The Spinster and the Rake Page 5

  “I believe that was at the core of your father’s objections to Mr. Blackstone. It seems he was right.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Felicity scoffed. “Lord Marlowe was right. You are distressingly like Papa at times. Once I’m married to Liam I won’t flirt with other men. If I could only overcome Liam’s tiresome scruples! But as long as we’re kept apart I have to keep my spirits up, don’t I?”

  “I would think you’d have an easier time convincing your father that you know your own mind if you didn’t,” Gillian observed. “And if I were you I wouldn’t choose someone like Lord Marlowe as an object of your devotion. He’s a bit more than you can handle.”

  “Gilly, how you misunderstand me!” Felicity laughed. “Lord Marlowe is exactly the sort of person I should pick. He’s got such a black reputation that Liam will seem like an absolutely brilliant match compared to him.” She squeezed her aunt’s numb hand. “I know what I’m doing. All I need work on now is Lord Marlowe. But I don’t expect to have any trouble winding him around my little finger. There’s never been a man I haven’t been able to attach if I’ve wanted him,” she added with simple pride.

  “I wouldn’t underestimate Lord Marlowe if I were you, Felicity,” she said warningly. “He didn’t seem too taken with you this afternoon.”

  “No, he seemed far more interested in you,” Felicity agreed, obviously puzzled. “Perhaps he has better taste than one would have expected.”

  “Merci du compliment.” Gillian laughed. “I would abandon this scheme if I were you. You may bite off more than you can chew.”

  “But what a lovely mouthful,” Felicity said wickedly, running up the broad front steps of the Redfern mansion before Gillian could reprove her.

  Chapter Five

  IT WAS A LOVELY day for a stroll to Hookham’s Lending Library, Gillian agreed innocently. Of course Felicity should take advantage of the unexpectedly clement weather. And would Felicity require her aunt to accompany her? Knowing her aunt’s inordinate fondness for reading, that is. No? Felicity’s somewhat flighty maidservant would be ample protection? But of course her aunt trusts her. Implicitly. She would have no doubts whatsoever of her obedient niece’s occupation and destination for the next few hours. Oh, of course. The library.

  Felicity breathed a sigh of relief once she was out of sight of the imposing edifice that was the Redfern mansion, and once out of range of Berkeley Square her spirits lightened still further. Obviously she hadn’t fooled Gilly for a moment. She knew perfectly well where her wicked niece was heading, and Felicity didn’t flatter herself that it was Gilly’s faith in her that made her turn a blind eye to Felicity’s transgressions. No, it was Gilly’s wisely placed faith in the vicar’s high principles that allowed her niece to keep a rendezvous with nothing more than a romantic maid in attendance.

  Gillian must also have known, Felicity added ruefully, climbing into the hansom cab that Marjorie had deftly procured, just how romantic those little tête-à-têtes could be. They consisted of Felicity, her elegant gown covered by a capacious green stuff apron, dishing out loathsome bowls of steaming soup to the oddest assortment of people. Hollow-eyed mothers with ominously rosy cheeks that Liam told her bitterly signified consumption, cheery gentlemen well gone into the effects of what was popularly referred to as Blue Ruin, children young in years but ancient in the cruel way of the world. It was the children that distressed her tender heart the most. From the burned and starving chimney sweeps who’d grown too large for the chimneys and had been abandoned, the saucy pickpockets who treated her with a touching gallantry, to the angelic faces of those who sold their frail young bodies for the price of a meal. If she could, she would have bundled them all back to Berkeley Square with her. Gillian would have welcomed them with open arms. But she knew full well that was out of the question. Nevertheless, it wasn’t only for the sake of Liam Blackstone’s beautiful dark eyes that she ventured down into the most depraved section of the teeming city of London.

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to wait on those creatures,” Marjorie sniffed as the carriage rattled over the uneven pavement. “And I wish there was some way I could talk you out of it. You could get fleas from the likes of them.”

