Rake with a Frozen Heart

‘At their age, my father was actively encouraging me to go out riding and ignore my lessons,’ Rafe said drily. ‘My tendency to bury my head in a book sorely disconcerted him.’

‘Goodness, were you a scholar?’

‘Another thing that you consider incompatible with being a rake, Miss Markham?’

He was looking amused again. She couldn’t keep pace with his mood swings, but she couldn’t help responding to his hint of a smile with one of her own. ‘Well, to cut a long story short, which I’m sure you’ll be most relieved to hear I intend to do, I like being a governess and I like the boys, even if their mama is a little—well—high-handed. Not that I really see that much of her, governesses clearly meriting scant attention. Anyway, I’m sure there are worse employers, and the boys do like me, and if—when—the school is opened, I am sure the experience will stand me in good stead. It is due to do so in three months or so, by which time my current charges are destined for boarding school, anyway, so hopefully they won’t miss me too much. Not anything like as much as I shall miss them.’

‘There, we must agree. Small boys, in my experience, are remarkably fickle in their loyalties.’

‘Do you think so?’ Henrietta asked brightly. ‘I think that’s a good thing, for I would not wish them to become too attached to me. What experience have you of such things? Have you brothers?’

‘No.’

His face was closed again, his expression shuttered. ‘I take it, then, that life as Helen Ipswich’s governess has fulfilled your expectations?’

‘Yes, it has served its purpose admirably.’

‘How fortunate for you. Now, if you don’t mind, we will return to the more pressing subject of how you came to be in my ditch, then you may return to these duties you enjoy so much. No doubt your employer will be wondering what has become of you.’

‘That is true. And the boys, too.’ Though the notion of returning to Lady Ipswich’s home was less appealing than it should be. Another of a rake’s skills, no doubt, to beguile you and make you want to spend time in his company. Henrietta sat up straight and tugged at the dressing-gown belt. ‘Well, then, to return to the subject, as you wish. Last night. Well, what happened last night was that I was knocked on the head by a housebreaker.’

‘A housebreaker!’

Gratified by her host’s reaction, which was for once just exactly what she had anticipated, Henrietta nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, indeed. At least,’ she added, incurably truthful, ‘I am almost certain that is what he was, though I didn’t actually see him steal anything. I was looking for Lady Ipswich’s horrible dog, you see.’

‘The dog who deprived you of your dinner?’

‘The very same. I heard a noise coming from the shrubbery, so I went to investigate it, thinking, you know, it might be Princess—that’s the pug’s name—and then I heard glass breaking. I held up the lantern and saw him as clear as day for just a split second, then he leapt at me and hit me on the head. The next thing I remember is waking up here.’

Rafe shook his head slowly. ‘But that’s nonsensical. Even if it was a housebreaker, why on earth would he go to the trouble of taking you with him? It takes time and effort to heft a body on to a horse.’

Henrietta coloured. ‘I am aware that I am not exactly a featherweight.’

‘That is not at all what I meant. It is women who consider stick-thinness the essence of beauty. Men actually prefer quite the opposite. I find your figure most pleasing on the eye.’ Rafe was not in the habit of encouraging young ladies with compliments, for they were likely to be misconstrued, but Henrietta Markham was so different from any young lady he had ever met that he spoke without considering the effect his words would have. ‘It was no hardship to get you on to my horse. I meant merely it would be awkward if the man were slight, or elderly.’

Or one less muscled, Henrietta thought, her gaze lingering on her host’s powerful physique. It hadn’t occurred to her until now to wonder how, exactly, he had retrieved her from the ditch. Had he pulled her by the wrist or the ankle? Held her chest to chest, or maybe thrown her over his shoulders? And when she was on his horse, was she on her front with her bottom sticking up? With her petticoats on show? Her ankles? Worse? Feigning heat from the fire, she frantically fanned her face.

Rafe followed the train of her thoughts with relative ease, mirrored as they were in her expressive face, recognising the exact moment when she tried to imagine how she had been placed on Thor’s saddle. Unfortunately, it turned his mind also to that moment. He had lain her crossways on her stomach with her bottom pointed provocatively up to the sky. Her dress had ridden up a little, exposing her ankles and calves. At the time, he had not been aware of noticing. Yet now, in his mind’s eye, he found he could dwell appreciatively on the inviting curves of her voluptuous body as if he had drunk in every inch of her.

