The Dutiful Rake (2 page)

Marcus disposed himself in the chair, stretching out his long legs, and sipped his coffee as he regarded his friend who was calmly continuing with his own breakfast. ‘Come on, Jack. Tell me the worst. What are they all saying?’

Playing for time, Jack looked at him inquiringly. ‘Saying? About what?’ Then encountering an amused lift of one eyebrow, ‘Oh, your matrimonial plans! Well, the general consensus is that it’s about time you realised your bookish young cousin is neither suited to the position nor even desires it.’

‘And Lady Hartleigh?’ The grey eyes were suddenly intent. ‘What did my dear sister have to say on that head?’

Jack’s eyes were sober as he said, ‘Not exactly taken with the idea.’

Marcus snorted. ‘Perhaps it will teach her not to be such an incorrigible busy head. Not to mention my Aunt Regina!’

‘Mmm. It’s possible,’ said Jack, with a complete lack of expression that suggested that Marcus was indulging his optimism too far.

Marcus sighed and said, ‘Say it, then. Come on, don’t spare me!’

‘You really want to know what I think?’ Jack asked seriously. ‘You’ll think I’ve run mad.’

‘Nothing new in that,’ said Marcus grinning at him.

‘Very well then.’ Jack took a deep breath and embarked upon a forlorn hope. ‘I think Althea Hartleigh would be the worst possible choice for you.’ He hesi
tated and then went on. ‘Wouldn’t say this if you hadn’t asked. But since you do…Tell me, Marc…do you really want a wife who can be counted on to entertain herself with half the men in London if she gets a chance?’

Marcus shrugged. ‘Who am I to be hypocritical about such matters? After all, I have been amusing myself with such women for years. As long as she has enough sense to provide an heir or two, or at least be breeding before she seeks other amusements, I cannot see that it is any of my concern. After all, most of the women of my acquaintance conduct themselves like that and very convenient I have found it too. And I am hardly going live like a monk just because I’ve taken a wife. It seems a trifle churlish not to extend my wife the same courtesy.’

Jack grunted. ‘No doubt. For God’s sake, Marc! Think to the future. Do you really want to be tied to Althea Hartleigh for the rest of your life? Don’t you think, if you looked about you, that you might find a girl or woman to care for?’ He saw the amazement in his friend’s eyes and grinned reluctantly. ‘Aye, I knew you’d think I’d run mad.’

‘You must have completely slipped your moorings!’ Marcus agreed with alacrity. ‘Why should I find someone to care for when all
she
will care for is my wealth and my title?’ There was a bitter twist to his lips.

As bad as that, thought Jack, observing this. All he said was, ‘I think you do yourself an injustice there. Why should some female not value you for yourself?’ He paused briefly and added deliberately, ‘As your mother valued your father.’

The bitterness around the mouth became even more pronounced. ‘Because I seriously doubt the existence of
such a paragon, Jack! Every female I have ever had anything to do with has been first and foremost concerned with my purse strings.’ He ignored the last part of Jack’s comment.

Jack was silenced. It was true enough. Mainly because Marc never allowed a woman sufficiently close to see beyond them to anything else. They saw nothing but Marcus, Earl of Rutherford—gazetted rake and confirmed cynic. Very few people ever saw Marc Langley—certainly none of his mistresses did.

So he shrugged and said, ‘I admit you have a point, but even if you feel a marriage founded on love or at least affection to be unlikely, might I suggest that one founded on mutual respect rather than lust is more likely to be convenient and bearable?’ He looked at Marcus ruefully. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to preach. Have some more ham.’

Marcus helped himself. Jack’s last point had hit home. Maybe he was right. And anyway, marrying in a fit of pique to annoy Di would be positively cork-brained. Another thought suddenly presented itself as he sliced ham. Althea had been married to Hartleigh for at least six years and in all that time there had been no children to bless the union. It would be the height of lunacy to marry for the sake of an heir if there were the slightest indication his countess might not be able to oblige.

