The Perfect Rake (2 page)

“I’m not a setter or a beagle, Grandpapa! You can’t make me cower the way you did when I was a child. And I’ll tell you to your face, the thrashings have come to an end. In eight weeks’ time I shall turn one and twenty, and then
I
shall have the legal guardianship of my sisters. You cannot prevent it. Papa’s will made it so.”

He leaned briefly against a broken table, huffing and puffing from his recent exertion. The purple color faded slowly from his face. “Oh, can I not?” he said. “You may have the legal guardianship, girlie, but I still control the purse strings until you marry.” He chuckled, a dry, rasping wheeze. “You’ll none of you get a penny unless you wed, and I’ll ensure you will not wed!” His thin lips curled in a sneer. “You may cherish your sisters to your heart’s content, missy, but you’ll starve without a penny to your name!”

“Maybe I don’t have a penny at the moment, but I have resources you know nothing about. Once I am of age, we will leave this place, and you will not be able to stop us.”

Prudence felt a small surge of satisfaction. He’d taken most of her mother’s jewelry years ago, when they’d first come to Dereham Court, but the eleven-year-old, newly orphaned Prudence had been too sentimental to hand her Mama’s favorite pieces over to the grim old man who demanded them. She’d held a few precious pieces back, and kept them hidden all these years. The jewels would be the saving of them now.

“Harlot! Sell your body, would you? It does not surprise me! But you will not escape to shame this family so!” He came storming forward in a fresh surge of rage. Prudence ran for the door and hurried down the steep, narrow stairs as fast as she could.

Behind her came Grandpapa, crashing and cursing her, swiping at her with every step. The whip lashed her more than once, and as she reached the narrow landing, she tripped on her skirt and fell to her knees.

He came roaring down the last steps in triumph, but in his haste he stumbled, lurching forward in an avalanche of curses, his whip flailing. Prudence ducked aside as, carried forward by the momentum of his rush, her grandfather careered down the steps past her, tripping and rolling and crashing.

His fall was broken, eventually, by the curve of the rails where the stairs turned.

The house was suddenly, shockingly silent.

Prudence hurried upstairs to her bedchamber. “It’s me, Hope. Open the door.”

The door creaked open. Hope peered out. “Prudence! Your face! Did he do that?”

Prudence touched a tentative finger to her face. In all the drama she’d forgotten the cut on her cheek. “Don’t worry, it probably looks worse than it is. How is Grace?”

Hope gestured to the bed, where Charity and Faith were sitting, their arms around Grace, who was huddled in a hard little knot, hugging her knees, her face quite hidden. The arms wrapped around the knees were covered in ugly red welts. Sobs shook her thin body.

Prudence slipped onto the bed and put an arm around the tense, hunched body. “Graciela?” It was their mother’s pet name for her.

Grace looked up and her pale, tear-streaked face crumpled anew as she saw her oldest sister’s injured face and worried eyes. She hurled herself into Prudence’s arms. “Oh, Prue, Prue, he hurt you, too. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Prudence felt a surge of anger at the man who had saturated a young girl’s life with such guilt that Grace would blame herself for Prudence’s injury. She forced herself to speak lightly. “Don’t be sorry, love. It doesn’t hurt a bit, I promise you. Grandpapa got much the worst of it. He’s in no state to hurt any of us now.”

That caused them all to sit up. “What do you mean?” asked Faith.

“He tripped and fell down the stairs.” She shivered. Her mind still held the sound of flesh and bone crashing down the stairs, against the wall. And that sudden silence…

Hope was the first to speak. “Is he dead?”

“No, though I thought—we all thought—for a moment that he was. He lay there, not moving, for the longest time. Everyone just stared, for all the servants had come running.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “But he was not, of course. You know what a hard head Grandpapa has.”

“Pity,” Hope muttered.

“He’s been carried to his bedchamber, and Dr. Gibson is with him now. He won’t touch any of us again, I promise.”

There was a long silence in the room. None of her sisters believed Prudence could keep such a promise. They knew empty comfort when they heard it. Grace’s face crumpled afresh and she turned back to her big sister’s arms. “Oh, Prue, why does he hate me so?” she sobbed.

Prudence hugged her little sister to her. “Oh, darling, he confuses you and me with our mother. Because we have the same red hair that she did. “

“Was Mama so very bad, then?”

