Romancing The Rake (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  What was it an older matron had once said?

  Men need to be needed, but women want to be wanted.

  Sophie had long pondered the wisdom in those words.

  Jack had needed Sophie to need him. Life had flowed more smoothly when Jack felt her dependence on him, when she had appeared helpless and feeble-witted—a featherbrained woman of the ton.

  But Sophie struggled to be needy enough; it was not her way, after all. Lord Mainfeld had raised her like his boys, to be strong and forthright. She simply could not mold herself into the form that Jack needed. And so every angry argument, every debt notice, every dalliance he hid eventually reduced her spirit to splintered shards.

  And as for Sophie herself . . .

  In her more honest moments, she still dreamed of finding a true husband, a man whom she loved and who loved her in return.

  In short, Sophie wanted to be wanted.

  Not just wanted as a dowry or a housekeeper or a mirror to parrot back what others (i.e. Jack) wished to hear.

  No . . . Sophie longed to be wanted for herself, for her quirky comments and scientific observations. Wanted for her unique oddities, rather than in spite of them.

  But she was clear-headed enough to recognize the bare truth—Lady Sophronia Fulstate had never been wanted.

  She was the child of her mother’s illicit affair with an unknown man. Yes, Lord Mainfeld—bless him—had taken her on, but he hadn’t wanted her. Neither of her parents had rejoiced at her birth. She was an unfortunate side effect that had to be borne.

  Lord Rafe had only wanted her as a momentary distraction. Jack, for her dowry.

  Yet, the scientist in her was not ready to give up. Not yet.

  To her, it seemed the problem lay with her understanding of men. Given the muddle of her parentage, such confusion was to be expected, she supposed. Her problematic relationships with men likely started with her murky origins.

  So Sophie needed to go back to the beginning, as it were, and rebuild them anew. She wished to uncover the identity of her true father, the man who had sired her.

  She knew from her biological studies that offspring shared characteristics with both their parents. She clearly was not Lord Mainfeld’s natural daughter. That had been decided long ago. Two fair-haired people did not have dark-haired offspring.

  Nothing of Sophie resembled Lord Mainfeld. Physical differences aside, her father was a canon boom of a man, given to hearty laughter, bracing slaps on the back, and loud hunting stories. He was far too easy-going and good-natured, brushing off his wife’s infidelities with shocking ease.

  As for Lady Mainfeld, Sophie resembled her enough to not doubt that the lady was indeed her mother—the shape of Sophie’s eyes, the similarity of height and body structure all testified of her maternal inheritance.

  But beyond that, Sophie and her mother had little in common.

  Based on this, Sophie assumed she had to bear a strong resemblance to her natural father. Her dark hair and green eyes, not to mention her studious bent, had to come from somewhere outside her mother.

  And if she could find her true father, uncover all the original pieces of herself, perhaps she could mend her shattered heart in truth and begin anew to find love—

  The door cracked open, and the family butler entered, the morning’s correspondence piled high on a silver platter. Lord Mainfeld plucked a few letters from the salver and then waved the rest on to be given to Lady Mainfeld directly. The post was quickly sorted, three letters ending up beside Sophie’s plate.

  Only one caused her heart to thump.

  It was addressed in her Aunt Margaret’s swooping hand.

  At last!

  Henry scampered from her lap, and Sophie took the opportunity to open her letter, scanning the lines. Aunt Margaret was a verbose writer, but the gist jumped out.

  Sophie pressed a shaking hand against her chest as she read . . . which meant it took her too long to notice how quiet the room had become.

  “I say, poppet, are you quite all right?” Lord Mainfeld asked.

  She raised her head and met her father’s concerned gaze.

  “It’s all good news, I hope?” Her father motioned toward her letter.

  “Yes, Father.” She managed a small smile while tucking Aunt Margaret’s letter with the others beside her plate. “Just more of Aunt Margaret’s antics.”

