Gareth: Lord of Rakes (3 page)

Her gratitude was surprising, and some part of him also found it… insupportable. Repugnant. “I know.”
Neither
could
I.
“There’s just one more thing, if you would be so kind?”

“My lord?”

“Your name.”

She turned to go and beamed a smile at him over her shoulder. Her smile embodied benediction, relief, and pure female beauty all at once. Had he been a less experienced man, it would have bowled him over.

He was a very experienced man, and still, her smile stunned him momentarily witless.

“I am Felicity, your lordship. Miss Felicity Hemmings Worthington.”

One of the marquess’s liveried footmen hailed a hackney, and Felicity climbed in with a sense of unreality, as if watching herself perform on a stage.

She’d kissed a man who hadn’t even known her name, kissed him the way she supposed lovers kissed. It was… well, it was beyond words, though she admonished herself not to dwell on it.

Not dwelling on distasteful topics was a skill every English lady perfected long before she left the schoolroom. Those same ladies would never admit, however, that a shocking kiss from a debauched marquess had felt not wicked, but tender, intriguing, and
cherishing
.

And yet Heathgate was precisely the sort of man to whom kisses given to strangers meant nothing, and such kisses from him should mean nothing to her. Moreover, before this situation had run its course—which it would do, one way or another in the next few months—he would do a deal more than kiss her.

Already, Felicity felt herself slipping into the pragmatic attitude of the professional impure:
He
will
have
intimate
knowledge
of
me, kiss me, touch me, and so on
—and she had some idea what “so on” was—
and
I
will
have
financial
security.
In fact, she’d been terrified he’d decline the trusteeship, leaving her to face Riverton.

But the Marquess of Heathgate had a reputation for doing as he pleased, and devil take the hindmost. To her relief, he hadn’t refused her, as any decent man should have. But then, no decent woman would have asked for his help.

Felicity had spent months telling herself she and Astrid would manage somehow without this terrible gift from Callista, until the solicitors had made it clear she’d have to refuse the bequest or meet its terms.

The hackney turned down the quiet lane running before the Worthington household, and Felicity deliberately smoothed her features as she exited the coach and turned to pay the cabbie.

“Hit’s been tooken care of, mum,” the cabbie informed her with a tip of his hat.

She closed her reticule and thanked him, flustered but honestly relieved. They had come to that—scrimping over cab fare—and would soon have come to worse.

The door opened as she approached the house.

“You’re home! Oh, Felicity, what was he like? Will he help us?” Seventeen-year-old Astrid—petite, blond, and bubbling with energy—had Felicity’s cloak untied and hung on a peg in an instant. “You must, you simply must tell us everything—mustn’t she, Crabbie?”

Felicity was saved from responding by Mrs. Crabble bustling up from the kitchen with a tea tray.

“Now, Miss Astrid, give your sister a chance to get her bearings, for pity’s sake. I’ll set this in the parlor, and we can enjoy a nice, hot cup of tea while Miss Felicity tells us the news.”

Felicity plunked the most horrid bonnet ever created onto a hook. She’d had tea and a sinfully rich éclair at Heathgate’s, and found her digestion too unsteady to relish the thought of more, but Crabbie tried hard to observe the domestic rituals even as their financial ship floundered closer to destruction.

“Felicity, you must not make us wait any longer,” Astrid declared as she thumped down on the most comfortable chair remaining in the family parlor. “Will Heathgate help us?”

Felicity lowered herself more decorously onto the sofa as Mrs. Crabble poured out. The marquess liked his tea strong and sweet, she recalled—for no earthly reason.

“He will help us,” she said, smiling purposefully at her sister, “but you must remember this situation requires utmost discretion, Astrid. No one is to know I am learning how to manage a gaming house.”

That was only partly a lie—people did gamble at Callista’s establishment—and because Felicity herself wasn’t entirely sure what else
exactly
went on there, she couldn’t have enlightened her little sister much further if she’d wanted to.

“Well, that’s just fine, then,” Mrs. Crabble said, handing a cup of tea to Astrid. “Things will soon come right now you’ve met with the marquess.” Crabbie sipped her own tea, the look on her round, worn face beatific.

A viscount’s daughters did not take tea with their housekeeper. Perhaps if Felicity had paid Crabbie’s wages at some point since Christmas, she would have been better able to recall why.

