Lord of the Rakes (23 page)

C
ook had evidently decided that if she must prepare breakfast for a gentleman, she would not be found wanting. In addition to the coddled eggs and toast and jam, there were chops and fillet of sole with not one but two sauces, and even, for a wonder, some early strawberries. Caroline helped herself to these greedily, along with lashings of rich cream.

It was the first meal she had shared in Philip’s company. For a moment she was concerned about what he might see. She was ravenous, but she had always been instructed that women must eat sparingly in public. Fortunately, either Philip Montcalm had not heard of this stricture, or he simply did not care. When Caroline had finished her berries and cream, he helped her to coddled eggs and poached fish, as well as fresh toast.

“You need to recoup your strength, my dear.” Philip laced a little more parsley sauce over the delicate fillet for her. “It has been sorely tested of late.”

“Oh, not as sorely as all that,” she murmured, which caused him to raise a brow.

“No? Well, I will have to try harder.” With that, Philip ostentatiously helped himself to a second chop.

Any fears Caroline had held that this meal might be awkward quickly evaporated. It was, in fact, entirely comfortable. A fresh pile of cards and correspondence had been left by her chair, and the morning
Times
by Philip’s. He read out several items and they talked of the gossip and the latest criminal conversation trials, but also of the reform bills in Parliament. Caroline was not sure which surprised her most—that Philip followed such news himself, or that he listened seriously to her opinions.

On her side, Caro read Philip the various invitations as she opened them, and he had sound suggestions as to which she should accept and which she should decline, politely, of course.

“You must not spread yourself too thin,” he told her. “By being selective in your acceptance, you will make yourself that most valuable of social commodities—a sought-after guest.”

Unease stirred in Caroline. “What makes you think I should be sought after by anyone?”

“My dear, with your rank and fortune, not to mention your beauty, the hostesses of the ton will be able to tempt many a beau to the gatherings you promise to attend. The presence of so many beaux will in turn attract the finest belles, and ensure the hostess a grand success.”

“I’m not sure how to feel about being used like an advertisement to attract new custom.”

Philip helped himself to more coffee from the urn on the sideboard. “I confess, I know how you feel.”

“Yes, I rather imagine your name gets bandied about in just this way.”

He shrugged as he settled himself back into his chair. “It is one of the rules of society’s game, and since we must play, it is best to play well.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why play this game? I mean, I know why women must, but why do you? You’re a man. You can do anything you want.”

For a moment Philip stared into his coffee cup. “What else is there to do?”

“Travel. Study. Create . . . something. Build. Write.”

Philip laughed. “Who would read what I have to write? Much less see what I built.”

“That would entirely depend on what it was.”

“May I point out, you are also free.” Philip gestured toward her with his cup. “And yet here you are, diligently insinuating yourself into society’s good graces.”

“But not for long. After Fiona’s safely married, I am off to the Continent.”

“And what will you do there?”

Caroline concentrated on slicing the last of her fillet into tiny bits. “Travel. Study. Meet people.”

“Fall in love?” he asked.

Startled, she met his gaze. “Why would you say that?”

“It is the natural desire of a woman, is it not?”

“It has often been remarked that I am not a natural woman.”

“Whoever said such a thing had better hope he never repeats it in my hearing.”

Caroline glanced up to see if Philip was teasing, and somewhat to her surprise found his face completely serious. Seeing him angered by the possibility of someone offering her insult, she felt pleasantly flattered, and something more. Something she was in no way ready to name, and probably never would be.

To cover the pause created by this contemplation, Caroline broke the seal on the remaining letter.

“Another invitation?” asked Philip as he poured himself yet another cup of coffee. It must be his third.

“No,” replied Caroline as she scanned the missive. “A letter from home.”

“From your brother?” he asked quietly.

Caroline felt herself blanch. “No,” she replied, hoping that Philip had not noticed her abrupt change of coloring. “It’s from a Mrs. Gordon. When I was making my arrangements to leave for London, I asked her to look after some matters in the village, things I thought my brother might not consider once I had left.”

“Is he not a conscientious man, then?”

