The Spinster and the Rake (20 page)

Chapter Twenty

IT WAS LATE afternoon a few days later. A light mist was falling, and Gillian took a moment out from her fevered packing to stare out into the London street.

“I don’t see why you have to go so soon, Gilly,” Felicity pouted from her perch in the center of the bed. “It’s not as though Pamela were increasing again or anything like that. You could at least have waited for my wedding.”

“Felicity, darling, we’ve been through this a thousand times or more. I’ll be at your wedding in Sussex; I simply cannot stay in London and help you get ready for it.”

“But why not?” Felicity wailed. “I don’t know how I’ll ever manage without you. Mother is completely helpless in matters like these. I was counting on you, Gilly.”

“Well, you will simply have to count on yourself,” she replied wearily, sorting through her clothes with reckless abandon. In one pile were all her prettiest frocks, with the brightest colors and most flattering lines. In the other was a pile of brown and gray stuff gowns better suited to a governess than a lady of independent means. It was the latter that was to be packed for her journey. “What will happen when you’re a wife and mother, Felicity? You will have only yourself to fall back on then.”

“Don’t be absurd. When I have children I’ll have you come and help me, just as you’ve done with Mother and the aunts,” her niece replied saucily, unaware of the dread she was instilling in her favorite aunt’s heart.

“Yes, very likely I will,” she sighed gloomily.

“Must you leave tomorrow morning?” she begged. “If you could just put it off two more days then you could come with me and help me choose the materials for my trousseau. You know you have excellent taste and the best eye in London, or so Bertie assures me.”

“No, thank you, my dear. But when you go you may return something for me.”

“Something to Madame Racette’s?” she inquired. “I didn’t know anything she made up for you displeased you.”

“I ordered it on an impulse, and have since regretted it,” her aunt said shortly. “The dress is far too youthful for me.”

Felicity bounced off the bed, knocking the folded clothing askew as she bounded over to the closet. “Oh, Gilly, is it this? I had no idea you actually bought it!” She held up the diaphanous aqua blue dress they had seen at Madame Racette’s so long ago. “Have you ever worn it?”

“No, and I have no intention of doing so. It was mad of me to have bought it, and it would serve me right if she refused to accept it.”

“Gilly, what is wrong?” Felicity questioned in a softer tone. “What happened? Has it something to do with Lord Marlowe? Bertie and I have been worried about you.”

Picking up the tumbled clothes from the floor, Gilly placed a noncommittal expression on her face. “Well, thank you and Bertie for your concern, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong. I am merely tired of the city. You know I prefer the country, and I miss Pamela.”

“You can barely abide Pamela, and we both know it. Has he broken your heart?”

Gillian controlled her instinctive response, managing to sound cool. “My dear, ever since you and Liam have become betrothed you see everything from your own romantic viewpoint. My heart was never involved with Lord Marlowe, only my intellect. We are friends. No, we are acquaintances, and that is all. I don’t expect we shall pursue the connection anymore.”

“Then why did he send you gillyflowers?” her niece demanded wisely.

“How did you know it was he? I have other acquaintances, I may hope.”

“You may hope so indeed, but I peeked at his card. Not that it said anything of interest. Just his name. I do wish you’d tell me what’s going on. I do hate to be in the dark.”

“You, my dear Felicity, are an incorrigible gossip, and I have no intention of gratifying your curiosity one whit.” To her relief no gossip had arisen from her unfortunate visit to Marlowe’s gaming club, at least not yet, and the sooner she was gone from London the less likely someone would connect her to that debacle.

“But why didn’t you throw out the flowers if you’re so angry with Lord Marlowe?”

“I didn’t tell you I was angry with Lord Marlowe. I don’t wish to discuss this any further, Felicity!”

“Miss Gillian!” Flossie tumbled into the room, her cheeks flushed. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Gillian’s heart leaped inside her, and she took an involuntary step toward the door before she remembered. “Tell him I’m not at home,” she replied dully.

