The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  Isolde Avenel, his wife

  (for their story, see Innocence and Innocence Afire)

  Michael Avenel, a Rakehell, Randall’s eldest brother

  Bryony Avenel, his wife

  (for their story, see The Model Master)

  Clifford Stone, a Rakehell, owner of Stone Court

  Vanessa Stone, nee Hawkesworth, his wife, a great scholar

  (for their story, see The Mad Mistress)

  Jonathan Deveril, a Rakehell, vicar of Brimley and Eltham

  Pamela Deveril, nee Ashton, his wife

  (for their story, see The Miss Matched)

  Sarah Deveril Davenport, Jonathan’s youngest sister

  Alexander Davenport, her husband, a Rakehell

  (for their story, see The Matchless Miss)

  Dr. Blake Sanderson, a Rakehell, a doctor in London and Somerset

  Arabella Neville Sanderson, his wife

  (for their story, see Guardian of the Heart)

  Martin Jerome, Blake’s cousin, an honorary Rakehell

  Eswara Paignton Jerome, his wife, a healer from India who works with Blake

  (for their story, see The Model Mistress)

  PROLOGUE

  Miranda Dane Lyons looked from right to left, trying to discern anything which looked familiar. It was dashed irresponsible of her friends Georgina and Kitty to take her to the seamy South Bank of the Thames and then leave her to make her own way back to the townhouse.

  What a deuced awkward and not altogether enjoyable lark this had turned out to be. She was lost in London, desperately cold, and in dire need of a cab, though she was sure few ever ventured into a neighbourhood as dangerous as this.

  The nineteen-year-old Miranda would have done well to have followed their example, she realised now. She gritted out a strong oath when the light from behind her was cut off abruptly, rendering the noisome alley even more murky than it had been a moment before.

  At first she thought a light had been extinguished from an upper window, or a shutter closed. She slipped in something which squelched most foully and emitted a breath-stopping stench. Only when she heard the click of a booted heel did Miranda realise she was not alone.

  There was something about the movement and posture of the man behind her that put her instantly on the alert. Menacing, furtive...

  Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze glinting in the dim light which filtered down the alley from the street ahead of her. Or perhaps it was the heavy soughing of his breath as he bore down upon her.

  Whatever it was, Miranda gathered her cloak more tightly about her slender frame and tried to run.

  But it was already too late. Her legs tangled in her skirts and she slipped on something unspeakable underfoot. Then he was upon her, and lifted her almost out of her shoes.

  Too late Miranda wished she had paid more attention to her sister’s and friend’s lessons in self-defense. She knew her best chance was to grab his jewels, yank hard and twist. Her assailant knew it too—he locked his hands around both wrists and was trying to trap them behind her back.

  She struggled for a moment longer, but Miranda could sense at once it was no use. If anything it was only exciting the man all the more, for she could feel a foreign object pressing into her belly as he rubbed up and down against her. The stench of his breath was enough to knock her on the flat of her back.

  This wild thought gave her an idea. She pretended to sag in her captor’s arms.

  At last he loosened his crushing grip. As soon as he did Miranda seized her chance, bucking wildly and kneeing him in the thigh. She had of course been aiming for his groin, but she had wounded him sufficiently to incur his ire as well as his lust.

  He smashed her up against the dank wall with such force she could feel the brick crumble. He snatched her unbound dark hair and began to throttle her. Miranda could feel her whole world growing fuzzy around the edges, the darkness inexorably closing in....

  CHAPTER ONE

  Miranda muttered a mild oath under her breath as she made her way down the dank alley, wondering where on earth she was. She felt a moment’s automatic chagrin at the naughty word.

  But really, it had been the worst mistake of her life allowing Kitty Caruthers and Georgina Jerome to talk her into doing something so incredibly foolish as to masquerade as an orange seller in one of the most notorious theatres in Southwark.

  The place was said to be the site of all sorts of lewd goings-on. The proprietor of The New Rose was whispered to be a king of the criminal underworld whom not even the Bow Street Runners dared cross.

  He was said to be so dangerous, in fact, that despite all the nefarious occurrences, they seldom raided George Davenant’s establishments: a theatre, tavern, brothel and bath house so far as she had heard, which were all notorious for their debauchery. Certainly no one dared arrest him.

  To most people this would have been more than enough reason to stay away from The New Rose. But for Miranda, eager for a bit of excitement and adventure now that she had come to London in preparation for her Season, it had been all the incentive the sheltered young girl trying to write a truly lurid novel had needed.

  She had known Kitty several years ago at school down in Dorset. She was now said to go about with a very fast set, including the notorious Georgina Jerome from Brimley in Somerset, who had had more lovers than Miranda had owned stockings in her lifetime.

  She had come across the wicked pair in Kitty’s room as the two voluptuous blondes had been lacing themselves into smocks and stomachers, which had swelled their bosoms upwards even beyond the already-daring ballroom fashions of the Ton.

