Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (16 page)

“You know of Drake’s Rakes?”

Her smile grew. “Oh, yes. We followed their exploits in the society pages. I admit to some jealousy. They all seem to enjoy themselves so much.”

Something about his sudden stillness alerted her. “What could Alex possibly do?”

“You’d be amazed what information can be gleaned in ballrooms and salons, lass.”

She was staring now. “He’s a
spy
? Alex Knight?”

“Let’s say he gathers information. But that is nae something to share. Even with his sister. Although, from what I know of that wee lass, she knows more than Alex would like to think.”

“She never told me.” Sarah kept blinking, as if it would help all this make sense. “What about you?” she asked. “Do Scottish soldiers occupy sensitive positions as well?”

He seemed discomfited by the question. “They do if they find themselves doing a bit of extra work for the government.”

“Like trying to protect Wellington?”

“Like that. And other small tasks.”

She didn’t believe him, at least about the “small” part. She had a feeling that Ian Ferguson had waded through the worst of the war, no matter how he discounted his part.

“And you thought Fiona and Mairead might be threatened?”

His smile was rueful. “Not really. But school was better than life under a bridge.”

She looked off into the darkness. What could her father have done to warrant her inclusion into the school? He’d been barking mad. At least that was what she’d heard.

“All right, then,” she said briskly rather than revisit those old memories. “What exactly is this present business about? The people wanting the throne and Wellington.”

“There are men who believe that they would be better at running the country than what we have now. I think the reformists distress them almost as much as the mad king. What they would like is to put Princess Charlotte on the throne instead under their aegis.”

“And they’re afraid the Duke of Wellington would stop them?”

“Can you imagine the duke allowing these men to clear the way for Princess Charlotte to become queen?”

“The . . .” Sarah’s stomach dropped. “Oh, dear God. She can’t be on the throne unless the king and the prince regent are . . .”

“Dead. You see why I canna wait. If they get to Wellington, they silence the crown’s most ferocious defendant. And if they can make it look as if a radical reform group was behind the assassination, people would fall in behind them like ducklings.” He paused, his eyes shadowed. “You can understand why I need your help.”

Sarah suddenly found it hard to breathe. “But I don’t want to be involved in plots against the throne. I want to get my hay in and protect my pig.”

Ian shrugged. “None of us do. Imagine my surprise that I’m trying to save the life of a British king. A generation ago, I would have been booted from my clan.”

She shook her head. “Clan, nonsense. You’re a British viscount, one day to be a marquess. It is your duty to protect the throne.”

Leave it to Ian to grimace. “Ah, and isn’t that the unkindest cut of all?”

She couldn’t help it. She chuckled. “Yes, I remember how delighted Fiona was to find out that rather than being a Scottish rebel she was actually mostly an English miss. Her letters could have caught fire from the outrage.”

“She does seem happy there, doesn’t she?” he asked.

Sarah stopped, thrown off balance by the sudden change in direction. Something about Ian’s expression told her that she would learn no more of plots and traitors. He was deliberately turning the conversation.

“With her grandfather,” he clarified.

“With
your
grandfather,” she clarified instinctively. Why the question disconcerted her, she didn’t know. But he seemed so anxious, suddenly, so uncertain.

“Yes. I think so. I know that Mairead is happy.”

She noticed that he was still frowning. “What about you?” she asked. “Are you reconciled to your paternity? The war is over, after all. You have lost your excuse to avoid your duties.”

His expression didn’t ease. “The duties, yes. I think so. The paternity?” He frowned. “Who would want a monster for a father? Fiona told you…?”

“How you all came to land in the slums of Edinburgh?” Reaching out once again, she laid her hand over his. Her life story was squalid. His was tragic. “She said your mother feared your father so much she spirited you three away without his knowing.”

Ian’s expression grew distant, as if seeing old ghosts. “He was a coward who hit women and abused the help. My grandfather used his power to protect that monster. To protect the name of Ripton, above all else. I have better things to do with power like that.”

