The Lure of a Rake

by Christi Caldwell

  Cedric sat unmoving, staring across the table to the man he’d called friend. How had he failed to see the ruthlessness in him? He’d long considered himself cut of the same proverbial cloth as the Montforts of the world and yet… “I do not even know you,” he said to himself, puzzling through a twenty-year friendship in the midst of one of the most scandalous clubs in London. “You knew about my fears and the goals I had and it mattered not at all. All you cared about was the coin dangled before you.”

  “Oh, come,” the earl scoffed. “With your indignation and holier than thou attitude, you of all people would take me to task? You?” He placed a mocking emphasis that deepened Cedric’s frown. “You can hate me all you want and act the offended party for me having placed my own needs before yours.” Montfort jerked his chin in Cedric’s direction. “But you are the same as me.”

  “I am nothing like you.” The denial sprung easily to his lips. “I would have never put my interests before yours.”

  “No.” Montfort propped his elbows on the smooth surface of the table. “You’d only put yourself and your happiness before that of your wife.”

  The air left him on a slow hiss and he opened his mouth wanting to refute those mocking words. To lash out with the truth that he was nothing like the Earl of Montfort or the Duke of Ravenscourt. And yet… His throat constricted so that it was painful to draw breath. Genevieve was proof that he’d always placed his needs and desires before anyone else’s.

  “You see that I am correct,” Montfort observed. The too-casual earl picked up his glass and reclined in his seat. “You thought about your need for coin and saw the Farendale chit as the easiest way to fill your coffers while maintaining your dissolute lifestyle.” With every word uttered in truth, the blade of guilt twisted all the deeper. Montfort flicked his hand. “There is nothing wrong with that decision. Nor is there anything wrong with the lifestyle you live.” There had been everything wrong with it. Too many errors to now count. Too many sins he could not undo. Genevieve’s once smiling visage flashed to mind and pain wracked his heart. “You merely did what any gentleman would do.” Montfort held his gaze. “Just as I did. But allow me to buy you a drink and the comforts of a beautiful whore to make up for the ill-will.”

  Bile singed the back of his throat. Cedric was everything like this man…and yet, at the same time, nothing. A commotion sounded at the front of the club, momentarily distracting, and he glanced past Montfort’s shoulder just as a servant pushed through the two men who stood as sentinels at the front of the club. A liveried servant. He furrowed his brow. His liveried servant.

  What…?

  The man, gasping and out of breath, skidded to a stop before his table with the hulking brutes racing after him. “My lord,” he said, panting from his exertions. He held out a note. “It is Her Ladyship.”

  He cocked his head, not making sense of the words. “Her Ladyship?” he repeated dumbly. Unable to process. Not wanting to process. The world hung suspended in an unending moment of humming silence and then it resumed in a whir of noise. He ripped the sheet from the man’s hands and skimmed the words. His heart stopped.

  “St. Albans?”

  Montfort forgotten, Cedric surged to his feet so quickly his seat toppled over with a loud thwack. He sprinted from his club.

  Heart pounding a frantic beat, Cedric raced outside, searching for the youth whom he’d turned his mount over to. Finding the boy, he rushed across the street, dodging past a quick moving phaeton. He concentrated on his every movement or else he’d descend into a level of madness that he’d never be able to climb back from.

  Her Ladyship is unwell.

  His pulse beat loudly in his ears, muting sound. The handful of lines that said everything and nothing. Throwing a purse at the lad, Cedric swung his leg over his mount and kicked it forward into a breakneck speed that earned him furious stares and shouts.

  He nudged Wicked ahead faster.

  Why had he gone out?

  Because she had no wish to see me. Because I was too much a coward to remain in the same townhouse with her and be reminded of the weight of my sins.

  Terror licked at his senses as his ride stretched into forever. At last, his townhouse came into focus and he urged Wicked onward past other lords setting out in their carriages. He jerked on the reins and his mount reared, pawing at the air with his hooves. Cedric swiftly dismounted and a servant waiting outside hurried to collect the reins.