“It’s not a him, Miss Gillian. It’s a her. A foreign lady, with a veil and a beautiful lilac cape. She says her name is Contessa Albini. Not that I hold much with them foreign titles, mind you. Shall I tell her you’re not at home?”

Gillian had little doubt as to the identity of her caller, though why Helene should choose that unlikely title was more than she could fathom. It was the wrong time of day for social calls, so it could only be someone outside the ton. Which left Marlowe’s wife.

She didn’t want to see her. Didn’t want to think of her again, but with her luck Helene Marlowe would camp out on her doorstep until she had her say. If she had come to commiserate over Marlowe’s shabby treatment, Gillian thought she might scream.

“Tell her I’ll be down,” she said finally, peering into the mirror and smoothing her tumbled hair. Her blue eyes were hollowed by the sleepless nights, and her face looked alarmingly pale. It didn’t matter—she could not compete with Helene’s flamboyant beauty even at the best of times. “Is Letty downstairs?”

“No, miss.”

“Just as well. I imagine we’ll wish to talk in private.”

“Who is this Contessa Albini?” Felicity demanded, all agog. “And why has she come to see you? I’ve never heard of the woman.”

“None of your business, little one,” Gilly said, keeping the sting from her voice. “You may assist by sorting through the rest of my clothes for me, and I’ll be back in a short while.”

Thus adjured, Felicity immediately began to reverse the piles of clothing, throwing the drab clothes under the bed with her usual abandon.

Helene rose from the damask-covered chair in the west salon as Gilly entered the room. She had removed the lilac veil, tossing it back over her midnight curls. In the dim twilight she looked even more beautiful than she had that night, with the shadows successfully hiding her age.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t deny yourself,” Helene greeted her frankly. “Though from what I’ve heard the last few days I wouldn’t have blamed you. You haven’t been treated very well, have you, my dear?”

Gilly ground her teeth as she shut the door behind her. “It’s of little consequence.”

“‘Of little consequence,’ she says! And I have had to spend the last three days listening to lamentations and ragings and threats and despair. It may be of no moment to you, my dear Gillian, but to others it is of great importance indeed. And me, I am not one to stand around and watch while others suffer. I take things into my own hands, and try my poor best to fix them up.”

“I am certain you do, Contessa,” Gilly replied, somewhat at a loss.

“Ronan would kill me with his bare hands if he knew I had come to plead his case. So would my husband. But me, I feel I owe Ronan something, and I decided this was the least I could do, and so I told poor Alfredo. Right now he is pacing his hotel room, wringing his hands, and he will be very angry with me when I return, no doubt. But I will manage him. I have always known how.”

“I beg your pardon, Contessa. You have lost me. Who is Alfredo?”

“You must call me Helene! Indeed, I can never remember what my last name is. Alfredo is my husband, of course. The Count Albini.”

“Your husband?” Gilly echoed. “But you said you were married to Marlowe.”

“Well, I was. A great long time back. He was my second husband, and a very nice one he was, too, considering that we were never suited. He never held it against me, my little stratagems. However, he wasn’t overly fond of Marco.”

“Marco?” Gillian echoed.

“Marco was my third husband. Alfredo is my fourth. I had neglected to tell Ronan that I divorced him three years ago and decided it was time to remedy the situation.”

“Then he isn’t married?”

“Not to my knowledge. Unfortunately I have also had to give up the very generous allowance he has always made me, but then, Alfredo insisted. He is such a jealous sort.” She surveyed a particularly fine diamond on her plump white hand with a fond sigh. “But I am forgetting myself. I have come to tell you about Ronan.”

“Please, Contessa, there is no need.” The last thing she wanted to hear was Ronan’s former-wife trying to explain him.

“Helene, my dear. You must call me Helene. After all, we are to be in a way sisters-in-law, are we not?” she said obscurely. “And there is every need. My poor Ronan is in love with you.”

“Don’t be absurd. He has never loved anyone in his life,” she shot back.

