A Rake by Any Other Name by Mia Marlowe by Mia Marlowe - Read Online

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A Rake by Any Other Name - Mia Marlowe

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Copyright © 2014 by Diana Groe

Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover art by Victor Gadino

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

For the Norwegian Hunk, my hero always.

One

Where one stands on a matter depends upon where one sits. When someone else is holding court on one’s settee, spreading delicious falsehoods, one is tempted to brand them a liar. When one finds oneself on the same settee, practicing deception, one considers it being economical with the truth.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

June 1817

What the devil do you think you’re doing? Richard Barrett demanded as he climbed down from the hired carriage. He pushed open the garden gate and thundered up the overgrown walk.

The young woman wielding a pair of shears was annihilating a runaway rosebush with evidence of malice aforethought. Prickly cuttings spilled from the basket at her booted feet. Peeping from under the broad brim of her straw bonnet, the girl glanced over her shoulder at Richard and then turned back to her pruning.

Without a word! Richard was usually benevolently neglectful where servants were concerned, not bothering to notice them most of the time. But he certainly wasn’t used to them ignoring him.

His friend Lawrence Seymour ambled after him, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly. Lawrence was only along on this trip for moral support. If Richard wanted to dally on his way home to Somerfield Park with an unscheduled stop at Barrett House, he knew Seymour wasn’t one to complain.

Dallying was one of the things Seymour did best.

I said, Richard spat through clenched teeth, what are you doing?

What’s it look like? she muttered. Writing a book?

If she knew who he was, she’d never be so disrespectful. Richard was about to give her a blistering dressing down when she looked up and held his gaze with a pair of astoundingly blue eyes.

Do forgive me, she said in a slightly more conciliatory but not at all deferential tone. I simply despise being interrupted when I’m working on something.

Her voice was low and strangely musical, with an unusual lilt he couldn’t identify. She certainly didn’t sound like one of the local girls who went into service on his father’s estate. But then she ruined her quasi-apology.

In case you’re not as bright as you look, she explained, I’m trying to undo years of neglect.

Richard bit back the smoldering set down she deserved. If he were honest, he’d have to admit the irritation he felt didn’t have anything to do with roses or cheeky gardeners. His life had been upturned by a letter, and the changes it portended set his teeth on edge.

"In case you’re not as bright as you look, he said, may I point out that you’re cutting the bush back too far?"

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care, but Richard’s grandmother, whom he adored, had planted that bush, or at least had ordered it planted—the dowager marchioness might arrange cut blossoms in crystal vases, but she drew the line at any activity which involved perspiration.

You’re going to kill it, he warned.

Perhaps. The young woman shrugged and tucked away the straggling lock of dark hair that had escaped her bonnet. But at least it won’t be sending bloomless shoots up the drain pipe any longer. If it lives, it’ll be loaded with blossoms later in the season.

But Lady Antonia and her family were coming sooner in the season. Richard ran an appraising gaze over Barrett House as if he were seeing it for the first time. The two-story house was usually reserved for pensioners who retired from Somerfield Park’s service. It used to be the dower house on the estate. Richard’s grandmother had ordered a much more opulent residence built for herself when it came time for her to occupy Barrett House. Still, by most lights, the place was considered quite charming.

At least, it used to be charming.

The roses weren’t the only things crying for attention. Though Richard had met his family at their town house in London fairly often, several years had passed since he’d been to their countryseat. While he’d grown to manhood, finished his education at Oxford, and gone on an extended Grand Tour of the Continent, Barrett House had crumbled. More than a few slates were missing from the roof, and the listing chimney was in serious need of repointing. The heavy front door, once a deep bottle green, had faded to the shade of old grass clippings.

Surely the butler who looked after Barrett House could explain its state of decay. Where’s Porter?

The young woman continued to brutalize the bush, snipping away with abandon. I have no idea.

Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Run and fetch him.

She stopped at that and turned to face him, shears still held in her gloved hand.

A bit menacingly, Richard thought.

