What a Reckless Rogue Needs Page 9

  “Let us go up to the bedchambers,” he said.

  He led her up the next flight of stairs. She couldn’t help noting the lack of family portraits on the walls, though she could discern where they had once hung. She told herself they were only rooms, and she was here to assist him with the inspection. Yet she thought of how her father would react if he learned she’d gone into a bedchamber with Colin. Oh, for pity’s sake, her father would never know, and Colin certainly wouldn’t mention it when they returned to Deerfield.

  She never used to be so skittish, but she’d disappointed her family. Her guilt was like the fog. It inevitably rolled in.

  The first bedchamber was a well-appointed room with tall mahogany bedposts and rose-colored bed hangings that matched the drapes. A chaise longue with rose-colored cushions was angled in the corner.

  “Was this your mother’s room?” she asked.

  “I imagine so,” he said. There was determination in his expression as he opened the drawer of a night table.

  She didn’t think much of it at first and walked to the window where she drew the draperies open. “I think you could have a wonderful flower garden in the spring.”

  Footsteps alerted her. Colin was opening and closing drawers in the dressing table.

  “Are you looking for something?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  He strode to the wardrobe and opened the doors.

  She thought it was odd that he’d not told her what he was seeking.

  He released an exasperated sigh and checked the other night table.

  “Perhaps I can help,” she said.

  “Everything is empty.” He walked through the connecting door.

  Angeline followed him, concerned about his strange mood.

  “This must have been your father’s room.” The bedposts were enormous and the bed hangings were a dark crimson. In the corner was a mirrored mahogany shaving stand.

  He began searching through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.

  “Colin?”

  He said nothing at first. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “It’s as if she never existed.”

  Her heart felt as if it had fallen to her feet. “If you tell me what you’re looking for, I will help you find it.”

  “I don’t know if you can.”

  “Perhaps if you describe it to me, I will have success.”

  “It’s a miniature…of my mother.”

  Oh, dear God. She took a shaky breath, needing to compose herself for his sake. “When did you last see it?” she asked.

  “It was on her dressing table, but I might be mistaken. It was long ago.” He sighed. “I have nothing to remember her by.”

  She swallowed hard. “It’s bound to be somewhere in the house. Was there anything special about the miniature?”

  He frowned. “I’m imagining smooth stones for some reason.”

  “You were very young,” she said.

  He walked to the window and planted his hands against the wavy glass.

  “Colin, what troubles you?”

  He turned toward her. “I can’t remember her features.”

  She bit her lip, because her tears wouldn’t help him.

  He blew out his breath. “It’s been too long.”

  She inhaled slowly. “I imagine servants moved everything to the attic.”

  “Probably.” He paced the room. “I should have stayed in London and let it be.”

  “No,” she said. “Sommerall is important to you.”

  “I could have investigated the property years ago. I just assumed I would inherit. God only knows what has rotted or fallen apart.”

  “Colin, your father is still the owner, and as such, it was his responsibility.”

  “You miss the point. I ignored Sommerall until my father expressed his intention to sell.”

  “You mustn’t criticize yourself,” she said. “You could not have predicted that your father would decide to sell.”

  He huffed. “If my father hadn’t sent that letter informing me that he meant to sell, I would have made excuses to avoid the house party. Make no mistake, Angeline. I’m a selfish man. I’ve done bad things, but I won’t sully your ears. Believe me, I have earned my rakehell reputation.”

  Angeline recognized self-loathing, because she’d experienced it. How many times had she silently rebuked herself for falling for a man she’d known was trouble? Instead, she’d believed his claims that he was a new man because of her. “None of us can change the past, but we do not have to be slaves to it, either.”

  He huffed. “Here is something you ought to know. Rakes are irredeemable.”

  “I have no intention of trying to reform you. I have made mistakes, and so have you. That doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve to find your mother’s miniature, and that doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve Sommerall.”

  “If you had any sense, you would demand I return you to Deerfield immediately.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Colin.”

  “You should be,” he said.

  “Yes, you are a big, bad rake.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to help me? Do you imagine it is akin to taking hampers to the poor?”

  He was proud and probably regretted admitting his mistakes. “There is an old saying: Do not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “You are bored with needlework and are only interested in renovating this house.”

  “I thought I had made that clear. I have no interest in renovating you.”

  A laugh escaped him. “That’s just as well. You are likely to find nothing salvageable in me.”

  She had not told him the real reason. She’d tried to imagine how it would feel to lose her family and move away from her childhood home at such a young age. That year in Paris without Penny and Papa had been so hard, and she’d been an adult. At least she’d known she would see them when she returned home.

  How would it feel to never see her mother again? How would it feel to never hear her voice ever again? How would it feel to have nothing concrete with which to remember someone you loved? She could not even contemplate the pain for a young child.

  He’d been only six years old when he’d lost his mother. Now all he wanted was to find her miniature and preserve her resting place.

