Page 2 of How to Court a Rake (Wed Within a Year #1)

CHAPTER TWO

H ow much trouble could one dance be? Mary argued with herself, especially when that dance was designed to mend her reputation, not rend it. Yet, when she took Caine Parkhurst’s arm and felt the firmness of the muscles beneath her gloved hand, she had the unmistakable impression that this was very much a case of a wolf in sheep’s clothing and she was most certainly a red riding hood led astray by her own curiosity and a pair of dark eyes with mysterious depths.

Worst of all, she knew these things and she’d not put a stop to it. Instead, she’d followed this particular wolf on to the dance floor just to see where it led, although her conscience did make one last bid for retraction as they drew closer to his cousin’s set. The logic that had propelled her on to the dance floor had been flawed. What had she been thinking to accept? In what world did dancing with Caine Parkhurst, rake extraordinaire, a man who’d turned his town house drawing room into a gambling hell, a man who seduced women for entertainment, make anything right?

She wasn’t mitigating trouble; she was courting an obscene amount of it. She ought to have stood her ground and refused him. In fact, she shouldn’t have stood anywhere near him. She would have been better off walking away once it was apparent everyone else in her group was dancing. Decent, unmarried women didn’t stand on the sidelines conversing with one of the Four Horsemen and they definitely didn’t take to the dance floor with one of them. In a matter of minutes she’d managed to do both. She had no excuse. She was not newly come to town, a gullible young miss in the throes of her first Season. She knew better.

And she did not want to do better. It had been her choice from the start. She’d convinced herself there was no harm in idle small talk. After all, she made small talk with viscounts and dukes all the time. But that had been her mistake. Caine Parkhurst was nothing like the Duke of Harlow. The Duke was a gentleman to the bone. Harlow dressed like one, he looked like one. He acted like one.

Caine was something else entirely. He was something wild and untamed, from the messy, ebony waves of his hair to the unorthodox all-black evening clothes relieved only by a single diamond stickpin winking in the folds of a black silk cravat. He looked like the devil incarnate—wicked, sensual, a walking invitation to sin and, to her surprise, it was an invitation something in her was tempted to accept.

Curiosity spurred her hard. Like Eve in the garden, she wanted a taste of what the devil offered, perhaps because he was the antithesis of all she’d come to know since entering society’s lists. Tonight, on the sidelines, they’d not made small talk. They’d jousted with words for spears, cool glances and arched brows for shields. And it had been far more invigorating than discussing the weather in Hampshire with a viscount. Then again, she was coming to believe that everything about Caine Parkhurst was designed to be invigorating to the feminine mind.

And she was definitely invigorated. At two inches over six feet and sporting the shoulders of Atlas, he was larger than life. She could go toe to toe with him, but not nose to nose. She was used to looking many men in the eye. Even at her stature of five foot seven inches, rather tall for a woman, she was aware that Caine Parkhurst towered over her, the breadth of him an obvious contrast to the slenderness of her own frame. Beside him, she did not feel too tall, too overpowering. She did not need to cultivate a stoop to accommodate a shorter man. She did not need to worry about daunting a gentleman with her mere presence simply by standing next to him and making him feel less the man.

Caine Parkhurst was breathtakingly impressive, intimidating, intoxicating even and, from the unexpected rush of her pulse as they took to the dance floor, it was absolutely clear why mothers steered their daughters in the opposite direction when he was in the room. Just as it was clear why women of all ages were drawn to him against their better judgement. He smelled deliciously, like the call to adventure all sharp citrus, exotic sandalwood, and rugged masculinity—two things in short supply for a well-bred English woman, which only added to the intrigue of him.

She did not think she was the only woman who wanted to solve that riddle. The complex scent complemented what rumour spoke of him: that here was a man who cared not a fig for rules and propriety, a man who did as he pleased and took what he wanted. A man who had nothing to lose. In that moment, she understood the pull he had over her. He was all she was not. She must always give a care for propriety and it was wearying. Such care eroded one’s soul and she was on the brink of losing hers. The small part of her that society had not yet claimed wanted him for herself and all that he represented: freedom. If only for the length of a dance, these moments would be for her.

Then it would be back to reality. Unlike him, she had something to lose—a reputation that had taken a battering recently. She was acutely aware of the consequences of being overlooked by two dukes in two years; first Creighton and now Harlow. It had raised the question: if she was indeed the impeccable example of propriety, why had two dukes passed on her? This evening, if she’d continue to stand there, that question would have extended to asking why a man not as grand as a duke had not taken to the floor with her? People would begin to ask, ‘What is wrong with her?’ She was in danger of being demoted from a diamond of the first water to wallflower.

