Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

‘Ah, but both are strong emotions, one sometimes standing in for the other,’ the duchess said. ‘And I’m so pleased that he is feeling something that I must account it a good sign.’

Randolph shot her a questioning look, and Letitia wondered if she had said too much. She looked down at the hands in her lap. ‘He was much affected by his father’s death; I fear he was thrust too soon under the mantle of ducal responsibilities. He rose to the occasion admirably, of course, but he changed. I’ve often wondered if something happened while I was … grieving, but Oberon has kept his thoughts to himself. I worry about him, Randolph.’

He said nothing, and she sought to explain. ‘He began distancing himself from his home and his family, spending more and more time at the town house in London until it has been his primary home for years now. I don’t understand why he won’t visit the place he so loved.’ Or his mother , she did not add.

‘It’s not as though he’s gambling away his inheritance,’ Letitia said. ‘Far from it, for he has several gentlemen overseeing everything from the farms at Westfield to foreign investments. So how does he spend his days?’

When Randolph did not answer, she went on. ‘He attends social functions, frittering away his time at one ball or rout or salon after another.’

‘There are worse activities,’ Randolph said.

‘Yes,’ Letitia admitted, for she had told herself that many a time. ‘But there are better ones.’ And she hesitated to think what his father would say, if he knew that his heir was gadding about among a society he had held in contempt. Her husband had devoted his life to his family and public service, championing charities and improvements, so that he had left the world a better place. Letitia felt her eyes well up at the loss of her husband, far too soon, and she swallowed.

‘Somehow he doesn’t seem the type to be engaged in such frippery,’ Randolph said, interrupting her maudlin thoughts.

‘I know,’ Letitia said. ‘He is far too intelligent. He is well read, but beyond that he doesn’t appear to have any interests.’ Even worse, he didn’t seem to care . Although she assumed that her son loved her, he was so composed that she had begun to wonder if he felt anything at all.

But tonight, there had been little hints that he was not his usual urbane self. Perhaps it was not the behaviour she had been hoping for, but it was something . And she was heartened by it. She rose to her feet and smiled to herself.

‘I don’t believe it will be too difficult to turn this passion of his in a more positive direction,’ she said to Randolph. ‘All we need is for Queen’s Well to work its magic.’

Rain had been battering the windows since breakfast, making Oberon wonder why anyone would want to seek out more water. But he did not refuse when his mother insisted he accompany her to the Pump Room for their private tour. What he had learned the evening before only made him more curious about the Suttons and their dubious enterprise.

‘It appears that Miss Sutton has rather grandiose plans for her spa,’ he said casually, once they were settled in the coach for the short drive. ‘I wonder where she is getting the funding for such a venture?’

‘Oberon, please do not be so rude as to enquire again,’ his mother said. ‘It was bad of you to do so during supper.’

‘I don’t see why, for it is a business, is it not? I would think they would be eager to put their case to prospective financers.’ In fact, Oberon was surprised that his mother, stricken as she was with nostalgia, had not been solicited. He slanted her a glance. ‘They haven’t approached you, have they?’

‘Certainly not,’ she answered. ‘Miss Sutton is too gently reared to speak of such things.’

Oberon’s brows shot upwards. Miss Sutton was practically in trade, and he could think of no good reason for her silence on the subject. Although he doubted she was running a swindle, there was always the possibility that her investors wanted to keep their participation quiet. And in his experience, such secrecy meant they were up to something, whether Miss Sutton was aware of it or not.

Oberon frowned, unwilling to believe that she was a knowing participant in anything unsavoury, only to shake his head. Such thoughts led to misjudgements, mistakes or worse, no matter whether he was in London or in a remote village. And he would do well to keep that in mind, he realised, as he entered Miss Sutton’s lair, the infamous Pump Room.

While his mother exclaimed in delight, Oberon assessed the place coolly. Although the main room might be light and airy on a good day, with its tall, arched windows on three sides, the rain cast a pall over the interior this afternoon. Or perhaps the dearth of patrons made it seem devoid of life. The neatly polished parquet floor was empty except for some tables and chairs clustered at the perimeter, where those who did not wish to mill around, socialising, could partake of the waters in seated comfort.

It was at one of these small tables where Miss Sutton’s aunt, Miss Bamford, sat waving her handkerchief in their direction. An empty-headed creature who provided little beyond haphazard chaperonage, she was an odd companion for Miss Sutton. The boy was there, too, though he seemed more like a typical youth than anything else. But where was his sister?

Despite Oberon’s best intentions, he felt a frisson of anticipation as he scanned the area, and when he saw her, his reaction was as baffling as it was difficult to disguise. He had assumed that the long evening before spent acting as host in Mr Pettit’s absence would have inured him to whatever appeal Miss Sutton pre sented—but it had not. He felt just as he had the first time he had glimpsed her standing in the shadows behind this very building, like he had been struck by some powerful force in his gut or perhaps lower …

‘Miss Sutton,’ he said, with a nod.

‘Your Grace,’ she answered. Was there a breathlessness to her tone? Oberon didn’t flatter himself. She probably had rushed to greet the visitors. She took a seat at the table next to her aunt and Oberon joined them. They were not obliged to obtain their own waters, but were served by a robust young female in a starched apron.

‘None for me, thank you,’ Thad said.

‘Nor I,’ Oberon added.

‘Drink up,’ his mother urged. ‘It will do you good.’

Oberon frowned as he eyed the liquid. ‘So it is said of every spring in England, from the fountains of Bath to the meanest dribble coming up from a farm field that the cows refuse to taste. Each is supposed to cure everything from boils to consumption, but I don’t put much faith in those claims.’

‘Actually, Queen’s Well has never been associated with a specific cure,’ Miss Sutton said, which was hardly surprising since she seemed to argue with him at every opportunity. And yet Oberon felt, not irritated, but pleased by the byplay.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ his mother murmured with a sly smile. Apparently, her nostalgia for the waters knew no bounds.

However, after Oberon had downed half of the wretched brew he realised that neither his mother nor Miss Bamford had touched their glasses and he lodged a protest.

‘I’m afraid I’ve had my share this morning,’ Miss Bamford said. ‘I must admit that it is rather nice to have one’s own supply. No more need to buy bottles of Epsom.’

‘And you?’ Oberon asked his mother, lifting a brow. After all, she seemed to be the spa’s chief supporter.

Smiling as though privy to some private amusement, she shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ve no need of it,’ she said. Oberon opened his mouth to enquire further until he remembered that such waters were known purgatives, so he held his tongue.