Книга - Rake with a Frozen Heart

Rake with a Frozen Heart
Marguerite Kaye


THE MAN WHO COULD NEVER LOVEWaking up in a stranger’s bed, Henrietta Markham encounters the most darkly sensual man she has ever met. The last thing she remembers is being attacked by a housebreaker – yet being rescued by the notorious Earl of Pentland feels much more dangerous!Since the cataclysmic failure of his marriage, ice has flowed in Rafe St Alban’s veins. But meeting impetuous, all-too-distracting governess Henrietta heats his blood to boiling point.When she’s accused of theft, Rafe finds himself offering to clear her name. Can Henrietta’s innocence bring this hardened rake to his knees…?










Praise for Marguerite Kaye:

‘Kaye delights readers with a heated seduction and

fiery games that burn up

the pages when her heroine takes

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘A spellbinding Regency romance

with a difference,

THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH

is another winner for Marguerite Kaye!’

—Cataromance

‘Kaye closes her brilliant

Princes of the Desert trilogy, in which Regency Roses meet and fall in love with desert sheikhs. Book Three is irresistible, with its fantastical kingdom, all-powerful prince and the allure of the forbidden. Sensual, ravishing and funny. A must for all lovers of sheikh romance.’ —RT Book Reviews on THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH


‘You have placed me in an impossible position. I cannot turn you in without risking being found guilty by association, but neither can I in all conscience simply abandon you.’

Rafe was not a man given to chivalry. He was not a man much given to impulsive action either, but Henrietta Markham’s endearing courage, her genuine horror at the accusations levelled against her, and the very real dangers which she faced, roused him now to both. Whether he wanted to be or not, he was involved in this farce.

‘I have no choice. I’ll help you,’ he said, nodding to himself. It was the only way.

‘Help me to do what?’

‘Whatever it takes to clear your name.’

‘I am perfectly capable of doing that myself,’ Henrietta said indignantly—and quite contrarily, because for a moment there, when he had offered, her heart had leapt in relief.




About the Author


Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining a first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since.

You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM† (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) (part of Summer Sheikhs anthology) THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH† (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE HIGHLANDER’S REDEMPTION* (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE HIGHLANDER’S RETURN* (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782)

and in Mills & Boon


HistoricalUndone!eBooks:

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN

BITTEN BY DESIRE

TEMPTATION IS THE NIGHT

CLAIMED BY THE WOLF PRINCE** (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) BOUND TO THE WOLF PRINCE** (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE HIGHLANDER AND THE WOLF PRINCESS** (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) THE SHEIKH’S IMPETUOUS LOVE-SLAVE† (#ulink_a9257dcc-f445-5150-a595-be0250038782) SPELLBOUND & SEDUCED

† (#ulink_80a916d4-2a28-54d0-9f00-b7f84d7546e1)linked by character * (#ulink_80a916d4-2a28-54d0-9f00-b7f84d7546e1)Highland Brides** (#ulink_764d5e01-8c85-5ccb-a673-5ac2e745c1b3)Legend of the Faol

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk




Rake With a Frozen Heart

Marguerite Kaye







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Chapter One







Sussex—May 1824

The early morning mist was just beginning to clear as he turned Thor, his magnificent black stallion, towards home, taking the shortcut through the long yew-tree walk that bordered the formal gardens of Woodfield Manor. The bright sunlight of an early English summer shafted down through the tall trees, causing the dew on the grass to sparkle as if strewn with a myriad of tiny diamonds. The earthy scent of freshly disturbed soil and roots churned up by Thor’s prancing hooves mingled with the heady perfume of the honeysuckle, which roamed untrained around the trunks of the stately yews. It was a perfect morning, the prelude to what would undoubtedly be a beautiful day.

The Right Honourable Rafe St Alban, Earl of Pentland, Baron of Gyle and master of all he surveyed was, however, completely oblivious to the glories of nature, which assailed him from all sides. Mentally drained after another sleepless night, physically exhausted after his strenuous early morning gallop, his only interest was in falling into the welcoming arms of Morpheus.

Reining his horse in, Rafe dismounted to unlatch the wrought-iron gates, which opened on to the gravelled side path leading directly to his stables. The tall, perfectly proportioned man and the huge ebony horse made a striking pair, each in their own way glorious examples of blue-blooded pedigree, perfect specimens of toned and honed muscle and sinew at the peak of physical perfection. Rafe’s skin glowed with a healthy lustre. His raven-black hair shone in the sunlight, the severe lines of his Stanhope crop emphasising his faultless profile, the angle of his cheekbones highlighted by the flush of exertion from the break-neck gallop across the downs. The bluish hue of stubble only served to accentuate a strong jaw and very white teeth.

Byronic, is how one infatuated young lady had breathlessly described him, a compliment that Rafe dismissed with his customary crack of sardonic laughter. Though his handsome countenance and fabulous wealth made him one of society’s most eligible bachelors, even the most determined ladies on the catch wilted under his aloof stare and acerbic wit—which suited Rafe very well, since he had no interest at all in leg-shackling himself for a second time. He’d had enough of marriage to last him a lifetime. Several lifetimes, in fact.

‘Nearly home now, old friend,’ he murmured, patting the horse’s sweating flank. Thor tossed his massive head, expelling a cloud of warm air from his nostrils, as anxious as his owner for the warmth of his sleeping quarters. Deciding to walk the short distance to the house rather than remount, Rafe shrugged off his riding coat and slung it casually over his shoulder. Having no expectations of meeting anyone this early, he had come out wearing neither hat, waistcoat nor neckcloth. The clean white folds of his linen shirt clung to the perspiration on his back, the open neck at the front revealing a sprinkling of hair on a muscled chest.

The gate swung soundlessly back on its well-oiled springs and Rafe urged his horse forwards, but Thor pawed at the grass and snorted. In no mood for playfulness, Rafe tugged on the reins again, more sharply this time, but the stallion refused to move, giving a high whinny.

‘What’s spooked you?’ Scanning their immediate surrounds in the expectation of seeing a rabbit or a fox peering out from the deep ditch that ran parallel to the path, instead he saw a shoe. A lady’s shoe. A small leather pump, slightly scuffed at the toe, attached to a very shapely ankle clad in eminently practical wool. With a muffled exclamation, which expressed more annoyance than concern, Rafe looped his horse’s reins round the gatepost and strode over to peer into the ditch.

Lying lengthways on her back, and either dead or deeply unconscious, was the body of a young woman. She was clad in a serviceable round gown of brown worsted, buttoned high at the neck. She wore no hat or pelisse, and her chestnut hair had unravelled from its pins to fan out behind her, where the ditchwater had soaked it, turning its curling ends almost black, like a dark halo. The face revealed, when Rafe cautiously brushed back the obscuring reeds, was stripped of colour, marble-white and ghostly. With her arms folded protectively over her bosom, the overall impression she gave was of a prosaically dressed effigy, the image marred only by the awkward angle of the little foot that had first betrayed her presence.

Casting his coat aside, Rafe knelt down at the edge of the ditch, noting with irritation the water seep into his riding breeches. He could detect no movement, not even a flicker from beneath the closed lids. Leaning over further, he tentatively lowered his head to place his ear close to her face. A faint whisper of breath on his cheek betrayed the first glimmer of life. Grasping one slim wrist, he was relieved to find a pulse beating, faintly but steadily. Where had she come from? More importantly, what the hell was she doing lying in his ditch?

Rafe got to his feet again, absently noticing the green patches on his breeches, which would have his valet tutting in dismay, and pondered his options. The easiest course would be to leave her here, return to the house and send a couple of the stable hands to recover her. He eyed the recumbent form appraisingly, his frown accentuating the upward slant of his brows. No, whatever she was doing here, he could not in conscience walk away from her. She looked like Ophelia. Something about the angle of that little foot of hers made her seem horribly vulnerable. And she was but a slight thing, after all, hardly worth the trouble of summoning two men when he had his horse. Resignedly, Rafe set about removing her from her temporary resting place.

‘That will be all, thank you, Mrs Peters. I’ll call if I need any further assistance.’

The words, so faint they seemed to be coming from the end of a long tunnel, penetrated the dense fog engulfing Henrietta’s mind. She moaned. It felt as if someone was squeezing her skull with some medieval instrument of torture. She tried to raise her hand to her forehead, but her arm would not comply, lying heavy on her chest as if weighted down. White-hot sparks of stabbing pain forced her eyelids open, but the swirling collage of colour that she then encountered made her close them again immediately. Now her head felt as if it were being pounded by a blacksmith’s hammer. The painful throbbing was unbearable.

A welcome coolness descended on her brow and the pain abated somewhat. Lavender, she could smell lavender. This time when she tried to move, her arm cooperated. Clutching the compress, Henrietta opened her eyes again. The world tilted and the room swam before her. She scrunched her eyes closed, then, breathing deeply and counting to five, resolutely opened them, ignoring the siren call of black, comforting unconsciousness.

Starched sheets. Feather pillows. A warming pan at her feet. Damask hangings overhead. She was in bed, but in a bedchamber that was completely foreign to her. A bright fire burned in a modern grate and light streamed in through a small gap in the curtains which had been drawn across the windows. The room was furnished in the first style of elegance, with pale-yellow tempered walls and darker-gold window hangings. A lurching wave of nausea swept over her. She could not be sick in such pristine surroundings. With a truly heroic effort of will, Henrietta swallowed hard and forced herself upright.

‘You’re awake.’

She started. The voice had a rich, deep timbre. A seductive quality. It was unequivocally male. Obscured by the bed curtain, she had not noticed his presence. Shrinking back against the pillows, Henrietta pulled the covers high up to her neck, realising as she did so that she was clad only in her undergarments. The compress dropped from her head on to the silk coverlet. It would stain, she thought rather distractedly. ‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll scream.’

‘Do your worst,’ the man replied laconically, ‘for all you know I may already have done mine.’

‘Oh!’ His tone was amused, rather than threatening. Completely disconcerted, Henrietta blinked owlishly. Then, as her vision cleared, she gulped. Standing in front of her was quite the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Tall, dark and really quite indecently handsome, he was a veritable Adonis. Ink-dark hair ruthlessly cropped revealed a bone structure flawless in its symmetry. Winged brows. Hooded eyes that were a curious shade of blue—or was it grey? Like the sky on a stormy night. He was in shirt sleeves and had not shaved, but this slightly dishevelled state served only to emphasise his physical perfection. She knew she was staring, but she could not tear her eyes away. ‘Who are you? What on earth are you doing here in this—this bedchamber? With me?’

