Rake's Reward

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‘Be careful, my friend.’ Lady Marchant was not purring any longer. There was an edge of malice in her voice and her feline eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘Your Katharina takes too many risks. Her husband may not be quite so forgiving, now that you are no longer in Vienna. There, he was just another minor aristocrat. Here, he is a diplomatic representative of the Hapsburg Empire. A scandal would ruin him.’ She dropped a tiny, impudent curtsy. ‘And it could happen so very easily, do you not think?’

Clever. And still dangerous. She was well named. Kit looked her full in the face. Yes, they understood each other. ‘I thank you for your invitation, Méchante. And for your wise words.’ He bowed again and turned to take his hat and cane from the servant. ‘Now, I must bid you goodnight. A most interesting evening. I am indebted to you.’

Her brittle laugh followed him down the steps and into the crisp night air.

It was very late. Katharina would have tired of waiting for him. She would have gone back to her husband. She would have been mad to stay till now.

Kit closed the door quietly behind him and made his way up the stairs of the snug Chelsea house he had rented for their assignations. He would sleep here for a few hours. Tomorrow—later today, rather—he would find Katharina and apologise. She would forgive him…probably. And if she chose to exact a penance, well…that would be enjoyable, too.

He smelt her perfume even before he opened the door to their bedchamber. He breathed it in deeply, trying to conjure up memories of her body under his. Such a pity that she had gone.

‘Kätchen!’

The Baroness Katharina von Thalberg lay sprawled across the huge bed, idly leafing through a magazine. She turned in surprise at the sound of her pet name and, for a second, a tiny frown creased her brow. ‘Du kommst spät,’ she began, rolling over on to her back to look up at him with huge dark eyes full of hurt and accusation.

‘Auf Englisch, Kätchen,’ he said wearily. She had every right to complain of his lateness, but he was in no mood for one of her scenes. She need not have waited, after all. He returned to the charge. ‘You are in London now. Here, you must speak English.’

The Baroness made a face. ‘So you say,’ she replied. ‘I do not see why so. We are alone, are we not? We may speak in any language we choose. Français, peutêtre?’

Kit pressed his lips together to suppress a sharp retort. She could be remarkably provocative, his little Austrian. And this was the wrong time. ‘No, madame. English,’ he said firmly, beginning to strip off his coat. He stretched his long body on the bed beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘But words are dangerous. They can betray us…in any language.’

He ran a lazy finger down the inside of her deep décolletage until it came to rest in the shadow between her perfect breasts. He began to stroke her skin as gently as if he were wafting a feather fan across a rose petal. Katharina closed her eyes in ecstasy.

‘And what need have we of words?’ Kit whispered. His lips were so close to her cheek that each word was a caress on her skin. She sighed out a long, shuddering breath.

Kit gazed down at the ravishing picture she made. His body was beginning to heat. At last.

‘You have it exactly, my dear,’ he said softly.

Lady Luce’s hand was shaking as she raised the brandy balloon to her lips and tossed off the contents. ‘I should have left that house the moment I saw him,’ she said bitterly, collapsing into her favourite chair by the window. ‘He is the very devil. With the devil’s own luck.’

Marina nodded her understanding. There was no need to ask who was meant. It was strange to see the Dowager so…deflated.

Lady Luce groaned. ‘And as for William…’ She shook her head angrily at the thought of her son. ‘He will positively relish raking me down. Not that he will be given the chance,’ she added, straightening her shoulders a little. ‘Thought he could fool me. Foisting a gel like you on his mother to keep her in order. Who is the fool now, I say?’

So the Dowager had known all along. Marina was not at all surprised. The old lady was very sharp. And her son was…not his mother’s equal. Not that it made any difference, as far as the companion was concerned. The Earl might be somewhat lacking in brains, but he had the ability to send Marina packing.

The Dowager held out her balloon to be refilled. Obediently, Marina fetched the decanter and splashed some of the amber liquid into it. Lady Luce snorted. ‘That’s not even a mouthful.’ She shook the glass impatiently until Marina added considerably more. ‘Better,’ she said. ‘And you should have some, too.’

‘Oh, no, ma’am. I never drink spirits. I—’

‘Fetch another glass. You will need it. You have a difficult day ahead of you. William will see to that. Just the sort of thing he enjoys.’

The Dowager was right. In the next twenty-four hours, Marina was like to be dismissed. Her stomach turned over at the thought of the coming interview with Lady Luce’s dreadful son. She sipped tentatively at her brandy and gasped as it burned its way down. ‘Good grief,’ she choked out at last. ‘Do people really drink this for pleasure?’

Lady Luce laughed. She reached out her scrawny hand and placed it over Marina’s smoother one. ‘You have courage, Marina. I’ll give you that. And I’ll not let that arrogant son of mine bully you, or send you packing.’

Marina looked up in surprise.

‘Why did you think I took you to Méchante’s tonight? Did you think it was chance?’ She shook her head at Marina’s obvious incomprehension. ‘I have no intention of permitting William to order my life. Not in any way. I took you to that gambling den to show him—and you—that I shall play whenever, and wherever, I wish. He cannot stop me. And setting up a chit of a governess to watch over me will not stop me either.’

