Lord of the Rakes
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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LORD OF THE RAKES
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author.
Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Zettel.
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ISBN: 978-0-425-26555-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61278-1
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2014
Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson.
Cover design by George Long.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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No book of mine has ever been written without the help of the entire Untitled Writers Group, but this time, I have to shout out especially to Cindy, who gave me the title, and Erica, who helped rake the plot over the coals.
As ever, this book is for Tim, who is my happily ever after.
L
ady Caroline sat in her private study, staring at the letter Mrs. Ferriday handed her. The only sounds in the cool blue-and-cream room were the ticking of the ornate case clock and the crackle of the fire. A lump of coal clattered against the grate as it fell. Caroline did not glance around. It was not the sound she feared, not the sound of her brother’s return. She dared make no noise herself, no exclamation of hope or surprise. It was as if she thought the walls would not only hear, but would betray her. Country houses kept all manner of secrets, but some of them were not kept for very long.
She’d already been nursing this one for weeks. She read her letter once more, and once more after that.
“Really, this is absurd,” Caroline murmured to herself. “It’s not as if it’s going to change.”
Despite this entirely sensible remark, she read it again. The clock ticked and the fire crackled, and there was no other sound.
Slowly, Caroline laid the paper down and rose to her feet. Several locks of her unruly chestnut hair had escaped their pins to dangle about her ears. She pushed them back as she stared down at the surface of the desk. From this distance the closely written words were little more than scribbles of black ink, but she could still pick out the words “trust” and “dividends” and “account.”
Moving without real purpose, Caroline drifted over to the window and pushed back the plush drape. Outside, the garden had turned gold and gray from the cold, March rain. She could just see the last of the snow lurking under the burlap-shrouded forms of Mother’s rosebushes.
Caroline rested her fingertips against the windowpane, feeling the cold of the glass slip under her skin. She had often stood and stared like this, sometimes in this room, sometimes in Mother’s bedroom when Mama had fallen into a restless doze, or one of her long, terrible spells of silence.
But if the man who wrote to her was being accurate and honest in his presentation of the facts, her days of standing, staring, and wishing might finally be at an end. Caroline pressed her hand flat against the glass. She had spent years trying to accustom herself to living within the constraints her father and brother laid on her. But now . . . now . . .
The door creaked. “My lady?” said a soft voice.
Caroline jumped and whirled around. Her eyes darted at once to her desk, and her first thought was to run and hide her letter. Then she realized the voice belonged to Mrs. Ferriday, her personal attendant. Caroline sagged against the window, at least as far as her corsets would permit.
“Yes, Mrs. Ferriday, what is it?”
“Miss Rayburn, my lady. She’s just arrived and—”
“And Caro, I’ve got such news!” Before Mrs. Ferriday could finish another word, Fiona Rayburn burst into Caroline’s sitting room. “Look! Look!” Fiona waved her left hand in front of Caroline’s eyes.
Between her letter and Fiona’s abrupt appearance, Caroline was so dizzied, she could barely see anything at all. “Fi! I thought you were still in London.”
“I was, but
look
!” Fi shoved her fingers directly under Caroline’s nose. Caroline took a deep breath, grasped her friend’s wrist to hold her still, and forced herself to focus on what was immediately in front of her.
What was in front of her was Fiona’s dainty, perfectly kept, and entirely ungloved hand, the third finger of which was graced by a bright, gold ring. A square-cut diamond nearly the size of Caroline’s thumbnail flashed with a delicate pink tint.
Caroline’s gaze jerked up to meet her friend’s. Fi nodded energetically.
“He proposed! James proposed!”
“Fi, that’s wonderful!” Caroline embraced her friend and tried to set all other feeling aside, but the tears stinging her eyes were not just from happiness. The hope and fear that came with Mr. Upton’s latest letter would not be so quickly dismissed, not even for Fiona’s joy.
“You’re the first person outside the family I’ve told.” Fiona pulled back, but only so she could grasp Caroline’s shoulders. “And you are going to be my maid of honor, you know. I couldn’t possibly consider anyone else.”
