Seducing the Rake (Mad Bad and Dangerous Heroes) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.

  Originally published as EAST OF FOREVER

  Copyright © 1993 and 2013 by Roberta Helmer

  First Dell Publishing Edition: 1993

  First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

  This book is dedicated to four very special booksellers:

  Judy Spagnola, Ellen Fuscellaro, Kevin Beard, and Thea Mileo

  And to Kathryn Falk Publisher, thinker, creator, and catalyst extraordinaire

  The reasons why would fill up this page.

  So instead I’ll just say thank you.

  And with deepest thanks:

  to Helen Woolverton for tulips and windmills and any number of fascinating historical tidbits.

  PART ONE

  North of Night

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, England

  May 1819

  The woman in the black silk mask stood frozen in the darkness. She looked neither right nor left, trying not to think of the sheer drop down to the cobbled street sixty feet below.

  Slowly her toes edged along the gutter. Slowly. Careful…

  Around her the wind howled and clawed. But she only tightened her focus, ignoring the twigs and gravel flung in her face.

  Carefully she tested each tile, easing toe and cloth-covered sole forward.

  One step, then another.

  At the rear gutter she stopped, her slim shadow lost among the forest of black chimneys outlined beneath the moon. She crouched to study the next obstacle, blocking out a wave of fear.

  Her violet eyes narrowed. It was six feet to the neighboring roof. Yes, it would be hard, very hard. For anyone else it would be impossible.

  But not for her. Not for the woman called Midnight, who had studied with the monks of Shao-lin, masters of the ancient Chinese art of wu-shu.

  Slowly she came to her feet and cast out her fear, replacing it with images of soaring cranes and colored kites flapping over the Great Forbidden City.

  From her pocket she tugged a silver star with an inch-thick strand of silk anchored at its center. With a graceful flourish, she tossed the disk high.

  Moonlight flashed off silver. Soft hissing filled the air. A second later, the star landed with a faint clatter.

  She played out the silk, letting the weighted end fall until it wedged against the angled base of the chimney opposite her.

  Her hands tightened. Now came the hard part. She glanced swiftly down at the street. No one about.

  Now. There was no time to hesitate.

  She eased to a crouch, knees flexed, one foot braced on the slanting roof. Gathering her breath as Abbot Tang had taught her that summer long ago, she sprang.

  Her hand-stitched soles dug into the tiles and she hurtled out into space, where she hung breathless for an instant high above the street.

  Her arms craned forward. Her slender fingers dug at the air. Dear Lord, what if she had misjudged the tile placement or the distance? What about pitch of the roof?

  Then her right foot struck home with a jolt and her shoulder crashed into the steep tile slope. Immediately she rolled forward and tucked her body into a ball to avoid watchful eyes.

  Safe! For now…

  Inching behind a chimney in the lee of the wind, the woman called Midnight focused carefully, listening for shouts or sounds of alarm.

  But the night was quiet except for the rush of the wind and the distant echo of a carriage. Beneath her the elegant townhouse was still. Light pooled from the lower windows, falling in dim rectangles against the cobblestones.

  Silently the black-clad figure tugged at the silken line and secured it around the chimney. Then she began to climb hand over hand along the taut cord until she reached the ridge of the steep roof.

  There she saw her goal.

  Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, she made her way to the second window from the left, eased open the pane, and slipped inside.

  As she’d expected, the room was empty.

  Swiftly she crossed the hall, her cotton soles soundless on the thick Aubusson carpet. She was nearly at her destination when a trill of laughter drifted up the circular staircase at the end of the corridor.

  “Really, my lord, you are entirely too high handed. It comes from being so much admired, I fear. And you’ve drunk far too much brandy already. Any more, and you won’t be able to—”

  The husky female voice broke off with a high squeal of laughter. The silence that followed was punctuated by the rustle of silk and a low, breathy moan.

  Midnight eased back against the wall. This was something she hadn’t planned for! The townhouse’s occupant, the voluptuous Germaine, was supposed to be engaged at Vauxhall this night. Perdition, what was the woman doing at home?

  As if in answer, the breathless voice rose again. “It is entirely too bad of you. I had your pledge to take me to Vauxhall and now you have forgotten.”

  A man’s voice came to Midnight then, a voice low and smooth as silk. A voice rich with humor and yet dark with command. She started at the sound, chill air pricking at her neck.

  The Earl of Morland.

  Midnight felt her breath catch. Pain lanced through her heart.

  Anthony…

  Here.

  But she fought away the swift flood of memories. She could afford no distractions, not even for a moment.

  The voices grew louder. Midnight’s tension grew as feet climbed the stairs. Swiftly she made for the first door to her left. She slipped inside and slid against the wall.

  Slippered feet scuffed closer, soft against the thump of male boots.

  No harm done, Midnight thought. She would wait here, well hidden until the two finished their business. Easing the door closed, she stood motionless with her ear pressed to the wall.

