Rescued by the Forbidden Rake
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Mary Brendan
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22
Chapter One
‘Our business is concluded, sir. I have made my decision.’
Faye Shawcross abruptly stood up. The sauce of the man! Not only had he advised her to invest in a financial plan that had failed dismally, but he wanted to persuade her to plough what money remained to her into another of his schemes. When she had received his note yesterday, requesting an audience, she had believed he intended to come and beg forgiveness for letting her down so badly. She had even harboured a hope that he might speak of recompense. Not so much of it! Barely had he settled on a chair before proffering a new parchment for signature as though she were a gullible fool.
‘I do not want to seem dictatorial, Miss Shawcross, but I beg you will reconsider my proposal. I’m sure your fiancé would direct you to listen to me, were he here.’
‘But he is not, and neither is his presence required. I need no further time, or advice, sir. I have clearly said I have made my decision and have terminated my contract with you. Goodbye.’
A moment ago Faye had employed the small brass bell on the table by her side; her housekeeper had promptly appeared and was now hovering, awaiting an instruction.
‘Mr Westwood is leaving, Mrs Gideon.’
A barking cough from the servant reminded the man she was ready to show him out.
Westwood had sprung to his feet as Miss Shawcross did, an angry blush burning in his cheeks at her curt dismissal; but he managed to jerk a bow. ‘As you wish; but I make no apology for striving to assist you in restoring your fortunes.’
‘Perhaps you might instead like to apologise for having depleted them in the first place,’ Faye replied coolly, anger and impatience sparking green fire in her eyes.
‘I mentioned to you there was a risk attached,’ he intoned piously.
‘But not quite as fulsomely as you bade me to pay no heed to it. Had I an inkling that my money might disappear within a short while of you handling it, sir, I would not have listened to a word you uttered.’
Westwood’s eyes popped, but Faye was not intimidated by his display of fury. She indicated he should leave with a nod.
Barely had the parlour door closed on his ramrod-straight back when it again opened and a boy hurtled over the threshold.
‘Are we poor?’
‘Of course not, my dear.’ Faye held out her arms to her half-brother, catching Michael into her embrace. ‘We are just not quite as well off as once we were.’
‘I can still go to school in Warwick?’
‘Indeed you can! And I hope to have some better reports from your headmaster when you return in the autumn, young man.’
Michael looked sheepish at the reminder of his misbehaviour. ‘I know I shouldn’t have got into that fight.’
‘No you shouldn’t...but neither should you allow those boys to bully you.’ Faye ruffled her half-brother’s fair hair. She felt guilty that Michael had been mocked by some older pupils when the news circulated about his overdue school fees. The headmaster’s letter had been one of the first indications that all was not well. She had accepted Westwood’s explanation that the matter was just an oversight. How she regretted having been so naive!
But now she had terminated the lawyer’s contract the periodic sum the charlatan had charged to nurture her investments would again be available for essentials. They weren’t poor...but neither were they rich, nor even comfortably off as they had once been. Faye bitterly regretted having employed Westwood; but he had come recommended by the man she was to marry and thus she’d trusted the fellow to deliver what he’d promised. Now she suspected he was incompetent at best and corrupt at worst, but she had no proof that he’d done anything underhand. She’d willingly signed the documents, handing him control of half her father’s bequest. Fighting Westwood in court and losing the battle would certainly end in her destitution. With her younger siblings relying on her she couldn’t afford any such action...and no doubt Mr Westwood was aware of that fact.
At twelve years old Michael had many more years at school; further economies would need to be made if her half-brother were to stay in Warwick. Yet she must be even-handed; she also had her half-sister’s future to consider. As though that young lady were aware of Faye’s reflection she skipped into the room.
‘May we go out this afternoon?’ Claire asked excitedly. ‘I saw the caravans from my window. There are crowds gathering already on the village green.’
‘I saw them, too! May we go?’ Michael interrupted his sister to add his own plea to be allowed to visit the local midsummer fair. The Romanies arrived annually and stayed for a few days to entertain the locals before moving on to another town.
‘Yes, indeed, we shall go and enjoy ourselves; only a few pennies each to spend, though,’ Faye cautioned. She sighed happily; a break from the unpleasant anxiety that had beset them all would be very welcome.
