The Toplofty Lord Thorpe (3 page)

“That's enough, Miss Gladwin!” Thorpe decreed repressively, his palm itching to administer a few satisfying smacks to the chit's upturned derriere. “I bid you good day.”

“No, you don't,” Lucy answered serenely, ar
ranging her skirts more becomingly as she eased back against the cushions of the green-and-white striped satin settee. “The doors are locked and
I've
got the key right here.”

The earl, who was just about to grasp one of the door handles, turned his head just in time to see Lucy patting the neckline of her gown just at her bosom. Leaning his back against the door, he folded his arms and negligently crossed one foot in front of the other. “I always contended you were nothing more than a mischievous child. Now I see I was correct. What did you do with your aunt, you pernicious brat, lock her in the linen cupboard?”

Lucy had the good grace to blush. “Aunt Rachel has been called to her good friend's bedside in Half Moon Street on a mission of mercy. It seems poor Mrs. Halstead has taken a nasty fall and broken her leg.”

“Now, why do I doubt that? Or did you attack that poor lady just to avoid telling an untruth after all your other crimes?” the earl questioned suavely.

Tilting her head to one side, Lucy brazened it out, although she was not best pleased at the way things were going. Nothing was happening as she had thought it would when first she had hatched this scheme. “No, it is all a hum, a great bag of moonshine I invented to draw Aunt Rachel away at the crucial moment. I sent the note myself,” she ended quite unnecessarily.

Her little face suddenly quite solemn, she sat upright and held her hands tightly clasped in her lap.
“It was wicked of me, I know, but I had to see you—I just had to!”

His lordship knew himself to be in a ticklish situation. He was forced to remain where he was unless he wished to so demean himself as to bellow for help like some calf struck in the briers, yet he could feel it in his bones that whatever Lucy Gladwin was about to say next, it boded no good for him—no good at all.

“Very well, missy,” he countered with all the sangfroid he could muster, “you have gained your objective. Perceive me standing here. Now,” he ended, straightening once again and directing his eyes meaningfully toward the door, “if that is all you required…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

“Oh, how insufferably priggish you can be!” Lucy exclaimed in amused frustration, fairly hopping to her feet. “I don't know why I even bother trying to talk to you. Aunt Rachel says I must have windmills in my head to—”

“Ah, then I was correct in my assessment of that estimable lady. It is a pity you don't strive to emulate her—your brain could do with an infusion of common sense.”

Lucy's eyes narrowed to glittering blue slits as she continued recklessly, “You didn't let me finish, my lord. What Aunt Rachel said was that anyone who could see anything more in you other than an overweening conceit and a total contempt for your fellowman should hand himself over to the leeches for
a thorough examination. I begin to see the wisdom of her words!”

Thorpe extracted his snuffbox and delicately took a pinch before, dusting his fingertips on his handkerchief, he drawled languidly, “I assume that charming little outburst brings our…er…
discussion
to a close? One can only hope it likewise heralds the death of your ridiculous puppy love and the cessation of your so fatiguing public displays of affection. A word to the wise, child—gentlemen prefer to do the chasing, not the other way about.”

“Oh,
why
do I bother?” Lucy asked the room in general, now genuinely distressed. “You've been so blinded by your rank and position that you refuse to listen to the commands of your own heart. You're not so cold as you try to make people believe, I just know it. But if you don't stop worrying about your
outside
and start listening to your
inside,
you'll never be really happy.”

“I'm listening to my
inside
right now, you impertinent creature,” he cut in heartlessly, deliberately looking straight into Lucy's tear-drenched eyes, “and it's telling me it wants its luncheon. Now, are you going to open this door or must I be forced to endure more of these childish histrionics? By God, you are the most bold, ill-mannered girl I have ever met. Even as I stand here, I cannot believe we are having this entire conversation.”

“You'll be sorry, my lord,” Lucy sniffed, reaching into her bodice and extracting a small brass key. “If you marry for duty, with no thought to what will
make you happy, you'll soon turn into the very man my aunt says you are. Please, consider what I'm saying. I know I'm being horribly forward and probably have disgraced myself in your eyes forevermore, but I see goodness in you. I have always seen it. If I can make you listen, all will not have been lost.”

“Now she casts herself in the dual role of martyr and savior of my soon-to-be-damned soul. Please, after all I have been forced to endure from you over the years, can you not find it in yourself to spare me from your attempts at salvation!” Thorpe quipped meanly, more angry than he could remember being since… He hesitated, finally realizing that he couldn't remember
ever
having been this angry.

Quaking ever so slightly in her slippers as she flinched from the dark look that had settled over the earl's handsome face, Lucy knew she had made a complete shambles of this, their only real conversation in the three years she had known him. And after all her high hopes!

