Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

DEB MARLOWE grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’s read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

Though she spends much of her time now with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and car-pool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com

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Regency

Rebels

Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss

An Improper Aristocrat

Deb Marlowe

Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss

Deb Marlowe

To my husband—supporter of dreams and builder of sheds extraordinaire

And to Susan—for cracking her whip and wielding her red whip with flair

Chapter One

Charles Alden, Viscount Dayle, sank into his favourite over-stuffed chair in the morning room at White’s. It was early; the porters had not yet let down the awnings and bright light flooded through the floor-to-ceiling window. At his elbow sat a pot of coffee, a plate of muffins, and a pile of papers. He snapped open The Times, sank his teeth into his first, hot, buttery bite and let out a heartfelt sigh.

He revelled in the peace of the morning all the way through the first paper. Unfortunately, peace was a commodity hard to come by anywhere in England in the spring of 1817, even for a viscount. Charles first noticed something amiss as he set aside The Times and reached for the Edinburgh Review.

A space had cleared all about him. The morning room, usually full of gentlemen either beginning one day or ending another, was empty but for a few souls gathered in whispering knots along the walls. One man caught his gaze, blasted him with a look of utter scorn, and stalked out, calling for his hat. A wrench of foreboding seizing his gut, Charles looked up into the sympathetic eye of one of the porters, come to refresh his coffee.

‘Well, Bartlett,’ he said quietly, ‘I can see you are not half so ignorant as I. Tell me.’

Bartlett cleared his throat. ‘I have taken the liberty of adding a copy of today’s Oracle to the stack of your usual papers, my lord. Perhaps you would care to peruse the editorial section?’

‘The Oracle?’ It was little more than a scandal sheet. ‘Thank you, Bartlett.’

Charles picked up the paper with trepidation and turned a few pages until he found the item he sought, directly under a scathing response to Lord Sidmouth’s call against ‘seditious publications’.

Tory Darling or Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing?

They do say that a Reformed Rake makes the Best Husband—but what kind of Politician does he make?

Just such a man is Lord D—, a Rakehell of the First Order, now converted into a Responsible English Peer. Or is he? Based on certain, recent Rumours, We wonder if he has changed pastures only in search of fresh prey.

Lord D—has been seen often lately with the notorious Lady A—on his arm. Perhaps this is not so surprising when one considers his past taste for women of immodest character and her known taste for the rising young members of her husband’s political party. What is surprising is that a man previously known for living on wit and instinct could have fumbled this situation so badly. No other explanation presents itself for yesterday’s dramatic events, when Lord A—returned home unexpectedly only to find a dark-haired gentleman departing the house by route of Lady A—’s bedchamber window.

The lady has reportedly been duly chastised and banished to the country. But as for the gentleman?

It cannot be denied that Lord D—is a man of many talents. Indeed, it is rumoured he is to be groomed for High Office. We at the Oracle cannot help but wonder if the Tories should reconsider the notion. Surely a candidate exists who can demonstrate a higher standard of character. For if the Tories cannot trust Lord D—with their women, then why should they trust him with the Nation?

For a long minute Charles sat rigid with anger. Bloody, damnable hell. Months of hard work. Weeks of toadying. Countless gruelling hours spent constructing a careful façade. All destroyed in a moment with the vicious swipe of an acid pen.

Normal, everyday sounds drifted in from the adjoining rooms: the rustle of freshly ironed papers, the soft clink of china, the low murmur of men whose lives had not just been turned inside out. Charles sat frozen, trying to wrap his mind about the disaster that had befallen him with the turn of a page.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when grizzled Lord Rackham paused behind his chair and thumped him soundly on the shoulder.

‘Just so, my boy!’ the old relic bellowed. ‘Brazen it out. Don’t let them see you with your head down, that’s the wisest course! Tomorrow some bloke will get caught hammering his rocks in someone else’s quarry and they’ll all be talking about that. It will blow over soon enough.’ After another encouraging cuff he stalked off to rejoin his friends, the whole pack of them muttering darkly as they crossed into the coffee room.

With quiet, deliberate movements Charles finished his coffee. Old Lord Rackham had the right of it; he would not let anyone think he was ashamed. Once he had finished he stood, tucked the copy of the Oracle under his arm, and with a flash of a gold coin in Bartlett’s direction, Charles walked out of White’s.

He stood a moment on St James’s Street, dazzled by the bright sun and annoyed at the bustle of traffic. Then he let loose a great laugh. Who in the world did he think he was—the heroine in a gothic novel? Should lightning crack the sky and mere mortals scurry for cover because Viscount Dayle’s political career lay in ruins?

As if in answer, a brisk breeze riffled his hair, and Charles set off towards Mayfair. Who did he think he was? That was the question of the hour—no, of the entire past year—was it not?

