The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Chapter Two

  Not that this author finds rakes to be horribly dangerous. Take the besotted Earl of Renwick, for example. Though this author is old enough to remember him in his wilder days, it seems marriage has been kind to that devilishly handsome man. A word of wisdom, dear debutantes, rakes make the best husbands, all rakes except the Earl of Rawlings.

  —Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers

  Phillip let loose a long and loud string of curses as he burst through the front doors of his townhome.

  “I say, are you foxed?” James Gregory Harris, Marquess of Whitmore asked.

  Phillip cursed under his breath and began wringing out his jacket on the marble floors before handing it to one of his remaining servants. “Do you mind explaining to me how you are on such good terms with my servants, Whitmore?”

  “Easy. I paid them. Seems money has been a little tight around here, eh?”

  Phillip was in no mood to defend himself or fight with his only remaining friend. What he needed was a blasted drink, but cuts within his household and staff had to be made, which all but snuffed out his habit of brandy and port. “Is there a purpose for your intrusion, Whitmore, or are you merely here to vex me?”

  “Although vexing sounds enticing, I was merely here to tell you the good news. I’m to be married.”

  Phillip was silent. All he could hear was the drip of water hitting the marble floor and his own ragged breathing. Was everyone marrying now? First Nicholas, then Sebastian, and now Whitmore? Apparently something was in the whiskey, which also explained why Phillip hadn’t shared in any of their luck, since he had no spirits of any kind.

  “Married?” he repeated more to himself than to anyone else.

  Whitmore smirked. The undeserving churl had all the luck. “Why, yes. Since my inheritance just last month, it appears I have also acquired a fiancée. Imagine the good fortune, it seems to pile up around me, does it not?”

  “Apparently it does.” Phillip shook his head and motioned for Whitmore to follow him into his sparse study. “You know, not all of us are as fortunate as you, to have a brother die and leave us to inherit the title of marquess.”

  “Deuced good luck, don’t you think?” Whitmore winked. “I hear she’s a beautiful little chit. Pure and untouched. I can’t say I’m displeased in this matter. I have yet to set eyes on her, but I imagine my parents would not have settled for anything less than perfection. Pity I’ll have to let go of Daisy for a while, as well as my newest conquest.”

  “Ah, the mistresses. How does the sweet Daisy fare?” Phillip was glad for the change of subject. Marriage left a bitter taste in his mouth and seemed to be haunting him every waking moment.

  “Beautiful as usual, though she despises the fact I’ll be seeing less of her now that I’m to act the part with my new fiancée. But once the marriage is sealed, I’ll be setting up Daisy in her own house.”

  “Fortunate lady no doubt.” Phillip snorted, and for a moment wondered about the other mistress Whitmore was always so secretive about. Rumor had it he was keeping company with a widowed countess, but Phillip doubted Whitmore actually had it in him to seduce a seasoned woman of the ton. The older ones always had so many rules. And if he knew anything of Whitmore, it was that he despised rules.

  Whitmore appeared perplexed. “You mean Daisy is the lucky one?”

  Phillip looked at his friend. “Both women who have so…happily landed in your clutches.” His sarcasm failed to meet the mark, for Whitmore simply smiled like a besotted fool and took a seat in the study.

  Dressed as a complete dandy, what Whitmore lacked in style, he gained in debauchery. It seemed his only goal in life was to accumulate wealth and bed as many women as possible—a feat he was accomplishing admirably, if the gossip was true. Yet, he was Phillip’s friend, his only friend since the falling out with Tempest and Renwick. They had all been friends at Eton until a tragic accident with the duke’s late parents left them forever separated.

  Renwick and Phillip had both continued down the path of destruction, until Renwick was rescued by a beauty from the country. Tempest, on the other hand, had chosen the path of impeccable reputation, though in the end had to be saved from his own self-righteousness. And through a series of odd events, the three of them had managed to rebuild some of the broken bridges that had been destroyed during their earlier, more careless, years.

  Whitmore smiled, revealing straight white teeth and a cool air of smugness. “I am certain she’ll be besotted with me. Don’t you agree?”

