Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes)

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Twice Tempted

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To Karyn
Who always sees the things I don’t.
Thanks. Chinese is on me.
Acknowledgments

Once again I would like to extend my thanks to everyone who helped me create my worlds. Of course to Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, my family at Grand Central; my brilliant ADD sister Amy Pierpont, for directing my wandering path, to Lauren Plude for her priceless assistance, Claire Brown and the peerless Grand Central art department for my exquisite covers, and Leda Scheintaub for copyediting. Special mention to my assistant, Maggie Mae Gallagher, for keeping me sane. To my writing families: always the Divas, MoRWA, the Published Author’s Group, the As Yet Unnamed Plotting Group in a Penthouse. To all my fans and supporters out there who make it worthwhile to write stories.

Specific thanks to everyone who helped me research and write a trilogy that suddenly involved early nineteenth-century science (I have a bibliography on www.eileendreyer.com). To the generous people of Lyme Regis who shared their stories with me. To my hosts in Ireland who let me run away to write. To my friends at Wired Coffee, and, of course, to my Rick, who kicks me out to write when it’s needed and never asks if the damn thing’s done yet. The damn thing’s done.

Prologue

October 1815

Later, no one would be able to agree as to exactly what happened on the HMS
Reliance
that night. The witnesses were too many and the action too sudden to gain a coherent story.

What everyone did agree on was that about two hours after dusk, the Duke of Wellington came up on the deck of the ship, a fast brig that was carrying him home from France. Surrounded by several of his staff, the very recent hero of Waterloo and military governor of France was in an excellent mood, the distinctive bray of his laugh carrying out over the choppy water as he cupped his hands to light a cigarillo. The waxing moon slung a thin necklace of diamonds across the water, and the wind was freshening. Off to port, the coast of Dorset appeared a black void against the diamond-rich sky, which put them two days out of the port of London.

The second fact no one could dispute was that when the group came up on deck, one man could easily be distinguished among them. Standing well over six feet, Colonel Ian Ferguson of the Black Watch towered over his commander. It wasn’t only his height that made him memorable. Even in the uncertain light of the night-running lanterns, his hair shone like fire, and his shoulders were as wide as a Yule log.

In the few days he’d been with the duke, Ferguson had proved himself to be loud, funny, fierce, and uncompromising. And even though he proclaimed himself a loyal Scot, he swore he was Wellington’s man. Which was why it was so puzzling that he would pull out a gun and point it right at the duke.

“A gun!” someone yelled. “To the duke!”

Chaos erupted on the deck. Men scattered, shouting warnings and commands. Others threw themselves in front of the great man. Swords were drawn. Several men must have had guns, because suddenly there was a staccato pop-pop-popping. Acrid puffs of smoke cut visibility, and the ship heeled a bit as the steersman ran to help. Some men prayed, one wept, and the Duke of Wellington, much as he had on innumerable battlefields, stood his ground, a cigarillo in hand and a bemused expression on his face.

“What the devil?” he demanded, looking down to where a man lay on the deck at his feet.

The deck stilled suddenly, the smoke writhing about the men and sharpening the air as the sails flapped uselessly above them. Bare feet thundered below as the crew roused to the alarm.

“He tried to shoot you!” one of his aides accused, already on the run to the railings.

“What?” Wellington barked, his focus still down. “Simmons here? Don’t be ridiculous. Get more lamps lit. Let’s see what’s going on here.”

There was no question that Simmons was dead. A sluggish pool of black blood spread out from behind his head, and his eyes stared open and fixed on the heavens. One of the crew retrieved the man’s pistol from his outstretched hand and stood.

“No, sir,” one of the officers said as he bent over Simmons. “Ferguson.”

“Who?” Wellington demanded, finally turning to look.

“That Scotsman. The one who tried to shoot you!”

“Ferguson?” Wellington stopped on the spot. “Bollocks.”

One of his newer aides, the Honorable Horace Stricker, stepped out of the shadows, holding on to a bleeding arm. “Saw him myself, your grace. Pointed that popper right at you.”

Wellington pointed at the body on the deck. “And Simmons here?”

Everyone looked around, as if seeking answers.

“He must have gotten in the way of Ferguson’s bullet,” Stricker said. “I shot the Scot. Where is he?”

Two people pointed over the side of the ship. One of Wellington’s staff pocketed Simmons’s pistol. The bo’sun ran up with several lighted lanterns, which cast an eerie, wavering light over the scene.

“Well, find him,” Wellington demanded. “I’ll be in my cabin.”

All came to attention as he passed, but Wellington didn’t seem to notice. He seemed preoccupied, shaking his head slightly, as if wiping something away. More than one sailor commented that he looked sadder at the news of who his attacker was than the fact that he’d been attacked at all.

“Hard aport!” the captain bellowed, and men scrambled into the rigging. The ship heeled again, more sharply. “Man the halyards! Prepare to shorten sail and come about!”

Beneath the quick little ship, the water of the channel passed in choppy, frothed waves. The wind was stiff this night, ten knots from the northeast. Any man out in that water would be sorry.

Ian Ferguson was damn sorry. Bobbing up like a punctured cork, he shook the water from his eyes and looked up at the slowing ship, a hand pressed to the sharp ache in his chest. He couldn’t figure out what had just happened. He’d come up on deck to share a cigar with Wellington. The next thing he knew, that little
riataiche
Stricker was pointing a gun at the general.

