The Wicked Lord Rasenby

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I am aware of Lord Rasenby’s reputation, ma’am, but surely he cannot be as bad as they say?’

  ‘Child, I know not what you have heard, but believe me, whatever it is, Kit’s behaviour is worse. He has been one of the ton for nigh on fifteen years, and master of a huge fortune for longer, his papa having unfortunately died when he was still at school. His papa, such a very dreadful man, broke his neck when he was thrown from his horse riding to the hounds. He was a bruising rider by all accounts, but they say he was in his cups at the time. Mind you, there was rarely a day when he was ever anything else. Hardly a role model for his only son. Although, to be fair, Kit seems to be rather more sober and certainly more discriminating than his father. But there is no getting away from it Clarissa, his tastes are still very, very low!’

  With pursed lips, Lady Constance poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘I will not sully your ears with the details, there is no need for that. But this I will say. It is not just the usual, opera dancers and mistresses. He is wild. Too quick to quarrel and too slow to make up. If you ask me, he has too little to occupy him. I have often thought he could make a most excellent politician.’

  Lady Constance paused to sip her coffee, gazing into the fireplace. It was her one regret, not having a son. Not for an instant would she have wished a Kit Rasenby on herself, but a child in the image of her dear husband would have been a precious gift. Still, it had not happened. And here was Clarissa, someone who did need her help and protection. Lady Constance brought her attention firmly back to the matter in hand. ‘I beg your pardon, Clarissa, we were talking of Kit Rasenby. Despite all I have said, he is still seen as a good catch by some. Yet he has avoided matrimony until now, and is like to continue to do so. Letitia tells me he is happy for Jeremy, her son, to inherit, and cares naught for the line continuing from him. It is perhaps as well.’

  Lady Constance paused, once again assessing the effect on her niece. Clarissa was looking thoughtful rather than shocked.

  ‘Aunt, I am aware of much of what you have told me, although I do truly find it hard to believe that anyone could be all bad.’ She held up her hand and gave her aunt a small smile to forestall any intervention. ‘I know, you think I’m naïve, but I do like to think there is some good in everyone. However, that is not the point, since I have never met Lord Rasenby.’

  Clarissa thought over her next words carefully. ‘There is some truth in the rumours, I’m afraid. Amelia has been much in Lord Rasenby’s company, and I fear his intentions cannot be honourable, no matter what Amelia may believe. She has no love for him, but I think she is deeply flattered, and is fooling herself into thinking he may offer matrimony. I think that she must come to accept that it cannot be so.’

  ‘My dear Clarissa, you underrate your sister. She is, I have no doubt at all, fully aware that Kit Rasenby can intend only a carte blanche. Which she will accept, should no other more honourable offer come her way. Your sister, whether you want to believe it or not, is avaricious before anything else. There, plain speaking indeed, but you must be made to realise it.’

  ‘Aunt, I know you think no good of Amelia.’ Clarissa blinked, trying to quieten the little voice in her head that told her Lady Constance was articulating Clarissa’s own fears. Lady Constance had said only what she already knew. ‘Perhaps what you say is true. But I am certain that I can prevent her ruining herself with Lord Rasenby. She is a child, she is simply beguiled by his charm and his wealth.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of doing something foolish, Clarissa?’

  ‘No, no. No, of course I won’t be foolish.’ The slight laugh with which she attempted to carry off the denial fell rather flat, and Clarissa bit her lip. She could never lie. She had the makings of a plan which Aunt Constance would certainly call foolish, but she needed to think it through.

  ‘Enough of my imprudent sister, I have to tell you that I am not at all impressed with Udolpho.’ Clarissa rushed into a dissection of Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in an effort to distract her aunt from further enquiries. Lady Constance was, rather to her shame, an avid fan of Mrs Radcliffe, and allowed herself to be diverted into a spirited defence. The two parted on excellent terms.

