Restless Rake

by Scarlett Scott

  Saying it aloud hit him as surely as a blow to the chest. The air rushed from his lungs. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Saying the words aloud made them real, and brought with them all their crushing depths of primeval fear.

  “Yes, my lord. May God be with her.” Osgood hastened away from him.

  “Amen,” Julian whispered to his butler’s departing back. By Christ, she’d even won old Osgood’s wizened heart.

  Stealing away from her father’s house now that it was under rigid guard was simultaneously easier and riskier than Clara had supposed. Easier than she’d supposed for she’d managed to succeed when she’d feared she had not a hope of escaping unnoticed. Riskier because taking a hostage had been, as it turned out, necessary.

  It hadn’t taken long for her to realize what she needed to do after her arrival back at her father’s home. Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra had run off to settle in to their temporary lodgings with a grim acceptance as she faced an unwanted interview with her family. She’d endured her father’s smothering comfort and Lady Bella’s equally smothering attempts to console her—all out of a place of love, she knew, but nevertheless difficult for her to accept.

  Clara’s eyes had been swollen from crying, her head ached, her throat throbbed, and her heart hurt. There was nothing in the world she wanted to do less at that moment than speak with anyone. Her husband had just rejected her. Sent her away from him. Told her he was incapable of love.

  “Lord Ravenscroft was right to bring you and his sisters here,” her father had said on a frown as he patted her arm. “You’re safe with us, my darling girl. Lord only knows what manner of fiend he’s brought down upon himself after so many years of debauchery. You cannot think to put yourself in harm’s way because of his past sins.”

  Her father’s words had done nothing to stem the flow of misery careening through her like a flooded river. “He is my husband,” she’d argued. “It’s my duty to stand at his side.”

  “Just as it’s his duty to protect you, dear heart,” Bella had intervened then, unable to refrain from gazing upon Clara as she might a motherless kitten she’d found on the street. Perhaps it was her delicate condition that caused her every emotion to be written across her beautiful face. Whatever the case, Clara found herself feeling most unappreciative of her stepmother’s sweet kindness. She didn’t want to be told that Julian was right to send her away. She wanted to rail against his decision, his self-loathing, his fears. She wanted someone to tell her to run straight back to his arms and put up a damn fight like a true Virginian.

  But no one had, and all at once, understanding had dawned on her.

  She loved her father. She loved Lady Bella. But everything in her told her that this was not where she belonged. She belonged with Julian. And if he was in danger, then she would face the danger with him. She would not, by all that was holy, cut stick and run, abandoning him to his fate.

  No she would not. Virginia girls were made of sterner stuff.

  The sternest stuff.

  Naturally, her father had other ideas. He’d proved his usual obdurate self and had refused to allow her to leave, citing the recent attack on her as ample proof that being beneath Julian’s roof was dangerous. He’d even booked her passage to Virginia. But the victory she’d once fought for—the return to her homeland—was hollow now.

  She knew where she was meant to be. She had one home, and it wasn’t a place.

  As the hired hack she’d caught swayed through Belgravia, she kept her pistol trained on the brawny young footman she’d taken hostage. She rather pitied him, but her back had been pressed to the proverbial corner.

  “You shot at me, my lady,” he said dumbly for what had to have been at least the third time since she’d made good her escape.

  “I shot into the ground,” she corrected him gently. “And I’m sorry for it, but it was necessary. You weren’t listening to reason.”

  She’d managed to convince the footman guarding her chamber door to allow her a visit to the library for a book. Once inside the library, she’d turned off the electric lights and made a run for it, knowing the layout of the house quite well. But upon reaching the side door she’d chosen for her exit, the footman guarding it had attempted to waylay her. When he’d begun shouting as she hailed a hack, she’d feared he would bring the entire household down upon them.

  Clara had no wish to be discovered and forced back inside where she could spend the next several sleepless hours ruminating over why her husband had sent her away. And why she’d let him. No, sir. She had every intention of accomplishing what she’d set out to do. And so she’d raised the pistol hidden in the pocket of her skirts and shot.

