Anne Herries - The Rake's Rebellious Lady

‘Ah, I see you have been smitten. When am I to wish you happy, my dear fellow?’ Freddie raised his brows

‘Oh, as to that…I am set in my ways, you know. I am not certain that I should be comfortable married to any lady…but I must admit that, if I were tempted to change my ways, I might ask Miss Holbrook if she would do me the honour. Not that I expect she would accept me. I am too old for her—and she may take her pick of a dozen or more gentlemen, I dare say.’

‘All this on the strength of one ball?’ Freddie looked incredulous. ‘She is not quite in the usual style for one so young, I give you that, George—but you have met lively young ladies before.’ He refused to allow that Miss Holbrook was anything out of the ordinary, even though she had unaccountably lingered in his thoughts these past few days. He had not yet decided if that ingenuous manner was genuine or whether it hid something rather less pleasant. The girl had been frank about her lack of fortune—but was she a fortune hunter herself? For the moment he was inclined to stand back and watch as others fluttered about the flame.

‘Yes, of course,’ George said. ‘I am not sure what it is, Freddie—but does she not strike you as being remarkable?’

‘She has an amusing turn of phrase,’ Freddie conceded. ‘But is that artlessness real or assumed? I am reserving judgement for the moment. You will not see me at Almack’s just yet, George.’

‘I shall certainly attend,’ George said. ‘Sally Jersey has been giving me hints for ages. She thinks I should bestir myself to find a wife before I sink into the murky waters of old age.’

‘Good grief,’ Freddie said, revolted. ‘You are in your prime, George. But if you fancy the little Holbrook filly, I shall not stand in your way—though I warn you she has scant fortune.’ Now why had he added that piece of information? It could make no difference to George, who had fortune enough not to need a rich wife.

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘She told me herself.’

‘Well, you may be right, though…’ George shook his head. ‘It matters not a jot either way. I am not on the catch for a fortune. I may not have your luck at the tables, but I am not done up yet.’

‘I never imagined you were, my dear fellow,’ Freddie said, amused as much by his own feeling of pique as George’s enthusiasm. ‘Do you care to walk with me?’

‘I have my carriage,’ George said. ‘Let me take you up, Freddie. It has started to rain.’

‘Has it? I had not noticed,’ Freddie said. ‘Very well, then. I had thought to stretch my legs, blow the cobwebs away, but I do not care for a soaking.’

The two men smiled at each other, in perfect accord as always as they went out of the club and into the waiting carriage. Neither of them noticed the shadowy figure watching as they were driven away.

Chapter Two

‘Damn it, Jenkins—’ the Marquis of Bollingbrook glared at his valet ‘—I am not yet in my dotage. When I ask for brandy, I do not wish it to be mixed with water!’

His valet’s face wore a martyred air, for, having served his master, man and boy, he was not like to resent his outbursts of temper. Especially since he, above anyone at Bollingbrook Place, understood the pain behind the anger.

‘Begging your pardon, milord,’ Jenkins said, ‘but it was Dr Heron as told me your lordship ought not to drink so much.’

‘Damn his impertinence and yours,’ the Marquis said with a grunt of displeasure. ‘Pour a smaller measure if you will, but do not ruin the damned stuff!’

‘No, your lordship.’ Jenkins retained his impassive stare. The Marquis was prone to severe bouts of painful gout, which another, more critical man might have considered a judgement for his sinful past—sins that had haunted the older man for too long. Jenkins, however, was devoted to his master, besides being privy to secrets that others did not share. ‘It shall not happen again.’

‘See that it doesn’t.’

‘I am sorry, milord.’

‘No need to be sorry.’ A weary smile settled over the old man’s features. He knew that of late he had become almost impossible to live with. There had been a time when he was a very different man, but he had lived too long trapped in the pain of his memories. ‘Damned if I know how you put up with me, Jenkins. It’s a wonder you haven’t walked out before this. I’ve driven my family away. None of them visit me these days.’

The Marquis had fathered three sons, all of them by different wives. He had been unfortunate in losing the last of them, a beautiful young lady many years his junior. She too had died shortly after childbirth from a putrid chill. The Marquis had not been the same since her death. However, the loss of his youngest son had almost finished him.

‘Wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I retired, sir,’ Jenkins answered in the same flat tone as before. ‘Can’t blame your family for not visiting. You lost your temper and banned them from the estate the last time.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Bollingbrook growled. His foot was causing him excruciating pain and there was nothing to be done about it. ‘But I didn’t mean her, damn it!’ A look of regret came into his eyes. ‘Caroline is the best of them all. She is very like her , do you not think?’

Jenkins understood perfectly. ‘Yes, very like, my lord. You could write and invite her to stay…’

‘Her mother and aunt have taken her to London,’ the Marquis muttered. ‘Had a letter from that wilting lily last week. Damned if I know what Holbrook ever saw in her. I blame her for his death, you know. Another woman might have steered him to a safer path instead of weeping buckets in her bedchamber! Still, water under the bridge now.’ He glared at his valet. ‘I won’t have Caroline forced into a marriage she doesn’t care for. I suppose her mother is feeling the pinch. That is my fault, of course. Should have done something for her. I ought to have done something for Tom before this.’

‘Why not invite him here?’ Jenkins suggested, braving his master’s fierce stare. He knew him too well to quail in his boots, though others had been known to flee before such a look. ‘If I may take the liberty, milord? Send him to town to look after his sister. He can keep you informed on her situation.’

‘Excellent notion,’ the Marquis agreed. ‘He’s not as weak as his mother, though I prefer Nicolas. Full of spunk, that lad! However, Tom is Holbrook’s heir, so I must do something for him. Bring me pen and ink, if you will. I shall write the letter now.’

Jenkins obeyed, setting the well-used, mahogany writing slope on the Marquis’ lap, as he sat in his high-backed chair before the fire.

‘Is there anything else, milord?’

‘Not for the moment. I shall ring for you later.’

Left to himself, Bollingbrook opened the secret drawer of his writing slope and took out the miniature of his third wife. Angelica was the only one he had loved, though there had been many women before her, some of them acknowledged beauties, but none at all had followed her. He had loved her dearly, and believed that she would survive him for she had been so much younger. She had been the delight of his life, and when he’d lost her he had wanted to die and to be buried in her grave with her. Only her dying wish had prevented him from taking his own life.

‘Look after our son; look after Anthony,’ she had whispered as she lay slowly wasting of the putrid fever. ‘Love him for my sake, I beg you.’

He had loved Holbrook for her sake and his own—and he loved Caroline too because she was so like his lost wife; she had the same vitality, the same brave heart. For the rest of his family he had scarcely any affection. He disliked his eldest son, Sebastian. He thought it a damned silly name, and would have disinherited him if he could, but would find it difficult to break the entail. He liked Claude slightly better, but not enough to want him to visit.