Redeeming a Rake (6 page)

“Passably…why?” Geoffrey’s frigid stare made
the young man break into a sweat and claw at his cravat.

“It so happens I have in the past accepted
payment in kind. A man’s daughter or sister in lieu of his
vouchers. How does the thought of your prettiest sister lying naked
in my bed make you feel?”

The young blonde man flushed puce green and
lost his dinner. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up on
shaking legs. “I’ll see you in hell first!”

“You’ll find me lolling in the flames soon
enough. Sit down, shut up and listen to me. I’m going to give you a
choice. You don’t have the brains, skill or funds to be a gambler.
You will either give me your word as a gentleman that you’ll never
gamble again, or I’ll accept your vouchers and have you and your
dependents thrown onto the street tonight. Make your choice.” The
colour was flooding back into the young man’s cheeks as he
comprehended his luck had finally turned.

“I give you my word as a gentleman that I’ll
never gamble again.” He held out his hand. “Can I have my
vouchers?”

The young man didn’t appear to realise the
seriousness of the situation he’d just escaped. Geoffrey jumped up
and grabbed the youth’s cravat. The young man was once again green
as Geoffrey held the boy’s eyes. “Listen to me you thoughtless
little worm. If I ever hear you’ve gambled a farthing, and make no
mistake I’ll hear, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you like a dog. Do
you understand? I won’t wait for dawn.”

Colour receded once again from the young
man’s face. “Yes Your Grace.”

“Get out of my sight, before I kill you for
ruining my evening.” Geoffrey scrunched up the vouchers and threw
them across the table and watched as the young man grabbed them and
escape as quickly as his shaking legs could carry him. Geoffrey’s
satisfaction in his good deed was forgotten as the burning ache lit
a painful fire in his chest. Feeling ill, he decided he’d go home
and try not to think of the one woman he couldn’t win, inherit,
demand or purchase. Taking a hackney cab was less dangerous than
walking, but the ill smelling cab only reminded him that his house
would be equally lonely, joyless and fetid.

Standing outside his own front door the rage
came to a boil. The burning ache was swamped by a degrading
sensation of filth, as if he’d just climbed out of the Thames.
Stepping inside, he threw his hat into the old man’s hands and
stomped up the stairs still wearing his coat. Stamping his stick at
his side, his stomach churned as each step refreshed his memory.
Countless unhappy faces crowded his brain. He stood for a few
moments with his hand on his bedchamber door handle terrified of
what he’d find inside. Gathering his courage he jerked it open.
Falling back against the door he stared at the Queen Anne bed in
disgust. Not a single woman he’d bedded in the last fourteen years
had either wanted or enjoyed his company. How many women had he
taken in lieu of vouchers before he’d tired of it, five? If his
friend knew all the things he’d done she’d never speak to him
again. He’d be banished from her sunlight, cast back into the
darkness of his own company. The consequences of his past deeds
stung his eyes as he lost his own dinner onto the floor. Vile
pleasures born of selfish boredom would cost him the one person who
might have cared whether he lived or died.

The room blurred as his rage exploded. He
couldn’t hear his deep choking sobs, or feel the pain in his arms
as he tore apart the room. When he regained his senses he found
himself in a mess. Everything that could be destroyed with his
hands or his swordstick was covered with feathers from the
mattress, shredded garments and torn pages from Clarissa. Smaller
pieces of furniture lay in pieces ready to be thrown on a fire. The
only things left intact were the large heavy wardrobe, ancient
bedstead and the ruby encrusted jewellery he’d shoved into his
overcoat pocket. Tearing the ruby ring off his finger he winced in
disgust as it joined the rest of his rubies. Wiping his face on his
sleeve he yanked open his bedchamber door to find his servants
cowering outside with fear filled faces.

“Prepare me the guest chamber; I won’t use
this room again.” His voice was flat. “Tomorrow morning, take
everything from this room. Chop it up and burn it in the garden. If
it won’t burn, throw it in the Thames. I want a bath and if I’m not
red when I climb out of the water you’ll all be sacked.” Feet were
running before he could shout for them to hurry. Alone again with
his abhorrent memories, Geoffrey crushed an overwhelming impulse to
rush back to his friend. The room blurred again; he didn’t deserve
sunlight or kindness and if she knew all the things he’d done she’d
never smile at him again.