“No! She wasn’t bad
at all!
It’s just that when Papa fell in love with her, he left the Court and he never came back, so Grandpapa never forgave her.”

“Tell us about Mama and Papa again, Prue,” Grace said, leaning into her.

Their parents had died when Grace was just a baby. The twins, too, had been very small. Charity had been nine when Mama had died, Prudence, eleven. The young ones had few memories of their parents and it comforted them to hear the tales, over and over.

“Mama was very beautiful. You all take after her. Charity is her image, except for the golden hair. And you twins and Grace look so much like her, too. You all take after Mama’s side of the family—the beautiful Ainsleys.” She pulled a wry face. “I was the poor unfortunate to be saddled with the horrid Merridew nose and the horrid Merridew eyes. I just wish I had the Merridew height and thinness, too.”

“Your nose isn’t horrid, exactly, it’s just…a little long,” Faith said.

“It’s a very nice nose,” Grace defended her hotly, “and your eyes are lovely and gray and kind and—”

“Oh hush,” Prudence said, laughing a little. She gathered her sisters around her on the bed. “I don’t care about my silly old nose. We were speaking of Mama, anyway.”

Her voice adopted the singsong quality of a beloved tale, oft repeated. “Mama was a great beauty, though her family was in trade, and Papa took one look at her and fell instantly in love. And although she had hundreds of admirers, and he was by no means the handsomest, nor the richest, nor the one with the grandest title, Mama fell instantly in love with him, too.” All five girls sighed, blissfully.

“But both the Ainsleys and the Merridews opposed the match,” prompted Grace, “and that is why Mama and Papa ran away to Italy and got married and had us. Keep going, Prue. Tell us about Mama’s hair.”

Prue wriggled back against the pillows. Her sisters drew closer; Grace snuggled like a kitten at her side. “Mama was golden, all golden,” she said. “Her hair was red, but it was like it had just come out of the smithy’s furnace—all red and gold and full of life—like yours, Grace. And Papa loved Mama’s hair—I want you to remember that, Grace, whenever you think your hair is bad or ugly! Papa was always playing with Mama’s hair, stroking it, loving the way it would curl around his fingers. He used to joke that Mama wound him ’round her little finger, just the same way. And one day you will find a man who loves you, and your hair, the same way Papa loved Mama.”

Grace sighed. “The way Phillip loves you?”

Prudence smiled and smoothed back her little sister’s curls. “Maybe.” She continued, “It wasn’t only Mama’s looks that were golden—she had the most wonderful, soft voice, like honey, like Faith’s voice. She would sing to us all for hours. And when she laughed it was like the music of sunlight—”

“I remember her laugh,” said Charity suddenly. “So happy. It made me want to laugh with her.”

“You did, too,” agreed Prudence. “We all did. Mama and Papa adored each other. They were always touching each other, holding hands, kissing, hugging, laughing…”

All the sisters sighed. It was a far cry from the cold and loveless regime they’d grown up under.

“And they loved us all, too, so very much. Papa was always picking us up for a cuddle and a kiss and he never cared about sticky fingers or grubby faces. Mama always carried the baby—that was you, Grace—with us when we went walking along the beach or through the village, even though Concetta—she was your nursemaid—said it was bad for a baby to be outside. Mama said she wanted all her little sunbeams with her…”

She looked at her sisters squeezed together on the big, old bed. They didn’t look much like sunbeams in the chill gray light, their faces pinched and pale and their beautiful eyes still red-rimmed from weeping. Love was their birthright. Mama had promised. Prudence had to make them believe it, she just had to!

“Never, ever forget that we do not belong in Grandpapa’s grim and loveless world,” she said. “We were all born in Italy, in a house filled with sunshine and laughter and love and happiness, and I
promise
you, no matter how bad it seems, one day we shall all live like that again. With sunshine and laughter and love and happiness.
I promise!
”

Outside, the bitter wind whistled around the eaves, as if mocking her words. Prudence ignored it. She had a plan.

Dr. Gibson placed his bag on the side table and sat down. “Lord Dereham has a severe concussion, and his ankle is broken in several places.”

Prudence poured him a cup of tea. “But he will recover?” She might despise her grandfather, but she didn’t want to be the cause of his death.

