The Rake (12 page)

Demi found her voice. She
jumped to her feet. “You can
un
post them! I
told
you I would not marry you, not
under any circumstances whatsoever!”

Her aunt gave her a stern look. “Nonsense!
Of course you will. You accepted, the banns have been posted. Your
disgraceful behavior the other day aside, you would be ruined if
you even considered such a thing!”

“
My
disgraceful behavior!” Demi gasped in outrage. “How
dare
you blame that on
me!”

“
You forget yourself,” Alma
Moreland snapped furiously. “I should have known nothing I could do
would cure you of your father’s wildness! Or your mother’s utter
lack of good sense, for that matter.”

Instead of being cowed by her aunt’s wrath,
Demi’s eyes narrowed. “I’m curious to know why you’re so obsessed
by my father’s behavior,” she said tightly.

To her surprise, Alma Moreland turned as
white as a sheet before reddening almost to the hue of a plum.
“Nonsense!” she snapped, avoiding Demi’s gaze. “If by obsessed you
mean dealing with his difficult offspring, then I suppose you might
call it so.”

At that moment, everything
became crystal clear to Demi. Alma Moreland
was
obsessed with her father. She’d
been in love with him when he’d run off with her mother and she’d
hated both of them ever since … still hated them. Her marriage to a
man of wealth and title hadn’t bothered either one of them. They’d
been happy and in love and couldn’t have cared less that they lived
from hand to mouth, so long as they were together.
She
had been Alma
Moreland’s chance to get even.

“
He’s dead. Mother’s dead
and you’re not going to make me pay for what you think they did to
you.”

Alma Moreland glared at her with pure hatred
for a split second before she very carefully composed her features.
“You’re delusional. Go to your room and consider very carefully
before you think to throw away Mr. Flemming’s offer. I’m surprised
he will even consider going forward with the agreement, but he is a
good man and willing to overlook the folly of youth.”

Whirling angrily, Demi stalked from the
room.

“
She needs a firm hand,”
her aunt said as she left.

“
I believe I am up to the
challenge,” Jonathan Flemming responded coolly.

A maid was sent up to inform her that she
was to be confined to her room until she was ready to ‘behave
properly’. She took that to mean until she agreed with her aunt’s
plans for her. She wouldn’t have cared except that she couldn’t
bear to be locked away so that she couldn’t even find out how Lord
Wyndham was faring. Her aunt, apparently believing she might try to
flee, had stationed a rotation of ‘guards’ to patrol the upper
hall. Even Sarah was forbidden to come to her room.

She would’ve immediately capitulated, just
to have a chance to see Garrett, but she knew her aunt wouldn’t
believe it even if she tried. She would have to endure several days
of punishment at least before her aunt believed her properly
repentant.

She would go crazy worrying about
Garrett.

It was well past midnight when Demi heard
someone pause briefly outside her door and a faint slithering
noise. At first, she thought it must be her aunt, listening to make
certain she was still in her room, but then she noticed a piece of
paper on the floor. Leaping from the bed, she rushed over to pick
it up.

Her hands were shaking so badly she had
difficulty lighting the lamp, but the moonlight streaming through
her windows wasn’t bright enough to read the note. The handwriting
was unfamiliar, but perfectly formed and very precise.

His fever has broken. He is on the mend.

She was still clutching the
note to her chest when the door opened abruptly
.
Demi took one glance at the look on
her aunt’s face and dropped the note into the lamp. The light
blazed briefly as the note blackened, curled and then
disintegrated.

Her aunt’s lips tightened. After a moment,
she left without a word, slamming the door behind her.

Demi let out the breath she hadn’t even
known she was holding and climbed back into her bed. Relief, so
profound it brought tears to her eyes, swept over her, and
gratitude--both for the fact that Garrett was recovering, and for
her unknown benefactor who’d gone to such trouble to let her know.
She suspected it had been Mr. Fitzhugh who’d written the note.
Sarah couldn’t read or write, but very likely it had been she who’d
slipped the note beneath the door.

