Gareth: Lord of Rakes (35 page)

“I can answer that,” Gareth said, handing Felicity the black-ribboned document. “If you read this will, it never mentions the word madam. It refers to an eldest cousin, firstborn issue of the Viscount Fairly. If you are the firstborn of two siblings, you are elder. If you are one of three siblings, then you are eldest. It was there, I just didn’t see it,” Gareth said, handing Felicity the will.

He needed to ensure she’d absorbed Holbrook’s earlier point: “It is also, as we established with the senior Willards, absolutely not a requirement of this will that Callista’s heir acquire anything other than business expertise from me. Callista was consigning Holbrook to be my protégé, which Riverton could not have known.”

Lady Heathgate was still frowning, though she sounded less truculent. “This explains the gossip,” she said. “Riverton would have wanted to discredit you, Heathgate, first as a competent trustee of the estate, so he could get his hands on the income, then as a gentleman. In that regard, he was willing to resort to bodily harm, fires, kidnapping, and attempted blackmail.”

“Is the man dead?” Felicity asked.

Andrew answered her. “He is. There will be an inquest, but you needn’t worry. You weren’t there, Felicity, and neither was Astrid. The man was set upon by dockside ruffians, nothing more.”

Holbrook exchanged a barely perceptible nod with Gareth and Andrew.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Felicity said. “You are my brother, David Holbrook, but you don’t make decisions or attend inquests in my stead.”

“Think of your sister,” Andrew said, keeping Astrid’s hand in his. “If Astrid is an acknowledged relation of a viscount, she can bear the stigma of unfortunate birth, particularly if she has some sort of dowry. If she might have witnessed a murder and was kidnapped, trapped for two hours alone and bound in the company of criminals, what do you think her future holds?”

Felicity’s shoulders sagged. “We weren’t there.” She rolled up the will and tied the ribbons in a neat bow. “This entire undertaking has been a waste of my time and the marquess’s, for which I do apologize. I should never have bothered you in the first place, my lord, but I didn’t find Callista’s clues, and so I am the proud owner of a useless business education.”

Her words cut Gareth, but she was smiling that special smile at him, and he was at a loss as to her meaning. Was loving him a useless education?
Had
she loved him?

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud sigh from Astrid. “I guess that leaves us with one problem: Who gets to be the bastard? Shall it be David, or me and Felicity?”

Lady Heathgate smiled for the first time that evening. “Neither,” she said, looking at Gareth.

“What do you have in mind, Mother?” Though he knew exactly what she had in mind and approved wholeheartedly.

“I posit we simply embellish the tale David’s family has already bruited about. His mother married, became pregnant, didn’t get on well with her husband—different strata of Society, you know—went to Scotland to visit cousins, and died in childbirth or shortly thereafter. Her estranged husband remarried. It’s done all the time.”

Brenner looked thoughtful rather than appalled. “All it would take is a change in date on a death record, your lordships, assuming anybody could find such a record in an obscure parish in rural Scotland.” He included Holbrook in that courtesy. “And Holbrook—er, Lord Fairly—can claim his legitimacy, but if the late Viscount Fairly is revealed to be a bigamist, then all three of his offspring will suffer by association, title or not, legitimate or not. He could be found guilty of a felony posthumously, in the eyes of Society if not the courts. This subterfuge would spare them that.”

“I leave it to my sisters,” Holbrook said. “I don’t think my mother would have minded, if it makes a difference. She eventually accepted she would not have been comfortable in Fairly’s world, and saw the love of a lifetime for her was no more than a rebellious infatuation for him. What I want now is whatever would make my sisters happy.”

Gareth addressed the assemblage with a smile he didn’t feel. “Why don’t we replenish our plates and leave Felicity and Astrid to consider their situation? The day’s events, while safely concluded, have to be overwhelming for them. Ladies, it is pleasant out in the garden, and I’ve had torches lit if you’d like to stroll there.”

He ushered his guests out of the library, but touched Felicity on the arm when she would have passed him. “You’ll be all right?”

“Gareth, I hardly know.”

