Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1)

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘So the Englishman has jilted you already?’ Julian barely waited for Antoine to move out of earshot. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, a smirk on his mouth. ‘You were so willing to spread your legs for him, so willing to risk us all for your passing pleasure and now you want us to risk everything once more for your revenge.’

  His crass words roused her temper, her anger bubbling. ‘If that’s what you think, you understand nothing.’

  ‘I know you’ve been with him every night for the last two weeks. I know you send him notes at the club, arranging rendezvous.’ What had he seen? How much had he seen? The thought made her skin crawl.

  Julian advanced. She stood her ground. She would not give him the pleasure of seeing her retreat even an inch. His hand cupped her cheek, cold against her skin. ‘After all you’ve put me through, I still want you, you needn’t worry on that score. Once the Englishman is gone, you will see reason. Antoine will see reason when I explain it all to him.’ He gave her a hard smile, eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Really, the best thing you can do for my suit is to keep seeing him. It gives my case more substance when I go to your brother.’ His thumb ran over her lip in a rough caress. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with that just yet, though. I will wait until North has gone so there’s no risk of Antoine insisting North be the one to make an honest woman of you.’

  Alyssandra’s jaw tightened at the intimacy. No, he wouldn’t dare risk that. Julian was too great of a strategist to make that mistake. Haviland’s presence in the city was the only thing holding Julian back. ‘Take your hands off me.’

  Julian raised his hands in a parody of surrender and stepped back. ‘For now. But mark my words, you will be mine. I’ve waited and wanted too long. In your heart you know it’s the right thing to do, the best way to protect Antoine and the life you are so well acquainted with. It would be a shame to throw all of that away. I don’t think poverty would do you justice, Alyssandra.’ He backed to the door and gave her a mocking bow.

  Alyssandra held her rigid posture until he was gone before she sank into a chair, a hand pressed to her mouth. Her escape had become her prison. Julian had found the ultimate way to use Haviland against her. Her first inclination was to run straight to Antoine, to expose Julian’s duplicity but she couldn’t do that without exposing herself, too. When she was smaller, Antoine had always been her refuge. She had run to him with broken dolls to fix, with tears to dry. But she wasn’t eight any longer and she’d become far stronger than that little girl had been. Their roles had become reversed. It was Antoine who needed her now. It would crush him to know the two people he trusted most had betrayed him.

  She’d been aware of Julian’s attraction to her for some time now. After all, he’d already proposed once after Antoine’s accident. At the time, she’d assumed he’d proposed out of a sense of honour, an attempt to make things right. But there was no honour in what he’d proposed today. Today had been blackmail pure and simple. It had been threats and coercion of the worst sort. Antoine thought he could trust Julian. How long had Julian simply gulled her brother and lain in wait for the moment to pounce? The moment to push his grander scheme?

  What was that scheme? Was it solely a lust-driven obsession for her, or something larger? She knew only a little of Julian’s background, that he’d risen from meagre beginnings. Did he aspire to take the salle d’armes? He’d never threatened to expose the great secret before.

  That was without a doubt the scariest part of this morning’s confrontation, the part that made her want to run to Antoine. Exposure would ruin them. But if Julian were the one to do the exposing, he would be able to separate himself from the damage. He could turn himself into the hero for bringing the deception to everyone’s attention. Julian was a careful man—he would have given much thought about how to do it.

  Alyssandra sighed. It was difficult indeed to fight a battle on two fronts. She had to keep Haviland from making a reckless decision that would destroy his future, while keeping Julian from destroying hers. As a woman kept behind the scenes, she had little power to thwart either of them. Not for the first time, she cursed her gender. It had kept her from proclaiming outright her excellence in a male-only sport, had kept her from finding a way to support her little family without resorting to a dangerous deception. If only she were a man—an independent man who wasn’t under her brother’s control like her incarnation of him was.

