The Rosebud Burglar (a Victorian Romance) Read online

  And that was no longer enough.

  The image of his wife’s face, vexed and disapproving, rose before him. “What have you done to our daughters, Edward?” he imagined her saying. “What of their futures?”

  Indeed, what of their futures? Without ample dowries and annuities settled upon them, they could not hope to make good marriages. Even Raine, his beauty, would discover that a pleasing appearance was quite useless unless accompanied by funds.

  Thoughts of Raine gave him pleasure at the same time they pricked him with anxiety. How that exquisite face would contort in disapproval if she ever found out the true state of affairs! Though he resisted admitting it, she was his favourite—cosseted and pampered since infancy, with feathery-lashed eyelids closing sleepily over those startling blue eyes, the color of the ocean at its deepest. Her eyes, in fact, were a version of his own, her dark hair an echo of his, although his complexion was ruddy, with high spots of color on his fleshy cheeks, while hers was milky white.

  He admired Raine’s spirit, even though it sometimes verged on recklessness. Nonetheless, she was warm and affectionate toward him, adoring and manipulative in equal parts. He could deny her nothing. Elspeth, his quiet, studious daughter, asked for nothing. In all ways she was the opposite of Raine. Raine had been clever enough at her studies but Elspeth, he knew, was possessed of a deep, thoughtful intelligence. What a pity she was a girl! She’d so distinguished herself at her schooling that, according to the governess, she’d be a likely candidate for Cambridge, were she a man.

  No, he could not bear disappointing either of his daughters. Without the prospects of suitable marriages, they had bleak futures. He would find some way to set things to rights. He must. That was all there was to it. Perhaps his elder sister Eugenia would come to his aid, if he dared let her know how serious his circumstances were. Perhaps not.

  Wearily, he closed the ledger, rose and left the study. It was time to make an appearance in the ballroom.

  • • •

  Elspeth reappeared when Raine was nearly ready for the ball. She was accompanied by Dacia Farquar, an animated but empty-headed girl whose presence had to be tolerated because her father was a duke. Titles aside, Raine knew that Elspeth was unable to show anything but kindness toward a guest. She also knew that an entire evening of listening to Dacia’s dimwitted chatter would nicely fit Elspeth’s notions of purgatory.

  “Oh, Raine! How lovely you look!”

  Raine studied herself approvingly in the full-length cheval glass. Perhaps Dacia wasn’t as doltish as she’d thought. She conferred a gracious smile upon her stout, flaxen-haired admirer, overlooking Dacia’s rather impetuous use of her Christian name. After all, Raine was a year older and the two were hardly close friends.

  “Do you really think so?” Raine purred.

  “It’s true, Raine.” Elspeth looked into the glass in wonder. “You look like a fairy queen.”

  Raine silently congratulated herself on her good judgment. Over her dressmaker’s objections, she’d decided against the fussy ornamentation—the pleated ruches and elaborate bouillon puffs—with which most girls covered their skirts, although she allowed the deep, shimmery flounces to remain at the bottom of the skirt. Freed from unnecessary embellishment, the nearly transparent tarlatan muslin of the skirts, which was scattered through with tiny gold and silver stars, floated gracefully around her like a diaphanous cloud—albeit a cloud with a dozen petticoats beneath it.

  The close fitting bodice had a different sort of effect. Raine was fervently glad that the high-necked modesty demanded of daytime clothing was dispensed with in the evening. The décolletage neckline dipped daringly low, laying bare rather more than a suggestion of the softly rounded mounds of her breasts. Slender bridges of fabric arched over her shoulders in dainty cap sleeves.

  Elspeth was right. She did look like a fairy queen.

  “I suppose it will do,” she said modestly, turning this way and that so that she could see herself from all angles.

  “Please, miss.”

  She’d forgotten that Branwen was behind her, trying to arrange her hair in the off-the-face l’Imperatrice style she so adored. With an effort, she held herself still.