  How to answer. “She will be most definitely pleased.” That is if she can get past the idea of you having three mistresses at once as well as a fancy for brandy morning and night. “More than pleased, I’m sure.” Curse his rotten luck that he had nothing to be thankful for other than a warm meal. Not even the promise of a lady filling his bed, considering he was too low on coin to pay her.

  “So when shall I meet her?” Phillip drawled, trying to move along the conversation, so he could change out of his wet clothes and rid himself of Whitmore, who was making himself comfortable on the divan.

  Whitmore tapped his gold crested cane on the floor before answering. “At the Tempest ball tonight. I say, have you secured an invitation? Your reputation with Tempest has been anything but savory these past few years.”

  Phillip opened his mouth to fire back a snide remark, when his butler Winifred strode in and announced, “The Duke of Tempest, my lord.”

  Tempest swept by Winifred and haughtily examined Whitmore from head to toe before turning toward Phillip. “Rawlings, I have come to formally invite you to our celebration tonight.”

  A muscle twitched in Whitmore’s cheek. It was common knowledge he had had never been one of Tempest’s favorite men, for reasons Phillip knew all too well. “But of course. I, er, was not aware an invitation had been received.”

  Tempest smiled through clenched teeth. “Now you are.”

  “Right.” Phillip couldn’t hide the cynical smile that played across his lips. What was Tempest really doing here? As if answering his question, Tempest stepped closer, lifting his walking cane into his hands and removing his hat. It left Phillip feeling momentarily uncomfortable that his butler hadn’t the proper practice to remember to take the duke’s belongings. Of course, it was partially Phillip’s fault, for it was rare for him to accept visitors, and his stepmother was always turned away.

  “I also had another urgent matter to discuss with you, if now is an amiable time.” Tempest looked at Whitmore again.

  Whitmore might be a dandy, but he wasn’t a complete fool. He rose and bowed. “Your grace, I will take my leave. It has been a pleasure. Rawlings, do change out of those dreadfully wet clothes. You look awful.”

  He exited the room whistling and closed the door behind him.

  “Arrogant fop,” Tempest muttered. “I’ll just have a glass of brandy while I wait for you to change out of your wet clothes. Such a shame, that jacket is ruined.” Tempest examined the coat with sadness as he moved past Phillip to sit in the leather chair by the fireplace.

  “About the brandy…” Phillip started to explain.

  “Oh, forget about the brandy. Just change so we can get this over with. I hate apologies, and I do not mean to make mine longer than necessary.”

  ****

  Phillip did his best to hurry, though it was at least thirty minutes before he returned to his study where the Duke of Tempest waited. Winifred was acting as both butler and valet since Phillip hadn’t the blunt to keep a full staff.

  What the devil did Tempest want anyway? They hadn’t spoken since…well since the wedding. A night Phillip would rather forget but knew was impossible to completely blot from his mind.

  It was the night he had lost Emma, the new Duchess of Tempest, forever. And consequently, the night he found himself. The carriage ride home from Gretna Green had been dreadful. If not for the bottle of port, he might have gone insane. Instead he had drunk himself into oblivion, thinking about all the wa
ys he had ruined his chances of finding a wealthy heiress.

  His childhood friend Emma was out of the question. And in a moment of pure clarity, thanks in part to the alcohol humming through his veins, he realized it would have been a terrible idea. Emma was not the same girl, and he was not the same man he had been so many years ago. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to be the same. He just wasn’t. Sometimes he felt as if he was walking around pretending to be something he was not. Oh, it was his skin, his face, his features, but the man inside had changed so much. Much more than he let on. He would have been the end of Emma’s spirit.

  She was much better off with a man like Tempest. Although their engagement had been nothing but a farce, it turned into something much more as they spent time together. It wasn’t long before Tempest was absolutely besotted with the girl. Not that Phillip could blame him. Emma was beautiful. She’d always been beautiful. With reddish brown hair and mischievous eyes—a man could do much worse. He could still remember the look on her face when he had torn up the marriage contract. What a cad he was. All because he had wanted to see what the world had to offer. Unfortunately for him, the only discoveries he made were whiskey and loose women—all of which left him even emptier than before. As his mind continued to dredge up pictures of his past transgressions, the curricle pulled to a stop.

