To Recapture a Rake: A Hephaestus Club Novella Read online

  Tripp shook his head. “Where is the novelty in your suggestion, Lockland? They bet on marriages all the time at the other clubs. It always ends with orange blossoms.” He looked at his friend in disappointment. “I had hoped for better from you, Blackthorne. Where is the novelty?”

  “You wish novelty?” Blackthorne said, draining his glass. “Then I must not simply announce my intent. I must convince the rest of you to follow me. Bring out the betting book, for I assume you have one. Put me down next to whoever else is so likeminded in their bachelorhood, and we will see who lasts the longest.”

  “There was a moment of silence, as the room considered this.

  “What you seem to be suggesting,” said Howard, “is a tontine. If each of us invested a set some against the possibility of marrying, with the last man to take the pot…”

  “It would not be fair,” announced Massey. “I would bet that you, Howard, are the least marriageable among us. Blackthorne is both handsome and rich. Despite his protests, a woman will trap him eventually. But you are such an odd duck as to be unclubbable. It is why I put you up for membership here. You have not a penny to your name. If no woman would have you, how difficult can it be to take the prize?”

  “I do not know, admitted Howard. “I have not set my mind to find a woman. Therefore, I have no scientific proof that it is difficult. I should think old Pennyworth is the one to beat us all. He is nearing seventy, and a Molly. What reason would he have to seek a wife?”

  The old man in the corner bowed his head in acknowledgement. “True enough. It should be easy money. But then, I am more likely to die than you lot. In such a scheme, I would see to my health and wait. All the same, some things are not preventable. I may be the first to drop from the rolls, should the good Lord take me.”

  The group gave a thoughtful pause at this. But it had less to do with a moment’s respect at the thought of a death, than a re-figuring of the odds. The air hummed with mental calculations, as each man there weighed his chances against the others.

  “By Jove,” said Massey, almost to himself. “We have fifty members. Of those, not quite half are married.”

  “They could hold the money,” suggested Tripp. “And there might be side bets, as well. An initial investment of ten…”

  “No, a hundred,” suggested Edenvale.

  Blackthorne laughed. “No, gentlemen. A thousand pounds from any man who can raise it. I will stake any who cannot, since I am attempting to win converts. We all must have good reason not to falter. The loss of a substantial sum, weighed against the possibility of great reward, will be a bolster against the rough seas of the marriage mart. I have announced my intentions and am ready to write the check.” He raised his glass and drained it. “The question remains, who has the nerve to follow me?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The tears were still drying on her cheeks as Caro watched the sunset from her bedroom window. It was not surprising, since she had been crying the better part of the day. She had managed to make it out of the club on Jermyn Street without the final humiliation of breaking down in the foyer, had walked the last few steps to the carriage, taken her seat and drawn the curtains. Only then did she release the flood of emotion she’d contained.

  How could she have been so stupid? She had believed Alene’s assumptions without further questioning because she had wanted them to be true. The loss of physical intimacy left an aching void inside her. It was even worse to know that they would never again share a joke or a meal, or read together before the fire comforted by the knowledge that there was another who shared their most secret thoughts.

  Surely, Vincent was as affected as her by their parting. If he was seeking solace in the arms of countless strangers, at least he had not immediately replaced her with a wife, or worse, a new mistress…

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. If she were not careful, she would be crying again. Better to think on the humiliation at the club, than the loss of happy times. Vincent had been managing quite well without her, when she had sought him out. He was not sunk in sin but enjoying an ordinary afternoon at his club.

  To cover her embarrassing mistake, she had tortured him, just as he’d said. She’d used the only power she had as a weapon, seducing him, then denying him all over again. She had taunted him with the idea that he would be easily replaced with one of his friends. If he had not before, he must hate her now. It had been beneath contempt.

  “Miss Sydney, there is a visitor. A gentleman.” Her worried maid was standing at the door of her room.

  Caroline sat up quickly, embarrassed to be caught crying by the poor girl, yet again. “Who is it?” She touched her face, which was hot and damp. If Vincent had returned, at least he would see her remorse, for it must be written plain on flushed cheeks.

  “A Mr. Aubrey Howard.”

  When Caroline came down to sitting room a few minutes later, the strange man she had accosted at the club was waiting for her, perched awkwardly on a settee. He sprang to his feet at her entrance.

  “Mr. Howard?” she said, with a raise of her eyebrows.

  “Miss Sydney,” he responded. Then he smiled and removed his spectacles, polishing them as though he needed to take a better look at her. “I have come in response to your offer.”

  “My offer,” she said, trying to think what she had said that would bring about a visit from a stranger.

  “You came to the club today, searching for a new protector,” he said, as though she had done nothing exceptional. “I am willing to take you on, if we are able to agree on terms. Will you wish to come to my home, or may I visit you in yours? And I must know how much will you be requiring from me, in the way of time and money. I am afraid I do not have very much of either.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He must be as awkward as he seemed, if he thought he could come into her home and her life and be accepted without question. “I am sorry Mr. Howard,” she said, letting a chill creep into her voice. “But there is a bit more to it than, as you put it agreeing on terms. There is normally some attraction between the parties involved.”