Truly, she’d really not had a choice. Refusing Parkhurst’s invitation to dance would simply draw more attention than what they were already receiving. Accepting was the lesser of two evils. It wouldn’t stop all the talk, though. There would just be different talk. Talk she hoped her mother wouldn’t hear about. But it was too late to change her mind now.

They joined Alex Parkhurst’s set and Caine made a bow to her as the music began. The dance was a lively scotch reel, which required switching partners, and she was spared the intensity and perhaps the scrutiny that came with dancing solely with him—something that brought a bit of irrational disappointment. Part of her was aware it would have welcomed the scrutiny of those dark eyes. On a positive note, the reel did offer the opportunity to study him in contrast to his more urbane cousin. Both were tall and dark-haired; both had the strong Parkhurst jaw and aristocratic nose. But Alex had none of his cousin’s muscular breadth. His was a more elegant, town-fed build whereas Caine was barely leashed virility, wildness caged in a tailored evening coat.

Caine flashed her a smile as he danced past on to his next partner and her knees went unexpectedly weak at the dazzle of that smile, wide, open, honest, his tousled curls flying. Two surprises hit her at once as she moved on to dance with Alex. First, despite his claims to not dancing tonight, Caine was having fun. He liked to dance. It was there in his smile, in the posture of his body, which suddenly seemed less guarded. Second, he was actually good at it, something unusual for a big man, especially one better known for his athletic pursuits. Everyone knew Caine Parkhurst rode like the devil, shot like the devil and boxed like the devil among other skills that were best unnamed in the presence of ladies.

The rotation finished, she returned to him and they danced facing each other, doing an energetic little kick step. The joy of the dance had her laughing out loud and smiling back at him, the wicked thought coming to her that she could dance all night with this man, that she wanted to dance all night with him, to claim this freedom, this surge of joy.

She’d no more thought it then Kieran appeared at his shoulder, inserting himself into the set and rapidly whispering something at his ear. Caine’s smile disappeared, his features stern. She caught the words, ‘We ride for Wapping.’ Caine reached for her wrist and pulled her out of the reel, the warm intimacy of his touch jolting up her arm even as he said the words that would take him away. ‘I must go.’

‘What? Now? In the middle of a dance?’ It took a moment to comprehend that he was leaving her—nay, deserting her in the middle of the dance floor where everyone would notice. ‘You begged me to dance with you, you can’t leave me now,’ she sputtered a stunned protest. Her temper rose. How dare he! He knew how this would look. He had no idea how this felt. Something inside her wilted, her moment of freedom was slipping away even as her considerable pride surged to the fore, ready to protect her as it always did. She would need it to get through the aftermath.

His hand lingered at her wrist, his gaze steady on hers. ‘I am sorry.’ Then he was gone, winding his way through the dancers on his brother’s heels, leaving her to calmly depart the floor on her own with her head held high against the stares and whispers that would reach her mother’s ears by breakfast: Lady Mary Kimber had been left on the dance floor by none other than Caine Parkhurst, a man she should not have been dancing with in the first place. She was always being left. First the Duke of Creighton, then the Duke of Harlow and now the rogue, Caine Parkhurst, whom one would think couldn’t afford to leave an heiress in the lurch. How would she live it all down? Would society ever let her? There was going to be hell to pay and this time it would not be easily dismissed.

***

Caine dismissed the ball and Lady Mary along with it, although the latter had been dismissed with more regret than the former. He had felt badly about the timing of Kieran’s interference, which had required his immediate departure. Lady Mary hadn’t deserved that, but when England summoned, one answered the call immediately. He exchanged his dancing shoes for boots in the coach and, by the time he and Kieran arrived at the address near the London Docks at Wapping, all his thoughts were firmly centred on catching the traitor set to sabotage tonight’s critical shipment.

The cause of Greek independence might very well rise or fall on the midnight tide and, with it, the balance of power in the Mediterranean. Democracy was at stake, as was the long arm of the English empire. There was no room or time for thoughts of a dark-haired miss who challenged him with her wit and for a brief while made him forget why he disliked ballrooms so much. It was also a reminder as to why he eschewed entanglements. They made for distraction when he could least afford it.

Caine was on the ground, Kieran behind him, before the coach came to a complete stop. He barked orders, taking stock with a swift perusal of the deserted stable yard. ‘Stepan, the horses!’ he called for his brother. Time was of the essence and the traitor had the advantage of it at present. The clatter of horses’ hooves answered. Stepan emerged from the stable, two dark horses in hand.

