The Spinster and the Rake Read online

  Gillian found herself unaccountably relieved and amused. “Well, he tried to do so,” she admitted, seating herself at her dressing table and beginning to divest herself of her diamonds. “But I refused to let him.”

  “You refused to let him?” she echoed, aghast.

  “Absolutely. I was not in the mood to be bullied,” she said blithely, eyeing her reflection with a critical eye. Her thick, tawny hair framed her face quite nicely in the new style, she had to admit. And the glowing eyes, the bright cheeks, and the tremulous mouth did not come amiss either. Why, she really was quite pretty. And Marlowe was right, her face was as smooth and unlined as Felicity’s. She swung her head wonderingly, and the diamonds flashed in the candlelight. Sir Eustace Pogrebin, indeed.

  “I am so terribly sorry I told him where you were,” Felicity was saying, unaware of her aunt’s inattention. “But they woke me up on the drawing room sofa and I just blurted it out. I tried to . . .” her voice trailed off. “Where did you get those earrings?”

  Gilly met her niece’s eyes in the mirror. “Earrings?” she echoed innocently. “Why, I’ve always had them.”

  “What a bouncer! Those are the same earbobs we saw in the jeweler’s shop that day with Lord Marlowe. Don’t tell me you went back there yourself and bought them,” she accused.

  “Well, I won’t tell you that, since it would be untrue.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you before. Where did you get them?” demanded Felicity. “You weren’t wearing them when you left.”

  “You weren’t in any state to notice anything when we left,” her aunt said tartly. “And how in the world you knew where we were when you were sound asleep long before we made our plans . . .”

  “I wasn’t quite asleep,” Felicity admitted sheepishly. “I was just resting my eyes. I knew perfectly well that you wouldn’t have gone without me, nor with me, for that matter. And I wanted you to go out and celebrate on your birthday,” she said virtuously.

  “Well, that is extremely kind of you, Felicity, but . . .”

  “Don’t change the subject. Where did you get those earbobs?”

  “They were a birthday present.”

  “Whomever from? No one in the family remembered . . .” Felicity stopped, her eyes wide with sudden comprehension. “Oh, merciful heavens, you don’t mean Marlowe himself . . . ?”

  They were pretty earrings, Gillian thought idly. “Indeed, I do mean Lord Marlowe himself.”

  “He gave them to you?”

  Gillian nodded.

  “And you accepted them?” Again Gilly nodded, and Felicity let out a rude whistle of amazement. “But Gilly, a lady never accepts such a gift from a gentleman unless he is a member of her immediate family. Does Papa know?”

  “Of course not. And you aren’t to tell him,” Gilly said fiercely. “It doesn’t mean anything. Lord Marlowe is a trifle eccentric, and he wished me to have these earrings. I tried to refuse, but then I decided that would be foolishly churlish of me. But that doesn’t mean anyone has to know where they came from.”

  “Gilly, you are becoming devious.”

  Gillian sighed happily. “I suppose I am.”

  “Gilly?” There was a troubled note in Felicity’s voice.

  “Yes, my sweet?”

  “You . . . you aren’t in love with Lord Marlowe, are you?” she inquired anxiously, pleating her night rail with distracted fingers as she surveyed her surprising aunt.

  “In love?” Gillian’s laugh was creditable. “Have you been reading romantic novels again?”

  “And who was it started me on them?” Felicity shot back. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Gillian didn’t really wish to take off the earbobs that Ronan Marlowe had placed so deftly in her ears, but she could scarcely sleep with them tangling in her hair. Removing them with seemingly unconcerned dispatch, she refused to meet her niece’s accusing eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Felicity. Lord Marlowe has been all that is charming, and I must admit it feeds my consequence to have such an eligible parti paying me compliments. But I am past the age of romance, my dear.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t you? I assure you, I am not lying,” she lied blithely. “I look on Lord Marlowe as an elderly version of your cousin Bertie. With a bit more sense, I might add.”

