Last Rake Standing Read online

  With a deceptively ladylike smile, she held out her hand, palm up.

  * * * *

  Making his way down the carpeted stairs in considerable haste, Marcus tripped over his own feet, stubbing his toe and banging his head on the wall. Chagrinned, he thought how nice it would be if things could go as smoothly as they were supposed to for once. Alas, the world around him was often too small and confined for Marcus and, as a consequence, however determined his brain, his body collided frequently with obstacles.

  Arriving in the passage outside her dressing room, he found a line of gentlemen before him, but Marcus Craven never waited in queues and no one would dare ask him to, although they might complain under their breath about his brash insolence. Striding to her door, he rapped on it with his knuckles, confident and resolute, if slightly unsteady on his feet. While it occurred to him that he might be drunk, he didn’t consider his condition severe enough to sit down again and wait for greater clarity of mind.

  The stage manager tried to warn him that Miss O’Neil was not in the best of moods, but Marcus never heeded warnings, another unfortunate trait, one of many, and possibly the reason why, even with all his advantages, life had not turned out quite the way it should.

  When the door finally opened, a small face appeared halfway down the wedge of muted light and asked what he wanted, as if, whatever it was, he ought to know better. Needle and thread in one hand, she looked rather harried. A mousy little thing, brown hair pulled back from her face and tied in a severe knot.

  Surprised, he paused, hand still raised in the motion of knocking.

  Her lips trembled as if she was on the verge of sobs, but she kept her eyes downcast. “Miss O’Neil won’t see anyone,” she whispered. “She has a headache.”

  She was already closing the door again, so he stuck his foot in the gap. “I’m sure she’ll see me.”

  “No, she won’t. Miss O’Neil doesn’t keep company with your sort.”

  “My sort?” He was incredulous.

  “I’m only the messenger, sir.” He thought she was about to raise her lashes, but no, it was just a tremor. She was almost laughing at him. “Good evening, sir. Do mind your foot, sir.”

  Even the way she said sir had a mocking lilt. “I insist you let me in.”

  When she pricked his thigh with her needle it was surprisingly painful. Cursing, he removed his foot and she closed the door on his face.

  He was summarily dismissed. How dare she? Wondering what to do next, he found only one bearable solution. More brandy. Couldn’t do any harm, could it?

  And he had a very important reason to boost his reckless confidence with Dutch courage. The Duke of Penhale was on the hunt for a wife. He’d wagered heavily at the Elysium Club that he would find someone to fill the vacant post of Duchess before noon on Friday, which gave him something in the region of…

  “What day is it?” he flung over his shoulder at the line of evening-coated gentlemen.

  “Thursday,” they chorused, grumpy and indignant.

  He squinted at his pocket watch, waiting for the swaying Roman numerals to come into focus.

  Half past eleven. That gave him twelve and a half hours to capture his bride.

  Plenty of time.

  * * * *

  Emma Hale, beleaguered seamstress, slid both bolts across, just in case the brandy-soaked oaf decided to come back and try again. He was quite a bit larger than the door and those hinges might not hold out, if he really made up his mind to see Miss O’Neil.

  She stuck her needle into the cushioned lid of her sewing box.

  “You ready, mademoiselle?” Standing by the side door, Lucette held out her shabby old coat.

  Emma turned, sliding her arms into the sleeves.

  Drunk, lusty, and unbelievably conceited, he had the unmitigated nerve to come banging on her door. Didn’t he get her note? She thought it was straightforward enough, even for him.

  “What’s in the basket, mademoiselle?” Lucette handed her the lidded hamper she’d brought with her that evening to the theatre.

  “Just a few provisions for an old friend I promised to visit this evening.”

  “But it is so late, mademoiselle.”

  “Old Mrs. Kent is bed-ridden now, Lucette. She tells me day and night make no difference to her, but she has so few visitors. I’ll spend a few hours with her and see if I can cheer her spirits a little.” Mrs. Kent looked after Emma and her brother after their mother disappeared into the gin bottle and before they went away to France. “I’ll take the hansom cab with you as far as her lodgings and then you can ride on without me.”

