How to Ruin a Reputation (Rakes Beyond Redemption)

by Bronwyn Scott

  He’d played longer than he’d anticipated, but once word got out who he was, there’d be no more billiards games at the local public house. Gentlemen didn’t gamble with commoners. Still, there were areas around Audley Village that wouldn’t hear the news for a while. If he travelled for a few games, this idea would last. But what else could he do to raise money? That sparked another, long-term idea. If he couldn’t gamble at the public house, perhaps he could set up billiards games at

  Bedevere, after a proper period of mourning had passed, of course. When he got home, he’d see what sort of shape the billiards table was in. He suspected it hadn’t been used in years. But that was for later—he’d need some ideas for now. Perhaps an auction, as distasteful as the idea was.

  His mind started to whir with ideas. He could clean up Bedevere, make it look respectable enough for entertaining a few gentlemen over an evening of billiards and brandy—cards, too. He could invite the gentry—some squires, their sons, their nephews. He’d have to ask Leticia for a list of people. That meant gardens to pretty up and a few rooms to restore. The idea of restoring the gardens didn’t seem so wasteful now. Perhaps for an auction there was furniture in the attics...

  Ashe’s mind was fully occupied when he stepped outside, cravat undone, coat slung over his arm. The bright daylight hit him full force. He squinted and lost his footing on a loose cobblestone.

  ‘Oh!’ The cry came too late. Ashe careened right into a passer-by, taking her and her packages to the ground along with him in a most intimate pile of legs and arms and thighs and skirts.

  He levered himself up, aware that the sensation of being on top of this lush female was something his body didn’t find entirely unpleasant—or unknown. It was quite funny, really, in the way that irony is funny. Of all the women in Audley Village, he’d managed to crash into Mrs Ralston.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ashe laughed, making light of the mishap. What else was left to do when one has landed in the perfect matrimonial position atop a lovely woman?

  On the positive side, he already knew her, which made it far better in some ways than landing on a stranger.

  Apparently she didn’t share his humour over the incident or his optimism. A stormy set of grey eyes met his and instinctively he knew he wasn’t as sorry as he was going to be.

  Chapter Eight

  His eyes were tremendously green up close, and she couldn’t imagine him being any closer than he was right now. Nor could she imagine being any more mortified. The source of her mortification didn’t come from the fact that his body pressed most intimately against her in a public venue, but from her response. She should have been more upset with such familiarity and much less aroused. But, in all honesty, she was aroused and, from the feel of him, he shared the sensation. Of course it was all a great game to him, just like that ill-advised kiss in the conservatory had been.

  Ashe had risen with a laugh. ‘Mrs Ralston, are you hurt? Let me help you up.’

  He looked taller and more presupposing than usual from her supine position on the sidewalk. He offered her a hand. She ought to take it, but her stubborn pride wouldn’t permit it. She could get up by herself very well, thank you, and perhaps gather her thoughts into some sensible order in the meanwhile.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’ Genevra struggled to her feet, trying to look somewhat graceful amid the strewn packages as if she collided with handsome, arrogant gentlemen on the street every day.

  He tossed back his dark mane and laughed. ‘And my other parts? Should I keep them to myself, too, or do you have need of them?’ Genevra blushed furiously.

  Had he no decency? She was coming to learn Ashe said and did the first things that came to his very imaginative mind.

  ‘Oh, hush up, and help me gather the packages.’ They were starting to draw a discreet crowd. This was fine excitement in the sleepy village. Goodness knew what kind of tales would enliven dinner tables tonight.

  She took a step forwards, bent to reach a parcel and stumbled, caught only by the firm grip of Ashe’s hand at her arm. ‘Eager for a repeat, are we?’ he whispered wickedly, steadying her. ‘In all seriousness, Mrs Ralston, I think you might have done yourself a minor injury.’

  ‘You mean you might have done me a minor injury.’

  He smiled, all white-toothed wickedness. ‘Yes, I may have done so since it was I who fell on top of you. There’s a decent inn across the street. Let’s get you some tea and some rest.’

