Читать книгу The Rake's Defiant Mistress - Mary Brendan - Страница 8

Chapter Two

‘Oh! You have not brought him for me to cuddle!’

‘You may cuddle me instead!’ Viscountess Tremayne teasingly replied and proceeded to give Ruth a warm hug. ‘I have missed you,’ she said fiercely.

‘And I have missed you,’ Ruth said simply, tightening her arms about her best friend. ‘I am longing to hear more wonderful news about Surrey. But first tell me—where is that darling baby boy?’

‘He has been snuffling a little bit and I thought it best to leave him in the warm with his nurse as the weather has turned so bitter cold.’ Sarah gave Ruth an expressive look. ‘James is teething and I fret that he might take a chill.’ A soft maternal smile preceded, ‘He is a darling little chap, the image of his papa, and at times I feel I will die for love of him.’

Ruth linked arms with Sarah and led the way to the sitting room. Once her visitor had shed her hat and gloves, they sat in comfortable fireside chairs. Logs were crackling valiantly in the grate, keeping at bay the draughts. Outside was weak spring sunlight, but the March winds were strong enough to infiltrate the casements and stir the curtains.

Ruth poured tea from the prepared tray that sat on a table close to the hearth. Once they had sipped at the warming brew their conversation was resumed with a fluency that mocked the long months and miles that had separated them. To an observer they might have been dear sisters, so affectionate and natural were they as they chatted and warmed their palms on the china cups.

‘How long will you stay at Willowdene Manor?’

‘Until Michaelmas…if I have my way,’ Sarah said with a grin.

Ruth cocked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And I imagine you have a tendency to get your own way.’ She sighed in faux sympathy. ‘Poor Gavin!’

‘Poor Gavin, indeed!’ Sarah mocked, but her expression softened as she named her beloved husband. ‘He likes it very well when I get my own way, I assure you he does,’ she added saucily.

‘Hussy!’ Ruth chided and clucked her tongue.

‘Indeed I am,’ Sarah agreed with an impish look from beneath her lashes. ‘And ever was…as you know…’

An amicable quiet settled on the room for a moment while they dwelled on the events Sarah had alluded to and how, subsequently, her life had improved so wonderfully.

Just a year ago Lady Tremayne had been Sarah Marchant, a kept woman, shunned by the locals as a brazen harlot. Following her lover’s untimely death, she had been living frugally in the rural town of Willowdene when she met and fell in love with Gavin Stone, new master of Willowdene Manor. A few months after their wedding in the chapel at the Manor, Sarah had moved with her husband to his magnificent estate in Surrey to take up her new life as Viscountess Tremayne.

Now Sarah was a fine lady, with an adorable baby son. Once the two women had been united in living quietly, ostracised by the townsfolk. Now a chasm had opened between their positions. Sarah’s status as the wife of a distinguished peer of the realm meant her company was highly sought by everyone, especially the hypocritical. But far from resenting her friend’s astonishing good fortune, Ruth was glad that Sarah had been so blessed.

‘You’re very happy,’ Ruth stated with quiet contentment. ‘I knew you would be. Gavin is a fine gentleman and all that gossip about his roguish ways was piffle.’

‘Not quite…’ Sarah demurred. ‘Besides, roguish ways have their benefits,’ she said archly. ‘Gavin says he now has too many responsibilities to rake around town. He leaves that to his friend, Sir Clayton Powell, who, by all accounts, still does it very well.’

Ruth lowered her teacup and cocked her head to one side. ‘I remember him. He came to Willowdene and stayed for a short while when Gavin was here chasing after you.’

‘He did, indeed.’

‘Would it worry you if soon you saw Sir Clayton again?’ Sarah recalled that Ruth had been rather wary of her husband’s best friend. ‘One of the reasons we are back in Willowdene—apart from to see you, of course—is to make arrangements to have James christened at the Manor’s chapel.’ She placed down her cup to continue. ‘I so wanted to have the ceremony here where we were married and where my best friend is. I can’t deny that the chapel at Tremayne Park is much finer than the one at Willowdene Manor, but it won’t do.’ She paused. ‘And we very much want you to agree to be James’s godmother. Please say you will.’

