A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) (17 page)

He guided her from the doorway and stood before her once again next to the window. By the trick of the moon he appeared otherworldly in the silvery light, draining all color from his face.

Rosalind steadied her breathing, feeling hesitant yet exhilarated. Her heart pumped wildly in anticipation.

Feeling a bit self-conscious about their behavior, in truth, hers, Rosalind said, “You must have kissed many . . .”

“There have been a few,” he admitted. “I must own that I have never been so entranced by any female.”

Her eyes closed slowly and his lips met hers. From their previous kiss, she knew this was how it started. The gentle pressure of his lips, warm and soft. They began to move beneath hers and . . . and the feeling . . . warmth began to spread inside her, upward from her torso. Rosalind never thought a kiss could feel like this.

She turned her head, breaking their contact to draw in a breath of cool air, and felt him press a firm kiss on her neck, and a lingering kiss on her cheek. She opened her eyes to see the green bough over the doorway.

“The mistletoe!” she said with a start. “It’s supposed to be bad luck to the household to kiss under a bough with no berries!”

“Never fear, my sweet.” Freddie produced for her a white berry.

“From where did that come?” She reclaimed the small token, keeping it for her own.

“The wreath, of course.”

“Is it the last one? For that would be too bad.” She gazed longingly at the bough.

“I will do a thorough inspection and check behind every branch, leaf, and needle. I’m certain there is at least one more to be found.”

Rosalind turned her head to gaze at him and smiled. “I certainly hope so.”

“Perhaps now, Miss Harris, we should attempt something more respectable.”

“What did you have in mind, sir?”

“What about that four-hand piece we are to play on Twelfth Night? We have had very little practice . . . at that.”

Rosalind demurred, feeling herself blush a little. “Speak for yourself, sir. I have been at the keyboard for several hours this day and I expect you will find that I am much improved.”

“I look forward to hearing you play. If you will be so good as to . . .” Freddie motioned for her to lead the way to the instrument and he would follow. Unfortunately, he had some difficulty with his legs. They felt a bit jelly-like and his knees buckled a bit, making standing more of a challenge.

How that kiss had affected him. Freddie had never experienced a more heavenly kiss, which made it ever more clear how truly, thoroughly, and deeply he loved Miss Rosalind Harris.

That was the crux of Freddie’s dilemma because he wanted, very much, more than anything, to marry her.

He had no doubt Rosalind would readily accept an offer from Mr. Freddie Worth but he was certain she would not think twice about turning her back on the future Duke of Faraday.

As certain as he was of his feeling for her and her feeling for him, Freddie knew without a doubt if he told her the truth now she would never have him.

Chapter Seventeen

F
reddie and Rosalind practiced on the pianoforte together for another hour. Sitting side by side, she enjoyed talking, teasing, and flirting. There was something quite satisfying in playing a musical piece together, listening to the tunes twine and harmonize, something that was quite novel for her.

They shared the same rests and several runs of quavers that were met, as if by instinct, as if they had practiced far longer. Sharing his company, this very moment, felt almost magical and Rosalind wished she could stop time and have this last forever.

“I do not believe we could improve on that performance.” Freddie backed away from the keyboard. “You have underestimated your skill. Not that this comes as news to me but you are quite perfection itself.” He raised her hand to his lips for a kiss.

“You are being far too kind.” She smiled and could not prevent the audible sigh of satisfaction.

Rosalind adored the way Freddie smiled at her. At that moment she felt he could do no wrong . . . well, with the exception of bringing up
His Lordship’s
name again.

“I must give some credit to my fellow musician. After all, we play a duet.” She truly could not have done it without him.

“Point taken. I will gladly accept the accolades.” He stared into her eyes and she knew, not by experience but some inner torrent, that if they were left idle they would fall onto an amorous path that she was sure to enjoy, but eventually both would regret. Now was not the time for impulsiveness.

“I think it’s about time for Clare’s return,” Rosalind said. “I would like a few moments of her time before Mr. Trevor absconds with her.”