  In wait, Avis pulled the door open.

  “Her Ladyship,” he rasped as this moment unfolded in an eerily similar way of last night’s hell.

  “Her ch-chambers, my lord.” He briefly noted the ashen hue and the tremble to the man’s words and it fueled his panic. “I summoned the doctor. He arrived a short while…” Letting those words to go unfinished, Cedric surged up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

  He stumbled and then righted himself at the top landing and then tore down the hall. Sucking in ragged breaths from his constricted lungs, he staggered to a halt. Two ladies lie in wait outside his wife’s chambers. Tears stained the cheeks of his sister-in-law and terror anew licked at his every sense.

  “Oh, Cedric,” Gillian whispered as he rushed over. She placed herself between him and the oak panel. “She is not well.” His heart lurched and he sought words. “I’ve summoned my mother.”

  Incapable of words, he made to step around her just as a maid came out.

  His stomach revolted at the bloodied rags she carried. The young woman averted her gaze. “You should not go in there, my lord.”

  In a daze, Cedric stepped past his sister-in-law and entered the room. He froze in the doorway. A dull buzzing filled his ears and an inky blackness played at the corner of his eyes. Genevieve lay at the center of the bed, moaning. He shot a hand out to steady himself. The old family doctor who’d long served the St. Albans family looked up and said something to a young woman at his side.

  “You should not be in here, my lord,” Dr. Craven murmured, rushing over. The doctor took him by the arm and steered him away, but not before Cedric’s gaze snagged on the crimson towels.

  Blood. So much of it. An agonized groan ripped from his throat. “Genevieve,” he roared. What had she done? What did I make her do?

  “Come, my lord. It will not do Her Ladyship well to see you like this,” the physician said with the same firmness he’d used when he scolded Cedric as he’d cried over his broken nose as a boy of eight.

  “My wife,” he managed to rasp as the doctor closed the door behind him. His wife’s two loyal sentinels retreated, allowing Cedric his privacy. He dragged a trembling hand through his hair as his world threatened to ratchet down about him. “Will she l—be all right?” There was no life without Genevieve in it; no life that was worth living.

  The doctor removed a kerchief and mopped at his damp brow. “Your wife will live.”

  He slid his eyes closed on a prayer. “And you may rest assured, my lord, there will be others.”

  Cedric opened his eyes and gave his head a shake. “Other what?” he demanded gruffly.

  Surprise stamped the other man’s weathered face. “You did not know?”

  “Know what?” The entreaty ripped from him.

  “Her Ladyship was with child.”

  Chapter 26

  Genevieve was restricted to her bed, cared for by Dr. Craven, and suffering through the wrenching pain of her loss. An agony that defied the mere physical pain ripping at her insides, Genevieve found herself fixing on the ceiling to keep from going mad.

  Except madness was a powerful thing. It licked at the corner of her mind, until all logic and reason disappeared under the cacophony of pain and despair. When insanity nearly dragged her under, she fought to stave it off.

  It was then she’d first noticed the twelve cherubs in the mural above her bed. She’d come to notice one peculiar, particular detail each time. That particular number continued to surface.

  From the doctor, to the maids, to her only two frie
nds in the world, and even her mother, there were twelve people who’d alternated their presence over the course of the sennight.

  It took Dr. Craven twelve steps to reach her bed and another twelve to march the same path out of her chambers.

  There were twelve cherubs in the mural overhead.

  And twelve letters in the name Cedric Falcot. Twelve more in Lord St. Albans.

  And it had been twelve hours.

  Twelve hours was all it had taken for her life to come apart.

  In the early morn hour, with her maid hurrying about her room tucking her dresses and garments into her trunks, Genevieve lay on her side and stared at the opposite wall. With the brocade curtains tightly drawn, not even a hint of sunlight penetrated her chambers. The porcelain clock atop her mantel ticked the passing moments in a grating rhythm punctuated by Delores’ cheery whistling.

