Nicola Cornick Collection

by Nicola Cornick

  Dauntsey Park: The Last Rake in London

  Notorious

  Desired

  Nicola Cornick

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Dauntsey Park: The Last Rake in London

  Nicola Cornick

  Nicola Cornick’s novels

  have received acclaim the world over

  ‘Cornick is first-class, Queen of her game.’

  —Romance Junkies

  ‘A rising star of the Regency arena.’

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for THE SCANDALOUS WOMEN OF THE TON series

  ‘A riveting read.’

  —New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney on

  Whisper of Scandal

  ‘One of the finest voices in historical romance.’

  —Single Titles.com

  ‘Ethan Ryder (is) a bad boy to die for! A memorable story of intense emotions, scandals, trust, betrayal and all-encompassing love. A fresh and engrossing tale.’

  —Romantic Times on One Wicked Sin

  ‘Historical romance at its very best is written by Nicola Cornick.’

  —Mary Gramlich, The Reading Reviewer

  Acclaim for Nicola’s previous books

  ‘Witty banter, lively action and sizzling passion.’

  —Library Journal on Undoing of a Lady

  ‘RITA® Award-nominated Cornick deftly steeps her latest intriguingly complex Regency historical in a beguiling blend of danger and desire.’

  —Booklist on Unmasked

  Dear Reader,

  It has been a great pleasure for me to write a special story set in 1908. The Edwardian period has a strong nostalgia about it. It has been described as: “A leisurely time when women wore picture hats and did not vote, when the rich were not ashamed to live conspicuously and the sun never really set on the British flag.” It was an era that contrasted with the periods that preceded and succeeded it—the long reign of Victoria and the harsh and terrible reality of the First World War.

  Yet the Edwardian period has also been referred to as “the birth of now,” a period that has far more in common with modern times than we might imagine. When I was writing this book I was constantly surprised at the parallels with modern life and that much of the technology in use today originated or was first developed in this period. Much of the London Underground had been built and was already referred to as “The Tube.” The first aeroplanes were taking to the skies. The rich had installed telephones in their houses and the King would ring his friends up when he had decided to drop in for a visit.

  I have set Jack and Sally’s love story against the glittering backdrop of Edwardian high society and I hope that you enjoy this glimpse of that very special year, 1908.

  www.nicolacornick.co.uk

  The ancestral line of the Dukes of Kestrel had bred rakes and rogues aplenty in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The family seat, Kestrel Court, is nestled in the Midwinter Villages and you can read about the exploits of the Kestrel family in Nicola Cornick’s bestselling series, the BLUESTOCKING BRIDES:

  THE NOTORIOUS LORD

  ONE NIGHT OF SCANDAL

  THE RAKE’S MISTRESS

  Available as eBooks.

  Visit www.mirabooks.co.uk

  Other novels by Nicola Cornick

  WHISPER OF SCANDAL

  ONE WICKED SIN

  MISTRESS BY MIDNIGHT

  To my wonderful grandmother, born Doris Mary Wood in 1908, still an inspiration to me now.

  Prologue

  June 1908

  Jack Kestrel was looking for a woman.

  Not just any woman, but a female so unscrupulous, greedy and manipulative that she would blackmail a man who was dying.

  He had been assured that she would be at the art exhibition at the Wallace Collection tonight, but he did not know what she looked like. Whilst he tried to locate the curator to arrange an introduction, Jack stood at the top of the staircase and scanned the crowd that had flocked to the exhibition of portraits and miniatures. Most people were standing in small groups in the conservatory and the hall, chattering, drinking champagne, their purpose not so much to view the paintings as to see and be seen. The gentlemen were in evening dress, the ladies vivid in rainbow-coloured gowns and picture hats, their diamonds rivalling the glitter of the chandeliers.

