A Rogue for Miss Prim (Friendship Series) Read online

  A ROGUE FOR MISS PRIM

  Friendship Series Book 9

  A Rogue for Miss Prim copyright © 2016 M.L.Rigdon (Julia Donner) All rights reserved. No part of this of book may be copied or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-154651036

  ISBN 10: 1546510362

  Cover design by Stephen D Case [email protected]

  Please visit my website: www.MLRigdon.com

  Blog: http://historyfanforever.woodpress.com/

  Twitter: @RigdonML

  The Friendship Series

  The Tigresse and the Raven

  The Heiress and the Spy

  The Rake and the Bishop’s Daughter

  The Duchess and the Duelist

  The Dark Earl and His Runaway

  The Dandy and the Flirt

  Lord Carnall and Miss Innocent

  The Barbarian and His Lady

  An excerpt from the next book in the Friendship Series, An American for Agnes, is included.

  Dedicated to Brenda Stoffell Malcolm

  Oak Hill Farm Theraputic Riding

  https://www.facebook.com/oakhillfarm

  London, England

  1817

  Chapter 1

  Gordon Treadwell woke to the sinking feeling that he’d done something terribly wrong. A curious weight lurked in his chest. He feared it might be guilt, an emotional condition he usually avoided with great success.

  To look at him, no one would suppose he possessed a shred of conscience or any tenderness of feeling. Most people took him for the typical buck about town, a bit jaded with a history of hard drinking, heavy gaming, living the relentless pursuit of escape from boredom.

  Appearances can and do deceive.

  At the moment he didn’t give a bloody damn about anything but the restoration of his sore head. This kind of pain came from gin, lots of gin, not the sensible bottle or two of wine. He nourished ideas of enacting a protracted death for the lout who called himself friend and got him drinking the stuff. Mistakes, bad ones, were invariably made from large quantities of blue ruin.

  Holding his head in both hands to keep it affixed to his shoulders, he carefully sat up in bed, hunched over, and partially opened an eye. An obscene amount of sunlight poured through the windows. Talking would cause too much pain, so he pointed at the drapes.

  His valet removed his rotund self from his station at the foot of the bed, where the man always waited before Gordon awoke. Showers had an eerie talent for knowing exactly what was needed before Gordon knew he needed it. Except for this morning. Showers had allowed in that vicious blast of sunlight. Its brightness sent shards of pain through his skull.

  Although Showers was as round as he was tall, the man moved with swift grace, wonderfully light on his feet. He didn’t merely walk across a room, he flitted and whirled, as if dancing, while somehow maintaining his dignity—a dignity that annoyed at present.

  A plump hand with a tumbler of clear liquid appeared under Gordon’s nose. He shoved it away. “Christ, man. I can’t drink that.”

  “Sir, it is not meant for drinking. It is merely water and extract of mint for the cleansing of the palette.”

  Gordon squinted at the glass and the bowl held at the ready in his valet’s other hand. Showers had draped his thick wrist with an ironed towel. Its glaring white hurt when Showers gestured for him to drink up. After swishing the concoction, then getting rid of it in the basin, he did feel a bit more refreshed. As awareness increased, he noticed the state of his person and a foul smell polluting the bedchamber.

  “Lud, Showers, what is that stench?”

  “You, sir.”

  “Me, you say? Bloody hell. You’re a better man than I to put up with this sort of abuse.” Grunting in agony, Gordon tugged the ends of his rumpled shirt from his breeches and complained in a raspy voice, “Let in some fresh air. And I need to bathe.”

  “All is prepared, sir. If I may suggest, the airing of the room might be postponed until after your ablutions. The temperature is quite cool this afternoon.”

  “Just get me there, Showers. And keep watch that I don’t drown myself, which is fast becoming a temptation. I woke to the hideous feeling that I’ve done something unaccountably stupid.”

  Unconcerned, Showers replied, “It appears that you may have done.”

  “And where the hell are my boots?”