  Unfortunately, her action had not produced the desired effect, for the alarms had been raised in her father’s house. She’d decided at the last moment that perhaps bringing the lad along for her protection wouldn’t be a bad idea. And so, just as the front door had been thrown open, she’d disappeared into the hack with the footman, guiding him with the best incentive mankind had ever produced: the barrel of a firearm.

  “Begging your pardon, but I think you’re mad, my lady.”

  She frowned at him. “You aren’t precisely in a position to be tossing about insults, young man.”

  But the footman was either too shocked or too simple to know when he ought to hold his tongue. “I’m sorry, my lady, I am. But why would you want to leave a house where you’re being kept safe to run out into the night? Only a madwoman would do such a foolish thing. Why, you’re merely asking for mischief, as my ma would say.”

  Clara sighed. “Silence, if you please.”

  The lad was likely not far from the truth. Fleeing her father’s home was, in hindsight, not the cleverest notion she’d ever entertained. But never let it be said that Clara Ravenscroft was afraid of taking a chance. And never let it be said that she wouldn’t do anything for the man she loved.

  Even if it meant humbling herself before him. Even if it meant abducting a poor footman at gunpoint and galloping through town back to her husband. Even if it meant taking a stand against whoever or whatever evil threatened them.

  For in the hours since she’d allowed herself to be evicted from her home and Julian’s life both, she’d discovered that she was stronger than she’d ever imagined. She was strong enough to face anything, to beat anything, to take a risk and feel the wind in her face. She was strong enough, which meant she would fight. She’d fight for Julian, fight for herself, fight for the life they were meant to live together.

  The hack slowed as they reached the familiar neighborhood of Ravenscroft’s townhome. In the darkness with only the glow of the street lamps, it looked more imposing than it truthfully was. Her heart hammered in her breast. Home, she thought.

  “We’re here,” she informed the hapless footman, waving her pistol at him. “You alight first. I’ve no desire to cause you harm, but if you attempt to stop me, consider this fair warning. I can shoot an apple off a man’s head from fifty paces.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d used that threat. Very likely, it wouldn’t be the last. The footman blanched and did her bidding, preceding her out of the conveyance. She paid the hack driver, a grinning fellow with more black space in his mouth than teeth. If the sight of a lady brandishing a weapon and forcing a servant inside his conveyance had alarmed him, he still didn’t show it. The coin she’d given him prior to their departure had certainly helped to ease any concerns he may have had.

  She hurried to the front door. It was answered in two swift knocks. Osgood appeared, his ordinarily imperturbable countenance brightening into an expression of genuine relief. “My lady! You’re home.”

  “Of course I am. Please see to it that this young man has a nice meal and a warm bath.” She gestured to the footman with her pistol, which she perhaps ought to have hidden, given the startled look that raced across the butler’s face. Belatedly recalling the trappings of civility, she tucked the small weapon back into the pocket in her skirts. “I
’m afraid I’ve given him quite a fright this evening. Where is his lordship?”

  The redoubtable butler frowned. “He isn’t with you, my lady? He left a short time ago. He’d had word from the Whitney residence that you’d disappeared. His lordship was extremely concerned, as you might imagine.”

  “Oh dear.” Perhaps her escape plan hadn’t gone as well as she’d imagined after all. Firing the pistol had, in retrospect, been a grievous error. “Have you any idea where he was headed?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lady,” Osgood said gently, apparently recovered from the sight of her waving a pistol about like a common street criminal. Much to his credit. “He didn’t advise as to his plans as he was in quite a rush.”

  Well, this was certainly an unexpected predicament of her own foolish making. She could either go back into the night in search of Julian or await his return. She hadn’t intended to cause such a frenzy with her departure. It seemed she’d never cease landing herself in scrapes.

  Rather than continue to chase her husband all over town, the best course of action would be to stay in one place, she reasoned. If he’d rushed out at word of her disappearance, then his destination was likely her father’s home. “Osgood, would you please have a note sent to the Whitney residence to let them know I’ve arrived here safely and that I’ll await Lord Ravenscroft’s return?”

