A Rogue to Ruin (The Untouchables: The Pretenders Book 3)

by Darcy Burke

  Until it had tipped her right back to where she was supposed to be. Only to toss her into uncharted waters.

  Anne looked seriously at Deborah. “Did you fall in love with Burnhope?”

  Waving her hand, Deborah laughed lightly. “Don’t be silly, Anne. Ladies don’t discuss such things.”

  “But you said—” Anne had been about to say that she’d commented on Jane and Anthony; however, the arrival of Rafe in the ballroom stole the words right out of Anne’s mouth as well as the air from her lungs.

  He entered in the company of his sister and Mr. Sheffield and…the housekeeper?

  “Who is that blond gentleman?” Deborah asked with keen interest.

  Anne stiffened but didn’t answer her. She was too focused on the fact that Rafe looked a bit pale. As did his sister.

  Deborah’s sharp inhalation drew Anne’s attention. “And who is the woman with him?” She narrowed her eyes and started walking toward them—they were on a direct path to Lord Stone.

  “That’s Mrs. Sheffield,” Anne answered as she walked quickly to keep up with Deborah’s longer stride. “The blond gentleman is her brother, Mr. Bowles.”

  “Her brother?” Deborah scowled as she continued toward them.

  Lord Stone extricated himself from the group he was with and greeted Rafe and the others with a furrowed brow, his gaze settling on the housekeeper. Her presence with them was…odd.

  Deborah inserted herself into the group, taking a position beside her father. Anne moved to his other side, her attention entirely on Rafe and his impassive expression. He glanced toward her, his nostrils flaring slightly, before he fixed his gaze on Lord Stone.

  The earl pivoted briefly toward Deborah. “Allow me to present my daughter, Lady Burnhope. Deborah, I believe you know Mr. Sheffield. This is his wife, Mrs. Selina Sheffield, and her brother, Mr. Raphael Bowles.”

  Selina’s eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched as she regarded Deborah, who had an almost identical expression.

  Deborah spoke, offering an icy smile. “What a pleasure to see you again, Selina.”

  The color that had been missing from Selina’s face returned. It was clear—at least to Anne—that they knew each other. And the relationship wasn’t friendly.

  “I beg your pardon,” the earl said, “are you already acquainted?”

  “Yes,” Deborah said, but was drowned out by the housekeeper.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord,” Mrs. Gentry said, wincing and sending an apologetic look toward Rafe. Apologetic? Why? Anne was thoroughly confused. But it was more than that. A chill raced down the back of her neck.

  Mrs. Gentry faced her employer with determination. “I’ve—we’ve—a matter of grave importance to discuss with you. Might we remove to a more private location?”

  A look of stark annoyance flitted across Deborah’s face. She pursed her lips and glared at the housekeeper, who seemed to shrink. Anne wished she was standing near Deborah so she could elbow her again.

  “Yes,” Deborah said, surprising Anne by agreeing with Mrs. Gentry. “We should excuse ourselves. I have so many questions for Selina. My apologies, Mrs. Sheffield.” The look she gave Selina could have stripped the wallpaper from the ballroom. And Selina’s answering stare would have sent puppies running in terror.

  “I can’t just leave my own picnic,” the earl said crossly. “Regardless of whatever drama is trying to unfold here.” He cast an irritated look toward Deborah. “We were about to eat.”

  “Let them eat while we adjourn to the library. I doubt this will take long.” Deborah’s malicious smile returned.

  Anne had never seen her behave quite like this. It wasn’t just frightening; it was horrifying.

  Lord Stone shook his head. “This must wait.”

  “I’m your nephew,” Rafe blurted. It was as if the air in the room thinned, and everyone in the small circle stopped breathing.

  Anne watched the color drain from her godfather’s face. She felt a similar shock. Rafe was his nephew? How was that possible? Her godfather didn’t have any living siblings, and the children of the only one who’d survived to adulthood were also dead.

  “My what?” The earl’s shock echoed inside Anne.

  “They are your brother’s children,” Mrs. Gentry said urgently. “Raphael and Selina. Surely you can see it. Just look at his eye.”