  Felicity was still unconvinced, and Gillian judged it time to change the subject to one closer to her volatile niece’s heart. “You haven’t told me how you and Mr. Blackstone are getting along. I presume that was where you were yesterday afternoon?”

  The ploy succeeded. “We aren’t getting along well at all,” she said darkly, biting her lip. “He seems to think he’s not good enough for me. That he can’t provide me with fancy dresses and jewels and parties. As if I cared for such trumpery stuff!”

  “You seem to have been fairly attached to such trumpery stuff anytime these past few months,” Gillian pointed out in a kindly tone.

  “Well, if I had Liam I wouldn’t have to fill my time with such fustian,” Felicity replied, and Gillian was inclined to believe her. “But will he listen? Of course not. Men always think they know best what will make women happy.”

  “Occasionally they do,” Gilly observed, eyeing the ear-bobs fondly.

  “Perhaps,” Felicity conceded. “But not this time. Liam insists that he won’t take me away from the only kind of life I’ve ever known. I shall simply have to convince him that the life I’m leading is far less preferable to one with him, despite the hardships he envisions.”

  Like Felicity’s maid before her, Gillian was filled with dread. “Whatever do you have in mind?” she inquired faintly.

  “I haven’t decided yet. But something suitably daring to convince Liam that a life with him would be much better than the sinful ways one could get into in society.”

  “Sinful?” she echoed, aghast.

  “Well, not precisely sinful. I haven’t made up my mind. But if you’re certain you have no interest in Lord Marlowe, he might prove just the thing. If Liam thought I was about to be compromised by a gazetted rake, I don’t doubt he’d make some move to stop it.”

  “Felicity, it wouldn’t do to underestimate Lord Marlowe. I don’t think he’s a person to make a may-game of,” Gillian stammered.

  “You needn’t worry, Gilly. I can take care of myself. Unlike my sweet-natured aunt.” Leaning down, she gave her aunt a careless kiss good night. “Happy thirtieth birthday, Gilly. I promise I shall devise a suitable gift to mark the occasion, even if it is a trifle late.” She disappeared out the door, leaving Gillian prey to the greatest misgivings.

  It was without question that her sweet-natured aunt was unable to take care of herself. Else she would never have allowed herself to be closeted in that sumptuous back room with a man of Marlowe’s address and reputation. Never would have accepted the beautiful diamond ear-bobs, and most certainly never would have allowed him to kiss her in that devastating fashion. Or kissed him back so enthusiastically.

  Of course, she could always blame the champagne. But she knew perfectly well, deep in her heart of hearts, that that excuse wouldn’t hold water. It was with a troubled expression that Gillian crawled into bed just as dawn was streaking the dark sky with purple and rose. As she stared out into the night she found herself wondering where Ronan Marlowe was at that moment. Had he found another, less innocent lady to share his midnight supper of lobster and champagne? Or had he stayed alone in that room, thinking of her with a melancholy air? While the latter was distinctly preferable, Gillian was far too practical to hope such a thing had happened. No doubt he was lying in that gold-hung bed she had glimpsed, sound asleep, his conscience untroubled by any memory of his earlier visitor. The thought was disturbingly enticing—not his untroubled conscience, but the image of his long, lean body stretched out on what would u
ndoubtedly be satin sheets. She wondered what he wore when he slept.

  “Damn,” she said aloud, abruptly swearing off champagne for the rest of her life. Shutting her eyes to the lightening sky, she drifted off into a troubled sleep, the diamond earbobs clutched in her hand.

  LORD MARLOWE WAS neither in bed nor asleep. As a matter of fact, he was doing exactly what Gillian would have wished. He was sitting alone in his rooms at the gaming salon, a glass of brandy in one slim, long-fingered hand, an abstracted expression on his dark face. And he was contemplating Gillian Redfern.

  “So this is where you are.” Vivian’s voice drifted from the doorway. His reddened nose and watery eyes attested to a night of deep drinking, and his empty pockets and peevish temper attested to the quality of his luck at the faro tables. “I wondered where you had gotten to. I thought I’d lost my wager tonight. It’s all of a piece, though. The luck has been damnable lately.”