“You say that with a great deal of assurance, you who have known him scarcely a month, to a woman who was once his wife. He hasn’t loved many people, not more than you can count on one hand. He loved his mother, and his grandmother, his reprobate Uncle George, and his blind and smelly old spaniel. And he loves you, my dear.”

“What about you?” She allowed her curiosity to escape.

“No, he never loved me. You see, he might have, but I tricked him into marrying me. I told him I was pregnant, when many doctors have assured me that that dreadful prospect will never come to pass, and like a gentleman Ronan did the honorable thing. When he found out the truth he was perfectly polite. He already knew me rather well, and it came as no great surprise.”

“I . . . I see,” Gillian said lamely.

“I doubt that you do. Ronan is very sorry for the wager. Vivian has been having a bad influence on him, an influence I tried to warn him of years ago. But of course, being a man, he wouldn’t listen. He does love you dearly.”

“Vivian?”

“No, idiot! Ronan.”

“How gratifying,” she replied in icy tones.

“He has hurt you that much,
hein
?” Helene questioned sorrowfully. “He told me he had hurt you beyond bearing, but I know from experience that a woman in love will stand a great deal of hurting before the love dies.”

“But I am not a woman in love, Helene.”

“Are you not? I will take leave to doubt that also. I believe you love him as much as he loves you, and all this dillydallying is something I have little patience with.”

“Then it is fortunate you will not have to put up with it. I am leaving for my sister’s home in Winchester tomorrow, and Lord Marlowe can safely forget his guilty conscience.”

“Ah, then it is a coward you are,” the contessa said in a silken voice. “You could not face the thought of marrying a divorced man. I should have known . . . the British put such a great stock in their little rules of society.”

“That has nothing to do with it. If Ronan loved me I would have lived with him without benefit of marriage. And he knows it.”

“Would you really?” the contessa inquired, diverted. “Let me tell you, my dear, that is very unwise. You must always seek a wedding band first, or your future will in no way be assured. I tell you from my great experience that—”

“I have no intention of doing any such thing!” Gilly cried, exasperated.

“I do not understand what all this fuss is about,” Helene sighed, rising. “It all comes down to two very simple facts: you love Ronan, Ronan loves you. And you have your silly pride, and Ronan has decided to be noble for a change and not ruin you by tying you to a divorced man. At least, not any more than he’s already ruined you, of course, so you may both end your days being correct and noble and utterly alone. And I am completely out of patience with the both of you.” Despite her sharp words she embraced Gilly in her scented arms. “If you want him, my dear, you will have to tell him so. Men are so very foolish, you understand.” She kissed her wetly on both cheeks. “
Au revoir, chérie.
Doubtless I will see you again. In Paris, perhaps. Or Venice. The two of you may stay with Alfredo and me.” With a wave of her scented handkerchief she departed, leaving Gilly staring after her wordlessly for a long moment. Lost in thought, she slowly returned to her bedroom.

Felicity was still in the middle of her bed. “I know who your mysterious visitor is!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “It must be Lord Marlowe’s ex-wife.”

Her aunt stared at her in shock. “How did you know he was married?” she demanded.

“Why, everyone knows. It’s the latest on-dit. Apparently she’s very beautiful and dreadfully vulgar. She’s now married to a very handsome Italian nobleman half her age. No one seems to be holding it against Marlowe. Except, perhaps, you?” She eyed her aunt curiously.

“Me?” she echoed, her mind still dazed. “No, I don’t hold his divorce against him.”

“Then why are you so angry with him?” Felicity demanded with an air of great practicality.

Gillian sat down at her dressing table, staring at her flushed cheeks and reaching for her diamond earbobs. “I don’t truly know,” she murmured.

Chapter Twenty-One

GILLIAN SURVEYED her room for one last time. There was no need for pillows in the bed to simulate her sleeping form, or lies to the servants about fictitious headaches. The Redfern family was out again, leaving Gillian to her final night in London and a good night’s sleep. Or so they thought. When they returned home in the small hours of the morning, they would find their innocent trust misplaced. And the chicken would have flown the coop. Straight to the fox’s lair.