‘Why,’ he said tersely, reining in his imagination, once again disconcerted by having to do so, ‘having gone to all that effort to abduct you, did your housebreaker then change his mind and abandon you in my grounds?’

‘I don’t know,’ Henrietta replied. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, I can see that. Perhaps he had evil designs upon my person and then changed his mind when he got a better look at me,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘If that was the case, then his taste was quite at fault,’ Rafe said impulsively, bestowing upon her his real smile.

It quite transformed his face. Henrietta blushed rosily, but even as she struggled for a response, the smile was gone, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Utterly confused, she folded her arms defensively. ‘You don’t really believe a word I’ve said, do you?’

The dressing gown gaped. Rafe caught a glimpse of creamy flesh spilling from a plain white cotton undergarment. The rake in him would have allowed his glance to linger. He wanted to look, but it was his wanting that made him look resolutely away. Nothing touches you any more. The memory of his friend Lucas’s words made Rafe smile bitterly to himself. True, thank God, if you didn’t count the all-pervading guilt. He had worked very hard to ensure it was so and that was exactly how he intended it to continue. Wanting was no longer part of his emotional make-up. Wanting Henrietta Markham, he told himself sternly, was completely out of the question.

‘You have to admit that it sounds a tall tale,’ he said to her, his voice made more dismissive by the need to offset his thoughts, ‘but my opinion is of little importance. I would have thought the more pressing issue for you is whether or not Lady Ipswich believes you.’ He got to his feet purposefully. Henrietta Markham had been a very beguiling distraction, but the time had come to put an end to this extraordinary interlude and for them both to return to the real world. ‘I will arrange for you to be taken back in my carriage. Your dress should be dry by now.’ He pulled the bell rope to summon the housekeeper.

Henrietta scrabbled to her feet. He was quite plainly bored by the whole matter. And by her. She should not be surprised. She should certainly not feel hurt. She was, after all, just a lowly governess with a preposterous story; he was an earl with an important life and no doubt a string of beautiful women with whom to carry on his dalliances. Women who didn’t wear brown dresses and who most certainly didn’t lie around waiting to be pulled out of ditches. ‘I must thank you again for rescuing me,’ she said in what she hoped was a curt voice, though she suspected it sounded rather huffy. ‘Please forgive me for taking up quite so much of your time.’

‘It was a pleasure, Miss Markham, but a word of warning before you go.’ Rafe tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger. Her eyes were liquid bronze. Really, quite her most beautiful feature. He met her gaze coolly, though he didn’t feel quite as cool as he should. He wasn’t used to having his equilibrium disturbed. ‘Don’t expect to be lauded as a heroine,’ he said softly. ‘Helen Ipswich is neither a very credulous nor a particularly kind person.’ He took her hand, just brushing the back of it with his lips. ‘Good luck, Henrietta Markham, and goodbye. If you return to your room, I’ll send Mrs Peters up with your dress. She will also see you out.’

He could not resist pressing his lips to her hand. She tasted delightful. The scent of her and the feel of her skin on his mouth shot a dart of pleasure to his groin. He dropped her hand abruptly, turned on his heels and left without a backward glance.

Just the faintest touch of his mouth on her skin, but she could feel it there still. Henrietta lifted her hand to her cheek and held it there until the tingling faded. It took a long time before it finally did.

Molly Peters, Rafe’s long-suffering housekeeper, was an apple-shaped woman with rosy cheeks. Her husband, Albert, who alone was permitted to call her his little pippin, was head groom. Molly had started service in the previous earl’s day as a scullery maid, ascending by way of back parlourmaid, chambermaid and front parlourmaid, before eventually serving, briefly and unhappily, as lady’s maid to the last countess. Upon her ladyship’s untimely death, Master Rafe had appointed Molly to the heady heights of housekeeper, with her own set of keys and her own parlour.

Running the household was a task Molly Peters undertook with pride and carried out extremely competently. Indeed, she would have executed it with gusto had she been given the opportunity, but even when the last countess had been alive, Woodfield Manor had seldom been used as a residence. As a result, Mrs Peters had little to do and was frankly a little bored. Henrietta’s unorthodox arrival provided some welcome excitement and consequently induced an unaccustomed garrulousness in the usually reserved housekeeper.