  Felicity turned her attention from the slums outside the window and eyed her maid disapprovingly. “You will help me in whatever capacity Mr. Blackstone requires,” she said in a cold tone of voice seldom used on her servant and confidant, “and you will do so with good grace. Jesus washed the feet of the sinner, you know.”

  Another disapproving sniff. “Why couldn’t you fancy someone like young Mr. Blenkinthorp, who fair dotes on you? Or Sir Sidney Penstaff? Either one of those gentlemen would come up to scratch if you gave them the slightest bit of encouragement. But instead you moon around after a man who isn’t even pleased to see you when you go to all the trouble to drag me down to this terrible place. I think you must have windmills in your head, Miss Felicity,” she said with her usual frankness that refused to recognize a set-down.

  Felicity didn’t even bother to administer one this time. Her pulses were racing, her heart was pounding as the carriage drew up outside the shabby little mission that presently served as Liam Blackstone’s parish house. “You sound like my father, Marjorie,” she said shortly. “And if you don’t mind your tongue and make an attempt to be more amenable, I’ll take Gillian’s Flossie with me next time. She’d be ripe for an adventure.”

  “You call this an adventure?” Marjorie demanded. “Slaving away for the worst kind of people? I doubt Flossie would find it so. And you know she can’t keep a still tongue in her head.”

  “Neither can you. I know full well I have you to thank for my aunt’s knowing where I go on the few afternoons we steal away. You are extremely lucky your interference didn’t throw a rub in the way of my plans. Fortunately Aunt Gilly is the best of all my family, and enters into my feelings.”

  “I hadn’t noticed that,” Marjorie snapped. “I doubt she would have let you go if she hadn’t known I’d be along to protect you.”

  “Fine protection you are. I expect Aunt Gillian knew perfectly well that a man of Liam’s scruples wouldn’t allow me to be compromised.” If there was an aggrieved note in her voice as she contemplated how uncompromised she actually was, Marjorie had heard it all before.

  “Are you going to sit here arguing all day, Miss Felicity?” she now inquired in a frosty tone. “Or are we to beard the lion in his den? Better still, are we to return home without venturing out of this nice, safe carriage?”

  “There are times, Marjorie,” Felicity remarked with deceptive sweetness, “when I wonder how you would like being relegated to the laundry back at Redfern Manor.” With that dire threat she opened the door and swung out of the carriage, having learned to do so without her customary assistance on previous visits. Temporarily silenced by the threat, Marjorie followed her mistress.

  The little mission overseen by the indefatigable Liam Blackstone was definitely unprepossessing on the outside. Unlike the mean little hovels that surrounded the aging brick building, it was a large, ungainly hovel, with a gloomy, dark-stained front and an inartistic sign proclaiming its services. That sign was the product of Mr. Blackstone, who had sharply spurned Miss Redfern’s more artistic hand.

  Inside the place was as appealing as rigorous cleanings could make it. There was not a speck of dirt in the large, barren meeting room that also served as a communal dining hall for the poor of the area, and a chapel when Mr. Blackstone could gather the proverbial two or more people together. The kitchen consisted of a large open fireplace on one wall, with a well-scrubbed chopping table and several large soup kettles that always seemed filled with a steaming concoction comprised of aging vegetables, the gifts of area merchants, and various arcane cuts of meat that Felicity suspected originated from exceedingly peculiar sections of exceedingly peculiar animals. Indeed, whenever she had managed to sneak
a visit to Mr. Blackstone’s mission, she was unable to eat anything but salt biscuits for twenty-four hours. But the poor, downtrodden unfortunates seemed glad enough for it, coming back to refill their cracked earthenware bowls as often as the long-suffering Marjorie would allow.

  For once the great barren room was empty. A miserable fire was filling a small corner of the vast cavern with a great deal of smoke and less heat, and the long benches, white with scrubbing, were empty of their usual pitiful occupants. There was no strong scent of the redolent soup, and for this Felicity could only be grateful. Loosening the strings of her plainest bonnet, she ventured farther into the room, ignoring Marjorie’s hissed protests.