Rafe allowed his gaze to drift over the damsel in distress. She was clutching at the sheet as if it were her last defence, looking at his coatless body as if he were half-naked, her thoughts written large on her face. He could not resist toying with her. ‘I can’t imagine. Can you?’

Henrietta gulped. The obvious answer was shockingly appealing. She was in her underwear. He looked as if he had not finished dressing. Or undressing? Did he mean it? Had they—had he? A frisson, a shiver of heat, made her close her eyes. No! She would have remembered that! Not that she had much idea what that was precisely, but she was certain that she would have remembered it. He was unforgettable.

So he was teasing her, then? Wasn’t he? She slanted him a look from under her lashes. Her gaze clashed with his and she looked hurriedly away. No. Greek gods did not descend from the heavens to seduce slightly plump young ladies with hair hanging down their backs like rats tails and smelling—Henrietta sniffed cautiously—yes, there was no getting away from it, smelling slightly of ditch water. Absolutely not. Even if they did imply …

As his gaze drifted deliberately down to where the sheet was tucked under her chin, Henrietta felt heat flood her cheeks. A quirk of his eyebrow and his eyes met hers. Her blush deepened. She felt as if she had just failed some unspoken test and couldn’t help wishing that she hadn’t. She tilted her chin defiantly. ‘Who are you?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that question? You are, after all, a guest, albeit an uninvited one, in my home.’

‘Your home?’

‘Precisely. My home. My bedchamber. My bed.’ Rafe waited, but to his surprise the young lady seemed to have done, for the moment, with acting the shrinking violet. ‘You are in Woodfield Manor,’ he conceded.

‘Woodfield Manor!’ It was the large estate that bordered her employer’s. The large estate owned by—’Good grief, are you the earl?’

‘Indeed. Rafe St Alban, the Earl of Pentland, at your service.’ Rafe made a sketchy bow.

The earl! She was in a bedchamber with the notorious earl, and she could quite see, could see very, very clearly, just exactly why his reputation was so scandalous. Henrietta clung to the bedclothes like a raft, fighting the impulse to pull them completely over her head and burrow deep down in the luxurious softness of the feather bed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I am Henrietta Markham.’ The absurdity of the situation struck her suddenly. She felt an inappropriate desire to laugh. ‘Are you sure you’re the earl, only—no, of course if you say you are, you must be.’

Rafe’s mouth twitched. ‘I’m fairly sure who I am. What makes you think I might not be?’

‘Nothing. Only—well, I did not expect—your reputation, you know …’ Henrietta felt her face colouring.

‘What reputation would that be?’ He knew perfectly well, of course, but it would be amusing to see just how, exactly, she would phrase it. There was something about her that made him want to shock. To disconcert. Perhaps it was her eyes, wide-spaced and clear-gazing, the colour of cinnamon. Or was it coffee? No, that wasn’t right, either—chocolate, perhaps?

Rafe settled himself casually on the edge of the bed. Henrietta Markham’s eyes widened, but she didn’t shrink away as he’d expected. There was just enough space between them to seem at the same time too much and not enough. He could see her breasts rising and falling more rapidly beneath the sheet.

She wasn’t what received wisdom would call beautiful. She lacked inches, for one thing, and could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as willowy. Though her skin was flawless, her mouth was too generous, her eyebrows too straight and her nose not straight enough. Yet now that some colour had returned to her cheeks and she no longer resembled a marble effigy, she was—no, definitely not beautiful, but rather disturbingly attractive. ‘What, Miss Markham, at a loss for words?’

Henrietta licked her lips. She felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. No, not a cat. Something much more dangerous. He crossed one leg over the other. Long legs. If she were sitting where he was on the edge of the bed, her feet would not touch the ground. She was not used to sitting so close to a man. Had not ever—in bed—on bed—whatever! She had not. It was—She couldn’t breathe. She was not frightened exactly, but she was intimidated. Was that his intention? Henrietta sat up straighter, resisting the impulse to scuttle over to the other side of the bed, confused by the contrary impulse to shuffle closer. Dangerously close. She decided she would not allow him the upper hand. ‘You must know perfectly well that you are notorious,’ she said, her voice sounding near enough steady for her to be quite pleased.

‘Notorious for what, precisely?’

‘Well, they say that—’ Henrietta broke off, rather unusually at a loss for words. There were grass stains on the knees of his breeches. She caught herself staring at them, wondering precisely how they had come to be there and whether they were anything to do with her. Realising he had noted her blatant gaze, she blushed yet again, pressing on. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, they say that you are—only I am sure it is nonsense, because you can’t possibly be as bad as—and in any case, you don’t look at all like I imagined one would look like,’ she said, becoming quite flustered.

‘I don’t look like what one what would look like?’ Rafe said, fighting the urge to laugh.

Henrietta swallowed. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. As if he might smile. As if he might not. Appraising, that was the word. If it was a word. Once again, she worried about being found lacking. Once again, she chided herself for such a pathetic response, but he was so overwhelmingly male, sitting far too close to her on the bed, so close that her skin tingled with awareness of his presence, forcing her to fight the urge to push him away. Or was that just an excuse to be able to touch him? That crop of raven-black hair. It looked like it would be silky-soft to the touch. Unlike the stubble on his cheek, which would be rough. ‘A rake,’ she blurted out, now thoroughly confused by her own reactions.

The word jarred. Rafe got to his feet. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Henrietta blinked up, missing the warmth of his presence, at the same time relieved that he had moved, for his expression had altered subtly. Colder. More distant, as if he had placed a wall between them. Too late, she realised that calling someone a rake to their face, even if they were a rake, wasn’t perhaps the most tactful thing to say. She squirmed.

‘Pray enlighten me, Miss Markham—what exactly does a rake look like?’

‘Well, I don’t know exactly, though I would say someone not nearly so good-looking for a start,’ Henrietta replied, saying the first thing that popped into her head in her anxiety to make up for her lapse of manners. ‘Older, too,’ she continued, unable to bear the resultant silence, ‘and probably more immoral looking. Debauched. Though to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what debauchery looks like, save that you don’t. Look debauched, I mean,’ she concluded, her voice trailing off as she realised that, far from appeasing him, the earl was looking decidedly affronted. Both his brows were drawn together now, giving him a really rather formidable expression.

‘You seem quite the expert, Miss Markham,’ Rafe said sardonically. ‘Do you speak from personal experience?’

He had propped his shoulders up against the bedpost. They were very broad. Powerful. She wondered if perhaps he boxed. If he did, he must be good, for his face showed no marks. Her face was level with his chest now. Which also looked powerful, under his shirt. He had a very flat stomach. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but men were built so very differently from women. Solid. Hard-edged. At least this man was.

Henrietta chewed on her bottom lip and tried hard not to be daunted. She wouldn’t talk to his chest, but she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Slate-grey now, not blue. She swallowed again, trying to remember what it was he’d asked her. Rakes. ‘Personal experience. Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t previously met any rakes personally, at least not to my knowledge, but Mama said—my mother told me that …’ Once again, Henrietta trailed into silence, realising that Mama would prefer not to have her past held up for inspection. ‘I have seen the evidence of their activities for myself,’ she said instead. Her voice sounded horribly defensive, but little wonder, given the way he was standing over her like an avenging angel. Henrietta bristled. ‘In the Parish Poor House.’

The earl’s expression was transformed in an instant, more devil than angel. ‘If you are implying that I have littered the countryside with my illegitimate brats, then you are mightily misinformed,’ he said icily.

Henrietta quailed. The truth was, she had heard no such thing of this particular rake, though, of course, just because she had not heard did not mean—but really, he looked far too angry to be lying. ‘If you say so,’ she said deprecatingly. ‘I did not mean to imply …’

‘None the less you did, Miss Markham. And I resent the implication.’

‘Well, it was a natural enough assumption to make, given your reputation,’ she retorted, placed firmly on the back foot, a position to which she was most unused.

‘On the contrary. One should never make assumptions until one has a full grasp of all the facts.’

‘What facts?’

‘You are, as you point out, in my bed, in your underwear, yet you have been neither ravaged nor despoiled.’

‘Haven’t I? No, of course I haven’t. I mean—do you mean that you’re not a rake, then?’

‘I am not, Miss Markham, in the habit of defending my character to you, or anyone else for that matter,’ Rafe said, no longer amused but furious. He might indeed be a rake, though he despised the term, but he was very far from being a libertine. The notion that he would wantonly sire children in pursuit of his own pleasure was a particular anathema to him. He prided himself on the fact that his rules of engagement were strict. His raking was confined to females who understood those rules, who expected nothing from him. His encounters were physical, not emotional. Innocents, even if they were wide-eyed and lying half-naked in his bed, were quite safe. Not that he was about to tell this particular innocent that.

Henrietta cowered against the pillow, taken aback by the shift in mood. If he was the rake common knowledge called him, then why should the earl take such umbrage? It was well known that all rakes were unprincipled, debauched, irresponsible….

But here her thoughts stuttered to a halt, having come full circle. He might be a rake, but he hadn’t—though perhaps that was because he didn’t find her attractive enough? A strangely deflating thought. And a ridiculous one! As if she should mind at all that a notorious rake thought so little of her that he hadn’t tried to seduce her. Which reminded her. ‘How did I come to be in your—I mean, this bed?’ she asked, grasping at this interesting and unanswered question with some relief.

‘I found you quite unconscious. I thought you were dead at first, and despite what you have been imagining, Miss Markham, I much prefer my conquests both compos mentis and willing. You can be reassured, I made no attempt to molest you. Had I done so, you would not have readily forgotten the experience. Something else I pride myself upon,’ Rafe said sardonically.

Henrietta shivered. She had absolutely no doubt that he was entitled to boast of his prowess. His look told her he had once again read her thoughts. Once again she dropped her gaze, plucking at the scalloped edge of the sheet. ‘Where did you find me?’

‘In a ditch. I rescued you from it.’

This information was so surprising that Henrietta let fall the bedclothes shielding her modesty. ‘Goodness! Really? Truly?’ She sat up quickly, forgetting all about her aching head, then sank back on to the pillows with a little moan as the pain hit her. ‘Where?’ she asked weakly. ‘I mean, where was this ditch?’

‘In the grounds of my estate.’

‘But how did I come to be there?’

