The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection 6

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

"Oddly enough I was just speaking with my friend Philip about a cheap place to get exotic fabric and furniture.

  "Aye, off the back of a dray," she said pertly.

  "No, strictly up and up, I swear. Chap called Lawrence with a warehouse here in London and one in Bristol."

  "Indian? Oriental? Like the Pavilion in Brighton?" she asked, having felt a little frisson of fear. But the name Lawrence was common enough. A last name, surely. It couldn’t possibly be—

  "Yes," he said in surprise. "Exactly like that, and like Philip’s house where you shall be living."

  "Living with a man?" she asked calmly.

  "Two men and women, actually, husbands and wives of course. Totally respectable, I swear."

  "Oh, but I can—"

  "I want to see you safe. This demonstration should be proof enough that a little bed-sitting room somewhere is just not going to suit. They have ten foot high walls and a prodigious staff, and the girls here are all friends with Viola, so anyone you’ve made friends with here will be more than welcome to visit you."

  "Oh? Is she a former professional made good?" she asked curtly. Jealousy surged upwards within her almost painfully. "Or a former actress or—"

  He shook his head. "None of those things. The sister of a friend, both down on their luck. No, I have never frigged her if that’s what you’re asking, so there’s no need to look so insulted. They’re perfectly respectable people. You’ll see."

  "Very well. But if I don’t like them or the house, or I smell a rat, I’m not going to stay there," she said in a snippy tone, casting a mistrustful look in his direction.

  "Well, you can’t stay here. It’s not safe. So I promise you, if you really hate it, we can find another solution. In the meantime, I think we're going to rechristen this place The New Pavilion and tart it up to the nines."

  She nodded. "Whatever you think. Gosh, I’m starving. If you all finish cleaning up in here I’ll put on some food. Nothing fancy, just bacon, eggs that sort of thing, but it’s better than nothing."

  "Aye, that it is, but you must be exhausted."

  "I’m fine, really. I just hope the girls are all going to be all right."

  "You’re a lovely woman, you know," he said suddenly.

  Her eyes flashed fire. "Practising to see if I’m going to succumb to the blandishments of a rake again?" she asked angrily.

  He raised one finger to stroke down her cheek. "No, merely making an observation. Go on, go get those eggs. I like my scrambled ones runny and my boiled ones soft."

  She gave a mock salute. "Runny scrambled coming right up."

  The women and staff all helped clear away the rest of the debris, and were just about to sit on the floor to talk about what to do next when Miranda shouted for them to come in to get some food. George helped serve up and then sat near her on the floor as they all tucked in and passed around the tea or coffee pot.

  He turned to thank her for all her help, her courage, but he could see her starting to nod off. He rose and helped her to her feet.

  "Time for bed."

  She shivered with desire and nerves. But his touch was impersonal, and he stood outside the door to her room and made no attempt to come in as he said good night.

  "I’m taking you to your new home at eight for breakfast, and we have rehearsals for nine. I thought we might do a comedy next. Twelfth Night perhaps? I’ve never had an actress who could do the breeches part so well as you."

  "It wouldn’t have anything to do with your friend Viola, now would it?" she asked, feeling that dreadful stinging sensation again.

  He didn’t see anything wrong with the question. "And my good friend Sebastian, of course, for they were indeed named after the characters in the play. And you fairly strongly resemble young Bart in terms of colouring and height, so I think it could work out."

  "And would you be the Duke then? Tall, dark, brooding," she said with a long look.

  "I might consider it. It’s a wonderful opening speech. And it wouldn’t be as demanding as the role of Antony. We would need a good Olivia though. Liz is much more lively."

  "Well, if you’re sure..."

  "About Twelfth Night?" he asked with a frown. "Well, we could try—"

  "No, I meant about keeping me on as an actress. After all, I unwittingly caused a riot here tonight. I wouldn’t want the same thing to happen at the theatre."

  He patted her on the shoulder. "It won’t. And yes, I’m sure. Or Othello. But we’ve just done one tragedy. A bit of comedy would be a good thing, but it’s not too much of a farce for you. You’ll have to learn how to use a sword, though. Of course, I should adore you in Romeo and Juliet.

  She smiled. "I would too. My sister is called Juliet."

  "Yes, I know. You did mention it. Where does she live?" he asked, seemingly casually.

  She was about to reply, when she began to yawn fiercely. "Gosh, I’m so tired."

  George resisted the urge to probe more deeply, much as his deep seated instincts were clamouring that he should. "Into bed with you then. Don’t unlock this door for anyone, and I shall be right downstairs if you need me."

  "Downstairs? Aren’t you going to go home?"

  "I have a few more things to do, and—"

  "But there’s no furniture."

  "I can always find a bed. Someone will double up—"

  At the image summoned up in her mind, she could not remain silent. "You can sleep here with me," she blurted out.

