ONCE A RAKE
by Rona Sharon
December 2007 / ISBN: 0-821-78058-1
Zebra Historical Romance — Kensington Books

Chapter One

Like to a hermit poor, in place obscure,
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wail such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.
— Sir Walter Raleigh

London, 1817

Isabel Aubrey drew a fortifying breath and climbed the front steps of Lancaster House. The Earl of Ashby’s private residence was situated on Park Lane, the finest street address in Mayfair. For years she had passed by his home, aware he was somewhere on the Continent, risking his life fighting against Napoleon. Then two years ago, soon after Waterloo, he had come back.

Her heart beat wildly as she tapped the brass knocker against the door and waited. A rotund butler answered the door. “Good morning, miss. How may I help you?”

Isabel smiled. “Good morning. I’m here to call on his lordship.”

The butler shook his bald head ruefully. “His lordship doesn’t receive callers, miss. My apologies, and a good day to you.” The door closed softly in her face.

Drat. Isabel stepped back, churning with disappointment. She’d been so preoccupied with tamping her emotions upon coming to see him that it hadn’t occurred to her Ashby might refuse to see her at all. Yet it was not her in particular he refused to see—it was anyone.

“Shouldn’t we return home now, Miss Isabel?” her maid inquired from the sidewalk, where she dutifully kept watch for passersby. Isabel glanced back. Except for a fruit cart, the street was empty. It was yet early for the haut ton to crawl out of its soft beds, but she still had to watch out for the demented early risers who went riding in the park. “We’ll get into a lot of trouble, should anyone spot us on the Gargoyle’s doorstep,” her maid added fretfully, glancing right and left.

“Please don’t call him so, Lucy,” Isabel berated her maid. “His lordship deserves our pity, not our ridicule.” Yet Lucy had a point. If word got around that she’d paid a personal visit to the Gargoyle—when it was a very strict rule that no unmarried lady with magnificent prospects ever called on a gentleman except upon a business or a professional matter—her mother would have a fit, and her eldest brother, Viscount Stilgoe, would marry her off to the first single gentleman she waltzed with at Almack’s on Wednesday. She’d exhausted every possible excuse for misconduct when she had turned down five eligible beaux, declaring that none of the fellows would do.

Think! She ordered herself. There had to be a way to approach the earl. Gnawing on her lip, an idea entered her head. It was somewhat bold, but it seemed to be her only recourse. She fumbled in her reticule and took out a pencil and an elegant calling card, which in addition to her name stated her active role as Chairwoman of the Widows, Mothers & Sisters of War Society. She wrote a short message on the back of the card. Before she lost her nerve, she knocked again.

The butler was quick to respond. “Kindly give his lordship my card and ask him to read the line on the back,” she instructed, before he shut the door in her face a second time.

The butler’s kind eyes softened sympathetically. “You are not the first young lady who has come calling, miss. He wouldn’t see any of them. I am sorry.”

Isabel stiffened. “I am not one of his… lady friends. His lordship was my brother’s friend, and his senior officer. He will see me. Please give him my card.”

The butler’s scrutiny shifted between her and the demure maid standing a few steps behind her. He took the card. “I shall inquire.” The door closed again.

Isabel kneaded her hands. What she would never have been able to imagine, even in her worst nightmares, was the formidable Earl of Ashby—Colonel Lord Ashby, Commander of the 18th Hussars—resigned to the sad state of a recluse. That a battle wound should force him into a self-imposed isolation was… inconceivable. The Ashby she so well remembered was a force of nature: Sharp, charming, strong, and godlike handsome, he was also fabulously wealthy, which in and of itself was enough to entice the ton to forgive a facial disfigurement, severe though it may be. Yet apparently his countless virtues were not enough for Ashby to forgive it.

The butler reappeared. “Do come in, Miss Aubrey. His lordship will see you.”

He remembered. Pleased with her triumph, Isabel walked inside. Lancaster House was a grand, silver-and-blue palace, with a shimmering chandelier hanging from a two-storey ceiling. So this was where he lived, she gazed about excitedly, where he had been hiding from the world for the past two years. She couldn’t help wondering, though, how one—particularly a man as vigorous as Ashby—occupied his time caged inside a house all by himself. She’d be scaling walls within a week, and she hadn’t spent years charging on horseback beneath an open sky.