There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, but it was a lovely cheek nevertheless, with a soft hollow beneath the bone. Richard usually considered that feature the mark of a beauty who would age well. However, her expression was far from lovely. Her dark brows lowered over those disconcertingly blue eyes.

Of the two of us, only one is being useful at the moment, she said as if she were his equal. "Since you’re the one who wishes to speak to Mr. Porter, I suggest you run and fetch him."

Who the dickens do you think you are? he demanded.

"I don’t merely think, she said with a withering glare. I know who I am, my lord. For all your fine trappings, can you say the same?"

He was Richard Barrett, Lord Hartley by courtesy, since it was one of his father’s lesser titles. As son and heir to the Marquess of Somerset, he was a heartbeat away from being a peer of the realm, by God. No dirty-cheeked chit was going to speak to him so. But Richard was saved from sacking her on the spot by the arrival of Mr. Porter, who bustled out the green door.

With his nervous energy and high tenor voice, Porter reminded Richard of an overgrown cricket, his arms and legs slightly bowed, yet still longer than they needed to be. His wiry, gray eyebrows waved like myriad antennae above pale eyes. Porter rubbed his hands together and hurried down the front steps.

Ah, Lord Hartley, you’ll have had news of the sad event then.

Only the barest information. Richard had been in Paris when word of his father’s accident reached him. His mother’s cryptic letter pleaded for him to come home and take up the reins of the estate during his father’s incapacity. I gather Lord Somerset isn’t improved.

Oh, it’d be a wise man as knows that. He keeps to his chambers most days, I understand, but welcome home in any case, your lordship, Porter rattled on. Er…ahem, I don’t mean welcome exactly. Not under these circumstances. But it is ever so good to see you, my lord. And you too, sir, Mr. Seymour, isn’t it?

Porter bowed politely to Lawrence. Despite his resemblance to a humble insect, the butler had a prodigious memory and could call every visitor who’d ever darkened Barrett House’s door by name—probably knew where to find them listed in Debrett’s Peerage too. Would you care for tea before you go up to Somerfield Park?

Don’t bother, Richard said. We’ll have something at the inn.

Stopping in the village of Somerset-on-the-Sea was a stalling tactic. Between slow mail and a delayed Channel crossing due to dicey spring weather, it had been a full month since Lord Somerset’s accident. Another hour or so could hardly make a difference. Besides, none of the changes in Richard’s world would seem real until he set foot in Somerfield Park.

And he wasn’t ready for them to be real.

See that Barrett House has a proper turn out, will you? Richard said. I’m expecting guests, and I want the entire estate shown in its best light.

Mr. Porter blinked slowly at this. You mean to entertain, your lordship?

No, of course not. It would be the height of disrespect to his father to host a house party when Somerfield Park was in crisis over Lord Somerset’s condition. The people I’m expecting are more like family. Or at least, I expect they will be. It’s the lady I plan to marry, along with her parents.

Porter glanced at the young woman with the shears and relaxed visibly. Oh, well, in that case, I should inform you that—

Lord Hartley, the girl interrupted, despite our disagreement over how to trim roses, allow me to tell you how distressed I am over your father’s unfortunate accident.

Her manners might be missing, but her somber expression declared her words sincere and surprisingly well-spoken for a gardener. Then she picked up the basket and, with a beguiling swish of skirts, breezed into Barrett House through the faded front door.

Richard stared after her with consternation. Despite her smudged prettiness, she was proof that the quality of the help at Barrett House had deteriorated along with the property.

Off you go too, Porter, Richard said. And tell that girl to mind her tongue and use the back door from now on if she wants to keep her position.

Porter’s eyes bugged out a bit at that, but he scurried away to do Richard’s bidding.

If she loses her position here, I can think of a few I’d like to see her in, Lawrence drawled. Nothing wrong with that little gardener that a bath wouldn’t fix. Come to think of it, a bath is something I’d enjoy assisting her with immensely.

Stow your gab, Seymour, Richard said. There’s enough on my plate without having to fret about you despoiling the help.

The help? No need to worry on that score. I seem to recall you have three nubile sisters at home.