‘I would be most happy to accept,’ Ruth said huskily. Spontaneous tears glossed her eyes at the great honour and privilege being bestowed upon her.

‘That is good!’ Sarah exclaimed in delight. ‘Clayton is to be godfather. Gavin says he must be asked, for beneath the heart of a scoundrel beats one of pure gold.’ She gestured in emphasis. ‘Gavin says he takes his responsibilities most seriously. His heir—his nephew that is, for there were no children from his own marriage—is being educated at Clayton’s vast expense.’

‘He is married?’ Ruth spluttered, faintly amused. ‘And still he rakes around town as if a bachelor?’

‘Oh, he was married.’ Sarah inclined her head to impart, ‘Apparently it was a long time ago and a very great mésalliance that lasted barely a year. His wife, Priscilla, led him a merry dance, then defected with a foreign count! I do not know all the ins and outs, but I know the marriage was annulled and Clayton was, from Gavin’s report, very bitter over it all at the time.’ A sigh stressed her sadness. ‘Clayton has vowed never again to wed and that is why he is grooming his nephew to take the role his own son ought to have occupied.’

‘Perhaps I need not have worried that he might have dug into my past and found skeletons.’ Ruth raised her dark brows. ‘It seems he has a scandal of his own to keep buried. So to answer your question: I do not mind if I meet him again.’

‘You needn’t worry over him asking impertinent questions. I’ve come to know him a little, and to like him a lot. He is most charming and mannerly.’ After a brief pause Sarah said firmly, ‘You must agree to dine with us both this evening. It is all arranged,’ she insisted as she glimpsed her friend preparing to object from good manners and the fear of playing gooseberry. ‘Gavin is not yet home. He had to break his journey in the City as he had business to attend to. But he is due to arrive by six and in time to dine. We both said how nice it would be for you to join us this evening and celebrate our return to the Manor. And of course you will see baby James.’ That last was added in a cajoling tone that made Ruth smile as she guessed its purpose.

‘In that case, I would be delighted to join you both.’ Ruth accepted with a dip of her dark head.

Sarah grasped Ruth’s hands and gave them an affectionate squeeze. ‘Good,’ she breathed. ‘Now, tell me what I have been missing in Willowdene? I thought I might die laughing when you wrote to me about Rosamund Pratt’s fall from grace! And with an ostler at the Red Lion, too!’ Sarah chuckled as heartily as she had on first learning that the respectable matron who had been particularly mean to them both had been caught rolling in hay with a tavern groom young enough to be her son. ‘I want all the latest tattle, you know!’

Ruth, too, had been savouring the memory of Mrs Pratt’s come-uppance, but now her amusement faded. ‘Well, you have arrived at the right time to be the first to know some gossip. I imagine by the end of the week the rumour mill will be grinding in Willowdene.’

That information was delivered in such an odd tone that Sarah immediately begged to know more.

‘I have recently received a marriage proposal from Dr Bryant. I turned him down.’

Sarah’s eyes grew round and her lips parted in astonishment. She knew that the doctor had propositioned Ruth over a year ago. She knew, too, from a letter she’d received from Ruth, that later that year Ian Bryant’s wife had tragically died in childbed. ‘How did he take it?’ she eventually blurted.

‘Not very well, I’m afraid. He seemed astounded by my answer. I had to ask him more than once to leave. Eventually he did go, wearing a thunderous expression.’

‘He assumed you would accept.’ Sarah sat back in her chair.