  “You haven’t lost your wager yet, Viv.” Marlowe stirred himself. “That’s not to say you won’t, but it’s far more enjoyable stretching it out.”

  “It seems to me the chit is about ready to be plucked,” he observed.

  “The lady, Viv,” Marlowe corrected in a lazy tone that held a note of steel, “is absurdly vulnerable. But our bet is not about her eventual plucking, like some ripe piece of fruit. Our wager is simply whether she will be ready to compromise herself for me.”

  “I would think you had already won,” Viv sneered.

  “You forget that the lady is a lady. And a Redfern. Sister of Derwent Redfern. I don’t doubt she has strong misgivings about a rackety sort like me. And I have no intention of having her think I might offer for her. That would be cheating.”

  “You think you can have her accept a slip on the shoulder? With that famous charm of yours?”

  “I don’t doubt it. She’ll accept it, but I have no intention of collecting on her acceptance. Only on our little wager.”

  There was an unreadable expression on Vivian’s face as he heard the unwelcome words. “Don’t fancy her much, do you? She’s a well enough looking piece, especially tonight. But there’s no accounting for tastes.” He belched politely.

  “I find Miss Redfern quite delightful,” Marlowe replied repressively, draining his brandy glass.

  “Then if you like her so much, why don’t you offer her marriage? You could always change your mind. And you’ve got to get leg-shackled sometime.”

  “No.”

  “Why ever not?” There was real curiosity in the watery eyes.

  “I don’t think that’s any of your concern, Viv,” he said, his amiable tone taking a part, but not all, of the sting out of the snub. “Suffice it to say that I intend to free Miss Redfern of the odious constraints of society and then to hand her over to a far more eligible parti.”

  “I would have thought a wealthy marquis would be extremely eligible, despite a somewhat shady reputation.”

  Marlowe cocked an eye at him. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “You don’t mind if I write the precise nature of this wager down, do you?” Vivian continued, a sly expression on his dissipated face. “My poor brain gets so fuddled I quite often forget the particulars.”

  “I would rather not.”

  “Oh, you may keep the paper. Wouldn’t want for it to fall into the wrong hands, don’t you know. But really, Ronan, you can’t refuse me this. Unless you prefer to cry off from the entire wager?”

  Marlowe hesitated for only a moment. “No, I don’t wish to cry off. Very well, Viv. But we’ll keep the paper in my safe at Bruton Street. I don’t want anyone having access to it.”

  “Of course not. It would spoil our wager,” Vivian agreed roundly.

  The look of suspicion in Marlowe’s eyes was masked. “Exactly so,” he said gently, and reached for a pen and paper.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock before Gillian opened her sleepy blue eyes once more, and then it was only under duress. A disgustingly cheerful Felicity bounced into her room unannounced, flinging open the curtains and greeting her muzzy-headed aunt with what the poor, benighted creature could only consider wickedly unfeeling volume.

  “Mama has sent me to rouse you, Gilly,” she announced brightly. “I gather Papa forbore to tell her of your activities last night, and she has already had to endure a visit from the cook, demanding this week’s menus, another visit from the children’s governess, who has given her notice, and we’ve only had this poor creature less than a fortnight. And then the children descended with their usual lively spirits, with Jeremy smearing jam all over Mama’s new dress. And Papa left the house in a thunderous mood, and now Mrs. Huddleston and her loathsome daughter Prunella have arrived, subjecting poor Mama to all sorts of inquisitions. So you’d best come rescue her, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Cannot your mama,” Gillian demanded in a plaintive whisper to accommodate the pounding in her head, “manage her household for one morning? She must do it when I am off visiting Pamela or Eunice.”

  “No, she doesn’t. Everytime you leave she succumbs to a severe spasm of the nerves which requires her to keep to her bedroom with no visitors, while she subsists on an invalid’s diet of beef tea and caramel creams.”