  Rafe widened his eyes, and it was impossible to miss that definitive orange spot. “Uncle, it seems I am the rightful Earl of Stone.”

  Chapter 5

  The earl—no, not the earl, but Mallory or Uncle, hell, Rafe didn’t know what to call him—led them to the library. Stepping over the threshold, a rush of familiarity swept over him. He’d spent time here. With his father. A tide of emotion nearly engulfed him.

  “Are you all right?” Anne had managed to find her way to his side and whispered the question. Her gaze was soft with concern.

  “No.” He saw no reason to lie. At least not to her. Damn if that wasn’t as complicated as this entire bloody day.

  He looked past her at the rows of books, his gaze traveling along the shelves.

  “This is familiar to you,” she said.

  He nodded before moving, as if drawn by a magnet, to the corner. Without thinking, he reached up and pulled on a thick, dark blue book. The entire shelf sprang open. He grinned, then brought his hand to his mouth. Beyond the door was a small secret room.

  Turning, he looked at his sister. “Do you remember this, Lina?” She shook her head—of course she didn’t. She’d been far too young. He hated that she recalled none of this, that she’d been robbed of even a fraction of her childhood. Rafe at least had that much.

  He surveyed the rest of the occupants of the room. Everyone stared at him except Harry, who was, rightly, focused on his wife. Anne’s gaze was full of wonder, while Mrs. Gentry’s contained joy. Mallory and his daughter stared at him in shock.

  His daughter had known Selina. How? More importantly, what could she expose? Fuck.

  He and Selina needed to make sure their stories aligned. They both wanted to bury the past twenty-seven years, but now, doing so was critical. If Rafe was to be an earl, he couldn’t very well be known as a criminal moneylender or a thief. And his sister couldn’t be exposed as a swindler, especially since her husband was a bloody constable.

  “But you remembered it, my lord,” Mrs. Gentry said, addressing him as he supposed was right, even if it sounded utterly wrong to his ears. He saw his uncle flinch.

  Rafe took a moment to study the man. He’d seemed oddly familiar when they’d met earlier, but Rafe had attributed the feeling to being at the folly. He was shorter than Rafe, with light brown hair that formed a widow’s peak on his forehead. His eyes were the same blue as his own, but without the orange mark.

  That mark.

  He’d cursed its oddity over the years, but now it identified him indisputably as Raphael Mallory, the Earl of bloody Stone.

  “How did you know that was there?” Lady Burnhope asked with a dubious glower.

  Rafe shrugged. “I just did. Just as I knew how to find the gallery and the portrait of my grandfather. Our grandfather,” he amended.

  Lady Burnhope’s disgruntled gaze darted to Selina. Rafe didn’t like the woman’s animosity one bit. She was going to cause trouble.

  “I don’t understand how this is possible,” Mallory said, wiping his hand back and forth across his brow. “Jerome’s children died in that fire. We buried them.”

  Mrs. Gentry stepped toward him, her expression pleading. “You can’t deny they are those children. Just look at them. If the mark in his eye isn’t enough, you can surely see how closely he resembles your father in that portrait upstairs. And their names are Rafe and Selina. That is too much of a coincidence. What’s more, he knows so much about Ivy Grove, as he demonstrated with the bookcase.”

  “You must accept it,” Sheffield said. He’d put his arm around Selina, who looked so stiff that Rafe feared she might break. He looked to
Mrs. Gentry. “Presumably, there are others here at Ivy Grove or at Stonehaven who will testify in support of Mr. Bowles’s claim to the earldom.”

  “But he doesn’t have to claim it. By law, he is dead.” The words left Mallory’s mouth in a rush. He looked at Rafe. “Do you even want to be the earl? You wouldn’t know how.”

  Rafe wanted to tell the man he could learn to do anything he put his mind to, but now wasn’t the time for arrogance.

  Sheffield regarded Mallory with thinly veiled contempt. “Your brother’s children are alive. Surely that should be a cause for celebration.”

  Mallory scrubbed his hand over his face before weaving unsteadily to a chair. Dropping onto the seat, he dipped his chin. “Of course. This is just a shock. I can’t… I can’t fully comprehend that after all this time, they’re here.” He looked to Rafe, then to Selina. “Your father would be so happy to know you lived. How on earth did you manage to survive?” He paused to take a breath. “Do you remember the fire?”

