To Ruin a Rake (3 page)

“Of course, Your Grace,” agreed the solicitor unconvincingly. “But tell me, does Your Grace plan to be in London for the Season?”

Roland’s gaze locked on the man’s face, searching for signs of insolence, but there were none. Pity. He’d have liked a good fight. “His Grace certainly damned well does.
His Grace
is sick of being stuck out here with nothing but solicitors and the bloody wildlife for company.”

Indeed, he couldn’t
wait
to get back to London. He might as well enjoy the privileges that came with his title—those allowed him, anyway. Even with all of the restrictions set out by William, he would still have a good time. Good enough to forget his pain and anger. For a little while.

Damn you, William. I was never meant to be a duke. That was your destiny.

“Then you will be available to inspect the Hospital?” the little man prompted, circling back to the annoying subject.

“Yes,” Roland growled. Fine. He would visit the bloody place. He’d take a tour and “inspect” it. And then he’d appoint someone to run it on his behalf and wash his hands of it until the next time he was required to pay a visit.

“Excellent,” said the solicitor, taking a sheaf of papers from his case. “Then perhaps you won’t mind reviewing a few documents requiring your signature to authorize some necessary purchases. I would not trouble Your Grace, save that the need is dire.”

Snatching the papers from the man’s hand, Roland stalked over to his desk, took up a pen, and signed them one after another with no more than a cursory glance at each. Coal, linens, provisions. Whether or not the expenses listed were reasonable, he did not know. He had to assume they were. Blast it all, he’d never had anything to do with his brother’s confounded charity, and he
still
didn’t want anything to do with it!

He looked at the final sheet—a request for funds in the amount of five hundred pounds for building repairs—and saw the name
R. Dun, Assistant Administrator
written in neat script at the bottom. The tip of his pen hovered over it as his thoughts whirled. Perhaps Mr. Dun might like a promotion. A quiet one. He certainly appeared to know what he was doing. Ink spattered and smeared as he carelessly scrawled his name on the line provided.
Roland Montagu, Duke of Manchester…

Now both of his feet were firmly encased in William’s boots, ill-fitting as they were.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said the solicitor as he gingerly took the sheets back. “Is there anything I can do for you upon my return to London?”

Roland almost told him to get buggered, but at the last second reconsidered. His brother’s—no,
his
solicitor now—might as well be of some real use to him besides relaying a dead man’s commands to the living. “Yes. Apparently, I’ll need a wife by the end of this Season, and I’ve no idea what is currently available. You see, prior to William’s death, my attentions were given to ladies of a somewhat less lofty rank than my brother would have approved of—at least with regards to marriage,” he added with a sneer. “You can provide me with a list of eligible young women fit to play the role of duchess.”

The solicitor smiled. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall be delighted to oblige. Do you have any preferences of which I should be aware?”

Teeth on edge, Roland flung William’s description of his future paragon of a wife at the man word for word. “A highborn female of satisfactory family and impeccable reputation. I don’t care what she looks like as long as she is reasonably attractive. If I’m to plant the field, I wish to at least have some pleasure in the task.”

The man’s smile faded. “Very good, Your Grace. Perhaps it is better to go into it without any prejudices. I shall craft a list forthwith and have it sent to your London address in time for your arrival.”

Taking his time, Roland drained the last of the brandy from his glass while the man stood waiting to be dismissed. “You may go,” he said at last, bored of baiting him.

The door closed and he went to the chair by the hearth, ignoring the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots. The staff would clean it up later. He sank into the chair and ran his hands along its arms, feeling the places where other hands had worn the wood smooth and the leather rough. His father’s hands. His brother’s. Both had sat here in this exact place countless times over the course of their lives.

In this room more than in any other their presence lingered. It was both comforting and disturbing. Comforting in that most of his early memories of this place were very good ones. Disturbing in that he now felt his father’s disappointment and his brother’s disapproval radiating from the very walls.