She walked slowly toward the earl, not knowing how appealing she looked wrapped in the cloak of her hurt and innocence, and placed the key in his waiting hand. “I beg your forgiveness for having behaved so badly, my lord. I have been guilty of many small indiscretions in the past, but I have really passed beyond the pale with this last scheme.

“It was only that I was so desperate, you know, although that certainly is no excuse. I thought I was trying to help you, but I see now that my motives were entirely self-serving. I duped myself, pursuing
a dream that had no basis in reality. You are not the man I thought you were, for even if you could not find it in your heart to…to like me, the man I believed you to be could never have been so consciously cruel. Good day, my lord. You shall not be forced to endure my attentions in the future.”

Looking up into his closed expression, she summoned a small brave smile. “See, my lord. The purpose of your visit has been accomplished after all—and before the hall clock could chime the half-hour. Congratulations.”

Unlocking the door, Thorpe held out the key, but when Lucy just shook her head, her entire being concentrating on not bursting into tears and thus losing the last of her self-respect, he stepped past her to lay it on a nearby table. He didn't feel particularly proud of himself for this day's work; bludgeoning a mere slip of a girl with his tongue could not be looked upon as the gentlemanly thing to do. But if he had at last destroyed her ridiculous worship of him, convinced her to stop throwing herself in his way and disrupting his peace, he could not help but view his actions as necessary, in the interests of self-preservation at the very least.

“Good day to you, Miss Gladwin. Rest assured this conversation will remain solely between the two of us. There is no need for further hostilities, either privately or in public. A common nod when we meet will be sufficient to keep the tongues from wagging, I believe, and should not cause either of us any undue hardship.”

Then, when she made no move to answer him, he did something he later told himself was no more than an impetuous act containing no real meaning: he lifted her hand to his lips, placed a slight kiss on her cool flesh, and then took his leave without a backward glance—leaving Lucy to cradle her hand protectively against her breast as she watched him walk out of her life.

“D
ID YOU HEAR
?”

“It's all over the city!”

“I heard that letters were sent to all the newspapers—it has to be true!”

“Such a scandal! Who would have thought it of him? And what about his poor fiancée? Has anybody seen her? Is he with her, do you think?”

“I cannot believe he'd dare to show his face! Not after what he's done! It's horrid, simply horrid!”

What a to-do! Ever since she and her aunt had set foot inside the ballroom there had been no denying that something was afoot—that some wickedly delicious bit of gossip was being passed around the flower-bedecked room, thoroughly taking the shine out of Miss Araminta Selbridge's debut at her painstakingly planned come-out ball.

The very air crackled with tension as the invited guests forsook the sanded dance floor in favor of standing about in tight little clumps, talking nineteen to the dozen while they gleefully shredded some unfortunate soul's reputation into tiny bits.

After depositing Aunt Rachel with the dowagers, her relative being nearly dragged into a chair beside the turbaned dragon who immediately began wetly whispering into the poor lady's ear, Lucy wandered
off aimlessly, forgetting that she had promised to immediately join some young female acquaintances that were standing nearby, deep in frenzied conversation.

More than a week had passed since her disastrous meeting with Lord Thorpe, and although her aunt refused to do as her niece asked and allow them both to quit the city at once, Lucy's heart had not been in any of the parties, fêtes, or routs she had dutifully allowed herself to be dragged off to night after endless night.

She had seen Thorpe twice in that time, and he had made a point of acknowledging her presence even though Lucy had barely responded to his greetings before, shame burning in her hot cheeks as she remembered every scathing word he had said to her, she melted hastily into any nearby group of people or handy quiet anteroom.

Embarrassment played a part in her actions, but not a large one. She had, as she had acknowledged ruefully to her aunt when she confessed her crime, put her foot in it badly this time, but it was her bruised heart that was suffering, and not her pride. She had believed herself truly in love with Julian Rutherford, and even now her illusions about the man, having been struck down most unmercifully by his cruelty and indifference, were not really ready to die.

Waving languidly to several acquaintances who tried to draw her into their conversation, Lucy now contented herself with making a lazy circle of the large room, only idly wondering why no one was dancing. Whatever juicy bit of new gossip had taken
their attention, it was still difficult to believe that it could keep the younger members of the party away from the floor when the musicians were playing such a lively tune.

Out of the corners of her eyes Lucy could see her aunt beckoning to her, very determinedly gesturing for her niece to join her at the side of the ballroom. Thinking that perhaps Aunt Rachel could enlighten her as to what was going forward, and not really interested enough to have to winnow out the facts from the extraneous exposition that excited gabblemongers would generously sprinkle into their version of the scandal, she made for the woman's side and made herself comfortable on one of the fan-backed chairs.