  Selina shook her head, but Rafe answered, “I remember smoke, and I remember being carried away.” That was all he wanted to say at the moment. He had too many other questions. And now he was not only desperate to visit that church in Croydon, but he fervently hoped there would be something to learn there.

  “Who carried you?” Lady Burnhope—good Lord, his cousin—asked. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, surveying Rafe and Selina as if they were frauds. Which they were. Or had been. Or…not.

  Fuck, he didn’t know who he was. He couldn’t imagine Selina was faring much better. A look toward her confirmed his belief—she was pressed snug against her husband’s side, her face drawn, and her gaze icy. He followed the direction and saw that she glared at Lady Burnhope.

  “Our nurse,” Rafe answered tersely. He stood on Selina’s other side and edged closer to her. “What is troubling to me is why our nurse would take us away, change our surname, and not tell anyone she saved us.” God, had that woman, whom he barely remembered, even been their nurse? Yes. That much he knew. He remembered the young woman with her nearly black hair and the small brown spot on her cheek. “She used to sing to Selina.”

  “Lavender Blue,” Selina whispered.

  Rafe turned his head to stare at her. “Yes.” Selina had barely spoken until she was probably four, but she’d sung. “That was your favorite song.”

  A tear tracked down Selina’s cheek. She hastily brushed it away, her expression stoic even as Rafe saw the emotion quivering beneath.

  “It sounds as though the nurse stole you away,” Mrs. Gentry said, her expression stricken, then softening. “What happened after she took you? You’ve certainly ended up quite well.” There was a note of pride in her voice that almost made him smile.

  “Yes, they did,” Lady Burnhope said dubiously. “I always wondered how a girl who said she was from East London could possibly afford to attend Mrs. Goodwin’s Ladies’ Seminary.”

  Rafe moved closer to Selina and brushed his hand against the small of her back. That’s how this shrew—their bloody cousin—knew her. And Selina had told her she was from East London?

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Sheffield said, coming to the rescue. “This has been most overwhelming. There will be time to share stories and sort out the particulars. With the parliamentary session drawing to a close, my brother-in-law will wish to submit the necessary information to the Prince Regent and the attorney general so that the Committee for Privileges may recognize him as the Earl of Stone with due haste.”

  Rafe had no idea how any of this worked.

  “They’ll ask him to prove his birth,” Mallory said.

  “The evidence will include his memory of living here and of being rescued from the fire. Mrs. Gentry and other employees here and at Stonehaven will give testimony as to his identity. You’ll agree the orange mark in his eye is singular proof.” Sheffield’s commanding tone made Rafe grateful for the man’s authority. The constable pierced Mallory with a probing stare. “Do you doubt he is your nephew and she is your niece?”

  Mallory hesitated only a brief moment before shaking his head. “I do not.”

  “I understand this is a shock,” Sheffield continued more gently. “Why don’t you join us for dinner in Cavendish Square on Monday evening? We’ll continue this discussion and make plans for a transition after everyone’s had a chance to process this revelation.”

  “We’ll be there,” Mallory said, sounding defeated.

  Sheffield inclined his head before escorting Selina from the room.

  Rafe looked to Mallory. “Uncle.” He bowed his head and, turning, allowed his gaze to linger on Anne. She stood somewhat near her godfather—it suddenly permeated Rafe’s mind that this woman he couldn’t forget was tied to his family—her features taut but her eyes bright and earnest as she stared at him.

  Tearing his attention from her, he thanked Mrs. Gentry and followed his sister and brother-in-law out.

  The three of them said nothing until they were situated in Rafe’s coach. As soon as the vehicle started moving along the drive, Selina turned her body toward the window and looked out into the rain. “My God. This was our house.”

  “Is our house,” Rafe corrected.

  “Your house,” Sheffield said softly. He took Selina’s hand as she settled back against the squab.

  “I can’t believe that awful Deborah Mallory is our cousin.” She made a face of disgust. “I can’t believe any of it, but that part is truly dreadful. Beatrix will be horrified.”

