Chivalrous Rake, Scandalous Lady

Marcus bowed his head, nodding it slowly in acknowledgement of the sorrow they shared at Rufus Speer’s unconscionably early demise at the age of thirty-two.

His father had been a military man and away on campaign for a good deal of Marcus’s early childhood. Major Rufus Speer had been killed in action a few days after his only child’s eighth birthday. Thereafter, Rufus’s brother, Solomon, had taken Marcus under his wing and treated him like an adopted son. It was widely held that Solomon Speer, Earl of Gresham, had felt it unnecessary to marry in order to produce an heir. In his eyes he’d had one since the day his younger brother had died with a Frenchman’s bullet lodged in his chest.

‘I know I’ve said it before,’ Solomon whispered, ‘but he’d have been mighty proud of you, m’boy.’

‘He’d have been equally proud of you, and grateful for what you’ve done for me, as I am,’ Marcus returned simply. ‘I should have told you that more often than I have.’

‘Don’t get maudlin on me.’ Solomon clucked his tongue in mock irritation. He gave the hand resting on the bed another affectionate pat. ‘As for Rufus…I would have expected as much from him had our stars been swapped. He was a good brother. He wouldn’t have let me down. So, like it or not, I had no choice but to take you on and make the best of things.’ Solomon’s doleful tone was at odds with the twinkling eyes that settled with paternal pride on his beloved nephew.

Marcus mirrored his uncle’s wry grimace. Solomon was requesting that the full extent of his dues stay, as ever, unuttered. No fuss, no fanfare, no expression of the great affection that bound them as close as father and son. If that was how Solomon wanted it to be to the end, so be it. Marcus simply wanted to grant this finest of gentleman everything he desired during their precious final moments.

The branched candelabra set on a dressing chest was throwing wavering light on his uncle’s face, highlighting the patches of feverish colour on his parchment-like cheeks. As Solomon sank back further in to his downy pillows, Marcus could tell that his little show of strength, his lively conversation, had sapped his vitality. A piercing glance at the doctor, grimly vigilant, answered Marcus’s unspoken question. His uncle was unlikely to rally from unconsciousness a second time.

‘Had a visitor this afternoon—no, I had two,’ Solomon corrected himself with a flick of a finger.

Marcus found a suitable spot on the bed and, careful not to disturb his uncle, perched on the edge. He felt tightness in his chest and a lump forming in his throat, but he would not allow mournfulness to mar what little time was left. There would be days a-plenty to indulge his grief. ‘Let me guess on that,’ he said, mock thoughtful. ‘Munro came to chivvy you in to letting him have the chestnut while you’re still able to sign the sale sheet.’

Solomon’s desiccated lips sprang apart in a silent guffaw. Finally he knuckled his eyes and gasped, ‘The old rogue would, too—he knows I’m about to pop off.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Don’t you sell that little mare to him either, when I’m gone,’ the Earl instructed his heir with feigned anxiety. ‘Cost me a pretty penny and it’s your duty now, y’know, to maintain the Gresham reputation as the finest stables in the land.’

‘And so I shall,’ Marcus promised and gripped at his uncle’s hand to lend him support as he fidgeted and tried to draw himself up in bed.

Once settled again, Solomon opened his beady eyes and regarded Marcus with brooding intensity. ‘Cleveland came to see me this afternoon; so did Walters.’

Marcus knew that his future father-in-law was an acquaintance of his uncle’s. So was Aaron Walters, who was also the Earl’s stockbroker. Aaron was known as a stalwart of White’s club and an incorrigible gossip whilst in his cups within its walls. Marcus had a feeling that his uncle was about to recount to him something of interest that Walters had told him. He further surmised he might have an inkling of the tale’s content. But Solomon approached the matter of the gossip surrounding Theo Wyndham’s outrageous letters from a different tack to the one Marcus had been anticipating.

‘I know I said that before I turned up me toes it’d be nice to know you’d continue the Gresham line…What I didn’t expect was that you’d settle on the first pretty lass you bumped in to at Almack’s.’

‘And nor have I done so,’ Marcus replied lightly. He was aware that beneath his uncle’s heavy lids his old eyes were fixed on him.

The footman appeared and gave the Earl a glass half-filled with brandy. A moment later the servant and the doctor discreetly withdrew to a corner of the room, leaving uncle and nephew in private.

‘You courted Deborah Cleveland for a very little time…Could’ve filled it to the brim…’ he tacked on whilst rotating his glass to eye its mellow contents from various angles. Despite his grumble he sipped, smacked his lips in appreciation, then nestled the glass in a gnarled fist curled on the coverlet.

‘I knew straight away she would be suitable.’

‘Suitable…?’ Solomon echoed quizzically.

‘Yes…’ Marcus corroborated mildly. ‘Do you think she is not?’