Especially from the empty spot above the desk. The former duke’s portrait had always looked out over this office from that vantage point. When he was a child, his grandfather’s cold blue eyes had stared down at him, surveying all that transpired beneath his carved and gilded frame, witnessing triumphs and failures alike. The balance had tipped further and further toward the latter as the years passed, and he’d grown to hate standing before that portrait. Those eyes saw everything. Those eyes had judged and convicted him far more times than he liked to remember.

When his father died, they’d put his portrait up in its place, relegating his grandfather’s likeness to the hall alongside his forebears. And they’d done the same after William’s death. William’s likeness had been here to greet him when he’d first come in after the funeral, and the sight of his brother’s face staring down at him from that place had struck him like a physical blow. Unable to bear its presence, he’d had the portrait taken down at once. A month later when William’s bloody charity had asked for a painting of him to commemorate his contributions, he’d been more than happy to oblige by giving it to them.

The housekeeper had asked him if he’d wanted his father’s portrait brought back to replace it, and he’d shouted at her. No one else had inquired about it since.

But even without his family’s eyes accusing him from on high, their censure haunted him. His father’s words, echoed later by an unknowing William, rang in his memory:
You are better than this, Roland...

Guilt and anger writhed in his gut like an angry serpent. Rising, he sought the only cure he knew for such unpleasantness. Lifting the decanter, he scowled to see how low the level of amber had sunk. No matter. He could afford more. He poured the remainder into his glass and drank it.

A charity he didn’t want. A wife he wanted even less. All he really wanted was to be left in peace. Why couldn’t the world let him be? Why did everyone keep placing demands upon him? Why couldn’t everyone, including the dead, just leave him alone?

Twickenham House

Harriett trailed behind Cat as she entered the fray, willing herself to move forward. Stares and whispers followed her, most of them sympathetic. A few were not.

“Poor thing. Robbed of her ring and only a few weeks before the big day,” tsked one old matron.

“Mmm. A tragedy, to be sure,” said her neighbor. “My, how quickly the time passes. Can it have been a year already?”

Harriett ground her teeth as the pair began counting backward to ensure the proper number of days had passed to allow her to wear anything other than black bombazine. Unwilling to listen any further, she quickened her step.

Fusty old busybodies!
Her attire, a modest lavender silk
robe a la français
, was more than appropriate considering it had in fact been almost two years. She looked down at her skirts and admired the color. Though in her heart she still grieved, she had to admit it
was
nice to finally doff the black. Gazing down at her hand, she smiled at the lovely gold mourning ring that bore a lock of William’s hair, the fair strands woven into a tiny braid to frame his miniature.

It was her most precious possession. His aunt had given it to her to replace the engagement ring she’d had no choice but to return. Papa had wanted her to sell it to pay for Arabella’s secret trip to Berkshire, but she had been adamant in her refusal. Instead, she’d scrimped and cut corners, even given up her portion of the meat for a month just to keep it. It never left her hand unless she was in her bath, and even then it was always kept in sight.

The eyes and murmurs continued to follow her, grating on her nerves like cats’ claws on slate.

I’m not ready for this...

“Harriett!”

“Lily,” she said, turning to greet her dearest friend with a warm smile. “It’s been ages.”

“It’s been
weeks
,” complained Lily, pouting. Half a second later she gasped and stepped back, looking her up and down. A smile split her face. “Well, thank the Lord! I take it you’re on the hunt again?”

Though she knew Lily meant well, Harriett wanted to crawl into a deep hole and hide. Instead, she dredged up a weak smile. “I suppose I am.”

“And high time, too. Society really ought to be more considerate of an unwed female’s predicament.”

“No one forced me to mourn him,” Harriett retorted a bit more sharply than she’d intended. It earned her a long stare and a raised brow. She softened a little. “I truly grieved his loss.”
Did I just say that in the past tense?
“I grieve it even now,” she amended.