  “Really, my lord, what ideas you do take into your head! I vow, you put me quite to the blush!” A low giggle. “Monstrous naughty, you are!” Another giggle, more heated this time. Low male laughter rumbled up the stairwell, followed by the sharp whoosh of damask.

  Sweat beaded up beneath the black mask that hid Midnight’s face. What was so important to keep them from Vauxhall?

  But Germaine’s companion was not to be hurried. Rich and commanding, his voice echoed upward. “I absolutely insist, my sweet. The thought of you in pearls and lace garters is really too enticing to forgo.”

  “And what else shall I wear, my lord?” It was a sultry and quite calculated whisper.

  “Why, absolutely nothing, of course.”

  Midnight’s heart skipped painfully. For the hundredth time this day she cursed the bad joss that had brought her to this chilly, foggy city on such a desperate mission.

  Brought her back, she corrected. She had been born here, after all. But London held no place in her memories now. Soon after her birth her father had taken her to Macao, the Portuguese colony bordering the mysterious Chinese empire.

  It had been only months after her mother’s death, in fact.

  Midnight’s eyes closed. Don’t think about that either…

  Think of t
he waves studding Macao’s outer harbor as you last stood in the Praia Grande, with the wind ruffling your hair. Think of the swallows in the north, sailing against the Peking sky, their clay whistles singing as they cross over a sea of glazed tile.

  Slowly her balance returned.

  She knew she must not fail. Her father’s life hung suspended on the strength of her skill and concentration.

  Satin whispered against broadcloth and wool. Germaine moaned. “Oh, yes. Please, my lord. L-like that!”

  Perdition. They were just outside the door.

  Midnight barely had time to slip behind a lingerie-covered screen before the door opened. Light swept through the dressing room, cast from a single candle. Germaine appeared, captive in the embrace of her aristocratic lover.

  And then the Earl of Morland came into view.

  Midnight froze. An odd whine filled her head. Around her all time and movement seemed to halt.

  So long. Yet not long enough to dim the pain of bittersweet memories.

  He was still strikingly handsome, she thought. His hair was longer than was currently fashionable, falling thick and straight, the color of antique bronze. His lips were full and faintly cynical, and his smile was wickedness itself as he placed the candle on the mantel and turned to rummage through the gaudy waterfall of lingerie dangling over the ornate lacquer screen.

  Anthony Morland. The love of her life, he had wooed her and then betrayed her ten years before.

  Only inches away, hidden behind the screen, Midnight waited, afraid to breathe, afraid to move.

  Afraid to do anything except concentrate on being completely invisible.

  A frothy length of sheer Valenciennes lace went flying over the carved black lacquer. “Yes, I rather like this one.” Morland smiled darkly, holding a cloud-soft peignoir up to his mistress’s lush form.

  Dumb with embarrassment, Midnight closed her eyes, her ears, her every sense.

  But each rustle of clothing struck her with the force of an earthquake. Every moan touched her skin with flame.

  Silk pooled onto the floor with a soft hiss.

  “Lovely. Now, I think, for the garters…”

  Midnight tried to force her thoughts far away, tried to keep her heated gaze above the narrow crack between the panels of the screen. But she failed utterly.

  She saw his powerful fingers flex and inch skillfully over pink skin and rounded thighs.

  “Tony! Oh, p-please. “

  “Of course, pet. But first things first…”

  Midnight heard a squeal of delight, saw the flash of eager, grasping fingers. “My lord! But these are from the matched set we saw at Rundell and Bridge’s last week! Eliza will be green with envy!”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” the earl said dryly.

  Behind the screen the rustling reached a furious peak. Whatever this matched set was, they were provoking a great deal of ardor, Midnight thought angrily. All this commotion for a few jewels! Why didn’t the two take themselves off to Vauxhall like ordinary people and pursue their idle pleasures there, leaving her in peace?

  But the Earl of Morland, she was about to discover, was anything but ordinary when it came to seduction. He had a reputation for infinite patience when it suited him.

  And just now it suited him very well.

  “Ah, how wonderful is this thing called greed,” the earl mused. “I adore how it spurs your passionate, conniving little heart, Germaine.” Once again his voice held an edge of cynicism.

  “G-greed? It is no such thing! It is only—I am overcome. Yes, positively overcome. With your gift. And with you too, of course,” Germaine added, hastily.

  As if to prove it, her pink fingers attacked the earl’s exquisitely tied neckcloth. A moment later the pristine linen slid free and came flying over the edge of the screen. Midnight barely checked an instinct to duck out of range as the white linen fell against her shoulder, still warm with the heat of its owner’s body.

  Her breath fled at the contact.

  She felt her cheeks flame hotly as she caught his scent, citrus and leather and male. Dear heaven, they were so close that she could hear every sigh, every breath. And any minute they were going to—

  She went completely still, summoning the image of a lotus opening in pristine silence amid a dawn garden. Petal by white petal, the perfect bud unfolded while green leaves spread slowly, rocked on cool waters.

  Better. Yes, much better.