  “Where do you suppose everyone is?” she whispered, shivering slightly. “There was no sign on the front, was there? Surely Liam would have let me know if the mission was to be closed.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Marjorie said grimly, and Felicity felt a momentary panic in her breast. A panic that was partially allayed when the door on the far side of the room opened, and Mr. Liam Blackstone, vicar of this small, poverty-stricken parish, stepped into the room.

  It was not in any way surprising that Miss Felicity Redfern would have tumbled head over heels in love with Liam Blackstone, although it was a wonder that one of her heretofore flighty nature would have stayed constant in the face of such unpromising response. But constant she had stayed, and her pretty, heart-shaped face became radiant as she smiled upon her beloved. Liam Blackstone did not smile back, though his eyes brightened momentarily.

  At the advanced age of twenty-six, Liam Blackstone was prematurely weighted down with the cares of the world. Born with a somewhat romantic disposition, leavened with a strong streak of spiritual leanings, a large dose of warmhearted compassion toward the poor, and an unfortunate streak of puritanism that threatened to smother him with feelings of acute worthlessness, Liam Blackstone was a somewhat confused young man. None of this, however, showed in his face.

  If Lord Byron was considered a well-looking gentleman, Liam Blackstone put him entirely in the shade. He had a noble brow, adorned with jet black curls, a classical nose, perfectly molded lips, chiseled features, a pale golden complexion that was a healthy ruddy shade when he wasn’t mortifying his flesh, high cheekbones, and the most melting dark eyes that had ever destroyed a young lady’s peace of mind. That those melting dark eyes and his elegant lips at times attested to a sternly repressed but occasionally overwhelming sensual streak in his nature was no one’s business but Liam Blackstone’s and his tiresome conscience. And Felicity Redfern.

  He moved into the room with his customary unconscious grace, glowering at his visitors, and Felicity found herself admiring his form in a far from spiritual manner. He was tall, but not too tall. Just the right height for her to rest her dark head on his shoulder. Those shoulders were broad, and if he was just a trace too thin at the moment, all he needed was a good woman to feed him. He was far too busy with the concerns of his desperate parish to pay much attention to his stomach, and when his normal appetite reminded him, he would ignore the cravings, determined that a truly spiritual man would not notice such mundane things. He had a great deal more success ignoring the clarion call of food than he had ignoring Miss Redfern’s lithe presence.

  “What are you doing here, Felicity?” he inquired in unwelcoming tones.

  Felicity was daunted. She had seen the welcoming light in those sensuous dark eyes, and had seen it swiftly overlaid with disapproval. “I came to help, of course,” she replied. “Marjorie and I thought we could give you some assistance.”

  “As you can see, no assistance is needed today. St. Barnabas’s Parish is having a festival, and everyone is over there. Does your father know you are here?”

  “My father pays no attention to his daughter’s comings and goings,” she replied innocently. “Goodness, he’d be bored to tears if I tried to keep him abreast of all the things that fill my time. I would think—”

  “That is the problem, Felicity,” Liam said sternly, moving toward her almost against his will. “You don’t think the proper things. Your father has refused to consider my suit, and I must say I don’t blame him. I can hardly provide for you in any way that would be the slightest bit comfortable. You are used to commanding the elegancies of life, and as the wife of a clergyman you would barely have enough to live on. I must always give freely to the poor, and you would be made to suffer for it. No new dresses, when there are people in rags about us, no seed cakes and ginger biscuits when children are starving.”

  “And do you think I’d care?” she cried, meeting him halfway in the middle of the room. “Don’t you think you matter more to me than new dresses and seed cakes? I love you!”

  “Don’t!” There was a look of real pain on his beautiful face, and the pragmatic Marjorie gave a romantic sigh from her post by the door. “Your father has refused his consent, and that is that. I should have known better than to have listened to that wretchedly lustful part of my nature. When will I learn to school my passions?” he demanded of himself.

  “Wretchedly lustful?” Felicity echoed in a hopeful tone. “But the only Christian outlet for lust is marriage, isn’t it? Saint Paul said something about that, didn’t he?”