There was only one answer. He was Viscount Dayle, a carefully constructed facsimile of the man who should hold the title. And Viscount Dayle was nothing without his political career.

His mind darted from one scenario to the next as he approached Piccadilly, scrambling to come up with some way to salvage the situation. Lost in his own whirlwind of thoughts, he failed to notice both the rising wind and the increasingly strident sound of his own name. It wasn’t until someone grasped his arm that he came awake to his surroundings.

‘Dayle, did you not hear us calling you, man?’ It was Henley and Matthews, two of the more degenerate hangers-on of his old crowd. They were still in their evening clothes and looking the worse for wear. Charles winced. These two would tear him apart after reading that piece.

‘Sorry, chaps. Lost in the fog of my own thoughts this morning,’ he said, striving for a light-hearted tone.

‘A bit dense in there, eh?’ laughed Matthews. ‘I trust it’s not as thick as the fog at Hyde Park this morning.’ He leaned in and spoke confidingly. ‘Blackmoor met Ventry at dawn. Ventry was shaking so hard his gun went off before he’d got his hand half-raised. Hit the ground not ten feet in front of him, the poor sod.’

Charles felt like shaking himself, in relief. Obviously they didn’t yet know. ‘Blackmoor didn’t kill him, did he?’ he asked with nonchalance.

‘I should say not,’ Henley drawled. ‘Pinked him in the arm, which is far less than the upstart deserved, should you ask me.’ He shot Charles a conspirator’s grin. ‘It’s good to see you, Dayle. It’s been an age since you’ve been out and about with us. Leave the debates to them what can’t get a rise out of St Peter, if you catch my meaning, and come on with us. You’re too young to bury yourself in the House.’

Matthews chimed in. ‘We’re off to breakfast, old man, before heading home,’ he said. ‘Been to the new bawdy house on Bentinck Street? Opens in the morning and lays out a breakfast buffet. Mrs Pritchett guarantees a bellyful and an armful to send you sweetly to your dreams. Care to join us?’

The desire to yield and go along with them was almost visceral. How easy it would be to forget, to lose the pain of the last year and the humiliation of the morning in the burn of good liquor and the hot sweet flesh of a woman. He could just let it all go. End the charade.

He shook his head to rid himself of the notion. No. Charles Alden was dead. Slain by the same wild round that had stolen his brother, buried by the despair that had seduced his father. There was no going back.

He went forward instead, resolutely and one footfall at a time. Good-naturedly refusing the offer, he saw Matthews and Henley into a passing hack before crossing over Piccadilly. By the time he passed Devonshire House and headed into Berkeley Square, temptation had been safely locked away. Viscount Dayle was once again in full possession of all his faculties and putting together a plan of action.

The wind had become quite forceful by the time Charles reached his Bruton Street townhouse, and the sunlight dimmed by fast-moving clouds. Perhaps fate had indeed meant to give him the backdrop for his drama, and had only missed her cue.

‘My lord,’ his butler gasped as the door swung in. ‘Forgive me, we were not expecting you back …’

‘No need for apologies, Fisher.’ Charles headed for the library. ‘But could you please send round a man to fetch my brother? Drag him from his books, if need be, but tell him I need him now. And send some coffee in, too.’

‘Wait, my lord!’ the butler called as Charles stalked away. ‘You have a visitor awaiting you.’

‘At this hour?’

The butler had no chance to reply before the library door slammed open. ‘Dayle!’ The shout rang in the cold marbled entry. ‘This time you will pay for your perfidy. Name your seconds!’

‘Lord Avery, how kind of you to call,’ Charles said, running a hand across his brow. ‘Better make that something stronger, Fisher. Brandy will do. ‘Now, my lord,’ Charles spoke soothingly as he ushered the man back in the room and away from the staring eyes of the servants, ‘we are a bit precipitous with this talk of seconds. But I would be happy to discuss the upcoming Poor Relief Bill, even at this early hour.’

‘There’s no distracting me, you philandering dog! I know what you’ve done with my wife, all of London knows!’ The older man was nearly grey with fatigue and emotion. Charles guided him to a chair. The last thing he needed was for the fool to collapse in his study.

‘You know no such thing. It’s nonsense. I dined at the Clarendon, and stayed there talking most of the night. You will easily find a roomful of gentlemen to corroborate the fact. We can send for one or more of them right now.’

‘I know what I saw, you young rakehell.’

‘I don’t know what you saw, my lord, but I know it was not me.’ Charles’s tone grew more firm.

‘Do you think me a fool? I’ve seen you together with my own eyes! And all of London knows of your rackety ways.’

