Redeeming the Roguish Rake
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Liz Tyner
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The scoundrel of Society … has compromised the vicar's daughter! When scandalous Fenton Foxworthy is beaten and left for dead, he's rescued by demure vicar's daughter Rebecca Whitelow. Fox is a cynical rake whose outrageous propositions are the talk of the ton — but his injuries are so great that Rebecca mistakes him for the new village vicar! Too late, Rebecca realizes her error… She's been compromised into a hasty marriage!
Chapter One
Thumps sounded on the stairs outside the bedchamber. Foxworthy sat straight, covers falling to his waist, just as the door swung open. He looked at the visitor’s hands first. No weapons. He raised his glance to his cousin’s face. Andrew wore one of those grim-lipped spectacled looks even though he didn’t wear spectacles.
‘Stop swearing,’ Foxworthy said. ‘I do not abide such language.’
‘If so, that’s your only virtue and it’s one more than you had last week.’ Andrew paused.
‘I’m on an improvement regimen.’
‘About time. You look ghastly. As though you’ve not slept a night this week.’
‘A bit of tiredness on my face and the ladies flutter about with suggestions on how to make me feel better. I can’t complain.’
‘I just heard about your little escapade.’
Foxworthy nodded his head. ‘A priceless moment I will not forget.’ And he doubted anyone would let him from the look on his cousin’s face. However, at the moment, he simply could not recall it. He’d danced a lot at the soirée—that he remembered. He’d decided to take a turn with every woman in attendance and in the short time of the dance, discover what was most endearing about her. Then Lady Havisham, all of elbow high to him and feisty as a tavern wench, had told him she could drink more than he. Since he’d started much earlier than her it was a difficult competition. She’d conceded defeat and he’d placed a kiss right on the top of the knot of her grey hair and she’d said she wished she had a grandson just like him, only smart and handsome.
He put a hand on his head. ‘The woman must have been pouring it into her reticule.’
‘You proposed.’
‘I did?’ He checked his cousin’s eyes to see if he told the truth. ‘To Lady Havisham? I can’t imagine she’d be foolish enough to say yes.’
‘You don’t remember?’ Andrew snorted. He kicked the base of the bedpost, but the frame didn’t move. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Fox pushed himself from the bed. Pain shot through his knee. He moved to the mirror, favouring the leg.
‘Millicent Peabody,’ Andrew continued. ‘Bended knee, in front of six witnesses.’
Fox smiled, remembering. ‘Yes. It was quite romantic. I only wished I’d had a red rose, but the proposal was unplanned.’ And he was going to pay for the rather dramatic crash to one knee. It played to the group well, but he wasn’t sure if the pain was worth it.
Andrew choked and swung around on one foot, looking away from Fox. ‘So why must you do it?’
In the mirror, Fox examined his face. ‘I do look like I could use a drink.’
‘Why did you propose to Mrs Peabody in front of everyone?’
Andrew moved closer, eyes tightened. He expected an answer.
‘Millicent Peabody’s husband was being such a toad.’ Fox tossed the words out. ‘Earlier, he told everyone in the card room that he could not abide how frumpy she’s grown since the children arrived. Mrs Peabody is lovely and her husband is too daft to know what a treasure she is because he’s chasing every tart in town.’
‘Nonsense.’ Andrew’s eyes darkened. ‘You do it so you’ll be mentioned in publication. Your sodden brain believes you must rival Lord Byron for attention.’
‘Exceed. Exceed Byron,’ Fox said, lips turning up. ‘This proposal even put tears in one debutante’s eyes.’
‘Fox,’ Andrew spoke softly, crossed his arm across his waist, rested an elbow on his other arm and tapped his fingertips against his lips. ‘How many times have you proposed to a married woman?’
‘It is not the quantity, it is the quality of proposals.’
‘How many times now have you publicly proposed to a married woman?’ Andrew repeated, voice rising.
‘I can’t very well propose to an unmarried woman. Might distress her when I don’t show up at the wedding. Proposing to a married woman is more sensible.’
‘To everyone except the husband.’