Just a few days ago at breakfast she’d unsuspectingly opened the letter from Westwood, finally admitting the truth. From her spontaneous gasp of dismay the children had learned something was amiss. Faye had been tempted to shield them from the dreadful news. But what use was procrastination when they must know immediately that savings had to be made.
‘I’m going to fetch my new bonnet and stitch some ribbon on it.’ Claire skipped towards the door.
‘Bill Perkins won’t be going, so you’re wasting your time wearing it for him,’ Michael ribbed.
‘I’m not bothered about him anyway...’ his sister retorted.
‘No bickering, if you please,’ Faye reprimanded wryly.
Claire had developed a crush on Bill Perkins after the young farmer rescued her from a ditch. Following a heavy bout of rain she’d lost her footing and slipped down into the sludge. The fellow had a fiancée, but always stopped to pass the time of day with them all.
‘I have been thinking about that trip to town we spoke of.’ Faye’s thoughts had jumped from nice Bill Perkins to another worthy gentleman: a faceless, nameless person her sister—God willing—was yet to meet.
‘Must we go to London for my debut?’ Claire asked with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’ll be an expensive trip and I’m not sure I want to bother.’ A private smile curved her lips. ‘I might find a husband hereabouts.’
‘Your dowry is still safe and as you are so pretty you will need no costly embellishment like some of the plain misses.’ Faye tried to encourage her sister with a jocular comment. But the praise was justified. Claire was indeed a beauty and regularly drew attention from the lusty youths in Wilverton, the small town about a half-mile distant. Claire had never shown interest in having a local beau before. Yet, oddly, Faye had just seen her sister look like the cat with the cream when talking of finding a mate in the neighbourhood.
It was said that Claire resembled her; Faye believed that her half-sister took after Deborah Shawcross in looks. But they rarely spoke about her late father’s second wife. Even before Deborah absconded to Ireland to join her lover the woman had been an embarrassment.
‘You should have your Season in London, because I know you will have a wonderful time and meet a splendid fellow and fall in love.’ Faye’s confident tone barely lifted Claire’s frown. But it amused Michael and he made much of patting at his yawning mouth, chortling.
‘Aunt Agatha has invited us to stay with her in Hammersmith,’ Faye continued. ‘I’ll write and let her know that we would be pleased to accept her hospitality in the spring.’
‘I’d sooner stay here,’ Michael piped up.
‘You will be safely out of the way at school, young man.’
‘Might I go and stay with Stanley Scott?’
‘I don’t think so, Michael,’ Faye said apologetically. ‘The cost of the fare to Scotland is rather a lot.’ Her brother had received an invitation from his school chum’s parents to holiday with them in Edinburgh until the autumn term.
‘Shall I ask him to come here?’ Michael asked, but not very optimistically.
‘You know we don’t really have the room for guests.’ Faye gave her brother a rueful smile. Mulberry House was small—nothing like the castle in which the Scotts lived—but, that apart, another mouth to feed would be an additional financial burden. Despite her logic and prudence Faye felt mean denying her brother a friend for the holidays.
‘Now if we are to spend an hour or two at the fair later I must get on.’ Faye briskly clapped her hands. ‘I want to catch the post and the shopkeepers in Wilverton must be paid. Mr Gideon warned of rain this evening; we’ll want to be home from the fair before then.’ Their housekeeper’s husband was invariably accurate with his weather forecast.
Having sealed the note to her aunt about preparations for Claire’s debut, Faye counted out the money owed to merchants and put it into her reticule. She was determined to carry on paying bills on time. But news of her reduced circumstances would eventually circulate and she hated the idea of being tattled over or pitied. The Gideons were aware of what had occurred and were as fiercely loyal to Faye and her half-siblings as they had been to her father. But it was an odd truth that no matter how conscientiously confidences were guarded, rumours spread.
* * *
A ride into town on Mr Gideon’s dog cart was always a revelation. As they moved along at a steady pace the elderly fellow kept up a one-sided conversation past the clay pipe clenched between his teeth. Not that Faye was unwilling to add a comment; it was hard to get a word in edgeways. Mr Gideon had employment with several neighbours and was up to date with what went on in the hamlets that encircled Mulberry House, the Shawcrosses’ residence for over one hundred years. By the time the elderly mare pulling the dog cart was drawn to a halt at Wilverton Green’s turnpike, Faye had learned that there was a bad case of scarlatina in Moreton, to the south, that had resulted in one burial so far, and that twins had been born last week in Fairley, to the east. Having expressed her gladness that mother and babies were all doing well, Faye sprang nimbly down to the dusty ground.
