To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  In the eyes of Polite Society, she had sunk beneath reproach, not that she gave a fig for the opinion of such pompous prigs. Yet for some reason, she felt tears welling up, and wasn’t quite sure why.

  How silly, really. Kate blinked. She was an experienced woman of the world. There was nothing shameful about admitting that she enjoyed the act of physical intimacy with a man. To put it bluntly, she found sex a pleasurable experience.

  Did that make her evil or depraved?

  Marco didn’t seem too disgusted by her wanton behavior. In truth, he was awfully open-minded on the subject. Most men were hypocrites, refusing to extend their libertine notions to the opposite sex. Marco, on the other hand, cheerfully conceded his own shortcomings…

  Not that ‘short’ or ‘small’ was in any way a fitting description of his person. He was, in a word, magnificent. An ethereally beautiful man, oozing with a rampant masculinity.

  Closing her eyes, Kate blew out another bubbly sigh and let the heat soak into her. Broad shoulders. Lean waist. Corded thighs. Long legs. And all those intriguing textures and contours of male muscles. Thinking of the touch and feel of him, she felt a lurch in her belly that slowly spiraled down and became an ache between her legs. She was a little sore, but strangely enough, the overpowering sensation was one of emptiness. As if something essential was missing from her core.

  Tendrils of steam rose up from the water, curling against her damp cheeks. What would it be like to share his bed every night?

  Kate shook off the fantasy with a rueful grimace. Assuming Marco had a home—and a bed—to call his own, it was doubtful that he spent any time there. He was too restless, too bored with convention to live a predictable life. A man of his nature would never be satisfied with settling down.

  What did he want? she wondered. She considered herself adept at reading men, but Marco was impossible to decipher. His expression was impenetrable, his eyes enigmatic. Sometimes she thought she saw a quicksilver flash of longing, but maybe she was just looking through her own prism of experience.

  Perhaps she should ask Alessandra about his past life. His past loves. Had he suffered some crushing disappointment in his youth?

  No, decided Kate, running the soft sponge back and forth along the ridge of her collarbone. That wasn’t a good idea. Such questions might reveal too much about her own state of mind.

  Tilting her head back against the edge of the tub, she stared up at the painted plaster ceiling, feeling oddly adrift in the world.

  Her feelings for Marco would be another secret to hide, even from her closest friends.

  Alice’s return quickly doused any further musings. Wielding a towel and hairbrush, the maid soon had her dried and bundled into a flannel nightrail.

  “Drink this,” she commanded, adding a splash of whisky to the fragrant tea. “Then it’s into bed with you, and I’ve given orders that you are not to be woken up until suppertime.”

  Kate yawned. “Maybe an hour or two of sleep,” she said drowsily, allowing herself to be tucked under the covers.

  But her dreams were soon interrupted by the early-morning arrival of the magistrate, who, despite the duke’s vehement protests, demanded another session of questioning.

  Exhausted, and unwilling to reveal any hint of the truth, Kate stumbled through the interview, knowing her terse answers did her case no good.

  Cluyne’s snappish temper only made things worse.

  Sure enough, when Sir Reginald stood, he eyed them both with a look of supreme satisfaction. “I have to warn you, Miss Woodbridge. Things look bad—very bad—for you. Unless new evidence comes to light by the end of the day, I shall be forced to take you into custody and hold you for the next assizes.”

  “Bastard,” muttered Cluyne, clenching his fists as the baronet left the study. “I don’t give a damn about his orders that none of us are to leave the grounds. I intend to ride to London and find Lynsley—”

  “No need for that, Your Grace.” Marco entered the room and shut the door behind him. “The marquess should be arriving soon.”

  “Not soon enough,” grumbled the duke.

  “The meeting must be at a secret rendezvous spot,” continued Marco. “But given the circumstances, I think you ought to be allowed to attend. The three of us—”

  “The four of us,” corrected Charlotte, as the door opened yet again.

  Kate rubbed at her brow, feeling a little dizzy.

