The Rake's Mistress

‘You are mighty quick to dismiss me, Miss Raleigh. What if I too had an offer to make you?’

Rebecca’s heart raced. She turned away, retreating behind her desk. ‘I am not interested in the type of offer a gentleman might make to me,’ she said. ‘They usually involve the sort of work that is…not my forte…’

Lucas was following her, his footsteps slow, soft and inevitable. He was smiling. ‘And what sort of offers might those be, Miss Raleigh?’

‘You know full well,’ Rebecca said, her mouth dry.

‘Yes, I think that I do. Have you ever accepted such a commission, Miss Raleigh?’

The angry sparks lit Rebecca’s blue eyes. ‘You should mind your own damned business, my lord.’

Lucas’s smile deepened. ‘You could become my business.’

Dear Reader

It is 1803, and along the coast of Suffolk the threat of French invasion is at its highest. Smugglers, pirates, treasure-seekers and spies are all drawn to the quiet Midwinter villages, where the comfortable surface of village life conceals treason and danger as well as romance and excitement
…

This is the world that I have inhabited for the last year whilst I wrote the
Bluestocking Brides
trilogy. It has been a wonderful experience. I have always loved the county of Suffolk for its remoteness; the peace of the woods, the wind in the reeds at the water’s edge and the sunset over the sea. It is one of the most atmospheric and inspiring places for a storyteller.

About a year ago I was reading a book about ‘The Great Terror,’ the years between 1801 and 1805, when Britain was permanently on the alert against the threat of Napoleonic invasion. It made me wonder what life would have been like in the coastal villages of Britain, where there was always the chance that the business of everyday living would conceal something more dangerous. I thought about a group of gentlemen dedicated to hunting down a spy, gentlemen for whom romance was no part of the plan, but who found that the ladies of Midwinter were more than a match for them! And so the idea of the
Bluestocking Brides
trilogy was born…

I hope that you enjoy these stories of love and romance in the Midwinter villages! It has been a real pleasure to write this trilogy.

Nicola Cornick
became fascinated by history when she was a child, and spent hours poring over historical novels and watching costume drama. She still does! She has worked in a variety of jobs, from serving refreshments on a steam train to arranging university graduation ceremonies. When she is not writing she enjoys walking in the English countryside, taking her husband, dog and even her cats with her. Nicola loves to hear from readers and can be contacted by e-mail at [email protected] and via her website at www.nicolacornick.co.uk

Recent titles by the same author:

A COMPANION OF QUALITY
*

THE RAKE’S BRIDE
(short story in
Regency Brides
)

AN UNLIKELY SUITOR
*

THE EARL’S PRIZE

THE CHAPERON BRIDE

WAYWARD WIDOW

THE PENNILESS BRIDE

THE NOTORIOUS LORD
†

ONE NIGHT OF SCANDAL
†

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

October 1803

T
he young man who climbed into Miss Rebecca Raleigh’s carriage that night looked as though he had escaped from a bawdy house.

It was not an encounter that Rebecca had been expecting. The carriage had paused briefly to avoid two drunken gentlemen who were weaving their way across Bond Street in the thin autumn rain. Rebecca, twitching the curtain back into place with a sigh, wished that she had not left it quite so late to return home from the Archangel Club. This was the time of night when the young bucks were out on the streets in search of an evening’s entertainment, and the fact that she was travelling in a coach with the crest of the Archangel on the door would be protection from some, and provocation to others, for it was known to be the most exclusive gentleman’s club in the whole of London.

The carriage was just picking up speed again when the door slammed open without warning and a young man tumbled inside in a welter of tangled limbs. On closer inspection—and Rebecca was able to make a very close inspection indeed—he looked to be about nineteen years of age. He had the sort of boyish good looks that would melt the heart of the sternest dowager: dark hair, hazel eyes and a sweetness of expression that was well nigh irresistible. He was also missing quite a quantity of clothing, he smelled pungently of a mixture of stale wine, cheap perfume and strong tobacco, and his face was covered in red carmine patches as though he had received a quantity of over-ardent kisses. Rebecca was hard-pressed not to laugh.

