Rake's Reward

by Kruger, Mary

  He had been riding hard and fast across the grass, and now he was drawing near to one of the bridle paths. With the ease and instinct born of years spent in the saddle, he slowed the powerful stallion to a walk, leaning over to pat his neck. A walk to cool the horse out, and then it would be home for him, and the start to the day’s activities.

  Alex turned onto the bridle path, and then checked. Ahead of him was the boy he’d seen earlier, riding at a sedate pace and—singing? A younger lad than he’d thought, because the voice drifting back to him was definitely soprano. Unwilling to face such cheerfulness so early in the morning, Alex tugged at the reins, preparing to turn away, when a very odd thing happened. The boy’s horse reared. No, not reared, exactly, Alex realized, spurring Azrael forward, but he was certainly on his hind legs and was actually walking. And then, as abruptly as he’d gone up, he came down. All the way down, his forelegs collapsing under him. The boy gave a cry as he lost his balance, his arms flailing wildly. Then, unable to stop himself, he catapulted over the horse’s head.

  “God’s teeth!” Alex muttered. This was just what he needed, an encounter with a youth too young and foolish to control his horse, but he could not leave the boy there if he were hurt. “Are you hurt, lad?” he called, bringing Azrael to a neat stop by the fallen rider and dismounting.

  The rider, sitting sprawled on the ground, looked up at Alex, and, disconcertingly, laughed, a crystal peal of sound. Golden brown curls danced about a heart-shaped face, and Alex realized several things at once. The rider’s eyes, huge and golden, were the most unusual he had ever seen, and the lashes, the longest. And she was definitely not a boy. She was, instead, one of the most attractive girls it had been his privilege ever to meet, filling out the plain buff breeches and the simple white shirt she wore in a way no boy ever could. His heart lurched in his chest, and then returned to its usual place, leaving him feeling odd, disoriented, off-balance, and yet exhilarated. Suddenly, his day no longer looked quite so routine.

  Chapter Two

  “Good morning!” The girl scrambled to her feet and danced—there was no other word for it, Alex decided—over to her horse, who was standing obediently by, his head down. “Good old Dancer, you can still show us a thing or two, can’t you?”

  “Dancer?” Leading Azrael, Alex stepped forward.

  “Yes. Because he dances, you see.” She turned to look at him, her eyes dancing with mirth.

  “You could have been hurt.”

  “Oh, old Dancer’s never hurt a soul in his life, have you, boy?” She gave the horse’s nose another pat, and then stepped away. “Shall we show the gentleman what you can do?” And, to Alex’s astonishment, she began to sing “The Last Time I Came O’er”, her voice a lilting soprano. The horse’s ears pricked up, and then he rose, front legs pawing at the air as he turned and caparisoned. As the girl ended the song, he suddenly came down, bending his front legs in the way that had been the girl’s undoing, and then rose again.

  She looked up at Alex slantwise, mischief sparkling so in her eyes that, for the life of him, he was unable to look away. “He does that, you see, to let his rider dismount, only I forgot.”

  “As good as anything I’ve seen at Astley’s, or in Vienna,” Alex said, intrigued in spite of himself.

  “Oh, were you at the Congress, sir?”

  “No. How did you come by him?”

  “Papa bought him from the gypsies. Mama saw him one day and had to have him. Not that she would ever do anything so undignified as to actually ride him. Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “But he’s a good old horse. I just forgot he’d dance if I started singing. And I had to sing, ‘tis such a beautiful morning.”

  “You could have been hurt,” Alex said again. Even to his own ears his voice sounded repressive. In spite of her dress, this was no urchin; her voice and bearing spoke of the Quality. “God’s teeth, what are you doing riding alone at this hour of the morning?”

  The girl looked startled, and then let out another laugh, that crystal sound that so disconcerted and attracted him. “I—I am sorry, but you sounded so like my Papa then.”

  The thought of his sounding like anyone’s Papa at last awoke Alex’s sense of the absurd, long dormant, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “My apologies. I did not wish to sound the tyrant.”

  “No, you don’t look anything like him,” she said, and then went very still, looking up at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but she had turned away, stooping gracefully to pick up Dancer’s reins. How old was she? Sixteen, seventeen? A mere child, but the most enchanting girl he had come across in a long time. And she evidently had no idea of who he was, which was just as well. Girls just out of the schoolroom weren’t exactly his style. “I must be getting back.”

  “May I walk with you? After all,” his lips twitched again, “you never know whom you might meet in the park. Though I’m not sure being seen with me would do your reputation any good,” he added to himself, and the black mood that had so briefly lifted descended upon him again.

  “Why? Are you someone I shouldn’t know?” Her eyes danced. “A rake, perhaps?”

  “Minx. Tell me who your father is so I may tell him to keep you confined.”

  “I think not.” She fell into step beside him, leading Dancer, and an oddly companionable silence fell between them. For the first time since returning to England, Alex relaxed.

  “What is your horse’s name?”

  “Azrael.”