  He gave an understanding nod. “But I thought, in this instance, we would be dispensing with that, since you are obviously still in love with Blackthorne.”

  “I am not!” Dear God, let her denial be convincing. It would be the final embarrassment of the day to think that it was so obvious such a man as this could see it.

  Now, he was smiling sympathetically and adjusting his spectacles, yet again. “It does no good to deny it, Miss Sydney. Though you might think me foolish, I am not actually a fool.”

  “Really sir, I protest…” But hadn’t she thought him foolish, when she had gulled him into escorting her? He was smiling as though it did not matter, but it had been unfair of her. “I am sorry,” she said, in a small voice.

  He waved the apology away. “Do not concern yourself with my feelings. I understand your actions, perfectly. In fact, I sympathize with them. I want to help you.”

  “You understand?” Then he must be prescient, for she was not sure she understood them herself.

  “As I said, you are in love with Blackthorne--”

  “I am not.” Her interruption was as weak as her acting.

  “—and you wished to make him jealous. To do this properly, it will be best to choose the least likely candidate for your future affections.” He spread his arms as though presenting himself.

  “I did not mean…” Anything so crass as that, she was sure. She did not wish to hurt either man any more than she already had.

  “I find no fault in the plan,” he said. “I am the very antithesis of Blackthorne: neither rich nor powerful, nor particularly attractive. I have no town bronze, nor any experience at all with ladies of your sort.”

  “My sort?” And now, it was she who was the butt of the insult.

  “Beautiful,” he said, as though this should be self evident.

  “Oh.”

  He ignored her embarrassed response. “In my opinion, you
could not have chosen another man more likely to inflame his emotions. Well done, Miss Sydney.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, as though this settled everything. “I am only too happy to help you to your goal.”

  “And that is…” If her plans were so obvious to others, she had best find out what they were.

  “Why, to be Countess Blackthorne, of course.”

  She gasped. Then she hurried to correct him. “I do not see how you came to such a conclusion, Mr. Howard. I must say, it paints me in a most unflattering light. I did not seek Vincent out from a desire to bag a title, like some sort of fortune hunter.”

  “Of course not, Miss Sydney. You love the man, not the title.” He paused. “But you confuse me. You speak as if fortune hunting is in some way ignoble. As a man with no fortune, I find marrying for wealth to be the most sensible thing imaginable. If gentleman are not encouraged to work for money, how else are we to get it?”

  “You and I are nothing alike,” she argued, though he was quite correct.

  Once again, he ignored her protestations. “If you do not wish to marry him, people will think you a whore. Is it not better to marry the man for his money, than to accept gifts for submitting to him?”

  “People will think me a whore in any case,” she argued. “I have done just that already, and there is no changing the past.”

  “But it is possible to change the future.” Mr. Howard made it all sound so very simple. “If you love the man, and he loves you, and you do not wish to be his whore, your only solution must be to marry Blackthorne and become a countess.

  “But how…”

  “Quod erat demonstratum,” he said, with a snap of his fingers. “It is obvious, even to me. And I am known across the length and breadth of England for being surprisingly obtuse in social matters.”

  She fell silent.

  He continued. “I posit you must marry him. I mean to help you in your endeavors.”

  “Why?” While it made sense that he might want to take advantage of her vulnerability, what reason could he have to help her?

  “A bet has been made,” he said. “At the Hephaestus Club, after you left today. Because of my lack of funds and the difficulty in gaining them, it is vital that I win it.”

  “You are betting on the outcome of my relationship with Blackthorne?”

  “Certainly not. I am a gentleman, Miss Sydney. If I bet on your happiness, I would not be so crass as to tell you.”

  That did not sound particularly gentlemanly. She let it pass, waiting for further explanation.

  “The bunch of us bet on the likelihood that any of us would marry. The last man standing, so to speak, will take the prize. I see no reason, given my lack of success thus far and my inability to make improvements on my character that might attract the fairer sex, that I will not be single, to the grave.” It was a sad thing, but he did not seem overly bothered by it.

  “But that does not explain what this has to do with me.”

  “Blackthorne was the cause of the bet. He was swearing off women for good, as do many who come stumbling through the doors of the club.” Mr. Howard gave another wave of his hand to denote tedious details. “When a man makes such statements, it is because he wants to marry someone that he cannot have. He will not marry if he cannot have you, and I am quite sure no one else will satisfy him.”

  She blushed at the choice of words, but Mr. Howard did not seem to notice them.

  “Because of this, he will be a formidable opponent, unless I can succeed in yoking the pair of you. Then there will be one less contestant between myself and my eventual winnings, and a weakening in the resolve of those who looked to him for an example…”

  “You wish to make matches?”

  “I see no reason why I should not.”

  She sniffed. “Then perhaps you should be visiting Mary Holden. Once the scandal has died down, she will take him back and he will offer for her.”