Leaving Lucy in the foyer, she followed the butler into a front sitting room. A collection of sculptures set on a glass shelf caught her attention: Little monkeys skillfully whittled of wood. One of them, she noted with amused horror, bore a frightful resemblance to Wellington. Another was the spitting image of Lord Castlereagh. “The Gargoyle is an artist.” She smiled, lifting a plump ape which reminded her of Prince George. “And he has a very wicked sense of humor...”

“The Gargoyle doesn’t appreciate strangers poking at his personal effects.”

Isabel jumped. Prinny was snatched from her hand and put back on the glass shelf.

“You wished to see me?” A gangling, grim, gray-haired man stood before her. He bore no resemblance to the devil-may-care hussar Will had brought to dinner years ago.

Her heart sank. Good God. “What hap—?” Clamping her mouth shut, she curtsied politely. Had the war done this to him? Or had her mind glorified his image over the years? Even his rust coat was too large for his frame. Morosely, she searched his face for a scar. He had none.

The earl regarded her circumspectly. “Is there anything I may do for you, Miss…?”

“Aubrey, my lord. Will’s sister.” He didn’t recognize her. Then what made him open his door for her when he wouldn’t do so for anyone else, not even for his lady friends?

“Aubrey… Major William Aubrey? Oh, yes, of course I remember him. Please accept my deepest condolences for the loss of your excellent brother, Miss Aubrey. He was a fine officer.”

Isabel frowned. Something was terribly amiss. Will had been his best friend for years and this was all he had to say? “Did you… read my card, my lord?” she asked delicately.

“Your card?” He blinked owlishly.

The truth hit her as a thunderbolt: This man is an imposter. Why else would he invent an injury which did not exist other than to justify his withdrawal from Society? It meant one thing: Ashby was dead, buried somewhere in a cold field in Belgium alongside her brother, while this villain assumed his identity and lived off his estate! She had to get out of there. Someone needed to be informed of this. “Thank you for seeing me, my lord. Alas, I’ve just remembered I had a previous engagement. It’s been a pleasure.” She hurried to the door.

The double-doors opened to reveal the butler. He read her expression and instantly stepped in, shutting the doors behind him. “Miss Aubrey, we are his lordship’s servants,” he said quietly.

“Oh, Phipps, you bloody idiot,” the imposter ranted at the butler. “We may hang for this, you know. You and your asinine ideas.”

“It would’ve been a brilliant idea, if you hadn’t been an abject imbecile,” Phipps retorted, frothing with exasperation. “All you had to do was discover what she wanted.”

“How was I supposed to do that? What am I—a bloody Bow Street Runner?”

Isabel’s sharp gaze shifted between the pudgy butler and his lanky accomplice, her mind spinning on course again. A runner—that’s whom she should speak to!

The imposter dabbed a handkerchief at his damp brow. “All she mentioned was her card.”

Phipps plucked her card out of his vest pocket and read the short message. “What does it mean?” he asked her, looking vastly intrigued.

“Why don’t you ask his lordship?” she replied tartly. Glancing at the doors, she called out, “Lucy! Run to Stilgoe! Tell him to return with a Bow Street Runner! This man is an imposter!”

“Yes, Miss Isabel!” Lucy’s muffled reply came from the foyer.

“Do not let her get away!” Phipps ordered his accomplice and ran outside. Detained by the imposter, now manning the doorway, Isabel heard the front door open and close with a bang.

“He’s blockading the front door, Miss Isabel!” Lucy cried. “What should I do now?”

“Quick, Lucy!” Isabel exclaimed. “Thrust the tip of my parasol between his ribs!”

“Ouch!” the butler whelped in the foyer. “You nasty little thing!”

“It didn’t work!” Lucy announced. “What should I try next?”

Isabel glared at the imposter. He shrugged apologetically. Wishing the pox on his head, she peered beyond his shoulder. “Lucy, I see a flower vase in the corner. Smash it across his skull!”

“Dudley, shut her up, will you?” Phipps begged out loud. “I am being murdered out here!”

