Rake Most Likely To Thrill

Outrageous hell-raisers let loose in Europe!

When London’s most notorious rakes embark on a Grand Tour they set female hearts aflutter all across Europe!

The exploits of these British rogues might be the stuff of legend, but on this adventure of a lifetime will they finally meet the women strong enough to tame their wicked ways?

Read Haviland North’s story in

Rake Most Likely to Rebel Already available

And read Archer Crawford’s story in

Rake Most Likely to Thrill August 2015

And watch out for

Rake Most Likely to Seduce and Rake Most Likely to Sin Coming 2016!

AUTHOR NOTE

I hope you enjoy this second story in the Rakes on Tour mini-series. This is your chance to catch up with Archer Crawford in Siena as he embarks on his quest to ride in the famed Palio. I’ve tried to incorporate details about the race and to be as true to fact as possible. If you want to read more about the great race try La Terra In Piazza—the text I consulted.

What is true about the race the way it is depicted in Archer’s tale:

1. The Pantera neighbourhood did win the June Palio that year, with Jacopo’s Morello.

2. The Torre neighbourhood did turn around and win the August Palio that same year with the same horse. (It is fairly remarkable to have the same horse win both races in the same year.)

3. The neighbourhoods (contradas) did have rival neighbourhoods. Torre was despised by Oca and Onda. Pantera was a neutral neighbourhood with no set rivals. The neighbourhood rivalry was strong and intense and I’ve tried to be true to that intensity in the storyline.

What is not true (obviously) is that Torre’s jockey is hurt before the race and Archer needs to ride in his place. You can look up lists of jockeys and see who really rode in the August race.

I hope you have a good time with Archer, and learning a little bit about a beautiful Tuscan city.

Join me online at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com or at bronwynnscott.com

Rake Most Likely

to Thrill

Bronwyn Scott

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

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For Judi and Don and Nina and El Dorado Farms.

Thanks for helping Catie find Sharper Eagle.

There is no finer love than a girl and her horse.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The Antwerp Hotel, Dover—March 1835

There was going to be blood. It had become a forgone conclusion the moment the teamster brought the whip down across the hindquarters of the Cleveland Bay straining in the traces of the overloaded dray. How much blood, and whose, remained to be seen.

Archer Crawford had not stepped outside in the predawn darkness looking for trouble. Indeed, he’d been trying to avoid it. Inside, his travelling companion and long-time friend Nolan Gray’s card game was starting to take a turn for the worse. But it seemed trouble had found him anyway. He could not stand idly by and watch any horse abused. From the looks of this horse’s ragged coat, this wasn’t the first time. But it might be the last if Archer didn’t intervene. The teamster’s whip fell again, the beefy driver determined the horse pull the load or die trying. The latter was highly likely and the horse knew it. The Cleveland Bay showed no fear. He merely stood with resignation. Waiting. Knowing. Deciding: death now, or death pulling a weight more appropriate for two.

The whip rose a third time, and Archer stepped out from the hotel’s overhang. In a lightning move, Archer’s gloved hand intercepted the thong of the whip and he wrapped it about his wrist, reeling in the teamster on his high seat like fish from the river. ‘Perhaps you might try a sting or two of this lash yourself before delivering it to your animal.’ Archer gave the whip a strong tug. Each pull threatened to unseat the teamster. The man leaned back in his seat, trying for leverage.

‘Let go of the whip or come off the seat!’ Archer commanded sternly, his eyes locking with the other man’s as he gave another compelling tug.

‘This is none of your business,’ the teamster growled. ‘That horse has to earn his keep and I do too.’ But he released his end of the whip—forcefully, of course, probably with the hopes the force of his release would send Archer sprawling in the mud. But Archer was braced. The abrupt release did nothing more than seal his opinion of the man: bully, brute.

Archer wound the whip into a coil around his arm. ‘Not with loads that are best drawn by a team of horses.’ Archer jerked his head towards the horse. ‘That horse won’t finish the day, then where will you be?’

The man seemed to recognise the logic but his mouth pursed into a grim line. ‘There’s nothin’ to be done about it, if you’ll be givin’ me my whip back, guv’nor, I’ll be on my way.’ The hint of a threat glimmered in the man’s eye and he began to make his way down off the seat. That was the last thing Archer wanted.

He had a boat to catch within the hour. There was no time for fisticuffs. Archer was fast and light on his feet, thanks to hours of practice at Jackson’s salon, but that didn’t change the fact that the teamster outweighed him by two stone. Leaving on his Grand Tour sporting a split lip and black eye didn’t exactly appeal.

The horse whinnied and stamped in the traces, his head rolling towards Archer as if in warning. The big man stopped a few feet from Archer and held out his hand. ‘The whip.’

