A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Read online

  Late September 1819

  Bertie took me into town today to make up for not taking me the other day. We have rarely been alone together, and it was such a long walk into town, one might have thought we had never spoken to each other in our lives! He confided to me that he does not much care for Cumberland, and that is why he has been so out of sorts. Cumberland, for all that it is beautiful in its own way, is a harsher land than Kent, and perhaps this explains Bertie’s restlessness of late. Still, we had a lovely walk and he even composed some poetry on the way, although very poor verse—so poor we laughed until our stomachs hurt.

  In town we met a number of people. We stopped for tea with another newly married couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Winslow. Mr. Winslow, who has just been ordained, grew up in Keswick, and he and Bertie knew each other well. Mrs. Winslow was quite engaging as well, and I should like to know her better, but they are moving house to Mr. Winslow’s new parish in Derbyshire soon.

  November 1819

  A letter from Mama and one from Jane. I am becoming quite a correspondent of late! Mama has invited us to Ainsley Park for the New Year, but Lord L. does not wish us to go. He still hopes for an heir soon and has quite a dislike of travel. He said I may invite Mama to Kenlington next year, if I wish, and I suppose that must do.

  Jane asks when we plan to journey to London again. Bertie is as pleased as I am about returning to London in the spring. It will be so splendid to attend balls and the theater together!

  January 1820

  I am very dismal today. We are not to spend the Season in London after all. Lord L. has developed a rheumatism and is confined to a chair. The doctor says he must not travel for several months. Lord L. said that he cannot do without us, and he does not want us to go to London. I was quite upset, not just from the loss of London’s entertainments but because I shall miss seeing Marcus and Hannah as well. Mama writes that Hannah will have a child before the year is out—I did not tell Bertie or Lord L. this, though. We still have no prospect of a child, despite diligent efforts.

  I asked Bertie to ask his father again about the Season, but he will not. I know he is unhappy, though, for he has gone to the pub in Keswick with Sir Owen and likely won’t be back before dawn.

  February 1820

  Oh, horror. After dinner, Lord L. asked me to read to him. His eyes are growing weaker, and he takes great pleasure in my voice, he tells me. I dutifully read for an hour, and then—I don’t know what came over me—I asked if we might go to London for the Season.

  “No, my dear. I explained it to Bertie,” he told me. “Your life, and his, will be here. You must learn your roles as master and mistress. You are both needed here, and it will be good for Bertie to settle down a bit.”

  “But Bertie had been in the habit of attending the Season,” I dared to say. “And what of Parliament?”

  “Bertie needed to find a wife—and a fine job he did, too. When he is Lansborough, he will be in London for Parliament and you may travel to London every spring. With my poor health, I am unable to do as much as before, and Bertie must begin to take over Kenlington, which he cannot do from London. I hope it is not too distressing to you, my dear. Next year you will take the ton by storm, I am certain.”

  He cannot go because he is in poor health, and he does not want Bertie and me to go, either. I do not think life at Kenlington is so very complicated that we must spend every day of the year studying it. Bertie shows no interest in the estate and spends as little time as possible here, despite Lord L.’s admonishments. If only Bertie would stay in at nights more! He is out until dawn nearly every day now. I think he is as bored as I, but he prefers to spend his time elsewhere. I believe we might amuse ourselves well enough together, but apart it is terribly quiet and lonely.

  May 1820

  A dreadful disappointment. We were to dine tonight at the Meltons’, but a fearsome rainstorm sprang up. Bertie declared he would go after all and not spend the night at home, even though his father begged him not to venture out. He persisted and went, but Lord L. and I stayed home, as it was quite fierce out.

  I wonder that Bertie was so anxious to be out; he has not spent above ten days together here in the last month. His father’s health has begun to decline of late, and he worries about Bertie worse than ever. I do wish Bertie would make more of an effort to handle more of Kenlington business, and spare Lord L. so he might recover.