‘Shall I wait for you to finish your business and take you back, Miss Shawcross? It be no trouble.’ Bert Gideon had removed his pipe to make that enquiry.
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I shall have time enough to walk home, thank you.’ Faye shook her light cotton skirts to remove the creases from them and retied the strings of her bonnet. She glanced up at the angle of the sun, judging it to be close to noon. A ride back would have been helpful as she’d promised the others an excursion in a few hours’ time, but she didn’t want to delay Mr Gideon getting to his next job.
‘Don’t be forgetting now that rain’s due.’ Bert clucked his tongue at the mare.
‘Not before we’ve returned from the fair, I hope,’ Faye said, half to herself.
Mr Gideon raised a hand in farewell as the vehicle creaked away and Faye set off to do her errands.
* * *
‘And a very good day to you, Miss Shawcross.’
‘And to you, sir. I have come to settle up and place my order for next week, Mr Bullman.’ Had she imagined a look of relief in the butcher’s eyes as he’d pounced on the cash in her hand?
‘I have some mutton for stewing that you might like for a change and some beef suet that’ll make you a nice dumpling.’ Mr Bullman wiped his bloodied hands on his apron before pocketing his cash.
Had he sounded different...pitying? Faye noticed that he’d certainly collected up the notes she’d put down with unusual zeal. She glanced at his expression and, yes, he did seem to be avoiding her eyes.
‘I won’t have the mutton, thank you. I’ll take my usual order and an extra two pork chops, if you please,’ Faye said crisply.
‘So Mr Collins is back and paying a visit, is he?’ The butcher sounded jolly. ‘I recall you told me your fiancé’s partial to a chop for dinner.’
‘He isn’t calling until next week. I’ll take the chops with the kidneys in them, please. Those will go nicely with fresh beans from the garden and some baked potatoes.’
‘Of course, Miss Shawcross. I’ll have the boy deliver the usual order and two extra chops on Thursday.’
Outside the shop Faye paused, giving herself a talking to. Mr Bullman was a good soul and she was being too sensitive because of her guilt and regrets over allowing Mr Westwood free rein with her money. She glanced back into the shop and saw the butcher deep in conversation with his wife. There was nothing unusual about that, but the way the couple darted surreptitious glances her way caused Faye’s heart to sink. She sighed and walked on. So, news of her losses had circulated, but she wouldn’t answer questions about it.
A few minutes later she had changed her mind. Her friend Anne Holly hailed her, trotting over the rutted road to her side.
‘Oh, my dear, how are you?’ Anne hugged Faye. ‘Is it true you’ve suffered a setback?’
‘How did you find out, Anne?’ Faye huffed a resigned little laugh. ‘Tongues are wagging, are they?’
‘Not maliciously, I assure you; people are sympathetic and Mr Westwood has come in for some very harsh criticism,’ Anne said gently. ‘He has scuttled off quickly back to London.’
‘I’d sooner people let the matter drop. Westwood will only prolong the gossip in defending his part in it all. Who spread the news?’
‘I imagine it came from Westwood’s office. I know the verger and several others travel to London and use that particular firm.’
Faye gave a faintly acid smile. ‘I hadn’t imagined it would happen so soon.’
‘Derek was going to come over and see you this afternoon to condole, but I’ve persuaded him not to.’
‘Thank you...’ Faye said wryly. ‘I will be less prickly about it in a day or two. I feel a fool for wanting to earn more than the bank paid while my money was safe in a vault.’
‘Any person would seek the best return on a deposit,’ Anne protested. ‘You have your brother and sister depending on you so you need to be astute.’
‘I don’t mind providing for them.’
‘Well, if it were me, I’d mind their mother shirking her duty so abominably.’ Anne frowned an apology, knowing she’d said too much.
Faye was niggled by her friend’s comment despite recognising the truth in what Anne had said. Not wanting to bicker, she changed the subject. ‘We’re going to the fairground this afternoon, so your husband would not have found us in. Are you going to come? You’re welcome to join us in eating buns and throwing balls at skittles.’