  An idea began to form. She would have to be Antoine Leodegrance for the finals. But until then, she could be whoever she liked. Perhaps an anonymous Austrian come to try his skill. She knew very well that the tournament would take walk-in entries the first day. There was no guarantee she’d be paired with either Haviland or Julian throughout the tournament, but eventually, she would meet them and she would defeat them. She only hoped it would be soon enough to suit her purposes.

  Admittedly her plan left a lot to chance. There was an easier way. She could simply tell Haviland. Perhaps there was a way to tell him without jeopardising her brother’s secret. All she had to do was convince him she would not have him, that there was no reason to stay. It was testament to just how difficult that would be that she’d actually contemplated entering the fencing tournament as a more viable option. There was no ‘simply’ about it. He would be hurt. But in the final analysis of her options, it was the only one that left no margin for error.

  Alyssandra called for her hat and gloves. It was best to get it over with before she lost her courage.

  * * *

  Damn her, she was going to him. Julian let the curtain to the front parlour fall. He paced the room, gathering his thoughts. He’d not expected this. His threat had been designed to force her into a corner, force her to realise she had no allies. The two men she might have counted on were of no use to her here. She couldn’t tell Antoine without exposing herself and she couldn’t tell Haviland without exposing Antoine, something her selfless little soul wouldn’t conceive of doing. She would realise the only option left was to throw herself on his mercy.

  He would be the man she turned to whether she wanted to or not. He would welcome her with apologies, with assurances that he’d only done this for her own good, to help her see reason and the foolishness of her headstrong notions. He would take her hands and kiss them, he would kiss her mouth, and she would give over to him, acknowledging his superior strength, his superior intellect with the acquiescence of her body. He would take her beneath him, roughly to make sure she understood who was in charge. Oh, yes, he had ways to make her understand that, pleasurable ways that had him rousing already at the prospect.

  Those urges had to be subdued. He needed to think or the prize would slip away. He couldn’t risk her spilling everything to Haviland North. Secrets only had power when no one knew them. If too many people knew them, or if the wrong people knew them, they weren’t secrets any more, they became powerless little pieces of information. That’s exactly what would happen if Haviland North turned out to be honourable. If not, it simply wouldn’t be fair. If anyone was going to ruin the Leodegrances it was going to be him—he was the one who had put in the years, not some upstart English viscount who had stumbled into Alyssandra’s bed on the conditions of his good looks.

  Julian went to the small escritoire in the corner of the sitting room and wrote a quick note to two of his less savoury acquaintances. If his means seemed extreme, his ends would justify them. He wasn’t going to give Alyssandra a chance to betray him. This next move was all his. She would be rather surprised to see that she had been outmanoeuvred.

  * * *

  There was movement at his open door. Haviland looked up, half-irritated over the interruption to his letter writing. ‘Yes, Nolan?’

  Nolan raised an eyebrow at his testy greeting. ‘Don’t kill the messenger. That’s why I don’t write letters home. It always puts me in a bad mood,’ he jested. But Haviland thought there was truth to it. If he had to write to Nolan’s father, he’d be in a perpetually bad mood, too.

  Hav
iland sighed and pushed back from the desk with a penitent smile. He was learning that travel with friends meant never fully escaping them. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He and Archer had had several meaningful conversations. But it did take some adjustment. In London, he lived alone. ‘I’m sorry, I have a lot on my mind before the tournament tomorrow.’

  Nolan gave a knowing nod. ‘In that case, you might be interested to know part of what is on your mind is also in the parlour. Are you receiving?’

  Haviland gave a start. Alyssandra was here? He’d not expected to see her, especially after last night. They’d parted neutrally at best. He wasn’t even going to the salle today. He would exercise in the garden instead. ‘Did she say what brought her?’ Something must have happened, something out of the ordinary and probably not for the good. Had her brother discovered their affaire? He was halfway to the door, shoving his arms through a coat before Nolan had a chance to answer.