Richard punched Seymour’s shoulder as they climbed back into the carriage. Meddling with my sisters is a serious offense. I’d have to borrow that tasty little gardener’s shears and apply them directly to your manhood.

Ouch. Seymour winced and then cocked his head at Richard. Tasty little gardener, eh? The way you’ve been doting on the angelic Lady Antonia of late, I didn’t think you’d notice a lesser mortal.

I’m planning to marry, not enter a monastery.

Richard barked an order to the driver, and they rattled down the road toward Somerset-on-the-Sea and the one and only inn in the village. Even though Richard hadn’t been home in years, he was very like his father. Many of the residents seemed to recognize him as the carriage rumbled past. The men doffed their caps in respect. The women dropped quick curtsies.

Richard had expected to have another couple decades with his father at the helm of the Somerset marquessate. Now that Lord Somerset was unable to perform his duties, Richard’s carefree days were gone. These were his people. His responsibility. Every soul in the village, every crofter on the surrounding farms, even the vicar and sexton in the local church were beholden to the Somerset estate for their livelihood in one way or another.

The invisible weight on Richard’s shoulders grew heavier with each turn of the carriage wheel.

***

Millicent Goodnight let the parted curtain fall together and skittered away from the front window of Barrett House lest her daughter accuse her of eavesdropping on her conversation with that surprisingly good-looking young man. Sophie handed off the basket of clippings to a waiting servant and sank onto the slightly threadbare settee before the fireplace.

Chin resting in her hand, Sophie sighed.

Any other mother might suspect her daughter had fallen head-over-giddy-heels with such a presentable fellow after even so short an acquaintance. But Millicent knew Sophie.

The sigh meant she was bored.

It’s my own fault, Millicent decided. She should have come home as soon as Sophie was born, but she couldn’t bear to leave her husband, Henry, in India. After allowing the girl to grow up wild as a mongoose in the bustle of Bombay, amid exotic temples and petty princes’ decadent courts, Millicent supposed the British countryside seemed pretty bland to her daughter.

Good heavens, child, don’t keep me on pins. Was that him?

It was, Sophie said.

He’s quite striking, isn’t he?

That was an understatement. His hair was the color of dark honey, but there was nothing sweet about Lord Hartley. Tall, broad-shouldered, and raw-boned, he was blessed with masculine symmetry in his strong features and dark, deep-set eyes that hinted at an even darker sensuality behind them. He was bound to turn feminine heads everywhere he went.

Though Millicent was intensely devoted to her husband of some thirty years, even her heart had skipped a beat over Lord Hartley’s handsome face. She fanned herself quickly and hoped Sophie attributed it to the frequent flashes of heat that plagued her now. I knew Lord Somerset’s heir was young, but I didn’t expect he’d be nearly so—

So rude, her daughter finished. He didn’t say a single civil word to me.

Well, when you go about dressed like a charwoman, what do you expect?

Forgive me, Mother. Next time I feel like gardening, I’ll be sure to wear my pearls. Sophie rolled her eyes. A gentleman’s courtesy shouldn’t be dependent upon my wardrobe.

But it is, dearest. When will you accept that the world sees people for the way they present themselves?

There may be something to what you say, Mother. Lord Hartley presented himself just as I suspected he would—as a spoiled, self-important… Sophie paused and Millicent could almost see steam coming from her daughter’s ears. He’s probably the most horrible rake too. After anything in skirts. Titled fellows usually are, I’ve heard.

Sophie! Where had she heard such things? Mrs. Goodnight decided to take another tack. "Granted, this wasn’t the most auspicious of meetings, but surely you can find something good to say about the man."

He seems terribly…English.

Well, of course he does. If that wasn’t damning Lord Hartley with faint praise, she didn’t know what was. Because he is English, and so are you.

No, I’m not. I don’t belong here, Mother. I can’t fit into these ridiculous column dresses. Do you know I can’t even stretch to my full stride when I go walking in that blasted blue thing?

Language, dear. Restrain yourself.

"If only you knew how much I am restraining myself. Sophie snorted. I can’t fit my mind into the narrow rules of this place. I shall run to madness if I try."

