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Regency Rogues: Rakes' Redemption
Regency Rogues
August 2019
Outrageous Scandal
September 2019
Rakes’ Redemption
October 2019
Wicked Seduction
November 2019
A Winter’s Night
December 2019
Unlacing the Forbidden
January 2020
Stolen Sins
February 2020
Candlelight Confessions
March 2020
Rescued by Temptation
April 2020
Wives Wanted
May 2020
Disgraceful Secrets
June 2020
Talk of the Ton
July 2020
Exotic Affairs
SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades—mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, including the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012 (for The Dangerous Lord Darrington) and 2013 (for Beneath the Major’s Scars).
Regency Rogues: Rakes’ Redemption
Return of the Runaway
The Outcast’s Redemption
Sarah Mallory
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-09723-9
REGENCY ROGUES: RAKES’ REDEMPTION
Return of the Runaway © 2016 Sarah Mallory The Outcast’s Redemption © 2016 Sarah Mallory
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
Version: 2020-03-02
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Return of the Runaway
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
The Outcast’s Redemption
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Publisher
Return of the Runaway
Sarah Mallory
To Marianne –
from the proudest mum in the world.
Chapter One
Verdun, France—September 1803
The young lady in the room at the top of the house on the Rue Égalité was looking uncharacteristically sober in her dark-blue linen riding habit. Even the white shirt she wore beneath the close-fitting jacket bore only a modest frill around the neck. She had further added to the sobriety by sewing black ribbons to her straw bonnet and throwing a black lace shawl around her shoulders. Now she sat before the looking glass and regarded her reflection with a critical eye.
‘“Lady Cassandra Witney is headstrong and impetuous,”’ she stated, recalling a recent description of herself. Her critic had also described her as beautiful, but Cassie disregarded that. She propped her chin on her hand and gave a tiny huff of dissatisfaction. ‘The problem with being headstrong and impetuous,’ she told her image, ‘is that it leads one to make mistakes. Marrying Gerald was most definitely a mistake.’
She turned and surveyed the little room. Accompanying Gerald to Verdun had been a mistake, too, but when the Treaty of Amiens had come to an end in May she had not been able to bring herself to abandon him and go home to England. That would have been to admit defeat and her spirit rebelled at that. Eloping with Gerald had been her choice, freely made, and she could almost hear Grandmama, the Dowager Marchioness of Hune, saying, ‘You have made your bed, my girl, now you must lie in it.’
And lie in it she had, for more than a year, even though she had known after a few months of marriage that Gerald was not the kind, loving man she had first thought him.
A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. After a word with the servant she picked up her portmanteau and followed him down the stairs. A light travelling chaise was waiting at the door with Merimon, the courier she had hired, standing beside it. He was a small, sharp-faced individual and now he looked down his long narrow nose at the bag in her hand.
‘C’est tout?’
‘It is all I wish to take.’
Cassandra answered him in his own language, looking him in the eye. As the bag was strapped on to the chaise she reflected sadly that it was little enough to show for more than a year of married life. Merimon opened the door of the chaise and continued to address her in coarse French.
‘Milady will enter, if you please, and I will accompany you on foot. My horse is waiting at the Porte St Paul.’
Cassie looked up. The September sun was already low in the sky.
‘Surely it would have been better to set off at first light,’ she observed.
Merimon looked pained.
‘I explained it all to you, milady. I could not obtain a carriage any sooner. And this road, there is no shelter and the days can be very hot for the horses. This way we shall drive through the night, you will sleep and when you awake, voilà, we shall be in Reims.’
‘I cannot sleep in here.’ Cassie could not help it, she sniffed. How different it had been, travelling to France with Gerald. She had been so in love then, and so hopeful. Everything had been a delicious adventure. She pushed away the memories. There was no point in dwelling on the past. ‘Very well, let us get on, then. The sooner this night is over the better.’
It was not far to the eastern gate, where Cassie knew her passport would be carefully checked. Verdun still maintained most of its medieval fortifications, along with an imposing citadel. It was one of the reasons the town had been chosen to hold the British tourists trapped in France when war was declared: the defences made it very difficult for enemies to get in, but it also made it impossible for the British to get out.
When they reached the city gate she gave her papers to Merimon, who presented them to the guard. The French officer studied them for a long moment before brushing past the courier and approaching the chaise. Cassie let down the window.
‘You are leaving us, madame?’
‘Yes. I came to Verdun with my husband when he was detained. He died a week since. There is no longer any reason for me to remain.’ She added, with a touch of hauteur, ‘The First Consul Bonaparte decreed that only English men of fighting age should be detained.’
The man inclined his head. ‘As you say. And where do you go?’
‘Rouen,’ said Merimon, stepping up. ‘We travel via Reims and Beauvais and hope to find passage on a ship from Rouen to Le Havre, from whence milady can sail to England.’
Cassie waited, tense and anxious while the gendarme stared at her. After what seemed like hours he cast a searching look inside the chaise, as if to assure himself that no prisoner was hiding on the floor. Finally he was satisfied. He stood back and handed the papers to Merimon before ordering the postilion to drive on. The courier loped ahead to where a small urchin was holding the reins of a long-tailed bay and as the chaise rattled through the gates he scrambled into the saddle and took up his position beside it.
