A Rake's Redemption

by G. L. Snodgrass

  One more insufferable habit, she thought. He was quickly building a list of infuriating habits. Too many for any man, you would think.

  “So ladies, what are you doing with your afternoon? Elizabeth, may I see?” he asked, indicating her artwork.

  Elizabeth nodded weakly and moved aside so that he could inspect her work.

  Rebecca held her breath. The girl was so sensitive about her art. And her art was so important to her. Her only lifeline to stable happiness. Please be kind, she thought.

  His brow settled into a serious frown as he studied the young girl’s drawing. He tilted his head, then smiled and nodded.

  “Miss Jones was right. You are very good.”

  Elizabeth’s face erupted into a huge smile. Rebecca let out a long breath. He had said the perfect thing. But, instead of letting it rest there. A kind word. No, he had to go on. To give his opinion as if it were the word of God.

  “I like what you’ve done here with the pear, you’ve caught the curve perfectly.”

  Elizabeth nodded her head vigorously.

  “But the apple? I don’t know.”

  Rebecca froze as she waited for Elizabeth to respond. Why did the man have to be negative? Why couldn’t he simply have praised her work and moved on?

  Elizabeth surprised her, though.

  “You see it too,” she said. “I can’t capture the way it lays against the pear.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. Maybe try to capture the way the pear lays against the apple. Here, try moving the candle. Changing the light can change the entire picture.”

  He reached to the table and moved the candle to the other side of the bowl.

  Elizabeth studied what he did, then turned and beamed up at him.

  “Yes, thank you, Your Grace. That is it.”

  Rebecca’s heart relaxed. Once again, his charm and unfailing style had saved the day. The man was impossible.

  “And you Johanna,” the Duke said, turning to his oldest cousin. “What are you reading? Miss Pinkleton’s latest novel, I bet.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Johanna said with a frown. “The Medicinal Herbs of the Americas.”

  The Duke glanced at Rebecca with a frown of doubt. She had to fight to hold back a laugh at his surprise. Instead, she simply smiled and nodded her head. It felt good to see the man surprised. Yes, women weren’t all simpletons.

  “I am impressed,” he said. “Perhaps I could read it when you are done.”

  “Do you have an abiding interest in medicinal herbs, Your Grace?” Rebecca asked before she could stop herself.

  His brow narrowed for a second, then relaxed as he laughed and shook his head. “No, Miss Jones, not really. But, maybe it is time that I learned. You never know what could become important at a later date.”

  Rebecca returned to her needlepoint, fighting to hide her smile. Why did she feel as if she had scored a point? It felt delicious though.

  “I’m thinking of starting a journal. Like Papa,” Johanna said, as a small frown crossed her brow at the mention of her father. “I can make scientific observations and record them.”

  The Duke’s face became pensive for a moment. “Your father kept a diary, a journal?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Johanna said. “He kept track of everything that happened every day. He let me look at it once. It had the day’s temperature, the barometer reading. And other things of course. News from London. What the farmers were doing. Even things about the servants.”

  “Hm, interesting,” the Duke said as he stared off into the distance.

  Rebecca thought of Lord Warwick. She had a feeling His Grace was thinking the same thing.

  After a moment, he pulled himself back to their surroundings and turned to Isobel.

  “And you Isobel, what are you doing. Refighting the battle of Agincourt, or Blenheim perhaps,” the Duke said as he knelt to examine her toy soldiers.”

  Isobel giggled. “No, I’m just playing.”

  “Aw, well, playing is always important. Believe me.”

  “I would rather be playing in the stable,” Isobel said with a seriousness that made it plain she was upset. “But, Miss Jones won’t let me.”

  The Duke chuckled, “What is so interesting about the stables that it makes them preferable to a nice warm parlor.”

  “Mrs. Fuzzy,” Isobel said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  The Duke frowned and glanced at Rebecca for clarification.

  “Mrs. Fuzzy is the barnyard cat,” the governess said. “She just had kittens, and Isobel doesn’t understand why we can’t have a cat and her kittens in the house.”