‘I rather hoped you could tell me that.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’ Henrietta put her fingers carefully to the back of her head where a large lump was forming on her skull. ‘Someone hit me.’ She winced at the memory. ‘Hard. Why would someone do that?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Rafe replied. ‘Perhaps whoever it was found your judgemental attitude tedious.’ The hurt expression on her face didn’t provide the usual sense of satisfaction he experienced when one of his well-aimed barbs struck home. On this occasion something more like guilt pricked him. She really was looking quite pale, too. Perhaps Mrs Peters was right, perhaps he should have summoned the local quack. ‘Apart from the blow to the head, how are you feeling?’

The true answer was awful, but it was obvious from the falsely solicitous tone of his voice that awful was not the answer he wished to hear. ‘I’m quite well,’ Henrietta said, striving and failing to keep the edge out of her voice, ‘at least I’m sure I will be directly. You need not concern yourself unduly.’

He had been ungracious, not something that would normally bother him, but her not pointing it out somehow did. Rather too quick with her opinions she most certainly was, but Henrietta Markham was not capricious. Her frankness, when it was not rude, was refreshing.

The memory of her curves pressed against him as he had lifted her from the ditch crept unbidden into his mind. Awareness took Rafe by surprise. It irked him that he remembered so clearly. Why should he? ‘You may, of course, take as long as you require to recuperate,’ he said. ‘What I want to know right now is who hit you and, more importantly, why they abandoned you on my land.’

‘What you really mean is, why didn’t they pick somewhere less inconvenient to dump me?’ Henrietta retorted. She gasped, pressed her hand over her mouth, but it was too late, the words were out.

Rafe laughed. He couldn’t help it, she was amusing in a strange kind of way. His laugh sounded odd. He realised it was because he hadn’t heard it for such a long time. ‘Yes, you are quite right,’ he said. ‘I would have happily seen you abandoned at the very gates of Hades instead, but you are here now.’

He had a nice laugh. And though he might be ungracious, at least he was honest. She liked that. Henrietta smiled tentatively. ‘I didn’t mean to be quite so frank.’

‘You are a dreadful liar, Miss Markham.’

‘I know. I mean—Oh dear.’

‘Hoist with your own petard, I think you would call that.’

The band of pain around Henrietta’s head tightened, making her wince. ‘Touché, my lord. You want me gone, I am sure you have things to do. If I could just have a moment to collect myself, I will get dressed and be out of your way directly.’

She had turned quite pale. Rafe felt a twinge of compassion. As she had so clearly refrained from pointing out, it was not her fault she had landed on his doorstep, any more than it was his. ‘There is no rush. Perhaps if you had something to eat, you might feel a little better. Then you may remember what happened to you.’

‘I would not wish to put you out any more than I have already done,’ Henrietta said unconvincingly.

Once again, he felt his mouth quirk. ‘You are as poor a prevaricator as you are a liar. Come, the least I can do is give you breakfast before you go. Do you feel up to getting out of bed?’

He was not exactly smiling at her, but his expression had lost that hard edge, as if a smile might not be entirely beyond him. Also, she was ravenous. And he did deserve answers, if only she could come up with some. So Henrietta stoically told him that, yes, she would get out of bed, though the thought of it made her feel quite nauseous. He was already heading for the door. ‘My lord, please, wait.’

‘Yes?’ She had dropped the sheet in her anxiety to call him back. Long tendrils of chestnut hair, curling wildly, trailed over her white shoulders. Her chemise was made of serviceable white cotton. He could plainly see the ripe swell of her breasts, unconfined by stays. Rafe reluctantly dragged his gaze away.

‘My dress, where is it?’ Realising that she had dropped the sheet, Henrietta clutched it up around her neck, telling herself stoutly there was nothing to be ashamed of to be found to be wearing a plain white-cotton chemise which, after all, was clean. Nevertheless, clean or no, she couldn’t help wishing it hadn’t been quite so plain. She wondered who had removed her gown.

‘My housekeeper undressed you,’ the earl replied in answer to her unasked question. ‘Your dress was soaking wet and we did not wish you to catch a chill. I’ll lend you something until it is dry.’ He returned a few moments later with a large, and patently masculine, dressing gown, which he laid on the chair, informing her breakfast would be served in half an hour precisely, before striding purposefully out of the room.

Henrietta stared at the closed door She couldn’t fathom him. Did he want her to stay or not? Did he find her amusing? Annoying? Attractive? Irksome? All or none? She had absolutely no idea.

She should not have mentioned his reputation. Though he hadn’t exactly denied it, she could very easily see just how irresistible he could be, given that combination of looks and the indefinable something else he possessed which made her shiver. As if he was promising her something she knew she should not wish for. As if he and only he could fulfil that promise. She didn’t understand it. Surely rakes were scoundrels? Rafe St Alban didn’t look at all like a scoundrel. Rakes were not good people, yet he must have some good in him—had he not rescued her, a noble act?

She frowned. ‘I suppose the point is that they must be good at taking people in, else how could they succeed in being a rake?’ she said to herself. So was it a good thing that he hadn’t taken her in? She couldn’t make up her mind. The one thing she knew for certain was that he was most eager to be rid of her. Henrietta tried not to be mortified by that.

Perhaps he just wanted to know how she had come to be on his estate in the first place? She’d like to know that herself, she thought, touching a cautious finger to the aching lump on her head. Last night. Last night. What did she remember of last night?

That dratted pug dog of Lady Ipswich’s had run off. She’d entirely missed her dinner while looking for it, no wonder she was so hungry now. Henrietta frowned, screwing her eyes tightly shut, ignoring the dull ache inside her skull as she mentally retraced her steps. Out through the side door. The kitchen garden. Round to the side of the house. Then …

The housebreaker! ‘Oh, my goodness, the housebreaker!’ Her mind cleared, like the ripples of a pool stilling to reveal a sharp reflection. ‘Good grief! Lady Ipswich will be wondering what on earth has happened to me.’

Gingerly, Henrietta inched out of the luxurious bed and peered at the clock on the mantel. The numbers were fuzzy. It was just after eight. She opened the curtains and blinked painfully out at the sun. Morning. She had been gone all night. Her rescuer had clearly been out and about very early. In fact, now she had a chance to reflect upon it, he had had the look of a man who had not yet been to bed.

Raking, no doubt! But those shadows under his eyes spoke of a tiredness more profound than mere physical exhaustion. Rafe St Alban looked like a man who could not sleep. No wonder he was irritable, she thought, immediately feeling more charitable. Having to deal with a comatose stranger under such circumstances would have put anyone out of humour, especially if the aforementioned stranger looked like a—like a—what on earth did she look like?

There was a looking glass on top of the ornately inlaid chest of drawers in front of the window. Henrietta peered curiously into it. A streak of mud had caked on to her cheek, she was paler than normal and had a lump the size of an egg on her head, but apart from that she looked pretty much the same as always. Determinedly un-rosebuddish mouth. Eyebrows that simply refused to show even the tiniest inclination to arch. Too-curly brown hair in wild disorder. Brown eyes. And, currently in the hands of the aforementioned Mrs Peters, a brown dress.

She sighed heavily. It summed things up, really. Her whole life was various shades of brown. It was to her shame and discredit that no amount of telling herself, as Papa constantly reminded her, that there were many people in the world considerably worse off than her, made her feel any better about it. It was not that she was malcontent precisely, but she could not help thinking sometimes that there must be more to life. Though more of what, she had no idea.

‘I suppose being thumped on the head, then being left to die of exposure, to say nothing of being rescued by a devastatingly handsome earl, counts as a burst of genuine excitement,’ she told her reflection. ‘Even if he is a very reluctant knight errant with a very volatile temperament and an extremely dubious reputation.’

The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter-hour, making her jump. She could not possibly add keeping the earl from his breakfast to her other sins. Hastily, she slopped water from the jug on the nightstand into the prettily flowered china bowl and set about removing the worst of the mud from her face.

Almost precisely on time, Henrietta tripped into the breakfast parlour with her hair brushed and pinned, her body swathed in her host’s elegant dressing gown of dark green brocade trimmed with gold frogging. Even with the cuffs turned back and the gown belted tightly at her waist, it enveloped her form completely, trailing behind her like a royal robe. The idea that the material that lay next to her skin had also lain next to his naked body was unsettling. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but it could not be said she was wholly successful.

She was nervous. Seeing the breakfast table set for just two made her even more nervous. She had never before had breakfast alone with a man, save for dear Papa, which didn’t count. She had certainly never before had breakfast with a man while wearing his dressing gown. Feeling incredibly gauche and at the same time excruciatingly conscious of her body, clothed only in her underwear, handicapped by the voluminous folds of the dressing gown, Henrietta tripped into the room.

He didn’t seem to notice her at first. He was staring into space, the most melancholy expression on his face. Darkly brooding. Formidable. Starkly handsome. Her pulses fluttered. He had shaved and changed. He was wearing a clean shirt and freshly tied cravat, a tightly fitting morning coat of dark blue, and buff-coloured pantaloons with polished boots. The whole ensemble made him look considerably more earl-like and consequently considerably more intimidating. Also, even more devastatingly attractive. Henrietta plastered a faltering smile to her face and dropped into a very far from elegant and certainly not, she was sure, deep enough curtsy. ‘I must apologise, my lord, for being so remiss, I have not yet thanked you properly for rescuing me. I am very much obliged to you.’

Her voice dragged Rafe’s thoughts back from the past, where he had once again been lingering. Be dammed to the precious title and the need for an heir! Who really cared, save his grandmother, if it was inherited by some obscure third cousin twice removed? If she only knew what it had cost him already, she would soon stop harping on about it. He gazed down at Henrietta, still smiling up at him uncertainly. Holding out his hand, he helped her back to her feet. ‘I trust you feel a little better, Miss Markham. You certainly look very fetching in my robe. It is most becoming.’

‘I’m perfectly all right, all things considered,’ Henrietta said, grateful for his support as she got up from her curtsy, which had made her head swim. ‘And as for the robe, it is very gallant of you to lie, but I know I must look a fright.’

‘Frightfully nice, I’d say. And you must believe me, for I am something of an expert in these matters.’

His haunted look had disappeared. He was smiling now. Not a real smile, not one that reached his eyes, but his mouth turned up at the corners. ‘I think I’ve finally remembered what happened,’ Henrietta said.

‘Yes?’ Rafe shook his head, dispelling the ghosts that seemed to have gathered there. ‘It can wait. You look as if you need food.’

‘I am hungry—a dog made me miss my dinner.’

