Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

She paused. ‘The Suttons still own all but the big house, so Randolph wrote to them, and it wasn’t long before they arrived, the son, the daughter and an aunt. That didn’t sit well with some people, including this doctor. From what I hear, he’s been bullying the girl, who appears to be the one arranging the re-opening.’

‘Ah …’ Letitia sat back. She hesitated to say too much, for age obviously had not dulled Maisie’s wits.

‘My sources tell me that the doctor was shouting at the girl. Outrageous, if you ask me. Why, in my day, he’d have been horsewhipped. But people mind their own business now,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I suspect the doctor latched on to your son as he would any well-dressed gentleman, and, not knowing who’s who in our little community, the duke certainly can be forgiven for not stepping in.’

Letitia frowned at the poor excuse for her son’s behaviour. ‘Although I wouldn’t paint him as heroic, I can’t imagine he would stand aside while a young lady is abused.’

‘Perhaps he did not, for no one was close enough to eavesdrop. And obviously he aided the aunt, for, by all accounts, he caught her when she fainted.’

‘But then Miss Sutton dragged her away.’

‘Perhaps, but it is hardly a matter of consequence,’ Maisie said.

Maisie was right. In the usual course of things, the episode would quickly be forgotten, but Letitia had pinned her hopes for the future upon a felicitous meeting between her son and Miss Sutton and she saw her plans going sadly awry before they had even begun. She did not easily surrender, however, and she set her mouth in a determined line, unwilling to give up on the first decent prospect she’d had in years.

‘Letty?’ Maisie said, sending her a sharp glance.

‘You are correct, as usual, Maisie dear, but I do so want my son to enjoy Philtwell as I have,’ Maisie said, without going into details. ‘Perhaps I should try to set everyone to rights, to avoid any misunderstandings.’

Such a reaction on her part would hardly be suspect, Letitia decided, and from what she had just heard, it was clearly time for her to step in. Leery of being perceived as matchmaking, she and Randolph had hoped to let Mother Nature take its course, but that didn’t seem possible now.

Unfortunately, as everyone knew, the old girl was not very reliable.

Glory lagged behind her aunt and her brother, uncharacteristically dragging her steps, for she did not share their excitement over the evening ahead. Lifting her bent head, Glory forced herself to look at the building that was their destination: Sutton House, the home of her ancestors.

By rights they should be living there, but they were comfortable enough in the smaller cottage that had remained in the family. The larger residence, set back among the sycamores, seemed rather gloomy to Glory when they had visited on previous occasions at the invitation of the current owner.

Mr Pettit seemed to be a staunch supporter of Queen’s Well, but now Glory wondered about him, considering his guests. The duke and his mother must have made themselves at home, despite Mr Pettit’s illness, because it was from the dowager that the invitation had come.

Normally, Glory would have been eager to gain noble approval of her plans, for a nod from a duchess would certainly be a boon to any enterprise. But her dealings with Westfield made her leery of a conversation with either of them, especially if they shared Dr Tibold’s views upon the waters.

Glory might even have refused to go, if given a choice, but it was made clear that she had none. Phillida had practically swooned, with joy this time, when she received the missive. Preening over the correspondence, Glory’s aunt had spent the rest of the day determining what to wear and planning detailed reports to all her London acquaintances of her new ‘friendship’ with the noblewoman.

Thad, too, had been eager for the outing, and since little in Philtwell interested him, Glory had kept her objections to herself, though she was determined to be on her guard. The others might be blinded by titles, but Glory knew that, beneath Westfield’s elegant exterior, there was something dangerous that went beyond the power of wealth and rank.

Westfield handled himself too well. And he had handled her too well, Glory thought, flushing at the recollection. What other man of his position would disarm a pistol-wielding opponent, and so easily? Glory realised that she had not been a formidable foe, but, then, what gentleman would act as he had towards a woman? Westfield had no compunction against pulling her to him, twisting her arm, whispering in her ear …

Glory drew in a sharp breath. She liked to think of herself as capable, for she had held her family together since the untimely death of her father, raising her brother and making the decisions that Phillida was unwilling or unable to bother about. She managed the finances, ran the household and had chosen to revive Queen’s Well, despite opposition. There was little that unnerved her.

But Westfield made her uneasy in ways that she couldn’t even define. He was a threat, if nothing else, to her peace of mind, so Glory looked about warily as they entered Sutton House. But when the butler showed them into the parlour, the room was empty except for a regal-looking woman who could be none other than the dowager duchess. Approaching them with a smile, she apologised for the lack of proper introduction since Mr Pettit was indisposed.

It was not what Glory had been expecting. She had imagined a female version of Westfield—dark, aloof and threatening—and this woman seemed to be none of those things. Although Glory rarely chanced upon members of the ton , the social elite, she knew that often the women were spoiled, shrill and demanding, with contempt for anyone beneath them.

Yet the dowager graciously greeted each of the Suttons in turn, lastly settling her attention upon Glory. Although her eyes were blue, they held the same sharp intelligence as her son’s, and she cocked her head slightly, as though to examine Glory in earnest.

‘Ah, Miss Sutton,’ she said. ‘So you are the one.’

‘The one?’ Glory repeated, uncertain of the woman’s mean ing.

‘Who would re-open Queen’s Well.’

‘Yes,’ Glory said, lifting her chin. Having failed in their earlier intimidations, perhaps Dr Tibold and Westfield hoped to use the gentle arts of persuasion in the form of this woman. But Glory had no intention of giving in—to anyone. The more she was pushed, the more she held fast, determined to make her family’s heritage a success.

Expecting her show of stubbornness to draw the duchess’s displeasure, Glory was surprised at the woman’s slow smile. ‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ the older woman murmured. Nodding, as if in approval, she left Glory even more puzzled when she turned towards Phillida, who was asking about Mr Pettit.

‘He is doing better, though he won’t be able to join us tonight,’ the duchess said. As she chatted with Phillida, Glory took the opportunity to study her more closely. The duchess did not much resemble her son, for she was not tall and lean, but there was something about the way she held herself that reminded Glory of the duke. And they shared the same bone structure, which made the dowager a handsome woman, if not quite as breathtaking as her son.

While Glory watched, a light came into the older woman’s eyes that made her look far younger. Turning to follow her gaze, Glory was brought up short by the sight of a figure in the shadows at the end of the room. Someone had entered silently and unannounced, but there was no mistaking the tall form. It was Westfield, and Glory automatically took a step back.

Surely he would be on his best behaviour in front of his mother, Glory thought, yet she still felt a frisson of unease. Thus far, her dealings with the man had been unpredictable, untenable, unsavoury …