  The Duke’s brow knitted into an even deeper frown. “And why can’t we have a cat in the house?” he asked.

  Rebecca paused. Was he teasing her? “Mrs. Pearlman, the housekeeper, would never allow it, Your Grace,” she said.

  “It is cold in the stable,” Isobel interjected. “And damp. And full of horses. Mrs. Fuzzy might get stepped on. She can’t leave her babies.”

  “Ah,” the Duke answered as he glanced down at Isobel. A smile creased his lips. The kind of smile a little boy gets when he is knows he is going to get into trouble, but doesn’t care.

  Rebecca instantly recognized that look and realized that it was her fault. She had placed a challenge before him. She had told him something that he was not to do, so, of course, the man would insist on doing it. Mrs. Pearlman would surely blame her if she learned who instigated everything.

  The Duke stood up and held out a hand for the little girl.

  “Isobel, there are cats in need of rescue. Will you join me?”

  “Your Grace,” Rebecca said, but then halted. What was she to say? That he couldn’t do what he wanted in his own home? Besides, the look of pure joy on Isobel’s face would have swayed her.

  “Yes? Miss Jones,” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Rebecca paused for a moment. Unable to believe what she was going to say next. “I believe I should accompany you. If you will give us a moment I will ensure Isobel is dressed properly for such an adventure.”

  “We’re coming,” Johanna said, as both she and Elizabeth stepped forward, refusing to be left behind.

  The Duke hesitated for a moment, then bowed slightly. “Of course, Miss Jones, Ladies. But do hurry. Mrs. Fuzzy and her wards are in need of rescuing. Time is of the essence.”

  Rebecca saw the laughter and merriment behind his eyes and sighed. Ten minutes in his company and she was breaking rules and doing things she shouldn’t. What would ever happen if she spent an entire evening with the man?

  The thought made her shiver.

  Chapter Ten

  Devlin glanced at the ledger as Mr. Peterson turned the page. Ten, maybe fifteen pages to go and they’d be done. A long, boring afternoon would finally come to an end. Hell, a long, boring week would come to an end.

  This was the last ledger from one of his outlying estates. The last of six. Devlin could feel the finish line approaching, it was as if the clouds were parting and the sun was finally coming out.

  An angry meow from the corner drew their attention.

  “I still can’t believe that Mrs. Pearlman let you have the cat in the house.” Mr. Peterson said, shaking his head at the minor miracle.

  Devlin laughed. “We compromised. She and her staff get to keep the rest of the house clean and tidy. I get to do what I want in my own study.”

  He glanced once more at the box in the corner and smiled. The cat looked like a cross between a lion and a drowned rat. One ear was ripped and torn, hanging to the side at an odd angle. A long scar creased her face where she had obviously tangled with something much larger. Being Mrs. Fuzzy, of course, she had won.

  Her short gray fur was rough with more than one patch missing. When it comes to cats, Devlin thought, that has to be one of the ugliest on the planet. So of course, Isobel adored her.

  Mrs. Fuzzy, being no fool, allowed herself to be pampered and doted upon by Lady Isobel.
But, only Isobel, no one else was allowed to come close to her and her kittens. A fact that Devlin had learned soon after their arrival in his study. The nasty scratch to the back of his hand was a forceful reminder.

  The cat was as ugly as sin and Miss Jones as pretty as a spring day, yet for some reason, the cat reminded him of the girls’ governess.

  Maybe it was the fierce loyalty, the protectiveness. Or perhaps the intelligent, observant eyes, that followed everything. Whatever it was. When he looked at the cat, he thought of Miss Jones. But then, he seemed to think of her when he wasn’t looking at the cat.

  Smiling to himself, he returned to Mr. Peterson’s ledger. This one for his estate in Yorkshire. He would probably have to visit it someday. Just to say that he had.

  “We are almost done,” he said with more than a hopeful tone to his voice.

  “Yes, Your Grace, almost,” Mr. Peterson said with another worried look towards the cat.

