A Lady's Guide to Rakes (5 page)

Alexander leaped to his feet. “Sir?”

“I daresay I shall be hard-pressed to make myself any clearer.”

“But I am afraid you must, for I am quite certain I have misunderstood your words.”

“Damn it all, boy, is something amiss with your hearing? My time is short and I have made my decision.”

“But, sir—”

“There will be no discussion… if you know what is good for you.” The earl glanced around the ornate room, then laid upon Alexander a gaze more forbidding than he’d ever seen. “Correct this situation and please your father. That’s all it requires for your bank to be restored to your control. I vow, I shall not meddle again in your private affairs.”

Though the air in the room was thick and stifling, a chill iced Alexander’s skin. “As long as I marry the Merri-weather girl before the conclusion of the season.”

“That’s my boy.”

A rake will find innumerable reasons to touch a woman. This serves to put her at ease and make her more receptive to later touches of increasing intimacy.

The next morning, just after Meredith sat down in the dining room to break her fast, she received a written summons. It was immediately clear that this was no ordinary beckoning from her aunts, who normally relied on their butler, Mr. Edgar, to track her down when she was needed.

This time there was a peculiar urgency infused in the inked words that so roused Meredith’s curiosity that she was compelled to abandon her cup of chocolate, her favorite treat in all the world, and race into the parlor.

“Yes, Aunties?” Meredith waved the short missive in the air as she studied her two elderly great-aunts. They were sitting side by side on the parlor settee, dressed in identical lavender frocks, as was their habit, and were grinning madly up at her. Meredith lowered the slip of paper. “You wished an interview? Your note indicated some urgency.”

“No, dear gel. I fear you are confused. We do not require an interview.” Laughter began to leak from Aunt Letitia’s moutfa in tiny saliva-laced puffs.

“What Sister means, Meredith,” Aunt Viola began, “is that we just received notice that a gentleman is about to call upon you. We only wished for you to be prepared.”

“I am to have a caller?” Meredith glanced from one aunt to the other, waiting patiently for an answer.

Aunt Letitia slid a cream-hued card from its biding place inside her sleeve. Meredith reached for it, but her aunt snapped it back. “Ah, ah, ah. You will learn who it is soon enough.” Now both of her aunts were chuckling.

Lovely. They were making a game of prolonging her suspense.

“Aunties, will you not tell me who is coming to call?”

Heavens, she only hoped it was not Lord Lansing. It was only ten in the morn, after all, and Meredith was sure the note she’d sent the rake yesterday, requesting a meeting at the stables in Hyde Park, suggested a four o’clock appointment.

True, Meredith had thought about changing their appointed meeting time. She had been thinking of little else since the break of dawn.—and she was growing most impatient watching the clock in the passage make its minute-by-minute journey to four. But unless Lord Lansing was such an expert on women that he could intuit her wish for a morning meeting—it simply could not be the rake.

Having come to this logical conclusion, Meredith inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. For some reason, this realization disappointed her a little. Hardly enough to notice, though, and certainly not enough to cause her worry.

Just then, the door from the passage opened, giving a high kittenish mewl of a sound and drawing Meredith’s attention. There, entering the parlor behind Mr. Edgar, her aunts’ dutiful butler, was her dear Mr. Chillton.

They’d met through Mrs. Albert Trevor, who was not only a dear friend of the Featherton sisters, but coinciden-tally resided in the town house abutting Mr. Chillton’s in Russell Square. Noting that Mr. Chillton was a successful and respected importer of spices and goods from India, Mrs. Trevor quickly contrived to see Meredith paired with him, hoping for a match that would save the Feathertons’ grandniece from the disgrace of being left at the altar by Lord Pomeroy.

The Featherton sisters thought Mrs. Trevor’s plan a grand one indeed, and an “accidental” meeting was arranged. To Meredith’s great relief, she found Mr. Chillton to be handsome, gentle and kind. Mr. Chillton evidently found Meredith quite suitable as well, for he commented to Mrs. Trevor that with such good society connections and obvious breeding, Miss Merriweather would make him an ideal wife. And so Meredith and Mr. Chillton’s courtship began.

For Meredith, “Mr. Chillton” it was, never Arthur, for the gentleman was nothing if not a stickler for propriety and that was how he preferred Meredith always to address him. Never mind that he had courted her for well over one year and had claimed on more than one occasion to be quite fond of her.