As soon as he saw that there was a lady in the carriage, the youth made a sound like a strangled cat and flapped his hands about in a vain attempt to cover those parts of his anatomy he evidently thought would cause her offence. He was still wearing his shirt, if little else, and had he kept still it would have successfully covered the one thing he most wished to hide. Unfortunately in his confusion he gave Rebecca a very clear view of precisely that which he was trying to conceal.

In her professional work, if not her private life, Rebecca had seen far worse sights than a semi-naked youth and, as he collapsed on to the seat,
his hands in his lap, she calmly removed her cloak and passed it to him with a kindly smile.

‘Take this,’ she advised. ‘It will preserve your modesty and keep you warm. Indeed you look chilled to the bone. It is a cold night to be out without the proper attire.’

The young man grasped the cloak to him gratefully, though his gaze was still wary, as though he were waiting for her to swoon—or call out the Constable.

Rebecca pushed the hot brick across the floor towards his bare feet and nodded encouragingly at him. After a moment’s frozen surprise, the youth had wrapped the cloak about his person and now rested his feet on the brick with a little sigh of relief.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I must apologise for this intrusion. Indeed, you must think it quite odd in me.’ He was well spoken, with the ingrained charm and confidence of the aristocrat. Rebecca placed him unerringly as a young sprig of fashion who had been caught out in a prank.

‘I do think it odd,’ she agreed, ‘but I am sure that there is a perfectly sensible explanation.’

The young man did not look so certain. He gave her a timid look from beneath his ridiculously long black eyelashes.

‘Well, of course…’ He was trying to sound like a man of the world, but his tone was a little too
lame to convince and the chattering of his teeth did nothing to add to an impression of sophistication.

‘May I introduce myself, ma’am?’ he said. ‘Lord Stephen Kestrel, at your service.’ He leaned forward and held out a hand to shake hers. The cloak slipped a little and he withdrew hastily, curling up as though he had been scalded.

‘Pray do not stand on formality with me, Lord Stephen,’ Rebecca said, smiling. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Miss Rebecca Raleigh.’

There was a short silence in the carriage. Rebecca knew that Lord Stephen was trying to work out, on the basis of this meager information, just who Miss Rebecca Raleigh might be. She could read his thoughts, for his expression was transparently puzzled. Here was an unmarried woman travelling alone at night. She was soberly and inexpensively dressed, if the dim light thrown by the carriage lanterns was any guide. She was past the first flush of youth, but not old by a long chalk. She spoke like a lady but could hardly be one of the gentry…

Rebecca smiled inwardly and decided not to enlighten him. If he had seen the Archangel crest on the door of the coach as he had leapt in, then he would also be leaping to some rather more interesting conclusions about her identity. The
Archangel Club catered to gentlemen of the
ton
who had exotic tastes and the financial means to indulge them. Rebecca had known all about the Archangel’s reputation for debauchery, but she had accepted the commission anyway. Business was business, and she had to earn a living.

But evidently Lord Stephen had not noticed the Archangel crest; when he spoke again, he had clearly decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and to treat her as the lady she appeared to be.

‘Once again, I must apologise, Miss Raleigh,’ he said. ‘I had been at my club—’ there was a hint of pride here, as though membership of White’s or Boodle’s was still a novelty to him ‘—and some of the other fellows decided to pull a hoax on me.’ A frown furrowed his forehead. ‘I suppose we had all had rather too much brandy, but it seemed amusing at the time. They placed a bet that if they gave me two minutes’ start I could evade the pack and find my way home before the hunt caught up with me. Fifty guineas said that I could do it.’

Rebecca looked at him, her lips twitching slightly at the forlorn figure he cut. ‘I take it that you lost?’ she said sympathetically.