  “I believe Lord Warwick talked to you yesterday,” Devlin asked absently as he read the numbers down the right-hand column of the ledger.

  “Yes, Your Grace, he’s talked to most of us here at Pine Crest and half the locals.”

  Devlin looked up at the slight anger in the man’s voice. “Really, and what do the locals think of our Lord Warwick?”

  Mr. Peterson drew a heavy breath as if hesitating. “Most of them think the man is daft. They don’t understand why he’s asking questions about the previous Duke. It doesn’t make sense, everyone knows he fell from his horse and hit his head. Saying otherwise is just idiocy.”

  Devlin let his agent’s words sink in.

  A soft tap at the study door interrupted them.

  “Yes,” Devlin said, thinking it might be Isobel to care for the cats. The girl would spend all her day here in his study if Miss Jones let her. Really it didn’t bother him, having Isobel traipsing back and forth in his study cooing to her cat was actually sort of soothing.

  The thought surprised him. Why wasn’t he annoyed? Shaking his head, he looked up as Mr. Michaels, his valet, tentatively stuck his head in around the door jam.

  “Your Grace?” the valet asked.

  “Yes, Michaels, what is it?” he answered gently. One of the things Benny had told him was never upset your valet. Your entire life could become unraveled.

  “The books you asked for, Your Grace,” Mr. Michaels said indicating four leather bound small journals. “I retrieved them from His Graces’ things in the attic. They were right where I left them.”

  “Ah, perfect,” Devlin said as he got up to relieve Mr. Michaels of his burden. Seeing the questioning look on Mr. Peterson’s face, Devlin said, “The previous Duke’s journals.”

  The agent’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I didn’t know the Duke kept a journal.”

  “Most people didn’t,” Mr. Michaels said. “He liked to keep things private.”

  Michaels shot the new Duke a look of disapproval. It was obvious the man did not like the idea of His Grace reading the thoughts of his previous employer.

  “Yes, well, thank you, Michaels. I assure you it is necessary,” Devlin said as he placed the books on the corner table next to Mrs. Fuzzy’s box. “I promise you, I will take care of them and return them when I am done.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Michaels said before turning and leaving the room.

  “It looks as if you are not as close to being finished as you thought, Your Grace,” Mr. Peterson said. “It seems London will have to wait a little longer.”

  “There are times when I believe I will never see London again,” Devlin said as he returned to studying the ledger.

  They worked quickly together for several more minutes. Mr. Peterson explaining purchases and sales, rents, and vendor bills. They could both feel the end in sight. Devlin felt a rush to push through and get there.

  Another knock at the door interrupted him again. This place was becoming as busy as St. Paul’s on Christmas.

  Sighing, he said, “Yes,” without looking up from the ledger.

  “Dinner is served, Your Grace,” Scruggs announced.

  Devlin’s stomach rumbled with the thought of Mrs. Owens’ meal waiting for him. He and Peterson hurried through the last few pages and with a final thump, the Duke of Hampton closed the ledger. A relieved smile broke across his face. There had been too many times when he had thought they would never reach this point.

  “Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” Devlin said. “Unless you have more of those blasted books, I will be off to my dinner, and you should be off to yours.”

  “No more books, Your Grace,” the agent said as he gathered the estate ledgers. “Of course, we should probably think about visits to your distant estates. It would be good for the people there to meet their new Duke.”

  “Yes, but later. We will discuss it later. Now I must hurry.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” as he nodded and left the room.

  The girls and Miss Jones were waiting quietly for Devlin when he entered the dining room. Each of them sitting primly, with their hands in their laps.

  “I am sorry, Ladies,” he said as he sat down. He glanced at Miss Jones, her look of disapproval at his tardiness made him want to smile.

  The dinner went as most of them did, the girls talking about their day. Miss Jones sitting quietly, occasionally she would look at him with a strange expression. He wondered what she was thinking. What were her impressions of him?

  It was so different, spending so much time with a woman who he was not trying to seduce. Or, who was not trying to seduce him.