‘I’m going out of town,’ he said abruptly. ‘Di knows all about it. Our Great-uncle Samuel has cocked up his toes. Since the old miser had no children and was too clutch-fisted to pay a lawyer to draw up a will, the estate comes back to me. And from all I hear it is in an appalling state. I’ll have to be gone for several weeks.’

Jack nodded. ‘Your father’s uncle, wasn’t he? The one in Yorkshire?’

‘That’s him,’ said Marcus. ‘Apparently he had some connection of Great-aunt Euphemia’s to housekeep for him and she’s left totally destitute, according to the lawyers, so I’ll have to settle some money on her. Uncle Samuel had plenty, so why he didn’t deal with the matter himself is beyond me.’ He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘I just came around to tell you I’d be away. In fact, I’m leaving this morning.’

A friendly grin lightened Hamilton’s sombre countenance. ‘I’m honoured, my lord, that you deigned to grace my poor table.’

‘Oh, go to the devil!’ recommended his lordship. He paused. ‘Jack, I will give what you said some thought. Oh, not that rubbish about caring for a girl.’ The finely moulded mouth tightened slightly, as though in pain. ‘Even if it were possible…it’s not…not what I want. But I dare say you may be right about the rest of the business. Thanks. And I don’t know that you need to tell Di about this conversation.’

‘Of course, I always pass on the confidences of my closest friends to their sisters!’ said Jack sardonically.

Marcus grinned. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive.’

He took his departure, leaving Jack Hamilton in a state compounded of concern and relief in equal parts. At least Marc was thinking twice about Althea Hartleigh, but the utter cynicism and contempt for the opposite sex betrayed by his comments did not bode well for a happy union with any woman. Ten to one, even if some female did discover and succumb to his lordship’s personal charm, he would find some way to hurt her and ensure that she regretted ever doing so.

Ruefully he wondered if, after all, Althea Hartleigh would be the best choice. At least Marc would know what to expect and there was not the slightest chance of the lady being hurt by his cold humours and likely strayings. There was more to it than straight-out cynicism over the dubious motives which spurred some women to marriage. Still, after nearly twenty years, Marc could not bear to speak of his adored mother. Jack shook his head sadly, remembering the outrageous and delightful woman she had been.

He sighed. No doubt Marc would go his own way to the devil and if it gave him the illusion of happiness then there was not a thing anyone could do for him! Unless, of course, Blaise Winterbourne seduced Althea Hartleigh before she became Countess of Rutherford.

Very few people realised just how deeply Marc disliked Winterbourne. Certainly no one but Jack knew why he did so…and the reason why Winterbourne took such pleasure in seducing Marc’s mistresses.

T
hree days later Marcus sat in the library of Fenby Hall, wondering if the rest of the house could possibly be in as shabby a state as this room. The wainscoting all looked as though it might as well be torn down; the hangings had obviously not been attended to for years. They hung tattered and faded over windows for which cleaning was a distant memory. When he had taken a volume from the shelves in curiosity, a cloud of dust and several moths had attended it.

The only positive aspect of the room was the fact that it had not succumbed to the atmosphere of damp prevailing in the rest of the house. A phenomenon which Marcus had no hesitation in ascribing to the circumstance of his uncle having used only this room and forbidding fires in any other.

The rest of the house was cold, damp and unspeakably dreary. Rugs were badly worn, although he could see where tears had been carefully mended. Curtains were faded and in many cases ragged. The furniture, he noted, was well dusted except for this room. It was even waxed in the parlour. But everywhere there was evidence of decay.

Certainly the linen was in an appalling condition. He had put his foot through both sheets last night and a brief inspection that morning had revealed that, despite frequent mending and being turned sides to middle, they had long ago reached the point where they would have disgraced a rag-bag.

He sat at the large mahogany desk and perused the estate books. Obviously his great-uncle had taken no interest in his patrimony for years. There was no record of any improvements being made; the wages remained what they had been twenty years ago. Samuel had apparently been content to live on his considerable investments and permit his home and dependents to decay around him.