“Of course you do, darling,” said Lily, all sympathy again. “But come!” She grabbed Harriett’s arm. “Let us peruse the pond and see if we cannot find something worthy of you.”

Harriett let her lead the way, grateful to let someone else pilot for a while the rudderless ship that was now her life. No one else had wanted to be the first to address the almost-bride of Manchester. Now perhaps, with Lily’s help, she could join a conversation without too much awkwardness.

It was her observation that people tended to avoid those either in or having just emerged from mourning, as though grief was a disease they feared to catch. Glances slid away, people excused themselves hurriedly. When they did engage her, they danced around the obvious, making it that much more omnipresent and uncomfortable for all.

“Do you remember Nanette Finchly?” asked her friend.

A snort escaped Harriett’s lips before she could stop it. “Who could forget her?” She looked askance at Lily. “Surely she isn’t here yet? The marrieds don’t usually begin to arrive until later in the evening.”

“She isn’t married yet,” said Lily, smirking. “And I have it on good authority she won’t be any time soon.”

Harriett’s jaw dropped. “But I saw the announcement in—”

“Lord Russell withdrew his suit.”

Her mouth fell open again. “What in heaven’s name happened? I’ve been buried up to my neck these last few weeks. What did I miss?”

“Everything, as usual,” replied Lily, rolling her eyes. “I nearly came over this week to bring you the news—since I
knew
you hadn’t heard—but I didn’t wish to burden you further. I know you’ve been frantic with preparations for Cat’s coming out.”

Stopping, Harriett faced her, arms akimbo. “Lily Anne Seymour, I refuse to move from this spot until you tell me everything.”

Her friend grinned. “Well, it’s being said that the severing of their engagement was mutual, of course, but Nanette doesn’t seem to be reacting as though it were. She’s been staring daggers at you since you arrived.” She tilted her head to the right.

Harriett risked a glance. “She looks as though she’d like to have me drawn and quartered.” And she knew why. Lord Russell had at one time been keenly interested in her. So much so that he’d threatened to drown himself in the Thames if she accepted another man’s offer—which, of course, she had. Unsurprisingly, Russell had remained both dry and alive. He’d also remained a bloody nuisance all the way up until William’s death. A man could not court a woman in mourning. “But he cannot have known I would—”

“Darling, there are no secrets in London,” cut in Lily, giving her an arch smile. “Word began to spread the moment you ordered gowns for yourself that weren’t black. I heard the news myself when I went for my last fitting at Fisk’s.”

“You don’t really think—”

“Oh, I do.”

“George’s stockings!
Tell
me he isn’t here!”

Lily burst into laughter. “No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he shows up. Better prepare yourself, for I expect his flame only burns the hotter for having lost you once before.”

“I shall die of mortification if he so much as looks at me,” Harriett vowed, snapping her fan open to cool her heated cheeks. She scanned the crowd for the red-headed Lord Russell, praying she saw him first. Instead, her gaze lit upon a head of sandy-colored hair atop an uncomfortably familiar face. She froze as the man looked up and made eye contact.
It can’t be.

“Harriett?”

Lily’s worried face blocked Harriett’s view. By the time she managed to again get a clear vantage, the mirage was gone.

“Harriett, darling? Are you well?”

Her gaze finally focused on Lily’s face. “It’s nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Alive or deceased? I haven’t seen you turn that particular shade of white since the funeral.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Harriett told her, forcing a little laugh. “You were telling me about Nanette?”

~ * ~

Damn me, but this is bloody boring.
Roland turned away from a scene identical to countless others marching back through his memory in a lengthy, monotonous line. How he longed to be back at the Royal, cutting capers backstage with Rich and celebrating a night’s success with the Beefsteak Club.

He cast his gaze out over the crowd. Not a genuine one among them. Especially the women. In Covent Garden one at least knew the difference between an act and the real person. There, acting was reserved for the stage. Here, it was an entirely different matter.