‘I think it is not for me to say what a man needs in a woman with whom he must share his life and his children.’ Solomon took another careful, savouring sip of brandy.

‘Is Gregory Cleveland having second thoughts about marrying his daughter to me?’ Marcus asked. He recalled that his uncle had said the Viscount had visited the sickroom earlier and wondered if doubts had been voiced about the match. Marcus knew without any conceit that he was worthy of being regarded as a good catch, but so was Deborah Cleveland, who would bring her husband a large dowry and equally impressive connections to his own.

‘Gregory seems pleased as punch with the arrangement; he says Julia is equally delighted and eager to have you as her son-in-law.’

Marcus nodded, his mood little altered on knowing that his in-laws thoroughly approved of him. He was, however, glad to know his uncle hadn’t been bothered by any aspect of the forthcoming nuptials. His relief was short-lived.

‘Yet something is not right,’ Solomon murmured, his lids falling over sunken, watching eyes.

‘Perhaps the Clevelands suspect Deborah might change her mind.’ It was a level statement, no hint apparent that Marcus had a suspicion why his fiancée might want to do so. Neither did the possibility of her crying off seem to bother him.

‘Cleveland said nothing of the sort to me,’ Solomon answered. ‘Do you think the lass might get cold feet?’

‘My offer was accepted quickly. Perhaps a mite too quickly.’ Marcus shrugged, added mildly, ‘She is very young; perhaps she would have liked to enjoy more of her début unattached with her friends and the gallants doing the rounds of the balls and parties. I don’t want to spoil her fun. A betrothal of about a year is quite acceptable to me if that’s what she wants.’

‘You sound besotted by your lady love,’ Solomon offered drily. ‘Cleveland did say he hoped you might find the time to turn up and join them at another of the grand functions soon.’

Marcus smiled at the irony in his uncle’s weak voice. So the Viscount had made a little complaint after all—damn him!

When his engagement had first been announced, Marcus had shown his commitment to it by accompanying Deborah and her family to several notable occasions. But once they had been properly established as a couple he’d discreetly withdrawn to the company of his friends and his mistress. He had little liking for the vacuous social whirl that was a part of the annual London Season. Usually he would not be seen dead in such a place as Almack’s ballroom, but this year it had proved its point even to a hardened cynic such as he. He had found his future bride there. With that in mind he realised he would be grateful if Deborah remained satisfied with the arrangement between them. He hoped never to again set foot in the place.

About a month ago Dr Robertson had confided in him that the Earl would probably not see Michaelmas. Marcus had immediately set out to find himself a wife of whom he was confident his uncle would approve as the mother of future Gresham heirs. Deborah was the daughter of a gentleman Solomon liked and respected. His intention had been to content his uncle by starting the process of continuing the Gresham line with a lady of quality.

‘So you’re happy, then?’ The Earl casually swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

‘Do you think I’m not?’

‘I remember a time when you were not,’ Solomon said softly. ‘Strangely I was reminded of that time just this afternoon, by Aaron Walters.’ Again his uncle’s hooded gaze fixed on him. ‘Tell me, did you receive one of Wyndham’s strange letters that begged for marriage offers for his ward?’

There was a slight pause before Marcus murmured an affirmative.

‘I sent a message that Dawkins was to look for you in Hanover Square if you were not at home,’ Solomon informed him. ‘I thought you might head straight off to Wyndham’s house to have it out with the chump.’

‘He’s always been an idiot.’ Marcus’s muttered contempt emerged through splayed fingers supporting his chin.

‘Maybe so…but he’d have been your kin had Jemma Bailey agreed to marry you.’

‘I recall I thanked my lucky stars she’d had the decency to refuse,’ Marcus said exceedingly drily.

‘Eventually you might have done that,’ Solomon gently reminded him. ‘But for a long time I think you considered the lass worth the burden of her strange family. I never gave you my opinion on that child, did I?’

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Marcus said mildly.

‘Maybe it does,’ the Earl differed in a hoarse whisper.

Marcus could see his uncle again tiring as his bony head slumped back to be bolstered by plump pillows. ‘That’s all forgotten,’ he soothed, gripping at Solomon’s hand in emphasis. ‘I simply went to see Wyndham to tell him that I thought his impertinence and his timing atrocious. I wouldn’t want Deborah or her parents to be upset by ludicrous gossip. Wyndham claimed he’d not seen the engagement gazetted.’

‘Did you land him a facer?’ Solomon croaked, his eyes alight with mischief.

‘Nothing quite so severe—he’s smaller than me.’

Again the Earl wheezed a laugh. ‘The gossip has it that Miss Bailey was in on it.’

‘The letter made it seem that way.’

‘Do you think she was?’

‘No,’ Marcus answered. ‘I think Wyndham lied about that too.’