Rakehell's Daughters

by Gayle Eden

  THE RAKEHELL SERIES

  RAKEHELL’S DAUGHTERS

  Gayle Eden

  Copyright 2012 Gayle Eden (reissue) 2nd Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

  Published by Air Castle Books at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Rakehell’s Daughter Alexandria

  Rakehell’s Daughter Valerie

  Rakehell’s Daughter Johanna

  A Rakehell’s Heart

  Rakehell’s Daughter

  Alexandria

  Chapter One

  “Good, God, the Marquis of Hawksmoor has claimed another bastard!” someone proclaimed brashly.

  Edmund De Forrest, Earl of Sotherton raised his coffee cup to his lips and sipped. His jasper eyes met those of his friend, Sascha Auttenburg, Viscount Whitford, who had joined him at Whites this morning.

  Whilst talk spread round the club, younger lords were in clusters, reading a dozen papers, or placing wagers that were going on the books. Edmund witnessed Sascha’s gaze moving to a table, near the back, where a gentleman sat facing away from the main room.

  Edmund and his friend were two of the few who knew that Archard Van Wyc had all but become a guard to the Marquis of Hawksmoor’s daughters. Two females thus far, he had claimed and taken into his household.

  It was interesting how Van Wyc became so close to Lord Alexander Ramsey, seeing as how he had appeared in England about the time the first daughter the Marquis had claimed, Lady Valerie, called Val, had been forced to end a two-year marriage to Lord Leland Bellamy, Earl of Buckworth.

  Van Wyc being a distant cousin to Leland had, it was assumed, departed his home in Switzerland to come to his cousin’s aide. The reverse turned out to be true. The Norse giant, most had dubbed “the Viking” for his six foot five height, impressive brawn and gold/white mane, had remained long after Lord Bellamy was forced to take a long holiday after the divorce—and he remained with the Ramsey family.

  “Lady Alexandria,” someone gasped. “Good, lord. Who would have thought it? Why, she looks nothing like the other two. I remember her eyes…such lovely eyes.”

  “They have different mothers.”

  Still another groaned, “Why must they all be beautiful and bastards? Mama would never let me have a bastard to wife.”

  Amid laughter, Edmund had followed Sascha’s gaze and he too witnessed those large hands tightening around the cup. It would serve the silly pups right if Van Wyc did turn those ice blue eyes around and put the fear of God in them. Although, to be honest, half of the talk was done by the spoiled bucks still on apron strings, and half by the bored ,indolent Lords, who did nothing but place silly wagers and spread gossip. Men could be worse than females about that.

  The father of these gels, Lord Ramsey, was no stranger to talk, certainly. He was an established rakehell by the time Edmund had grown to manhood. Though he’d he had sent a clear signal about how protective he could be about his daughters—grown or not—when he discovered the extent of Lord Bellemy’s betrayal to Lady Valerie, according to what was alluded to during the divorce hearings.

  Talk swirled and Edmund drew out his watch, checking the time. He replaced it and turned, half way to regard the entry, was watching with his friend, when a tall, handsome male entered.

  His caped coat taken, the Marquis of Hawksmoor skimmed his lavender gaze over to the gentlemen, most, who had not noticed his entrance, and were still placing wagers in regards to his daughters. The wagers ranged from mildly risqué, to insulting. Though that handsome face was immobile, the way Lord Ramsey stood there, without proceeding, was dangerously telling.

  Dressed in all black, save for a dove cravat, that silken, silver mane, below shoulder length was smooth back and tied in a queue at the nape. Deep-set lavender eyes were half shielded by black lashes, as dark as his mane had once been. That face, the bones, and blade of a nose—lips, that had kissed some of the noted beauties the past twenty years—and seduced them—were features that left no doubt that rake or not, Ramsey’s blood was bluer than some in the room. Tales of his legendary prowess were true. He was a man who reeked self-assurance.

  At the height of his young manhood, there had been duels, and passionate affairs, a fortune dropped at high stake hells, and females young and old, who had lost their heart to him. One thing was said of the man who was now fifty, but more fit and handsome than half those shiftless young lords at the books—he’d never promised a woman more than passion.