Millicent sighed. It really was her fault. She should have guarded Sophie’s attachments more closely as she was growing up in India. She ought not to have allowed her to mingle with so many people of different backgrounds. It had given her queer notions.

Millicent glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. She wished again that Henry hadn’t insisted that they stay at Barrett House instead of in guest rooms at Somerfield Park. The pensioners’ house was sitting empty, he’d argued, and they had much more privacy than if they’d taken up residence at the big house. Millicent would have traded her privacy all day to live in such a grand place as Somerfield Park, but her husband assured her that it wasn’t good business to spend too much time with those with whom one is attempting to negotiate. It’s not too early for you to bathe and dress for dinner. Everything must be perfect this evening. If you would be taken for a lady, you must dress the part.

And have a father with deep pockets, Sophie said tartly as she rose from the settee and stomped off to her room. That seems to be counted a lady’s best feature in this benighted country.

***

Mr. Porter had already ordered the proper turn out Lord Hartley demanded, and the thorough airing of Barrett House had begun days ago. Fortunately, the inside of the place was in better shape than the outside. Of course, the patches of damp rot would take some carpentry and fresh paint to fix, but there was time for that. Now that the heir was back, things would turn around.

They simply had to.

Porter set off for Somerfield Park, trotting up the long lane leading out of the village as fast as his bowed legs would carry him. Chest heaving, he burst into the grand manor’s kitchen with the news that Lord Hartley was taking tea at the village inn and would likely be home in less than an hour.

Well, who don’t know that? Mrs. Culpepper didn’t look up from the pot of stew she was stirring. The kitchen boy from the Hound and Hare beat ye here by a good five minutes. Careful with that hen, Eliza, she said to the girl who dipped a freshly killed chicken into a pot of boiling water to loosen the feathers. That has to stretch for supper for all of us below stairs, mind. Won’t do to have ye dropping it on the floor. That’d put Himself on a right proper tear and no mistake.

But does Himself— Porter stopped and cleared this throat. It irked him that Mrs. Culpepper bestowed the honorific of Himself on Mr. Hightower. The fellow was the butler at Somerfield Park, not God Almighty. Porter was a butler too, albeit in a much smaller household, but no one ever called him Himself. "I mean, does Mr. Hightower—"

He’s alerted the Family to the news and is assembling the staff in the great hall as we speak. There’s not much we can count on in this world, but one thing certain is that Himself will see everything done good and proper. The cook wiped her hands on her apron and turned a kindly eye toward him. Have ye had tea yet, Mr. Porter?

No, Mrs. Culpepper, that I haven’t.

Well, then, sit ye down and I’ll sort ye out.

Porter watched as the round woman sliced bread and set out jams and a pot of clotted cream for him. While he sipped the aromatic blend and thanked her, he was pleasantly mindful that the Mrs. before Mrs. Culpepper’s name was only a formality. There wasn’t now, nor had there ever been, a Mr. Culpepper.

Not that Porter was likely to ratchet up his courage to do anything about it, of course, but still… It was enjoyable to contemplate such things while a man ate a woman’s bread and drank her tea.

***

As the carriage approached, the last rays of sunlight glinted off the upper windows of Somerfield Park. If Richard half closed his eyes, the four-story Georgian manor seemed to twinkle like a jewel on its green, velvet lawn.

There they are, he said, spilling out of Somerfield like bees from an upturned hive.

It was tradition. When one of the family had been gone for an extended period of time, everyone came out to greet them. In deep blue Somerset livery, the servants lined up on the right side of the big double doors.

Richard frowned. There seemed to be less than half the usual number.

Something amiss? Seymour asked.

No. It’s fine. Everything will be all right. If it wasn’t, he’d have to make it so. And pretty quickly too. After all, Antonia and her family would be there tomorrow, and he needed to put his best foot forward.

Only three figures assembled to the left side of the door.

One of my sisters seems to be absent. Probably Petra, Richard said. We never could keep her out of the haymow. She’d hide there from her governess all day, squirreled away with a few apples and a book.

