A Heart's Rebellion Read online

  Miss Barry’s compressed lips and flared nostrils confirmed her displeasure at her friend’s offering of information.

  “But we’ve been the best of friends ever since. I can hardly remember a time I didn’t know Jessamine—Miss Barry—so feel as if I’m originally from the village.”

  He nodded. “Where did you live beforehand?”

  A shadow crossed Miss Phillips’s pretty gray eyes. “Bristol.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That must have been a change for you from the city to a village.”

  “Yes, though meeting Miss Barry, who is our nearest neighbor, made all the difference.” Her expression sobered. “My father was a merchant in Bristol, until he passed away.”

  “I’m sorry.” He remembered Lady Abernathy’s words. Miss Phillips’s father had died bankrupt. Bristol, a city dependent on its seafaring trade, had been hard hit from so many years of the blockade with France.

  “It was a difficult time for my mother, brother, and I. Of course, I was but a child so do not remember it so well as they. It happened many years ago.”

  “Still, the loss of one’s father must be a terrible blow.” He was grateful he still had both of his parents even when they didn’t always see eye to eye on his way of life. Thankfully, being the younger son put him under no undo obligation to conform to their manner of life—until lately.

  “Do you live in London?” Miss Phillips asked him in friendly inquiry.

  His nervousness disappeared. It wasn’t hard to feel at ease with Miss Phillips. She had a generous smile that bordered on the saucy but didn’t cross over into flirtatious. “No, my parents have a place in town—on Grafton Street—so I have spent a fair amount of time here, though not lately.” He cleared his throat again, reluctant to offer any more about himself, afraid he’d appear to be boasting. “I’ve been in India the last two years.”

  That got Miss Barry’s attention, but it was Miss Phillips who expressed her curiosity. “India? What took you there, the East India Company?”

  “I went out with the Church Missionary Society.” He looked down, experiencing the familiar hesitancy at explaining. “I’m a vicar and felt called to go as a missionary.” He raised his gaze as he finished, curious to gauge Miss Barry’s reaction. Experience had taught him he’d either face disbelief or embarrassed silence.

  His words appeared to have neither effect. Miss Barry’s green eyes narrowed as if she were assessing him. Miss Phillips’s eyes shone. “A missionary, how exciting! You must tell us about your time there.”

  He shrugged, feeling ill at ease again. “It was not an easy task,” he said slowly, finding it hard to encapsulate his experience in a few sentences, which was all people usually wanted to hear.

  In an effort to turn the topic, he addressed Miss Barry, remembering her words of dissatisfaction. “You are enjoying your season thus far?”

  “It is certainly different from what we’re used to in Alston Green,” she answered in a careful tone.

  “We attended assemblies there and in neighboring Billingshurst, but they were nothing like these parties,” added Miss Phillips when Miss Barry said nothing more. “It is a bit difficult to fully appreciate these great houses when one is a stranger in town.”

  He nodded, his sympathy engaged. Even when one had grown up among the “ten thousand,” the parties of the ton were intimidating. “I daresay. Your patroness is—”

  “Lady Beasinger,” Miss Phillips finished for him. “She’s Miss Barry’s godmother. It was very sweet of her to include me in her invitation to Miss Barry.”

  Lancelot nodded. “Yes, my mother knows her. She seems a kindly person. She’s a bit on in years, though, and perhaps is not acquainted with the younger set.”

  Miss Phillips nodded eagerly. “That’s precisely so. She goes out very little in society these days except to a few card parties among her small circle.” She indicated the crowd around them. “This is our first evening at a real society event. Unfortunately, she left us here for the card room and thinks just by standing around, young gentlemen will come flocking to us.” Her cheeks dimpled again. “But it seems to have worked.”

  He couldn’t help chuckling, but he saw that Miss Barry didn’t share the joke.

  Before he could think of some appropriate rejoinder, Miss Barry spoke to him directly. “If you will excuse us, Mr. Marfleet, I believe I see someone we must greet.”

  He swiveled around.

  “Oh? Who?” Miss Phillips asked.