  “Oh, I will be so sad with you gone,” Francesca said on a forlorn whisper.

  Genevieve forced herself into a sitting position at the edge of her bed. It had been a fortnight since her world had fallen apart. But it wasn’t fair to wear her misery before Gillian and Francesca who’d been loyal, daily visitors.

  “I still think it’s a rotten idea for you to leave,” Gillian grumbled, giving her a disappointed look. “It’s cowardly to leave. You should stay and fight for love.”

  How beautifully innocent Gillian was. A believer in love triumphing over all. She gave her sister a gentle smile. “Sometimes love is not enough.”

  A sound of impatience escaped her younger sister. “Rubbish. If you love one another then you can conquer all.” From where she stood at the vanity, Gillian planted her arms akimbo. “And I saw your husband. That man is in love with you.”

  Francesca gave a concurring nod. “It is true. He’s seated like a stone statue outside your room whenever I come.”

  Throughout the weeks, Cedric’s voice had penetrated the wood panel, but since he’d staggered into the room and then promptly out, she’d heard nothing more than his muffled words as he’d spoken to the doctor.

  …will she live…?

  …if anything happens to her, I will hold you accountable…

  …By God, man, I do not care about a future heir, I care about her…

  Her heart convulsed and she pressed her lids tightly closed to blot out the memory of those furious whispers; words that said so very much about Cedric’s regard for that now-gone life and also about her.

  She’d never doubted Cedric cared for her in some way. Time had proven, however, they were friends and lovers, but never anything more. They’d never be a husband and wife in the truest sense. She’d held that dream ever since she had first arrived in London, bright-eyed and idyllic, seduced by the glittering world of London Society, all those years ago.

  They would never be the bucolic couple upon the porcelain perfume bottle.

  They would never be parents. Not because of the loss she’d suffered, but because she’d bound herself to a man who never wanted to be a father. The truth scoured her skin like jagged glass. But she’d not disabuse her friends of their romantic sentiments. “What has come to pass between Cedric and me…” she began softly. “It goes beyond love.” The chasm between them was a gulf so wide; of divergent dreams and wishes on every aspect of life.

  She made the mistake of looking to the sketchpad on her nightstand. With her friend and sister debating the power of love, Genevieve leaned over and grabbed the book and flipped through the pages. Cedric’s visage danced along the fanning sheets. She paused. Her own countenance as she’d been on their wedding night, a lifetime ago, stared back. The clock continued to mark the passing moments and her heart squeezed painfully as she touched her fingertip to the face she’d sketched with Cedric’s hand guiding hers. The smile, the grin that reached all the way to her eyes, spoke of the naïve girl she’d been. Even with Aumere’s betrayal and her parents’ defection, there had been hope and laughter…and a dream for more.

  Unable to stare into the reflection of now-dead innocence, Genevieve continued flipping the pages. And stopped.

  A tiny little babe; an imagined being with his father’s eyes, hair, and mischievous grin that would never be. Agony sucked at her, threatening to pull her under an abyss of despair she’d never climb from. How was it possible to mourn so for a being she’d only just discovered she carried? With trembling fingers, she tugged the page out and brought it closer to her eyes, studying the fictional boy. She dusted her fingertips over the charcoal, faintly smudging the cherubic cheeks.

  Because he’d been hers. Even as fleeting as the moment of knowing had been…he’d been real, a piece of her and Cedric combined, that created a miraculous life. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the corners of the sheet. A child that would never crawl or walk, or call her mama or mum or ride a horse or simply be. Despair brought her eyes closed again. With nothing more than an empty numbness inside, she pulled deeper into herself.

  “Oh, Genevieve,” Gillian said, touching a hand to her shoulder.

