The Ruthless Rake Read online

  Even as she made the decision she felt a feeling of humiliation.

  It would be humiliating to tell the Earl or his employees that they could not go on as they were without food.

  Would it be better, she wondered, to sell the mirror or anything else in the house?

  As she thought of it, she realised how, compared with all the magnificent treasures in King’s Keep, anything her father had possessed could only be classified as junk. Nevertheless they were not now hers to sell.

  She had seen, after her father had shot himself, the shopkeepers who had hounded him slipping out of the house quite unconcerned because they now had their money.

  She loathed the dishonesty of debt more than anything else in the world. It was dishonest to buy what you could not pay for and to obtain under false pretences what you had no chance of ever owning legally.

  “It was dishonesty that killed my father,” she had said to Nanny.

  She had said it angrily during one of their long arguments that had gone on day after day as to whether they should sell something from the house or obtain food on credit.

  It had been the truth and Nanny had had no answer.

  But Syringa was determined that never again in the whole of her life would she buy anything unless she had the money to pay for it.

  ‘Very high-souled sentiments!’ her brain jeered at her, ‘which will not prevent you from feeling hungry!’

  But she found it impossible to laugh at herself.

  “I will go to King’s Keep,” Syringa said aloud and even as she spoke she looked back through the open front door and saw a phaeton coming up the short drive.

  For a moment she stared at it wide-eyed and then she realised that the sunshine was flashing on silver harnesses and that the fine horseflesh were being tooled by a gentleman in a top hat.

  She gave a little cry and ran to the kitchen.

  “There is a phaeton coming up the drive, Nana,” she exclaimed. “It must be the Earl! Quick, go to the door! I will receive him in the drawing room.”

  “Tidy your hair, Miss Syringa,” Nanny said in an agitated manner, taking off her apron. “Sit down and receive his Lordship like a lady. ’Tis important, very important that he should realise who you are!”

  “And who am I?” Syringa asked.

  However, obeying Nanny, she ran across the hall and went into the drawing room, which overlooked the lawn at the back of the house.

  It was a pretty room and her mother had decorated it charmingly. The furniture might not be of great value, the mirrors and pictures of no consequence, but the room reflected the taste of a Lady of Quality.

  There was no mistaking the elegance of the sofa and chairs, even if they were threadbare, the soft blue damask hangings with cushions to match and the mellow colours of the rug in front of the fireplace.

  Syringa looked around her quickly.

  Everything was neat and dusted and she was glad that only yesterday she had put large vases of syringa on the tables on either side of the fireplace and a big bunch of daffodils in the window.

  The whole room was fragrant with the scent of syringa. It came not only from the vases, but the casement windows were open and for the last few days the bushes in the garden had been a riot of white blossom.

  Content with the room, Syringa glanced at herself in the mirror and tried to pat her hair into place.

  It framed her cheeks in tiny curls and she realised that quite by accident, because her hair was thick and grew back from her forehead, she emulated the Ladies of Fashion with their hedgehog coiffeurs.

  Her fichu was clean and crisp. Nanny ironed one for her every day and, if her gown was old, its full skirts were spotlessly clean.

  The sash with which she had encircled her waist made it look very small.

  It was impossible for her to buy mourning to wear because she had no money. But she had fortunately found a mauve sash amongst her mother’s belongings.

  Otherwise she was all in white and her face was very pale as she listened to voices in the hall and then footsteps coming towards the door.

  “The Earl of Rothingham, Miss Syringa,” Nanny announced.

  The Earl entered the room to see a very pale, frightened little face turned towards him and two large grey eyes which were worried and apprehensive.

  Then at the sight of him they changed.

  A sudden sparkle seemed to light them up and a faint colour rose in her pale cheeks.

  It was almost like seeing dawn come swiftly over the Indian plains, he thought.

  Then Syringa said with a lilt in her voice.

  “It’s you! I was sure it must be! I am so glad!”

  “Who else did you think it might be?” the Earl asked.

  She had remembered him as being very tall and broad- shouldered, but now he seemed enormous in the small room. He also appeared so sophisticated and smartly dressed with his high cravat and well-fitting coat that she felt small and insignificant and very shy.

  He was waiting, she realised, for the answer to his question, but his expression was one of boredom.

  “I had no idea,” Syringa replied. “Then I thought that perhaps out of kindness you meant to buy Mercury! You saved him – you really did save him – from a horrible man. A man who I am convinced would have been cruel to him!”

  “If that is the case, I am glad that I bought Mercury,” the Earl smiled.

  As if his words reminded Syringa that Mercury was not the only thing he had bought, she flushed and said quickly,

  “I am forgetting my manners – would your Lordship not sit down?”

  “I wondered if you would ask me to do so,” the Earl replied.

  “I-I am sorry,” Syringa said. “You must forgive m-me, but I have been so anxious – so worried.”

  She paused and, as the Earl stood gazing at her, she added,

  “I am – afraid I also – forgot to – curtsey.”

  The Earl walked to the armchair by the fireplace and sat down.

