The Dutiful Rake (4 page)

‘What?’ Marcus was aghast. ‘Why not?’

Ellerbeck looked self-conscious. ‘Er…they seemed to feel that your reputation…’

White hot fury seared through Marcus. His usually cold eyes were blazing with rage and his big frame was absolutely rigid. If this were the case, it made his plans for Meg’s future very dangerous. If he settled money on her, then it would be whispered that she had been his mistress. She would be a social pariah. In his estimation she had suffered enough through Samuel Langley’s irresponsibility without another member of the family completing the job. He would have to think of something else.

All he said was, ‘Charming that they would then leave a sick girl to my care.’

It was not the first time he had been confronted with the hypocrisy of society in general and women in particular. He did not doubt that if he appeared socially and showed the slightest interest in any of the eligible females, that he would be courted and toadied to glory. None of them would have cared a rap for his reputation did they but think his fortune and title were going to embellish one of their daughters.

They would not care if he had ruined Meg Fellowes in fact or merely compromised her technically. Meg’s reputation would be mud while he was still a matrimonial prize.

He was still seething on and off and wondering exactly what he should do about it when Agnes Barlow appeared the following morning to remove him from
his position as nurse. Although she looked far from well, she ejected him from the room unceremoniously, muttering that things were come to a pretty pass if a young lady was expected to have a gentleman to nurse her.

‘Not but what the doctor was sayin’ you was very good to Miss Meg an’ she ought to be grateful you was here! But what I say is, the less she knows about it the better. Now get along with you, lad…me lord…an’ have your breakfast. Farmer Bates’s girl Nellie ain’t much, but she can cook ham an’ eggs!’

From which Marcus gathered that, despite her disapproval of the necessity that had put him in charge of the sickroom, Mrs Barlow was far from disapproving of him personally. He definitely hoped the Barlows were going to agree to stay on under his management. Naturally if they wanted to be pensioned off, he would do so, but he rather thought that it would be preferable to have two such loyal and intelligent servants remain here.

M
iss Marguerite Fellowes was very puzzled when she awoke later that morning. Not only was the room warm, but she felt very much better. She felt so much better that she was ready to be curious about the tall and handsome stranger who had been in attendance while she was so sick. A very elegant stranger at that. And so kind.

Except for the Barlows and, of course, the Vicar and Dr Ellerbeck, Miss Fellowes couldn’t think of anyone who was kind to her. And that reminded her…had someone called Dr Ellerbeck? She hoped it was just a dream that he had been to see her, because she couldn’t imagine how she was going to pay him. Frowning, she tried to remember properly. She was sure he had been…yes…she recalled him introducing Marc to her, saying he was a friend.

Expectantly she looked around for Marc. And found Agnes sitting in the armchair, turning the heel of a sock. Conscious of a feeling of crushing disappointment, Meg realised that Marc must have just been a dream, a fever-induced vision compounded of her deepest romantic fancies. And she had certainly had some peculiar fan
cies while she was ill. But to think a gentleman had nursed her! She might have known it was a dream. As if any gentleman, let alone one as handsome as that, would ever be so kind to Meg Fellowes. No, only an imaginary man could possibly have held her so safely and soothed her so tenderly.

He had fed her too, she suddenly remembered. Out of that revolting syphon of Cousin Samuel’s. And hadn’t he helped her when she had to…surely she would not have imagined those sort of things! Not being able to pay the doctor’s bill would be a small embarrassment compared to this.

‘Hullo, Agnes.’ She smiled as Mrs Barlow looked up. ‘Have you been there long?’

Caught off-guard, Mrs Barlow replied, ‘An hour or so, dearie. How do you feel? Doctor said as how you’d pull up quick once you turned the corner.’

Meg thought that she still felt fairly gruesome, weak and achey. But at least her wits were her own again. And her head didn’t feel as though a blacksmith had set up business in it. Nor was her throat still sore. That was something. No doubt she could get up later and do her packing. It would not do to keep Mrs Garsby waiting too long for her nursery governess or she might decide to offer someone else the position.

Then her gaze lit on that beastly syphon, lying beside the bottom half of the
veilleuse
on the nightstand. Her eyes widened. Oh, dear! Maybe she hadn’t been dreaming after all! But who…?

Nervously she cleared her throat and asked, ‘Agnes, who looked after me while I was sick? Was it you?’

Agnes Barlow shook her head reluctantly and Meg realised from her demeanour that something odd was
going on. A deep and mortified blush swept over the pale face and throat.

‘Agnes! Who was it?’ Meg’s voice came out as a startled squeak.

‘His lordship,’ said Agnes. ‘I’m that sorry, Miss Meg, but I was sick too. Not like you was, but I wouldn’t have been much good to you. Barlow looked after me and I’ll tell you one thing.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It may not have been what you call proper, but Barlow told me his lordship was that careful with you. And he insisted on paying for the doctor to come out. Cross as anything he was that we hadn’t told him sooner.’

