Twice a Rake (13 page)

Ludicrous. Laughable, even.

He couldn’t have done what he’d just done with her, and then tossed her aside on the sofa as he did if he cared. She was just another of his conquests.

Yet
she
was afraid. There was only one answer she could give him.

“Yes,” she whispered to the stoic expanse of his back.

~ * ~

Griffin looked up at the massive manor house before him, then double-checked the direction. Number Twelve, Berkeley Square. That’s what his father had told him. And with those huge colonnades and beveled windows, it had to be Mansfield House.

Thankfully, his father had not been interested in
why
he needed to visit with Lord Rotheby. Griffin saw no reason to bring more people into the matter than necessary, even though Quinton’s actions were likely to have an effect on Phoebe.

He knew his sister well. She had tried to convince everyone at the ball that she merely felt a touch under the weather, using that as an excuse for her early departure. But Griffin saw the pain in her eyes that she had attempted to mask as illness.

Obviously, Lord Quinton had been at the same ball as his sister.

Which meant that Aurora Hyatt was likely also at that ball.

He could be too late. Quinton might have already set his devious plan into motion. Another young lady might already be ruined.

Griffin should have immediately come to Rotheby after Miss Hyatt had refused to see him. If he could not stop her from her own folly, perhaps he could have stopped events on Quinton’s end.

But he had not.

He could never forgive himself if he’d allowed another innocent to fall prey to Quinton’s vices. Which was why he was here, now. If anyone could stop Quinton, it was his grandfather.

Griffin established his resolve and knocked at the door. A butler ushered him inside and settled him in a sitting room, and a pretty young maid brought in a tray with biscuits and tea. He finished his first cup of tea and was well into his second before Rotheby joined him.

“Lord Griffin. One of Laughton’s sons, aren’t you? What do you want?” The older man had a spring in his step that was obviously missing in his deportment.

Griffin jumped to his feet and started to bow, but Rotheby waved him off impatiently.

“My lord, I’d hoped to speak with you on an important matter regarding your grandson and a certain Miss Hyatt. I assure you, it is quite imperative.”

The earl narrowed his eyes and took a seat in the closest armchair. “Miss Hyatt, eh? Go on.”

“I was at my club yesterday afternoon when I overheard Lord Quinton speaking with a friend”

“Eavesdropping is rude,” Rotheby interjected. “Is your father aware of your penchant for such behavior?”

So he wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? Quinton had probably already started things in motion then. Something had to be done. “My lord, your grandson has come upon Miss Hyatt’s journal. A journal filled with sordid stories.”

The earl’s eyes widened, but he shook his head. “And that should matter to me
why
, precisely?”

Griffin threw up his hands in disgust. “Because he is going to use this against her! He intends to trap her in some way and force her hand. He’ll ruin her as fast as he devastated my sister—you do remember that, do you not?”

Rotheby gave a curt nod.

“Then you’ll also remember that Phoebe was innocent in their situation. As, I’m sure, is Miss Hyatt. You, sir, must do something to stop Quinton. You must rein in your wayward grandson and protect this young lady before it is too late.”

The earl reached to a nearby table and picked up the morning’s society papers. “Here, take a look at this.” He tossed it to Griffin. “You’ll see that
you
are too late. I expect they’ll marry within the week.”

Griffin scanned the story, reading how the bastard had cornered the poor girl and kissed her before half the
ton
. Thank God Phoebe had left before seeing that. Who knows what it would have done to her.

He left Mansfield House, kicking himself for not acting sooner.

Miss Hyatt must now suffer for his inaction.

~ * ~

“I have half a mind to stop aiding you,” Jonas said, climbing into his phaeton after Quin. “Maybe Rotheby was on to something with his ultimatum.”

“Lovely to have your support,” Quin grumbled. With the two of them seated together, there was hardly room to breathe, let alone stretch one’s legs in any sense of comfort. “I am perfectly capable of traveling to Doctor’s Commons on my own, you know. You need not keep me in leading strings.”

“If I’m not going to cut you off,” Jonas said, “I intend to keep both eyes fully trained on you until this is all settled to my satisfaction.”

Quin had had enough. First, there was the blistering headache from indulging a mite too much in brandy the night before, compounded by the arguments with Jonas that had gone well into the night. Then the meeting with Rotheby that morning—which had been an effort, to say the least. And of course, he’d had to handle both Hyatt and Aurora, as well.

Some days he thought perhaps there was something to be said for living a quiet, predictable,
honorable
life. Maybe someday he would give it a try. Likely not, though. Even though sorting out the messes he created often made him want to toss himself inside a burning building, they were still damned fun creating in the first place.

“I gave you my bloody word. More importantly, I gave Miss Hyatt and her father my word. We’ll marry tomorrow.”