She was certain the effort would cost her,
but it had been well worth it and was deeply appreciated regardless
of what her aunt might decide to do in retaliation.

She just hoped Sarah didn’t get into
trouble.

A pounding at her window the following
morning woke her to her aunt’s retaliation. Crawling from the bed,
Demi staggered to the window and pulled the curtain back. One of
the yardmen was hammering on the edge of her window sill. She
stared at him in confusion, still too sleepy, at first, to
comprehend what he was doing standing on a ladder outside her room.
Noticing her at last, he paused in his task, looked to his right,
then left and finally twisted around and looked behind him.

Curious, Demi leaned toward the window and
looked around, as well. She didn’t see anyone, which was no great
surprise since it was barely daybreak, but apparently that was what
he’d been trying to determine. Shoving his hammer into a loop on
his belt, he grasped the edge of the window and pushed it up while
Demi stared at him, completely baffled now. If he hadn’t been
nailing her window closed, what had he been doing with the
hammer?

Pulling a pouch from his belt, he held it
out to her. “Sarah says, bread and water for three days. This
should tide you over.”

Demi took the pouch and opened it, staring
down at the assortment of fruit and cheese.

“
Stash it where your aunt
can’t find it.”

He closed the window then, hammered a few
more times on the sill, climbed down the ladder … and walked off,
leaving the ladder under the window.

Demi bit her lip. Half the servants on the
staff were going to be dismissed before this was over. It was
heartwarming, though, to realize someone was on her side.

Sighing, she drew the drapes across the
window once more, found a place at the bottom of her armoire in a
hat box to hide her stash of food and climbed back into the bed.
There was little to do locked in her room all day beyond sleep, and
she’d had so little in so long that it was no great feat to go back
to sleep once more.

The three days she remained locked in her
room ranked among the worst in her life. On the fourth day, a
seamstress arrived with two assistants to take her measurements for
her wedding gown and make the final fittings. Demi made a supreme
effort to behave as if she was completely subdued. It wasn’t as
difficult as it might have been otherwise, for the days she’d spent
locked in her room had severely lowered her spirits.

She was rewarded for her ‘good’ behavior by
being allowed to join the family downstairs for dinner.
Unfortunately, the ‘family’ included Jonathan Flemming and merely
seeing him was sufficient to set her temper at a slow boil. It took
far more of an effort to behave civilly toward him even than it did
her aunt. Alma Moreland, by and large, ignored her. Jonathan
Flemming was determined to draw her into conversation.

However, now that Garrett was on the mend,
she knew he would be leaving soon. If she did not convince her aunt
and Mr. Flemming that she was meek and compliant, she would not get
the chance to see him before he left the Abbey.

It still took more of an effort than she
would ever have thought possible, particularly since she had to
endure an evening in the parlor afterward. Finally, however, he
took his leave. Shortly after that, she went up to her room to get
ready for bed.

For the first time in nearly a week, Sarah
was allowed to come in to help her prepare for bed. “How is
Gar--Lord Wyndham faring?” she asked the moment the door closed
behind her maid.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “He has the devil of
a temper when he’s crossed. Mending far too slow to suit him. Ready
to shake the dust of Moreland Abbey, no doubt about that.”

“
Well enough to receive
visitors?” Demi asked in a hopeful whisper.

Sarah eyed her with disfavor. “Don’t be
gettin’ wild ideas now, Miss. He’s well enough he’s no need to be
watched round the clock and Mr. Fitzhugh is handling things just
fine. Yer not needed in the sick room, and unless ye want to be
locked up in here till yer wedding day, ye’ll take my advice and
stay put.”

Demi studied her maid speculatively. “We’re
very much of a size.”

“
Aye. The gowns ye’ve give
me only needed a nip here an’ a tuck there …
No
! Absolutely not! Lady Moreland
would have my head.”

