The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  The rain had eased into a fine drizzle. Moving swiftly through the garden at the back of Huntingdon’s house, Christopher slipped and slid on sodden grass. He cursed the wet creeping up his legs from where he had landed in the shrubbery when he had jumped down from the back wall. He ducked as an ornamental willow slapped wet fingers in his face.

  ‘Bugger,’ Garth mumbled.

  Christopher glanced behind him.

  The light of a wall lantern caught Garth hopping on one foot. Deep barks issued from the back of a building the waft of manure and hay identified as the mews.

  ‘Quiet,’ Christopher whispered, wishing he’d made him stay behind. ‘They will set the dogs on us.’

  They skirted the patch of light spilling out on to the drive and strode up the alley beside the house as if they belonged there. At the side door, Garth grasped Christopher’s shoulder. ‘What if she’s not here? We are going to look like a pair of fools.’

  Christopher shook him off. ‘Bates said she asked for a carriage to bring her here.’ He had no doubts. He knew her only too well. She went after what she wanted with solid determination and she was in danger.

  Christopher pulled his pistol from his pocket and pushed the door open.

  A footman leaped up from his seat beside the door. ‘You can’t come in here…’ He fell silent at the sight of Christopher’s weapon aimed at his chest.

  ‘Tie him up,’ Christopher said to Garth.

  With the footman’s neckcloth as a rope and his handkerchief as a gag, Garth bound the servant to his chair.

  ‘Which way now?’ Christopher asked.

  Duelling pistol in hand, Garth jerked his head towards the passageway. ‘The formal rooms are that way. Lord knows where we’ll find the Duke.’

  They crept along the hall. A bustling figure, the butler by his dress, almost ran headlong into them. ‘What the deuce?’

  ‘Just the man we need.’ Christopher pressed his pistol against the man’s neck. ‘One sound and you are a dead man, understand?’

  The butler nodded.

  ‘Where is his Grace?’ Christopher muttered.

  ‘In his study with Mr Rafter and a woman,’ the butler croaked.

  Now they were getting somewhere. He swung the man around and grasped his shoulder. ‘Lead the way.’

  The door opened unannounced. The butler, framed in the doorway, opened and closed his mouth like a landed carp.

  ‘Get out,’ Huntingdon said.

  The butler lurched forward.

  The room filled with broad shoulders and simmering male rage. Christopher shoved the butler aside and aimed his pistol at Huntingdon’s chest. Garth stumbled towards Rafter.

  Cold metal, hard and unforgiving, nudged Sylvia’s temple.

  Garth halted in his tracks.

  ‘As I was saying, your Grace,’ Rafter said.

  Sylvia caught Christopher’s glance in hers. No emerald fire, no smile, just a cool stare. Garth had told him, of course, and now he scorned her. She steeled herself to bear his hatred despite her longing to throw herself at his feet, tell him what she had said to Garth wasn’t true. She must not. For his sake. She held her head high.

  ‘Who the devil are you? And what are you doing in my house?’ the Duke asked.

  Garth flashed a charming smile and bowed with courtly grace as if this were some chance meeting in the park, or a morning call. ‘Stanford, at your service, your Grace. We met at Lady Elphinstone’s last month, you might recall. This is my brother, Christopher Evernden.’ He raised an eyebrow at Rafter. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  Rafter gave him a sharp nod. ‘Seamus Rafter.’

  Sylvia blinked as Garth swayed on his feet. Good heavens, he was his usual three sheets to the wind.

  Stunned silence filled the room while the men took stock of each other. The fire popped. Everyone jumped except Rafter.

  The Duke scrubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Will someone tell me why you are invading my house?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious, your Grace,’ Christopher said. ‘We are here to make sure no more harm comes to Miss Boisette.’

  The protective words and the anger in his voice draped Sylvia like a warm blanket for all his impassive expression. He should not have come here, but even so her heart swelled with joy.

  Then, at the thought of what could happen to him as a result, her mouth dried. ‘Thank you, Mr Evernden, Lord Stanford, but I believe the Duke and I were about to come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.’

  Christopher’s gaze flicked to Garth. ‘Another one?’

  Heat scalded her face. She couldn’t blame him for his thoughts. The rage she glimpsed in his eyes seemed to twist the knife that resided in her chest. Clearly she’d burned her bridges.

