The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (4 page)

Chestleton took a moment to savour this fact. The information held a lot of potential.

The gentleman bearing this particular tidbit had come before the marquis looking quite pleased with himself. A clerk in the firm of Davies and Gerber, the young man had certain career ambitions without the means to carry these out. The marquis’s patronage would be very helpful in overcoming this unfortunate setback.

“Ah, Fenwick, do come in,” Chestleton drawled. “Sit down, man. Whiskey?”

The nervous-looking young man politely declined, while seating himself carefully on the brown leather sofa. Fenwick was quite intimidated by the marquis, who was known to be a man of much wealth and power and few morals. The clerk opened his valise, and produced a sheaf of papers. He cleared his throat uneasily and looked up at the dark nobleman seated behind a large mahogany desk.

Chestleton’s keen eyes did not miss the young man’s unease. Fenwick had a tall, gangly build and neatly combed dark hair. His grey frock coat was only just beginning to look shabby. His complexion was pale, and his brown eyes darted about the room. The marquis supposed that the clerk was perfectly aware that he would lose all chance of employment if anyone were to find out about his breach of the client’s confidence.

“Now tell me, what is it that you have found, Mr Fenwick?” Chestleton regarded the clerk with patient interest, eyes intent on his nervous face.

“The Barrington papers, your lordship, as Mr Davies has them, seem to suggest that the family is in rather dire financial straits.”

“Are they now?” The marquis looked like a panther about to pounce, his long elegant fingers curled around his wine glass, a contemplative expression coming over his face.

“It seems so, your lordship. I have here the triplicates from the archives. It seems the late Viscount Fanshawe, that would be Charles Barrington, the seventh viscount, tried to recover the finances, but his unfortunate accident happened before his efforts saw much success.”

“I see. And how extensive are the Fanshawe losses?”

“Quite extensive. The country estate in Colestershire seems to have been mortgaged, along with the London house and a minor holding in Shropshire. The eighth viscount will have procession of the remaining bonds when upon his eighteenth birthday, but that will only be in seventeen years. I daresay, my lord, that it will be much too late for the estate.” The clerk shifted uncomfortably. “A pity, really. I had the honour of meeting the seventh viscount, and he was a very gracious gentleman.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you, Mr Fenwick. You may leave the papers behind. I shall look at them at my leisure.”

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Fenwick stood up, and nervously placed the papers on the desk before the marquis. With a jerky half-bow, he made his way out of the study, leaving Chestleton with his thoughts.

Soon after Fenwick’s departure, Chestleton repaired to the library, where he contemplated Miss Barrington and her peculiar determination. He suddenly felt that he had quite a good idea of what the girl was trying to achieve.

The sun was close to setting over the elegant promenades of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Araminta regarded the walk ahead, bordered by beautifully trimmed roses in full bloom. Their scent lingered in the warm air and clung to her hair.

It was a pleasantly warm summer evening, and many of London’s elite had gathered at the pleasure gardens for a display of fireworks later that night. Araminta had come with her aunt and uncle, and her cousin. Susan stood next to her, admiring a beautiful red rose. Lord Worthing was deeply in conversation with Lord Harris about some development on the Peninsula which had been reported in the evening papers.

Lady Worthing was speaking with Sir Timothy Stanton, the young baronet who had danced with Araminta at the Snowe ball. Sir Timothy looked to be five and twenty, with a pleasantly handsome face. His person was always well kempt and his blond hair neat. She had known Sir Timothy for the three years since her presentation at court, and he had always shown a certain partiality towards her. His manners were polite and pleasing, and his fortune was said to be considerable. He was a favourite with Lady Worthing, though he had never before made clear any official intention to court Araminta.

“Perhaps a walk, my dear?” Sir Timothy asked, startling Minta out of her reverie. He had evidently caught her looking down the rose path. The Gardens were full of walks, some more secluded than others, and this particular one, with its neat hedge and pruned roses was enough in view to avoid impropriety, but secluded enough to allow private conversation.