Cassie stripped off her gloves, then removed her bonnet and rubbed her temples. Perhaps now she was leaving Verdun the dull ache in her head would ease. It had been a tense few days since Gerald’s death, his so-called friends circling like vultures waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness. Well, that was behind her now. She was going home. Darkness was falling. Cassie settled back into one corner as the carriage rolled and bumped along the uneven road. She found herself hoping the roads in England were as good as she remembered, that she might not suffer this tooth-rattling buffeting for the whole of the journey.
The chaise began to slow suddenly and Cassie sat up. For some time they had been travelling through woodland with tall trees lining the road and making it as black as pitch inside the carriage. Now, however, pale moonlight illuminated the window and Cassie could see that they were in some sort of clearing. The ground was littered with tree stumps and lopped branches, as if the trees had only recently been felled and carried away. She leaned forward and looked out of the window, expecting to see the lights of an inn, but there was nothing, just the pewter-coloured landscape with the shadow of the woods like a black wall in every direction.
The carriage came to a halt. Merimon dismounted, tied his horse to a wheel and came up to open the door.
‘Step out, milady. We take you no further.’
Cassie protested furiously as he grabbed her wrist and hauled her out of the carriage.
‘How dare you treat me thus,’ she raged at him. ‘Your contract is to take me to Le Havre. You will not get the rest of your money if you do not do so.’
His coarse laugh sent a chill running through her.
‘No? Since you have no friends in Le Havre, and no banker, you must be carrying your money with you. Is that not the truth?’
The chill turned to icy fear.
‘Nonsense,’ she said stoutly. ‘I would not be so foolish as to—’
Another horrid laugh cut through her protests.
‘But certainly you would. Give me your purse now and perhaps we will not hurt you quite so much.’
Cassie glanced behind her to see that the postilion had dismounted and hobbled his horses. He was now walking slowly towards her. If only she had not left her bonnet in the chaise she might have made use of the two very serviceable hatpins that were secured in it. As it was she had only her wits and her own meagre strength to rely on. She took a step away from Merimon who made no move to stop her. Why should he, when the postilion was blocking her retreat?
‘I shall be missed,’ she said. ‘I have told friends I shall write to them from Rouen.’
‘A week at least before they begin to worry, if they ever do.’ Merimon gestured dismissively. ‘No one cares what happens to you, apart from your husband, and he is dead. I cannot believe the English détenus will be in a hurry to tear themselves away from their pleasures.’
No, thought Cassandra, neither could she believe it. Gerald had ensured that all her friends there had been his cronies, selfish, greedy persons who only professed affection if it was to their advantage. She was alone here, she was going to have to fight and it was unlikely that she would win. Cassie tensed as Merimon drew a long knife from his belt. He gave her an evil grin.
‘Well, milady, do we get your money before or after we have taken our pleasure?’
‘Never, I should think.’
The sound of the deep, amused drawl had them all turning towards the carriage.
A stranger was untying the reins of Merimon’s horse. The man was a little over average height, bare-headed, bearded and dressed in ragged homespun, but there was nothing of the peasant about his bearing. He carried himself like a soldier and his voice was that of one used to command.
‘You will move away from the lady now, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘We have no quarrel with you, citizen,’ called Merimon. ‘Be on your way.’
‘Oh, I do not think so.’
The stranger was walking towards them, leading the bay. With his untidy hair and thick beard his face was but little more than a dark shape in the moonlight, but Cassie saw the gleam of white as he grinned. For a long moment there was silence, tense and expectant, then everything exploded into action. With a howl of rage Merimon hurled himself at the stranger and at the same time Cassie saw the postilion bearing down upon her.
That was fortunate, she thought. Merimon was the bigger of the two and he had a knife. With the postilion she had a chance. Cassie tensed as he approached, his arms outstretched. His ugly, triumphant grin told her he thought she was petrified, but just as he launched himself forward she acted. In one smooth, fluid movement she stepped aside, turning, bending and scooping up a branch about the length and thickness of her own arm. Without a pause she gripped the branch with both hands and carried it with all her force against the back of the postilion’s knees. He dropped to the ground with a howl.
‘Nicely done, mademoiselle.’ The stranger trotted up, mounted on the bay. He held out his hand to her. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Do you want to come with me, or would you prefer to take your chances here with these scélérats?’
Villains indeed, thought Cassie, quickly glancing about her. Merimon was on his knees, groggily shaking his head, and the postilion was already staggering to his feet. Swiftly she ran across to the stranger. She grasped his outstretched hand, placed one foot on his boot and allowed him to pull her up before him. He lifted her easily and settled her across his thighs before urging the horse to a canter.