‘I
got
lost,’ Lord Stephen said gloomily. ‘Thought I knew my way about London, but it’s dashed difficult to find one’s way in the dark on foot, without a servant to give directions. Before I knew it I was up Norton Street and the other chaps
were closing in on me, so I headed into the nearest building and it was a…’ He paused, looking awkward.

‘A bordello?’ Rebecca guessed.

Lord Stephen blushed. In the dark it was almost possible to feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating from his face.

‘Well, yes, I suppose one would call it so.’ He shifted uncomfortably on the seat. ‘I dashed inside and they fell on me with a great degree of enthusiasm and I only just managed to escape with my life.’

Rebecca doubted that it was his life that the lightskirts had been after, but she managed not to smile.

‘That is very unfortunate,’ she agreed.

‘I’ll say!’ Lord Stephen’s eyes rounded at the memory. Rebecca realised that, for all his semi-sophistication, he had been quite out of his depth.

‘I was stripped practically naked within a second and then they started to tie my wrists to a bedpost and—’ Lord Stephen broke off. ‘But perhaps you do not wish to hear about that, Miss Raleigh.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Rebecca agreed.

‘No.’ Lord Stephen looked crestfallen. ‘It is no tale for a lady’s ears. Fortunately I managed to break free, but then the Watch came, so I ran away—’

‘And jumped into the first carriage you saw,’ Rebecca finished.

Lord Stephen shifted with embarrassment. ‘Well, yes. I do apologise, Miss Raleigh, but you were my only chance. Lucas will be absolutely furious with me,’ he added, with gloomy relish.

‘Lucas?’ Rebecca said.

‘My brother, Lucas Kestrel.’ Stephen’s face had lit with a hero-worshipping smile. ‘He is an all round out-and-out bang-up fellow, Miss Raleigh, quite the Corinthian. When he hears what has happened he will give me a roasting. A well-deserved one,’ he added, with a sigh.

‘Perhaps you need not tell him,’ Rebecca suggested. ‘If you are able to creep into the house unseen, why should your brother know?’

Stephen looked at her with a spark of hope gleaming in his eyes. ‘You mean you will not give me away? I say, Miss Raleigh…’ his voice warmed ‘…you are a capital girl!’

Rebecca laughed. There was something about Lord Stephen Kestrel that made her feel quite maternal, for all that she could only be five years or so his senior. He had an endearing air of innocence about him.

‘I do not see why I should carry tales to your brother,’ she said. ‘I am not your nursemaid.’

The carriage had been proceeding towards Rebecca’s home in Clerkenwell, but she doubted that
this was the correct direction for Lord Stephen, who would surely be more likely to be found in Grosvenor or Berkeley Square.

‘I do not suppose,’ she said ‘that my coachman will have the same difficulty in finding your home that you did, Lord Stephen. If you will give me your direction I will ask him to take us there.’

This was soon accomplished. Lord Stephen did indeed live in Mayfair, as Rebecca had suspected, and the coach was turned around and headed back towards the West End. On the way Lord Stephen confided a great deal more about himself and his family; that he was down from Cambridge at present, that he was the youngest brother of the Duke of Kestrel and had no less than two other brothers and two sisters, and that his favourite brother was Lucas, who was an Army man and a great gun. By the time they turned into Grosvenor Street, Rebecca’s ears were heartily tired with the repetition of Lord Lucas Kestrel’s name. He sounded to be precisely the sort of gentleman of fashion that she instinctively disliked and she could only be grateful that she would have no requirement to meet him.

The coach drew up outside an elegant town-house and Lord Stephen peered out of the window, drawing back with a curse.

‘Devil take it!’ He recollected himself. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Raleigh, but I do believe Lucas
is at home. What cursed luck! I was hoping he would still be at his club for several hours and I could hurry inside undetected.’

‘Could you not go around the back and go in at the servants’ entrance?’ Rebecca suggested. It was the route that was most familiar to her, but the idea had evidently not occurred to Lord Stephen before, for his face lit up.

