The Perfect Rake Read online

  Praise for the novels of Anne Gracie

  An Honorable Thief

  “She’s turned out another wonderful story!”

  —All About Romance

  “A true find and definitely a keeper.”

  —Romance Reviews

  “A thoroughly marvelous heroine.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Dazzling characterizations…provocative, tantalizing, and wonderfully witty romantic fiction…Unexpected plot twists, tongue-in-cheek humor, and a sensually fraught battle of wits between hero and heroine…embraces the romance genre’s truest heart.”

  —Heartstrings

  How the Sheriff Was Won

  “Anne Gracie provide[s] pleasant diversions.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Tallie’s Knight

  “Gracie combines an impeccable knowledge of history, an ability to create vibrant and attractive characters, and an excellent storytelling ability. Tallie’s Knight is far and away the best Regency romance I have read in a long time.”

  —The Romance Reader

  “Gracie’s writing style is charming and wonderful and the love scenes are very sensual…a special book with excellent writing and characters that touch the heart.”

  —All About Romance

  Gallant Waif

  “A geat heroine…This is as polished a piece of romance writing as anyone could want.”

  —The Romance Reader

  “I loved everything about it.”

  —All About Romance

  A Virtuous Widow

  “A wonderful, warm, emotionally stirring Christmas story of love found, wishes fulfilled, and promises kept.”

  —Romantic Times

  THEPerfect Rake

  Anne Gracie

  BERKLEY SENSATION, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York, 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE PERFECT RAKE

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2005 by Anne Gracie.

  Cover art by Tim Barrall.

  Cover design by George Long.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA), Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0498-6

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  This book is dedicated to

  Marion Lenox, Sophie Weston, and Alison Reynolds—

  wonderful writers and generous friends—

  with my heartfelt thanks.

  And for all those who’ve waited patiently for “B.G.” to arrive.

  Contents

  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 One

  DEREHAM COURT, NORFOLK, ENGLAND 1816

  “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  “PRUE! PRUE! COME QUICKLY. HE IS BEATING GRACE IN THE ATTIC!” Seventeen-year-old Hope burst furiously into the room. Her twin, Faith, followed, her eyes huge with distress.

  Prudence Merridew leaped up from the household accounts, her dropped pen scattering blobs of ink unheeded across the page. She dashed from the room, her sisters at her heels.

  “What set him off this time?” Prudence flung over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. Charity said he found her in the attic making a gift for your birthday,” Hope panted.

  “Charity tried to stop him,” Faith interjected. “But he hit her.”

  Her twin added, “I wanted to go up and try, too, but I could not get this undone in time.” She gestured to her left wrist. It still bore rope marks. “Besides, he’s locked the door. Charity said to fetch you and the keys.”

  “Yes, I have them. James! James!” Prudence called for their stalwart young footman. She raced upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, knowing he would follow. By the second flight he caught up with the two girls.

  “Lord Dereham is beating Grace in the attic. Hurry!” Prudence urged. They reached the third landing and turned to the narrower flight that led to the servants’ quarters and, beyond that, the attic. Nineteen-year-old Charity sat on the stairs, sobbing, one hand cupped against her cheek.

  “Oh, Prue, I tried…”

  Prudence gently lifted her sister’s hand. Two livid red weals marred the purity of Charity’s pale complexion. Prudence bit her lip. Charity was the gentlest creature!

  “It was very brave of you to try, love.”

  She glanced at Faith, the timid sister. She was shaking like a leaf but she’d still come prepared to brave Grandpapa in a rage. “Faith, take Charity to my bedchamber. Get salve and liniment from Mrs. Burton. Charity, off you go and get that cheek seen to. And make things ready for Grace.”

  The two girls crept back down the stairs. Prudence called after them, “As soon as Grace and Hope arrive, lock the door. Don’t open it to anyone except me.”

  Prudence resumed the race up the stairs. As they reached the last landing, she paused. “We shall enter silently, then I will rush at him. At the same time James will snatch Miss Grace and take her to safety.”

  “You can count on me, Miss Prue,” the tall young footman responded gr
imly.

  Prue nodded. “I know. I do not know what will come of this day’s work, but I’ll see you right, James, I promise.”

  “But Prue, he’s mad with rage!” Hope exclaimed. “He’ll beat you, too.”

  “Aye, Miss Prue, better I tackle him.” James had a militant light in his eye. “I’m bigger ’n you.”

