Never Trust a Rebel

‘Would you like to kiss me goodnight?’

She knew she was taking a great risk but he did not look outraged, nor did he admonish her for her forwardness. When he maintained his silence she added softly, ‘You are a rake, are you not? And rakes always want to kiss a pretty girl.’

He stopped, frowning down at her fingers resting on his sleeve.

‘You would not be wise to pursue this, Miss Salforde.’

A tiny frisson of excitement ran along her spine as she heard the warning note in his voice. She moved a little nearer.

‘Surely it would not be improper for my guardian to call me Elyse?’

Her excitement intensified as his gaze moved to her face, so piercing that for a moment it took her breath away. She read danger in his look, but the wine she had imbibed had given her courage and she felt emboldened by the challenge. She schooled her face into a picture of innocence, at the same time leaning closer so that the lace at her breast was almost touching his waistcoat. She saw his eyes darken and felt a flicker of satisfaction.

‘You are playing a dangerous game, Miss Salforde.’

AUTHOR NOTE

Ten years after Bonnie Prince Charlie tried and failed to reclaim the British throne for his father, Drew Castlemain returns to England to carry out his friend’s final wishes. He meets Elyse, a spirited young lady and the belle of the northern spa town of Scarborough, but events conspire to prevent him from delivering her to her fiancé and instead they find themselves falling headlong into love…

This Georgian romance is set half a century before the Regency, when it was still usual for men to carry swords and for ladies to wear heavy gowns with hoops and layers of petticoats. Travel was slower, too, with poor roads and lumbering coaches—as my hero and heroine discover to their cost.

I really loved telling Elyse and Drew’s story; they are a young couple who have to fight against the odds to win their happiness, but of course in the end they succeed, and I hope you will enjoy their journey as much as I enjoyed writing about it.

Oh, and on a final note, Drew and Elyse’s whirlwind romance blossomed over a couple of weeks. Improbable, you might think, but it can happen—I met my own hero and knew after just two weeks that he was the one for me. We have just celebrated forty-one years together, so I think I might have been right!

Never Trust

a Rebel

Sarah Mallory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the UK’s brilliant NHS and all its dedicated staff, especially in A&E.

In particular, Dr E B-G—thanks for the (rather painful) memory!

SARAH MALLORY was born in Bristol, and now lives in an old farmhouse on the edge of the Pennines with her husband and family. She left grammar school at sixteen to work in companies as varied as stockbrokers, marine engineers, insurance brokers, biscuit manufacturers and even a quarrying company. Her first book was published shortly after the birth of her daughter. She has published more than a dozen books under the pen-name of Melinda Hammond, winning the Reviewers’ Choice Award from singletitles.com for Dance for a Diamond and the Historical Novel Society’s Editors’ Choice for Gentlemen in Question. Sarah Mallory has also twice won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s RONA Rose® Award for The Dangerous Lord Darrington and Beneath the Major’s Scars.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

Prologue

Paris—1756

The Porte St Honoré was crowded with the usual mix of smart carriages, heavy wagons and tumbrils, all anxious to reach their destination before dark. Suddenly shouts and an unseemly scuffle interrupted the steady flow of traffic. A group of liveried servants surged down the Rue St Honoré, dragging in their midst two figures whose bloodied faces, muddied frockcoats and torn lace ruffles suggested that they had been seriously manhandled. When the group reached the city gate they carried the two men outside and threw them down on to the cobbles.

‘If you are wise you will not return to Paris, messieurs,’ growled one of the servants, making a great show of dusting his hands.

‘Aye, we do not take kindly to English dogs cheating our master at his own card table,’ declared a second, while several others aimed vicious kicks at the two men on the ground, before the whole group turned and made their way, laughing, back into the city. The excitement over, the traffic on the Rue St Honoré resumed its steady progress, passing on either side of the two bodies with barely a glance.