  His London townhome was located in Mayfair and was sucking the life out of his already empty coffers. That had been the unfortunate day the mysterious Mrs. Peabody had happened by and noticed the creditor at his door. The rumors had been running rampant ever since. Unfortunately, nobody knew the identity of the secretive Mrs. Peabody, so he couldn’t snuff out the gossip once it began circulating in the Society Papers.

  His luck had been taking a considerable downward spiral. So, it wasn’t at all shocking to see Tempest in his drawing room, taking into account the circumstances. It seemed just about right to find one of his oldest friends and sworn enemies in his home. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Tempest pulled out a pistol to finish him off.

  Besides, wouldn’t it be doing everyone a favor?

  Straightening his back, he walked into the inferno and was shocked to see Tempest smiling as if he had some blasted surprise in store. Maybe he did have a pistol after all. Known for being the Angel Duke, Tempest was often seen smiling when he was either very pleased or about to be very pleased, which was often. And by Phillip’s calculations, the only thing that would currently please Tempest would be Phillip’s demise.

  Well, as long as he was quick about it.

  “Ah, so the drowned rat has returned,” Tempest announced.

  Phillip desperately wished he had brandy or port. Squinting his eyes, he scanned Tempest’s body language, endeavouring to figure out exactly what the duke was doing in his home at this hour. “Yes, well, I had a mishap.”

  Tempest tilted his head. “Did your mishap include getting lost for hours outside in the rain, old friend?”

  Phillip tried to think of a lie that would explain why he had been drenched. He was in the beginning stages of a horrible depression.

  Tempest continued. “I have it on good authority that you didn’t even take a horse out with you. Just walked around like a depressed sod, waiting to be struck by lightning.”

  Oh, how accurate that sounded. “Spot on.” Phillip let out a cynical sigh. “Except the lightning missed me, and instead I was hit by a sea nymph. Unfortunately, her lips were not poison—though I wish they had been. As you can see, I’m perfectly healthy. Now do tell me why you’ve been spying on me, and why you’re in my drawing room, Tempest?”

  “Ah, so we get to the bottom of things.” Tempest grinned.

  How Phillip hated jolly sorts stomping on his bad mood and overall negative outlook on life.

  “Indeed.” Phillip took a seat. “If you’ve come to kill me, could you at least make short work of it? I would hate for anyone to miss the great Duke of Tempest.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Tempest grinned. “That insult was hardly felt. It seems you’re off your game today—but no longer, for I have a plan.”

  “Should I be concerned that the word plan flows from your lips the same way gallows would when spoken by an executioner?”

  Tempest took a seat again. “Of course not. Now…for my plan.”

  “Can we use a different word? For my sanity? You understand.”

  “My…idea?” Tempest tried.

  “Better. Yes, your idea.” Phillip leaned forward, feigning interest while he watched Tempest’s right hand for any sudden movements toward his side.

  Tempest stretched his lean legs and folded his arms behind his head. “I’ve come to help you.”

  “Help?” he repeated under his breath. “Is it safe to assume you’ve been reading the papers then, Tempest?”

  “Possibly. But I’m not offering monetary help, knowing you as I think I do. You wouldn’t take it if I threatened your life. Got too much of that stubborn pride.”

  “True,” Phillip muttered. “So how else can you help then? You going to offer me some of your saintly advice? Or did your wife send you over to play nice with the debauched rake of the ton?”

  “Is that how you see yourself then? Hmm…” Tempest grinned. “Debauched Rake of the Ton does have a certain ring to it, don’t you think? Yes, I believe that would look quite nice in ink.”

  “Ink? Tempest, would you stop muttering nonsense and get to the point?”