  Miss Barry gave her companion a sharp look.

  Realizing Miss Barry was only trying to get rid of him, he stepped back. He had probably outstayed his welcome in any case. “I shall not keep you. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

  Miss Phillips looked disappointed but said nothing to contradict her friend. She held out her hand. “It was a pleasure indeed. I hope we see you again.”

  He bowed over her hand and then turned to Miss Barry. But she neither offered her hand nor smiled. “I look forward to it,” he murmured, moving out of their way.

  He observed them crossing the room, delayed several times by the throng. Miss Barry was in the lead, her hand upon her friend’s arm as if she were towing her along.

  Only when they reached the doorway did he realize he was still wearing his spectacles. His face heated up and he swallowed, imagining the sport Harold would have if he were with him.

  Sir Lancelot, you managed to converse for a quarter of an hour with not one but two pretty ladies, and you ruined it all with those spectacles.

  Then he’d throw back his blond head and roar with laughter.

  Hang it all! What did Lancelot care what Miss Barry and Miss Phillips thought of his appearance? It was worth it to see them both clearly. And clearly, Miss Barry didn’t care if she ever saw him again.

  Miss Phillips hadn’t seemed to notice his spectacles at all.

  Remembering his brother, Lancelot decided it was time to hunt for him.

  After searching all the public rooms in the elegant town house, he realized Harold had left, probably as soon as he’d deposited him here. No doubt to some gaming den.

  Jessamine bit back her annoyance as she pushed herself in front of a bejeweled lady, ignoring the lady’s exclamation as she accidently trod on her satin slippers.

  “Impertinent chit,” the lady said to her escort. “I vow, Lady Abernathy is allowing all sorts of nobodies at her routs these days. Probably a mushroom’s daughter by the looks of her.”

  “Did you hear that?” Megan whispered.

  Jessamine nodded abruptly, keeping her pace up. All she wanted was to exit this room with its odious people. Never had she felt so out of place. “Some people, even in London’s best homes, have no manners,” she said shortly.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Megan asked when they were halfway across the room.

  “I wanted to get away from that impertinent gentleman.”

  Megan stared at her. “Mr. Marfleet? I thought he was quite charming.”

  “Charming? With all that red hair and—and spectacles?”

  Megan’s gray eyes twinkled. “Spectacles?”

  Jessamine felt herself blush to the roots of her hair, thinking of the pair she carried in the leather case in her reticule. “But no one wears them in public like that, not to a rout!”

  “I thought it showed a refreshing honesty. He’s a vicar and a missionary. He probably doesn’t care about his appearance.”

  “Yes, a vicar.”

  “What’s wrong with being a vicar? Your father is one.”

  Jessamine shuddered. “I’m not interested in meeting a vicar.” Nor in giving her heart to anyone else.

  “But to think he’s been to India. I wonder who his family is,” Megan mused, “if they have a house in town and in Hampshire.”

  Jessamine concentrated on maneuvering past a dawdling couple in front of them before she replied. “He can be the Duke of Marlborough’s son for all I care. His hair is unruly, he has a bran-faced comp
lexion, and he sports his spectacles at a rout!” A vicar was the last man she would look at. Not after having lived life by the rules and having it turn to ashes. With her words, she reached the doorway and grabbed the jamb as if arriving at a finish line.

  Megan looked around. “I thought you wanted to greet someone?”

  Jessamine blushed again, looking away, ashamed of having told a fib to her friend. “It was just an excuse to get away from Mr. Marfleet.”

  Megan’s eyes widened. It was no wonder. Jessamine had never told such a fib. But those days were over. Being good got one nowhere.

  “I’m sorry,” Megan said. “I didn’t realize you were uncomfortable with him. I was so relieved to be talking to someone closer to our age.”

  “He looked closer to Rees’s age—” she blurted out then stopped, realizing she was the one who had brought up Megan’s brother this time.

  Megan laid a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. He just seems so different from Rees. I didn’t think he resembled him at all.”

