Glory And The Rake

Chapter Two

The Dowager Duchess of Westfield paused before the bedroom door and knocked gently. Although she thought she heard movement, there was no answer. In other circumstances, she might have left quietly, in order not to disturb the occupant, should he be sleeping. But Letitia only knocked louder.

‘Come in.’ Randolph’s voice was frail and breathless when he finally answered, and Letitia slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The curtains were drawn, and she peered into the dimness of the room, finally spying the man lying prone among the covers of the elaborately carved four-poster.

As she approached, he turned his head slightly and groaned, as if in pain. Then he opened his eyes and focused upon her.

‘Oh, it’s only you,’ he said before abruptly sitting up. ‘I hope you’ve brought me something to eat. The broth they’re giving me isn’t enough to keep a sparrow alive.’

‘I’ll tell the cook we need to build up your strength,’ Letitia said.

Randolph sighed. ‘Well, please do. And I am ready to be rid of this room, as well.’

‘Not yet,’ Letitia warned. ‘Oberon is not slow-witted. He’s already giving me the eye. If he finds you’ve recovered, he might leave, which would bring us to nothing.’

Randolph protested, ‘I would think my health would be worth something.’

‘Of course it is, but the only reason I brought Oberon is because of the girl, and I won’t have him slip away without throwing them together.’

While Letitia was pleased to see Randolph’s illness had passed quickly, she was not about to relinquish this opportunity. When he’d written to her that the waters of Queen’s Well might be available once more and that the new owners included an interesting young woman, she had seized upon the prospect like a drowning man, investing all of her hopes and dreams in someone she had yet to meet.

‘I’m sorry I ever wrote to you about her,’ Randolph said, reaching under his pillow for a deck of cards.

‘No, you aren’t,’ Letitia said, pulling over a small table, which he used to deal out hands. ‘Because you know as well as I do that it’s high time Oberon settled down.’

Randolph nodded. ‘I agree, but I would have preferred simply to throw a lavish entertainment and invite both your son and the promising prospect.’

Letitia shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have come. I could barely get him here by claiming you were at death’s door. You don’t know how stubborn he is. He’s just like his father.’

When Randolph lifted both brows in a sceptical glance, Letitia sighed. ‘All right, he might have inherited a bit of obstinacy from me,’ she admitted. ‘But if he thinks anyone’s trying to put forth an eligible female, he turns his back upon her. Literally.’

‘Well, did he run into her last evening?’ Randolph asked, taking up his cards.

Letitia frowned, as she took her cards. ‘I don’t think so. He didn’t say, but then he’s not the most forthcoming even at the best of times.’

‘Cool. Quiet. Strong,’ Randolph said. ‘Far too handsome, and with a bit of stand-offishness that is like catnip to the females. I would think he’d have no trouble finding a duchess.’

Letitia made a sound of derision. ‘Oh, he’s had mistresses. Don’t think I’m not aware of them! But he won’t have anything to do with marriage-minded misses or their mamas. Too arrogant, by half, I’m sure.’

‘Just like his father,’ they both said at once, and Letitia smiled fondly.

‘That’s why I wrote to you and asked you to keep an eye out for someone here, where I met my husband,’ she said, though at the time she’d had little hope that Queen’s Well would ever resume operation.

‘I cannot assure you that they will get on,’ Randolph warned.

But Letitia refused to be discouraged. ‘Well, I can assure you that a typical débutante would be no match for him. Why, he’d chew them up and spit them out before they knew what he was about. He needs someone attractive enough to hold his attention, but strong enough to stand up to him, an independent young lady with a mind of her own.’

‘Like the one his father married,’ Randolph said.

Letitia smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged before growing sombre. She hated to interfere, for she was not a meddling mother, but she had given her eldest son plenty of time, and he was no closer to marriage now than when first weaned. She shook her head. ‘The Makepeaces are not easy matches …’

She had not even finished before Randolph nodded and spoke what was on her mind. ‘Which is why we need the waters.’

Stepping outside, Oberon viewed the cloudless sky and surrounding peaks with a jaundiced eye. Although not one to admire the picturesque, he was reminded of just how long it had been since he’d stayed at Westfield, the family seat. He knew a sudden yearning for those rolling hills, followed by other yearnings for all that went with a home, and paused in surprise.

He had put such desires behind him long ago, so why they should strike him here and now, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was all his mother’s talk of meeting his father at Queen’s Well. They’d had a devoted marriage, but at what cost? Oberon had seen his mother’s devastation at her loss, and he remembered his own pain at the death of his father. It had left him vulnerable to those who did not have his best interests at heart, and he’d vowed never again to be that … weak.

