The Rake's Mistress (3 page)

She saw Lucas’s amusement that he had got under her skin. ‘That would be too shabby. Will you furnish me with your direction, Miss Raleigh?’

‘Certainly not,’ Rebecca said.

Lucas sighed. ‘I shall find it out anyway.’

‘But not from me.’

Lucas sighed again. ‘Then I shall leave you, Miss Raleigh, with the promise to see you again soon.’

He opened the door of the carriage and sprang down without bothering to lower the steps. Rebecca’s last view of him was a tall figure standing beneath the street lamp, a dusting of raindrops already on his hair.

She sat back as the carriage moved off again and gave a huge sigh. She did not regret helping Stephen Kestrel for he seemed a pleasant enough young man. His elder brother was another matter. Forceful, confident, with a face like a fallen angel and a touch that threatened to overset all good sense… Rebecca shook her head. She had a rule about staying away from gentlemen like Lucas Kestrel, men who were rakish and dangerous and who could spell disaster for a woman who had her own way to make in the world.

She hoped that he would not seek her out again. She knew he would.

Lucas Kestrel stood on the wet pavement and looked about himself in some perplexity. He realised that he had no notion where he was. He had spent the entire journey with his attention focussed on Miss Rebecca Raleigh to the exclusion of all else. They could have been halfway down the London to Brighton road for all he knew. He could not remember the last time that had happened to him when he had been in conversation with a woman.

He started walking. He knew that he would soon see a familiar landmark. Having navigated his regiment across half of Egypt, he had no concern that he would get lost in the outskirts of London. The only thing that he regretted was failing to put a coat on. That showed lack of foresight. He had not thought that Miss Raleigh would occupy him for long and certainly had not foreseen that she would throw him out of her coach and leave him to walk home.

A rueful smile tugged at his mouth. He found Miss Rebecca Raleigh a fascinating combination of confidence and vulnerability, strength and innocence. When he had first set eyes on her he had felt her gaze like a physical blow to the heart. He had never known anything quite like it.

He had had ample proof that night that Miss Raleigh was no Cyprian. Despite the misleading circumstance of finding her in the Archangel’s carriage,
her appearance and demeanour were as far removed from that of a courtesan as was possible to find. The Angels would not be seen dead in the shabby gentility that had characterised Miss Raleigh’s clothing. Not that she was in any way an antidote. Lucas suspected that, if suitably attired, Miss Raleigh might outshine some of the accredited beauties of the season. Her hair had been a lustrous dark russet beneath that ugly bonnet, her figure was extremely neat and her blue eyes were magnificent. He had noticed. Of course he had. He would defy any red-blooded male to look at Miss Rebecca Raleigh and not feel a flicker of interest, to study her mouth and
not
want to kiss her…

Lucas shifted his shoulders beneath the damp material of his jacket. If Miss Raleigh defended herself so effectively against all comers, then such thoughts were quite pointless. Lucas had been on the wrong end of plenty of weapons in his time in the army, but this had been the first on which he had been menaced by an engraver’s scribe. He accepted wryly that it was no more than he deserved for trying his luck. It had been a deliberate challenge he had thrown down to her—and she had responded with a coolness and a courage that had won his admiration. Lucas smiled to himself. Miss Raleigh had not liked him, but all the same, she had not been indifferent to him as a man. She had been unable to hide that from him. He had seen it
in her eyes when he had touched her. There had been a vulnerability about her then that she could not conceal.

He finally turned into Grosvenor Square and ran up the steps into the house. Byrne, the butler, noted his rain-soaked jacket but made no comment beyond the very faintest of raised eyebrows. The servants were accustomed to Stephen arriving back in all manner of disarray. To see Lucas in a like state was very unusual.

Stephen was awaiting him in the library, faultlessly attired in buckskins and a jacket of blue superfine. Lucas shrugged off his own jacket and handed it to the footman before making his way across to the table and pouring himself a brandy. He waved the glass at Stephen.

‘One for you, little brother?’

Stephen nodded. There was a wary look in his eyes as he watched Lucas pour for him. He took the proffered drink with a word of thanks and waited until Lucas had taken his seat by the roaring fire before he did the same.