  Jack turned and walked slowly along the corridor that led to the Grand Gallery. His cousin, the Duke of Kestrel, had loaned some portraits to the exhibition tonight including two very fine paintings by George Romney of Jack’s great-grandparents, Justin Duke of Kestrel and his wife. Jack was curious to see them; the last time he had viewed them they had been tucked in a dark corner of the family seat, Kestrel Court in Suffolk, in dire need of a clean. Buffy the present duke was an unashamed philistine about the arts and saw his collection as nothing more than an asset to sell as the income he gained from his land dwindled. Only the previous week, Jack had loaned Buffy a thousand pounds to prevent him from sending his entire collection of Stubbs’s racing paintings to Sotheby’s.

  There was only one person viewing the Kestrel portraits in the small drawing room. They were beautifully displayed and lit from below by a cunning arrangement of oil lamps. The same soft light that illuminated the portraits of Jack’s ancestors also shone on the woman standing before them, giving radiance to her face beneath the wide brim of her hat, making her complexion glow like cream and roses and shadowing her eyes with mysterious darkness. She was wearing a beautiful peach silk evening gown that draped sinuously over her body and her huge black picture hat had matching peach ribbons and roses on the brim.

  Jack stopped in the doorway, his eyes resting on her face. For a moment he felt an odd sensation in his chest, almost as though she had reached out and physically touched him. It was not a feeling he had ever experienced before. Apart from a disastrous entanglement in his youth, he had kept his relationships with women a simple and straightforward business of mutual physical convenience. Not one of them had made the breath catch in his throat or his heart miss a beat. He decided to ignore the sudden and disturbing stir of emotions within him and crossed the room to her side.

  She did not turn. She seemed engrossed in the portrait of Justin Kestrel, with his dark Regency good looks, the rakish smile on his lips and the hint of humour in his dangerous eyes.

  ‘Do you like the portrait?’

  She turned at last at Jack’s softly spoken question and her beautiful hazel eyes widened as they went from his face to the portrait and back again. He saw her mouth turn up in a reluctant smile.

  ‘He was very handsome,’ she said drily. ‘The resemblance is striking, as no doubt you are aware.’

  Jack bowed. ‘He was my great-grandfather. Jack Kestrel, entirely at your service, madam.’

  Her dark brows lifted slightly, but she did not give him a name in return and Jack knew it was deliberate. It was also unusual. Very few women refused Jack Kestrel’s acquaintance. His looks generally gained him their interest even before they learned how rich he was.

  ‘And this—’ her attention had turned to the portrait of Justin’s duchess, vivid and bejewelled in emerald satin and with the most glorious auburn hair ‘—must be your great-grandmother.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Jack said. ‘Lady Sally Saltire. She was reputed to be as clever as she was beautiful. Half of London society was at her feet. In Regency times she was known as an Incomparable.’

  ‘How marvelous.’ His companion seemed amused. ‘It is unusual to hear of a clever woman who did not trouble to hide her intelligence. I admire her for it.’

  ‘I do not believe that she cared what others thought of her,’ Jack said. ‘And her husband adored her. He said that she was more than a ma
tch for him in every way.’ He laughed. ‘She could certainly shoot straighter than he could.’

  ‘A useful accomplishment,’ she agreed. She leaned closer to the pictures to admire a small square portrait of a little girl in a white dress. The lamplight caught on the strands of tawny brown hair beneath her hat and burnished them to gold, setting the shadows dancing against her cheek.

  ‘Is this their daughter?’ She asked.

  Jack nodded. ‘My Great-Aunt Ottoline.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Jack said feelingly.

  A spark of mischief lit her eyes. ‘I imagine she must be quite a character.’ She turned to face him and once again Jack felt the impact of that clear hazel gaze. Something shifted within him, something poignant and unexpected, like a hand squeezing his heart.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it has been a pleasure making the acquaintance of your dangerous ancestors, Mr Kestrel.’

  She was leaving, and Jack was determined to stop her. He wanted to know much, much more about her. He was not going to let her go yet.