  He didn’t. Mr. Marfleet was nowhere near as handsome as Rees Phillips with his dark looks and gray eyes, so like his sister Megan, but in a tall, masculine form. Try as she would to blot out the hurt, it still lay behind her heart like a smoldering acid and turned her every thought acrimonious.

  “I found him old,” she said abruptly, turning away from Megan. “How long do you think Lady Bess will be?”

  “A few hours if we’re fortunate.”

  Jessamine’s lips turned downward. “Too bad she has nowhere else to visit tonight.”

  “It would only mean hopping in and out of a hackney in the rain to do the same thing we’re doing now.”

  The night loomed before them. Jessamine’s shoulders slumped as she admitted defeat in the face of her friend’s realistic assessment. “I wish we could play cards.”

  “It wouldn’t matter. Young ladies are not expected to sit like dowagers at the card table here in London the way we do back home.”

  “Instead we are supposed to be standing like storks, to be seen by eligible bachelors who happen by.” She pasted a false smile on her face and batted her eyelashes.

  Only to have her glance land squarely on that odious redhead and find him observing her across the room. She flushed, realizing her falsehood had been discovered.

  Once again, she took Megan by the elbow. “Come along, let’s find Lady Bess and pray she’s on a losing streak.”

  2

  Lancelot descended the hack chaise and faced the nondescript door in the nondescript town house in a row of others like it. After visiting the reputable gentlemen’s clubs along St. James’s Street, he invariably ended up at one of the private gaming rooms in barely reputable neighborhoods. They showed their wear in the peeling paint of their doors and window frames and odor from the kennels lining the streets.

  These gaming rooms were usually located in some widow’s upstairs drawing room.

  With the head of his walking stick, he rapped on the door.

  “Good evening,” he said to the footman who was eyeing him to determine if he was a regular or a newcomer. “Is Mrs. Smith holding an open house this evening?”

  “Yes, sir.” The footman, after a last careful look, stepped back and allowed him entry.

  Knowing it was useless to ask the man if he’d seen Harold, since discretion was key in these gaming saloons, he stepped inside the vestibule. “Dashed cold this evening.”

  “That it is, sir. Don’t hardly seem as if spring is even here.”

  Lancelot removed his hat and cloak, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through this routine much more this evening. By now he was beginning to know Harold’s favorite haunts.

  He paused on the threshold of the upstairs drawing room and scanned the tables. The men gathered around the tables didn’t even look up.

  He could understand why his brother favored Mrs. Smith’s establishment whenever he was tired of the play at Brooks’s, Boodle’s, or White’s.

  The four-story town house on Duchess Street, though not in a fashionable part of town, was nevertheless tastefully furnished within. Its interior was warm and well-lighted. A buffet of varied dishes was replenished frequently by a couple of footmen.

  In return for the convivial atmosphere, gentlemen came to spend their money, and Mrs. Smith, a lady of indeterminate years, was able to live comfortably and in a style she desired without compromising her standards. A young gentleman’s losing his parents’ money was not considered a sin, merely a rite of passage.

  The fair-haired woman, who was still quite attractive, approached him with a smile. “Ah, Mr. Marfleet, how nice of you to join us this evening. Care to try your hand at a bit of whist or faro?” She chuckled, knowing he didn’t play faro nor whist at the stakes played at her establishment.

  “Thank you, no,” he said, summoning a polite smile. “I’m simply looking for my brother. Ah, there he is.” Pretending an affability he didn’t feel, Lancelot excused himself and crossed the carpeted room.

  Reining in both exasperation and relief at seeing Harold hunched over one of the tables, Lancelot cast about in his mind what reasoning to use to drag him away. Several other gentlemen ringed the round table, their eyes intent on the player sitting in the curved indented space reserved for the banker.

  Lancelot’s jaw tightened. Baccarat. Judging by the pile of chips in front of Harold, his brother would not be leaving anytime soon. It would be useless to remonstrate. He consoled himself that at least he wouldn’t have to track him down to a cockfight or rat-catching ring in less savory neighborhoods.

  Harold didn’t glance up at Lancelot’s approach, his gaze fixed on the cards laid out on the green baize.