“He is extremely conscientious. At least . . . he is extremely protective of what he considers his. The house, the land, the rents. He is less attentive to the cottagers, or the schools our grandmother started for the village children.” She folded the letter. “My mother was frequently ill, so I took on much of that work. I did not want it to suffer because I was spending the season in town, and then traveling. Mr. Upton makes sure a share of my income goes to Mrs. Gordon, and she oversees its distribution. She wrote to tell me she has raised the additional funds necessary to make sure the girls’ school will be getting new books and slates.”

“Very thoughtful.” Philip took up another piece of toast and smeared it with a healthy portion of orange marmalade. “The pair of you would probably get on well with my brother.”

“Is he conscientious?”

“Remarkably so. Meticulous as well. Intelligent, too, I suppose. He very much enjoyed his studies at university, but he works hard at the estate, too.”

“And you don’t think much of him.”

“Eh? Why would you say that?”

Caroline smiled. “You’re trying to find good things to say about him, but underneath each compliment I can hear the word ‘dull.’”

Philip snickered, a little uncomfortably, she thought. “Well, yes. I admit, I do find Owen dull. We don’t share many interests.”

“What are your interests?”

“Oh, the usual, racing, gaming . . .”

“Women?”

“Women,” he agreed, letting his eyes travel saucily up and down her figure.

“And Owen’s?”

“The estate, of course. His books. He has a wide correspondence, I believe.”

“You believe? You don’t know?” She remembered Harry saying Owen Montcalm had been speaking at the Royal Society. Was it possible Philip hadn’t known his brother had been granted such an honor? Caroline pushed her plate away. “I find I’m having trouble making out your character, Mr. Montcalm.”

“Really? But I’m such a simple fellow.”

“No, I don’t believe you are,” she said slowly. “In some things, you’re an experienced, sophisticated gentleman, but in others . . . it’s as if you’re still a boy. You care about the reform bills. You care about whether I’m comfortable and cared for. You care about your father, but not about your brother, or your estate, or yourself.”

Philip barked out a laugh, but this time it had a harsh edge. “My dear woman, there are those who will tell you I care about nothing but myself.”

“Not really,” she said. “If you really cared only about yourself, you would not willingly subject yourself to a life that confines you.”

“I am the least confined man of my acquaintance.”

“But you don’t like it.”

Philip leveled his gaze at her, but there was nothing laughing in his countenance now. “What on earth makes you say so?”

“You just told me so. You see it as a game you must play, not as a life you want to lead.”

“You mistake my meaning, Caroline,” he said, enunciating each word distinctly. “I live life exactly as I choose.”

Caroline’s cheeks began to burn. She set about tidying her piles of correspondence. She was clearly talking too much. She could not be so unguarded with him. This domestic scene was just that—a scene. Nothing about it was genuine.

“Where did you acquire this habit of sketching men’s characters?” asked Philip, clearly trying to deflect the subject away from himself.

“Country house parties.” Caroline turned two cards over in her fingers so their addresses were right side up. “You’ve attended them, I’m sure.”

“In profusion.”

“Well, then you know there’s always one girl sitting in the chimney corner, watching everybody else.” Philip nodded. “That was me.”

“I don’t believe it. You are too lively to be a chimney sitter.”

“Oh, but I was. My father did not approve of overmuch levity on my part. Fiona’s family was good enough to invite me with them as often as they could, but I still had to be very careful about gossip, especially any . . .” She faltered.

“Any that linked your name with a young man’s?”

“Yes. This meant I spent a great deal of time watching others.”

“Now that sounds dull and confining.” Philip swirled the coffee in his cup thoughtfully.

“It had its advantages,” she said. “I learned a great deal about human nature, and when I got home, I was able to cheer my mother up by telling her what I had seen.”

“Your mother did not go with you?”

Caroline bit her lip, and tried to think of a way to change the subject, but there was none. “Not often. She was usually too ill, and, well, father didn’t like it.” She prayed Philip wouldn’t ask why, because she had no idea how to answer without giving away the shameful secrets she had never shared with anyone, not even Fiona.