  “Ah.” Her father chuckled knowingly. Aunt Margaret, Lady Mainfeld’s older sister, was a bit of an eccentric.

  “If you will excuse me, Father.” Sophie smiled wider and rose to give Lord Mainfeld a dutiful kiss on the cheek before exiting the room for the privacy of her bed chamber.

  Aunt Margaret’s letter burned in her hand the entire way.

  Sophie had tried for years to gently pry information about her natural father from her mother. She simply wished to know the man’s identity.

  But Lady Mainfeld became agitated and angry whenever Sophie brought it up, occasionally devolving into one of her panicked fits. The last time Sophie had mentioned her natural father, her mother had experienced a severe attack—chest heaving, breaths panicked, hands shaking—and had taken to her room for a solid day.

  Sophie refused to ask her again.

  Obviously, Sophie couldn’t ask Lord Mainfeld to disclose the identity of her natural father, assuming he knew. Even her father’s good nature would balk at that. The London gossip mill had proved unhelpful.

  And so Sophie had finally stooped to brazenly asking her Aunt Margaret.

  She unfolded the letter again upon reaching her bedroom.

  Her aunt’s words were not a definitive answer, but the letter offered hope:

  Unfortunately, child, I do not know the identity of your natural father. Your mother has been astonishingly mum on that score. However, I can tell you what I do know. Your mother fell pregnant with you while taking the waters in Bath for a nervous ailment. She remained in Bath for the duration of her confinement. She once let slip that your natural father was present for your birth. That is all I know.

  I must say, given your mother’s almost vehement reluctance to disclose your natural father’s identity, it might be wise to let sleeping dogs lie, dear child. Sometimes, it is better to not know the truth.

  Sophie heaved a breath, swallowing.

  How could knowing be worse than not knowing? Her mind conjured up too many possibilities.

  Perhaps her father was a footman or groom? Was his lowly birth the reason her mother kept silent?

  Or was her father a man of some importance in the government? The type of gentleman who could not weather such a scandal and might seek retribution?

  Or was her father a criminal element? The silver-tongued leader of a band of thieves who would harm anyone who disclosed his identity?

  It all sounded unnecessarily melodramatic.

  Sophie did not care about her father’s social status. If he was someone who clearly did not wish to know her, she would not confront him.

  The hunt for her father, in the end, was a living metaphor of the search for herself. That in finding him, Sophie would start anew—rebuilding her soul from the beginning into the woman she longed to be.

  She could not lay claim to a great many personal characteristics.

  But tenacity was one of them.

  She would discover the man’s identity.

  And then, once she knew, she would finish putting herself back together, piece-by-piece.

  9

  Rafe received a letter of his own three days after he arrived back in London.

  I know what you did aboard The Minerva that night. Do not suppose that your crimes will go unpunished. You will end your days dangling from a hangman’s noose.

  The words scattered his thoughts, setting his heart to pounding. A dreadful sinking sensation settled in his stomach.

  His mind stuttered, trying to bring the implications of the letter into focus. Arriving so soon after the notice in The Advertiser, the letter felt ominous.

  W
ho had sent this?

  That awful day in the South Pacific rose in his mind.

  Cuthie drew a gleaming blade from a sheath at his waist, eyes studying Rafe closely. The knife glinted in the tropical sunlight.

  “How many cuts will it take before you yield?” Cuthie smiled maniacally. “Shall we see?”

  Rafe struggled against the arms that held him. Sailors cackled and called encouragement to Cuthie, some rattling the rigging overhead.

  “I don’t think that face of yours will be quite so pretty when I’m done.”

  The knife slashed—

  Rafe shook off the memory, resisting the urge to rub the scar on his cheek. He had escaped with only minor injuries in the end. Cuthie had been a disgrace of a human being, a man cut out of the same cloth as Kendall. Thankfully, three and a half years had lessened the horrors of what had occurred in the New Hebrides.

  He turned the note over, looking for a signature, but nothing more was forthcoming. Only a partial postal stamp—Leith, perhaps?—and nothing more.