Lucas sat back with a sigh, removed his neck-cloth and stretched his legs out towards the blaze. His eyes were fixed on the flames. By now he was fairly convinced that Miss Raleigh had been telling the truth and he certainly did not believe Stephen capable of carrying off a deception. Without turning his head, he said, ‘So tell me, Stephen, how
comes it that I find you conveyed home in a carriage belonging to the Archangel Club?’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stephen jump and spill his brandy on his jacket sleeve. Stephen cursed under his breath. He had paled and now fixed Lucas with a pleading look.

‘The Archangel? But I had no notion…I mean…Oh, Lord!’

‘Oh, Lord, indeed,’ Lucas said, very drily. He smiled. ‘Are you telling me, Stephen, that you have had no dealings with the Angels before tonight?’

‘I haven’t had any dealings with them at all!’ His brother protested. ‘I only jumped in the curst coach because it was passing and I did not know what to do!’

Lucas looked at him. His younger brother had never been the brightest apple in the barrel, and when Lucas had discovered that he would be nursemaiding Stephen around London for a few weeks he had roundly cursed his elder brothers who had assigned him the task. It could not be helped—Justin, the Duke of Kestrel and head of the family, was at his estate in Suffolk and Richard was on his honeymoon, and not even Lucas could blame him for prioritising his married bliss above keeping an eye on a wayward youth. Besides, Lucas had business to attend to in London, and had therefore been the obvious choice to rein in Stephen’s
wilder excesses. It seemed, however, that this particular incident was not as serious as it had originally appeared. Both Stephen and Miss Rebecca Raleigh were telling the same tale and Lucas was inclined to believe that it was a true one.

‘You did not know that you had appropriated a carriage belonging to one of the most notorious clubs in town?’ he repeated, just to be sure.

‘No!’ Stephen was looking most unhappy. ‘Lucas, I swear I had no idea—’

‘Very well,’ Lucas said. He eyed Stephen closely, aware that his brother was trying to utilise seldom-used mental machinery. A deep frown marred Stephen’s brow. Lucas waited patiently.

‘But if Miss Raleigh was in the carriage,’ Stephen said slowly, ‘and the carriage belongs to the Archangel Club, then that would make Miss Raleigh—’ He broke off, a look of horror crossing his face. ‘Oh, no! That must make Miss Raleigh a Cyprian! I say, Lucas, that cannot be right!’

Lucas laughed. He was interested to see the loyalty that Miss Raleigh had inspired in Stephen, even on so short an acquaintance. Stephen’s face had set in a stubbornly disbelieving expression.

‘That cannot be so,’ he said again.

Lucas raised his brows. ‘Why not?’ he asked, curious to know Stephen’s reasoning.

‘Because it was clear to see that she is a lady,’ Stephen said. His face lightened. ‘In fact, she is a capital girl! Do you know, Lucas, she did not scream or have the vapours when she saw me? She offered me her cloak in case I caught a chill. I thought that most practical of her.’

‘It was indeed,’ Lucas murmured. For a moment he wondered. Miss Raleigh might not be a courtesan, but such coolness when confronted by masculine nakedness did argue some prior experience.

‘And,’ Stephen added, warming to his theme, ‘she even suggested I might creep inside the house by way of the servants’ door to prevent you from seeing me. I thought that very clever of her. So you see, there is not the least possible likelihood of her being a courtesan. She is far too—’

‘Too?’

‘Too special,’ Stephen muttered, turning scarlet.

Lucas viewed his young brother with some pity. It was clear to him that Stephen was suffering the first, unavoidable pangs of calf love. It had been bound to happen sooner or later, and rather Miss Raleigh than some
genuine
Cyprian who would take all Stephen’s allowance, turn his untried emotions inside out and probably sue him for breach of promise into the bargain. Remembering an episode from his own youth that had involved an older woman, an unguarded marriage proposal and a large sum of money from his father to buy the
harpy off, Lucas repressed a shudder. It was fortunate that Stephen’s admiration for Miss Raleigh seemed of so innocent a nature. In point of fact,
he
was the one who had entertained decidedly less than innocent notions of Miss Raleigh,
and
attempted to act on them. He was the one who had thought of Rebecca’s thick, russet hair released from its confining pins and spread across his bare chest, had imagined her mouth crushed ruthlessly beneath his own, had dreamed of freeing those voluptuous curves from the restraint of that disfiguring worsted dress. Miss Rebecca Raleigh had been very tightly buttoned up and he had wanted to unbutton her. He would have given a great deal for the privilege. He shifted in his chair as his thoughts had their inevitable physical reaction.