He had arrived too late yesterday to see anything of the estate, but he’d wager that the workers were housed in cottages he’d be ashamed to see on his land. What the devil had the old man been about to let things come to such a pass? And what was the housekeeper, Miss Fellowes, doing to let the house fall into such a state?

He had not yet had the felicity of meeting Miss Fellowes. When Marcus had inquired for her the previous evening, the old retainer, Barlow, had said apologetically that Miss was laid up with the influenza, having taken a nasty chill at the master’s funeral.

‘She did tell me to assure your lordship that she would be gone as soon as may be,’ explained Barlow nervously. ‘Going to Mrs Garsby over at Burvale House as nursery governess she is, but the truth is she ain’t too steady on her pins at all. Mrs Barlow did persuade her to stay, feeling sure your lordship would understand.’

Marcus thought sardonically that, from the look of things, Miss Fellowes had been suffering from influenza
for the last five years if the state of the house was anything to go by. He hoped his uncle had not paid her a large wage because she certainly hadn’t earned it.

Keeping this thought to himself, he nodded and said coldly, ‘Inform Miss Fellowes that she is welcome to stay until she is fully recovered. Has a message been sent to Mrs Garsby to inform her of this illness?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘See to it at once. And where will I find the household accounts?’ He would have a look and see just what Miss Fellowes had been doing with herself.

‘Miss Meg will have them, me lord.’

‘Then ask one of the maids to fetch them, please,’ said his lordship firmly.

Barlow opened his mouth, shut it again and left the room.

Some half-hour later a stout, elderly woman wearing an apron entered the library, bearing a large ledger. Marcus looked up frowning from his desk and stared. This was no maidservant!

‘Mrs Barlow, your lordship,’ she said in answer to his querying gaze. ‘Here be the accounts.’

Marcus stared at her and said, ‘You’re the cook, dammit! Why are you running errands beyond your kitchen? Why did not one of the maids—?’

‘Because there ain’t none,’ was the startling reply.

The hard grey eyes widened in disbelief. ‘None? You can’t be serious!’ A look around the room and the memory of his bed linen served to convince him that she could be serious.

‘Then who…?’

Mrs Barlow said, ‘Well, Miss Meg does her best, me lord, but since she also gives me a bit of a hand, being as how the master wouldn’t hire no help, it don’t leave
her a lot of time an’ it’s a big house.’ She dumped the book on the desk with scant ceremony and stalked out.

Marcus was horrified at these revelations and mentally made the afflicted Miss Fellowes his apologies. Obviously Great-uncle Samuel had been an even bigger lickpenny than he had thought. A glance at the household accounts confirmed what Mrs Barlow had said. No domestic staff was employed beyond the Barlows. One groom kept the two horses and a couple of carriages in some sort of order.

By the time he had ascertained from the painstaking accounts that the house was run on a budget that would have been laughably inadequate were it quadrupled, he was wondering just why Miss Fellowes had not removed herself years ago. The previous housekeeper had been dismissed four years earlier according to these records, resulting in a saving of twenty pounds a year.

Marcus very much doubted that his economically minded relative had bothered to pay Miss Fellowes a penny. There was certainly no record of it here. Which suggested that she was not, after all, a servant, but rather a dependent that the old devil had used shamefully. And then to leave her destitute! It passed all bounds! He would have to settle some money on the old lady. Marcus began to have a very definite picture of Miss…what was her name? Meg? Margaret, no doubt…Fellowes. Small, in her sixties at least, white hair, an air of nervousness. Probably she had nowhere else to go and no one to turn to and Samuel Langley had treated her like a dog! Damn the old skinflint! How difficult would it have been to leave the poor woman a respectable sum of money? Now he would have to do it as tactfully as possible and try to atone for Samuel’s
lack of responsibility. Perhaps she would enjoy a stay in London with Di?