One of the men struggled to his hands and knees and stayed there for a moment, as if debating if he could get up. He made the attempt and stood, swaying. Then he pushed his long, unpowdered hair back from his face and turned to help his companion.

‘Come along, Harry. I think it best if we heed their advice.’

‘No choice, my friend. The duc will see to it that we are not made welcome in Paris for some time.’ Harry gingerly touched his swollen lip. ‘I can’t abide a bad loser.’

‘You were flirting with La Belle Marianne. That was damned reckless of you.’

‘Faith, Drew, the lady gave me a blatant invitation to pursue her. And what of you? Madame le Clere has been warming your bed for the past se’ennight.’

‘Someone had to amuse her, with her husband out of Paris. Not quite the same as dallying with the duc’s mistress under his very nose. You should have resisted.’

‘Nay, my boy, where is the fun in that? Now, where the devil’s my wig?’

Drew scooped up the sorry-looking jumble of hair and silk and held it out, saying, ‘And you are sure you did not mark the cards?’

‘Of course not.’ Harry jammed the wig on his head. ‘Stap me, boy, I should call you out for that.’ He winced and put his hand on his back. ‘Egad, but that hurts.’ His grin faded and was replaced by a look of shock as he staggered. He collapsed against his companion, saying with a feeble laugh, ‘By Gad, I fear they have finished me, old friend.’

* * *

‘Come along, Harry,’ Drew wrung out the cloth and wiped the ashen face. ‘We’ve been through worse than this.’

He frowned as he regarded the restless figure on the bed. He himself was stiff and bruised from the beating he had received but he was recovering, whereas Harry appeared to be growing weaker, writhing in agony as the effects of the laudanum wore off. They had made their way to an inn on the Rue de Chemin Vert where the landlady quickly ushered them upstairs to a bedroom, declaring that the sight of them in their present bloodied state would frighten away her customers. Drew welcomed her ready assistance and suspected she was another of Harry’s conquests. He felt a momentary irritation with his friend: they might not be in this situation now if Harry had been able to resist flirting with every pretty woman who came his way.

As the long night wore on he could do nothing but bathe his friend’s face and administer more laudanum. In the long periods between he thought back over the years they had spent wandering Europe together. Three years ago Drew had been scraping a living as a mercenary, fighting for any foreign power that would pay him, but then he had met Harry Salforde. Drew was more than ten years his junior but the two men had struck up a close friendship. Harry had taken Drew under his wing, bought him a suit of fine clothes and introduced him to the gambling hells of Rome, Naples and finally Paris, where they had practised their skills at games of chance. So successful had they been that Drew had been able to put away a tidy sum. Thus he was not too concerned about their current lack of funds. It was one of the hazards of living by one’s wits.

They had found themselves at the gaming tables with the richest and most powerful nobles in France, but those same nobles did not enjoy losing to their English opponents, and Drew supposed it was inevitable that one day their luck would turn. That the duc should have them beaten and thrown out of the city in such an ignominious manner rankled, but Drew bore the man no ill will. He had learned that much from Harry over the years. He merely shrugged off misfortune, learning from his mistakes and moving on to the next city.

Except this time it did not look as if Harry would be moving on for some time.

* * *

Drew spent a sleepless night, finally getting a little rest as dawn broke and Harry was sleeping more peacefully, but it did not last and as the morning wore on he grew restless again. Drew noted with some unease that Harry was sweating badly and he fetched a damp cloth to bathe his face. Harry looked at him with bloodshot eyes and for a while did not seem to recognise him. Then at last he gave a sigh.

‘I think I’m done for this time, Drew.’

‘Devil a bit. Rest is all you need, old friend.’

Harry shifted in the bed, wincing and Drew reached for the laudanum.

‘Here, drink this, it will help you sleep.’

‘No, not yet.’ Harry grabbed his wrist. ‘Before that, there’s something I must tell you. Something you must promise me.’

‘Of course. Anything.’

‘I have a daughter.’