  Turning to Huntingdon, she forced herself to continue. ‘Mr Evernden is an innocent bystander caught in your web. Let him go.’

  Rafter chuckled. ‘Too bad he didn’t think of that earlier. Now, if you don’t want the young lady dead at your feet, you gentlemen will drop your weapons.’

  Christopher cursed and let his pistol fall.

  Rafter narrowed his gaze on Garth. ‘And you.’

  Garth tossed his on the sofa. ‘Now what, Kit?’

  Everyone swung around as the door opened and a fresh-faced youth of about thirteen strolled in. His brilliant blue eyes immediately settled on Huntingdon. ‘Are you coming, Father? I have set the chess board up in the library.’ His voice faltered as he caught sight of Rafter’s pistol. ‘What is it, Papa? Who are these men? Shall I call the footmen?’

  ‘Welcome to the play, Lord Basingstoke,’ Rafter said with a grin. ‘It’s the final act.’

  The lad frowned. ‘Rafter, what is going on?’

  ‘Allow me to do the introductions,’ Garth cut in.

  Sylvia gaped at him. He was definitely in his cups.

  ‘This is your half-sister, Sylvia.’ Garth nodded at the others as he went round the room. ‘Mr Rafter you know. Behind your father is my brother, Christopher Evernden, and I am Stanford. Sylvia, this is your brother, David Woods, the Earl of Basingstoke. Oh, and shrinking in the corner over there is your butler.’ He grinned with obvious delight at his own humor.

  ‘Stow it, Garth,’ Christopher muttered.

  The young earl frowned at Sylvia. ‘I don’t have a sister.’

  ‘Oh, but indeed you do, my lord,’ Rafter said with smug satisfaction.

  ‘Silence, Rafter,’ Huntingdon roared. ‘I’ll not have my personal business bandied about in this fashion.’ He pulled at his cravat, his complexion heightened with a nasty purple tinge.

  Sylvia pulled her arm free of Rafter’s hand. She didn’t want to do this any more. Too many people had become involved in this confrontation with her father. ‘There is nothing more to discuss. Give me your word you will not follow me and nothing spoken of tonight will leave this room.’

  ‘You think I can trust a blackmailer?’ the Duke asked.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the young Basingstoke said.

  ‘You are right, David,’ Huntingdon said. ‘You don’t understand. She’s not your sister, no matter what she says. Please leave this to me to sort out.’

  ‘No one is going anywhere,’ Rafter said, menace clinging to him like creeping sea fog. He shifted his weapon’s aim to the boy. The lad’s jaw dropped as Rafter continued. ‘It’s time your son knows what kind of a bastard you really are, your Grace. Or is it the other way around?’

  Clearly distressed, Sylvia rubbed at her temple.

  There was a red mark where Rafter had dug the metal barrel against her delicate skin. Christopher wanted to ram the pistol down Rafter’s throat and make him swallow it.

  ‘No,’ the Duke’s voice choked out in a whisper. He clutched at his chest, pushed Rafter aside and collapsed on the sofa.

  David crouched beside his father, fingers fumbling at his neckcloth.

  Garth stiffened to attention, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Rafter. ‘Dear God, no.’
<
br />   Rafter’s chilling laugh rippled around the room. He drew himself up straight, like a soldier on parade, and glanced in contempt at the Duke’s anguished expression. ‘It’s time, your Grace.’

  Sylvia knelt at Huntingdon’s side and chafed his hands. ‘Stop talking riddles. Someone send for a doctor. This man needs medical attention.’

  Christopher couldn’t believe it. She should be strangling Huntingdon, not helping him. He deserved to die.

  Garth went to the console by the window and poured a snifter of brandy. He returned and handed it to Sylvia. ‘Give him this.’

  Sylvia coaxed the glass into Huntingdon’s hand and guided the glass to his mouth. He took a swallow and gradually his colour reduced and his breathing became less ragged.

  ‘Look out,’ Garth cried.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Christopher caught Rafter’s swift movement. Too late. Rafter pressed the muzzle of his gun against the boy’s neck while Garth stared at the lad as if he’d seen a ghost.

  ‘Papa!’ The boy’s voice cracked with panic.

  Christopher started forward, then stopped. Rafter would pull the trigger before he could knock the gun away.