Irritably, he dismissed this very minor matter from his mind and turned his attention back to the books. Tomorrow he would have to look over the estate and see what needed doing. Doubtless it was in as bad heart as the house.

A day spent riding around the estate with the bailiff, an individual clearly hired because he fell in with all Samuel Langley’s notions of economy, confirmed Marcus in his worst fears. The estate was in ruins, its fields unproductive for much of the year and its tenants housed in conditions that would have shamed their new landlord had they been discovered on any of his other lands.

His face became grimmer and grimmer the more he saw, and Mr Padbury, misunderstanding his new master’s cold anger, sought heartily to assure him that there were many more economies that could be made.

Ten minutes later, his face white with shock at the explosion his reassurances had engendered, Mr Padbury was in no doubt that things were about to change rapidly at Fenby. His lordship had informed him that, if he wished to keep his position, he would at once set in train arrangements for the relief of the cottagers and, furthermore, reduce the rents to a more reasonable figure.

Sitting in the library before dinner, contemplating the amount of work needed to bring the estate into order, Marcus wondered if his great-uncle had been merely eccentric or if there had been a hitherto-unrealised streak of insanity in the old man. It was going to cost a fortune to restore the estate. He sincerely hoped the
old curmudgeon would spin dizzily in his grave at all the money that would have to be spent.

His cogitations were interrupted by Barlow, who came in and coughed apologetically.

‘Yes, Barlow? Is dinner ready?’ His annoyance over the ruination around him made his voice rather sharp.

Barlow looked awkward. ‘Well, it is, me lord, but that ain’t what I came to tell…ask you.’

He hesitated and Marcus, seeing that the old man was actually scared, said more gently, ‘Go on, then.’

‘’Tis Miss Meg, me lord. Just took her dinner up on a tray I have, an’ I reckon she’s pretty bad. Agnes—Mrs Barlow, that is—saw her this mornin’ an’ thought the doctor did ought to be called but—’

‘Have you done so?’ interrupted Marcus, frowning.

‘Oh, no, me lord!’ Barlow said in soothing accents. ‘Not without your permission! An’ you was out all day so…’

Sheer disbelief robbed Marcus of speech momentarily. What the hell was going on here? He stared at Barlow for a moment and then said carefully, ‘What the devil have I to say to anything? If Miss Fellowes requires or desires the attendance of a doctor, then she is perfectly at liberty to summon one!’

Barlow looked scared and confused and then, his face working, he burst out, ‘We told Miss Meg days ago she did ought to have the doctor, but she won’t acos she can’t pay him. Master wouldn’t never let her call the doctor, not even when she broke her arm! Doctor came anyway that time, acos Agnes got a message to him an’ the master refused to pay the bill! So Miss Meg won’t call him—’

‘Enough!’ Marcus was horrified. His mental query
about his uncle’s sanity was patently answered. The old man must have been next door to a Bedlamite!

He saw Barlow flinch and said, ‘Send a message for the doctor at once and assure him that his bills, including the one for Miss Fellowes’s broken arm, will be met! I will come and see your mistress at once to reassure her that she need have no fears for the future!’

It was the least he could do. It was not right to leave the poor old lady worrying about her prospects. He had every intention of settling a large enough sum on her to enable her to hire lodgings and live in decent comfort. The idea of her having to go out and earn her living after a Langley had treated her so shabbily was utterly repugnant. Clearly Samuel Langley had not possessed the least idea of what his position entailed.

Barlow stared and said, ‘I dunno as it’ll do much good, me lord. Right feverish she is. I don’t think she even knew I was in the room just then.’

It was Marcus’s turn to stare. He said slowly, ‘How sick is she?’

Barlow flushed. ‘Mortal bad, me lord. I…I haven’t been up today on account of Agnes bein’ took ill. I been tryin’ to help her as well an’ now she’ve took to her bed.’ He misinterpreted the look of consternation on his lordship’s face and hastened to set his mind at rest. ‘Dinner’s all ready, me lord,’ he said soothingly. ‘An’ we got Farmer Bates’s second girl to come in to help during the day, bein’ as how you said this mornin’ extra help could be hired.’