“Tell me about his house, Lissy,” Astrid prompted, “and tell me about him. What does he look like?”

He looked like every woman’s vision of sweet ruin, blast him, and his kisses were the embodiment of same.

Which was some comfort. If a woman was to lose her every pretension to propriety, she should at least have lovely kisses to show for it.

“He carries the scent of sandalwood and something else—nutmeg, or clove, or something spicy, expensive, and oddly soothing. You’d pick it out easily, Astrid. He is tall, at least six inches taller than I, and I am taller than many men. He has blue eyes that… they do not invite question, is the best way I can put it. He is surprisingly dignified…” She sipped her tea—weak tea, an inevitable consequence of reusing the leaves. “Not only dignified, but forbidding. I believe he enjoys an active life, based on his physique. His hair is dark, but not quite black—sable—and he wears it queued back.” She had wanted to free his hair but hadn’t dared. “He’s in some regards old-fashioned, I guess. Different.”

Though a man of Heathgate’s consequence could be as different as he pleased, and his inferiors would ape him, not judge him for it.

“Oh, good,” Astrid said. “I cannot abide an effete man.” A silence followed her pronouncement, and she set her teacup down with a clatter. “Come now, you two. You are exchanging
that
look. I may be seventeen, but I do have opinions of my own.”

Felicity and Mrs. Crabble had indeed been exchanging a look—one they often exchanged when Astrid’s combination of adolescent directness and adult insight left them not knowing whether to scold or laugh.

“How would you know about effete men, dearest?” Felicity asked, unable to keep the humor from her voice.

“Father was effete,” Astrid pointed out, “and look where he left us.”

Mrs. Crabble heaved a gusty sigh in lieu of speaking ill of the dead—overtly.

“He did his best, Astrid,” Felicity chided. “And he did not invent the process of escheat.”

Astrid, never one for moderation of her opinions, leaned forward over her teacup. “I was eleven when Father died. He had eleven years to find somebody who would bear him a male child, and he knew as well as the lowliest potboy that a peer who dies without male heirs will see his entailed property revert to the Crown. Didn’t he care any more for us than that? We were left with nothing! If Callista hadn’t left us her business, where would we be?”

Another sigh from Mrs. Crabble, and another exchanged look.

“Astrid, Father didn’t plan on having an apoplexy. Though it might not seem like it to you, two-and-fifty is not exactly decrepit. For all we know, he was trying to court an appropriate woman at the time, and he did manage to buy this house as personal property. We still have some nice things about us, and though we’ve had to economize a bit since Father died, there’s no harm in that.”

“There, dear,” Mrs. Crabble piped up. “More tea?”

Astrid shook her head, her expression mutinous. “You won’t say it, Felicity, but I know it’s true: Father didn’t care for us. We have this house because he bought it for his mistresses, and even they didn’t present him any children.”

Felicity lifted an eyebrow and regarded her sister steadily. The silence stretched for several heartbeats.

“I am sorry.” Astrid muttered this apology to her teacup. “I have been so frightened—what if the marquess wouldn’t help us? We’ve economized more than a bit—my dresses are becoming indecently short, you’ve let everyone but the Crabbles and the tweenie go, and we have only the pony cart left to get around in. Soon we will have to sell this house—”

Indecently short, suggesting even Astrid knew only streetwalkers flashed their ankles on purpose.

Felicity’s heart nearly broke as she put her arms around her sister. This was why she would finally undertake the devil’s bargain Callista had put before her. This was why she was resigned to losing her virtue, to accepting the guidance of the notorious Marquess of Heathgate. Astrid was innocent and not even out of the schoolroom. She did not deserve to go to bed at night wondering how long it would be before she slept in the streets.

Or worse.

“Astrid, don’t upset yourself so.” Felicity hugged her sister. “We are not as bad off as all that, nor will we be. Callista’s will provides for us, now that I’ve agreed to learn her business. The marquess will do his part, and all will come right, just as Mrs. Crabble says. Have some more tea while I tell you about the marquess’s house. The butler looked at least a hundred years old, and I thought he’d give me frostbite, so chill was his disapproval of me for calling without a chaperone. But the house, Astrid, is beyond elegant.”

