The Rebel and the Rake, page 1
part #2 of League of Scoundrels Series
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Emily Sullivan
Cover design by Daniela Medina. Cover art by Paul Stinson. Cover photography by David Wagner. Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Forever
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
read-forever.com
twitter.com/readforeverpub
First Edition: December 2021
Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3734-7 (mass market); 978-1-5387-3732-3 (ebook)
E3-20211029-NF-DA-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Discover More!
Don’t miss Henry and Georgiana’s love story in the next thrilling League of Scoundrels story
About the Author
Also by Emily Sullivan
Get swept off your feet by charming dukes, sharp-witted ladies, and scandalous balls in Forever’s historical romances!
To C. Thanks for the company.
And to J. Thank you for everything.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Junessa Viloria for her enthusiasm for this story and her guidance. Thanks also to Amanda Jain for helping me figure out how to set it in Scotland. As I spent much of 2020 working on this book, my online friendships were more valuable than ever before. Thanks to Rebelle Island and the Slogging thread in particular for cheering me on and keeping me motivated. Thanks also to the Romancing the 20’s group for their support and encouragement. Thanks to Elizabeth Everett for being so generous with her time and for her kind words about this book. And thank you to the many readers, reviewers, and bookstagrammers who took a chance on A Rogue to Remember. Debuting during a pandemic just a few months after giving birth was overwhelming at times, but I was so touched by the enthusiasm for that book. Thank you to my friends and family for having always been so supportive of my writing. It means more than I can say. And to my husband. Thank you for everything. Always.
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.
Tap here to learn more.
Chapter One
October 1897
A village near Glasgow, Scotland
Sylvia Sparrow bolted from her work space, which was tucked away in a corner of Castle Blackwood’s cavernous library, and rushed down one of its many hallowed halls toward the upstairs drawing room. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late. Though it seemed unnecessary that someone as inconsequential as a lady’s companion should be present for tea, her host, Mr. Wardale, had insisted after she had been absent the last few days—and even Sylvia wasn’t bold enough to question one of the wealthiest men in England. As her serviceable leather boots thudded against the fine carpet, she prayed no one else caught her in such a state.
She had spent the last several hours transcribing her notes from this morning’s session with her employer, Mrs. Crawford, which had covered a rather fascinating stint in Paris during the Second Empire, and had quite lost herself in the older woman’s recollections. The septuagenarian had lived a life marked by romance, intrigue, and heartbreak and had finally decided to publish her exploits after a well-known publisher expressed interest, along with a hefty advance. It wasn’t the usual set of duties for a companion, but Sylvia had first honed her secretarial skills while helping her late father with his academic work and was happy to provide assistance. She had also become an excellent typist during a brief stint working for a barrister in London after finishing her studies at Somerville College and had further developed her writing abilities while contributing a column to a weekly suffragist newspaper—but Sylvia had left out those little details during the interview process.
As far as Mrs. Crawford knew, she had hired the well-educated but genteelly impoverished daughter of a deceased country scholar. Not a woman who had once enjoyed a very independent London life complete with a room in a ladies’ boardinghouse, fascinating friends, and a scandalous romance of her own.
And Sylvia was determined to keep it that way.
As she drew closer to the drawing room, Sylvia paused before a large gilt-framed mirror to smooth back a few loose strands of her unremarkable brown hair and straighten her navy tie. There. Now she looked perfectly respectable. No need to advertise that she was the kind of woman who raced down hallways in grand castles. That wasn’t the sort of thing one should announce about oneself. Sylvia took a deep breath and continued on, taking care not to move too quickly.
Mr. Wardale preferred to host afternoon tea in a large, light-filled room that was part of the castle’s newest wing, built sometime during the Regency. Sylvia had never met the eccentric millionaire before this trip, but he was a common fixture in both the business and gossip sections of the papers. Based on what she had observed thus far, he lived up to his reputation as a man with a healthy appetite for both work and play.
Sylvia entered and immediately searched for Lady Georgiana Arlington, who was Mrs. Crawford’s niece by marriage and her childhood friend. It was thanks to Georgiana that Sylvia was here at all and not living under her brother’s thumb. Or worse.
Her friend was conversing with two other ladies on the opposite side of the room. All three were elegantly clad in airy afternoon gowns, but Georgiana, who possessed both a discerning eye and a comely figure, looked like a fashion plate come to life. Sylvia’s dull tweed skirt and matching vest made her feel uncommonly dowdy by comparison. She stopped a few feet away and clasped her hands, which were becoming clammier by the second. The other ladies didn’t give her any notice, but Georgiana caught her eye and nodded slightly.
While she waited, Sylvia pretended to be interested in a painting of a single brown horse in a field mounted on a nearby wall, just one of many at the castle.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
She turned swiftly to find Mr. Wardale by her shoulder. “No, sir. It has an…an…Arcadian charm.”