  “Are you going to marry Cousin Cecil?” Elspeth asked suddenly, in her disconcertingly direct manner. “He adores you, you know.”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Choosing a husband was a complicated proposition. Since her father had no sons, Cecil was the next male heir in the Grenville family line and would inherit Raine’s home. He was a distant enough cousin for matrimony. Marriage to him would enable her to remain on her own family estate, but there were other, handsomer young men with equally grand estates to consider.

  “You shouldn’t lead him on the way you do,” Elizabeth scolded. “It’s cruel.”

  “It’s not my fault that he keeps at my heels like a lovesick puppy.” Raine was glad when Dacia changed the subject.

  “I was just telling Elspeth that Mr. Garrett Creighton is going to be at the ball. He arrived this afternoon.”

  “Creighton?” Raine frowned. “I am acquainted with the Viscount Creighton. A somewhat older man, although quite distinguished looking.”

  “He’ll be there too, of course. Mr. Garrett Creighton is his younger brother.”

  Raine quickly lost interest in the conversation. A younger son inherited nothing and had to live on an annual stipend from the family estate. A younger son was not a worthy object of a young lady’s attentions. It was considered a mistake to even waste a dance on one.

  “I hear he’s terribly handsome.” Dacia picked excitedly at the folds of her snowy white gown, which already looked wrinkled.

  Branwen was finally finished with Raine’s hair. From her voluminous jewel casket Raine selected the final touches for her outfit: several exquisite pieces that had been given her by her parents on the occasion of her 16th birthday. From the necklace adorning her slender throat hung a bouquet-shaped pendant featuring ruby and sapphire petals around pearl centres. Tiny gold leaves, veined and curled for a most realistic effect, gleamed amid the jeweled bouquet and wrapped themselves around the gold chain that held it. The drop earrings were each of two identical bouquets, one atop the other.

  Raine adored jewelry. She couldn’t imagine living without it. Her jewel casket overflowed with fine gems in every imaginable setting.

  Finally satisfied with her appearance, she donned a pair of long white gloves and picked up the small reticule bag that contained her toilet articles.

  “I wasn’t even aware that the Viscount Creighton had a younger brother,” she said.

  “He’s been away ever so long, exploring and doing all sorts of things,” Dacia explained helpfully.

  “Honour Courtland told me she thought he’d been cashiered from the army while in India. He struck a senior officer, or some such. Some disgraceful incident, but it was kept quiet. Now that he’s returned to England, she says he’s declared his intention of joining the Metropolitan Police Force at Scotland Yard.”

  “What a font of information you are, Dacia,” Raine murmured. She swept regally out the door, knowing that Elspeth and Dacia would follow.

  “He sounds very interesting,” she heard Elspeth say politely to Dacia. “Perhaps you’ll have a dance with him.”

  Interesting, indeed, thought Raine scornfully. Being a police officer was nearly as vulgar as being in trade, thought she supposed a younger son had to find something with which to occupy his time. Still, this Creighton sounded like an unsavory character. Her mother’s invitation had probably had to include him so as not to offend the Viscount. Let silly girls like Dacia Farquar flutter around Garrett Creighton.

  Raine had other fish to fry.

  Chapter Three

  There were customs to be observed, if one were a marriageable young woman seeking to use one’s dance card to its fullest potential. For the quadrille, any partner would do. Waltzes were reserved for peers. No gentleman should be allowed more than three dances with a lady, lest he monopolize her time and prevent her from dancing with other potential suitors.

  With all of this in mind, Raine consented to dance the quadrille which opened the ball with Cousin Cecil. There were advantages and disadvantages to her strategy. The quadrille was ponderously slow—a stately walk, really—and she would have to endure a great deal of dull conversation with Cecil during it. However, it was a formal dance, rather than an intimate one like the waltz, thus allowing her to keep Cecil at a polite distance.

  “You look…quite nice,” he stammered, while gliding her through the required sequence of steps as if she were a fragile porcelain figurine.

