Bronwyn Scott - The Regency Season - Wicked Rakes - How to Disgrace a Lady / How to Ruin a Reputation

‘Ah, Mandley. That was an unfortunate business indeed. She’ll not see a better offer,’ Redfield commiserated from the doorway where he hovered as some post-facto guard to their privacy.

‘Hardly,’ Merrick scoffed. ‘Mandley didn’t want a wife, he wanted a governess for his three daughters whom he didn’t have to pay.’ The man might be handsome for a fellow over forty and have plenty of blunt, but he was legendary in London’s clubs for his unnecessary penny-pinching. He’d once asked if his subscription to White’s could be reduced for the months he spent in the country.

‘There’s nothing wrong with frugality,’ Redfield retorted.

Ah, that reminded him. There was one score he could settle tonight. Merrick turned and shot Redfield a hard stare. He couldn’t do anything more for his own situation at present, but he could still salvage Ashe’s. He rose and approached Lady Folkestone. ‘I deeply apologise for the untoward actions which have taken place here tonight. I will do my utmost to see that Lady Alixe’s reputation emerges from this thoughtless escapade unscathed.’ With that, he bent over her hand with all the charm he possessed and kissed her knuckles. ‘If you will excuse me? I will look forward to meeting with Lady Alixe in the morning.’

Merrick brushed past Redfield on his way to the door, stopping long enough to murmur, ‘I believe you owe me. I’ll be waiting outside and expecting payment.’

* * *

Merrick found Ashe and Riordan alone in the deserted billiards room, each of them slumped in their chairs. Crisis always had a way of thinning out the crowd. He tossed down a substantial roll of pound notes on the billiards table. ‘There’s your portion of the winnings.’

Ashe sat up a bit straighter. ‘How did you manage this? Were you faster than Redfield?’

Merrick grinned. Besting Redfield was about the only good thing to have happened tonight. ‘I kissed Lady Folkestone’s hand right in front of him. He had to be the witness to his own dare.’

Ashe visibly relaxed and reached for the winnings. ‘Redfield had it planned all along. After you left, he was bragging he knew a certain lady had been visiting the library the last few nights.’

Merrick stiffened at that. ‘Was he careless enough to share her name?’ Folkestone was counting on discretion, on the fact that no one but he and Redfield knew Alixe had been caught with him in the library.

Ashe shook his head. ‘No, no names, just that he knew.’

Merrick nodded. Good. But it didn’t make sense he’d deliberately set up a wager he’d lose. Unless he thought Alixe wouldn’t succumb.

‘But I can surmise from the presence of Lady Folkestone at the interview that the lady in question was Lady Alixe. Jamie will not be pleased,’ Ashe said quietly.

‘Jamie is not to know.’

‘Are wedding bells in your future?’ Riordan slurred, offering Merrick his flask.

Merrick waved it a way with a rueful smile. ‘Sort of.’ He explained the agreement to hush up the indiscretion if he ‘helped’ Lady Alixe become the Toast of London.

‘Then you have truly become a cicisbeo, a man whose status and welfare in society rests on his ability to please a lady,’ Riordan slurred, unmistakably well into his cups. ‘You know, in Italy it works this way, too. Usually it’s the husband who picks a cicisbeo for his wife, but in this case, her father has picked you to bring her out into society.’

‘I don’t think it’s an apt comparison at all,’ Merrick snapped, eager to cut off Riordan’s rambling. He was showing all the characteristic signs of launching into a full-blown lecture on Italian culture.

Ashe idly twirled the stem of an empty snifter. ‘Do you remember that night at Oxford when we formed the cicisbei club?’

Merrick nodded, losing himself for a moment in the reminiscences of a long-ago time. They’d been foolhardy and a bit naïve. It had seemed a wicked thrill to commit themselves to a lifestyle of ‘love’, to devote themselves to the pursuit of beauty in all its feminine forms.

‘I suppose I’ve been a cicisbeo long before tonight,’ Merrick sighed in response to Riordan’s comment. He’d made a large part of his living based on charm and romance. He might not be a ‘kept’ man who was obviously dependent on a woman’s gifts to him, but if he looked closely enough at his life, he was dependent in other ways, not that the honesty made him proud to admit it.

A ‘life of love’ wasn’t as glamorous as they’d imagined it all those years ago sitting in a student-populated tavern. Then, the road to the future had been long and untravelled—anything was possible. They’d toasted the fact that they were second sons with no expectations placed upon them. There was nothing to inherit but a future they’d carve for themselves. They’d make great reputations as London’s finest lovers. It had seemed like jolly good fun at the time.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ashe said rather suddenly, his eyes serious and sober in contrast to Riordan’s. ‘We’ve all sold ourselves in some way or another. It’s impossible not to.’

Merrick stood, adopting a posture of humour, not wanting to be sucked into Ashe’s maudlin philosophy. ‘There’s no time to worry about it. I’ve got a bride to transform and a bridegroom to find.’

Heaven forbid that bridegroom end up being him, Merrick mused, taking himself out into the darkened hallway and finding the way to his room. He wasn’t a marrying man. His father had made sure of that ages ago and, in the intervening years, he hadn’t done much to improve the notion. He was well aware there were too many rumours surrounding him and his profligate behaviours. While the rumours inspired curiosity they also inspired distrust.

An image of Alixe’s face, alight with excitement over the translation, came to mind. Tonight had been an unlooked-for surprise. He’d not expected to enjoy the work so much. In fact, there’d been a point where he’d forgotten about the stupid wager altogether. For Alixe’s sake, he couldn’t forget himself like that again. To a woman of her standards, it wouldn’t matter that while many of the rumours were true, a few of the most damaging were false.

* * *

Alone in his room, Archibald Redfield drank a silent toast. St Magnus would be gone by sunrise. A man like him had no particular code of honour. With the matrimonial noose dangling over his head, St Magnus would run as fast as he could, leaving the path to Alixe open. Archibald would be on that path, ready to approach Folkestone with an offer to rescue Alixe. Who knew what kind of rumours St Magnus would spread? It had been an expensive victory, but worth it. In one move, he’d managed to eliminate St Magnus from the house party and he’d put Alixe Burke in a corner from which he would gallantly offer to rescue her.

Archibald took another swallow of brandy. An engagement would scotch any blemish to Alixe’s reputation. Archibald was certain after this last débâcle, Folkestone would be eager to marry Alixe off to the first man who asked, even if he was a mere mister, and Archibald would be there, only too ready to comply. Folkestone would be grateful and that could be useful, too, in perpetuity. Everything was working out brilliantly at last. He couldn’t make Alixe marry him, but Folkestone could.

* * *

‘You cannot make me marry anyone,’ Alixe said evenly, matching her father glare for glare across the expanse of his polished mahogany desk. So, this was his plan, the plan she’d waited all night to hear. Merrick St Magnus was to marry her or find someone else to do the deed for him. It was implicitly understood that was the only reason for being made over into the Toast of London.

‘I can and I will. We’ve tolerated your foibles long enough,’ came the reply.