“Don’t spare my feelings, Miss Sparrow.” He chuckled. “I had no hand in decorating this room. All credit should be given to the previous owner. In fact, I must insist upon it.” Mr. Wardale’s smooth voice bore no trace of the accent he must have had growing up. He was widely considered to be one of London’s most charming bachelors—if a tad eccentric—who had successfully evaded the marriage trap, though many a debutante had set her cap for him over the years. Even now in late middle age with his blond hair thickly streaked with silver, he still exuded an innate vitality that made him seem years younger—and an intensity that was, at times, unnerving.
“And here I thought you simply had an inordinate interest in bulldogs and brown horses,” she replied, attempting a wry smile.
Amusement flickered in the man’s dark gaze as he leaned closer. “If I had any interest in art, I assure you my tastes would be a tad more…eclectic.”
Sylvia couldn’t help but shrink a little under his attention, along with the suggestive note in his voice. Why on earth had he bothered to approach her, of all people? This room was filled with the very cream of society, if one was impressed by that sort of thing.
“How is your work with Mrs. Crawford progressing?”
“Very well, sir.”
“A fascinating woman. I’m quite looking forward to reading her memoirs.” He grinned, and it brought to mind a powerful jungle cat toying with its prey. “If you need anything—pens, paper, more typewriter ribbons—please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Sylvia nodded. “Thank you. That is too kind.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wardale.” Georgiana’
“My lady,” the man said with a courtly bow. “I understand you were among the party that walked to the falls this morning.”
“We started to but then turned back at the threat of thunderclouds.” She cast a contemptuous glance toward the window, which was now filled with blue sky and sunshine. “The weather is so changeable here. I’m hoping to mount another attempt tomorrow.”
In addition to her philanthropic work, Georgiana was known for her seemingly boundless energy, which she applied to everything from planning a lavish charity ball to a simple afternoon picnic. It was a trait Sylvia didn’t share with her friend. She would much rather curl up alone with a good book and a cup of tea than traipse around the forest or attend a ball, not that Sylvia had ever been invited to one.
“A fine idea.”
They exchanged a few more empty pleasantries before their host moved on.
Sylvia let out a breath once he was out of earshot. “You certainly took your time.”
“Once Lady Delacorte starts talking, it’s difficult to get a word in. But I wouldn’t think conversing with Mr. Wardale is exactly a hardship.”
“No, but I can’t imagine why he bothered with me.”
Georgiana gave her an amused look before changing the subject. “I think Aunt Violet noticed your late arrival. You got lost in your work, didn’t you?”
“I was reviewing the notes I made this morning,” Sylvia admitted. “Your aunt was telling me how she met her second husband. The one who knew Manet.”
“Oh, yes.” Georgiana laughed. “The Comte who was actually a civil servant’s son. I love that story.”
“I think he was her favorite of the lot.”
“Well, all he did was make up an identity to impress her. The other three husbands were far more destructive.”
The late Mr. Crawford, her last––and, she often stressed, final husband, had made a number of poor investments before having the decency to die, which had further induced Mrs. Crawford to publish her memoirs.
“Yet another point for eternal spinsterhood,” Sylvia quipped.
Georgiana ignored the remark and subtly gestured to Sylvia’s hands. “You forgot your gloves again.”
Sylvia’s cheeks heated as she rubbed at the ink stain on her finger. “So I did.” It had been ages since she’d had any reason to bother with the conventions of polite society. Back home at Hawthorne Cottage, she had never worn gloves, as they were hardly practical when completing the many household chores that needed to be done. Tomorrow she must bring the blasted things with her.
What does it matter? No one here would mistake you for a lady.
She was nothing more than a glorified secretary. And lucky for that.
“Here comes the grande dame now,” Georgiana muttered. Sylvia quickly put her hands behind her back and turned to greet her employer.
“There you are, Miss Sparrow,” the older woman bellowed as she shuffled toward them. She leaned heavily on her cane, likely weighed down by the massive necklace, earrings, and bracelets she insisted on wearing no matter the occasion, but anyone who thought her enfeebled quickly learned otherwise. “I trust you finished this morning’s notes?”
“Very nearly, Mrs. Crawford. I had to stop in order to come here.”
The woman let out a disappointed huff. “Well, see that you have something for me to review by this evening.”
Sylvia bowed her head. “Of course, madam.”
Mrs. Crawford gave a sniff of approval. “Come along, then,” she ordered, before turning away to accost another guest.
“I think someone wants a little bedtime reading,” Georgiana whispered.
Sylvia stifled a laugh. “Who can blame her? You should have seen the glint in her eyes when she talked about the ‘not-Comte.’ She made a particular point to tell me he had the largest hands she had ever seen.”