  "What?!" he gasped.

  She blushed crimson and wished the floor would open up and swallow her. But she did not back down. "Well, if it is a case of you having to share with one of the girls or me—"

  "No, dear," he said gently, with a shake of his huge dark head. "I meant two of the girls would double up."

  She now blushed in complete confusion and mortification.

  His tone softened further. "But if I were that way inclined, I assure you I would be most delighted with your exceedingly generous offer. I’ve told you, I don’t take advantage of my women, not commercially, nor in terms of their natural feelings of friendship either. They make their living, I make mine."

  "A chivalrous pimp. It sounds most peculiar. Are you sure you’re not what Hugo said you were?" she challenged boldly, disturbed beyond measure at another rejection of her.

  He glared. "I think you’ve seen and felt more than enough of me to know I'm no eunuch. But just in case you have any doubts—"

  He pulled her to him for a blistering kiss and ground his hips fiercely against hers. His huge hard sex massaged her from thighs to belly as he moved up and down, nudging her knees apart to cradle himself even more intimately against her.

  She gasped and shuddered and went soaring in his arms, though her feet never left the ground and her back was so firmly pressed against the wall she had visions of it collapsing and the two of them tumbling right through the plaster and down the stairs.

  She clasped his buttocks, pulling him still closer. He was shuddering too, and she could feel a spreading dampness all down the front of her, most especially between her thighs. Then she knew she had created it herself, and thought with alarm that she should have used a chamberpot.

  But George now pressed his hands against her sodden stomach and his now more soft abdomen. He had caught her look of stunned consternation.

  "You see, pet, this is the fire that happens when you rub two things together. So if you can’t stand the heat, keep the flippant remarks to yourself. Otherwise the only way my burning brand is going to be quenched is in the flood you’ve just brought me to and also provided from deep inside your quivering female parts."

  His hand wedged between her thighs and she looked away in shame. "It’s not what you fear. One day you’ll understand. But for now, you’re a curious girl experimenting with your body and mine. Except that I’m most definitely the wrong man for you, Miranda. For any woman. Just because I don’t cavault every female in Southwark doesn’t mean I can ignore my needs forever.

  "So now
that that’s clear, forget anything that happened here between us tonight. It must never be allowed to happen again. No hard feelings, shame, or reproach. It is just the way things have to be."

  His hands trembling, he moved them up to her waist, then her breasts, and finally her face, cupping her head in his huge hands. His mouth was only a hair’s breadth away from hers. "Lock this door now, Miranda. I’ll see you in the morning."

  Allowing himself the luxury of one more lingering kiss on her lips, he stormed downstairs, sat in the corner of the now-empty parlor, and put his head in his hands.

  Three times in one day. He had to get a grip on his emotions. And his body. To do anything else would be to risk her life, and his.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Miranda was stunned by the ferocity of George’s ardour. His kisses had hit her with all the impact of a battleship broadside. Even more shocking had been her response to them.

  As she stripped off her clothes, put on a night rail, and got into bed, she replayed what had happened over and over again in her mind. She felt shame, but also elation. He was not as indifferent to her as he had pretended earlier that evening.

  At the same time, she could sense his huge inner struggle. He had said he would never take advantage of her friendship or proximity. Yet it was evident they were attracted to one another. Of that there could be no doubt. What on earth was she supposed to do? She didn’t want him to think ill of her and didn’t want to risk losing his friendship. But she felt sure that there could be so much more, if only they would allow themselves to...

  What exactly? That was the question.

  It was a question which also preoccupied George all night as he sat, or paced up and down, and wandered through the pub to the bathhouse and back again.

  As the dawn rose over London, he told himself his decision had to remain the same. He simply had to stand firm, for her own safety as well as his. God help him, but he was falling in love with her. Yet to love Miranda was to risk all. It was also to give up on his quest.

  And it was to lock horns with men who would think nothing of destroying them both if it suited their purposes. They would have no principles, no scruples to stand in the way of their acts, for they believed they were above the law, just as he had been beyond it for so many years.

  Oh God, how had his life become so incredibly complicated?

  He couldn’t give up on his brothers now. Not after all he had sacrificed. Not when he could feel himself getting so close to his goal at last. Ever since he had met Alistair Grant the year before, he had felt himself hot on the trail once more. He couldn't imperil his quest for the truth now, not when he was the closest he had been in years…

  And he couldn’t put Miranda in peril. He nearly vomited every time he thought of what could have happened to her the first night they had met, had he not overheard the conversation in which those men had plotted to seize her for their own.

  Dawn rose, and with it a new resolve. George was going to go all out. He was damned if he was going to lose Miranda, but he was equally damned if he was going to lose the brothers he had been separated from for so many years. He knew they were alive. He was sure of it. Under different names, but Jason had been in Dorset, he was certain of it. The trail had gone cold, but he was out there. Somewhere. He just had to have a bit more faith.