  ‘Is art a passion of yours?’ He asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No more than an interest, like music. My work is my passion.’

  Jack slanted a look down at her. He was surprised. She did not look like a New Woman, the type of female who was independent and earned her own living as a shop assistant or factory worker. She looked too glossy, pampered and rich. He was about to ask her what she did for a living when she smiled at him, a luscious smile, but quite without promise of any sort.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Kestrel, I think I shall go and look at the Cosway miniatures now. They are accounted extremely pretty.’

  ‘Then may I escort you to the Grand Gallery?’ Jack asked.

  After a brief second’s hesitation, she shook her head. ‘No, I thank you. I am here with a friend. I should go and find him.’

  ‘What was he thinking of to leave you alone?’ Jack asked.

  She flashed him a smile. ‘I am able to take care of myself. And he genuinely is no more than a friend.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it.’

  She sighed. ‘You should not be. I do not seek to further our acquaintance, Mr Kestrel. I am too old a hand to have my head turned by a handsome face.’

  She did not look a day above five and twenty, but Jack thought she sounded world-weary. And he was too experienced to push her too hard. That way he would lose all that he had gained.

  ‘At the least, tell me your name,’ he said. He took her hand. She was wearing long black silk evening gloves that reached to her elbow. They felt deliciously smooth beneath his fingers and for a moment he thought he felt her hand tremble in his. Her long black lashes flickered down, hiding her expression.

  ‘I am Sally Bowes,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Mr Kestrel.’ She smiled, withdrew her hand from his, turned and walked away down the corridor towards the Grand Gallery. The light shimmered on her peach gown and the voluptuous curves beneath.

  Sally Bowes. The shock and disbelief hit Jack squarely in the stomach like a blow. Unscrupulous, greedy, manipulative … A woman who would blackmail a dying man … He knew now what she did for a living. She was a nightclub hostess who used the weakness of men against them to extort money.

  Yet the information was counter to every instinct he possessed about the woman he had been talking with. They had only spoken for a few moments and yet she had entranced him. He did not usually make errors of judgement of that magnitude. And along with the shock he felt something deeper, something that felt like disappointment.

  He took an impulsive step after her, but then saw a gentleman join her, offering her his arm, and saw her smile up into his face. A pang of jealously pierced him, all the sharper for being so unexpected. He recognised the man; Gregory, Lord Holt, was a very old friend of his. He wondered if Holt was Miss Bowes’s next intended victim.

  Jack straightened. Tomorrow he would seek out Miss Bowes again and tell her in no uncertain terms that her attempts to extort money from his uncle had to cease. He would warn her that, in tangling with him, she was engaging a very dangerous enemy indeed.

  Chapter One

  ‘Miss Bowes?’

  The voice was low, mellow and familiar. It spoke in Sally’s ear and she came awake abruptly. For a moment she could not remember where she was. Her neck ached slightly and her cheek was pressed against something cold.

  Paper.

  She had fallen asleep in her office again. Her head was resting on the piles of invoices and orders that were on the desk. She half-opened her eyes. It was almost dark. The lamp glowed softly and from beyond the door drifted the faint sound of music, the babble of voices and the scent of cigar smoke and wine. That meant it must be late; the evening’s entertainments at the Blue Parrot Club had already begun.

  ‘Miss Bowes?’

  This time the voice sounded considerably less agreeable and more than a little impatient. Sally sat up, wincing as her stiff muscles protested, and rubbed her eyes. She blinked them open, stopped, stared, then rubbed them again to ensure that she was not dreaming.

  She was not. He was still there.