  “My step may have slowed a bit in my old age, but that does not mean that you can outmaneuver me,” went on Charlotte. “Whatever you are planning in order to help Kate, I demand to be part of it.”

  “Lady Fenimore, we cannot take a carriage. We have to go by horseback through the woods to a ramshackle inn off the beaten path,” explained Marco. “It will be rough going.”

  “I can ride,” she replied grimly.

  “Charlotte,” murmured Kate. “You haven’t been in a saddle since the last century.”

  “A horse still has four legs, does it not?” she shot back.

  “Don’t bother arguing,” said Cluyne in resignation. “You would have a better chance of shifting the Rock of Gibraltar than Lady Fenimore’s mind when it is made up.”

  Charlotte looked as if she wasn’t sure whether to be angry or amused.

  “There is a very docile mare in the stables,” conceded the duke. “But if you fall on your arse, we will have no choice but to leave you in the mud.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can dig myself out of trouble.” Charlotte looked at Kate, her gaze clouded with anxiety. “It’s Kate who we need be concerned about. An arrest must be avoided at all costs.”

  • • •

  Slumping wearily against the tavern’s sooty wall, Marco sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled locks. No rest for the wicked, he thought wryly, recalling the luxurious bed standing empty at Cluyne Close. But time enough for sleep later.

  He had dispatched an urgent message to London, then returned to the duke’s estate just after dawn. But any hope of closing his eyes for a few blessed hours was quickly dispelled by an early-morning visit from the magistrate. After yet another round of questioning, the baronet had made it clear that he was on the verge of having Kate taken into custody.

  Marco’s fingertips lingered at his temples as he mentally reviewed the wild twists and turns the night had taken. Things were moving with dizzying speed… a rogue assassin threatening to destroy the peace conference in Vienna… a traitorous British diplomat on the loose… a murder charge hanging over Kate’s head.

  It might take a miracle to keep the mission from spiraling out of control.

  But then, the Marquess of Lynsley was the consummate magician.

  “Where is he?” growled the duke as he eyed the squalid room with undisguised horror. Aiming an irritable swat at the oily cloud hanging over the single candle, he added, “Another five minutes in this hellhole, and I swear, I shall—”

  The marquess moved like a wraith. One moment there was only smoke and shadows, the next, he was standing among them, silent save for the beads of rain dripping from his broad-brimmed hat.

  “Ah, here he is,” murmured Marco. “Buongiorno.”

  “Hardly,” replied Lynsley. “Kindly refrain from your usual humor, Ghiradelli. At the moment, my mood is about as foul as the weather.”

  “But not as stormy as mine.” The rumble in the duke’s voice hinted that thunder could erupt at any time.

  “I regret that the situation has turned so ugly, Cluyne.” Lynsley shrugged out of his sodden overcoat and peeled off his mud-spattered gloves. His usual well-tailored elegance was disguised by a soiled moleskin jacket and baggy canvas pants.

  The odor emanating from the garments was not something Marco cared to identify.

  “Under normal circumstances, it would not be a problem to clear up this murder,” continued the marquess. “But unfortunately, right now I cannot bring any pressure to bear on the local magistrate. These are very sensitive times for the government,
and I’ve been asked not to draw any attention to this crime. Not only can’t we afford to reveal the truth about Lord Tappan’s treachery, but the Circle of Scientific Sibyls—that, is the Circle of Sin—has done some services for me that I would rather not have come to light.” He nodded at Kate and Charlotte. “My sincere apologies, ladies. Especially to you, Miss Woodbridge.”

  “You mean to say that government business takes precedence over my granddaughter?” sputtered Cluyne.

  “Yes,” replied Lynsley frankly. “I’m afraid it does.”

  “Goddamn it, man, you can’t just sit there and twiddle your thumbs!” said the duke, his voice perilously close to a shout.

  “Now, now, Cluyne.” Charlotte reached over to touch his sleeve. “It does no good to bellow. I am sure that Lord Lynsley is pulling every string that he can to extract Kate from trouble.”