  “You told Deborah you were from East London?” Rafe asked.

  Selina lifted a shoulder. “She was nasty to Beatrix because she was a bastard. Deborah took every opportunity to flaunt her superiority and wealth. I think it bothered her immensely that Beatrix’s father was a duke while hers was only an earl.” A giggle jumped from her lips, surprising Rafe—and Sheffield, whose eyes widened briefly. “And her father isn’t actually an earl.” She looked at Rafe in wonder. “You are. Lord Stone.” She laughed again, a purely joyous sound.

  Sheffield turned to his wife. “And you are Lady Selina.”

  “Oh, Deborah will hate that.” Selina’s eyes sparkled with glee.

  Sheffield wiped his hand over his face, smiling. “This is an incredible turn of events.” He sobered as he regarded his wife. “Are you truly all right?”

  “I will be.” She briefly rested her head against his shoulder as she looked across the coach at Rafe. “Are you?”

  No. He still couldn’t believe it, and yet his mind was also leaping forward. “What’s a bloody Committee for Privileges? It sounds incredibly pompous.” Rafe was glad his sister had married a constable who had previously been a barrister.

  “It’s one of the many committees in the House of Lords. They’ll vote on the evidence we present. First, however, we will submit this information to the Prince Regent. After that, the attorney general will need to recognize your claim. The claim will then go to the committee, which will vote.”

  “So he needs the support of the Prince Regent, the attorney general, and the members of the committee?” Selina asked, her features creasing with worry.

  “Yes.” Sheffield gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t be concerned, my love. I know the attorney general personally, and my father happens to sit on the Committee for Privileges.”

  Rafe snorted. “Does it even matter if I’m really who I claim to be?”

  Sheffield’s brows descended low over his eyes. “Of course it does. However, knowing people in the right places is always an advantage. Surely it was like that in your experience too?” Sheffield was well aware of how Rafe and Selina had grown up.

  And he was right—Rafe’s experience had been the same. He was afforded all manner of courtesy and deference from the moment he’d become one of Samuel Partridge’s favorites. When Rafe had risen in the ranks, his relationships had expanded, and he’d become as respected—and feared—as the man he worked for.

  “Your point is taken.” Rafe
exchanged a look with Selina. She understood it too.

  “I truly wouldn’t be concerned. This will be a matter of form. There is a wealth of evidence,” Sheffield said with certainty. “I will dispatch someone to Stonehaven to interview the retainers.” He fixed his tawny gaze on Rafe. “That orange mark in your eye is a fortunate thing.”

  “I didn’t used to think so.”

  Selina sent him a sympathetic glance. “When we were young, our uncle—who wasn’t our uncle—would tell people Rafe was touched by lunacy. Edgar would then ask for donations to pay for a doctor, and he’d provoke Rafe to act out in a frightening manner. Some would take pity and give us money.”

  “Others ran away.” Rafe hadn’t thought of that shame in a long time. The things Edgar had made them do were abominable. “Why did he do that?” Rafe whispered. “Did he not know who we were?”

  “Why did our nurse take us away and change our names?” Selina’s anguish echoed his own.

  Sheffield pressed a kiss to Selina’s hand. “I’m so sorry, my darling. And for you, ah, Stone?” His look of sympathy was tinged with confusion. “That is your name now.”

  Something passed between them. Sheffield had despised the Vicar, and now he was offering to help him. Rafe knew it was because of Selina, that if not for her, Sheffield likely wouldn’t give a damn. Or so he thought. Now, he wasn’t so certain. “I suppose it is. I shouldn’t ask it of you, but will you do me a kindness and just call me Rafe? At least when we’re alone.”

  Surprise flickered in the other man’s eyes. “I hope you’ll call me Harry.”

  A warm smile spread over Selina’s lips. “Whatever happened today, this is the very best thing. My two favorite men have reached an accord. This is truly beginning to feel like a family.” Her voice caught, and she jerked her head toward the window once more.

  The coach was silent for several minutes as they traveled through the light rain. Rafe suffered a tumult of emotions as he tried to plan what would come next. “Will our uncle just give everything over to us?”