The Rebel Wife: Book Four in the Regency Romps Series Read online

  Kate managed to keep her face straight, despite her lips twitching. She turned her attention to Mr Rumble, rather than risking undoing her friend’s good work. “And was it everything you hoped, Mr Rumble?”

  He gave an enthusiastic nod. “Indeed so! Åkerblad’s discovery that demotic text used phonetic characters to spell foreign names was a fascinating read, you know! I felt humbled to stand before the actual Rosetta Stone, and almost felt its desire to share the key to deciphering the scripts of Egypt!”

  Kate blinked a few times. “Quite so,” was all she could think of to say as she wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, just what it was Helena saw in this studious young man.

  Or, for that matter, what Mr Rumble saw in the frivolous Lady Helena.

  Happily for Kate, the need to continue the conversation was put away by the sudden appearance of Arthur and Lady Eugenia; the former looked as though he was about to cast up his accounts, while the latter looked as though a heavenly bounty had fallen into her lap.

  “Oh, your Grace! Lady Gloucester! What must you think!” Eugenia cried out before placing one hand to her mouth.

  Kate frowned as she watched Arthur attempt to disentangle his arm from Eugenia’s, only for her grip to keep it firmly in place.

  “Likely they’re not thinking anything,” he muttered, although there was something close to pleading in his eyes. “We were only a few steps from my sister, after all!”

  “But we were secluded together for minutes,” gasped Eugenia, her gleeful smile ruining her attempt to act mortified. “What must they think we were up to?”

  “I can’t account for the Duchess,” said Abby, looking the younger woman up and down, “but personally, I’m wondering what on earth possessed you to add foot-long ostrich plumes to a capote bonnet. It’s a miracle you haven’t blinded Lord Arthur.”

  Helena let out a gasp of shocked laughter before stuffing her fist into her mouth. Her swain looked uncomfortable, resolutely staring straight ahead at an oak tree. Eugenia looked fit to burst with indignant rage, while Arthur – having finally untangled his arm – was examining his pocket watch with a faint smile.

  “Eugenia likes to be ahead of current fashions where possible, Lady Gloucester,” replied Kate, hoping to defuse the situation even as she knew the situation to be hopeless.

  “indeed, I am often complimented on my daring sense of style,” said Lady Eugenia, raising up her chin in what she no doubt thought was defiance, but in actuality made her look like a petulant child. “Lord Arthur has often commented on my innate sense of fashion!”

  “I believe I called you an original,” said Arthur, not bothering to lift his gaze.

  Eugenia at least seemed pleased with this assessment. “You see?”

  Abby just smirked. “I stand corrected. When tall ostrich feathers attached to tiny caps becomes all the rage, I faithfully promise to tell everyone that you were the first to sport such a look.”

  Eugenia scowled for a moment longer but apparently found no fault with Abby’s statement.

  “Thank you,” she said with a small nod of her head.

  “I’m afraid I’m not the most dashing of individuals,” lied Abby as she manoeuvred her way beside Lady Eugenia. “It comes from having spent so much of my life in Harrogate. Perhaps you will be condescending enough as to share with me where your ideas come from?”

  It was masterfully done, thought Kate with a smile. Before Eugenia knew what had happened, she was wandering ahead of the group with Lady Gloucester, Helena and Mr Rumble following closely behind, with Kate and Arthur bringing up the rear.

  Kate slipped her arm through her brother-in-law’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Dearest, what was that all about?”

  Arthur coloured up. He ran his tongue across his lips and gazed directly ahead of them as though the back of Mr Rumble’s head had become a source of immense fascination.

  “Nothing, nothing; Eugenia just wanted to pause to admire some flower or other. Dashed if I know what was so special about it. By the time she’d stopped waxing poetic over the shape of the petals, Helena had turned the corner ahead of us.”

  “Eugenia seemed quite happy to be discovered alone with you,” she replied.

  Arthur coughed but didn’t say anything.

  “In fact, the more I think about it, your queer starts always seem to coincide with Eugenia taking a great interest in you,” she continued, her frown deepening.

  “You know Eugenia,” replied Arthur with a delicate cough. “By the by, what do you think of my cravat?”

  “It’s exquisite, now stop trying to change the subject. The problem is that I do know Eugenia, and I know that she’s been casting her eye far and wide for a husband she considers to be of equal stature to her, but so far her net has come up empty.”

  “No titled gentlemen since her come out,” added Arthur, almost mournfully.

  Kate tilted her head to the side, considering the matter more fully. “Actually, that’s not quite true, is it? She was a fair way to being engaged to Lord Rothman until that unfortunate incident with his sister. And of course Devenish never so much as acknowledged her existence, despite her best attempts to catch his eye.”

  “The puce dress,” said Arthur with a shudder. “I counselled against it, you know.”

  “Yes, it is forever etched in the collective memory of the Ton,” replied Kate with a shudder. “Which is why I am so concerned that she might have her eye on you.”

  Arthur stumbled but recovered quickly.

  “I knew it!” crowed Kate, but her joy was short-lived as she realised the full implication of what her discovery meant. “Good God, Arthur – you’re not engaged to Eugenia, are you?”

