The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (28 page)

“How very peculiar,” observed his friend.

“I will have satisfaction,” declared Mr. Blakelow furiously.

“He wants satisfaction, Rob. Very bad business. And him hardly out of short coats. Not the done thing at all, but if he
will
force it upon you…”

“Hush, Julius, you interrupt Mr. Blakelow,” said Lord Marcham softly.

“
Hardly out of short coats
?” repeated William, practically exploding with rage.

“For God’s sake, puppy, calm down,” recommended his lordship. “Do you think I want to fight with you? Take a damper.”

Mr. William Blakelow was a bullish looking young man with a short, thick neck and a rather stocky physique. He was a shade over medium height and had a rather ruddy countenance and he put his lordship in mind of young Ned Blakelow. His hair was more copper than gold and his eyes a pale blue, but he was unmistakably a Blakelow. He plied the towel to his wet shirt, glaring angrily at his lordly visitor.

“What do you want?” William demanded belligerently.

The earl pulled his snuff box from his pocket and flicked open the lid. “Sit down, Blakelow.”

“I’d rather stand. I don’t take orders from no murderer.”

“
Sit
down,” said his lordship softly, taking a pinch of snuff and putting it to his nostril.

William baulked a little. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

“On the contrary, while I hold the purse strings I can tell you
precisely
what to do. Now, are you going to sit down or do I have to resort to more immediate methods?”

The young man reluctantly drew out a chair and sat down.

“Thank you,” said his lordship. “I wish to speak to you on a delicate matter. Your sister came to me about two months ago with a preposterous idea. She wanted me to loan her the money to make Thorncote profitable enough again to pay the debts your father owed me.”

“Eh?” put in Sir Julius, putting up his quizzing glass again.

“Exactly. That is almost to the letter what I said at the time. Now, while I admire her courage and enterprise, I am, as you may imagine, rather reluctant to invest my blunt into a sinking ship without some…c
ontingencies
…put in place.” The earl paused and looked over at the florid young man before him. “You play deep, do you not, Blakelow?”

William Blakelow flushed. “No deeper than you, my lord.”

“Ah, but I can afford to pay off any debts I may incur…you, on the other hand, are a little…er…compromised.”

“I pay my debts, sir,” said the young man through his teeth.

“That’s not what I heard,” drawled Sir Julius.

“I do, I tell you!”

“Of course you do,” said the earl soothingly, “and I would not imply otherwise. But you must see that from my point of view, I do not wish to be—how do I phrase it?—forever filling up a leaking bucket.”

Mr. Blakelow flushed. “I have an allowance. My debts will be paid come the beginning of the next quarter.”

“Naturally,” smiled Lord Marcham. “But by then, you will have another handful of debts to pay off. And a few more the next month and a few more the month after that. You will, I am persuaded, understand my concern.”

“You wish me to retrench?”

“No, Mr. Blakelow, I wish you to go home.”

There was a short silence.

“Go home?”

“If you wish me to help you set Thorncote back upon the road to recovery, then I need to see evidence that you are willing to put in the work to make it happen. Your sister cannot manage it all on her own.” The earl paused, smoothing the fabric of his pantaloons across one knee. “And besides, she may not always be at Thorncote. She loves the place and wishes to see it restored for your sake. And I want to see you taking responsibility for your own property. I don’t want to see you burdening her any longer with problems that are yours. Is that clear?”

“What has this got to do with you?”

His lordship smiled. “Here we get to the delicate aspect of the issue that I mentioned. I wish to have the honour of your sister’s hand in marriage.”

“
What?
” cried William.

“Eh?” said Sir Julius and let his quizzing glass fall.

“Quite. And as you are head of the family, I feel I should…er…inform you that I intend to pay my addresses.”

“She’s barely half your age! I will not have it. It’s disgusting.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the earl softly but with a steely glint in his eye.

William Blakelow gulped. “She is an innocent and you…you…”

His lordship raised a brow in silent enquiry.

“Are…not,” the young man finished lamely.

Lord Marcham picked up a clock on the table, examined it briefly and then set it down again. “Miss Blakelow is an exceptional woman. Not only does she look after your brothers and sisters, the running of Thorncote and the house, but she is also the most selfless person I have ever met.”

“
Marianne?
” demanded William. “She does not know one end of a scythe from the other!”

“Ah…I think we are talking at cross purposes,” the earl said with a smile. “I wish to marry your
eldest
sister…Georgiana.”

William stared at him. “I don’t have a sister called Georgiana.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I’m sorry?” said his lordship.

“I don’t have an older sister called Georgiana.”

“He don’t have an older sister, March,” added Sir Julius, helpfully.

His lordship suddenly felt that the carpet appeared to have moved of its own volition under his feet. He sat up in his chair, looking at the younger man intently. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have an
aunt
called Georgiana. She lives at Thorncote. But I doubt you wish to marry her, my lord. You can give her twenty years.”

There was another silence.

Lord Marcham regarded William fixedly. “Georgiana Blakelow is nine and twenty, tall with dark hair and green eyes. She is bookish and wears thick spectacles.
Now
tell me you don’t know her.”

William blinked at him. “I have three sisters: Marianne, Kitty and Lizzy.”

The earl got up and began to pace about the room. “What the devil―?” he began and then broke off suddenly, whirling around to face his prospective brother-in-law. “When was the last time you were at Thorncote?”