  “But, mademoiselle—”

  “I can walk home later. You know I love to stroll in the early hours when all is peaceful, Lucette. It helps clear my head and keep me sane.”

  “Sane?” Digging her hands into a small fur muff, the maid looked doubtful.

  Emma chuckled. “I suppose there are different degrees of sanity.” Glancing again at the bolted door, she thought about the men who came each night to worship Le Petit Oiseau, discarding their dignity and very often their logic. “Sometimes I wonder if men have just the one brain between the lot of them. Still,” she gently patted the auburn wig on the stand by her mirror, “I should be thankful they keep coming back to see her.”

  “And they don’t recognize Le Petit Oiseau without the wig, mademoiselle.”

  She smiled wryly, wrapping her favorite scarlet scarf around her neck. “Or with my clothes on.”

  Chapter Three

  Mrs. Kent’s lodgings were in almshouses near the Elephant and Castle. When Emma returned to London and found the lady in reduced circumstances and ill health, she arranged for a nurse to attend her. Whenever she could, Emma visited, bringing hampers of food and news from the world outside. Tonight, as she entered Mrs. Kent’s room, she encountered a cheerful fire and lit candles, the merry-faced nurse reading aloud a humorous story from a magazine.

  “Good gracious, Emma, my dear girl!” The old lady sat up in her couch bed, a knitted shawl around her shoulders. “It’s surely midnight. What are you doing up and about?”

  “I might ask the same of you? Should you not be asleep?”

  “Sleep? What care I for sleep? I lay here in this bed all day, every day. My body no longer recognizes the schedule of a clock. Besides, Nurse Hobbs is reading me a most amusing story.”

  “Then don’t let me interrupt. Please continue.” Face still numb from the cold, Emma sat down her basket and warmed herself by the fire while Nurse Hobbs finished reading. The room was small but comfortable, thanks to a few extra furnishings and some much needed decorative touches she was able to provide for her former guardian. It was the least she could do, she thought, in return for the years of tender care Mrs. Kent provided for her and her brother when their mother became incapable.

  Once Nurse Hobbs put her magazine away and scuttled off to make some hot chocolate in the adjoining kitchen, Emma pulled up a chair beside the bed and Mrs. Kent took her hands to warm them in her own.

  “Fancy coming out at this time of night, my dear girl. And in this bleak weather.”

  The lady had no idea, of course, that Emma spent her evenings performing at the theatre in her underclothes.

  “I worry so about you. There are shadows under your eyes, Emma, and you look dreadfully thin. You’re much too pale. You must go out in the sunlight more often. Are you getting enough sleep? Are you eating well?”

  She smiled. “I take care of myself, Mrs. Kent. You have no need to worry about me.”

  “But I do! You were always the shy, quiet one, staying in a corner with a book when you should be out playing in the fresh air. It’s all well and good to nourish the mind, but the body requires just as much exercise.”

  “Oh, my body gets plenty of exercise, Mrs. Kent. Never fear.”

  The old lady shook her head, looking at Emma’s chapped fingers. “And where are your gloves?”

  She’d forgotten them, left them behind at the the
atre. “I must have lost them somewhere.”

  “Tsk tsk. Always leaving things behind. So careless, Emma. And look at your coat. Heavens above, it’s falling apart. What happened to the buttons? You must bring some to me and I’ll sew them on. Look. Half are missing.”

  Emma chuckled, looking down at her old coat. “True, it has seen better days, but it’s a favorite of mine.” She’d outgrown it several years ago, but couldn’t bring herself to part with it. Although she now earned enough money to afford plenty of fine clothes, and had been known to swoon over a fine silk frock, Emma saved a few reminders of the past. She kept her feet on the ground, determined never to become so dependent on luxury that it made her vulnerable, unable to survive without it. Her worn-down boots and ill-fitting coat served to keep Holly O’Neil in check, should that spoiled missy be in danger of forgetting where she came from. “I still have my red scarf, you see.” She held it out to show the old lady. “You bought it for me, remember, before I left London.”