  Had someone survived the wreck of The Minerva after all? The letter certainly wished him to think so.

  Or was this simply a case of someone attempting a lucky guess? And, more importantly, why?

  The letter contained no demand for money. Was this simply the opening salvo, and blackmail demands would follow? And if not, then what did the mysterious sender hope to accomplish? Send him running from London, hiding in fear?

  And if the sender was not actually involved with the events aboard The Minerva, then who might he be?

  Rafe rolled his shoulders, his mind cataloging all the men in London who might have issue with his existence.

  Blast. It was a long list.

  He received angry notes from slighted husbands and would-be paramours from time to time. But they were always signed and usually more along the lines of “apologize or name your second” rather than directly bloodthirsty. As he abhorred duels, Rafe excelled at giving heartfelt apologies.

  He closed his eyes, muttering curses under his breath.

  Rafe was still pondering the note hours later as he sat across from his mother in the front drawing room of Gilbert House in Mayfair.

  His mother shifted in her seat, eyes staring into the fire before lifting them to meet his gaze.

  The duchess had been more animated earlier in the day. Rafe’s sister, Kate, and her two children had come for a morning visit. His mother had sat on the floor bouncing the baby in her arms while talking and playing with three-year-old George. The duchess had seemed nearly normal, open and fully present. She had chatted amiably with Kate about the latest fashions and even hinted that she might take a walk with George later on. Being around her daughter and grandchildren always lifted his mother’s spirits.

  “Did wee George show you his new tin soldiers?” Rafe asked.

  “Aye, he did. Lovely wee thing.” A rare smile touched her lips, her elegant Scottish accent sliding through her words. “Sometimes I feel I can breathe only when Kate and her children come to visit.”

  For the hundredth time, Rafe wondered how much of his mother’s melancholy was static and unchanging, and how much was the result of her current situation. Her melancholy may have begun with the loss of her infant, but it was certainly perpetuated by his father’s vicious behavior. Such a marriage would be hell for any woman.

  As if to emphasize Rafe’s mental point, the Duke of Kendall’s voice sounded in the entrance hall, calling to the butler. His mother recoiled, her smile instantly fading and face turning pale, eyes going blank as she returned to studying the fire. Her flinch caused something hot to seethe in Rafe’s chest. What had Kendall done to elicit such a reaction?

  Damn his father.

  The man had them all bound in chains of some sort or another.

  Kendall had manacled Rafe to his iron will, the duke’s threat always the same—Behave or your mother will be consigned to a lunatic asylum.

  And Rafe complied.

  Because she was his mother, and he loved her.

  Because he remembered the light-filled lady she had once been.

  Because he could not purchase his freedom at the price of her imprisonment and torture—

  Rafe took in a long, steady breath, jaw clenched.

  Hate seemed too tame a word for the fury that roiled in his chest every time he thought of his father.

  Loathe. Detest. Despise. Abhor.

  Synonyms were not much better.

  Perhaps if taken as a whole, then?

  More than anything, Rafe wished to see his mother freed from the Duke of Kendall’s grasp.

  But under British law, his mother had ceased to be her own person when she married his father. Kendall for all practical purposes, owned his wife, just as if she were a horse or any other chattel.

  Rafe was grateful there were at least some laws to protect a woman from the extremes of physical harm. A husband could only beat his wife with a switch no thicker than his thumb, for example. But that was pathetic comfort to most women. There were hundreds of ways to do harm that left few marks on the body, as Kendall well knew.

  And there was little Rafe could do to free his mother.

  Divorce was impossibly difficult—it literally would require a new law to be written and ratified by his father’s friends in Lords—and his father would never sanction a legal separation.

  Though in the past Rafe had considered escaping with the duchess to another country, that was no longer possible. The duchess loved Kate and her grandchildren too much. The only time Rafe had suggested leaving, his mother had gone into hysterics. Such an action would be no less cruel than confining her to a lunatic asylum.