  Passion, Ramsey had; for sport, for horses, for more than simply bedding females. He also had been blessed with intellect, and never, ever, gambled recklessly. He had a cool head and a calculating mind. Though he played harder than most, he also worked harder too. Born with the bloodlines, the fortune, and titles, the world open to him, yet the Marquis escaped the fate of many Rakes by possessing those other attributes that intimidated his peers more than his sword arm. He was fierce in politics, and few liked to cross him on any debate. He would call a hypocrite a hypocrite, and have the evidence to back it up.

  His ability to shock and to cause talk, conversely, never ceased. In the last five years as he seemed to be collecting daughters and claiming them, he certainly set society on its ear and kept the news sheets hot, pondering if those three years he spent in isolation at Hawksmoor, before all this “claiming’ had begun, the Marquis had gone a bit daft.

  He had left society and had gone to his estates directly following a sensational break off from his longtime mistress, Constance Zavala. A lush, 30-year-old beauty, who though married to a Spanish duke, enjoyed her freedom and affairs, in England. Men would have killed for a night in Constance bed, and there was not so much as a hint as to why the affair ended. Constance had another lover, a few months afterwards. Ramsey had remained at his estates those three long years, only coming to London on business.

  “Do you think he will…?” Sascha had leaned over and begun.

  Edmund lifted his hand slightly to cut him off and then turned and shook his head. “No. He will not publicly, but I pity any young fool among them who crosses his path this season, particularly, in a card room—or at a gambling hell.”

  Sascha’s white teeth flashed. His eyes flickering over as he murmured, “He is just passing them, and coming to join Van Wyc.”

  Lord Ramsey passing by them must have caught the men’s attention. Suddenly the room grew quiet, so much so that the tread of Lord Alex’s boots seemed to echo in the air.

  Whispers began to replace talk, eventually. Edmund turned casually as the waiter filled his cup, Lord Ramsey having taken the seat facing him. Their eyes met as he was speaking to Van Wyc. The Marquis nodded. Edmund nodded back, and turned again to Sascha, his friend having finger-combed his thick oak hair to a muss and was now lighting a cheroot.

  Sascha had problems enough himself not to wonder too deep about how other men conducted their lives. At his prime at twenty and nine, Sascha had all the outward assets in his favor, good looks, athletic build, but a bloody mess of problems. They had both read the papers at breakfast that morning, and had discussed what they thought about Lord Ram
sey’s latest move, on the way over to the club.

  They had both seen the first one, Lady Valerie, in her black gowns and veiled hats during the divorce hearings. An impressively built woman of twenty and six, whom Lord Leland had wed and kept buried in the country, whilst he conducted his indiscretions and exhausted her fortune. Edmund thought, she did look like Lord Alexander with her lavender eyes, and fine bones. She had lush mink hair, a classic face, and was nearly five foot eight, full of figure. Purely by observance and talk of the hearings, Edmund judged her articulate, poised, if somewhat dazed. She had her father’s pride though. It was rather nasty business, divorce, and Leland had not the sensitivity to conduct any part of his affairs—which included paying off blackmailers and nearly killing a young woman with opium, with any discretion.

  The next daughter, Lady Johanna, called Jo, society knew somewhat. Dubbed a “brazen one” during her debut, she had caused some uproar at a private supper, which was brought up once more in the gossip rags when Lord Ramsey claimed her. Though Edmund did not recall her at all, Sascha certainly stood in shock on the sidewalk the day Lord Alexander brought her back to London.

  The “brazen one” was now a mature young woman with a wild mane of red hair, ivory skin and emerald eyes. It was rumored her mother was a Campbell from Scotland. Among the wilder rumors, it was said, she had been brought up with six strapping male Campbell cousins, who taught her to shoot, ride, curse, and worse. Society, tending to believe it, since the “brazen Lady Jo,” thought no more about putting a sharp tongue dowager in a corner, than she did slapping some man’s face in the ballroom.