After two agonising weeks Tolerance sent a
third note enquiring after her friend’s health and wondered if
messages sent to the Lyndhurst townhouse were finding their way to
wherever the Duke actually lived, but the waiting finally came to
an end. As she sorted her morning post into piles, time seemed to
stop as she read her name and directions in a strange elegant
scribble. She didn’t recognise the seal stamped in the globule of
red wax. With shaking hands she picked up her letter-knife and
carefully severed the seal from the paper. The ivory knife fell
forgotten to the floor as she held the half open paper to her nose
and inhaled a familiar musty scent. She blinked back tears of
relief and held her breath as she unfolded the letter.

My tolerant friend,

Thank you for thinking of me. I’ve not been
well. I’ve seen a dozen mountebanks, quacks and doctors, but they
all say they can find nothing wrong with me. They think I’m going
mad and I fear they’re right. I wish I was worthy to request a
private interview, but I’m not. If you give me permission I’ll send
you a letter detailing my symptoms in the hope you may know someone
who can help me. I’ve instructed a servant to await your reply.

Sincerely,

Lyndhurst

Tolerance hurriedly set the letter to one
side and grabbed a pen and paper, splashing ink all over her desk
in her haste. The sooner he received it, the sooner he’d come. She
didn’t bother to seal it as she folded the paper in four and wrote
his name in large letters before running to the front door and
pulling it open herself.

“Young man, who do you work for?”

“Lyndhurst Ma’am.”

“Take this to your Master at once.” He was
running before she could dig a coin out of her pocket. Shutting the
door she gave instructions that she was home to no one but the Duke
of Lyndhurst and that if he called he was to be brought directly to
her study. She ignored their raised eyebrows and rushed back
upstairs to change. Whispers travelled room to room; the virtuous
Widow Spencer was about to succumb to an ugly rake-hell.

Wearing her favourite blue day dress, her
long pale hair neatly pulled back into a knot, she was staring out
her study’s window at the rain counting backwards from three
thousand when she heard the front door open and close. Her heart
started pounding as she lost count. Smoothing her skirts, she
licked her lips and turned to face the door as she heard the
footman knock before opening. “The Duke of Lyndhurst to see you
Madam.” She stepped forward to greet her friend, but halted in
shock. She’d seen that look before; he was dying. Blinking back
tears she blindly made her way to his side and held out her hand.
He hesitated before kissing her fingers as the door closed firmly
with a loud click.

“You should be in bed! If I’d known you were
this ill…”

“Sleep is hell. I woke up at five and
thankfully remained awake. Are you sure you wish to receive me like
this? I could write a letter…”

“No, don’t go! I mean, please stay. Let me
help you.”

“I don’t deserve your kindness.” He leaned
on her as she helped him to a chair near her desk.

“Rubbish! If you were a black cat crossing
my path I’d think you an omen of good luck, even if you were a
starving stray with fleas. You don’t have fleas do you?”

“No, though I do resemble a starving
stray.”

“Well that’s a piece of good luck. There are
few things more maddening than needing to scratch in the middle of
a visit and I’ve always had a weakness for strays.”

“That is lucky…at least for me.”

Tolerance covered her sadness by lightly
feeling his forehead and then his pulse. “You’re definitely alive
Your Grace. That’s a good sign. Have you any unmentionable symptoms
you felt honour bound not to mention to the doctor?”

“No. I’ve used…” He flushed dark red.
“…shields since I was twenty-two, except with…virgins.”

Tolerance coughed over her embarrassment. “I
see, but there may have been a virgin who wasn’t a virgin.”

“No.”

“And before you were twenty-two?”

“There was only Lady Pelham, like a thousand
other young fools. It was a miracle I didn’t end up with the
pox.”

“Has your apothecary been selling you large
bottles of laudanum or any other tinctures?” She pressed the back
of her hand to his gaunt cheek to reassure herself he really was
sitting in front of her staring at her like he was seeing a
heavenly vision. “Your Grace?”

