Page 3 of The Rake’s Absolutely Devilish Reform (The Notorious Briarwoods #4)

“M y dear girl,” Lady Trentfield said in a tremulous voice, which Priscilla had come to have a soft spot for. “You must cease sneaking off like that in the middle of balls! I am going to collapse in an apoplexy one day. Whatever shall I tell your father if something happens to you?”

The coach lamp illuminated a bit of the dark, dancing over Lady Trentfield’s worried visage.

“I’m perfectly capable and can endure wind and weather, Trenty,” she replied with a kind smile. “Nothing shall happen to me. I promise.”

“I am not speaking about your physical safety, my dear,” Trenty returned, her feathers bobbing from her elaborate, powdered coiffure. She frowned, which caused her already furrowed brow to furrow further, and reconsidered. “Well, to a degree, of course I am, for there are rogues around every corner. You see, I must make you see the importance of taking care with your reputation.”

“Never you fear, Trenty,” she said brightly. “I sent off a rake this night apace.”

Horror widened her chaperone’s features.

Trenty fluttered her lacy handkerchief, then she pulled out smelling salts from her reticule and took a whiff. “My dear, you really must cease.”

“Oh, Trenty,” she said, patting the older lady’s wrinkled hand. “All is well. I promise.”

She quite liked Lady Trentfield, despite her being a bit fussy. She was also kind and caring, which made her endurable. Lady Trentfield was a lady of some sixty plus years with soft gray hair, which had been styled about a face that had certainly seen its own amount of weather.

But the thing that always struck Priscilla was Trenty’s lovely eyes. She had a knowing compassion in her gaze. The lady had endured a difficult husband, who had spent all of their money and left Trenty sitting on the pavement with nothing but her trunk. The debt collectors had taken everything else.

Hence, Trenty had needed employment, a situation which was generally abhorrent to ladies born to titled families.

The truth was, as far as Lady Priscilla could see, husbands had far too much power over their wives’ futures. It was, of course, why a young lady had to be particularly careful when choosing a man, or a young lady’s father had to be particularly careful when choosing a man, because things could go terribly, terribly wrong. Like they had for Trenty.

Priscilla sat next to her chaperone in the coach as they made their way to one of the new districts in the west of London, grateful for the older lady and the fact that they traveled in such opulence.

Her father’s house was the largest and, thank heavens, one of the most tasteful. Her father knew how to find the right people. He himself knew very little about Neoclassicism or French architecture, about Caravaggio or Da Vinci, and yet he had managed to fill his house with the most beautiful of artworks. Nothing which she need be ashamed of, which was not true of many of the newly moneyed people who came to town.

How she adored him, her father! He was so terribly wise and strong and had found her Trenty. Her mother could not bear the ton or social gatherings, and her father did not try to force her to go. So he had found the financially in need Lady Trentfield to escort Priscilla about.

Lady Trentfield was a font of knowledge. She knew all about the Devonshires, the Marlboroughs, and every other famous family in London. She knew what was happening with Prinny. She knew which ladies were about to fall out of fashion because of scandal.

She knew, well, quite a lot.

For Trenty knew how to use the networks of ladies’ maids all about town to acquire information. She seemed so fragile, so delicate, as if a wind might blow her away, but Priscilla had rather a strong suspicion that Lady Trentfield was actually as capable and strong as any frigate of the British Navy. Yes, she was capable of enduring storms that would leave lesser vessels completely torn to bits.

Lady Trentfield waved her handkerchief again, a disarming gesture which hid her inner steel. “Now, now, my dear. You mustn’t risk casting aside all of the wonderful possible proposals that are coming your way. I still adore watching you dance every dance. You are so good at it.”

“Thank you, Trenty,” Priscilla said. “I’ve had hundreds of hours of tutelage.”

And it was true. She’d had private instructors over the last three years, getting her ready for this year, and, well, she had put in intensive practice. She’d had blistered feet, and she could hum every single dance in her sleep and do it forwards, backwards, and side-to-side. She was now so skilled that she could even do the gentleman’s parts.

And she could speak French.

She could speak Latin too. She had become exceptionally skilled in everything that the ton thought necessary for a young lady. And then some.

But really, the ton did not care about her accomplishments. The ton cared about the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of pounds in her father’s bank. She supposed she understood.

At the end of the day, if one knew history, the fact was that the descendants of the English aristocracy, who made up the present-day ton, had all been marauders. And they still were. They just weren’t very honest about it.

They were gilded too, and they were very careful about who they let into their ancient, privileged group.

“Trenty,” she ventured. “What do you know about Lord Hector Briarwood?”

Trenty straightened and her mouth dropped open. “You should not even mention his name.”

