The Rake's Retreat

by Nancy Butler

  She gathered her skirts in one hand, held up the bodice of her gown with the other, and gave him a brief nod. “Good night,” she said as she hastened to the door.

  Chapter Nine

  Jemima paced her bedroom in agitation, sweeping the skirt of her robe behind her as she crossed and re-crossed her chamber, all the while muttering to herself. She had been wrong, so dreadfully wrong, to think Bryce wouldn’t hurt her. Had he slashed her with a knife, the pain could not be more acute than what she was feeling.

  He had seemed so genuinely pleased when she’d first gone to his room. He’d held her in his arms and kissed her until she was dizzy with delight. Those caresses had made her feel so…so incredibly alive. But then he had turned disdainful and cruel. For no reason that she could fathom. She only knew that she had made a grave error about his nature. Bryce truly was a hardened rake, coldhearted and remote from all tender feelings. He’d stood there like…like an iceberg, while she told him about her ravishment. He’d made not one consoling remark, nor offered her a single gesture of comfort. He had been curious, certainly, but in such a horridly detached way.

  Thank God, she’d gotten her wits back before things had progressed any further.

  But after what had transpired between them, it was unthinkable to remain at Bryce Prospect. How could she make idle small talk over the dinner table, knowing that Bryce had seen her half naked, that he had kissed her in places where her own hands rarely strayed? And more to the point, knowing that she had allowed these familiarities, nay, had wholeheartedly encouraged them.

  It was utterly humiliating.

  She had to prevail on Troy, and insist that they return to London in the morning. She didn’t care if half the ton was to come calling on Bryce Prospect tomorrow, Troy had to take her away from this place. His friends could go hang—especially one friend in particular.

  Jemima hastened into the dimly lit hallway without her candle, intent on accosting her brother. She passed Bryce’s door with a silent tread, barely daring to breathe until she came to Troy’s room. There was no response when she scratched at the door. She knocked a bit more forcefully and was met with continued silence. He’s drunk again, she thought with dismay as she opened the door and went into the chamber. Even in the darkness she could see that the bed was empty, its counterpane pulled neatly up to the pillows. It had to be after midnight, but Troy was apparently still carousing with his cronies. She thought to wait up for him, but her instincts told her he might be gone for hours yet. Tolliver stocked a rare cellar, and she knew Terry’s friends were quite capable of making merry until dawn. Her demand would have to wait until morning, but it would lose none of its urgency for having been delayed.

  She was walking swiftly in the direction of her room, her slippers making little noise on the carpeted floor, when a tall figure loomed out of the darkness and careened into her. Crying out in pain and surprise, she threw both hands up to ward him off. Iron hands fastened onto her wrists, and she struggled for several long seconds before she was thrust roughly away. She fell back, jarring her hip against a side table, and then sank down to the floor, lying there in a half swoon, listening to her assailant’s footfalls thudding rapidly away.

  A door opened some distance behind her and Bryce stepped out into the corridor. “Who’s there?” he called softly.

  “Bryce!” It was a shivery bleat of fear. In spite of her anger at him, he was the only person she wanted beside her right now.

  He flew down the hall. “Sweetheart,” he cried, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms tight around her. “Jesus, what’s happened?”

  “It was him!” she said raggedly. “He was here, in the house.”

  “Who, Jem. Who was here?”

  “The murderer. The man that Lovelace saw in the grove is in your house.”

  “Jemmie,” he said earnestly, “it’s nearly pitch dark out here. You couldn’t tell a pumpkin from a post chaise in this light.”

  “No,” she insisted, trying to stifle her rising panic. “I touched his face, I felt his beard.” She pushed away from him and scrambled to her feet. “We must check on Lovelace, Bryce.” She clutched the fabric of his shirt as her voice rose. “What if he has already murdered her?”

  He held tight to her hands, to prevent her from racing down the hall. “No,” he said, and when she continued to resist, he scooped her off her feet and carried her back to his room. He deposited her on one of the chairs and stood looking down at her, his eyes full of caution.