  ‘Let him go,’ the Duke gasped. ‘He’s an innocent.’

  Rafter shook his head. ‘Wrong. He needs to know. Either you tell him the truth or he dies.’

  ‘What truth?’ Huntingdon asked.

  ‘The truth about her mother,’ Rafter said, malicious glee on his face.

  Twin spots of colour stained Sylvia’s cheeks. Her obvious distress sliced Christopher’s heart. There was no need for this cruelty. ‘The game is up, Rafter. If harm comes to Miss Boisette, I’ll make sure you both pay.’

  ‘It’s not Miss Boisette, is it, your Grace?’ Rafter tightened his finger on the trigger.

  ‘Don’t hurt my son.’

  ‘It’s all up to you.’

  ‘You’ll ruin us all,’ Huntingdon whispered.

  ‘You’ve run out of time,’ Rafter said.

  ‘All right. All right. Damn you. So I was married to her mother. It doesn’t make any difference.’

  Christopher glanced at Sylvia. Her expression was full of disbelief and shock and desperate hope.

  A rush of gladness filled his veins.

  ‘She’s not my daughter.’ The Duke’s voice rose in a desperate plea. ‘Tell them, Rafter. She’s De Foucheville’s.’ His expression filled with anguish. ‘God damn him for a whoring bastard and Marguerite for going to him.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who sired her,’ Christopher said. ‘If you were married to her mother, she’s your child.’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ Garth muttered.

  What the hell had got into Garth? Christopher gave him a hard stare that told him to keep silent.

  ‘For God’s sake, Rafter,’ Huntingdon pleaded, ‘think what you are doing.’

  Rafter sneered at Sylvia. ‘You’d never believe it to look at him now, but your father and the Vicomte De Foucheville risked their lives for months, helping other aristos like them to leave France during the Terrors. Proper hero, he was.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Huntingdon said in a hoarse whisper, tears standing in his eyes as he stared into the past. ‘De Foucheville got the poor sods out of Paris, then I took them to the coast and waiting fishing boats.’

  ‘Then the Jacobins turned into rabid dogs,’ Rafter said with a smirk. ‘The Ambassador insisted that all the English leave. Your father had just arrived from the coast and sent me to collect your mother, while he reported in at the Embassy.’

  The Duke bowed his head. ‘It was hell. Women and children begging us to take them. We had to leave so many behind. It wasn’t until we were on board that I discovered Marguerite missing.’ He glared at Rafter. ‘If I had known she hadn’t boarded with the rest of the women, I would have gone back for her. I begged the captain to turn around. Later, when he returned to England, Rafter told me she had preferred to stay with De Foucheville.’

  Huntingdon raised his head, his expression filled with dark hatred. ‘Damn him. I thought he was my friend. And Marguerite. I never thought she’d betray me. Curse the pair of them.’

  ‘No,’ Sylvia said, standing up. ‘De Foucheville was my mother’s friend, nothing more. He tried to help her escape to England. He was arrested before he could get her out of Paris. Someone betrayed him.’

  Rafter grinned. ‘That would be me.’

  The Duke swallowed. ‘You said she was his mistress. That she was expecting his child. I loved her. I would have taken her, child or no, but you said she refused to come.’

  ‘That I did, your Grace,’ Rafter said. ‘And I told her that you regretted marrying her and didn’t want her any more.’ Rafter shook his head. ‘De Foucheville almost got her out and spoilt my plans. I had to turn him in.’

  The Duke lunged at Rafter, halting only when Rafter tightened his grip on the boy. ‘You betrayed De Foucheville?’ He swore. ‘Half the émigrés in England owe their lives to him.’

  ‘Believe me, I regretted his death. I admired his courage. He had to die.’

  ‘Because he got my wife with child? I never wanted that.’

  ‘You fool.’ Rafter pointed at Sylvia. ‘Look at her. De Foucheville was as dark as a blackamoor. She’s fair like her mother and you. She has your eyes. De Foucheville never touched Marguerite. He was your loyal friend to the last breath of his life. She is the child of your loins.’

  Christopher’s mind reeled. Rafter was like a puppet-master, manipulating lives for some dark purpose of his own.

  A tentative smile on his lips, David glanced from his father to Sylvia. ‘She’s my sister?’

