Читать книгу Chivalrous Rake, Scandalous Lady - Mary Brendan - Страница 10

Marcus paused on the threshold to his uncle’s bedchamber to dart an astonished enquiring glance at the physician. A glimmering hope that his uncle had made a miraculous recovery was dashed as Dr Robertson slowly shook his head. The prognosis was the same despite the fact the Earl of Gresham was once more conscious and propped up on a sumptuous array of satin bolsters and pillows.

On one side of the bed, ensconced in an armchair, was an elegant, elderly lady. Marcus had expected Mrs Paulson would still be here. She had been sitting quietly embroidering in the very same position when he had quit the sickroom earlier that day. He gave her a nod and a wonky smile, hoping that it adequately conveyed that her constant presence pleased him.

Victoria Paulson had been his uncle’s mistress for three decades and was a similar age to Solomon. At times Marcus had wondered whether, if the couple had come together sooner in life, when Victoria was young enough to bear children, she might have given Solomon a son. They would then have married to legitimise the union and the child, and the course of his own life might have taken a very different turn.

Having pressed Solomon’s hand and returned Marcus a hushed greeting, Victoria rose from her chair and left the gentlemen alone.

Solomon’s exhausted smile for his nephew was curtailed as a cough rattled out of him. On hearing his master gasping, a servant sprang forwards, thrusting out a beaker of milk. Solomon flapped feebly at the fellow. ‘If you’ve got nothing stronger to offer me, then go away,’ he wheezed and tugged a burgundy velvet coverlet against a chest that was pumping erratically. ‘Might as well let me have a brandy,’ he threw peevishly at Dr Robertson. ‘Ain’t as if it’s going to kill me.’

Dr Robertson relented, gesturing to the footman to carry out his patient’s request. At that Solomon found enough energy to weakly grin and brush together his dry palms.

Marcus swiftly approached the dais at the centre of his uncle’s bedchamber upon which was set a huge four-poster bed. He stopped with one hand splayed against a square mahogany post, feeling as awkward and apprehensive as he’d been at eight years old when introduced to his noble guardian for the first time. Instinctively he knew that this was to be their final meeting in this life.

Solomon beckoned him closer with a fragile-looking finger but, when Marcus immediately extended his hand, it was gripped with surprising strength.

‘You look much improved, sir,’ Marcus began. ‘Perhaps cognac is not wise as you are a little better.’

The old boy exhaled a breathless chuckle and set free his nephew’s fingers. ‘Looks ain’t everything, y’know,’ Solomon imparted in a droll whisper. ‘I’m still dying. I’m still able to appreciate a good brandy, too.’ Marcus’s hand had dropped to rest on the velvet coverlet and he gave it a fond pat. ‘Don’t look so miserable, m’boy. I’m ready. I’ve had a good innings. I saw off three score years ‘n ten eight years ago. That’s six years more’n Patricia achieved.’ An increased glitter appeared in his sunken black eyes as he recalled his spinster sister. Patricia had pre-deceased him just last summer despite being in fine fettle up until two weeks before her maid had discovered her dead in bed. ‘And it’s a deal more years than your father saw.’

Marcus bowed his head, nodding it slowly in acknowledgement of the sorrow they shared at Rufus Speer’s unconscionably early demise at the age of thirty-two.

His father had been a military man and away on campaign for a good deal of Marcus’s early childhood. Major Rufus Speer had been killed in action a few days after his only child’s eighth birthday. Thereafter, Rufus’s brother, Solomon, had taken Marcus under his wing and treated him like an adopted son. It was widely held that Solomon Speer, Earl of Gresham, had felt it unnecessary to marry in order to produce an heir. In his eyes he’d had one since the day his younger brother had died with a Frenchman’s bullet lodged in his chest.

‘I know I’ve said it before,’ Solomon whispered, ‘but he’d have been mighty proud of you, m’boy.’

‘He’d have been equally proud of you, and grateful for what you’ve done for me, as I am,’ Marcus returned simply. ‘I should have told you that more often than I have.’

‘Don’t get maudlin on me.’ Solomon clucked his tongue in mock irritation. He gave the hand resting on the bed another affectionate pat. ‘As for Rufus…I would have expected as much from him had our stars been swapped. He was a good brother. He wouldn’t have let me down. So, like it or not, I had no choice but to take you on and make the best of things.’ Solomon’s doleful tone was at odds with the twinkling eyes that settled with paternal pride on his beloved nephew.