  “Of course, my lady,” reassured the competent butler. “And may I say that I’m heartily relieved your ladyship has returned to us?”

  She smiled, touched by the thawing in his ordinarily frigid hauteur. “Thank you, Osgood. I’m equally relieved to be back.”

  Now if only her husband’s welcome would be as warm. She made her way to his study, intending to wait for him in its comfortable confines. But she wasn’t prepared for the disaster that greeted her upon her entrance. Books had been flung, their spines cracked. Glass shards littered the worn carpet. The entire room smelled heavily of spirits. Several dark stains marred the faded wallpaper. Chairs were overturned.

  Good Lord, it looked as though a regiment of marauding soldiers had ransacked the chamber.

  “Oh Julian,” she whispered as she took in the evidence of how much it had devastated him to send her away. The door closed softly at her back and for the briefest flash, the sensation that she wasn’t alone overcame her.

  Before she could react, a voice sounded behind her.

  “Lady Ravenscroft, we meet again.”

  Clara’s entire body froze, her skin going instantly clammy, her breath hitched and shallow, her mouth dry as sand. Fear curled around her chest in a crushing grip. The last time she’d heard that voice, there had been a pair of large hands wrapped around her neck.

  By the time Julian returned to his home and was instructed by a relieved Osgood that Clara awaited him in his study, he felt as if he’d been to the bloody gates of hell. First, a paralyzing dread had snared him in its unforgiving maws as he’d raced to Whitney’s house, desperate for news, any clue as to what had happened or how he could possibly find Clara. He’d been conferring with an extremely tense Jesse Whitney when word had arrived that the wayward minx was alive, thank God, and safe, waiting for him at home. Relief had come next, swift and searing. Following closely in its wake had been an almost unholy rage as the remainder of the succinct message had been read aloud.

  Lady Ravenscroft escaped of her own volition.

  No one had abducted her. She hadn’t been shot. Hadn’t been killed. However, she had put her life in jeopardy. He’d done everything in his power to send her from him, had stripped his soul bare to secure her safety, and instead of seeing reason, she’d defied him and her father both. Not to mention that it appeared she’d somehow taken a servant along with her, after firing a shot at the poor fellow.

  Julian had found himself torn equally between anger and reluctant admiration for the entirety of his ride back. One moment, his blood thundered through his veins, his temples throbbing with suppressed anger, that she would be so bloody foolish. That she would not stay where no one could harm her and seize her reprieve from marriage to him with both hands.

  The next moment, he couldn’t help but appreciate her audacity and determination. Some lack-witted part of him, the part that loved his maddening wife to distraction, felt buoyed by hope that her actions carried a far greater significance than her mere willfulness. That she loved him, enough to foolishly risk all to stay with him.

  Buffeted by his turbulent emotions as a ship in a storm-tossed sea, he crossed the threshold of his study, expecting to find his wife awaiting him, tucked into a wing chair. Or perhaps even standing, color staining her high cheekbones in her dudgeon. What he did not expect, as the door closed almost soundlessly at his back, was to see Clara, beautiful and stricken, her face wet with tears, trapped in his brother’s arms. The barrel of a gun was pressed to her golden curls.

  “Jesus, Edward.” His eyes were only for Clara at first, drinking in the sight of her. She didn’t appear to be harmed, thank God. His gaze went to his brother, a sickening sense of realization hitting him straight in the gut. He’d thought with such certainty that an enemy from his past—some cuckolded husband or jilted lover—had attacked him and Clara both.

  But it had been a different sort of enemy from the past altogether. His very own flesh and blood. Betrayal tore through him like a gunshot, swift and ravaging in its aim. Edward had tried to kill him. Edward had attempted to strangle Clara. How the hell could it be?

