Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  “And Tristan hadn’t done any of those things while sleepwalking,” Elizabeth said, her green eyes wide.

  “Of course he hadn’t.” Alexandra scooted closer to her husband and leaned dreamily back against him. “I knew he hadn’t all along.”

  “Have you sleepwalked since then?” Juliana asked him.

  “Not once,” Tristan said.

  “And I’m sure he won’t ever again,” Alexandra declared.

  “I wouldn’t wager on that,” her husband disagreed wryly, tilting her face up and back for a quick upside-down kiss. “Something tells me this irredeemable chit is likely to cause more trouble sometime in the future.”

  Everyone laughed. Except for Griffin. He was glad to see his sister happy, but that didn’t alleviate his misgivings.

  Alexandra frowned at his clenched jaw. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “You should have come home,” he gritted out. “When all that was happening, you should have come home.”

  “That’s what Peggy wanted, but Hawkridge is my home now.” She exchanged a glance with Tristan, apparently realizing Griffin was as disappointed with his friend for not making her come home as he was with her for not doing so on her own. Extricating herself from Tristan’s embrace, she rose to her feet. “Let’s walk,” she said to Griffin, taking his arm to pull him up before he could protest.

  “I could have lost you,” he said as they headed down the rise to the vineyard.

  “Have you not figured out yet that you’re not going to lose any of us, Griffin? Not even after we’re all married and gone from Cainewood. You’re stuck worrying about us forever,” she said all too truthfully and cheerfully.

  They walked for a few minutes, sharing a companionable silence that relieved his temper. When they reached the vineyard, they headed into the middle of it, toward where Rachael wandered in the distance.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Alexandra asked.

  “I don’t know. Would you care to ask her?”

  “I’ll let you ask her.”

  “Hmmph.”

  She bent to touch a minuscule grape. “Your vines are bearing fruit!”

  A ridiculous sense of pride washed over him. “Nothing worthy of wine yet, but it’s something to celebrate.”

  “We’ll toast your success with Hawkridge’s wine in a few minutes.” She wandered the row, still heading toward Rachael. “Are they English sweet-water grapes?”

  “They’re Rhenish.” A few months ago he wouldn’t have known the variety, but the vineyard truly felt like his now. “Since when do you know anything about grapes?”

  “I have a vineyard now, too, you know. It’s my responsibility to learn everything about Hawkridge.”

  His eldest sister always had been rather responsible. But she was different, Griffin thought. He couldn’t put his finger on how, but he knew the change was for the better.

  “You should have come home,” he repeated doggedly, “but I must thank you for persevering. Because of you, Juliana and Corinna have fine prospects.”

  “Thank you for allowing me to marry Tris,” she returned, then shot him a grin that was much more impish than the old Alexandra. “And for the excellent advice you gave me the night before my wedding.”

  He felt his face heat and suspected he was as red as the blanket on the hill. “I think I shall talk to Rachael now,” he said and walked off.

  Rachael turned as he approached, her cerulean eyes laced with distress. “Leave me alone,” she said miserably. “I came out here to be alone.”

  “My sister sent me to talk to you.”

  “Do you always listen to your sisters?”

  “Only when I agree with what they say.” He stepped closer. “Tell me, Rachael. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, thunderation,” she said, then pressed herself into his shirtfront and sobbed.

  He patted her awkwardly, feeling her warm tears soak through his shirt. Even miserable, she was stunning, and embracing her made him uncomfortably aware of that fact. He sent a murderous glance back toward Alexandra before patting Rachael some more. “Whatever it is,” he said soothingly—at least, he hoped he sounded soothing—“it cannot be that bad.”

  “I’m not a Chase,” she whispered through a sob.

  “What?” His hands froze on her slim back. “How can that be?”

  “I found a letter.” She pulled away, swiping at her swollen, reddened eyes. She didn’t look quite as stunning now, Griffin told himself. “This morning, when I was clearing out the master suite for Noah’s homecoming. It was from my mother to my father. From before I was born.”

  He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, and she took it and blew her nose. Noisily and not prettily.

  Much better, he thought. Aloud he said, “What was in the letter?”

  “It said…it said she would always be grateful to him for wedding her even though she was a widow already with child. She prayed I would be a girl so he wouldn’t be stuck with another man’s son as his heir. She—”

  “Did she say she loved him?” he interrupted pointedly.

  She nodded. “But—”

  “They were in love, Rachael. Anyone could see it just looking at the two of them. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

  She shrugged, following that with a long, sorrowful sniff. “But he wasn’t my father. Whoever my real father was, he wasn’t a Chase.”

  “Did the man who raised you ever, for one minute, treat you as anything but his daughter?”

  “No.” The tears continued to flow as she shook her head. “But I’m not a Chase. I don’t know what I am if I’m not a Chase.”

  “You’re Rachael,” he said. “Noah and Claire and Elizabeth are still your brother and sisters. You still live at Greystone. Nothing has changed. What does your surname matter? It will change when you marry, anyway.”