Fox quickly pulled on a shirt. ‘That may have entered my mind, but I discounted it. Too minor to concern myself with.’
‘I see your point. Mr Peabody is feeling disgraced and is planning to kill you. If he succeeds you will be in the papers again. Good plan. You should have thought of it years ago.’
Fox looked over his shoulder. ‘I assure you, my demise would be on the front page and not only for one day or two. They would devote considerable space to the event.’
‘I could get my wife to draw up a caricature of your passing on as well, and proposing again.’
‘Assuming there are married women in the hereafter. Which is an immense leap of faith.’ Fox poured water into the basin and wet a flannel before pressing it to his face. ‘Make sure Beatrice gets my smile just right. I do want to be remembered as I am.’
‘Including the wrinkles?’
Foxworthy patted his face clean and reached for the comb, but he spared another glance for the mirror. Not a line. Nothing. Not even at the eyes. His movements stopped and he stared into his reflection. Nothing. A caricature of a person. He flicked the comb against the glass, hearing the clink as he turned away.
‘You’ve moved through the ton, gathering the ladies about you,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s as if you wish to say to the husbands that had you asked the wife first, she would have chosen you.’
Fox snapped around, his eyes on his cousin. ‘She would have. Nothing to do with me, though. The advantage of inheritance.’ His voice roughened. ‘The heir’s advantage. None of it matters. Not to the women. Not to their husbands. Not to me.’
‘No less than three men in this town have threatened publicly to kill you. You’ll hardly be laughing if one decides it’s worth the noose to put you in the ground.’
‘They only say it because it is required of them. They must bluster and spout. They don’t care either.’ Fox shut his eyes. The women were fickle. The husbands—cowards. He opened his eyes. The ton had become as boring as the country, only with more elaborate planning going into the staleness.
‘You’ve not forgotten that woman who nearly chased you to the altar when you were a child.’ Andrew grabbed the waistcoat the valet had left draped over the lacquered clothing stand and tossed the garment at Fox.
Fox caught it. His lips curled up. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me was when she lost interest.’
‘True. At the time. But not now.’
‘I assure you I’ve no feelings for her at all. I wish her only the best her husband’s money can buy. And if you think of it, I’m as good as married to half the women in London. I see them once in a while and don’t live with them. The same as my parents do and they are quite happily wed.’
Andrew watched him without speaking for a moment. ‘There are decent women out there. You just don’t deserve one.’
‘I must agree.’ He looked at his cousin. ‘I’d drown in annoyance.’
The knocking at the door interrupted them. ‘Enter,’ Fox called out. A footman, hair close cropped at the sides, walked in with a tray holding two notes. He held the salver out to Fox.
Fox stood, picked up one paper, flicked it open, saw that it was from Lady Havisham and read her warning that Peabody was incensed about the proposal.
Then he saw the script on the other page. His father’s pen. He opened it. The man would be visiting. He claimed he wanted to see Fox’s new horse.
‘I am truly going on a health regime,’ Foxworthy muttered as he read. ‘I’ll pay a surprise visit to my father’s house in the country—since he’s at Bath, searching for a new vicar, and will be in London soon. There’s a tavern near my father’s country estate that I miss.’ He tossed the paper back onto the tray. ‘Put it with the others.’ He motioned the servant away, and the man nodded.
It would be best for all involved. His father didn’t see the humour in marriage proposals, or anything else.
He shook his head. ‘It’s a sad day when Lady Havisham can handle her spirits better than I can. That tavern ale should put some iron in my stomach.’
Andrew nodded, pushing himself up from the chair. ‘I’ll tell everyone at White’s that you’re going to the country estate. Perhaps someone else will divert their attention before you return.’ He paused. ‘Peabody isn’t the straightest arrow and everyone knows he’s vengeful.’
Fox waved the words away and checked the mirror again. His blasted eyes looked soulless. As though they didn’t care about anyone or anything. His cousin was wrong. He wasn’t soured on marriage. He was soured on the world and there wasn’t one better anywhere. He’d travelled just enough to know that.
‘Don’t get yourself killed by proposing to anyone in the country,’ Andrew said.