She regaled her sister with the harmless details of her visit to the marquess, but noted from the corner of her eye that Mrs. Crabble’s expression had become uncharacteristically thoughtful.

Felicity prattled on, knowing dear Crabbie was probably wondering how and why Felicity had gotten close enough to the marquess to note the delicate sandalwood scent of his soap and linen.

***

“Hughes, have Brenner join me in the estate office at once, if you please.” Gareth tossed the words over his shoulder as he left the soaring entryway of his town house. His encounter with Felici—
Miss
Worthington concluded, he had much to do. He mentally put aside the developments ensuing from that interview, and turned his mind to the business he had planned for the day.

He let himself into the estate office, which overlooked the gardens at the back of the house, where a few brave purple crocuses suggested spring might eventually make an appearance. Gareth turned his back on the garden and began reading through the correspondence stacked on his desk. A discreet knock preceded the creak of the door opening.

Gareth did not look up from a long and whiny epistle from a land agent in Wales. “Brenner, take a seat. We have matters to discuss.”

Michael Brenner, an auburn-haired young man who gave off an air of serious purpose, did as bid. Gareth paid him a tidy sum to do as he was bid, whenever he was bid, and without fussing or dramatics.

“I trust your journey was uneventful,” Gareth said, putting aside his reading a moment later.

“It was, your lordship. The distillery is humming along in fine style, and you’ll have my report by morning.”

“You didn’t have time to write it on the journey south?”

“I did draft it, but it requires recopying so as to be more legible.”

Brenner spoke the truth—nobody in Gareth’s employ for more than a day would lie, dissemble, euphemize, prevaricate, or otherwise attempt to bamboozle him. Those who tried were soon unemployed and in want of a character.

“Give it to the amanuensis. Your time is to too valuable to spend copying reports. What do you know of a Felicity Worthington?”

Brenner shot his cuffs, which Gareth had long ago realized meant the man was arranging his thoughts.

“The Worthington family has weathered some difficulty, your lordship, as a result of Viscount Fairly’s demise without male issue. I believe his wife predeceased him, having died giving birth to a daughter before you went up to university. The other daughter is quite a bit older, well beyond her come-out. Both were to have become wards of the Crown, at least nominally, but at the time of the viscount’s death, there was an older relation prepared to take them in. I believe that relation, an aunt, has since died.”

Brenner had nearly memorized Debrett’s
New
Peerage
, and could recite most documents he’d read verbatim—part of the reason Gareth had been paying him a princely sum for the past two years.

“How are the daughters supported, Brenner? Fairly has been dead at least five years.” Gareth stared out into the garden, not seeing the brave crocuses, but rather, recalling a pair of serious topaz eyes.

“I am not sure how the Worthington ladies manage, my lord. The aunt left the girls some money, but I believe their circumstances are significantly reduced.”

“Is there a cadet branch of the family, some obscure offshoot of an obscure younger son?”

“Not that I am aware of. One would think, in a case of escheat, every line and branch would have been explored before such a radical step was initiated.”

Gareth did not acknowledge Brenner’s statement of the obvious. Escheat was the unthinkable tragedy threatening every titled family, the reason why the succession must be ensured at all costs. In his own family, avoiding escheat meant his title had passed to him upon the simultaneous deaths of his grandfather, his uncle, his cousin, his father, and his older brother. His was the kind of story that had the peerage fornicating like rabbits until the requisite heir and spare had been safely raised to manhood.

It was also the reason Gareth avoided visiting his family’s distillery and never overindulged in strong spirits.

He turned his attention back to the matters before him. Brenner, at least, did not seem aware Callista Hemmings was related to the Worthingtons, which was encouraging.

“You will investigate the situation of Viscount Fairly’s surviving issue. I want to know the circumstances of the estate upon his death, and what the Crown has done with the properties since. I also need to know whatever you can determine about the properties owned by the late Callista Hemmings, and don’t limit yourself to the Pleasure House. Get some trustworthy eyes on the Worthington household while you’re at it. Be discreet—but this account can be written.”

“My pleasure, my lord.” Brenner stood and bowed slightly, heading for the door, his expression suggesting he was already mentally organizing his assignments.

“Brenner?”

He stopped. “Something else, my lord?”

“You have my thanks for your efforts inspecting the distillery in Scotland. I would not have made the journey willingly.”