  “What was Whitmore about?” Tempest ignored Phillip’s question and stood from his seat, slowly approaching the fireplace. “Heard he inherited more than just a title. Such a shame they still haven’t found the remains of his brother’s ship. A proper burial would offer some closure for the family. ‘Twas a tragic loss.” Tempest gazed into the crackling flames, appearing lost in thought.

  “Yes, well…” Phillip suddenly felt uncomfortable at the slight change of conversation. “He did say he inherited his deceased brother’s fiancée. He seems rather pleased with himself, though I believe it has more to do with the title than with inheriting a wife.”

  Tempest smirked. “He’s always pleased with himself. By the way, was I mistaken, or did his jacket have a sort of golden tint to it?”

  “He believes himself to be very fashionable.”

  “To whom?” Tempest muttered, then added, “I am sorry, you know.”

  “Ah, so we get to the reason for you being here.” Finally. Phillip couldn’t take much more small talk, what with the impending doom looming over his head. “What exactly do you have to be sorry for, Tempest?”

  “Sebastian,” he ground out. “And you know exactly what I’m apologizing for.”

  “Do I?”

  “Blast. You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

  Phillip made no apologies for the smug grin on his face. “That is why you’ve come, is it not?”

  Tempest began to pace, his boots making scratching noises against the hard floors of the room. “For everything that happened with Emma. Had I known you had pure, or what you thought were pure intentions, in that silly mind of yours, I wouldn’t have tried to kill you.”

  Phillip let out a bark of laughter. “Well, as far as apologies go, that wasn’t half bad. Not every day a man comes in and apologizes for wishing you dead.”

  “Yes, well, I want to at least try to be civil, considering you’re going to be spending a lot more time with us over the next month.”

  Time? What in the blazes was he talking about? “Time you say?”

  “Heard that did you?”

  “Tempest—”

  “Sebastian,” he corrected.

  “Sebastian…” Phillip could feel his control snapping. “What have you done?”

  “I told her you would be upset, but I just can’t seem to say no when she gets these ideas in her pretty little head—”

  “Sebastian!”

  “Emma has taken it upon herself to sponsor you for the remainder of the season. She’s convinced that marriage will solve all y
our problems, including that of your impending ruination.” Sebastian put his hand up. “Please, I don’t need to know specifics. Just be aware that my wife has it in her head to play matchmaker, and I do not have the heart to object to the duchess’s aspirations.”

  “No. It’s a simple word, Sebastian. Here, let me demonstrate. Simply open your mouth and say, no.”

  “Deuced good job!” Sebastian clapped. “Now, imagine saying that in front of Emma while she threatens to set Lady Fenton on you if you refuse to cooperate.”

  Lady Fenton was known for being a gossip monger and the loudest of all females known to the ton. In all honesty, Phillip had counted himself lucky that he had broken his friendship with her cousin, the Earl of Renwick, if only for the reason that he would not have to endure Lady Fenton or worry about losing his hearing at a young age.

  “I don’t believe I’m the one being threatened, Sebastian. You’ll have to find better ways to deal with your wife. I refuse to accept the invitation, if Emma has only matchmaking on her mind.”

  “So that’s final then?” Sebastian said.

  “Absolutely.”

  ****

  “Blackmail is illegal. I’m surprised a duke would soil his hands with such nasty business,” Phillip muttered.

  His gaze fell on the dizzying ballroom in all its splendor. The white dresses of the twittering debutantes threatened to blind him as he took in the flurry of women and dandified men. It was, in Phillip’s current state, the last place he wanted to be, even though he knew getting married would solve his current problems. The idea that he would be chained to one boring woman for the rest of his life was not appealing, nor was the prospect of having to make his way through the sea of people who would much rather see him hang than associate among their inner circles.

  “It was either that or knock you out and bring you here without your consent. I decided blackmail would be the better course of action.” Sebastian grinned and slapped him on the back. “Now, why don’t you go mingle like a— how did you put it?” Sebastian snapped his fingers. “Oh yes, now I remember. A debauched rake. Yes, do try to have fun with that. You know when Emma finds you, it will be endless introductions and dancing, so I’d enjoy the freedom while you still have it.”