by Amanda Scott
The Infamous Rakes
The Forthright Lady Gillian, The Fickle Fortune-Hunter
Amanda Scott
To John Clevenger
Brother-in-law, genius
Thanks for the memory
Contents
The Forthright Lady Gillian
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
The Fickle Fortune Hunter
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
A Biography of Amanda Scott
The Forthright Lady Gillian
PROLOGUE
October 1799
THE SOUND OF THE waves crashing against the wind-hammered North Devon shoreline exactly suited Lady Gillian Carnaby’s mood. So did the stern, unyielding headlands that loomed above her to her left as her footsteps crunched along the shingle. The mouth of the Bristol Channel lay to her right and beyond it, the coast of Wales. Had the sun been shining and the chilly wind been only a soft breeze, she and the little brown-and-white terrier that accompanied her would have returned long since to the dilapidated stone castle on the high cliff to join the rest of the family, but Gillian reveled in the dark, roiling skies and the gale that whipped her glossy black curls around her face, and she walked farther than she had meant to. The dog, Marcus, was enjoying the outing, too, straining against the lead, though they had been out over an hour and Marcus ought to have been tired.
Two more days, Gillian told herself, kicking at pebbles beneath her booted feet and drawing her thick red wool cloak more tightly around her shoulders to protect herself against the wind. Just two more days. Then it would be back to the warmer part of Devon, to Carnaby Park, and her comfortable bedchamber if not to more congenial surroundings. They had ceased to be congenial the day, little more than a year before, that her father had remarried.
How, she wondered, and not for the first time, could the Earl of Marrick have replaced his gentle, much missed lady after less than three years with the earthy, insensitive, and dismally common Estrid Ponderby? To be sure, Estrid had been the widow of Sir Cedric Ponderby and mother of that gentleman’s two daughters, but she was nonetheless common for all that. Despite her beauty and flirtatious manner, she had the suffocating morals of a middle-class tradesman’s wife, and an encroaching pride of place and position that was embarrassing to at least one of those who had to live with her. Her pride was responsible for their having come to the coast in October, Estrid having insisted that the new heir, born but four months before, must take his rightful place in the home of his forefathers as soon as he could do so. She had been particularly insufferable since the birth of tiny John.
Gillian grimaced, thinking about it, but her ready sense of humor stirred at the memory of Estrid’s expression when she first laid eyes upon what she had assumed must be a particular jewel in her darling’s grand inheritance. Carnaby Castle, though once a strong sentinel for the North Devon coast, was no showplace. In fact, the family had rarely visited it since Gillian’s grandfather had built a “new” country seat at Carnaby Park thirty years ago.
The castle floors were stone and boasted few carpets, the best ones having long since been removed to the Park. Moreover, the castle was cold and drafty, particularly when the wind came, as it did now, right up the channel from the sea, and amenities were few. Still, the new countess had insisted upon staying the full fortnight she had allotted to the purpose (and had informed her friends she would be away from South Devon), and from the moment of their arrival she had repeatedly urged the earl to begin refurbishing the place, but he had paid scant heed to her. He was a generous husband, disliking strife, but he was not one to exert himself when he thought the exertion was unnecessary. Moreover, he preferred his country seat in sunnier South Devon.
A breaking wave rushed back to the sea, and Gillian spied a pebble that was almost a true crimson in color. Moving quickly to pick it up, she put it in the silk bag she carried for such souvenirs. She had found a number of pretty stones, and though she knew their colors would dim when they dried, she thought they would look good at the bottom of a crystal vase with flowers arranged in it. She meant to try the experiment in the spring.
She wandered on, increasing her collection and admiring the rugged coastline ahead until a wave larger than the others broke suddenly and without warning over her feet. With a shriek of dismay, she leapt back from the swirling water, shaken out of her reverie, and saw that not only had the water crept nearer but the northern sky had turned ominously black. A rumble of thunder could be heard above the sound of the waves. Reminded at last that she had walked much farther than she had intended and ought to turn back, she did so at once and began to walk quickly, ignoring the icy, squishing salt water that was no doubt ruining the soft kid half boots she wore.
She was forced to continue along the shingle because the cliff face revealed no visible path to the top. The entire coastline looked formidable now, with jagged black rocks jutting out of the gray, swirling water, and others thrusting through the shingle right up to the base of the steep cliffs. Ahead, to the east, the cliff face curved to a headland shockingly close to the water, a point she had not even noted when she had passed it coming from the castle, when it had been well back from the water’s edge. Sensing her alarm, the little dog began to bark.
“I know, Marcus,” Gillian said grimly. “We stayed too long, so we must hurry now.” Shoving the bag of pebbles into her cloak pocket, she snatched up her skirts with one hand, tugged the leash with the other, and began to run.