Marcus mirrored his uncle’s wry grimace. Solomon was requesting that the full extent of his dues stay, as ever, unuttered. No fuss, no fanfare, no expression of the great affection that bound them as close as father and son. If that was how Solomon wanted it to be to the end, so be it. Marcus simply wanted to grant this finest of gentleman everything he desired during their precious final moments.

The branched candelabra set on a dressing chest was throwing wavering light on his uncle’s face, highlighting the patches of feverish colour on his parchment-like cheeks. As Solomon sank back further in to his downy pillows, Marcus could tell that his little show of strength, his lively conversation, had sapped his vitality. A piercing glance at the doctor, grimly vigilant, answered Marcus’s unspoken question. His uncle was unlikely to rally from unconsciousness a second time.

‘Had a visitor this afternoon—no, I had two,’ Solomon corrected himself with a flick of a finger.

Marcus found a suitable spot on the bed and, careful not to disturb his uncle, perched on the edge. He felt tightness in his chest and a lump forming in his throat, but he would not allow mournfulness to mar what little time was left. There would be days a-plenty to indulge his grief. ‘Let me guess on that,’ he said, mock thoughtful. ‘Munro came to chivvy you in to letting him have the chestnut while you’re still able to sign the sale sheet.’

Solomon’s desiccated lips sprang apart in a silent guffaw. Finally he knuckled his eyes and gasped, ‘The old rogue would, too—he knows I’m about to pop off.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Don’t you sell that little mare to him either, when I’m gone,’ the Earl instructed his heir with feigned anxiety. ‘Cost me a pretty penny and it’s your duty now, y’know, to maintain the Gresham reputation as the finest stables in the land.’

‘And so I shall,’ Marcus promised and gripped at his uncle’s hand to lend him support as he fidgeted and tried to draw himself up in bed.

Once settled again, Solomon opened his beady eyes and regarded Marcus with brooding intensity. ‘Cleveland came to see me this afternoon; so did Walters.’

Marcus knew that his future father-in-law was an acquaintance of his uncle’s. So was Aaron Walters, who was also the Earl’s stockbroker. Aaron was known as a stalwart of White’s club and an incorrigible gossip whilst in his cups within its walls. Marcus had a feeling that his uncle was about to recount to him something of interest that Walters had told him. He further surmised he might have an inkling of the tale’s content. But Solomon approached the matter of the gossip surrounding Theo Wyndham’s outrageous letters from a different tack to the one Marcus had been anticipating.

‘I know I said that before I turned up me toes it’d be nice to know you’d continue the Gresham line…What I didn’t expect was that you’d settle on the first pretty lass you bumped in to at Almack’s.’

‘And nor have I done so,’ Marcus replied lightly. He was aware that beneath his uncle’s heavy lids his old eyes were fixed on him.

The footman appeared and gave the Earl a glass half-filled with brandy. A moment later the servant and the doctor discreetly withdrew to a corner of the room, leaving uncle and nephew in private.

‘You courted Deborah Cleveland for a very little time…Could’ve filled it to the brim…’ he tacked on whilst rotating his glass to eye its mellow contents from various angles. Despite his grumble he sipped, smacked his lips in appreciation, then nestled the glass in a gnarled fist curled on the coverlet.

‘I knew straight away she would be suitable.’

‘Suitable…?’ Solomon echoed quizzically.

‘Yes…’ Marcus corroborated mildly. ‘Do you think she is not?’

‘I think it is not for me to say what a man needs in a woman with whom he must share his life and his children.’ Solomon took another careful, savouring sip of brandy.

‘Is Gregory Cleveland having second thoughts about marrying his daughter to me?’ Marcus asked. He recalled that his uncle had said the Viscount had visited the sickroom earlier and wondered if doubts had been voiced about the match. Marcus knew without any conceit that he was worthy of being regarded as a good catch, but so was Deborah Cleveland, who would bring her husband a large dowry and equally impressive connections to his own.

‘Gregory seems pleased as punch with the arrangement; he says Julia is equally delighted and eager to have you as her son-in-law.’

Marcus nodded, his mood little altered on knowing that his in-laws thoroughly approved of him. He was, however, glad to know his uncle hadn’t been bothered by any aspect of the forthcoming nuptials. His relief was short-lived.

‘Yet something is not right,’ Solomon murmured, his lids falling over sunken, watching eyes.