But Philip didn’t ask. Instead, he glanced at the clock on the mantel and drained his coffee. “I thank you, Caroline, for this truly excellent breakfast. But I am afraid I must go.”

“Of course.” Caroline mustered a bright smile. “It was delightful . . .”

He closed his hand over hers. “If you are entertaining the notion my departure has anything to do with a single word you’ve said, you will set it aside immediately.”

“I never . . .”

“You did. You are quite transparent, my dear. The only reason I must go is because I have an appointment I gave my word as a gentleman I would keep.”

“Oh?” She thought of Mrs. Warrick, and disliked herself for it. Philip shook her hand, bringing her attention back to him.

“And yes, since you are so visibly
not
asking, I will tell you. But you must be aware that when I do, I place my reputation in your hands.”

“I would never repeat anything told to me in confidence.”

“I know, but please be aware, if one word of this gets out, I, Lord of the Rakes, could be ruined.” Philip leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I must go visit my sick aunt.”

“P
hilip!” cried Judith Montcalm as the liveried footman ushered him into her private sitting room. “At last! I was about to perish from boredom! Come here and tell me everything!”

This command was accompanied by a wave of her prodigious lace handkerchief. The footman removed a pile of books and papers sufficient to stock a moderately sized circulating library from the nearest chair.

Books were Aunt Judith’s primary furnishing for her private rooms. They not only lined the walls but were heaped on every flat surface. This included all the chairs and a not inconsiderable portion of the floor. Philip was used to the chaos and picked his way easily between the unsteady piles. He drew the freshly cleared seat up beside the chaise longue where his great-aunt stretched out underneath a pile of embroidered shawls.

To say Judith Montcalm shunned convention was akin to calling the war with France a little family quarrel. While still a very young woman, Judith turned her back on marriage and society. She took the money her mother left her and began publishing a newspaper called
The Woman’s Window
. In addition to the serial novels and witty critiques of fashionable life that made it hugely popular, the paper printed reviews of books, discussions of art, and essays on political questions. Judith’s savvy management of the enterprise had netted her a considerable fortune in her own right. It had also caused the majority of her family to pretend she did not exist.

“How are you, Aunt Judith?” Philip took both her hands and planted a kiss on her cheek. Although Aunt Judith had recently left sixty behind, her hair was still luxurious, despite being snow white. Her face might be lined but her mind was gimlet sharp and her eyes were as clear as those of a woman at five-and-twenty.

“I will be perfectly fine once this wretched cold takes itself elsewhere.” Philip’s aunt waved her handkerchief again, this time in a gesture of supreme annoyance. “But I must say you are looking well. Very much like the cat who swallowed the canary, in fact. What has happened? It can’t be a woman.”

Philip felt his brows arch. “Why not?”

His aunt’s snort could hardly be considered ladylike, but Philip could just imagine her reply if he pointed that out. “Because, my dear boy, the last time you were overcome with that glow traditionally associated with a tender
penchant,
you were barely breeched. You went straight from your father’s house to jaded cynicism with barely a change of horses.”

“Aunt!”

“Not that I blame you, when my fool of a brother shovels gold into your pockets with the express purpose of bribing you into indulging all the dissipations he feels deprived of.”

“Some days, Aunt Judith, you are too blunt for anyone’s good.”

If Judith heard shock or warning in his tone, she only laughed at it. “Probably why I’m an antiquated spinster perishing all alone on her sofa.
Is
it a woman?”

Philip hesitated. He did not know many people whom he could talk to on any subject more serious than last night’s card game. Aunt Judith, however, had always listened to his confidences. The advice she dispensed afterward might be acerbic, but it would be sound. Even so, bringing up the subject of Caroline might not be a good idea. There was too much unsettled about his feelings, and it clearly showed.

And yet there was also too much nagging at him about this morning’s breakfast. From his first meeting with Caroline, he had known she was driven by some unpleasant circumstance. This had been brought into fresh relief by her evident fear of any letter from her brother. Philip found himself wishing again he could give her some peace so that she could truly be free to enjoy her independence. Her remarks about her mother’s restricted life, and her own, called to mind that unspoken scandal. If he knew what that had been, perhaps he could convince her it was not so bad. On the off chance it was something truly shameful, he might be able to use his society connections to smooth her way. Then, perhaps, she would not have to leave town instantly after the Westbrook-Rayburn wedding.