“My goodness, Aunt, have you ever seen anything to match it? Anyone would think Prinny had just announced he was giving up his title to marry a scullery maid. Tell me, what is it you have gleaned?”

Now that she had her niece back at her side, Rachel Gladwin was torn as to exactly what she should do. While part of her wanted to whisk Lucy away before she got wind of what was about and made a cake out of herself in public, another, more realistic part of her knew that the time and place would make little difference to the news she had to impart. It would only be delaying the inevitable.

“It's about Lord Thorpe, dearest,” she said at last, uneasily avoiding Lucy's suddenly widened eyes.

“Lord Thorpe ran off with a scullery maid?” Lucy joked, suddenly not wanting to hear the truth.

“If it were only that simple,” her aunt sighed,
reaching over to hold her niece's kid-encased hand. “I don't know the whole of it yet, so I don't want you screeching out loud or anything when I tell you, do you understand?”

“He…he's not…
dead?
” Lucy pleaded in a husky whisper.

“It's worse than that, my precious. They say he's…Oh dear, how do I say this to an innocent like you? He's gotten a girl in his home county into a…um…delicate condition, and left her to do away with herself in despair.”

“What!”
Lucy exploded, causing several of the nearby dowagers to cast curious glances in her direction. “What nonsense!” she hissed, heeding the warning pressure of her aunt's hand. “Only a ninny would believe such a ridiculous thing.”

“Be that as it may, Lucy, the facts speak for themselves. I understand there was a note telling all.”

“A suicide note?” Lucy asked, still trying to reconcile her image of the man with the thought of Lord Thorpe rolling about in the hay with some village lass. “How has word of such a note gotten all the way from Derbyshire to London?”

While Lucy sat rigidly in her chair, her eyes staring blankly at the people who were busily destroying Lord Thorpe's reputation with their pointed tongues, her aunt outlined what she had heard.

It seemed that there had lived, in a village near Thorpe's estate, a young woman of quality whose family had fallen on hard times. Enter Lord Thorpe, promising marriage and a rescue from penury, and the
plot began to thicken. As the story went—and the story had gone very nicely so far, seeing as how the young lady had written it down in all its sordid detail and then posted a copy to each of the London dailies—Lord Thorpe seduced this poor innocent, one Susan Anscom, on the promise of marriage, and then coldly discarded her when she revealed herself to be with child. After pouring out her grief to the gossip rags, the distraught girl had then chosen the only route open to her—she had drowned herself in the village pond.

“Ridiculous!” was all Lucy could respond once her aunt was finished speaking. “Who could ever believe such a bag of moonshine? Lord Thorpe would never sink to such a thing—he's too much the gentleman, for one thing. Besides,” she added matter-of-factly, “he'd never stoop to consorting with any woman ranked lower than someone like Lady Cynthia.” Raising her eyes to scan the room, she wondered aloud, “Where
is
Lady Cynthia? I thought I saw her father going into one of the card rooms earlier. Could it be she is circulating about the room defending her betrothed against such evil lies?”

Rachel looked about the ballroom, locating Lady Cynthia as she stood talking to a group of people who seemed to be hanging on her every word. “There she is, Lucy,” she said as she pointed discreetly in that general direction, “standing beside Lord Seabrook. My goodness, she seems to be laughing. How can she be so unaffected by all of this?”

Lucy paused a moment in her worry over Lord
Thorpe to give herself a mental kick for being so unkind to Lady Cynthia in the past. Obviously the woman was putting a brave face on this, acting as if nothing had happened, and circulating throughout the room explaining away any questions anyone might have.

“But where is Lord Thorpe?” her aunt went on to question when Lucy said nothing. “Surely he has accompanied her here this evening? They never go anywhere except together.” Rachel blushed a bit, adding, “I'm sorry, pet, but over the past three years you have made me quite an authority on his lordship and his movements.”

There was a sudden commotion at the doorway, releasing Lucy from giving some sort of answer to her aunt, and all heads turned in time to see Lord Thorpe enter the ballroom. He looked, as was his custom, magnificent. From his finely arranged blond locks to the tips of his shiny evening slippers, he was every inch the complete gentleman. Lucy's heart, always fickle when she counted on it for steadiness, did a little flip-flop in her breast as she drank in his handsomeness and the flagrantly arrogant stare he took up as he stopped to survey the room through his quizzing glass.

Spotting his fiancée at the far end of the floor, he began a leisurely progress down the room, and it wasn't until he was three-quarters of the way to his destination that he realized all conversation had stopped and he was the object of every eye in the place. Even the musicians had ceased their frantic fid
dling meant to entice somebody out on the floor before Araminta Selbridge's papa refused to pay them for their night's work.

