Too Hot For A Rake by Pearl Wolf Page A

skirt. Helena caught Amy’s hand, knowing if she didn’t stop her, the abigail would waste whatever daylight was left in the grooming process.
    Waverley offered his arm and led Helena to the landing in front of the huge oak door. Casper raised the knocker and banged it on the door. He was forced to repeat this several times more before the door creaked open.
    “Whatcher want?” said a gruff voice. The slovenly dressed man at the door scowled at Casper.
    “Where is the butler?” demanded Waverley.
    “We ain’t got any butler.”
    “And who might you be?”
    “Who wants t’know?”
    Desmond drew himself up and said with all the pomp he could summon, “I am the Marquis of Waverley. This is my home.”
    The information did not appear to faze the man. “You ’is wife?” he asked Helena.
    Desmond raked his eyes over him as if he were confronting an ugly toad. “Lady Fairchild is the daughter of the Duke of Heatham. She is my guest, come to visit my grandmother, the dowager marchioness. I trust her ladyship is well?”
    The man scratched the stubble on his chin and thought, a rare occurrence for a man of his intelligence. “Wait here.” Before he could clank the door shut, Casper put his foot in it to prevent him from doing just that.
    The marquis turned to Helena and muttered, “This doesn’t bode well.”
    “No, indeed.” She summoned a smile in spite of her uneasiness. “You shall sort it out, I’m sure.”
    He patted her hand, comforted by her sympathy. “Depend upon it.”
    The door swung open to reveal a white-haired woman dressed in a soiled gown, a large ring of keys hanging from a chain around her ample waist. She squinted at them with faded brown eyes keen enough to note the servants as well as the carriage filled to the brim with baggage. Her bulbous red nose bespoke a tippler of whiskey and ale. She was short and squat, as if carved from a block of rough wood. Her hands were on her hips in a belligerent stance while the man who had summoned her stood by her side as if ready to attack if only she would give the command.
    The woman said, “I’m Mrs. Trasker. I don’t know what faradiddle you’re tryin’ to fob off on my son Harry, but it won’t work. Everyone knows that the marquis’ son died at sea years ago.”
    Helena raised her hand to warn Waverley not to speak. She said in a soothing voice, “You were misinformed, ma’am. This is indeed the marquis, and I am Lady Fairchild. My mother, the Duchess of Heatham, is goddaughter to the marchioness. The dear lady was kind enough to invite me to visit her. And the marquis was kind enough to escort me here. You received my mother’s letter informing you of my arrival, I’m sure.”
    Her words took the woman by surprise but she recovered at once and barked, “Never saw such. Got lost, mayhap.”
    Helena shook her head in mock disbelief. “Lost? But how can that be when it was delivered by special messenger and signed for?”
    “Come in, then. But not this…imposter,” she said, trying to maintain her advantage.
    Waverley stepped forward and flashed his most winning smile at the odious woman. He held out his hand to her—his signet ring staring her in the face. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he began as if taking her into his confidence. “After my investiture by the Prince Regent, I set off for Waverley at once, for I was most anxious to meet my family. You and your son are Banningtons, I have been told. Therefore, ma’am, we are cousins. It should be obvious that rumors of my death were exaggerated. As you see, I am very much alive.”
    The ring glistened in the waning sunlight. “When news of my father’s death reached me, I returned to England at once to take possession of my estate and care for my grandmother.”
    “Ring is a fake, mayhap. Any jeweler might make a copy from one o’ them books.”
    “Good God! Do you think it a fake? The Regent will be distressed when he hears of this forgery.”
    Emboldened, Mrs. Trasker added,