Rescued From Ruin

Randall cracked the knuckle of one finger.

The colonial was a fool if he’d failed to cherish Cecelia’s spirit or revel in her sweet laughter the way Randall had yesterday.

The art dealer, a short man with a wide forehead, approached, tugging at the knot of his cravat, his discomfort no doubt eased by the tidy profit waiting for him at the end of the sale. ‘I know I objected to your lordship displaying such a...’ he paused, searching for the proper word ‘...unique collection in an open exhibition, but you were right. The interest this showing has generated is stunning. I don’t expect one painting to remain unsold.’

‘Good. I want them gone by the end of the day.’ For years, they’d kept Aunt Ella ensconced in the dower house until a fire the spring before Cecelia had come to visit made it unlivable. The morning after Uncle Edmund’s funeral, she’d demanded the paintings be taken down and Randall had agreed. He possessed no more desire than she did to live in a manor house decorated like a bordello.

Strathmore, standing before a painting of two naked women wrestling for the amusement of several soldiers, waved the dealer over.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Lord Falconbridge, I believe we’ve made another sale.’ The dealer hurried off to join the Earl.

Randall watched as Strathmore pointed a thick finger at first one and then another of the most sordid of the lot. All at once, he imagined Strathmore sitting close to Cecelia, his dry lips hovering near her ear as he relayed with delight the dirty details of every picture, relishing the chance to poison her against him.

Randall took a step down, ready to grab the Earl by the collar and toss him out of the house, but he stopped, regaining his imperious stance and wiping away all traces of annoyance from his expression. Strathmore was beneath his notice and his anger.

A footman pulled open the front door and Lord Weatherly, Lord Hartley and Lord Malvern entered, their loud voices dropping at the sight before them.

‘Heavens,’ Lord Weatherly mumbled as he stepped up to the nearest painting, an explicit depiction of an ancient Roman man and woman watched by their curious servants. It used to hang in Uncle Edmund’s study, a strange complement to the paintings of birds and hunting dogs.

Behind him stood Lord Hartley, Marquess of Hartley, a stately man of forty-five and a fixture of society whom Randall liked and respected. He could not say the same about his dolt of a nephew, Lord Malvern. The young Baron in the tight blue silk coat possessed more words than brains and little knew how to wield either.

The fop gaped at the paintings before catching Randall’s eye. He made for Randall, his poor uncle following behind like a tired governess chasing after a wayward charge. If it weren’t for Lord Hartley, Randall would have cut his nephew. Instead, he remained standing on the steps, looking down at the rail-thin Malvern.

‘Lord Falconbridge, with so much interesting art for sale, may we assume you have a new conquest, one who is making you part with your precious collection?’ His weak lips drew up into a grin Randall assumed was meant to be haughty, but it only made him look as if he’d smelled curdled milk.

Behind him Lord Hartley rolled his eyes.

Randall twisted the signet ring on his small finger, looking over the stupid man’s head. ‘You may assume whatever you like.’

‘Don’t disappoint, Lord Falconbridge.’ He lifted one foot to step up and Randall pinned him with a look to melt ice.

Malvern lowered his foot back to the floor. ‘Tell us who she is. All society wants to know.’

‘If by all society, you mean the betting book at White’s, don’t think I’ll give you the advantage. We aren’t on familiar enough terms for such confidences.’

Lord Malvern’s lips twitched as if trying to form a retort when his uncle dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Spare the Marquess any more of your wit, Morton. Go see the paintings and enjoy the only visit you’ll likely make to the Marquess’s house.’

Lord Malvern sneered at his uncle, but shuffled off to join a group of similarly dressed young men crowding around a painting of nymphs and satyrs engaged in an orgy.

‘If he wasn’t my wife’s nephew, I’d have nothing to do with him.’ Lord Hartley shook his head, leaning one elbow on the wood balustrade. ‘He thinks his mouth will make him a reputation, but it won’t be the one he wants. I don’t suppose you’d consider calling him out, aim wide and send him scurrying back to the country?’

‘As tempting as it is to draw first blood on him, he’s hardly worth the effort or the bullet.’ Randall stepped down to join the Marquess. ‘Besides, with his lack of wit, you won’t be saddled with him for long.’

‘Ah, how I look forward to the day he leaves.’ Lord Hartley laughed before he sobered at the sight of his nephew making a rude gesture to one of the other fops. ‘I’d better see to it he doesn’t embarrass himself further. Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’

Lord Hartley walked off to rejoin his nephew near the Roman painting.

The fops crowded around it, laughing into their hands like a gaggle of school girls before one of them reached out to run a gloved finger over the Roman woman’s arm.