Marina felt herself blushing. ‘I…I did not…’

‘No, you did not. I’d have discharged you myself if I had thought for a moment that you were William’s tool. As it is, he promised me a companion, all expenses paid. I shall hold him to our bargain.’

Marina gulped. Life was like to become extremely unpleasant if the old lady and her son used her as a pawn in their endless trials of strength. And with a loss of twelve thousand pounds to sharpen the contest…

Lady Luce held out her glass for another refill. Then she sat for a long time, cradling her brandy and staring vacantly towards the wall.

She must be thinking about the money, Marina decided. She cannot possibly find such a huge sum. Especially not in one week.

‘He was determined on his revenge,’ said the Dowager, musingly. ‘I suppose I cannot blame him. He was word-perfect, too. I should have known he would be.’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am? I’m afraid I do not quite follow…’

‘No reason why you should. And I wasn’t talking to you, in any event.’ At Marina’s sharp intake of breath, she softened the merest fraction. ‘Oh, you will come to learn it all in the end, I suppose. Best that I tell you myself. Can’t have you hearing gossip from the servants. Wouldn’t get the facts right, I dare say.’ Lady Luce chuckled a little at her own wit. ‘There is not much to tell. Several years ago, when Kit Stratton was barely out of leading strings, he lost five thousand pounds to me. I was in pretty deep myself at the time and could not afford to give him time to pay…or even an opportunity to recoup his losses. I demanded payment in seven days. I used those very words. He has been waiting his chance for revenge ever since.’

The story did not sound in the least plausible to Marina. Gentlemen lost thousands of pounds at play all the time. Why should Kit Stratton be bent on vengeance? Against a woman, too?

Her doubts must have been obvious, for Lady Luce looked somewhat shamefaced. ‘He paid,’ she said hoarsely, ‘on the nail. I found out later that his brother Hugo had given him the money—out of his wife’s dowry. They had been married less than a week. Kit was sent abroad soon after.’

‘Oh,’ breathed Marina. No wonder Kit Stratton had felt humiliated. And what of the brother? What had Hugo Stratton thought of it all? Had Hugo Stratton really sent his brother into exile? He— Hugo Stratton? Now she knew why the name had seemed familiar!

The Dowager was beginning to ramble. It must be the effects of too much brandy. ‘Can’t say I blame the boy. My own fault. Let him think I was doing it out of malice when it was really William’s fault. Insisted he couldn’t afford to tow me out of River Tick. I couldn’t admit that to young Stratton, could I? But to use the very same words…’ She raised her glass yet again.

‘Do you know Hugo Stratton, ma’am? The brother?’

‘What? Yes. No. Well…we are barely acquainted, but everyone knows about him. He’s as rich as Croesus since his brother died, never mind the money from his wife. Doesn’t come up to London much. Got out of the habit after the war, they say, because he hated being stared at.’

‘Stared at?’

‘He was badly wounded. Waterloo, I think.’ The Dowager frowned. ‘Why all this sudden interest in Sir Hugo Stratton? What is he to you, miss?’

Marina swallowed. ‘I think he may have served with my father, ma’am,’ she said quietly, gazing down at her skirts. ‘In Spain. I think he fought in the battle where my father and my uncle died.’

Lady Luce said nothing. She simply reached for the brandy decanter and tipped a generous measure into Marina’s glass.

Marina tried in vain to find a comfortable position in her bed. It must be nearly dawn. Her head was pounding, but she could not possibly sleep. What on earth had possessed the Dowager to give her brandy? Her brain was refusing to function.

She tried again.

Kit Stratton was Sir Hugo Stratton’s younger brother. And a Captain Hugo Stratton had been her uncle’s closest friend. They had served together for years. According to Uncle George, Hugo Stratton was the best friend, and the staunchest comrade, that a man could wish for. It was partly due to Captain Stratton’s influence that Marina’s father had joined the 95th. It was not Captain Stratton’s fault that the brothers had died so soon after.

Kit Stratton could not be as bad as he was painted. It was not possible. Not if he was Hugo Stratton’s brother. And he must be. It was an unusual name. Perhaps Kit had had other reasons for his hatred of the Dowager. Perhaps his insult to Marina herself was simply an unconscious continuation of his harshness at the card table. Perhaps…

There was no way of knowing, unless she found out for herself.

Yes, that was the answer. She would seek out Kit Stratton and ask him to forgive the Dowager’s debt. If necessary, she would ask him to do it in memory of her uncle and her father—and for his brother Hugo’s sake. No gentleman could possibly deny such a request.

The thought of such an interview made her stomach churn. She would have to abandon the last shreds of her pride to make her appeal, and if he treated her with the same degree of contempt as before… She shivered. She was not sure she could bear that.

Was he a gentleman at all?

It was true that the Dowager had rambled on for what seemed like hours about Kit Stratton’s way of life, his mistresses, his fine clothes, his carriages, his horses… He had all the outward attributes of a very wealthy gentleman. But did he have a sense of honour to go with his high-couraged horses?

