The Rake of Hearts by Emily Windsor
I am what I pack
“Debauched, libidinous, depraved.” Hebe drew breath. “Immoral, debased…er…”
“Sinful?” suggested Aunt Beatrice.
“Too flattering.” She folded the broadsheet page to a manageable size whilst seated upon the bed.
“Dissolute?”
“An excellent word.” She crinkled her nose at the column of gossip. “Dissolute libertine.” And tutted for good measure. “Although how tiresome it must be for a rake to have all one’s scandalous exploits tattled over in the gossip sheets.”
Aunt tossed an exotic rainbow of frocks upon the bed to be packed and Hebe frowned. Surely sturdy leather walking boots would be more de rigueur for a few weeks in the countryside than jonquil-yellow silk dancing slippers with gold trim?
“Hebe, who are you wittering on about anyhow? Byron?”
“Worse. Lord Ernest Brook. If this is to be believed, he did attend the theatre with no fewer than eight ladies. That’s two more than were in the park.”
With a shrug, Aunt Beatrice perused her array of chemises. “I once met a pasha who had twenty-nine wives. Delightful fellow with a coal gaze that could melt silk.” She sighed with relish. “I had to refuse his offer of being number thirty. He might have only visited my bed once a month…and not at all in February.”
Hebe glanced askew. Then returned to the gossip column. “I pity the duke. After all, one cannot choose one’s family. Rather like boils.”
“Hmm,” murmured Aunt. “Your father being an example. But more importantly…” She began poking around in drawers. “Do you think I’ll need my rose-pink negligee with gossamer bodice and scarlet ribbons in the countryside?”
The item was held up for Hebe’s inspection – the material so diaphanous, she could view the grinning lips behind it.
Aunt Beatrice Cassell, a wealthy widow for the past twelve years, had two score and three to her name yet appeared so much less, claiming it was wickedness which kept her youthful.
An adventure a year, a lover a month, a necklace a week and a champagne a daywas her motto.
With ebony hair cut short in the latest style, it teasingly curled around her cheeks like that of a fallen cherub. Hazel eyes flashed green or brown according to her mood – wicked or more wicked – and her hands never remained still, flapping about in constant elation. As a young girl, Hebe had heard rumours of a scandal in her aunt’s past but she’d never dared to enquire further.
Because as soon as Hebe’s husband had broken his neck when thrown from his horse four years past, Aunt had returned from her travels and descended upon Hebe like a kindly angel – imbuing the silence with laughter, the hurt with cheer. She’d hauled Hebe from her bed, dragged her to the latest modiste, given all of Tobias Locke’s belongings to the orphanage and stuffed a paintbrush in her hand, remembering the young girl who’d only ever wished to be an artist.
So Hebe grinned also. Loving Beatrice for her utter vivacity and open compassionate nature. “Well, why not pack it. That pasha may have a summer abode in the Cotswolds – everyone seems to nowadays.”
The negligee fluttered to the bed like plucked petals.
“Although…it might be sensible to pack a woollen night-rail in addition? It’s a castle after all and bound to be rather draughty. And dark. And possibly haunted.”
Aunt paused, fingers clutching a sheer, blue length of nothing aloft, eyes wide as cobnuts, forehead furrowed. “Wool, Hebe?” Her nose scrunched. “Do night-rails also come in wool?”
“Hmm.”
“Well, I’m afraid I only have silk.”
“Maybe take two then and you can double up to keep warm.”
Six slips of silk slithered to the bed.
“And haunted, you say?” Aunt eyed her bottom drawer of matronesque mop caps with a dismissive sniff. “Surely not.” One plain white cap was grudgingly hurled to the pile.
“Well, aren’t they always haunted?” Hebe mused. “By some unfortunate maid who threw herself from the parapets having been seduced by the dissolute, licentious, depraved master. Or a lonely governess led astray by the degenerate, nefarious, libidinous heir. Or an abandoned wife who–”
“I see the pattern, Hebe. But I’m more hoping for a handsome, disreputable cavalier to give me the shivers at night.” And she delved into the middle drawer, a vibrant selection of garter ribbons garlanding through the air.
Hebe could only hope the duke was sending his largest carriage to transport them.
Tossing the broadsheet aside, she watched silk scarfs, paisley wraps and a myriad of satin gloves land on the pile.
“Phew,” cried Aunt. “That’s the first wardrobe done. How many portmanteaus are you taking?”
“Er, just the one.”
“One?”
“Hmm. With a trunk for my sketch pads, folder and paper, books, easel, charcoals and some pots of watercolours.”
“Best leave your packing to me then. One should never be without clock stockings or a pot of rose essence face cream either. That concoction saved my skin when I explored a sheik in the Syrian desert.”
Hebe blinked. Should that not be…
Although this was Aunt.
So she smiled and sprawled back on the bed. “I’m so looking forward to sketching the duke’s horses.” Closing her eyes, she imagined viewing them in a wildflower meadow, the soft snaffles as they chewed grass.
Hebe couldn’t say why they enchanted her so. Only that a peacefulness arose within her when she gazed at the limpid knowing eyes of elegant mares or the passionate wildness of proud stallions. Felt their velvet noses. The tickle of lip upon palm.
They seemed to see her.
And to draw them, to recreate such natural beauty on paper and canvas took her to another world – where no one could haunt her.
A lilac petticoat landed on her face.
“Any nightmares this week, Hebe? You appear tired.”
“No,” she fibbed. “I’m fine.”
“Hmm. And do you think this little jaunt will lead to more horse-related commissions for you?”
“The duke believes so and I can only hope that proves to be the case. My one commission for the rest of this year is a pug who attempted to fornicate with my lemon parasol during our initial meeting.”
Sniggering, Aunt added three yards of trimmings to the bed, and Hebe’s eyes widened as a Mount Vesuvius of silk surged high, spewing molten red ribbons and blazing yellow lace.
Aunt Beatrice huffed. “No more for today. I’m weak with fatigue.” She pottered to the window overlooking a befogged Conduit Street. “Perhaps we ought to venture out tonight? No doubt we will be even busier tomorrow, cancelling the milk pails and all that. We could celebrate the duke’s commission with one last night in London?”
Hebe folded her arms and pondered. Why not?
“That would be most pleasant. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is playing at the Theatre Royal, I believe?” Perhaps a sedate play might soothe her slight nerves over this commission for the astute duke.
Aunt sucked a lip, wandered to the dressing table, unstoppered a perfume bottle and sniffed. “I’ll sort out the details, dear. No need for you to fuss.”