  Nolan caught his arm in caution. ‘Gather yourself, man. Rushing to a woman’s side makes you an easy mark. She’ll think she can manipulate you. She didn’t say, but I’d wager my last sou she’s upset.’ Nolan paused, his eyes going narrow in speculation. ‘Dear God, Haviland, you don’t suppose she’s come to tell you she’s with child? Make sure it’s yours.’ It was affirmation of Nolan’s rather cynical train of thought that his mind went straight to sex.

  Nolan’s thought roused rapid speculation on Haviland’s part. Had she? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, although it seemed a mite early to know. They had not always been careful in slaking their need, the heat of the moment overriding caution at the critical point. Still, he didn’t think she’d know. They’d not discussed it and it hardly seemed like something she’d tell him the day before the tournament if she only suspected it. Alyssandra was the sort to wait until she was sure about something. Even so, Haviland’s reaction was not one of horrific withdrawal like Nolan’s. Instead, a single line ran through his mind. It would certainly make things easier. She would have to let him stay.

  Haviland stepped into the front parlour and she rose immediately at the sight of him, her hands gripping one another tightly at her waist, her face a trifle pale. Nolan was right. She was upset. ‘Alyssandra, what brings you here? Are you well?’ He offered a friendly smile, trying to ease her. Whatever she had to tell him, he wanted her to know it would be safe with him.

  ‘Haviland, I’m sorry to impose.’ She flicked a glance at Nolan who was hovering at his shoulder, making it clear about who was really imposing. ‘Might we walk? There is something I’ve come to tell you.’

  Nolan gave him a ‘told-you-so wink’ and earned an elbow in the ribs.

  ‘There’s a quiet park not far from here where we can expect some privacy.’ Haviland gave Nolan a pointed look. But his insides were reeling. Nolan was so seldom wrong about people. He offered Alyssandra his arm, overwhelmed with the sensation that the moment he stepped out the door his life was going to change.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Haviland noted two shabbily dressed men in his peripheral vision three streets from the house. He told himself he was being overprotective. It was the middle of the day in a big city. The streets were busy and full of all sorts, workmen and shoppers alike. Two streets later, the men were still behind them, only closer now. They’d been subtly inching towards them. Haviland wondered what they might do, how much they could do in public. But he’d never been a man to rely on others to dictate his response. If he waited to act, it might be too late.

  He tightened his grip on Alyssandra’s arm, the subtle pressure urging her to pick up her pace, his tone low and measured. ‘I don’t mean to panic you, my dear, but I believe we are being followed.’ She started to turn her head. ‘No, don’t look around. They’re to the left, over my shoulder. They’ve just started to cross the street.’

  Alyssandra kept her face forward, but he felt her body stiffen with awareness. Her eyes darted to the walking stick in his hand. ‘May I assume there’s something inside that stick of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ Like most London gentleman, his walking sticks were sheaths for sword-sticks.

  ‘Good. Then we have a choice. What will it be? Shall we make a run for it, or shall we see what they want?’ Alyssandra was a cool customer beside him.

  ‘I’d rather not place you in danger,’ Haviland murmured a protest under his breath. But it seemed he had no choice in the matter. The men made their move as they passed an alley. One of them gave Haviland a rough shove into the dim corridor between two buildings, the other dragged Alyssandra away from him. Haviland stumbled, cursing himself for having waited a moment too long and giving these thugs the current advantage, but he had his sword-stick out when he recovered his balance.

  His first thought was for Alyssandra’s safety, but it was clear from the outset the men were here for him. One of them held her, but only to keep her out of the way, which was proving to be quite the challenge since she didn’t intend to be subdued. The bigger concern was the other man advancing on him, drawing a sword-stick of his own. Interesting. That was most definitely not the weapon of choice for street thugs. Things were not what they seemed in this alley, but there was no time to contemplate the mystery. The man thrust his sword at him, trying to catch his blade and turn it aside. Haviland deflected him, but the move made it plain the man also had some training to go with his sword.

  Haviland went into battle mode, his body and mind understanding this was not a practice exercise. This was a street fight and the rules of the piste didn’t apply here. Nor could he be assured this man would stop at first blood. He must assume, and quite morbidly so, this man was out to kill him or at the least wound him. Haviland struck back hard and fierce, seeking to end the encounter as soon as possible. The longer it went on, the greater the risk of injury.