  Go away, she silently pleaded. She didn’t want any more of the pitying stares or the devastated tears or the words of sympathy from anyone. This had happened to her. It was an aching loss that had left her empty inside. It was an ache that could never, ever heal. Tears pressed behind her eyelids and leaked their familiar trail down her cheeks. For even as Cedric had never wanted their child and even as it would have been the height of selfishness to bring a child into the world already disdained by his father, she’d wanted the babe anyway. She’d wanted it for her. She’d wanted to cradle him close and sing him songs and she would have had enough love to make up for the parent who’d never care for him.

  Genevieve was grateful for the interruption at the front of the room—until her gaze snagged on the plump, oft-frowning figure in the entranceway. Her mother pursed her lips, her gaze taking in Delores’ efforts and the darkened space. “If you’ll excuse us a moment,” Genevieve said to her two friends, hurriedly tucking the page inside the leather book and setting it aside.

  In quick order, the two young ladies filed from the room. Gillian paused a moment and shot her a supportive look, before pulling the panel closed behind them.

  “Your father sent me.” The marchioness spoke as though she needed to justify why she’d visit the daughter who’d left their family so scandalized.

  “How touching,” she said with a mocking smile. Where most mothers would come to their daughter’s side through the loss Genevieve had suffered, her own parent could not be bothered to enter such a gross display…as she’d heard the day she’d come and remained outside the room. It was the first and last time she’d entered this house—until now.

  Her mother took in the nearly packed trunks. “You are determined to steep this family in scandal,” she snapped. “Do you know the gossip that will come in leaving your husband?”

  Probably not as great a scandal that came in visiting naughty parties and running out in tears. Then, she’d rather not discuss that particular scandal.

  The older woman slapped her fingers into her opposite palm. “You do not attend the events your husband does. You do not show that gross display of emotion before Society because your husband carries on with another woman.” She made a sound of annoyance. “Did you truly expect your husband to be faithful to you?”

  “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I did.” She’d demand nothing less. She was deserving of her husband’s fidelity.

  “You are a fool.” Had there been malice there it would have been easier than that cold delivery. It spoke to a heartless woman who valued nothing more than her status and power.

  All the years of resentment and fury at her parents’ disdain boiled to the surface and spilled over. She shoved to her feet. “How dare you?”

  Her mother widened her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “As you should,” Genevieve said icily, deliberately misinterpreting the meaning of those words. “You have been nothing but condescending of me. You have
shunned me because of the lies put forth by another man.” Her voice rose in pitch as she gave in to years of suppressed emotion. “I am your daughter. And yet you sent me away for something I’d never been guilty of.”

  “There was your sister—”

  “Bah, do not pretend you care for Gillian any more than you care for me,” she cut in and her mother’s cheeks blazed red. “And do not come into this house and scold me as though I’m a child. This is my home.” Or it had been. “I do not want your lectures and I do not want your disloyalty. Get out.”

  From over her mother’s graying head, she caught the flash of approval gleaming in Delores’ eyes. Genevieve found strength in that slight, but meaningful, show of unspoken support from a woman who’d been more of a friend through the years than anything.

  “Well,” her mother said on a huff and in an uncharacteristically undignified way, all but flew to the front of the room. She yanked the door open and collided with her son-in-law. The marchioness didn’t so much as bother with a greeting but continued walking.

  Cedric ignored the older woman; his gaze fixed on Genevieve.

  Unable to meet his eyes, she quietly excused Delores. The maid dropped the dress in her hands inside the trunk and quickly left.

  Cedric closed the door, leaving them alone. “Genevieve,” he murmured.

  Drained from her exertions, she slid onto the edge of the mattress, presenting him her back. Did he truly think to come in here after a fortnight with a casual greeting? After all they’d lost? After his betrayal and treachery? Emotion broiled in her breast.

  The tread of heavy steps penetrated her misery as Cedric came to a stop beside her. Wordlessly, he dragged over a chair, the scratch of wood noisy in the quiet and then he slid into the delicate, upholstered seat.