“Take it from me, Felicity, the acquisition of a brother can only be a very great blessing. When you and I parted, were it not for Andrew…”

Felicity regarded him curiously. “Will you spare me a moment to speak privately?”

His heart started hammering against his ribs. “Do you
want
me to spare you such a moment?” A lifetime of such moments?

“I do, very much.”

He leaned down to kiss her forehead and to breathe in lavender and hope. “I’ve asked my mother to spend the night so you and Astrid might remain as guests. I will join you later, and we can talk. For now, I think your most pressing task is to talk Miss Astrid out of becoming a bastard.”

***

A brother! Felicity still could not credit that it was so, much less such a one as David Holbrook.

David
Worthington
. What a lovely name. If everyone was going to be legitimate, then they had the same last name. They had a brother… He would be a splendid addition to the family, and Felicity had already admired the man’s ability to deal with Astrid.

Astrid, who had been through so much today, but who had turned for comfort and support not so much to her sister, as she had to Andrew Alexander. Andrew had been overtly protective and affectionate toward Astrid, and Astrid had tolerated it.

No, not just tolerated it. Astrid had returned Andrew’s attentions. But then, it was a day for odd twists. And an exhausting day.

Felicity considered the bed, the covers of which had been turned down to warm the sheets. She should blow out the candles and climb in bed, not wait up here in her room for that private moment Gareth had promised her. “Later” for a busy man whose day had been interrupted could mean next week, and her discussion with him was not, despite her desperate longing for his company, truly urgent.

“Something has you smiling,” said a quiet male voice.

Gareth stood inside her door, looking tired, handsome, and so very, very dear.

“I didn’t hear you knock.” He was undressed down to boots, a loose linen shirt, and breeches. His cuffs were undone and turned back to reveal his forearms, and he held a drink in one hand.

“I didn’t knock, because I didn’t want to wake you if you were asleep. Did you still want to have that private discussion?”

Her caller was Heathgate. The new, improved version, with better manners and a thread of humility, but still a reserved, cautious man who did not easily reveal himself.

“I want to have that private discussion. Won’t you come sit with me?” Felicity bounced onto the bed and patted the mattress beside her. Looking wary, his lordship crossed the room to put his drink on the nightstand before he took the proffered seat. He chose his spot carefully, so their thighs just touched. Just.

“How are you feeling about the day’s developments, Felicity?”

She would rather he took her hand and called her Lissy. “There have been so many. I am at sea, but very happy to have both brother and sister hale and hearty. And you and Andrew as well—I haven’t yet thanked you, Gareth. There simply aren’t words to do so properly.”

“You still use my name.”

His tone gave away nothing, not surprise, not amusement, certainly not pleasure. “Would you rather I didn’t? We are sitting on my bed, and our attire is hardly decent. Still, I suppose I should have asked if you’d—”

He interrupted her by taking her hand. “Hush,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “I want to be Gareth to you always. How is Astrid?”

He held her hand. Felicity took courage from that.

“Astrid is oddly quiet, though I think Andrew is a comfort to her. David already has a rapport with her that will help as well. She will be fine, in time, if Andrew can behave himself.”

They both fell silent, but before Gareth could kiss her on the forehead again—God help her—Felicity seized her courage in both hands.

“I went completely to pieces, before. When we parted. I cried for days, stayed in my rooms for more days, left Astrid to fend for herself, and barely stirred from the house. I am not proud of myself, but it just… Everything hurt, though it sounds melodramatic when I put it that way. I missed you, is all.”

She got up and paced to the hearth because Gareth was still giving away nothing—not one thing.

“You missed me?” He might have been asking if the entertainment was a cellist or a pianist at some musicale.

“No, no, I did not
miss
you. I
missed
you.”

He regarded her warily, likely a man dreading to witness a female fit of the vapors.

Bother
that.
Felicity plopped down on the bed next to him, took his arm, and affixed it around her shoulders. She possessed herself of his hand and tried again.

“I
grieved
for you. My heart became this aching, inert thing. I could not think, I could not speak, I could only watch myself suffer and pity the poor, helpless creature I’d become. I was ashamed of myself, and that, eventually, is what motivated me to drag myself from my bed. Do not be deceived though. I have learned how to miss you even as I dress and comb my hair and manage my household. I miss you still.”