Inwardly this pricked Meredith like the thorny spines of her pet garden hedgehog. But it was only a name, a small thing, was it not? A tiny quirk in his character that she knew she would find utterly endearing in time.

Mr. Chillton bowed his long, lean body before both her aunts, then tipped his golden-haired head to her. “Miss Meredith, you look quite lovely today…” His eyes widened suddenly. “Good heavens, what has happened to your cheek?”

Without thinking, Meredith slapped a hand to her face to cover the scratches stretching from her cheekbone to the edge of her mouth. Was it so noticeable? Truly, it was only a couple of marks, hardly red at all anymore. “Tree branch” was all she said. She was not about to mention her balloon ride or its purpose, and she was certainly not going to mention her fall. To do so would only invite unwanted questions, the answers to which Mr. Chillton would never understand.

“Need to be more careful. Watch where you are going.” Though he was smiling, his gaze drifted lower to the deep square neckline of her newest sapphire frock. Now his pale blue eyes were communicating an altogether different message.

Oh no.
Meredith had hoped he’d admire her dress as much as she did. And why shouldn’t he? It was certainly the most voguish one she owned, with its sprinkling of iridescent seed pearls gleaming at the edge of the scalloped lace sleeves and adding dramatic allure to the bodice.

“I had hoped I might convince you to accompany me for a ride through Town.” He paused, then raised a blond brow. “I have brought the phaeton… the one I told you about. You remember, the one I recently purchased from my neighbor.”

“Oh yes, indeed, I do remember.” Meredith nodded her head, though, in truth, she didn’t recall the subject having ever been mentioned.

Chillton turned his head and shot her aunts a satisfied smile. “Of course, Miss Merriweather would have told you all about it. Cost a tenth of what a new wheelie would,” His chest seemed to puff with pride. “Why waste a pretty penny on a new conveyance, when a perfectly serviceable older phaeton is available, eh?”

When neither aunt replied, likely having not a clue what to say to such a comment, Mr. Chillton shifted his gaze to Meredith. She realized, though somewhat belatedly, that he was waiting for her to speak.

Taking her cue, Meredith hurriedly crossed the room, drew back the curtain and peered through the wavy glass. There sat a rickety phaeton, with no less than three hand-width gouges in the varnish down its side.

Chillton’s frugal nature never failed to perplex Meredith. He was a truly wealthy merchant, to be sure, yet he lived a step above a pauper. For instance, he insisted on using tea leaves four times before discarding them. And though his London town home was the grandest on Russell Square, a bequeath from his late grandmother, he never entertained. But perhaps most shocking was what she’d overheard a visiting chimney sweep tell their footman: Mr. Chillton barely owned a stick of furniture. Didn’t see the need.

None of this made sense to Meredith. Why did the man, rich as a nabob, consistently deny himself the comforts his bank could afford him? But it didn’t really matter, she always reminded herself. In time, this too would become just another dear peculiarity she’d become quite fond of.

After all, even she had to admit that the phaeton was a great improvement over his grandmother’s ancient town carriage. She offered her young man a beguiling smile. “As always, your thriftiness is to be commended, Mr. Chillton.”

Aunt Viola joined Meredith at the window, barely concealing a foil-body flinch when her gaze fell upon the phaeton. Still, her aunt turned to the gentleman and sighed pleasedly. “Yes, you certainly know how to manage your funds, sir.”

Though Viola’s gaze had remained on Mr. Chillton the entire time she was speaking, Meredith had the oddest notion that her aunt’s words were somehow meant for her to consider.

Chillton tipped his head to her aunt in proud thanks before retraining his attention on her. “So what say you, Miss Meredith, care to make a morning of it?”

Meredith took one more glance at the phaeton’s peeling paint and split leather squabs, then gave her beau a brilliant smile. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, kind sir.”

Why did she get the feeling she was just another of his bargains, rained but still serviceable?

Chillton’s gaze snagged upon her deep neckline once more, and if Meredith wasn’t mistaken, she glimpsed a grimace. “Is something amiss, Mr. Chiliton?”