  “Are you certain you want to do this? You might regret it,” he said with a mocking smile.

  You might regret it. Her neck prickled. The night she’d first agreed to dance with Brentmoor, he had uttered those very words and smiled as if he were sharing a good joke with her. He’d warned her, and she’d not taken him seriously.

  Angeline met Colin’s gaze and knew a moment of doubt. She couldn’t make another mistake. Once was bad enough. But this time was different. Colin didn’t want her; he only wanted her help with the house.

  “There will be nothing to regret,” she said. “If you truly want to see the house restored to its former beauty, I will do all in my power to advise and help you. If you do not, tell me now.”

  “Well, then, it seems we have struck a bargain.”

  “We will find the miniature,” she said. “I daresay it is in the attic.”

  “It will be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack,” he said. “I can’t afford to spend time looking for it when there is so much else to be done. I have to think about the most urgent business.”

  “I will help you,” she said. “We will work long hours and take time every day to sort through the attic.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot ask it of you.”

  “We will find it,” she said. “We will go through every trunk, every drawer, every nook and cranny.”

  “I have nothing to give you in return for all of your assistance.”

  “But you already have,” she said. “I need occupation.” She didn’t tell him that the main reason was to keep the bad memories at bay.

  He met her gaze. “I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you. It’s not as if we’re the be
st of friends.”

  “But we are not enemies,” she said.

  “Years ago, you most certainly considered me an enemy.”

  “Years ago, I was haughty and headstrong. I thought I was invincible.”

  “No one is invincible,” he said, “but you are strong. You always have been.”

  She’d lost much of her confidence, but Colin’s words helped her to see that she was still the woman she’d been before the scandal. There was much she could not change, but she could change the way she felt about herself.

  Chapter Five

  Angeline found a well with water and lye soap in the kitchen. She set Agnes to cleaning the marble floors. The maid advised against using sand, as it would scratch the marble.

  “I hope you are able to clean the marks,” Angeline said.

  “I’ll put my elbow into it, my lady.”

  Afterward, Angeline returned upstairs and saw Colin. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m off to the attic to search for buried treasure,” he said.

  “Well, I hope you do not meet up with any pirates.”

  He arched his brows. “Ahoy, my pretty one. Would you like to walk the plank with me?”

  She shook her finger. “No shirking your duties. Back to digging for you.”

  He made a ridiculous courtly bow and strode away.

  Angeline inspected the other bedchambers. Most were similar and varied only in the colors of the bed hangings. Fortunately, the carpets in the bedchambers were in good condition as the heavy draperies kept out the sun. They were dusty, however, and Angeline made a note to instruct Agnes to beat the rugs and the stairwell runner when she finished cleaning the marble floors.

  The few paintings in the bedchambers were predominately pastoral scenes. Thus far, she’d seen no family portraits. There were no personal items in any of the rooms. Servants must have moved all of it into the attic.

  At a minimum, the bedchambers needed new paint or wall hangings. The draperies kept out the sun, but they were dusty as well. She already knew the drawing room needed new shutters, carpet, and draperies. Fortunately, she’d found no evidence of water damage to the ceilings or near the windows. However, they had very little time to resolve any problems they were likely to uncover. The best she could do in such a short time was to advise him.

  Angeline went downstairs to check on Agnes’s progress. The maid was on her hands and knees scrubbing.

  “Are you able to remove the marks, Agnes?”

  “Yes, my lady. It just takes a bit of time.”

  “Alert me when the floors are dry.”

  Angeline returned to the drawing room and tried to imagine how the room would appear with paper hangings and new furnishings. The red walls seemed too dark for this small drawing room. Angeline envisioned a gold interior with bright yellow cushions for the furnishings. Gold festooned draperies across the south wall would give the room a dramatic appearance.

  Angeline sat on a chair and took out the notebook and pencil. She quickly sketched her ideas in the notebook. Later, she would show it to Colin. Of course, he did not own the property, but at least she could give him an idea of how the drawing room could be transformed. The current carpets must go, but the new ones would have to be purchased in London. All, however, was contingent upon Colin inheriting Sommerall, and that matter was far from resolved.

  She ascended the next flight of stairs and opened the middle door. A rocking chair sat in front of the window. This must have been a nursery. In the corner, something was covered by a sheet. When she lifted it, she drew in a sharp, visceral breath.

  It was a cradle.

  His mother had died while giving birth to a stillborn infant.

  Her heart hammered. No wonder the marquess had departed Sommerall in a hurry. The tragic reminders would have been too hard to bear.

  Angeline backed away and quit the room immediately. She eased the door shut, but her heart was thumping hard as she pressed her back and hands against the door.

  She didn’t want Colin to see the cradle.

  Agnes walked down the corridor. “My lady, do you want me to clean these rooms?”