  But her family name wouldn't change if she married him, another Chase. And he was aware, quite suddenly and uncomfortably, that the cousin standing before him wasn’t actually his cousin.

  Thankfully, she hadn’t seemed to make that connection. “You’re right,” she said, straightening her shoulders and taking a big breath.

  She didn’t look like she really believed him, but she looked like she wanted to believe him. And the shaky little smile she aimed at him had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with family consoling each other.

  “Thank you,” she added. “I don’t know when you became so reasonable, but I do appreciate your calm, considered approach.”

  He could have had a hearty laugh at that one. He’d been anything but calm and considered since inheriting the marquessate. To tell the truth, he’d felt calmer on campaign with bullets whizzing around him.

  Panicked would describe his current state better.

  He had two more sisters to marry off, an estate that came with entirely too much responsibility, and now a cousin who wasn’t his cousin.

  And since she’d stopped crying, she was suddenly looking quite—what was the word Tristan had used?

  Oh, yes. Sultry.

  “I am glad I could help,” he said stiffly.

  “I think…” she said, licking her lips, “I think I’m ready to go back to the others.”

  “Thank goodness,” he said under his breath.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m thankful to God that you feel much better.”

  She cocked her head at him, as though she might not believe him. But she followed him back down the row, and for that he was thankful, too. Mostly because she was behind him, which meant he didn’t have to watch her hips swaying down the aisle.

  She’s your cousin, he reminded himself forcefully. Your cousin.

  Except she wasn’t.

  It was a good thing she'd said she'd never marry him, because the last thing he wanted was a wife.

  Author's Note

  Dear Readers,

  Do you know any sleepwalkers? Two of my children occasionally sleepwalk, so I know firsthand that it doesn't look
as scary in real life as it's usually portrayed in movies. Sleepwalkers look and act quite awake—if a little bit addled—but they never remember anything of their escapades in the morning.

  Much mystery has been attached to sleepwalking, yet it's really no more mysterious than dreaming. The main difference between the two is that a sleepwalker's brainwave patterns are a combination of the type produced during deep sleep mixed with awake patterns. This second type of brainwave reflects waking behaviors like walking and talking while the person is still asleep enough so that he's not aware of what's happening and isn't forming memories of his actions. In adults, sleepwalking is most likely to occur during times of emotional stress and usually stops when the source of anxiety disappears.

  As to whether sleepwalkers can be dangerous, although violence while sleepwalking isn't common, sleepwalkers aren't allowed in the armed services of the United States, in part because of the threat they pose to themselves and others when they have access to weapons and are unaware of what they're doing while asleep. There are at least twenty documented cases where defense against a murder charge was "I was sleepwalking and therefore, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I was not myself at the time I killed him and so deserve acquittal." The argument has proved successful more than once.

  If you're musically inclined, you may know Alexandra's favorite piece of music, Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14, as the "Moonlight Sonata." It wasn't given that name until after Alexandra's story, though. Beethoven wrote the sonata in 1801 and dedicated it to the seventeen-year-old Countess Giulietta Guicciardi, with whom he was said to be in love. In 1832, several years after Beethoven's death, the poet Ludwig Rellstab compared the music to moonlight shining on Lake Lucerne. Since then, it's been known as the "Moonlight Sonata."

  Tristan's hydraulic ram pump was invented by a Frenchman, Joseph-Michel Montgolfier, in 1796. In 1821, Ackermann's Repository, a very popular magazine, published an article with instructions on how to build a ram pump, calling it "A simple Hydraulic Engine, which will raise Water to a very considerable elevation, without manual force or assistance." The article included engravings very similar to the drawings Tristan sketched in this book, which you can see on our website at LaurenandDevonRoyal.com. Ram pumps are still built and used today.

  Unfortunately, Tristan was too optimistic when he predicted that slavery would soon end in Jamaica. Slavery wasn't abolished until nineteen years after this story, in August 1834, and, as he feared, the transition from a slave economy to one based on wage labor proved difficult.

  Although gas lighting is often thought of as a Victorian invention, it actually came into use during Regency times. It was developed by a Scot named William Murdock. The story is told that, as a child, Murdock heated coal in his mother's kettle and lit the gas that came out of the spout. In 1794, he heated coal in a closed iron vessel in his garden and piped the resulting gas into the house. That was the first practical system of gas lighting to be used anywhere in the world. In 1805, gas lighting gained public awareness when the Prince of Wales (later the Prince Regent) had it installed in Carlton House, his London home. Two years later, gas lamps were installed in Pall Mall, the first street to be lit by gas. The UK's first gasworks was built in 1812 to light the City of Westminster, and 288 miles of pipes had been laid in London by 1819, supplying more than 51,000 gaslights.

  Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can visit. Cainewood Castle is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It's been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their families, the Fitzalan Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors Sundays through Fridays from April to October.

  Hawkridge Hall was modeled on Ham House, a National Trust property located just outside of London. Known as the most well-preserved Stuart home in England, Ham House was built in 1610 and remodeled in the 1670s. The building has survived virtually unchanged since then, and it still retains most of the furniture from that period. The house and gardens are open Saturdays through Wednesdays from April to October.