‘I’d like to, but Derek’s mother has arrived on a visit with his sister and his niece. Sarah is a nice girl, a little older than your Claire, I’d say. She’s making her come out in the spring. The family is well connected; they know some of the ton’s hostesses. My mother-in-law is friendly with Lady Jersey, you know.’ Anne sounded proud.
‘As Claire is coming out next year, too, perhaps the girls could get together before Sarah returns to Essex.’
‘I’m sure she’d like that...’ Anne’s enthusiastic response tailed away and her eyes narrowed on something over Faye’s shoulder. ‘Now there are some people who really have started tongues wagging,’ she whispered. ‘I have heard tales about him that would make your hair stand on end.’
Discreetly, Faye glanced around. A sleek curricle drawn by matching greys had stopped by the drapery shop. The tiger took the reins while the driver jumped down and helped his passenger alight.
‘Who is that?’ The town of Wilverton was off the beaten track for high society and the handsome couple looked to be top notch.
‘That, my dear, is the new master of Valeside Manor.’ Anne inclined closer to her friend to murmur, ‘And the young woman with him is rumoured to be his paramour.’
Faye looked suitably shocked. ‘Well, she is very pretty...if barely out of her governess’s care by the look of her.’ She peeked again at the slender young lady, her raven hair cascading in ringlets to her shoulders. Even at some distance, Faye could tell that her summer gown was of exquisite style. And she was very possessive of her beau, judging by the way she clung to his arm. But the gentleman was watching her and appeared amused by her interest. Quickly Faye averted her face, regretting having stared for so long.
‘He is a bachelor named Ryan Kavanagh and he’s Irish, but nobody is sure of the lady’s identity.’ Anne shielded her moving lips with her gloved fingers. ‘Apparently he has a mistress each end of London, who both drip jewels and drive about in swish carriages.’
‘He is a wealthy fellow then.’ Faye still felt warm from having the stranger’s mocking eyes on her.
‘Indeed, he is. A rich reprobate, Derek’s mother called him.’ Anne tilted her head at the newcomers. ‘That young lady actually lives with him, you know, at the Manor.’ The shocking information was ejected in a hiss.
Faye’s small teeth nipped her lower lip, suppressing a scandalised laugh. ‘Perhaps I should be grateful to Mr Kavanagh: in comparison to his affairs my sorry business barely merits a mention.’
The couple had entered the shop and Faye clasped her friend’s hands in farewell. ‘I must get home and freshen up and change my shoes for the trek over the fields.’
‘Does your fiancé know of your bad news?’ Anne asked hesitantly.
‘He does not... Peter has docked at Portsmouth, but he is not due to visit for a week or so.’ Faye imagined her seafaring future husband would take it very personally, knowing that the lawyer he had recommended had failed her. But Peter had only done what he thought best.
With a wave, Faye set off back the way she had come. As she passed the dusty curricle the smartly uniformed tiger gave her a polite nod. Faye ran her eyes over the fine horseflesh, then speeded up her pace towards home. For some reason she didn’t want to see Mr Kavanagh and his concubine again. She felt a little frisson pass over her. She regretted having humoured the man by staring at him in such a vulgar fashion.
Once out of sight of townsfolk, Faye grabbed her skirts and began to trot along the meadow path, feeling quite joyous as she concentrated on the treat of an afternoon spent at the fair on such a glorious afternoon. The ground beneath her flying feet had been worn in places to bare soil where the locals took short cuts to and from their cottages on the outskirts of Wilverton.
Having spied Mulberry House rising on the horizon, Faye slowed down to appreciate her pretty home and relieve the stitch in her side. It was a whitewashed building topped with russet-coloured clay tiles and the sturdy iron porch was smothered with scarlet roses that had climbed as far as the eaves. Cecil Shawcross had always loved his abundantly planted garden and the scented blooms that rambled on the front of the house and spilled over the trellises to the rear of the property had been his pride and joy.
Her eyes prickled with tears as she thought about him. Her half-siblings missed their father, too, but being younger had not had the benefit of his company for as long as she had when he passed away. Her father could be a difficult man; without a doubt he would be angry that part of his bequest had disappeared in a poor investment. But it would be towards Peter Collins that he’d unleash his temper. Peter had proposed to her when she was twenty-one, but another two years had passed before her father eventually agreed to the match. It had been a sadness to her that her father and her fiancé had never really got on.
Drawing in a deep breath, she set off again, trotting towards the side gate that led through the kitchen garden and into the house.