For the second time that morning, Rafe laughed aloud. This time it sounded less rusty. ‘Well, I am happy to inform you that there are no dogs here to make you miss your breakfast,’ he said. The dressing gown gave Henrietta Markham a winsome quality. It gaped at the neck, showing far too much creamy bosom, which she really ought to have had the decency to confine in stays. She looked as if she had just tumbled from his bed. Which in a way, she had. He realised he’d been staring and looked away, slightly disconcerted by the unexpected stirrings of arousal. Desire was usually something he could conjure up or dispense with at will.

Helping her into a seat, he sat down opposite, keeping his eyes resolutely on the food in front of him. He would feed her, find out where she had sprung from and return her there forthwith. Then he would sleep. And after that he must return to town. The meeting with his grandmother could not be postponed indefinitely. An immense malaise, grey and heavy as a November sky, loomed over him at the thought.

So he would not think of it. He need not, not just yet, while he had the convenient distraction of the really quite endearing Henrietta Markham sitting opposite him, in his dressing gown, with her tale to tell. Rafe poured her some coffee and placed a generous helping of ham on to her plate along with a baked egg and some bread and butter, helping himself to a mound of beef and a tankard of ale. ‘Eat, before you faint with hunger.’

‘This looks delicious,’ she said, gazing at her loaded plate with relish.

‘It is just breakfast.’

‘Well, I’ve never had such a nice breakfast,’ Henrietta said chirpily, at the same time, thinking be quiet! She was not usually a female who wittered, yet she sounded uncommonly like one this morning. Nerves. Yet she was not usually one to allow nerves to affect her behaviour. Off balance. He disconcerted her, that’s what it was. The situation. The dressing gown. The man. Definitely the man. This man, who was telling her, with a quizzical look that meant she’d either been muttering to herself or allowing her thoughts to be read quite clearly on her face, that it would be a nice cold breakfast unless she made a start on it.

She picked up her fork. Was he just teasing, or did he think she was an idiot? She sounded like an idiot. He had the ability to make her feel like one. Taking a bite of deliciously soft egg, she studied him covertly from under her lashes. The dark shadows were clearer now in the bright morning light that streamed through the windows. He had a strained look about his mouth. She ate some more egg and cut into a slice of York ham. He was edgy, too. Even when he smiled, it was as if he were simply going through the motions.

Clearly not happy, then. Why not, she wondered, when he had so much more than most? She longed to ask, but another glance at that countenance, and the question stuck in her throat. More than anything, Henrietta decided, what Rafe St Alban was, was opaque. She had no idea what he was thinking. It made her want, all the more, to know, yet still—quite unusually, for Henrietta had been encouraged from a very early age to speak her mind—she hesitated.

A tiny frisson, this time excitement mingled with fear, caused goose bumps to rise on the back of her neck. He was not just intimidating. He was intimidatingly attractive. What was it about him that made her feel like this? Fascinated and frightened and—as if she were a rabbit faced with a particularly tasty treat, though she knew full well it was bait. She was beginning to see Rafe St Alban’s reputation might well be deserved, after all. If he set his mind to something, she would be difficult to resist.

She shivered again and told herself not to be so foolish. He would not set his mind on her! And even if he did, knowing the type of man he was, being fully aware of his lack of morals, she would have no difficulty at all in resisting him. Not that he had made any such attempt, nor was likely to.

More to the point, why was she wasting her time thinking about such things? She had much more important matters to attend to now that she remembered the shocking events of last night. Even before that, she must attend to her stomach, else she would be fainting away, and Henrietta, who prided herself on her pragmatism, would not allow herself such an indulgence. With resolution, she turned her attention more fully to her breakfast.




Chapter Two







When they had finished eating, Rafe stood up. ‘Bring your coffee. We’ll sit by the fire, it will be more comfortable there. Then you can tell me your tale.’

Awkwardly arranging the multitudinous folds of silk around her in the wing-backed chair, Henrietta did as instructed. Across from her, Rafe St Alban disposed his long limbs gracefully, crossing one booted foot over the other. She could see the muscles of his legs move underneath the tight-fitting material of his knitted pantaloons. Such unforgiving cloth would not show to advantage on a stouter man. Or a thinner one. Or one less well built.

‘I’m a governess,’ she announced, turning her mind to the thing most likely to distract her from unaccustomed thoughts of muscled thighs, ‘to the children of Lady Ipswich, whose grounds march with yours.’

‘They do, but we are not on calling terms.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is of no relevance.’

Anyone else would have been daunted by his tone, but Henrietta’s curiosity was aroused, which made her quite oblivious. ‘But you are neighbours, surely you must—is it because she is a widow? Did you perhaps call when her husband was alive?’

‘Lord Ipswich was more of an age with my father,’ Rafe said curtly.

‘He must have been quite a bit older than his wife, then. I didn’t realise. I suppose I just assumed….’

‘As you are wont to do,’ Rafe said sardonically.

She looked at him expectantly. Her wide-eyed gaze was disconcerting. Her mouth was quite determined. Rafe sighed heavily, unused to dealing with such persistent questioning. ‘His lordship passed away under what one might call somewhat dubious circumstances, and I decided not to continue the acquaintance with his widow.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ Rafe said, wishing he had said nothing at all. The poor innocent obviously had no idea of her employer’s colourful past and he had no intention of disclosing it to her. ‘How came you to be in Helen Ipswich’s employ?’ he asked, in an attempt to divert her.

‘There was a notice in The Lady. I happened to be looking for a position and Mama said that it all looked quite respectable, so I applied.’

‘Your previous position was terminated?’

‘Oh, no, this is my first experience as a governess, though not, I hope, my last,’ Henrietta said with one of her confiding smiles. ‘I am going to be a teacher, you see, and I wished to gain some practical experience before the school opened.’ Her smile faded. ‘Though from what Mama says in her latest letter, that will be quite some time away.’

‘Your mother is opening a school?’

‘Mama and Papa together—’ Henrietta frowned ‘—at least, that is the plan, but I have to confess their plans have a habit of going awry. The school is to be in Ireland, a charitable project for the poor. Papa is a great philanthropist, you see.’

Henrietta waited expectantly, but Rafe St Alban did not seem to have a burning need to comment on Papa’s calling. ‘The problem is that while his intentions are always of the best, I’m afraid he is not very practical. He has more of a care for the soul than the body and cannot be brought to understand that, without sustenance and warmth, the poor have more pressing needs than their spiritual health, nor any interest in raising their minds to higher things. Like statues of St Francis. Or making a tapestry celebrating the life of St Anthony—he is the patron saint of the poor, you know. I told Papa that they would be better occupied making blankets,’ Henrietta said darkly, too taken up with her remembered resentment to realise that she was once again rambling, ‘but he did not take my suggestion kindly. Mama, of course, agreed with him. Mama believes that distracting the poor from their situation is the key, but honestly, how can one be distracted when one is starving, or worried that one is expecting another child when one cannot feed the other five already at home? The last thing one would want to do is stitch a figure of St Anthony voyaging to Portugal!’

‘I don’t expect many of the poor even know where Portugal is,’ Rafe said pointedly. Papa and Mama Markham sounded like the kind of do-gooders he despised.

‘Precisely,’ Henrietta said vehemently, ‘and even if they did—are you laughing at me?’

‘Would you mind if I were?’

‘No. Only I didn’t think what I was saying was particularly droll.’

‘It was the way you were saying it. You are very earnest.’

‘I have to be, else I will never be heard.’

‘So, while Mama and Papa pray for souls, you make soup—is that right?’

‘There is nothing wrong with being practical.’

‘No, there is not. If only there was more soup and less sermons in the world….’

‘My parents mean well.’

‘I’m sure they do, but my point is that meaning well is not the same as doing well. I come across many such people and—’

‘I was not aware you had a reputation for philanthropy.’

‘No, as you pointed out,’ Rafe said coldly, ‘my reputation primarily concerns my raking. Now you will tell me that one precludes the other.’

‘Well, doesn’t it?’ Henrietta demanded. Seeing his face tighten, she hesitated. ‘What I mean is, being a rake presupposes one is immoral and—’ She broke off as Rafe’s expression froze. ‘You know, I think perhaps I’ve strayed from the point a little. Are you saying that you are involved in charitable work?’

She was clearly sceptical. He told himself it didn’t matter a damn what she thought. ‘I am saying the world is not as black and white as either you or your parents seem to think.’ His involvement with his own little project at St Nicholas’s was extremely important to him, but he did not consider it to be charitable. With some difficulty, Rafe reined in his temper. What was it about this beguiling female that touched so many raw nerves? ‘You were telling me about the school your parents want to set up.’

‘Yes.’ Henrietta eyed him uncertainly. ‘Have I said something to offend you?’

‘The school, Miss Markham.’

‘Well, if—when—it opens I intend to be able to contribute in a practical sense by teaching lessons.’ Practical lessons, she added to herself, remembering Mama’s curriculum with a shudder.

‘Lessons which you are trying out on Helen Ipswich’s brats?’

‘They are not brats,’ Henrietta said indignantly. ‘They are just high-spirited boys. I’m sure you were the same at their age, wanting to be out riding rather than attending to your studies, but—’

‘At their age, my father was actively encouraging me to go out riding and ignore my lessons,’ Rafe said drily. ‘My tendency to bury my head in a book sorely disconcerted him.’

‘Goodness, were you a scholar?’

‘Another thing that you consider incompatible with being a rake, Miss Markham?’

He was looking amused again. She couldn’t keep pace with his mood swings, but she couldn’t help responding to his hint of a smile with one of her own. ‘Well, to cut a long story short, which I’m sure you’ll be most relieved to hear I intend to do, I like being a governess and I like the boys, even if their mama is a little—well—high-handed. Not that I really see that much of her, governesses clearly meriting scant attention. Anyway, I’m sure there are worse employers, and the boys do like me, and if—when—the school is opened, I am sure the experience will stand me in good stead. It is due to do so in three months or so, by which time my current charges are destined for boarding school, anyway, so hopefully they won’t miss me too much. Not anything like as much as I shall miss them.’

‘There, we must agree. Small boys, in my experience, are remarkably fickle in their loyalties.’

‘Do you think so?’ Henrietta asked brightly. ‘I think that’s a good thing, for I would not wish them to become too attached to me. What experience have you of such things? Have you brothers?’

‘No.’

His face was closed again, his expression shuttered. ‘I take it, then, that life as Helen Ipswich’s governess has fulfilled your expectations?’

‘Yes, it has served its purpose admirably.’

‘How fortunate for you. Now, if you don’t mind, we will return to the more pressing subject of how you came to be in my ditch, then you may return to these duties you enjoy so much. No doubt your employer will be wondering what has become of you.’