‘I’ve known Master Rafe all his life, since he was a babe,’ she said in answer to Henrietta’s question. ‘A bonny babe he was, too, and so clever.’

‘He has certainly retained his looks,’ Henrietta ventured, struggling into her newly brushed, but none the less indisputably brown dress.

Mrs Peters pursed her lips. ‘Certainly, he has no shortage of admirers,’ she said primly. ‘A man like Lord Pentland, with those looks and the Pentland title behind him, to say nothing of the fact that he’s as rich as Croesus, will always attract the ladies, but the master is—well, miss, the truth is …’ She looked over her shoulder, as if Rafe would suddenly appear in the bedchamber. ‘Truth is, he’s the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, as my Albert puts it, though I say there’s little loving and a darn sight more leaving. I don’t know why I’m telling you this except you seem such a nice young lady and it wouldn’t do to—But then, he’s not a libertine, if you know what I mean.’

Henrietta tried to look knowledgeable, though in truth she wasn’t exactly sure she understood the distinction between rake and libertine. Certainly Mama had never made one. She was attempting to formulate a question that would persuade Mrs Peters to enlighten her without revealing her own ignorance when the housekeeper heaved a huge sigh and clucked her teeth. ‘He wasn’t always like that, mind. I blame that wife of his.’

‘He’s married!’ Henrietta’s jaw dropped with shock. ‘I didn’t know.’ But why should she? Contrary to what his lordship thought, Henrietta was not a great one for gossip. Generally speaking, she closed her ears to it, which is why Rafe St Alban’s accusations had hurt. In fact, she had only become aware of his reputation recently, a chance remark of her employer’s having alerted her. But if he was married, it made his behaviour so much worse. Somewhat irrationally, Henrietta felt a little betrayed, as if he had lied to her, even though it was actually none of her business. ‘I hadn’t heard mention of a wife,’ she said.

‘That’s because she’s dead,’ Mrs Peters replied quietly. ‘Five years ago now.’

‘So he’s a widower!’ He looked even less like one of those. ‘What happened? How did she die? When did they marry? Was he—did they—was it a love match? Was he devastated?’ The questions tripped one after another off her tongue. Only the astonished look on Mrs Peters’s face made her stop. ‘I am just curious,’ Henrietta said lamely.

Mrs Peters eyed her warily. ‘Her name was Lady Julia. I’ve said more than enough already, the master doesn’t like her to be talked about. But if you’re ready to go, I can show you a likeness of her on the way out, if you want.’

The portrait hung in the main vestibule. The subject was depicted gazing meditatively into the distance, her willowy figure seated gracefully on a rustic swing bedecked with roses. ‘Painted the year she died, that was,’ Mrs Peters said.

‘She is—was—very beautiful,’ Henrietta said wistfully.

‘Oh, she was lovely, no doubt about that,’ Mrs Peters said, ‘though handsome is as handsome does.’

‘What do you mean?’

Mrs Peters looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’

‘How long were they married?’

‘Six years. Master Rafe was only a boy, not even twenty, when they were wed. She was a few years older than him. It makes a difference at that age,’ Mrs Peters said.

‘How so?’

Mrs Peters shook her head. ‘Don’t matter now. As Albert says, what’s done is done. The carriage will be waiting for you, miss.’

Henrietta took a final look at the perfect features of the elegant woman depicted in the portrait. There could be no denying the Countess of Pentland’s beauty, but there was a calculating hardness in the eyes she could not like, a glittering perfection to her appearance that made Henrietta think of polished granite. For some ridiculous reason, she did not like to imagine Rafe St Alban in love with this woman.

Taking leave of the housekeeper, she made her way down the front steps to the waiting coach, unable to stop herself looking back just in case the earl had changed his mind and deigned to say farewell to her himself. But there was no sign of him.

A large fountain dominated the courtyard, consisting of four dolphins supporting a statue of Neptune. Modelled on Bernini’s Triton fountain in Rome, Henrietta’s inner governess noted. Beyond the fountain, reached by a broad sweep of steps, pristine flower beds and immaculate lawns stretched into the distance. Like the house she had just left, the grounds spoke eloquently of elegance, taste and wealth.