‘Perhaps the Clevelands suspect Deborah might change her mind.’ It was a level statement, no hint apparent that Marcus had a suspicion why his fiancée might want to do so. Neither did the possibility of her crying off seem to bother him.

‘Cleveland said nothing of the sort to me,’ Solomon answered. ‘Do you think the lass might get cold feet?’

‘My offer was accepted quickly. Perhaps a mite too quickly.’ Marcus shrugged, added mildly, ‘She is very young; perhaps she would have liked to enjoy more of her début unattached with her friends and the gallants doing the rounds of the balls and parties. I don’t want to spoil her fun. A betrothal of about a year is quite acceptable to me if that’s what she wants.’

‘You sound besotted by your lady love,’ Solomon offered drily. ‘Cleveland did say he hoped you might find the time to turn up and join them at another of the grand functions soon.’

Marcus smiled at the irony in his uncle’s weak voice. So the Viscount had made a little complaint after all—damn him!

When his engagement had first been announced, Marcus had shown his commitment to it by accompanying Deborah and her family to several notable occasions. But once they had been properly established as a couple he’d discreetly withdrawn to the company of his friends and his mistress. He had little liking for the vacuous social whirl that was a part of the annual London Season. Usually he would not be seen dead in such a place as Almack’s ballroom, but this year it had proved its point even to a hardened cynic such as he. He had found his future bride there. With that in mind he realised he would be grateful if Deborah remained satisfied with the arrangement between them. He hoped never to again set foot in the place.

About a month ago Dr Robertson had confided in him that the Earl would probably not see Michaelmas. Marcus had immediately set out to find himself a wife of whom he was confident his uncle would approve as the mother of future Gresham heirs. Deborah was the daughter of a gentleman Solomon liked and respected. His intention had been to content his uncle by starting the process of continuing the Gresham line with a lady of quality.

‘So you’re happy, then?’ The Earl casually swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

‘Do you think I’m not?’

‘I remember a time when you were not,’ Solomon said softly. ‘Strangely I was reminded of that time just this afternoon, by Aaron Walters.’ Again his uncle’s hooded gaze fixed on him. ‘Tell me, did you receive one of Wyndham’s strange letters that begged for marriage offers for his ward?’

There was a slight pause before Marcus murmured an affirmative.

‘I sent a message that Dawkins was to look for you in Hanover Square if you were not at home,’ Solomon informed him. ‘I thought you might head straight off to Wyndham’s house to have it out with the chump.’

‘He’s always been an idiot.’ Marcus’s muttered contempt emerged through splayed fingers supporting his chin.

‘Maybe so…but he’d have been your kin had Jemma Bailey agreed to marry you.’

‘I recall I thanked my lucky stars she’d had the decency to refuse,’ Marcus said exceedingly drily.

‘Eventually you might have done that,’ Solomon gently reminded him. ‘But for a long time I think you considered the lass worth the burden of her strange family. I never gave you my opinion on that child, did I?’

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Marcus said mildly.

‘Maybe it does,’ the Earl differed in a hoarse whisper.

Marcus could see his uncle again tiring as his bony head slumped back to be bolstered by plump pillows. ‘That’s all forgotten,’ he soothed, gripping at Solomon’s hand in emphasis. ‘I simply went to see Wyndham to tell him that I thought his impertinence and his timing atrocious. I wouldn’t want Deborah or her parents to be upset by ludicrous gossip. Wyndham claimed he’d not seen the engagement gazetted.’

‘Did you land him a facer?’ Solomon croaked, his eyes alight with mischief.

‘Nothing quite so severe—he’s smaller than me.’

Again the Earl wheezed a laugh. ‘The gossip has it that Miss Bailey was in on it.’

‘The letter made it seem that way.’

‘Do you think she was?’

‘No,’ Marcus answered. ‘I think Wyndham lied about that too.’

‘He sent four, you know.’

‘Do you know who were the other recipients?’ Marcus immediately asked.

Solomon gave him a look that bordered on being smug. ‘I do. And my guess is that one of those fellows will take up the offer. Walters tells me she’s still a beauty, if a bit stand-offish and getting on in years.’

‘She’s only twenty-two,’ Marcus mildly protested, making more brilliant a knowing glint in his uncle’s dying eyes. Marcus looked at the ceiling, casually repeated, ‘So which other gentlemen have been approached to take Wyndham’s ward off his hands?’

‘Matthew Hambling and Philip Duncan are contenders. Neither, so I hear, have a notion to take on a wife at present. But Stephen Crabbe has my money on getting past the post. I remember the two of you nearly came to blows over the girl.’

