Oh, good God, now he was on the high ropes.
“Was Pettigrew right—your brother is your twin?”
“Yes.”
“So how old are you, if I may be so bold as to ask? It’s a little difficult to tell in your current guise, but since your brother is of age to marry, I assume you are, as well.”
He was not going to like her answer. “I’m twenty-four.”
“Ah.” He closed his eyes briefly, and then took a swallow of brandy. “I see. Then I’m afraid there’s no hope for it. I’ll have to marry you.”
“What?!”
She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Marry the biggest rake in London? Oh no, she was not going to marry a rake like her father. And in any event, surely that was like amputating an arm to cure a hangnail. “I don’t want to marry you.”
“And I don’t want to marry you, but I don’t have a choice, do I? No one else will have you now that I’ve ruined you.”
“You
haven’t
ruined me. I’m perfectly fine, and I—”
“Miss Hadley, you have already acknowledged that the fact you are still a virgin—” He raised a lascivious eyebrow. “I assume you
are
a virgin, not that it makes a great deal of difference to the case.”
“Of course I am.” How dare he think otherwise, even for an instant? “Not that it is any of your concern.”
The rake merely nodded. “As I say, the fact of your virginity is completely beside the point. You—and I—can both announce it until we are blue in the face, but society thinks it knows differently, and once society has made up its mind, no amount of protestations will convince it otherwise. Believe me, I know.”
She forced herself to take a deep breath. Jack was being a typical male, seeing only one solution—the most obvious one. There were always alternatives. “If you will simply put me in a hackney coach in the morning, I will go see Mr. Puddington and get the funds I came to London to procure. You need have no more to do with me. After all, hardly anyone saw us together, and those who did thought I was a young boy.”
“You are forgetting Pettigrew.”
“Pettigrew?” She was most certainly not forgetting that unpleasant man.
“Yes. Oliver Pettigrew, the fellow we ran into today in Cheapside, who met you at the Crowing Cock, who knows we shared a room—and a bed—there because I told him. He’s clearly concluded that you’re my mistress.”
“That’s disgusting!” She felt dirty just thinking the toad had been contemplating her. “The man’s mind is a dung heap.”
“Come, Miss Hadley, wouldn’t even you be suspicious if you heard an unrelated man and woman shared a bed at an inn?”
She wanted to say no, but of course the answer was yes, so she simply said nothing.
Jack nodded. “Just so. And furthermore he’s also identified you as Frederick Hadley’s sister, Littleton’s runaway bride. I’m sure he’ll lay your bolting at my door.” Jack took another swallow of brandy. “He’ll be able to dine out on the story all this Season and perhaps next Season as well.”
Blast it, if Pettigrew were in the room right now, she’d pour the contents of the steaming teapot over his head.
Jack frowned. “Why
did
you run from Littleton? Your aunt couldn’t actually have been selling you to him.”
“Not literally, of course.” She remembered all too clearly how her stomach had knotted as she’d crouched on Mr. Turner’s floor and heard Littleton and Pettigrew talk about her. Bloody scoundrels! “Aunt Viola somehow convinced the man that she could ensure I’d accept his marriage offer or she’d arrange things so he could compromise me.”
She almost wished she had come face-to-face with Mr. Lousy Littleton. She’d have been delighted to treat him to the sharp edge of her tongue. “Not that I would have married him under any circumstances, of course.”
“Of course.” Jack clearly knew better than to contradict her; he merely raised his damn eyebrows again. “Why would your aunt do that? Does she think the man would be a particularly good match for you?”
“No.” She was certain Viola had been motivated by nothing more than a desire to look to her own comfort. “I think she must have got a letter from Frederick and knew he’d married. Her ‘payment’ for handing me over to Littleton with my dowry was that he take her, too, and let her live at his estate.”
“I see. Well, that makes an even stronger case for our marriage, I’m afraid. You clearly can’t go home, even if your reputation wasn’t shredded.”
“I don’t care about my blasted reputation.” She leaned forward. She had to get through his thick male skull and make him understand. “Pettigrew can talk all he wants. If I’m not in London, it won’t make any difference.”