  Now she had no choice but to rely on him and hobble on his arm to the inn, a different inn than the one he’d been coming out of, she might add. The presence of a woman’s touch was evident in the Sheaf and Loaf. Blue-chequered curtains hung at the front windows and a big-bosomed, bustling woman in a clean apron was eager to seat them in a private parlour—an industrious innkeeper’s wife, to be sure.

  Genevra did not think her ankle was sorely damaged. A rest would be all it would take to restore her to proper working order, but in the meantime it meant keeping company with the enigmatic Ashe Bedevere.

  *

  ‘Will you be all right, Mrs Ralston?’ he enquired after tea had arrived. She smiled over her tea cup. If he could be audacious in conversation, she could be, too.

  ‘In the two days I’ve known you, you’ve kissed me, come to my home uninvited and landed on top of me in a public street. Truly, Mr Bedevere, I am beginning to wonder.’ She was wondering quite a few things about this man these days; things she shouldn’t wonder because one look was really all she needed to know precisely the kind of man he was: a man she should not get involved with.

  She’d known it from the first moment he’d blown into Bedevere, travelling cloak swirling on those broad shoulders. His actions in the conservatory that night had confirmed it. Looking at him now, she should not be surprised he’d come careening out of Audley Village’s more disreputable public house dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to her home yesterday afternoon. She knew precisely the kind of man he was. A smart woman knew that when a man looked like a rake and spoke like a rake, the man was definitely a rake.

  ‘I do apologise for the mishap,’ Bedevere began, giving her that slow smile of his designed to charm. She would not let herself fall for such an obvious ploy. But what a smile it was. It was the eyes that helped the smile right along. Sharp and green like a cat’s, the eyes glinted with all nature of mischief. Oh, yes, she understood this man quite well.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to apologise if you hadn’t been there in the first place.’

  There was a censorious tone to her voice, although truth be told she was slightly curious to know what had kept him out all night, even if she didn’t quite approve.

  ‘Or if you hadn’t,’ he answered easily, passing her the plate of scones. ‘I do believe it takes two to cause a collision.’

  How dare he make the accident her fault, as if she had wanted all that male muscle to land on her in such a fashion? ‘I was shopping, whereas you were coming out of a public house at eleven in the morning.’

  He laughed again and she had the suspicion he was laughing at her. ‘Is that a crime? You say it as if it’s a bad thing.’

  ‘It is,’ Genevra retorted. ‘Just look at you. Just smell you.’ To her great alarm he grinned and did just that. To her even greater alarm, she could feel herself starting to melt. That smile was beginning to work. Good lord, he was devilishly handsome when he grinned like that.

  ‘Hmmm. Cigar and whisky. A little on the stale side,’ he said matter of factly.

  She had the impression he was enjoying this far too much. She needed to end this avenue of conversation. Whatever he’d been up to, he’d been up to it all night.

  She wasn’t generalising there. His startling green eyes showed signs of sleeplessness and his clothes told their own story.

  ‘Mr Bedevere, really.’ She was no prude, but he pushed the boundaries of what could be tolerated.

  ‘That’s another thing. I do think we’ve moved past “Mr Bedevere and Mrs Ralston”�
��don’t you agree?’ He leaned over the table, closing the space between them. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her again.

  ‘I have a confession to make.’ Probably more than one—he didn’t strike her as precisely the church-going type. ‘I usually call women I’ve, um “landed” on by their first names.’ She was sure he did. She didn’t miss the plurality of reference.

  ‘Call me Ashe. It’s the second time I’ve asked.’ He was smiling again and a small rebellious frisson ran down her spine whether she wanted to be immune or not.

  He did not wait for her to offer the appropriate response. ‘And I’ll call you Neva,’

  he drawled, his eyes holding hers.

  ‘Your aunts and Henry call me Genni,’ Genevra countered quickly. Even in a morning parlour at an inn, ‘Neva’ sounded far too sensual on his lips. It was a name she should not permit for her own sanity, if not for protocol’s sake. She’d been in England long enough to know better. An English woman of decent society would not allow it.