And he had never been tempted to break that vow. Most of the women who pursued him were cold and calculating, seeking the title of duchess as a business transaction. The younger ones and those less determined were usually vapid, pretty vessels that held nothing of worth. That was the sum of feminine society, at least in the circles in which he moved, an endless round of balls and routs and salons peopled by many of the same faces, the same deceits, the same falsehoods, year after year.

Oberon shook his head at his bleak thoughts. What the devil was ailing him? He had slept like a stone and eaten an enormous breakfast, unusual behaviour that his mother claimed was brought on by ‘the air’. And now he was sunk in introspection of the kind for which he had neither the time nor the inclination.

Oberon flexed his gloved fingers, an old habit, caught himself and then headed into Philtwell. Since his mother had shooed him away from the sickroom again, he was off to take a closer look at the village. Assuming the air of a common visitor, Oberon kept his eyes and ears open as he strolled the main street, but he did not see anything out of the ordinary. The people seemed to be locals; there were no obvious foreigners or strangers.

That came as no surprise, for Philtwell appeared never to have recovered from the fire his mother had mentioned. Several blackened buildings lingered, as eyesores and possible dangers to passers-by, while the weeds and brambles that grew around them threatened to overtake the neighbouring shops.

In fact, the only place that appeared well tended was the Pump Room. From his position across the road, Oberon got a good look at the front of the building for the first time. In the bright light of day, he could see that the older structure sported a fresh coat of paint over its simple, columned façade. And a man was tending to the grounds, preparing to put in some new plantings.

It seemed that someone was going to re-open the well, or at least they were making a show of the prospect. Oberon turned, intending to cross the road to casually question the worker, when a door burst open nearby. Immediately alert, he stepped out of the way, but the man who exited swung towards him.

‘Good sir, you must be new to our fine community!’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘As the pre-eminent physician in residence, Dr Tibold by name, I am pleased to offer my services to help you achieve complete health, no matter what your ailments.’

‘Do I look like I’m ailing?’ Oberon asked, with a lift of his brow. Had the fellow been watching from his rooms for potential patients? That possibility, along with his rather shabby attire, did not inspire confidence in his self-proclaimed abilities.

‘Certainly not! You are the picture of health, sir.

But even those who appear robust can be suffering from some sort of inner disorder, and that is why a course of treatment is beneficial to all, even a fine specimen such as yourself.’

Tibold paused to peer at Oberon, as though assessing the worth of his clothes and the size of his purse, in order to charge accordingly. ‘Have you been bled lately?’

Oberon did not deign to comment.

‘But, of course, that’s not always called for,’ the physician said, nodding and smiling as he changed tactics. ‘The waters, that is what we are famous for, and that is what you need.’

Again, Oberon lifted a brow. ‘I thought the well was closed.’

The physician’s face twisted, as though ill pleased by the reminder. ‘Sadly, at the moment, yes, but soon we shall ply you with our famous remedy. Of course, the waters should be available at all times, for all persons, and not at the whims of a single family.’ He paused to draw a deep breath before continuing in a louder voice, ‘Title to such things ought to be illegal. How can a person own water? It’s like taxing the very air.’

‘If you feel so strongly, perhaps you should put down a new well and open your own facilities,’ Oberon said.

But his suggestion was met with another scowl. ‘All the prime property is owned by Miss Sutton,’ he said, practically spitting out the name. ‘And her tight grip is felt by all who would do good for the community.’

‘Miss Sutton?’ Oberon asked.

‘Yes, a female, if you can countenance it!’ Tibold said. ‘Though one would hardly believe it, the way she behaves, without even the manners of a gentleman, though she mimics a man. An ape leader, to be sure.’

Oberon soon regretted his query, for Tibold proceeded to blame the woman for everything from the depressed economy to untreated boils. The physician was practically frothing at the mouth, such was his enmity, and Oberon realised he would get little solid information from the fellow. He was considering how to extricate himself when Tibold abruptly ceased his tirade and lifted a hand to point in accusation.

‘There she is, right there!’

Frowning at the doctor’s manner, Oberon none the less looked in the direction of his outstretched arm. From Tibold’s ranting, Oberon expected to see a harridan, a crone fully capable of beating the doctor about the shoulders with her cane. But the female he saw was a plump, but decidedly dainty woman of middle age, holding a parasol, who eyed them with a vague expression of alarm.