  Haviland thrust at the man’s unprotected shoulder, the tip of his weapon striking through the cloth of the man’s shirt. A bloody rose blossomed on the fabric. The man ignored the attack and the pain with a growl, a knife flashing in his good hand. That was not what Haviland was hoping for. He’d been hoping to deter the attacker, not anger him to greater lengths. He had no knife to draw, but his opponent’s wounded shoulder would equalise the fight. Haviland stepped back, the two of them circling each other, reassessing.

  His opponent launched a furious offensive. Haviland was ready for him. He’d gauged correctly that his opponent would recognise time was not on his side. He was bleeding, his strength ebbing with every second. If his opponent wanted victory, he’d have to act quickly. Haviland struck again, this time on the wrist and the man howled in pain, calling for his comrade as he sank to his knees. Haviland knew a primal sense of satisfaction, the fight was nearly done.

  He did not see the other man let Alyssandra go and charge him from the side. Haviland went down in a pile of stinking alley debris, the man on top of him, fists ready to do damage. But Haviland’s reflexes were quick. He twisted, angling his body and eventually getting his hands on the man’s neck in a throttle and a leg around him to offer enough leverage to flip him over. Haviland landed two well-placed blows to the man’s jaw and the man went out cold.

  He rose, staggering a bit, but ready to finish off the man with the sword only to discover there was no need. Alyssandra had picked up his dropped sword-stick. It had gone flying when he’d been tackled and now she had it trained on the bleeding man. He still held his weapons, his back pressed to the brick wall, but the man had no offence left in him.

  ‘Alyssandra, give me the sword and I’ll finish this.’ Haviland moved beside her, his eyes never leaving the remaining man in case he tried a last desperate lunge. Hurt or not, his sword could put a gash in Alyssandra’s side if she wasn’t careful.

  Alyssandra wasn’t listening, her gaze intent on her quarry. ‘I’ll finish this enculé myself.’ She stepped in a half-circle around the man, her arm extended, her blade poised straight at the man’s throat. His fencer’s mind recognised the elegant footwork,
the positioning. She spat another curse in French and, with a quick movement of her wrist, divested him of his sword first and then changed direction to catch his knife. The tip of her blade returned to his throat. ‘Now, tell me who sent you or I’ll run you through.’

  She would do it, too. There was something cool and thorough in her poise as she threatened their attacker. The man’s eyes darted towards Haviland, his tone pleading. ‘Don’t let her hurt me.’

  Haviland laughed and crossed his arms. ‘Then tell her what she wants to know.’ He stood at the ready—if it actually came to the skewering of this man, he’d intervene. No gentleman stood by and let a woman do his work for him, but Haviland was also a smart man. A smart man understood Alyssandra would not take well to being considered helpless. But that was something they’d sort out later. There’d been a lot of surprises revealed in this alley and not all of them lay with their attackers.

  ‘I will give you until the count of three.’ Alyssandra pushed her point against the soft part of the man’s throat. ‘One, two—’

  ‘All right!’ The man was nearly crying from the sword, his wound, his blood.

  Alyssandra stepped back, the sword point still held at the ready. ‘Tell us.’

  ‘Julian Anjou,’ the man gasped and rushed on. ‘It wasn’t meant to be dangerous. We weren’t to hurt you.’ He was all but begging Alyssandra. ‘Just the English fellow and just enough so that he couldn’t fight at the tournament.’ He scowled, making it clear he thought the shoulder wound was entirely too much.

  Alyssandra paled and dropped her sword arm Haviland wondered if she knew how exposed she was in those seconds. He stepped up and closed his hand over hers, taking the sword-stick. ‘Go, allez, take your friend with you. Tell Julian Anjou the next time he sends thugs after us, it will be even worse.’ Haviland slammed his sword into the sheath of his hollowed-out walking stick for emphasis.