The Rake Review Season Two, Book Two
Roses are red,
This rake’s heart is black,
And England’s worst scoundrel,
Is on his way back.
Dearest Readers,
It is fitting that our chosen rake for the month of February is none other than the illustrious Viscount V———.
I can sense your confusion, because the man who has been known as Lord V——— since the death of his grandfather two years ago, Ly——— D———, bears little resemblance to the men usually featured in this column.
He is neither a Lothario nor a drunkard.
He does not lose ruinous sums at the gaming tables, drive his highflyer at reckless speeds, or partake in duels at dawn.
Frankly, he is a bit dull, for all that he fits his title to perfection with his golden curls and rosy cheeks fit for a cherubim.
Perhaps you have heard the whispers currently making the rounds that he is on the cusp of entering into a betrothal.
Indeed, the real reason a certain duke and duchess are throwing a ball in honor of their daughter this very evening is perhaps the worst-kept secret of the ton.
Although his chosen viscountess, Lady R——— d— L——, has a reputation for being overly forthright, she compensates for this perceived shortcoming with her noble breeding and handsome portion, and it is generally considered to be a respectable match.
Ly——— might not have set so much as a toe out of line.
But his father, who died ten years ago, was cut from a different cloth.
And this is where our story takes a dramatic turn.
Although we have all been addressing Ly——— as Lord V——— since his grandfather’s death, a little bird told me that the House of Lords is yet to issue the writ of summons confirming him in his title.
Does it strike anyone else that they are taking an inordinately long time?
After a great deal of digging, your diligent Belle has managed to discover the reason for this delay.
It seems that the sins of the father are about to be visited upon the son.
It turns out that thirty-four years ago, while cavorting in Devonshire with his caddish friends, Ly———‘s father, F———, developed an infatuation with a local milkmaid.
This virtuous young woman prized her Devonshire cream more highly than the handful of coins and paste necklace she was offered in exchange for her virtue.
The father was apparently so desperate to have her that he summoned a priest. Vows were exchanged, and three weeks later, the groom departed Devonshire without his erstwhile bride, seeming to believe that no one would ever learn about his little peccadillo.
Certainly, he did not mention it to Lady L——— P——— at their wedding, which took place three years later.
Then again, nor did he disclose the unmentionable disease that had been plaguing him for some years, the same one that eventually killed him.
So that was not the only egregious omission young F——— committed on his second wedding day.
It turns out that the seemingly irreproachable Ly——— is not without enemies, specifically, Lord J———, who seems to harbor some sort of grudge against Ly——— from their days at school.
Lord J——— is the one who has been holding up the letters patent for these past two years while he scrutinized every facet of Ly———‘s claim. His investigation has finally borne fruit. Your diligent Belle has it on good authority that only yesterday, Lord J——— brought the milkmaid to testify before the House of Lords, as well as the vicar who performed the ceremony, who arrived bearing all of the documentation supporting F———’s first marriage.
What all of this means is that Ly——— D——— was born on the wrong side of the blanket and is therefore not eligible to inherit his grandfather’s title. Who, then, shall become the next Viscount V———?
Our virtuous milkmaid, who was a thousand times more faithful than her wastrel of a husband, never bore any children. The recently deceased Lord V——— had two sons, both of whom predeceased him. Each of these sons, in turn, sired one child, both boys.
At this point, I can all but hear your gasps of shock and delight. “Oh, no!” you are surely crying.
Oh, yes, dear reader—you have recollected your Debrett’s Peerage correctly.
We are about to exchange our Cupid for the man widely known as the devil himself.
The next Viscount V——— is none other than Lu——— D———, one of the most notorious rakehells to ever stalk the streets of London.
Alas, I have used up all my allotted space describing the sins of his uncle and therefore do not have sufficient room to recount his exploits, but suffice it to say, they are the stuff of legend.
He has been away from London for these past two years, philandering his way across the Continent in a spree of debauchery that will not soon be matched.
But Lord J——— has written to the new heir apparent, summoning him back to London.
I am pleased to announce that my editor has agreed to print a second Rake Review column once Lu——— D——— returns, detailing the many sins by which he has earned his status as the rake of February.
What a treat it would be if he made his return prior to Valentine’s Day, but alas, as Lord J——— only wrote to him last week, he will probably not darken England’s shores for several weeks hence.
It will also be interesting to see how Ly———’s rumored betrothed, Lady R——— d— L——, deals with this most unwelcome news.
It is the worst-kept secret in London that the ball her parents, the Duke and Duchess of S———, are hosting this very evening is intended to be a celebration of their daughter’s impending nuptials.
Will there be anything to celebrate? We shall find out tonight.
I remain Brazenly Yours,
The Belle
* * *
“Merda!”
Rosalie uttered the curse in Italian in an attempt to avoid her mother’s censure.
Although the de Lacy family had lived in Rome for two years during her father’s tenure as the Italian ambassador, the Duchess of Swanscombe hadn’t managed to pick up any of the language.
Had she understood her daughter’s outburst, the duchess would have forced Rosalie to spend two hours standing in the corner with a book balanced on her head, affording her the opportunity to both “Improve Her Posture” and “Think About What She Had Done.”
As it was, her mother narrowed her eyes suspiciously but quickly returned to the breakfast she had each and every day—black tea, a hard-boiled egg, and a single slice of toast.
Rosalie cast her mother a brief, doubtlessly unconvincing smile before returning her attention to the sheet of newsprint she clutched with white-knuckled hands.
It was dreadfully unfair. Rosalie had done what was expected of her for once in her life and had accepted the suit of the most virtuous man in England in spite of her feelings for him—or rather, the glaring lack thereof.