Geoffrey’s eyes were forcibly recalled from
her lips back to her eyes. “Have you been taking any tinctures my
Lord? Some quacks sell poison labelled ‘The Elixir of Life’.”

“None of them helped. Would you…I mean I’d
be honoured if you’d use my Christian name. My name is Geoffrey.”
She looked stunned, as if he’d given her a diamond necklace. “You
don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Why can’t you sleep Geoffrey?”

He’d never heard his name spoken with tender
concern. He almost forgot why he’d come. “There’s a dull burning
ache in my chest that continues night and day and it’s not from
eating the wrong foods either. Those damn fool doctors wanted to
bleed me dry.” He clutched at the area over his heart. “It gnaws
when I sleep. It gnaws when I wake from the nightmares…”

“When did the ache start?”

“After I left you at the ball. The truth is
I’ve become a worthless worm…” His chest constricted making him
gasp for breath at the pain. He abruptly stood folding his arms and
turning walked away to hide his distress. “I shouldn’t have come,
but I can’t bear much more and I don’t know what to do. Knowing my
presence will ruin you makes me feel worse.”

“Do you feel unclean on the inside?”

He turned around and stared at her in
relief. “I’ve had three baths this morning. I scrubbed my skin raw
and I still feel like someone’s dumped a chamber pot over my head.
What is it?”

“I’m afraid you’re suffering from a very bad
case of guilt.”

“Guilt?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“This can’t be guilt; it’s killing me.”

She stood up and touched his arm. “I can
help you, but you’ll have to tell me what you’ve done.”

His mouth fell open as he stared at her in
horror. “No. Never!”

“Let me help you.”

Geoffrey squirmed as temptation battled his
empty heart. He’d do almost anything to end the abhorrent
sensations, but if she knew… He could see no choice, but death. He
turned away from her to hide his distress. “You’d hate me.”

“I’m not going to hate you Geoffrey.”

“You will. I hate me! There’s no point
confessing my sins if it means I’ll die a friendless wretch.” He
started for the door, but she rushed past him and flung herself
against obstructing his exit.

“Sit down!” Geoffrey froze in surprise. He
hadn’t been ordered to do anything by anyone in years. “You’ll have
to remove me physically and then I’ll order my servants to drag you
back in here and man the door until I feel you’re not going to do
anything rash.” His affronted pride was forgotten as it sank in
that she cared if he lived or died. He took a deep breath and
stared into kind determined eyes. To move her he’d have to touch
her. If he touched her he’d pull her into his arms and kiss her. If
he kissed her she’d have to be saved by her servants and he’d be
thrown out of her life. Averting his eyes from her defiant concern
he returned to his seat, covered his face with his hands and
listened as her chair creaked as she pulled it up to her desk. A
drawer was opened, closed and then a soft scraping revealed she was
reshaping a quill pen. “Geoffrey…?”

“Yes?” The word was a sigh of misery.

“What have you done?”

“There isn’t much I haven’t done at least
once for the hell of it.”

The quill pen was dipped into the inkwell.
“Have you ever planned and carried out a murder?”

“No, though ten or so years ago I lost an
angel. I tried to drink away the memory, but I was so angry I may
have murdered hundreds of irritating people, I don’t remember.”

“Have you ever killed anyone in a duel?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

Geoffrey looked up with horror, “What do you
need names for?”

“I’ll tell you when we’ve finished.”

The calmness of her reply was disorienting.
“Perry, Bascombe, Darling…what are you doing?” The panic in his
voice made him cringe as her pen scratched across the paper.

“I’ll explain after we complete the list.
Were there any others?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Has anyone killed themselves because of
something you did or were involved with?”

“How the blazes should I know?”

“You look guilty.”

“I didn’t chain them to the gaming table. I
didn’t put a gun to their head and force them to play. I’m not the
one who made their dependents homeless. They knew my reputation;
the stakes are high and I usually win. It wasn’t my fault they
chose suicide over penury.”

“Who were they?” It was a gentle question.
Geoffrey’s head sank back into his hands as he rattled off the
twenty-two names he could remember.