Archer grinned. ‘I’ll trade you for it. Give me the horse.’

The man spat on the ground. ‘A whip for a horse?’ His tone was derisive. ‘That seems a bit unequal to me.’

‘And for whatever is in my pocket.’ Archer patted the pocket of his great coat.

‘Maybe your pocket is empty.’ The teamster’s eyes narrowed. ‘Show me.’

Archer nodded, careful to keep his body between the teamster and the horse. He could feel the horse’s nose nudging his shoulder blade, perhaps in encouragement. Archer held up a gold money clip to the street lamp, letting it catch the light. He turned it, showing off the collection of pound notes folded together. ‘It’s fair. You can buy two horses for what’s in this clip.’ He was not going to doom another horse to the same fate simply by freeing this one.

Archer tried to assess the man’s reaction. Money was usually the fastest way to settle a dispute, even if it wasn’t the most moral. He waved the clip again in the beam of light. Behind him, he could hear the clatter of an oncoming coach, probably the one that was to take him and Nolan to the docks. He was running out of the time. ‘The whip and the clip for the horse,’ Archer pressed. What was there to think over? The man was letting pride get in his way.

‘All right,’ the man said gruffly, taking the money clip out of Archer’s hand in a rough swipe. He jerked his head towards the horse. ‘He’s yours now, you unharness him.’

Archer had the horse free in short measure. There was triumph in knowing he’d rescued the animal from a certain fate, but what was he to do now? The coach he’d heard was indeed theirs and the driver was waiting. He had ten minutes to see the horse settled. He led the horse by a rope bridle towards the hotel’s stable, sneaking a peek through the hotel’s long street-front windows at Nolan. The situation inside didn’t look good. Nolan and the other card players were standing. One of them was gesturing wildly at the cards and money on the table. Ten minutes might be a generous estimate.

Inside the stable, Archer roused the ostler, issuing rapid-fire instructions. ‘This horse needs to be boarded.’ He plunked down some coins on a small crude wood table. ‘This will keep him until you can deliver him.’ Money helped the ostler rub the sleep from his eyes. It was more than what was necessary. ‘When the horse has been rested, have a boy deliver him to this address.’ Archer pulled a card from a coat pocket. ‘The man there will pay well. Here’s additional money for the journey.’ His nearest friend was a day’s ride from Dover, but it was the best he could do under the hasty circumstances. Archer hoped the promise of more money would be enough to ensure the ostler didn’t sell the horse instead of deliver it.

The sounds of commotion drifted in from the front of the hotel. That would be Nolan. Archer ran a friendly hand across the horse’s ragged coat. The animal had been beautiful once, strong once; with luck he would be again. He dug in his pocket for more coin. Money was all he had to keep the horse safe. Archer pressed a third round of coins into the ostler’s hand. ‘This is for you, as my personal thanks for your efforts, one horseman to another.’ Perhaps an appeal to the man’s ethics would be enough. There was no time for more. The commotion was demanding his attention now. Archer gave the ostler a nod and strode into the courtyard, aware that the horse’s eyes followed him out.

In the darkness, he almost collided with Nolan who was moving at a near run. ‘Archer, old chap! Where did you get to? We’ve got to go!’ Nolan seized his arm without stopping and dragged him towards the waiting coach, his words coming fast. ‘Don’t look now, but that angry man behind us thinks I cheated. He has a gun, and my good knife. It’s in his shoulder, but I think he shoots with both—hands, that is. It wouldn’t make sense the other way.’ Nolan pulled open the coach door and they tumbled in, the coach lurching to a start before the door was even shut.

‘Ah! A clean getaway.’ Nolan sank back against the seat, a satisfied grin on his face.

‘It doesn’t always have to be a “getaway”. Sometimes we can exit a building like normal people.’ Archer straightened the cuffs of his coat and gave Nolan a scolding look.

‘It was fairly normal,’ Nolan protested.

‘You left a knife embedded in a man’s shoulder, not exactly the most discreet of departures.’ If Nolan had been discreet, he would have stopped playing two hours ago. The other players could have respectably quit the table, their pride and at least some money intact. But then he never would have had a chance to save that horse. ‘You got away in the nick of time.’

Nolan merely grinned, unfazed by the scolding. ‘Speaking of time, do you think Haviland is at the docks yet?’ They were scheduled to meet two friends at the boat this morning to begin their Grand Tour. ‘I’ll wager you five pounds Haviland is there.’

Archer laughed. ‘At this hour? He’s not there. Everything was loaded last night. There’s no reason for him to be early. Besides, he has to drag Brennan’s sorry self out of bed. That will slow him down.’ He and Haviland had known each other since Eton. Haviland was notoriously prompt, but he wouldn’t be early and Brennan was always late.