Poor young Truffles did his best to look impassive when she reached the front door, though the sight of the clinging aqua silk must have unnerved him. “It’s ten o’clock, miss.”

“I know it, Truffles.”

“Will you be wanting the carriage, miss?”

She smiled up at him sweetly as she drew her cape around her slender shoulders. “No, thank you. Lord Marlowe’s house is just across the way. I’ll walk.”

“You’ll be wanting me to accompany you, of course.”

“No, thank you.”

“But you’ll be back shortly?” The poor boy was getting desperate.

“No, Truffles, I won’t,” she said serenely. “And I wish you might tell my brother so when you see him. Preferably tomorrow morning, but I’ll leave it to your discretion.” She pressed a small, heavy purse into his nerveless fingers. “You’ve been a good friend, Truffles. I’ll be sorry to leave you.”

“But, miss . . .” he protested miserably, not moving.

She reached out and opened the heavy oak door for herself. “Wish me luck, Truffles. I will need it.” And she was gone into the London night.

It was a cool, crisp, clear evening. The stars shone very brightly in the inky sky, and Gillian could see her breath as she moved toward Bruton Street. With a sudden rush of superstition, she reached up and touched her diamond earbobs. The stones felt warm and alive in the cloud of hair, and she smiled, reassured.

The door was opened by the same poker-faced manservant who had granted her entrance not that many days ago. He viewed her arrival with an astonishing lack of surprise.

“Miss Redfern.” Did his sepulchral voice sound faintly relieved? She couldn’t be quite certain.

All her well-thought-out excuses fled as she stepped inside the magnificent hallway. “Ah . . . er . . .”

“Contessa Albini said we might expect you,” the man-servant broke in smoothly, covering her embarrassment.

“She did, did she?” Gillian said wrathfully.

“We were all hoping she was correct. We’ve been extremely worried about the master, Miss Redfern.”

“Why?” she asked bluntly, surrendering her cape to his expert hands.

“I’ve been with Master Ronan for most of his thirty-nine years, and I’ve never seen him laid so low. The sight of you would do wonders for him, I don’t doubt. If he could see.”

“What do you mean, if he could see?” she demanded, an absurd panic filling her. “You don’t mean to say he’s blind?”

“In a manner of speaking, miss. Shot the cat, he has, quite thoroughly.”

“He
what
?
Oh, I collect you mean he’s drunk.”

“Exactly, miss. Hasn’t drawn a sober breath in the past three days. He’s sound asleep, and I don’t think anything short of Gabriel’s trumpet could wake him right now.”

“He’s here? I had thought he would be at the gaming salon.”

“Oh, no, miss. He gave that to Mr. Peacock.”

“For heaven’s sake, why?” She was growing more and more mystified.

“He said it was a farewell present. Master Vivian has been hanging on his coattails for I don’t know how long, ever since they were boys together, and a nasty piece of goods he is. I tried to warn his lordship, but he’d hear none of it. He’s always been the loyal sort. I suppose he finally decided to heed my warnings.”

“Could you . . . could you show me to his room?” There was no way she could request such an outrageous thing without blushing deeply, but the manservant was too well trained to indicate that he noticed. She searched her brain for his name and came up with it triumphantly after a moment. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Mr. Watkins?”

A beam reflected his appreciation of her memory. “Just Watkins is good enough for the likes of me, miss. And I’d be honored to do so. If you’ll follow me.”

Gillian wasn’t as surprised by the sparse nature of Marlowe’s sleeping chamber as her niece had been before her. Indeed, her attention was more caught up by the occupant of the large bed than the furnishings.