  “No, he’d have you transported or hanged! If he hits me, I’ll hit him back!” Prue fiercely responded. “I’ve had enough of his vile rages and his bullying ways. I am almost one and twenty, and when I come of age—” She broke off. They had reached the attic door. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “Hope, you must go with Grace to Faith’s room. And stay there.”

  “No! I want to help. I hate him, Pru—”

  “I know, love, but you can help more by taking Grace to safety and comforting her.”

  Hope opened her mouth to argue, but Prudence held up her hand for silence. She inserted the key, turned it, and opened the narrow, cupboard-like door to the attic. There was no need for stealth. Her grandfather was roaring, beyond any distraction of creaking hinges and the like. He was bent over a small, huddled shape.

  “You filthy little heathen!” Thwack! “Rank obscenity!” Thwack! “Idolatrous blasphemy!” Thwack!

  With each epithet, his sinewy old arm brought down his riding crop with as much force as he could muster. The crop whistled with each downward slice. Ten-year-old Grace was coiled into a tight ball on the floor, her hands clasped protectively over her head, making herself as small as possible.

  Prudence shot across the room like a small, furious cannonball. “Leave my sister alone, you great filthy bully!” She hurled herself against him, shoving with all her might, for she was not a large person. Her grandfather might be well past sixty, but he was six feet tall, his body strong and lean from hunting, shooting, and fishing.

  And from beating little girls.

  He staggered, caught off balance. Prudence took advantage of his momentary unsteadiness and pushed him again, hard. He tripped over a trunk from which old clothes spilled—Grace and the twins’ dress-up clothes—and lay for a moment, gasping, sprawled among faded brocade and moth-eaten lace.

  Obedient to his orders, James scooped Grace up and strode from the room. Hope hesitated.

  “Go!” Prudence hissed at her. “Quickly!” She went.

  In a surge of old gowns, her grandfather staggered to his feet. His face was purple with rage. Veins stood out at his neck and temple. Spittle foamed at his mouth. “brazen-faced little bitch! I’ll teach you!” Grasping his riding crop he strode toward Prudence.

  She flung him a contemptuous look. “How dare you use that disgusting weapon on a child!” she spat.

  “That little hellcat was engaged in filthy, idolatrous evil, and I’ll scourge her of it if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Filthy, idolatrous evil? Prudence glanced at the three-legged table where Grace had been working in secret. On it lay a pasteboard reticule and several of the old magazines passed on in secret to the girls by their neighbor, Mrs. Otterbury. At the time, they had all exclaimed over the Egyptian designs in one of the magazines—strange and fanciful creatures like the Sphinx and others, half animal and half human.

  A shard of guilt pierced Prudence as she recalled how she’d admired the Egyptian designs. Grace had used them to decorate the pasteboard reticule, these “idolatrous and evil” pictures. Her little sister had been beaten for making Prudence a gift for her birthday.

  “It is not filthy idolatry—it is merely a whimsy of fashion. Grace is just a child. Those designs are simply attractive curiosities to her!”

  “They are blasphemous and that…that thing she created bears the taint of the Devil. It must be burned, and she must be cleansed. I’ll thrash the evil out of her if it’s the last thing I do!” He knocked the magazines and reticule to the floor.

  Prudence darted in and snatched the battered reticule to her breast. “There is not a shred of evil in Grace. She is a dear sweet child and—”

  “She bears the stamp of Jezebel! As do you!”

  Prudence dashed her fiery curls from her eyes. “It is not the stamp of Jezebel! It is simply hair, Grandpapa! Grace and I cannot help its color! Our mother had red hair.”

  The old man let out a growl of rage and sliced at Prudence with his whip. “I forbade you to mention that harlot under my roof! She was a shameless Jezebel who enticed my son away from me, and you and that other she-cub bear her mark! I may not have beaten the evil out of you, yet, but I’ll make sure—”

  Prudence interrupted. “If you lay so much as a finger on Grace or Hope—or any of my sisters—ever again…I’ll, I’ll kill you! Hope cannot help being left-handed and Grace’s and my hair is just an excuse! You are nothing but a despicable bully and I’ll have no more of it, do you hear?”

  “Insolent baggage!” roared the old man. “I am your legal guardian and I’ll have respect and obedience from you—the way your sisters respect me—if I have to thrash you within an inch of your life!”