“It is about a woman, yes,” Philip said. “Lady Caroline Delamarre, the sister of the new Earl of Keenesford.”

“Delamarre? Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in, well, a very long time.” Aunt Judith poured herself a cup of tea from the pot sitting on the silver tray, which in turn occupied the one portion of the table not covered in newspapers and manuscripts. She added a slice of lemon, leaving Philip to serve himself. Aunt Judith did not stand on ceremony, at least not with people she liked.

“I was hoping you might know it.” Philip took up a sandwich along with the tea. When she was working, Aunt Judith could keep to her sitting room for whole days. Her servants had developed the habit of leaving plates of biscuits and sandwiches around, no matter what the hour; otherwise she might not bother to eat at all. “Apparently,” he went on, “there was some old scandal attached to the mother.”

Aunt Judith set her teacup down very deliberately. “Philip,” she said in the tone that never failed to make him sit up straighter. “If you are growing high in the instep, I shall ring at once for Fredericks and have him order my coffin, for you will have killed me quite.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I was just . . . curious, that’s all.”

Philip was used to his aunt’s long scrutiny, and he thought he’d grown hardened to it. But not today. Today, Philip felt an unaccountable urge to squirm. Worse, he was dangerously close to blushing. But slowly, Aunt Judith’s face settled into deeper lines and her eyes grew distant.

Philip leaned forward. “You do know something. What is it?”

He thought she was about to tell him, but before she could speak, her expression shifted to one of caution. “What is your part in this, Philip?”

“Pure curiosity,” Philip replied, and he tried to mean it. “Lady Caroline appeared at Mrs. Gladwell’s ball, and Lewis Banbridge mentioned there was some old story that might account for the family keeping her from London all this time . . .” His voice trailed off.

Aunt Judith remained silent for another long, uncomfortable moment. “Shall I assume you picked this woman out of Mrs. Gladwell’s crowd?”

“No. She picked me out.”

Aunt Judith’s brows shot up. “Well, she’s either a hopeless adventuress or a silly, dramatic little thing to go chasing so quickly after the Lord of the Rakes.”

“She’s not an adventuress, Aunt, nor is she silly, and I’ll thank you not to say so again.” The words were out before Philip had a chance to think, and clearly he was not the only one surprised at the outburst.

“Well.” Judith leaned back, running her kerchief through her long, permanently ink-stained fingers. “I find myself strangely intrigued by this Lady Caroline. When can I meet her?”

“You want to meet her?” Prior to this, Aunt Judith had never even asked after one of his paramours.

“Philip, never once in all my years have you shown any personal interest in gossip or scandal,” said his aunt. “You have on numerous occasions declared yourself positively bored by all such matters. But here you come asking me about this woman and her family. How could I fail to be interested in such a person? You can bring her along to my salon next week.” Judith finished her tea and reached again for the pot.

“I can ask if she’d care to come to your salon next week,” Philip corrected her. Aunt Judith waved her handkerchief, dismissing the distinction as trivial.

“Are you going to tell me what you know?” asked Philip.

Aunt Judith took a long, judicious sip of tea, watching him over the rim the entire time. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t believe I am.”

Exasperation rolled through Philip. “My very dear aunt, may I ask why not?”

“Because, my very dear nephew, it might just force you to ask the lady herself what happened.”

Which was her way of telling him this was what he should have done in the first place. Unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong. But the existence of gossip about the Delamarre family was not something he cared to bring up with Caroline in her bedroom or at her breakfast table. Truly, it wasn’t important. He only cared because the existence of this supposed scandal might take Caroline away before he was ready to let her go.

And what if I’m never ready to let her go?
The question rose up from the depths of his heart, and Philip found he could not meet his aunt’s eyes. Weariness overtook him. He did not want any more questions or uncomfortable thoughts. Now that he considered the matter, it was a mistake for him to have brought the subject up at all. It had led Aunt Judith to make a tempest in what was a very small and inconsequential teacup.