‘Easiest five pounds I’ll ever make,’ Nolan said something more, but Archer had leaned back and closed his eyes, blocking it out. He wanted a moment’s peace. Between angry teamsters, rescued horses and irate gamblers, the late hour was starting to take its toll. Sometimes, Nolan wore a person out. Provoking a fight on the brink of departure wasn’t exactly Archer’s idea of bon voyage.

Still, whether he agreed with Nolan’s choices or not, it was his job to have Nolan’s back just as it was Haviland’s job to have Brennan’s. He and Haviland had divided up the duties of friendship years ago at school when it had become apparent Nolan and Brennan weren’t entirely capable of exercising discretion on their own.

Back then, what couldn’t be tamed had to be protected. These days, Nolan did a pretty fair job of protecting himself. He didn’t need defending as much as he needed what one might call support. That was the gentlemanly way to put it. Needing a duelling second would be another.

It was times like this morning when Archer appreciated horses. He understood them, preferred them even. It was horses, in addition to his long-standing friendship with the others, that had provided the final, but not the only piece of motivation to leave Newmarket. Perhaps there were new breeds waiting for him in Europe, breeds he could send back to the family stud.

His father had charged him with purchasing any exciting prospects he could find and had given him carte blanche to do it. But Archer knew what that charge really was. It was his father’s way of apologising. His father was very good at apologising with money. It was easy to do if one had a lot of it and his father, the Earl, had bags of it, rooms of it even. He’d never understood his family wanted more from him than his money or what it could buy. Not even at the last had he understood that and Archer had had enough of his father’s aloof, uncaring reserve, enough of the coldness. He was off to seek warmer climates, warmer families: his mother’s people in Siena.

Archer had never been so glad to be a second son. His brother was the heir. He, as the eldest, was confined to the estates, whereas Archer had been given the stables, the racing string and that had been the avenue of a convenient escape when Haviland had delicately proposed the tour last autumn. He could be in Siena for the Palio, the town’s grand tradition in the heat of August. He could be with his mother’s family, horse breeders like himself. Perhaps that was what drew him most of all, these people he’d never met, only heard about in letters over his childhood; his uncle Giacomo, the breeder whose famed horses had won that race more than any other, a chance to be part of something great, a chance to keep the vow he had made to a dying mother. Her dreams and his promises were all he had left of her now.

There was the rustle of Nolan shifting, his body leaning forward to look out the window. ‘I don’t think he followed us, not with a knife in his shoulder,’ Archer muttered, eyes closed. He heard Nolan’s body relax once more against the squabs. Not quite relaxed, he amended. He could feel Nolan staring at him, those grey eyes boring into his head in a very one-sided staring contest. He would not open his eyes, he would not, would not, would not... Archer’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t stand it. ‘What?’

Nolan crossed his arms over his chest, a wide smile taking his face. ‘Archer, why is there a horse following us?’

‘A horse?’ It was Archer’s turn to look out the window. He stared, he squinted, he looked at Nolan and then back out the window. It couldn’t be. But it was. The Cleveland Bay he’d rescued was cantering down the road behind them. Right beside them, as if he knew Archer was inside the coach.

‘I sort of rescued him this morning while you were playing cards,’ Archer explained. What was he going to do with a horse at the docks? He couldn’t take the beast to France with him. It would hardly be fair to make the poor horse endure a Channel crossing or to make him walk from Calais to Paris. He needed good food and rest. That didn’t mean the horse’s efforts hadn’t tugged at his heartstrings. Nolan might laugh at the notion horses could and did communicate with their owners, but Archer had seen too many examples to the contrary. A horse’s loyalty was not to be taken lightly. Horses would give their lives for the people they loved.

Their coach turned in to the docks, the horse slowing obediently to a trot to match the pace. Archer jumped down the moment the coach stopped. The horse still wore the rope bridle, but thankfully no lead line dangled dangerously at his hooves. Archer held out his hand and approached slowly. ‘Easy, boy.’ The horse blew out a loud snuffle, flecks of foam at his mouth. The running had started to wind him. A horse like him should be able to run for miles, but poor nutrition and hard labour had taken their toll on his natural endurance. They had not, however, taken their toll on the horse’s sense of a good man. The horse stood patiently, letting Archer put a hand on his long nose and another on his neck.

Archer stroked the sweaty coat and spoke in soft, reassuring tones. ‘I’ve got a good home for you. The ostler at the hotel is going to take you there after you have had a rest. There are green pastures. You can run all day and eat orchard grass.’

‘He doesn’t understand you, Arch.’ Nolan chuckled, coming to stand on the horse’s other side. ‘He sure is a game fellow, though, to chase after you. Smart too. You’ve got to respect that.’

