Luckily Rafe broke into the conversation. “Do you remember when I bought all these things for you?” he called to Imogen, gesturing at the heaps of toys on the nursery shelves.
“Who could forget?” Imogen turned to Gabe. “Your brother believed that he had become guardian to four small children, so he bought these toys—as you can see—in quadruple. Four rocking horses, four dolls.”
“There were four nursemaids,” Rafe said rather owlishly.
After a few months of living in close proximity with Rafe, Gabe could judge his whiskey intake to the glass. At the moment, he would judge him more than half-seas over; he could only hope that his brother would remember his promise to stop drinking on the morrow. More likely, he’d have no memory of the whole evening.
Reluctantly Gabe allowed Imogen to hold the babe. He’d spent far too much time in the nursery as it was. That afternoon, the nurse had finally had to tell him to leave so that Mary could nap.
Mary smiled at Imogen with the same joy with which she greeted him. Gabe couldn’t distinguish precisely why that was so infuriating. All he knew was that he wanted Mary to smile at him. She might even frown at a stranger or two instead of greeting all and sundry with the same welcome.
She was chuckling now, and pulling at the slippery strands of Imogen’s hair. And Imogen was smiling at him over Mary’s head with an expression that told him as clearly as if it had been written in ancient Aramaic that she thought he himself would make a very nice birthday present. She must have forgotten his illegitimacy.
Mary seemed to like Imogen. But so did Rafe, for all he snarled about her. It was an odd thing, to Gabe’s mind, to discover that after thinking of oneself as an only child for half a lifetime, he had fallen so easily into the role of brother.
But fall he had. He was astounded by how much he cared for his greathearted drunkard of a brother. Rafe was as generous in his sins as he was in his affections.
Imogen was laughing now. Mary was patting her cheek with her little hand, and Gabe noticed that Rafe had stopped rearranging the cast-iron toys and was staring over his shoulder at Imogen. She was beautiful, but sharp-tongued. Still, there was no accounting for tastes, and Rafe clearly had a taste for his former ward.
“Mr. Spenser,” Imogen said, turning to him, “anyone can see that Mary has received nothing but loving attention since her birth. You have done very well by your little motherless babe.”
“I have done the best that I could,” he said uncomfortably.
“I hope you don’t mind if I ask again,” she said. “Was her mother able to see little Mary before she died?”
“Of course she did,” Gabe said, feeling himself sinking into a deeper pool of lies. “She—she did.”
“That’s lovely,” Imogen said, kissing Mary on the forehead. “You must be sure to tell her so when she grows to the age of understanding. My father foolishly told Josie that our mother had not survived to hold her, and the idea has caused Josie an unnecessary amount of pain.”
Gabe blinked down at Mary in Imogen’s arms and tried to imagine himself weaving a complicated set of lies about a dead wife that he would, someday, tell his daughter. He couldn’t imagine it.
Mary was starting to look a little tired. She was wearing a little dress that poofed out in all directions and made her look rather like a buttercup. She put her head back against Imogen’s arm.
“Oh, she’s a love,” Imogen whispered.
Gabe nodded. Mary was looking around drowsily, probably searching for her nurse. But then her eyes caught on him and a little crooked smile hitched up one side of that rosebud mouth.
And she stretched out her arms. Gabe felt his heart fall into the bottom of his boots.
“Isn’t that sweet,” Imogen crooned. “Mary wants her papa, doesn’t she? Here you are.” And without further ado, she plopped the baby back into Gabe’s arms.
Mary sighed, turned her head against his waistcoat, and went promptly to sleep.
9
Parched
Contrary to his brother’s uncertain assessment, Rafe woke early the next morning, quite aware that he had promised to give up whiskey. Not just whiskey, but wine. Ale. Everything. He didn’t feel ill this morning, as was his characteristic sensation in the morning; he was too gripped by fear.