‘Damn and blast my dinner!’ exploded Marcus. ‘Conduct me to Miss Fellowes’s chamber at once!’

Five minutes later he stood staring down at the feverish occupant of a very large and old-fashioned tester bed, festooned with moth-eaten velvet hangings. Her
face was ashen grey in its pallor and sheened with sweat in the flickering light cast by a branch of tallow candles. Thin hands shifted restlessly on the counterpane and her breath rasped harshly. Every few moments the slight frame was racked by paroxysms of coughing.

‘Hell!’ said Marcus in shock. ‘Barlow, get down to the stables on the double. Tell Burnet to harness my bays to the curricle. You are to go with him to fetch the doctor. I don’t want him getting lost. Stop! Where will I find firewood?’

The room was pervaded with a chilly damp that seeped into the bones. No wonder she was so ill, thought Marcus. She should have had the doctor days ago. It might have started out as a touch of influenza, but he was willing to bet it was a fully fledged inflammation of the lungs now!

Barlow said, ‘I’ll send young Judd up with firewood, me lord.’

He was gone, leaving Marcus staring down at Miss Fellowes. He could have kicked himself for not checking on her two days ago. To his admittedly inexperienced eye, she was seriously ill and he felt appallingly responsible. And there was another thing apart from her health to bother him about her.

Miss Fellowes, far from being elderly, was not even middle-aged. He would be very much surprised if she could boast more than twenty summers to her credit. And it was entirely possible, he thought in sinking fear, that she might not live long enough to see this one.

By the time the doctor arrived, Marcus had done a fair bit to make Miss Fellowes more comfortable. A crackling fire was rapidly dispelling the chill of the room. He had bathed her brow and wrists repeatedly with cool water. He had even lifted her slight frame
from the pillows when she roused and held a cup of water to her lips, compelling her to swallow some.

She had choked and protested, opening her eyes briefly to gaze at him in mild confusion. Then she had apparently decided he was harmless and said, ‘Thank you,’ in a faint whisper, before closing her eyes again. Marcus took some encouragement from this. A concern with her manners argued that perhaps she was not quite as ill as he had thought.

Doctor Ellerbeck, a bluff-looking man of about fifty, took one look at Miss Fellowes and said, ‘My God! Why the devil didn’t you call me sooner?’

Feeling absurdly guilty, Marcus explained. Ellerbeck listened and then turned to examine his patient.

Which presented Marcus with another problem. He definitely ought not to be in the room while the doctor examined Miss Fellowes. It was most improper. On the other hand, it would be even more improper to leave her alone with the doctor. He swore and turned his back. In the absence of Mrs Barlow, that would have to do.

At last Ellerbeck stepped back from the bed and asked, ‘Where is Agnes?’ And swore when he was told. ‘This child needs someone with her constantly. I may be able to find someone tomorrow; but who is to sit with her tonight? I have a woman in labour to attend.’

‘I’ll sit with her,’ said Marcus, feeling that his life had just spun totally out of his control.

Ellerbeck frowned slightly. ‘It will be no sinecure, my lord. She’ll need the medicine I’ll leave with you and a saline draft. That fever is likely to rise before morning and she’ll be very difficult to handle.’

Marcus shrugged and said resignedly, ‘There’s no one else, Doctor. And it’s partially my fault. I should have checked on her two days ago. You can’t blame
the Barlows. They weren’t to know I wouldn’t behave like my uncle.’ He felt sick to his stomach at the thought of the girl lying there, too proud to call the doctor because she couldn’t pay him, and too scared to let anyone know how ill she was. To be that alone in the world, to have no one to care for you! An icy band contracted around his heart at the thought. He looked down at Miss Fellowes’s ashen face. At least for the next few days she had someone to take care of her.