“Well, well, well,” murmured Aunt Judith. “I was about to die of boredom, but you have spared me, Philip.”

“Happy to be of service.” He gave her a seated bow. “Can I ask what I’ve done?”

The look his aunt returned him was far too shrewd for comfort. “You are in as grave a danger as I’ve ever seen of falling in love.”

“Impossible. I only just met the lady.” Met, seduced, fucked, delighted, shared a leisurely and enjoyable meal with, conspired to meet again for more, much, much more . . .

“Men,” sighed Aunt Judith. “You think you are such ciphers. However, because you are my favorite nephew, I will permit you to cherish your illusions for a bit longer and change the subject. Owen came to see me yesterday.”

“Owen? He’s in town?”

“Thought you might not know. Short visit, he said.”

Philip shrugged. “Probably estate business or some such.” It was the sort of statement he had uttered countless times before, but as he said it now, he could not help remembering that thoughtful look on Caroline’s face. He tried to muster some irritability toward this. He did not ask for Caroline’s opinion on his relations with his family. He certainly did not seek her approval of them. He had the approval he wanted from her—that of her body and desires. Except he could not banish the vision of her slightly sad expression, nor the echo of their conversation about the nature of freedom.

“I think”—Aunt Judith broke into his reverie—“I shall call my man of business today and see if I’ve sufficiently disinherited that brother of mine.”

“What have I said now?”

“Nothing, nothing, to be sure. Still, you bring your Lady Caroline to my next salon. Perhaps I’ll have something to tell you both.”

“Lady Caroline’s not mine, and I am not hers.” The sharp undertone of those words surprised Philip. But then, it was one of Aunt Judith’s peculiarities that she would not stop needling a man until she got an answer, or at least a reaction. He was amazed that his retiring brother Owen had the nerve to visit her. “I hope, Aunt Judith, you’re not turning matchmaker.”

“Heaven forbid! Especially not with such damaged goods as you. Now kiss your aunt and go away. I’m tired, and I have a writer coming to visit. You know how fatiguing those creatures are.”

Philip collected his hat, gloves, and stick, and dutifully kissed Aunt Judith. In return she patted his cheek and repeated her demand he bring Caroline to her next salon.

Philip emerged into the spring morning far more subdued than he usually felt after a visit with his aunt. It was not just her refusal to answer his questions about Caroline that bothered him. What she said at the last followed him all the way down into the street.

Especially not with such damaged goods as you.

Philip was used to Aunt Judith’s barbed comments. But how on earth could she call him damaged goods? There was nothing wrong with him. At least, nothing that was not also wrong with hundreds of others. He had all the money he needed, and nothing but leisure to use it. He had all the friends he needed and all the women he wanted. His debts were no more than average, and thanks to his father’s generous allowance, he was able to pay them off regularly.

Probably she was succumbing to the instincts of a crusty old lady. It seemed to genuinely annoy her to find that he had not spoken with his brother of late, or known that Owen was in town. Then a thought struck him hard enough to cause his stride to falter.

What would Caroline think if she had heard that?

Philip shook himself. Why should Caroline think anything of it? It was not as if she was on close terms with her own brother. Quite the opposite, in fact. He found himself wondering again what had happened between them.

Philip chuckled ruefully. Now, that was too bad. He was becoming not only a cynic but a hypocrite. Here he was insisting Caroline had no business wondering about his family relations, but he could not stop himself from wondering about hers. Well, it was only natural, wasn’t it? There was real trouble between Caroline and her brother. The matter between him and Owen was much more mundane. It was simply that they had nothing in common. Owen was much more like their mother—retiring, bookish, businesslike. If he hadn’t been heir to the estate, he probably would have stayed at Oxford to become a don or some such. Whereas he, Philip, was a town man through and through. It wasn’t as if he was in the least qualified to help out with the estate. Even their father regularly pointed out what a damned nuisance he’d make of himself if he stayed home.