Which ought not to be possible, not when his sandalwood scent was teasing her nose, and the warmth and strength of him were right there beside her on that very same bed.

She gathered her resolve to abandon that bed, because clearly Gareth—Heathgate, blast the man—did not reciprocate—

A large male hand gently pushed her head to his shoulder. “You missed me?”

“Shamefully, wildly, passionately, disgracefully. Need I go on?”

He held her snugly for a full minute, during which Felicity did not dare so much as breathe, before he began to speak.

***

Gareth was on a bed with Felicity, his arms wrapped around her, and he never, ever wanted to let go.

Which meant he had to say something, the right something, to make her understand.

“Felicity… Lissy, I… got drunk.” She remained where she was, letting him hold onto her. “I know now where the term stinking drunk originates, because by about the third day, my own putrid stench no longer registered. I yelled at the servants, stayed up wandering all night, drank some more, and missed you, and missed you, and missed you.

“I probably would have drunk myself to death,” he went on, “except Andrew paid me a visit and told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, because he hadn’t survived all the same losses I had just to watch me commit a slow, odoriferous suicide. He was very understanding, but also very honest, and he managed to shame me into at least trying to be worthy of the regard you once showed me.”

Which was all important to tell her, but not what really mattered.

“I am sorry, Gareth, that you suffered so. I should not have asked of you what I did.”

Gareth felt a suspicious dampness trickle against his neck. Merciful God, he’d made her cry.

And yet, she did not leave him.

“I saw you today with Holbrook on the way to the park. You looked so happy, and I told myself he had to be paying you proper addresses after all. I had been screwing up my courage to approach you, thinking perhaps we could negotiate… something. Then I saw you with him, and I wanted to get drunk for another month.”

“Oh, Gareth,” Felicity wailed softly against his neck. “I did not mean to cause you distress, and you seemed so determined to be free of me.”

Gareth held her for long moments, thinking only that he had caused her spirit, his practical, vibrant, lovely Felicity’s spirit, to flicker and dim. Bad enough he’d stolen her virtue, stolen her innocence, put her at risk for social censure, and entangled her in his past with Riverton, but to have broken her heart like this… Desperation nearly choked him, but they both spoke at once.

“Will you marry me?” and—

“I would be your mistress if you’d have me.”

She’d spoken as humbly, as hopefully, as he had. Gareth rested his chin on the top of her head and swallowed twice before speaking again.

“I would rather marry you, if you don’t mind. You’ve proven you can walk away from me once already, and I would not…” He took a slow, deep breath. “You have made me a better man than I ever thought I could be. You have restored to me the man I should have been, and I would not
survive
the loss of you again. I simply could not.”

“Nor I the loss of you,” Felicity agreed, wrapping her arms around him. She rested her head on his chest, and he thought perhaps she was listening to the heart banging against his ribs. “Gareth?”

“Hmm?”

“I have just one favor to ask of you.”

“Anything, love.” He would do anything for her in that moment except let her walk away from him again.

“Stay with me tonight?”

The Creator in all His wisdom had never fashioned a more wonderful female. “My love, it shall be my very greatest pleasure to grant that request.”

True gentleman that he was, he ensured it was
her
very greatest pleasure as well, and through all the years and decades of their long, happy, and prodigiously fruitful union, continued to ensure her great pleasure as often as she’d allow it.

As Gareth notes, a woman could not inherit a brothel in Regency England, not the way I might inherit my grandmother’s candy store in modern times. Brothels were illegal, and no court would enforce a will whose purpose was illegal. Felicity could, however, inherit property from a family member (all the assets of her cousin’s enterprise), the way I might inherit my cousin Frankie the Forger’s address book, pens, ink, and paper supplies, but not his forgery “business.”

This story of a rake charged with the ruin of a lady, only to find the lady instead redeems him, took shape as one of my first historical romance manuscripts, and I became enthralled with it the instant it popped into my head. And yet, I’m a lawyer (though not a wills and trusts attorney), and so I wanted more information about the legality of prostitution and brothels in Merry Olde England two hundred years ago.