As Dudley glanced outside, Isabel flung her reticule, bashing his head. “Hateful villains!” she cried, dashing past him. “You’ll rot in Newgate for this!” She saw Phipps cowering at the front door as Lucy took aim with the flower vase. She heard Dudley stumbling behind her. She was almost there when a terrible canine bark froze the lot of them. Lucy dropped the flower vase.

“Down, Hector,” a deep, masculine voice commanded from the gallery. Isabel looked up, her breath coming in short gasps. The chandelier blocked her view, but through the sculpted bars of the banister she saw a black-coated retriever sitting vigilantly next to a pair of polished black Hessians. “Dudley, is that my coat you’re wearing?” Ashby’s voice resonated above them.

Dudley cringed. “Yes, my lord, but I can explain—”

“I should hope so. Phipps, stand aside. Let the women go.”

Phipps hung desolate eyes on the daunting form towering over the foyer. “My lord, I—”

“Now, Phipps!” Leather creaked as Ashby turned on his heel.

Isabel shook herself. This was her chance. “Lord Ashby, may I see you privately for a moment? Merely to ascertain that no trickery is played and that you are indeed—”

He halted. Distant eyes perused her through the dappled shimmer of the chandelier. “Wait in the sitting room,” he said after a long pause. “I’ll be with you shortly.” His boot heels pounded the hardwood as he left the gallery, receding deeper inside the house.

Phipps approached her with a contrite expression. “Miss Aubrey, I beg you, forgive me.”

“Me, too.” Dudley nodded briskly, the overlarge coat hanging neatly on his forearm.

“We had no intention of frightening you—” Phipps continued.

“Or your maid,” Dudley inserted. “He wouldn’t have seen you unless we did something…”

“Drastic. We sincerely apologize.” They stared at her pleadingly, Dudley rubbing the bump on his head, Phipps hugging his tender ribs.

Isabel eyed the two misfits. “I expect you to apologize to Lucy as well,” she bit out crossly.

“We shall do so at once,” they promised in unison, bowing humbly.

Isabel returned to the front sitting room. She paced about, anticipation wreaking havoc on her nerves. Confident strides approached the doorway. She held her breath, waiting to see if…

He walked onto the threshold, and her heart slammed hard against her ribcage. “Ashby.”

Wearing a black satin mask, the earl leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded across his broad chest. “What a relief. For a moment I feared I might end up in Newgate.” Thick, glossy dark hair tumbled in uneven lengths to his powerful shoulders. A white lawn shirt revealed the pulse beating at the base of his throat and the well-formed muscles shaping his chest. Snug black breeches molded his lean thighs, accenting supple sinew developed through years in a saddle. Tall, strapping, and utterly ferocious, he exuded damn-your-eyes virility.

She curtsied, her sky blue eyes wide with awe. Years ago they said women swooned when he walked into a ballroom, and that he was the only gentleman ever in need of a dance card. She hadn’t quite understood it as a girl; she did now. Even masked, his dark allure had the effect of a magnet. This was a man who could have anything—and anyone—he wanted.

Watching her through a pair of eye-slits, his gaze traveled the length of her, from the pretty yellow bonnet framing her sun-golden curls to her matching yellow morning dress. When he met her gaze, she realized her memory had deceived her in one respect: His eyes were not blue—that must have been a trick of his blue uniform—they were, in fact, an unusual shade of light marine green. Abruptly he disengaged from the doorframe. “State your business and be off.”

Isabel merely gaped at him.

“I see.” His sensuous lips curved cynically beneath the mask. “Well, now that you have ascertained whatever it was you needed to and satisfied your curiosity at the same time, I bid you farewell.” He crossed the room in five long strides, his black dog loping after him. With a snap of his wrist, he drew the heavy curtain over the street-facing window, throwing the room into semi-darkness. She dreaded to imagine what he faced each day in the mirror. It had to be terrible indeed, for Ashby to shut himself away from the world.

Isabel pulled herself together. “Lord Ashby, I represent the Widows, Mothers & Sisters of War Society. We are a charity organization, working in aid of destitute women who’ve lost their male providers in the war. Shop keepers, blacksmiths, farmers, they’ve left dependent relatives, women and children, behind. Today these poor souls have no one. Our goal is to help them—”

“I don’t give a damn about your goals, madam. Good day.” He headed for the door.

As he sauntered past her, she gripped his arm. Steely muscles bunched beneath her fingers.

