Too Hot For A Rake Read online

  SEDUCTION

  “You have no choice in the matter, love,” Helena said. “It is I who mean to seduce you. You cannot be so boorish as to refuse a lady’s request, can you?”

  He took his hand away. “I’m a rake, my dear. I promised not to ruin your reputation. I gave your brother-in-law my word on it. You are an innocent, Helena. Don’t force me into taking advantage of your innocence.”

  She shoved his hand away when he attempted to refasten her bodice. “Reputation be damned, Waverley. I want you. Doesn’t that count for anything? I thought you felt the same for me.”

  His mocking words cut like a knife. “I have feelings of lust for every pretty lass who comes my way. I have a reputation to uphold, you see.”

  “Is that all I am to you? Just another pretty lass? Don’t you want me?”

  “Want you? Don’t tempt me any further, love, lest the consequences destroy us both….”

  Books by Pearl Wolf

  TOO HOT FOR A SPY

  TOO HOT FOR A RAKE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Too Hot For a Rake

  Pearl Wolf

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To Evan Marshall

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It has been my privilege to work with Kensington Editor-in-Chief John Scognamiglio, who guides my manuscripts so expertly through the publishing process. On the way, he’s taught me to be a better writer and for this he earns my respect and my gratitude.

  I also owe a great deal to my critique partner Shelley Freydont, for her insights and her unfailing support in a million ways.

  Ohio surgeon Dr. Rick Nedelman gives freely of his time when I post my medical questions about injuries from duels and such. Bless the man!

  I like to think I am meticulous in my research, particularly since this is a historical romance. Still, the best of us make mistakes. If you find any in this work, be sure to let me know and please accept my apologies.

  —Pearl Wolf

  Web: www.pearlwolf.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Paris: Sunday, the Twenty-second of March, 1818

  A young Englishman stepped out of the hired chaise, his face at once assaulted by the icy March winds. He shuddered against the inhospitable cold that bit into him and raised his eyes to the formidable facade of Le Chabanais.

  To keep his beaver hat from blowing away, he held it firmly in place as he climbed the steps of the building, an establishment that took its name from its location: 12 rue Chabanais. He raised the knocker on the door, let it fall and waited. One eye appeared through a small hole.

  “I’ve come to see Lord Bannington. Is he at home?” He pressed his calling card to the hole.

  The door opened a crack and a hand snaked out to snatch the card from him. “I shall inquire if monsieur is at home.”

  When the door clanked shut, the man had to content himself with stamping his feet to keep from freezing. He raised his fist to bang the knocker again, but the ponderous oaken door swung open.

  “Entréz, s’il vous plait, monsieur.” The man led him through a dimly lit hall that opened into a large room where the visitor was at once blinded by the blaze of hundreds of candles.

  He handed his coat, hat, muffler and gloves to a footman and surveyed the scene. The mirrored room was the size of a large London ballroom. Its walls were lined with red banquettes. Young ladies in various states of undress lounged on them, apparently awaiting the arrival of male clientele, a reasonable assumption considering the nature of the business conducted at 12 rue Chabanais. Someone behind him tapped a fan on his shoulder. He turned, startled by the astonishing sight of a tall, buxom woman of a certain age. She wore a low-cut black gown studded with crystals, long white gloves and a black lace mantilla attached to her hair, powdered in the French fashion.

  “Monsieur? Welcome to Le Chabanais. I am Madame Z’evareau. How may I serve you? Our salon offers the finest young ladies in Paris. But you can see that for yourself. How many of our ladies would you like this evening? One, two, more?”

  He took the hand she offered and bent to brush his lips over it, a gesture she appeared to expect. “No, madame. I am not here to be entertained this evening. I seek an audience with Lord Bannington. He resides here, does he not?”

  “Ah, oui. Le roué Anglais. He is our guest. The dear boy may be occupied at the moment, however. Allow me to inquire.” She turned and said to a young lady nearby, “Entertain the gentleman, Cecelie.” She hurried off, Darlington’s card in hand.

  “What is your pleasure?” Cecelie asked him. In spite of her painted rouged cheeks, charcoaled eyelids and short red hair, she could not have been more than sixteen. She wore a sheer white chemise over long black stockings and red high-heeled shoes.

  “I’m not here for your services, mademoiselle. I’ve come to see Lord Bannington.” He resisted the urge to loosen his neck cloth.

  The harlot giggled. “You are a friend of le roué Anglais? Then there shall be no charge, monsieur. He pays for all his friends.” She reached up to kiss him on the lips, but Darlington restrained her.

  “You do not like Cecelie? Perhaps you would prefer another…?”

  To his relief, Madame Z’evareau returned, saving him from further embarrassment.

  “Lord Bannington will see you now. Follow me, if you please.”

  He tried to ignore the snickers he heard and the lascivious ogling that followed him as he made his way past the red banquettes, but he reddened just the same.