  To see pictures and learn more about the real places in Alexandra, please visit our website at LaurenandDevonRoyal.com, where you can also enter a contest and find modern versions of all the recipes in this book. Alexandra particularly seemed to like puffs, didn't she? She made three different flavors!

  For a chance to revisit Alexandra and Tristan, look for the second book in this series, Juliana. And are you wondering if Griffin and Rachael might get together? Their story is included in the third book of this series, Corinna—it’s a double romance!

  I hope you enjoyed Alexandra—thank you for reading!

  Till next time,

  About Lauren & Devon

  LAUREN ROYAL decided to become a writer in the third grade, after winning a “Why My Mother is the Greatest” essay contest. Now she’s a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of humorous historical romance novels. Lauren lives in Southern California with her family and their constantly shedding cat. She still thinks her mother is the greatest.

  DEVON ROYAL is the daughter of romance novelist Lauren Royal. After attending film school, she wrote an award-winning TV comedy pilot and spent several years working in digital video production before turning her focus to fiction writing. Devon lives in Southern California with her fiancé. She also thinks her mother is the greatest.

  For more information:

  Visit www.LaurenandDevonRoyal.com

  Join the Chase Family Readers Group on Facebook

  Follow Lauren on Facebook

  Follow Devon on Facebook

  Follow Lauren @ Twitter

  More Sweet Rakes

  Regency Chase Brides Series

  Alexandra

  Juliana

  Corinna

  The Chase Brides Series

  The Earl’s London Bride

  The Marquess’s Scottish Bride

  The Laird’s English Bride

  The Duke’s Reluctant Bride

  Renaissance Chase Brides Series

  Alice Betrothed

  The Earl’s Bargain

  by Cheryl Bolen

  Sweet

  Prologue

  London, 1818

  An austere butler with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks let Godwin Phillips into Tremaine House and silently led him through a darkened hallway to the morning room. This chamber was only dimly lit through a gap in the faded velvet draping a tall window which gave on to Queen Street. Never would Godwin understand the ways of the nobility. Lord Tremaine had money to burn, yet he kept his town house completely shut up most of the year and on the rare occasions when he was in residence was too miserly to light fires. Godwin was most appreciative the butler had not asked to take his coat for he was rather glad to keep it on in the dank, musty house.

  Lord Tremaine did not trouble himself to stand when Phillips entered the room, nor did Godwin expect such courtesy. He was, after all, merely a hireling of sorts to the eccentric peer.

  From behind the French writing desk, Tremaine appraised his caller a moment before addressing him. "I see you continue to prosper. Weston?"

  Godwin nodded. Only the best tailor would do. He had developed exceptional taste since he had begun his association with Lord Tremaine, who had honed the occupational skills for which Godwin already showed an aptitude. And now, at age fifty, Godwin was finally on the cusp of living the life he had always sought.

  "Well, well," Tremaine said, leaning his own frail body back in his once-luxurious tufted velvet chair, not removing his gaze from Godwin. "I understand you have been admitted to Waiters?"

  "Why, yes," Godwin said, peering suspiciously at Tremaine from beneath lowered brows.

  "Did it not strike you as being exceedingly simple to be accorded membership?"

  His eyes widened. "You used your influence?"

  "Surely you did not hope to gain membership into one of London’s most exclusive club
s on your own questionable merit?" Tremaine smiled. Not a smile of mirth, but a smug, conspiratorial grin. "As it happens, membership in that establishment is also enjoyed by your next . . .how shall I say it? Lamb?"

  "Indeed?"

  The gray-haired baron nodded as he watched Godwin. "The Earl of Wycliff."

  "I see." Godwin's mouth was a taut line.

  "Already I have adjusted his stocks. Lord Wycliff has lost Cartmore Hall in Sussex.” Tremaine’s mouth tweaked into a sinister smile as he spoke of destroying another man.

  What had Wycliff done to ignite Tremaine’s hatred? Godwin would take care to never earn Tremaine’s wrath. “Anything else, your lordship?” He was particularly anxious to know what would be his reward for causing a man’s ruin.

  “If you are successful, we will gain Wycliff House in Grosvenor Square. How would you and the young lady you're about to wed enjoy living in one of the finest houses in London?"

  How had he learned about Louisa? "I should like it very much, my lord."

  "Then you know what to do." Tremaine put his elbows on the dusty desk, a smile curving his lips. "Shall it be pasteboards or dice?"

  "I think the pasteboards."

  Chapter 1

  London, 1826

  The scalloped rows of brilliant diamonds and emeralds laced through the long, manly fingers of Harold Blassingame, the seventh Earl of Wycliff. A lump balled in his throat as he remembered how the necklace had looked on his mother, whose beauty stilled eight years previously. Oddly, recovering the Wycliff Jewels did not bring the triumph he had expected. Even the recovery of Cartmore Hall from nearly a decade in a usurper's possession had left Harry wanting. Vindication of the Wycliffs would not be complete until he regained Wycliff House in Grosvenor Square.