Page 16 of The Rake’s Absolutely Devilish Reform (The Notorious Briarwoods #4)

S ylvia, the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, was most annoyed. She’d never even had a chance to begin her war of charm. No, things had taken a far more drastic turn. And her tools of persuasion would be very different indeed.

Leander had planned to visit Lord Plumhurst. But not now. Not today. Not after what had happened last night.

A different tactic was required.

She would not be disingenuous and say that she refrained from meddling in her children’s lives. Actually, quite the opposite. She involved herself heavily. It was one of her favorite things to do. To push her children a little bit in one direction, then perhaps a little bit in another, to pull a string here, to pull another, and make a tapestry of a life come about.

How she adored making certain that her children were happy.

After all, was it not the role of a mother to make certain that her children grew up strong, loved, and surrounded by people who would care for them? And, of course, the most important thing after raising a child to love themselves and the world was finding a suitable mate.

She had already interjected herself in the lives of her daughters Hermia and Juliet and, most recently, her son, Leander.

Why would she not take the bit in her teeth, so to speak? If her children were miserable, it would be very difficult for her to be happy. Perhaps some people would say that one’s happiness should not depend on the happiness of their children. But the truth was her children had given her some of the greatest happiness she had ever known, and she intended to repay the favor.

Those years she had spent living hard in the East End of London and then making her way through the theater districts to eventually achieve power? They had shaped her. She knew the misery of living in cold rooms with damp walls, where rats roamed and food was scarce, where people did anything to get ahead. A girl would literally do anything for a piece of bread and a chance at another day.

Yes, she had struggled. When people spoke to her of nobility and honor in the face of hunger, she laughed, for such people almost never knew what hunger truly was. Oh, it might be fine if one grew up in the upper middle classes, where one had never had to fight another child for a crust. But she and her sister? They had done such things. They were a family of actors, but not all of the family had been successful. Her mother had struggled with many a problem, and Sylvia and her sister? Well, they had raised each other for the most part.

After surviving so much and raising such excellent offspring, she would not watch her son, Hector, be so denigrated. And so, in the first rays of dawn, she charged. She simply did not walk. No, she charged up Lord Plumhurst’s steps, raised her hand, grabbed the gold knocker, and banged it forcefully upon the door.

The door swung open steadily and a butler peered out at her. He did not appear overly alarmed at her presence or her rather vibrant energy.

“I am here to see, Lord Plumhurst,” she declared, her skirts swinging about her legs.

“Do you have an appointment?”

She gave him a quick look up and down. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh. I don’t need an appointment.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but beyond that, he made no reaction.

“Step aside, my good man,” she instructed. Used to grand entrances, she gestured broadly with her arm.

And he did as she said, of course.

She had a way of making people do what she wanted. She simply thought about what she wished, and it occurred. It was a skill that she had developed quite young, for she had seen that there were two walks in life. One could envision misery, mud, and despair and find it. Or one could envision the stars, heaven, and bliss, and find it too.

It was how she had found her duke, the man she loved more than the world, the earth, the stars, and from what she understood, the whole universe that existed out there beyond what they could see.

And then she’d had her children, and her love had only expanded with each one.

She was not about to let some fool of a man, even if he was well meaning, take away the happiness and fated love between her son and his daughter.

She wasn’t entirely certain she believed in fate, but she certainly believed that her wish that all her children should find their love match would come true.

“Lead on,” she said to the butler with an arched brow. “I have no idea which direction I’m going in.”

The butler cleared his throat, pivoted, and marched swiftly down the hall.

At last, the butler stopped and glanced to a door. He looked most perplexed and as if he had no wish to knock.

But she had no such hesitation.

Sylvia grabbed the door handle, twisted it, and bustled through. Much to her surprise, she caught two people enjoying pasties.

Pasties? She had not seen the like, well, since she was living as an actress. And every now and then, if she was completely honest, she had Cook make them for her because, though they were not the food of the ton, they were delicious.