  A fact that was becoming more difficult to deal with each day. He found the woman fascinating. Strong, yet innocent at the same time. Very intelligent, but there was so much she did not know. So much she had never experienced.

  He wondered what she would do if he attempted to sway her. Could she be led astray?

  No! He reminded himself. This was the girls’ governess. As far off limits as a vicar’s wife.

  Shaking his head, he returned to focusing on Mrs. Owens’ excellent salmon course. But still, the thought would not leave him. Could it be done? he wondered.

  “If it is acceptable, I thought I would join you ladies in the parlor after dinner,” he said as he looked at Miss Jones. Their eyes locked for a moment. Was she pleased? Was that what that look meant.

  “Oh good,” Elizabeth said, “You can help me with my drawing.”

  Devlin smiled and nodded towards the footman to let him know he was done with that course. Leaning back, he let the man clear the dish.

  A faint whiff of wood smoke drew his attention. He glanced over at the fireplace, but it seemed to be drawing nicely.

  It must have been the wind, he thought. Sometimes when it blew strongly, it could force the smoke back down the chimney.

  The girls’ dishes were cleared. The next course was being laid before them when a frightened, high-pitched yell from the hallways sent a cold chill through him.

  “Fire! Fire!”

  Devlin’s heart jumped to his throat as he raced from the room. He could feel the girls and Miss Jones directly behind him. Hurrying to see what was amiss.

  An uncontained fire was everyone’s greatest fear. If it took hold, there would be no stopping it before the house was consumed.

  Within a few bounds, he was in the main hall.

  Emily, one of the downstairs’ maids, frozen in place, pointed to his study. A faint cloud of gray smoke crept from around the edges where the door stood ajar.

  Devlin’s stomach dropped. His study, how? Why? He was meticulous about candles and the fireplace. Mrs. Pearlman was going to have his head and say it was because he didn’t let her clean in there.

  Everyone was beginning to gather, only moments, and yet the entire household had turned out.

  As he started towards the door, a blur rushed past him and into the room.

  “Isobel, no!” Miss Jones yelled as she reached for the little girl. But, she was too slow, her fingers barely m
issing the back of the girls dress.

  Devlin didn’t miss a beat. He jumped after the girl and into the room.

  The heat slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs for a moment. Dancing yellow flames raged across the far wall as thick black smoke began to fill the room. It was as if the ceiling were being lowered. Pushing down. All the time, the flames crackled and danced.

  His heart broke thinking of Isobel caught in the inferno.

  Where was she? The black smoke was quickly filling the room. Forcing him to bend at the waist.

  “Isobel, where are you?” he yelled, trying to out yell the roaring fire.

  A loud, angry meow somehow broke through the crackle to let him know. The damn cat, he thought. She came in here for the cat.

  Bending at the waist, he rushed towards the corner. Isobel was on her knees, coughing, as she tried to gather up Mrs. Fuzzy and her kittens.

  “Leave them,” Devlin said as he tried to pull the little girl to safety.

  The look she shot him would have killed a lesser man. There was no way she was leaving those cats to perish.

  Devlin grit his teeth. The wall of books was fully engulfed now, they had to go and go now. He forced the kittens and Mrs. Fuzzy into the box. It was quicker than fighting Isobel about it.

  The damn cat dug both claws into his forearm and raked like she was trying to climb a tree. He fought the urge to throw the cat across the room. Isobel would probably follow, and they’d never get out.

  Ignoring the pain, he shoved the wooden crate full of cats under one arm and Isobel under the other. He turned to escape, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  The bookshelf and all of its burning contents let go and collapsed on him. Knocking him to the ground.

  Devlin hunched his back as he pulled Isobel and the cats under him. He desperately fought to give them cover, as the burning wood and books crashed around him.

  Coughing, he tried to stand up. He had to get them out. Now.

  He’d barely risen, when a frightening crack above his head sent a shock of fear to his very soul. He looked up, just in time to see a roof beam let go. Jumping, he tried to evade, but Isobel and the cats both chose that moment to wiggle and try to work free of his grip.