It took Oberon a moment to realise the object of his companion’s derision was not that timid-looking creature but another, a trim figure crossing the road with her back towards him. Although the length of her stride marked her as no mincing débutante, the infamous Miss Sutton did not resemble a man, at least from the rear. She wore a simple sprigged muslin gown that delineated a slender female form when caught by the breeze.

In fact, Oberon was contemplating the familiarity of those slim curves when his companion surged forwards, calling out the woman’s name. Concerned for her safety, Oberon followed, ready to step in, if need be. But when she turned with a determined expression that Oberon recognised, he stepped back instead, neatly avoiding the heavy reticule that she sent swinging through the air at her pursuers. Dr Tibold, taken unawares, was struck full force in the stomach by the missile which, more than likely, contained a weight, for the physician doubled over, the wind knocked from him.

Either she didn’t believe in using a more lethal weapon in public, or she hadn’t the time to obtain another pistol to replace the one that was tucked away in Oberon’s bureau. ‘Miss Sutton, I presume?’ he asked with a slight bow.

‘Your Grace.’ The distaste she made no attempt to hide surprised Oberon, accustomed as he was to being pursued for his company, his invitations or his influence. Even more surprising was his own, very different and well concealed, response.

At his first glimpse of her, Oberon felt a slam to the chest, just as though he had been on the receiving end of her reticule, his senses heightened and alert. The force of his reaction was baffling, especially since she had not stepped out of the shadows to threaten him with a gun. But perhaps the threat she posed was more subtle and her dislike stemmed from something more sinister.

For she would hardly draw his interest otherwise.

She was pretty enough; her face was a perfect oval, but her dark hair was unremarkable and her colouring was not pale enough to be fashionable. Still, it suited her, as did the green eyes that sparked with intelligence and strength of will, which had already been in evidence.

‘I’ll have you on charges of assault!’ Tibold said, having finally recovered his breath.

‘It was an act of self-defence, for you and your assassin have attacked me once and would do so again,’ the young woman argued, lifting her chin.

Her fearless behaviour sent a jolt of awareness through Oberon. Although bold, she didn’t appear to be brazen, and, contrary to Tibold’s claims, no man in his right mind would confuse her gender. Oberon considered himself an astute judge of people; he had to be. But Miss Sutton was an intriguing piece of work. Who the devil was she?

‘Ridiculous!’ Tibold said. ‘It is you who attacked me, as my witness can verify.’

Oberon had no intention of corroborating the mad doctor’s claim and would have said so, but for the arrival of the small woman with the parasol. ‘Glory, dear, whatever are you doing?’ she asked, obviously uneasy.

Miss Sutton paid her no heed. ‘Witness?’ she said, scoffing. ‘We both know that the duke is allied with you, and, indeed, is doing your dirty work!’ she said, pointing a finger at Oberon.

‘D-duke?’ the dainty female echoed.

‘Duke?’ Tibold repeated.

‘Westfield,’ Miss Sutton said, with apparent exasperation.

Oberon could well imagine the disdainful glare she was sending his way, but he was occupied with the older woman, who had paled at the mention of his title and now swayed upon her feet. Since no one else was paying any attention to her, Oberon felt obliged to catch her as she fainted dead away.

When Tibold turned to gape at Westfield, Glory did, too, only to see that he was cradling her aunt in his arms. Horrified, she wanted to demand that he unhand her relative, but she feared he would drop Phillida to the ground. Frantically, Glory began searching past the rocks in her reticule for the hartshorn with which to revive her.

Where was Thad? Glory glanced around for her brother, but he had stopped at one of the burned buildings to urge the workers on. Though she held out little hope for his success, Glory was pleased that he was finally offering to help. Now, however, she wished they had not separated. Trying to take care of a business had made her careless, and she had walked the short distance alone. But who would have thought she’d be accosted upon the village’s main thoroughfare, travelling from one property to another?

‘Phillida?’ Glory spoke her aunt’s name sharply, though she doubted she could be heard above Tibold, who was rambling on, as usual. With her aunt prone and Thad nowhere in sight, Glory was at the mercy of the two men and she did not like turning her back on the physician, whose threatening manner had alarmed her more than once.

She felt cornered, and her hand shook as she waved the restorative under her aunt’s nose. She refused to look up at the man who held Phillida, for one glance at Westfield already had robbed her of her breath. Last evening, he had been striking, but now she had clearly seen his tall form, wide shoulders and the body she once had been pressed against.