  “Think now, Jemima, before you rouse the whole house and have Lovelace thrown into hysterics. Perhaps you merely encountered one of the servants.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. A servant would have apologized for knocking into me so roughly. He…he hurt me, Bryce.” She lifted her wrists and he immediately knelt down beside her and began to examine the irregular red blotches that still marked her skin.

  “I’ll flay him alive,” he muttered under his breath as he traced his fingers over the marks.

  “What?” she asked, blinking.

  “Nothing,” he said. “You’re sure he wore a beard.”

  “Yes, I put my hands out to ward him off and they ended up on his face. He was monstrous…”

  “Tall was he?”

  “Yes, just as Lovelace said, nearly as tall as you.”

  Bryce sank back on his heel sand laughed softly.

  She did not think levity was at all what was called for at the moment and she gave him a stormy frown.

  “I think I know who ran into you, pet. Old Simmy Wilcox.” He soothed the knot from her brow with one finger. “He’s a whiskery beanpole of a fellow who used to be a smuggler. Sold the odd cask of brandy to my father. He had the run of the place when I was a boy. My father mentioned he was still about. He probably came here tonight to see the old man—not knowing he was away, you see—and didn’t expect to meet you creeping about in the hall.”

  “I wasn’t creeping!”

  “Old Simmy is a bit slow-witted. Took a marlinspike on the skull in his youth. He meant you no harm, I’m sure of it, and you probably frightened him as much as he frightened you.” He stroked the palm of the hand he was holding. “There, now, don’t you feel better?”

  “Indeed I do not.” She rose from the chaise and for the second time that night brushed past him. “I will not feel better until I have assured myself that Lovelace has suffered no harm.”

  Bryce also rose and took hold of her shoulders. “Don’t alarm her, Jem. Not over Old Simmy. If she is asleep, don’t awaken her with this foolish story, for God’s sake. We’ll have her weeping until dawn, in that case.”

  Jemima sniffed back her own tears. “It wasn’t Old Simmy,” she said forcefully. “It wasn’t ‘old’ anyone. The man who was here tonight is young.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bryce asked slowly.

  “Because I have seen the bearded man myself. Twice. Only I never made the connection until now.”

  Bryce appeared to lose a bit of color. “Tell me…”

  “I saw him the day of the murder—a youngish man with a dark beard. He was riding along the edge of the wheat field, in the opposite direction from the inn.”

  “You never mentioned this.”

  “It seemed insignificant at the time. Just a peddler with a pack-horse.” Jemima now turned pale and her eyes widened. “Oh, sweet Lord, it wasn’t a packhorse, was it?”

  Bryce shook his head. “Perhaps a man’s body thrown over his saddle, shrouded in his own overcoat?”

  Jemima reeled back onto the chair. “This is frightful, Bryce. Oh, God, I am shivering.”

  Bryce tugged the comforter off his bed and wrapped it around her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jem. I have men posted outside and in the downstairs hall.”

  “Maybe they should be posted in the upstairs hall,” she remarked with a bit of her usual spirit.

  “Yes, well, I’ll see to that tomorrow. Now tell me, when was the second time you saw this man?”


  “Yesterday morning,” she said. “While we were riding along that ridge of cedars. The man was coming toward us on the track below the ridge. Almost no one wears a beard these days, and so that was the first thing I noticed about him. He was dressed like a sailor, and I thought that accounted for the beard. I also noticed that he looked remarkably like you, Bryce.”

  “What? You could see behind the beard?”

  She grinned. “No, it wasn’t his face so much—I was too far away to make out his features. It was more a case of his bearing, his posture… Oh, I know this sounds daft, but I thought he might have been one of your father’s by-blows.”

  Bryce put his head back and gave a low chuckle. “Let’s hope the old man never gets wind of your theory. Unlike his unregenerate son, Father never so much as glanced at another woman.”

  “Oh.” Jemima looked down at her lap. “Then I am sorry to have implied such a thing.”

