The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (18 page)

Lord Marcham slammed into his house half an hour later and made straight for the drawing room where his two sisters and his mother were seated by the fire.

“Robbie, there you are. Davenham said you had gone to visit our neighbours at Thorncote,” said Lady St Michael. “How do they do? Dreadful business about the father. Gambled away everything, or so I’ve heard. But Miss Marianne Blakelow is as pretty as a picture so perhaps she’s the reason you spend all your time over there?”

His lordship was definitely not in the mood for his sister’s prying questions. “You have, all three of you, disobeyed my wishes,” he said, standing before them, speaking with cold controlled anger. “You have spread the news abroad that this damned ball of yours is going ahead when I expressly forbade it. You have forced my hand. Very well. You may have your ball. But I am not parting with one single servant to organise it nor one single penny to pay for it. I do not wish to hear about any of the arrangements and I do not wish to be consulted on anything. This is your ball; you will organise it and you will pay for it. And for God’s sake open some windows; it’s like a Turkish bath in here.”

With that he strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Well,” said Lady St. Michael. “That went well.”

“At least he has agreed to it,” said Harriet.

“Yes but who’s going to pay for it?” groaned their mama, holding vinaigrette to her nose.

Lady St. Michael gave a self satisfied smile. “Robert.”

“Robbie?” repeated Harriet. “But he just told you in no uncertain terms that he would have nothing to do with it.”

“He did.”

“Then how are you going to persuade him?” demanded her mother.

“I’m not. But the delectable Miss Blakelow is,” said Lady St. Michael.

“Sarah, what are you up to?” asked the countess through narrowed lids.

“Robbie is hoping to fix his interest with this girl. All we need to do is make her think that he has arranged the ball just for her and she will do the rest. Rapturously happy females usually assist gentlemen in parting with their cash.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, frowning prettily. “But how do you know that Miss Blakelow wishes for a ball? According to what Mama says, she is dreadfully straight laced.”

“I think it’s all a ruse. I think Marianne Blakelow is who he’s interested in. Since when did you know Robbie to fall for any but the most stunning blonde? I am going to take a drive over to Thorncote this afternoon and see her for myself. The rest I will leave to human nature.”

* * *

Miss Blakelow, having watched his lordship’s back as he walked away until he was no longer visible, allowed herself a hearty cry in the privacy of the rose arbour, wiped her puffy eyes and sniffed inelegantly. It had started to rain softly, the tiny droplets bouncing gently on the leaves of the climbing roses. But she sat there still as the bench grew dappled with wet around her and her old black gown grew damp.

She knew that she had been unreasonable. It was not his fault that there was no money. It was not his fault that her father had gambled it all away. If it had not been Lord Marcham who had won the estate at the card table that day, then it would have been some other gentleman. And would she have turned up on his doorstep demanding reparation? Probably not. His lordship just happened to live within the neighbourhood, unluckily for him. He owed her nothing at all.

She
had
been unreasonable and not only to Lord Marcham. He had turned up not ten minutes after she’d had a blazing row with the girls; that was what had put her in a foul mood and she had taken all her frustrations out on him.

Miss Blakelow had caught her three younger sisters going through her things, specifically the solid walnut trunk in the spare bedroom that had once belonged to her mother. The lid of the trunk had been opened and the layers of diaphanous tissue paper cast aside. Shawls of fine lace were strewn across the floor, ribbons of every colour exploded from the wrapping like a firework; opera cloaks and glasses, fans, reticules and slippers languished everywhere. The carpet was covered in flashes of scarlet ribbon, white lace, deep blue velvet and green satin. Dresses had been pulled from the armoire, dresses that Miss Blakelow had worn during her season over a decade before. Marianne was trying on a riding jacket of wine velvet which the young Miss Blakelow had worn when riding in
Hyde Park. Kitty was wrapping herself in a cloak of dark green wool and Lizzy, unknowingly the worst offender, was holding up to herself a Grecian white gown trimmed with exquisite pink rosebuds.

On seeing the gown again, Miss Blakelow was transported back what seemed like a hundred years to the innocent girl she had been at the age of
nineteen. She had worn it on the night of her first party when she had been presented at Lady Carr’s ball. And that was the first time she had met him, the man who had so completely broken her heart.

“Oh, Georgie,
look
!” had cried Marianne. “See how the colour suits me. It is terribly old fashioned, of course, but it could be altered.”

“Take them off,” snapped Miss Blakelow, suddenly gripped by anger out of all proportion to the crime committed.

“This gown is
so
beautiful, Georgie,” breathed Lizzy. “May I borrow it to wear to the ball?”

“No, you may not.”

The words cracked through the air like a whip and the three younger sisters looked at each other in confusion.

“We were only having a look, George,” said Marianne. “We meant no harm.”

“Take them off this minute. They are not playthings,” said Miss Blakelow, picking up a pale pink satin slipper from the floor and flinging it angrily back into the trunk.

“Let us put them away for you, the way we found them,” coaxed
Kitty, sensing their eldest sister’s mood.

“I don’t need your help. Please just leave me alone.”

Marianne laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re sorry―”

“Don’t any of you ever think of anyone but yourselves?” demanded Miss Blakelow, her cheeks flushed with an
ger. “Do you never think of anything but your own pleasure? It hasn’t even registered with you that we are going to be thrown out of Thorncote in eight weeks time, has it? You should be worried about your future and where we all will live. Instead of that all you can think of is dresses and balls. You have no comprehension of the problems we face. You have no comprehension of what I feel because you never ask and you do not care. You have no respect for my property. You have no respect for my feelings. These are not your things. These are not your toys. They are mine and you had no right to go through them without even asking my permission. You assumed control over them as if they already belonged to you. Trying them on, telling me how they can be altered to fit you. I don’t
want
them altered. They were cut to fit me and they will stay that way. If you have to go to that damned ball in a hessian sack, I will not give you my things. Now get out, all of you, before I say something I regret.”