“I was there for Christmas, my lord.”

“The Christmas just gone?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you have never seen such a young woman as I have described?”

“Georgiana Blakelow is, as you say, a rather bookish and damnably prudish lady who loves moralising at the dissolute young men in the neighbourhood and writing pamphlets…and making my life miserable. She is in her sixtieth year and spends a great deal of time dispensing health remedies to those unfortunate enough to get stuck with her.”

Lord Marcham ran a hand over his jaw. “When did your mother die? Forgive the question, but I must know.”

William shrugged. “
Lord, years ago. Why?”

“And what was her maiden name?”

“Oh, lord, I don’t know. Bray or Gray or something.”

The earl thought for a moment. The name rang no bells. He looked at Sir Julius who shrugged; he did not recognise the name either. “And she had six children?”

“Yes. She died giving birth to the Jack. Look, what is this? Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Was your father married before?”

“No, my lord.”

The earl swore under his breath.

Mr. Blakelow stood up. “Will that be all, my lord? I have an appointment to view a horse at one and I need to get home to change. I say, that is a natty waistcoat you are wearing, who made it for you?”

Lord Marcham was not listening. He was staring out of the window, a frown like a furrow between his brows. “Your father…forgive the question…had no illegitimate children?”

“How should I know?”

“No wards or other dependents?”

William picked up his coat and began to put it on, shrugging it over his shoulders. “He had a step-daughter.”

The earl turned around. “What was her name?”

“Lord, I don’t remember. She lives abroad. Haven’t seen her for years.”

“Your father married again?”

“Yes, after my mother died, although briefly. But the lady was not in the best of health and she died not three years from their wedding. Can I go now?”

“And you don’t remember the lady’s maiden name?”

William rolled his eyes. “How should I? I was hardly eleven years old at the time.”

His lordship sighed impatiently. “Do you have other relatives in
London?”

“No, my lord. Can I go now?”

Lord Marcham nodded absently and picked up his gloves from the table. “Let us go, Julius,” he said.

“With the greatest pleasure on earth,” responded his friend.

Mr. Blakelow took himself off without as much as a thank you to his host. A footstep sounded in the hall and the earl looked up to see Mr. Boyd loitering in the doorway in such a way as to make his lordship suspect that he had been listening at the door to at least the latter part of their conversation.

“Apologies for the intrusion, Mr. Boyd,” said his lordship, pulling on one of his gloves. “And apologies for that young man’s less than beautiful manners.”

Mr. Boyd smiled. “Not at all, my lord. Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

“In the usual way of things, my enquiries have raised more questions than they have answered. Is Blakelow a good friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance. He has the ability to land himself in a scrape in the time it would take you to tie that neckcloth.”

Lord Marcham smiled faintly as he drew on his other glove. “Taken him under your wing, have you?”

“All young men need a little guidance.”

“To be sure.”

Mr. Boyd clasped his hands behind his back. “I think we both want the same thing, my lord.”

“Indeed?” enquired the earl softly, “and what is that?”

Mr. Boyd smiled again and his cold eyes gleamed. “To find Miss Sophie Ashton.”

His lordship smiled. “I see that we begin to understand one another.”

“I work for a gentleman who has entrusted me with a task to find that young woman. A woman who vanished off the face of the earth. A woman who has been invisible for ten years. And I believe we are very close now, my lord, very close indeed.”

Lord Marcham picked up his hat and cane saying, “I hope you may be right. Your client must have deep pockets to keep you employed for ten years.”

“He most particularly wishes to find her. She made rather a fool of him and he does not like to be made a fool of, your lordship, not one tiny bit. And he won’t let anyone get in his way.”

His lordship smiled slightly. “Good day, Mr. Boyd.”

* * *

Lord Marcham threw open the door to his sister’s bedroom half an hour later and his eyes scanned the room until they found her seated before her dressing table in her robe.

“Good Lord. Robbie, you’re back. I thought you’d be half way to Holme by now. What is the matter? Is anything amiss―?”

He shook his head impatiently and came into the room. “Sophie Ashton. She was a friend of yours in the year of your come out, wasn’t she? Tell me about her.”

Mrs. Weir put down her hairbrush and turned to face him. “Sophie Ashton?” she repeated blankly. “Why? What’s the matter? What has happened?”

“Nothing. But who was she? Tell me.”

Caroline looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t remember?”

He shook his head. “I remember the name but I cannot put a face to it.”

“The excesses of youth, Rob?”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied. “Or it might have something to do with the
fact that I was invalided out of the army with a leg wound.”

“Ah, but Hal must have told you?”

“Hal?” he repeated. “What has he to do with it?”

“You really
don’t
remember, do you?” she said.

“No,” he replied shortly. “I didn’t think much beyond the
lead shot in my leg at the time.”

“No,” agreed his sister, “and very sorry for yourself you were too. You were the worst patient in the world, desperate for every titbit of news from the front, jealous of every man who was going out there to fight, insisting you were well enough to go back when you could hardly stand up
―”

“Enough about that,” said the earl with an impatient wave of his hand. “You were telling me about Miss Ashton. Have you seen her recently?”

Caroline sighed. “God, no. I haven’t seen Sophie in years. She disappeared after it all happened.”