  “Well, even if your bearded man was the murderer, riding about in daylight for all to see, I doubt he’d be fool enough to wander about a strange house in the dark, hoping to stumble across his prey. Murderers tend to be a bit more methodical.”

  Jemima grumbled, “I hope you are right.”

  “Come now, I’ll take you for a quiet look in on Lovelace, so you can assure yourself that she is unharmed. Then I will return you to your own room. Want me to sleep on the threshold, like a devoted retainer?”

  “No,” she said, as he drew her to her feet. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “And tomorrow,” he said as he led her into the hall, “I will ask MacCready to see if he can’t located Old Simmy. I’ll have him brought here so he can apologize for rattling you so badly.”

  * * *

  Lovelace was sleeping soundly when Jemima peeked into her room. Her blond curls were tangled on her pillow, and Jemima thought she looked very young and vulnerable. It was strange, how fond she had become of the girl, in spite of her sometimes wearing personality.

  She returned to the hall where Bryce was waiting with a candle. He raised his brows questioningly.

  Jemima smiled, and then said, “Innocence slumbers, at peace in her bed, while all about her villainy fills the world with dread.”

  “More Lord Troy?”

  She grinned. “No, I just made it up.”

  “Well, then, you can’t be shivering in your slippers any longer, if you are composing odes to sleeping beauty. Come along, pet, things will look brighter in the morning.”

  Jemima was at least relieved that Bryce had shrugged off his odious rake persona and was once again his amiably sarcastic self. This, now, was the man she had come to…to esteem. She wondered, as she followed him along the hall, why that winning version of Beecham Bryce had evaporated from his bedroom just when she most wanted him to be there.

  He preceded her into the room, holding his candle aloft. “No intruders,” he said as he beckoned her inside.

  She went up to him and laid a hand on his arm. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  He cocked his head. “Did what?”

  “Behaved like the worst sort of bounder back there in your bedroom. To make me flee from you. You don’t have to admit it; I don’t expect you to. But I know it’s true just the same.”

  He sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully. “You might chalk it up to conscience, Jemima. But I doubt you would credit me with possessing such a thing. Suffice to say, I will forget that little episode ever occurred.”

  That was as great an untruth as he had ever spoken, he mused to himself. He would be weeks forgetting the feel of her velvety skin under his hands. And who knew if he would ever stop hungering for her honeyed kisses?

  She nodded slowly. “We will both put it behind us, Bryce. Remember, we were equal contributors.”

  He raised his hand, wanting to touch her one last time. But then reason prevailed. He clasped his hands together and said in a brisk voice, “Well, I think I’ll have a look around the house…make sure everything’s locked up tight.”

  He left before she could say another word.

  Jemima climbed into bed, lay back against the lavender-scented sheets, and mulled over his ruse—the feigned arrogance that had so successfully effected her flight from his bedroom. She knew she should be furious with him for doing such a thing. It was odiously manipulative. But all she could muster up at present was a feeling of complete bewilderment.

  The most notorious rake in the ton had been incoherent with desire for her—she knew what condition he’d been in when he pulled back from her on the chaise, since even maiden ladies could recognize a state of arousal—and yet he had somehow been tweaked enough by his conscience to halt his seduction, practically in midcaress. She’d always suspected Bryce possessed an honorable streak, and so wasn’t nearly as surprised to discover he had a conscience as he appeared to be. But she was much too exhausted by all that had transpired to probe the ramifications of his selfless behavior.

  In the morning, she thought with a deep yawn, I’ll think about it in the morning.

  When she did fall asleep, however, it was with a tiny, satisfied smile on her face.

  * * *

  Bryce went directly to his library, after nudging the sleeping footman who was guarding the lower hall into a more wakeful state of watchfulness. He poured himself a large brandy and sat sipping it as he sorted through his options. There weren’t many, he reckoned. The advent of the intruder had brought home to him the fact that, though he was fairly sure whom he was dealing with, he had no guarantee that the man’s intentions were harmless. Especially after the troubling information he had gleaned that afternoon on the coast. Nothing made sense any longer. Which meant that it was time for a confrontation with the intruder.