  “I am unworthy of you.”

  “Piffle!” she shot back, moving closer and looking up at him in a manner she was certain he could not resist. “It is you who are far too good for me, Liam. But with you to guide me I know I could improve. I would try very hard to be worthy of you.”

  He reached out his strong hands and grasped her upper arms, in an admonishing fashion, he told himself as his fingers caressed her soft flesh. “Felicity, it cannot be. You are too young to know your own mind.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! I’ve loved you for three years. Since I was fifteen years old and you were the curate in our village. And well you know it, no matter how you try to deny it. We waited until I was eighteen, and still my father was blind, stubborn, pigheaded, and cruel,” she shot back. “Why must we argue about this every time, Liam? I understand that we cannot elope, and even if you won’t admit it, I know you love me just as much as I love you. If you could only hold out some hope I could manage to bear it until I’m twenty-one. I understand that we can’t run away to Gretna Green, but even three years would fly by if I knew I could be yours at the end of it.”

  “I cannot ask it of you!” he cried, the hands moving up her arms and drawing her closer.

  “Oh, please, please ask it of me,” she cried, tears of desperation in her fine dark eyes. “I would do anything for you, Liam. I want to be by your side, in the slums, in Canterbury, wherever you choose to go. You cannot shut me out.”

  “I can and I must.” He held her body inches away from his own, so that he could feel the heat and smell her soft, flowery scent. With a groan he thrust her away.

  She stared up at him with tragic eyes. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “What can I do to prove to you that I love you?”

  His sensual mouth set in a thin line. “You can leave me alone.”

  There was a dead silence in the room, and even the fascinated Marjorie stopped breathing for a moment. “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes,” the very Christian gentleman lied.

  “Does that mean I cannot come here and aid the poor?” Her voice was tight with pain and unshed tears.

  “I cannot stop you. But I must deplore your sneaking out of the house with no one knowing—”

  “My aunt knows where I am,” she interrupted, her head held high. “Very well, Liam. I suppose I have no choice but to abide by your decision.”

  The capitulation was a bit too hasty for Mr. Blackstone, but he told himself he must be glad she had seen the light. “Can’t you see, Felicity,” he found himself saying, “that an alliance with me would only ruin you?”

  “And can’t you see, Liam,” she
replied in a cold, hurt voice, “that you are saving me for a life devoted to fashion and frivolity? I can only hope you do not regret your decision. There are a great many things worse than marrying an impoverished vicar.” There was a note in her voice that filled Marjorie with the liveliest dread, having known her mistress for all of her eighteen rambunctious years.

  Mr. Blackstone was similarly alarmed. “You would not do anything foolish?”

  Felicity smiled brightly. “What else has a young lady to do with her time?” she inquired. “Besides spend it foolishly. I hope you enjoy your celibacy, Mr. Blackstone.” And she swept from the mission with a shocked Marjorie at her heels, leaving Mr. Blackstone staring after her with a lovelorn expression and feeling of despair that wasn’t the slightest bit leavened by the knowledge that he had acted for the best.

  Chapter Six

  THE HONORABLE Bertram Talmadge, Gillian’s oldest nephew, sat surveying the fire in the smaller drawing room at Berkeley Square, chin in hand, brown locks arranged a la Brutus, his clothing just bordering on the dandy, with an expression of deepest gloom on his handsome young features that he rather fancied resembled Byron’s soulful torments, but in actuality resembled nothing so much as an advanced case of sulks. His sympathetic aunt was tactless enough to tell him so.

  “I am not sulking, Gillian,” he shot back, deeply offended. “But sometimes a man’s got things on his mind. Nothing to bother the weaker sex with, of course. But we all have our burdens.” He let out a noble sigh.

  “Yes, dear. Are you sulking because you weren’t invited to the Cherringtons’ with your aunt and uncle? I assure you that you wouldn’t want to go. Even Felicity is relieved to be excluded from the evening’s torments. Watered punch and stale cakes do not number among my especial delights.”