Ian had reacted instinctively, pulling his own gun and firing at Stricker. Immediately there were guns everywhere, a succession of shots, and suddenly he’d been knocked hard in the chest and catapulted right over the railings. He’d hit the cold channel water with barely a splash.

Did he save Wellington? Had he hit Stricker? God and the Bruce, he hoped so.

Come to think of it, what about that hit to
his
chest? Kicking hard to stay above the swells, he took a second to look down. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see in the dark water. Blood, maybe. There was a hole in his jacket; he put his finger through it. No injury, though, except for a tender spot over his ribs. He was breathing well and didn’t feel that awful disintegration that came with real injury.

“There he is!” somebody shouted above him.

Ian looked up to see the lighter being hoisted out. A bouquet of heads appeared at the rail, haloed by the thin light of the lanterns. Ian lifted a hand to wave. He heard a sharp snapping sound, and the water near him leapt. Ian froze. Hell and damnation, they were firing at him!

He opened his mouth to shout. Another gun fired.

“Shouldn’t we get him on board?” Ian heard from the first officer.

“And waste time with a court martial?” came the furious answer.

Ian cursed. He hadn’t killed Stricker after all. Now he had to find a way to prove that it was Stricker who had fired the first shot. That Stricker’s cabin was where he’d found the flask. The flask that should have been back at Horse Guards. The flask that he’d . . .

Ian laid his hand back against his chest. He smiled. No wonder he hadn’t been hurt. The silver flask wouldn’t hold a dram anymore, but sure, he bet it held a flattened bullet.

So, Stricker wanted him dead. He’d just see about that.

“Reloaded, sir,” came the faint call.

“Get him before the moon disappears.”

Ian saw the muzzle lowered over the side. A Brown Bess. He sucked in a lungful of air and dove. The pain and the crack came at the same moment. Blast. The bastard had hit him. The air whooshed out of his lung and Ian sank.

This time he didn’t come up.

Chapter 1

Ten days later

Sarah Clarke was not going to let a pig get the best of her. Especially not this pig.

“Willoughby!” she called as she scrambled over the broken fence.

Blast that pig. She had even tied him up this time. But the pen was empty, the wood on one side shattered, and precise little hoof prints marched away through the mud.

Sarah took a brief look at the stone outbuildings that clustered around the old stable. She could hear rustling and creaking, which meant the animals had heard Willoughby escape. But there were no telltale porcine snortings or squeals. If she knew her pig, he was headed due south, straight for disaster.

Sarah rubbed at her eyes. “The cliffs. It had to be the cliffs.”

She hated the cliffs. She hated the height and the uncertain edge and the long, sudden drop she had almost made on more than one occasion all the way to the shingle beach below. Just the thought of facing them made her nauseous.

“I have better things to do,” she protested to no one.

It was closing in on evening, and she should be feeding her animals. She needed to help Mr. Hicks rescue the sheep who had taken advantage of another fallen fence to wander in among Sir Magnus’s prized Devon Longwools. Then she needed to inspect the debris that seemed to be diverting the stream into her wheat field. Instead she would be dancing on the edge of death to collect her pig.

She sighed. She had no choice. Willoughby was Fairbourne’s best source of income. And he was in imminent danger of tumbling off the edge of Britain.

Ducking into the barn to retrieve her secret weapon, she picked up her skirts and ran for the path that snaked through the beech spinney. It was the same route Willoughby had taken the day before and the week before that.

Oh, why couldn’t he become enamored of an animal in his own farmyard?

“If it weren’t for the fact that you are such a good provider,” she muttered, pushing her hair out of her eyes with one hand as she ran, “I’d leave you to your fate. Stupid, blind, pig-headed…well, I guess you would be, wouldn’t you?”

Both pig-headed
and
blind. One of her husband, Boswell’s, few good ideas, Willoughby was a new breed called the Large Black, which produced lovely gammon and even lovelier babies. He also had ears that were so large they flopped over his eyes, making it difficult for him to see. The problem was, Willoughby didn’t seem to notice until he was trapped in mire or running right over a crumbling escarpment.

Why couldn’t Fairbourne have been situated farther away from the sea? Sarah mourned as she wove her way through the wood. Somewhere like, oh, she didn’t know, Oxford. Quiet, dry, and relatively clean. Away from oceans or high cliffs, with libraries that held more than Debrett’s and gothic novels. Yes, especially libraries.

Not that she had ever actually seen Oxford. But she had always thought how wonderful it must be to stroll the stone walks and smooth greens that stretched beneath golden spires, soaking in the history, the culture, the learned discourse of men in flapping black robes. Books and lectures and good dinner conversation. No mud, no mucking out, no pigs of any stripe. But especially no Great Blacks with a predilection for falling in love with inappropriate species.

His latest
amour
resided in Squire Bovey’s pastures, which were reached by way of the coastline. The coastline, which at this point was a cliff several hundred feet above the Channel and apt to crumble for no reason.

Sarah was still running when she burst through the trees into a hard blast of cold Channel wind. She stumbled to a halt, her heart stuttering. Beyond her the land rolled away, barren of all but bracken as far as the jagged, uncertain cliffs. She could see the better part of a mile both ways. She did not see her pig.

Oh, lord, please don’t let him have gone over. He’s the difference between getting by and going hungry.

She was still standing fifty feet from the cliff working up the nerve to get close enough for a look down when she caught the sound of a plaintive squeal. Whipping around, she gaped. She couldn’t believe it. There, tucked into the spinney not ten feet away, stood Willoughby, securely tied to a tree. He didn’t look happy, but Willoughby never looked pleased when his plans were thwarted.