It took over an hour for him to talk himself into getting out of bed and into the bath. Of course he could give up the liquor. He’d said a million times that he would, hadn’t he? It wouldn’t be so difficult. It wasn’t as if he was the sort of man who fell over a bottle of ale on his way to breakfast and never looked up from it. This was simply a matter of accepting the logical judgment that whiskey, lovely though it was, has ill effects on his body and his health.
And now he had a niece and a brother. A family who wanted him to stop drinking. Commanded him to do so, in truth.
He walked down to the breakfast room to find that a lively discussion was afoot. Gabe looked up at him with the expression of pure relief.
A second later, Rafe understood why. Griselda had decided to tackle the whole project of the play. It didn’t make sense to her. Hell, it didn’t make sense to him either, and poor Gabe was making a sad hash of explaining himself while trying to avoid blatant untruths.
Having no disinclination whatsoever to lie, Rafe waded in before Gabe perjured himself. Leave that to those who were already beyond redemption.
“This is all Gabe’s fault,” he said, allowing the footman to heap coddled eggs on his plate. Normally, he didn’t eat in the morning, but here he was, turning over a new leaf. “He knocked down a young woman in London last year. While in a hackney, you understand.”
That struck a chord with Griselda. “There’s nothing worse than a drunken hackney driver,” she said, waving away all the dishes on offer. “And London is full of them. I should like dry toast only,” she told the footman. “Very dry.”
“Precisely,” Rafe said. “The driver reeled off the box, he’d had so much gin. Of course, my brother felt responsible for the young woman’s well-being. He’s a very responsible sort of man.”
“Of course,” Griselda said, adding: “No, no, I said dry. Without butter, if you please.”
“The young woman was slightly wounded in the accident, and unfortunately that caused her to lose her part in a play. So of course—”
“What theater was it?” Imogen asked.
“Covent Garden,” Gabe said.
“So this young woman….” Griselda stopped. “What does this young person have to do with our production? Never tell me that you gained an appreciation for the theater from this unfortunate incident, Mr. Spenser?” From the way she gazed at Gabe, Rafe could tell that visions of young men taken in by the reckless charms of immoral actresses were dancing before her eyes. Not so far off the mark, either.
“Of course not,” Rafe said hastily. “But knowing of the fame of the Holbrook Court theater, Gabe offered her the chance to display her considerable talents before a large audience. We mean, of course, to invite the most important theater people from London.”
“It seems to me well beyond the call of duty,” Griselda said, a small frown creasing her brow. “A small gift to the Covent Garden would likely have ensured the woman a part in an upcoming production.”
“She doesn’t want just a part,” Rafe said cheerfully, “she wants a lead. And no amount of money could have dislodged Eliza Vestris from the leading role at the Covent Garden, unless the owners caught glimpse of a future luminary.”
“I trust she is a woman of moral repute?” Griselda asked. “Because if I understand you, Rafe, you plan to proceed on your mother’s theatrical model. The duchess employed professional actors for the lead parts, but she filled the extras with people of our own acquaintance. That makes the moral fiber of the hired help extremely important.”
Rafe hastened to answer that before Gabe would commit himself to further untruths that would keep the poor fellow up at night. “Absolutely above reproach. Devoted to her craft,
naturally. Passionate about it.” To a fault, he added silently.
“Well,” Griselda said, looking unsatisfied but resigned, “I still fail to see who precisely is going to run this production, Mr. Spenser. Unless you are quite remarkable for a doctor of divinity, no one among this company has the slightest idea how to mount a theatrical production, particularly one to which will be invited one hundred and fifty people. The duchess worked extraordinarily hard at the task, and she had a great deal of experience.”
Rafe opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. “Make no mistake, if you go forward with this production and in conjunction with the fascinating revelation that you are not only in possession of a half brother, but that you have welcomed him into the household, every single person you invite will appear on your doorstep. In fact, your play will likely be the social event of the year.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Rafe agreed.
“I would definitely like a part,” Imogen put in. “If the lead is being given to an actress, perhaps I could play a villainess. I would enjoy that.”