  “No! Yes. Well, not quite,” said Arthur, looking perfectly miserable. “That first Season, when she was still wearing demure dresses and was the Toast of the Ton, I may have fancied myself in love with her.”

  “As did half of London before she was silly enough to reveal her true nature,” replied Kate in an attempt to be supportive.

  Arthur sighed. “They were not so foolish as to pledge their undying devotion and express a desire to marry her in a signed letter.”

  It was Kate’s turn to stumble. “You didn’t, Arthur!”

  “It was all the rage! There was no harm when we thought that Rothman was going to come up to scratch – and it’s not as though Herbert Filey and William Standish didn’t do the same!”

  “But did they sign their letters?”

  He winced. “No they didn’t, devil take them. And now she’s been out for four years with a great risk of becoming an ape-leader. I’ve managed to stall her by pointing out that I won’t come into my fortune for another year – but the clock is ticking, Katie, and now she wants me to discuss the matter with Alex! I’d rather put a period to my existence!”

  Kate ignored this piece of melodrama, her mind running over all the strange incidents with him over the last eighteen months. “All the gambling you’ve been doing, that cockamamy story about a pigeon… does that have anything to do with your engagement?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t use that word, but, yes. Yes, it has everything to do with it.”

  “Why?”

  He grimaced. “At first I hoped it would put her off, for she detests gambling. When I realised that she was willing to overlook it, well, I’ve been depositing as much as I can spare into an account with my banker, just in case I cannot stomach my fate, and find myself sued for breach of promise.”

  “Surely it won’t come to that!” she gasped, envisioning the scandal with an impending sense of horror.

  Arthur shrugged. “The alternative is to marry Eugenia.”

  Kate emphatically shook her head. “No, I won't let you – I can’t let you! Lord, she’d drive you out of all reason within a se’enight!”

  “I don’t know what else is to be done,” he replied, looking as though he had truly given up hope.

  “We will think of something,” she replied with a de
cisive nod of her head.

  “Promise me you won’t tell Alex!” he said suddenly, pulling her around so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “I mean it, Katie! He barely thinks I’m better than a puppy as it is – I can’t have him knowing what a mess I’ve made for myself.”

  She hesitated, for her first instinct had been to tell her husband the full situation as soon as they arrived home in the hope he would have a solution.

  “Promise me, Katie!”

  “I… I promise,” she said, feeling her heart become heavy even as her brother-in-law sighed with relief.

  Five

  Although Alex had dined with the nobility of six different countries, could speak four languages, and had generally thought himself to be at home in almost any social situation, it seemed that he had not been prepared in any way, shape or form for the whirlwind that was the London Season.

  It had taken Alex two weeks to realise that the entirety of the Ton was stark, raving mad.

  The parties were endless, to the point of mind-dulling drudgery instead of fun and frivolity. Society matrons and hostesses of note paraded him about their rooms as though he were a rare antiquity to be gawked at, and some of them went so far as to make some not-particularly-veiled invitations to private audiences at his earliest convenience.

  The women in his family insisted that he must drive them about Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, which just so happened to be at the dashed inconvenient time of 5 pm. He was forced to interrupt his work updating himself on matters of the estate to try and inch the family barouche down the jam-packed Rotten Row, where his family members nodded and conversed with people they had seen the night before, and would no doubt see that very evening as well.

  To make matters worse, he had soon discovered that should he refuse to drive them, his wife was prone to take out her utterly insane high-perch phaeton out for a turn. Her match-black horses, while beautiful, were spirited creatures that required a strong hand to control. His mother had begged him not to mention the dangerous set-up to his wife for she was thought to be something of a noted whip, who would take an intense dislike to his meddling or opinions when it came to her ability to handle the ribbons.

  Alex was not too happy with the situation, and even the knowledge that her teacher had been none other than his own father was enough to reconcile him to the thought of her careering about town in a vehicle that seemed designed for the express purpose of killing its occupants. Thus it was that he had no choice, really, but to plaster a smile on his face and offer to drive the barouche under the pretense of enjoying the same trip around Hyde park day after day after day.

  At Arthur’s insistence, Alex had spent more hours that felt natural being poked and prodded by tailors in order to rig him out in the latest, extortionate styles. It transpired that his younger brother was considered something of an Exquisite by the Ton, so Alex had found himself bowing to Arthur’s judgement in all matters save the pink waistcoat decorated with golden sunflowers.

  They’d almost come to blows over it, but Alex had relented enough to purchase a broad-striped red waistcoat instead, although he had no idea when he’d ever wear the thing in public. Arthur had been satisfied, at least until Alex had shared that he rarely tied his cravat in anything more complicated than a Belcher, and his younger brother has declared the need to lie down.

  His presentation to the Court had gone well enough, although he’d only had hazy recollections of his time drinking brandy with the Prince – and then Alex had been the one to require a lie down when Arthur disclosed just how much money Alex had lost on a bet with Sir John Lade about whether that gentleman could make a horse walk sideways through the stable arch.

