Page 10 of The Return of the Rake

There was a note to her voice that suggested she thought this most unlikely, and King grinned, disliking to disabuse her of the notion. He knew what he looked like. The devil in his Sunday best was Mrs Keller’s favourite description of her employer, and she was fond of him.

“Ah, peace and quiet is exactly the thing. Is it not, Repton?” he said carelessly, glancing at his would-be valet.

“As you say, sir,” Repton replied coolly.

“Well, then I imagine you will pass a comfortable few days. Might I take your name, please?” she asked, dipping her quill in the inkpot on the desk and waiting expectantly.

“Certainly,” he replied, holding her gaze. “I am Jasper King.”

She nodded, the name apparently meaning nothing to her, but as she bent her head to write it in the ledger, he saw the moment it resonated in her mind. Her hand jerked before it met the paper and stilled for a moment. She did not look up, but King thought he noticed the slightest tremor as her elegant script placed his name in the book.

“Sign here, please.”

Dutifully, King did so.

“Breakfast is at eight, the dining room is through that door,” she said crisply, gesturing to her left. “Dinner is at six thirty. I am afraid we keep country hours out of season. You may of course eat at any time you wish, but only by arrangement and only in your room. There is an extra charge for this, naturally.”

“Naturally,” he echoed, smiling warmly at her.

She gave no reaction. “You will find a list of prices for all our services on the dressing table in your room.”

“Thank you, you are most kind.”

“One thing. We have a small gathering of ladies for a musical recital tomorrow. I am afraid the dining room will be off limits for the entire day. During this time, we shall serve you in your room free of charge, with our apologies for any inconvenience. You may, of course, prefer to eat at The Ship Inn,” she said graciously, before thinking about it and adding, “Or mayhap you’d prefer The Dog and Duck.”

King fought to hide his amusement, knowing as well as she must that the Dog and Duck was frequented by smugglers. “Oh, no,” he said, a faint note of reproach to his voice. “Surely not the Dog and Duck.”

To his delight, she coloured a little, a tinge of rose pink settling high on her delicate cheekbones. Before she could ask him any probing question, such as whether he had ever visited Little Valentine before, he held out his hand. She gazed at it for a moment, nonplussed.

“The key, if I may?” he prompted gently.

She gathered herself with remarkable speed, handing him the key. “Do you require help with—?”

“No, we can manage, I thank you. However, I should be grateful for coffee, and a bite to eat, and hot water to wash with. If it is not too much trouble.”

“Certainly. I shall see to it at once,” she said, brisk now. “I’m afraid there is no fire lit as we did not expect you, but I shall have the maid set it at once and come and air the beds. If you would like to follow me, I will show you up.”

“Please do not trouble yourself,” King replied, glancing down to see the number six engraved on the key fob.

“Up the stairs and to your right,” she said, not forcing the issue.

“Thank you, Mrs Adamson,” he said, his voice low as he sent her a look of blatant admiration. “I am certain we shall be most comfortable.”

Anne watched them go, an unaccountable sense of alarm singing through her blood. From the moment Mr King’s dark eyes had settled upon her with that wicked glint shining so brightly, Anne had been aware of him in a visceral manner she had never experienced before. Her instincts had prickled, nerves jangling.

Having taken a good look at him, she could hardly wonder at it. One look at Jasper King and that diamond glittering as brightly as his too knowing gaze, had one word ringing through her ears—trouble. Mr King was trouble, the words writ large and in red ink and more likely underlined several times.

Despite the cut of a suit, which to her educated eye could only have been created by one of London’s finest tailors, and despite his snooty valet and a refined accent that was almost but not quite perfect—Mr King was no gentleman. At least not in the conventional sense of the word. What he was, she could not say, other than best treated with the utmost care.

Recognition had galvanised her bones from the moment he had given his name. Could this be the same King who had bought her rubies from her? King of the Rookeries, Mrs Fairway had called him. She could see that, she thought, biting her lip, remembering the diamond that had glittered against his honey gold skin. Never in her life had she seen a man wearing an earring, and it put her in mind of pirates. Yes, he was the closest thing to a pirate she had ever seen in her life. Making a mental note to keep Isabelle Honeywell far away from him, she hurried down the stairs, eager to tell Mrs Fairway all about their new guest and see what she thought.

Chapter 2

A stroll down memory lane.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 3rd October 1815.

“Well!” King looked up from the overflowing plate of bacon, sausages, eggs and fried bread that Hilda Fairway had fairly slammed on the table in front of him. “Look what the cat dragged in. If you’re here to make trouble for my lady—”