This determined declaration allowed Caroline to smile in earnest. Three seasons in London had not changed Fiona in the least.
“So, you’re going to be married from Danbury House?” Caroline settled onto the velveteen sofa and motioned for Fi to sit beside her. “That will be beautiful . . .”
“Danbury House? Oh, no, Caro. A country wedding would never do. James is the future Baron Eddistone, after all. We’re to have a town wedding. A big one. In June, of course, and—”
“A town wedding? In London?”
“Honestly, Caro. Your sense of humor does make you say the oddest things sometimes. Of course London.”
Caroline did not make any immediate answer. She could not. The reminder of her current circumstances—all of them—was too much. Fi’s eyes narrowed. It was a look that turned her dainty face surprisingly shrewd. Few beyond her intimate acquaintance ever suspected the sheer force of personality and cleverness that lay behind Fiona’s sky-blue eyes. “Caro? Has something happened?”
Yes, it has.
The words flashed through Caroline’s mind, but she still couldn’t make herself speak. Her ears still strained to hear the distant scrape of a heavy door, or the echo of riding boots against marble tile from the foyer below—the sounds that would signal Jarrett’s return.
“I know Jarrett will refuse out of hand,” Fi went on. “I’m sure he thinks I’ll whisk you off to some masked ball and throw you to the Lord of the Rakes.”
“Who?” asked Caroline, struggling out of the depths of her own angry reverie. “Lord of the what?”
For a moment Fiona looked at Caroline like she couldn’t comprehend what she said. Then she clearly remembered her friend was almost entirely ignorant of town gossip. “Oh. I’m sorry. It was a joke. There’s a rogue about town currently, Philip Montcalm. The matrons have made a bit of a hobgoblin out of him. They call him Lord of the Rakes and use him to try to frighten girls making their debut into good behavior.”
“Does it work?”
“Not that I have noticed. But, Caro, you are missing the point. The point is that you are to be my maid of honor, and I am here to make sure Jarrett lets you come to me.” Fiona drew herself up to her full height, which was, in truth, not that difficult. The epitome of the English Rose, delicate, golden Fiona had never grown an inch past five feet tall. Caroline, on the other hand, had inherited something of her father’s height to go with her mother’s generous curves and chestnut hair. She could never sit next to Fi without feeling gawky. “I’m going to ask Jarrett directly to allow you to come to me,” Fi told her. “If I fail, Mother and Father have already said they will come next and make the case on our behalf.”
Although she was the daughter of a wealthy earl, Caroline had never once been to London. Instead, she’d grown up feasting on her mother’s stories of its parties, shops, and theaters. Her favorite times as a child had been when Mama decided they would be “paying calls” for the day. Together, they traipsed through the house, pretending it was the London streets and that the empty, quiet rooms of Keenesford Hall were populated by the ladies of the haut ton that Mama had known before her marriage to Earl Keenesford. But Mama’s long series of illnesses and Father’s orders had kept them from ever actually visiting the town. Now that Jarrett had inherited the title, he decided those orders should remain strictly in place. Caroline might visit the country house parties of their various acquaintances, if Mrs. Rayburn or some other chaperone he approved of was there. She might accompany him to an archery meet, or a hunt ball for some slice of society. Otherwise, her world was Keenesford Hall and its grounds, and would remain so.
At least, that had always been their father’s plan, and Jarrett had enforced it rigidly. She’d never actually caught him going through her papers, but it was not out of the question. He’d asked so many sharp questions at the breakfast table this morning, she was sure he knew she was hiding something. If he even suspected she knew about the money . . . what could he do? What might he try to keep her here?
But that question played itself over in her mind once more. What could he do? If Mr. Upton was right, Jarrett could do exactly nothing.
“Caro, you’re looking positively feverish. What on earth’s the matter?”