  Kitty had been reluctant to tell her virginal little friend about the lark, but Georgina had given her a knowing look and admitted all.

  Miranda had been shocked at the idea of going about amongst the common people with no gentleman for an escort. But Georgina had argued forcefully that the whole notion of chaperonage, and women meant to keep their virtue at all costs, was just another way men kept the female sex dependent and submissive.

  Miranda, like her elder sister Juliet, was a great devotee of Wollstonecraft, and so she had decided to strike out in a bid for female independence, and asked with a brave lift of her chin if they had a spare frock.

  For her the excursion had had other attractions as well: to see the south side of the river; the famous, or infamous theatre, depending on whose point of view was solicited; and the play itself, for it was said to be Wycherley’s The Country Wife, which she simply adored.

  She had been smitten by language, books and the theatre from a very young age. Now that her family fortunes had improved considerably and she was a woman of relative wealth and leisure, she had taken to fending off all the suitors who had tried to marry her for her wealth.

  Instead of actively seeking a husband, she spent her time far more profitably by helping her sister Juliet with her impressive histories of the reigns of various kings of England. The knowledge Miranda gleaned she had then been able to turn into some fascinating historical romances she had managed to have published under a nom de plume.

  But she had wanted to try a Gothic tale, and that had attained great acclaim. Next she had penned a contemporary romance, full of lurid details, heroes and villains abounding. It had been a runaway success from the moment the first copy had come off press.

  For her sequel she had decided she needed to garner more precise information about the way the haut monde and demi monde took their pleasures.

  So armed with her disguise, a cloak, her reticule, a wooden tray and a large bag of oranges, the three young women had headed to The New Rose in Nag Lane and set about plying their supposed trade.

  Wide-eyed with wonder, Miranda had absorbed every detail like a sponge. She had thoroughly enjoyed the drama, though she had to admit that now she was older and a bit more worldly, she saw it in a whole new light. She had been shocked by the incessant stream of double entendres.

  Even more shocking was how she and her companions ha
d been so manhandled. She was sure her breasts and bottom were black and blue. Only her legs clamped tightly shut, and a thick pair of drawers, had spared her further indignities of an even more bold nature. The fact that she had made protest of her virtue had only seemed to inflame the men more.

  Georgina and Kitty didn’t get nearly so much attention, for all they seemed to be going out of their way to seek it. Miranda was too modest to realise that with her lustrous unbound dark brown hair, candid deep blue eyes and incredibly attractive figure, slender, yet rounded well in the essential feminine places, she had eclipsed all the other orange girls, including the genuine ones.

  At one point she had caught sight of a huge handsome dark-haired man with eyes so brown as to be almost black staring at her from behind the curtain.

  Well, she could hardly blame the man, whom she guessed to be the stage manager. Her presence was causing such a disturbance that the people who really did want to watch the play were starting to get as agitated as the ones who were bidding for her favours.

  At one point Miranda squealed in appalled horror as an old woman with three inches of make-up pinched her breast as though she were a pullet she was checking for plumpness, and offered her a permanent place in her bed if her tongue proved long enough.

  Miranda had scrambled to a pillar and planted her back against it, and flattened her wooden tray to her front. The curtain edge in the corner had then dropped, and the play had proceeded without further tumult to its natural conclusion.

  Once Miranda had managed to protect her person with her strategem, she had been able to relax and enjoy the comedy.

  As she had watched, she had found herself wondering about the life of an actress. Oh, she knew that most respectable people in society would dismiss them as whores, but she was sure not all of them were.

  In any event it seemed so, well, liberating. Getting to wear fine clothes, and pretend to be a different person, being allowed to do and say shocking things a simple little country lass like her, now turned heiress with all sorts of Society requirements, would never get to do. It all seemed like harmless fun.

  On the other hand, if it was anything like being an orange wench, she would give it a miss. She felt as though she were being eaten alive in the coarse homespun gown and desperately tried not to scratch. Even her fine chemise underneath did nothing to alleviate the itch of the material. The fact that she could actually see fleas hopping from one audience member to the next only made her discomfort worse. She was sure she felt one biting into her chest, and gave it a resounding slap.

  Her predicament was worst at her bosom, for her chemise had been left open at the top because it had been cut too high for the plunging neckline of the frock. Then Kitty had laced her so tightly into the stomacher that her amplitudes were threatening to spill right out. She was sure her nipples would thrust into full view if she dared take even one deep breath.

  As Miranda had watched the play, she’d been oblivious to the sheer quantity and wide variety of all the stares directed at her. The curtain corner twitched several times, whilst nearby a bevy of men licked their lips salaciously. She had also been oblivious to the fact that Georgina and Kitty had vanished and had gone into the back alley to service all of the men who wanted to taste their fruit.

  Georgina enjoyed the sport even more than usual, for the fact that she was debauching the innocent sister of a man who had once spurned her advances was just too delightful for words.