The contrast with her own childhood home could not be more stark. The ramshackle house in which she had been raised was damp, draughty and neglected. A lack of funds, and other, more pressing priorities saw to that. Any spare money her parents had went to good causes. An unaccustomed gust of homesickness assailed Henrietta. Hopelessly inept her parents might be, but they always meant well. They always put others first, even if the others weren’t at all grateful. Even if it meant their only child coming last. Still, she never doubted that they loved her. She missed them.

But she had never been one to repine her lot. Henrietta straightened her shoulders and climbed into the waiting coach with its crest emblazoned on the door, already preparing herself for the forthcoming, almost certainly difficult, interview with her employer.

Rafe watched her departure from his bedroom window. Poor Henrietta Markham, it was unlikely in the extreme that Helen Ipswich would thank her for attempting to intervene—if that is what she really had done. He felt oddly uncomfortable at having allowed her to return on her own like a lamb to the slaughter. But he was not a shepherd and rescuing innocent creatures from Helen Ipswich’s clutches was not his responsibility.

As the carriage pulled off down the driveway, Rafe left the window, stripped off his boots and coat, and donned his dressing gown. Sitting by the fireside, a glass of brandy in hand, he caught Henrietta’s elusive scent still clinging to the silk. A long chestnut hair lay on the sleeve.

She had been a pleasant distraction. Unexpectedly desirable, too. That mouth. Those delectable curves.

But she was gone now. And later today, so too would he be. Back to London. Rafe took a sip of brandy. Two weeks ago he had turned thirty. Just over twelve years now since he had inherited the title, and almost five years to the day since he had become a widower. More than enough time to take up the reins of his life again, his grandmother, the Dowager Countess, chided him on a tediously regular basis. In a sense she was right, but in another she had no idea how impossible was her demand. The emotional scars he bore ran too deep for that. He had no desire at all to risk inflicting any further damage to his already battered psyche.

He took another, necessary, sip of brandy. The time had come. His grandmother would have to be made to relinquish once and for all any notion of a direct heir, though how he was going to convince her without revealing the unpalatable truth behind his reluctance, the terrible guilty secret that would haunt him to the grave, was quite another matter.

By the time the coach drew up at her employer’s front door, Henrietta’s natural optimism had reasserted itself. Whatever Rafe St Alban thought, she had tried to prevent a theft; even if she hadn’t actually succeeded, she could describe the housebreaker and that was surely something of an achievement. Entering the household, she was greeted by an air of suppressed excitement. The normally hangdog footman goggled at her. ‘Where have you been?’ he whispered. ‘They’ve been saying—’

‘My lady wishes to see you immediately,’ the butler interrupted.

‘Tell her I’ll be with her as soon as I’ve changed my clothes, if you please.’

‘Immediately,’ the butler repeated firmly.

Henrietta ascended the stairs, her heart fluttering nervously. Rafe St Alban had a point—her story did seem extremely unlikely. Reminding herself of one of Papa’s maxims, that she had nothing to fear in telling the truth, she straightened her back and held her head up proudly, but as she tapped on the door she was horribly aware of the difference between speaking the truth and actually being able to prove it.

Lady Helen Ipswich, who admitted to twenty-nine of her forty years, was in her boudoir. She had been extremely beautiful in her heyday and took immense pains to preserve the fragile illusion of youthful loveliness. In the flattering glow of candlelight, she almost succeeded. Born plain Nell Brown, she had progressed through various incarnations, from actress, to high flyer, to wife and mother—in point of fact, her first taste of motherhood had preceded her marriage by some fifteen years. This interesting piece of information was known only to herself, the child’s adoptive parents and the very expensive accoucheur who attended the birth of her official ‘first-born’, Lord Ipswich’s heir.

After seven years of marriage, Lady Ipswich had settled contentedly into early widowhood. Her past would always bar her from the more hallowed precincts of the haut ton. She had wisely never attempted to obtain vouchers for Almack’s. Her neighbour, the Earl of Pentland, would never extend her more than the commonest of courtesies and the curtest of bows. But as the relic of a peer of the realm, and with two legitimate children to boot, she had assumed a cloak of respectability effective enough to fool most unacquainted with her past—her governess included.