Georgiana barely had time to smother a most unladylike snort into her handkerchief. “Oh, bless the old dragon. I’m actually starting to be glad I came,” she added under her breath.
Mrs. Crawford had insisted Georgiana accompany them to Scotland, arguing that the viscountess had been spreading herself too thin between her charitable endeavors. Georgiana reluctantly agreed, mostly for Sylvia’s benefit.
Before Sylvia could respond, she was interrupted by the entrance of several maids pushing tea carts. Georgiana nimbly stepped away. “Oh, you must try the jam tarts.”
As they moved to join Mrs. Crawford, a group of men who had been sitting by the massive stone fireplace rose. She barely spared them a glance at first. It would be the same mix of pallid, weak-chinned aristocrats as the day before. Mr. Wardale wasn’t exactly eclectic when it came to the company he kept. But as the group approached the tea carts, Sylvia noticed a man she had privately dubbed “Lord Lecher” after his tendency to openly stare at ladies’ chests conversing with someone and cheerfully slapping him on the back. The recipient had stooped to meet Lord Lecher’s middling height, but now he laughed and fully straightened, displaying every impressive inch of his lean, long-muscled form.
How on earth had he escaped her notice?
They had been at Castle Blackwood for a number of days, and in that time, Sylvia had not come across any tall, broad-shouldered, and strong-jawed men. But then there had been so much battling for her attentions––settling Mrs. Crawford, repeating everything anyone said to her thrice, and finding the time and space to complete her duties.
It wasn’t until the man gave her a perfectly polite smile and extended his arm to let her pass ahead of him that she realized she had been quite obviously staring. Because not only was he tall, broad-shouldered, and strong-jawed—he was absolutely devastating.
And well he knew it.
“What is keeping you, child?” Mrs. Crawford bellowed over her shoulder.
To her profound embarrassment, Sylvia had come to a very abrupt and very noticeable stop.
The older woman may have had trouble hearing, but she had eyes that rivaled a bird of prey. Now she turned her sharp gaze directly on Sylvia. “Don’t tell me you never encountered a handsome rogue or two in your little village.”
Oh, dear Lord.
Sylvia’s neck grew impossibly hot. It wasn’t that Mrs. Crawford intended to embarrass her. The woman was simply beyond such trivial concerns at this stage of life. A group of bloodthirsty highwaymen could enter the room at this exact moment and she would probably ask which one was the best shot. Now she waved her bejeweled wrist in the man’s direction. “You will have ample opportunity to gape at Mr. Davies during tea, like the rest of us, but for now I need to sit down.”
Sylvia inhaled deeply before she dared to speak. “Of course, Mrs. Crawford. My apologies.” She immediately moved aside to let her employer pass and cast a cautious glance at Mr. Davies. His polite smile now held the barest hint of a smirk, the faint lines around his mouth suggesting he did so often, and their eyes met for one excruciating moment. Long enough to note his were the exact shade of melted chocolate. Then his gaze swiftly moved to Georgiana. Sylvia got the distinct impression that she had been assessed, found wanting, and roundly dismissed.
“Lady Arlington, good afternoon,” he said in a rich baritone that trailed lazily down Sylvia’s spine. “You look as lovely as ever.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, accepting the compliment with her usual grace. “Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Davies.”
“The sentiment is mutual, my lady.” He then arched a dark brow and leaned toward her. “But don’t let your aunt think I’ll forget that ‘rogue’ comment.”
Georgiana gave him one of her famous serene smiles. “Oh dear. I suppose it’s pistols at dawn, then,” she quipped. “Miss Sparrow, will you be my second?”
“It would be an honor,” she mumbled after an awkward pause. As if it weren’t already humiliating enough to have her rather obvious ogling pointed out, she couldn’t just stand there while the man proceeded to flirt with Georgiana.
Without another word, Sylvia strode ahead, dutifully took the teacup a maid handed to her, and sat down beside Mrs. Crawford. Several other guests were already seated, none of whom bothered to acknowledge her. It was just as well. Ladies’ companions weren’t supposed to garner attention from anyone except their employers. As Sylvia took in the finely decorated room, Georgiana approached them, now on the arm of Mr. Davies. He smoothly pulled out the chair beside Sylvia, and Georgiana sat down. No man had ever done such a thing for Sylvia before––not that she had ever wanted one to. She was independent. She could sit in a blasted chair by herself. And yet that slight tightening in her chest was most certainly from envy. Sylvia cast another subtle glance at him through the veil of her lashes and noted sharp cheekbones and a strong, straight nose. She was tempted to call him beautiful, if not for the distinct air of superiority that seemed to emanate from him. Just then the afternoon light glinted off his glossy hair, a shade lighter than his eyes and perfectly styled. There. A flaw. She couldn’t possibly be attracted to a man who paid such exacting attention to his own appearance, even if the results were sublime.