‘You have my word,’ Fox said. ‘I’m leaving London. I will stay from public view for a time. I am not proposing again...’ he paused, thinking ‘...unless it is to Lady Havisham. I rather like her.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I doubt she’d take her vows seriously.’
‘Would you?’
‘Do I take anything seriously?’
‘Perhaps the taste of brandy.’
Fox gave an upward tilt of his head, and Andrew stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Fox stared at the wood for a moment.
He didn’t even feel much for Andrew. They’d grown up together and had their fair share of adventures. But now they were men and Andrew had married, and his thoughts always seemed somewhere else. Not that Fox didn’t understand. His own thoughts only half-attended the revelry around him. That last proposal had been a performance and a stale one at that.
Fox had to leave London. The stench of all the hypocrisy was flooding into him. Particularly his own hypocrisy of the easy smile and the game of getting his name mentioned in the newspaper.
He felt as if he had a bit of sand inside his boot all the time.
The tomb-like walls of his father’s house would fit him well. Particularly since his father wasn’t there. But first, he would have a crate of brandy sent ahead. Maybe two, since his father wouldn’t be there to share. Or three. His father would not see the humour in returning home with a new vicar and finding all the servants with sotted smiles.
* * *
The next morning, Foxworthy ignored the superfine silk coat the valet had left out and went to the dressing chamber. He found the half-rag brown garment that suited the country better. He and his father agreed on that one thing. Just as Fox wasn’t suited to the country life, neither were the clothes he preferred.
He didn’t wait for the carriage. He wanted the power of the horse at his command.
Foxworthy left the house, taking a bite from the apple in his hand. The groom handed the reins to Fox, and he took Rusty’s reins, moving to hold his palm flat at the animal’s face. The horse nibbled with his lips and then crunched the fruit. The beast looked at Fox and then Fox reached out and gave him a scratch under the chin.
In moments, they were headed to the countryside. Fox leaned forward, giving Rusty a pat on the neck. Rusty’s ear twitched his response.
Foxworthy looked around him as he rode. The sunbeams warmed his face. Servants with baskets under their arms walked along the road. A few carriages here and there.
He’d just been in a mood when he was at home. Probably from all the soirées and all the nonsensical talk he did. Damn. He got tired of his own voice sometimes. All the pretty words and all the right things to say. The ladies would flutter and he’d continue and he’d wonder why they didn’t slap his face. And they’d chuckle and brush up against him, and he’d spout even more nonsense.
* * *
The saddle was getting a bit smaller and Rusty’s ears had lost their joie de vivre when the horse stepped onto the road that would take him only one turn from his father’s estate, leaving the commerce of London behind them. He had to be thankful the road wasn’t mud soaked. The clouds had darkened and he hoped the weather wouldn’t trap him at his father’s house. The chilled air bit into his face.
He noticed the tracks in the road. Definitely well travelled. More so than usual. When he raised his head, he saw a man with an old, wide-brimmed hat that flopped over his face, standing, holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a cane in the other.
‘Ahoy.’ The man spoke. His clothes... His clothes were sewn by a fine tailor. Fox recognised the gold buttons. He’d seen them before.
Hooves thundered from the woods and, before he could turn his horse, a club thwacked at the animal’s rump. Rusty bolted forward. The man in front raised the cane. The horse surged to the gold-buttoned man and the man stepped aside, swinging the stick. He knocked Fox backward, breaking the club. Another stick caught Fox as he tumbled from the horse. When he slammed into the ground, he noted the face of the man who’d been behind him and the other one charging forward with both fists gripping the broken club.
It wasn’t a good sign that they didn’t have their faces covered.
* * *
Rebecca pinched the frond of the thorn bush, moving the long strand aside carefully so it didn’t prick her fingers. She stepped forward on the trail, then released the briar, and one thorn scraped along her skin as the stem swung back into place. The handle of her basket slid on her arm and the eggs she carried jostled, but barely moved, cushioned by the cloth. She checked her arm for blood, but only a white scratch marked the skin.