“Your word does not seem to mean much, these days.” Jonas frowned resolutely. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think you’d do well to listen to your grandfather for once. Grow up. Be a man.”

If they weren’t driving through crowded streets, Quin would draw Jonas’s cork for that comment. “I’m as much a man as my father ever was.”

“Precisely the problem. What happened to wanting to be better than him?” Jonas navigated the phaeton around a sharp turn, nodding and tipping his hat to a passing carriage. “Why are you content to live the same life he did—only perhaps to a greater extent? I wonder what your mother must think of you these days.”

Blast. Quin hated it with a blinding passion when Jonas was right. “Mother is none of your concern. She is perfectly content in her new marriage, and thoroughly oblivious to my pursuits.” Thank God. He would hate himself more than he already did if she could see what a wastrel he’d become. “It’s better this way.”

“Better how? Better that you never see her? She loves you. She wants you to finally be happy. Like I do. And what of your sister? Nia wouldn’t recognize you if she saw you.” Jonas shook his head and looked away.

Quin ground his jaw. Nia was far better off without him in her life. Jonas should leave her out of this.

The phaeton rolled over a deep rut in the road, bumping them against each other even more than they already were. “Can’t you see that it would hurt your family to see you acting like this?” Jonas asked after a protracted silence.

“Acting like what? Like a gentleman who is doing the right thing? Like a bloody dandy about to tie myself irrevocably to some silly chit I’ve known for less than a day?”

“Like a wounded bear, acting out against everyone around you, Quin,” Jonas muttered. “You’re acting out against me, against Rotheby, and now you’ve gone and drawn Miss Hyatt into your mess. When are you going to accept the fact that you can’t change the past, you can’t change the man your father was, but you can damned well change who you are?”

“I can’t. I am who my father made me.”

And he would bloody well stay that way until he died.

Chapter Eight

2 April, 1811

Marriage
—
real, true marriage
—
is not something I’ve ever really allowed myself to contemplate. After seeing what happened between Mother and Father for so many years, it is the last thing in the world I wanted. Yet now, I will be married whether I want it or not. Tomorrow, in fact. Oh, dear good Lord. How did I end up in this mess? Still, Lord Quinton
does
look to be quite the pirate. Perhaps at least a marriage to him will be adventurous. Do I want adventure? I’m not certain. I simply do not want boredom. So I shall hope that my pirate will not bore me to tears. And perhaps someday we will learn to love one another. I can always hope. Lust, at least, appears to be in no short supply.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

Everything felt numb.

Aurora couldn’t afford to feel. If she allowed herself to feel, then she would collapse beneath the enormity of it all.

Father had kept to himself in his study since Lord Quinton left that morning. When she did see him, the look upon his face was so pitiful she wanted to toss herself kicking and screaming upon her bed.
She
was the cause of his despair. He hadn’t appeared so despondent since the days when her mother was still alive.

Rose continued to check on her, asking if Aurora needed anything. Aurora wanted to wail each time her maid asked such a question, because it only reminded her of how fast it was all to happen. How the wedding she had once hoped never to have at all would not take place at St. George’s and be attended by all and sundry, but instead would be held at some tiny parish church, with only those who absolutely must attend present. How, within such a short breadth of time, she’d made the one mistake that would mean leaving her father—the one person in the world she held the most dear. But if she did not follow through—if she decided she could not do it—then she would shame him most egregiously and he would never forgive her.

Which she already feared he might not do.

 
She wished her maid would simply leave her be to wallow in her misery alone. She’d already sent the girl off with the ivory satin for her wedding gown, so that a modiste could fashion it, and then sent her to a florist to order flowers for the church.

The ladies of the
ton
were certainly upholding their end of the bargain. Even though it was Aurora’s traditional at-home, not a single soul had knocked upon the door of Hyatt House.

Not, at least, until Rebecca arrived, well after the usual hour for paying calls. She swept into the front drawing room (where Aurora remained, despondent, as she had been since Lord Quinton’s departure) wearing a lovely jonquil, sprigged-muslin afternoon gown. Gracious, had she brought the sun in with her? How abominably churlish, to flounce in all bright and cheerful when Aurora desired to remain wretched.

“You’ll never guess,” Rebecca said, removing her gloves to select a cake from the tea tray, “who Mama and I visited with this afternoon.”

Did she really think Aurora wanted to gossip? She had plenty more important matters on her mind. But since Rebecca was her dearest and most especial friend, she mustered, “Oh? Who would that be?”

“The Marchioness of Laughton and her daughter, Lady Phoebe Seabrook. You’ll remember Lady Phoebe from last night, of course.”

She would? How was she supposed to remember anything from last night that was not in some way connected to her encounter with Lord Quinton? With that delightfully sinful kiss that changed the course of her life forever?