  The day Edmund saw her, she had been dressed rather flamboyant, in a wide brim green velvet hat and matching velvet coat, which was open, showing an ivory silk and lace gown under it, cut down to the nipple. Though perfectly fashionable, there was something defiant in the design. Privately it amused him. There were only a hand full of women amid the Ton who dared defy the restrictive and narrow minded biddies who usually had been more daring in their own youth—but thrived on their power and ability to ostracize.

  Sascha clearly had been taken with her. Regarding his friend now, Edmund took that seriously. Sascha had not so much as looked at an “available” woman since an older duchess put her hooks in him five years before. His life was a bloody mess, thanks to it. Even Edmund could not buy back the markers the bitch had been collecting since Sascha was twenty-one. She had the Viscount by the balls and let him play at being free—until she felt like squeezing a bit. Sascha would never get a woman he cared for entangled in a relationship that the duchess promised would end in marriage. He kept holding out, and the duchess of Wesenham, kept adding nails to his coffin. It was truly a bloody mess.

  “She is a beauty.”

  “Who?” Edmund jerked away mentally from his musings.

  “Lady Alex, Alexandria Royer—er, Ramsey now.”

  Edmund arched a black brow. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he lied. God. How he had lied since seeing that name in the papers this morning.

  “Not surprising, you don’t recall her.” His friend grinned and took a sip of coffee before palming the cup, and murmuring, “You were busy at Sotherton Hall and only caught the end of that season—the first year she came up with some cousin—Lucinda, something or other.

  Lady Alex was not having a debut, but the cousin. Lack of funds, I daresay. Seem to recall some rumor that a grandfather raised her. In any case, no matter how tight she pulled her hair back or how plain she dressed, any man with eyes could see she was a beauty. The aunt was obviously forcing her to downplay it whilst employing her as some companion for Lucinda—a silly chit, who did eventually wed Lord Eastman.

  I recall some dust up whilst Lucinda was yet to snag her title. Some chap wrote an ode to Lady Alex’s sherry eyes…” Sascha’s own were smiling as he added, “He called her hair buckskin, but I recall it was caramel with lighter blond around her brow and cheeks. It would creep out of the severe style, wave and curl around her pretty face. Quite fetching.”

  Edmund’s faux dry smile and snort answered that. He had never forgotten those big sherry eyes, but not having anything save a first name, he had been too shaken once the encounter was over, to do anything but try to forget it.

  Sascha went on, “Indeed. She snorted at the ode too. Something of a bluestocking was Lady Alex. Not, the tedious kind. Mind you. Too well educated to fall for the attention she could have gained. To which, I am sure, the aunt was thankful.

  I do not think Lucinda had looks or brains. Not that looks are everything, but she did not seem to wear anything but pink, and large bows in her hair—which reminded me of a poodle.

  In any event, I only spoke to her—Lady Alex—briefly, at some supper. She looked bored to tears. I was delighted to discover neither the chit her aunt described, nor the one the bucks tried to paint her. But a plain spoken and bold young woman, who had both a sense of humor, and a discerning mind. She pegged old Stodworth as a horse’s ass, and Lady Cranshaw as the sharp-tongued harpy she is. They scolded her for giving input on some political conversation. She had corrected one of the lords that miss-quoted something from history—who had sounded the pompous ass all evening. I do not think I have enjoyed a woman of that young age’s company, ever so much.”

  “She went home after the cousin wed?” Edmund was trying to follow his friend’s conversation, but dew dampened his silk shirt under the black dress jacket he wore. Everything was suddenly rushing in on him, the sights, scents, and the feel of her.

  “Yes. Something about the grandfather dying, and settling his estate. One can only speculate, why, Ramsey did not claim them before.”

  “Or, one can ask.”

  Both Edmund and Sascha glanced to the right, and came to their feet as the Marquis stood calmly by their table, hands resting on the head of his elaborate cane.

  Lord Alex’s lavender eyes went over them, lingering on Sascha, before he asked, “Mind if we join you?”