Tears followed, slammed doors, recriminations would follow, Ned sternly chastising the three girls for their stupidity.

Perhaps the strain of the last few months had finally taken their toll. Perhaps her anger was born out of frustration that she could not afford to buy the girls new dresses herself. Perhaps.

In that moment when she had seen Lizzy swathed in the evening gown, she had been reminded of her own youthful folly. It was like uncovering an old wound, healed on the surface but still raw and deep underneath. The pain was still there; pain at the memory of the fool she had made of herself. The heat of the ballroom came back to her, the press of people, the perfume, flowers and the sculptures, the dresses and the dancing.
Champagne flowed through her senses. His smile was dazzling and warm. She was pronounced a hit. The whole of London was at her feet.

From that moment on, she and Aunt Thorpe had been inundated with invitations to balls, routs and parties. Vouchers were given for Almacks; a box was hired at
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. The opera and the theatre became her second home and she dined out nearly every night of the week.

She was no heiress and had little wealth to offer a gentleman but it was the force of her personality, coupled with her youth and beauty that made her the talk of the ton. She had no shortage of male attention and she was widely anticipated to make a very good match. Such a promising beginning, the envy of other girls, all to be dashed in a moment of folly.

“I thought you’d be out here,” said a voice behind her.

Miss Blakelow’s head snapped up. It was Aunt Blakelow. The older woman came and sat on the seat beside her, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders.

“It’s very damp out here, Georgie. Not at all good for my bones, you know, and not good for you either. Heavens, look at the weeds under this tree. I shall have to see what can be done. Not that I’m any good at gardening, mind you, but even I know how to rip up a bit of long grass.”

In a move that would have astounded their lordly neighbour, Aunt Blakelow pulled a small flask from the hidden pocket in her skirts and handed it to her niece.

“Brandy,” said Aunt Blakelow. “By far the best health product you can buy, in my view.”

Miss Blakelow took a hearty mouthful and gratefully swallowed the fiery liquid. It warmed her belly and seemed to put steel back into her spine.

“The girls told me what happened,” said her aunt softly.

Miss Blakelow nodded lamely.

“Dear Georgie, is it still so painful after all these years?”

“Aunt, don’t, please,” said Miss Blakelow, struggling with her tears.

“What’s done is done. There is no point repining.”

“I know.”

“You just have to make the best of it. You made your bed, as they say, and no-one but you must lie on it.”

“I know that too,” croaked Miss Blakelow.

“Do you begrudge the girls their chance to be admired? They were only playing and dreaming as young girls do.”

“Yes. And that’s only natural. But when I saw Lizzy standing there so sweet faced and innocent, I saw myself as I was at their age. And I was so fearful in that moment that they might end up like me.”

Her aunt gripped her hand. “Is life here so very bad?”

“Oh, no,” cried Miss Blakelow, kissing the back of her aunt’s hand. “How can you think such a thing? You have been my rock, Aunt. When all fell about me, you only stood firm. And I am as fond of you as I was my own mother.”

“Dear girl. I would not see you cry for all the world.”

“I cannot help crying sometimes, Aunt. I love Thorncote, truly I do…but…but I sometimes wish…for more.”

“Love.”

“Yes,” whispered Miss Blakelow.

“I thought you had vowed against men.”

“Oh, I have,” replied Miss Blakelow laughing. “Frequently.”

“But you still hope.”

“Yes…I cannot seem to help myself. Do you despise me for it?”

“How could I when I still feel that way myself even at my age? You look shocked. I am still a woman, Georgie, and my heart still quickens when a handsome man enters the room. Of course you will continue to hope and that is natural. But you have a past and there are not many men willing to live with that.”

“No,” Miss Blakelow agreed taking another swig of the brandy.

“Don’t expect too much, my love. That way brings disappointment.”

Miss Blakelow nodded, choked by tears. “I suddenly realised today after all these years just how vulnerable I was at that age. If you had been there, Aunt, things might have been different. I would at least have had someone to advise me. Aunt Thorpe was very adept at firing me off, as the phrase goes, but not so good at guiding me through the pitfalls of girlhood. I was young and silly and arrogant and vain. I thought I had the world in my hand. But in truth, I realise now that the world had me under its heel.”

Aunt Blakelow took the flask and took a swig herself. “Has Marcham recognised you?”

Despite herself, Miss Blakelow blushed. “He knows that we have met before but he cannot place me.”

“Good. Then let us hope that it stays that way. If he should remember, then we should all be in the suds. We should go in. The clouds are gathering. I think there’s going to be a downpour. Heavens, Laura has left the washing out on the line, we shall have a pantry full of soggy washing in five minutes―”

“I was dreadfully rude to him, Aunt…earlier,” blurted Miss Blakelow. “He came here, hardly ten minutes after the argument and I…and I said some thin
gs which I bitterly regret.”

“Water off a duck’s back, my dear. Ten to one, a man with a skin as thick as his has forgotten it already―who is that? There is a carriage coming along the drive. Are we expecting visitors?”

Miss Blakelow stood up, wiped her eyes and looked across at the approaching coach with its smart navy panels and gold crest emblazoned on the sides. She groaned and a million contrary thoughts entered her head, the main one being panic.

“Isn’t that one of Marcham’s carriages, Georgie?”