She glanced from the gentleman to the lady who many people might not deign to use such words for.

Man and woman.

Many of the ton would use those words instead, even though he’d been given a title. And from the way they were eating, man and woman was the correct term. They were both holding their forks in a way that she was completely familiar with, and they were using their knives to put food in their mouths.

It was how she’d been raised too.

Both swung the gazes to her, horrified.

Their cutlery clanked on the plates, and they grabbed for their napkins, dashing them across their mouths.

“Please,” she said. “Do not concern yourself. I am here with a matter that is quite beyond niceties, and that is why I have been so rude as to burst in. I do think that your butler was most alarmed by my presence, and so he did not censor me. I hope you will not treat him ill for allowing my passage.”

The lady looked completely destroyed by Sylvia catching her eating. She began to stand, turning away.

“Now, now, my dear,” Sylvia rushed, hating to see her distress and embarrassment. “Please, I see that you are concerned. Do not be. If you knew anything about me, well, I could sit down beside you right now and devour one of those pasties myself. And you’re using a knife and fork exactly as I did for years. So let us not worry about such things and come straight to what I’m here to discuss.”

Lord Plumhurst pushed himself away from the table and stood. “Your son was already here. With a similar entrance. He made himself plain. Now, I don’t wish to—”

“I don’t really care what you wish to hear,” Sylvia cut in. “Let us put away the formalities of the ton and speak to each other as people who understand each other.”

Lord Plumhurst blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“In this room, we have all clawed our way up, have we not?” Sylvia pointed out.

Lord Plumhurst blinked again, dropping his napkin to the table, his tasteful signet ring winking in the morning light.

“Perhaps you don’t like to speak of it,” Sylvia ventured. “I talk about it all the time. I’m quite proud of my rise from the muck to the firmament. Are you not also proud?”

Lord Plumhurst fidgeted with his embroidered waistcoat and looked away.

Sylvia swung her gaze to his wife. “I’m sure society has been less kind to you than to him. It’s certainly not kind to me. But I have little care for kindness. I don’t need the ton’s approval, and neither do you, my dear. I think that you and I should be friends, and I hope that you will agree you need someone like me. Someone to tell the rest of the ton to go to the bloody devil. And that’s what you’ll have to learn to do too. Tell them to go to the bloody devil.”

Lady Plumhurst raised her eyes to Sylvia’s. “I don’t think I could ever do that,” she said.

“Give me an hour, my dear,” Sylvia assured, her heart going out to the woman, “And I’ll have you walking all over them and calling them whatever names you please. You certainly have the money to do it.”

The lady laughed abruptly. “I saw you, you know.”

Sylvia shook her head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Upon the stage,” Lady Plumhurst explained, her lips curving into a fond smile.

“Did you?” Sylvia asked. “Always happy to meet an admirer of my work… That is assuming you did admire it.”

“We love Shakespeare,” rushed Lady Plumhurst. “Well, we loved it whenever we could afford to see it.”

“My love—” her husband tried to break in.

“It’s the truth,” Lady Plumhurst returned.

“I love Shakespeare too,” Sylvia said, hoping to have found a bridge between them. “It’s wonderful to meet fellow lovers of the Bard. The plays…well, they’re the stuff that makes life good. And that’s why I’m here. To make life good.”

Sylvia drew herself up and then said with as much calm and sincerity as she could muster, “How can you think so little of my son as to say that he’s without substance? How can you let that be the reason you will not support him marrying Lady Priscilla? I know that he’s not the duke, but he is a second son and—”

“He is of little substance,” Lord Plumhurst replied as if it pained him. “He is a rake. He is idle. He gads about—”

“Zounds, have you done any research into him at all?” she blurted, throwing up her hands.

“I do not need to,” he countered. “The newspapers and the rumors—”

She snorted. “Do you only concern yourself with rumors, sir?” she asked, stiffening. “Rumors are fiction. Perhaps some of them are rooted in fact and, yes, he is a rake just like every young man of the ton. And you wish to be a part of the ton, don’t you? Well, let me tell you a little bit about my son. Has he mentioned his work in St. Giles to you?”