  “You allowed me to remove them and your coat last night before you collapsed on the bed. Come along, sir. After a bath and bracing cups of coffee, confronting the consequences of the morning after may not be as dreadful a pill to swallow.”

  The bath did help. If nothing else, the soaking leached the stink of gin from his pores. Three cups of sweetened coffee cleared some of the cobwebs, but not the fierce pounding. He wasn’t quite to the point where he could broach a morning sirloin and half a bottle of wine. He feared he might never be up for whatever he’d done the night before. His valet hinted that he knew the details. Time to do the manly thing and face it down.

  “Showers, it’s three in the afternoon. Whatever infamy I enacted must be all over town by now. If I am financially ruined or a laughingstock, is it fair that I am to be the last to know?”

  Showers turned from his task of draping ironed neckwear over a dowel in preparation for the creation of a perfectly tied knot. “I have indeed ascertained the particulars, sir.”

  “Out with it, man, and more importantly, does my father know?”

  “I doubt Sir Charles has been made aware. He has not yet returned to town.”

  Gordon reached for the crusty roll sent up with the coffee, then withdrew his hand. Not yet ready for food. Perhaps in another year or two. In the meantime, putting off the bad news would not make the hearing of it any easier. At thirty and four, he’d thought himself past the age for reckless gaming and silly pranks. Apparently he’d left a few wild seeds unsown.

  “Spill it, Showers. Financially or morally ruined?”

  “A bit of both, I would say.”

  Gordon placed a hand across his brow and exhaled a groan. “Can I pay my way out of it?”

  “You unfortunately wagered all of your ready money.”

  “Which reminds me, when were you last paid, Showers?”

  “Some months have passed, sir. We will come about. You always do.”

  “But not this time?” Gordon hinted.

  “Perhaps not this time, sir. Not without drastic measures.”

  “Showers, I cannot do without you. Before you think to hand in your notice, there is a locked box in the lower drawer over there. You know where the key is. Take the ruby ring and see what you can fetch for it. Hopefully enough to cover your wages and keep us in food until the next quarter.”

  “Very good, sir, and I took the liberty of canceling your appointment at Jackson’s. With the head you have today, I doubted you would wish to have it bashed about from fists like his.”

  “Blast it but I’ve waited months for the chance to stand up with him in the ring. Crying off like this with Gentleman Jackson is damned irregular. Doubt it’s ever been done. One wouldn’t like for him to take offense.”

  “He will take none. Knowing how long you have waited for the opportunity, I engaged in a prevarication when I passed along your regrets. You should be advised that a close family member has succumbed to a dreaded illness. I quite naturally omitted the fact you were the victim taken into decline.”

  “Perhaps he’ll take me on again if you manufacture an actual death. Anyone in the family recently take up harp playing?”

  Showers smiled, his ageless face wreathed with the perpetually expectant expre
ssion of readiness to serve. “Sadly, no one has obliged. Perhaps someone would consider doing so if they heard that the great Jackson has condescended to take you on. If I may say, sir, it’s been a matter of pride for me that I have an employer so handy with his fives. Would you care for more coffee or should we decide on your coat and knot for today?”

  “I hear the scold under that request, and damn you, yes, I’ve been procrastinating. Who wants to hear their embarrassments repeated? But let’s have done with the business. Out with it. No blindfold, if you please. What did I do?”

  “In no less than three clubs you signed wagers in tandem with Lord Hayden.”

  “Not Hayden!” The outburst had him clutching his sore brow and lowering his tone to a mutter. “Bloody hell, I’m done for now. He hates me.”

  “Apparently so. In a game of whist, you wagered all, and Hayden kept bidding. You had reached the low water mark, and Hayden refused to accept your vowels. You rashly pledged to take up whatever dare Lord Hayden proposed in lieu of the IOU.”

  Gordon sank down on a chair, cradling his head in his hands. “And what did I vow in the betting books?”