“Then I shall check on Mr. Rutherford before he is occupied with Miss Clare,” Freddie returned then smartly added, “The weather was nice this morning. Perhaps we can take a walk outside if it continues to improve.”

“Perhaps I will practice the pianoforte on my own again instead,” she responded.

“
Perhaps
I will find a step stool and inspect that kissing bough for berries,” he threatened.

“
Perhaps
I will wait until you find one,” she retorted.

“
Perhaps
I will kiss you no matter if I find one or not,” Freddie stated with finality.

“Oh!” Rosalind stood and quickly moved away from the pianoforte. “You know that will bring bad luck to the house!”

“Very well, I think I best take my leave and find Trevor before you tempt me further.” Freddie stood and made a slight bow. “I bid good day to you, ma’am.”

“And to you, sir.”

Before parting, Freddie winked at her and Rosalind batted her eyelashes at him. She felt absolutely
giddy.

Freddie left the parlor some minutes after Rosalind and the music stayed with him. He was, after all, humming the tune they had just finished twenty or so minutes back. Oh, and there was that smile on his face he could not remove and the little spring in his step. All in all, Freddie felt quite happy.

“Fred! Freddie!” Trevor came bolting out of the morning room. “There you are, Fred! Thank heavens. Here, Fred! Come in here, quickly!”

The whistling and the springing stopped. Freddie dashed down the length of the corridor, sliding to a halt in front of the breakfast room.

“Trev, what is it?” Freddie’s reaction to the terror in Trevor’s voice was instantly unnerving.

“What are we going to do?” Trevor, rubbing his temples and brow, mumbled to himself.

“Trevor?” Freddie hoped,
really
hoped, his friend was overreacting. “What are you going on about? Is it Clare? Has something happened to her?”

“
Clare
? No, no. Not Clare but . . .”

“Yes, yes, go on.” Freddie wanted to slap him or shake him, something to jar him out of his dithering.

“I was waiting in the kitchen for Clare. Standing by the window, keeping an eye out for her. She said that’s where she would be returning, with Harry and the sled.”

“Yes, yes.” Freddie knew all that. “Go on.”

“As I said I was waiting for her and I saw
somebody
out there, coming toward the house.”

“
Somebody
?”

“There was a rig and two horses and a driver too, I think.” Trevor narrowed his eyes in thought. “But the fellow, the one coming to the house . . . you know, using the servants’ entrance, not the front door . . .”

“
Who
was it?” Because the identity of the visitor must have been the key to Trevor’s unrest.

“He came right toward the house, in
ma-
direction.” Trevor grabbed hold of Freddie’s sleeves holding him fixed to the spot he stood. “I clearly saw his face. It was Sturgis.”

Thomas Sturgis
. . . His father’s valet.

The humming and spring, and whatever joy Freddie had experienced minutes before, had gone, and with it, no doubt, a more somber expression emerged.

“Good God, Thomas is
here
?”

“What is he doing here? Is he here to see you? How did he know this is where you’d be? Who sent him?” If only Trevor would have taken a moment to listen to his own questions, he would have known the answers were all too clear.

The Duke of Faraday, Freddie’s father, that’s who’d sent him.

Was Thomas
looking
for Freddie? A valet did not seem the proper person for that task. A Bow Street Runner or a private detective might have been a better choice. Still, why send his valet? And for what purpose? It was yet to be known. Of course, Freddie could be certain that
he
somehow played a part in the valet’s presence.

“Did he come into the house? Where is he now?” Freddie planned to intercept Thomas before he could speak to anyone else, although he feared it might already be too late for that.

“I don’t know. I ran when I recognized him and went to find you.” Trevor, now that he had it all out, began to tremble.

“All right, all right.” What was Freddie to do? “Don’t worry, I’ll find Sturgis. You go on and wait for Clare.” Clearly his friend was shaken and probably could use a good stiff drink to settle his nerves. “Have her read you some poetry.”

“Yes, some poetry,” Trevor repeated. “And perhaps a glass of sherry, maybe. Whiskey might be preferable.”