  Mrs. Kent shook her head, lips pursed, eyes somber, heavy with concern for her young friend, “You should not have come back, Emma. If the Duke of Penhale finds you’re back …he’s such a vengeful ogre, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  Emma thought about him tearing open the hooks on her corset, his breath warming the side of her neck as he leaned into her. She fanned herself with Nurse Hobbs’ magazine. “I’m sure the Duke of Penhale has forgotten all about me. He must have many other, far more important things on his mind.” And many other women, she thought acidly. Surely he wouldn’t spare a thought for the girl who, twelve years ago, fired a bullet at him. It was probably not the first, or last, time he found himself the target of a woman with a temper.

  Marcus Craven would never look twice at Emma Hale. He preferred the gaudy sort, like tempestuous Holly O’Neil, with her tumble of bright auburn hair and painted lips. Beside Holly, Emma Hale and her old coat faded into the woodwork.

  * * * *

  He’d faced the sizeable dilemma of a wife for some years, but never found what he was looking for. His stoutly, opinionated mother, on one of her recent, unannounced, military-style assaults, had reminded him of two important facts. First, he needn’t expect to be happy in marriage. Second, a Craven heir to the Penhale estate could only be made with the help of a legitimate wife, however tiresome he might think the whole ordeal.

  “Find yourself a bride, Marcus. Beget an heir and your life will not have been entirely wasted.” He was, she reminded him, a blight on the family escutcheon. But at least he didn’t have to get out of bed to create an heir. “With your reputation to consider, I have no high hopes of a great match, but there must be someone who can overlook your failings.”

  Finally, to end her nagging, he promised to bring home a wife by Christmas. He’d set about the process at once, but, like most things, it was not going as smoothly as he’d hoped. Tonight, when his fellow Elysium Club members were scornful of his likely success, Marcus went a step further, under the influence of several very good brandies, declaring he would, in fact, wed his bride by noon on Friday. The wager, written in ink, was now irreversible. It wasn’t the money that troubled him, but the loss of pride should he fail. Marcus Craven had never lost a wager in his life. Therefore, he could no longer procrastinate.

  Previous engagements had come about purely by mistake, or accident, and lasted no more than a few days. They also usually resulted in bodily injury, which, while taking him by surprise at the time, seemed inevitable upon further reflection. Maybe even part of a pattern. The Duke’s long-suffering valet, Gudgeon, had suggested that his master honed a talent for sabotaging his own engagements. Marcus insisted he was cursed.

  Sadly, he met very few women deemed suitable bride material. The good, harmless sort wisely steered clear of Marcus Craven, while there was always a distressing surfeit of hazardous females in his vicinity. He recently lamented this fact to Gudgeon, who calmly suggested his master might want to go outside during the daylight hours and visit a few places previously unexplored, such as a park or a church. It was advice Marcus heard, even recalled from time to time, but it was damned hard to break with routine.

  And there was always a certain stubborn idea in his mind. A small, angry face that peered at him through a mist, refusing to let him seriously consider any other woman.

  Falling into his carriage somewhere around the region of five in the morning, he sprawled against the button-tufted leather seat and was just closing his eyes for a nap when it happened.

  It was the red he saw first. Like a spark of flame in a dry, dead forest, her crimson scarf caught his attention through the moon-licked, rain-washed carriage window, bringing an abrupt end to his sleepy contemplation of the street. Otherwise, it might have been just another dreary homecoming from a night on the town, familiar in its predictable routine, even if it had little else to recommend it. But that warm shot of color amid the dawn slurry disrupted everything and woke him from a torpid stupor as effectively as an alarm bell.

  Marcus tapped his knuckles on the carriage roof and the horses jibbed to a shuddering, snorting halt. Briefly, he considered the mistake he was about to make by involving himself in a matter that was not really his fault, but something very unusual and particularly bothersome forced him to stop the carriage. Much to his amazement, he conceded it must be his conscience, an item previously notable for its absence, wheezing to life.