She could
not
wed Lord Jack. She’d seen how her mother’s life had been ruined by marrying a rake. Each new rumor of infidelity had taken a little more of her mother’s happiness until the poor woman had died of a broken heart when Frances was seven. Her father—all men—were irresponsible miscreants who treated women little better than animals, and produced children only to abandon them. Jack’s Bromley house was proof of that. Those children would not be there if they had fathers to see they were cared for.
She’d rather live without a reputation than die her mother’s slow death of despair.
Jack opened his mouth, but she kept talking.
“I came to London to get my dowry money from our man of business. I plan to find a cottage somewhere and live by myself.” She scowled. “I’ve managed the family estate for years with no help from my father or brother. Damn it, I’m the elder twin. In a sensible world, the estate would eventually be mine.” She knew it was a stupid thing to say to a duke’s son, but she couldn’t help herself. “And I’m much more qualified to run the place than Frederick is.”
“I’m sure you are. Many landowners are terrible stewards of their inheritances, but that doesn’t change the rules of primogeniture.” He smiled. “Frankly, I wouldn’t want to trade places with my eldest brother. I’m much happier with my freedom.”
Aha! Finally something he might understand. “And that’s exactly what I want—my freedom. I will get my money from Puddington and sink happily back into obscurity in some little corner of the country.”
“Good
God
!” Jack slapped the desk so hard a penknife sitting on the blotter jumped—as did Frances. “I swear you are being purposefully obtuse. Rumors never stay in London. Someone always has a friend or a relative that writes home with the juiciest tidbits—and I promise you, these tidbits are very juicy indeed. Zeus, forget about personal correspondence. All one need do is read the newspaper gossip columns.”
Oh. Well, yes, she’d certainly read the newspapers.
“And, as I can see you know, the papers delight in covering any scandal that has my name attached to it. People think me a rake, but they’ve never—until now—had such hard evidence of my complete dissipation.”
She could believe that. The man was clearly a master of subterfuge. He hid his children’s house in Bromley, didn’t he? And his house for prostitutes. “But—but I plan to find a small cottage in some very remote village.”
“No village in England is remote enough, Miss Hadley—trust me on that. And usually the smaller the place, the more the gossip rules all conversation. There’s nothing else to do but talk about your neighbors and pass judgment on them. Would you really wish to have everyone shun you?”
“Well . . .” It did sound very unpleasant, but Jack was just trying to browbeat her.
“No, you would not.” Jack glared at her so she couldn’t look away. “And this is not just about you. My reputation is at risk here, too. No one has ever—yet—accused me of debauching an innocent, and I do not propose that they start now. You
will
marry me, Miss Hadley.”
He’d been saved by Mrs. Watson.
Jack poured himself some more brandy and stared at the closed study door. He could have kissed his inestimable housekeeper. She’d arrived right after he’d pointed out the obvious to Frances—not that the prickly woman saw it as obvious, of course—and just as Frances was drawing breath to argue further. Thank God Mrs. Watson had taken her off to find some female attire, or he might have completely lost control and strangled her.
Of course now that he knew Frances—Miss Hadley—was female, he’d noticed how long her legs were. Fortunately her coat covered her derriere, so he couldn’t also admire her arse.
He should not be looking at—he should not be able to see—such details of her person.
And her voice. It had been a little high for a man, but it was low, and very alluring, for a woman.
Someone scratched on the door, and he braced himself. Damn, was Mrs. Watson back so soon? Likely Frances had loped off, and he’d have to go out again to search for her. “Come.”
The door swung open and a much cleaner Shakespeare trotted in, followed by Richard. Jack got up—he’d only been sitting at the desk to intimidate Frances, a trick that clearly hadn’t worked—and came over to greet them.
“He hardly looks like the same dog, Richard. Thank you. Do I owe you an increase in your wages?”
Richard grinned. “I’d like to say yes, milord, but the dog was quite well behaved. I wouldn’t have guessed it when I first saw him, but he seems no stranger to soap and water.”