  Raine looked up at him. Poor Cecil. He was tall, but thin and gangly, with a prominent Adam’s apple and an even more prominent nose. Still, with his sandy hair and hazel eyes he might border on attractive, had he a firmer chin and less tentative manner.

  “You’re too kind,” she said demurely.

  He seemed to cast about for another topic. “I was ever so glad to be invited tonight. I haven’t seen you for a fortnight. Not since the soirée at Greshingham Hall.”

  “Why Cousin Cecil, you’re a close relation. We shouldn’t think of not inviting you.” It was best to keep him on a neutral footing, lest he become increasingly emboldened and one day ask for her hand in marriage. If such a proposal occurred, it would be because she had decided to encourage it.

  And so she subtly guided them through a conversation about the weather, the coming social season in London, and a minor spill he’d taken from a horse the previous week. All very mundane and impersonal topics, yet Raine guessed that beneath his white gloves, Cecil’s hands were perspiring. He looked at her with a mixture of awe and gratitude, and why not? The loveliest woman at the bal
l was allowing him the first dance with her.

  Raine felt herself quite generous.

  A slow promenade halfway around the floor ended the dance. Cecil bowed. Raine curtsied, thankful that it was over.

  “May I get you some lemonade?” asked Cecil.

  “That would be lovely.” It would be lovely to be rid of him for a few minutes.

  He seemed to have something more to say, however. “Raine, I… I don’t wish to sound presumptuous…”

  She waited, which made him even more uneasy.

  “We’ve known each other for ever so long. Since we were children.”

  “Well of course we have, Cecil. We’re cousins, after all.”

  “Raine…” He swallowed nervously. “Do you…do you care for me at all?”

  She was saved by Dacia, of all people. The girl blundered merrily into Cecil’s tortuous inquiry.

  “There he is, Raine. The one I was telling you about. Oh,” she said, finally noticing Cecil. “Hello, Mr. Grenville.”

  Cecil looked disappointed at the interruption, but nonetheless nodded politely at Dacia. “Lady Farquar, it’s a pleasure to see you again. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and fetch some lemonade for you ladies.” He left them rather quickly.

  Raine regarded Dacia with puzzlement. “What on earth are you talking about, Dacia?”

  “Mr. Garrett Creighton. He’s right over there, near the orchestra. Isn’t he handsome?”

  “Really, Dacia, it isn’t seemly for a lady to show such interest.”

  But Dacia wasn’t listening. She was already gone, probably to find Elspeth, whom she seemed to have decided was her new best friend.

  Curious in spite of herself, Raine scanned the guests standing near the orchestra, looking for an unfamiliar face. These were the same people she saw over and over again, at every social occasion, so a newcomer should be easy to—

  Blast! Oh blast and double blast! It was the man from the pond! Mr. Garrett Creighton was the infuriating man from the pond. Raine felt mortified. And angry. The sole witness to her humiliating episode with the bicycle was standing not twenty paces from her. To make her discomfort even more acute, he was well-born—the brother of a Viscount—and she’d treated him as if he were a common laborer.

  Just then he turned slightly. Enough to apprehend her stare. He raised an eyebrow and nodded wryly to her in recognition. To her dismay, she saw him disengage himself from a conversation he was having with one of her father’s friends and stroll across the dance floor toward her.

  In the time it took him to cover the short distance, she managed to transform her embarrassment into indignation. How dare he think himself free to speak to her, after the way he’d deceived her! It was a breach of manners, additionally, for a gentleman to speak to a lady without having been properly introduced by a third party.

  “Lady Raine Grenville, isn’t it?” he inquired. Any hope that he intended to be civil was dashed by his next sentence. “Have you recovered from your bicycle riding adventure?”

  “You dare to mention that?” she spat out furiously but quietly, taking care to keep her voice at a volume that couldn’t be overheard. “After your deception, pretending to be something you weren’t?”

