Page 45 of To Tame the Wild Rake
He lifted his brows again, this time in challenge, his lip quirking with amusement.
Aldridge shrugged. It would be something to do, and if he made a mull of it, as he’d done with Charlotte, at least his heart would not be in it, and other people wouldn’t be hurt.
Basingstoke turned to walk back to his home, and Aldridge fell in beside him. “I’d rather not be known as the Marquis of Aldridge, if that is acceptable.”
Basingstoke took that in his stride, too. “Grenford, then.”
“Ford, perhaps. Yes, Anthony Ford.”
Anthony Ford, a commoner of gentle birth who had his own reasons for helping out at the Theodora Mission’s training school for a week. Tony Ford, who had never even met a duke’s granddaughter, and certainly had no reason to mourn one. Tony Ford, who undoubtedly had problems of his own in this world of sorrows, but who had a life that belonged to him, and not to a deranged despot, a title, and hundreds of dependents. Ford was a lucky chap. It would only be a week, but it would have to do.
Wharton had written to Whailand’s London agent with a list of his expectations, and the man had found Wharton a small jewel of a townhouse, fully furnished, and complete with a husband-and-wife team to serve him.
It had belonged to a deceased estate, and had been sitting empty, apart from Simpson and his wife, for over a year. The agent took a six-month lease, and instructed the couple to employ the staff they needed to make Mr Whailand comfortable.
Mrs Simpson was a cook and housekeeper. Simpson agreed to take on the roles of both butler and valet. A footman and two maids were hired, and all was prepared when Wharton arrived.
It would do. Wharton exerted his charm, assuring his new servants that he was delighted. The location was perfect. In Westminster, on a square of more modest houses surrounded by the homes of the wealthy.
From the first dinner she served him, Mrs Simpson showed that she was an artist in the kitchen, so that was some consolation for not being able to keep his usual pets close by, as he was accustomed to doing.
And Simpson had a deft hand with Wharton’s boots and cravats. As for the other servants, Wharton asked only that they did their work and stayed out of his way.
Not that he would spend much time in the house. As soon as he slept off the effects of the long ride in a hideous post chaise—the person who had named them ‘bounders’ was saying no more than the truth—he needed to visit the little haven that had been set up for him in at a private club with an excellent reputation for meeting every need of its clients.
They would have received and would fulfil his requirements for privacy, exclusivity, cleanliness, some measure of physical beauty, extreme youth. Refreshed after all these months of abstinence, he would then be ready to put his mind to the first step in revenge. He had clubs to join and people to meet.
Reputable places and respectable people. In the Whailand persona, Wharton would stay away from gambling hells and brothels. Whailand was a gentleman of adequate, but not extravagant means, seeking a gently born bride of a similar level in Society.
Manton’s was a must. Perhaps Jacksons, though he preferred to watch rather than put himself in the way of being punched. His Eton accent might get him into White’s or Brooks, but that might not serve him. He would spend some time at Tattersalls.
What he needed was a garrulous fool. Someone amiable who would happily take a man from the country under his wing. Someone who was invited to entertainments that might attract the kind of maiden Whailand would be interested in courting, and that would certainly provide a fertile soil for the scandal Wharton planned to sow.
People like the Winshires and Haverfords circulated at the highest levels of Society. Wharton would not risk encountering his enemies by accepting such invitations, even if he received them. But his rumours would go in his place.
He regretted that he would not have a front-row seat in their pain. His place was behind the curtain, pulling the strings.
But I will be there for the final act, he promised himself.
22
Charlotte didn’t want to leave her room. The indisposition had been a mild one, but she continued to linger long after the cramps had subsided to a dull ache. When Sarah came looking for her, several days later, Charlotte was up and dressed, though she had not made it farther than a chair by the fire.
“Darling,” Sarah greeted her. “How are you?”
“Better, thank you. A little sore still, but nothing unusual.” She tried for a cheerful smile. “I am just being lazy, Sarah. How are you?”
Sarah frowned. “You will have to do better than that before I believe you.”
Charlotte hid the face that had betrayed her by turning to the fire. “What do you mean? My indisposition is past its worst.”
“Is it to do with you and Aldridge? I have seen it coming for some time, and have been happy for you. And then at the musicale…” Sarah’s arm slipped around Charlotte’s shoulders. “Darling, can I help? Do you want to talk about it?”
Charlotte caught back a sob. “There is no me and Aldridge. There cannot be.” She turned into her sister’s embrace, wailing, “It hurts, Sarah. It hurts so much!”
The whole story washed out of Charlotte on floods of tears. Sarah limited her contribution to consoling pats and murmurs, and the occasional clarifying question. Eventually, when Charlotte had finished, Sarah sent for a washbasin of warm water, plus tea and cake, “Cake will not fix your ills, dearest, but it is hard to be completely miserable when eating cake.”
Charlotte gave a watery chuckle, as her sister intended. “Thank you for listening,” she said.