  Howard shook his head. “He must not have been too set on that union. He has not spoken of her once in the two weeks he has been coming to the club. Nor does he seem to brood upon her absence, or make wild proclamations of lifelong bachelorhood, as he did after your visit.”

  “Well, he does not want to marry me, or he’d have done it already,” she said, her hopes falling a little.

  “He does not want to marry anyone else, or he’d have done it already,” Howard replied. “How many women has he courted, since you have known him? And how many offers has he made?”

  She did not dare say what she was thinking. In the two seasons she had been in London, he had been seen in the company of nearly every eligible girl in town. But he had made only one proposal, and that had been to her.

  “He has not been able to marry,” Howard said patiently, “because he knows that the pair of you are already mated.”

  “We are not!” Despite her common sense, her heart leapt at his assessment. She forced the emotion down. “It does not matter if we are. Society would never accept a marriage between us.”

  Mr. Howard looked at her with surprise. “Does it really matter to you what society thinks if you can have Blackthorne?”

  She could not even pretend that it did. “His reputation…” she said, lamely.

  “His reputation was ruined, long before he made you his mistress. It is fortunate that titles are not base on morals. In my opinion, there would be few of them left. Teach your son, the next Earl of Blackthorne to keep a spotless rep. It is far too late for the current one.”

  “If we are both already ruined…” The thought had never occurred to her. She smiled.

  “Then how much worse can it be?” he said, holding out his hands again, as though presenting the solution to all her problems. “Is it not better to be happy, than to be proper?”

  Mr. Howard seemed to have an answer for everything. And for the first time in a fortnight, Caro did not feel like crying. She sat, and gestured him to a chair, “Please sir. Let me call for refreshments. Then, as you suggested from the first, we will agree to terms.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Blackthorne’s box at the Theater Royal was as a comfort to him for he enjoyed the performances there. When he’d had Caro’s full attention, he had not used it as often as he’d liked. Bringing her to such a public place would expose her to the gossip and ridicule of her former friends. He abhorred the shallow ugliness of polite society, and it pained him that their relationship might cause her pain.

  But when he’d left her at home and escorted another, he’d felt even worse. When compared to Caro, any female he chose seemed dull company and even an innocent evening without her felt like a betrayal. When he returned to her on the following night, he could not help but tell her where he had gone and who he had been with. It was almost as if he needed absolution.

  But none of that mattered anymore. Now that he had lost her, there was no reason not to attend a play. He glanced at his current companion, who must have been a disappointment to the scandal mongers. They’d been expecting an opera dancer, or a notorious courtesan. Instead, he had made the most innocuous choice imaginable. The dowager Countess of Blackthorne occupied the position at his side, her jewels sparkling against satin, her grey hair arranged in a coronet, and her lorgnette firmly fixed on the box to their right. It was one he had been purposefully ignoring all evening, though it seemed to have been chosen in a way that made gazing into it practically unavoidable.

  “Is that Caroline Sydney sitting just across the circle from us?” his mother asked, without lowering her glass. “She was your favorite for quite some time, was she not? Now that I can admire her, I know why.”

  “Hmmph,” he said, staring fixedly at the stage.

  “I have not spoken with her in ages. It is a shame. When you introduced us, she was perfectly charming.”

  Now, his mother was being purposely difficult. He had introduced them in Bath, and again during the brief and unfortunate courtship of last season. Th
ere had been no recent meetings because one did not take one’s mistress to meet one’s mother. “The performance is on the stage beneath us,” he remarked. “I was told that the soprano is particularly good.”

  His mother glanced at the girl on the stage, then turned back to him. “You are interested in her as well?”

  “Mother,” he tried a warning tone. Now that he was head of the household, she owed him obedience.

  She was having none of that. “Because she is not the equal to Miss Sydney.”

  “I did not say she was,” he said, squeezing the program in his hands.

  “But I expect you will be choosing another mistress soon. It is all over town that Caro cast you off.”

  He balled up the program and tossed it to the floor. “You are not supposed to know of that, much less speak of it.”

  She dropped the glass and looked at him with mock sympathy. “Everyone in London knows of it, Vincent. It has caused me to worry that you do not understand how these things work. Is it not usually the man who parts with the woman? When your father was alive…”

  “I would prefer that we not speak of father’s mistresses either.”

  His mother laughed. “Your father had no problem with it, nor did I. Of course, times were different then…”

  Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose, for the conversation was likely to degenerate into another discussion of the freer morality in the last generation and his need to relax. Perhaps it was true. But it was damned awkward to hear it from one’s own mother.

  She’d raised her glass again. “At least I do not have to worry about Miss Sydney. She seems to have found a new protector. How very sensible of her. Who is the fellow?”

  “Aubrey Howard,” he muttered. “We share a club.” But if that was the normal behavior at the Hephaestus, they would not share it for long.

  “Well, good on her,” his mother announced. “It does not do to stay in one’s house, brooding. She must be relieved to have found a man who will indulge her taste in theater.”