  May 1820

  Bertie has not returned from the Meltons’ these four days. He sent word that a party of guests from Oxfordshire was also detained, and as they were excellent company he found it gratifying to stay.

  It is rather disappointing that my company is not so desirable to him.

  June 1820

  Bertie came home in high spirits. He is never so happy as in the company of good friends. His father, however, has taken very ill, and there was quite a row.

  I have always tried to be as comforting and loyal after Bertie argues with his father, but in this, I confess, his father has a good point. Bertie ought to spend more time at Kenlington, not less. Bertie thought I was disloyal for saying so. Is it not my place to speak my mind? I had thought we could speak freely to each other, but Bertie seemed to resent it.

  August 1820

  A letter from Mama today. She writes of Marcus’s newborn son, who will be christened Thomas. Lord L. expressed joy and bade me send his felicitations, but afterward he appeared tired and sad, and retired early. Bertie said I ought not to have told his father. When I said I should like to make a visit to see the child and the rest of the family, Bertie said it would only stir up trouble with his father, and perhaps he is right. I do not wish to bring any more despair upon Lord L., who longs so desperately for a grandson. Bertie said I may write Hannah and Marcus, and send a gift.

  I do hope we shall attend the Season in London next year.

  December 1820

  A quiet Christmastide at Kenlington. Mama was to come, but a bad cold kept her home until the roads were too dangerous to travel.

  She hints in her letter at my condition. No doubt she wonders why a year and a half of marriage has produced no child. I cannot tell her the answer, that Bertie would rather spend his evenings drinking at the Black Bull in Keswick than doing anything with me. I fear his father’s constant prodding and prompting about an heir has given Bertie a disgust of the whole business. So long as his father tries to push him into my bed, Bertie runs the other way—leaving me to tell his father every month that I am not expecting. Until we have a child, Lord L. will keep at Bertie, and Bertie will seek other society so long as his father hounds him. What a dreadful muddle.

  Bertie does not shun me altogether; it is a bit worrisome that we have not been blessed. Perhaps a child would revive Bertie’s devotion, as well as give me something to fill the hours of the day.

  February 1821

  Mama sent me a packet of all the latest fashions. She wonders why we aren’t to be in London this year again. I have replied to her that Lord L. is in poor health and needs my care. That is not completely untrue, but not completely true, either. The truth is that Bertie will not even ask his father’s permission, and without it, we have no funds for a Season.

  I am not certain I would enjoy the Season in any event. I fear I’ve grown unfashionably quiet and dull, although I have improved my needlework and read a large number of books.

  March 1821

  After luncheon today, Lord L. summoned me to his chambers. He gave me a magnificent set of jewels, almost fit to rival the Exeter pearls. They were Bertie’s mother’s, he explained, and should be mine now.

  I thanked him and left. I believe Lord L. begins to feel his mortality, and meant well, but I came back to my room in a dismal mood. I have no place to wear such jewels, here in the wilds of Cumberland.

  April 1821

  Mama asks if she might make a visit. I have cowardly told her no. She will bring news of Marcus’s son, and that can only grieve Lord L. and annoy Bertie. It seems most things I propose ann
oy Bertie now, or are not interesting to him.

  Before we married, Bertie swore he loved me above all others and that he would adore me forever. Either we disagree on what adoration means, or forever is far shorter than I expected.

  May 1821

  Jane Melvill is engaged to be married—to David’s old friend Mr. Percy! At first her letter did not name him but only said we would nearly be sisters, her husband was such good friends with my brother. For a moment I thought she meant Mr. Hamilton, for all that she and every other young lady in London was in awe of him. The thought did not please me, I confess with shame. Jane is perfectly lovely, but she would never truly understand Mr. Hamilton.

  Her news has made me think of him for the first time in months. Bertie would not be pleased, but I do miss the way Mr. Hamilton was so easy about my teasing. I never laughed so much as with him.

