Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

Annoyed, Oberon continued on his way, strolling through a few of the shops and stopping for refreshment at a quiet tavern. Although such places were the best sources of information, the occupants were often slow to warm up to newcomers, and Oberon adopted a casual mien to keep from appearing too curious.

He asked only the most general of questions about the village and its environs, as any visitor might, resisting the urge to probe too deeply into the Suttons. However, he soon dis covered that their arrival was the only significant event to have oc curred recently, at least according to those to be found in the Queen’s Arms.

Opinions about the Suttons themselves were less freely offered. One man praised the family for their efforts and the promise of work to be had in the future. Another grumbled about drawing the kind of sickly and infirm patrons who spent little coin and infected others with their diseases. The rest of the tavern’s occupants appeared to be reserving judgement or were too tight-lipped to comment, although other, more dubious reasons, for their silence were possible.

Oberon kept his own remarks neutral, for he knew that every resident of Philtwell would soon learn of these conversations. There was no hiding the arrival of a duke and duchess, especially when his mother took such an interest in the village. And Oberon never made any secret of his identity. It was part and parcel of a reputation that was well known and carefully crafted.

The Duke of Westfield was a man with a taste for the finer things and fascinating company, a pursuer of pleasure rather than politics, though he took nothing to extremes. An intelligent conversationalist, gracious, but not too friendly, he was the perfect guest, as well as playing host to his own entertainments, where an eclectic assortment gathered. And if the crew in the tavern were not his usual companions, he did his best to appear pleasant, yet aloof enough to avoid undue scrutiny.

By the time he left, Oberon knew the names of Philtwell’s most prominent citizens, the sad state of its economy and some common gossip about the residents. Having stayed longer than he intended, when he strolled away from the Queen’s Arms, Oberon saw that the gardener had left the grounds of the Pump Room, meaning that he would learn no more about the owners today, unless …

Seized by a sudden urge to see if Miss Sutton was still in the building, Oberon firmly quelled the desire, yet he crossed the road in order to take the quicker path behind the building, under the trees. But no slender figure stepped out of the shadows to fix a pistol upon him, and the door to the Pump Room was firmly shut.

Oberon shook his head at his own folly, for he knew better than to court trouble. The last thing he needed was to do something reckless that endangered all that he had worked for these past years, as well as the work—and even the lives—of others. At the thought, Oberon considered returning to London, far from the intriguing young woman. But that would mean turning his back on whatever might be going on here, as well as leaving his mother behind. And he had no good reason to do either.

No matter who or what she was, Miss Sutton could hardly get the better of him. Oberon knew how to keep his head, play a part, and, most of all, maintain control.

Gossip travels fast in close environs, and Philtwell was no exception. Oberon had not yet returned to Sutton House when news reached his mother of the contretemps in front of the Pump Room. It came in through the kitchens first, a delivery boy relating the incident to the enthralled staff, and from there to the upper servants, including Randolph’s valet.

While he intended to relay this information at the earliest opportunity, a couple of callers arrived to pay their respects to the visiting dowager. So it was through a Mrs Malemeyne that Letitia received the first report that her son had been seen in the village with the very young woman she had hoped he might meet.

Her initial pleasure was dimmed by the description of the encounter, which varied according to the messenger. Mrs Malemeyne, eager to ingratiate herself with the dowager, claimed that the duke was a hero for coming to the aid of a fainting woman, while the persons he so selflessly served were ingrates who fled the scene with undue haste. Leaning close, Mrs Malemeyne confided that she thought little enough of the Suttons, for the girl was too bold, by half, and the aunt seemed in ill health, for all the swooning that she did.

Mrs Levet was more circumspect. There appeared to be shouting, she said, though she was sure his Grace wasn’t the one doing it. And there were reports of a blow, though she was uncertain who struck whom. Alarmed at this version of events, the dowager turned to Mrs Goodhew for the truth, an elderly woman who had once been the arbiter of the small society that made up Philtwell.

The dowager found her old friend still residing in a small manor house that had long been the home of the squires that served the area. Having outlived most of her contemporaries, Mrs Goodhew welcomed her visitor eagerly, holding court in a chair near the fire, despite the warmth of the day.

‘It’s a pleasure to see you, Letty,’ she said, her voice still strong.

‘And you, Maisie,’ Letitia said. ‘So much has changed since I last was here that it is a comfort to find you and Randolph carrying on.’

Maisie snorted. ‘Is that what you call it?’ Then she studied Letitia through narrowed eyes. ‘And Randolph? How is he faring?’

‘Oh, much better,’ Letitia said, meeting the older woman’s questioning gaze head on.

Maisie snorted again, as if she was having none of it, but she did not pursue the subject. ‘I hear you brought your son along.’

‘Yes,’ Letitia said. ‘I wanted him to see the spa where his father and I met.’

Maisie sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s not the same, Letty. It hasn’t been since the fire.’

‘Yes, that’s what Randolph said.’

Maisie shook her head again. ‘It was a horrible night. Frank and I were in the Assembly Rooms when it happened, all so quickly that we hadn’t the sense to realise … I heard something, like a cannon ball or some sort of explosion, but I’m sure we all would have ignored it, if Sutton hadn’t made us get out. Our men did the best they could, but the inn was already engulfed and it was spreading. Sutton tried to go in.’

Letitia made a sound of dismay, and Maisie frowned. ‘I’m surprised more people weren’t killed.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘But that was the end, Letty. Sutton’s wife didn’t have the heart for it, probably not the money, either, and something like that irrevocably damages a place’s reputation.’

‘Yet it might recover,’ Letitia said. ‘I understand the Sutton children are back.’

‘Yes, but it might be too late. The village lost its heart. Damn fools haven’t been very welcoming. They blame the family for everything that’s happened since.’

‘Yes, I heard of an odd episode today,’ Letitia said carefully.

Maisie’s expression grew sly. ‘Involving your son.’

Letitia nodded, relieved to hear her old friend was still awake on every suit. ‘I wasn’t certain whether you kept yourself as informed as in the old days.’

‘I do the best I can, aided by a few of my younger friends and my faithful servants, of course.’

Letitia leaned forwards. ‘I would be curious to hear your version of events, for a certain Mrs Malemeyne painted Oberon in quite a heroic light, a pose that seems unlikely.’

Maisie snorted. ‘Malemeyne. A trumped-up clerk’s wife who tries to pass herself off as gentry.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know your son, but I hear he was with one of the shadier characters who’ve invaded Philtwell in the past few years. The fellow claims to be a doctor, but who knows? Nosed around the well as though he wanted to take it over, but he has no legal right to anything.’