  To top it all off, when his head had cleared sufficiently for him to attempt to get some work done of his own purchasing the promising estate in Northumberland, he’s walked into his book room only to be met with the reek of rancid pork. He’d gagged, pressed his handkerchief over his mouth, and slammed the door shut on his way out.

  “Why the devil does my study smell like a pig sty?” he’d demanded of the elderly butler, Jones, who had raised a pair of bushy eyebrows in silent rebuke before answering.

  “The Duchess insisted that we economise, your Grace. She said you had requested tallow candles and asked that we install them the moment they arrived.”

  “Damn and blast, I didn’t mean replacing them with pig-dips,” he ranted, and then found himself apologising for his language as Jones stiffened in response.

  Discussing the matter with his mother had not been fruitful, either. He’d stormed up to her day room, where she had been lounging on an old sofa with a novel, wine, some chocolates – and, he noted, beeswax candles.

  “I meant beef tallow, mother! How on earth am I supposed to worth with that stink? It will take weeks to air out the room!”

  “Beef tallow?” she’d repeated, looking confused. He’d pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to get his temper back under control.

  “I understand that Kate must have conveyed to you my desire to put some economies in place, but obviously I did not mean for you to purchase the cheapest candles that you could for the family rooms. Beef tallow, rendered well, is perfectly acceptable, mother – although I must say that you can hardly need to read by candlelight in the middle of the day! I shall pull back the drapes and let in some sun, shall I?

  “But my complexion!” she’d cried out with such horror that he’d stopped himself.

  “Very well! But economies must be made!” He thought about his odd conversation with Kate a few days earlier and forced himself to smile. “If not candles, then we should cut back on our entertaining. Do we really need peas, for example?”

  “Have you gone mad, my darling?” asked his mother, looking both confused and concerned. “Why do we need to cut back on our entertaining?”

  “To save money,” he responded, feeling equally bewildered.

  “But the Estates have more than provided for us.”

  “Yes, of course they have, and I acknowledge that much of that is down to your handling of the matters,” he conceded.

  “Me? I handle hardly anything at all,” she replied, staring at him as though he was speaking another language.

  It was a struggle to believe that his mother had successfully managed anything in the years since his father’s death, but the evidence of his own eyes was clear enough.

  “I suppose Hopkins guided you on many matters,” he said, although this seemed to agitate her further. “But of course as the head of the household you ultimately had charge, I see that! I’m simply suggesting that we spend less on peas and candles.”

  His mother shook her head. “I will discuss it with Kate, if you are so insistent, Alexander. Now please go away – you are giving me a headache!”

  He’d felt much the same way after that conversation.

  Helena had not improved his mood over the week, despite her best attempts to cajole him. She’d ambushed him one evening at some ball or another (they’d begun to bleed into each other, despite the attempts of the Society Matrons to outdo their rivals in all matters of food and décor), and re-introduced him to Mr Rumble, the son of the squire whose lands ran close to Darlington Park.

  It had started well enough. They were a number of years apart in age but remembered each other from their youth, and upon Helena’s disclosure that Mr Rumble was a student of the antiquities, they’d proceeded to have an enjoyable discussion about the relative merits of various Roman columnar styles. His sister had not enjoyed being cut out, however, and had dragged her companion away to dance before they’d progressed to the influence of the native British populous on Roman colonial architecture.

  Unfortunately, Helena had taken his approval of Mr Rumble as permission for her to detail his many fine qualities to Alex at every available opportunity – and in a particularly annoying manner, at the breakfast table. His mother always looked anxious during these conversations, while his wife coolly sipped at her coffee and co
nsumed her toast in silence.

  He might not be up to the snuff when it came to the ways of the women in his family, but he rather suspected that Helena – or less likely, Mr Rumble himself – was about to demand his consent to a youthful marriage. Under the circumstances, he took the most sensible option available.

  He avoided being alone with Helena like the plague.

  The one person, in fact, that he did want to be alone with continued to elude him.

  Kate.

  Watching her navigate the social complexities of the Ton, and realising the standing that she held even amongst the highest sticklers, gave him a new appreciation and admiration for the woman he was married to. She was unfailingly polite to him, and more than once had saved him from making a cake of himself in a room full of his peers, but his compliments on her style and poise did nothing to deepen their relationship.

  He knew he had rights, of course, and had endured many a ribald jest about conceiving an heir from the men at his clubs. He was determined not to be that kind of husband. Even their short, distant reunion had convinced Alex that he had made a terrible mistake in staying away so long, and that he wanted desperately for this beautiful stranger to look at him with the same affectionate friendship she shared with Arthur, with the Colbournes, or with the fashionable gentlemen on London who pretended to be in love with her.

  In fact, his desire to win Kate’s friendship was the only reason he remained in London at all, despite the insanity of the Season. And it was certainly the only reason he’d accepted the invitation to dine with her brother and his new wife, knowing full well what sort of greeting he was likely to receive.

  “You’re lucky I don’t plant you a facer right here in the middle of the drawing room,” said Duncan Ash, the Earl of Colbourne, with an expression that suggested there was no humour to his words. “Damn you, Lexborough. If I’d known you were returning I’d have taken Kate away with me. The only reason Bella and I cut short our honeymoon was because we learned you were back in London.”