  Jack Kestrel was leaning forward, both hands on the top of her desk, which brought his dark eyes level with hers and put him approximately six inches away from her. From such an intimate distance Sally could not focus on all his features at once, but she remembered them clearly enough from the previous night. He was not a man one would forget in a hurry, for his appearance was very striking. He had dark brown hair, very silky looking and a little ruffled from the summer breeze, a nose that was straight and verging on the aquiline and a sinfully sensuous mouth. Sally was not generally impressed by good looks alone. She was no foolish débutante to lose her head over a handsome man. But Jack Kestrel had had charm to burn and she had enjoyed talking to him the previous night. She had enjoyed his company too much, in fact. Spending time with him had been dangerously seductive. It would have been all too easy to accept his escort, and then, perhaps, to accept an invitation to dinner …

  Sally had not been so tempted in a very long time and had known she could not afford to get to know Jack Kestrel any better. As soon as he had told her his name she had been wary, for all of Edwardian society knew who he was. The ancestral line of the Dukes of Kestrel had bred rakes and rogues aplenty in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and there were those who said that this man was the last Kestrel rake, cut from the same cloth as his ancestors. Cousin to the present Duke, eventual heir to the dukedom, he had been banished abroad in his youth as a result of an outrageous scandal involving a married woman and had returned ten years later having made an independent fortune.

  Sally could see why he had gained the reputation he had. There was certainly something powerfully virile about him. Women were supposed to swoon at his feet and she had no intention of joining their ranks and littering his path.

  She realised that she was still staring at him. Suddenly hot, she dragged her gaze away from Jack’s mouth and met his eyes. His expression was distinctly unfriendly. She drew back immediately, instinctively, and saw his gaze narrow at her reaction. He straightened up and moved away from the desk.

  He was not in evening dress tonight and Sally thought that looking as he did, he could not be mistaken for a member of the Blue Parrot’s usual clientele. The club catered for the filthy rich members of King Edward’s circle who were mainly fat, pampered and accustomed to soft living, and to the sophisticated American visitors whose money and influence increasingly held sway in London. Occasionally the club also hosted the soldier sons of the old aristocracy, roistering it up on leave. Jack Kestrel looked as though he might have been a soldier once—he had a long scar down one lean cheek—and he certainly looked as though he would be more at home on the North-west Frontier or in southern Africa than in a club off the Strand. He was very tall, broad and sunburnt and Sally guessed he was about thirty. Instead of evening dress he wore a long driving coat in dark brown l
eather over a suit that was as carelessly casual as only Savile Row could make, and he carried his height with a lounging grace that was compulsive to watch. He turned back towards her and Sally felt her breathing constrict. She could not deny that Jack Kestrel had a dangerously masculine appearance. His features were hard and uncompromising.

  ‘I apologise for waking you,’ he drawled. ‘I suppose that in your profession you must snatch your sleep where you can.’

  Sally was not quite sure what to make of that. Although she enjoyed accounting, she did not normally find it so riveting that it kept her from her bed. She was tired that evening only because she had been out late at the Wallace Collection the night before and then up early supervising the final redecorations of the Crimson Salon, which was to open to the public in two weeks’ time. The renovations had taken six months and the new developments were going to be the talk of London. Even the King himself had promised to attend the unveiling.

  ‘You are Miss Bowes?’ Jack added, for a third time, when Sally still did not speak. Now he sounded downright impatient.

  ‘I … Yes, I am. I told you that last night.’ Sally cleared her throat. She realised that she did not sound very sure. She certainly did not sound like the authoritative owner of the most successful and avant-garde club in London. Once, long ago, in the genteel drawing rooms of Oxford, she had indeed been Miss Bowes, the eldest daughter, sister to Miss Petronella and Miss Constance. But a great deal had happened since then.

  Under Jack Kestrel’s pitiless dark gaze she felt younger than her twenty-seven years, young and strangely vulnerable. She straightened in her chair, brushed the tangled hair out of her eyes and hoped desperately that the inkstains she could see on her fingers did not also adorn her face. It was infuriating that she had been caught like this. Normally she would change into an evening gown before the club opened, but because she had fallen asleep she had not had time, and no one had come to wake her.