  “As I recall it, you were the one making the assumptions,” he said evenly. “I thought it impolite to correct you. And besides—” a note of sarcasm crept into his voice. “I was afraid you’d have your father evict me.”

  She felt her cheeks burn. The exasperating fellow! Did he think that merely because he was moderately handsome he could engage in such outrageous behavior? It was beyond belief! She tried not to notice the way his evening attire suited him. The black formal jacket, immaculate white shirt and black trousers that made some men look like dandies could not diminish the impression of barely contained masculine energy he radiated. The sturdy breadth of his shoulders fit as well into the tailored dinner jacket as it had into the peasant’s shirt he’d worn earlier in the day.

  She tried not to look at his face, either, although that was difficult when one was all but shouting into it.

  “You are insufferable! What were you doing by the pond, anyway? Why weren’t you off hunting with the other men?”

  “I derive no pleasure from watching a dozen grown men on horses run a fox nearly to his death, then having their hounds trap the poor little fellow and finish him off. Rip him to shreds, if you must know. It’s not sport. It’s barbarism. As to why I was near the pond, well, I was giving my dogs a run, just as I told you.” His expression turned mischievous, and he again aped a workman’s speech. “They loikes to stretch their legs, they does.”

  She was not amused. Not enjoy fox hunting? What an unusual opinion. Yet another aberration on his part. It was difficult to believe that he was brother to the Viscount Creighton.

  “And why were you not wearing gloves, as a real gentleman does at all times?”

  He appeared to consider the question seriously, but it was a sham. “Because I didn’t care to.”

  She had run out of patience. “Well I’m afraid I don’t care to converse further with you, sir. I’ll thank you not to speak to me again this evening. Or ever.” She turned on her heel, ready to march away, when his voice stopped her.

  “Then our dance shall be rather dull, shan’t it?”

  “I would no more think of dancing with you than I would with the man who cleans dung from the horses’ stalls,” she hissed.

  Unruffled, he laughed. “Are you always in such high temper?”

  “Only when in the company of ruffians. Unfortunately for you, sir, my dance card is full.”

  “I think not.” Before she could stop him, he caught up the card that protruded from her reticule. “You’ve made a mistake. Do you see? You have a waltz free.”

  “I should jump from the Tower of London before I’d allow you to write your name next to it,” she ground out, grabbing the tiny pencil attached to the card by a ribbon before he could get to it.

  He sighed in disappointment. “What a pity. Well, I suppose I should go and speak to my gracious hostess, your esteemed mother. Do you suppose Lady Grenville would enjoy hearing about your escapade on the bicycle today? I should think she’d be especially charmed by my account of how you flew down the hill and into the pond, although I thought witches used broomsticks, not bicycles.”

  She aimed a hard slap at his right cheek, but he caught her wrist in midair. “You wouldn’t tell my mother! You wouldn’t be that despicable.” She struggled to shake loose his grip but he kept his hold, lowering her arm to her side. Although intense, their argument was subdued in volume and thus failed to rise above the music and conversation holding sway in the noisy ballroom. None of the other guests appeared to notice anything amiss.

  “Oh but I would.”

  “That is very much like blackmail, sir. Unhand me!”

  “On the contrary,” he said, releasing her wrist, “It is blackmail.”

  Raine fumed at being outmaneuvered—she, who was always in control. It was an unpleasant and novel sensation.

  “Very well,” she said stiffly. “I suppose I can endure one dance with you.” But when she held the dance card out to him, he waved it away.

  “No need for formalities. It will be understood between us which dance is mine. And rest assured. I will come to claim it.”

  Cousin Cecil picked that moment in which to arrive with the lemonade. He appeared not to have seen the contretemps between them. Raine could see now way to avoid introducing the two men.

  “Ah, yes,” said Cecil. “I know your brother, the Viscount.” His mannerly tone was at odds with the alert, suspicious expression which came suddenly over his face. He looked from Raine to Creighton and then back to Raine again, as if trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.