Turning slowly on his heels, Lord Thorpe looked back to see that all those he had already passed by were now standing with their backs turned against him. His spine stiffening perceptibly, he turned forward once again and, glancing neither right nor left, resumed his journey to his fiancée's side. As he walked on, one by one the guests he passed lifted their noses and pointedly turned their backs on him, until, when he reached the group he sought and prepared to bow, Lady Cynthia slipped a gloved hand into the crook of Lord Seabrook's arm and led her friends in a short procession that left them facing a potted plant in a corner of the room.

“They're cutting him!” Lucy burst out indignantly. “The bloody fools are cutting him dead! And to think I had for a moment believed that mean cat was human after all!
How dare she!
”

“Lucy,” her aunt pleaded in an undertone, “please keep your voice down. Lord Thorpe will withdraw shortly and then we may quit this den of fools, but for the moment I can only implore you not to do anything you may regret. His lordship wouldn't thank you for it, you know.”

Tears of mingled pity and frustration glittering in her eyes, Lucy could not tear her gaze away from the confused man who now stood looking about him dazedly, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. He, a man who prided himself on his fine reputation, he,
the leader of the small, select circle that he had for so many years ruled by means of his impeccable taste, exalted lineage, and impressive appearance, had just cruelly learned the true nature of his contemporaries. He was, to say the thing plainly, shocked spitless.

The nervous musicians, not knowing what else to do, struck up a waltz, thinking to fill the great void of silence with some soothing music. No one moved. Like statues carved from cold marble, the lords and ladies of the
ton
were waiting for the untouchable who had lately been their leader to take his offending self off so that they might not be exposed to his presence. Mud sticks, his former friends were well aware, and they were making sure to cut a wide berth around the man lest some of his dirt leap onto their spotless reputations.

Lucy took it for as long as she could (approximately ten seconds, eight of them spent disengaging her aunt's clinging hands) before rising to scamper hurriedly down the long room to tug at his lordship's sleeve. “Lord Thorpe!” she declared loudly. “I was so worried you had forgotten, but I can see you are a man of your word. Here you are, just as the dance you had me reserve for you is about to begin. I'm sorry you couldn't find me at once; I was bearing my aunt company with the dowagaers while waiting for you.” Sliding her gloved hand around his sleeve, she smiled up at him, hiding the fact that her slim fingers were crushing his arm in silent warning. “Shall we, my lord?” she asked, steel in her voice, and the shat
tered, confused man at last responded, leading her out onto the floor.

They were, of course, the only dancers on the floor, and all eyes were on the couple that now waltzed around the room that suddenly seemed as wide and as dangerous as a battlefield. “Don't look now, my lord,” Lucy told him, still maintaining her bright smile, “but Lady Fairweather, known to you formerly as Lady Cynthia, is making a great show of laughing at something that vile Lord Seabrook has whispered in her traitorous ear.”

As her partner's only response was to grip her hand tighter, she went on, “Dance me over to the doorway, my lord, and we shall waltz our way out of this gathering of traitors. Only hold on a while longer, please, and we shall get you out of this yet with a whole skin.”

Julian looked down on her imploring face with eyes that seemed curiously dead. His feet continued to move in the familiar waltz steps; his heart, he noticed randomly, continued to beat on in his numb body, so how could it be that he felt he had just lost all control over his own destiny? One moment he had been Julian Rutherford, Earl of Thorpe, and he thought without conceit, master of all he surveyed; and the next, he had been struck from his position of majesty, owing the fact that he even remained upright to the small girl he now clung to with the remaining vestiges of his strength.

Out of the corners of her eyes Lucy could see her Aunt Rachel standing just inside the main doorway,
a footman bearing their evening cloaks hovering at her side. Good old Rachel, she rejoiced silently, I knew I could count on her to keep her head. Aloud, she soothed, “It's nearly over, my lord, you're holding up just fine. Only whirl me about a time or two, as sort of a farewell flourish—just to let these lowlifes know we don't give a fig for what they think.”

Julian, who had for three-and-thirty years subscribed to Fielding's definition of the word “nobody” as meaning “all the people in Great Britain except about twelve hundred,” and the word “world” as being “your own acquaintance,” could not as easily dismiss the evident condemnation of his peers. His whole life had been crumbling around his feet ever since he'd first realized that no one, not even his fiancée, was going to stand behind him in his time of trouble, and his only ally was to be a young slip of a girl. The same girl he had cut from his life so ruthlessly not a fortnight before.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked now in a strangled voice.