Cassie had no fear of falling, the stranger’s strong arms held her firmly before him. The choice, since she was sitting sideways, was to turn into the man or away and Cassie opted for the latter, twisting her body to look ahead. The black shawl had snagged on one arm of her riding habit and now it fluttered like a pennant over her shoulder. It must have flown into the rider’s face because without a word he pulled it free, tossing it aside as they pounded away into the darkness of the trees. Cassie turned her head to watch it drift slowly to the ground behind them. Her only symbol of grieving for her husband, for her marriage. It was gone. She faced forward again, looking ahead into the darkness. Into the unknown future.
Chapter Two
They rode through the woods with only the thudding beat of the cantering horse to break the silence. Cassie made no attempt to speak. It was difficult to see through the gloom and she wanted her companion to concentrate his efforts on guiding them safely between the trees. Only when he slowed the horse to a walk did she break the silence.
‘Do you know where we are going?’
She immediately berated herself for asking the question in English, but he answered her with only the faintest trace of an accent.
‘At present I have no idea,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Once we are clear of the trees and I can see the sky I shall be able to tell you.’ He added, when she shifted before him, ‘Would you like to get down? We should rest this nag for a while.’
He brought the horse to a stand and eased Cassie to the ground. It was only then she realised her legs would not hold her and grabbed the saddle for support.
The man jumped down beside her.
‘Come, let us walk a little and your limbs will soon be restored.’
He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. His clothes were rough and smelled of dirt and sweat, but Cassie was in no position yet to walk unaided so she allowed him to support her. His strength was comforting, but he puzzled her. His manner and his voice belonged to an educated man, yet he had the ragged appearance of a fugitive.
She said cautiously, ‘I have not thanked you for coming to my rescue. What were you doing there?’
‘I needed a horse.’
His calm answer surprised her into a laugh.
‘That raises even more questions, monsieur.’
She thought he might fob her off, but he answered quite frankly.
‘I was being pursued and ran into the woods for cover. I saw the horse tethered to the carriage wheel with no one to guard him, since your companions were too busy threatening you. I was very grateful for that and thought it would be churlish to ride off and leave you to your fate.’
‘It would indeed.’
Cassie kept her voice calm, but she was beginning to wonder if she had jumped from the frying pan to the fire.
She made a slight move to free herself and immediately he released her. Reassured, she continued to keep pace with him, the horse clip-clopping behind them while the moon sailed overhead in the clear, ink-blue sky.
‘So you are a fugitive,’ she said, with some satisfaction. ‘I thought as much.’
‘And you are not afraid of me?’
Cassie’s head went up.
‘I am afraid of no one.’ She realised how foolish her swift retort would sound, considering her current situation, and she added slowly, ‘Not afraid. Cautious. As one should be of a stranger.’
‘True, but we can remedy that.’ He stopped and sketched a bow. ‘I am Raoul Doulevant, at your service.’
He expected a reply and after a moment she said, ‘I am Lady Cassandra Witney.’
‘And you are English, which is why we are conversing in this barbaric tongue.’
‘Then let us talk in French,’ she replied, nettled.
‘As you wish.’ He caught her left hand. Neither of them was wearing gloves and his thumb rubbed across the plain gold band on her third finger.
‘Ah. I addressed you as mademoiselle when we first met. My apologies, madame.’
She was shocked that his touch should feel so intimate and she drew her hand away. ‘We should get on.’
When she began to walk again he fell into step beside her.
‘Where is your husband?’
Cassie hesitated for a heartbeat’s pause before she replied.
‘At Verdun.’
‘He is a détenu?’
Again she hesitated, not wanting to admit she was a widow. That she was alone and unprotected.
‘Yes. That scoundrel you knocked down was the courier I hired to escort me back to England.’
‘A bad choice, clearly.’
She felt the hot tears prickling at the back of her eyes and blinked them away. This was no time for self-pity.
‘And what of you?’ she asked him, anxious to avoid more questions concerning her situation. ‘Who is pursuing you?’
‘Officers of the law. They think I am a deserter.’
‘They think it? And is it not so?’
‘No. I was discharged honourably from the navy six months ago.’
She said, a hint of censure in her voice, ‘In the present circumstances, with the country at war, I would have thought any true Frenchman would wish to remain in the service of his country, monsieur.’
‘Any true Frenchman might,’ he retorted. ‘But I am from Brussels. I grew up in the Southern Netherlands, under Austrian rule.’
‘And yet your French is excellent.’
‘My family came originally from a town near the French border and moved to Brussels when I was a babe, so I grew up learning the language. Then I moved to Paris and later joined the French Navy, so you see, for years I have spoken nothing else.’
The lady made no reply and Raoul asked himself bitterly why he put himself out to explain. What difference would it make to her? She was English and everyone knew they thought themselves superior to the rest of Europe. It was the very worst of bad fortune that he should have saddled himself with an English aristo!
‘The horse is rested now,’ he said shortly. ‘I think we can ride again.’
He mounted and reached down for her, pulling her up before him. He tried not to think how small and feminine she was, how the faint trace of perfume reminded him of balmy summer days. She settled herself on the horse, her dark curls tickling his chin. When the horse stumbled in the dark she clutched at his sleeve and instinctively he wrapped one arm around her waist.