  “I think we have quite a lot to discuss, Miss Melton.”

  Syringa sat opposite him on the edge of her chair and, putting her hands in her lap, she looked rather like a nervous child.

  The Earl did not speak and after a moment she asked,

  “Why did – you do – it?”

  “Send my agent to bid at the sale?” the Earl asked, making no pretence of not understanding her question. “I suppose I could tell you that it was out of kindness because I was sorry for you, but that would not be entirely the truth.”

  Syringa’s eyes widened, but she did not speak and after a moment the Earl continued,

  “I was sorry for you, but, until I went back to King’s Keep, I thought that your problems were no concern of mine.”

  “What changed your mind?” Syringa asked.

  “I was looking at a map of the estates,” the Earl replied, “and I realised that while I owned the whole of the village of Whitley, the Manor House was not in my possession.”

  “My father bought it from yours,” Syringa explained, “when he first married Mama.”

  “That is what I was told,” the Earl said. “My father sold quite a number of pieces of property that were really not his to sell. But he took the money and there was nothing the Trustees could do except later try to repair the damage by buying them back.”

  “I can understand your wanting the Manor House,” Syringa murmured.

  “I think you are really asking yourself why you were included in my purchases,” the Earl remarked.

  He seemed to drawl out the words deliberately and the blood rushed into Syringa’s cheeks and her eyes fell shyly before his.

  “I can assure you,” he added, “that it was quite by mistake.”

  “That is what I – thought it – must be,” Syringa said breathlessly.

  “I was, of course, unaware that your father would include you amongst his other possessions,” the Earl explained. “I merely told my agent to buy whatever was for sale and top the price of any
other bidder.”

  “Why did you do that?” Syringa asked. “You could not have wanted the contents of the house.”

  “I thought perhaps I might let it furnished,” the Earl replied, “in fact I imagined that you and your father would be glad to stay on as my tenants.”

  “That was kind of you – very kind,” Syringa murmured.

  “But as I have said,” the Earl continued, “I was personally interested in acquiring the property. It appeared to me to be a blot on the estate map, outlined in a different colour, so that I could not fail to notice it.”

  “In fact it was Naboth’s vineyard!” Syringa suggested.

  For the first time since he had entered the room there was a twinkle in the Earl’s eyes.

  “And the manner in which I had to obtain it was almost as dramatic.”

  “I am sorry – I have proved so – expensive,” Syringa said and now her cheeks were flushed with colour again. “I have been worrying, my Lord, as to how I could possibly repay you.”

  “Do you wish to do so?” the Earl enquired.

  “But of course!” Syringa replied positively. “Unfortunately, ten thousand pounds is a terrible amount of money! I was saying to my old Nanny that, even if I worked all my life, I could never earn enough money to pay you back what you have expended.”

  “I think the best thing I can do,” the Earl replied, “is to wipe it off as a bad debt. No, that sounds rather rude! I should say a ‘good debt’.”

  Syringa twisted her hands together.

  “My Lord, there is – something I have to – tell you,” she said in a very small voice.

  The Earl’s eyelids seemed to drop lazily over his eyes.

  “And what could that be?” he asked and now there was a mocking note in his voice. “Perhaps I can guess.”

  “How could you?” Syringa enquired.

  “When beautiful young women say that they wish to tell me something,” the Earl replied, “it invariably involves a confession concerning matters of the heart. Who is the fortunate man you wish to speak about?”

  “It’s not like that,” Syringa cried. “There is no – man.”

  “No man?” the Earl questioned. “That I can hardly believe! You must have had many beaux. Even in such a quiet spot as this you have neighbours, Syringa, and if they are men they will have eyes and you will not have gone unnoticed.”

  “I am afraid, my Lord, that you have entirely the wrong impression,” Syringa said with an effort at dignity. “Mama did not wish to go into Society. Although my father hunted and had some friends in the country, Mama and I stayed at home.”

  “Why did your mother not wish to associate with other people?” the Earl asked.

  “I think the – real reason,” Syringa answered hesitatingly, the colour rising in her cheeks, “was that we could not – afford it. There was not enough money for Papa to be well dressed and well mounted and for – us to be – smartly gowned.”

  She paused and then went on quickly,

  “You must not think Mama minded. She much preferred being quietly at home and, when Papa was with her, they were so happy that they wanted no one else. I think too that Mama would not have accepted hospitality unless she could return it. And that was – impossible.”

  “So you are really telling me the truth when you say that you have no beaux,” the Earl said.

  “I always tell the truth, my Lord.”

  There was a note of defiance in the young voice.

  “It seems incredible,” the Earl remarked, “but perhaps you will forgive me for my suspicions and tell me what you wished to say.”

  Syringa was silent for a moment until the Earl said,

  “It seems that there is some difficulty! Are you afraid to confide in me?”

  “Not afraid,” Syringa answered. “It is just, my Lord, that I would not have you think that I was anything but strictly – honest.”

  The Earl raised his eyebrows.

  “I loved my father,” Syringa began. “It was only after my mother died and he could not face life without her that he returned to the – excesses he had – indulged in as a – young man.”