‘Argonaut is ready. Your pistol is in the halter, your sabre in its sheath.’ Stepan handed over the reins and Caine clapped him on the shoulder in appreciation.

‘Good man, I knew you’d have everything prepared.’ He nodded an acknowledgment to Luce over Stepan’s shoulder as the youngest Parkhurst came out with the other two horses, all of them brothers bred from the same sire. Four dark horses for four dark brothers.

They were all assembled now, the Earl of Sandmore’s Four Horsemen in a deserted obscure innyard, Britain’s very own apocalypse on horseback, swift and decisive in their judgement, a reminder to foreign powers that a nation tangled with Britain at its own peril. They mounted up and Caine looked to Stepan. ‘What’s the news?’

‘Their plan is to put an explosives expert on board and wait until the ship is out to sea before blowing it up. Falcon sent word the expert was being rowed out tonight just before sailing.’

‘And the explosives?’ Luce enquired. ‘Are they already on board?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Caine interrupted, eager to be off. There was a mile to cover between them and the docks. ‘Not at the moment at least. Explosives are irrelevant if the expert isn’t on board to detonate them.’ For all they knew the expert was going to ignite the ammunition already on board. Doing it at sea would make it look like an accident and very likely there’d be no witnesses after the fact, Caine thought grimly. ‘Is that all we know?’ It was deuced little to go on. ‘How are they getting him on board?’

‘Perhaps he’ll claim he’s a last-minute crew member, or that he comes with an important message for the Captain,’ Kieran posited. ‘He’ll use the chaos of departure to his advantage. Everyone will be too busy getting ready to sail to maintain the usual protocols.’

Caine nodded his agreement. He could see it play out now in his mind: the expert, disguised in sailor’s garb, paying an unsuspecting oarsman in want of coin to row him out to where the ship waited for the tide, then pressuring the unlucky crewman who spied him to haul him up so that he could deliver his message. The crewman would be torn between outright dismissing the unknown sailor or risking his Captain’s displeasure over missing the message.

Once onboard, the traitor would be left to wait in the Captain’s quarters until the Captain was available, during which time the explosive expert could either take on the role of a stowaway and hide himself or make his role compelling and join the crew as a late-come member, perhaps even have a false message to deliver. The latter seemed most likely to Caine. But the point was to not let it get that far. ‘Our goal is to ensure that man does not reach the ship. We must stop him at the docks.’

A simple task in theory. Harder to execute in practice. They’d have to split up. The docks boasted two and a half miles of jetties and quays. Coupled with the bustle of dockside activity and the darkness, their traitor would have cover and distractions galore. It would be no mean task to pick out one man from hundreds hurrying about their jobs.

Caine glanced about the circle of his brothers on their horses. It was his job to see that they all came back from each mission, every time. He didn’t like them pairing off. There was safety and power in numbers, but time was against them. ‘To Wapping then, as fast as we can.’ They wheeled their horses around and set off. In the distance, the bells of St Peter’s tolled the hour as Caine led the Horsemen through the dark streets. The thrill of the hunt fired through his veins. This was his hour; the midnight hour, the witching hour, the riding hour, when the Four Horsemen rode for the honour of England in the black of night.

***

At the docks, Caine gave the silent gesture to split up, Kieran with Luce and Stepan with him. This was a pairing from childhood. With two years’ age difference between each of the four brothers, Caine and Kieran had each taken one of the younger brothers under their supervision and tutelage. Perhaps for that reason, Caine felt more responsible for Stepan. Stepan was his. His to protect.

They slowed the horses to a walk, carefully winding through the crowds on the dock, using the horses’ height for better visibility of the wharves. Stepan leaned over and touched his arm. ‘There, do you see that man?’ He gave a nod to a man in the act of haggling with a boatman. Gold flashed, exchanging hands.

‘Did you see that ?’ Caine growled, his sharp eyes picking out another flash of a different sort of metal. ‘There’s a pistol beneath his jacket. A rather fancy and impractical weapon for a sailor.’ He jerked his head towards a nearby tavern. ‘We’ll go from here on foot. We’ll be less noticeable. Let the boy look after the horses.’ He dismounted and roused the scrap of a boy serving as an ostler.

Stepan put his knife in a sheath at his hip, Caine tucked his pistol beneath his greatcoat, hidden but quickly accessible, and stepped into the midnight melee of ever-busy docks. ‘When we reach him, let me do the talking,’ Caine urged. ‘Stay back a bit.’ In case there was trouble, in case Stepan had to run.