  “Azrael?” The girl looked toward the black stallion, who had shied away from Dancer’s inquiring snuffle. “‘Abash’d the devil stood.’”

  Alex turned startled eyes towards her. “You read Milton?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m—”

  “A man. Yes, horrid thing for me to confess, I being only a girl, but,” her hand pressed dramatically to her heart, “I do know how to read.”

  Alex laughed, startling himself. Had anyone else spoken so to him, he would have immediately damped their pretensions by a look from under his brow. “Minx,” he said again. “Why do they allow you out of the house so early?”

  “They don’t know. If I return early enough, no one’s the wiser except the grooms.”

  “Who should know better than to allow you to roam the streets unescorted.”

  “I’m perfectly safe. Aren’t I?”

  Alex looked startled, and then, grinned, ruefully. Here he was, the most notorious rake in all of England, and yet she was, as she had implied, safe with him. He wouldn’t dream of touching her, and thus spoiling her intriguing mixture of innocence, knowledge, and sensuality. I must be getting old, he thought. “Nevertheless, you should be getting home, before someone sees you. Besides me.”

  “And as you don’t know who I am, you don’t count.”

  “Who are you?” he asked, impelled by a sudden need to know, and the girl shook her head.

  “Never mind. I don’t want to be that girl just now. I just wish to enjoy the day.” She flung her head back, gazing up at the canopy of trees arching over them, and Alex found himself staring at the clean, pure lines of her throat. The longing to press his lips against her soft white skin was so strong that he took a step away. “The world is so beautiful in the morning,” she went on, unaware of the sudden interest she had awakened in him, and, after a moment, Alex walked on.

  “Of course you find the world a beautiful place,” he said, more sourly than he’d intended. “You’ve never seen anything else.”

  The girl looked startled, and a look came into her eyes that made him instantly want to call the words back. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, softly, and he realized with chagrin that the look in her eyes was pity. For him! “But I think we have to enjoy what we can, when we can. Otherwise, life is too hard.”

  “How do you know that?” he demanded, wondering with a sudden surge of angry protectiveness what had happened to her to give her such a f
atalistic philosophy. It matched his exactly, but then, he’d come by it in a hard school.

  “I’m not blind.” She paused. They had come to the Stanhope Gate, and outside waited the world. “I must be going. I dare not be late.”

  “I suppose not,” he said, but he paused, oddly reluctant to end this idyll. “May I see you home?”

  “I—” For the first time, the girl appeared flustered. She glanced up at him and then lowered her eyes with a sweep of long lashes. “I think not. But thank you.” Setting her booted foot on the stirrup, she swung easily up into the saddle, the curve of her hip in the breeches so bewitching that he wondered how he had ever mistaken her for a boy. “Good day to you, sir,” she said, and, without a backward glance, rode away.

  “Good day,” Alex answered, feeling oddly abandoned as he watched her go. Some of the beauty of the day, the bright sunshine, the trilling birds, the gentle breeze, went with her.

  Azrael butted his head against Alex’s arm. “Yes, Azzie. Home for us, and breakfast. Ah, thought you’d like that.” He, too, swung up into his saddle, and glanced down Park Lane in time to see the girl turn onto Upper Grosvenor Street. He could follow her, perhaps, find out where she lived, ensure that she made it home safely, but something held him back. Something about the proud set of her shoulders when she had turned away, something about the incident itself, stopped him. It had been a moment out of time, and already it seemed not quite real. Girls like her just didn’t exist in his world of sophisticated society ladies or willing courtesans. She was not for him.

  Still, he wondered as he turned towards his lodgings, if he would ever see her again.

  Cecily glanced back as she turned onto Upper Grosvenor Street. The man was still there, on horseback now. She wondered for a moment if he meant to follow her, but then he turned away. She wasn’t certain whether to be relieved, or disappointed.

  The street was still quiet, and few paid heed to Cecily as she set Dancer to an easy walk. In the space of just a few moments, her world had changed, though she couldn’t say exactly how. She was still herself, and yet, she felt different. Felt as if another Cecily, one she had barely acknowledged, even to herself, had suddenly appeared. And it was all because of that man.

  Dancer knew the way home, needing no guidance, and so Cecily was free to let her thoughts return to the encounter just past. There had been a moment when she had glanced up at the man in reaction to something he had said, and realized that he was very handsome, indeed. Not classically handsome, in the way her fiancé was, she amended loyally, but compelling, all the same. There was something about him, about the high, arched cheekbones, the thin, aquiline nose, the mobile lips, held very stiffly, as if he were in pain. He must have been in the war, Cecily thought. Her cousin Peter had had just that same look in his eyes when he’d returned home, invalided out of the army, a pain too deep for words, a terrible weariness. For one brief moment Cecily had wanted to take the man’s head and cradle it against her breasts, comforting him, until she had remembered where she was, who she was. To him, she was likely just a hoyden, escaped from the constraints of the schoolroom and the rules that governed so strictly how a young lady was to behave. An engaged young lady. The man in the park, compelling though he might be, ideal companion that she had felt, in those few moments, that he could be, was not for her. Her life had already been decided for her.