“No, of course not. Though on my way to Hanover Square, I did note a distinct breeze. Might I suggest a fichu, Miss Merriweather? I would not wish a ride in my phaeton to cause a cold upon your…” He slapped a hand to his chest, but then blood rose into the tips of his ears, making them glow crimson. He allowed his hand to fall away. “I beg your pardon, Miss Meredith. I did not wish to offend.”

“Offend? Oh heavens, sir, you, in no way, offended me.” Meredith almost laughed aloud. “However, had you said—”

Both aunts were upon Meredith in an instant, and she thought that they were trying to stifle her reply, which, in hindsight, would surely have taken the conservative Mr. Chillton aback.

Aunt Viola leaned back and stared at Meredith, her watery blue eyes suddenly brimming with tears. She kissed both of Meredith’s cheeks. “Oh, my gel, my gel.”

“Auntie? What is wrong?”

Viola shook her head and took two steps back, waving her emotional reaction away with a dismissive hand.

Then aunt Letitia flung her arms around Meredith and embraced her so enthusiastically that she actually expected her ribs might be crushed against her backbone.

What in heaven’s name were they all about?

“Auntie,” she covertly whispered into Letitia’s ear as they hugged. “The phaeton is old, but I am sure it is still quite safe. You needn’t fear for my life.”

Aunt Letitia pulled back, grinning at Meredith. “Oh, you are such a silly goose. Don’t you realize that Mr. Chillton is going to—”

Aunt Viola edged past her sister, intentionally cutting off her next words as she tossed her own fichu around Meredith’s shoulders. “Dear child, though we may seem like a pair of mother hens at times, we shall not fret one bit today—for you will be with Mr. Chillton, the most responsible and levelheaded man in all of England.”

Yes, she would be. And her aunts were right not to worry. For nothing exciting or the least bit dangerous happened around Mr. Chillton.
Ever.

And, well, that was one of the things she liked best about him.

———

Due to One’s insistence, Alexander began dressing at two o’clock in the afternoon, even though an hour and a half didn’t seem quite adequate time to dress for such a vital occasion. After all, his entire financial future might well depend on this meeting in Hyde Park, but his valet knew his business, and so Alex would have to trust him.

“I must look dashing, One, but not as if I put any effort into it.”

“Carelessly handsome, milord?” Mr. Herbert said from behind the open wardrobe door.

“Exactly.” Alexander removed his dressing robe and cast it to the bed. In the reflection of the cheval mirror, he caught a glimpse of the interlocked chain of dark ink ringing his muscled bicep. He clapped a hand over the Celtic tattoo and grimaced. “And a tightly woven lawa shirt.”

Mr. Herbert glanced around the wardrobe door and, realizing his employer’s concern, slapped a hand to the Celtic ring permanently inked into his own arm. The slapping of the ring was akin to a secret handshake, a promise of unity within the Lamont clan. His Scottish grandfather had had the ring inked into Alexander’s arm, a Lamont rite of passage, when he was but a lad of fourteen summers. Nothing had ever made him feel so wed to his wild Scottish roots—nothing had made him feel so proud. Today, however it was not the proud Scottish warrior he wished for Miss Merriweather to see, but the refined London gentleman.

“Right, my lord. I know just the thing.”

And indeed he did. For an hour later, Alexander was dressed, his neckcloth wrapped expertly in the most fashionable—yet wickedly starched—
Trone d’amour
tie and every hair combed into place.

Mr. Herbert stood before Alexander with the tortoise-shell comb poised in the air. “Shall I, sir?”

Alexander thought on it for a brief moment. “Why not?”

“Well, me lord, ye did promise the earl…”

Yes, he had agreed to maintain the look and manner of a gentleman. But was not his mission this day the seduction of Miss Merriweather?

“Do it, One.”

Mr. Herbert deftly snared a bit of ebony hair in the comb and, with a flick of his frail wrist, let it fall. “There, me lord. Tis done.”

As the thick lock of hair swept his brow, Alexander sighed with pleasure. Damned odd how something so seemingly insignificant could revive a man.

He looked at his dangerously handsome reflection in the mirror and sighed with approval.

Didn’t matter a lick if it was only for the day.

Lansing, London’s most notorious rake, was back.

———

Meredith squinted her eyes at the small gold timepiece; then, huffing a frustrated breath, she dropped the watch back inside her reticule. She looked behind her, then turned and looked up the length of Rotten Row for the tenth time in as many minutes.