Marina smiled weakly. The horses had provided her solution. She rather wished they had not. Kit Stratton exercised his horses in the park every morning, come rain, come shine, no matter how great his indulgence the night before. According to the Dowager, it was one of his few saving graces.

He would be in the park tomorrow morning. No—in just a few hours. She had only to go there and confront him. As a gentleman, he could not fail to listen to a lady’s pleas.

That was not true.

He could spurn her without a moment’s hesitation. He had done so once already, knowing perfectly well that she was a lady. He could do so again, unless she could find some way of breaking through his armoured exterior.

Her own pride did not matter. It was her duty to protect her family—and to do so, she must retain her position with Lady Luce. To save the Dowager, she must challenge Kit Stratton.

Why did he have to ride such a huge animal? Kit Stratton’s bay stallion must be seventeen hands or more. Marina felt completely dwarfed by horse and rider. Would he even condescend to rein in to greet her? He could not mistake the fact that she wished to speak to him.

Kit touched his crop carelessly to his hat, using his other hand to bring his horse to a stand with practised ease. There was a sardonic gleam in his eye as he looked down at her. ‘You are about betimes, ma’am,’ he said. His gaze wandered lazily around the park before coming back to rest on Marina’s shabby figure. ‘And you appear to have…mislaid your maid.’

‘A companion does not have a maid,’ snapped Marina, ‘as you know very well, Mr Stratton.’

His eyebrows shot up. Then he nodded slowly, once. ‘No. She has the tongue of a shrew instead, it would seem.’

Marina was suddenly sure she was blushing. Confound the man! This was not at all what she had intended for this interview. She swallowed hard. She must start again. ‘Mr Stratton,’ she said, as evenly as she could, ‘I should be most grateful if we might have a private word. About…about last night. I—’

He frowned. ‘You are come as Lady Luce’s envoy? Believe me, ma’am—’

‘No! No! She knows nothing of this, I promise you. I have my own reasons for wishing to…to consult you. You see…’

His expression was changing even as she spoke. He was almost smiling, but there was nothing in the least pleasant in it. Marina felt a sudden urge to flee. She swallowed again. He was doing everything he could to make her position impossible. He had not even dismounted, as any true gentleman would have done. That thought gave rise to a spark of anger. Heedless of risk, she fanned it. He was trying—deliberately—to overset her. He despised her, a poor plain companion, for daring to approach rich, handsome Kit Stratton.

‘You mistake me, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘I am not come at Lady Luce’s bidding but at my own, to ask a…a favour of you.’ There. It was out. And Kit Stratton’s face was dark with anger. ‘Not for her ladyship’s sake—I know that is impossible—but for—’

‘A favour?’ Kit snarled. ‘A favour for whom? For you, ma’am? Believe me, I do not do favours for ladies. Not unless they have earned them.’ He glanced quickly over her thin person, his eyes narrowing.

Marina stood stock still. She could neither move nor speak. This could not be happening. Was he really saying that—?

‘I see that you take my meaning, ma’am. Good.’

He leant down towards her. The fresh, clean scent of his cologne assailed her. It seemed completely at variance with the black-hearted man who wore it. She forced herself to stand her ground.

‘If you wish to…discuss the matter of last evening’s events, ma’am, I will be pleased to give you a hearing. I shall be free at…eleven o’clock this morning. You may present your petition then. In private.’ He gave her an address in Chelsea. To Marina, a stranger in London, it meant nothing.

He sat back into his saddle and took up the slack in the reins. ‘I shall expect you at eleven. Do not be late.’

Chapter Six

Kit looked up from his newspaper as the long-case clock in the hall began to strike the hour. He had done her the courtesy of being here, because she was a lady. But he had known she would not come.

He turned back to his newspaper. He would just finish the report he had been reading, and then he would leave for his club. No doubt the story of his winnings would have done the rounds by now. He was like to hear about nothing else for a se’enight.

He leaned back into his leather wing chair, relishing the peace of the cramped Chelsea sitting room.

Five minutes later, a quiet knock on the door was followed by the entrance of the tiny woman who looked after the house. ‘There is a…a person to see you, sir,’ she said, bobbing a polite curtsy. ‘She will not give a name. She—’

‘The lady is come by appointment, to discuss a matter of business,’ Kit said firmly, to quell the speculation in the housekeeper’s eye. He rose to his feet. ‘Show her in, Mrs Budge.’

The grey lady was liberally spattered with mud. Kit looked quickly towards the window. He had been so absorbed, he had not noticed the rain. Had she walked all the way? Had she no sense at all? She was already unattractive enough, even without the addition of brown mud to her grey appearance.

And still she thought to sway him?

He shook his head wonderingly. She seemed ill prepared for the mammoth task she had undertaken.

He raised his brows enquiringly. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said politely. She had stiffened noticeably. Surely she did not feel insulted by his treatment of her? A woman—a lady—who had come to a private meeting in a gentleman’s house?

He waited for her to speak. He would not help her.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said at last. The poke of her drab bonnet dipped a fraction.

Was that a token bow? It seemed he would receive nothing more. Kit returned it in kind, from his much greater height. She dropped her eyes. She was nervous, clearly. He waited once more.