Page 18 of From Rakes to Riches

“Do not put your back up, young Guy. I heard tell of you prancing about with her and taking her out to the terrace at Whitwell’s famous ball. Ronald Pugh talks much. I remember the gel—married to Hugh Pitts. I was at school with Pitts. Not much form there at all. No stamina either. He likely dropped dead at the mere thought of climbing into bed with her.”

Guy held on to his temper with effort. “Uncle, please do not disparage Mrs. Cooke. I’ve nearly just strangled Wakefield for the same thing.”

Uncle Clem widened his dark eyes, so like Guy’s own. “No disparagement meant, boy. I speak the truth. Pitts was not a good match for her. Broadbent was better, but still not the thing. The last one—Cooke—was ghastly. I was at school withhisgrandfather, a terrible bully. Whole family was a menace. All died young from carelessness too.” Uncle Clem breathed a laugh and drank more brandy. “Wakefield, eh? I dare say he deserved it. Good for you.”

“He’s called me out over it.”

Uncle Clem chortled. “Well, that needn’t trouble you. He’s a rotten shot.”

“I know.” Guy laced his fingers together. “I’ve stirred up gossip, haven’t I?”

“You have. Best put it to rest. Pot Wakefield in the arm, teach him a lesson. Then either marry the gel or have nothing more to do with her.”

“Marry?” Guy stared in shock.

“That is what I said.” Uncle Clem reached for the paper again. “Can’t let the old fusspots make a meal of her reputation, can you?” He opened the newspaper and squinted at it, but his eyes didn’t move. “Never bothered with it myself, marriage. Couldn’t be troubled. No time for all that nonsense.”

He cleared his throat as he shook out the paper and turned a page, finished with the topic.

Guy sat silently. For the first time in his life, he sensed Uncle Clem’s profound sadness, a loneliness his uncle perhaps didn’t realize he possessed.

Uncle Clem had traveled the world and done as he pleased in his youth. In his middle age he began to live life in a fixed groove, writing his letters in the morning and spending the rest of the day at his club, in this very room. No one else would dare sit in his chair. He remained here until time for supper, which he took in the dining room, played a hand or two of cards, returned to this chamber to read newspapers, and then went back home to be put to bed by his valet. In the morning, he rose and did it all over again.

After a time, neither man speaking, Guy said a gentle farewell. Uncle Clem grunted his repeated thanks for the racing tip, the newspaper not lowering.

Guy fetched his coat from the footman—who fussed around him, hoping for another coin—and settled it on his shoulders as he walked into the cool night.

Was Uncle Clem’s life what he had to look forward to? Guy clapped on his hat and turned his steps for Piccadilly and his rooms at Albany. A chair dubbed his own at Brooks’s, where deciding what horse to wager on was the most important event of the day?

Damn it all, he was growing morose. Guy bent his head into the wind and willed all maudlin and vexing thoughts to disappear. The image of Gemma, and the memory of her kisses on his lips, refused to go away.

Helena Ashford provedto be only too delighted to arrange an outing in which Sonia could mingle—well-guarded, of course—with suitable bachelors, including Guy Lovell.

I am pleased you have brought me into your confidence,Helena wrote in an eager letter to Gemma.The weather is fine, the racing season is here—what a perfect excuse for the gentlemen to come to view Ash’s bloodstock. Ash has a small house in Surrey where he brings his horses to train for the Derby and Ascot. Young men are agog for horseflesh, and we ladies will be there to cool them with conversation and a meal. Do say you will join us. The children would be pleased to see you.

I remain, yours in haste,

Helena Ashford

Two days after Gemma received this letter, she, Aunt Margot, an excited Sonia, and Gemma’s grumbling stepson Tristan, traveled by chaise to Surrey and the Duke of Ashford’s home near Epsom.

Ashford had a far grander estate at his seat in Somerset, but what Helena had termed a “small house,” was a large, square abode made of golden stone with columns lining a great portico under which the carriage halted.

Tristan ceased his frowning as they alighted and were hailed by Ashford, Guy, and several of Sonia’s young suitors.

“At least I won’t have to natter with all these gels,” he muttered before he greeted Ashford with deference.

“What a lovely home,” Sonia exclaimed as Helena emerged to meet the ladies.

“Why thank you, my dear. Ash and I adore it, and the children have plenty of room to romp.”

Helena had blossomed as the wife of her beloved Ash. She positively glowed with pleasure and love.

And something more, Gemma thought to herself as she cast her eyes below Helena’s sash. Helena caught the glance and smiled happily. “Yes, indeed,” she whispered, pressing Gemma’s arm. “The little one will be with us by winter.”

Ashford had three children, two girls and a boy, from his previous marriage, all who loved Helena as their new mother.

“A full house,” Gemma said, beaming her a smile.

---