Rake Ruiner: The Marriage Maker and the Widows Book One

by Summer Hanford

  “Yes, Missus Fairhaven,” the bright faced, Highland-born girl asked when she arrived, slightly out of breath.

  “Would you please bring me Coriolanus from the library?” Charlotte asked, having no desire to set foot in the room herself.

  “Coriolanus, Missus?” the girl repeated tentatively.

  “It’s by Shakespeare.” Charlotte wasn’t surprised the maid didn’t know the play. Coriolanus was, in truth, her least favorite of Shakespeare’s works, but her miserable state deserved the company of such a miserable personage.

  The girl flushed redder than her curls. “I don’t know how to read, Missus.”

  Charlotte tried to hide her dismay. In Edinburgh, she insisted all her staff be taught to read and write, to give them opportunities to better their circumstance. She’d grown so accustomed to maids and footmen who could read, she’d forgotten most could not.

  Perhaps she should… but no, she wouldn’t be remaining in Caithness much longer. She wouldn’t permit it to look as if she were running away, but she would leave soon. She couldn’t endure residing in the same region as Lord Edward.

  “Go to the library, turn left and walk to the far wall. Bring me any three of the green and gold bound books residing near the center of the fourth shelf up,” she said in a kind voice. “It matters not which three.”

  “Yes, Missus.” The girl dipped a curtsy and hurried away.

  She returned with The Two Gentlemen of Verona, As You Like It and Antony and Cleopatra. Charlotte accepted the volumes with a smile and dismissed the maid before indulging in a sigh. She set the two comedies aside and opened the tragic tale of two lovers bringing each other to ruin. She was reading of Antony's marriage to Octavia, and seething over the idiocy of men, when Cuthbert’s voice sounded from down the hall.

  At first, she couldn’t make out her butler’s words, but as the clatter without resolved into the clarity of four striding feet, so too did his meaning. “…go in there, my lord. Missus Fairhaven asked that none disturb her.”

  “I’ll disturb anyone I damn well please,” Lord Edward growled. “Move, or I’ll move you.”

  “My lord, I—” Cuthbert let out a squawk.

  The door to the parlor flew open.

  Lord Edward came stomping in, fists clenched and eyes bright with anger.

  Cuthbert, cravat and hair in mild disarray, entered on his heels. “Missus, I did my best to halt him.”

  “I know, Cuthbert, and I very much appreciate you standing up to a boorish, ogre of a baron on my behalf,” Charlotte said, looking past Lord Edward to her loyal retainer. “You may go now. I’m sure Lord Edward will be departing shortly.”

  Cuthbert looked between Charlotte and the back of the baron’s head. She could read his uncertainty. She offered him a smile that conveyed both more calm and more assurance than she felt. Finally, he nodded and backed from the room.

  Lord Edward whirled away and reached out an arm to fling the door closed. Charlotte raised her eyebrows, trying to ignore the rapid tempo of her heart. She closed the book in her lap. He turned back, no less angry than before, and opened his mouth to speak.

  “How dare you barge into the home I am renting and manhandle my staff, especially Cuthbert?” Charlotte demanded, cutting Lord Edward off. “Obviously, your self-absorption is such that you are incapable of observing his advanced years. You could have done him harm with your brutish behavior.”

  Edward rocked back on his heels, but his scowl didn’t waver. “I have no time to coddle your staff, madam.”

  “No, of course not. You have no time to be civil to anyone, in any capacity.” She matched his scowl with one of her own. “Why don’t you enlighten me as to what you do have time for, my lord?”

  “Hetty is missing.”

  A spear of dread lodged in Charlotte’s gut and let out her ire. “Missing? How so?”

  “What do you mean, how so?” He pushed a hand through his auburn locks, bringing her attention to his lack of gloves or hat. “She is not at home, and the grooms in the stable say she had them ready her phaeton.” He made a sweeping gesture. “I went ‘round to MaClagan’s, but he wasn’t at his manor.” An evil gleam lit Lord Edward’s eyes. “I manhandled his staff as well, so I think they told the truth.” He stopped to look about the small parlor.

