Chapter Fifteen
Pere sat in the sun-dappled parlor of their townhouse, the morning light filtering through lace curtains to dance across the Persian rug, casting delicate patterns that did little to soothe her restless spirit.
The room smelled of fresh scones from the tea tray Anna had brought in earlier, a comforting aroma that now felt at odds with the tension thickening the air.
She had been attempting to lose herself in a novel—something light and frivolous about country dances—but the words blurred as her thoughts wandered back to Drury Lane, to Gabriel’s hand laced with hers in the dim light of the box.
“Pere, dear.” Anna’s voice had a tone that set off warning bells in Pere’s mind.
She lowered her book and glanced up, immediately on edge.
“Yes? Why are you talking with that tone? Should I be afraid?” She said it jokingly, hoping she was making more of it than needed, but Anna’s expression didn’t shift to a grin; rather, her brow pinched, and she glanced to the door as Henley strode into the parlor.
“Oh dear,” Pere whispered and straightened her posture. “Who died?”
Henley froze, his brows furrowing. “Good Lord, no one. Why do you ask?”
Anna frowned, and Pere sighed.
“You both look so very serious.”
“Well, it is serious. But not morbidly so. Heavens, Pere,” Anna replied. “I just heard some news that I need to tell you.” Anna’s eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were shadowed with concern, her hands twisting the fringe of her shawl—a rare tell of her unease.
“Very well, you have my full attention, I promise you.” Pere placed her hands in her lap and waited, her fingers drumming a silent rhythm against her knee, a habit born of impatience that betrayed her growing apprehension.
“Yesterday, when I was shopping on Bond Street, and you were visiting the modiste, and I was at the milliner?” Anna began.
“Of course.”
“Well, I didn’t mention it at the time because I wanted to speak with Henley first.”
“Naturally.” Pere narrowed her eyes slightly, waiting.
The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the silence, each second amplifying the knot in her stomach.
“And … it would seem that our outing at the theater has created quite a stir.”
Pere shook her head. “Whyever for? Was it so shocking that we attended?”
“No,” Anna exhaled softly.
“Please, the suspense is killing me.”
“Why, what my wife is trying to say with delicacy and patience, is that there is talk going around regarding you and Lord Hawthorne, and given his reputation, yours is now called into question,” Henley finished, waving his hand with a flourish.
“And I’ll be addressing this with him shortly; I already sent a missive.
” Henley’s voice carried that familiar protective growl, his jaw set in the way it did when he was preparing for battle—be it with words or fists—and Pere felt a flicker of irritation at being treated like fragile china.
Pere let out a deep sigh. “What are they saying, specifically?”
“Apparently, you were sitting quite close, and he was whispering—”
“You two were directly behind me, proper chaperones and all, not that I was attending with Lord Hawthorne as his companion…”
“Yes, that is all true, but you understand how gossip works; even if there’s no foundation, the whisper of scandal…”
“Is enough. It’s irritating.”
“It is.”
“And unfortunately, it doesn’t aid you in your quest for a husband, Pere. It calls into question…” Henley paused, not finishing the delicate sentence.
His eyes softened, the brotherly concern cutting through his gruff exterior, reminding her that his protectiveness stemmed from love, not control.
“Lovely,” Pere replied with sarcasm. “I’m compromised without any of the excitement of the scandal.”
“Pere!” Henley scolded.
“I wouldn’t ever say that out loud anywhere else; calm yourself. I’m just frustrated. And nor will it be welcome news to Lord Hawthorne.”
“He’ll fare far better than you, sister. After all, it is his reputation that’s calling yours into question.” Henley leaned against the mantel, crossing his arms, his posture a barrier against the vulnerability of the conversation.
“What’s more frustrating,” Pere continued, as if her brother hadn’t spoken, “is that he turned down a merry widow; she was quite persistent too. And he politely declined, and that should have been clear to anyone watching that he has some moral character.” The memory flashed—Gabriel’s tense shoulders, his charming yet firm dismissal of Lady Whitewood—and Pere felt a surge of defensiveness, a need to shield the man who had shown her glimpses of depth beneath his rakish facade.
“I … have many questions,” Anna spoke, sharing a look with her husband.
Anna’s curiosity was gentle, not accusatory, her head tilted in that way that invited confession without demand.
“And they are?” Pere asked, waving her hand.
Henley lifted his, halting any further conversation. “Begin again.”
“What part?”
“All of it. How the devil do you know he declined an invitation of that sort?”
“I’m not as ignorant as everyone thinks.” She sighed. “It was when you and Anna returned to the box after our visit to the foyer between acts.”
“Continue.”
“Lord Hawthorne went to find me a refreshment, and when he didn’t return for a few minutes, I …
got irritated, actually.” She gave a small grin as her brother rolled his eyes.
“And I searched for him. I noted he was in conversation with a lady, whom I found out was Lady Whitewood.” Pere’s cheeks warmed at the admission, the thrill of intervening still fresh—the way Gabriel’s eyes had lit with relief and something warmer when she appeared at his side.
Anna’s brows rose, and she glanced to Henley before speaking one word. “Continue.”
“And I was going to abandon all thoughts of something to drink when I noted the way he attempted to leave the conversation, and she was quite insistent, bold even. Lord Hawthorne isn’t a difficult man to read, and so when she halted his departure a second or third time—I lost track—I intervened.”