  “Not today, Agnes. Dust the drawing room, please. The sideboard and furnishings need attention.”

  After she left, Angeline released her breath. Colin would discover the nursery soon enough, but she didn’t want him to see the grim reminder on this first visit. She couldn’t imagine the heartache he’d experienced as a child. It struck her that it must have been terrifying for him.

  She mustn’t let him see her guarding the door. With a deep sigh, she went to the last bedchamber and hoped she would find the miniature.

  Ten minutes later, she closed the last bedchamber door and walked down the long corridor. She’d not expected to find the miniature in one of the bedchambers, but she’d not counted on her own disappointment. If he had the miniature in his possession, he would find a measure of peace, because he would be able to see his mother’s features.

  Was it possible to heal a wound that had left scars after so many years? She needed to believe it was possible—or perhaps more important, he needed to believe it.

  “Angeline, wait.”

  She halted and turned toward him. He’d shed his coat and carried it over his shoulder. His cravat was wrinkled and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and somehow he managed to appear more devilishly handsome than any man ought.

  “Did you make any progress?” she asked.

  “I went through the contents of one trunk. Nothing is organized. It appears the servants stuffed whatever they found into the trunks as quickly as possible.”

  The servants must have found the task distressing. “What did you find?”

  “Books with crumbling and missing pages, old letters, quills, handkerchiefs, vases, and skeins of yarn all tumbled together.”

  Evidently, the servants had been left to their own devices.

  “It will be a tremendous chore to sort through,” he said.

  If the frame for his mother’s miniature was made of gold or silver, there was a possibility of theft. She would not broach the distasteful subject to him. If it did not turn up, he would be better off believing it was simply lost.

  “We should take time each day to go through the contents,” she said. “Whatever you do not wish to keep, we will give away to the servants and tenants.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “This is a monumental undertaking. How am I to make any headway with the time constraints?”

  “Divide and conquer?” she said.

  “It’s an overwhelming task,” he said.

  “We will accomplish as much as we are able. I’m confident you will manage it all very well, even after I’ve departed.”

  “If this is an attempt to cheer me up, it isn’t working.”

  His cynical façade was no mask. He expected the worst, because he’d experienced a terrible loss at a young age.

  “When did you become so optimistic?” he said.

  “Since arriving here.”

  He arched his brows.

  She’d meant it, but he looked taken aback. “It was a joke,” she said. Truthfully, she’d become a cynic her first year out in society. She’d learned the art of studied ennui, but she’d grown truly bored with the fashion for self-proclaimed misanthropists. All during those years, she’d depended on her sarcastic wit and her father’s title as a shield. But in the end, none of it had helped. Now she no longer felt like that woman who found everything and everyone boring. It had been nothing but an invisible mask. But her pretense had failed to protect her from wounds. She did not want to remember any of it now, because it reminded her too much of her mistakes, and dwelling on the past would change nothing.

  He regarded her with an unnerving expression that made her uncomfortable. She opened the notebook. “What is next on the agenda?” she said with her pencil poised.

  “I need to have coal and a tinderbox delivered tomorrow so that I can check the chimneys.”

&n
bsp; Thank goodness, she’d diverted him. “Perhaps the cook at Deerfield can spare a bit of time to look over the kitchen. I’ll speak to Margaret about it.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Once I determine for certain that the basic structure of the house is sound, I’ll see about painting.”

  “You may wish to consult the architect who drew the plans and hired the workers when we made over the principle rooms at Worthington Abbey. Mr. Rotherby is highly praised for his designs and innovation.”

  “I suspect his services are beyond my financial means,” Colin said.

  “There’s no harm in listening to his suggestions and getting an estimate for the work. You will not be obliged.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “I fear this will be a waste of time.”

  Her mouth twitched.

  He frowned. “What do you find so amusing?”

  “Come with me,” she said, opening the door to the bedchamber that she assumed had belonged to his father years ago.

  “Angeline, what are you about?”

  “There is no need to worry. I’ve no intention of seducing you.”

  He sighed theatrically. “What a pity.”

  “You will have to look elsewhere for sympathy.” She took him over to the shaving stand. “Have a look in the glass.”

  “My hair is even more of a disheveled, curly mess than usual.” He met her gaze in the mirror. “When I was a lad, I used to spit in my hands and try to wet down the curls.”

  She laughed. “Eww.”

  “I’m tempted now.”

  “For whose benefit? I do not care if your hair is standing on end.” Liar.

  He turned and clutched his hands to his heart. “Woe is me.”

  She would never tell him that his unruly curls only added to his masculine appeal.

  A slow smile tugged at his mouth. It was a knee-weakening, toe-curling rake’s smile meant to disarm a lady. She was, of course, impervious to him. Well, maybe not completely.

  “You’re a bit disheveled, too,” he said.

  “What?” She walked over to the shaving mirror.

  “Got you,” he said, laughing.