‘That is true. And the boys, too.’ Though the notion of returning to Lady Ipswich’s home was less appealing than it should be. Another of a rake’s skills, no doubt, to beguile you and make you want to spend time in his company. Henrietta sat up straight and tugged at the dressing-gown belt. ‘Well, then, to return to the subject, as you wish. Last night. Well, what happened last night was that I was knocked on the head by a housebreaker.’

‘A housebreaker!’

Gratified by her host’s reaction, which was for once just exactly what she had anticipated, Henrietta nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, indeed. At least,’ she added, incurably truthful, ‘I am almost certain that is what he was, though I didn’t actually see him steal anything. I was looking for Lady Ipswich’s horrible dog, you see.’

‘The dog who deprived you of your dinner?’

‘The very same. I heard a noise coming from the shrubbery, so I went to investigate it, thinking, you know, it might be Princess—that’s the pug’s name—and then I heard glass breaking. I held up the lantern and saw him as clear as day for just a split second, then he leapt at me and hit me on the head. The next thing I remember is waking up here.’

Rafe shook his head slowly. ‘But that’s nonsensical. Even if it was a housebreaker, why on earth would he go to the trouble of taking you with him? It takes time and effort to heft a body on to a horse.’

Henrietta coloured. ‘I am aware that I am not exactly a featherweight.’

‘That is not at all what I meant. It is women who consider stick-thinness the essence of beauty. Men actually prefer quite the opposite. I find your figure most pleasing on the eye.’ Rafe was not in the habit of encouraging young ladies with compliments, for they were likely to be misconstrued, but Henrietta Markham was so different from any young lady he had ever met that he spoke without considering the effect his words would have. ‘It was no hardship to get you on to my horse. I meant merely it would be awkward if the man were slight, or elderly.’

Or one less muscled, Henrietta thought, her gaze lingering on her host’s powerful physique. It hadn’t occurred to her until now to wonder how, exactly, he had retrieved her from the ditch. Had he pulled her by the wrist or the ankle? Held her chest to chest, or maybe thrown her over his shoulders? And when she was on his horse, was she on her front with her bottom sticking up? With her petticoats on show? Her ankles? Worse? Feigning heat from the fire, she frantically fanned her face.

Rafe followed the train of her thoughts with relative ease, mirrored as they were in her expressive face, recognising the exact moment when she tried to imagine how she had been placed on Thor’s saddle. Unfortunately, it turned his mind also to that moment. He had lain her crossways on her stomach with her bottom pointed provocatively up to the sky. Her dress had ridden up a little, exposing her ankles and calves. At the time, he had not been aware of noticing. Yet now, in his mind’s eye, he found he could dwell appreciatively on the inviting curves of her voluptuous body as if he had drunk in every inch of her.

‘Why,’ he said tersely, reining in his imagination, once again disconcerted by having to do so, ‘having gone to all that effort to abduct you, did your housebreaker then change his mind and abandon you in my grounds?’

‘I don’t know,’ Henrietta replied. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, I can see that. Perhaps he had evil designs upon my person and then changed his mind when he got a better look at me,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘If that was the case, then his taste was quite at fault,’ Rafe said impulsively, bestowing upon her his real smile.

It quite transformed his face. Henrietta blushed rosily, but even as she struggled for a response, the smile was gone, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Utterly confused, she folded her arms defensively. ‘You don’t really believe a word I’ve said, do you?’

The dressing gown gaped. Rafe caught a glimpse of creamy flesh spilling from a plain white cotton undergarment. The rake in him would have allowed his glance to linger. He wanted to look, but it was his wanting that made him look resolutely away. Nothing touches you any more. The memory of his friend Lucas’s words made Rafe smile bitterly to himself. True, thank God, if you didn’t count the all-pervading guilt. He had worked very hard to ensure it was so and that was exactly how he intended it to continue. Wanting was no longer part of his emotional make-up. Wanting Henrietta Markham, he told himself sternly, was completely out of the question.

‘You have to admit that it sounds a tall tale,’ he said to her, his voice made more dismissive by the need to offset his thoughts, ‘but my opinion is of little importance. I would have thought the more pressing issue for you is whether or not Lady Ipswich believes you.’ He got to his feet purposefully. Henrietta Markham had been a very beguiling distraction, but the time had come to put an end to this extraordinary interlude and for them both to return to the real world. ‘I will arrange for you to be taken back in my carriage. Your dress should be dry by now.’ He pulled the bell rope to summon the housekeeper.

Henrietta scrabbled to her feet. He was quite plainly bored by the whole matter. And by her. She should not be surprised. She should certainly not feel hurt. She was, after all, just a lowly governess with a preposterous story; he was an earl with an important life and no doubt a string of beautiful women with whom to carry on his dalliances. Women who didn’t wear brown dresses and who most certainly didn’t lie around waiting to be pulled out of ditches. ‘I must thank you again for rescuing me,’ she said in what she hoped was a curt voice, though she suspected it sounded rather huffy. ‘Please forgive me for taking up quite so much of your time.’

‘It was a pleasure, Miss Markham, but a word of warning before you go.’ Rafe tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger. Her eyes were liquid bronze. Really, quite her most beautiful feature. He met her gaze coolly, though he didn’t feel quite as cool as he should. He wasn’t used to having his equilibrium disturbed. ‘Don’t expect to be lauded as a heroine,’ he said softly. ‘Helen Ipswich is neither a very credulous nor a particularly kind person.’ He took her hand, just brushing the back of it with his lips. ‘Good luck, Henrietta Markham, and goodbye. If you return to your room, I’ll send Mrs Peters up with your dress. She will also see you out.’

He could not resist pressing his lips to her hand. She tasted delightful. The scent of her and the feel of her skin on his mouth shot a dart of pleasure to his groin. He dropped her hand abruptly, turned on his heels and left without a backward glance.

Just the faintest touch of his mouth on her skin, but she could feel it there still. Henrietta lifted her hand to her cheek and held it there until the tingling faded. It took a long time before it finally did.

Molly Peters, Rafe’s long-suffering housekeeper, was an apple-shaped woman with rosy cheeks. Her husband, Albert, who alone was permitted to call her his little pippin, was head groom. Molly had started service in the previous earl’s day as a scullery maid, ascending by way of back parlourmaid, chambermaid and front parlourmaid, before eventually serving, briefly and unhappily, as lady’s maid to the last countess. Upon her ladyship’s untimely death, Master Rafe had appointed Molly to the heady heights of housekeeper, with her own set of keys and her own parlour.

Running the household was a task Molly Peters undertook with pride and carried out extremely competently. Indeed, she would have executed it with gusto had she been given the opportunity, but even when the last countess had been alive, Woodfield Manor had seldom been used as a residence. As a result, Mrs Peters had little to do and was frankly a little bored. Henrietta’s unorthodox arrival provided some welcome excitement and consequently induced an unaccustomed garrulousness in the usually reserved housekeeper.

‘I’ve known Master Rafe all his life, since he was a babe,’ she said in answer to Henrietta’s question. ‘A bonny babe he was, too, and so clever.’

‘He has certainly retained his looks,’ Henrietta ventured, struggling into her newly brushed, but none the less indisputably brown dress.

Mrs Peters pursed her lips. ‘Certainly, he has no shortage of admirers,’ she said primly. ‘A man like Lord Pentland, with those looks and the Pentland title behind him, to say nothing of the fact that he’s as rich as Croesus, will always attract the ladies, but the master is—well, miss, the truth is …’ She looked over her shoulder, as if Rafe would suddenly appear in the bedchamber. ‘Truth is, he’s the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, as my Albert puts it, though I say there’s little loving and a darn sight more leaving. I don’t know why I’m telling you this except you seem such a nice young lady and it wouldn’t do to—But then, he’s not a libertine, if you know what I mean.’

Henrietta tried to look knowledgeable, though in truth she wasn’t exactly sure she understood the distinction between rake and libertine. Certainly Mama had never made one. She was attempting to formulate a question that would persuade Mrs Peters to enlighten her without revealing her own ignorance when the housekeeper heaved a huge sigh and clucked her teeth. ‘He wasn’t always like that, mind. I blame that wife of his.’

‘He’s married!’ Henrietta’s jaw dropped with shock. ‘I didn’t know.’ But why should she? Contrary to what his lordship thought, Henrietta was not a great one for gossip. Generally speaking, she closed her ears to it, which is why Rafe St Alban’s accusations had hurt. In fact, she had only become aware of his reputation recently, a chance remark of her employer’s having alerted her. But if he was married, it made his behaviour so much worse. Somewhat irrationally, Henrietta felt a little betrayed, as if he had lied to her, even though it was actually none of her business. ‘I hadn’t heard mention of a wife,’ she said.

‘That’s because she’s dead,’ Mrs Peters replied quietly. ‘Five years ago now.’

‘So he’s a widower!’ He looked even less like one of those. ‘What happened? How did she die? When did they marry? Was he—did they—was it a love match? Was he devastated?’ The questions tripped one after another off her tongue. Only the astonished look on Mrs Peters’s face made her stop. ‘I am just curious,’ Henrietta said lamely.

Mrs Peters eyed her warily. ‘Her name was Lady Julia. I’ve said more than enough already, the master doesn’t like her to be talked about. But if you’re ready to go, I can show you a likeness of her on the way out, if you want.’

The portrait hung in the main vestibule. The subject was depicted gazing meditatively into the distance, her willowy figure seated gracefully on a rustic swing bedecked with roses. ‘Painted the year she died, that was,’ Mrs Peters said.

‘She is—was—very beautiful,’ Henrietta said wistfully.

‘Oh, she was lovely, no doubt about that,’ Mrs Peters said, ‘though handsome is as handsome does.’

‘What do you mean?’

Mrs Peters looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’

‘How long were they married?’

‘Six years. Master Rafe was only a boy, not even twenty, when they were wed. She was a few years older than him. It makes a difference at that age,’ Mrs Peters said.

‘How so?’

Mrs Peters shook her head. ‘Don’t matter now. As Albert says, what’s done is done. The carriage will be waiting for you, miss.’

Henrietta took a final look at the perfect features of the elegant woman depicted in the portrait. There could be no denying the Countess of Pentland’s beauty, but there was a calculating hardness in the eyes she could not like, a glittering perfection to her appearance that made Henrietta think of polished granite. For some ridiculous reason, she did not like to imagine Rafe St Alban in love with this woman.

Taking leave of the housekeeper, she made her way down the front steps to the waiting coach, unable to stop herself looking back just in case the earl had changed his mind and deigned to say farewell to her himself. But there was no sign of him.