She was saying it to bait him. Definitely. Devilish woman.
“I wrote a letter to the only woman I can think of with a passion about the theater akin to my mother’s…that young woman your husband used to be engaged to,” he told Imogen.
Imogen’s eyes hardened slightly. “Miss Pythian-Adams.”
“A lovely young woman,” Rafe said with satisfaction. “She had memorized the entirety of a Shakespeare play, as I recall. I was certain that she would be overjoyed to be involved in a theatrical party and in fact, she has accepted. She and her mother should be arriving any day.”
“She’s coming here?” Imogen asked.
“By a happy coincidence, Miss Pythian-Adams happens to be rusticating in Somerset,” Rafe said. “I believe that her last season was considered rather disappointing. After she was…jilted.”
Imogen’s eyes flared at that. Miss Pythian-Adams was jilted when Draven Maitland trotted off to the altar with Imogen.
“I doubt she will wish to be in my company,” she pointed out.
“To the contrary,” Rafe said cheerfully, “she has told all and sundry that she considers herself to have escaped a terrible fate. Not,” he added, “that her opinion of Maitland is in the least derogatory to his memory.” He was feeling altogether better now. Even his head had stopped throbbing.
“You—” Imogen said, and stopped.
“Quite right,” Griselda said, patting her hand. “Some people have to wait for reform until the next world, my dear, and I expect Rafe is one of them.”
“From what I’ve heard of the next world,” Imogen said, “it might not be displeasing enough to effect a reform. Although”—she bared her teeth in some semblance of a smile—“by every account I’ve heard, Heaven is a remarkably abstemious location. Given the undoubted state of your liver, you will find yourself there sooner rather than later.”
“I will blend into my surroundings,” Rafe said helpfully. “Since I gave up alcohol this morning.”
“You did what?”
Rafe felt a pulse of annoyance. He shrugged. “There’s nothing so unusual about it. You rarely drink, for example.”
“Are you giving up whiskey in emulation of me?” Imogen shot him a look of pure scorn.
“Just think how much I look forward to our growing similarities. I do hope that abstemiousness doesn’t make me bad-tempered.”
She glared at him.
“Or”—he shuddered delicately—“cause me to throw my moral scruples to the wind.”
“I doubt that will happen,” Griselda said, buttering a final piece of toast. “In my experience, people who reform become remarkably keen to replace sin with respectability. I expect you will marry within a year.”
At that, Imogen grinned. “A life entirely of pleasure to be reformed into one of virtue. How very glad I am that Papa chose you as our guardian, Rafe. It will be so edifying to watch your transformation.”
But Rafe wasn’t going to be drawn by her again. “Griselda, if you are quite done with that marmalade, may I have some?”
“I never eat marmalade,” Griselda said absently. “It’s not at all good for the waist.”
“In that case,” Rafe said, “you might as well give me the toast you are holding as well.”
“If Miss Pythian-Adams has accepted your invitation,” Griselda said, keeping a firm grasp on her toast, “we shall need to arrange a house party in order to cover over the oddness of it all.”
“It’s a matter of semantics. Theatrical parties are all the rage. An old friend of mine from school, Yates, is quite obsessed with them and wrote me a remarkably tedious letter about some performance of Lovers’ Vow. We have a house party already, with the two of you. I’ll ask Mayne to join us, if you wish.”
“Mayne,” Griselda scoffed. “It would be better if Tess joined us. Oh, but she’s traveling on the Continent, isn’t she? Well, perhaps Lady Finster or Mrs. Claiborne. Or Lady Olney. I know that she is quite enthralled by amateur theatricals. I could ask Mrs. Thurmon. Perhaps…” Her eyes lit up. “Lady Blechschmidt.”
Imogen scowled at that. “I thought you and Lady Blechschmidt were no longer speaking. We never did ascertain why she was at Grillon’s Hotel in the middle of the night, you know.”