She sat back and smiled. “Then you have made your mind up to it.”

He looked up, and she was surprised to see a deep purpose in those bright blue eyes, a flame kindled she hadn’t noticed before. “You have a lot of time to think on your future when you’re in a camp waiting for the dawn,” he said. “And I had a lot to think on. I’ll be a marquess, and isn’t that a right knockabout? I’ll be everything I’ve distrusted my whole life. Have you met my grandfather?”

“No. Fiona says he is…consumed with his position.”

He nodded. “I’m not sure the old tartar ever takes off the ermine.” His eyes grew sly. “I think he must have had a spasm when he realized I was alive. My mother was everything he hated; Scottish, a rebel laird’s granddaughter, and strong. But he had to find me or the title died. And isn’t that a lovely thing? It means he canno’ change his mind. I am the heir whether he likes it or not, and his every dime is entailed. Even when I take my place with the reformers.” His grin grew a bit mad. “Can’t you see it? A strapping Scottish lad like me in Lords railing against clearances and proposing bills for universal vote and Irish rule? Maybe I should do it wearin’ my kilt.”

Sarah smiled. “Good thing he’ll be dead by then. You’d give him a seizure for sure.”

He chuckled. “He insists on teaching me the world of power. Well, I’m learnin’. I’ll gather every tool he gives me and use it to help change the face of this country.”

“And your fiancée? Does she agree with you?”

He grinned. “That’s the best part, isn’t it? The marquess arranged the marriage so I would toe the line. But what he doesn’t know is that Ardeth is as passionate about reform as I am. Can you imagine the difference we can make?”

Sarah deflated suddenly. She had begun to fantasize, she thought. It was so easy to do in the cave, pretend that the future could change out of all recognition just because you wanted it to. But the real world waited, and it included the perfect wife for a future marquess and nascent reformer. Doors would open and people would listen. And none of that would ever happen if he appeared with an unknown bastard on his arm. And unknown bastard who had no business even toying with such an idea in the first place.

Foolish girl.

“There’s only one wee problem, lass,” he said, his expression again serious.

She looked away. “You cannot stand for Lords if you’re hung for treason.”

“I was actually thinking that I wouldn’t want to be in a parliament if the traitors managed to grab the country.” He shrugged. “But I canna think a treason charge would help much either. Will you help?”

She made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Sweet heavens, his eyes could draw her to her death. Now that she understood their depths, they were even more impossible to withstand. She really didn’t want to be involved. She wanted nothing to do with spies and royalty and villainous women. It was all she could do to get by day by day.

But how could she walk away? How could she put him at greater risk? How could she ignore the very imminent threat to her country?

She could not deny it anymore. She believed him. Not just because he was Fiona’s brother. Not because she wanted him to be the person he seemed. Because he
was
that person.

Abruptly standing, she strode toward the door. She wanted to walk, to take to the hills, as if she could outdistance the decision she had to make. As if walking out of this cellar could separate her from what had to happen here. She stood in the doorway for what seemed an eon listening to the faint call of birds, a bark of a dog.

“A letter,” she finally said, turning on her heel and crossing to him. “One letter.”

“You do have a friend, then, who can forward a message for me?”

The answer sat heavy in her chest. She hated to involve Lizzie in this mess, for so many reasons. But if anyone could get a message to Ian’s friends, it would be she.

“I do.”

Sarah might have thought Ian would brighten with her answer. He only seemed to look immeasurably wearier. Struggling to his feet, he faced her. “I’m sorry I have to ask it of you, lass. I promise I’ll be gone as soon as I can.”

Sarah rubbed at her own eyes. It was better than betraying the fact that his promise suddenly hurt. It shouldn’t have. It should have relieved her mind. But for just a moment, she had had a taste of what it meant to know this remarkable man, and like the first taste of sweet on the tongue, it compelled her to want more.

“Sit down,” she commanded, waving him away. “Or I will find myself forced to house you in this cellar for weeks. I had already planned to go into Lyme Regis tomorrow. When all are abed tonight, I will bring you writing material.”