A large fountain dominated the courtyard, consisting of four dolphins supporting a statue of Neptune. Modelled on Bernini’s Triton fountain in Rome, Henrietta’s inner governess noted. Beyond the fountain, reached by a broad sweep of steps, pristine flower beds and immaculate lawns stretched into the distance. Like the house she had just left, the grounds spoke eloquently of elegance, taste and wealth.

The contrast with her own childhood home could not be more stark. The ramshackle house in which she had been raised was damp, draughty and neglected. A lack of funds, and other, more pressing priorities saw to that. Any spare money her parents had went to good causes. An unaccustomed gust of homesickness assailed Henrietta. Hopelessly inept her parents might be, but they always meant well. They always put others first, even if the others weren’t at all grateful. Even if it meant their only child coming last. Still, she never doubted that they loved her. She missed them.

But she had never been one to repine her lot. Henrietta straightened her shoulders and climbed into the waiting coach with its crest emblazoned on the door, already preparing herself for the forthcoming, almost certainly difficult, interview with her employer.

Rafe watched her departure from his bedroom window. Poor Henrietta Markham, it was unlikely in the extreme that Helen Ipswich would thank her for attempting to intervene—if that is what she really had done. He felt oddly uncomfortable at having allowed her to return on her own like a lamb to the slaughter. But he was not a shepherd and rescuing innocent creatures from Helen Ipswich’s clutches was not his responsibility.

As the carriage pulled off down the driveway, Rafe left the window, stripped off his boots and coat, and donned his dressing gown. Sitting by the fireside, a glass of brandy in hand, he caught Henrietta’s elusive scent still clinging to the silk. A long chestnut hair lay on the sleeve.

She had been a pleasant distraction. Unexpectedly desirable, too. That mouth. Those delectable curves.

But she was gone now. And later today, so too would he be. Back to London. Rafe took a sip of brandy. Two weeks ago he had turned thirty. Just over twelve years now since he had inherited the title, and almost five years to the day since he had become a widower. More than enough time to take up the reins of his life again, his grandmother, the Dowager Countess, chided him on a tediously regular basis. In a sense she was right, but in another she had no idea how impossible was her demand. The emotional scars he bore ran too deep for that. He had no desire at all to risk inflicting any further damage to his already battered psyche.

He took another, necessary, sip of brandy. The time had come. His grandmother would have to be made to relinquish once and for all any notion of a direct heir, though how he was going to convince her without revealing the unpalatable truth behind his reluctance, the terrible guilty secret that would haunt him to the grave, was quite another matter.

By the time the coach drew up at her employer’s front door, Henrietta’s natural optimism had reasserted itself. Whatever Rafe St Alban thought, she had tried to prevent a theft; even if she hadn’t actually succeeded, she could describe the housebreaker and that was surely something of an achievement. Entering the household, she was greeted by an air of suppressed excitement. The normally hangdog footman goggled at her. ‘Where have you been?’ he whispered. ‘They’ve been saying—’

‘My lady wishes to see you immediately,’ the butler interrupted.

‘Tell her I’ll be with her as soon as I’ve changed my clothes, if you please.’

‘Immediately,’ the butler repeated firmly.

Henrietta ascended the stairs, her heart fluttering nervously. Rafe St Alban had a point—her story did seem extremely unlikely. Reminding herself of one of Papa’s maxims, that she had nothing to fear in telling the truth, she straightened her back and held her head up proudly, but as she tapped on the door she was horribly aware of the difference between speaking the truth and actually being able to prove it.

Lady Helen Ipswich, who admitted to twenty-nine of her forty years, was in her boudoir. She had been extremely beautiful in her heyday and took immense pains to preserve the fragile illusion of youthful loveliness. In the flattering glow of candlelight, she almost succeeded. Born plain Nell Brown, she had progressed through various incarnations, from actress, to high flyer, to wife and mother—in point of fact, her first taste of motherhood had preceded her marriage by some fifteen years. This interesting piece of information was known only to herself, the child’s adoptive parents and the very expensive accoucheur who attended the birth of her official ‘first-born’, Lord Ipswich’s heir.

After seven years of marriage, Lady Ipswich had settled contentedly into early widowhood. Her past would always bar her from the more hallowed precincts of the haut ton. She had wisely never attempted to obtain vouchers for Almack’s. Her neighbour, the Earl of Pentland, would never extend her more than the commonest of courtesies and the curtest of bows. But as the relic of a peer of the realm, and with two legitimate children to boot, she had assumed a cloak of respectability effective enough to fool most unacquainted with her past—her governess included.

As to the persistent rumours that she had, having drained his purse, drained the life-blood from her husband, well, they were just that—rumours. The ageing Lord Ipswich had succumbed to an apoplexy. That it had occurred in the midst of a particularly energetic session in the marital bedchamber simply proved that Lady Ipswich had taken her hymeneal duties seriously. Her devotion to the wifely cause had, quite literally, taken his lordship’s breath away. Murder? Certainly not! Indeed, how could it be when at least five men of her intimate acquaintance had begged her—two on bended knee—to perform the same service for them. To date, she had refused.

The widow was at her toilette when Henrietta entered, seated in front of a mirror in the full glare of the unforgiving morning sun. The dressing table was a litter of glass jars and vials containing such patented aids to beauty as Olympian Dew and Denmark Lotion, a selection of perfumes from Messrs Price and Gosnell, various pots of rouge, eyelash tints and lip salves, a tangle of lace and ribbons, hair brushes, a half-empty vial of laudanum, several tortoiseshell combs, a pair of tweezers and numerous cards of invitation.

As Henrietta entered the room, Lady Ipswich was peering anxiously into her looking glass, having just discovered what looked alarmingly like a new wrinkle on her brow. At her age, and with her penchant for younger men, she could not be too careful. Only the other day, one of her lovers had commented that the unsightly mark left by the ribbon that tied her stockings had not faded by the time she rose to dress. Her skin no longer had the elastic quality of youth. He had paid for his bluntness, but still!

Finally satisfied with her reflection and her coiffure, she turned to face Henrietta. ‘So, you have deigned to return,’ she said coldly. ‘Do you care to explain yourself and your absence?’

‘If you remember, ma’am, I went looking for Princess. I see she found her way back unaided.’

The pug, hearing her name, looked up from her pink-velvet cushion by the fireside and growled. Lady Ipswich hastened to pick the animal up. ‘No thanks to you, Miss Markham.’ She tickled the dog under the chin. ‘You’re a clever little Princess, aren’t you? Yes, you are,’ she said, before fixing Henrietta with a baleful stare. ‘You should know that while you were off failing to find my precious Princess, the house was broken into. My emeralds have been stolen.’

‘The Ipswich emeralds!’ Henrietta knew them well. They were family heirlooms and extremely distinctive. Lady Ipswich was inordinately fond of them and Henrietta had much admired them herself.

‘Gone. The safe was broken into and they were taken.’

‘Good heavens.’ Henrietta clutched the back of a flimsy filigree chair. The man who had abducted her was clearly no common housebreaker, but a most daring and outrageous thief indeed. And she had encountered him. More, could identify him. ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said faintly. ‘He did not look at all like the sort of man who would attempt such a shocking crime. In actual fact, he looked as if he would be more at home picking pockets in the street.’

Now it was Lady Ipswich’s turn to pale. ‘You saw him?’

Henrietta nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed, my lady. That explains why he hit me. If he were to be caught, he would surely hang for his crime.’ As the implications began to dawn on her, Henrietta’s knees gave way. He really had left her for dead. If Rafe St Alban had not found her … Muttering an apology, she sank down on to the chair.

‘What did he look like? Describe him to me,’ Lady Ipswich demanded.

Henrietta furrowed her brow. ‘He was quite short, not much taller than me. He had an eyepatch. And an accent. From the north somewhere. Liverpool, perhaps? Quite distinctive.’

‘You would know him again if you saw him?’

‘Oh, I have no doubt about that. Most certainly.’

Lady Ipswich began to pace the room, clasping and unclasping her hands. ‘I have already spoken to the magistrate,’ she said. ‘He has sent for a Bow Street Runner.’

‘They will wish to interview me. I may even be instrumental in having him brought to justice. Goodness!’ Henrietta put a trembling hand to her forehead in an effort to stop the feeling of light-headedness threatening to engulf her.

With a snort of disdain, Lady Ipswich thrust a silver vial of sal volatile at her, then continued with her pacing, muttering all the while to herself. Henrietta took a cautious sniff of the smelling salts before hastily replacing the stopper. Her head had begun to ache again and she felt sick. It was one thing to play a trivial part in a minor break-in, quite another to have a starring role in sending a man to the gallows. Oh God, she didn’t want to think about that.

‘You said he hit you?’ Lady Ipswich said abruptly, fixing her with a piercing gaze.

Henrietta’s hand instinctively went to the tender lump on her head. ‘He knocked me out and carried me off. I have been lying unconscious in a ditch.’

‘No one else saw him, or you, for that matter?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘In fact,’ Lady Ipswich said, turning on Henrietta with an enigmatic smile, ‘I have only your word for what happened.’

‘Well, yes, but the emeralds are missing, and the safe was broken into, and so—’

‘So the solution is obvious,’ Lady Ipswich declared triumphantly.

Henrietta stared at her blankly. ‘Solution?’

‘You, Miss Markham, are quite patently in league with the thief!’

Henrietta’s jaw dropped. Were she not already sitting down, she would have collapsed. ‘I?’

‘It was you who told him the whereabouts of the safe. You who let him into my house and later broke the glass on the window downstairs to fake a break-in. You who smuggled my poor Princess out into the night in order to prevent her from raising the alarm.’

‘You think—you truly think—no, you can’t possibly. It’s preposterous.’

‘You are his accomplice.’ Lady Ipswich nodded to herself several times. ‘I see it now, it is the only logical explanation. No doubt he looks nothing like this lurid description you gave me. An eyepatch indeed! You made it up to put everyone off the scent. Well, Miss Markham, let me tell you that there are no flies on Nell—I mean, Helen Ipswich. I am on to you and your little game, and so, too, will be the gentleman from Bow Street who is making his way here from London as we speak.’ Striding over to the fireplace, she rang the bell vigorously. ‘You shall be confined to your room until he arrives. You are also summarily dismissed from my employ.’

Henrietta gaped. A huge part of her, the rational part, told her it was all a silly misunderstanding that could be easily remedied, but there was another part that reminded her of her lowly position, of the facts as they must seem to her employer, of the way that Rafe St Alban had reacted to her story. What she said wasn’t really that credible. And she had no proof to back it up. Not a whit. Absolutely none.