“You ought to, my lord,” she asserted. “They concern the families of the men you commanded, your brave soldiers who died on the battlefield.”

His gaze slid along his arm and returned to her eyes. “And your point is?”

She released him. “You were responsible for these women’s deceased loved ones. Don’t you think your men might expect you to do something—anything—to help their kin?”

Moving closer, he pinned her in his glinting gaze. “My duty was to destroy. I’m done.”

She caught a whiff of his shaving soap; the cool scent made her think of forests and glades. Refusing to back down, she sustained his glare. “Perhaps if you knew my brother’s name—”

“I know who you are, Isabel.”

Her heart lurched. “You do?” she asked, suddenly unable to breathe. She hoped he found her… somewhat attractive, if only for the sake of her female pride. She was half-mad for him as a girl, while he was known to be very wicked at the time. A notorious rake, gambler, and pursuer of women, the wags tagged him, but Will claimed that most of the heavy attention his friend attracted was due to his coming into his title so early in life. It was Isabel’s personal opinion, though, that it was Ashby’s unique character which set him apart from the ton’s pack of rakish young bloods.

“You grew up,” he murmured. “The last time I saw you, you wore short blue skirts and had bouncing curls.”

A hot flush crept up her cheeks. “That was seven years ago.” The last time she’d seen him, he sported his regimentals: white breeches, a blue dolman jacket with silver bars stretching over his chest, a matching fur-lined pelisse dangling from one shoulder… he was magnificent. She’d made a complete fool of herself over him. “You kept Hector,” she said.

“I promised you I would.” The black satin mask concealed most of his face, but it revealed his hard jaw, chin, and mouth—which she happened to know felt as soft as it looked.

Tearing her gaze away, she sank to the carpet and gave a soft, melodious whistle. The large dog sat up, his ears twitching. Deciding to investigate up close, he came over to sniff her hand.

“Hello, Hector. Do you remember me?” She buried her fingers in his shiny coat, rubbing and stroking. “We were excellent friends once, when you were a tiny pup.” He barked, wagging his tail happily. She laughed. “My, you’ve grown. You’re so beautiful and big and strong.” She lifted her eyes, seeking Ashby’s inscrutable gaze. “I see you’ve been well taken care of.”

“I have,” Ashby replied, though they both knew she had spoken to the dog. “Hector saved my life twice. We’re practically brothers.” He offered her his hand.

Heart thumping, she put her hand in his warm, large palm and let him help her to her feet. They stood very close to one another, surrounded by the dimness created by the heavy drapes.

“I’m sorry about Will,” he said gruffly. “I promised you I would bring him back. I failed.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she murmured. “For what happened to you at Waterloo.”

“Sorauren,” he breathed. “I lost my face at Sorauren.”

“That was four years ago.” She had only found out when people began whispering about him, referring to Ashby as ‘the Gargoyle of Mayfair.’ “Will never mentioned—”

“That I’d become hideous? Will was a saint. He never gossiped about his friends. He made them feel human, even when there was nothing human left in them.”

Staring deep into his anguished, burning eyes, her heart welled with compassion. “Lord Ashby, you are the kindest, gentlest, most generous man I’ve ever known. I don’t believe you could ever lose your humanity.”

“You’d be surprised.”

His harsh words sent an unpleasant shiver through her. “I know bleakness and despair, my lord, but I discovered that by helping others—people less fortunate than I—one heals oneself.”

“I’m thrilled you’ve found your golden path, but not every method works for everyone.”

Before he turned away, she said, “Have you ever seen a child light up with joy at the sight of a hot meal or when he is warm again or when he sees his mother smiling because you helped her in some small way? You and I, we have so much to give, it is our duty to give it.”

He fell silent for a moment. “What sort of help do you require of me?”

His tone didn’t guarantee his assistance, but he was curious. “Our charity board has hired a solicitor to draw up a proposal for a reform bill by which annual compensations would be paid to the aforementioned relatives, women and children, now deprived of means of sustenance.”

“When you say ‘our board’, I presume you mean you?”

“Lady Iris Chilton, Mrs. Sophie Fairchild, and myself, yes.”

“Go on.”