“Never make the mistake of confusing reputation with unsuitable behavior, my dear,” Griselda said. “Lady Blechschmidt was certainly at Grillon’s at an unsavory hour, but since no one knows of it but us, and we told no one, she and I are still the best of friends. More to the point, her reputation is unimpeachable. I shall write to her immediately.”
“I think we should wait,” Rafe said. “The preparations for my mother’s plays used to take weeks. Lady Blechschmidt would hamper us, and it’s not as if anyone would wish to see her marching about the stage. Why don’t we invite people once we are almost ready for the performance?”
“Am I to understand that you will be taking a lead part?” Griselda asked.
Rafe opened his mouth to say no, but Gabe jumped in. “Yes, he will,” he said. “He will play the male lead.”
“Like h—” Rafe said and caught his brother’s eye. “Oh for goodness sake,” he said, “I suppose I will play a role, but does it have to be the lead, Gabe? Why don’t you play the lead?”
“If you’ve given up whiskey, I suppose you’ll be able to remember your lines,” Imogen said cheerfully.
“That’s enough to make a man drown himself in a barrel of malmsey like the old Duke of Clarence,” Rafe said. “That and playing Benedict to your Beatrice.”
“Mr. Spenser,” Imogen said, leaning forward so that the world could see straight down inside her neckline. “What part will you play?”
“The villain,” Rafe put in. “Gabe is playing the villain, aren’t you?”
“I hadn’t thought to play a part myself,” Gabe said reluctantly.
“You are the villain,” Rafe said firmly. “You shall have to swirl a black cape and affix a mustache to your upper lip.”
Gabe opened his mouth and then shut it again after a look from Rafe. Rafe would be damned if he was going to be jockeyed into having a role in a play—when he hadn’t the faintest ambition to tread the boards—and let his brother off scot-free.
“When does your young actress join us?” Griselda asked. She clearly had some reluctance to find herself in such company. “And do you think that you ought to hire some other professional actors?”
“Not that we’re worried about Rafe playing a convincing romantic hero,” Imogen said, more than a touch of doubt in her voice.
Rafe glared at her.
“Miss Hawes will join us just before our performance is ready,” Gabe said. “As a professional, she will quickly grasp her part. We will inform her of the play beforehand.”
“I think that would be best,” Griselda said. “Much though I appreciate the kindness of Mr. Spenser’s gesture—although I do think it is overly kind given the situation?
??I have no particular wish to dine with a woman of that profession.”
“You’re turning into a regular stuffy Jane,” Rafe told her. “Be careful: you’ll get your comeuppance by falling in love with an actor.”
Griselda didn’t bother to respond.
10
Misery
Rafe was throwing up again. Imogen could hear him all the way down the corridor. She couldn’t sleep. Of course, he deserved all the discomfort he got, but still…
Finally she got up and walked out of her room and down the hallway. It was the dead of night, and Holbrook Court was as quiet as a tomb.
Imogen stopped outside his door. He was retching again and again. He’d probably curse at her if she entered the room.
Naturally, she entered the room.
“Damn you!” he roared. “Get out!”
“At least you’re not naked,” she said. He had a towel around his waist, but he was an odd gray-green color, covered with sweat, and shivering. “Do you think you’ve taken a chill?”
“Out,” Rafe said, bending over. “Get. Out. Do you hear me?”
But there was no way Imogen was going to leave him alone in this state. “You need a bath,” she said.
He was doubled over at the waist, gasping because he was retching so hard. Imogen felt a germ of panic.
“Perhaps it’s too much to give up liquor all at once?” she said. “You could try cutting back first.”
“Gabe says I have to get it out of my system,” he said, grunting as he straightened up. “Imogen. I’m asking you. May I suffer through this humiliation on my own? I’m sure it will be over in the morning.”
“No,” Imogen said. “Definitely not. You need a bath.”
“I am not calling the servants at this hour—”
“You have no need,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you haven’t brought this chamber up-to-date, but my bedroom has a proper bathroom. The water in the pipes should still be hot enough.” She took his arm. It was chilly and covered with sweat. “You’re a mess.”