‘I’ve never had more than a casual public conversation with your wife, sir. I own that she is charming, and exceedingly handsome, but whatever trouble lies between you has nothing to do with me.’

Charles saw the first sign of uncertainty in the man’s face. He felt for him, but he could not let this go any further. He hardened his expression and said with finality, ‘If you choose not to believe me, then I will indeed give thought to finding a second.’

Jack arrived just then, excited and fully ready to defend his brother’s honour, but the fight had gone out of Lord Avery. He hung his head in his hands while Charles greeted his brother and while the brandy was brought in. He accepted a drink, threw it back, and held out his glass for another. Then he stood.

‘I will accept your explanation for now, Dayle, but I shall check out your claim, and if I find it’s a lie, I’ll be back. Why would your name be mixed up in this if you weren’t involved? Makes no sense.’

‘You echo my own thought exactly,’ said Charles.

Lord Avery bristled. ‘This is no laughing matter! My honour, and my wife’s, has been destroyed.’ He looked thoughtfully at Charles. ‘I know that there are those in the Party who believe in your transformation. The rake reformed.’ He snorted. ‘I know your history, and today’s work smacks of it. Blatant. Insulting. Just like your soft-hearted politics. It’s bad enough to side with the unwashed masses against your own kind in the Lords, but this! Unforgivable is what I call it, and so will many a Tory, after I am through with you.’ He marched to the door and paused on the threshold. ‘If your whereabouts last night are uncertain, then tomorrow morning’s will be assured.’

The echo of the slamming door was much quieter on this side. Charles looked away and began to pace, from the sidebar to the crackling fire, then away to the full wall of books. He couldn’t bear to look upon his father’s portrait above the mantel.

‘I’m sorry, Charles.’ Jack’s tone was quiet, careful. ‘God knows I don’t understand it, but I do know how important your political interests have become to you.’

Charles nodded again and drank. He crossed to the window and watched as the rain began to come down in sheets.

‘Throw me a bone, would you? I’m trying to play the supportive brother here.’ Jack rose and came to stand behind him.

‘He’ll check your story and find that it’s true. After that it’s only a piece in a scandal rag. Is it really so bad?’

Charles stared at his brother’s reflection in the window. ‘It’s bad, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The Board of Trade is looking for someone to head an investigative committee on distressed farming areas. My name has been mentioned. It could set me on a path to much higher places.’ He scrubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve worked hard, and come so far. Take a good look around, little brother, this country is in an horrendous mess. I have finally got myself into a position where I can do something about it … I could help.’

He slammed his fist into his hand. ‘And now someone wants to use my past against me? No one will consider me seriously. I’ll be just another ton wastrel who cannot keep his bodkin buttoned up. This could ruin me. My political career could be over before it has truly begun.’

‘Would that be such a terrible thing?’ His brother’s hand was suddenly heavy on Charles’s shoulder. ‘Phillip is dead. You are not. Perhaps it is time to let all of this go. You could get back to your own pursuits, spend some time at Fordham with Mother.’

‘No,’ Charles barked. ‘I could not.’ He stared down into his drink, but there were no answers there. And no solace either, as he had good reason to know. How could he explain his desperation to his little brother? There were some things that Jack could never understand. ‘I need this, Jack. I can’t explain it, but I need to do this, and I need you to help me out of this mess.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then Jack took his hand away and went to pour himself a drink. ‘Is the situation salvageable? What do you mean to do?’

‘I suppose I must demonstrate a higher standard of character,’ Charles said with a wry twist of a grin.

‘Higher than what?’ Jack laughed suddenly and the tension in the room became a little more bearable. ‘That wasn’t really you climbing out of the old jade’s window?’

‘Good Lord, no! I’m willing to sacrifice a good deal in the name of politics, but that’s taking the matter too far. In any case, I believe she only flirts with us young bucks to stir her husband up, to get his attention off the quarter of a million military men set adrift with no pensions and back on her. But she’s evidently gone too far this time.’

Charles scrubbed a hand across his brow while he thought. ‘Still, I have to admit this was a master stroke. Whoever is behind this is clever. They’ve negated months of work, and done it by painting me with my own brush. All with no hint of his own identity or agenda.’

‘Someone doesn’t like the influence you’ve begun to gain. How do we track the whoreson down?’

‘First I’m going to find the baseborn idiot who wrote that piece for the Oracle. Whether he wants to or not, he’s going to tell me who his sources are. But it’s not going to be enough to find out which coward is behind this. The damage is done.’ He moved back to the window and gazed out at the gathering intensity of the storm. ‘I’m going to have to give them all something better to talk about.’

Jack nearly choked on his drink. ‘Better than sex and scandal? There isn’t anything the ton loves better.’

‘Oh, yes, there is, little brother.’