‘He assumed I would be very grateful.’ Ruth’s small teeth worried at her lower lip. ‘He did not say so, but I could tell from his attitude.’ A humourless little laugh preceded, ‘Of course, the whole of Willowdene will join him in thinking me a fool to reject him.’ She shot a frown at Sarah. ‘He turned up without warning and I would never have guessed what had prompted his visit. But why did I turn him down with so little consideration given the benefits attached to what he offered?’

‘Because you don’t love him?’ Sarah gently advanced.

‘No, I don’t love him…but is that reason enough to decline a nice home and financial security?’

‘I can’t answer that for you,’ Sarah replied. ‘But instinctively you thought it was. You adored Paul and I can understand why you would again want to have a husband to love.’

‘It is rather vexing to have been indulged in a love match,’ Ruth wryly complained. ‘It is equally irksome to have a friend who is blissfully happy with her rich, handsome lord.’ Ruth gave Sarah a mock-stern look. ‘Now I constantly berate fate for not being equally kind to me.’

‘If it is of help, I too would often pray fate might be kind to me, just a little bit.’ Sarah clasped Ruth’s hands in comfort. ‘And eventually it was.’

‘How long must I wait for that little bit?’ Ruth asked with wry gravity. ‘After nine years as a widow perhaps it is time I was sensible and stopped pining for heroes on white chargers to happen by.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I have to admit that if I were to be given a list of all the available gentlemen hereabouts and told I must pick from it a husband, Dr Bryant would probably be the most appealing to me.’

‘Yet instinctively you refused him,’ Sarah gently reminded Ruth. ‘So we must widen your circle of gentlemen acquaintances forthwith. If you were to socialise in London, you would attract suitors like bees to a honeypot.’

‘I doubt that an impecunious widow of twenty-eight years…soon to be twenty-nine…who has forgotten how to dance and flirt will seem very sweet to our drones,’ Ruth said ruefully.

‘I can teach you how to dance and how to flirt,’ Sarah offered impishly. ‘Not that I think you will need much reminding on the latter once the right gentleman comes along.’

Ruth rested back into the sofa and gave her friend a tranquil smile. ‘You always cheer me up. Thank you. I now feel much less sorry for myself. Things are not so drear. I have this cottage and a few investments Papa left to help me get by. I think I will settle on waiting in Willowdene for my knight in shining armour. After all, there are far worse places to be—Almack’s wallflower corner for a start!’ She gave an exaggerated shudder on mentioning the renowned matchmaking venue in London. As a débutante of seventeen she had been there regularly and danced with young bucks in the market for a suitable wife. In the event she had met her future husband, Paul Hayden, at her aunt’s house. But she could quite clearly recall the alcove in Almack’s ballroom where the more mature single ladies—who acted as chaperons and companions to the débutantes—would congregate. The thought of ever joining their number was as depressing now as it had been then.

‘Come, I shall wait while you get ready and we will return to the Manor together in the landau. There is still time to cuddle James before he is put to bed. And there is so much more I want to tell you about Tremayne Park. When we return to Surrey you must come too.’

‘I imagine your husband might want to take you on honeymoon now you are well enough to travel,’ Ruth protested laughingly. She got to her feet to get ready to go out. The thought of a very pleasant evening spent with her friends, and her first sight of their darling baby boy, cheered her enormously.

‘I’ve always liked the silver-grey silk, but the plum satin is pretty too.’

‘The silver-grey it is,’ Ruth said and put the other gown away.

‘Do you think Dr Bryant is sufficiently rebuffed or might he return to try again?’ Sarah asked as Ruth went about her toilette quite unconcerned by her friend’s observation or her uninvited assistance in closing buttons or pinning curls that were hard to reach.

‘I think he is too indignant to be persistent,’ Ruth answered. She stood up from the stool, pleased with her appearance. She had collected her warm coat and hat before she concluded, ‘I think I have heard the last from him on that score. When he left he looked as though his pride had taken a hefty dent.’

‘You’ve dented her pride and a woman scorned is best avoided for as long as possible.’