  Low giggles filled the confined space, along with more rustling of cloth. A jacket of blue superfine struck the screen, rocking the lacquer frame.

  Midnight’s fingers squeezed to fists. She caught her breath as the elegant panels swayed wildly, then finally righted themselves. Meanwhile the sounds behind the screen became more urgent. Each rustle and sigh made her unsettled, thinking of hot, hungry skin and searching kisses.

  They made her remember how those warm lips had felt on hers, on a moonlit night ten years before.

  “Oh, T-Tony!”

  “Ummmmm, have I told you lately that your skin is like silk? That your eyes are like—”

  “Emeralds?” came the hopeful reply, “Very large emeralds? With matching diamonds?”

  Dry laughter spilled through the small room. “What a greedy minx you are, to be sure.” Abruptly the earl’s voice trailed away.

  Curious in spite of herself, Midnight inched closer to the crack in the screen. In taut silence she watched the tall Englishman, white shirt opened to midchest, ease back the sheer lace folds of his mistress’s peignoir around a very fetching necklace of diamonds and a perfect, marquise-cut emerald.

  The trespassing Midnight felt her face flush beet-red when Morland’s strong fingers feathered over the taut peaks outlined beneath Germaine’s sheer lace garment.

  “T-Tony! You know how dizzy I become when—oh! Tony, you must not!”

  But these breathless protests were ignored, as they were meant to be. The earl’s head dropped. He parted the froth of ruffles with his mouth and slowly eased one lush pink nipple between his teeth.

  Stricken with embarrassment, Midnight jerked her head away. This was impossible! It couldn’t be happening.

  Eyes squeezed shut, she concentrated on repeating the opening lines of Sun Tzu’s classic study on the art of war. But she got only as far as “All warfare is based on deception,” before her concentration failed. The sensuous rasp of skin upon naked skin could no longer be ignored.

  A raw cry tore from Germaine’s lips. “Oh, Tony, yes! You know how I adore—” The screen shook hard. Then her limp body slid down the wall into Morland’s arms.

  Inches away, Midnight fought to ignore the pounding of her heart, and the odd tremor in her legs. It was merely the logical and physical resolution of opposites, she told herself sternly. Merely the male element of yang seeking its natural complement in the female element of yin.

  Oh, absolutely! And you’re the Queen of Sheba, a mocking voice answered.

  “I believe we may now dispense with this piece of froth.” Wolfish laughter filled the room.

  “My lord!”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, Germaine. Shall we adjourn to—er, more comfortable quarters?”

  About time you did, Midnight thought irritably.

  Bed linens rustled in the room next door, and wood creaked. “I really must remember to give you emeralds more often,” Tony murmured.

  His partner answered with a soft moan.

  “Now, my sweet. Open your eyes,” Morland ordered hoarsely.

  “T-Tony!” It was a cry of amazement, of shock, of wanton delight.

  The sound made Midnight flush to the very ends of her toes. But they were—

  A moment later Germaine’s voice broke in a tight moan of pleasure, and her virile protector groaned in his own powerful release.

  Hidden and silent, Midnight fought to calm her pounding heart. After all, she had more important things to worry about than the sexual excesses of the depraved English aristocracy.

&nbsp
; Only somehow she couldn’t quite convince herself of that fact…

  ~ ~ ~

  The silence stretched on. Finally Midnight came to her feet, stretching like a cat. Carefully she inched from her hiding place. A velvet curtain flapped idly in the breeze as she slipped into the neighboring room. And there she froze.

  It was an elegant room with silk-covered walls, gilt-framed prints and a pair of velvet armchairs.

  But it was not the furniture that drew Midnight’s eyes. It was certainly not the prints, which were of little artistic skill.

  It was the two bodies sprawled amid rumpled sheets that held her fascinated gaze. The blond woman lay snoring slightly. Her companion slept with his back curved away, his pillow scrunched into a lump beneath his neck.

  Spellbound, Midnight found her eyes tracing the muscled arms to a bronze chest dense with darker bronze hair. His leg was bent, disappearing into the mound of white bed linens. His calves were lean but rope-hard.

  He was utterly beautiful.

  With a professional’s keen eye, Midnight studied those hard limbs, wondering what sort of exercise the earl pursued to keep his muscles so well toned. In her innocence, she did not consider that the activity she had just observed might provide a fair amount of exercise.

  A gust of wind tugged at the curtains. The man on the bed shifted. He dragged a hand across his forehead and turned to his back.

  Midnight’s face filled with heat.

  Dear Lord, he was completely—that is, the man was absolutely naked. She could see every bronzed inch of him.

  Redfaced, she wrenched her gaze away. Desperately she set about searching the dressing room, from the cluttered lacquer table to the half-opened armoire in the corner.

  But she found nothing of interest, certainly not the priceless, jewel-laden book she had come in search of.

  A wave of despair washed over her. One more wasted night, with all its raw futility. Would she ever find the fabled Chinese book, or was this whole search a maniacal game devised by her father’s cunning enemies?