A book? What a waste of a perfectly good haymow, Seymour said dryly. "Perhaps someone should show Lady Petra what a roll in the hay is like sans reading material."

Richard skewered his friend with a glare. I wasn’t joking about those shears.

Two

Secrets are the most delicious morsels, but only when one is gobbling them up. Keeping them down often gives one the most frightful indigestion.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Stand up straight, David, Mr. Hightower said under his breath while the son of the house climbed down from the carriage to greet his mother and sisters.

Two of his sisters, at least, David thought.

David Abbot resisted the urge to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Someone was going to catch it because Lady Petra had gone missing again. He was bound and determined it wasn’t going to be him this time.

Like the military man he’d once been, Mr. Hightower ordered in a rough whisper, Eyes straight ahead.

David straightened his spine and tried to watch from the corner of his eye as Lord Hartley leaned to kiss his mother’s cheek. Her chin quivered, but she didn’t dissolve into tears of joy over the return of her firstborn.

The Barretts weren’t that sort of family. There was no excess, no superfluous displays of affection.

Lord Hartley’s sisters were only a little more demonstrative. Lady Ella, the eldest and acknowledged blond beauty of the bunch, returned her brother’s kiss on the cheek. The youngest, Lady Ariel, gave him a grin and a quick hug. But on the whole, the Barretts were like a flock of swans on the trout pond, long necks dipping in unison, moving in unhurried concert.

Nothing disturbed the tranquility and dignity of the Somerset name.

It was so different from David’s distant memories of his own mother and her wild swings between tender overindulgence and foxed neglect. He gave himself a brisk shake and tucked the past back into the deepest corner of his mind. In many ways, his real life had begun when he came to Somerfield at the age of six to serve as his lordship’s bootblack boy. Now some twenty-odd years later, David had worked his way up through the below stairs ranks to become a footman.

Not bad for a boy of no background from Brighton.

It’s so good to have you home, Hart, Lady Somerset was saying. At last.

The big double doors carved with the marquessate’s coat of arms opened behind them. David heard the squeak of a wheelchair, but on pain of another censure from Mr. Hightower, he didn’t turn to look. Instead, a tingle of apprehension danced down his spine.

Mr. Witherspoon, Lord Hartley said. I expected to see the doctor wheeling my father around, not his man of business.

We have much to discuss, my lord, Mr. Witherspoon said. And unfortunately, it cannot wait.

David’s belly tightened at that. Every day for the last month, he’d all but tiptoed around the great house. At any moment, he expected his lordship to recover well enough to tell someone what really happened the day he fell off the roof.

With a sick taste in his mouth, David wondered would happen to a boy from Brighton then.

***

But what was Father doing on the roof in the first place? Richard had been steered into the parlor by his mother and Mr. Witherspoon so they could talk without the household looking on. His father was there as well, but the marquess hadn’t contributed a thing to the conversation. Richard poured a jigger of Scotch for himself and offered one to Mr. Witherspoon. The man of business declined with a shake of his head.

So, this is definitely not a social call.

Oh, you know how your father is, Lady Somerset said. He loves to look at the sea from the parapet.

But the leaves are out now. The ocean is only visible from Somerfield Park during winter, when the trees are bare.

Lord Somerset smiled vacantly at him. Then he gazed down at his hands in his lap, examining the signet ring on his forefinger as if he’d never seen it before.

Richard’s chest constricted and he was forced to look away. What does Dr. Partridge say?

He’s frankly baffled, Lady Somerset said. The doctor believes that your father’s faculties may return. He may even walk again someday, but we have no way of knowing when. Dr. Partridge says we’re to count ourselves fortunate your father survived the fall. He’s at a loss to explain how he lived through it.

Oh, I can tell you that. He was saved by good gardening.

Richard turned at the sound of his beloved grandmother’s voice. Phillippa, the dowager marchioness, appeared at the doorway dressed in a rich gown at least twenty years out of date, with a rope of gray pearls at her wattled throat. She advanced into the parlor, her back ramrod straight, leaning only slightly on her ivory-headed cane. To the rest of