  “Pay no attention to my girls, monsieur. Sunday evenings are always thin of visitors here at Le Chabanais. Our clientele prefer to remain at home with their families, you see. My little cocottes work hard all week. One must allow them the release of a bit of naughty mischief on Sundays.” She led him up the red-carpeted grand staircase to the first chamber on the left and knocked on the door.

  “Come,” a deep male voice said as she opened the door. “Thank you, Madame Z. You may leave us. Come in Darlington. Have we met before? I can’t recall, for I have an atrocious memory. Shocking, but there it is.”

  Desmond Bannington had dark hair streaked with hints of the sun and blue eyes the color of the sea. His lordship lounged on a large bed in the middle of the room. He wore nothing save loose black silk pantaloons, but the women in his bed wore nothing at all. His head reclined on the breasts of a young girl whose fingers played with his long curls. Another was trimming his nails while a third massaged his feet. Embarrassed, Darlington allowed his gaze to wander over his lordship’s opulent surroundings, his eyes fixing everywhere but on the bed.

  The chamber was large, its walls lined in red silk. The floors were covered with a carpet of Turkish design. The
ceiling revealed a scene filled with curvaceous women engaged in sensual couplings, and over the bed itself, a mirror the length and width of the bed was prominent. Opposite the headboard there stood a large desk and chair. Beyond that, a huge stone fireplace faced the footboard, two comfortable chairs on either side, a round table between them. A settee facing the fireplace completed the sitting area.

  “What do you think of my home, Darlington?” asked Bannington, much amused by the scandalized expression on the face of his visitor. “I prefer to live here, you know. Meets all my needs most conveniently.”

  “Handsome surroundings, but as marquis—”

  “Marquis? Why do you address me thus? I am Lord Bannington. I have had no other name for these past twelve years.”

  “So I have been informed, my lord.”

  “Why have you come? Who sent you?”

  “I must insist upon speaking with you alone, your lordship.”

  “Pay no attention to my playmates. None of them understand the English tongue. What is it you want of me?”

  “My mission is too sensitive. Privacy is essential, your lordship.”

  A condescending grin met Darlington’s plea. “As bad as all that, eh?” He turned to his companions. “All right, my lovelies. Party’s over.” He kissed each one in turn. “Amelié. Babette. Colette. Be off with you, my delectable ABCs. I’ll send for you later,” he said, lightly patting each one on the derrière after each kissed him adieu.

  When the giggling trio put on their robes and danced out the door, Waverley said, “You shall join me for dinner, old chap. The food’s excellent, and I am starving.” He rang and at once a small brown man appeared as if from nowhere. He wore a turban, a yellow satin coat, black tights and shoes with turned-up toes.

  “Dinner for two, Rabu. Tell Madame Z we should like two bottles of her best wine and some French brandy.”

  “Yes, mastah!” As he bowed his head, he almost touched the tips of his shoes.

  “You seem shocked, Darlington. This is my valet Rabu. I lived in India for years, you see. The little devil adopted me there and I cannot rid myself of him no matter how hard I try. One must be gracious in defeat, mustn’t one?” He rose from his bed as he spoke, donned a dressing gown and slid his feet into slippers.

  “Le Chabanais is the finest bordello in Paris, you know, which is why I choose to live here. It is well known for its cuisine, thanks to Madame Z’s outstanding chef. Let us sit by the fire, sir. You can tell me your business after we finish our dinner.” Waverley sprawled in a seat opposite Darlington and took some snuff from an ornate box resting on the small table beside his chair.

  In spite of himself, Darlington enjoyed every bit of the French cuisine, the delicious food a rare treat for him. The first course was a delicate turtle soup. The second was a ragout of beef, which proved to be succulent. The meal ended with a chocolate soufflé that defied description. When Rabu cleared the last of the dirty dishes, he set the brandy on the table along with a bowl of nuts and some fruit.

  “Leave us,” said Bannington, dismissing his valet with a wave of his hand. He waited for Rabu to disappear through a side door. “We are alone now, sir. What brings you to Paris?”

  “I have been searching for you for almost a year, your lordship. I am an envoy from the home office, sent to find you.”

  “Really? What can the home office possibly want with an expatriate like me?”

  Ignoring this for the moment, Darlington said, a hint of frustration in his tone, “I made my way to India to seek you, but you had already left that country.”

  “Ah, India. I lived in Calcutta for ten years. It is where I made my fortune, more to luck than to business acumen, I might add.”

  “You led me a merry chase all over Europe, my lord. My search led me to Greece, Italy, and Spain, all to no avail.”

  His host’s brow furrowed. “Come to the point, Darlington. Why were you sent to seek me out?”

  “Prince George, our Regent, most urgently requests your return to England, my lord.”

  Waverley was amused by the young man’s pompous turn of phrase, but he ignored it. “The Regent? How is this?”

  “The Third Marquis of Waverley, your father, passed away a year ago. His Majesty is anxious for you to return to take his place.”