He lay on his back, one arm flung out to one side, black hair rumpled across his high forehead. He was still dressed, although someone, presumably Watkins, had removed his coat and cravat and undone the snowy linen shirt. His boots were lying at the foot of the bed, and a thin blanket covered his powerful frame. She looked at him, and the one thing she wanted to do was strip off her clothes and curl up next to him. She stayed where she was, her face impassive.

“He won’t wake up, miss,” Watkins said in a normal tone of voice. “He’s a three-bottle man, but it’s been closer to eight, and he sleeps like the dead until it wears off. I don’t expect to see any signs of life from him until morning.”

“It’s just as well,” Gilly sighed, surveying the meager furniture scattered around the room. “Could you help me move that chair, Watkins?”

“Where to, miss?”

“Just to the side of the bed. And if you could perhaps find me a foot stool and a blanket. And then I should be quite comfortable.”

Watkins’s impassivity deserted him. “Are you planning to stay, miss?” he asked, agog.

“I am. That is, if you have no objections.”

“None in the slightest, miss. His lordship couldn’t ask for a better lady. Nor you a finer gentleman, when all’s said and done,” he added staunchly.

That remained to be seen. He’d said he’d loved her, and she hadn’t believed him. She was taking a desperate chance on the possibility that he really did, and if she was wrong—well, things couldn’t get much worse.

She smiled her sweet, unaffected smile that had made more than one susceptible male her slave. “I know it,” she said gently, stealing a glance at her besotted love.

Ten minutes later Gillian was comfortably ensconced, a stool under her feet, a lambswool blanket around her, a glass of excellent brandy in her hand. During all the bother Marlowe had scarcely stirred, only muttering an imprecation under his breath when they piled another blanket on top of his sleeping frame.

“You’re sure you’ll be all right, miss?” Watkins asked anxiously on his way out the door. The fire was nicely built up, sending a warm glow through the room. “If you want, you need only ring. I could find you a bedroom if you’d just say the word.”

“No, I think it would be better if I stayed right where I am. But thank you, Watkins. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.”

Half an hour later she wasn’t so sure. Despite the dulling effects of the brandy she was still wound up, and the hairpins were digging into her tender scalp, giving her a wretched headache. She took them out, shaking her tawny hair loose about her shoulders in an impatient gesture, when another sound came from Marlowe. A whisper, so quiet she couldn’t make it out, followed by another.

Abandoning her blanket, she got to her stocking feet and edged closer to the bed. He was still sound asleep, albeit more restlessly so than before. He tossed and turned, muttering something over and over again. Tentatively she put one knee on the high bed, moving closer to catch his words. It was with a start that she recognized her own name coming from his dreaming lips, and in a tone of longing that sent tears to her eyes.

He looked years younger and curiously vulnerable in sleep. She longed to reach out and smooth his brow. Even more, she longed to curl up on the soft mattress beside him and sleep. It was a big enough bed; surely he was too far gone to notice.

He turned again, flinging an arm toward her, and reluctantly she climbed down off the bed. It would be the better part of valor to stay in her chair that night. Much as she regretted the necessity, it wouldn’t do to take advantage of the man.

Almost as if he knew the fevered thoughts that passed through her mind, Marlowe muttered another oath, then turned and began to snore. Gilly laughed aloud, feeling cheered. There was something so homely and prosaic about snoring. Something so very wifely about hearing it. She settled back into her far from comfortable chair with a happy sigh.

A quiet knock on the door awoke her. The first light of dawn was streaking in the windows, the fire was burned down to a few embers, and Marlowe was still in a state of advanced insensibility. She moved around the bed to the door and was assailed by the heavenly odor of coffee before she reached it. She opened it a crack and discovered Watkins, a tray in his hands.

“Is he awake yet, miss?” he inquired in a whisper.

“Not yet.”

“He always wants his coffee when he does. I didn’t dare not bring it. Would you be caring for some tea?”

“Coffee will be splendid. If you would bring another cup for his lordship.”

“Yes, miss. Shall I build up the fire for you?”