‘I know. Elyse.’ Drew forced a grin. ‘You told me she is a rare beauty.’

‘Aye, she is. She had just emerged from the schoolroom the last time I saw her but she was bidding fair to become a diamond, like her mother.’ His face contorted in pain. ‘Lisabet. Frenchwoman, y’know. Beautiful, spirited—only woman I truly loved. She died several years ago and since then Elyse has been in the care of her aunt, my sister, Matthews in Scarborough.’

‘She is safe then.’

Harry’s grip on his wrist tightened.

‘No. There’s more. That last time I visited her was just before I met you. Viscount Whittlewood was in Scarborough for his health and I chanced upon him at the gaming tables. Naturally we sat down together on several occasions.’

‘Naturally,’ Drew said drily.

‘He—er—lost. We came to an arrangement. He would marry Elyse to his younger son, in payment of the debt.’

‘What? But that’s outrageous.’

Harry gave a laugh that was cut short by a gasp of pain.

‘Whittlewood had lost an outrageous sum. There is nothing so bad about it. Elyse and William were dancing together at the assembly and getting on famously. Smelling of April and May, both of ’em. That is what gave me the idea. Contracts were drawn up, the boy proposed, everything was agreed, but the viscount asked that the marriage should be put off for a while until his son had reached his majority. I saw no harm in it. After all Elyse was only seventeen at the time and had much to learn about the world.’ He coughed, wincing as the pain tore at his insides and it was some moments before he could continue.

‘Whittlewood’s son was one-and-twenty six months ago but he made no move to claim his bride. I wrote to the viscount, advising him that my patience was wearing thin. Play or pay up. Whittlewood agreed that I should deliver Elyse to him by Michaelmas, when she reaches her majority, and the marriage will take place within the month.’

‘And what does your daughter say to all this?’ asked Drew.

‘What should she say, but yes? What girl in her right mind would turn down the chance to ally herself to the Reversons? They are one of the foremost families in England. Besides, he’s a good-looking young man and they were fancying themselves very much in love even then. Don’t look down your nose at me, Drew. I know that was a few years back but m’sister’s last letter informed me that Elyse has been corresponding with Reverson and he is still eager for the match. So all that needs to be done now is to take the bride to her groom. Only I did not expect to cock up my toes before I could do it.’

‘Do not talk such nonsense. You will be up and about again in a few days.’

Harry closed his eyes, one hand waving feebly.

‘I don’t think so, my friend, not this time. I won’t be able to escort Elyse to her new family, so I must ask you to do it for me.’

‘Me!’ the shock of it surprised a laugh from Drew. ‘Lord, Harry, you more than anyone should know that I can’t go back to England. There’s a price on my head.’

‘You can change your name. It wouldn’t be the first time. And what has it been, ten years since you went back? Who is likely to remember you?’

‘That is not all, Harry. I have lived those past ten years by my wits and my sword, stealing kisses from other men’s wives and daughters. A disreputable rogue! I am the last man you should entrust with such a task.’

‘No, you are the perfect choice to look after my precious daughter.’ Harry’s voice was failing, but he managed a weak grin. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper. Help me sit up now, and I’ll write a note for m’sister, then she will give Elyse into your care.’

Drew argued, but in vain. In the end he called for pen and ink and helped Harry to write his final letters. It took a long time, sitting up seemed to cause Harry even more pain and he fainted off more than once, but at last the business was finished and Harry leaned back, closing his eyes.

‘There, it is done.’ His voice was little more than a thread. ‘Give this to my sister, she will find you all the documents relating to this business.’

‘Hush, my friend, no need to talk more of this now. Wait until the morning—’

‘I doubt I shall see the morning. The pain in my gut is damnable.’ He waved his hand towards his frockcoat, thrown over a chair. ‘You’ll find some papers sewn into the lining, and a letter of introduction to a certain gentleman in Lyon. Go to him and he will give you access to my funds.’