  She drew a deep breath.

  “Whilst Mama was alive, we were never in debt. What we could not afford – we did not have. It was as easy as that.”

  “I understand that all your father’s debts were paid,” the Earl answered. “My agent told me that his creditors went away satisfied and his gambling debts were met.”

  “That is true,” Syringa answered, “and I am deeply grateful to you, my Lord, for enabling me to hold my head up and not to feel ashamed and humiliated by that great accumulation of debts, which was quite – terrifying.”

  “And what is worrying you now?” the Earl asked and his tone was kinder.

  “It is just – my Lord, that when my father – died we had no – money – Nana and I. So I am – afraid there is now – something owing locally. Not much,” she added, “but there was – nothing left in the garden and Nana is – old.”

  “Are you telling me,” the Earl said, “that you and your Nanny have gone hungry?”

  “I felt sure that it would not be for long,” Syringa replied, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “But I knew that we ought not to run up – debts of any sort until we had seen – you and explained the – position. But you never – came! So I was going to ride over to King’s Keep this – afternoon to ask when – you would be there again.”

  “You have been hungry,” the Earl said, almost as if he spoke to himself. “I thought you looked thinner.”

  “It does not matter about me,” Syringa said hastily, “but there is Nana and – Mercury.”

  “We must not forget Mercury!”

  “Too much young grass is not – good for him,” Syringa said and again she was pleading with him to understand.

  “I cannot believe it possible that I should have forgotten in so short a time that men and women without money cannot eat,” the Earl said hoarsely, but it was as if he spoke to himself.

  He rose to his feet and Syringa rose too.

  “Stay here,” he said and, walking from the room, closed the door behind him.

  She stared after him in perplexity and then, although the door was closed, she could hear voices in the distance and realised that the Earl was speaking to Nanny in the kitchen. She had a sudden fear that Nanny would say too much. How often had she reiterated in the last week that she would like to give the Earl a piece of her mind?

  “It’s not his fault,” Syringa had excused him. “Why should he worry about us? He did not intend to buy me – that was a mistake. How could he possibly wish to spend ten thousand pounds on a woman?”

  Now she repeated the sum almost under her breath as she had said it hundreds of times already.

  It seemed to be written in lines of fire as she had lain awake in the darkness thinking over what had happened at the sale.

  And then there had always been at the back of her mind a fear as to what kind of man the Earl of Rothingham might be.

  But that was over. The Earl was not a stranger but her friend. The friend who had helped her in the wood, who had loved a dog called Judith and lost her. He was also Jupiter the God of the sky.

  ‘I am no longer afraid,’ Syringa thought.

  It seemed to her that the sunshine in the garden was more golden than it had been before.

  It was some time before the Earl came back into the room. And Syringa had been sitting in the window-seat.

  She rose to her feet almost apprehensively, her eyes searching his face in case Nanny had annoyed him.

  He appeared unperturbed as he said,

  “I have made arrangements for your immediate future, Syringa.”

  “What are they, my Lord?”

  “I am taking you and your Nanny to stay at King’s Keep.”

  “Taking us away from here?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “It would be impossible for you to stay here alone.”

  “Wh
y?” Syringa asked in surprise.

  The Earl seemed about to reply and then changed his mind.

  “You will be more comfortable at King’s Keep,” he said “and certainly better fed!”

  “Nana did not say too much, did she?” Syringa enquired. “She can be very outspoken.”

  The Earl’s eyes twinkled.

  “I rather felt that I was back in the nursery again!”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Syringa said quickly.

  “There is no reason to be,” the Earl answered. “As usual your Nanny is in the right. Nannies always are. But I was rather apprehensive that I might be stood in the corner and only given bread and water for supper!”

  Syringa looked worried and he added,

  “I am forgiven and she has started to pack. I am taking you now with me in my phaeton.”

  Syringa’s eyes gleamed with excitement and the Earl noticed how the sunshine picked out the flecks of gold in them.

  “And Mercury?” she asked.

  “I thought if you and I can manage alone, my groom could ride Mercury. There will be all the oats he wants waiting for him at King’s Keep.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Syringa cried. “I was so worried about him.”

  “And not about yourself?” the Earl enquired.

  “At times – I felt rather – empty inside,” Syringa smiled.

  He looked down at her.

  “I shall have to fatten you up.”

  She looked up into his eyes and he added sharply,

  “You absurd child! Can you not realise that honesty or pride or whatever you like to call it can be carried too far?”

  “You have been listening to Nana,” she said accusingly. “I did not want my – owner to think that I was trying to get – things out of – him before he even knew me.”

  “Things!” the Earl exclaimed. “You talk as if a few eggs, some milk and a loaf of bread were diamonds.”

  “They would certainly have been more palatable,” Syringa replied.

  The Earl laughed.

  “Come along,” he urged. “Fetch your hat. We will go back to King’s Keep and you shall enjoy the largest feast my chef can provide.”

  “And the – money we – owe?” Syringa asked in a small voice.