  Bryce looked up at the mantel clock and groaned. He didn’t fancy a midnight ride across the countryside, more so since it meant leaving Jemima and Lovelace alone in the house with only the sleepy servants to stand guard.

  He took a slow swallow of brandy, trying to regulate his thoughts, which was a deal more than he could do for his pulse, which continued to trip erratically. When he’d heard Jemima’s muffled cry in the hallway, his heart had instantly begun a fierce thudding in his chest, and even after he’d seen that she had come to no real harm, his pulse still had not eased.

  And he was also recovering from his earlier encounter with her, which had left him trembling and aching with desire. He’d had little experience with sexual frustration in his lifetime, and in this instance it had left him with unaccustomed feelings of self-doubt. When he should be feeling noble, he reminded himself. And righteous. But all he felt was confused and agitated and hellishly irritable.

  He let his hands dangle over the sides of his chair, the glass he held tipping precariously above the rug. Jemima. He sighed the word aloud. Even with the remnants of the brandy on his tongue, he could still taste her. Sweet and hot, like the very best cognac, and with ten times the power to intoxicate him.

  As he pondered this unaccountable longing for a woman who was neither very young nor precisely willing, he recalled his baiting words to her on the day they had met. It’s so hard to know what will strike a libertine’s fancy. She’d struck his, all right. Like an arrow straight to the heart. And that image frightened him more than any outraged spouse he’d ever faced over pistols.

  As he sat, trying for the hundredth time to understand his insatiable craving for Jemima Vale, he heard a noise from behind the panel on the far wall. He instantly snuffed out the solitary candle beside his chair, and then waited, barely breathing in the darkness. His hand crept to the pocket of his waistcoat—where he kept a small pistol—and he cursed silently when he remembered shedding it in his bedroom.

  With a low-pitched creak the panel moved aside. Someone slid out of the opening and moved into the room. There was a sound of a match being struck, and then a candle flame glowed into life. Bryce looked upon the tall young man who was cupping the candle with one hand. A raggedy fellow he
was, in a threadbare blue coat and canvas trousers, his bearded face nearly obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. Bryce watched in silence for several long seconds, and then smiled as he felt his heart leap with joy, his wariness all fled away at the sight of that mobile, good-natured face.

  “Hello, Kip,” he said from the shadows.

  “Jesus, Beech!” his brother cried crossly as he bobbled the candle and nearly dropped it. “Do you want to give a fellow an apoplexy?”

  Bryce rose from his chair. “You’re not happy to see me?”

  “Why should I be?” Kip asked with a barely contained grin. “You’re sitting here, playing lord of the manor, while I’m reduced to living in a bloody cave. And that is my favorite chair you’ve appropriated.”

  Bryce crossed the room. “Put down the candle, Kip.”

  “Why, so you can plant me a facer for deceiving you?”

  “No,” Bryce said as he took the candle from his brother and set it on the library table. “So I can give in to this unaccountable urge to hug you, you great blithering clodpole.”

  He wrapped his arms around his brother and nearly lifted him off his feet.

  “Hey, now,” Kip warned him. “Mind the ribs. That Frenchman sliced me in the side, before I put an end to him. Thank the Lord it’s healing nicely.”

  Bryce released him at once and stepped back. “That’s a blessing, at least. But I need to speak to you about your Frenchman…” He made a tsking noise. “Carrying bloody corpses about in my woods. And frightening half the female population in the county, to boot. I think I’m entitled to some explanation.”

  “And you shall have one. But first I need a drink…and an answer to my own question—how the devil did you know I was about?”

  “Aside from the dwindling contents of the brandy decanter, and the fact that several books have gone missing from our secret cabinet, and the curious coincidence that a man who could be my twin has recently been seen on the estate, I couldn’t possibly say. Oh, and there was also the cryptic message the old man gave me, before he sailed off to Barbados. Something to do with not taking your death to heart.” Bryce’s voice lost its bantering tone. “When did you tell him, Kip? How long has he known you were alive?”