  ‘Well, that’s hardly original, but then again that’s the limit of Henry’s imagination,’ Ashe said off-handedly, leaning back in his chair.

  Genevra laughed in spite of herself. ‘Why don’t you like your cousin?’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Ashe smiled and crossed his arms. ‘No more answering questions with questions. We were talking about your name, not Henry’s. We’re not changing the conversation.’

  Genevra sobered and leaned across the table, all seriousness. ‘Mr Bedevere.’

  ‘Ashe.’

  She sighed and conceded. ‘Ashe, I can see that you’re used to flirting with women and having some success there. I am flattered.’ Genevra rose. Leaving was the most effective way of ending a conversation she knew of. ‘However, I am not interested in whatever you’re offering.’

  *

  Matrimony, Ashe thought wryly. The ‘whatever’ he was offering was far bigger than she suspected. He knew what she thought; he was out to make her his latest mistress. Perhaps she believed he meant to woo her fifty-one per cent out of her.

  She wasn’t far from the mark, but he’d make an honest woman of her in the process. He wasn’t such a cad to not offer marriage in exchange for her shares.

  Ashe rose to stand beside her, taking her arm and effectively cutting off her lone exit. He kept his voice low. ‘Are you certain? You don’t know what I’m offering since I haven’t made my “proposal” as it were.’

  She gave him a cool sidelong look that would have done any courtesan playing hard to get proud. ‘I know very well what you’re offering, Ashe.’

  ‘Really, and you still refuse?’ Ashe murmured. ‘I must say either your fortitude is quite amazing or your imagination is not.’ Her mouth quirked into a split-second smile before she regained her composure. ‘It’s all right, you can laugh. I am known for my witticisms,’ he assured her.

  ‘I am sure you’re known for much more than wit.’ She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I am not for you. Again, I must decline your, um, “proposal.” Now, if you would excuse me, I would prefer to leave alone, Mr Bedevere.’

  ‘Ashe. We were making progress on that a few moments ago.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Bedevere.’ There was a stern finality to her voice.

  ‘Good day, Neva.’

  What a woman. Ashe let her go. She’d be back and she’d be his. Of course, he wouldn’t offer her matrimony to begin with. She would reject that request out of hand and likely she’d see the proposal for what it was: an attempt to take control of the estate. He’d start small and tempt her with his gardens. She liked gardens and, with his new endeavour in mind, his had to be cleaned up. The arrangement was really quite symbiotic if presented in the right light. That light was not morning light, however.

  Ashe sat back down and finished his tea. His head was starting to pound after the long night. It did bring him a silent bit of humour to think the lovely and discreet Genevra Ralston’s first reaction to his flirtation was that he offered something improperly wicked. It was a delicious bit of irony that the woman who’d scolded him for spending a night in Audley Village’s version of a gaming hell had a mind that went immediately to bedding. Not that he was opposed to it.

  He was definitely up for it, in all ways.

  What was not delicious was the rather lowering discovery that the one woman he needed to marry was the one woman who had outright refused him before he’d even asked.

  Ashe pushed a hand through his hair, catching a whiff of his evening activities.

  She was right. He did smell, but a bath would have to wait. He had labourers to hire and supplies to order. What a difference a day made. Yesterday he hadn’t any idea what he’d do with supplies or workers even if he could have afforded them, but today he did and Genevra Ralston was going to help him whether she knew it or not.

  *

  From his table by the front window of the public house Henry had a clear view of Audley Village’s main street, lined with shops and businesses, while he ate an early lunch. At least the rabbit stew was good, something he couldn’t say for his day so far. He’d come to town to ‘accidentally’ run into Genevra on her usual shopping day, but he’d had no luck after combing the stores.

  If all had gone well, she would have been sharing lunch with him across the street at the inn instead of him eating alone at a lesser establishment with only its view of the street to recommend it. If she was in the village he’d see her.