‘His lordship?’ echoed Meg. ‘I don’t know any lordships!’ Let alone one she called Marc and who claimed to be a friend.

Agnes elaborated. ‘Lord Rutherford, dearie. Turned up t’other night. Right put about he was when Barlow told him about you…’

Meg stared in horror. She had fully intended to be out of the house before Cousin Samuel’s horrid heir arrived! And she would have been if the Barlows hadn’t practically forced her into bed and told her to stay there. She had heard
all
about the Earl of Rutherford and he hadn’t sounded at all the sort of person she wanted to know…or, for that matter, the sort of person to nurse a stranger through an attack of influenza. Especially a girl with her history.

All she could find to say was, ‘Did someone send over to Mrs Garsby? She…she was expecting me.’

Agnes pursed her lips in evident disapproval. She had voiced her opinion of Miss Meg’s proposed employment at Burvale House often enough for Meg to have it by heart. Despite all the gossip and nastiness of some people who called themselves ladies, Miss Meg was a
young lady and ought not to be cast out on the world like an unwanted kitten, and so on, and so on.

She opened her mouth, clearly intending to say it all again, but Meg said, ‘Oh, Agnes, please don’t! I have to live after all. What else can I do? I can’t remain here any longer. Was a message sent?’ There was real fear in her voice.

Agnes nodded with obvious disapproval. ‘Aye. Barlow sent a message, sayin’ you was took sick.’

Relief flooded through Meg. It would never do to lose her situation before she had even started. She was determined never to ask for charity or assistance again in her life. She would starve rather than ever be someone’s poor relation again. She reflected that, after Cousin Samuel’s pointed lessons in economy, she would be able to save a great deal for her old age out of the twenty pounds per annum that her prospective employer had offered.

To Meg, who had never had any money of her own, it seemed a fortune, but she was wise enough to realise that her wages must be husbanded carefully against times when she might be without a job and particularly against the time when she was too old to work.

A knock at the door presaged the entrance of Nellie Bates with a tray.

‘Nellie! What are you doing here?’

‘Temp’rary ’elp, Miss Meg,’ said Nellie proudly. ‘To ’elp Mrs Barlow. Just days, mind. Me mam won’t let me stay o’ nights. On account of ’is lordship’s reputation. Real wicked, they say ’e is!’

A snort from Mrs Barlow as Nellie left the room suggested that her help was not entirely appreciated. She softened it by saying, ‘She means well, I’ll say that for her. Not but what some folks ‘ud do a sight better
to worry ’bout their own beams afore they goes looking for motes in other folks’ eyes.’

Meg thought things were definitely taking a turn for the better. If Marc…Lord Rutherford was hiring help, then perhaps he was not such a shocking lickpenny as Cousin Samuel, who had given new layers of meaning to the term, ‘of a saving disposition’. That would mean better times for everyone on the estate.

Agnes bustled over with the tray, placing it on her lap. It held a plate of bread and butter and the bowl from the top of the
veilleuse.
Suspiciously Meg raised the lid. Ugh! More broth! Well, at least this time she had been provided with a spoon rather than that horrid syphon. She could not recall how many times she had carried the thing to Cousin Samuel after he had bought it. He had agonised over the purchase price and consequently had been determined to get his money’s worth out of it, so he had used it every time he had so much as a head cold.

Meg remembered the time she had suggested that, at four pence, he could afford to keep it for special occasions. The old man had practically had a seizure, moaning that she was a wanton, extravagant hussy, just like her mother, and would bring him to ruin with her spendthrift ways!

And now she had used it! She had a very clear memory of Marc…his lordship, giving it to her…she was very much afraid that she had sworn at him. Blushing once more as she spooned up the broth, Meg realised that she would have to see his lordship again, if only to thank him for his care of her and to apologise for trespassing on his hospitality. She hoped he would not think she was angling for a handout.

In the event, Meg did not see his lordship for several days. Her voiced intent of getting up to pack and remove herself to Burvale House to take up her duties there, was dealt with summarily, if vicariously, by Marcus. Having been informed by Mrs Barlow of the patient’s plan, he had charged her with the message that if Miss Fellowes was such a pea goose, he would personally strip her, put her back to bed and tie her to it if necessary, until the doctor gave her permission to get up.

While deprecating the blunt nature of Lord Ruthford’s graphic threat, Mrs Barlow relayed it faithfully and was bound to acknowledge that it had its effect. Nothing more was heard from Miss Fellowes about getting up for another five days, by which time the doctor was perfectly satisfied with her progress.

Inwardly fuming over his lordship’s high-handed attitude, Meg had to admit that she didn’t really want to get up all that much. Certainly not enough to risk calling his lordship’s bluff. If indeed he was bluffing, which she thought extremely doubtful. So she remained in bed, happily reading, for five days.