  “To win the affections of a spinster with the initials AP, specifically known only to you and Lord Hayden, and have it verified that you have either ruined her or will have married her within the fortnight.”

  Thanks to the heavens and the angels that he hadn’t eaten anything. All he had left inside to cast up was the coffee. Silly things like pride and self-respect had already fled.

  Wretched and resigned, he asked, “So it’s all over town by now, is it?”

  “That is pretty much the case, sir. Will you have the brown cutaway or the navy redingote?”

  “The brown to match my mood. Do you think any of it will be set down as a prank on my cousin’s door?”

  “As much as you and Lord Byron share similarity of form and face, I doubt anyone will be fooled into thinking that he wrote your name instead of his own in the betting books. And there is the minor problem of his leaving the country a year ago.”

  “Forgot about that. Gin’s rotted the brain box. We can only hope it isn’t permanent. Hand me a neckcloth, and for some reason that reminds me, the next time you shrink the buckskins, leave some space for my modesty.”

  “As you wish, but allow me to say that a gentleman with your excellent figure should privilege the world with its beauty.”

  “Lud, man, from the waist up, not the particulars of my nether anatomy. Something Byron would do, I’d wager, but not this fellow.”

  “If I may be allowed to mention, there isn’t anything left to wager, sir.”

  Showers extended his arm draped with neckwear. The scent of freshly starched linen rose from the rectangular strips. Gordon muttered curses as he focused on tying the linen with fingers that refused to work. He flung a failed attempt at a difficult knot on the chair.

  Showers murmured, his face yet aglow with passive good cheer, “On the bright side, no one would think of accusing you of the ravishment of an innocent female.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Gordon squinted at his valet. “You and your damned bloody innuendoes. I’ve changed my mind. One could do better with a less officious manservant. I’m sending you off without a reference.”

  “As you wish, sir, and a providential decision to make before I exchanged your great-aunt’s ring for filthy lucre.”

  The banter continued, postponing the need to confront the fix he found himself in a while longer, which was no doubt his valet’s intent. He ruined the knotting attempt of the next neckcloth and the next, unable to focus. His gut ached from the gin and worry of how to alight on a plan to free himself from his present coil. Something most definitely had to be done before his father found out.

  And who the hell was AP?

  Chapter 2

  Adele Primrose sat on the drawing-room couch with her ankles together, head bowed and hands clasped in her lap. She didn’t dare move. Cousin Vera’s marmalade cat watched, growling, ready to strafe and dash away, leaving behind tuffs of fur and a lingering odor.

  Adele had nothing against cats but detested her cousin’s vicious pet. Spoiled and vile-natured, the cat inaccurately named My Precious, was one of the banes of her tedious life. It wasn’t the best sort of situation. On the surface, she gave the appearance of a hanger-on in her cousin’s house. Well, legally, it was Adele’s house and they its caretakers. She had no other family. There was another relative in Southampton. She wasn’t sure of the connection. For most of her life, she’d been grateful to have a home. It had only come about in the last year that she preferred to live in it alone.

  There were no fond or happy memories of the past. Both parents were buried in India, where she’d been collected and brought back to England when she was four. She’d been placed in the care of her nearest living relatives, George and Vera Abercrombie. Her come-out had not been a notable or enjoyable event. Assemblies and balls had been spent seated against the wall.

  By the end of the next unsuccessful season, she resorted to hiding behind potted plants—when those chairs weren’t already occupied by other girls who didn’t “take.” She had little interest in girlish pursuits and spent the time at social events daydreaming. This resulted in some unfortunate nicknames from the misinterpretation of her staring, dazed expression. She didn’t blame others for thinking her a half-wit.

  Cousin Vera gave up after three years of what she’d vowed a waste of money and time. Relieved, Adele put on a cap and made what could be made of her life. It wasn’t entirely horrid. Existence was pleasant enough when Precious wasn’t stalking her from shadowy corners or pouncing from the tops of cabinets. No one minded that she spent the bulk of her time in comfortably appointed rooms, scribbling letters and ideas, drawing and painting. It was a quiet life to be sure. She said daily, grateful prayers for the fact that she wasn’t alone in the world. More importantly, she was now allowed to follow the path of her own choosing—when not cornered by a cat inaccurately named.