The wind was howling loudly enough to be heard above the crashing waves, creating a din that was stimulating but terrifying too. Dog and mistress tore across the shingle toward the point, but long before they reached it, Gillian knew their mad dash was useless. Waves were breaking all around the rocky outcropping now, sending spray soaring high into the wind. She turned back, only to stop in consternation. To the west, the water had reached another outcropping, trapping her in a narrow cove. The strip of shingle was vanishing with appalling speed.
Her first inclination was to run back the way she had come, to search for a way up the cliff, but she knew it would be no better anywhere else than it was right where she was, and she knew, too, that the tide was rising too quickly to allow time for mistakes. Drawing in the lead, she picked Marcus up and turned determinedly toward the cliff side, searching for any visible way upward. In several places the tall black rocks jutted near the face of the cliff, looking as if, centuries before, they had cracked and split away from it. In the eons of time since then, water had eroded the cliff face inward but had left the backs of the tall rocks nearly untouched. From below, it looked almost as if one could step from the top of some of the higher ones right onto the cliff top. Gillian decided that she might perhaps climb such a rock, though she could never scale the overhanging cliff. She was searching for one rock less daunting than the others when suddenly she noted, near the top of a particularly tall, jagged one nearby, a bushy tuft of grass.
There was no grass on the cliffside below that point, a fact she perceived with increasing panic. There was nothing growing below, and much growing above it. That point, she was certain, must be the waterli
ne, and it was many feet above her head.
The first drops of rain spattered down, startling her with their cold touch. Lightning flashed in the darkening sky. There was no time to lose. She looked at the dog in her arms, then up at the jagged rock. To climb it would be difficult under any circumstances, surely impossible with the dog.
Marcus was damp from the raindrops, the brown and white feathering at his ears curling softly. He was quiet in her arms, not struggling, though he generally preferred not to be carried. She thought she detected fear in his large velvety brown eyes. He was small—wiry but terribly vulnerable. Looking up at the rock again, then back at the advancing sea, she sighed in defeat. She could not leave the little dog behind to die.
Again seeming to sense her emotions, Marcus stretched to lick her cheek, then tucked his head into the gap in the front of her cloak. The movement was as good as a suggestion. Swiftly she unfastened his lead and tucked him inside her cloak. Then, by tying the lead around her waist, she was able to hold both the dog and her hitched-up skirts in place with it, making it possible, though not easy, to climb. Deciding she must think only of reaching the point where the grass grew, she began her careful ascent. The sharp edges of the rock tore her clothes and scraped her hands, but she managed to reach a ledge a quarter of the way up where she could sit down for a moment.
The waves mounted steadily higher, and Gillian, always a realist, knew her life depended on reaching a point nearer the top of the rock where she would be safe. About two-thirds of the way, when her head was no more than a foot or two below the tuft of grass, which she saw now was still a good way from the top, she was forced to stop. She could grasp the great slanting slab ahead of her and balance her weight on one foot, but the rock was wet from the drizzle and too slick to climb. If she slipped, even if she survived the fall, she would never manage a second ascent. The position she was in provided no shelter from rain or wind, but it was at least a position she could hold for a while.
The wind dropped a little, but when Gillian looked down, she saw to her horror that the water was rising more swiftly than ever. There were no boats to be seen, no other wanderers, and not so much as an inch of the shingle where she had walked so unheedingly before. Marcus stuck his head out through the opening in her cloak and licked her chin, then struggled to free himself. Clinging to the rock with her right hand, Gillian managed to lodge him in a crevice near her left shoulder.
A huge wave broke violently over her from behind, soaking her, smashing her into the rock, where she clung frantically with both hands, straining her left arm and shoulder to protect Marcus from being swept away, until at the very moment she thought she would be ripped from her perch, the water dropped away. Seeing that she still was not safe, though the water eddied well below her feet now, she pulled the dog from the niche and put him back inside her cloak. Then, with a superhuman effort, she got her left foot into the crevice where he had been and heaved herself upward. She could find no good place to put her right foot, but she wrapped her arms around a craggy knob near the top, and knew she was as safe as she could be from the waves. The next few broke below her, and she dared to hope the tide was on the turn.
She had no idea how long her climb had taken her, but it was darker now, and she wondered if anyone at the castle had noted her absence. Even if they searched, they were unlikely to find her, for she had come too far, but she reminded herself that if she could hold on until the tide went out, she could simply climb down again and walk home.
The thought no sooner crossed her mind than she knew she was underrating her danger. She could hear her own breathing now, and she became aware, as she had not been in her fear, that her arms ached, her hands burned one minute and felt numb with cold the next, and her body was wet and shaking. She would never be able to hold on until the tide went out. One way or another, she had to find a safer position.
Marcus, too, was wet and cold. She could feel the dog’s body quivering against her own. In what light remained, she could see the cliff top, several feet above and beyond her but enticingly near. In her misery it seemed to lean out toward her, to beckon, to suggest that if she stood atop her rock, she could jump to safety. The thought—or more precisely, the absurdity of it—nearly made her smile. The cliff top might as well have been a hundred miles away, for she knew that even if she could pull herself to the top of her rock, she could not stand upright there. With the wind howling around her again, and the increasing darkness making it impossible to see what she was doing, even to attempt such a feat would be the act of a lunatic.