  Only his father’s death would free his mother permanently.

  But if the duchess could emerge from her melancholy—be seen laughing and going about London—Kendall would lose his justification for locking her away. Rafe could then muster friends and public opinion to aid his cause. And past experience had proven that Kendall did care about his public image.

  But as the duchess’s health continued poorly . . .

  There had to be better treatments out there. Rafe had sent two letters now to Dr. Ross, the man Alex had recommended, but he had yet to receive a reply. He planned to call upon the man tomorrow. His mother needed assistance, and Rafe would do whatever he could to see that she received it, despite his father’s intransigence.

  As if reading his thoughts, the door snicked open, and Kendall himself walked in.

  As wealthy men tended to do, the duke had aged gracefully. His silver hair and broad shoulders merely added to his aura of power. But it was the icy steel of his pale eyes that had Rafe rising to his feet.

  His mother shrank in her chair.

  Kendall’s gaze flitted over her, much as one might dismiss an annoying gnat, before returning to Rafe.

  “A word, boy,” was all he said before turning around, confident that Rafe would follow.

  Rafe watched his father’s retreating back, briefly wondering if sinking a knife into it would be as satisfying as he imagined.

  He rather thought it would.

  Sometimes he feared for his very soul.

  He turned back to find his mother watching him. Did she know? Did she understand that he sacrificed his freedom to protect her?

  He hoped not.

  Such knowledge would only add to the burden of her melancholy.

  Rafe shot his mother a too-bright smile—hoping it came off as comforting and not maniacal—before pecking her cheek and following his sire from the room and into the duke’s private study.

  “I trust all went well with your visit in Edinburgh?” His father sorted through correspondence on his desk, not even bothering to look at Rafe.

  “Yes, Sir. Your steward there has the situation well in hand,” Rafe replied, referring to a problem on one of his father’s estates.

  His father clearly hadn’t seen the notice in the Edinburgh Advertiser, thank goodness. Rafe did not bring it up. The Du
ke of Kendall knew the barest outline of what had transpired in the South Pacific. Rafe intended to keep things that way.

  His father nodded before finally lifting his head. “I have spoken with Lord Sykes about his eldest daughter.”

  A chill raced along Rafe’s spine, that same anger rising in his throat.

  He choked it back, clasping his hands together tightly behind his back to stop himself from doing something . . . unwise. Like wrapping his fingers around his father’s neck and choking him lifeless.

  Sometimes, the sheer depth of Rafe’s rage terrified him. It felt boundless, a bottomless, black pool, churning and roiling.

  Outwardly, however, years of practice allowed him to keep his expression benign.

  Rafe knew exactly where this conversation was headed. He and his father had been on a collision course over Rafe’s marriage—or lack thereof—for several years. Thus far, he had managed to dodge his father’s attempts at matchmaking, but that could not go on indefinitely.

  Kendall continued, sitting back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Miss Sykes is an excellent choice for a bride. Impeccable pedigree. Pretty without being overly so. Polite, well-mannered, and biddable.”

  And also absolutely featherbrained and prone to giggling. But as her father was Henry Sykes, Lord Sykes, she did have a large dowry and excellent family connections, things Kendall valued above all else.

  Regardless of the fury pulsing in his chest, Rafe knew he must tread carefully.

  Keeping his tone bored, he began, “I appreciate the thought, Father, but I have not yet determined to marry—”

  “Enough.” Kendall rarely raised his voice. The quiet chill of his tone was sufficient. “I have been patient for too long over this matter, boy. You must marry. Your brother’s wife has proven distressingly unable to produce an heir. The task has now fallen to you. You will not disappoint me in this. Your imbecilic Cousin Frank will never be allowed to hold the title of Kendall.”

  Rafe’s older brother—Lord Hawthorn—was heir to the dukedom. But after nearly five years, his marriage had not been fruitful. Naturally, his father blamed Lady Hawthorn.