She tsked. “That is an appalling thing to say. Of course, I should mention his name. He’s the brother of my dear friend, the Duchess of Westleigh.”

At that mention, Lady Trentfield beamed. “Yes, yes. A most wonderful connection, my dear, but the Briarwoods are rather eccentric, and if one gets too close to them, one can be burned rather dramatically. Only Briarwoods can behave so like….” Trentfield looked for a word and then said with a shrug, “Briarwoods.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. She plunked her chin down upon her fisted hand and stared out the coach window. Of course, her chaperone was correct. How very frustrating it was, but it was true.

Lady Trentfield did everything she could to put Priscilla in a good position to find the sort of match that would please her father, and she was happy to do everything she was told.

Her father had given her such a wonderful life. She’d petitioned her father to choose a husband over eighty years of age. Her father had been quite shocked by the request, but the truth was, he’d understood it immediately. He’d even laughed.

But he had also said, “My dear, you mustn’t want a husband who cannot give you a child. For children are the true legacy in this. Someone who will pass our name down.”

“Well,” she had replied. “Just make certain that he will be able to shuffle off this mortal coil relatively soon.”

Her father had let out another burst of laughter. It was perhaps mercenary of her, but anyone who was marrying her was mercenary. So, she didn’t see why a little bit of calculation on her behalf was so very wrong.

Yes, an old fellow who wanted a young darling with loads of money? It would be just the thing. For she might only need please him for a few years and then she’d achieve independence!

Still, they were having trouble finding the exact match. There was a duke who was rather old who might do, but he was not in need of funds, so it was unlikely that he would ask her.

There was a young duke who did need money and was looking for a wife. She had heard he was interested in Lady Juliet Briarwood, but she wasn’t entirely certain that she wished to marry someone quite so green, who would, of course, last for ages upon ages.

Lord Hector came to her mind again. He was so beautiful, so charming, so free…

She looked back at her chaperone. “Come then, can you tell me nothing about Lord Hector?”

Lady Trentfield let out a long-suffering sigh as if it pained her and then began, “Lord Hector Briarwood is admired by everyone. There’s really nothing bad that one can say about him. He is a gentleman’s gentleman. But his mother was an actress, and he is a decided rake.” Then she added, “My dear, you should not even know this word.”

“You know I love to read.”

“Of course, my dear, of course. A lady should read. It’s exceptionally important for her education and her conversation. But you shouldn’t know about rakes until you are married.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes. The hypocrisy of the ton was still shocking to her. “And then I can know all about them. I can make them my favorite companions after an heir and a spare, can’t I?”

Trenty’s eyes went wide, and she let out a bleat of alarm. “Well, yes, if you must know. After the heir and spare, as you say, you can know someone like Lord Hector as well as you choose.”

Know . She was aware this was a synonym for something salacious. And she wondered if that’s what she should do. Pick her husband quickly and then do as all the ladies in the ton did—have a good time with Lord Hector Briarwood.

She wondered at that.

Did he really enjoy gadding about from lady to lady? It seemed that he did. It seemed to make him very happy, and he made ladies very happy too, but she couldn’t quite imagine it.

Getting that close to someone and then just letting them go. She sighed again.

Lady Trentfield gave her a sympathetic smile. “You sound as if you’ve had the worst possible night ever, but you are the best friend of a duchess. You have done very well in society. And several important gentlemen have visited your father to voice their interest in courting you.”

Yes, several old families had expressed interest to her father. All of them treated it as a business exchange, showing little interest in her as a person. But that was indeed what it was. A matter of exchange. Power and lineage for coin.

From this standpoint, she was a success. But it had not been easy.

She bit her lower lip, then blurted, “The other ladies…”

Lady Trentfield gave her a sympathetic smile. “Things have gotten better, haven’t they, since you’ve become friends with the duchess?”

“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly. “That’s true. But I don’t like the ladies of the ton.”

Lady Trentfield laughed softly. “My dear, no one ever suggested that you should have to like them. I don’t like them either, but they’re rather necessary.”

Necessary.

Life was full of necessities, and she supposed she was better off than most, so she really couldn’t complain. She had Trentfield, and she was glad her father could make certain that Trenty had a good life. She leaned over, took the older lady’s hand in hers, and squeezed it.

“I promise I won’t go sneaking off again,” she said.

Trenty gave a nod. “Thank you, my dear. It will do my heart good.”

Hearts.

Priscilla rather wished someone would do her heart good, but she highly doubted it would happen. No, it would be enough to make her father happy, to make her mother happy too, even though her mother would never come out into society.

Yes, that would have to be enough for her heart.