Her arm is too long, Cecelia’s voice rang through his mind, the memory of her laughing at the painting bringing a smile to his face, but it faded fast. Her innocence felt too pure for a display like this.

The fops moved on to a similar Egyptian painting, leaving the Roman woman and her lover to their joy. Randall followed the line of the Roman woman’s arm and the long strokes of cream paint giving it a fleshlike texture. He stopped at the smudge of black in the corner of her elbow, the same speck of paint he’d fixed on the morning Uncle Edmund had called him into the study.

I like Cecelia, she’s a good girl, full of spirit. Uncle Edmund rubbed the wood of the hunting rifle lying across his lap, the smell of oil mixing with the dust of old books. But she’s poor and you’ll be a Marquess some day. Don’t think she doesn’t know it and won’t try to land you. Don’t let her, my boy, don’t let any of them ever trap you. Bored wives and widows, that’s what you need to keep you amused. They ask less of a man.

Randall had refused to believe him, until the morning in the conservatory when Cecelia had pressed him about their future together.

Randal dropped his hands to his sides, trying to laugh as another footman collided with the Duke of St Avery, but the little joy he’d gleaned from this ridiculous display was gone. He hated it and everyone here. For all the sideways glances and whispered remarks they made about him, he might as well crawl up on a dais like Cecelia, wrap his body in a toga and display himself to the crowd.

He clasped his hands tight behind his back, wanting to knock the filthy art off the easels and toss everyone from his house. Let them find some other fool to feed their need for amusement. He was tired of performing for them.

He turned and started up the stairs before stopping on the landing, his hand tight on the banister. No, he was not part of their amusement, but the lord and master of this game. He turned, resuming his imperious stance, meeting Lord Bolton’s eyes and smirking in triumph when the young lord dropped his gaze into his drink. The Marquess of Falconbridge would not run from society like some coward, no more than he’d run from Cecelia’s rebukes. Let them whisper and gawk at him, it was to his benefit, not theirs.

* * *

‘You mean I won’t receive a payment from my father’s inheritance until December?’ Cecelia blurted across the desk at Mr Watkins, the solicitor responsible for distributing the Barbados payments. In the chair next to hers, Theresa squeaked out a worried gasp and Cecelia reached over, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Watkins sat back, his leather chair creaking. ‘And perhaps not even then. The hurricane devastated the harvest and though it’s expected to recover, as is always the case with crops, there is no guarantee.’

‘Perhaps I may receive an advance on future earnings?’ Cecelia asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, feeling the blow to her situation as if Mr Watkins had struck her. ‘My income from Virginia has also been delayed. I was counting on this money to see me through until it arrives.’

It was a plausible enough lie, for there were many in London who received income from abroad and often found regular payments interrupted by storms or pirates.

‘There’s nothing I can do. The plantation doesn’t have the money to spare and there are other recipients waiting to be paid as well. If there are no further disasters, the harvest will recover and you may see a payment in December.’ He flicked the file on his desk closed, making it plain he intended to do no more for her than deliver this devastating news. Even if he wished to help them, what could he do? He couldn’t make the crops fruitful or force the ships transporting the money to sail faster.

‘I look forward to speaking with you then.’ She nodded for Theresa to rise, the strain on her cousin’s face striking Cecelia harder than Mr Watkins’s news. It ripped at her to see Theresa so worried instead of carefree and happy like she used to be before Daniel’s death. It reminded her too much of herself at sixteen.

‘I don’t normally recommend this measure, but I sense you may be in need of such services.’ Mr Watkins’s words stopped them and they settled back on the edges of their chairs. He removed a slip of paper from the desk drawer, laid it on the blotter and began to write. ‘This is the name of a gentleman who may be able to help you.’

He handed the paper across the desk. Cecelia took it and looked at the name and address.

Philip Rathbone, 25 Fleet Street.

‘A gentleman? You mean a moneylender.’

Mr Watkins nodded. ‘I would not recommend him except among his class he is exceptional.’

‘You mean he doesn’t ruin people as quickly as the others.’

Mr Watkins steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘He’ll deal fairly with you, more so than any other man in the Fleet.’

‘I’ll take it into consideration.’ She slipped the paper into her reticule. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Watkins.’

The solicitor escorted them through the front room past two clerks copying documents. ‘I’ll notify you if anything changes.’

She caught a slight sympathy in the older man’s words and, though she appreciated it, hated being in a position to need it. ‘Of course, you’ll be discreet concerning this matter.’

‘I’m always discreet.’