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said, and took her hand.

She felt it again, that searing heat that seemed to leap from his fingertips when they touched. She looked down, sure she should see fire. But they were just ordinary hands, his big enough to surround hers, like a shield, hers callused and scarred, as if to remind her of her place.

He could protect her, she thought. Under any other circumstances, Ian Ferguson could have helped her fight her battles and cushioned her hurts.

And yet he wouldn’t. And she had no right to ask for anything more. It hurt, but she pulled away. “Thank me by getting better.”

Chapter 8

Dearest Lizzie,
Do you remember that favor you owed me for finding those books on anatomy for you? Well, my dear. I am calling it in…
It was the next morning, and Sarah was trying to finish her missive before hitching Harvey to the small gig for the trip into Lyme. Sarah wished she could be writing this letter to anyone else but Lizzie. Proper, regal, self-contained Lizzie who had so rarely flouted the rules, yet who still wrote Sarah the occasional letter. The more Sarah thought about it, the more she hated the idea that she was putting Lizzie in a dangerous position. But she didn’t know whom else to contact.

She had Ian’s note in her pocket. She had obtained it the night before after dinner when she had arrived to find him ashen and trembling, the letter sitting on one of the packing crates and the ink carefully recapped.

She wished she could have been more surprised by his condition. But she wasn’t. She thought of the fierce energy he had expended to keep George pinned to the ground, and how he had collapsed afterward. The same had happened in the cellar. The minute Ian secured her cooperation, he seemed to fold in on himself. His temperature soared, and the stuffings went out of him.

Even with the poultices and lashings of willow bark tea and yarrow, he had spent a bad night. What disturbed Sarah was that she feared it was only the beginning. She was getting nowhere with her poultices. And she knew the fever would soar again when night returned. She was so afraid that she would return from Lyme to find him in desperate need. How could she care for him without giving him away?

I need your help, Lizzie. You see, Boswell still has not been heard from. I need to learn what has happened to him without my mother-by-marriage knowing. She is distraught enough that we fear for her health. But she checks every letter that leaves this house, certain I am somehow being unfaithful.
Sarah hoped Lady Clarke never saw this bouquet of lies. The relationship they had built out of mutual tolerance would rip into tatters.

The man I need to reach is Lord Marcus Drake. I have been assured he can help me. Will you forward the enclosed letter, Lizzie? I will be forever grateful.
She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell Lizzie everything that had happened since she had first discovered Ian Ferguson behind the chicken coop. She wanted to share the astonishing sensations, the maelstrom of emotions, the confusion that had been her constant companion the last two days.

Dear lord, she thought. Has it only been that long since Ian Ferguson had blown into her life like a strong gale and tumbled the tidy bits of her quiet existence into chaos? Could she truly be so undone by only a few hours’ acquaintance?

She wanted to ask her friend—any of her friends—for advice on how to go on.

She wanted to tell Lizzie how her fingers still hummed from where they had touched Ian’s. How she had to fight the most absurd impulse to smile at nothing every time she remembered their kiss. How she yearned to be cradled in those magnificent arms and be nourished by his laugh, his honor, his courage.

And his eyes. Oh, his eyes, so blue it was like looking straight up into the sky, like bathing in the clear water that tumbled over a small fall. Like life itself. Sarah fought the warming of her body at the thought of that clear, night-rimmed blue.

But not just that; his size, his smell, his smile. His sharp wit and bright mind, which seemed just as intoxicating as his broad chest. She had been married four years; she had always thought she and Boswell had done well enough together. But not once in that time had she felt the sizzling energy that had flooded her body when Ian kissed her. She had never felt her breasts go taut or her belly kindle. She was having trouble sitting still; her body wanted to move, to curl in on itself, to stretch like a cat in a warm windowsill. For the first time in her life, she wished she were prettier, younger, softer. She wished she didn’t have calluses on her palms and wind-chapped cheeks.