Marcus glanced away to where the doctor was sitting in a chair, his head bowed towards the hands clasped in his lap as though he was dozing.

‘I don’t think she had a hand in it either,’ Solomon remarked. ‘Wyndham’s after her inheritance, you know. She’ll be penniless before the ink dries on the marriage lines. And if Crabbe thinks Wyndham’ll settle a dowry on her he’ll be disappointed.’

‘I know he only wants her money.’ A mirthless smiled moved Marcus’s mouth. ‘Yet Theo Wyndham is arrogant enough to think he’s concocted a convincing tale of onerous moral duty.’

‘I rather liked Miss Jemma Bailey.’ The earl’s quiet opinion drew Marcus’s eyes immediately to him. ‘I liked her mother too and never held with all that scandal-mongering talk about the Baileys years ago. Eccentric, indeed they were. But one cannot condemn a couple for wanting to escape the hell of a bad marriage.’ Solomon fingered the rim of his glass. ‘Do you recall when we visited Paris some years ago and spotted Veronica Bailey strolling by the Seine with her Count?’

Marcus nodded.

‘It was the first occasion I’d seen the fellow close up. Handsome devil, wasn’t he?’

Again Marcus gave a nod.

‘I thought he had a look of you about him,’ Solomon suggested. ‘Different colour eyes, of course.’

‘Are you saying you think he took an interest in my mother, too?’

Solomon guffawed so abruptly it made him cough, but he flapped away the doctor who’d sprung, startled, from his chair.

‘You always did make me laugh, you know, m’boy.’ He sobered, took a deep breath. ‘I think you know what I mean so I’ll say no more on it. I recall that Veronica was a good-looking woman and still in her prime when she went off with him. I can understand why John Bailey felt so bitter.’

‘He was hardly in a position to moralise considering he’d kept Mrs Brannigan in comfort before and after his marriage to Veronica. The tragedy of it was for their daughters rather than for them. When Jemma Bailey made her début she was not always wanted everywhere because of the scandal they’d caused.’

‘I recall you tried to compensate for that by showing everybody just how much you liked her. You took very little notice of the family’s calamities or its sullied name.’

‘It made no difference to me what problems her parents had had. It was she I—’ He bit off the words and finished quietly with, ‘It made no difference to me.’

‘Ah…but it would make a difference to a lot of people—people who marry for status and convenience rather than love,’ Solomon said forcefully, leaning forwards to emphasise his point. The exertion made him collapse back on to the pillows, and with a start Marcus was on his feet, his soothing fingers at his uncle’s face, moving back the wispy white hair from his forehead.

Silently the doctor had come up behind. He tried to ease the glass from his patient’s rigid grip, but the Earl refused to let it go.

‘Pull me up!’ Solomon insisted weakly, trying to use his elbows to manoeuvre upright in the bed. ‘I’ll finish m’drink before lights out or be damned.’

Marcus gently eased his uncle’s wasted body up to nestle on feathers once more.

‘Off you go now,’ Solomon sighed out. ‘Robertson will see to me.’

‘I’ll stay…’ Marcus croaked, attempting to swallow a burning lump lodged in his throat. He knew the time now was very near.

‘No!’ Solomon gasped. A smile quivered on his purplish lips. ‘No,’ he repeated gently. ‘Some things a man must do by himself. Dying…choosing a wife…’ He gulped back the small amount left in his glass and, satisfied, gave it over to the doctor. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. ‘Go…’ he told Marcus on an exhalation. ‘Marcus!’ the faint, urgent cry arrested his nephew at the foot of the bed. ‘From the moment you came to me,’ Solomon ejected the words with difficulty, ‘your future happiness was the purpose in my life.’ He sucked in a ragged breath. ‘Now our journey together is done…I go on alone.’ He panted rapidly, striving for the breath to finish, ‘But you know where happiness lies…’

A groan of pain seemed to issue from deep within his uncle’s being and it made Marcus instinctively rush back to clasp one of his freckled hands in support.

‘I shall make him as comfortable as I can,’ Dr Robertson promised gravely. ‘Please, you must go or he will fret and try to struggle on if he thinks you still here. Mrs Paulson will stay until the end.’

Marcus nodded, his eyes feeling gritty and afire with grief. He stooped to kiss his uncle on both sunken cheeks, then in instinctive obeisance he lowered his forehead to touch together their brows.