  The duke snorted but did moderate his tone to a dull roar. “My granddaughter is not a cold-blooded murderess. I’ll not see her left to hang in the air just because Lord Castlereagh is afraid of upsetting his precious peace conference.”

  Marco felt his gut twist in a knot. Surely the government would not let Kate march to the gallows to cover up their own guilt in the crime. But even an arrest would ruin her forever in Society. Destroy any chances of her finding a place to fit in.

  “My hands may be tied at the moment, but be assured that I will find a way to undo this knot,” said Lynsley gravely. In the guttering light of the cheap tallow candle, he looked tired and travelworn. “I would never have involved you and your family had I any inkling that there was any danger involved. I pride myself on knowing what is going on. But I do make mistakes.”

  He braced a leg on the rough planking of the tavern table and blew out a sigh. “This was supposed to be a simple surveillance mission, a way to keep an eye on any alliances that might be forming for the upcoming peace conference. I anticipated a straightforward report of who was friendly with whom, not treason and murder.”

  Kate, who had been unnaturally quiet all morning, leaned into the pool of light. “If the mystery man succeeds with his assassination plan in Vienna, it could plunge Europe back into war, could it not?”

  Lynsley’s expression was very grim. “Quite likely.”

  “Then it’s imperative that we stop him, and without anyone being alerted to the plot.”

  “Yes. Any hint that a British official was conspiring to murder one of the sovereigns would ignite an explosive scandal. Our ability to influence the future of Europe would go up in smoke.” Lynsley fingered his unshaven chin. “We must, at all costs, keep this a secret. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how. My men are on their way to apprehend Tappan, but by the time they find him and bring him back for interrogation, it may well be too late.” He shot a look at Marco. “You have no idea who his contact was?”

  Marco shook his head. “I didn’t recognize the man’s voice. And to be honest, it was muffled enough by the glass that I’m not sure that I would know it again if I heard it. Nor did I see his face.”

  The marquess looked to the window and appeared to be contemplating the layers of grime coating the glass.

  “But I did,” said Kate softly.

  All eyes turned to her.

  “When the dog barked,” she explained. “He poked his head out the window for a look. It was just for a moment, and the angle was not the best, but I caught a glimpse of his profile.”

  “Describe him,” said Lynsley quickly.

  Kate gave a wry grimace. “Brown hair, neither long nor short. A neatly trimmed mustache. Regular features.” She lifted her shoulders in oblique apology. “I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. My impression was that they were dark.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t help narrow down the possible suspects to a manageable list,” said Lynsley dryly. “I can’t set my operatives to trailing half the men in Austria.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s a pity that I do not possess Lord James Pierson’s talent for sketching. Words don’t create a good picture, but there was something about the set of his mouth. I—I am quite sure I would know him again if I saw him.”

  Silence settled over the room, punctuated by the drip of the tallow and Cluyne’s heavy breathing.

  Kate looked down at her lap and studied her hands, trying not to think of what they had been doing a few short hours ago. She had known that the feeling of profound peace would be fleeting. Like the eye of a hurricane, the moment was an illusion, a tantalizing hope before the raging storm once again darkened the skies with its fury.

  Marco finally cleared his throat. “Sir, I have a suggestion that might actually solve both of our problems.”

  “Well?” barked the duke.

  “I am all ears,” murmured Lynsley. “What do you propose?”

  Kate, too, swiveled around to listen.

  “Marriage,” he replied bluntly. “Not to you of course, sir,” he added in a joking tone. “But to Miss Woodbridge.”

  Too shocked to speak, she could only stare in open-mouthed wonder.

  Why was the rogue trying to do the honorable thing?

  Her first reaction was to laugh aloud. But somehow the burble seemed to catch as her throat constricted and her chest tightened, forcing the air from her lungs.

  She suddenly felt a little woozy. Her sleep-deprived brain was simply fogged with exhaustion. As was his. They would both come to their senses shortly, and she would shake off the silly twinge of longing. Still, it was rather… touching that Marco felt obliged to make the offer.

  However, the ominous rumble in Cluyne’s throat did not bode well for her grandfather’s opinion of the idea.