“I’ll take care of it. Tell me, is he . . . bad-tempered when he wakes up? I mean, after a night such as last night?”

“Gloomy’s more like it. Then he gets his coffee and a huge breakfast and feels more the thing. Though he hasn’t the last few days. You’ve given him a nasty turn, miss, that you have.”

Good, she thought. “Well, let us hope I can cheer him up.”

He still hadn’t moved when she re-entered the bedroom. Setting the tray on the table beside her chair, she moved quietly to build up the fire. It was just after she had coaxed a tentative flame from the stubborn coals that she felt his eyes upon her narrow back. She fiddled with the wood a moment longer to give herself time to regain a modicum of self-possession, then rose and moved gracefully back to her chair, meeting his astonished eyes with perfect calm.

“Would you care for some coffee, my lord?” she inquired pleasantly, pouring a cup.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he demanded by way of a greeting.

She took a sip out of the steaming brew and smiled at him. “Drinking your coffee.”

“Don’t be pert. How long have you been here?”

“Since ten o’clock last night. And, I can’t help being pert. I feel pert this morning.”

Marlowe shut his eyes and groaned. “Where did you sleep?”

“In this chair. And I must say it was not terribly comfortable. Watkins offered to find me a bed, but I told him I would be better off here.”

“Why?”

Setting down the coffee, she climbed up onto the big bed and drew her legs underneath her aqua skirts, staring at him out of solemn eyes. “So that I can be well and truly compromised, of course,” she explained simply, as if to a child. “No one seems to realize I spent the night in your bed just a few days ago, so I thought I’d better make sure that this relatively innocent night doesn’t go unremarked.

The dark eyes flew open to stare at her once more. “I spent a great deal of money to ensure your reputation was intact! Does your family know you’re here?” he demanded grimly.

“They do by now. I shouldn’t doubt I’ve been cast off completely.” The prospect didn’t seem to daunt her.

“And what put this clever idea into your brain?”

“Felicity, of course. If she had enough bottom to secure the man she loved, then I could at least do my best. It would be extremely foolish to let missishness get in the way of our future happiness.”

“Our future happiness?” he echoed hollowly, and Gilly felt a pang of dismay. His reaction so far had not been promising. “I gathered last time we met that you hated me.”

“Well, to be perfectly frank, there are times that I do hate you. That wager was perfectly hateful of you, and well you know it.”

“I told you I deeply regretted it . . .” He winced as his voice got louder.

“I know you did. And I decided to take you at your word. You also told me that you loved me.”

“Gilly.” He sat up and caught her hand in his. “I’m a divorced man. You haven’t thought it out clearly.”

“Better a divorced man than a married one,” she observed with a charming practicality. “And I am a ruined woman. If you won’t have me, I suppose I could always set up housekeeping on my own. Though Felicity tells me she expects me to run her household and bring up her children when the time comes. I don’t know what Liam will say to that, but—”

“No!”

“Well, I rather think he’d say so, too,” she confided. “But then, Felicity has a way about her.”

“
I
say no.” He pulled her closer. “You’ve spent far too much of your life taking care of other women’s families.”

“Yes, I rather agree. I would like children of my own, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Gilly . . .”

“And you don’t even have to marry me. I don’t blame you for feeling cynical after marrying someone like Helene, and if you’d prefer to live in sin I would understand completely.”

“There’s no comparison between you and Helene,” he said roughly.

“No, she’s a great deal prettier,” Gilly said calmly.

“She’s a heartless jade.”

“And what am I, dear Ronan?” Gilly inquired, the light in his green eyes making her suddenly more sure of herself. She reached out and smoothed the tumbled lock of hair from his high forehead.

He pulled her unresisting body into his arms, and she nestled comfortably against his broad chest. The warmth of him, the scent of him, the feel of him brought everything back, and she wanted nothing more than to strip off her clothes and crawl beneath him. “You, my dear, are an incorrigible minx.” She felt his lips on her cloud of hair, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. His arms tightened around her possessively.