“Oh. Yes, I think, Sir Timothy, that I should quite like a walk. If my Aunt and Uncle do not object?” The young lady looked enquiringly at the older woman.

“Certainly, my dear. It
is
a lovely walk. I do so love roses. You mother did, too, didn’t she, my Araminta?’

“Yes, Aunt, she was very fond of them.” Araminta smiled softly at the memory. “She always took care to have bouquets in the drawing room.”

“Shall we, then?” Sir Timothy offered Araminta his arm, which she accepted with a nod of thanks and a warm smile. He had always been an attentive suitor.

They walked together down the narrow walk, enjoying the roses and the sound of laughter and chatter from the groups of people scattered around a clearing in the gardens, from where they would later watch the fireworks. Araminta opened her printed fan as they walked.

“You certainly have a good taste in promenades, Miss Barrington,” observed Sir Timothy softly.

“Thank you, Sir Timothy. I must say the fireworks will be a pleasant break from the usual dinner parties.”

The baronet laughed. “Is that so, Miss Barrington? Why, I confess I am surprised by this. I am certain that young ladies as a rule love dancing best of all. Fireworks, while certainly a sight to be seen, have none of the grandeur of a formal ball, or even a night at the assembly rooms. I daresay one cannot dress as finely for the fireworks as one can for a rout party.”

“No, one certainly cannot, at that. But one does go to so many assemblies and dinners. Fireworks are much more of a rarity, and thus more enjoyable, even if I cannot wear my best pearls.”

“Ah, my dear lady, I am very sorry to hear that you have grown weary of the assemblies. But perhaps I may yet change your mind.” Sir Timothy stopped walking and captured her free hand in his. He brought the delicate hand, encased in a glove of pale blue lace, to his lips. His eyes never left her face as he kissed the back of her hand.

He released her hand, but continued to hold her eyes. “My Aunt Huston is hosting ball this Saturday next, and I would be very honoured if you were to attend. I will even be so bold as to demand an entire two dances of you.”

Araminta returned his flirtatious smile with one of her own, charmed by his elegant manner and fine words.

“Bold indeed, Sir Timothy. And I shall be so bold as to acquiesce to your demand.”

“I am glad to hear it. It would have been an unbearable night otherwise. My aunt should send the invitations to your aunt and uncle by Tuesday. I can only hope that you will like the party more than you do the fireworks, though it will not be an easy victory, if the rumours about the impending entertainment are to be believed. You know, my dear, most young ladies are also fond of balls as a way to get husbands.”

“Sir Timothy!” Araminta gasped in indignation. “I assure you that, while some young ladies certainly
may
look on balls as nothing more than a convenient arena for the snaring of one’s future spouse, that is not at all true of us all.”

The baronet chuckled softly and moved to continue their walk. “No, indeed, Miss Barrington. Forgive me, if you would. I was merely teasing you.”

“Of course,” Araminta murmured softly, with an uneasy smile. She felt the uncomfortable stirrings of guilt in the pit of her stomach. She felt like a hypocrite. He had been right after all, as much as she would rather deny the fact; she was out to snare a husband with a fortune, as quickly as she possibly could. She was exactly like the young women on whom she used to look with such pronounced disdain, and from whom she had always been eager to distance her own character. Sir Timothy was a good man, and he would make a kind, affectionate husband, she had no doubt. And marriages of convenience were not, after all, unheard of. She was looking to charm Sir Timothy, or another like him, into offering her marriage. He would not know, of course, upon offering her his name, that their match would be one of convenience. He
could
not know that she wished to marry him for his fortune, and this made her feel even more of a cheat. While she liked Sir Timothy, she did not love him, and it did not feel right to try to snare him into a union with her, when she could not even return his affection.

For a moment, Araminta was overtaken by guilt. She no longer noticed the beautiful roses and the walk held no enjoyment for her, as Sir Timothy strolled slowly next to her, talking of fireworks and gardens. She wondered if she ought simply to give up the whole idea. It was not in her to be so coldly mercenary, after all. Then she thought of her brother, and Fanshawe Hall. She thought of the generations of Barringtons who had lived within its walls, and sacrificed for it. She thought of poor, distraught Harriet, convinced that not only had she lost a husband, but she was also to lose her home. She thought of her little nephew, who would have nothing to inherit, and the sort of life he could expect. Could she really deny him that, when it was within her reach to fix everything?