Dr. Gibson sipped the hot tea cautiously, then said, “His injuries are quite severe, but I believe his faculties to be intact. I feel certain he will recover, though it may not be speedy.”

“How long will it take?” Prudence leaned forward and passed him a plate of buttered scones. She had a particular reason for asking.

It was wild. It was audacious. It was risky. But it might work.

It was the only solution she could think of to their problems.

The doctor munched on a gingernut. “The head injury will take a few days, possibly a week. He will need to lie in a darkened room, in absolute silence.” He sipped at his tea and added, “The ankle will take longer to heal, however. It is broken in several places. He will have to keep his leg immobilized for six or seven weeks at the very least.”

Six or seven weeks!
Prudence hugged the knowledge to her breast. Six weeks or more would make all the difference in the world to her plan. But she would need the doctor’s help. She set her cup aside, took a deep breath, and said, “Dr. Gibson, do you know how Grandpapa’s accident came about?”

He sniffed and reached for another gingernut. “The groom who fetched me told me some wild tale but you know how servants are apt to exaggerate.”

“I doubt he exaggerated. Have you not heard how severe my grandfather’s rages—”

The doctor waved his hand. “Bah! I hope I know better than to listen to village gossip.”

“The tales are true,” Prue said vehemently, “and we cannot go on like this. Can you not see for yourself how very…
extreme
Grandpapa has become?”

“He has never been one to spare the rod, I grant you, but a man must be strict—”

“Strict! It is more than that, I promise you. Poor Hope has spent most of her life with her left hand tied behind her back to prevent her using it—he says it is the devil’s hand. Faith lives in fear of inadvertently humming under her breath, for that would merit a beating. And you should see how he regards my little sister Grace. He is convinced she bears the stamp of Jezebel, all because of the color of her hair.”

The doctor’s gaze strayed to Prudence’s own fiery locks, and she nodded. “Yes, me too. He has tried to thrash the evil out of me since I was eleven.” Prudence’s voice shook with distress and anger. “And I will
not
have it—do you understand? He shall
not
thrash my little sister the way he thrashed me.”

The doctor shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hope’s left-handedness needs to be corrected, though I can see it distresses you. But Faith and Grace are such quiet, good little souls.”

“Grace made this.” She thrust the Egyptian-style reticule toward him.

Bemused, the doctor took the decorated reticule. “This Egyptian stuff was all the rage in London some years ago. I know, for my wife was mad for it, too.”

“Is your wife a filthy heathen?” asked Prudence bluntly. “Given to idolatry? Blasphemy? Filth? Rank obscenity?”

The doctor looked taken aback. “What the—”

“Because that’s what Grandpapa called Grace for making this—a
filthy little heathen
. And he beat her unmercifully with his whip until I stopped him. That’s how the accident happened. He was chasing me down the stairs. With his whip. Luckily for me, he tripped.”

The doctor put the reticule down, his composure shaken. “He beat her for making this?”

“Severely. He seizes on any excuse. I want you to help us leave here.”

The doctor sighed heavily. “Prudence, you know I cannot. He’s not an easy man, I grant you, but I’m his doctor, girl! Do you expect me to look him in the eye and lie to him? Deceive him—”

“Little Grace’s body is covered with red welts simply because she made that reticule,” Prudence said with quiet emphasis. She was determined to stir his conscience to action and force him to face the truth now. Grace had always been his favorite. “It is not the first time Grace has been severely beaten for no good reason. He beats all of us. We have never been allowed to call you when he has injured one of us before, but I want you to come up to her bedchamber and see for yourself.”

With a heavy sigh, he put down his cup. “Very well, I’ll take a look, but I make you no promises.”

The doctor examined Grace in grim silence. He noted the weals on Charity’s face, and those on Prudence’s. Afterward, in the room downstairs, he sat heavily in his chair, clearly shaken. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. And you say this is not the first time?”

Prudence nodded. There was no point in dwelling on the past. She had her eyes firmly fixed on the future. “When I turn one and twenty, in eight weeks’ time, by my father’s will I shall become my sisters’ legal guardian.”

“Well then—”

“However, we can only gain access to the money our mother left us when we marry. We have no money. Only enough for a few months. After that, unless Grandpapa gives us our inheritance, we will starve.” She fixed the doctor with a look. “He will not give us the money. He says he will
never
let any of us marry. On that point he is adamant.