‘Did you hear me?’

Henrietta stumbled to her feet. ‘But, madam, my lady, I beg of you, you cannot possibly think …’

‘Get out,’ Lady Ipswich demanded, as the door opened to reveal the startled butler. ‘Get out and do not let me see you again until the Runner comes. I cannot believe I have been harbouring a thief and a brazen liar under my roof.’

‘I am not a thief and I am most certainly not a liar.’ Outrage at the accusations bolstered Henrietta’s courage. She never told even the tiniest, whitest lie. Papa had raised her to believe in absolute truth at all costs. ‘I would never, ever do such an underhand and dishonest thing,’ she said, her voice shaking with emotion.

Lady Ipswich coldly turned her back on her. Henrietta shook her head in confusion. She felt woozy. There was a rushing sound like a spate of water in her ears. Her fingers were freezing as she clasped them together in an effort to stop herself shaking. She wished she hadn’t left the sal volatile on the chair. ‘When he hears the truth of the matter, the magistrate—Runner—whatever—they will believe me. They will.’

Lady Ipswich’s laugh tinkled like shattering glass as she eyed her former governess contemptuously. ‘Ask yourself, my dear, whose version are they more likely to believe, yours or mine?’

‘But Lord Pentland …’

Lady Ipswich’s eyes narrowed. ‘What, prey, has Lord Pentland to do with this?’

‘Merely that it was he who found me. It was his carriage which brought me back.’

‘You told Rafe St Alban this ridiculous tale of being kidnapped?’ Lady Ipswich’s voice rose to what would be described in a less titled lady as a shriek. Her face was once again drained of colour.

Henrietta eyed her with dismay. Her employer had not the sweetest of tempers, but she was not normally prone to such dramatic mood swings. The loss of the heirloom had obviously overset her, she decided, as her ladyship retrieved the smelling salts, took a deep sniff and sneezed twice. ‘It is not a ridiculous tale, my lady, it is the truth.’

‘What did he make of it?’ Lady Ipswich snapped.

‘Lord Pentland? He—he …’ He had warned her. She realised that now, that’s what he meant when he told her not to expect to be treated as a heroine. ‘I don’t think—I don’t know exactly what he thought, but I suspect he didn’t believe me, either,’ Henrietta admitted reluctantly.

Lady Ipswich nodded several times. ‘Lord Pentland clearly attaches as much credence to your tale as I do. You are disgraced, Miss Markham, and I have found you out. Now get out of my sight.’




Chapter Three







Wearily climbing the stairs to her attic room, Henrietta struggled with the resentment that welled up in her breast. She was furious and shocked, but also ashamed—for soon it would be common knowledge in the household. Most of all, though, she was petrified.

Sitting on the narrow bed in her room on the third floor, she stared blindly at the opposite wall while pulling a perfectly good cotton handkerchief to shreds. She had been dismissed from her post. Lady Ipswich had branded her a thief. Heaven knows what Rafe St Alban would make of that. Not that it mattered what Rafe St Alban thought. Not that he’d actually give her a second thought, anyway, except maybe to congratulate himself for not becoming embroiled.

‘Oh, merciful heavens! If I am brought to trial, he would be called as a witness.’ He’d see her clapped in irons in the dock, wearing rags and probably with gaol fever. She knew all about gaol fever. Maisy Masters, who had been teaching her how to make jam from rosehips, had described it in lurid detail. Maisy’s brother had spent six months in prison awaiting trial for poaching. Normally the most taciturn of women, Maisy had been almost too forthcoming on the subject of gaol fever. There was the rash. Then there was the cough and the headaches and the fever. Then there were the sores caused by sleeping on fetid straw and being bitten by fleas. Oh God, and the smells. She would smell in the dock. Maisy told her that the lawyers all carried vials of perfume, it was so bad. She would be shamed. Even if she was found innocent, she would be ruined. And if she was not found innocent, she might even be headed for the scaffold. Maisy had told her all about that, too, though she’d tried very hard not to listen. They would sell pamphlets with lurid descriptions of her heinous crime; they would come to watch her, to cheer her last few moments. Mama and Papa would …

Deep breaths.

‘Mama and Papa are in Ireland,’ she reminded herself, ‘and therefore blissfully unaware of my plight.’ Which was a blessing, for the moment, at least.

More deep breaths.

They wouldn’t find out. They wouldn’t ever know. They absolutely could not ever be allowed to know. She must, simply must, find a way to clear her name before they returned to England. Even more importantly, she must find a way to avoid actually being clapped in irons, because once she was in gaol she had no chance of tracking down the real culprit.

Though how she was going to do that she had no idea. ‘No matter how you look at it,’ she said to herself, ‘the situation does not look good. Not good at all.’ Just because she had truth on her side did not mean that justice would automatically follow. Malicious or not, Lady Ipswich’s version of events had an authentic ring. And she had influence, too.

‘Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.’ Henrietta sniffed woefully. She would not cry. She would not. Blinking frantically and sniffing loudly, she wandered about the confines of her bedchamber. She stared out of the casement window on to the kitchen gardens and wondered who was looking after her charges. They would be missing her. Or perhaps Rafe St Alban was right and they would quickly forget her. Though perhaps she would be too notorious for them to forget about her, once they heard that she was a thief. Or in league with one. Worse. Boys being boys, they might even admire her in a misguided way. What kind of example was that to set? She must speak to them somehow, explain. Oh God, what was she to do? What on earth was she to do?

Helplessly, Henrietta sank down once more upon the bed. Perhaps by tomorrow Lady Ipswich would have come to her senses. But tomorrow—maybe even by the end of today—would come the Bow Street Runner. And he would take her away to gaol until the next Quarterly Assizes, which were almost two full months away. She could not wait two full months to clear her name. And even if she did, how could she hope to do so with no money to pay anyone to speak on her behalf? She didn’t even know if she was permitted to employ a lawyer and, even if she was, she had absolutely no idea how to go about finding one. The authorities would most likely summon Papa, too, and then …

‘No!’ She couldn’t stay here. Whatever happened, she couldn’t just sit here and meekly await her fate. She had to get out. Away. Now!

Without giving herself any more time to think, Henrietta grabbed her bandbox from the cupboard and began to throw her clothes into it willy-nilly. She had few possessions, but as she sat on the lid in a futile effort to make it close, she decided she must make do with fewer still. Her second-best dress was abandoned and the bandbox finally fastened.

She spent a further half-hour composing a note to her charges. In the end, it was most unsatisfactory, simply begging their forgiveness for her sudden departure, bidding them stick to their lessons and not to think ill of her, no matter what they heard.

It was by now well past noon. The servants would be at their dinner. Lady Ipswich would be in her boudoir. Tying the ribbons of her plain-straw poke bonnet in a neat bow under her chin, Henrietta draped her cloak around her shoulders and cautiously opened the door.

Stealing down the steps in a manner quite befitting the housebreaker’s accomplice she was purported to be, she slipped through a side door into the kitchen garden and thence on to the gravelled path that led from the stables, without once allowing herself to look back. At the gates she turned on to the road that led to the village. A short distance further on, Henrietta sat down on an inviting tree trunk with her back to the road and indulged in a hearty bout of tears.

She was not given to self-pity, but at this moment she felt she was entitled to be just a little sorry for herself. Already she was regretting her impulsive behaviour. All very well to make her escape with some vague idea of clearing her name, but how, exactly, did she propose to do that?

The dispiriting truth was that she had no idea. ‘And now that I have run away, they will think it simply confirms my guilt,’ she said to her shoe. A large tear splashed on to the ground. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ she muttered, sniffing valiantly.

She had not a soul in the world to turn to. Her only relative, as far as she knew, was Mama’s sister; Henrietta could hardly turn up on the doorstep of an aunt whom she had never met and introduce herself as her long-lost niece and a fugitive from the law, to boot. Besides, there was the small matter of the rift between Mama and her sibling. They had not spoken for many years. No, that was not an option.

But she could not go back, either. She had been badly shaken by the ease with which her employer had accepted her guilt, and that, on top of Rafe St Alban’s scepticism, made her question whether anyone would take her side without proof. No, there was no going back. The only way was forwards. And the only path she could think of taking was to London. Such distinctive jewellery must be got rid of somehow and London was surely the place. She would head to the city. And once there she would—she would—Oh, she would think about that, once she was on her way.

What she needed to think about now was how to get there. Henrietta rummaged in her bandbox for her stocking purse and carefully counted out the total of her wealth, which came to the grand sum of eight shillings and sixpence. She gazed at the small mound of coins, wondering vaguely if it was enough to pay for a seat on the mail, realised she would be better keeping her money to pay for a room at an inn, returned them to the purse and got wearily to her feet. She could not remain on this tree trunk for ever. Picking up her bandbox, with the vague idea of obtaining a ride in the direction of the metropolis, she set off down the road towards the village.

The fields that bordered the wayside were freshly tilled and planted with hops and barley, sprouting green and lush. The hedgerows, where honeysuckle and clematis rioted among the briars of the blackberries, whose white flowers were not yet unfurled, provided her with occasional shade from the sun shining bright in the pale blue of the early summer sky. The landscape undulated gently. The air was rent with birdsong. It was a lovely day. A lovely day to be a fugitive from justice, she thought bitterly

For the first mile, she made good progress, her head full of fantastical schemes for the recovery of Lady Ipswich’s necklace. The illicit hours she had devoted to reading the novels of the Minerva Press had not been entirely wasted. Before long, however, reality intervened. The straps from her bandbox were cutting into her hand; her cloak, the only outerwear she possessed, was designed for the depths of winter, not to be combined with a woollen dress in early summer. Her face was decidedly red under her bonnet and she could not conceive how such a few necessities as she carried could come to weigh so much. A pretty copse, where foxgloves and the last of the bluebells made vivid splashes of colour, failed to fill her with admiration for the abundant joys of nature. She was not in the mood to appreciate rural perfection. In fact, it would not be inaccurate to say that Henrietta’s temper was sadly frayed.

By the time she finally approached her destination she was convinced she had a blister on her foot where a small pebble had lodged inside her shoe, her shoulders ached, her head thumped and she wanted nothing more than a cool drink and a rest in a darkened room.

The King George was a ramshackle inn situated at a crossroads on the outer reaches of Woodfield village. The weathered board, with its picture of the poor mad king, creaked on rusted hinges by the entrance to the yard, where a mangy dog lazily scratched its ear beside a bale of hay. Dubiously inspecting the huddle of badly maintained buildings that constituted the hostelry, Henrietta was regaled by a burst of hearty male laughter that echoed out from behind the shuttered windows. Not a place to trust the sheets, never mind the clientele, she concluded. Her heart sank.