My editor also had some questions about Regency brothels, and thus I had not only permission, but encouragement (!) to go down this interesting historical rabbit hole.

I found, to my surprise, that prostitution itself was not illegal, but that soliciting was, and living off the proceeds of “immoral commerce” was also illegal. A woman fallen on hard times, between legitimate employments, or otherwise cast adrift in Regency London could thus entertain a few customers without much risk of arrest and with an expectation of immediate, direct compensation for her efforts.

And apparently, many, many women did just that.

In 1806, in an effort to quantify livelihoods in London, the Scottish statistician Patrick Colquhoun estimated that 50,000 women in the greater metropolitan area were engaged in some form of prostitution—or about one in ten women. That total of 50,000 was also cited for a study of eighteenth century London, at which point it would have amounted to
one
in
five
women.

The (perhaps Victorian?) notion that prostitution was a secretive undertaking for the immoral or unfortunate few flies directly out the window.

In fact, the ladybirds, soiled doves, streetwalkers, courtesans, demireps, and bits o’ muslin—they had dozens of names—were very much in evidence in the better neighborhoods, around the best theatres, and in the elegant West End parks. I found two reasons for this. First, that’s where the wealthy fellows were. (I came across at least one reference to brothels for women who preferred their own gender. I could not find evidence of one for women willing to pay for male attentions, though I’ve seen mention of handsome shop clerks being available to wealthy women for this purpose.)

Some sources suggest that Haymarket was a popular place for prostitutes to gather, in part because the country girls would come into the city with the produce sold at the market, and any madam looking for new employees would have many possibilities to choose from. We know the tale of the abbess who took advantage of such girls was familiar to Jane Austen, because she joked about it in her letters when discussing her own trips to London.

The second reason brothels tended to flourish in the fashionable West End, and even in Mayfair (St. James especially—don’t tell the men’s clubs) is that what police resources the authorities had were sent to the financial district, or “The City.” In the wealthiest neighborhoods, the residents themselves—by virtue of hired muscle, stout locks, and social and political consequence—kept the streets safe.

Thus did the best brothels locate themselves in the safest neighborhoods, near the deepest pockets, where there was the least threat of police interference.

For the very, very few, prostitution could result in significant social advancement. Beau Brummell’s mother was his father’s mistress before becoming that wealthy man’s wife. Harriette Wilson’s younger sister took her first protector when she was only thirteen, and by age seventeen had married the Baron Berwick (and though they attended her wedding, her three courtesan sisters never spoke with her again).

Elizabeth Armistead was working in a brothel when she met her future lover and husband, the Hon. Charles James Fox. She was by far wealthier than he at the time of their marriage, and yet, after his death, three successive English monarchs (including Queen Victoria) approved pensions for her, as the beloved widow of a revered statesman.

Most prostitutes were, of course, nowhere near that lucky. Ian Kelly, in his wonderful biography,
Beau
Brummell: The Ultimate Man of Style
, suggests that when the great armies of Europe mobilized for the Napoleonic wars, a virulent strain of syphilis mobilized with them (and Brummell became one of its victims).

While the symptoms of syphilis could be (somewhat) controlled by virtue of what amounts to mercury poisoning, the treatment was expensive and not a cure. Increasing life expectancy in the Regency meant more people lived to experience the horror of end-stage syphilis, and thus every woman engaged in prostitution would have known full well she risked her life for a few coins.

And a final word about nomenclature: my favorite reference for language questions is the Oxford English Dictionary online (
OED.com
). If I ever turn up missing, you will find me nose-down in this marvelous website. OED suggests that “madam,” in the sense of a female brothel-keeper, did not come into common use until the 1870s. Nonetheless, as early as the 1650s, “madam” referred to a prostitute, courtesan, or fallen woman. A female brothel-keeper might have been referred to as a madam, though not with the precise connotation we give the word.

Because the historical meaning is close to the meaning I needed, and because I thought it would make for a smoother reading experience, I’ve appropriated the term “madam” for use in Gareth and Felicity’s Regency love story.