Stepan made a disapproving frown as they neared their target. ‘If it comes to swimming, you let me go in. I am by far the better swimmer.’

Like hell Caine would allow that. But there was no sense in arguing. The man they’d spied was preparing to step into the boat. Caine called out, stopping the man with his voice. ‘Papers, Sir.’

It was enough to make the man halt. He turned, beady eyes narrowing and assessing. Hesitating. Proof enough that this indeed was their man. A man with nothing to hide would not hesitate to comply. ‘I’ve already cleared it with the harbourmaster,’ the man said in tones too authoritative for a sailor used to taking orders.

‘It’s not the harbourmaster who is asking.’ Caine pulled back his coat, revealing his pistol. ‘I am a special emissary for the Crown. We’ve received word there may be nefarious activity tonight. We’re checking everyone. I’m sure you understand.’ All of it true. Kieran and Luce were no doubt doing the same at their end of the docks a mile away. Caine tensed. This was the critical moment. If this was their man, he’d have to try something now—jump into the water and attempt to swim out to the ship, or run here on land, which would require getting past him and Stepan.

The man gave a cold grin. ‘Special emissary? I don’t know about that. But I know what you’re after, eh? When money talks, it’s always a good conversation.’ He reached into his pocket and held up a wad of pound notes. ‘Perhaps this is the paper you’re looking for.’ He stepped closer as if to put the notes in Caine’s hand.

Stepan called a warning, ‘He’s got a blade!’

Caine saw the covert steel the man must have withdrawn with the pound notes too late. How the hell had he missed the motion? He jumped back to avoid the jab that would have taken him in the abdomen, the tearing sound of fabric ripping in proof of how close it had been. Then Stepan was there, grappling with the man. Stepan shook the knife free of the man’s hand. The blade and pound notes fell to the wharf as they wrestled. Stepan took the man to the ground, but they were evenly matched in size and weight. Stepan no sooner had him pinned than the man used his legs to flip Stepan over.

‘Get away from him!’ Caine drew his pistol. Even in the dark at this range, he’d get a good shot at the traitor, one that would disable him, but not kill him, if only Stepan could disengage. Caine wanted the man alive. He had information Grandfather needed: who had hired him? Who was the mastermind behind the sabotage? But there was no chance. The risk of hitting Stepan was too great.

‘Surrender!’ Caine barked. ‘And you will live.’ When all else failed, one could always try reason. Continue to fight and Stepan would knock him senseless given the chance. Stepan had the advantage at the moment, the fight nearing the edge of the wharf. Stepan was overpowering him and the man had nowhere to go.

The man gave a grunt as he scrambled away from Stepan, reaching the end of the wharf. Stepan made a grab for his ankle and missed. ‘Let him go,’ Caine instructed, levelling his pistol. This was the distance he needed for the shot. Just a second more… Damn! The man jumped into the water. Coat, boots and all. Stepan was on his feet, shedding his own coat and tugging at his boots.

‘You’re not going after him.’ Caine raced forward, rapidly scanning the water, looking for a shot. He could shoot from here if only he could see. But the water was dark. ‘I’ll find a boat; we can row after him.’ He gave a mad glance around, but the boatman was gone and for a busy dock there wasn’t a skiff in sight.

‘There’s no time. You said so yourself. We cannot let the man reach the ship.’ Stepan’s pronouncement was followed by a splash.

Caine turned, the space beside him empty. Damn it! ‘Stepan!’ he called, desperately searching the dark water for a sign of his brother. What the hell was Stepan thinking? The water was cold even if it was June. Thirty feet from the dock, he saw Stepan surface and he knew his brother’s thoughts: that he’d outswim a man in a greatcoat and boots, that it wouldn’t be hard to find and overtake him because the man’s destination was obvious—the ship that sat out in the basin, waiting its turn to make its way to the Thames and the open ocean.

‘Stepan!’ Caine called again at the sight of his head, but Stepan didn’t turn. He dived beneath the surface and disappeared.

Damn and double damn, he should have fired sooner. Now Stepan was in the water, searching for a killer in the dark. If anything happened to his brother, he’d never forgive himself. He raised a plea to the sky.

Stay safe, Stepan, until I can reach you. Hold on, I am coming. Followed by, Please don’t find the man .

At the moment, he did not care if the man reached the ship. They would track the ship down somehow and warn the Captain. He cared only that his brother was safe.

Caine raised his pistol to the sky and fired a shot, hoping Kieran was close enough to hear it above the noise of drays and ships. Then he raced along the shoreline, boots pounding, looking for a boat that would row him out to the last place he’d seen his brother, praying that they would find him.