  The tea in the pot had gone cold by the time Cousin Vera arrived. She floated into the room, as if under sail of abundant layers of gauze. She wore this style well, since she had a slender figure, but her blond hair had an unfortunate tendency to frizz, especially on humid summer days. Adele’s hair was neither blond nor brown but something in between with no hint of a curl. She kept it in a braided swirl around her head under a plain, too-large cap. Where Cousin Vera did everything in her power to appear younger, Adele pursued the obscurity of plainness. Better that way. Her goal was to avoid notice and thereby be allowed to escape to her rooms and the pastimes she loved. If her calculations proved correct, she would have enough saved for a pied á terre of her own in two years.

  “Adele dear, what are you doing here? We had callers. Why did you not join us?”

  Precious rose up from the couch corner where he’d kept her at bay. He dropped to the floor with a thud and sauntered to Cousin Vera. She cooed a greeting as she hoisted the overweight creature onto her lap. He sat there, glaring from his nest of fluffy pink gauze.

  A lie was needed. “I apologize, Cousin Vera. Not feeling the thing today.”

  “Should you ring for fresh tea?”

  Eying the cat, Adele said, “No, I’m much better. The quiet helped.”

  “You are entirely too much in the quiet. One of the callers expressed an interest in you, asked where you were.”

  She wasn’t interested, but manners made her ask, “Oh, how flattering. Who?”

  “Lord Hayden. I would suspect he was seeking a match if he were not already engaged to Lillith Barnard. She has a substantial dowry, you know. Not as substantial as yours, but then she is so astonishingly good looking.”

  Adele didn’t expect her cousin to follow this up with an admonishment to make herself more attractive to suitors. It never needed to be spoken that her cousins relied on the income from acting as trustees for poor,
orphaned Cousin Adele. The house on Portman Square, the subscriptions to clubs and theaters, the entrees to most homes came from the wealth Adele could not touch until she reached the age of thirty and remained unwed. Cousin George was trustee. As long as Adele remained unmarried, her cousins’ livelihood and place in Society were secure.

  Lord Hayden’s interest in her piqued her curiosity. “Did his lordship say why he asked?”

  “To introduce a friend, Mr. Gordon Treadwell. I believe his father is Sir Charles, baronet. I thought you were introduced your first season.”

  An ache settled around her heart. Gordon Treadwell was the sort of gentleman who might offer her a polite nod, but didn’t actually see her. His favors were reserved for the bored, married ladies who sought casual affairs. Society’s young matrons were drawn to his sulky attitude, windswept dark locks, and suggestive gazes. Before his famous relative left the country, Treadwell was often mistaken for his cousin, Lord Byron. It was whispered that Mr. Treadwell had no scruples when it came to making use of the poet’s reputation for being mad, bad and dangerous. A buck about town, Mr. Treadwell was not the sort to flirt with dowdy spinsters.

  Vera prodded, “Well? Do you know him?”

  “We met at my come-out. At the time it was said that his family was seeking a match, someone with a substantial fortune.”

  My Precious ignored the caress Vera smoothed over the cat’s head. “Then it is clear why he shows an interest now. Whatever plans his family had for a match fell apart. He is growing older with no wife, no heir and running through his money. Sir Charles is exerting his influence.” After a pause, Vera hesitantly asked, “Is Treadwell someone you could find an interest in marrying?”

  What her cousin wanted to know was whether or not she and her husband would continue to live in the luxury of Adele’s inheritance. Might as well put the poor thing out of her misery.

  “Cousin Vera, a gentleman like Mr. Treadwell has any number of likely young ladies from whom to choose. Pliable, young things. I am happily settled in my ways and not in any way pliable. I venture to say that Lord Hayden is joking. And not at all kindly.”