  With a sigh of resignation, Lancelot looked around for an empty chair. He retrieved one along the wall and placed it near his brother, nodding to those present who chose to acknowledge him. Most were too intent on the cards being dealt.

  Upon his return from India, Lancelot had been grieved to see Harold had not changed from the man he’d left two years ago. He continued to live the life of a young gentleman about town rather than a married man of thirty with an estate to learn to manage.

  Even though he knew he could do little to influence his older brother, still he kept hoping his presence might compel his brother to get up from the gaming tables before he lost everything.

  As the hour dragged on, Harold’s pile of counters diminished then grew high again and now was once again on the ebb. He wouldn’t leave unless convinced he was on a losing streak.

  The wait gave Lancelot ample time to relive his earlier fiasco with the two young ladies at Lady Abernathy’s rout. If Harold hadn’t matured in two years, Lancelot acknowledged ruefully that neither had he himself grown any more attractive to the fairer sex.

  Lancelot imagined the scene with Miss Barry and Miss Phillips if Harold had been there in his stead. With his dark blond curls arranged à la Brutus and his innocent blue eyes, Harold had inherited all the looks in the family. With a mere lift of his lips, he would have had Miss Barry gazing in adoration.

  Lancelot shifted in his chair to ease the stiffness in his legs. He had long ago stopped railing at the fate that had brought him into the world with a thatch of pale-red hair. No one in his immediate family had it—only his paternal grandfather whom Lancelot had never known but whose portrait graced the gallery at Kendicott Park. At least no one could question his birthright.

  He observed Harold’s intent profile now, comparing the strong, evenly proportioned features to his own longish face—all cheekbones, jaws, and knobbly nose. His mother always used to say, “Poor dear, never mind, it’s your mind and heart that people will notice. You were born with all the brains and sensibility your brother seems to lack. He is all Marfleet, excelling at physical prowess but thoughtless and careless about people’s feelings.”

  The comparison had been no comfort to Lancelot during his first years of adulthood. Thankfully, he was past that now, having found solace,
as his mother had predicted, in his books and then at Cambridge under the inspirational preaching of Charles Simeon. That encounter had changed his life.

  Lancelot was roused from his reminiscences by his brother’s lazy smile. “That you, Lancelot? Got tired of playing the wallflower at Lady Abernathy’s?”

  Lancelot grimaced. “Especially when you dumped me there and absconded before the coachman had even gone around the block.”

  Harold’s grin only deepened. “I’m only discharging my duty toward you, as I promised Mama. I have no need to procure a wife by the end of the season. It’s enough I take you to these functions. You can’t expect me to endure them.” He picked up his cards and examined them. “Nor is it my fault if you refuse to lift a finger on your own behalf.”

  Impatience rising in him, Lancelot blurted out, “You needn’t trouble yourself anymore. I have met two charming”—at least Miss Phillips fit the description—“young ladies. I think I shall ask Mama to invite them to her dinner party. That should satisfy her.”

  Harold’s golden brows lifted. “What’s this, not one but two young ladies? Don’t tell me, one is cross-eyed and slack jawed and the other weighs fourteen stone.” He guffawed before turning to place his bet.

  Lancelot bit back a retort. It annoyed him that even after all these years, Harold had the ability to rouse his ire. Since boyhood, Harold’s teasing had always gotten a rise out of Lancelot, which only made people point out that his temper matched his hair.

  Only years of disciplining himself through prayer and Scripture reading had helped curb his temper. It was disheartening to think how little he’d progressed and that any self-possession had more to do with having been away from his big brother than any spiritual maturity.

  Exclamations around the table drew Harold’s attention back to the play, and Lancelot was forced to sit back once more and wait.

  An hour later when Harold was ready to leave, his pockets flush, he brought the subject of the two young ladies up again.

  In the meantime, Lancelot had had plenty of time to repent his loose tongue. What had he been thinking of? Of course he wouldn’t invite the two young ladies to dinner. As they drove home in his brother’s curricle, Harold chuckled. “So, you’ve set your eyes upon two lovelies? Do give me the particulars.”