‘Amen to that,’ Clayton agreed, scowling at his friend’s wry philosophy. His black humour didn’t subdue Viscount Tremayne’s amusement. As his friend chuckled beneath his breath, Clayton leaned back into the sumptuous squabs of the splendid travelling coach that bore the crest of the Tremayne clan and was presently heading, at breakneck speed in the hope of outrunning the snow clouds, towards Willowdene Manor.

Clayton was glad to be spending time with his good friend and glad to be away from the metropolis for a while. Yet niggling at his conscience was a feeling that he was fleeing from an unpleasant situation and he never usually did that. Beneath his breath he cursed Loretta Vane for having managed to spoil his long-awaited reunion with Gavin and his family.

Shortly after Gavin had arrived at Clayton’s home that afternoon a letter from his mistress had been delivered. It had conveyed the outrageous news that Loretta expected him to arrange for their betrothal to be immediately gazetted. In anticipation of his submitting to that action, she had written to Pomfrey to warn him of his jilting. Loretta had also found the gall to infer that she’d dropped Pomfrey at Clayton’s behest… as though Clayton had browbeaten her into it.

After Clayton had spent an incredulous few moments rereading the unsubtle blackmail, he had been vacillating between laughing out loud and swearing at the ceiling. Seething anger had triumphed and he had screwed the perfumed paper in a fist and hurled it as far as he could while fighting down the need to storm straight to her house and shake some sense into the scheming minx.

He knew he would never allow himself to be coerced into marrying her, no matter how devious her strategies. A curt, unequivocal note had been despatched to tell her that. It had also made it clear that their relationship was at an end and that shortly his lawyer would contact her regarding a settlement.

Aware of his friend’s steady gaze on him, Clayton turned his head aside to stare at the dusky passing landscape. The first fat flakes of snow drifted past the carriage window, but still Clayton’s simmering fury at Loretta’s scheming preoccupied his mind. ‘The vixen is intent on stirring up trouble between Pomfrey and me,’ he remarked, almost to himself.

‘Don’t rise to the bait.’

‘I’ve no intention of doing so. But Pomfrey might. He won’t want to be made a laughing stock over this. He might feel obliged to act on it simply to protect his family’s good name.’

‘You think he might call for pistols at dawn?’ Gavin asked with a sardonic smile. He knew very well—as did the whole of the ton—that his friend was an excellent shot and unlikely to be challenged by a sane man to a duel. ‘Pomfrey has his pockets to let, not his attic. He won’t allow her to pull his strings any more than will you.’

‘She is extremely adept at pulling the strings of gentlemen.’

‘I’m sure,’ Gavin said on a dry chuckle. ‘Let’s hope Pomfrey is able to resist her persuasion as well as you can.’

Clayton stretched out his long legs comfortably in front of him and a slow grin softened his features. ‘You’d best tell the driver to slow down. The bad weather’s caught up with us.’

Gavin whipped his head about to frown at the falling snow. The urgent need to be reunited with his beloved wife and baby son made him reluctant to issue the order. With a sigh he realised he risked never seeing them again if they continued to drive at reckless speed on roads that would soon be treacherous. Having taken Clayton’s good advice and instructed the driver to rein in and take extreme care negotiating the road, he settled back into the seat and turned his mind again to his friend’s unfortunate plight.

‘It could all be a bluff, in any case,’ Gavin reasoned. ‘Lady Vane might not have sent Pomfrey a letter yet. She might be hedging her bets. I’ll warrant she won’t drop Pomfrey until she accepts it’s all over with you.’

‘I’m inclined to agree on that,’ Clayton said reflectively. ‘If she doesn’t understand plain English, as soon as I get back to town I’ll make sure she knows that I mean what I say.’

‘There is one certain way to make her accept you mean what you say and that you’ll never have her as your wife.’

‘And that is…?’ Clayton asked with lazy interest.

‘Marry someone else,’ Gavin said.