‘Harry—’

‘No, let me finish.’ He drew another laboured breath, the skin on his face as grey as old parchment. ‘Take what you need for your journey, and give the rest to Elyse on her birthday. ’Tis her inheritance.’

‘I will, Harry.’

‘Do I have your word as a gentleman? And don’t give me that rubbish again about your being a rebel. I knew you for a gentleman the first time I saw you!’

Drew grasped the hand, and not by the flicker of an eyelid did he show his dismay at the cold skin.

‘You have my word, Harry. A rebel’s honour, for what it’s worth.’

‘Good.’ He closed his eyes and seemed to relax down into the pillows. ‘Then I commend my daughter to your care.’

Within an hour Harry Salforde was dead.

Chapter One

‘Miss Salforde, I prostrate myself at your feet. I am your slave!’

Elyse looked down at the portly gentleman kneeling before her, his badly powdered bagwig failing to cover completely his straggly blond hair.

‘Well, you need not, Mr Scorton. I cannot give you any hope because I am promised to another, as you are very well aware.’

She tried and failed to stop the smile that was bubbling inside her. The gentleman, looking up at that moment, saw her lips twitch and struggled to his feet, saying in an injured tone, ‘You are very cruel, fair beauty. If you will not countenance my suit, why did you agree to come outside with me?’

Yes, why had she?

Elyse pondered the matter. She could not deny that the drawing room was very hot and crowded, but there had been no shortage of gentlemen offering to escort her out on to the terrace. So why had she favoured Mr Scorton?

Because he was the least likely of her many admirers and tonight she had decided to take pity on him. Elyse did not consider herself vain, but she was often called beautiful, so she supposed it must be true. Her figure was good, and there was something about her dark curls, brown eyes and heart-shaped face that seemed to draw gentlemen to her. All sorts of men, married or single, young or old, they crowded around her. They paid her compliments, teased her, flirted with her. She was happy enough to respond to them all, knowing herself safe from any serious courtship because she was in love with the Honourable Mr William Reverson, younger son of Viscount Whittlewood, and she was going to marry him. And her admirers, too, knew of her engagement and were content to enjoy a mild flirtation, a little amusing badinage with a pretty young lady. All quite harmless.

However, it seemed that Mr Scorton, with his pompous manners and badly fitting wig, was so smitten with her that he was not content to kiss her hand and whisper ridiculous compliments into her ear, he had actually had the temerity to propose!

It was a salutary lesson, and one that she knew regretfully she should have learned before this, but what was one to do when men were silly enough to shower her with praise and adulation? However, she had no wish to cause distress to anyone, and she realised she must be more circumspect in future. With a rueful smile she held out her hand to Mr Scorton.

‘Why, sir, I came out with you for a little air, nothing more, but if I have raised false hopes in you then I am very sorry for it. Pray cry friends with me, sir.’

He clasped her fingers in his pudgy hands.

‘Ah, so kind, so generous. I cannot let you go without trying to persuade you to think seriously of my offer.’

Before she knew what he was about he had pulled her into his arms.

‘Really, Mr Scor—’

Her words were smothered as he covered her face with hot, ardent kisses.

He might only be the same height as Elyse, and as broad as he was wide, but Mr Scorton in the throes of passion proved himself immensely strong. She could not break out of his hold and was crushed against him, unable even to deliver a well-aimed kick to his shins because the thick folds of her black petticoats were in the way.

She twisted her head away, shuddering as his wet lips slithered over her cheek.

‘How dare you, sir, I am in mourning!’

‘And your sorrow makes you even more irresistible.’

‘Enough sir, let me go!’

She did not expect him to obey, so she was more than a little surprised to find herself suddenly released.

Elyse staggered back and steadied herself against the balustrade that edged the terrace. As soon as she had regained her balance she raised her head, intending to deliver a blistering reproof, but the words died on her lips when she realised that they were no longer alone on the terrace.

A dark stranger was standing between her and Mr Scorton, who was clutching at his throat.