‘I say, Lucas,’ Stephen said, looking at him closely, ‘are you feeling quite the thing?’

Lucas shook his head slightly to banish the images of Rebecca, naked and wanton in his arms. Damnation! The more he tried to dismiss the thoughts, the more they crowded in on him. And he was no callow boy. He had suffered his own youthful infatuation years ago and these days preferred to keep such matters on a far more businesslike footing. Not for him the pitfalls of love, nor the placidity of marriage either. He would leave that to his elder brother, Richard.

‘I was thinking of Miss Raleigh,’ he said truthfully. ‘Pray do not concern yourself, Stephen. As you so perceptively noted, she is no courtesan. In point of fact, she is a glass engraver. She tells me that she is undertaking a commission for the Archangel Club. That is all.’

Stephen looked slightly puzzled, as though he had not previously realised that the profession of glass engraving existed.

‘Oh well, then…’ he said, his brow clearing. ‘As I said, she is a capital girl.’

‘She is indeed,’ Lucas agreed, ‘and I shall be calling on her to convey our gratitude for the service she rendered you. I do not think that we need say any more on the subject.’

Stephen looked slightly shocked, as though he could not quite believe that he was getting away with matters so lightly. He got to his feet, his gaze going to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

‘I say, Lucas, do you think that I might be able to go back to White’s—’

‘No,’ Lucas said.

Stephen deflated. ‘Oh, very well then. Good night.’

‘Good night,’ Lucas said, with a smile. ‘I wonder in which part of London Miss Raleigh has her engraving workshop?’ he added, half to himself.

‘I have not the slightest idea,’ Stephen said, sounding startled that his brother had even asked him. ‘I have not given the matter any thought.’

‘Of course not,’ Lucas said. ‘I am surprised that I even thought you would.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘Sleep well, little brother. I thought that we might go to Tattersall’s tomorrow afternoon if you would like.’

Stephen flushed with pleasure. The hero-worshipping look was back in his eyes again. ‘Oh, may we? I should like that above all things!’

He went out and left Lucas shaking his head ruefully. Outside in the hall, he could hear Stephen regaling Byrne, the butler, with a highly coloured version of his adventures.

‘How very exciting for you, my lord,’ he heard the butler say expressionlessly.

Stephen’s voice faded away and there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and the click as Lucas replaced his brandy glass on the table. His thoughts had returned to Miss Rebecca Raleigh, but there was a more professional interest in them now.

It was a curious twist of fate that had delivered to him Miss Raleigh, engraver, when he had spent the past three weeks checking every single glass engraver’s workshop in London, from the showrooms of the great practitioners to the garrets of the artisans.

Lucas went over to the desk, took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the top drawer. There was a list within, marked with small ticks, crosses and additional notations. Lucas scanned it quickly. Miss Rebecca Raleigh’s name was not on the list, but perhaps she worked for someone else. She had not made that clear. Or perhaps, as he had originally thought, there was more to her story than she had disclosed to him.

Lucas took out the most recent letter from his brother Justin in Midwinter. For the past six months, the Kestrels and their friend Cory Newlyn had been involved in the delicate task of finding and catching a French spy, a criminal so cunning that he—or rather, she—had so far evaded all their attempts at a trap. Gradually they had drawn nearer to their target. They had eliminated all those who must be innocent and had identified a core of people who must be guilty. As yet they had not caught them red-handed and the spy and her allies grew ever more brazen, operating under their noses.

In the course of the investigation both Cory Newlyn and Richard Kestrel had found themselves brides from amongst the ladies of the Midwinter villages. It was a fate that Lucas was determined would not befall him.

In his most recent letter, Justin wrote that the hunt for the Midwinter spy was entering its final phase. They had identified that the culprit was still
passing treasonable information to the French on such crucial matters as harbour defences and troop movements. They knew that the spy ring communicated by a pictorial code rather than a written one. And they now knew that the original cipher, the key to the entire code, was engraved on glass. They had some examples of the code in their possession, and Cory, who was a specialist in code breaking, was working on it even now.