  July 1821

  Lord L. continues unwell. His poor health unsettles Bertie, who is almost never at home now. We have hardly traded two words this fortnight. I don’t know what to say to my husband anymore. At home he is quiet and moody. In company he is charming and merry. I cannot fathom how I never noticed that before.

  August 1821

  Bertie leaves tomorrow for York. It is a shooting party for the gentlemen, at Mr. Cane’s hunting lodge. Lord L. is not pleased. I overheard them shouting at each other for almost an hour last evening. Lord L. wants Bertie to undertake the management of Kenlington, but Bertie does not wish to. When I asked him why he didn’t have more interest in his future estate, he said he would have years to deal with those worries when his father was dead, and why should he sacrifice his youth as well? He is seven-and-twenty; when my father died and left Exeter to Marcus, my brother was only twenty-three. I don’t recall ever hearing him complain about “those worries.”

  For my impertinent question, Bertie called me a scold and said I should work more embroidery. I wanted to throw the hoop at his head.

  August 1821

  A letter from Bertie today, asking for funds. I am to ask Lord L. to send the money at once. At first I feared Bertie was in danger or injured, but surely his friends would come to his aid in that event. I wonder what the trouble can be?

  August 1821

  Lord L. does not wish to send the money, and I hope he does not! After dinner I overheard two maids gossiping. One said she had learned from the messenger who brought Bertie’s message that the money is to hush up a scandal over a girl in York. Bertie trifled with her, it seems! It would make me very happy if he were forced to stay in York and suffer the consequences of his actions.

  But I suppose that would leave the poor girl with nothing, and that wouldn’t be fair. No doubt she, like others, was blinded by Bertie’s charm and manner.

  September 1821

  Bertie returned from York today. He was in good spirits and greeted me and his father with great affection. I did not believe it for a moment. As soon as we were alone I asked if it were true, about the girl in York, and he upbraided me for not being more civil. He said not one word of denial.

  I feel as though the scales have fallen from my eyes. This is how Bertie has always been: charming and dashing when there is an audience to impress, and selfish and arrogant otherwise. I have made a terrible mistake and do not know how to repair it.

  September 1821

  Bertie and I have not spoken in a week. He feels I am over-reacting by scolding him for his behavior in York. I am at a loss as to how I could have been so blind to Bertie’s true character. Not only has he not denied or rebutted the accusation of impropriety, he declares I am a shrew for speaking of it. As if it is wrong for me to want my husband to come home to me!

  October 1821

  Two letters from Mama this month. I don’t know how to reply. I cannot bear for her to know how things stand between Bertie and me. She was so pleased to see me marry for love, and how it has turned out now. It would break her heart if she knew. I don’t know how much longer I can deceive her, though. If she should visit, she would know at once everything is wrong.

  February 1822

  Lord L. has recovered some of his health. The weather has been very mild of late, and I persuaded him to walk with me in the garden every day. He vows it has done him a world of good. He is so improved, he declared we might attend the Season this year. I believe it was meant as a gift to me, after the way Bertie behaved last fall.

  I waited up to tell Bertie the news, but he returned from the Black Bull very late, soaking wet and in a foul temper, and so drunk he didn’t know what I said. He has begun drinking more than is healthy of late, but I dare not tell him this. All my suggestions are met with indignation or scorn. I hold out faint hope that time in greater society will improve things between us, but I do not know if we shall ever feel affection for each other as we once did.

  February 1822

  Bertie is ill. I sat by him last night, but he was so cross I snapped at him. Then he growled at me to go away, and so I did. It is not fair to make the maids stay with him, though, so I shall try again tonight. It is no doubt a wife’s duty to sit by him, but I must say it is not the most pleasant duty.

  Lord L. is not pleased. He said he had hoped marriage and responsibility at Kenlington would make Bertie more sober and dependable, but it has not happened. I’m not certain if he blames me or not. I have certainly become more sober.

  Perhaps I am a disloyal wife for such thoughts, but it is hard to pity a man of nearly thirty years who cares for no one’s comfort and amusement but his own.