And that face. It was not beautiful in a feminine sense, for it held no softness, but Westfield might have been sculpted by one of the great artists. Indeed, he could have been carved from stone, for his expression revealed nothing. For some reason—fear, perhaps—the more Glory thought about him, the more her heart pounded.

Thankfully, Phillida snorted and blinked, and Glory eased her aunt upright while avoiding any contact with the duke. Phillida moaned in a dramatic fashion, as though eager to remain right where she was, and who could blame her? If Glory had not known the nobleman’s true nature, she might have been thrilled to wake up to that handsome visage, cradled in arms that she knew were hard and strong.

Suppressing a shiver, Glory forced Phillida to her feet. ‘Come, Aunt, we must be going.’

‘Oh!’ Phillida took one look at the duke and threatened to swoon again, but Glory was having none of it. Grabbing her aunt’s arm, she pulled Phillida away from his grip. The duke said something, but it was drowned out by Tibold’s speech, so they were able to make their escape. No doubt the men would have tried to detain them, if they were not in full view of passers-by.

As she dragged her aunt towards the Pump Room, Glory resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the nobleman. Ignoring Phillida’s horrified mutterings at their undignified progress, Glory did not stop even when the building’s doors closed behind them, but continued on until they reached the privacy of one of the rear rooms.

There, Glory was able to deposit Phillida on a chaise, where she could swoon at her leisure. However, as Glory suspected, the lack of an audience speeded her recovery and she was able to fan herself as she lay prone.

‘Mercy, Glory!’ she said in a breathless whisper. ‘I simply cannot countenance such outlandish behaviour! Whatever has come over you? It’s this place, this wretched village. Oh, to be back in London. Please say that you have come to your senses and we can return to our town house.’

Since Glory heard this litany on a regular basis, she was unmoved. ‘There is no reason for you to become agitated, dear,’ she said, soothingly. ‘Let me get you a glass of the waters.’

‘No reason? Why, I have only to see my own niece in a public shouting match, in the middle of the street, mind you! And with a duke, no less!’ Phillida fell back among the pillows with a shudder.

‘I wasn’t doing the shouting,’ Glory said. ‘It was that awful physician.’ She paused to wonder how the shabby fellow had managed to align himself with a nobleman, but even a creature like Tibold could have connections, she supposed. She only wished they would spirit him away from Philtwell instead of trying to ruin her business.

Her business. Glory felt strengthened by the thought as she hurried to fetch her aunt a glass. Of course, Phillida did not approve, though Glory had assured her that even noblemen had run such resorts. Noblemen, not women, Phillida had argued, and therein lay the rub. If Glory were a man, Phillida probably would let her do what she liked.

But it was precisely because she was a woman, with few opportunities open to her, that Glory had taken an interest in the forgotten spa. Soon she would be aged twenty and firmly on the shelf in the eyes of society. Since she’d spent most of her life taking care of her younger brother after the death of their parents, Glory could not regret her unmarried status.

However, she did not care to spend the rest of her days in social calls or charity work. And she had no intention of settling quietly into a corner, tatting and sewing bonnets for her brother’s future children. Although she would love to spoil babies, Glory thought with a pang, she didn’t want to end up as some batty old spinster her nieces and nephews were forced to visit.

She wanted to do something with her life. But Glory could hardly use such terms to Phillida, who was an ageing spinster herself, though not quite batty. Yet. Instead, Glory had spoken of the family heritage, which was more acceptable and just as true. Queen’s Well had been owned by the Suttons for generations. After the fateful fire, Glory’s father, then a young man, had left Philtwell to seek his fortunes, never to return. It was only after his death that Glory discovered the legacy, rich in history, that he had left behind.

Gradually, she had found out more about Queen’s Well, becoming further intrigued. She couldn’t remember when the idea of reviving the spa first came to her, but it had remained at the back of her mind, a tempting possibility for the future—until Thad’s wayward behaviour had forced her to action.

Although neither he nor Phillida had wanted to make the move, Glory had insisted. She had hoped the fresh air and simple pleasures of a village would change their minds, but Phillida complained of the lack of society and Thad remained sullen and uncooperative, evincing no interest in her venture.

Oddly enough, it was their encounter with Westfield that seemed to have wrought a change in him. Perhaps the presence of such an exalted personage had improved Thad’s opinion of Philtwell, Glory mused. She didn’t like to consider the other possibility: that Thad was simply drawn to a dangerous sort who would do him no favours.