How was it possible that Lysander, of all people, had been featured in the Rake Review?
She peered at her mother across the room. Honestly, her mother’s reaction was extremely odd. Rosalie would have expected her to fly into a panic at the news that the peer her daughter had finally managed to lure to the altar was no peer after all.
The only explanation was that her mother had not yet seen the Rake Review column. Which again was unlike her. Mama lived for gossip and had been ecstatic when The Belle had resumed her column last month after a one-year hiatus.
She cleared her throat. “Mama, have you had a chance to read this month’s edition of the Rake Review?”
Her mother did not look up from buttering her toast. “Naturally. I read it first thing.”
Rosalie blinked once… twice. “Did you recognize the subjects?”
Her mother shot her a withering look. “Of course. It was about Lord Valentine. Or should I say, the former Lord Valentine.”
This comment skirted around the subject Rosalie wished to discuss, which was how they were to proceed.
She felt strongly that she ought to honor the betrothal despite Lysander’s change in circumstances.
She had accepted him in good times. Although they had not yet spoken their vows, the right thing to do was to stand by him now that bad times had come to call.
“You will not mind?” Rosalie asked. “My marrying a man no longer in possession of a title?”
The duchess drew herself up, affronted. “I should mind very much indeed if you were to marry him. But that will not be an issue.”
“But Mama! I made him a promise. Surely, keeping it is the right thing to do.”
Her mother reached for the pot of marmalade. “No vows have been made. Nothing is binding.”
“What of the marriage contract?”
The duchess shot her a smug look. “You signed it. He did not.”
“Really?” Rosalie asked, surprised. “But I signed it two weeks ago.”
The duchess made a circular gesture with her jam knife.
“He has been kicking up a fuss about every other sentence. Your father thought they had finally crafted a version acceptable to everyone involved, but I take it that Lysander found something else to carp over. Well, this is what he gets. The timing of this column was fortuitous.” She smirked. “For us.”
Rosalie stared at her mother in disbelief. “Fortuitous? That my engagement should end? On the day of my betrothal ball?” She gave a humorless laugh. “We’ll have to spend all day writing to our guests, letting them know that the fête is canceled.”
“Don’t be absurd, Rosalie!” The duchess took a dainty bite of her toast, then set it on her plate. “The ball will go forward as planned.”
“How can we have a betrothal ball?” Rosalie hissed. “According to you, I no longer have a betrothed!”
Her mother shrugged a negligent shoulder and reached for her tea. “Don’t frown, Rosalie. That crease between your brows will set. And don’t worry! Your father has everything well in hand.”
Rosalie’s stomach was churning, and she felt slightly faint.
If she had thought she was a laughingstock before, that would be nothing, nothing, compared to this.
She would be the woman who held a betrothal ball without a betrothed!
People would say she was unhinged, that she had made the whole thing up.
She tried to hold her voice steady, but it shook as she asked, “How does Papa have things in hand?”
The duchess waved a hand. “He is ironing out the final details as we speak.”
“What details?” Rosalie’s voice was growing shrill. “What is his plan?”
“You will find out in due course.”
“Please, Mama—it is my future that hangs in the balance! You must tell me what is to happen.”
“Hmpf!” The duchess rose with an air of wounded dignity. “How am I to eat my breakfast amidst this onslaught of badgering?” She gestured to a footman. “Make me up a fresh plate and bring it to my chambers. Admit no one.” She accompanied her last sentence with a pointed look in Rosalie’s direction.
Rosalie stood as well. “Please, Mama. I only want to know how I shall get through this evening. Everyone is bound to ask me what is happening in light of the Rake Review column. What am I to say? How am I to…”
She trailed off as she found herself speaking to a closed door.
Rosalie sank back into her chair. She tried to finish her breakfast, but each bite made her feel queasier than the last. It was bad enough that her betrothal had just fallen apart and she was about to be humiliated before the entirety of the haute ton.
But the gossip column had contained another piece of unwelcome news—that her least favorite person on the face of this earth, Lucian Deverell, was on his way back to London.
Not only that, but he was to be elevated to the rank of viscount.
There truly was no justice in this world!
She could just picture the smug smirk that would grace his handsome face when he saw her again, when he learned that she was still a spinster, and by now quite firmly on the shelf.
She wondered if her father owned any properties in the Outer Hebrides to which she might retire for the foreseeable future, and if not, if he could be persuaded to make a purchase.
Speaking of her father, she might as well go and find him, as she was clearly done with her breakfast. Papa would tell her what was going on. She picked up the Rake Review column, folded it neatly into thirds, and took it with her.
But she could not find her father in any of his likely haunts.
When she reached his bedchamber, she encountered his valet, Baxter, who informed her that the duke had departed at dawn to see to some urgent business with his solicitors.
Rosalie supposed that probably had something to do with her betrothal, or the unraveling thereof.
Desperate, she rapped on the door to her brother Robin’s room to see if he knew what was going on. Robin, who was two years younger than her at twenty-two, had come down from Oxford especially to attend her betrothal ball. But there was no answer other than the faint sound of snoring from within.
Rosalie spent the rest of the day flitting nervously about the house, hovering near the door in hopes that she could catch her father upon his return.
But the duke remained out, her mother refused to receive her, and none of the servants knew what her mother had meant by her cryptic comment about Papa having everything “well in hand.”
Just before luncheon, Rosalie was pacing the length of the library, wearing a rut in the Axminster carpet, when a footman appeared in the doorway. “You have a caller, Lady Rosalie. It is Lord Valen—” He cleared his throat, then amended, “Mr. Lysander Deverell.”