The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (13 page)

“If you are worried that you will want for a partner, ma’am, I should be honoured to lead you out,” said Mr. Bateman.

Miss Blakelow smiled. “That is kind of you, sir, but I do not dance. My eyesight is so bad that I constantly crash in to people and my memory so lax that I forget all the steps. No, don’t worry for me; I shall be happier at home with a book.”

They rose then and meandered their way through the gardens to the lake where the rest of the party were engaged in skimming flat pebbles across the surface of the water. Mr. Bateman soon discovered a hitherto undiscovered talent and was soon lost in the laughter of the moment. As his hand curled around Marianne’s, instructing her how to hold the stone, Miss Blakelow smiled like the veritable matchmaking mamas whom she so deplored.

“What
can
you have found at Holme to entertain you all this time?” complained Sir Julius, looking at his friend through his quizzing glass.

The Earl of Marcham smiled. “I have been busy.”

“So I hear. Planning to get yourself leg-shackled, by all accounts.”

There was a short silence.

“News travels fast,” observed his lordship, reaching for a slice of toast.

“Don’t be a fool March. You have proposed to two females in the space of a month. Of course news of
that
is going to travel fast.”

“Pass the jam, would you?”

“You’re not seriously contemplating marriage with this girl are you?” asked Sir Julius. “I thought I could count on you to shun matrimony to the end of your days.”

“I cannot afford to, Ju. In case it had escaped your notice, I am in need of an heir. And for that I need a wife. More coffee?”

Sir Julius shook his head. “Who is she?”

“Does it matter?” countered Lord Marcham evasively.

“Oh-ho, touchy! Are you afraid that I might steal her away, Rob?”

His friend smiled. “Not in the least. But she is a gentlewoman and not likely to welcome a carte-blanche from you.”

“Who said anything about carte-blanche?” asked Sir Julius, wounded. “I may wish to get married myself. Describe her to me.”

Lord Marcham smiled and picked up his coffee cup. “She is not your sort, Ju.”

“Which means that she is something out of the ordinary and you wish to put me off the scent,” said his friend with a knowing look.

“Undoubtedly. I wish to have her all to myself.”

“A beauty then?”

“In an unconventional way
―yes. You will find out for yourself once I have…er…secured her affections.”

Sir Julius thoughtfully rubbed the long scar on his cheek with the knuckle of his thumb. “You are confident of success?”

His lordship merely smiled and sliced his toast in two. He looked over at his friend. “And you? Are you serious about matrimony?”

Fawcett shrugged and took a sip from his tankard of ale. “I am in no rush. Marry in haste and you wake up one morning a few years later, lying next to a woman who you neither like nor desire. Heed my warning, March. Ask your brother if you don’t believe me. None knows better than Hal.”

“He always said you were a cold fish,” remarked his lordship, before taking a bite of his toast.

“Hal was the best of good friends, but the biggest fool of my acquaintance. Handsome as they come and a dashing red coat to boot. Not surprising he had half the women in
London on the catch for him…more women after him than you, March. God alone knows what possessed him to hitch himself to Mary’s wagon.”

The earl, who knew very well what caused his brother to hitch himself to Mary, quietly ate his toast and remained silent.

“You know that Mary died, don’t you?” asked Sir Julius, thoughtfully playing with an unused fork on the table.

“Yes. I received a letter from Hal last month informing me of the fact.”

“Very sad business. Always ill, that girl, from the moment he married her. Between you and me Rob, she barely let him touch her.”

Lord Marcham lowered his eyes. “She was a…singular female.”

“Frigid,” said Sir Julius with an expressive look in his eyes that showed exactly what he thought of that behaviour.

“I think she was rather hurt by
―well…it’s none of our business, is it?”

Sir Julius watched his friend, wondering what he had been about to say. Some things were off limits, it seemed, even to a lifelong friend. The Hockingham family always had closed ranks against the rest of the world;
even against the people they considered their friends. It was a trait that irritated him. He always felt shut out and marginalised by the blood ties, which it seemed were stronger than comradeship in war. Sir Julius had saved Lord Marcham’s life. He had dragged his wounded body to safety when merry hell was breaking loose all around them. But even that was not enough, it seemed.

“How is he? Is he coming home? I suppose there is nothing to hold him in
Brussels now. He was only there for Mary, after all.”

“And the war,” murmured his lordship.

“Yes, but he’s shot of all that now. A fresh start for him back home is what he needs.”

“I had an idea on that very subject that I wished to discuss with you.”

“By all means.”

“A neighbour of mine has fallen on hard times. She needs to sell the family home to pay her father’s creditors,” said Lord Marcham leaning back in his chair. “It’s in a hell of a state, of course, and will need careful supervision to bring it back up to scratch. But I had an idea that I might gift it to Hal, give him something to do. Something to think about besides Mary.”

Sir Julius raised his quizzing glass and frowned at his friend through it. “Lord, Rob. Can you see Hal as a farmer?”

The earl smiled. “Not exactly. But they have a decent man there who would shoulder most of the responsibility.”

“Where is the place? What is it called? Do I know it?”

“I doubt it. It’s a pretty enough little estate with a fair sized house. Thorncote, owned by Sir William Blakelow junior, currently to be found losing money hand over fist at the faro table. A boy so wet behind the ears he has not the sense to know when he’s about to lose his inheritance.”

“Lord, not that chubby blonde fellow who puts me in mind of a goat? Always bleating that you murdered his father or some such nonsense.”

“The very same. His family are about to be turned out of their home and all he cares about is cutting a dash
―and, I may add, squaring up to me.”

“Blakelow…Blakelow…why
is
that name familiar to me?” mused Sir Julius.

Lord Marcham smiled. “Your pamphlet.”

“Eh?”

