Liz Tyner - Redeeming The Roguish Rake

It would be best for all involved. His father didn’t see the humour in marriage proposals, or anything else.

He shook his head. ‘It’s a sad day when Lady Havisham can handle her spirits better than I can. That tavern ale should put some iron in my stomach.’

Andrew nodded, pushing himself up from the chair. ‘I’ll tell everyone at White’s that you’re going to the country estate. Perhaps someone else will divert their attention before you return.’ He paused. ‘Peabody isn’t the straightest arrow and everyone knows he’s vengeful.’

Fox waved the words away and checked the mirror again. His blasted eyes looked soulless. As though they didn’t care about anyone or anything. His cousin was wrong. He wasn’t soured on marriage. He was soured on the world and there wasn’t one better anywhere. He’d travelled just enough to know that.

‘Don’t get yourself killed by proposing to anyone in the country,’ Andrew said.

‘You have my word,’ Fox said. ‘I’m leaving London. I will stay from public view for a time. I am not proposing again...’ he paused, thinking ‘...unless it is to Lady Havisham. I rather like her.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I doubt she’d take her vows seriously.’

‘Would you?’

‘Do I take anything seriously?’

‘Perhaps the taste of brandy.’

Fox gave an upward tilt of his head, and Andrew stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Fox stared at the wood for a moment.

He didn’t even feel much for Andrew. They’d grown up together and had their fair share of adventures. But now they were men and Andrew had married, and his thoughts always seemed somewhere else. Not that Fox didn’t understand. His own thoughts only half-attended the revelry around him. That last proposal had been a performance and a stale one at that.

Fox had to leave London. The stench of all the hypocrisy was flooding into him. Particularly his own hypocrisy of the easy smile and the game of getting his name mentioned in the newspaper.

He felt as if he had a bit of sand inside his boot all the time.

The tomb-like walls of his father’s house would fit him well. Particularly since his father wasn’t there. But first, he would have a crate of brandy sent ahead. Maybe two, since his father wouldn’t be there to share. Or three. His father would not see the humour in returning home with a new vicar and finding all the servants with sotted smiles.

* * *

The next morning, Foxworthy ignored the superfine silk coat the valet had left out and went to the dressing chamber. He found the half-rag brown garment that suited the country better. He and his father agreed on that one thing. Just as Fox wasn’t suited to the country life, neither were the clothes he preferred.

He didn’t wait for the carriage. He wanted the power of the horse at his command.

Foxworthy left the house, taking a bite from the apple in his hand. The groom handed the reins to Fox, and he took Rusty’s reins, moving to hold his palm flat at the animal’s face. The horse nibbled with his lips and then crunched the fruit. The beast looked at Fox and then Fox reached out and gave him a scratch under the chin.

In moments, they were headed to the countryside. Fox leaned forward, giving Rusty a pat on the neck. Rusty’s ear twitched his response.

Foxworthy looked around him as he rode. The sunbeams warmed his face. Servants with baskets under their arms walked along the road. A few carriages here and there.

He’d just been in a mood when he was at home. Probably from all the soirées and all the nonsensical talk he did. Damn. He got tired of his own voice sometimes. All the pretty words and all the right things to say. The ladies would flutter and he’d continue and he’d wonder why they didn’t slap his face. And they’d chuckle and brush up against him, and he’d spout even more nonsense.

* * *

The saddle was getting a bit smaller and Rusty’s ears had lost their joie de vivre when the horse stepped onto the road that would take him only one turn from his father’s estate, leaving the commerce of London behind them. He had to be thankful the road wasn’t mud soaked. The clouds had darkened and he hoped the weather wouldn’t trap him at his father’s house. The chilled air bit into his face.

He noticed the tracks in the road. Definitely well travelled. More so than usual. When he raised his head, he saw a man with an old, wide-brimmed hat that flopped over his face, standing, holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a cane in the other.

‘Ahoy.’ The man spoke. His clothes... His clothes were sewn by a fine tailor. Fox recognised the gold buttons. He’d seen them before.

Hooves thundered from the woods and, before he could turn his horse, a club thwacked at the animal’s rump. Rusty bolted forward. The man in front raised the cane. The horse surged to the gold-buttoned man and the man stepped aside, swinging the stick. He knocked Fox backward, breaking the club. Another stick caught Fox as he tumbled from the horse. When he slammed into the ground, he noted the face of the man who’d been behind him and the other one charging forward with both fists gripping the broken club.

It wasn’t a good sign that they didn’t have their faces covered.

* * *

Rebecca pinched the frond of the thorn bush, moving the long strand aside carefully so it didn’t prick her fingers. She stepped forward on the trail, then released the briar, and one thorn scraped along her skin as the stem swung back into place. The handle of her basket slid on her arm and the eggs she carried jostled, but barely moved, cushioned by the cloth. She checked her arm for blood, but only a white scratch marked the skin.

She continued along the path, listening to the chaffinch and knowing Mrs Berryfield would appreciate the eggs. She imagined Mrs Berryfield’s children, chirping like hungry baby birds, their dirty hands reaching for her basket to see what she’d brought. Eggs. They’d be disappointed. But one did the best one could. And the eggs would surely gain her a promise from Mrs Berryfield to attend Sunday Services.

Eggs were not as plentiful now that the weather had chilled. In fact, she moved to the trees lining the road so she’d be out of the wind. The dark clouds threatened, and she hoped to make it back home before the rain.

Stepping up to the road, she crossed, planning to take the short path to the woods to reach the furthermost tenant on the old earl’s land.

Then she saw a bundle of clothing lying on the ground. No one tossed the wash about like that. She moved one step closer, staring.

Brown. Brown hair. Still looking fresh from a morning comb. But it couldn’t be, because the rest of him—the rest of him splayed about. His head was face down. And blood, brown. Dried.

She couldn’t move.

Another funeral for her father to perform. Another widow needing courage and someone to listen to her pain. Rebecca didn’t want to walk forward. Then she’d discover if it was Mr Greaves or Mr Able. They were the only two men with a head of hair that colour, except theirs always stuck ragged from their hats. She needed to know who it was. The family would have to know.

The dead man groaned, just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her basket.

‘Mr Greaves? Mr Able?’ she called out, voice screeching into her own ears.

He didn’t move.

She took a step forward. No answer. Oh, my. She’d forgotten about Mr Renfro and he had eight children. ‘Mr Renfro?’ The words wobbled from her mouth.

He was quiet as a tomb. She was going to have to turn him over and she hated the thought of touching Mr Renfro, even dead. He smelled worse than a sweat-soaked draught horse. She didn’t know how Mrs Renfro did it.

She clamped her teeth together. Putting her boot solidly on the ground, she stepped forward.