“Good idea. Now off with you.” Freddie sent him on his way.

Freddie decided that if Thomas had entered the household and asked his questions, he would soon realize he had not found the whereabouts of the Earl of Brent. When the valet exited, Freddie would have his chance to snatch him. Freddie retrieved his scarf and greatcoat before stealing outside through the back parlor door—careful that it remained unlocked for his return—to the precise position where he could watch the comings and goings of the house.

Rosalind left the parlor on her way to the kitchen where Clare would soon return. While passing her father’s study, she heard two men’s voices.

This was odd.

She slowed to listen. One was her father’s but the second was not known to her.

When the study door opened, she dashed around the corner and watched the visitor head to the front door and let himself out.

Rosalind moved to the study door and peered inside. Her father sat at his desk cradling his head in his hands softly moaning in despair.

“What have I done? What have
I
done?”

“Father?” Rosalind could see that clearly her father was upset and stepped into the room. She closed the door behind her with a soft click.

He lifted his head to look at her. “Good God, Rosalind . . .” Grief and remorse laced his words. “Woe is me, oh, woe is me! My dear, your father is a dreadful bounder. A cheat! I cannot—” He buried his head in his hands again.

“Oh, Papa, whatever it is cannot be as bad as all that.” Rosalind and her parent had never seen eye to eye on most things but she could never imagine him a
bounder.

His refusal or inability to answer, Rosalind did not know which, puzzled her. She had never seen her father in this frame of mind. The wailing, the despair, it was very unlike him.

“Does it have anything to do with that man who just left?”

“That man?” Mr. Harris’s head lifted again. “Did you see him?”

“The man who only now left the house? Yes.” She recalled the unfamiliar visitor. “He’s not from around here.”

“That man . . . oh, he was . . .” Mr. Harris fumbled at the papers on his desk rather absently until he laid his hand upon what he must have been seeking. “Your father is in trouble, my girl.”

Rosalind moved to the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry. “Here.” She placed the small glass between his hands before him. “Do calm yourself, Papa. Has he brought bad news? It cannot be as bad as all that, can it?”

“I do not know how it could be worse!”

She noticed a parchment clutched in her father’s hand. “Is
this
causing you pain?” Rosalind pulled the letter free and smoothed it.

“Don’t read it.” His voice, filled with pain and anguish, pleaded.

Rosalind ignored him and directed her gaze to read the handwritten letter before her:

Mr. Harris,

As you are the steward of Penshaw Manor, I write to you this courtesy letter to notify you of my son, the Earl of Brent’s, pending arrival to the estate.

I realize you must take direction from him as he is the legal owner but as the original purchaser and his father, I have concerns on his behalf and would like to make his recent financial difficulty known to you so you can take the appropriate measures as needed.

His Lordship may ask, at a moment’s notice, to see monthly and annual reports for land profits and rents collected, as well as estate maintenance and expenditures. You might also wish to have on hand the production/expense, cost, and asset reports as well as a list of all equipment, stock, and land holdings before the sale and since the estate’s purchase. The monthly/annual of household accounts, staff wages, and expenditures for the last two years might prove useful for his perusal.

For Lord Brent to extricate himself from his current debts, I cannot see any way other than ordering the estate to drastically economize over the next few years as well as sell off some of its holdings, all to be determined by His Lordship.

Duke of Faraday

The Duke of Faraday suggested the estate to economize? The estate had nothing. There were no expenditures much less any money spent on maintenance, and she had no idea if there was ever any profit, and was equally unsure if the estate made any money at all.

“Is His Grace serious? Lord Brent expects to come here to
collect
money to pay his debts?” Rosalind knew her father ran the Penshaw estate as best he could. There simply was nothing here. “It is laughable! I do not understand why you feel bad, Father. None of this is your fault.”

“Oh, my dear, dear Rosalind. If you only knew.” Mr. Harris had downed his sherry and returned to the sideboard to refill his glass. His hands were shaking quite badly; the liquid sloshed over the rim of the small glass when he tried to pour.