  And he had to try to trust in the woman whom the fates had put into his care. A woman who by any stretch of the imagination was a miracle, for she was certainly more than he thought he deserved. Just the thought of his arms around her, her lively smile, was enough to give him courage.

  Miranda came down a short time after sun up hoping to catch him for breakfast. She gaped in astonishment when he gave her a quick stroke on her cheek and said he had to go.

  "But, George—"

  "I’ll see you at the theatre later."

  "But you were going to take me to your friends’ house."

  "Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll meet you there—"

  "George, are you sure you’re not having—"

  "I’ll see you there. It will be much better for you to be with decent people."

  She gave him a freezing glare. "The girls here are decent people!"

  "You know what I mean," he said impatiently.

  "I’m not so sure that I do," she said frostily.

  "Somewhere in which you’ll always be safe, then. I must go."

  George pounded the streets searching for all his old friends and colleagues, anyone who owed him a favour, hauling them out of bed at the most ungodly hour and in some of the most unlikely circumstances.

  "Leave no stone unturned," he told them all. "They’re here. I know they're almost close enough to touch if only I can connect up the clues. There’s a pattern here. We know how Castlereagh's mind works. Check every brothel, pub. They may have changed over the years, but the three of us look similar enough for you to be able to tell. They both have very unusual eyes too, almost gold."

  George tried to keep his patience as he heard the usual arguments. "But last we heard one brother was dead, the other captured, which means he was as good as dead."

  "I don’t care about that. Castlereagh may have been stringing me along all this time, but Jason went to Dorset, I know he did."

  Sebastian, just roused out of his own bed, was alone, George was glad to see. He gave the same arguments Smith, Jones and Brown had given.

  "Miranda is from Dorset," he confided to his friend. "It has to be a sign. I’m willing to stake everything on the fact that they’re alive. I can’t live like this any more. Never knowing, never being able to trust anyone, or to allow myself to care about anyone for fear of them being taken from me. Living with all these self-imposed rules and regulations. Not even daring to take solace in a woman even for one night after what happened to the last one."

  "It could just have been a carriage accident," Sebastian sought to reassure him.

  "Accident?" He laughed mirthlessly. "You know how these people work! You were in the game long enough yourself."

  "Carriage accidents happen all the time. She wasn’t even someone you knew all that well. She was a simple country lass who’d come to the Big Smoke to seek her fame and fortune. It was nearly three years ago now. You can’t keep blaming yourself. If you want to blame anyone, blame Castlereagh. I still say we get the biggest bruisers we can find and beat the information out of the bastard."

  "Hm, maybe—"

  "You mean you’ll do it at last?" Sebastian asked hopefully, not above using violence in his quest for the truth after all he had been through. He had been saved from the gallows for breaking and entering, but ended up worse than a thief as a result of the devil’s own bargain he had made with England’s Foreign Secretary Castlereagh.

  "No, I was actually thinking of something else. David defeated Goliath after all. And Viola and Alistair outwitted that puffed up little peacock Sidmouth, even though he was head of the Home Office. We need some leverage. And we need a spy."

  "I can’t go back, George," the younger man said with a bitter shake of his head. "Please don't ask me to."

  "No, never, my friend, but I do know a couple of people who can get in and out soon, once they’ve been trained to know what to look for. We’ve tried every single false name I’ve ever used. I have to be his files somewhere. And if not me, then my brothers. If they’re still alive. We just need to have enough time and a concentrated effort. Last time we got caught."

  "It’s going to take time, though. To infiltrate his staff, and your man to get into enough of a position of trust to even get close to the files. We might want a fallback plan. Besides, I went through all the Ds. It’s not there. And if not there, where? You’re still going to have to be patient."

  "Any names familiar to you at all?"

  He shook his head.

  "We will start with A and B, then. And just hope we strike it lucky."

  "Or R," Sebastian suggested.

  "What?"

  "R for Rakehell."

  G
eorge stared at his friend. "What are you saying?"

  Sebastian shrugged, removed the fire guard from in front of the hearth and stretched his long legs out in front of the fire to warm them. "Just that Alistair’s theory was that Castlereagh was trying to destroy them all. Said all their friends were Radicals, lived in the town of Brimley. Even if your two brothers aren’t there, they knew them. You never went to school in England, remember? But they did."

  George tapped his chin consideringly for a time. "You've met several of the Rakehells now that your sister has married into the set. What are they like?"

  Sebastian poked at the glowing embers a few moments before replying. "Good men. Real radicals. Maybe not so much as Philip, but most definitely men of principle. But if Alistair was right, then my asking a whole mountain of questions and poking my nose in might cause problems for them all."