  ‘Aye, spalpeen,’ Rafter said with a firm nod, the boy tight to his side. ‘That she is. Your father’s legitimate child, born in wedlock. Just as he’s always known.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ the Duke said, his eyes wild. ‘What have I done? I never meant them any harm. I believed Rafter.’ He looked at the disapproving faces surrounding him, his eyes desperate and pleading. ‘There’s no proof of any of this.’

  Christopher clenched his jaw at the sight of Sylvia’s wounded expression. Damn him for being so stiff-necked.

  ‘There’s a room full of people who have just heard you admit you married her mother, Huntingdon.’ Christopher couldn’t bring himself to honour the man with his title. He pulled the document from his breast pocket. ‘And this, I believe, is the missing proof.’ Garth looked over his shoulder as he unfolded the note Jeannie had given him. The writing was blurred, but it had the signature of a Protestant cleric and the avowal that William Woods had married one Marguerite Seaton.

  ‘But why the last name Boisette?’ Garth asked.

  ‘To hide her from the Jacobites,’ Rafter said. ‘Basingstoke, as he was then, was well known to the authorities.’

  ‘Boisette,’ Garth said. ‘Little forest. A clumsy play on words, I presume.’

  Sylvia pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘It is the name my mother used in Paris.’

  The Duke groaned. ‘Madame Gilbert has been milking me dry for years with that document. Then she started sending letters.’ He nodded at Sylvia.

  Sylvia gasped. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘They are all there in that drawer.’ Huntingdon jerked his chin at the desk. ‘She wanted a king’s ransom to set up a brothel in Paris, to follow in her mother’s footsteps.’

  ‘No,’ Sylvia cried out.

  ‘Ah, your Grace,’ Rafter put in, ‘did ye never wonder how your trusted Irish factotum managed to buy a grand estate in Ireland and raise the best horseflesh this side of Arabia?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was never your wife or your daughter. ’Twas me that had most of your money once Evernden’s uncle took the girl from Paris.’

  ‘Papa, I don’t understand.’ David’s eyes grew round. ‘If she is my sister, why doesn’t she live with us?’

  ‘He just doesn’t understand,’ Garth murmured in Christopher’s ear.

  ‘Understand w
hat?’

  A wry smile twisted Garth’s mouth.

  ‘The reason is, my young buck,’ Rafter said, ‘if anyone ever learned the truth, there would be no heir and possibly no dukedom either. Right, your Grace?’

  Bloody hell. Christopher had been so busy thinking about what all this meant for Sylvia, it hadn’t dawned on him that if the Duke’s second marriage was bigamous, therefore not valid, Sylvia became a legitimate daughter, and young David became a bastard, leaving the Duke with no heir at all. His revelation must have shown on his face.

  ‘Exactly,’ Garth said.

  What the hell was wrong with Garth? He looked green about the gills. Any moment now, he would cast up his accounts. Christopher had never seen him look so strange.

  Christopher concentrated on Rafter. Somehow they were going to have to put him out of action and Garth didn’t look as if he’d be much help.

  Rafter puffed with pride as the Duke crumbled into the sofa cushions, suddenly spineless. Huntingdon buried his face in his hands.

  For some dire purpose, Rafter had deliberately set out to destroy the Duke, inch by painful inch.

  Desperation ravaging his face, Huntingdon looked up at his tormentor. ‘Don’t do this, please.’

  Rafter moved so he could look directly down into Huntingdon’s eyes. ‘I planned to reveal all this when your daughter was back in the brothel, a bona fide whore, used by every man in Paris. Unfortunately, the Right Honourable high-and-mighty Mr Evernden here has been nothing but a thorn in my flesh. Still, he did the job just as well as any other client of Madame Gilbert’s, didn’t you, mate?’

  Christopher swore violently, but repressed the desire to smash his fist into Rafter’s smiling face. He couldn’t risk the life of the youth glued to Rafter’s side. Christopher wouldn’t let another innocent be harmed by this madman.

  Forcing David to bend with him, Rafter thrust his face into the Duke’s. ‘How does it feel? Your wife died of the pox, your daughter is a whore and your son is a disinherited bastard.’

  David gasped.

  The Duke groaned. ‘Why did you do this to me? First my wife and now my son. You’ve taken everything.’

  ‘Why?’ Rafter howled with glee. ‘The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. I did to you what your father did to me and mine.’