Having been informed by Ellerbeck that in his opinion the patient was recovered enough to leave her bed, Marcus sat waiting at the desk in the library to inform Miss Fellowes of her future. He had it all sorted out. She was most definitely not going to take up that position at Burvale House. It would be quite ineligible for a young lady, which she undoubtedly was.

First off, she could go to stay with Diana. He would send her to London post. That would get her out of this neighbourhood, where there might be some spiteful whispers about her sojourn under his roof. After a de
cent interval he would settle some of Samuel Langley’s money on her, which was what the scaly old nipcheese ought to have done in the first place. He would tell her that Samuel had desired him to do so when the extent of his obligations and debts should be known. No need for her to think she was being handed charity. He would write to Diana tonight and send a note over to Mrs Garsby in a day or so, informing her that she would need to find another nursery governess.

He smiled to himself in anticipation. He simply couldn’t wait to see her face. She would be disbelieving at first, would probably demur. Then she would be excited, happy. Her face would be flushed with pleasure, anticipation.

A tap at the door informed him that Miss Fellowes had arrived to be told of the change in her fortunes.

‘Come in.’

Meg heard the deep rumble and trembled slightly. His voice was just as she remembered it, dark and velvety…it was the sort of voice that made you want to stroke it…like a big cat. Nervously she opened the door and went in, wondering if her eyes had remembered as well as her ears.

They hadn’t. She really must have been quite out of her wits with that influenza. Marc—faced with him she had trouble reminding herself to think of him as Lord Rutherford—sat there at Cousin Samuel’s old desk, looking even more lethally handsome than she recalled. His frame looked impossibly large and powerful, the shoulders too broad to be contained in any coat made for a normal human being. His hair was, as she remembered, a rich tawny brown. The eyes puzzled her. She had thought them warm and kind. Now they were cold
and impassive, the sort of eyes that held their own counsel and gave nothing away.

Perhaps if she concentrated on those chilly eyes she might be able to remember that this was Lord Rutherford—that Marc was a dream.

Marcus was delighted to see that Miss Fellowes—he must remember to call her that—looked so much better. She was still far too pale, in stark contrast to the shadows under her eyes, but she looked as though she had put on a little weight in the last few days since he had seen her. There was actually some colour in her lips, which were, he noticed, quite beautifully cut, soft and full. Just the sort of mouth, he caught himself thinking, which begged to be kissed. Frowning, he reminded himself that kissing was not on his agenda for Meg…dammit! Miss Fellowes!

Seeing the frown, Meg quailed inwardly and flushed; no doubt he thought her dress shabby, not at all the thing to wear for meeting an earl. Well, it was the best she had and if he didn’t like it then that was too bad. She didn’t like it either, being tolerably certain that dull black was not calculated to make her look her best. And it must look so dowdy to one used to women in the highest kick of fashion. She knew the crossover bodice was years out of date. So she held her head high, determined not to be flustered. From all Agnes had said, he did not have the slightest idea who she was. Fellowes, after all, was a common enough name.

‘Good morning Miss Fellowes,’ said Marcus politely. ‘I trust you are recovered.’ He noted the slight flush. Better not to say she looks much improved. No need to rub her face in the fact that I nursed her.

But Meg was made of sterner stuff. ‘I am very much better, my lord. For which I am given to understand I
must thank you.’ Not for worlds would she have admitted that she could remember in detail all that he had done for her, including holding her in his arms for the whole of one night.

Very embarrassed, he waved her thanks aside. ‘It was nothing, Miss Fellowes. A trifling service. I could wish Barlow had informed me earlier of the severity of your illness. You might then have been spared my very inexpert assistance.’ He thought he had never heard himself sound like such a pompous jackass, so cold and uncaring. Yet this was the face he always presented to the world.

Meg thought he sounded bored, as though she had been a complete and utter nuisance. Which, she admitted, she probably had. Still…perhaps she ought to hold on to her memory of Marc…so kind and tender…yes, that would be a better memory to cherish in the lonely years ahead. Even if it had been a dream, it was better than the icy reality before her.

Marcus cleared his throat. What on earth had brought that odd smile to her face? It was perhaps the loveliest smile he had ever seen, shy and considering, as though she smiled at something inexpressibly dear and private.

With a mental snort for this whimsical flight, he said, ‘I am informed that you had the intention of taking up a post as a nursery governess in this neighbourhood.’

Acutely Meg picked up his use of the past tense and replied firmly, ‘Yes, my lord, the Vicar arranged it for me. That
is
my intention.’

Just as acute, Marcus heard the slight stress on the tense. Flatly he said, ‘It will not do. You are unsuited for such a position and I will not countenance it.’ As soon as the words had left his mouth he wondered if he had made a serious tactical error.