  Henry’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. There she was, coming out of the inn, the basket on her arm full, indicating she was done with her shopping. Henry grimaced. She’d be unlikely to want to wander the shops if that was the case and, to all appearances, she’d already stopped for refreshment. His options were a bit limited. Still, he had to try. At the very least he could accompany her home.

  Henry hastily dug for some coins to leave on the table and hurried to follow her.

  But he didn’t get far. Another all-too-familiar face emerged from the inn. Ashe.

  Henry understood immediately what had happened. He’d not seen Genevra on her usual rounds because Ashe had beaten him to it. Henry stepped back inside the public house. There was no sense going after her now. He would merely be redundant if she’d already met with Ashe.

  ‘Do you know that bloke over there?’ A gruff presence established itself over Henry’s right shoulder. A hulk of a man stood there.

  *

  ‘He was in here last night, playing billiards,’

  Henry’s newfound companion said over mugs of ale. ‘He cleaned me out.

  Suckered me, he did. He played false for a few games and then started to win and didn’t stop. I left after I lost, but I hear he played all night, beating all comers.

  He’s a sharp, that’s what he is.’ The man scowled into his mug.

  Henry smiled. Hammond Gallagher was a poor loser. He could use that. ‘That’s Ashe Bedevere, the late earl’s son. The Honourable Ashton Bedevere to us commoners.’

  Hammond’s eyebrows rose and Henry knew what he was thinking: he’d been beaten by an earl’s son, there was some pride in that. Now it was time to disabuse him of the notion.

  ‘Bedevere hasn’t been around much, he’s spent his time on the Continent whoring, drinking, gambling.’ Henry shrugged in disapproval of such activities.

  ‘He’s only home now because of his father’s death and here he is gambling when he should be in mourning and finding a way to support his dear old aunts.’

  ‘Sounds like he might need a lesson.’ Gallagher blew into his ale.

  Henry hid his smile in his mug. This was what he’d been angling for and it hadn’t been hard to get. Henry eyed Gallagher. Gallagher was built like a blacksmith: broad of shoulder, wide of chest. Ashe would have difficulty with the sheer mass of him if Gallagher took him by surprise.

  ‘Bedevere is not well liked by some,’ Henry began. It wasn’t a complete lie. His cartel certainly didn’t like him. ‘I have friends wh
o would pay if you had friends who would be interested in a little fun at Bedevere’s expense. After all, he’s already had fun at yours.’

  Gallagher looked thoughtful for a moment and Henry knew he’d been right.

  Gallagher wanted a bit of revenge and the only thing holding him back was the thought of taking on a peer’s son. Henry pushed some of Trent’s coins across the table. ‘There’s more where that comes from once the job is done.’

  Gallagher pocketed the coins with a nod and left. Henry thought his day was vastly improved. A good drubbing wouldn’t remove his cousin from the estate, but it would certainly slow him down and right now Henry needed time—time to court Genevra, time to work out how to gain a majority control of the estate’s management.

  Ashe was proving more difficult to dislodge than previously imagined.

  It was most disappointing. Henry’d had it all worked out. He would wait a decent interval, court Genevra, marry her and settle at Bedevere without her being any the wiser as to the real motives behind his courtship. After all the time they’d spent together over the winter, it would seem a natural course of events.

  Henry had hoped his uncle would have settled full custodianship of the estate on him. Coupled with Genevra’s fortune through marriage, he’d have been indisputably in charge. But nothing had gone as planned.

  The terms of the will made his courtship look obviously avaricious. But if it hurt his cause, it hurt Ashe’s, too—perhaps even more so. Four per cent would not nearly be as threatening to Genevra as Ashe’s forty-five.

  Henry took a final swallow. He would not be thwarted by the matchmaking efforts of old ladies. He’d come too far, waited too long. He’d coveted Bedevere and its hidden treasures for years. He’d spent countless hours currying favour over the last months with the old earl. He wasn’t about to let it go now nor the opportunities that came with it. If he could win Genevra, he could have it all.