Caro looked into her friend’s suspicious, worried eyes. How to even begin? She squeezed Fi’s hands once before she stood and walked over to her desk. She pulled out two of her recent letters and stared at them. If they told the truth, if she could bring herself to really believe . . .
“Caro,” whispered Fiona. “Please, I’m asking as your friend. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing,” answered Caroline. “That’s just it. For once, I think, everything’s right.”
Caroline handed Fi the first letter. She watched her friend read. She did not need to lean over her shoulder to know what Fi saw. She had memorized the words the week the letter arrived. Possibly the first day.
Dear Lady Caroline:
I
hope you will excuse the liberty I take in writing this letter, and permit me to congratulate you upon this occasion of your birthday, and the achievement of your majority. Now that you are in full possession of the funds your mother so prudently left in trust to you . . .
Fiona lowered the letter. “A trust? Your mother left you a trust? Caro, you never said!”
“I didn’t know,” Caroline croaked. “They . . . Father and Jarrett. If they knew about it, they never told me.” As an underage girl, she had not been present at the reading of her mother’s will. Certainly no man of business would think to discuss such things with a girl when her father and brother were alive to hear about them for her. When Jarrett inherited the title, he had continued their father’s custom of receiving all letters into his own hands at the dining table. He himself would then distribute the few meant for her or the stewards and servants. Caroline wondered now if any of those had been deliberately withheld.
Fiona pressed her hand to her mouth, but continued reading.
. . . I wish to take this opportunity to assure you that if you have any question or direction regarding the disbursement of your dividends, you have only to write to me at this address, and I will do my utmost to provide answers. In the absence of other instructions, there is an account in your name at the Bank of London, where said dividends will be deposited quarterly.
I am very much looking forward to hearing from you. Again, my best congratulations upon this anniversary of your birth. You may believe me to be entirely at your service.
Sincerely,
Theodore Upton
Davis, Upton, Fordyce & Crane
“Dear Lord, Caro . . .” Fiona slowly lowered the letter so she could stare at Caroline. “Do you really have an inheritance?”
Mutely, Caroline passed the other letter she had selected from the pile, the one that had arrived less than an hour before Fi herself.
Dear Lady Caroline:
I was very glad to receive your letter of the twentieth. I am sorry your mother was unable to communicate the details of the trust before her passing. But in her stead, I shall do my best.
The basic facts are these. The money in the trust comes from a series of leases on land purchased by your maternal grandfather, Karl Herresmann. That land has since been turned into several very profitable and fashionable housing developments in the heart of London. The rents accruing from these leases were set aside in a trust for which your mother was named as beneficiary. Five years ago, she drew up a simple will and placed a copy with the members of the trust board. In it, she names you as her sole heir and beneficiary.
As to your main question, I have investigated the matter quite thoroughly and find that this trust was never in any way tied to her marriage settlement with the late Earl Keenesford, or the Keenesford estate. Therefore, your mother was legally entitled to leave the income to whom she chose, just as you are legally entitled to receive it.
I trust this clarifies the points you raised. Do not hesitate to write again if you have any further questions.
Yrs. Sincerely,
Theodore Upton
Davis, Upton, Fordyce & Crane
Fiona finished the letter and raised her eyes slowly to Caroline’s.
“You’re an heiress,” she breathed. “You have the income from land leases in London! They must be worth thousands!”
“Ten thousand a year,” Caro answered, and watched Fi draw back. “I asked. Oh, Fi. It’s been so wonderful and so terrible, I’ve barely known which way to turn. I’m still trying to believe it . . .”
“Believe later. Now you have to act. What will you do?”
Caroline took the letter that Fiona held out. “I will not stay here, that much is certain,” she said as she folded the paper into thirds. “My mother was made a prisoner, supposedly for her own good, and I saw what it did to her.”
“I know, Caro.”
Caroline glanced toward the door. Had she heard a man’s footsteps from below? She wasn’t sure. Fear struck a chord inside her, but she stilled it. Now that she was her own woman, she would have to get over being afraid. She would have to meet the world with poise and dignity, as Mama told her a real lady did.