  Bannington’s eyes widened. “Then I am the Fourth Marquis of Waverley?” He laughed, a sound tinged with resentment.

  “Sir?”

  “If my father knew I was being summoned home to England to take his place, he would rise from his grave to protest, for there was no love lost between us. This is the first communication I’ve had from him since he disowned me twelve years ago. Inform Prince George that I renounce my right to the marquisate. I have no reason to return, for I have fashioned a life in Paris that suits me well. I have many friends here, and none in England. Besides, there is no longer anyone alive at Waverley Castle now that my father is dead.” Now that my father is dead, there is no longer any opportunity for reconciliation, though God knows I tried more than once during my long exile.

  “You mistake, my lord. Your grandmother is alive. Her ladyship lives at Waverley Castle.”

  Thunderstruck by this news, Bannington turned pale. “My grandmother is still alive? You can’t be serious. I thought she died years ago.”

  “No, my lord. Your grandmother is eighty years old and very much alive.”

  “Is she being well cared for?”

  “I can’t answer that question, my lord. Six months ago, distant cousins took up residence at Waverley, to care for your grandmother.”

  “Their names?”

  “Mrs. Jennie Trasker and her son Harry.”

  “Never heard of them. How do you come by all this information, Darlington?”

  “My information comes from the intelligence division of the home office. It is entirely reliable, though not public knowledge, my lord. I must urge you to reconsider and accept the marquisate, for the sake of England if not for your grandmother. If you do not, Harry Trasker is next in line. My information is that he is ill equipped to take your father’s place.”

  Bannington stared into the embers in the fireplace as if they held the answer for him. Grandmother alive? Does she still love the lad I once was or did my unforgiving father forbid her to communicate with me? All these years I thought I had no family. Now I have a grandmother and two cousins. I must return, if only for her sake. A gamble, to be sure, but no worse than the risks I’ve been forced to take all my life. Waverley Castle. I loved it well once. Aloud he said, “If I decide to return, what then?”

  Darlington relaxed for the first time, for this was his area of expertise. “When you return to London, you will find a warm welcome awaiting you. Viscount Sidmouth, the home secretary, is most anxious to welcome you. You may count on him to counsel you in light of this…delicate situation.”

  “Delicate? Have you been withholding something from me? Is my grandmother in any danger?”

  “I have not been so informed, but I cannot say for a certainty.”

  Desmond again stared into the fire, struggling with his conscience. He recalled a gentle lady who loved him well. At last he spoke. “If my grandmother is alive, I have no choice but to return to England.”

  The envoy looked relieved. “It is my duty to escort you to London for your investiture by the Regent. How soon can you be ready to leave, your lordship?”

  Bannington’s brow cleared and he smiled. “How long have you been searching for me?”

  “I’ve been away from my home for more than a year.”

  “Have you a wife? Family?”

  “No, your lordship. But I am betrothed.”

  “I wish you happy, old chap. All right. I’ll be ready as soon as may be.”

  “Appreciate it, sir.”

  “I need time to wind up my affairs here. Shouldn’t take more than a few days at the most. Will that do?”

  “Yes, of course. With your permission, I’ll arrange for a carriage to take
us to Calais, where I can book our passage to Dover.”

  “Order two carriages, one for Rabu and all my possessions and one for the two of us. Which reminds me. I haven’t any place to stay. I have no idea whether my father’s London domicile is habitable and hotels frown on my little Indian, which makes me uncomfortable. Any suggestions?”

  “I would be honored if you were to accept my hospitality, your lordship. You may stay as long as you need to arrange your affairs. I live in Mayfair, an easy ride to Carlton House where you shall meet with the Prince Regent.”

  “You are an excellent fellow, Darlington. I accept your offer.”

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, April Fools’ Day, 1818

  London

  Lady Helena Fairchild shivered in anticipation as she stole across the lawn. The night was misted in fog. Only the dim glow of the street lamps pierced the gloom. She paused in the shadows of the familiar oak tree and stopped to listen. When she heard no sounds from within or without the town house, she gathered her silk gown, tucked it into her pantalets, turned and climbed the tree.

  With customary ease, she slithered along a sturdy branch that led to the balcony. Her hands and feet found purchase on the ornate grillwork and she let go of the tree limb. It snapped back with such a loud crack, she froze, waited a heart-stopping moment, and then eased herself over the balustrade. The door was ajar. She stepped into Darlington’s chamber and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark.

  She followed the sound of gentle snores coming from the bed a few steps away. The drapes were not drawn, for the night was warm, one of those rare April nights that made the air feel as if it were already the middle of May. Her fingers trembled as she loosened the ribbons of her bodice. She pushed both sleeves off her shoulders and shifted her gown to undo the back buttons. It slipped from her hips and fell to the floor. She removed her chemise and her pantalets. A shock of cold air bruised her nude body. An irregular mountain of discarded clothing rested on the Aubusson rug.