Henley’s brows rose. “And how, dear sister, did you intervene and save the rake from his prey?”
“It was the other way around, believe me.” Pere gave a delicate shiver. “I merely told him you’d returned to the box and wished for me to convey the message.”
“And what happened next?”
“Lady Whitewood sneered a little, gave me a once-over, and then left. I swear Lord Hawthorne was about to bodily remove her from his person; she kept grabbing his arm. Not abruptly, but insistently. It was strange. He thanked me for my intervention, and we returned to the box directly.” Pere glanced down to her hands, smoothing her skirt as she intentionally omitted the part where she thought she saw their mother.
She was sure … but still questioned it. There was no reason to mention it without proof.
And even if her mother was there, what did that signify?
Nothing. Though she did appear to be in the company of a gentleman; it could be a myriad of possibilities with valid reasons.
The uncertainty gnawed at her, but today’s conversation was fraught enough without adding that shadow.
“I see.”
“You’ve said that several times. What exactly do you see?” Pere asked, her tone irritable.
Her sarcasm masked the rising frustration, a defense against the fear that the ton’s whispers could unravel the fragile connection she felt budding with Lord Hawthorne.
“I think you made your first enemy, dear sister. I’d place a bet in White’s that Lady Whitewood is who made the rumor.”
“Whyever for? That makes no sense,” Pere all but grumbled.
“Actually, love, it does.” Lady Anna stepped forward.
“You hindered her from what she wanted, and often, women of that caliber do not appreciate being outmaneuvered by a young and lovely debutante who clearly has a friendship with Lord Hawthorne.” Anna’s words were kind but pointed, her hand reaching out to squeeze Pere’s, a gesture of solidarity that eased the sting slightly.
Pere considered the words. “We are friends, I suppose,” she answered, but in truth, she had begun to consider him more than merely a friend. Though that was certainly where it started.
Odd that—friends with a rake.
Then, like a gearbox clicking into place, her thoughts aligned with startling clarity.
The puzzle pieces she had been turning over in her mind since the season began—the quest to find a rake capable of true reform, one whose passion could burn fierce enough to forsake all others—suddenly formed a picture.
Lord Hawthorne. It was he, with his layered charm and hidden vulnerabilities, who fit the mold she had unknowingly sought.
Why him? The evidence was there, woven through their interactions like threads in a tapestry. At the Nyman rout, he had sought her out not with his usual rakish flair but with a tentative smile, one that spoke of genuine hope rather than conquest.
“Thank you for noticing,” he had whispered as they parted, a raw admission that pierced her defenses.
And at Drury Lane, oh, at the theater—his hand over hers in the dim glow of the gaslights, fingers lacing with a tentativeness that belied his reputation.
It was no mere flirtation; his touch had trembled slightly, a vulnerability he rarely showed, as if trusting her with a piece of himself he guarded fiercely.
Even his dismissal of Lady Whitewood, polite yet resolute, echoed the man who valued honesty over easy dalliances—the same man who flinched at her words on vulnerability yet engaged her in philosophical sparring as an equal.
She thought back to the box, the way his breath had warmed her ear during the performance, his whispers not seductive but confiding, drawing her into his world.
And when she had glimpsed her mother’s shadow—impossible as it seemed—he had offered to pursue the truth without hesitation, his instinct to protect her surfacing unconsciously.
These were not the actions of a man seeking a superficial fling; they hinted at deeper feelings, a slow awakening mirroring her own.
He was falling for her, or at least teetering on the edge, and the scandalous whispers could be the very lever she needed to draw him closer.
The ton saw a rake pursuing a conquest, but Pere saw potential—a man whose passion, once reformed, could be hers alone.
The rakes-make-the-best-husbands notion, once a whimsical theory, crystallized.
He was that rake. She would pursue him, subtly, using this gossip as her ally.
No grand gestures yet—secret notes, lingering glances at the next ball, perhaps a private walk where she could tease out his truths.
She would risk her reputation, for in his eyes, she had seen the spark of something real, something worth reforming. It was a risk worth taking.
But she would keep this resolve locked away, a secret plan shared with no one—not Henley, whose protectiveness might derail it, nor Anna, whose gentle counsel might temper her boldness. This was her quest, her heart’s gamble, and she would see it through.
“I suppose it does make sense, in a twisted way,” Pere said aloud, forcing a wry smile to mask the whirlwind in her mind. “But if Lady Whitewood is spreading tales, perhaps I should send her a thank-you note—for inadvertently pushing me toward clarity.”
Henley eyed her suspiciously. “Clarity about what?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with, brother,” Pere replied, her tone light but firm. “Just that I won’t let whispers dictate my friendships.”
Anna exchanged a glance with Henley, her expression a mix of amusement and worry, but Pere held her ground, her resolve steeling like the click of that gearbox. The game had changed, and she was ready to play.
Outside the window, a carriage rattled past, its wheels whispering secrets on the cobblestones.
Pere’s fingers traced the edge of her teacup, the porcelain warm against her skin—a reminder that some fires, once kindled, could not be easily extinguished.
Let the ton gossip. Let Lady Whitewood scheme.
Pere had a rake to reform, and for the first time, the stakes felt deliciously, dangerously real.