As to the persistent rumours that she had, having drained his purse, drained the life-blood from her husband, well, they were just that—rumours. The ageing Lord Ipswich had succumbed to an apoplexy. That it had occurred in the midst of a particularly energetic session in the marital bedchamber simply proved that Lady Ipswich had taken her hymeneal duties seriously. Her devotion to the wifely cause had, quite literally, taken his lordship’s breath away. Murder? Certainly not! Indeed, how could it be when at least five men of her intimate acquaintance had begged her—two on bended knee—to perform the same service for them. To date, she had refused.

The widow was at her toilette when Henrietta entered, seated in front of a mirror in the full glare of the unforgiving morning sun. The dressing table was a litter of glass jars and vials containing such patented aids to beauty as Olympian Dew and Denmark Lotion, a selection of perfumes from Messrs Price and Gosnell, various pots of rouge, eyelash tints and lip salves, a tangle of lace and ribbons, hair brushes, a half-empty vial of laudanum, several tortoiseshell combs, a pair of tweezers and numerous cards of invitation.

As Henrietta entered the room, Lady Ipswich was peering anxiously into her looking glass, having just discovered what looked alarmingly like a new wrinkle on her brow. At her age, and with her penchant for younger men, she could not be too careful. Only the other day, one of her lovers had commented that the unsightly mark left by the ribbon that tied her stockings had not faded by the time she rose to dress. Her skin no longer had the elastic quality of youth. He had paid for his bluntness, but still!

Finally satisfied with her reflection and her coiffure, she turned to face Henrietta. ‘So, you have deigned to return,’ she said coldly. ‘Do you care to explain yourself and your absence?’

‘If you remember, ma’am, I went looking for Princess. I see she found her way back unaided.’

The pug, hearing her name, looked up from her pink-velvet cushion by the fireside and growled. Lady Ipswich hastened to pick the animal up. ‘No thanks to you, Miss Markham.’ She tickled the dog under the chin. ‘You’re a clever little Princess, aren’t you? Yes, you are,’ she said, before fixing Henrietta with a baleful stare. ‘You should know that while you were off failing to find my precious Princess, the house was broken into. My emeralds have been stolen.’

‘The Ipswich emeralds!’ Henrietta knew them well. They were family heirlooms and extremely distinctive. Lady Ipswich was inordinately fond of them and Henrietta had much admired them herself.

‘Gone. The safe was broken into and they were taken.’

‘Good heavens.’ Henrietta clutched the back of a flimsy filigree chair. The man who had abducted her was clearly no common housebreaker, but a most daring and outrageous thief indeed. And she had encountered him. More, could identify him. ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said faintly. ‘He did not look at all like the sort of man who would attempt such a shocking crime. In actual fact, he looked as if he would be more at home picking pockets in the street.’

Now it was Lady Ipswich’s turn to pale. ‘You saw him?’

Henrietta nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed, my lady. That explains why he hit me. If he were to be caught, he would surely hang for his crime.’ As the implications began to dawn on her, Henrietta’s knees gave way. He really had left her for dead. If Rafe St Alban had not found her … Muttering an apology, she sank down on to the chair.

‘What did he look like? Describe him to me,’ Lady Ipswich demanded.

Henrietta furrowed her brow. ‘He was quite short, not much taller than me. He had an eyepatch. And an accent. From the north somewhere. Liverpool, perhaps? Quite distinctive.’

‘You would know him again if you saw him?’

‘Oh, I have no doubt about that. Most certainly.’

Lady Ipswich began to pace the room, clasping and unclasping her hands. ‘I have already spoken to the magistrate,’ she said. ‘He has sent for a Bow Street Runner.’

‘They will wish to interview me. I may even be instrumental in having him brought to justice. Goodness!’ Henrietta put a trembling hand to her forehead in an effort to stop the feeling of light-headedness threatening to engulf her.

With a snort of disdain, Lady Ipswich thrust a silver vial of sal volatile at her, then continued with her pacing, muttering all the while to herself. Henrietta took a cautious sniff of the smelling salts before hastily replacing the stopper. Her head had begun to ache again and she felt sick. It was one thing to play a trivial part in a minor break-in, quite another to have a starring role in sending a man to the gallows. Oh God, she didn’t want to think about that.