“We seek an influential gentleman to champion our cause and push legislation across. As a member of the House, you—”

“I haven’t attended sessions in the House of Lords for a long time. Nor do I intend to begin doing so in the foreseeable future. Ergo, I am not the… champion you seek. Anything else?”

“With your power and influence, and with your connections in the War Office, you could contribute to our cause far more than anyone else without attending Parliament.”

“You are wrong, Isabel,” he said solemnly. “I have nothing to contribute to anyone.”

You have something to contribute to me, she thought glumly. An image of Ashby and Will laughing together wrenched her heart. “Perhaps… we could help each other,” she offered gently.

“You are not the only person in England this war has scarred, my lord.”

“How would you help me?” he bit out angrily. “My life is over.” He glimpsed at her lips. When his gaze touched hers, she knew with a certainty he recalled everything that had transpired outside her house that long ago night. The intensity of his stare both frightened and thrilled her.

Isabel let out a shuddering breath. Alas, she’d learned her lesson where he was concerned. “You once told me you considered Will a brother. As his sister, I would be happy to—”

“Don’t—patronize me,” he growled, staring at her as though she had slapped him. “I’m not one of your bloody charity cases! If I were the man I was four years ago, you’d be thoroughly compromised by now.”

Isabel flinched, taken aback by the force of his fury. “Forgive me. I never—”

“ Go home, Isabel, and don’t come back here ever again. The Gargoyle deserves neither your pity nor your ridicule.” He strode out of the sitting room, dismissing her altogether.

***

“Did I not instruct that no one was to be admitted inside this house?” The enraged bellow would send rats scurrying into holes in the walls, if there were any. Furious, Ashby pounded up the stairs, cursing under his breath. Damn that chit! Why did she have to burst into his life again?

Hurrying after him, Phipps gasped, “She threatened me with bodily harm, my lord.”

Ashby turned around so abruptly, his butler nearly tumbled down the stairs. “And another thing—didn’t I specifically tell you to keep the drapes drawn at all times?”

Phipps gripped the handrail, wheezing. “You did, my lord, but I couldn’t very well admit Miss Aubrey into a dark room, could I?”

“You shouldn’t have admitted her in the first place, you… abject meddler!” His temples throbbing, Ashby reached the second floor and headed for his bedchamber. He needed to… smash something, anything, to get the image of Isabel Aubrey standing in a halo of sunlight out of his head. Christ, had she changed! He’d hardly recognized her. Little Izzy was a beautiful doll with shining eyes and ribbons in her hair. The full-grown woman he’d just met was… heart-wrenching. Perhaps it wasn’t the nicest compliment a gentleman ever paid a lady, but that was exactly how it felt, seeing that vision of femininity brightening his parlor, her exquisite oval face framed with soft, sunny tendrils, her prefect pink lips parted in astonishment, her tall, lissome, shapely figure ripe for plucking. He couldn’t believe she actually suggested he consider her a sister. She didn’t think of him as a brother that long ago night, when he was young and whole. Bloody, bloody hell. She made him feel like a relic, a doddering old man broken beyond repair, when what he ached to do was finish that kiss she had begun seven years ago.

Ashby ripped the mask from his face and threw it over his shoulder, knowing his shadow would be there to catch it. “Is there a specific reason you’re tailing me around my own house? I assure you, I am perfectly capable of finding my way around.”

“I should like to clarify, if I may, that Dudley was all against impersonating you, my lord.”

Ashby snorted with disgust. “Where the devil is that intrepid valet of mine?”

“Gone into hiding, my lord.”

“Good. Keep him there.” Entering his bedchamber, Ashby strode to his dresser and pulled out a drawer. He rummaged around it, but didn’t find what he was looking for. Phipps coughed. Annoyed, Ashby glared at him. “Why are you still in my doorway, huffing and puffing?”

“I’d be in a much better form were I required to admit callers on occasion, my lord.”

“You’d be in a much better form if instead of putting on charades, you ran this household proficiently.” Ashby pulled out the second drawer and continued his search. Unsuccessfully.

Watching his master methodically take his dresser apart, Phipps said meekly, “Most men would be in a happier state of mind after an impromptu visit from a pretty butterfly, my lord.”

“A butterfly!” Ashby smirked. “She and her maid have all but done away with you.”

Phipps shrugged. “I did provide her with ample reasons to think ill of me.”

