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Georgina Devon
The Rake
Chapter One
The morning sun barely peeked through the thick
overhang of tree limbs. Green Park was still deserted at
this time of morning. Not even the servants were about.
"Miss Juliet, you can no' be doing this," Ferguson
Coachman said sternly, his voice breaking the morning
quiet.
Juliet Smythe-Clyde looked up between her thick
cinnamon eyelashes while wiggling her toes in the
too-large Hessians she had commandeered from her
younger brother's wardrobe. She stamped her foot to try
 
and better settle the heel.
"Rather this than for Papa to fight the Satanic Duke."
The tall, spare coachman, his gray whiskers bristling
about a narrow face, frowned.
"The master is a grown man. You are a slip of a girl
and should no' be fighting his battles."
"Enough," Juliet said, slipping off the coat that fitted
her brother like a second skin and herself like a too-large
night robe.
"Take this and fold it carefully. You know Harry will
have an apoplexy if it gets wrinkled."
Ferguson snorted, but carefully laid the coat on the
seat of the dilapidated coach. Hobson, the butler, who was
as round as he was majestic, presented the box holding
two dueling pistols to his young mistress. Juliet reached for
the one on the bottom.
"That one is primed and ready to go, miss," Hobson
said. "I saw to it myself."
Out of perversity, Juliet took the top one.
"That too is ready," Hobson said, allowing himself a
knowing smile which quickly disappeared.
"Stop this now. Miss Ju, while there is still time."
Ferguson came to stand beside his crony, the two
having become fast comrades despite the disparity in their
stations.
"Have I no' been telling her the same since this
 
began? She will no' listen to either of us."
"I have to do this," Juliet said, her voice cracking as
the fear she had been holding at bay threatened to spill
out of control. "Someone must protect Papa from this
latest folly."
"Someone should no' be you, lass," Ferguson retorted,
his brogue thickening with anger and anxiety.
"You did no' tell the master to marry that doxy."
"I promised Mama to care for Papa," she whispered,
the memory of her mother's dying request tightening her
stomach. Mama was dead barely a year, yet Juliet
remembered as if it had happened yesterday.
Mama had lain on the day bed in the morning room,
the pale sunlight giving false color to her shrunken cheeks.
The illness that had eaten at her and kept her in constant
pain had shriveled her body and made Juliet secretly glad
the end was near. She could not bear to see her beloved
mama suffer so.
When Mama had beckoned her closer and begged her
to care for Papa—flighty, irresponsible Papa—Juliet had
promised. There had been nothing else she could do. She
would have done anything to ease Mama's suffering.
Anything. And someone had to watch over Papa once
Mama was gone. Everyone knew that.
She sighed. She had not been able to keep Papa from
marrying Mrs. Winters, but she could keep him from
throwing his life away for the woman. Surely not even the
Duke of Brabourne would shoot to kill a young man who
was only taking the place of the original dueler—would he?
 
Besides which, the Duke was at fault. Not she or
Papa. The Duke was the one who had seduced another
man's wife. As the one in error, he should delope. It was
the honorable thing to do.
Juliet straightened her shoulders and sighted down
the barrel of the pistol. At least growing up in the country
had taught her something.
She could shoot with the best of them, although
Brabourne was said to be as deadly with a gun as he was
with a sword and just as cold-hearted with either.
The sound of horses' hooves drew her attention.
Three men stopped under a large oak some distance from
Juliet's little group. All were dressed in greatcoats and
shiny Hessians with beaver hats perched rakishly atop
their heads. She knew all by reputation and one by sight.
Dressed in man's garb, she had paid a very late-night
visit to Lord Ravensford, one of Brabourne's seconds, four
days before to tell him there was a change in plans. The
duel needed to be moved forward. His lordship, too
surprised by a puppy visiting him uninvited, had agreed to
the change without argument, although his bronze brows
had been raised in sardonic amusement during the entire
conversation.
The other two men she had never seen. Lord Perth
was said to be a rogue who went his own way, regardless
of Society's rules. She guessed him to be the one who
stood beside the bronze-haired Lord Ravensford.
They were much of a height. She spared them little
interest for they were not the person she was here to
 
fight.
The third man jumped to the ground with a wiry grace
that spoke of strength. She had heard the Duke was not
only a rake but a Corinthian of the first stare. He was tall
and lean, and when he shrugged out of his greatcoat and
navy jacket, she noted his shoulders were broad in their
stark white shirt, and his hips were narrow in their
close-fitting breeches. His hair was as black as some said
his heart was. His nose was a commanding jut of
authority. She had heard his eyes were a deep blue,
inherited from an Irish ancestor.
A frisson of something akin to fear, yet much more
delicious, skittered down her spine. She turned away.
She gulped a deep breath of the cold air and wiped
her damp palms along the sides of her breeches. For
seconds she stared sightlessly at nothing and wondered if
she would survive this encounter. It was a weakness she
had not allowed herself before. She did not allow it for
long now, either.
Lord Ravensford headed their way.
The rising sun glinted on his hair, making it look bright
as a new-minted penny. There was a twinkle in his hazel
eyes and a dimple in his square chin. He was a very
fine-looking man.
"Well, puppy, where is Smythe-Clyde? You said he is
the one who wanted this earlier meeting."
Juliet felt a dull flush spread up her face only to
recede.
 

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