  Still, she wondered as she turned Dancer into the stableyard, if she would ever see him again.

  “Then we are decided?” the man said, looking around the table, grey eyes glittering coldly behind the mask he, like every man there in the otherwise empty tavern, wore. Though the table was round, though there was little to distinguish him from the others, clearly he was the leader of this group. His clothing was dark, plain, but a discerning observer would have noted that the material of it was finer, the cut more precise, than that of anyone else’s. He would also have noted the man’s hands, slender and white, and yet strong. This was not a man who had had to do much hard labor in his life. Yet from him emanated such supreme self-confidence, such authority, that the others, successful men in their own right, automatically deferred to him. He, after all, was the one who had conceived the conspiracy that had brought them all together. There was also a touch of fear in their respect. No one could meet the hard, gleaming gaze of those eyes for long.

  “Aye,” the man at his left said at last, in broad Lancashire accents. “Reckon it’s the only thing we can do.”

  “Time we woke up this country,” another man said, and from the rest of the men came nods and voices raised in agreement, voices that showed the origin of their speakers: Scots, Cornish, Welsh. Only the accent of the first man, the leader, was pure, and that was a source of curiosity to most of the conspirators. No one dared inquire too deeply into his background, however. Their leader had a way of dealing with such insolence.

  “Time, indeed,” he said, now. “Gentlemen, we all know what is happening here. Children starve in the street, soldiers go begging, and trade is ruined. We are Englishmen, gentlemen, and yet any protest we make is looked on as sedition, because of this present government. They have had things their own way for too long, with their Corn Laws and their acts of suppression and their taxes. We must strike back! America and France have shown us the way, gentlemen. The time to strike is now!”

  “Here, here!” erupted cheers from the other men, and the leader sat back, deeply satisfied. They were his. He had chosen well, indeed: the wealthy merchant from the City whose daughter had married an impoverished nobleman, only to be badly mistreated; the Yorkshire factory owner whose business had nearly been ruined during the late war with America, when he couldn’t get the cotton his mills needed; the Devon farmer, suffering from the ruinous effects of the Corn Laws. And the little Cockney, who by his own account had served his nation bravely in the wars with France and had received no compensation for it. The leader’s eyes narrowed briefly as they touched on him. Something would have to be done there.

  “We will meet again in one month’s time to discuss our plans,” he said, rising. “At that time, gentlemen, I hope to have a suitable candidate to do the actual job to put before you. I trust you will not be disappointed.”

  “Who you going to get, guv’nor?” the Cockney said, his eyes a bright, sharp blue behind the mask. “Ain’t many would care to be involved in assassination.”

  A hush fell over the room at the word, spoken openly for the first time, and the leader’s left eyelid twitched. “I have my sources. You will not be dissatisfied. Gentlemen? Shall we adjourn? The publican will show you the way out.”

  The men rose, muttering and shaking each other’s hands, and their leader leaned back in his chair, apparently at ease, his steepled fingers just touching his lips as he watched them leave. The publican, who had stayed in the background, had come forward and was leading the men out through a door few would know of, into the dark alleys and streets of London’s Whitechapel district. A dangerous place, but these men could handle themselves. He would not have chosen them, else.

  The Cockney stopped as he passed by. “Might be I could help you, guv,” he said, his smile ingratiating. “I know of some sharpshooters from the army who—”

  “I will handle it,” the leader said, his voice smooth and urbane, but underlaid with steel.

  “Your show, guv,” the Cockney said, cheerfully, and, nodding his head, went out behind the others.

  The leader watched him go, his eyes thoughtful, and then snapped his fingers. From the shadows came another man, masked like the rest, though he had not sat at the table. “My lord?”

  “Quiet, you fool!” For the first time that evening, the leader was truly angry, his eyelid twitching furiously, and the other man took a pace back. “How many times must I tell you—ah, well, no harm done. They’re gone.” He looked down the passageway, where he could just see the Cockney leaving. He wasn’t certain, but he thought the man had been watching. All the more reason, then, to do what had to be do
ne. “You know what you must do.”

  “Yes, my—sir.” From his pocket the other man withdrew a long knife, thin-bladed and sharp. The steel winked in the firelight, and then he sheathed it again. With a quick bow towards his employer he, too, made his way down the passageway.

  Satisfactory. The leader leaned back, savoring the success that was to come, the power that would soon be his. Fortunate, was it not, that he had discovered the true identity of the Cockney? Good though his disguise was, the tale he told of his army service had been his undoing. For the leader had learned through channels of his own that the Cockney had never been in the regiment he had claimed. He had, instead, been in the employ of the Foreign Office on far more clandestine business. A spy, in other words, and it was the leader’s experience that, once a spy, always a spy. And that could not be tolerated. He would allow nothing, at this late date, to interfere with his plans.

  His servant returned, sheathing the stiletto. “Done, sir.”

  “Good.” It was no more than he’d expected. The Cockney would bother them no more. He rose. “Help me out of these damnable clothes,” he said, and turned towards the stairs.