Lord Plumhurst and Lady Plumhurst exchanged a quick glance.

“No, he has not,” Lord Plumhurst admitted, though he appeared unmoved.

“Bloody Hector,” she groaned. “His own sense of good will be the death of me. You see, the problem with Hector is that Hector refuses to tell people that he’s a good sort. He’s a remarkably good sort. Mostly because he doesn’t think it’s special. He just thinks it’s how one should be. So, if you tell him he’s got no substance, he’ll agree with you. Because he doesn’t understand how unique he is and how little others care.”

“What’s in St. Giles?” a voice said from behind her.

She whipped round. Sylvia took in the young lady and knew, if she had not already known, that here indeed was the one for Hector.

“Ah, there she is,” Sylvia began. “The subject of my son’s adoration. His Juliet, his star, his divine—”

“You’re as terrible as he is,” the young lady said, rushing into the room. “Please, what is in St. Giles?”

Sylvia grew quiet, wondering how she could explain. She couldn’t. Not really. There was only one thing for it. “Let me show you, and then you will understand this man of little substance that you have all judged so harshly, so quickly, and without kindness, choosing Lord Fitzhubert, who is actually a wastrel, in his place. Perhaps if you knew a little more and understood a little better about the ton, my Lord Plumhurst, you would see that Lord Fitzhubert is no gentleman, though he has the title of it. And I must ask what you want for your daughter. And more importantly, it seems for you, for your grandchildren.”

“With Lord Fitzhubert, they will come from a great ancient line,” Lord Plumhurst defended.

“With Lord Fitzhubert, they might all be dead before they’re thirty,” she replied without hesitation or any attempt to soften her words. “Have you not noticed anything particularly interesting about the last few generations of Fitzhuberts? The father, a gambler, drank himself to death. The son? The one you are thinking of marrying to your daughter drinks a bottle of brandy every day. Poor soul.” She shook her head, her heart sympathetic. “I cannot judge him. I have seen ladies drink a bottle of gin every night to go to sleep in my line of work. He must suffer a great deal inside, what with how his own father was. But I would not have my daughter marry such a man until he had healed whatever beast is inside him. You understand? You will simply pass that down to another generation. So, whatever mire you are hoping to escape from and climb out of, you will fail if you choose him.”

Lord Plumhurst’s face was a mask of shock at her words. And it clearly hit him that, for all his money, he had not been given the full story of the men courting his daughter. That even with his wealth, he had not been allowed to see the inner workings of the ton.

But she could. And she would tell him.

“My sons?” she continued. “My sons change the world. Leander has changed the world with his work in Parliament. My husband changed the world too. Our title may not be as old, and I might be a bit of a scandal. But I ask you, do you want an idle fool for a grandson, who will throw everything that you have made away? Or do you want someone who will leave your name in the books of history as more than just a fop and an idiot who ruined his friends and his family? If so, you best choose a Briarwood.”

Lord Plumhurst sucked in a ragged breath.

She knew she’d gone for the jugular. She didn’t care. At this stage, that’s all there was. They all needed a reckoning.

“Take me,” the girl said. “Take me to St. Giles at once. I want to see this work that he does. I’m already committed to him, you see. But now I want to know how badly I’ve judged him.”

“Committed?” Sylvia challenged, hardly daring to believe her ears.

“That’s not true,” Lord Plumhurst rushed.

“It is, Papa,” Lady Priscilla countered. “Mama and I have decided.”

“You and your mother?” he queried. “I love you dearly, but you don’t know—”

“No, Papa,” Lady Priscilla blazoned. “It is you who do not know. Not any longer. You are blinded by what you are reaching for. And I’m so proud of you for all you have done. But in this, Mama is right, and I will follow her lead.”

Sylvia lifted her hands and applauded. “Bravo. Now that is the sort of performance I always long to see.”

And for a moment, Sylvia felt a glimmer of hope.