“Excellent! You put my mind at rest. Did you happen to feed him as well? Not that he should be hungry; he ate an amazing quantity only a few hours ago.”
“Really, milord? He acted as if he was starving down in the kitchens. Cook quite took pity on him—and I must say we all enjoyed his tricks. Did you know he can beg?”
“Oh yes. He’s quite talented. I believe his previous owner taught him how to work a crowd.”
Richard nodded. “That would explain it, then. I also took him outside to attend to his business. Is there anything else you need, milord?”
Patience? Luck? A miracle? None of those things was in Richard’s power to deliver. “No, thank you. That will be all.”
Jack regarded Shakespeare as Richard left. “Have you no shame, manipulating my kitchen staff in such an outrageous fashion?”
Shakespeare yawned and spread himself out before the fire.
“Apparently not.” Jack grabbed the decanter and sprawled in one of the wing chairs nearby, hooking a leg over its arm. “This might be a full bottle night, my furry friend.”
Shakespeare turned his head and frowned at him.
Jack sighed. “You are assuredly correct—drunkenness solves no problems, it just makes more. But damn it, Shakespeare, I do not want to marry Miss Frances Hadley.” She might have long legs and a voice that called to mind the Sirens of Greek mythology, but she also had an independent, quarrelsome disposition.
Yet even if she was a model of womanly decorum—which sounded sort of nauseating, actually—he wouldn’t want to wed her. He’d seen the disaster his brothers had made of their early marriages. “I’m only twenty-six, Shakespeare, and the third son. I have years before I need to consider settling down and starting my nursery.” He snorted. “I’ve enough of a nursery already out in Bromley.”
True, none of those children was his, but they still took a lot of thought and energy, and he wasn’t about to give them up. Hell, most women of the
ton
would have an apoplexy just hearing about his Bromley house; they’d be as likely to visit it as to invite a night-soil man in for tea.
Miss Hadley hadn’t seemed to mind his children, though. Well, she’d been trying too hard to keep her own secret to complain about a few bastards and a prostitute here and there.
He took another swallow of brandy and sank deeper into his chair, thinking about his children. Frances had been right; some men
were
irresponsible idiots—blackguards, really. He’d wager her father was of that ilk.
He wouldn’t desert her like her father apparently had, but he did not want to chain himself to her for life either.
“If only I’d stayed at the blasted birthday ball, Shakespeare. Then I wouldn’t have stopped at the Crowing Cock and encountered the troublesome woman.” He’d be blissfully unaware of her existence—and he most certainly would not be sitting here talking to a dog.
But if he hadn’t stopped at the inn, what would have happened to Frances? Somehow he doubted she’d let a little thing like a lame horse keep her from her goal, but the thought of her wandering the stews of London by herself was frankly horrifying.
“And we mustn’t forget Miss Wharton, Shakespeare, much as I’d like to. You will hopefully never have the dubious pleasure of making her acquaintance, but she’s the reason I fled my home in the middle of the night. At least Miss Hadley isn’t trying to trap me into marriage.”
No, she’d managed that trick without any effort at all.
Blast it, there must be some solution to this problem other than stepping into parson’s mousetrap. Getting a life sentence for a completely innocent series of events was ridiculous.
He took another swallow of brandy. But no one would believe any of it was innocent. His damn reputation! It was completely unmerited. Well, at least now. He might have been a bit wild in his salad days, but for the last couple of years he’d lived like a monk.
Even a monk would be condemned for spending the night in a woman’s bed.
“But, Shakespeare, I thought she was a
boy
!”
Shakespeare raised his brows, his large brown eyes saying most eloquently that he understood completely.
“And I’d wager most of my investments that Pettigrew has already spread the story far and wide.”
He was trapped like a fox at the end of the hunt, the hounds surrounding him, ready to tear him to pieces.
“Pettigrew said Miss Hadley’s twin thinks her a shrew, Shakespeare, and in my limited contact with her, I have to agree. She is extremely overbearing, a regular virago. I have no desire to play Petruchio and try to tame her.” He shuddered. “I’d likely be beat about my head with her reticule, if she has such a feminine accessory.”