The front door gave straight into the taproom, which she had not expected. The hushed silence that greeted her entrance proved that she had taken the patrons equally by surprise. For a moment, Henrietta, clutching her cloak around her, stared at the sea of faces in front of her like a small animal caught in a trap and the men stared back as if she were a creature fished from the deep. Her courage almost failed her.

When the landlord asked her gruffly what she wanted, her voice came out in a whisper. His answer was disappointing. The mail was not due until tomorrow. The accommodation coach was fully booked for the next two days. He looked at her curiously. Why hadn’t she thought to enquire ahead? Was her business in London urgent? If so, he could probably get her a ride with one of his customers as far as the first posting inn, where she could pick up the Bristol coach that evening.

Suddenly horribly aware that the less people who knew of her whereabouts, the better, Henrietta declined this invitation and informed the landlord that she had changed her mind. She was not going to London, she informed him. She was definitely not going to London.

With a mumbled apology, she retreated back out of the front door and found herself in the stable yard, where a racing carriage was tethered, the horses fidgeting nervously. There was no sign of the driver. The phaeton was painted dark glossy green, the spokes of its four high wheels trimmed with gold, but there were otherwise no distinguishing marks. No coat of arms. The horses were a perfectly matched pair of chestnuts. Such a fine equipage must surely be London-bound.

Henrietta eyed it nervously, a reckless idea forming in her head. The seat seemed a very long way from the ground. The rumble seat behind, upon which was stowed a portmanteau and a large blanket, was not much lower. The hood of the phaeton was raised, presumably because the owner anticipated rain. If he did not look at the rumble seat—and why would he?—then he would not see her. If she did not take this chance, who knew what other would present itself? The spectres of the Bow Street Runner and Maisy Masters’s tales of prison loomed before her. Without giving herself time to think further, Henrietta scrambled on to the rear seat of the carriage, clutching her bandbox. Crouching down as far as she could under the rumble seat itself, she pulled the blanket over her and waited.

She did not have to wait long. Just a few minutes later, she felt the carriage lurch as its driver climbed aboard and almost immediately urged the horses forwards. Only one person? Straining her ears, she could hear nothing above the jangle of the tack and the rumbling of the wheels. The carriage swung round past the front of the King George and headed at a trot out of the village. Sneaking a peak out of the blanket, she thought they were headed in the right direction, but could not be sure. As they hit a deep rut in the road, she only just stopped herself from crying out and clutched frantically at the edge of the rumble seat to stop herself from tumbling on to the road.

The driver loosened his hold on the reins and cracked the whip. The horses made short work of quitting the environs of Woodfield village. As they bowled along, Henrietta tried to subdue a rising panic. What had she done? She could not be at all sure they were headed towards London and had no idea at all who was driving her. He might be angry when he discovered her. He might simply abandon her in the middle of nowhere. Or worse! She did not want to think about what worse was. Oh God, she had been a complete idiot.

The carriage picked up speed. Hedgerows fragrant with rosehip and honeysuckle flew past in a blur as she peered out from under her blanket. Beyond, the landscape was vibrant with fields of swaying hops. She glimpsed an oast house, its conical roof so reminiscent of a witch’s hat. They passed through a village, no more than a cluster of thatched cottages surrounding a water mill. Then another. Farms. The occasional farmer’s cart rumbled past heading in the opposite direction. On a clear stretch of road, they overtook an accommodation coach with a burst of acceleration that had Henrietta grabbing on to the sides of the phaeton. The driver of the coach raised his whip in acknowledgement.

Jolted and bruised, cramped and sore, her head aching again, Henrietta clung to the seat and clung also to the one reassuring fact, that at least she had avoided Lady Ipswich’s Bow Street Runner. She found little else to console her as they sped on through unfamiliar countryside and soon gave up trying. The events of the past twenty-four hours finally took their toll. Exhausted, shocked, bruised and confused, Henrietta fell into a fitful dose.

When she awoke, it was to find that the carriage had slowed. They seemed to be following a river, and it seemed wide enough to surely be the Thames. She tried to stretch, but her limbs had gone into a cramp. She was weighing up the risks of emerging from under the seat when they turned off the road through a gap in the hedgerow.

A swathe of grass rolled down to the wide, slow-moving river. Henrietta’s heart began to pound very hard and very loud—so loud she was sure it could be heard. Should she huddle down further or make a break for it? Should she stay to brazen it out, perhaps even request to be allowed to complete the journey? Or should she take her chances with her very limited funds and even more limited knowledge of where she was?

The chassis tilted as the driver leapt down. He was tall. She caught a glimpse of a beaver hat before he disappeared round to the front of the horses, leading them down to the water and tethering them there. It was now or never, while he was tending to them, but panic made her freeze. Get out, get out, she chided herself, but her limbs wouldn’t move.

‘What the devil!’

The blanket was yanked back. Henrietta blinked up at the figure looming over her.

He was just as tall and dark and handsome as she remembered; he was looking at her as if she were every bit as unwelcome an intrusion into his life as she had been this morning. ‘Lord Pentland.’

‘Miss Markham, we meet again. What the hell are you doing in my carriage?’

Her mouth seemed to have dried up, like her words. Henrietta sought desperately for an explanation he would find acceptable, but the shock was too much. ‘I didn’t know it was yours,’ she said lamely.

‘Whose did you think it was?’

‘I didn’t know,’ she said, feeling extremely foolish and extremely nervous. His winged brows were drawn together in his devilish look. Of all the people, why did it have to be him!

‘Get out.’

He held out an imperious hand. She tried to move, but her legs were stiff and her petticoats had become entangled in her bandbox. With an exclamation of impatience, he pulled her towards him. For a brief moment she was in his arms, held high against his chest, then she was dumped unceremoniously on to her feet, her bandbox tumbling out with her, tipping its contents—its very personal contents—on to the grass. Her legs gave way. Henrietta plopped to the grass beside her undergarments and promptly burst into tears.

Rafe’s anger at having harboured a stowaway gave way to a wholly inappropriate desire to laugh, for she looked absurdly like one of those mawkish drawings of an orphaned child. Gathering up the collection of intimate garments, hairbrushes, combs and other rather shabby paraphernalia, he squashed them back into the bandbox and pulled its owner back to her feet. ‘Come, stop that noise, else anyone passing will stop and accuse me of God knows what heinous crime.’

He meant it as a jest, but it served only to make his woebegone companion sob harder. Realising that she was genuinely overwrought, Rafe picked up the blanket and led her over to his favourite spot on the riverbank, where he sat her down and handed her a large square of clean linen. ‘Dry your eyes and compose yourself, tears will get us nowhere.’

‘I know that. There is no need to tell me so, I know it perfectly well,’ Henrietta wailed. But it took her some moments of sniffing, dabbing and deep breaths to do as he urged, by which time she was certain she must look a very sorry sight indeed, with red cheeks and a redder nose.

Watching her valiant attempts to regain control of herself, Rafe felt his conscience, normally the most complacent of creatures, stir and his anger subside. Obviously Henrietta had been dismissed. Obviously her ridiculous tale of housebreakers was at the root of it. Obviously Helen Ipswich hadn’t believed her. He hadn’t expected her to, but despite that fact, he had sent her off to face her fate alone. Faced with the sorry and very vulnerable-looking evidence of this act before him, Rafe felt genuine remorse. Those big chocolate-brown eyes of Henrietta Markham’s were still drowning in tears. Her full bottom lip was trembling. Not even the ordeal of lying in a ditch overnight had resulted in tears. Something drastic must have occurred. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.

The gentleness in his tone almost overset her again. The change in his manner, too, from that white-lipped fury to—to—almost, she could believe he cared. Almost. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing to do with you. I am just—it is nothing.’ Henrietta swallowed hard and stared resolutely at her hands. His kerchief was of the finest lawn, his initials embroidered in one corner. She could not have achieved such beautiful stitchery. She wondered who had sewn it. She sniffed again. Sneaking a look, she saw that his eyes were blue, not stormy-grey, that his mouth was formed into something that looked very like a sympathetic smile.

‘I take it that you have left Lady Ipswich’s employ?’

Henrietta clenched her fists. ‘She accused me of theft.’

He had not expected that. Unbelievable as her tale was, he had not thought for a moment that she was a thief. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Yes, I am. She said I was in cahoots with the housebreaker. She said I opened the safe and broke a window to make it look as if he had broken in.’

‘A safe? Then whatever was stolen was of some value?’

Henrietta nodded. ‘An heirloom. The Ipswich emeralds. The magistrate has summoned a Bow Street Runner. Lady Ipswich ordered me to stay in my room until he arrives to arrest me.’

Rafe looked at her incredulously. ‘The Ipswich emeralds? Rich pickings indeed for a common housebreaker.’

‘Exactly. It’s a hanging matter. And she—she—by implicating me—she—I had to leave, else I would have been cast into gaol.’ Henrietta’s voice trembled, but a few more gulps of air stemmed the tears. ‘I don’t want to go to gaol.’

Rafe tapped his riding crop on his booted foot. ‘Tell me exactly what was said when you returned this morning.’

Henrietta did so, haltingly at first in her efforts to recall every detail, then with increasing vehemence as she recounted the astonishing accusations levelled at her. ‘I still can’t quite believe it. I would never, never do such a thing,’ she finished fervently. ‘I couldn’t just sit there and wait to be dragged off to prison. I couldn’t bear for Papa to be told that his only child was being held in gaol.’

‘So you stowed away in my carriage.’

Rafe’s eyes were hooded by his lids again. She could not read his thoughts. She had never come across such an inscrutable countenance, nor one which could change so completely yet so subtly. ‘Yes, I did,’ she declared defensively. ‘I didn’t have any option, I had to get away.’

‘Do you realise that by doing so you have embroiled me, against my will, in your little melodrama? Did you think of that?’

‘No. I didn’t. It didn’t occur to me.’

‘Of course not, because you act as you speak, don’t you, without thinking?’

‘That’s not fair,’ Henrietta said indignantly. She knew it was fair, but that fact made her all the more anxious to defend herself. ‘It’s your fault, you make me nervous; besides, I didn’t know it was your carriage.’

‘As well for you that it was. Did you think what might have happened if it had belonged to some buck?’ Rafe’s mouth thinned again. ‘But I forgot, it could not be worse, could it, for you are now at the mercy of a notorious rake. Consider that, Miss Markham.’





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