  Matthew Dane’s nose would be well and truly put out of joint. The haughty Lady Pemberton would be most discomfited into the bargain. Indeed, here was yet another money-making scheme which she could turn to her advantage. She didn’t know how much the little gull would be worth herself, but Matthew’s pockets were deep enough. He would pay to keep this escapade quiet. Pay through the nose, the haughty blonde decided as she thrust her hips forward to meet every battering ramrod of rapture, and at last managed a small climax with a breathy sigh.

  Discontented as always with her lack of genuine delight, she began to hatch an even bigger mischief. Fondling one of the other waiting men boldly, she led him back to the entrance to the theatre and pointed.

  "You see that girl there? Hottest thing you’ve ever tasted. In fact, I doubt just one of you can handle her. Likes to play hard to get, though. You and your big handsome friends want to have a go, she’ll do it for free. But you need to wait until the end of the play," she cautioned, pulling him back. "You don’t want to cause a riot."

  The man signalled to his friends to go off to the tavern and return later. Georgina noticed with a glint of satisfaction that there had to be at least six of them, and a seventh man, moderately tall with sandy hair, in a good cut of coat, followed along. The drink and anticipation would put a keener edge to their already razor-sharp lust.

  She sighed at the loss of men to service her at the moment, but the scare the poor little country mouse would get would be worth it. A tiddle or two to terrify the child, who she was fairly sure was a virgin, and then there would be even more vigorous sport for she and Kitty afterwards. She was confident she and the experienced and artful Kitty could keep the situation under control. But Miranda would pay even more to keep silent about what Georgina and the other woman could claim they saw. Damn if the girl didn’t look as innocent as a nun, for all her breasts were bursting out of their busk.

  But Georgina had not counted on one man in her queue insisting he wanted at least a half an hour with her and her friend in his attic, and a few of the others happy to come along to watch. A half hour stretched onwards as the chap and his friends proved unusually talented and imaginative.

  By this time, the play had ended, and Miranda looked around in vain for her companions. The theatre emptied out, and Miranda could do little except turn red as a peony and reject all the offers which came her way.

  "No, really, I’m waiting for someone," she said truthfully, and flicked the edges of her cloak forward from behind her shoulders to cover her bosom as best she could.

  She noticed a few men had actually pushed back into the theatre, swimming against the tide of the crowd like salmon upstream. Now they clustered at the edge of the pit, giving her long looks which made her feel exceedingly uncomfortable. She looked around at the thinning crowd, but it was all comprised of single men or paired men, with no lady in sight, and not an orange seller to be seen.

  A small man scurried around now snuffing out all the candles, and Miranda began to grow desperate. Where could her friends have got to?

  One thing was for certain, she would need to leave soon. Perhaps they were waiting outside?

  When the tiny man moved back toward the cluster of men to exchange pleasantries with them, concerned that they reeked of drink and might be there to cause some mischief, Miranda saw her chance.

  She slipped out into the shadowy night, and looked right and left. But there was no sign of her friends anywhere. She abandoned her wooden tray at once and looped her reticule around her wrist, tugging the neckline of her dress upwards as best she could. Surely the next street would yield her a cab. Or the one after that. But which way was best?

  She decided to go right, and began to stride as fast as she could in the relative light of the lane, for the torches which illuminated the entrance to the theatre still had not been snuffed.

  She turned the corner and began to walk down the street. It led to a mews with a small gate which opened onto a private courtyard, and from there to another lane. Well, she might be truly lost now, but at least she had put a goodly distance between herself and those leering men.

  Or so she hoped. She had quite lost her bearings in the dark. She wended her way from lane to alley, but nary a vehicle did she see.

  A hissing cat she nearly trod upon made her start. Miranda laughed at herself for the startled cry she had allowed to escape from her rosy lips.

  Which were rapidly turning blue, she felt sure, for a mist from the Thames had settled on the streets, bedaubing all of Southwark in damp dew, rend
ering the pavement even more slippery. Her shoes were not too flimsy, but had no real tread. The last thing she needed was a turned ankle on the uneven and slimy cobblestones.

  Miranda began to wonder if the mist might give her a clue. If she could at least get across the river... At Westminster Bridge there would be a keeper, someone who could help her secure a cab or at least escort her the short distance from the Abbey to Kitty’s. Yes, that would best.

  She soldiered on a time longer, until she reached a dead end. Retracing her steps, she thought she heard footsteps, but the only sign of life was a huge rat the likes of which she had only ever seen in her worst nightmares. She hurried on, now thoroughly revolted and just about out of patience.

  She turned left and was pleased to see more lights in the distance. She thought she could discern a major thoroughfare, about three streets up, and some halfway decent-looking houses, though no public houses, which she considered to be a good thing. The last thing she needed was to have a whole group of drunken men come out of the tavern to discover a lone female clad so scantily. She clutched the top of her cloak more tightly shut and hurried on once more, feeling even more naked when she realised she had no bonnet or gloves.