  Mulling over her aunt’s words later, however, confirmed Clarissa in her resolution. She must separate Amelia from Lord Rasenby, and that would require desperate action, for Amelia must not know that she was being thwarted. Amelia would accept a carte blanche from Lord Rasenby, Clarissa no longer doubted it. And she knew, in her heart, that whatever plan Amelia had to trap him into marriage would fail. Aunt Constance would not have been so blunt with Clarissa had she been less sure. So she had to prevent both Amelia’s plot and Lord Rasenby’s offer.

  A flicker of excitement rippled through her at the thought of taking action. It was as if she was waking from sleep, preparing for the challenge to come. Telling herself that it was the thrill of rescuing her sister, and nothing to do with meeting so notorious a man, Clarissa started to formulate her plan. The first requirement was to meet with Lord Rasenby in order to determine for herself just how much danger Amelia was in. And Clarrie knew just how to effect that meeting.

  With a fast-beating heart, she flicked through the pile of invitations on the desk in the morning room. Yes, there it was, discarded at the bottom of the pile. Lady Teasborough was a friend of Aunt Constance, and had no doubt sent the invite at her request. A masked ball. Clarrie would go—incognito, and on her own.

  Chapter Two

  Kit, Earl of Rasenby, stared down into the limpid blue eyes of yet another eligible young lady, and tried to suppress a yawn as a wave of boredom washed over him. He should never have given in to his sister Letitia’s entreaties to escort her to the ball. He had planned a quiet dinner followed by a hand or two of whist at his club, instead of which, here he was at one of the society crushes he so abhorred. With the added, and completely pointless, inconvenience of having to sport a domino and a mask.

  Lady Teasborough had thought to introduce a slightly risqué element with this masked ball, but Kit was finding it every bit as tedious as any other social event. The heat in the room was overpowering. The candles from the huge chandeliers, the fires lit—unnecessarily, in his view—in the enormous grates at either end of the ballroom, and the crush of too many people in too little space made Kit want to fight his way out into the relatively fresh air of the terrace. He was bored. He had no interest in the latest crim. con. story, nor in taking part in the speculation as to who had fathered his hostess’s latest brat. If his host—closeted, no doubt, in one of the card rooms—didn’t care, why should he? God, he was bored. Despite the concealing cloaks and masks, he recognised almost everyone here. Including Miss Pink Domino, being presented to him now by Letitia.

  Kit sighed, bowed over Miss Pink Domino’s hand, and led her out reluctantly. His enthusiasm for fencing, which he practised regularly with the renowned Harry Angelo at his academy in the Haymarket, lent him an animal grace that singled him out on the dance floor. But his partner was, alas, unable to match him, and it would take a great effort on his part to ensure that they remained in step for the duration of the country dance.

  As they worked their way down the set, Kit’s mind began to wander. He knew Letitia’s game only too well. His elder by some years, his sister had just successfully married off the first of his five nieces, and was once again turning her attentions to his own marital state. It was his own fault for bringing it up earlier—even though it had been in jest. Kit’s reputation was too bad for him to be a great catch, of course, as Letitia took pleasure in reminding him. So Louisa Haysham, with whom he was now dancing, fell into the second-best category. A pretty little thing with an adequate portion who will cause you no trouble. He could hear Letitia saying it, and he knew exactly what she meant. Louisa Haysham was a nice, inoffensive, malleable female for him to trample on. She’d raise a brood of nice insignificant children for him, and he’d be bored within a week. He was bored now, and he’d been in her company for barely ten minu
tes.

  Over and over again, Kit had assured Letitia that he’d be happy for her son, Jeremy, to inherit his estates. At thirty-five, he was surely entitled to be treated as the confirmed bachelor he knew himself to be. Lord knew, he’d made his views clear to both Letitia and his mother often enough. Matrimony simply had no appeal for him. Rather, matrimony, in the accepted form these days, had no appeal. Fidelity, even if he could find a woman he wanted to be faithful to, seemed not to be valued. And he had seen no evidence, not in his family, nor amongst his friends or acquaintances, that marriage had any rewards other than a string of brats that no one really wanted, and endless recriminations about money. Even his sister, who claimed to be happy, was, he knew, no more than content. Content, Kit was sure, wasn’t a big enough reward for the sacrifice of his freedom.