Chapter Nine

Sarah was a bit more buxom, and a few inches
taller than Demi, and she was more inclined to think the gowns,
especially since they’d originally belonged to Phoebe, had needed
no nips or tucks, but she wasn’t about to quibble over it. It took
her night twenty minutes to talk Sarah into the scheme and she was
still far from happy about it when she climbed into Demi’s bed and
pulled the covers over her head.

Demi moved to the mirror to check her
appearance, front and back, and decided she was satisfied. She
might not pass for Sarah in any room bright enough to distinguish
her features, but there would be no bright rooms that she would
have to pass through at this hour of the night.

Her hair was a few shades darker than
Sarah’s, who was more nearly blonde than brunette, but the mob cap
her aunt required the servants to wear covered that discrepancy
rather nicely.

Mr. Fitzhugh was the only hurtle she would
have to overcome.

Dousing the lamps in the room, she waited
until her eyes had adjusted to the moonlight filtering into the
room, then moved across to the door and eased it open. A couple of
servants were standing near the head of the stairs, talking--the
changing of the guard--but as she’d expected, there was only one
lamp lit in the upper hall. Bundling the clothes she’d been wearing
into a tight ball, she drew in a deep sustaining breath and closed
the door softly behind her and headed for Lord Wyndham’s room and
tapped on the door. Fitzhugh, who’d apparently been on the point of
leaving, opened it almost instantly.

He was holding a lamp, but since it was
higher than her head, she thought it probably cast her face in
shadow. She bobbed her head. “I just thought I’d see if his
lordship had laundry needed takin’ down,” she whispered, trying to
mimic Sarah’s speech patterns and accent.

Fitzhugh hesitated. “I was on the point of
retiring and thought I’d take the laundry down myself.”

Demi shrugged. “There’s no point in us both
goin’.”

Fitzhugh glanced behind him but finally
looked at her again and nodded. “Thank you, Sarah. I left them by
the chair.” With that, he stepped back, allowing her to enter, then
proceeded through the door, closing it softly behind him.

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when he’d
gone, and glanced around the room. A single lamp had been left lit
on the table near the door. It had been dimmed, but allowed enough
light for her to make out the furnishings well enough to keep from
running into them. Garrett was sprawled in the bed, bare to the
waist, apparently sleeping soundly, and a ripple of doubt went
through her. She hadn’t really considered anything beyond getting
into the room. She supposed she had assumed that he would be awake
as he had been before. Disappointment filled her. She didn’t want
to wake him when he’d been ill so long.

She had only told Sarah that she wished to
see him, however. Moreover, if the servants in the hallway had
overheard her conversation, they would expect her to merely collect
the bundle of laundry and depart.

Mentally shrugging, she looked around for
the laundry. There were two high backed, overstuffed easy chairs
near the hearth, but no sign of clothing in or around them.
Deciding he must have meant the chair near the bed, she set the
bundle she was carrying down, tiptoed cautiously across the room,
and peered at the chair. It was far darker than she’d expected, but
she thought she discerned darker shapes among the shadows. In any
case, the chair near the bed was the only other chair in the
room.

Moving quietly to keep from disturbing him,
she leaned down and checked the seat of the chair with her hand.
Encountering nothing, she moved a little closer and bent over
again, feeling around on the floor. Her questing fingers brushed
fabric that time. Grasping it, she lifted it and dropped it in the
seat of the chair, then felt around until she thought she’d found
everything. She’d no sooner finished piling the clothing than they
tipped and slid off the other side of the chair. Repressing an
exclamation of irritation, she moved around to the front of the
chair and reached for the clothes that had fallen off the other
side.

She didn’t notice the slight breeze that
wafted across her knees.

The hand that settled on her buttocks
beneath her skirts brought her jackknifing upright.

Twisting around, she discovered Lord Wyndham
was leaning over the side of the bed, her skirts over his head.
“G--my lord!” she gasped in a sharp whisper, snatching her skirts
down.

Instead of releasing her, his hand snaked
around her waist, pulling her back. “You shouldn’t entice a man
with such temptation if you’re of no mind to share,” he murmured
huskily.