  “Not at all.” Edmund nodded to Van Wyc, who stood five inches over the Marquis’s six feet. Though Edmund was six-foot and three, his muscular grace could look lean next to the hard-muscled Viking.

  Taking the two empty chairs, the Marquis and Van Wyc sat. A waiter was over in a trice, refilling the coffee, and placing down cups with frothy cream for the Marquis and his friend.

  The cane now leaning against his chair, Lord Alexander regarded Sascha, offering, “Have you managed to extricate yourself from that bitch of a duchess yet, Auttenburg?”

  Sascha looked as if his neck cloth was too tight. His voice certainly was, “No, my lord.”

  “Call me Alexander,” the Marquis said, nodding. “As to your question—”

  Sascha winced. “Your pardon, my lord. It was rude of me. I assure you, that Edmund and myself, take no part in the whispers—”

  “I know quite a bit about the Earl.” Ramsey glanced at Edmund briefly, causing Edmund to make his face as blank as possible, before Ramsey attended Sascha again. “He is known for his aloof hauteur, rather than joining society in its gossip of others. That is not to say, I have not—heard of you, too.”

  To his credit, Sacha shrugged. “It is no great secret. We cannot all have a fortune and good luck too, when we enter society. I blame no one but myself, and do not deny the tangle that exists. Because, I did not recognize a predator when I saw one.”

  “Um, yes. The lady and I had our little encounter whilst you were still at university, Auttenburg. Alas, it is not my place to warn every young man about whose bed he warms, and from whom he takes loans. Lady Edith has very long and sharp claws. I managed to avoid them. But I have seen many a ruined young man who did not.”

  The Marquis arched his brow. “I have also had my share of false claims, attempts at blackmail and the like. Fortunately, for me, I have a trusted man of business and keep very clear records as well as conducting my affairs like business matters. Sounds rather cold on the face of it, but any man with something others desire, titles or
money, should do so. I made mistakes. But they are more on the personal and private level of regret, rather than literally being forced to pay for one’s pleasures—or vices.”

  “I pay her, have for years, but she will not release the larger notes as I do. She has the mortgage on my small estate and—” Sascha gestured with frustration. “I’m sure after five years few are ignorant of the whole of it. I still will not wed her. I let her play her cat and mouse games. She has the upper hand—for now.”

  “Umm.” The Marquis glanced at Edmund. “Have you met Archard Van Wyc?”

  “Not formally.”

  Introductions were made to both Edmund and Sascha.

  In accented English, Van Wyc explained, to a question Edmund asked—in a deep resonating, voice that fit his Viking image, “Leland and I are cousins through a marriage generations back. On and off, some of the younger Van Wyc’s, came to England to be educated. I have a younger brother who will likely come here. I studied at oxford and Edinburgh. I stayed with Leland’s family three years as a boy. I did not come back—as was rumored—to support my cousin in a divorce, but was rather already intending to come at the invitation of Lord Ramsey, whom I had met at Hawksmoor on a brief visit.

  He employs some advanced farming and sheep raising methods I wished to observe. Hawksmoor is in the extreme north, and my country is very rugged, and our stock hearty. We were doing some experimental farming and breeding too. Although, my family is connected to minor royalty. An aristocratic branch that sprang up through marriages, I hold no formal English titles, nor minor ones, that I feel compelled to use here. I am, however, the oldest male of our branch, and will inherit from two uncles. The holdings consist of farms, villages, fishing vessels, and a great many other responsibilities. My academic record had to be excellent, under the circumstances, but I have worked those lands from my youth—”

  That Edmund could believe. He could see Van Wyc hauling in nets or felling trees. The man did not adhere much to English fashion either. His long hair was unbound, its white and gold hue as distinct as those almost too light blue eyes. His face bones were as honed as the rest of him. He wore a calf-length dress coat in dyed blue suede, wide lapels and brass buttons. In addition, buttery leather britches and dyed leather boots. His shirt was of linen and pleated. The only adherence to a neck cloth was a scarf of sorts that though of fine silk, wrapped loose around his sinewy throat.