  His shocked brain attempted to make sense of the scene before him. He wanted to believe that the man holding Clara against her will was a stranger. But his eyes didn’t lie. Edward had inherited their father’s short, bullish build and plain features. Ten years had worked some change upon him—his body was stockier, his dark hairline receding as the former earl’s had, grooves marking his forehead—but the man facing him now with murderous intent etched into the hard lines of his face was none other than his brother.

  “Edward,” he said again, his thoughts whirling with how the hell he could get Clara to safety. Perhaps he could overpower him, disarm him, at least tear her from Edward’s grip. He stalked forward. “Is it you?”

  “Don’t take another step or she dies.” Edward’s tone was flat and emotionless. Menacing.

  Some instinct deep within Julian cried out, forced him to continue. Another step. Two. Mine, he thought grimly. I protect what’s mine. And no one else in the world belonged to him the way Clara did. The way he belonged to her. She was his wife. His love. He’d do anything to save her and protect her. Even if it meant offering his own life. Especially if it meant that, for a life without Clara in it was one he didn’t want to live.

  But Edward didn’t react well to his challenge. The arm he had locked around Clara’s neck tightened and she cried out in pain. “Stay where you are, goddamn it.”

  Julian stopped, willing his mind to remain calm, to find some way out of this. “Let her go, brother. Your quarrel is with me.”

  “Damn right my quarrel is with you.” Edward’s face curled into a sneer that was so reminiscent of their father that for a moment Julian’s body recoiled at the remembrance of the earl’s fists connecting with his flesh. It was almost like staring at their father’s ghost. An even more vicious, deranged ghost.

  Julian raised his hands in a slow, placating gesture. “Tell me what you want from me. I’ll do anything you ask as long as you release my wife. She is an innocent in all this.”

  “Your wife, innocent?” Edward laughed. “Best bloody joke I’ve heard in some time, brother. From what I hear, you’ve spent the last fifteen-odd years fucking your way through the ton. Any bride of yours would be tainted the instant you touched her. She’s likely already carrying your heir. And that makes her dispensable indeed, for I have no wish for competition.”

  The air seemed to leave the chamber. Or Julian’s lungs. He couldn’t be sure. All he could be sure of was that his brother meant to kill him and claim the earldom for himself. More than likely, he int
ended to kill Clara as well.

  Julian wasn’t about to allow Edward to carry out whatever evil plan he’d hatched. No one would harm so much as a hair on Clara’s head ever again. Not even over his dead fucking body.

  “She’s not carrying my heir,” he denied, hoping to deflect some of his brother’s attention away from Clara, perhaps even to release her. “I haven’t touched the chit.”

  Edward’s gaze narrowed to reptilian slits. “You expect me to believe you didn’t bed her? A young, innocent beauty like this?” He relaxed his hold on Clara’s throat to cup one of her full breasts in his hand. “Don’t tell me you could resist such pretty tits.”

  A guttural sound tore from him and he lunged forward, blinded by rage and the need to defend Clara from being manhandled. Edward sprang backward, dragging Clara with him as though she were nothing more than a helpless heap of skirts.

  “Not another step closer, damn you,” Edward warned, once again tightening his hold on Clara’s neck. “Or I’ll choke the life from her. I almost managed last night. This time I won’t fail. The choice is yours.”

  “Julian,” Clara spoke for the first time. Her tone was hesitant, starved for breath. A plea. “He’s mad. He means to kill you.”

  “Shut up,” snarled Edward, tightening his hold until Clara made a choking sound.

  Julian just barely restrained himself from launching himself at his brother. The only thing that kept him planted to the spot was the gun Edward kept trained to Clara’s head. “Let her go. She has nothing to do with what’s between us. She’s leaving for Virginia in two days. Her passage is already secured. Release her and you’ll never hear from her again. Your quarrel is with me.”

  “Quarrel.” Edward spat the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “This is not a quarrel, goddamn you. This is about righting a grievous wrong. Now you’ve landed yourself a fat dowry and I mean to collect what’s owed me. I’m the rightful Earl of Ravenscroft, and I’ve wasted too many years waiting for you to drink yourself to death.”