  Gillian laughed, then regretted it as her head took exception to the noise. “You are an amazingly undutiful child,” she chided, throwing back the covers and pulling herself wearily to her feet.

  “Not undutiful,” Felicity protested. “I came up here immediately when I noticed Mama’s look of fretful panic. I am merely accustomed to her little ways.”

  “Honor thy father and thy mother,” Gillian quoted, rummaging in her closet for something uncomplicated to wear.

  “Well, I do, whenever they do anything worth honoring,” Felicity said frankly. “Flossie’s on her way. I caught her in the second pantry with the footman. You’ll have to watch the girl, Gilly. We can’t have her sneaking off with every handsome man she sees.”

  Gillian’s busy hands stopped as she blushed a deep red. “You’re absolutely right,” she said in a muffled tone.

  “Oh, Gilly, don’t be absurd!” her niece said in stricken tones. “I didn’t mean you.”

  “No, you are very wise. It doesn’t do for any poor female to allow herself to be persuaded by the male sex into unbecoming behavior,” she said in a strangled voice.

  “Balderdash! Your behavior last night was becoming in the extreme. You have only to look in the mirror.”

  “Don’t willfully misunderstand me, Felicity. I . . .” Before she could finish her wrathful sentence her pert niece was out the door with a flounce of her pale yellow skirts. Shaking her head ruefully, Gillian attempted to put herself into some semblance of order, with belated assistance from her breathless, red-faced maid, Flossie.

  When she entered the puce drawing room that was Letty’s favorite and even in the best of times made Gillian feel faintly bilious, she wished she could have taken a bit longer. Mrs. Huddleston was still holding forth, her raddled cheeks, beaklike nose, and beady, curious eyes filling Gillian with a sinking feeling. Miss Prunella Huddleston, her only unmarried daughter, was looking similarly curious, and indeed, with the same unprepossessing features as her mama, down to the thin lips and pointed chin, the sight was not aesthetically pleasing to a lady suffering from the effects of a night of overindulgence.

  “How delightful to see you again,” Mrs. Huddleston boomed forth, and Gillian nearly wept at the pounding of her head. “Prunella was just expressing great interest as to where you were, weren’t you, my dear?” Miss Prunella had been masking her interest admirably. “It’s been an age since we’ve seen you, Gillian dear. You haven’t changed a bit—the years have been very kind.”

  Gritting her teeth, Gillian deposited a kiss on Letty’s plump, sulking cheek and smiled f
aintly at the two unwelcome visitors. “How thoughtful of you to visit Letty,” she said in her soft voice. “I am sure she has many times wished she could see more of you.”

  Letty set her sullen face into an unconvincing smile as she nodded agreement. “I was just saying so to dear Mrs. Huddleston,” she agreed, and only Gillian could recognize the edge in her plaintive tones. “You interrupted us in the midst of the most fascinating conversation, Gillian.”

  Grasping at straws, Gillian said quickly, “Oh, forgive me. I’ll just leave . . .”

  “Sit down, Gillian.” The note of steel in Letty’s voice was not well disguised, and the sharp-eyed Prunella eyed the sisters-in-law with avid delight. Gillian sat, accepting her fate with stoic forbearance.

  “We were discussing the new Lord Marlowe,” Mrs. Huddleston explained with what she no doubt considered charming condescension. “I was asking dear Letty if she knew anything about the man. All sorts of rumors have been flying, and after all, I believe the two of them were rather well acquainted some twenty years ago.”

  Gillian stared at her portly sister-in-law with undisguised fascination. “Oh, really? I had no idea, Letty.”

  “I haven’t seen the man since he was sent away by his family,” she snapped with more energy than Gillian had seen her exhibit in many a year. “I should hope he had abandoned some of his more ramshackle ways.”

  “I think it highly unlikely, despite the respect he owes to the title he never deserved,” Mrs. Huddleston said repressively. “The man has set up a gaming hell, Letty.”

  “I had heard something to that effect.”

  “And my husband has heard there are all sorts of wicked goings-on. Gambling for outrageous stakes, estates changing hands on the turn of a card.”