‘What a splendid idea! I say, you are up to all the rigs, Miss Raleigh! I am most indebted to you—’ He broke off.

There was an ominous click as the door of the coach unlatched from the outside. An icy gust of air blew in, bringing with it a spattering of rain. In the aperture stood a man with a lantern in one hand. He looked like an avenging angel with the light illuminating his dark auburn hair and casting shadows across the hard planes of his face. A cool hazel gaze swept over Rebecca in challenging appraisal.

This man was older than Stephen Kestrel—ten years older at a guess—but he had enough of Stephen’s spectacular good looks to make him instantly recognisable. Here there was a harder edge, something altogether more intimidating than Stephen’s boyish charm. This, Rebecca thought, must be the infamous Lucas Kestrel himself.

It was clear that Lord Lucas had returned home for the night, for he was dressed with an informality
that only befitted his drawing room. His jacket was unbuttoned and his neck cloth loosened. The casualness of his attire did little to soften the impression of uncompromising maleness. Rebecca shivered. This was the sort of man about whom the chaperons would issue dire warnings. Every instinct that she possessed told her to tread very carefully. She had no difficulty at all in identifying him as an out-and-out rake.

Rebecca drew back into her corner as the icy wind whipped inside the carriage. Lord Stephen made a vain grasp at the cloak, but it blew aside to leave him once more half-naked and caught in the lantern light in all his glory.

‘Stephen?’ Lucas Kestrel said incredulously. The dark frown on his brow deepened. His gaze shifted back to Rebecca and seemed to pin her to her seat. She felt a strange, swirling sensation in her stomach, a wariness with an edge of excitement. It set her heart racing. She turned hot despite the icy draught.

‘Stephen,’ Lucas Kestrel said again, without taking his eyes from Rebecca, ‘what the devil is going on?’

‘Hello, Lucas.’ Stephen Kestrel was stuttering. ‘I…I do apologise. This must look quite bad…I… This is Miss Raleigh…’

‘How do you do, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas Kestrel said. His voice was lazy and smooth and it sent a
ripple of awareness down Rebecca’s spine. A smile that was not in the least friendly lifted the corner of his mouth as he looked at her. ‘I do not believe we have met before.’

‘How do you do, Lord Lucas,’ Rebecca said. She inclined her head politely. ‘I am sure that we have not met. I would most certainly have remembered. Your family do seem to make quite an impression.’

That earned her another look, hard and unsmiling. ‘Pray excuse me a moment,’ Lord Lucas said, with exemplary courtesy. He took his eyes from her at last and Rebecca managed to breathe again. She made a small business of smoothing her skirt and adjusting her gloves. It was unnecessary, but it helped to settle her nerves. She had been unprepared for the impact of Lucas Kestrel’s presence and it had disturbed her far more deeply than any man had done before.

‘Out of the coach, please, Stephen,’ Lord Lucas said. ‘I shall see you in the library in half an hour. Fully dressed, if you would.’

Rebecca watched as Stephen drew the cloak about him with the forlorn dignity of a dethroned emperor and descended the carriage as decently as he could. Once he was standing on the pavement he turned back to her and sketched a rather comical bow, hampered as he was by keeping the cloak tightly wound about him.

‘I am indebted to you, Miss Raleigh,’ he said. ‘If you would give me your direction I shall call to convey my sense of obligation. And to return your cloak, of course—’

‘Enough, Stephen,’ Lucas interrupted. ‘I will deal with Miss Raleigh.’

Rebecca did not like the sound of that. She arched her brows haughtily. Ignoring Lucas, she turned to his brother, who was now shivering in the chill autumn breeze.

‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stephen,’ she said. ‘I am glad that I was able to be of service.’

That brought Lucas’s eyebrows snapping down in an intimidating stare. Stephen gave her a tentative nod and sped away up the steps into the house, where a blank-faced butler held the door open for him. Stephen disappeared. Lucas did not. Despite the fact that her insides were quaking, Rebecca turned a disdainful gaze upon him.