  “So you came here seeking her?” Charlotte guessed. “Why would she be at MaClagan’s?”

  “Last evening, at the McAullum’s, I caught her dancing with him,” Edward bit out. “They were in the hall, where they could hear the music but not be seen. Or so they thought. I took her home immediately. On the way, we had words.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes, her fear for Hetty eased. “Then you deserve all the anguish you’re causing yourself. All she did was dance with the man, and you drove her into a fit. It was one dance. What harm is there in that?”

  The muscles in his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth. He stalked forward, then leaned down to place a balled fist on each chair arm, bringing his face inches from hers. “What harm is there?” he snarled.

  Charlotte tilted her chin up, though her heart ricocheted in her chest. She’d no notion if in fear or at the proximity of his lips, but she wouldn’t be undone by either. “It was only a dance.”

  A low growl worked its way up his throat, almost more felt than heard.

  Charlotte pursed her lips. “Use your words, my lord,” she snapped.

  He pulled his eyes from her mouth to glare at her. “Hetty has an older sister.”

  Charlotte blinked, confused by the change in topic. “Yes, Lady Marian. Hetty spoke of her. She’s in Wales, at finishing school.”

  “She’s in Wales carrying Mister MaClagan’s child,” Edward said in a voice that could make flowers wilt.

  Charlotte couldn’t stifle a gasp. Thoughts, looks and words flew apart and reshuffled. “Hetty doesn’t know the truth,” she breathed.

  “That her sister lay with that damn, worthless, pretense of a man and then, when she realized she was with his child, had him refuse to do right by her? No matter what threats I made?”

  Charlotte could only stare at him.

  Slowly, Edward shook his head. “I didn’t tell Hetty, and made Marian swear not to.” He straightened with startling swiftness. “God has not answered my prayers that Marian not turn out to be like her mother.”

  Hetty’s words returned to her, their meaning so much clearer now. “No,” Charlotte protested. She caught Edward’s hand, startled by the icy cold. “Marian isn’t like her mother. She was trying to be the opposite. She only wanted to commit whatever sins she might be tempted toward before wedding, so she wouldn’t turn to them after.”

  He lifted his shocked gaze from their clasped hands to her face. “You can’t have spoken to my daughter.”

  “No, not Marian, but Hetty. I’ve her rendition of her sister’s words.” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “But not understanding their full meaning, I gave Hetty terrible advice.”

  He yanked his hand away. “What advice? Do you know where she is?”

  “I believe I do.” Why did they linger? Heaven above, a girl’s future was at stake. She pushed to her feet, book clattering to the floor. “We must hurry. Did you ride?” she asked, hurrying past him to the parlor door.

  Charlotte hardly registered his affirmative as she threw open the door and raced down the hall. She hadn’t time to do more than nod to a startled Cuthbert. She ran past him to yank open the outer door. Her slippers clattered on the steps, Lord Edward’s boots sounding behind her. At the base stood a startled groom, holding Lord Edward’s horse.

  She looked over her shoulder as his boots left the staircase. “Hoist me up.”

  “You aren’t dressed for riding.”

  “Hoist me up or I’ll find someone who will,” she snapped.

  His expression an odd mixture of bemusement and anger, Edward clamped his hands about her waist and set her on his horse, sidesaddle.

  “Well, come on,” she s
aid, scooting up toward the horse’s head. “We have to hurry.”

  Expression baffled, he pulled himself up behind her. He shifted, obviously not fully in the saddle. With a low curse, he picked her up and settled her across his thighs. “This saddle isn’t meant for two,” he muttered in her ear. “Where are we going?”

  He held out a hand. Her baffled looking groom placed the reins in it. She tried to offer the young man a reassuring smile, but didn’t know if she managed. On the manor steps, Cuthbert looked on in concern.

  “To MaClagan’s,” she said.

  “I told you, he wasn’t in.”

  “It’s not the manor house we’re going to.”

  He kicked his horse forward to speed down the drive. Charlotte suppressed a cry and clung to him, realizing her seat was precarious indeed. Edward shifted his grip on the reins and wrapped a steely arm about her.