‘For Gad, sir,’ Scorton gasped, ‘you have well-nigh strangled me.’

‘I had to find some way of pulling you off the lady and my fingers in the back of your neck cloth proved most effective.’

This cool rejoinder brought a choleric flush to Mr Scorton’s cheeks.

‘Then by heavens you shall answer for it. Name your friends, sir.’

Mr Scorton placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword and drew himself up to his full if diminutive height, which Elyse could not fail to notice left him several inches shorter than the tall stranger.

‘Don’t be such a damned fool,’ came the crushing retort. ‘I am the girl’s guardian.’

The effect of this statement silenced Mr Scorton, but it caused Elyse to give a little shriek. Both men looked towards her but it was the stranger who spoke, addressing Mr Scorton in a tone of weary boredom.

‘I suggest you go away, sir, before I give you a bloody nose to go with your sore throat.’

With only the slightest hesitation Mr Scorton hurried away and the stranger turned towards Elyse. Her instinct was to step back, but her thick skirts were already pressing against the balustrade and she was trapped.

‘Keep away from me,’ she said, putting out her hand.

He had his back to the light that spilled out of the drawing room windows, so Elyse could not see his face and she was aware of an unaccountable stirring of alarm. His large frame stood menacingly between her and the safety of the house. She felt a stab of annoyance that her erstwhile suitor had gone off so readily and left her to face this man alone.

He made no move to approach, but his silence was equally unnerving and she said sharply, ‘I have no idea who you are.’

‘Drew Bastion.’ He spoke curtly without even a bow or an ‘at your service’. ‘I wrote to you from France, to inform you of your father’s death and the fact that he had appointed me your guardian.’

‘I do not need a guardian.’

‘From what I have just seen I think you do,’ he retorted. ‘I was surprised to arrive and find the house so full of company.’

‘My aunt arranged this party weeks ago and decided we should not cancel. Once we heard the news about Papa we made it clear there could be no music or dancing.’

‘You should also have made it clear there would be no flirting.’

‘I was not—’

‘From the moment I walked in I have observed you,’ he interrupted. ‘You have been constantly surrounded by gentlemen and your manner, the way you ply your fan, is most unseemly for one in deep mourning for her father.’

Drew paused, reining in his anger. Harry’s loss was still raw and this lack of respect was an outrage. Yet it was hardly Miss Salforde’s fault if men were falling over themselves to win her favour. Her dark beauty was everything that Harry had described to him. Luminescent was the word that came to his mind, despite her bereaved state. She was as covered up as a Jesuit in a bombazine manteau, but its dull black petticoats only enhanced the porcelain delicacy of her fine skin, which was innocent of paint or powder.

She had caught his eye as soon as he walked into the room. In any other circumstances he would have made his way to her and engaged her interest, for there was no denying the sharp tug of attraction he had felt as he took in her excellent figure and those luxuriant curls, the colour of polished ebony. But he had recognised her immediately as Harry’s daughter, and honour would not allow him to trifle with a lady who had been placed under his protection. However, it was clear that the other gentlemen present were equally entranced and they had no such restraint upon them.

No, he could not blame her for attracting any man’s attention, but he could blame her for responding in such a flirtatious manner. And what was Mrs Matthews thinking of, to allow the party to go ahead barely three months after her brother’s death? Of course, this was the thriving spa town of Scarborough and not Paris, but surely the rules of polite society in England had not changed quite so radically while he had been away? As if reading his mind the girl put up her head, a challenge in her dark eyes.

‘We are holding a quiet soirée, sir, as befits a house in mourning. The guests here came only to offer their condolences.’

His lip curled.

‘That may well have been the intention, but the gentlemen crowding around you were certainly doing more than offering their condolences and you were doing nothing to discourage them.’

‘That is outrageous. You have no right to say such things to me!’

He ignored her outburst.

‘Then I come out here to find you flirting so disgracefully in the darkness. By heaven you are as bad as your father.’