And wonder at it. Archer leaned his head against the horse’s neck. People only left when there was no reason to stay. He knew that perhaps better than anyone. His mother had kept him bound to England when he would have left perhaps years ago. Now she was gone and so were his reasons. Were horses any different?

Archer walked the horse to the back of the hired coach and tied him on behind. He gave instructions to the driver and a few coins to deliver the animal back to the mews at the Antwerp Hotel. The ostler would be expecting him. He gave the horse a final pat. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Everything will be fine.’

‘Except that you will be five pounds poorer.’ Nolan gestured with a laugh towards a tall, dark figure standing alone on the pier. ‘Haviland’s already here. I told you he would be, and look, he’s got his fencing cases with him. He couldn’t be parted from them for even a night.’

Archer gave an exaggerated grimace and handed over the money, more concerned about the fact that Haviland was alone. ‘Where’s Brennan?’ Nolan called out as they joined Haviland.

‘Did you expect him to be here, scholar of human nature that you are?’ Haviland teased and then his tone tensed. Archer could hear the worry. ‘I had hoped he was with you.’ Haviland motioned to the boat. ‘We have to board. The captain is ready to leave. There’s no more time. I was worried I’d be sailing alone.’

‘Well,’ Nolan said cheekily, ‘we were rescuing horses.’

‘And throwing knives at people’s shoulders. Don’t forget the knives part,’ Archer added crossly. He was tired, concerned about the horse and Brennan. It seemed an ominous note to leave on. Perhaps it was an omen that he should stay behind? He could take a few days and deliver the horse himself to Jamie Burke over in Folkestone. He could find Brennan. They could catch a boat together. It was a sensible solution. He should offer...

No, he told himself firmly. He wasn’t going to give in to the excuses no matter how practical they seemed. He’d put this off long enough, put others’ needs ahead of his own long enough. He was getting on that boat. Perhaps he prevaricated out of cold feet at the last. If he took this step, there would be no turning back. His step would be larger than the others. He was going to find a new life, a new family.

The trio boarded the boat reluctantly and took up positions at the rail, their eyes glued to the wharf, each of them lost in their own worries about Brennan. The glances they exchanged with each other all communicated the same thought: What could have happened? Brennan had been with them last night at dinner. It wasn’t, Archer knew, a matter of where Brennan was, but a matter of whether or not he was safe. Nolan tried to keep everyone’s spirits up by wagering on Brennan’s arrival, but to no avail. By the time the anchor’s chains began to roll up, there was no sign of their fourth companion.

Archer bowed his head to the inevitable. Brennan wasn’t coming. It wouldn’t be the same the trip without him. It might be a whole lot safer, but it would lose something all the same. Wherever Brennan went, there was life and fire, he made everything exciting.

A blur of movement on the wharf caught his attention. Archer lifted his head. Beside him, Haviland saw it too. It was Bren! Haviland began shouting and waving madly. Brennan was running full tilt without his coats, white shirttails flapping like sails in the growing light. Haviland sprinted the length of the boat, yelling instructions: ‘jump,’ and ‘don’t jump here, it’s too wide, jump at the back of the boat where it hasn’t left the dock yet’. The back of the boat was flat for loading and there was a section that sported no railing. It would be Brennan’s best chance.

That was when Archer realised Brennan wasn’t alone. In his excitement, he hadn’t noticed the two men racing behind, one of them armed. There was something more too. Behind the men was a horse, thundering past them, jumping knocked barrels, headed straight for Brennan and the drink. That wasn’t just any horse. That was his horse. Archer exchanged a look with Nolan and they dashed off after Haviland.

The stern of the ship was chaos. Haviland was yelling, Brennan was running, the horse had pulled up alongside him, matching his pace to Brennan’s, but the two men in pursuit were gaining. As long as they kept chasing him, they couldn’t get a worthy shot off. It was when they stopped that worried Archer and that would be soon. There wasn’t anywhere else to run. The ship had nudged away from the dock, leaving a gap of cold dark water between itself and the pier. Archer gauged the distance. Even with Brennan’s speed, it would be close. Not close enough. Bren would need some help.

‘Get on the horse, Bren!’ Archer shouted into the wind, gesturing wildly towards the animal. It would be beyond dangerous. What if the horse refused to jump? What if they both missed the boat deck? Like him, Brennan had been born to the saddle. If anyone could do this, it would be Bren. There was no other choice unless Bren wanted to face pistols. Haviland and Nolan joined him in the wild charades. They held their breaths as Brennan Carr grabbed mane and swung himself up on the running steed. He put his feet to the horse’s sides.

They leapt.

They landed.