  March 1822

  Bertie died this morning.

  Acute pneumonia, the physician said.

  Lord L. is devastated.

  March 1822

  Bertie was laid to rest in the Lansborough crypt this day. Lord L. wept in silent grief all day. He is the last of the Bertrams, now Bertie’s gone without an heir. Lord L. looks a dozen years older than a fortnight ago.

  Everyone has left me in peace, supposing me to be grief-stricken. Perhaps I am. I don’t know. I feel no pain, no agony, no loss. I sit and stare at nothing, wondering why I feel so hollow.

  I do not think I shall keep this journal any longer. I fear my thoughts are not worthy of recording.

  Chapter Four

  Spring 1823

  Celia, Lady Bertram rested her cheek against the side of the carriage and watched through the window. It had been so long since she left London, she had forgotten how busy it was. The carriage passed through streets filled with other carriages, gentlemen on horseback, people on foot, and street vendors. It was loud and noxious after the secluded quiet of Kenlington Abbey, and so foreign she could hardly believe she had once lived here.

  Her mother, who had dozed off some time ago, woke up as the wheels clattered loudly over the city streets. “Goodness, we must be nearly home!” She smothered a yawn behind her handkerchief. “Are you feeling ill, Celia?”

  Celia sat upright again. “No, Mama.”

  Her mother beamed. “It is so good to have you back, dearest. I missed you so, these four years. You shall be shocked at how things at Exeter House have changed. Two young boys have a way of upending a household! And of course David and Vivian will be in town this fortnight as well. Oh, my dear, we have all missed you so…” She talked on, detailing everything that had happened since Celia left the city four years ago. Celia quit listening. She had been listening to her mother since they left Kenlington Abbey, over a week ago. Celia didn’t realize how accustomed she had become to quiet until she had to listen to her mother talk for eight days.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Exeter House, the footman let down the steps and Mama stepped down first. Celia climbed down herself, looking up at the house and waiting for the familiar surge of delight. Exeter House had always meant excitement to her. Coming to town had been like setting off on a grand adventure. She let her head fall back, taking in the full effect of the mansion’s grandeur, and felt…nothing. No thrill of anticipation, no sense of coming hom
e; it was like someplace she had visited a long time ago, just for a while. Perhaps she should have suggested to Mama that they visit Ainsley Park instead of London. Perhaps at Ainsley she would truly feel at home again, and not like an outsider who was trying to go where she no longer fit.

  She followed her mother inside, past the curtsying servants. The hall looked the same, and yet different. The walls that had been white were now a soft yellow. There were lilies on the table near the door. Celia pulled loose the ribbons on her bonnet, feeling oddly like an intruder.

  “Oh, you’ve arrived!” Hannah, the duchess of Exeter, emerged from the back of the hall and hurried forward. She embraced Celia quickly, then drew back to study her. “It is so good to see you again,” she said warmly. “I hope the journey was not too difficult.”

  “No, no, we had good weather all the way,” said Rosalind. She had already removed her traveling cloak and bonnet and now came over to greet Hannah. “How was all in our absence?”

  Hannah laughed. “Impatient! All we heard was, ‘Have they come yet? When shall Grandmama and Aunt Celia return? Will it be today?’” She shook her head. “They are incorrigible, all three of them.”

  “All three?” Celia let the footman take away her cloak. An instant later she was sorry, realizing how grim she looked in her dusty, wrinkled black dress.

  “Yes, Molly has told Thomas and Edward all about you,” said Hannah with a smile. “They are wild to meet you.” Her sharp blue eyes roved over Celia’s face, but her expression didn’t alter. Celia supposed she must look different to Hannah, just as Hannah looked different to her—her sister-in-law’s dark hair was smoother than Celia remembered, no longer loose black curls, and there were fine lines around her eyes that Celia didn’t remember. But Hannah had been in London with Marcus; she had had two children. Things had happened to her in the past four years.