“’The immoral Lords of Worcestershire and their pursuit of buxom lovelies in the bedroom’–or whatever th
at thing was called.”

Sir Julius Fawcett gaped. “Not
her
?”

“Miss Blakelow, author and arbiter of moral excellence.”

“Well I’m blowed,” breathed the other man.

“Would you believe that she came to me asking for my help?” said his lordship. “The gall of the woman quite took my breath away. She wanted me to lend her money
―a lot of money―and this after she had dragged my name through the mud. I said no, of course.”

“What does she look like? Is she as horse faced as we feared?”

The earl made no answer but reached for the coffee pot to refill his cup.

“You dog, March!” cried
Sir Julius, laughing. “You
dog
!”

His lordship merely smiled.

“I knew it! I knew that you wouldn’t let that pamphlet go unchallenged! You had to have your revenge somehow and now you will take her home from her―but what will you do with the family? You cannot turn them out onto the street, Rob.”

“I understand that the younger Blakelows have relatives living that they can call upon for assistance…so what do you think?”

Sir Julius shrugged. “It sounds as good a place as any. And close enough that you can keep an eye on Hal.”

“That was precisely my thinking. I think he’s a little low in spirits as one might expect after such a loss.”

“Did he love Mary then?” asked his friend, looking surprised.

“I don’t think love came into it. But she was his wife, after all.”

“And what may I ask, are your plans for Miss Blakelow?” asked Sir Julius with a grin.

“Miss Blakelow…is to live with me.”

A pale eyebrow rose. “The devil she is…with you? As your wife, my lord, or as your mistress?”

His lordship smiled. “Miss Blakelow does not approve of me or my ways.”

“I see. Then I fail to see how you can assume that she will live with you. You can kidnap her, of course, but I hardly think that behaviour of that sort will be tolerated in this day and age.”

“I will do whatever it takes
―what in God’s name is that racket?” said the earl as sounds of hysterical female voices were emanating through the thick walls from his hallway.

“Robert?” cried an imperious voice. “Robert Louis Edward Phillip Hockingham. Show yourself this minute!”

“Oh, Lord,” murmured the earl, throwing down his napkin, “what on earth can she want now?”

“I imagine,” answered Sir Julius, leaning back in his chair as one preparing to be hugely entertained, “that your mother has heard of your imminent engagement.”

“Robbie? Are you in there?” The door was thrown open and the Countess of Marcham stood upon the threshold, a picture of outrage in purple silk, a shawl around her shoulders that grazed the floor and a bonnet of such vast size upon her head that her son rather marvelled at her being able to get through the door. She fixed him with her fulminating glare, her ample bosom heaving with indignation. “
There
you are. What, may I ask, is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning of what, Mama?” asked his lordship, dutifully rising to his feet.

“Your
engagement
,” she said with almost violent passion. “Another one!”

“Won’t you sit down, ma’am?”

“Don’t you try that flummery with me! Tell me at once, is it true that you have made an offer for that…that
Blakelow
creature?”

“You may not choose to sit down, but I have not finished my breakfast, so you will forgive me if I continue with my toast.”

“Answer me!” she said coming further into the room, leaning heavily upon her parasol that looked as if it might well give up under the weight it was forced to bear.

“Yes, it is true,” her son replied calmly.

“Are you not aware that she is the author of that…that
rag
?”

“Precisely what I said,” put in Sir Julius helpfully.

“Are you not aware that you have been most viciously maligned?” demanded her ladyship.

“As the stories are for the most part true,” replied Lord Marcham, “I rather think she is guilty of nothing more than dredging up my past―disagreeable though that may be.”

“You
defend
her?”

“Not in the least.”

“Who is this woman that she should dare to criticise you? A poor nobody, that’s who. And you make the woman an offer? I thought you had lost your mind when you announced your intention to marry Lady Emily Holt, but at least
she
had breeding! A Miss Blakelow? Nobody had ever heard of her before she wrote that…that drivel! Who is her father, pray? Who are her family? Are you expecting to go up in the world with this alliance?”

His lordship gave up on his toast and pushed back his chair, allowing his eyes to coolly assess his enraged mother. “No, ma’am, I am expecting to be happy.”

Sir Julius picked up his eyeglass and examined his friend through it. “Happy, do you say?”

“Happy…yes.”

“With
her
?” asked her ladyship. “How can you be?”

“Because I like her.”

The countess pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “You
like
her?”

“Yes, ma’am. I like her,” said the earl, looking amused.

“Define ‘like’, March,” said Sir Julius. “Like as in, enjoy her company, or like as in wanting to take her…er…clothes off…” his voice trailed off as he encountered the chilly stare of her ladyship.

“Both,” replied his lordship calmly.

“A woman of no fashion or beauty?” said the countess. “A woman with no connections or expectations or title? A woman, in short, who is so far beneath your company that she is not fit to shine your boots?”

“She is a gentleman’s daughter,” said her son, pushing his chair under the table, “and that is good enough for me. Now if you will both excuse me, I have an appointment in an hour.”

“Stay precisely where you are, young man!” said her ladyship in a voice that seemed to shake the glass in the windows.

“With all due respect, Mama, I am a little old to be put over your knee. I am a grown man and will make my own decisions.”

“Like you did with Lady Emily Holt, you mean?” she snapped.

His lordship smiled coldly. “That young lady was bait for a trap that I was foolish enough to fall into. She was innocent, I believe, in the schemes which her parents hatched. She was as relieved as I was that the match between us fell through.”

“And how do you know that you haven’t once again fallen into a trap?” demanded his mother. “How do you know that this Blakelow creature is not another money grabbing harpy who wants you only for your purse?”

“She has a point there, Rob,” put in Sir Julius, “you have to admit that it is a consideration. Especially as you told me that she was after your blunt to save her family’s property.”