“You provide me with reasons daily, and yet I don’t take parasols and flower vases to your person. I am, however, seriously considering packing you off to Ashby Park.”

The butler started. “I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you, your lordship.”

“Pity.” Unable to locate what he was seeking, Ashby moved to search the closet. And the pest still hovered. “Speak your mind, Phipps, before I grow old and gray.”

“It concerns Miss Aubrey, my lord. I believe her purpose in coming here was not entirely impersonal.” Phipps produced a calling card out of his vest pocket.

“So you’ve been eavesdropping. What a shock.” Ashby pushed aside the superfine jackets hanging in the closet and bent down to search the boxes neatly stacked at the bottom. He opened one after another, crushing new cravats he would never wear and tossing them over his shoulder.

Phipps went on. “Miss Aubrey’s reaction upon discovering the charade was… well, she was quite distraught.”

“Obviously. She believed you and Dudley were a pair of criminals, Phipps.”

“That’s precisely my point, my lord. She should have been frightened, but instead, she was furious and—well, I couldn’t help noticing—genuinely grief-stricken.”

Not allowing his butler to see his expression, Ashby rationalized, “She lost her brother not too long ago. He was very dear to her. I was his closest friend, his commander.”

“Then why did you send her away… in tears, your lordship?”

He’d been half tempted to lock her in and swallow the key, but then he would have had to spend the rest of his life behind a mask. Sweet, kindhearted Isabel who took stray puppies off the streets would drop in a dead faint if she saw him unmasked. He was not a bloody charity case!

Gritting his teeth, Ashby confronted his butler. “Where the devil did you put it, Phipps?”

“Which item would that be, my lord?”

Ashby fixed his butler with an exasperated glare. “You know bloody well which item!”

The butler hurried forth. “In the trunk under your bed, where you keep your regimentals and medals, but do you think it’s wise, my lord? The last time you—”

“I’ll decide what is and isn’t wise in this house. Now bugger off!” Ashby nudged him aside and dropped to his knees before the bed. He pulled the heavy trunk and cracked the lid open. He hadn’t touched it in two years and his hands shook as he did so now.

“It’s wrapped in the shabraque, my lord.”

Ashby lunged to his feet. He turned Phipps around, pushed him out the door, and kicked it shut. On second thought, he turned the key in the lock. The daft man thought his duties included those of a nursemaid. It was the story of his life: servants who raised him, cuddled him, saw to his every need, and never knew when to leave off. Exhaling haggardly, he dropped on the bed and stared at the open trunk. His regimentals were folded inside, with his fur cap, Mameluke saber, flintlock pistol, and his medals on top. The sight brought back a range of memories, few pleasant, most of them… unbearable. “What precisely are you hoping to find?” he asked himself.

The last time he performed this self-destructive idiocy, he ended up smashing every mirror in the house, except for one—his mother’s hand mirror. Ashby buried his arm in the folds of the shabraque, his ornate saddle cloth, and there it was. He took it out, not yet daring to look at it.

Three different surgeons had refused to operate on him, swearing it would cost him his life. Only an assistant field-surgeon, a diminutive Indian fellow Will had found in a foot battalion camp, agreed to perform the surgery. Later, Ashby was told that the foreigner had saved his life.

He shut his eyes against the old pain and self-recriminations. Will had saved his wretched life and what had he done in return? The memory of a pistol shot resonated in his heart. Ashby shuddered, anguish lacerating his soul. Perhaps this was part of the torture in seeing Will’s sister again. Both in spirit and in appearance, Isabel was a replica of the only true friend he ever had.

How could he help her when he could barely help himself?

He opened his eyes and stared at the gargoyle he held in his hand. “Damn you to hell,” he rasped, as the gargoyle in the hand mirror mouthed the same thing back at him.

Someone scratched the door. Ashby raised his eyes in time to see a calling card sliding in from underneath the door onto the carpet. He pushed to his feet and went to pick up the card. It was elegantly embossed with Isabel’s name and role as chairwoman of her charity.

“Look at the back side,” Phipps suggested. If Ashby didn’t know better, he would swear the pest had drilled eyeholes in the door. Cursing, he turned the card over and a tight fist coiled around his heart. In a neat, slightly florid hand was written, “I need your special skills.”