She continued along the path, listening to the chaffinch and knowing Mrs Berryfield would appreciate the eggs. She imagined Mrs Berryfield’s children, chirping like hungry baby birds, their dirty hands reaching for her basket to see what she’d brought. Eggs. They’d be disappointed. But one did the best one could. And the eggs would surely gain her a promise from Mrs Berryfield to attend Sunday Services.
Eggs were not as plentiful now that the weather had chilled. In fact, she moved to the trees lining the road so she’d be out of the wind. The dark clouds threatened, and she hoped to make it back home before the rain.
Stepping up to the road, she crossed, planning to take the short path to the woods to reach the furthermost tenant on the old earl’s land.
Then she saw a bundle of clothing lying on the ground. No one tossed the wash about like that. She moved one step closer, staring.
Brown. Brown hair. Still looking fresh from a morning comb. But it couldn’t be, because the rest of him—the rest of him splayed about. His head was face down. And blood, brown. Dried.
She couldn’t move.
Another funeral for her father to perform. Another widow needing courage and someone to listen to her pain. Rebecca didn’t want to walk forward. Then she’d discover if it was Mr Greaves or Mr Able. They were the only two men with a head of hair that colour, except theirs always stuck ragged from their hats. She needed to know who it was. The family would have to know.
The dead man groaned, just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her basket.
‘Mr Greaves? Mr Able?’ she called out, voice screeching into her own ears.
He didn’t move.
She took a step forward. No answer. Oh, my. She’d forgotten about Mr Renfro and he had eight children. ‘Mr Renfro?’ The words wobbled from her mouth.
He was quiet as a tomb. She was going to have to turn him over and she hated the thought of touching Mr Renfro, even dead. He smelled worse than a sweat-soaked draught horse. She didn’t know how Mrs Renfro did it.
She clamped her teeth together. Putting her boot solidly on the ground, she stepped forward.
His big bare feet tangled in the grass. His boots had been stolen. Shivering, she darted her eyes to the trail, fearing the thought of someone watching her.
The birds still sang and a breeze wafted through the air.
Moving forward, she nudged her own boot against the muddied toe. ‘Pardon.’
She was going to have to touch him. It wasn’t good for a man to touch a woman unless they were married, but women were granted no such favours where men were concerned.
She knelt on the ground, took in a deep breath and pushed at his shoulder to move him over. He didn’t budge. She tried again and then looked the length of him. He wasn’t Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Mr Renfro overshot the door frame and had to duck when he stepped inside, but the stranger looked too precise for Mr Renfro.
She leaned in. He didn’t smell like Mr Renfro. Even covered in dirt and mud, this one didn’t have an odour. She touched the one bit of skin she could see, near his neck. Cold.
Instead of pushing, she reached across his back. She grabbed his shirt shoulder in one hand and the waist in the other and pulled. He flopped over onto his back, and she plopped to her bottom. She shut her eyes when she saw his face. She took two deep breaths before she could look at him again. His nose was to the side and so was his jaw. His eyes—she didn’t know if he could even open them or not. His face could have once belonged to Mr Renfro, Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Then she looked him over again. He only wore a lawn shirt and his trousers. His clothing had been stolen. Or, it had been taken so he would freeze to death.
His eyelid fluttered and one eye opened a slit. She didn’t know if he could really see her. Then his hand reached up and touched her wrist.
She didn’t know what to do. She clasped his fingers. He squeezed, then relaxed his grasp.
‘I must get you help,’ she said. ‘I must. I’ll only be gone a moment. I can find a cart.’
He squeezed again. She hated to leave. But she had to. Both his eyes opened now. And she could have sworn he winked at her before shutting his eyes again.
But she didn’t want him to die in the brambles. She didn’t really want him to die in the vicarage either, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had.
She stood, took off her coat, put it around him and ran, whispering prayers under her breath.
Mr Renfro’s house would be her best choice. He could carry the man to the vicarage and he’d have no trouble straightening the man’s nose back in place, something her father could never do. One of Mr Renfro’s sons could help. The stranger needed to be straightened out before they buried him and Mr Renfro would have plenty of help to hold the man down if he fought.