  “Hah!” Prudence’s voice was filled with scorn. “Respect does not come from beatings, Grandpapa; it must be earned! You see my sisters’ meek obedience as respect, but you command only fear and hatred in them. In me you command nothing!”

  He lunged and caught her a vicious blow across the face. Prudence reeled back, clutching her cheek. Blood stained her fingers. He eyed the blood with satisfaction. “We’ll see if you sing the same tune when I’ve finished with you. A disobedient bitch always cowers after a good thrashing.”

  “I’m not a setter or a beagle, Grandpapa! You can’t make me cower the way you did when I was a child. And I’ll tell you to your face, the thrashings have come to an end. In eight weeks’ time I shall turn one and twenty, and then I shall have the legal guardianship of my sisters. You cannot prevent it. Papa’s will made it so.”

  He leaned briefly against a broken table, huffing and puffing from his recent exertion. The purple color faded slowly from his face. “Oh, can I not?” he said. “You may have the legal guardianship, girlie, but I still control the purse strings until you marry.” He chuckled, a dry, rasping wheeze. “You’ll none of you get a penny unless you wed, and I’ll ensure you will not wed!” His thin lips curled in a sneer. “You may cherish your sisters to your heart’s content, missy, but you’ll starve without a penny to your name!”

  “Maybe I don’t have a penny at the moment, but I have resources you know nothing about. Once I am of age, we will leave this place, and you will not be able to stop us.”

  Prudence felt a small surge of satisfaction. He’d taken most of her mother’s jewelry years ago, when they’d first come to Dereham Court, but the eleven-year-old, newly orphaned Prudence had been too sentimental to hand her Mama’s favorite pieces over to the grim old man who demanded them. She’d held a few precious pieces back, and kept them hidden all these years. The jewels would be the saving of them now.

  “Harlot! Sell your body, would you? It does not surprise me! But you will not escape to shame this family so!” He came storming forward in a fresh surge of rage. Prudence ran for the door and hurried down the steep, narrow stairs as fast as she could.

  Behind her came Grandpapa, crashing and cursing her, swiping at her with every step. The whip lashed her more than once, and as she reached the narrow landing, she tripped on her skirt and fell to her knees.

  He came roaring down the last steps in triumph, but in his haste he stumbled, lurching forward in an avalanche of curses, his whip flailing. Prudence ducked aside as, carried forward by the momentum of his rush, her grandfather careered down the steps past her, tripping and rolling and crashing.

  His fall was broken, eventually, by the curve of the rails where the stairs turned.

  The house was suddenly, shockingly silent.

  Prudence hurried upstairs to her bedchamber. “It’s me, Hope. Open the door.”

  The door creaked open. Hope peered out. “Prudence! Your face! Di
d he do that?”

  Prudence touched a tentative finger to her face. In all the drama she’d forgotten the cut on her cheek. “Don’t worry, it probably looks worse than it is. How is Grace?”

  Hope gestured to the bed, where Charity and Faith were sitting, their arms around Grace, who was huddled in a hard little knot, hugging her knees, her face quite hidden. The arms wrapped around the knees were covered in ugly red welts. Sobs shook her thin body.

  Prudence slipped onto the bed and put an arm around the tense, hunched body. “Graciela?” It was their mother’s pet name for her.

  Grace looked up and her pale, tear-streaked face crumpled anew as she saw her oldest sister’s injured face and worried eyes. She hurled herself into Prudence’s arms. “Oh, Prue, Prue, he hurt you, too. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  Prudence felt a surge of anger at the man who had saturated a young girl’s life with such guilt that Grace would blame herself for Prudence’s injury. She forced herself to speak lightly. “Don’t be sorry, love. It doesn’t hurt a bit, I promise you. Grandpapa got much the worst of it. He’s in no state to hurt any of us now.”

  That caused them all to sit up. “What do you mean?” asked Faith.

  “He tripped and fell down the stairs.” She shivered. Her mind still held the sound of flesh and bone crashing down the stairs, against the wall. And that sudden silence…

  Hope was the first to speak. “Is he dead?”

  “No, though I thought—we all thought—for a moment that he was. He lay there, not moving, for the longest time. Everyone just stared, for all the servants had come running.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “But he was not, of course. You know what a hard head Grandpapa has.”

  “Pity,” Hope muttered.