  They flew down the lane and through the crossroads, then onward to make a sharp turn onto MaClagan’s drive. The wind of their passing battered Charlotte’s curls about her face. Edward didn’t slow, racing straight toward the squat manor house.

  “Where now?” Edward asked in her ear.

  “There.” She released her grip to point toward the small lane leading around the house, then wrapped her arm back about him.

  Edward’s horse covered the distance with greater speed than Mister MaClagan’s curricle had, but it was an eternity before they burst from the trees into the clearing before the dower house. Charlotte slid down, the landing jarring. Stones bit into her souls through the thin slippers she wore as she raced to the door, to find it locked.

  Frantically, she patted about the top frame until her fingers found the key. Edward’s booted steps come up behind her. She took the key down and stabbed it into the lock.

  “You seem awfully familiar with how to enter,” Edward growled.

  “I did not dally with Mister MaClagan,” she snapped, having no time for subtlety as she twisted the key. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open.

  The afternoon light didn’t illuminate the space as well as the morning light had, but enough sunshine entered to give unrestricted view of the paintings. As she stepped in, she could feel the shock that radiated from Lord Edward, and the heat of his anger. To her relief, though filled with sin, the room was devoid of Hetty, Mister MaClagan, or anyone else.

  Her gaze fell on a half-finished painting of Vivian, on the easel before the bed. She was resplendent in what was by far the least modest pose displayed on any canvas in the room. Cheeks heating, Charlotte jerked her eyes away, only to have her attention catch on the draped canvas in the back corner. The silk had slipped partially free to reveal half of the girl’s gray-eyed, love-suffused face. Shock reverberated through her as she realized who the young woman was. She dashed toward the painting to tug the sheet back into place.

  Like an enraged bull, Lord Edward smashed past her. Easels and canvases clattered to the floor. He snatched up the painting of Marian. With an inarticulate cry of rage, he snapped the canvas over one knee. Twisting it, he smashed it again, and once more. He crushed the splintered wood and cloth together and jerked his head to survey the room.

  Charlotte jumped out of his path as he crashed through more paintings on his way to the large fireplace. He flung his daughter’s portrait in, then stabbed at the glowing coals. An invective left his mouth with every thrust.

  Soon, his efforts roused a blaze, though it sputtered fitfully. The acrid smell of oily paints burning roiled from the fireplace. Charlotte grabbed Lord Edward’s arm, trying to pull him away. His suit was smeared with paint, as were his hands. A few bright spots of blood marred the latter as well, mute testament to the fury with which he’d broken the painting’s wooden frame.

  “Edward, we still must find Hetty,” Charlotte said. She continued to yank on his arm, though she may as well have tried to move the walls about them. “Edward?” She pulled out a kerchief and wrapped it about his free hand, dismayed by the growing spots of blood.

  He turned and blinked down at her.

  “We need to find Hetty,” she reiterated.

  He tossed the poker on the fire. “No, I need to find MaClagan.” Edward’s voice was devoid of emotion. “And kill him.”

  She caught his other hand and turned it over to look at it. “Do you have a kerchief?”

  He nodded and pulled one free of his coat.

  Charlotte gave his hand a yank. “Please come away from the fire.” The fumes were beginning to make her eyes water.

  This time, when she pulled on his hand, he followed. Back near the door, where more light entered, she wrapped his kerchief about his other hand. The cuts were shallow, for the most part, though a sliver of wood jutted from one and the paint should be washed out of the wounds. “We need to remove that,” she muttered.

  Edward cocked his head. A moment later, she heard what he had, the creak of wheels. His eyes narrowed. With odd gentleness, he extracted his hand from hers. He yanked out the large splinter as he turned toward the door. Blood dripped from his balled fist.

  “Let me check who might be inside, sweeting,” MaClagan’s voice said without.

  He must know, of course, as must his sweeting, if she was Hetty. Both would see the open door, and recognize Lord Edward’s steed. Charlotte cast the seething man beside her a worried look, but his attention was fixed on the doorway.

  “Lord Edward,” MaClagan said, stepping into the doorway, hands in his coat pockets. “And Missus Fairhaven.” His gaze swept the room. A line formed on his brow. “You realize you’ve ruined years of work, my lord.”

