that said more than words. Words, however, were quickly forthcoming.

  “Miss Brightwell?” His mother looked stricken, disbelieving and furious at the same time before she rose from her chair, her needlework falling at her feet. “Miss Brightwell! Oh, dear boy, pray don’t break your mama’s heart. No, no, it cannot be she who has stolen your heart—”

  Fenton made no move towards his mother’s open arms. His tone was cool, though his feelings were the very opposite. “Pray tell what might discount her candidacy, Mama? I am aware that her father disgraced himself and that she comes with no dowry, but I love her.”

  Lady Fenton’s ashen face took on the heat of indignation. She clenched her fingers and drew in her breath. For a moment words failed her, before she croaked through bloodless lips, “The girl’s mother was a toad-eating upstart who sold herself for a title. A cooper’s daughter!”

  “She married Lord Brightwell in a union that, while not spectacular, was not ignominious.” Fenton’s voice rose. “Is there a slur upon the reputations of either Miss Brightwell or her newly fired-off sister?”

  “If you were a woman you’d blush at the tactics that Friday-faced miss used to entice Baron Brightwell. Now I hear she’s prepared to go to any lengths to snare good matches for her daughters. No doubt she’s parading her girls like—like enticing sweetmeats before any old duke or viscount in an attempt to ease the family’s financial woes. No, I wouldn’t put a little procurement past Lady Brightwell.” She all but spat the name.

  “Mother!”

  “You have no idea, Fenton.” His mother’s lips were a compressed line. “I went to school with the designing creature. Her father made his fortune through trade. He thought his money could put her on a par with the daughters of baronets, if not earls.” Lady Fenton’s lip curled. “No, nothing was too good for little Miss Lottie Lucas as she was then and, believe me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t put past her.”

  “You went to school with her? I know, too, your father was a friend of the fourth Baron Brightwell. Nothing wrong with the lineage, Mama…”

  Lady Fenton’s trembling increased. Tugging on the bell rope to demand her vinaigrette in a high, thin voice, she turned to Fenton and muttered, “Nothing wrong with the lineage but everything wrong with your choice, my boy, just remember that!” Her eyes flashed and for a moment Fenton believed she was going to beat him with her clenched fists as she took an unsteady step forward. “Let me warn you, Fenton, if you marry this designing Miss Brightwell I will never receive her! Do you hear me? Never!”

  “What do you think of these?” Lady Brightwell waved a pair of York tan gloves at her eldest daughter from the other side of the shop. “Without waiting for a response, she said to the assistant, “We’ll have two pairs. Fanny, try them on for size…oh, and perhaps the lilac, too. They’re very fetching and will brighten up your newest muslin.”

  There was no time for a new gown but Lady Brightwell was finding far greater enjoyment than Fanny in spending the money Lord Slyther had provided for a few accoutrements for his intended. It was not the August heat that made Fanny feel like a wilting dandelion. It was late afternoon on the day following the Earl of Quamby’s ball and she’d heard nothing from…

  Closing her eyes and clutching her reticule as she steadied herself against the counter beneath a hanging display of shawls, she forced herself to silently finish the sentence—the man who’d stolen her heart and her virtue.

  No! The truth, Fanny. The man to whom
you’ve given your heart and your virtue.

  So why had Lord Fenton not sought her out? Certainly, she’d not disclosed her address but they had sufficient mutual acquaintances that it would not be difficult to locate her.

  She noticed her mother looking oddly at her as she glanced up from perusing a selection of fans.

  Fanny forced a smile. “I thought Antoinette and Bertram would be here by now.” Rousing herself, she looked around as if for her siblings, when in truth she was hoping beyond hope to see Lord Fenton passing by the window in the midst of Oxford Street. The busy shopping quarter was teeming but she could see no sign of anyone who bore any resemblance either from the back or from the front to the man who made her pulses race— nor anyone who could rival him in looks and presence. With a sigh, she peeled off the gloves she’d just tried, nodding to the shop assistant that she’d take them. “You must watch Antoinette, Mama,” she said. “Bertram is not a suitable chaperone, for he’ll let her go wherever she chooses. Besides, I’ve never heard Antoinette profess the desire for a long walk before. I’d wager she’s gone to meet someone and is hoping Bertram will make himself scarce.”

  Fanny’s concern was hardly allayed by her normally exacting mother’s reply.

  “Once you’ve wed Lord Slyther, my darling, I’ll pay more heed to Antoinette—though our troubles will be over then.”

  For a moment, Fanny was afraid her mother was going to embrace her right there in the shop. At least Lady Brightwell’s anger over the postponement had abated. What was a short delay when the day after next Lady Brightwell would see her ambitions realised? Her daughter would be wed to a titled man of fortune.