Uncomfortable as she was, clinging to her rock and trying to soothe the dog, at least she was out of immediate danger. She made her position less contorted by finding at last a niche for her right foot, and a spot where she could occasionally lean one of her elbows. The lightning had stopped, but the rain was falling more heavily.
Suddenly Marcus stiffened against her, then struggled to free himself from her cloak. Believing the dog could no longer bear confinement, she helped him emerge, steadying him as well as she could against the rock face. His ears were pricked, his head turned toward the cliff, and for a moment she hoped he had heard voices, though she could hear nothing herself but the wind and the waves. When he relaxed and the wind dropped again briefly, she strained her ears, easing her hold on him as she did.
Marcus shook free, and before she realized what he was about, he had scrambled to the pinnacle, taken a mighty leap, and, to her horror, hurled himself at the cliff top. Her throat went dry, and her heart pounded in her chest when she saw his rear legs flailing wildly over the edge. He wriggled, seemed for a heart-stopping moment to hover between death and safety, and then his back feet found purchase at last and he was gone.
Though she sighed with relief, and uttered a swift prayer that he would find his way safely home again, Gillian felt bereft by his departure. She was sure now that the water was receding, but it would be hours before she could attempt to climb down, and she was certain she would not make the descent unscathed. The most she could hope for was to make it without killing herself in the process, and that only if she could manage to cling to her present perch until it was safe to begin the attempt. If she fell before then, she would most likely be swept out to sea, and no one would ever know what had become of her.
She wondered who would miss her. Her father perhaps, though he was not one to express his feelings. Estrid would not, nor would Dorinda, Estrid’s elder daughter. Perhaps Clementina, the younger one, would shed a tear or two. At twelve, she still did not know much about the world and had little ambition to make her mark in it. When Dorinda had boasted of the success she expected to enjoy in the spring when she would make her come-out, Clementina had remarked only that she thought London would be amusing, then wondered why Gillian—at the ripe age of one and twenty—had not yet enjoyed a proper Season if such a thing was as important as Estrid and Dorinda so clearly believed it was.
Gillian could have explained the matter to Clementina had she chosen to do so, but she had not. The subject was not one she wished to discuss with anyone. The truth was that having anticipated sharing the delights of her first Season with her mother, she had not wanted to go without her the year following her death. Talking about her mother was still painful, indeed impossible. She had never talked about the late countess’s death with anyone, not even with her favorite uncle, the Honorable Marmaduke Vellacott. She had therefore informed her father when the time came that she was not interested in being displayed as one of the offerings on the Marriage Mart.
The earl, more interested in his hunting, fishing, and gaming than in doing the fancy in London, was content to let her have her way. It had never occurred to him that she might not be entirely contented as the acknowledged belle of Devonshire society. Moreover, as Gillian knew perfectly well, he preferred her to be at home to deal with such day-to-day decisions as his steward might not wish to make alone. That the earl was a wealthy man at a time when many fortunes were at risk was due not to his
own efforts but to those of his father before him and to his daughter and his remarkably honest steward at present.
Sudden barking, apparently quite nearby, startled Gillian so much that she almost lost her grip. Clutching the rock, she shifted her gaze to the cliff top, searching hopefully for the shadowy little figure she expected to see; however, the massive dark shadow that loomed at the cliff’s edge belonged to no dog.
“Good God!” The wind dropped again just then, enabling her to hear the words clearly, spoken in a deep masculine voice. “Hold tight! Don’t let go!” The shadow vanished.
For a moment Gillian thought the figure must have been an illusion, a product of her own wishful thinking. She stared at the place where it had appeared and saw that Marcus was there now. She could hear him panting, and she could see his tail wagging. The little dog was vastly pleased with himself.
Time proceeded slowly, but she knew that only a few minutes passed before the shadowy figure loomed again at the edge of the cliff. “Good,” he said placidly, “you’re still there.”
“Where the devil else would I be?” she demanded.
“Pretty language, child, but since I have not got the least notion how you got where you are now, I can scarcely be expected to know where you might have gone next,” he replied. He was doing something with his hands while he talked, and she realized she could see a little better than before. Glancing out to sea, she perceived through the lingering drizzle that the storm had nearly blown itself out. There was even a faint glow of moonlight in the clouds overhead.
“Can you reach me?” she asked, having no desire either to attempt to convince him that she was no child or to try to make explanations until she was safe, if then.
“I do not know.” His tone was still calm, maddeningly so. “Can you tell me if this cliff top appears, from your perspective, to be thick enough to bear my weight with yours added to it? I should not like to be plunged to my death, you know, through simply trying to play the Good Samaritan.”