  “I’ll ruin more than that,” Edward snarled.

  Mister MaClagan turned an angry, speculative look on the baron. “I should have known you would be unreasonable, my lord.” He pulled free his hands to reveal one held a small, single barrel pistol, which he cocked.

  “Do your best, MaClagan,” Lord Edward said, voice low and hard. “You’ve only got one bullet.”

  “Edward, do not be a fool,” Charlotte gasped.

  “The lady’s advice is sound, my lord. I’ve no desire to shoot you. Only for you to leave. I’ll step back from the doorway, and you and Missus Fairhaven may depart.” He cast Charlotte a quick, evil grin. “Unless you should care to stay, Missus Fairhaven?”

  A low growl built in Edward’s chest.

  “Certainly not,” Charlotte said. She placed a restraining hand on the baron’s arm.

  “That’s my father’s horse, Aribert,” Hetty’s voice said outside, filled with worry. “What—”

  She broke off as she stepped into the doorway beside Mister MaClagan. Her wide eyes took in the scene. Her cheeks paled at the sight of Charlotte and her father, then went red as her seeking gaze collided with the few paintings left standing, which included Vivian’s. She turned to Mister MaClagan, a question on her lips, and stilled as she finally realized he held a gun.

  “Hetty, go outside,” Lord Edward said, his voice amazingly calm.

  “What happened here?” she squeaked. “Why do you have these paintings, Aribert? And… a pistol?”

  “Hetty, listen to your father,” Charlotte beseeched. Her fingers convulsed on Lord Edward’s arm as she thought of what a pistol bullet could do to him, or Hetty.

  “Yes, sweeting, listen to your father,” Mister MaClagan ordered. “We adults are speaking.”

  Hetty’s chin jutted out in a way that would have been comically reminiscent of Lord Edward’s most stubborn look, were there not a loaded pistol involved. “You thought me grown enough to bring me here.”

  Mister MaClagan turned an annoyed frown on her, though the pistol remained pointed Edward’s way. Charlotte felt the tension that bunched in Edward’s frame a second before he shoved her. She sprawled to the floor, out of line with the pistol, as he leapt forward.

  The gun fired. Edward roared in pain. Hetty screamed and jumped backward. Charlotte was on her feet again as Edward crashed into MaClagan. He slammed MaClagan into the doorf
rame with a sickening crack. Both men fell sprawling to the floor.

  Edward rolled onto his back with a groan, hand clutched to his shoulder. Charlotte didn’t recall crossing the room as she fell to her knees beside him. He ignored her, his eyes on Mister MaClagan.

  “Is he dead?”

  She couldn’t tell from Edward’s tone if he hoped the answer was yes or no. “I have no idea,” she snapped. “But you will be if we don’t get you a doctor.” She wrapped her hands about his, as if she could help hold in the blood that welled between his fingers.

  Hetty crept back into the room. She looked down at Mister MaClagan. “Is he…”

  “Check,” Charlotte ordered. Tearing herself from Edward’s side, she raced to the bed and tore free the silken sheets. She grimaced to touch them, but she must have something to staunch the blood welling from Edward. She came back across the room to find Hetty kneeling beside Mister MaClagan.

  “He’s breathing, but he won’t wake up,” the girl said. She touched his head and jerked her hand away. It was coated red. “I think Papa split his head open on the doorframe.”

  “Good,” Charlotte muttered. She knelt beside Edward, whose eyes were losing focus, and pulled his unresisting hand from the wound. “Let me,” she said and pressed a folded pile of cloth over the well of blood.

  He reached up to cup her cheek. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.

  Charlotte allowed herself to lean into that caress for the barest moment, then caught his hand and placed it over the folded length of sheet, the rest trailing out behind her. “And you’re the most pigheaded man I’ve ever met, so apply that to staying alive while I get you a doctor.”

  A smile flickered across his lips. “I’ll do my best,” he murmured. His eyes slid closed.

  Charlotte held her breath until she could discern the steady rise and fall of his. Reassured that, for the moment, he still lived, she composed the worry from her face before raising it to Hetty. “You have your phaeton? Hetty?”