  He lowered the sash window and rain spat in his weary face. Better take the umbrella, he thought, fumbling for it in the shadowy carriage interior. It seemed the careless woman didn’t have the foresight to bring one out with her, nor wear a hat.

  Lurching out of his carriage, he looked for the woman in the red scarf. She was exactly where he last saw her, at the edge of the pavement, under a gas lamp, only slightly more attractive than a drowned rat. The front of her coat was splattered with wet mud and slush, which had also splashed her face and darkened the loose ends of her brown hair. As he approached, Marcus anticipated the first strike of her tongue. He’d had plenty of practice bracing for the wrath of a vengeful woman. No one’s feet were stomped upon by angry little heels quite so many times as his, no one’s face slapped so often. And upon whom else’s head should china ornaments be broken if not the Duke of Penhale’s? He was usually the most convenient enemy.

  But then she said, “Forgive me,” tearing his expectations asunder.

  So, she hadn’t yet identified him as a rogue of the first order who could ruin her reputation just by looking at her and probably ought to have his face slapped before he got any ideas.

  She was breathing too hard, her skin pale as the departing moon, her eyes very large. “I wasn’t looking,” she added. “It was my fault.”

  An interesting development. Cautiously, his insides uncurled, but only a little. She could, of course, be up to something. Women generally were. He held the umbrella over them, although in her case it was too late for that. The creature couldn’t get much wetter if she fell off Tower Bridge.

  “Your coat.” he muttered. “You must allow me to have it cleaned, madam.” She was probably in shock now, but would send him a bill later with a solicitor’s letter. Once she knew who he was, she would certainly expect monetary compensation for her coat.

  “That really isn’t necessary, sir. Excuse me.” Her voice was polite, well-modulated, but quite insistent, rather like a very proper, faintly impatient schoolmistress.

  “Perhaps you would rather I buy you a new coat. That one is rather unflattering, ill-made, and distinctly shabby.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And it looks as if you outgrew it some years ago.”

  Her lips flapped. Finally, she sputtered, “Excuse me. I’ll just take my ugly, cheap coat and be on my way.”

  When he didn’t move out of her path, she swept him with a wintry glare, cold and brisk. Her lashes were as lengthy as the legs of a wily spider, plentiful as those of a centipede. Oh yes, there would definitely be a solicit
or’s letter tomorrow. Perhaps she was already calculating an outrageous claim for the cost of her clothing, her shoes, and her non-existent hat. For some spurious injury, too, thrown in for good measure. Once she realized who he was, his reputation would inspire all manner of accusations.

  Nudging him aside with her pointy elbow, she would have run off, had he not captured her wet sleeve in his fingers, tugging her back.

  “Please accept the services of my carriage, madam. I can deliver you safely to your destination at a much greater speed. And in the dry.”

  There! He wouldn’t give her the slightest chance to complain later that the Duke of Penhale treated her in any way other than gentlemanly. His mother, not to mention his solicitor, would be proud of him for thinking of the consequences for once. If that was, in fact, what he was concerned about, rather than getting this bedraggled waif into the private quarters of his carriage.

  “I don’t generally accept rides from strangers.”

  “Nor do I offer them to strangers. It seems we must both be on our guard.”

  She looked down the street. “It’s not that far.”

  “It’s a very unsafe hour for you to be out alone, madam.” Before she could pull her sleeve away, he tightened his grip. “And it’s raining.”

  “A little rain never hurt anybody.”

  “On the contrary. The obituaries are full of stubborn women who probably said the very same thing before influenza sent them to an early grave. Not to mention the scores of tragically trampled females caught airily daydreaming in front of fast horses. The Times has an entire section for them.”

  She looked up, only as far as his lips, then immediately back down to his waistcoat. “You might be a kidnapper, an abductor and molester of innocent women.”

  “You might be a highway robber, or a woman of ill-repute. Or an infamous body-snatcher. Now that I think of it, you could be all three. You have the face for it.”