  “Wait and hear me out,” said Marco quickly. “It would kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  “That is putting it mildly,” said Kate under her breath.

  He ignored the interruption. “To begin with, it would clear the cloud of suspicion from Miss Woodbridge. I’ll request a private meeting with the magistrate and swear that she and I were together the night of the murder. The explanation can be that we had a secret engagement and were just waiting to get the duke’s approval to make it public. It’s embarrassing, yes, but not unheard of. Seeing as I am a titled gentleman, he’ll have to take my word as a witness.”

  Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “We can marry by special license,” continued Marco. “Today, as soon as you can arrange it.”

  Kate’s heart gave a lurch.

  “And then depart immediately for Vienna. My taste for revelry is well-known. No one will question why I have brought my bride to partake of its pleasures. What sybarite wouldn’t want a romantic honeymoon amid the sumptuous splendor of the biggest party ever thrown in Europe?” he pointed out. “Once Miss Woodbridge identifies our quarry, I can eliminate the threat, as it were.”

  Lynsley pursed his lips. “I confess, it could work. And would solve our problems rather nicely. Though it seems a little hard-hearted to ask Miss Woodbridge to take such a drastic step.”

  Kate looked at her grandfather. He tried to look stoic but she saw the obvious pain in his eyes as he agonized over the difficult choices. He had been far more emotional of late, allowing his feelings to melt the mask of ducal reserve. Mistakes and misunderstandings had kept them apart for so long. Could their fragile friendship weather another family scandal?

  The sting of salt and acrid smoke clouding her eyes, Kate darted a look at Marco. His expression was inscrutable, impossible to fathom. She wasn’t sure that she would ever plumb the depths of his character. And yet, despite all the unknowns, she felt a compelling urge to say yes.

  She couldn’t help recalling his lovemaking, his gentleness, his sense of fun. Life would be exciting with him, a wild journey, spiced with the unexpected. He didn’t love her, of course, and he wouldn’t be faithful.

  But that didn’t matter, she told herself. Not if she didn’t expect it.

  “Kate,” began Cluyne
, his rough whisper finally stirring the air.

  “It’s quite all right,” she said quickly. “It’s actually an excellent plan. It makes perfect sense.”

  “My dear…” said Charlotte, echoing Cluyne’s concern.

  “Really, a marriage of convenience suits me very well,” she said forcefully. “It is, after all, how most of the English aristocracy arrange the matter. The conte and I can lead separate lives. I can return to London and my friends, and Lord Ghiradelli can… go wherever he chooses.” She shrugged, feeling a tiny tingle snake down her spine. “So, I’ll do it. For King and for country—though God knows why. I’m half American.”

  Marco’s lips quirked. “Va bene.” He looked to Lynsley. “A special license?”

  The marquess answered with a searching stare, but after a long moment, he seemed satisfied with what he saw. “I’ll have it from the bishop within the hour. You two can be wed at Cluyne Close by teatime and on a boat for Ostend…” He quickly pulled out a battered pocketwatch and flipped open the case. “By midnight.”

  All eyes turned at Kate.

  “That doesn’t leave us much time to pack,” she said evenly. “What are we waiting for?”

  Lynsley placed his mud-stained hat back on his head. “Send one of your servants to wait for me here, Cluyne.”

  The duke hesitated, then gave a wordless nod.

  The marquess’s gaze shifted to her and then to Marco. “Allow me to wish you happy in advance. It would, of course, not be prudent for me to appear at Cluyne Close for the ceremony.”

  “Thank you, amico.” In the smoky light, Marco’s expression was naught but a blur of soot and shadows.

  Lynsley looked for a moment as if he was going to say something else. Then he seemed to reconsider and he silently slid on his gloves. Tipping his battered brim low over his eyes, he backed off into the gloom, disappearing just as quickly as he had appeared.

  No one moved until a gust rattled the windowpanes, finally breaking the strange spell.

  Kate tightened her shawl around her shoulders.

  Cluyne picked up the candle.