  Returning Miss Haysham with a curt bow to her mother, and neatly avoiding catching his sister’s eye—he couldn’t bear her inevitable interrogation as to whether Miss Insipid Haysham was to his liking—Kit headed instead for the group of gentlemen congregated at the back of the room. His tall figure in a plain black domino and mask was easily recognisable in a crowd that favoured colour and decoration. He was in fact, infamous for refusing to decorate his well-favoured person with any of the fobs, frills and furbelows of the day.

  A slight man in a deep scarlet cloak standing on the fringes of the crowd noted Kit’s attendance at the ball with some surprise—it was very unlike Rasenby to turn out at these formal affairs. Kit was not aware of the depths of contempt in which Robert, Marquis of Alchester, held him. Brought up as children together, since the estates of their fathers ran parallel, Robert had been forced to play second fiddle to Kit from the start. Kit was the ringleader in all their childish pranks. Kit was the best shot in the area, the handiest with his fists, the most skilled with a sword. And it was Kit who had first call on all the females. To add insult to injury, Kit’s estates continued to flourish under his generous stewardship, whereas Robert’s dissolute lifestyle drained every penny from his land, now in sad want of repair. All this bitterness Robert had suppressed over the years, but it was slowly mouldering. And now, he had a card worth playing. It was Robert who had been informing the customs men as to Kit’s activities. One day soon, revenge would be his.

  Blissfully unaware of this enmity, Kit took a reviving draught of claret, a drink he much preferred to the ice-cold champagne cup being offered to the rest of the guests. Mindful of his resolution to give up smuggling, he mulled over, once more, the notion of matrimony. Letitia had made her point of view perfectly clear when he had raised the subject before dinner. A slight frown marred the perfection of his countenance as he thought over his sister’s words from earlier tonight. His handsome features were, in fact, a major bone of contention with Letitia, and had been the trigger for her latest tirade, turning his attempt at light banter into a more serious discussion.

  ‘What would you say, Letitia, if I asked you to finally find me a suitable bride? One who met all my needs, I might add.’ He had said this with a wicked grin, deliberately intending to annoy her.

  Letitia sighed. Why should Kit have it all, when she didn’t? Of course, she was perfectly happy with her husband, but life wasn’t exactly stimulating. So it shouldn’t be for Kit, either. That wasn’t what matrimony was about.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, must you always harp on about your needs. With your looks, I’m sure that sort of thing won’t be a problem—ever.’ It was positively painful to Letitia that Kit was so very perfectly good looking. ‘It’s your duty to the family to bestow yourself on one of my sex for reasons of lineage, not for—not for the reasons you’re implying.’

  ‘On the contrary, Letitia, I feel it my bounden duty to bestow myself on as many of your sex as I can. And I do my best, you know.’ This was said with a rueful smile, for Kit knew that Letitia, despite her perfect breeding, liked to consider herself risqué.

  ‘Kit!’ She feigned shock, anyway. ‘I mean bestow yourself properly. I’m not referring to your mistresses, for Heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Letitia, what can you know of my mistresses?’

  ‘Why, no more nor less than the whole of London society, since you flaunt them so brazenly at every opportunity. Only yesterday I saw you in a carriage in Oxford Street with that shameless hussy Charlotte—harlot, more like—sitting at your side. Draped in the most gorgeous furs, too. No doubt paid for by you.’ Letitia couldn’t prevent the bitter note of envy entering her voice, thinking back to how stunning Charlotte du Pres had looked. Providing her husband with six children in quick succession had taken a heavy toll on what little looks she herself had once possessed.

  ‘Yes, she really is rather lovely, isn’t she? But alas, I fear, becoming rather tedious. Her demands are endless, you know, Letitia, and the rewards less attractive each time. I think that Charlotte is coming to the end of her usefulness.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s been with you two months now. Don’t you ever find a woman diverting for longer?’