A new determination grew within her. She knew that she would not be doing right by Sir Timothy, or whatever other young gentleman she would eventually snare, but she had no other choice. Desperation had set her on her path, and there was no other way but to see it to its end. She thought again of her family, and firmly pushed her guilt to the back of her mind. Araminta raised her eyes off the path and smiled up at Sir Timothy. Her smile was dazzling and her eyes enchanting as they turned off the walk and returned to her aunt and uncle. She was determined to win his heart.

***

The lawn was covered by picnic blankets, cushions and chairs, on which ladies and gentlemen, elegantly attired for the occasion, began taking their seats in anticipation of the firework show to come. Conversation continued unabated, and glances were periodically thrown up at the sky, as though expecting the first of the fireworks. Some chose to observe the show from their carriages, sipping champagne and nibbling on little sandwiches.

Lord and Lady Worthing led the way to their own chairs and blanket. Lord Harris had offered his arm to Susan, and Araminta walked next to her cousin. Sir Timothy had once again offered her his arm, and she accepted with a mixture of relief and guilt.

She had been nervous about attending the fireworks that night. She had not seen Lord Chestleton since the morning at the book store two days before, and she was wary of meeting his again. After some thought, she had concluded that he was bound to be at the fireworks, which were to be attended by most of the
ton
, and certainly a very fashionable event to be seen at. The marquis was known as a man of mode, and so she was certain that he would not miss the event.

Since arriving a good three hours before, however, she had seen nothing of the odious man. Not that she had been looking for him. Not particularly. She had, however, thrown a few careful glances at the surrounding crowd, feeling that it was best to err on the side of caution. He was nowhere to be found. Not among the little groups on the lawn, nor among those seated in their carriages. As she made a round of their friends and acquaintance with her aunt, she made a point of warily scanning the faces around her. She saw no sign of him, and at the end had only to conclude that for by some chance, Chestleton was not at the Gardens.

Araminta was aware that she ought to have felt deeply relieved that she could mingle without fear of running into him, and facing once more the turmoil that he somehow managed to awaken within her with every encounter. Yet, somehow, she also felt irritation. She wouldn’t dream of admitting it out loud, of course, yet she couldn’t help feeling disappointed at his absence.

He must have known that she would attend. And he had caused her two days of unbearable anxiety and panic. She was sure that she could not possibly face him again without complete mortification. She had tried to think of a way to excuse herself from going, though she had to give it up in the end, knowing that her absence would disappoint both her relations and beloved friends. She had then tried to think of a way to avoid him at the party, to escape having to speak with him. It had cost her hours of sleep. Her nerves had been stretched to the brink. She had been determined to ignore him beyond a cool, impersonal greeting. She had agonised over what she would say and how she would say it. And then he had had the gall to simply not attend. It was not to be borne, she decided angrily. A most insufferable man! Had he not even the common decency to allow her to save face?

Before she knew it, the conversation died down and the fireworks began. Araminta loved fireworks. She watched, transfixed, as the little flames shot up into the sky. Flashes of red, blue, silver and gold danced across her delicate face as she looked at the sky in wonder. Her eyes were bright and a smile danced across her face. Around her, people cheered and applauded. Her Aunt Worthing gasped in delight, and a veritable rainbow of colours flew high into the dark heavens. The show awakened a child-like wonder in Araminta, and for a moment she forgot all her problems. They seemed to belong to someone else, as she smiled and laughed with the rest of the crowd. She had not even realised as she let slip her carefully sculpted veneer of amused world-weariness, which was so in fashion among the debutantes. The fireworks opened up a world of dreams which had been closed to her since the death of her beloved father. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to dream.

So transported was Araminta that she had not felt Sir Timothy’s strange gaze upon her fair face. He watched her for a long time, his eyes shadowed and his mouth grim.