‘What?’ Jack demanded as an enormous branch of lightning split the sky.

Into the brief moment of calm, Charles spoke. ‘Marriage.’

His brother’s jaw dropped. Thunder broke open in the heavens. The house shuddered.

‘Marriage? To whom?’ Jack managed to ask.

‘To the most priggish lady you can drag up from the muck of the ton, I should imagine.’ Charles shrugged. ‘It seems clear that the only way I will ever live down the excesses of my past is to secure the dullness of my future. I don’t know, draw up a list. Only the primmest and most proper to be considered. I’ll marry the one at the top.’

Thunder throbbed through the house once more. The windows shook in their frames. Behind them their father’s portrait rattled off its moorings, crashed into the mantel, and flipped face down in front of the fire.

Chapter Two

Her step light, her portfolio swinging and her maid scurrying to keep up, Sophie Westby strode through Cheapside. A gusting wind swept past in brisk imitation of the traffic in the streets, whipping her skirts and challenging the knot holding her bonnet. Sophie raised her chin, breathed deep of the pungent air and grinned in delight. London might be dirty, occasionally rank, and surprisingly lacking in colour, but it was also a huge, bubbling cauldron of life.

After years of quiet country living and near isolation, Sophie’s own life was suddenly beginning to simmer. Furniture design had long been her passion, and in an effort to ease her dearest friend Emily Lowder’s unusually long and difficult confinement, she had indulged them both with an extensive nursery project. It had been a smashing success. They’d had such fun and Emily had been so enchanted with the result, she had quickly swept Sophie up into a redesign of her dark and cluttered drawing rooms. The new suite had been unveiled at little Edward Lowder’s birthday celebration and, to Sophie’s chagrin, the room had nearly eclipsed the cherubic infant.

The grandest lady of the neighborhood, Viscountess Dayle, had been most impressed. Lady Dayle had run an assessing eye over both the new room and its designer, and in a bewilderingly sudden turn of events, she had them all established in town for the Season and for a large, mysterious design project.

Almost before Sophie could catch her breath, she found herself out of Blackford Chase, ensconced in the Lowders’ London home, and finally encouraged to pursue her design work. The result was one ecstatic young lady.

A young lady who perhaps should not have left her coach behind, stuck in the snarl of vehicles blocked by an overturned coal cart. Against her maid’s protests Sophie had climbed down, left instructions with the driver and set off on foot. And she could not bring herself to regret the decision. Walking was so much more intimate. She felt a part of the city rather than a bystander.

‘Paper! The Augur!’ The newsboy hefting his heavy sack of papers looked perhaps ten years old. He had inked-smeared hands, a scrupulously clean face, and eyes that made Sophie’s fingers positively itch for a pencil. An old soul smiled hopefully out of that young face.

‘Paper, miss? Only sixpence and full of society’s latest doin’s.’ He spotted a pair of well-dressed young ladies emerging from a shop across the street and waved his paper high to get their attention. ‘Paper! The Augur! More exciting tales of the Wicked Lord Dayle!’

He could not have used a more enticing lure. Sophie promptly bought a copy, then turned to Nell, the maid assigned to her from the Lowders’ town staff. ‘Will you tuck this away in your bag, Nell, just until we get home?’

The maid looked startled. Sophie smiled at her. ‘I promise to share as soon as I’ve finished.’

Gossip was like gold below stairs, and Sophie knew she had an ally when Nell, her face alight with mischief, took the paper and shoved it under the mending in her bag. The newsboy flashed them both a gap-toothed smile, then a cheeky wink. Nell giggled, but Sophie caught herself unthinkingly reaching for her sketchbook.

No. Not this time. She took a tighter grip on her portfolio and firmly set herself back to the task at hand: reaching the shop of a particularly well-recommended linen draper.

It was a scene that she had replayed with herself countless times in the past week. With so much history, so much energy and so many human dramas unfolding about her, the temptation to put it all down on paper was nearly overwhelming. From the towering glory of the churches, to the saucy curve of the newsboy’s cheek, to the flutter of the fine ladies’ dresses, London was full of sights, textures, and subtle images that she longed to capture in her sketchbook.

But she did not intend to succumb to the temptation. Sketching meant taking a step back, imposing a distance, becoming an observer, and Sophie Westby was done with being an observer.

Fate had finally smiled upon her and she meant to make the most of it. That was one reason why today’s errand was so important. Though she as yet had no idea what project Lady Dayle had in mind, Sophie intended to dazzle her. Themes, colour schemes, and any number of preparatory steps could be readied ahead of time and individualised later. When the time came Sophie would be ready with an array of ideas and choices that would quickly highlight the viscountess’s tastes. And when the project was complete, she vowed, Lady Dayle would have reason to be proud.