  ‘Alas, no. At least, not yet. And since I’ve been trying for more years than either of us, sister dear, would care to count, I’m afraid you really must resign yourself to my bachelor state. And incidentally, please don’t go breaking your heart over Charlotte, she’ll be more than adequately compensated for her loss.’

  ‘Yes, you’re very generous in that way, I know. But really, Kit, you’re so hugely rich that it means nothing to you. Not, I assure you, that I’m complaining myself, for you’ve been exceeding good to me and my children over the years, particularly Jeremy, who scarce deserves it. He may be my only son and I love him dearly but it’s plain the lad is a wastrel. I just wish you took your duty to marry and produce your own son and heir as seriously.’

  ‘Enough of this. I have no desire to be leg-shackled, it was a jest. I have no wish to be presented to yet another eligible girl who will drive me back into the arms of someone who at least can attend properly to my physical needs. And spare me your blushes, Letty, for you know perfectly well what I mean.’

  ‘No, Kit, I do not. There is no reason why you shouldn’t continue to tend to your physical needs, as you put it, outside of the marriage bed. But you must marry for the sake of the family. Jeremy is no fit heir for you. You need the stability of a wife. You need someone to care for you in your old age.’

  Kit threw back his head and laughed again, running his fingers through his cropped, glossy black hair. ‘For God’s sake Letitia, I’m thirty-five, I don’t need a nursemaid yet. I’ll tell you what, the minute I show the first signs of contracting gout, I’ll start looking out for a wife to tend to me.’

  ‘By then, you’ll be too old to father children, and it will be too late. Kit, do listen, since you brought the topic up. I know your reputation is bad—and indeed, well deserved—but you’re still eligible. I could still find you someone suitable.’

  Kit was now deeply regretting raising the subject. ‘Letty, enough. You know my views on matrimony, they are not likely to change. There are but two types of women on this earth, and they live in worlds that don’t mix. There are those who provide pleasure for a man, and who require payment, and there are those who provide a family—and they require payment in a different way. And I’m happy to pay for the former, if I get something out of it. But why should I pay for a family when I don’t want one? Have done.’

  Letitia, silenced temporarily by the stern tone of her brother’s voice, had done. Reflecting on what he had said, she had to accept the truth of it, for Kit had no experience of any respectable female wanting to give more than she took from him. Starting with their mother—and, she had to admit, herself too. But Letitia wasn’t one to give up so easily, either. Her brother must have an heir. He must make some sacrifices. ‘Kit, let me see what I can do. I’ll see if I can provide you with someone who is at least good to look at.’

  ‘Enough. Let us forgo any further discussion. I must change for this cursed party of yours.’


  Shaking his head to banish the memory of that uncomfortable conversation, Kit took another draught of claret, and cast an idle eye over the ballroom. So far, he had danced only with Miss Haysham, but he knew that he’d have to choose at least one other partner soon, or the world would think he had singled the fair Miss Haysham out. And Kit did not want that to happen. Really, the idea of matrimony was ridiculous. Apart from anything else, he had no desire to make his poor wife—whoever she might be—totally miserable. And since he could in no way promise liking, never mind fidelity, miserable she would be, and quickly. Best to focus on this last run with the Sea Wolf first, then think to the future after. For now, he needed to find another dance partner.

  A brief flash of black domino lined with emerald green caught his eye in the far corner, and roused his attention. It was highly unusual for a female to wear black—in fact, he was the only man to do so tonight. And while he could have sworn he knew everyone here—despite the masks—she was unfamiliar. She was standing by the open window, and for some reason she seemed to be watching him. Her stance was alert, giving the impression of one on the verge of flight. Kit was intrigued. Retrieving two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, he made his way over to the stranger.

  ‘I fear you are somewhat warm, Miss Black Domino—can I offer you a cooling drink?’

  Clarrie gave a start, then tried, rather unsuccessfully, to regain her poise. The black domino, the only other one here, had been pointed out to her as the Earl of Rasenby. He had made the first move. She couldn’t believe her luck. Nor could she flee now, as she had been contemplating only a moment before. Fate had decreed that she must go through with her plan.